by Judi Fennell
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Judi Fennell
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover illustration by Anne Cain
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Every wish comes with complications…
1
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3
4
5
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7
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41
Author’s Note
An excerpt from I Dream of Genies
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
As always, to my husband and children. For the magic you bring to my life.
And to Steph. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Every wish comes with complications…
November 17, approximately 10:00 p.m.
Samantha Blaine held her breath and rubbed the copper lantern on the desk in her father’s office one more time. A little harder. A little longer.
But still… nothing.
No smoke, no genie, not even a dust bunny. She was being ridiculous; the thing was as much a genie lantern as Albert, her double-crossing, soon-to-be-fiancé—make that, her double-crossing, soon-to-be-ex-soon-to-be-fiancé—was Prince Charming.
Useless. Albert thought she, like this lantern, was useless.
“Trust me, Henley,” he’d said during the phone conversation she’d inadvertently overheard not ten minutes earlier. “Daddy’s little girl is clueless. Useless. On all fronts. Run the company? Her old man must have had another stroke back when he had that will drawn up. She’s incapable. Inept. Hell, she doesn’t even have a clue what I’m up to. She doesn’t have a clue about anything, so as soon as this memorial thing is over, I’ll get my ring on her finger and my hands on the contents of that safe. Then you’ll get your money.”
Samantha flicked the edge of the letter with the combination to the safe. Dad’s attorney had given it to her earlier. He’d said Dad had wanted her to have it tonight during the funeral—no, during Dad’s life celebration. That was her father, always looking for the good in everything, but what good had there been in opening it now, in the middle of this party, just to retrieve a souvenir from her parents’ honeymoon? She didn’t really want a reminder of the happily ever after she apparently wasn’t going to have with Albert. Without him. Whatever.
She traced the lantern’s curved spout, thoroughly appreciating the irony that Albert had been tearing the house apart for weeks trying to find the combination to the safe, yet she’d been the one to open it.
Useless, was she? Who was the inept one now?
She tapped the flame-shaped finial on the lid. Finding this wasn’t a victory though, because while Albert might not have been Prince Charming material, she’d thought he’d had some redeeming qualities, namely claiming to love her for her. Not because of who her father was or how much she’d be worth someday, or what great merger-acquisition material she’d be like other corporate types she’d dated, but her. Not Samantha Blaine, heiress, but Samantha, the woman who had hopes and dreams of a long, loving relationship like her parents’ and the big family she’d never had. She wanted so much to believe, so she’d let herself hope that, this time, it was for real.
The troll had helped the illusion along not only by offering to sign a prenup, but also by stepping in and taking over the burden of running her father’s custom-car manufacturing company while she’d been at Dad’s hospital bedside these past six months. She’d been so grateful.
And now this. And tonight of all nights. The jerk.
She blinked back the tears, determined not to let him get to her. But, God, she’d been so trusting. So hopeful. Again.
And again she’d been disappointed.
Samantha tucked some curls behind her ears, plopped her chin in her palm, and ignored Wanda the housekeeper, who was calling her name from the foyer. Samantha wasn’t up for seeing anyone right now.
Oh, not because Albert had just broken her heart. Sadly, deep down, she’d known he wasn’t the guy for her. She’d known that. But he’d been the first—she’d thought—guy in her life who’d sincerely been interested in her. When Dad had had the stroke, Albert had been there. He’d helped out with the company and hadn’t made any demands on her other than to sign paperwork.
That was when he’d started mentioning marriage, and Samantha had let herself go along with the idea because, more than Albert being her One True Love, she hadn’t wanted to deal with the fact that when Dad was gone, she’d be alone in the world. Mom had died when she’d been a toddler, so it’d just been the two of them all these years. She’d never felt the lack of family more than she had when Dad died.
Albert had offered her a way out, so she’d given in to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was the real deal. Stalwart, supportive, there when she’d needed something… That was what she’d always wished for, so she’d let him in. Trusted him. Believed in the fairy-tale ending.
And now he’d betrayed her.
She shook the long sleeve of the djellaba she wore over her street clothes up her arm and picked up the lantern, her reflection not distorted enough to hide the pain in her eyes at being betrayed.
Again.
Why was everyone always looking for handouts from her? What was wrong with her that she couldn’t have someone want her just for who she was instead of what she had in her bank account or what she could do for them? It was sad really, how, with all the things money could and had bought for her, love wasn’t one of them.
She ran her fingertips over the lantern’s rounded side. Wouldn’t it be perfect if this actually were a genie lantern? She could use a little magic in her life right now.
For her first wish, she’d turn Albert into a belly-crawling lizard. Then she’d bring Dad back, and then…
“And then I’d wish for the genie to take me away from all this, to some place where all my troubles would just disappear.”
And, in a billowing cloud of orange smoke, that’s exactly what happened.
Or… was it?
1
Orange smoke surrounded her, bursting from the lantern’s spout like a boiling psychedelic tea kettle on hyper speed, and while Samantha’s troubles weren’t disa
ppearing, the office was. And the desk and the chair and the safe and everything else around her.
Everything except the lantern.
The cloud grew thicker, and Samantha didn’t know what to do except grab that lantern and hold on tight.
Her body tingled as if grains of sand were bombarding her, and an odd sense of speed surrounded her as if the world were rushing by while the wind swirled such thick, orange smoke all over her that she should be choking… but wasn’t.
While she was pondering that, the wind and the world died down, and the orange smoke dissipated as quickly as it had appeared—and this time Samantha did know what to think.
First, the half-naked guy in front of her wearing only an orange vest and baggy white pants was way underdressed for a funeral. Second, she was no longer at a funeral, and third…
“Where am I?” Highly unoriginal, but then, clichés were overused for a reason, and she really didn’t have a clue where she was.
The guy settled his fists on his hips and his orange vest gaped open, showing off a six-pack that had nothing to do with beer.
“Izaaz,” he answered, his voice skating across her nerve endings like smooth wine on fine chocolate—or maybe that was because his eyes were the color of said chocolate and oh my, were they fine. Warm and bone-meltingly delicious.
“Is what?” Knees a tad wobbly, Samantha reached around for the desk chair she’d just been sitting in. Except that the chair wasn’t there. Neither was the desk. Or the office.
“Izaaz,” said a high-pitched voice by her ankles.
Samantha looked down. A bat-eared Chihuahua smiled up at her.
There were so many things wrong with that sentence that Samantha didn’t even bother trying to analyze it.
She looked back at the guy in the vest. Six-two with a set of shoulders that would make a linebacker proud, he looked like he’d walked right off a playing field. Or, in that outfit, a Hollywood movie set. Especially with the dark good looks of a leading man, a killer smile, eyes that made her think of hot desert nights, and thick, rich, mink-brown hair women would beg to run their fingers through.
And half-naked to boot.
Which still didn’t explain who he was, where she was, and what the hell had happened to Dad’s memorial service.
“I wish I had that chair,” she muttered, trying to still her jittery legs and the butterflies in her stomach.
Those butterflies turned into helicopters when a chair poofed into existence beside her in a cloud of orange glitter.
“What’s that?” Samantha squeaked, jumping backward.
“A chair,” said the Chihuahua—which would have freaked her out except that when she’d jumped back, she’d hit something solid. And furry. And when she glanced over her shoulder, the furry thing there put the talking dog to shame.
Cousin Itt’s cousin stood behind her. With dreadlocks.
“Hello,” it said/mumbled/rumbled.
Samantha sidestepped away, her feet tripping over themselves. What the hell had happened to her sanity?
Half-Naked Hottie gripped her arm when she stumbled. “I think you better sit down,” he said, motioning with his hand.
The chair slid next to her.
He didn’t have to ask her twice. Samantha plunked her butt in the chair, then put her hands and the lantern in her lap.
“Are you all right?” Hottie asked.
Samantha nodded. Then she shook her head. Then she shrugged.
She didn’t know what she was. Or where. She’d thought she was at Dad’s Casablanca-inspired memorial service, with its large Moroccan tents and food and entertainment and costumes. Dad had specifically requested each of those items in his will since the city was where he and Mom had honeymooned.
That had been one of his happiest memories, and Samantha had gone all out honoring his wishes. And contrary to Albert’s opinion of her competence—or lack thereof—if there was one thing she was good at, it was throwing a party. Even a funeral, if everyone’s comments could be believed. Though, seriously, what defined a good funeral?
But this… This looked nothing like what David, the event organizer, had set up in the estate’s backyard. Instead of the luxurious blue tents draped in silks and brass lanterns that she’d been standing under before going in search of Albert and that fateful conversation, she was looking at white paint peeling like shaved coconut off the oddest-shaped buildings she had ever seen.
A cross between Gaudi’s buildings in Barcelona and Munch’s The Scream, the multi-arched façades looked like a bunch of stone tepees that drooped to the left all honeycombed on top of each other, with pockmarks dotting every surface as if the place was a shooting gallery.
Dead plants draped over rusted balconies. Shutters hung lopsidedly off other abandoned-looking buildings, their gray-and-white-striped awnings torn, their edges frayed, and the median running down the deserted, dusty street had a long trough with what looked like fountain heads inside it, but not a drop of water.
“Hey, look!” said the dog with a bounce. “She’s got your lantern.”
He… said? The dog talked?
And she’d thought being congratulated for throwing a good funeral party was odd.
Then she looked around and knew what odd really was.
Aside from the dog, the furball, and the Hottie, there was nothing but white everywhere. Hard-packed sand beneath her feet, drab white buildings with dusty windows, a pale to the point of colorless sky above them… Even the palm trees lined up like bowling pins along the main thoroughfare, about three sizes bigger than any palm trees she’d ever seen, were white. And instead of the dark night sky that’d been above her L.A. home, here, it was broad daylight.
Then the dog’s words registered.
“Your lantern?” She looked up at the Hottie. Then she looked him down. Oh, not in a check-him-out kind of way, though she obviously wasn’t dead (she hoped), but yeah, she did check him out, and man-oh-man-oh-man… There definitely hadn’t been anyone like him at the party tonight.
The sword swallower she’d hired had worn a similar outfit, but it hadn’t looked anywhere near as good on him as it did on this guy. The long curved swords on their hips were the same, but other than that, there was no similarity. This guy’s gaping vest had no chance of ever closing across that chest, and the gold sash wrapped around the top of his pants highlighted incredibly well-defined sexy lines by his hips.
And while the baggy pants that covered his long legs, the silver bracelets on his wrists, and the orange curled-toe slippers should have done serious damage to his masculinity, they actually enhanced it. Just like real men could wear pink, real hunks could pull off curled-toe slippers.
Though, honestly? Who did that?
The dog’s next bounce jostled the lantern.
Samantha looked at it. Then back at the guy.
No. He couldn’t be.
Could he?
She looked at the talking dog. What other possible explanation could there be?
She swallowed and forced the words out. “Please tell me your name isn’t Aladdin.”
One side of Hottie’s mouth kicked back into a smile. If she’d thought he was hot before, now he was sizzling.
“Hardly.”
Samantha blew out a breath.
So did the solid, furry thing behind her. “Ha!” it said, though the sound came out more as a smoker’s hack than a laugh.
Then the dog piped up. “Aladdin? Of course that’s not his name. After all, Aladdin wasn’t a genie.”
Which meant that the guy in front of her… was.
2
Kal waved his fingers, rousing his dormant magic to conjure up a glass of water for his newest—and last—master. Number One Thousand and One.
Yes, the number was ironic, given Scheherazade’s nightly tales. But that number had haunted his existence: the thousand-and-one masters he had to Serve, the same number of wishes he had to grant each of those masters, the number of tiles in his bathroom floor, the div
ots in the lantern’s lid, the songs on his iPod.
Probably even the grains of salt in his salt shaker, but he was beyond the humor at this point because Samantha was the beginning of the end of his sentence. The last of the masters he was to Serve to atone for ridding himself of the gold bracelets that bound him to The Service. At one time, he’d been proud to be the only djinni to have figured out how to get them off, but pride was a lonely bedfellow and a poor substitute for losing his magic. Thank the cosmos, the time had finally come. Now if only his Service to this last master would go by quickly.
If she were to die or someone took the lantern from her, it actually could. He’d gone through a few masters that way. But if either of those were to happen, he’d then be stuck in Service to that person and would have to wait (like the rest of the djinn world) until a trick of Karma set him free.
No, better for both of them would be for her to give him the lantern and wish him free, but in all his four thousand years of Service, not one mortal had even hinted at offering him his freedom, He’d learned to stop wishing for it, though the hope still simmered just beneath the surface. If only one of them would. It would only take one.
Unfortunately, however, he couldn’t ask any of them for the lantern. Otherwise he’d find himself right back at square—and master—one, thanks to the convoluted stipulations of his imprisonment. He’d resigned himself long ago to playing by the High Master’s rules.
Those rules would be some of the first things he’d change when he took over the job.
“Here. Perhaps you’d like something to drink?” After she took the glass, Kal shook the residual Glimmer of magic left behind from his hands and stretched his fingers. As a demi-genie—gods, how that term bugged the kharah out of him—he was permitted to use his magic only for his master’s comfort, safety, and wishes. Six months shut up inside that lantern not only had him going stir crazy, but also had his magic bursting at the seams.
Then he got a look at her, a hint of ankle showing beneath the djellaba she wore, and something else was bursting at the seams.
It’d been a lot longer than six months for that, and she was none other than Monty’s daughter, the woman whose image had kept him company on many lonely nights.
