Shimmer

by Sharon Ashwood

  Ronan heard it all, over and over and over. He began in a state of sorrow, pitying every foolish choice. Forced to grovel and grant each one. No one with power over the universe—however brief—listened to good advice. It was like watching the same carriage accident a thousand times. Nothing he did changed a thing. Now he swung between apathy and rage. Eventually, he would go mad.

  Except something new had happened. No one had ever refused his wishes before. That had revived an emotion he’d all but forgotten—curiosity. It rushed through him like a cold salt wave, jolting him awake.

  He was also attuned to his owner’s state of mind. This woman, Alana, was shocked he had disappeared back into his prison. After she had snatched up the lamp, she had run from the graveyard. Beyond that, there was a jumble of images, mostly of the inside of her cluttered shoulder bag.

  Who was his new mistress? When he’d healed her, he’d become aware she was as strong as any warrior. Her limbs were slight but sleek with muscle. Such battle-hardened women had existed in the long-ago days of his freedom, but they were uncommon.

  Then again, nothing about this Alana was usual. She was beautiful, her features delicate like the woodland fae, with a pointed chin and hair pale as the first sunlight of spring. For a wild, bestial instant, he’d wanted to lay her down on the soft, dew-laden grass. Yes, it was a cemetery, but he’d been imprisoned in a lamp for a very long time.

  Eventually, he felt his prison turning around and around as if Alana were examining it from all angles. Although he had no real sense of direction, the motion made him dizzy. Irritated, Ronan wafted out of the lamp and materialized with folded arms. “You summoned me?”

  “Hi,” she said, clutching the lamp with a guilty expression. “How does this thing work?”

  “Beginners,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What’s that?”

  He forced a smile to his lips. “A light polish will do.”

  “You mean rubbing?” Her forehead wrinkled. “That seems—kinda inappropriate.”

  He wondered if he were capable of headaches. “I am not responsible for the design.”

  “Okay.” She set the lamp down, then wiped her palms on her jeans. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

  Ronan hesitated, uneasiness seeping through him. He’d explained the wishes. He had nothing else to offer. “What is there to discuss?”

  “How did your lamp end up in a box of junk?” she asked.

  “By chance, I was lost among mortal households for a time. Humans do not have the power to summon me.”

  “So you got a break?”

  “I remained inactive in the lamp for a year or two.”

  She studied him, her frank gaze roving over his features. He felt a boyish urge to fidget under the scrutiny. Few ever looked at a genie in any detail, much less saw them. If he ever returned to his old life, Ronan would never look past his servants again. Now he understood that the boy who held his horse and the man who tended his garden had lives and loves and needs of their own. Ronan turned away from Alana, afraid to remember too much. It was better to keep memories locked away where they couldn’t torment him.

  He finally took notice of where they were. A room with a wooden floor, plain white walls, and functional furniture. Alana sat at a pine table next to a kitchen nook. Her bed was in the opposite corner. The view through the windows showed a scatter of lights. He guessed that such lights meant he was looking out over a city. “Is this your home, mistress?”

  “My apartment. I’ve not been here long. I had to move to a studio space I could afford.”

  Some of the terms were strange to him, but he could tell there was a story in what she said. An old part of him wanted to hear it and help if he could. As a prince of the land, he was bred to look after his people.

  On the other hand, he’d rather not know a thing about this woman. In his transformation from dragon to genie, he had gained enormous magical power but lost much freedom. As the servant of the lamp, he had to grant three wishes—any three wishes, however misguided or horrific—and move on. The curse allowed nothing else.

  “Please sit down,” Alana repeated. “And please don’t call me mistress. It makes you sound like a butler.”

  Obediently, he sat in the chair opposite hers, the table between them. “As you command.” All right, so he was still capable of understated sarcasm.

  She put her chin in her hand, pursing her lips in thought. Ronan found himself drawn to their plump, perfect bow.

  “Does a command count as a wish?” she asked.

  “No.” He moved his attention to her clear gray eyes. They were no less distracting than her lips, so he studied the calendar on the wall. He had no business ogling the woman. “Wishes are specific and important to the one doing the wishing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Love. Fortune. Death. Vengeance.” He waved a dismissive hand. “A dream vacation. Things beyond normal reach.”

  “But only three of them.”

  “True.” What he could not say was that no owner of the lamp had ever been satisfied with three. They always wanted more, and more, and more. That had brought all those emperors and queens to grovel at Harin’s feet. It was what made the lamp a weapon. Even with Harin in one realm and Ronan in another, the curse still held. Sooner or later, everyone the lamp—and Ronan—touched became corrupt. Even this woman, eventually.

  She sat back. “What do you get out of this?”

  If only she would start wishing so he could move on to someone less… uncomfortable. Most would be crowing about all the marvelous things they’d achieve with a genie in their pocket. She wasn’t. How was he supposed to do his job?

  “You are a bizarre woman.”

  “My name is Alana.”

  He knew that, but had chosen to avoid the feel of it on his tongue. She would be hard enough to forget without tasting her name every time he spoke.

  She chewed her lip. “You don’t like to talk, do you?”

  “No.” Her questions forced him to look inward, and he was terrified he’d find nothing left. “I grant wishes because I must. That is my function. There is no more to explain.”

  And yet, he didn’t want the strange moment to end. He hadn’t had a conversation of any kind since, well, he couldn’t remember, but top hats had been in fashion.

  “Were you always this grumpy?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you want your wishes?”

  “Maybe I don’t know the best way to get what I want.” She gave him a narrow look. “Maybe I want to read the fine print.”

  “Do you think I’m lying?”

  “I’m a fighter, and I’m a fae. I know I won’t get something for nothing, and maybe I want to test your defenses first.” She shrugged. “And you worry me.”

  “How?”

  “You remind me of a big, beaten dog. I don’t know if you’re savage, in trouble, or both.”

  His breath hitched at the words. They were far too just. “I can’t harm you. I am your slave.”

  “Did I force you to go back into your lamp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  It wasn’t the question he’d expected. “No one likes to be forced.”

  “I’m sorry.” She put her hand over his. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  He froze, fixated by the feel of her hand over his. Slowly, he forced his gaze down to see his sun-darkened skin covered by her pale fingers. Her hand was elegantly proportioned, but it was covered by the tiny scars one got by handling edged weapons. Yes, indeed, her scars were part of who she was.

  That same hand was offering him comfort. What a strange, strange woman. He slid away from her touch, unsettled. Kindness was a gift he could not use. He would forget this as soon as possible. “Perhaps I can help you with your wishes.”

  “How?” she asked, sitting back in her chair and withdrawing the hand she had extended.

  He suddenly realized he would do anything to make her
reach out again.

  “Tell me why you want vengeance for your friend.”

  The next day, Alana stood behind the sales desk at Comfy Chair, fighting to stay awake after talking with Ronan most of the night. She’d begun the conversation uncertain if she should feed him, kiss him, or chain him up. Most of her energy had been spent trying to figure out the whole genie situation, and why anyone hung out in a lighting fixture doling out instant gratification. However, whenever she got close to an answer, Ronan clammed up. By the end of the night, he was dialing down the surliness, but they had a long way to go before she gave him an ounce of trust. For all that he was devastatingly good-looking, she was frustrated enough to break something over his head.

  She wasn’t making wishes anytime soon. Not until she knew what was going on.

  Now it was Saturday, the shop’s busiest day of the week, and there had been a steady stream of customers. The downside was that she desperately wanted to mull over the Ronan factor. The upside was that so far, there’d been no time for Corby to resume his foul mood. If he’d noticed the box of kitchen collectibles she’d bought the night before, he’d said nothing about it.

  She’d left the lamp at home. Since it was exactly the sort of thing Corby sold to his clients, she figured it was better keeping it off his radar. When she’d left for work, Ronan had been staring out the window at the horizon, mesmerized by the seaplanes that flew in and out of the harbor.

  She took cash from a young man buying a tattered sword and sorcery paperback before sending him on his way. Then came a regular who bought a stack of romance novels at least once a week. As she rang them through, Alana picked up the top one to read the back.

  “A prince takes a vow of silence until his lady love agrees to marry him,” she read aloud.

  “I think I’ll leave it around for my husband,” the woman said dryly. “Maybe he’ll take the hint about giving me some peace and quiet.”

  Alana laughed and counted out change, giving the customer a price break because she was a frequent flyer. When Alana looked up next, there wasn’t anyone else waiting. They’d come to a lull in the Saturday rush.

  Corby wandered over. He hit the button on the till that showed the sales so far, grunting in satisfaction at the total. “A good morning.”

  “I’ll go restock the fantasy display. It got picked clean.” Alana hurried away, not wanting any more conversation with her boss than was strictly required.

  She was halfway across the store when he spoke. “Have you been doing exercises or something?”

  She turned back in confusion. “Why?”

  “You’re not limping so much.”

  She tried to read his expression, imagining his pointed nose sniffing out the fact she’d been healed. That would only lead to awkward questions. “I guess I am getting a bit better.”

  She turned away, slowing her movements down so she didn’t appear overly energetic. Her mind churned as she worked. If she didn’t want Ronan’s wishes, why not return the lamp to the store and let Corby sell it to one of his customers?

  Every instinct screamed not to do it. Even if Corby was grateful—she couldn’t picture that, but whatever—she wasn’t sure she wanted the lamp in just anyone’s hands. The whole three-wishes thing seemed fishy. Plus, there was Ronan himself to consider. He deserved some say in the matter.

  One of the paperbacks was losing its cover, so she returned to the desk in search of mending tape. “I have a question,” she said to Corby. “I know you don’t buy every bag and box of collectibles that come in here. How do you know which ones are good?”

  Corby frowned. “We’re back to that, are we?”

  Alana didn’t meet his eyes, but concentrated on taping the book back together. “I honestly want to know.”

  “It’s my talent,” he said brusquely. “I have a nose for faery workmanship.”

  “There seems to be a lot in circulation, given what shows up here.”

  “A lot came with us when we escaped the old world.” He shrugged. “Quite a bit got sold or traded to the humans as the fae settled here.”

  “I wonder how long it’s been since some of these things have been in fae hands,” she mused. Corby’s explanation fit with what Ronan had said about the lamp ending up lost among the mortals.

  “That’s one reason why I keep an eye out for items with fae origins,” Corby said. “Like I said, some of them aren’t safe.”

  Just then, the door opened. Corby’s attention snapped to the man who entered. “Mr. Martigen!”

  Alana raised her head to see—and her brain stalled. The guy was incredibly good-looking—tall, young, well-built, and wearing a suit that had to cost as much as the entire store. She stood straight, responding to his charismatic smile. With fair hair and cornflower-blue eyes, he reminded her of a prince from a bedtime story. This was Tyrell Martigen, heir to the aristocratic fae family that ran Martigen Industries—and Martigen Industries was a big sponsor of the underground fights.

  “Corby.” Martigen sailed past Alana without glancing her way. “You have something for me? I don’t have much time.”

  Alana bristled. She’d earned him enough money that he should have spared her a moment. Nonetheless, Martigen headed for the back without breaking stride. Corby fell into step behind him like an obedient dog.

  Clearly, this wasn’t the man’s first visit to Corby’s treasure vault.

  5

  Alana took a swallow from her coffee mug as the two men vanished into the back. She looked up when the door chimed, almost resentful that a customer had interrupted her brooding. Then she nearly choked on her coffee. Ronan strode into the shop, but not the Ronan she’d seen just hours ago. He’d lost the armor. His long legs sported tight denim, and a T-shirt strained across his broad chest. His hair was wet, probably from a shower, and curling against the nape of his neck. Alana’s world tilted as half-remembered needs flared low in her belly. With a cough, she slammed her mug to the counter. Was her mouth actually watering?

  There were bigger problems than her libido. Her genie from the lamp was on the loose, and he’d apparently gone shopping. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, none too gently. “How did you even find me?”

  His expression was just shy of an eye roll. “I belong to you. For now at least.”

  “Okay, fine. Where did you get the clothes?”

  “Don’t you like them? I chose something that seems to be common wear among your people.” He leaned against one of the tall bookcases, folding his arms. His air had the practiced negligence of an underwear model, but his eyes burned with that same resentful fury she’d seen before.

  “Your outfit is fine, but…”

  “If you prefer…” He made a circling gesture with one hand. He was suddenly wearing full Highland gear, complete with a kilt and feathered bonnet. Something in his double-dog-dare expression said there was nothing under that scrap of plaid.

  Alana blinked, giving herself a mental cold shower. She should have seen this coming. He was a genie, after all. He could a show up as a puppy, a llama, or a teapot if he wanted to. That was just plain logic.

  A less rational part of her brain really liked the Scottish look, but that would raise questions. Questions were bad. “Um, very nice, but I don’t think…”

  Another hand wave, and he was wearing a form-fitting tux, complete with white tie. Yowzah! James Bond with all the trimmings. Alana took a deep breath, summoning what little self-discipline she had left. “Please go back to the first option.”

  With a semi-sarcastic nod, Ronan returned to casual dress. Alana leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the counter. “Seriously,” she said, lowering her voice. “What are you doing here? It could be dangerous. There’s a vault in the back for, um, stray magical items.”

  Ronan’s mouth quirked. “How nice to be classified as lost and found.”

  Alana grimaced and opened her mouth to reply, but Ronan held up a hand.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, his own voice so
ft.

  Alana listened. It was Corby’s voice drifting from the back room, raised in a tone she knew all too well. He was frustrated and losing his temper. “For the last time,” her boss said, “I have been looking for it. I’ve set every spell in the book to draw it my way.”

  “Well, it isn’t working,” Martigen replied.

  “It is. At least, the attraction spells are strong enough. You wouldn’t believe the piles of crap I’ve had to sort through, but every fae-made knickknack in the city is coming through the doors.”

  That answered Alana’s question about how Corby got his hands on so many enchanted items. It really was his special magical talent.

  “But you haven’t found the one we need,” Martigen shot back.

  “I need it, too!”

  “The company needs it more!”

  Martigen’s tone sawed Alana’s nerves. He was more than a disappointed collector—for some reason, he was desperate.

  “What’s the matter?” Corby replied, sarcasm thick in his voice. “The board of directors needs a wish granted?”

  Ronan’s head lifted. They were singing his song.

  “Who doesn’t need that?” Martigen asked in an acerbic tone. “But it’s our investor who wants it, and none of us is in a position to deny him.”

  Corby grunted, a mix of disgust and resignation.

  Ronan met Alana’s eyes, and she saw her own thoughts reflected there. Tyrell Martigen was clearly hunting for the lamp—to give to his investor. Who was that?

  Martigen Enterprises made money as bookmakers, but their main income came from the human stock market. They were clearly profitable, so why did they need an investor? And if the investor knew about the lamp, he knew about the fae, so…

  Her mind spun, trying to put the pieces together. She remembered the guy—Randall—she’d met just before her interview with Barleycorn. He’d been waiting for an interview with the family. Why were they hiring? Maybe there was no connection, but…