The Reaper Rescues The Genie

by Kristen Painter

  “I’ll show her the room.” He flicked his gaze at his grandmother, hoping she understood he needed a moment with Imari. “That way you can start the kettle.”

  “Very good.” She winked at Lucien, which Imari undoubtedly saw. “I’ll be in the kitchen. But we should have tea here in the living room, don’t you think?”

  “Whatever you wish, Mémé.” He almost cringed as the word left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to call Hattie that in front of Imari.

  But Imari didn’t seem to notice. She smiled at him. “I would like to put my bag away, but the kitchen would be fine for tea. I’m not fancy.”

  Hattie smiled. “The kitchen it is, then. See you in a bit.”

  As his grandmother left, Lucien gestured toward the other side of the house. “This way.”

  Imari followed as he took them through the living room and to the right. He glanced at her. She was grinning wildly. “Does something about my home amuse you?”

  “Not at all. And your home is beautiful. A little weird, being underground, but I like the way you’ve used the light panels to keep it from being dark. So yes, beautiful in its own way.”

  “Thank you. I think.” He cleared his throat. “What’s so amusing, then?”

  “Your housemate.”

  “I apologize if Hattie came on too strong. I guess she’s a bit starved for company.”

  “No, she was fine. It’s just…” Her smile broadened, and she laughed. “I never would have guessed the angel of death lives with his grandmother.”

  He frowned. So she understood French. Or was just smart enough to know that the term of endearment he’d used meant grandmother. He sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And she lives with me.”

  “Of course.”

  He stopped and opened one of the double doors that led into the guest suite. “Your room.”

  She didn’t go in. “Listen, I think it’s sweet that she lives with you. I’m not judging you. At all. I’d love to have my family around me.” Her expression grew wistful. “Life for a jinn doesn’t always work that way.” She made a funny little noise, then stepped into the guest room. “This is lovely. And so big!”

  “Hattie designed it.” What colors she’d used, he couldn’t recall. “I know it has its own bathroom.”

  “It’s perfect.” She set her bag on the bed and unzipped it. She took the bottle out and put it on the nightstand. “I don’t think I’ve said a proper thank you for opening your home to me like this. I know it was a hard thing for you to do, and I want to be sure you know I’m very appreciative.”

  He stared at her. He wasn’t used to conversations like this. “You’re welcome.” A few moments of awkward silence passed. “I’ll leave you alone to get settled.”

  “There’s really nothing for me to do.” She walked toward him, narrowing the distance between them. She was peering at him intently. “Do I make you nervous?”

  He swallowed. “No. Not exactly.” She was too close again.

  “What, then?”

  “I’m just not used to company.”

  She nodded, but her expression held a vast amount of skepticism. “Then why would you invite me to your home?”

  He wanted to back up. “You needed help.”

  “And you were willing to put yourself out for me? When you don’t really know me?”

  “Greyson…I owed him.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares about owing people.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. Mostly because she was befuddling him with her nearness and her scent and her impossible beauty. Genies must have the kind of pheromones that made men stupid. That was the only explanation he could think of.

  She shrugged. “Whatever your reason, I’m glad you did.”

  Then she leaned up and kissed him. On the mouth. It was soft and sweet and the most unexpected thing she could have done.

  He should have told her not to touch him. Instead, instinct took over, and he closed his eyes.

  That didn’t stop him from seeing color. It exploded in the darkness behind his lids, his own personal fireworks show. A million colors dancing and pulsing with the pressure of her mouth.

  Then the kiss was over and the colors were gone. Far too soon. For both.

  She turned toward the door. “We should go, or your grandmother’s going to think we got lost.”

  “Uh-huh.” Lucien’s mouth was open, and he was unable to close it. A deep tingling filled his whole body, leaving him numb in some places and utterly, electrically alive in others.

  Maybe he was dying. Maybe this was what death felt like for a broken grim reaper.

  Or maybe, just maybe, he was getting a second chance at life.

  What on earth was wrong with her? Who voluntarily kissed an angel of death? Was she mental? Maybe. She plastered a pleasant smile on her face to hide the fact that she was all sorts of mixed up on the inside.

  That kiss had been impulsive and stupid. And five kinds of amazing. But also definitely impulsive and stupid. Especially because she didn’t know Lucien well enough to know what he was capable of. He could have reacted badly. Thankfully, he hadn’t, but still. Maybe her fear of the wish merchant was making her reckless.

  Or maybe she’d seen a man before her so desperate for interaction, a man who had gone against everything he felt to offer her a safe space, that she’d been swept up in the emotion of the moment and lost to the desire to show him just how appreciative she was.

  With her acute sense of intuition, it was impossible to ignore the dark, haunted vibe that Lucien gave off. Feeling that, she couldn’t help but want to thank him in a way that went beyond words. Especially after his kindness toward her.

  Kindness he’d extended without the promise of anything in return. She’d never had that from anyone outside of her friends before. Everyone else in her life, human or supernatural, wanted something from her once they discovered what she was. Of course, her parents had always known what she was. That was exactly why they wanted so much from her.

  But Lucien treated her as just another person. He seemed as interested in wishes as a housecat was in swimming. Which was to say, not at all. At least, he hadn’t expressed any interest. And she believed him.

  But who felt that way? Who wanted nothing? Sure, he had plenty of wealth. His underground acre of exotic cars proved that. But just looking at him she could see something was wrong in his life.

  Angel of death or not, the man was unhappy. And didn’t everyone want happiness? She did.

  They made their way in silence back down the hall and toward the kitchen. She was okay with the silence, except she wasn’t sure if she’d upset him with the kiss. Maybe she should apologize. Maybe she’d overstepped her bounds.

  She couldn’t afford for him to throw her out. Not with the wish merchant hot on her heels and aware of where she lived. She stopped in the living room, facing him abruptly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. That was inappropriate, and I—”

  He took hold of her arms, pulled her close, and shut her mouth with his.

  She gasped, but didn’t break the kiss. A split-second after her shock wore off, she leaned into him.

  His kiss was hungry and insistent and demanding in a way that made her feel wanted in ways she’d never felt before. He tugged her closer, pressing her to him. She gave in, doing her best to meld her body to his. But just as she was about to start purring in delight, he let go of her and stepped back.

  His gaze burned into her as hot and black as Hades. “That was inappropriate.”

  She just looked at him, slightly breathless and a lot bewildered. She finally remembered to close her mouth. The taste of him was still there. Dark and sweet and wicked. She cleared her throat to find her voice. Had it been this hot when they’d first gotten here? “Well. Good thing you showed me the difference.”

  How was she upright? How had her knees not buckled? They felt like w
arm butter. She had no idea what she was supposed to do next, just that she wasn’t doing it.

  Hattie saved the day, floating in. She was in her ghost form again. “Tea is ready if you two would like to come into the kitchen. I warmed up some apple tartlets too.”

  “Tea.” Imari nodded, happy for the reminder. She followed Hattie into the kitchen. Lucien was right behind her. She knew because she could feel him there. His presence had become a palpable thing. She wanted to close her eyes and lean into him, to feel his strong, hard body against hers again.

  Not exactly the kind of thoughts she should be having with his grandmother right next to her.

  “Your kitchen is beautiful.” Imari was happy to have something new to focus on. Frankly, it wasn’t hard. It was unbelievable that such a room existed in an underground home.

  The kitchen was bright and spacious and felt very much like a French farmhouse with its high, beamed ceiling, copper pots, and the brilliant blue island topped with marble. The rest of the cabinets were a soft buttermilk color, worn here and there to show the warm wood underneath. There was a large window over the apron sink that looked out onto an evening countryside scene. Stars twinkled in the blue-black sky, and light from a fat crescent moon shone down.

  Imari stared at the view a moment before she realized it was a video screen.

  “Thank you,” Hattie said. “Lucien let me pick everything out in here.”

  “Well, you did an excellent job.”

  Hattie radiated pride.

  Imari glanced over her shoulder at Lucien.

  “I have work to do,” he suddenly announced. Then he was gone.

  Hattie frowned. “Excuse my grandson. His manners aren’t the best. But he’s had a rough go of things, so please, forgive him. He’s a good boy, he really is.”

  “Mémé.” Lucien’s voice came from somewhere in the house. It sounded like a command. Or a warning. Or a plea for mercy.

  Hattie looked up. Apparently, it was a summons. “Let me just see what Lucien needs and I’ll be right back, dear. The tea is ready. You help yourself to whatever you like. Our home is your home.”

  Imari seriously doubted that, but smiled anyway. “Thank you.”

  Hattie left.

  Imari poured herself a cup of tea. The scent and color revealed it to be the same delicious Assam that Lucien had brought her in the club. She added a cube of sugar and stirred, thoughts of last night a temporary reprieve from thoughts of the kisses they’d just shared.

  She glanced up. Were they under the club? They had to be. Insomnia was in this building. But it was also underground, so how far under were they now? The ramp into the garage had been a steep descent. Why would he choose to live here? Was an angel of death averse to sunlight the way most vampires were?

  Hattie reappeared, corporeal this time. “How’s your tea? Let me put one of those tartlets on your plate.”

  Imari sipped the tea. It was hot and sweet and delicious. Just like Lucien’s kiss. She hoped Hattie thought the color in her cheeks was just from the steam rising off the beverage. “It’s very good.”

  “Lucy—forgive me, I’m not supposed to call him that in front of you. Lucien likes that one best.” She slid one of the tartlets on to Imari’s plate, then put another on her own plate, poured herself some tea, and sat. She nudged a dish of whipped cream toward Imari and smiled. “It’s so nice to have company. I don’t have that many friends in town.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged, her smile going a little sad. “It’s hard for us. We need to keep a certain level of secrecy about us because of who we are.”

  Imari nodded, but she was sure it was only because of who Lucien was. Hattie’s being a ghost wouldn’t bother any of the supernatural residents in town. She wasn’t even the only one. Pandora and Cole had the ghost of their home’s previous owner living in their attic. “You go to the spa to get your hair done, though.”

  “I do. And once in a while, Birdie Caruthers and I do something. A movie, or lunch. Sometimes that nice Jayne Frost comes along. Do you know Birdie? Or Jayne?”

  “Everyone knows Birdie. Or knows of her. I don’t know Jayne, though.”

  Hattie smiled. “They’re both very lovely women.” Her smile dampened again. “But that’s about as much interaction as I get beyond those outings. Just some casual conversations at the grocery store or post office.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

  “It is. But I’m not complaining. Just wishing things were a little different. Still, this life is better than no life.” She lifted her cup and sipped her tea.

  Imari used her fork to cut a small piece off the tartlet. What did that mean? How had Hattie come to be a ghost? Would it be okay to ask, or would that be too personal a question? She decided to risk it. “I hope I’m not being forward, but how did you become a ghost?”

  Hattie blinked a few times, smiling politely. She wavered, light filtering through her for a moment until she became fully solid again. “The usual way. I died.”

  That sounded very much like it wasn’t a subject Hattie wanted to discuss further, and as Imari was a guest, she was happy to respect that.

  Didn’t mean she wasn’t still curious. She was. Very much so. Maybe even more now after that response. But she let it be, choosing instead to eat the bite of tartlet on her fork. “This is excellent. Do you bake a lot?”

  Hattie seemed relieved to have a change in the subject. “Oh yes, I love baking. I love all kinds of cooking, actually. Do you have any favorite dishes? I’d be happy to make one of them for you for dinner tomorrow.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. Actually, it’s a pleasure. Lucien isn’t a picky eater, but food isn’t anything but fuel for him. He doesn’t care much what he eats. So please, let me cook for you. What would you like?”

  Imari pondered that. When was the last time someone had sincerely been interested in pleasing her? She smiled. When Lucien had procured tea for her at Insomnia. And now Hattie wanted to do the same. To see that Imari was happy. She leaned in. “You know what I would love?”

  Hattie’s face brightened. “What?”

  “A good old-fashioned roast chicken dinner. With mashed potatoes and green beans and carrots and rolls with butter.”

  “And stuffing? And gravy?”

  “Yes! With stuffing and gravy! How could I forget?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Hattie seemed on the verge of delirium. “That sounds perfect, by the way. I roast a mean chicken. What about for dessert?”

  Imari thought back to her childhood. “My mother used to make this dish called Om Ali. It’s like a bread pudding, but made with fresh bread, not stale, honey, chopped dates, and sprinkled with cinnamon and pistachios. She only made it on special occasions. Just thinking about it makes me smile.”

  Hattie was nodding furiously. “I can manage that. Om Ali. I’m all over it, you’ll see.”

  They ate and talked about food, and by the time Imari had finished her tartlet, the nerves she’d felt earlier were long forgotten. She was looking forward to sleep and peaceful dreams.

  She glanced at the clock on the microwave. “It’s nearly midnight, Hattie. I don’t know what your schedule is like, but I have to work tomorrow. I should really get to bed.”

  “Of course.” Hattie stood and picked up the empty dessert plates. “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

  “No, no, I enjoyed chatting. Very much.” Imari took the empty tea cups and saucers to the sink, joining Hattie there. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  Hattie smiled up at her. “Thank you for your company.”

  Imari’s impulses took over again, but this time, she hesitated. “Can I hug you?”

  Hattie laughed. “I would like that.” She became corporeal.

  Imari embraced the older woman. It had been a long time since she’d felt such caring and compassion. Hattie was warm and soft, just like a grandmother should be. The f
aint smell of rose water surrounded her, a very comforting smell to Imari. She released Hattie with reluctance and stood back. “Will I see you in the morning?”

  “Absolutely. Who do you think makes breakfast?”

  Imari smiled. “In the morning, then.”

  “Sleep well.”

  Imari headed back to the guest room. There was no sign of Lucien in the living room. Maybe he’d left. Maybe he was in the VIP section of Insomnia again. Making sure some other woman had exactly what she wanted to drink.

  The green wash of jealousy stopped Imari in her tracks. Where on earth had that come from? That wasn’t an emotion she had any business feeling. None whatsoever. If Lucien wanted to spend all his waking hours in that club talking to every woman in there, that was no concern of hers.

  Still, she couldn’t help but dwell on the image for another second or two. Was that where he’d gone? Had his kiss been exactly what he’d said—a demonstration of what was inappropriate? She started walking again.

  And ran into a wall. No, not a wall.

  Lucien.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” she mumbled, embarrassed by her relief that he was still at home.

  “Lost in thought?”

  She nodded. “Something like that, yes.”

  “Going to bed?”

  “That was my plan.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “No?”

  “No. We need to talk.”

  First that kiss, now the genie smelled like delicious pastry and his favorite tea. It was as if the universe was using her to torment him. And doing a bang-up job of it.

  But then, why wouldn’t it? The universe excelled at tormenting him.

  She stared up at him, hands on her hips, eyes round but slightly defiant. “About what?”

  “I heard you tell my—Hattie, that you have to work tomorrow. That’s not happening.”

  She snorted. “Um, yes, it is. I have a job because I have bills, and without that job, those bills don’t get paid. You think it’s free to live in the Excelsior? It’s not. And you know what kind of car I drive? A five-year-old Toyota Camry. Which is a great car, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not a two-million-dollar limited edition Bugatti, so I need that job. Genies, at least this one, aren’t independently wealthy.”