CURSED OBJECTS PREVIEW

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Riley O’Ryan ached from her head to every toe in her blood-soaked work boots. Opening the front door of the little house in Hermosa Beach two blocks up the hill from the breaking waves of the Pacific Ocean, she felt more like seventy-five instead of twenty-five. God, even her teeth hurt. The witch at the cursed construction site she’d been called in to clear out by another member of her Coven had been a pain to take down in every sense of the word.  

Prince, her half-demon half-canine bodyguard, followed behind. Usually, he looked like a big black Belgian Shepherd. Tonight, he was a mud-covered child’s nightmare come to life. Razor-sharp spines stuck out on his back and sides, and his second set of fangs were still bared in a scary grin, muzzle covered in dried blood. 

Riley didn’t look much better, minus the fangs and spines. Together, they dragged themselves into the living room, one exhausted step at a time.  

Count Alexander Ivanovich, second cousin to the late, great Tsar Nicholas the II of Russia, lay snuggly wrapped in a blue fleece blanket, stretched out on her couch in front of the TV. He’d thrown his black and gold Imperial Horse Guards jacket along with its matching ceremonial sword onto the coffee table. In one hand he had one of her craft IPAs and with the other, was digging into a bag of popcorn. The special black pepper flavor she had to go to Vons to buy because Target never had it.

He turned his arctic blue eyes on her and wrinkled his perfectly sculpted nose. “What in the name of all the saints is that smell? Have you been casting spells in a dung heap? Or perhaps rolling in one?”  

Stalking over stiff-legged in a good imitation of an angry alley cat, Riley grabbed the bag of popcorn out of his hands, scooped up the bottle of beer, and limped to the stairs. 

“I hate you,” she snarled over her shoulder. 

“I cannot find the vodka,” he called after her. “And why do you never have any caviar in that infernal cold box of yours?”

 “The dead,” she moaned with a bitter shake of her head, taking a long pull on the beer, “Can't live with them, would really like to live without them.” 

“I am not dead,” he said in a voice of affronted dignity. 

“Dead enough!” 

Riley O’Ryan was a Blood Witch and a member of the Thirteen Families, which was arguably the most powerful coven in the history of witchcraft. She broke curses for a living. They usually didn’t follow her home and move in. 

Rummaging under the sink in the upstairs bathroom, she found the stash of plastic trashcan liners. Riley peeled out of her hoodie, shirt, socks, jeans, underpants, and bra and stuffed them inside. Giant jets of bloody supernatural foam shooting up from a sacrificial graveyard had done their worst. Plus, there was the beheading part. No amount of washing was going to make any of those clothes wearable again. She shoved her boots into a separate bag. The shoes she could save… maybe.

Together, she and Prince climbed under the shower, hot water on full. Several times as they cleaned up, she had to empty the filter she kept over the drain as it got clogged with red-stained mud, foam, gravel, and dog hair. There might have been a severed finger in there, but Riley did not want to look too closely as she scooped the mess out with wads of tissue. 

The worksite had been plagued with weeks of bad luck and several gruesome deaths. Riley’s investigation uncovered five power stones drenched in blood and gore from centuries of sacrifices. Human sacrifice. A dark and dirty coven lived on the land from the 1700s until the great State of California took it for unpaid taxes. The witches had died out, deservedly, except for the last remaining one who Riley was currently attempting to wash out of her hair.  

 Half a bottle of shampoo and conditioner–human for her, dog brands for Prince–and all the hot water later and she felt clean.  

She and Prince finished the popcorn while she pulled her strawberry blond hair back in a dripping ponytail and shrugged into her old Abercrombie sweats.

“Food,” she moaned. “Need more food.” 

Prince whined in agreement. 

Downstairs, they shuffled tiredly through the living room to the kitchen. The house was small, as were many older homes in the beach communities along this part of the Los Angeles shoreline. This was not Malibu or Laguna. She’d inherited it mortgage-free, thank god. Despite the goodwill of her parent’s old client list, it was hard work making the business (if you could call breaking curses and chasing apparitions a business) financially successful all on her own.

The house was constructed in an open L-shape, the living room on one end, the dining room, and the kitchen at the other. Windows looking out over the backyard, plus a set facing the front. Stairs to the second floor bisected the entry hall and living room. Two bathrooms upstairs and a half bath on the first floor. There was even a little fireplace on the far side of the living room. 

The kitchen was small, but comfortable. Her parents had updated it from a seventy’s monstrosity to a modern chic when Riley was in junior high. White cabinets, white countertops, and a butcher-block island in the middle with stools on either side. The gas stove was old but still worked. Ditto on the fridge.  

Alexi (she refused to call him Count Ivanovich as he tried to insist) stood beside the open fridge, trailing the blue blanket, one hand raised palm out as if awaiting a container of caviar to fall into it. He was wearing a starched white cotton shirt cut to fit snuggly along the lithe, athletic lines of his body. Black cavalry pants were tucked into a pair of tall riding boots, the leather gleaming. The light from the refrigerator reflected off his golden blond hair swept back over his ears. A thick lock fell forward across his forehead. He brushed at it with a quick, automatic gesture. He was clean-shaven, the high plains of his cheekbones and brows in enviable symmetry to the rich curve of lips and jaw. His whole demeanor radiated Old World aristocracy.  

Royal was the word that sprang to mind. 

“For God’s sake, where have you hidden the vodka?” 

A royal pain in her butt.  

The Count had been an unexpected addition (you could hardly call him a perk) attached to a cursed object she’d recently been hired to cleanse, the Romanov Egg. A beautiful jet-black Faberge-like confection adorned in jewels and gold. The object had been through many hands since the revolutionaries stormed the original owner’s estate, burning the place to the ground and slaughtering everyone they found. Almost prophetically, the object had earned an incendiary reputation over the years. Wherever the egg went, fire followed. 

The auction house had opted not to mention the object's fiery past in their glowing catalog description, and the current owner had come to Riley after half her Malibu mansion burned to the ground. The retainer was deliciously large, but the Count, who had appeared quite unexpectedly during Riley’s summoning spell, quickly made her wonder if the money was worth it. 

Riley shoved him away from the refrigerator with a roll of her hip. She took out some low-fat turkey and ground beef to cook for Prince. Last night there had been half a roast chicken and a ready-to-cook container of white cheddar macaroni and cheese. The chicken was gone, victim of the Count’s rabid appetite no doubt. The man was eating her out of house and home. Ghosts were not supposed to have appetites. The macaroni and cheese remained. Thank heavens he had not bothered to master the microwave.

“Cooking!” he’d sneered, as though that explained everything. 

Grabbing anotherbeer with her other hand, she shut the fridge door, put the container into the microwave, and popped the cap off the beer. 

“These IPAs are not for you!” she said, waving it in front of his face. “They cost thirteen freaking dollars for a six-pack and the only reason I have them is someone gave me a case as a thank-you gift. So, hands off!” 

He targeted her with a narrow-eyed sneer he probably reserved for peasants on his estate just before he kicked them. 

Prince made impatient woofing noises. She spooned his dinner into a frying pan and began breaking up the chunks of meat.  

“He wants vodka,” Alexi said. 

Riley made a face at him. “Let’s clarify that. You want vodka.” 

“Of course I do. What man does not? Beer is an inferior drink.” 

She turned and poked him in the chest with the handle of the spatula. “Then don’t drink my beer!” 

He began searching through the kitchen cupboards, muttering under his breath in Russian while Riley cooked. Just as the meat was done, he reached into the cupboard above the stove, nearly making her tip over the frying pan. He shouted in triumph. Moving aside a couple of casserole dishes, he pulled out the half-full bottle of vodka she’d hidden. 

Damn.  

He turned his head to her with a crooked smile on his razor-cut lips. “I have found it!” 

“Oh goody,” she hissed sarcastically. 

He poured himself a generous measure as Riley spooned the sizzling meat into Prince’s bowl. 

Prince was dancing on his front paws, whining. 

Riley fanned the bowl with an oven mitt. “Too hot, pup! Give it a second.” 

Taking a contented swallow, Alexi stooped to pour a measure in a small bowl by Prince’s water dish. Prince wagged his fluffy black tail in anticipation. His full name was Prince Machiavelli Spawn of the Devil because he had been a very bad puppy.

“Stop, Alexi, you're going to poison him! Prince, no. Sit! Bad dog.”

She pushed Alexi away. 

Prince stared at her with his big brown eyes, glancing from the Vodka bottle to his bowl and back again.  

“No!” she repeated firmly. “No alcohol for dogs.” 

She set the meat dish on the floor. 

“Eat!” 

Alexi looked down his nose at her, nostrils slightly flared. “In my Russia, the dogs were always given a measure of vodka in the evening.” 

“Honestly, in your Russia, even babies were given vodka in the evening,” she said in exasperation. “That does not make it right.” 

“You know nothing of my Russia,” he sniffed, patting Prince on the head.  

“That's because everyone who knew anything about your Russia is dead, your high and mightiness. Killed by the Bolsheviks.”  

A look of pain flashed across his face. He turned away, trying to hide it, but she had seen. Damn her tongue!  

“Alexi, I'm sorry,” Riley said at once. 

“It is of no consequence.”  

“Honestly. Please.” 

With great dignity, he said, “I am going back in my egg.”  

Which is rather a difficult thing to say with dignity, Riley thought, but he carried it off. 

With a bang that made the glasses shake in the cupboard, the blond man vaporated into a thick column of silver smoke. The glass he was holding dropped to the floor, spilling its contents. With a sly, doggy smile, Prince eagerly lapped it up.

The smoke flowed sinuously around the kitchen and dining room before disappearing into the jeweled egg sitting atop a carved stand on the mantle above the fireplace.

Riley and Prince were alone. If she didn’t need that stupid, annoying, deadaristocrat to find out who killed her father and kidnapped her mother to a dimension of demons, she would just throw the damn egg in the ocean and him with it. 

Prince gave her a lopsided doggy smile, hiccupped, and fell over on his back. 

“God damn it, Alexi!” she cursed, shaking a fist at the egg.
 

Her phone buzzed angrily and Riley growled out a few incoherent swear words as she reached for it.

God, it wasn’t even seven a.m., who could be calling? 

As the head of R.I.P. Investigations, Riley could not ignore calls. The agency was started by Riley's grandparents and their best friends. All of them Blood Witches of the Thirteen Families, just like her. R.I.P. Investigations handled malignant energy, anomalies, hauntings, exorcisms, and just about anything else on the supernatural menu. The agency’s name was a play on the three families who bonded together: the O’Ryans, the Ignacios, and the Pelletiers. They dropped the ‘O’ in O’Ryan because, well, come on, R.I.P.? It was hilarious.

Unfortunately, with great magical power comes an astoundingly high probability of horrible death. Currently, the 'agency' consisted of just Riley. All the R’s, I’s, and P’s had died off at an alarming rate.

Okay, not all.

One ‘R’, her older brother Ross, had left on his own two feet. He’d deserted the family and the family business during his second year in college. He was going to be a stage magician, a headliner, and nothing the family could say would stop him.  

She checked the phone screen. Marley McKenna. Owner of the egg and a paying customer.  

“Riley here,” she croaked, trying to sound awake. 

“Hey Riley, I was just coming back from morning yoga…” 

Of course she was. 

“…and thought I would see how it’s going.”  

She assumed Marley meant, “How is it going trying to un-curse my damn egg?”  

Marley did not know about the Count. A cursed jeweled egg was one thing for a normal person to wrap their head around. A cursed egg with the corporeal spirit of a Russian imperial cavalry officer was quite another. 

Riley sat up in bed, disturbing Prince, who was stretched out across her feet, paws twitching, chasing squirrels, or probably shots of vodka in his sleep. She smooshed the pillows behind her back and pulled her knees up.  

“I’m still working on it.” 

It had been two weeks since the egg arrived, and she was still no closer to figuring out how it acted as a portal between the two worlds (something Marley did not know) or why it caused fires, an attribute Marley understood all too well. 

“It’s a real puzzle. I won’t lie. Do you want me to keep going? Because I would like to. Keep going, I mean.”  

She mentally crossed her fingers and toes. She was not trying to break this curse out of the goodness of her heart or the generous fee from Marley. She needed the egg. She needed it very much. 

Alexi did not live inside the egg like a genie in his lamp. The object was a bridge between the living world and another. Her coven called it the Shadowlands, and they had been battling the demons walking, crawling, and slithering out of that place for centuries. Unfortunately, getting into it was quite another matter.

“Oh my god, do not solve the mystery yet. In fact, take all the time you want. That egg is a PR gift from heaven!” 

Riley scrunched her face into a frown. “Gift from heaven” was not exactly how she would characterize a cursed object that burned most of Marley’s beautiful cliff-side house.  

The problems had started soon after Marley received the extravagant gift from her husband, Jason, lead singer of the heavy metal band Hangman. He’d personally acquired it as a birthday surprise for her. In truth, it was Jason's efficient PA who found and acquired it, but in LA celebrity circles, that's personal enough.  

Within days, the housekeeper noticed little black scorch rings appearing wherever the egg was placed. Those rings increased in size and intensity. Sparks started flaring up here and there near the jeweled egg, although somehow the object itself remained mysteriously untouched. The situation soon took a much more dangerous turn. As the family slept, a blaze sprang into life at the bottom of the huge spiral staircase that soared dizzyingly through the Malibu mansion's three-story atrium. 

This time, the egg was looking to make a statement. The flames jumped from step to step to step to step. Bottom landing to top. Fire alarms blared, sprinklers splashed into action. The nanny scooped up the children, Jason grabbed his wife, the dogs followed, and the whole family evacuated breathlessly down a rear set of emergency stairs. 

The second floor was ablaze in minutes. Carpets, bedding, and furniture all in flames. Fire trucks roared through the front gate’s sirens screaming and hoses soon gushing. Much to the delight of the family's twin girls, they turned the interior of the house into a cascading waterfall. Marley, with a great presence of mind, filmed the whole thing on her phone. The police and the insurance adjustors descended. Somehow, the winding staircase had survived the worst of the blaze. Staring down over the railing, it was an arson investigator who first noticed patterns in the burn. 

These were not just random scorch marks on the top of each step. They were letters. Again and again, marching up the steps, they spelled out in beautifully executed cursive, “Curse Woman.” Those words opened lengthy philosophical and psychological debates for the police profilers and arson specialists. Luckily for the safety and sanity of the household, Marley thought she knew who the message was meant for. 

She called her old boyfriend’s spooky younger sister, Riley O’Ryan. The only reason Marley had her number at all was that Riley's older brother failed to remember the most important rule of Witch Club: It’s a secret and needs to remain one. 

Ross liked to show off. Showing off is not good for people who do actual magic. 

“Riley,” said Marley earnestly, “I am telling you. Do not hurry. Here, I’ll show you what I mean. I’m texting you some stuff.” 

Her phone pinged almost immediately. Riley looked at the images. Hopefully, Marley pulled off the road to send these. They were screenshots of tabloid headlines in big, bold text: 

“Satanists target Hangman McKenna’s Family for Human Sacrifice–They want our soul!”  

 “Marley McKenna, Pyromaniac Serial Killer Terror–He’ll Burn Me Alive!”  

“Alien Death Ray Torches Hangman Lead Singer’s Home–My Wife IS an Alien!” 

“That stupid egg is handing us millions in free publicity! I am not kidding when I say ‘take your time. Hey, hold on a minute.” 

Marley’s voice got mixed up with other voices. It sounded like she was picking up coffee at the drive thru. 

 Oh, coffee. Riley licked her lips. That sounded good.  

Riley looked through more headlines while she waited. There were photos of Marley and her husband and the band. Links to their websites and social media accounts. Riley was from LA, she understood the publicity game. For a hard-drinking heavy metal group like Hangman, this was pure PR heaven. Instead of a cursed egg, it had just become a golden one. 

“You see what I mean, right?” Marley said as she came back on the line. “I’m in a bidding war with Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight for the rights to the video I shot of the fire plus a segment on us and our cursed egg, god bless it.” 

“That’s awesome,” Riley said enthusiastically. 

They were going to want to drag this out. Hallelujah! 

“I might need the egg for an afternoon when the camera crew comes over to shoot in front of the house. What’s left of it, haha!” she laughed, carefree and happy as only rich people could be over the loss of a home. “I have to go shopping. I need some new outfits for these interviews. Clothes maketh the celebrity. Once I sign, I’ll let you know.” 

“Sure, of course. I can bring it by.” 

Marley hung up and Riley sank back into the covers. She pulled the heating pad off the floor by its cord (it had slipped down in the night), put it on her back, and reached for the Ibuprofen she kept on the nightstand. Everything still hurt from yesterday. Marley was leaving the egg. She’d dodged that bullet for now. But Riley needed to make progress. The egg was not going to stay with her forever. 

“Clothes maketh the celebrity,” she gave a sarcastic chuckle. “Clothes maketh… clothes make the man…”

An image of Alexi, resplendent in his black military uniform, complete with ceremonialsword, popped into her mind. He always appeared in the same outfit. Clothes certainly made him. Russian and Hungarian military uniforms were gorgeous. 

“Oh my god,” she said out loud as her mind swerved around a corner and screeched to a halt. 

Maybe clothes do make the man. 

Sliding out of bed, she tiptoed over the cold parquet floor to the workroom, formerly the master bedroom. Her parents’ room. She’d transformed it a few years ago into its present incarnation. Cupboards along one wall held neat rows of bottles, powders, liquid, crystals, books, and more. A large desk she’d found on Craigslist was used mostly for mixing potions. The ensuite bathroom had been turned into a mini laboratory for alchemical concoctions. 

From the desk, she grabbed a couple of the family Grimoire. These spell books had been handed down for generations. Every witch clan had their own collection, often stretching back more than a thousand years. Riley was proud she’d added a few spells of her own to her mother’s since she took over R.I.P. 

She ran back to bed, shivering. Mornings were chilly on the California coast, even in early summer. She slid under the warm covers, adjusted her heating pad, and opened the books, intrigued by her idea. 

An hour later, Grimoire in hand and Prince yawning by her side, she stood near the Romanov egg and called out. 

“Alexi, could you come out here and take off your clothes, please?” 

Neither Alexi nor Riley knew how, but the egg worked as a direct conduit from her world to his. A cell line to the supernatural. He’d told her if she called him, he felt it like a burst of static electricity and heard her voice in his mind. He had only to think of a gate and the doorway opened. In fact, once that first contact had been established, he could come and go at will. 

Oh, boy, hadn’t that turned into a fun development. 

The jet of silver smoke shot from the elegant, jeweled egg with such alacrity Riley had to throw herself against the wall to avoid being knocked down. Prince wagged his tail and chased it around the room joyously, leaping over the oversized sofa and two comfy chairs on either side of the coffee table. The dog liked their new roommate very much. 

Alexi stepped out of the smoke dressed as always in his splendid black uniform, rows of medals on his chest, buttons shining, sword strapped to his side, fully corporeal. The Count could see and be seen in turn, which Riley knew for a fact, was beyond rare for manifestations. He had the power not only of speech, but to eat, drink, and annoy. Especially the latter. 

She waved impatiently. “Your clothes, take them off.” 

Sweeping one hand through his blond hair with a flourish, he flashed her a beaming smile and swiftly closed the gap between them. “My dearest Mademoiselle, or may I call you mon cher? You surprise me, yet it is not a surprise. How could it be? You and I. We are bound together on this quest now. It has been decades since someone with the power to open the portal came to the egg. Decades wasted in despair. And now…” he stepped forward, slipping both hands around her waist, “there is you.” 

He pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers. Warm and real and strong. 

Too late she realized how her request had been misinterpreted. She attempted to push him away, but he held her tighter. Riley hadn’t bothered to change out of her thermal pajamas and soft hooded pullover as she spent the morning looking through the Grimoires, excited by her new theory. There was not a lot of material between them. 

One part of her brain noted that he smelled very nice. Very nice, indeed. Then he tried to put his tongue in her mouth. 

So, she did the only sensible thing. Riley gave him a knee to the groin. Hard. 

After the howls of pain had scaled down several decibels, she shook her finger at him, “Good god, Alexi, what were you thinking?” 

"Awk," was the only sound he seemed able to make. 

"Don't ever try that again." 

"Awk," he croaked a second time. 

Due to the necessity of having to apply an ice pack, it was some time before Riley could continue with the plan that had come to her that morning. She was trying to solve the enigma of the egg instead of Alexi. Alexi was her way into the egg. 

While he was recovering, she brewed a double espresso, fried some eggs, and made English muffin sandwiches with lots of butter for her and Prince. 

When the moaning had scaled down in volume, she sat down on the arm of the couch next to him, opening one of the spell books to a two-page illustration. 

“Look,” she said. 

Alexi groaned. 

“Look!”she said more firmly. 

He sullenly slid his eyes from her face to the page. 

“Marley said something about ‘clothes make the man’ on the phone this morning and it triggered a memory of seeing this,” she explained. 

The picture in black ink showed a leather doublet with seven amulets sewn over the heart. Another, this time in red, illustrated an inside-out shirt. Spells were painted on the sleeves and again, over the heart. 

“I think the binding curse may be on you. The egg only serves to ground the Spirit Portal. Which is why it just sits there silently while I throw spell after spell at it. Don't you agree?” 

He moaned again. 

"I'll take that for a yes. What we need to do first is look inside your clothes for amulets, runes, anything that could link you to the spell. Did you die in these clothes?” 

He frowned at her. “Why do you always say such rude things? I did not die. I am not dead.” 

“You’re over a hundred years old, your high and mightiness. You aren’t alive in the same way most people interpret that phrase.” 

He sniffed an aristocratically disdainful sniff. “In answer to your question, I was wearing my uniform the night I disappeared.” 

She nodded enthusiastically. “That’s great. Good. You always appear in these same clothes, but you can take them off. At least the jacket and your boots and of course, your sword belt. I assume the others can come off too, right?” 

“Will it keep you from kicking me again?” he groaned. 

“Yes.” 

“Then they are all removable and I will take them off. First, I need vodka for the pain.” 

“How about an aspirin?” 

“Vodka," he moaned. "Medicine is for women. Bring the bottle.” 

“Glass.” 

“Bottle.” 

They eventually negotiated it down to one large glass and a bowl of green olives on the side. 

After the vodka disappeared, he began undoing the intricate and varied buttons, belts, and fastenings on his uniform. He left on his ruby signet ring. It was a large and impressive piece of jewelry and it did not, Riley felt, match the man wearing it. Alexi had an ego that barely fit in the room, yet he wasn’t foppish. Not always adjusting his clothes or hair like men who cared about those things too much did. 

Prince thought it was a new game and ran off with bits of clothing and gear determined to engage them both in a game of ‘catch me if you can.' Alexi chased the dog up (slowly and with a slight limp) and down the stairs through the beach bungalow swearing in Russian, French, and English as Riley examined each article of clothing he managed to retrieve. 

It took some time before she had him stripped down to his underwear. 

Moaning, the Count sat on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him on the oversized slab of redwood that served as a coffee table, the ice pack back on his crotch. 

“Stop being a baby,” she admonished. 

He shot her a stern look and, grabbing the remote, switched on the TV with a flourish, mumbling to himself in Russian. 

First, she used her father’s special Ocular Glasses.

“Capital O, capital G,” her father had always said with a smile. The chunky steampunk-style copper ringed goggles saw far more than the surface of objects. With the right adjustment, they could reveal hidden spells and dangerous hexes. Until his death, she’d never even touched them. Even now she very cautiously flicked the delicate switches and adjusted the tiny dials. 

Nothing. 

She switched to her mother’s moleskin divining gloves from Prague (made from real moles). The fingertips went icy cold if passed over any occult object or spell. Despite a minute examination of every stitch and seam, she could find nothing that even hinted at magic on or in the clothing. 

She stared at Alexi and thought. Except for a few scars, his skin was smooth, with almost no body hair. Beautifully sculpted, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched thick and knotted as oak, his abdomen ironing board flat. And so alive. For perhaps the hundredth time she thought, 'What are you?' She called him a manifestation, but that was so far from the truth. That was when Riley realized she had been thinking of him purely in the abstract. 

There was nothing abstract about the way he sat there on the couch, pushing Prince away. The dog was determined to apologize for making Alexi mad by licking every inch of exposed skin. 

She stood in front of the TV, blocking his view. “Up! Get up.” 

Alexi rolled his eyes. 

“Please.” 

He did as she asked. Stepping close, she reached out. His hands flew to his crotch. 

“Alexi!” 

Though perhaps unsure of her intent, he stood quietly. Wearing the Moleskin Gloves, she ran her fingertips over his face and scalp, across his throat, down his chest and abdomen, then up to his shoulders. Every inch of him tingled with magic. As her fingertips drifted along his forearms, feather-light, she was nearly knocked off her feet by a burning jolt of energy. If Alexi hadn't grabbed her, she would have fallen for sure. Shaken, she gave a little gasping breath, realizing her hunch had been right. 

“Whoa!” she exclaimed. “Whether you know it or not, your body is carrying a lot of magic. Here, though,” she pointed to his right and left arm and just above his heart, “there are spells, or at least words of power. They aren’t visible… yet. Let me go upstairs and put some things together. We'll try to make the spell manifest. Oh,” she looked at him, "you can put your pants back on.” 

“No, I am quite comfortable.” 

Riley rolled her eyes. The sooner she figured out this curse, the better.