Damon kicked the cloud he stood on, sending a white puff floating into the atmosphere. "If you’re done lecturing, Uncle Elliot, I’ve got a delectable, little cowgirl waiting for me in Houston." He grinned at his uncle. "I’m considering letting her rope me in."

"For how long this time?" Elliot produced a cigar from thin air and stuck it between his teeth.

"A week, maybe two." He shrugged, feeling the tingling warmth in his finger a second before the small flame shot out of its tip and lit his uncle’s cigar. It was the first bit of magic Uncle Elliot had taught him. At five, the word warlock meant nothing. Shooting fire from his fingertip, on the other hand . . . now that grabbed his attention. And despite his advanced level of powers it remained his favorite.

"And what of the girl in Wisconsin?" His uncle continued to question him.

"The relationship soured." Damon laughed.

"Enough!" Elliot thundered. His short, rotund torso elongated until he towered over Damon’s lanky frame. "You’ve been warned, Damon. After being given ample time to prove yourself, you have failed. Your powers will be stripped from you as of this--"

"You can't! Not without the approval of the Witch's Board."

"You think they're not aware of your activities?" Elliot shook his head. "Who do you think intervened for you with that girl in Switzerland? You broke one too many hearts, Damon Lane."

Damon felt the blood drain from his face. "That was a mistake. It won't happen again."

"You're right, it won't happen again! You have lost the privilege of magic until--"

"No!" Damon tried to conjure a bottle of wine, a glass, a ball, but it was useless. Try as he might, the familiar warm tingle would not return to his finger. He felt naked. Hollow. Finally, his uncle's last words registered. "Until?"

"Until you help a mortal woman find true love. It's time you mend a heart instead of break one."

Mend a heart? How was he supposed to do that without his powers? But he knew better than to ask that question, so he asked another instead. "When?"

"Immediately. Her name is Emily Watson."

"Emily." Damon grimaced. Humph . . . probably a toothless, old spinster. "And how will you know--"

"I'll know."

Damon saw the concern behind his uncle's scowl. For all his gruffness, Damon knew his uncle cared. He'd acted as both a father figure and mentor, rescuing Damon from one scrape after another. When the occasion called for it, Uncle Elliot even fibbed to his own sister, Damon's mother, in order to spare his nephew's hide. His father never popped in long enough to learn of his son's mischievous ways.

"Remember," Elliot warned. "She must find her true love."

Elliot's voice faded, and a swirl of clouds and smoke enveloped Damon. He felt himself being lifted, his body weightless, changing shape, as his uncle's powers transported him to Salem or worse.

"Ouch!" He landed on the hard limb of an apple tree, knocking loose fruit and leaves. "A bit off on your aim, old man," he muttered, rubbing his backside.

"Ow! Is someone up there? What do you think you're doing?" A female voice squealed.

Damon glanced at the woman squinting up at him through the branches. "Sorry." He shrugged, waved his arms with a flourish, then frowned when nothing happened. "Of all the blasted luck," he grumbled. Careful to keep hold of the tree, he sought one foothold after another. "Who needs powers?" He bragged, impressed with his own prowess. Reaching with his right foot, he missed the next branch, and promptly fell to the earth.

"Are you okay?"

He heard concern in the female voice and decided to open his eyes. After all, lying on top of lumpy apples wouldn't get him his powers back. He grinned at the creamy, lush vision before him, and started to rise. "Aargh," he moaned, removing an apple from a spot no apple should be. He tossed it aside and sat up.

Her hands gingerly touched and poked his body, feeling, no doubt, for broken bones.

"And who might you be?" he asked. She smelled of honey and cream. He couldn’t keep the leer from his tone or quell his rising excitement. Nor did he want to.

Seemingly satisfied he was all in one piece, she removed her hands from his body and stood.

He missed her touch and intended to rectify the situation when she answered his question.

"Emily Watson."

She may as well have tossed cold water on him. So much for a toothless hag. At least, it will make his task that much easier.

"I live in this apartment building. Who are you and what were you doing in that apple tree?" She stood, hands on hips, looking for all the world like his mother after he created some magical mischief. The difference being he had an incredible desire to kiss this woman.

"Damon Lane at your service." He performed a mock bow. "Would you believe I was searching for the juiciest, reddest apple?"

She glanced at the fallen fruit. "Considering they're all green. No! Perhaps I should call the police."

He knew a bluff when he heard one but since he'd been ordered to play matchmaker for this woman, he needed to gain her trust. Damon pulled his wallet from his pocket. Heck, even warlocks needed ID once in a blue moon. He handed her his license.

"Not a very good likeness." She gave it back to him.

He shrugged. Everyone knew warlocks didn't photograph well. "I'm better in person." He smiled. "But now you can believe I am who I say I am."

He noticed her lips twitch but her voice remained stern. "That still doesn't explain what you're doing in this courtyard. Are you a new tenant? I haven't heard of anyone moving out."

"Actually--Ouch!" A small paperback book bounced off his head and into his lap. He glanced at the title, 'How to be a Good Superintendent.' Damon jerked his head up searching the tree. "Uncle Elliot!"

"Mind your manners, my boy." Elliot, looking quite comfortable sitting on a lower limb, bit into a green apple. The juice dribbled down his chin. "Mmm . . . " He savored the flavor a moment before flashing Damon a warning look. "Remember why you're here."

"Of course, Uncle Elliot." Damon stood.

"Excuse me?" Emily looked puzzled and took a step backwards.

Damon knew she couldn’t see Elliot. Not unless the old man chose to be seen and Damon knew he wouldn't do that.

"Uncle Elliot . . . my Uncle Elliot owns this building. I’m sure you've met him." Damon grinned and shot a glance at his uncle. "He's taken pity on his poor nephew and hired me to be the new superintendent." He showed her the handbook.

"I've heard grumblings about a new super." She eyed him uncertainly. "It's about time. No one's ever met the owner of this building but your Uncle Elliot sure took his time finding us a new super. The last one didn't fix a thing. Half the people here have one thing or another broken in their apartments. As for me, my faucet is dripping, and my toilet keeps running and . . .." She glanced at the spot Uncle Elliot occupied.

Elliot still refused to show himself, and Damon knew he couldn’t expect any further help from that quarter. Seems he'd gotten himself tangled up tighter than a black widow on a windy day.

"You do know how to fix things, don't you?" Emily asked.

"Yes, of course." He lied. What else could he say?

"How's tomorrow morning then, say 11:00?"

"Tomorrow?" Getting better aquatinted with Emily Watson was a given but, fixing toilets definitely didn't fit into his plans. Not that he had a plan exactly.

"Apartment 7B. See you then." Her gaze drifted to the tree once more. Then she smiled at Damon and left the courtyard.

"Running toilets and dripping faucets." Damon hissed, turning back to his uncle. But the old man was gone. He felt a tap on his shoulder and jumped.

"Behind you, boy."

Damon glared at Elliot. "What do I know about plumbing? This wasn't part of the bargain."

"There is no bargain, Damon." His uncle frowned. "You're here to learn a lesson. Emily Watson's heart is in your hands. Your powers won't return until she finds her true love. Meanwhile, you have the handbook."

The handbook. Damon studied the offending paperback. When he looked back up his uncle was gone, and he still had no earthly idea how to fix a toilet.

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