“So you felt you needed an outlet to express your individualism,” Sunny suggested.
“Yeah.” Mickey appeared heartened by her assessment. “And I thought the black clothes and the piercings looked cool and kind of tough.”
“That’s good feedback, Mickey,” she encouraged. “Let me just take some notes here.” Sunny began typing away again as she gave Mickey time to drink more coffee.
At this rate, his mug would soon be empty.
“So you said you perceived the look as being cool and tough,” she reiterated a moment later. “Does that also describe the general attitude you associated with the Goths?”
“Yeah, I guess. Goths tend to be above all the petty popularity stuff that most high-school kids care about. They hang out with each other and don’t care what anyone else thinks about them.” He sounded proud, but there was frustration beneath his bravado.
Sunny pressed on. “And once you decided to become Goth, did you find that you were easily adopted into that group, or was there a period where you felt like an outsider?”
Mickey shrugged. “There’s only a few Goth kids at my school. And I was already kind of friends with Derrick.” He paused and fiddled with a string hanging from his jeans pocket. “And I had a few classes with Kelly, so I used to talk to her sometimes.”
His face flushed a blotchy red that traveled down his neck and disappeared beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt. He tried to disguise it by taking a long, two-handed swallow of coffee.
Sunny and I exchanged a knowing glance. Kelly had obviously been a big part of Mickey’s decision to go Goth. So much for my theory about him being gay. Sunny cleared her throat and looked down to type. When she looked up again, an interested smile was pasted on her face.
“Would you like some more coffee, Mickey?” I asked when he placed his empty mug on the glass tabletop.
He patted his stomach. “Uh, no thanks. I think I’ve had enough.”
“Yeah, me too,” I agreed. “I need some water, though.” I stood up. “Sunny, Mickey?”
“Please. Coffee always makes me thirsty,” Sunny chimed.
“I’ll get us all some,” I said quickly, not giving Mickey the chance to refuse. A double-sized mug of Sunny’s extra strong rocket fuel and the biggest glass of water I could find, and Mickey would be running to the bathroom any minute now. I hoped.
I kept one ear to the living room as I pulled down three of my tallest glasses from the top shelf of a cabinet. I used them for beer and they were big enough to fit two whole bottles a piece.
I could just make out Sunny’s voice as she said, “Mickey, thank you again for helping me out with my research—I really appreciate it. Let’s see, you were saying that you already knew a couple of the Goth kids, so it wasn’t that difficult for you to become part of their group. Did the other kids begin to view you differently when you became Goth?”
I strained to hear Mickey’s response as I filled the glasses from the dispenser.
“I guess a few of the jock assholes started making fun of me more, but they were jerks to begin with.” He shrugged, his tone turning defensive. “Besides, like I said, Goths don’t care what other people think of them.”
“Mmhm. And parents and other adults? Did you feel that they viewed you differently?”
Mickey sniggered. “My parents? They hated it. My dad’s favorite nickname for me went from ‘useless idiot’ to ‘useless zombie faggot’, and my mom just wailed about how I’d never date a cheerleader or join the football team. Like I ever wanted to hang out with those jerks anyway, wasting all my time on after school practices,” he said with rancor.
I set the water glasses on the coffee table and resumed my place on the couch. I schooled the sympathy from my face, doubting Mickey would appreciate it.
Sunny spent a good amount of time typing and Mickey finally picked up his water and downed a few gulps. His expression remained sour.
“Some people look at Goths and automatically think they’re into vampires, satanic worship or the occult,” Sunny spoke into the silence.
Her choice of topic made me nervous. I didn’t want Mickey, or rather the death djinn that I was ninety-nine percent sure possessed him, becoming suspicious about what we were up to.
I was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of Jasper’s unknown whereabouts. I thought he was probably still nursing his grudge behind the couch—but what if he decided to come out? And what if Mickey’s djinn knew about the white-tipped tail thing? My plan would crumble and I probably wouldn’t have another chance to get this close to him.
But Sunny’s tone was all innocent detachment, and Mickey’s expression only turned more darkly inward.
“Kelly had this Ouija board we used to play around with. It got kind of spooky,” he answered, his blue-grey eyes going dull and distant.
And then I saw it—that eerie flash of emerald green burning in their depths. My entire body tensed as I tried to conceal the shock of fear that echoed through me.
“Spooky?” Sunny asked.
I didn’t think she’d noticed the change in his eyes. She did, however, begin to frown as the silence lengthened and she looked up to find his face contorting as if he was struggling to speak.
“Mickey? Are you okay? Why don’t you drink some water,” she suggested in concern.
Mickey made a strange gurgling noise as if he was choking. Sunny put her laptop down and started to rise, looking at me in confusion, as if she couldn’t believe I was just sitting there doing nothing. And then suddenly, Mickey reached for his water glass, took a few sips, and smiled at her as if nothing had happened.
Sunny slowly sank back into the couch cushions, retrieving her laptop as she continued to stare at Mickey. “Are you alright?”
“Just a tickle in my throat,” he answered.
“Uh huh.” Sunny sounded skeptical, but continued with the interview. “So, you were saying the Ouija board got spooky?”
“Well, Kelly and Derrick tried to make like it was all spooky, but it was actually pretty dumb. When I told them so, they got mad.” Mickey rolled his eyes. “I was done with the Goth scene anyway. It was lame. I wish I’d never gotten into it.”
Sunny raised her eyebrows at his abrupt change of attitude.
“What?” he asked her, his tone turning sarcastic. “Didn’t you ever do something when you were a teenager that you wished you hadn’t?”
“Well, yeah,” she said slowly. “When I look back at the pictures, I kinda wish I’d never worn my hair in that big, ridiculous poof in the eighty’s.”
I chuckled in commiseration.
“But I guess it was in fashion back then and it would have looked even more ridiculous if I hadn’t gone along with it,” Sunny continued. “I suppose I’m just surprised that you went so quickly from thinking the Goth scene was cool, to thinking it wasn’t.”
Mickey shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes. What about you, Sydney? Isn’t there anything you wish you’d never done when you were my age?”
“Hey! This interview is supposed to be about you. Let’s not drag up my sordid past,” I evaded with a joking smile. Any doubts I’d had about Mickey being possessed died with his newest, less than subtle attempt to get me to make a wish.
Mickey didn’t look amused. He let out an exaggerated yawn and said, “So are we done? I’ve got someplace to be.”
Sunny glanced at me as she answered, “Well, I do have a few more questions.”
“Sorry. I really have to jet. Maybe next time.” Mickey rose from the couch and headed for the door.
“Do you need to use the restroom before you leave?” I asked, trying to sound gracious instead of desperate.
“Nah,” Mickey answered.
My heart sank as he reached for the door knob. “Catch ya’ later, ladies,” he said.
“Oh, wait!” Sunny called, jumping up from the couch. “Before you go, there’s a case of expensive champagne in the laundry room, but we can’t get to the damned thing because it’s
stuck tight between the wall and the washing machine. You’re a strapping young man—could you just take a quick look and see if you can wedge it out for us?”
I stared at her in confusion. Then I realized that the laundry room should work just as well as the bathroom for the spell’s purposes. Sunny was a genius!
“That would be great!” I exclaimed. “If you can get it out for us, there’s a fifty dollar bottle of champagne in it for you. Just don’t tell your parents!”
Mickey’s face perked up at that. What teenager refuses free alcohol—even if they are possessed by a death djinn?
“I’ve gotta run to the restroom,” I glanced meaningfully at Sunny. “Can you show Mickey where that case of champagne is?”
I darted toward the guest bath as Sunny made a show of doing something with her laptop to give me time to get the cat hairs and matches. I closed the door behind me and turned the faucet on as I felt along the shelf for the hidden dish. My fingers tipped it over the edge and my heart plummeted into my stomach as it began to fall. I caught it at the last second and brought it down safely with a panicked gasp.
When I went to stick the matches into my pocket, though, I saw that most of the white hairs were stuck to the matchbook. Holding my breath, I picked them off, one by one, and re-counted the tiny wisps…thank Goddess, still seven! The matches went into my pocket as I snapped off the faucet and cupped the dish in my hands so that its hard-won contents wouldn’t blow away.
“Sorry, Mickey,” Sunny was saying. “Since you took the time to answer my questions, I want to make sure I save our interview. But the stupid computer keeps freezing up.”
She and Mickey glanced up at me as I walked back into the living room with my hands wrapped around the glass dish.
I chuckled nervously. “I keep telling Sunny to bring her dishes to the kitchen. Other than that little habit, she’s the perfect houseguest.” The look she gave me was dry as the desert, and I mentally tacked on another bottle of sake to the dinner I owed her.
“Follow me, Mickey, and maybe you can budge that monstrosity of a washing machine for us.”
My heart tripped in excitement and fear as I led him to the laundry room. It was dark, and my trembling fingers brushed across the cool metal wall-plate to find the light switch. Most of the space was taken up by the huge, stainless-steel washer and dryer. Varnished wooden shelves lined the walls above the two machines, and a thin blue runner rug that matched the wallpaper ran the length of the room.
It smelled of my favorite jasmine and water lily dryer sheets. A box of them lay open atop a laundry basket piled high with my dirty clothes. I inhaled, trying to calm myself, and schooled my features into a smile before I turned to face Mickey. He was right on my heels.
“Close quarters,” I said with a mad titter as he backed up. “The washing machine’s right there. Just see if you can’t pull it forward away from the wall a bit.”
“Where’s the case of champagne?”
I could see that this was the point from which the plan was rapidly going to deteriorate.
“Uh, don’t ask me why, but someone left it behind the machine. Crazy right?” Mickey was looking at me as if I was a little crazy now. Well, if you squinted, it kind of looked like there was enough room to fit a few bottles back there.
“Anyway, if you could just try to pull it forward away from the wall?” I insisted.
He moved past me into the room and paused before the machine, testing its weight with the strength of his arms. It didn’t budge. He bent his knees and pulled harder. I silently swung the door closed and set the dish of cat hairs on top of the dryer behind my laundry basket. I fumbled with the matchbook, nearly dropping it when Mickey spoke.
“This is heavy.”
I stifled the urge to laugh insanely as my fingers steadied around the matchbook and I plucked a match from its bed. “Try to use your leg muscles. I don’t want you hurting your back.”
Mickey grunted with effort as I struck the match against the flint strip. The sour smell of sulfur drifted up into my nostrils, but it didn’t catch. I struck again and the smell rose stronger, but still no fire. I prayed the third time would be the charm as I struck it again, fast and hard. A tiny point of blue flame sprang to life and I cradled a shaking hand around it as I lowered it toward the scant pile of cat hairs.
I was so focused on the match that I nearly shrieked when Mickey suddenly said, “Sorry, Sydney, I think you’re going to have to get a couple of guys in here to move this thing.” He rose and leaned over the top of the machine, his neck craning as he tried to see behind it.
My eyes shot back to the miniscule trail of smoke floating up from the now dead match. I fretfully ripped at a fresh match, accidentally pulling out two that stuck together.
“I’m not seeing anything back there, Sydney,” Mickey said in confusion. He looked toward me. “Is that smoke?”
I frantically struck the matches, not caring that my fingers were too close to their heads. I felt the instant bite of white heat as both matches caught and the sparks flared against each other, flashing brightly and joining into one larger flame that licked eagerly down the paper strips. I dropped the conflagration into the dish, bringing my singed fingers to my mouth as I anxiously watched for the cat hairs to begin burning. I fervently hoped the match getting burned in there with them wouldn’t interfere with the spell.
Mickey stepped toward me, now looking angry and suspicious. “What are you doing? Why is the door closed?” he demanded.
The acrid aroma of burning hair filled the small utility closet and I backed up against the door, staring wildly at Mickey for some sign that the spell was working.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Sydney, but you’d better let me out of here right now.” Mickey’s voice dropped low in warning and a chill swept through me as emerald fire took over the blue-grey of his eyes.
I stood motionless, my back flattened against the only exit. He grabbed my shoulders with surprising strength, and I squeaked in denial as my eyes flew to the guttering flame in the now blackened dish. His gaze followed mine, falling upon the flame just as it snuffed out of existence.
A look of rage constricted his features and his grip tightened painfully on my shoulders. I instinctively executed a move that’s been hard-wired into the female brain since the times of being hit over the head and dragged off by cavemen. I kneed him in the crotch.
His face went slack with surprise, then rigid with pain as he backed away from me and doubled over, clutching his groin. Shit. I was in so much trouble if this didn’t work. Mickey panted as he looked up at me with accusatory fury. I gasped—his eyes were swirling with color, eerie green flickering angrily through the blue-grey of his irises.
A ghostly form began to take shape in front of him, its substance fed by an other-worldly smoke that seemed to pour from Mickey’s skin. I stared in shock as the distinctively willowy figure of a woman materialized.
“You bitch!” she wailed, rushing at me.
I threw my hands up in a feeble defense, but my back was already against the door—I had nowhere to go. I closed my mouth, afraid of what would happen if I inhaled the figure’s smoky form, but it only scattered harmlessly around me. A faint keening of frustration echoed through my ears as the smoke slowly began to re-gather.
“What’s going on in there?” Sunny’s muffled voice demanded through the door. I felt the knob turn against my back and I activated the lock to keep her from opening it. “What the hell? Syd? If you don’t answer me I’m breaking this door down!”
True to her word, she started banging against it so hard that the force of her blows vibrated through me. “It’s okay, Sunny!” I called in a strangled voice. “But I can’t open the door just yet!”
The banging ceased, but I could feel her there, hovering behind me in worried indecision.
The shapeless smoke reformed into the amorphous outline of a woman. She was several inches taller than me, thin and long-limbed, with dark hair and
high cheekbones. A sophisticated dress swathed her slender body in hunter-green, and her earlobes were lined with small glittering studs. Almond-shaped eyes peered at me sullenly through the smoky veil of her gathering form.
“Who are you?” I asked in a stunned voice.
“I am the princess Amalia.” She crossed her slowly solidifying arms over her chest in an imperious stance.
I stared at her dumbly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Certainly my dear brother has mentioned me.”
I shook my head and a look of surprise flitted across her face before it darkened with irritation. Her fists clenched and she swore. “That bastard has always underestimated me—he and my father both. I am the eldest; it should be me who is next in line to Father’s throne. Not that ingrate, Balthus.
“But I have my own plans,” she spat, “and I will not be shunted aside simply because I was not born a son! I warned Balthus that he would be forced to bargain with me for possession of his chosen mate.”
“Chosen mate?” I repeated weakly.
She paused in her tirade to stare at me, an unpleasant smile spreading across the sharp vee of her lips. “Did you not know Balthus has marked you as his chosen mate? Regardless of who completes your contract, he means to have you in the end. It is merely a matter of how hard a bargain he will be forced to drive to claim you. My price will be delightfully high.” Her smile widened to show even rows of small white teeth.
“I could include something for you in the bargain as well,” she added slyly. “Perhaps a clause that would prevent him from passing you around for the pleasure of his friends?”
I swallowed in revulsion.
Amalia chuckled. “No. As his chosen mate, he would likely guard you too jealously to share you in such a manner. However I know my brother well. He likes to think of himself as a Casanova—a great lover and a giver of pleasure rather than pain. But he revels in power just as much as the next man.
“Unlike our father though, who takes his satisfaction from the more obvious tortures, Balthus is a master at the subtler art of mixing pain with pleasure. He will take you against your will, but force your body to enjoy it, taking his satisfaction from your shame as you begin to crave his touch. I could add a clause to your contract that would give you more control over the physical aspect of your relationship.”
A Risky Proposition Page 26
