Spinning Into Gold

by Emma Savant

  I quickly added his name to my phone.

  Dior: Not at all! I’m glad you did. Meant to catch up with you before you left.

  The phone buzzed again within seconds, like he was as interested in this conversation as I was.

  Clarence: You looked a little busy.

  Dior: Networking. Mehhhhhhh. Was hoping it

  “Ahem.”

  I looked up. August was standing there. I hadn’t heard him come in or felt him approach. I froze, then took a deep breath.

  I was Dior, and I was in charge here.

  “Have a seat,” I said.

  Carefully, slowly, I turned my attention back to my phone.

  Dior: Networking. Mehhhhhhh. Was hoping it wouldn’t take so long.

  I hit Send and put the phone on the table. August was leaning back in his chair with his legs spread out into a wide, comfortable V. He rested his clasped hands on the table.

  “Are you feeling any better?” he said. “I was sorry you couldn’t make it to breakfast this morning. Danielle was so hoping to meet you.”

  “I look forward to meeting her another time,” I said.

  Danielle did sound like an interesting person. She was an up-and-coming fashion designer, and August had suggested she take over my wardrobe for the next little while. I’d looked up her designs, and they were significantly less terrible than the ones he’d chosen for the music video. Even so, I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be working with him.

  I stared at him across the table. He smiled back, calm and friendly, with his white teeth gleaming at me like a crocodile’s. He held still, waiting for me to speak.

  “Do you want a drink?” I said.

  “I’ve already ordered one,” he said. He nodded over to the counter. The young blond woman who seemed to be running everything glanced at him and went back to her work.

  He seemed to settle back into himself, still waiting. My stomach churned, but there was no point putting it off.

  “I want to know what happened yesterday,” I said.

  He didn’t move or even react.

  “Yesterday?” he said. “You filmed a music video.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  He surveyed me for a moment, then chuckled softly and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his clasped hands hang between them.

  “Dior,” he said, and smiled.

  I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to make it hurt. I was not falling for that Dior business, or the smile, no matter how much the safety of his voice soothed the edges of my mind.

  “Stop it,” I said. “I don’t like being manipulated.”

  He shrugged. “Who does? No one likes being manipulated. We allow it because it benefits us.”

  I ran my fingers along the edges of my phone case. The slick plastic slid smoothly against my skin, and I forced myself to take another deep breath and focus.

  “You’ve been controlling me,” I said.

  He held up a hand.

  “Influencing,” he corrected.

  I blinked at him. I hadn’t expected him to just admit it.

  “How?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. Did he think I was an idiot?

  “No, really,” he said. “I don’t. I’ve always been able to turn people to my way of thinking, ever since I was a child. It’s a gift.”

  “Not all gifts are meant to be used.”

  “That’s easy for you to decide,” he said. “Would you find it that simple if I told you your voice wasn’t to be used?” He looked calmly at me, his question hinting Checkmate.

  “My voice doesn’t control people,” I snapped.

  “It influences them,” he said. “No need to get hysterical. You and I aren’t that different, Dior. We have similar talents. If you’d think about that, you’d see we’ll both do better if we pool our gifts together.”

  I pulled my tea closer. I couldn’t imagine drinking with all the anxious churning happening in my stomach, but it felt like August’s very presence might contaminate it and force me to do things I didn’t want to do.

  “My voice does not manipulate people,” I said. “I share emotions with my audience, and I create a musical and visual experience for them, but I don’t make them do things. I don’t force my ideas on them.”

  “I haven’t made anyone do anything,” August said. “I understand you might be uncomfortable with the tone we chose for your video, but we decided on that together, remember? It’s not quite fair for you to change your mind and somehow pin the blame on me.”

  I frowned. We’d talked about the costumes, and I’d sort of agreed to give them a try. That didn’t mean I’d agreed to grinding on a virtual stranger.

  I opened my mouth to object, but was interrupted by the blond woman from the counter bringing August his drink. It was coffee, of course, strong and black.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said.

  She raised one eyebrow at him, and I could practically see her biting her tongue. Then she tilted her head and smiled at him before she walked away.

  I wished I could walk away. That wasn’t an option, though. We had to have this conversation.

  “You’re experiencing some fear during this shift in your career,” he said. “It’s understandable to be nervous. I’ve merely been sharing my calming energy with you, to help you overcome your paranoia. I’m only trying to help, Dior.”

  His voice was so kind, and his eyes were so warm, and his smile was so real.

  I felt soothed—comfortable, even.

  And under that, I wanted to scream.

  It was a buried urge, a hidden, muffled need I couldn’t quite find a way to act on.

  “You’ve been controlling me,” I said.

  The words were true. I clung to them like a lifeline. I might not be sure of what was happening in this conversation, but I knew what had happened yesterday, and I knew how I felt now.

  I should have had Briana or Sadie here with me for this.

  I should have brought Dad.

  “What have you been doing to me?” I said. “I want an answer.”

  He scoffed a little, as though I’d said something horribly rude. I wrapped my hand around my phone and felt the smooth edges press into my skin. The touch tethered me. I held his gaze and waited for his answer.

  I was being irrational. I was being childish, and ridiculous, and hysterical.

  I was also going to be stubborn.

  Finally, he held up both hands and leaned back. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, Dior. If you need to know all the nuts and bolts, you can know all the nuts and bolts. If I’m going to give you carefully considered advice on how to do your job, I suppose it’s fair that you get to interrogate me about mine.”

  Damn right it was.

  I waited.

  “I’ve always had a sort of ability to convince people,” he said. “My mother called it a gift of charisma. I don’t control anyone or force them to do anything. I don’t push people into bad decisions, Dior, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your choices. I simply know best when it comes to your career. I’ve been doing this job far longer than you have—and far more successfully, I might add—and my gift of charisma simply makes you more willing to accept my expertise.”

  “You told me to do things yesterday and I did them, even though I didn’t want to.”

  “You must have wanted to on some level,” he said. “I can’t make anyone do anything they’re absolutely against.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “I’ve tested the limits of my abilities, as I think we all have,” he said. He sipped his coffee. “Never with anything important.”

  “What do you consider important?”

  He sighed and put the cup down. “Dior, I’m sorry you feel I manipulated you. I truly regret making you feel uncomfortable.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  “I’m afraid that ma
y not be in your best interest,” he said. He clasped his hands together on the table and stared at them for a moment, as though considering something. Then he looked up. “My gift is more complicated than it appears. If I want something—say, for one of my clients to have a successful career—my ability to influence them is harder to control, to restrain. And I do want my clients to be successful, for myself as much as for them. I’d be lying if I said I was in this business out of pure altruism. I get something out of it, too.”

  “Twenty percent can be significant,” I agreed.

  He waved a hand at me. “Not that,” he said. “The money is necessary, of course. We all need to eat. But I could be successful at a number of professions. This one in particular feeds me in a way others don’t.”

  I drank my tea, not taking my eyes off his face. The tea was lukewarm. I didn’t bother to reheat it.

  “I need your energy,” he said. “You and certain other Glimmering performers—you have an energy that comes from your gifts, or perhaps your soul. When you perform, energy pours out of you and energy pours out of your audience. It’s food and water to me. I have a gift of charisma, but it comes with a weakness, in that I need the charisma of others to survive.”

  I leaned back. “How dramatic,” I said.

  “It is,” he said. “But it’s not an exaggeration, or at least not much of one. If I can’t replenish myself through my clients, I fall ill. I grow depressed. I’m not well.”

  “Sounds rough,” I said. “But it doesn’t give you the right to manipulate me.”

  “I only do that for your own good,” he said. “I’m phenomenal at my job, Dior. I have to be, for you and for me. We both need the same thing: for you to be successful beyond your wildest dreams. We both benefit if that happens. Wouldn’t you like to be able to spend the next few decades performing for audiences who can’t get enough of you?”

  “I don’t need you to make that happen.”

  “If that were true, we wouldn’t be sitting here.” He fell silent as the barb hit its mark, then added, “Don’t you want to be able to take care of your father after all he’s done for you?”

  Dad had given his everything so he could take care of me and support my career. I was old enough now that I should be living on my own and maybe even helping take care of him. Instead, I was a burden.

  I reached inside myself, searching for evidence that August was creating these thoughts, but nothing about them seemed odd. I’d known Dad had a hard time being a single parent since I was a teenager. We were best friends and I knew he loved me as much as I loved him, but he’d had me too young and then gotten stuck with all the work of raising me alone. He’d given me everything. Quietly, I’d always hoped I’d be giving back to him by now.

  I folded my arms and studied August across the table. He sat, calmly submitting to my inspection.

  “Let’s be honest with each other,” he said. “You know what I need. You also know what I can give you. Can’t we make this work?”

  “You have to stop controlling me.”

  “Influencing,” he said. “I’d never control you against your will, Dior.”

  I opened my mouth, but he continued before I could speak.

  “But yes,” he said, loudly, cutting off my interruption. “I will do my best to rein in my gifts and allow you to take charge of your own decisions and behaviors.”

  He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “But we need an understanding,” he said. “I am good at what I do. So are you. You have as much talent as I’ve ever seen in a faerie your age. What you don’t have is business sense or a head for branding, and I can provide you with that. I can provide you with contacts and contracts and everything you need to let your gifts blossom. But you have to trust me. You have to understand that I know what I’m doing and can only make you a star if you let me make you a star.”

  “But I have to let you,” I said, staring him down. “I have to let you.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You do.”

  There were no free lunches. I knew that. I’d known I’d gotten almost too lucky to have August take an interest in me. Well, this was the cost of that opportunity.

  I could imagine the screaming crowds now, the feeling of music soaring out of me, and, brighter than everything else, the look on Dad’s face as I reached the heights he’d always wanted for me.

  I held out a hand across the table.

  “You can have my energy,” I said. “You can have whatever extra you need from me to do your job. I am happy to share that, but don’t—don’t—push me.”

  He held my gaze and shook my hand. His skin was warm and soft against mine.

  “We can get what we both want, Dior,” he said. “All we have to do is work together.” He smiled, and his smile was a blessing. “Thank you for this chance.”

  Chapter 9

  We didn’t release the music video.

  In what felt like a distinct effort to regain my trust, August had mirrored me the morning after our conversation at Pumpkin Spice.

  “You were right, Dior,” he’d said. “That video wasn’t in alignment with your brand or with who you are as a musician. I was trying to sell you as a sexy, wild animal. That’s not you. You’ve got the appeal we want, but you’re more elegant and sophisticated than the image I was trying to create for you.”

  I had never thought of myself as elegant or sophisticated, but those words sounded a lot better than cheetah-print cavewoman grinding on her army of glistening cabana boys.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I think we need to start over,” he’d said. “Not with ‘Wild,’ but with another song. I’m envisioning ‘Rain Like Falling Stars,’ with an upscale atmosphere. Lots of night shots, you in a flowing silver gown.”

  Finally, something out of his mouth was making sense.

  “That sounds a lot more like it,” I’d agreed.

  We’d filmed it the next week. Briana had stayed with me all day, talking with me between takes and keeping a sharp eye on August. I’d told her and Sadie what had happened with the first video, and neither of them had been happy. That had given me the courage to talk to Dad about it. He’d frowned, and then his face had cleared up as soon as I recounted my conversation with August.

  “That’s my girl,” he’d said. “You make sure everyone knows who’s boss.”

  He’d missed the point of it, but he was happy I was happy, and that was all that really mattered.

  Now, with the video edited, it was time for our first screening. Nerves jangled in my stomach—not just because of the video, but because Clarence was here to see it with me.

  We’d been texting all week. His schedule was almost as crazy as mine, so our conversations happened in stolen moments here and there. Finally, though, our lives had lined up just long enough for dinner and a movie—or, in this case, a five-minute screening of my video and then a quick lunch from a food cart downtown.

  He met me outside August’s building. He looked flushed.

  “You okay?”

  “I jogged most of the way here,” he said, panting. He held up a hand and I waited, suppressing a smile, while he caught his breath. “I wasn’t going to tell you that,” he said. “I didn’t want you to know how late I always am to things. You’re going to find out eventually, though. I missed my first train and then I went the wrong way once I got off.”

  Titania, I’d forgotten about that accent. Not forgotten, exactly. I knew he had it. But knowing he had an accent and feeling my heart speed up in reaction to the cadence of his voice were two totally different things.

  I hoped his empathetic gifts weren’t anything out of the ordinary. If he had any special faerie aptitude in sensing other people’s emotions, I was screwed.

  “Shall we go up?” he said.

  I realized I’d been staring at him, and quickly shoved my hands in my pockets and nodded. He was too gorgeous.

  “For sure,” I said. “I—sorry.”

  The corners of his mouth dimpled
, and I got the feeling he knew exactly what I’d just been thinking.

  “After you,” he said.

  He held the door for me as we went into the building’s spacious lobby, and I pushed the elevator buttons.

  “Going up,” the elevator announced.

  We rose, and I shuffled from foot to foot.

  “What is it about elevators that makes every silence awkward?” I said. He laughed, like he’d been wondering the same thing.

  Dad was already standing by the empty desk in August’s lobby. He had a slight dusting of flour on his shoulder. When he wasn’t managing my career, he worked as a salesman at artisanal spice and baking shop downtown, and he always came home smelling of cinnamon or with a dusting of eye of newt powder on his shirt. I brushed the flour off.

  “Dad, this is Clarence,” I said.

  Clarence looked a little nervous, but he didn’t need to be. Dad had never been one of those obnoxious gun-polishing types that was overly fixated on my dating life. He shook Clarence’s hand and asked how his day was going. Clarence didn’t get a chance to answer before the door to August’s office opened. His receptionist—Mari, I remembered—stepped out. She was wearing a sleek black suit today, and her gold earrings and watch still matched the decor.

  “Mr. Rumpel is ready for you,” she said.

  August welcomed us in, as gracious as ever. The shades in the room were drawn, blocking the view to the city outside, and a thick white screen had been pulled down from the ceiling in front of one of the bookcases. A projector I hadn’t noticed before hung over our heads, with the word Mesmerize glittering in gold along the bottom. Mesmerize was a top-of-the-line Glimmering electronics company. A projector like that would have cost nearly half its weight in gold coins.

  August ushered us into chairs and Mari handed out glasses of cucumber water. Clarence took the chair next to me, and I fidgeted with my drink, sending ice clinking against the sides of the glass.

  “You were absolutely right about this, Dior,” August said. “The last video was all wrong, and this one is all right. You have such an eye for your own creative vision. Never lose that.”

  “Never going to,” I said. I caught Clarence grinning at me and I quickly looked away before I could start grinning back.