ones had just entered the building.
Double whammy.
“The men are here.” Hartha, the female brownie, opened the door a crack, then stepped back and put her hands on the small bumps of her hips and her foot—shod in a pointed-toe shoe of purple suede—tapped. “I think humans would consider them attractive. Elves would think them very ugly.”
Amber poured out a mug of hot black coffee and took a sip. Lovely. Yes, she found both of them attractive. She could guess what elves looked like from myths and movies. No doubt most humans looked ugly in comparison. To her, the brownies appeared a lot like wet cats. Who knew if these brownies were considered comely or not? Tiro’s features were more squashed than Hartha’s or Pred’s. Was that generational, or due to place of origin?
“The dark-haired one is staring at me and blinking, but I do not think he sees me. His face is pale and strained.” Hartha sniffed and Amber couldn’t decide whether it was in punctuation or she was scenting him. “He has a fair amount of magic for a human, but has suppressed it until it erupts in pulses. His magic is golden and orange with a touch of pale pink-violet.” The little brownie woman turned her head to Amber as if to prompt a response.
Amber had no clue what the colors meant.
“Earth and fire and air,” Pred said and smiled under a whipped-cream moustache.
“Air is elf,” Amber murmured.
“Earth is dwarf, fire is djinn,” said Pred.
Tiro grunted. “We don’t need to teach the girl.”
“She gave us chocolate cake and hot chocolate with whipped cream and is making us chocolate pie,” Hartha said as Pred slurped his cocoa. “It is difficult for minor folk such as we to obtain chocolate. You’ve had more than your share.”
“Earth is dwarf and fire is djinn,” Amber repeated. “Djinn like a genie. My neighbor Jenni Weavers—you call her Jindesfarne Mistweaver—is good with fire. She must be djinn.”
“Jenni is one quarter djinn and one quarter air and half human,” Hartha said, still looking out the door.
Fascinating. Amber continued her line of reasoning, slid her gaze to Pred to watch for any reaction that her next words were right. “Elves and dwarves and djinn are…ah…not minor elementals.”
“Greater Lightfolk,” Pred said. “Dwarf, djinn, elf, mer.”
“Mer…mermaid…merfolk?” Amber asked.
“Yes.” Pred came over to stand with Hartha, stared through the crack. “The dark-haired one is looking at us and is uncomfortable. The blond man is leaning on the desk and flirting with the human woman.”
Trying to get information about Amber from the receptionist, no doubt. Since Amber had rented the office space for several years and the receptionist appreciated well-built and well-heeled men, Rafe was probably getting several earfuls.
Pred made faces, then giggled. “The dark one—”
“Conrad,” Amber supplied.
“Conrad can almost see us. Maybe.” Pred wiggled his nose, stuck out his tongue. “He has much, much human blood.”
Amber returned to learning mode. “Conrad has no, um, minor Lightfolk in his bloodline?”
Pred chuckled like gravel skittering down the sidewalk. “We are too small to mate with normal-size humans. Especially air and fire sprites. And you are ugly.”
Hartha hissed and hopped a full yard back from the door. “The other! The fair-haired one!”
“Rafe,” Amber corrected.
“He has turned toward us. He does not see us, but I feel his magic and his curse.”
“What?” asked Pred and Amber.
“Death curse.”
Amber shuddered. The thread of hope she’d held that she was wrong died. One of the main things the journal of her ancestress warned of was to never—never—attempt to lift a death curse.
She didn’t know what happened, but it would be really bad, probably kill her and everyone she was emotionally linked with.
Hartha continued to speak as she sidled away from the entrance and back to the far corner cabinet. “Rafe’s colors are white-violet and blue-green, gold with a tiny hint of orange.” She reached for the large mug, wrapped her long-fingered hands around it as if they were cold.
Pred’s eyes protruded and he gasped. “Four elements? Four!”
Amber had thought that was good. “That isn’t an asset?”
Hartha’s face was hidden as she drank from the hot chocolate mug. She set it down and her gaze sharpened. “He has great magic, but carries a major glyph of green sealing most of his power.”
The door opened and the bad magic enveloping the men expanded to hit Amber in a huge wave. She wanted to run. She glanced wildly at the brownies. Conrad was too desperate, Rafe too attractive. She’d made a bad mistake.
No way out. She had to be strong. She had to say “no” and mean it.
Tiro stared at her. His upper lip lifted in scary amusement. “How old is this fair-haired fellow called Rafe?”
Hartha lifted and dropped her shoulder. “Young. Not too much more than his third decade.”
“His uncursed life span could be sixty more human years.” Tiro rubbed his hands. “I will gain my independence much sooner than I thought. She will lift the curse and die.”
There was a terrible high-pitched buzz in the room that would drive Rafe crazy if he had to work here. The back of his neck prickled as if someone were watching him. He glanced out the main window, saw the Tesla and other parked cars, and no one on the street. The spot between his shoulder blades tingled—and that was his main warning signal.
He wanted out of the room, out of the building, hell, out of the States. He could be snowboarding in Vancouver. Nah, he was ready for spring. But somewhere else.
He wanted Conrad out of the place, too.
Amber was paler than yesterday, as if she’d had a shock. Not his problem.
Rafe shifted his shoulders, rubbed the back of his neck, and followed Conrad’s stare to a corner of the room that seemed to blur. No. Of course not.
Conrad swallowed, but then his mouth hung open. Rafe took a step and jostled him. No man should look so clueless in front of a threat. And despite her truly excellent figure showcased in a red knit dress, Amber Sarga was a threat.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you—”
Conrad choked and crumpled, panting. Rafe grabbed him and steered him toward one of the chairs that he half fell into.
Amber poured a cup of black coffee and put it on the table in front of him. Conrad plunked the mailing tube he was carrying onto the table. “I…brought…my…family…tree,” he panted.
“I can’t.” But Amber’s voice wavered. She looked at the strange blurry corner. Conrad rubbed his eyes and his temples, scrubbed his face. Rafe blinked to clear his vision. Nothing there.
“Please, we know you’re a curse breaker. I’m begging you, I need your help. If not for me, for my son.”
“What kind of curse is it?” Her voice was low and gravelly, full of satisfaction. Rafe shook his head. It hadn’t been her speaking.
Of course it had been.
“Like I said yesterday, in the Cymbler family, soon after we have a son, he disappears. We don’t meet him again until he is an adult. Shortly after that meeting, we die and it goes on and on and on and on and—”