Shimmer

by Sharon Ashwood

  She took another swallow of strong coffee. Corby’s desk held a lamp and a clutter of papers. She shifted to the left, but only saw the putty-colored corner of the wall safe. When she leaned to the right, there was an old mirror in a fancy frame. Nothing screamed sorcery—no wizard hats or magic wands. Not even a stray unicorn. Maybe this job was so mind-numbing she was making up threats to stay sane. Alana turned away just as Corby walked into the back.

  “What are you doing back here?” he demanded.

  “Getting coffee.”

  His brows lifted. “The coffee pot is on the other side of the room.”

  “I thought I heard something.” It was almost true.

  “You heard something that just so happens to be in the part of the premises that’s none of your business?”

  This sounded like an argument Alana wasn’t about to win—not with words, at any rate. She moved to the counter, then set her coffee cup down. “I’m sorry. I’ll get back to the front desk.”

  He didn’t move from the doorway into the front of the store. He was much shorter than she was, but his sharp black eyes didn’t waver from her face. Demi-fae were half human and mortal, but some were as powerful as any wizard. Alana guessed Corby was one of them.

  “Stay out of my office.”

  “No problem,” she said, but she knew a problem when it stared her in the face.

  He still didn’t move. “I’m leaving early today. I expect you to lock up. Don’t think I won’t know if you go snooping around.”

  Her temper bubbled, but she kept it contained. “Understood.”

  He finally stepped aside. Alana brushed past, shoulders rigid. She was used to focusing her rage in a fight, but that wouldn’t work here.

  “Your job is to do what you’re told,” Corby called. “Don’t think your pride matters to me.”

  No doubt that was true, but it wasn’t uppermost in Alana’s thoughts. All she could think about right then was how much she hated Barleycorn for giving her this job.

  3

  Blessedly, there were no customers. Once Alana got behind the counter, she balled her fists where Corby couldn’t see her do it.

  She concentrated on money.

  She needed it for food, rent, and medicines.

  Barleycorn never saw a job hunter twice.

  This wasn’t the time to walk out.

  Maybe this was a cosmic test of her self-discipline.

  It was all she could do not to scream.

  She heard the office door slam, the sound carrying all the way from the back of the store. Then came the rattle as Corby turned the lock, underscoring his point that she was not welcome there. A moment later, he stumped past, crossing through the store and out the front door without so much as a glance her way. The instant he left, the air in the place felt lighter.

  She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. It would be hard to get another position—and harder still in the human world, where she couldn’t explain her past. She was stuck at Comfy Chair, at least for a while.

  Alana felt like a tigress trapped in a compact car.

  The dregs of the afternoon dribbled away. Eventually, she began cashing out. Just as she was about to make a break for freedom, the door jangled. Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to see a gray-haired woman with a paper box. With a dramatic sigh, the customer thumped her load down on the counter. “Thank heavens you’re still open!”

  Alana catalogued her: human, late fifties, average in every obvious way. “What can I do for you?”

  “I heard through the grapevine that you buy collectibles.”

  And here Alana thought she’d be closing on time. “Once in a while.”

  “My aunt passed, and I’m clearing out her things. She was an odd duck, so there were some interesting pieces.” The woman gave the box a significant glance.

  Out of politeness, Alana lifted the flap and peeked inside. Most of the contents was kitchen clutter—a wall clock shaped like a tomato, cookie tins decorated with children and puppies and a device for making uniform hamburger patties. It was all about as magical as undercooked bread dough. She glanced up, seeing an almost painful hope in the woman’s eyes. Maybe she needed money? “I can see what your aunt collected was very unique.”

  The woman brightened. “Really?”

  “Sure.” Alana picked up the stack of cash she’d been counting, then peeled off two bills. It wasn’t a fortune, but still far too much for the junk. Take that, Corby. She thrust the money across the counter. “I’ll buy the whole box.”

  The woman snatched the cash eagerly. “Thank you!”

  “No problem. We’ll see to it your aunt’s things find excellent homes.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said again with a gratitude that made Alana’s stomach hurt.

  She ushered the woman out the front door before locking it behind her. When the bolt slid home with a clack, Alana exhaled with relief. Another day at Comfy Chair over and done with.

  She glanced at the box, thinking of all the people Corby had swindled out of their valuables. It served him right if she’d paid a premium price for rubbish. Plus, she’d made that woman’s day. Win-win.

  Suddenly, Alana was in a much better mood. Curious now, she unloaded the box onto the counter. There were baking pans, flowerpots with polka dots, and one of those cheap brass lamps that went in and out of fashion every two decades or so. It caught her eye because it had dragons on it, but her enthusiasm faded when the lid wouldn’t come off. Useless. Still, it was the kind of fake exotic trinket that Tina had loved.

  Tina. It was her birthday today. A wrench of sadness stole Alana’s breath, almost doubling her over.

  Quickly, she put everything back in the box and hauled it to a dark corner of the back room, then wrapped up the cash report. It had been a good day for business, despite her unauthorized purchase. When she was done, she made one final sale to herself.

  Alana took the brass lamp, stuffing it into her tote bag.

  When she went to visit Tina, she wouldn’t go empty-handed.

  By the time Alana got off the bus at the graveyard, dusk erased the edges of the afternoon shadows. The huge iron gates would be open for another hour, so she set off through the rows of yew and cedar, moving slowly to accommodate the pain of her ruined knee. A rising wind sang through the boughs. It was May, but she was grateful for her jacket.

  The cemetery had a scattering of fae graves, but only a few. Full-blooded faeries didn’t age, and demi-fae lived for centuries, so a demise from natural causes—even disease—was rare. However, they weren’t indestructible. Bullets, blades, and poison could injure or kill them almost as readily as if they were mortal.

  There was a small section in the northeast corner where fighters like Tina lay. Alana turned her steps toward them. Fae loved their blood sports, and unless death was possible, no game attracted high-rolling sponsors. All the same, fatalities weren’t encouraged. Fighters were an investment. A corpse represented a waste of time and money.

  And yet… as she reached the fae section of the graveyard, Alana read the names on the tombstones. There were three clustered together, the fresh white marble glowing in the fading light. Their cleanliness was a testament to how recent those deaths were—two other fighters, and then Tina. Alana knew them all, remembered their faces and families, the sounds of their laughter. After decades without such casualties, three were dead within a handful of years.

  Something behind the scenes of the fights had changed. What was the saying? One was a misfortune, two a terrible coincidence, and three was… Alana couldn’t remember the exact phrase. Suspicious? A pattern? Plainly criminal?

  Alana had asked questions, but no one inside the games would answer. Competitors did what they were told if they wanted time in the ring, and they all wanted as many fights as they could get before injury forced them to retire. Visibility was the only way to keep their sponsors, their coaches, and most of all, their fans. Fighters were only as good as their last match, and memories were
short. If they didn’t grab every opportunity, the new kid on the block was quite happy to snatch it in their place.

  Alana knelt before Tina’s headstone, touching the dark earth with its stubble of new grass. Tears burned down her cheeks, as hot as the grave dirt was cold. They were both out of the game now, and Alana couldn’t be swayed by promises of fame and fortune. She would find out why Tina had died. She could call out their betrayer. Make them pay.

  The road to justice might be long, but an angry fae had nothing but time.

  “Happy birthday, Paratina Meadow.” Alana brought her friend’s face to mind—her tumble of crazy hair, dancing black eyes, and that grin that promised havoc. Tina had been fierce—the archetype of a warrior—and she’d lived and breathed for the games. Just thinking about her, Alana smelled sawdust and resin and the scented oil they’d rubbed into their bruises. “I’ll find out why this happened to you. I swear it.”

  Alana had made the vow before, the first time she’d come here, and she was no closer to an answer. Guilt dragged at her as she drew the lamp from her bag, wishing it were more than just a useless trinket. Still, it was pretty. The brass gleamed in the sun’s dying rays, flaring on the wings of the embossed dragons. After wiping the dust away from the lamp with the sleeve of her jacket, she set it before Tina’s headstone. Yes, it was just the sort of tacky, shiny clutter that Tina had loved. It wasn’t much, but the affection that went with it was real.

  The light was all but gone, dusk claiming the sky. Alana rose, the rising dampness stiffening her battered joints. It was time to go home to her tiny apartment—make ready for another fascinating day as Corby’s wage slave. But as she slung her bag over her shoulder, she took a second look at the lamp. It seemed to be…glowing?

  A faint tingling coursed up her arms, hot and cold at once. She fell back a step, clenching her teeth against the sensation. Panic rose like a half-formed shout. As if to spite her, the glow pulsed brighter and brighter, casting sharp-edged shadows with its ruddy light. All at once, the lamp belched a cloud of smoke like a bad stage effect. She took another step back, expecting to choke, but the smoke had no scent as it rose and swirled into a tall plume.

  The impulse to run sang through her. She hadn’t felt a lick of power in that lamp before now. Her magical senses were weak, but she should have felt something—unless this was top-drawer sorcery, with a load of fancy shielding magic. But then, what would it be doing in a box of kitchen collectibles?

  Despite her alarm, curiosity glued her feet to the ground. She’d seen plenty of magic in her day, but this was something new. As the cloud of smoke condensed, the glow faded like a dying ember. Alana narrowed her eyes, trying to judge when she could safely stuff the lamp back into her bag and run before a groundskeeper showed up to investigate the unexpected light. Except…

  The column of smoke grew thicker and paler, until a form began to emerge—muscular limbs, a face, and then a leather tunic sewn with dark, overlapping metal scales. Armor, Alana guessed, but a style that had gone out of fashion along with spears and chariots. Spooked, she scrambled to a respectful distance.

  The man materializing before her was tall, extraordinarily so, with collar-length dark hair. He was an experienced warrior—that much was plain from the way he stood, feet apart and weight balanced as if ready to leap into action. He carried no weapons, but something said he didn’t need them. Those large hands, arms roped with muscle, could easily take care of business. He tilted his head, considering her with eyes dark as obsidian. Everything about him screamed fae—one with a depth of power she’d never seen before.

  Then he swept a low bow, one hand rising to cover his heart. “Your wish is my command, mistress.”

  Alana’s mouth fell open. “Say that again?”

  Impatience flashed in his eyes. “Your wish. My command.”

  “Okay…” She wondered if she looked that way when a customer asked a stupid question. “Who are you, and what were you doing in my lamp?”

  “I am Ronan. I am here to serve.”

  “And the lamp?”

  “Is my…home.” His expression was carefully blank.

  “That must suck.” She didn’t know what else to say. “I’m Alana.”

  He bowed again, showing off the easy grace of a leopard. “Mistress Alana, I am your servant.”

  Alana thought of the many times she’d daydreamed about a strapping man slave groveling at her feet, but this was beyond weird. “So why are you here?”

  He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and lifting his chin. “When a fae takes possession of the lamp, Mistress Alana, I am obligated to grant that fae three wishes.”

  “I could wish for anything?”

  His jaw bunched, as if he ground his teeth. “Any wishes you desire.”

  Inevitably, she thought of the obvious—health, fortune, and fame. Most of all, that the fatal fight had never happened. “Nothing that good comes without a price.”

  He closed the distance between them with one long stride. Alana’s insides tightened. She was used to holding her own against any male, but he towered over her. He wasn’t just big; he had presence. Every plane of his face was sharply sculpted. His nose was blade straight and his mouth generous. Right now, his deep-set eyes were intent on her face, and she had to fight not to squirm.

  “There is no trick,” he said. “It is simply what I say. Three wishes. Not two. Not four. Three and only three.”

  “Three lightning bolts of absolute power,” she murmured, still a prisoner of those eyes. “You can do that?”

  “I can.” His smile showed even white teeth, but it didn’t go beyond his mouth.

  Perhaps it was because she was still caught in the misery of her workday, but there was something familiar in his determined courtesy. “You’re obligated to grant me three moments of complete command over the universe, yet you’re stuck in a brass lamp at the end of the day?”

  He folded his arms. “I am the servant of the lamp.”

  Alana didn’t understand what was going on, but something about this chilled her to the bone. She turned away. “I don’t want your wishes.”

  He caught her arm, gently but firmly drawing her back to face him. “But you do. I can taste them on the air. You want your friend back. You want to fight again. Most of all, you want to punish whomever betrayed you.”

  Alana stared. “Get out of my head.”

  “I’ve named three wishes right there,” he said quietly. “Take them. That’s what I’m here for.”

  It was oh so tempting—especially with Ronan so close. Whatever else he might be, he was a healthy male, the heat of his body a persuasion all on its own. She’d been alone too long, and she began to wish for things she hoped he couldn’t detect.

  Still—she wasn’t stupid. “No thanks.”

  She pulled out of his grasp. His eyes widened a moment, but whether that was from anger or surprise, she couldn’t tell.

  “Don’t be foolish. Your body cries out to be healed.” His hand made a stroking gesture before her, not quite touching but close enough she felt the movement of air. His long fingers seemed to pinch together as he swept his arm from her head to her feet, catching something imaginary and tossing it aside.

  Or not so imaginary. Alana felt suddenly exposed, but her clothes were still there. Despite herself, she touched her arms, her stomach, seeking for soreness that simply wasn’t there. A web of weakness had been drawn away. She inhaled, testing her body.

  Strength surged back as if a dam had burst. The slow breath turned into a gasp as she skittered backward in shock. Unbidden tears clogged her throat when her joints responded, elastic and free of pain.

  Then she sobered suddenly, her joy sliced short as she recalled she had no idea what she was dealing with. “How did you do that?”

  He waved his hands in an exasperated gesture. “I am a genie, a jinn, the genius of the lamp. Power is mine to command.”

  She bit her lip. “I said I didn’t want any wishes.�
�

  Ronan’s mouth quirked. It was the first sign of a real response she’d seen from him. “Consider that a free taste of what is possible, Mistress Alana.”

  He’d taken her refusal as a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down. His response awakened her own competitive nature. What sort of a battle could he provide? She could feel temptation stir, both for this handsome creature and what he offered. If he could take her pain so easily, what else could he do?

  He touched her sleeve. “I can take my healing one step further. You have scars I can smooth away. It is no trouble at all, for a woman so lovely as you. You just have to wish it.”

  “No!” She pushed his hand aside. “Those are mine. I earned them all.”

  They were evidence of who she was and where she’d been. Of the lessons she’d learned and the battles she’d won. They were reminders of how hard she’d fought the night Tina had given her life. She wasn’t about to treat her scars with shame.

  Ronan narrowed his eyes, annoyance hardening his features. “Then what use am I to you, mistress, if you despise everything I have to give?”

  Alana angrily stepped back. “You call me mistress? Then I command you to get back in your lamp and leave me alone!”

  4

  Nothingness.

  Alana had barely finished talking when Ronan’s perceptions vanished. Inside the lamp, he hovered without sight or touch or sense of time in an endless, unrelieved void. Still, he was aware. Ronan always knew who possessed the lamp—and him.

  There had been hundreds, perhaps thousands, since Harin Blacktongue had enslaved him. At first, they had been those Harin or his master, the King of Shades, wished to befriend—or ensnare. Emperors. Potentates. Queens. The wishes of the powerful had been colorful, grand, and often bloody. But then the lamp had been carried to the human realm, and passed from hand to hand. Requests from the exiled fae became simpler, but no less profound. Love. Vengeance. The need to measure up. Always in the end, despair. Wishes were meant to be simply that—butterflies of unfocused desire. They were never designed to fill the heart.