Barnes & Noble Nook (epub)
Copyright © Deborah Blake
2010
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Chapter One
I blame the cat.
Yes, as a Witch and a psychic I might
have been expected to foresee an impending disaster of this magnitude,
but I challenge anyone to listen to her inner voice while
simultaneously answering the phone and watching a three-month-old
kitten systematically and adorably shred the last clean nightgown in
the house.
Loki’s striped face peered through holes
in what had been expensive Italian lace, a quizzical expression
adorning his not-so-innocent face. That’s what I get for naming a cat
after the Norse god of mischief. Although ignoring the laundry for
weeks while rushing to meet a book deadline hadn’t helped either.
As I answered the insistent ringing I
tried to grab what remained of the garment from the furry angel of
destruction, but missed him as he sped down the hallway, trailing a
foam of white cloth and lace in his wake. So you could say that I was
probably not at my best when I answered the phone that night.
For everything that came afterward, I
blame the cat.
As I reached for the phone, I noticed the
time on the clock sitting next to it—midnight on the dot. Under my
breath, I added whoever had chosen to call me at this benighted hour
to the imprecations I’d aimed at the cat.
“Hello, this is Deirdre,” I said
breathlessly, struggling to keep my voice as polite as I could. “Do
you know what time it is?”
“Not exactly,” answered an unfamiliar
gruff voice. “Rather late, I suppose.”
“It’s midnight,” I said. “And, yes, I’d
consider that late.” I felt around with one hand on the nightstand for
my glasses. “Who is this, anyway?” My heart slowed slightly from the
stuttering gallop that always kicks in with the sound of a late-night
call, and my brain switched gears from “oh, goddess, who’s dead?” to
“whoever is calling me better have a damned good reason.”
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Connelly,” the
voice continued in formal tones, “I had not realized that the hour was
so late. This is Stewart Tyler. I hope I did not awaken you.”
I gave up trying to find my glasses and
stared at the ceiling instead. Stewart Tyler, consistently fourth or
fifth on the “10 richest men in the United States” list, successful
entrepreneur, noted eccentric, often referred to as “the python of
Wall Street” for his ability to hang on to a deal—on the other end of
my phone line? Somehow I just didn’t see it.
“I’m awake,” I said a little brusquely.
Would anyone who called this late really expect perky and cheerful?
“Who are you really, and how did you get this number?”
The man cleared his throat. I had a
sudden intuitive flash that whoever was on the other end of the phone
was not used to being questioned.
“I do understand your irritation, Ms.
Connelly, as well as your doubt. But I really am Stewart Tyler, and as
you are still awake, I would appreciate it if you could give me a
moment of your time. That is, if you are not on the verge of retiring
for the evening.”
I rolled my eyes. Who in Hades talked
like that? Retiring for the evening? Seriously? I glared at the
phone. “I am, actually. On the verge. And you still haven’t explained
how you got this number. It’s unlisted,” I said evenly, “So that
people I don’t know can’t call me up in the middle of the night.”
“I have my sources.” There was a hint of
amusement in the dry voice. Well, duh, Deirdre, I thought to myself.
If my caller really was who he said he was, getting one Witch’s
unlisted number was likely to be considerably less difficult than,
say, making that third or fourth billion.
I glanced down at the phone. Blurry
letters spelled out TYLER ENT, which I assumed was short for Tyler
Enterprises. No doubt I would have noticed it myself, if I hadn’t been
distracted by the late hour and the demented kitten. What do you know;
apparently eccentric billionaires did call me. I shook my head in
bewilderment. This night was just getting stranger and stranger.
“Still at work, Mr. Tyler?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I keep long hours. Hence
the late night call. I apologize again. But I assure you, the matter
is important, and quite urgent.”
I sighed. What the heck. Besides, now I
was curious.
“So what exactly can I do for you, Mr.
Tyler?” Wait for it… my inner voice said. I ignored it. The
only problem with being a psychic is that you never know when to take
that little voice in your head seriously. As it turned out, this would
have been a good time. What can I say? Even without my glasses, I have
20/20 hindsight.
He cleared his throat again, sounding a
bit self-conscious. “I saw you on The Morning Show last week.”
I stifled a snicker and wondered which
was more ridiculous—the idea of me being on The Morning Show (my
publisher made me do it, I swear, but the truth is it was a blast) or
the concept of Stewart Tyler watching daytime television.
“And what did you think of the show?” I
teased, still bemused by talking to the Stewart Tyler.
He ignored my flip comment and continued
as if I hadn’t spoken, in what felt like habitual efficiency mixed
with a dash of arrogance.
“I need you to do a spell for me.”
“Oh,” I said. And to myself: one of
those. I prepared to say something soothing before I hung up. As
the author of more than a dozen best-selling books on Witchcraft,
having people ask me to work magic for them was an occupational
hazard. Evidently, even the rich weren’t immune to believing that
Witchcraft could somehow magically solve all their problems. Go
figure.
“Here, in New York City,” he added. “Next
Friday night.”
Oh, for the Goddess’s sake.
This guy probably had more problems than any ten Witches could
possibly solve, no matter how much money he had. I might have
felt more charitable if I hadn’t spent the better part of the morning
dealing with a woman who swore she wanted a love spell to save her
marriage, then turned out to have her eye on her daughter’s gym
teacher instead. Sometimes it just didn’t pay to be nice.
“Look,” I said, knotting the edge of the
comforter in one clenched fist, “I don’t know what it is you think I
can do for you, but whatever it is, I assure you, I can’t. Or won’t.
Whatever. I don’t do love spells. I don’t do curses on rival
businessmen or predict which stocks will go up. Nothing like that.
Just simple white magic, like spells for healing. Or prosperity, but
clearly you don’t need me for that. I’m sorry, but whatever it is you
want, you’ve got the wrong woman.”
I couldn’t believe I was getting ready to
hang up on the fourth richest man in the country. Or fifth, whichever
it was this week. “I think that you should seek non-magical solutions
to whatever your problem is. Goodnight and good luck.”
“Wait!” the gruff voice shouted. “Just
hear me out, please. There really are no non-magical alternatives for
what I need, I assure you. And there is nothing untoward involved. No
curses. But you really are the one I need, Ms. Connelly. There is no
other who will do.”
I took a deep breath. One of the aspects
of Witchcraft most folks didn’t understand was that with power came
responsibility. I couldn’t turn away from someone who really needed
me, no matter how inconvenient the hour. And while I thought it
unlikely, I supposed it was just possible that Stewart Tyler did have
a crisis that only I could solve. Sure.
"All right," I said, "I’m listening. This
had better be good."
Silence. I could almost visualize the
wheels turning as he tried to figure out the best way to get me to do
what he wanted.
"Robert Daniel Addison," he said.
"Excuse me?” My heart skipped a beat.
"Did you say ‘Robert Daniel Addison’?"
I could almost feel Stewart Tyler’s
satisfied smile. I didn’t need to see him to know he was sure he’d
captured my interest.
"Er, what makes you mention him?” I asked
guardedly, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I’d had
a thing for the actor for years, since his first television show had
premiered. It was sort of an open secret—the women in my coven teased
me about it periodically—but somehow I ended up spilling it on The
Morning Show. Me and my big mouth.
“I gather you have an interest in Mr.
Addison,” Tyler said smoothly, no hint of mockery marring his
persuasive tones. “I can arrange for you to meet him for a private
dinner, should you agree to come to New York at the end of the week to
help me with this small task.” A short pause: the split second that
comes between the fisherman realizing his fish is nibbling on the bait
and the swift jerk that sets the hook. Or maybe, a cobra hypnotizing a
mouse. “And, of course, I would be happy to compensate you monetarily
as well. New York is only an hour or two by plane from where you are;
I would be happy to send my private jet for you. ”
Shaking my head didn’t clear it. I
considered smacking myself a couple of times with the phone just to
make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but settled instead for asking the
obvious—if somewhat surreal—question. “And what exactly would you
expect of me in return for this, um, gift?”
"Your magical expertise," he said. "I
realize this is an unorthodox request and your time is valuable, and I
am willing to pay for both your time and your specialized knowledge. I
would do the same for any other professional."
I took a minute to think. Some impish
spirit leaned over my shoulder and whispered softly in my ear, “When
are you going to get another chance to meet Robert Daniel Addison?” My
inner voice countered with another loud, “Uh, oh,” but even to my
strange internal senses it sounded like a pitifully subdued last-ditch
attempt to stop me from leaping from a bridge as I was already poised
over the edge.
“This spell you want me to do for you, it
isn’t anything that could harm anyone?” There were limits, after all,
to what I was willing to do, dream guy or no dream guy.
Tyler hastened to reassure me. “Not at
all, Ms. Connelly.” His voice was as velvety as dark chocolate, now
that he was getting his own way. “A small matter of solving a mystical
puzzle, you might say. The work of an hour or less. I am certain it
will seem quite insignificant to you, compared to the magical tasks
you usually do.”