Words That Bind

by Ash Krafton

  “Well, enjoy the rest of your day. Full moon tonight, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Dolly winked before leaving.

  Full moon. Just what I need. She walked into the break room to top off her coffee, preparing for her next appointment. The office manager, Jennifer, leaned through the doorway and held out a folder.

  “New client in your office.” Jennifer lowered her voice. “Looks like a lawyer.”

  Setting her cup down, Tam took the proffered folder and thumbed through the papers. Most of the fields had been left blank, including the line for occupation. “The survey isn’t filled out.”

  Jennifer shrugged. “Cindy gave him everything when he came in.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.” A could-be lawyer who doesn’t bother with paperwork. She snapped the file shut and headed down the hall.

  When she opened the door to her office she took note of the appearance of her newest client. First impressions served her well and she’d become adept at deciphering her client’s intentions simply by observing what they did when she walked in.

  Nervous and anxious people perched on the edges of their seats. Sullen and stubborn clients often hunched, arms crossed, some under mandate by court or by family to seek help. They, of course, had no problems and would defiantly prove it or die trying. Sometimes she walked in on a client who sat statue-still, wilted in the chair, someone who had passed beyond care. Anhedonic. Apathetic.

  This man was unlike anyone she’d ever counselled.

  He’d pushed an armchair close to the window and reclined, pin-stripe-suited leg crossed, the rest of his body blocked by a newspaper. A gold ring gleamed on the little finger of a well-tanned hand. When she closed the door behind her, he lowered one corner, revealing pale, green almond-shaped eyes that swept over her with an up-and-down look before he lowered the paper.

  He had appraised her. Now, that was new.

  “Good morning, Mr. Burns. I’m Tam Kerish.” She approached him, hand outstretched, professional smile in place. She modulated her voice, choosing a strong, low tone, wanting to imply authority and confidence. Absolute control.

  “The pleasure is mine.” He stood, his wavy black hair catching the luster of the lamplight.

  Not tanned, after all. His skin had the dusky glow common to people of southwest Asia. A slender angled mustache that capped the corners of his mouth lent seriousness to his expression, despite the distinctly amused glint in his eyes.

  And, familiar. Tam searched his face, scanning it against her memories, coming up blank. Where had she seen him before?

  Instead of shaking her hand, he tilted his head and gently bowed. The formality of the gesture seemed genuine, a sense of regal respect behind it. She pulled back her hand, unsure how to respond. “I’m glad you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

  “Pleasant office. I prefer something brighter but it is only my preference.” He spoke with a precision that clipped each word. With a series of sidelong glances, he took in her office wearing an expression that read: I suppose this must do. “Tam, you said?”

  “It’s short. For Tamarinda.” She’d always felt her name was too long, too ornate. Her personality was as direct and to-the-point as her preferred nickname.

  “Tamarinda.” He rolled the sounds of her name into something exotic and appreciable. Speaking her name seemed to coax out his accent. “Interesting name. But you shorten it.”

  She took a seat behind her desk and flipped open the folder. “It’s easier.”

  “But it lacks the original beauty. May I call you Tamarinda?”

  “If you’d like.” His accent lent a melody to her name when he said it, making it even less hers. If that was how he wanted to address her, fine. Whatever encouraged communication was a useful tool. “How do you prefer to be addressed?”

  “Burns is fine.” He returned his chair to its original position near her desk. Resuming his seat, he lifted a finger and gestured to a grouping of framed certificates on the wall. “What exactly is a licensed clinical social worker?”

  “Well...” She folded her hands on her desk, a picture-perfect pose of the professional counselor. “Licensed means I passed the state boards. Clinical means I took the hard test. Social worker means a lot more than many people think.”

  “Why aren’t you a doctor?”

  Familiar question. Easily parried. “I don’t need to be a doctor to help.”

  “Who said I needed help?” His voice mild, he slid his hands over his forearms to cup his elbows.

  She mentally checked off a list. Denial. Difficult. The assessment wasn’t judgmental; she simply picked upon vocal cues and body language, separating and identifying them. Every client was a puzzle to be sorted. She reached for a pencil. “I have your file here, just the basics everyone completes before meeting with me. You left a lot of blanks, which makes it difficult for me to know what kind of expectations and needs you have. That makes it more difficult to help you.”

  “It was not my intention to be difficult. I simply didn’t think any of that information was necessary.”

  “Including your first name?” She raised her eyebrows, not quite scolding.

  His arch reply was accompanied by a dismissive shrug. “I did say Burns is sufficient.”

  “Not for billing purposes,” she said.

  “Ah.” He patted the breast of his suit jacket. “I pay with cash.”

  Well. At least she wasn’t at the mercy of an insurance contract. She appreciated cash-basis clients. It made some bitter pills a little easier to swallow. Take this one, for instance. “That’s not the only thing. Not knowing your full name prevents us from relating.”

  “Not if Burns is how I relate to myself.”

  “Okay.” He had a thing for names. Identity issues. She sat back and rocked. “Do you have any questions for me? Ideas? Direction you want this to go in?”

  “I have one concern.” He stroked his cleft chin with a thumb.

  “Good.” She smiled to encourage him.

  Her smiles weren’t the simple flashes of emotion that other people took for granted. For her, they were mimicry, an attempt to blend in with the emotional masses. Over the years, she’d perfected the gesture. Just a tightening of muscles, really. Spread the lips, crinkle the eyes. She could do it and even look spontaneous. “What’s that?”

  “What is your policy on confidentiality?”

  “Ever hear of HIIPA?” She pulled a sheet from the sheaf in the folder. This part always sounded like a lecture, no matter how hard she tried. “I maintain the strictest confidentiality with the profession-standard exceptions pertaining to situations that are clearly illegal or threats of harming yourself, harming others, or harming elders or children in your care.”

  “Illegal?”

  Her lips thinned. “I refer to felonies. I don’t judge people on misdemeanors. Drugs, traffic tickets, whatever. Sometimes unresolved issues lead to those actions. If you’re reluctant to bring up your drug use then we can’t address the issues that lead to that drug use. Understand?”

  “What if you break your contract?”

  “I won’t.”

  “You won’t?” His tone of distinct disbelief made it sound like a statement rather than a question. It matched his uplifted eyebrows and lowered chin.

  “No, Mr. Burns, I won’t. I have ethics and standards and a steadfast set of personal ideals. The written contract is simply a token. You have my word.”

  This part wasn’t lecture—it was the truth by which she’d lived her entire life. When she gave her word, it stayed given. She’d never broken a promise, not even as a child. She considered it her noblest trait, even though it sometimes became her greatest inconvenience.

  He nodded slowly, as if he somehow detected that the weight of her words carried more than simple persuasion. “Not many people like you left in the world.”

  “I know.” She resisted a sigh, despite the appropriateness of such a response. There really wasn’t anyone at all like her. It was what it was. “Sh
all we begin? I’m going to ask a few questions. Try to be as open as possible. Why are you here?”

  He cleared his throat delicately. “I seek pleasant conversation untarnished by threat of exposure. Your confidentiality is worth a great deal to me.”

  His words had taken on a subtle tone, a sense of secrecy. Although many of her clients shared their deepest secrets with her, she perceived something more.

  What was it about his simmering green eyes, the playful curl at the corner of his mouth, the unspoken dare in his words? That was it, wasn’t it? A distinct impression of daring her to be capable of handling him and whatever he may throw at her.

  He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with.

  She thumbed the edge of the folder. “I expect you to follow the guidelines everyone else follows.”

  “I expect you to keep my secrets,” he replied.

  It felt a little bit like a stand-off. If anything, it made her curious. “Not illegal?”

  He smirked, as if enjoying a private joke. “If my existence is illegal—”

  “Fine. Fine. Care for a beverage, then?” She pointed to the fridge. “Or there’s coffee across the hall.”

  “Water will do the trick, if you have it.”

  “Help yourself.” She nodded toward the small cube fridge against the far wall. “So. Mr. Burns. What would you like to talk about?”

  “Why don’t we start with my favorite subject?” He sauntered over to the small refrigerator in the corner and peered inside a moment before pulling out a bottle of water. “I don’t get to talk about it much.”

  “Sure. What’s that?”

  Burns did a slow, lazy blink, looking cat-like and self-satisfied. “Me.”

  Tam twirled the pencil, sending a leisurely signal to help him relax. She’d have to drag it out of him. Some clients took more effort than others. “What about you?”

  Resuming his seat, he squared his shoulders, crossed his leg at the knee, and smiled. Even smiling, his eyebrows dipped menacingly, the result being a very predatory expression. “I’m a fire elemental.”

  The word fire zinged through her like a hornet, and every muscle tightened in anticipation of the sting.

  The pencil she’d been toying with snapped.

  Chapter 3

  She swallowed hard, her mouth uncomfortably dry. Never—she’d never experienced a reaction like this. It was almost…emotional.

  And that simply was not possible.

  She dropped the pieces into the trash and rubbed her fingers. No time to analyze her strange reactions. Right now, this guy needed more help than she did. “Is this a hobby?”

  “It’s a species. I’m not human.” He steepled his fingers, his expression calm and still. Despite the straight mouth and relaxed brow, his eyes were volatile, a strange mix of fury and mirth. “You still with me?”

  She blinked slowly. It would take a lot more than a statement to rattle her. “Sure I am. Why do you think you are a fire elemental?”

  “I suppose the fact that I was born one.”

  Damn. Definitely delusional.

  Truth be told, she had hoped this handsome gentleman would have only had a few paltry issues. A bad break-up, maybe. A dead mother or a heavy conscience.

  But a different species? Six months intensive, at least.

  His accent, intriguing. His eyes, captivating. His mouth…distracting. An hour with him wouldn’t have been exactly torturous. She hated to think he was experiencing a complete break from reality.

  Oh, wait. Even her mind-voice sounded sardonic. He’s a client.

  She mentally flipped to a clean sheet and began anew, anticipating the term schizophrenia somewhere down the line. “I mean, what attributes do you possess that lead you to believe—”

  “How about this one?” He held up the bottle of Poland Springs and unscrewed the cap. His gaze never left hers. Seconds ticked by.

  Tiny bubbles clung to the sides of the bottle, growing bigger, breaking free and bursting. Vapor wafted from the top.

  The water began to boil.

  She gaped, unable to tear her eyes from the bottle.

  “Neat trick, eh? Too hot to drink, of course, unless you want tea.” He grinned and waved the escaping steam toward his face, eyes twinkling. “Priceless talent when you have sinus congestion, though.”

  She snapped her mouth shut, forcibly tightening her jaw. Hallucinations weren’t contagious. “How did you—”

  “Like I said. Fire elemental. Would you like me to ignite something?” He gestured with a tilt of his head toward a wicker planter by the window. “That fern, perhaps? I’d be doing it a favor.”

  “Mr. Burns—wait a second.” She sat back and narrowed her eyes. “Burns? Is that a joke?”

  “I know. Obvious, right?” He sighed and scratched the back of his head, rumpling his curls. “My birth name is too hard to pronounce. This name helps me blend.”

  “Oh, yeah. You blend, all right.” She slumped, searching her memory for something she must have missed earlier. There must have been a tell, a gesture, something. “I’d never have guessed you could boil water with your hand.”

  “My abilities go far beyond parlor tricks, woman.”

  His voice had deepened into the gruff tones of an Alpha Male but the effect slid right over her, ineffective. Distracted, she tried to regroup.

  “I prefer Tam.” She had little experience dealing with non-human issues—okay, none—and imagined most text books failed to publish guidelines. “So what’s the big deal? Wanting confidentiality, I mean. I’d think being a fire elemental would make you a celebrity.”

  “So you believe me?”

  She narrowed her eyes, her brow pinched in scrutiny. “I believe you aren’t typical.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, and stretched out his legs, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Not exactly a rousing endorsement, but so.”

  Again, that evaluating stare. This time he paired it with a subtle air of anticipated conquest.

  “I’ll change your mind,” he added, nodding.

  “I’ll change my own mind, thank you.” He had great self-esteem, she’d give him that. “Why keep it a secret? A lot of people would be attracted to the supernatural. Escape from the mundane.”

  “For starters, I don’t want to become an experiment.” He stood abruptly and began to pace, a quick gait that covered the distance between door and window in tight strides, pointing and gesturing to emphasize his words. “Then there’s the whole issue of civil rights and citizenship. Not to mention how hard it would be to get car insurance. And my landlord—”

  Burns clenched his fists, throttling an unseen foe. “Forget it. He wears his suspicion the way he wears his repulsive body odor. Makes disparaging comments about terrorists and turbans when he thinks I’m out of earshot. I don’t wear a turban. I wear a fedora sometimes but that’s only when I pretend to be Dick Tracy.”

  His sudden flurry of action did not surprise her, nor his rapid mood swings. For all she believed he was not typical, his behavior did bear a striking similarity to that of borderline personality disorder.

  And yet…he was not like any single one of her clients.

  A dozen different defining parameters flashed through her mind. She discarded each one as quickly as it manifested. Hoo boy. “Are you?”

  He paused in his pacing and leveled a harried look at her. “Pretending to be Dick Tracy?”

  “A terrorist.”

  “No, I’m a djinn.” When she shrugged at the unfamiliar term, he cleared his throat. “I don’t claim human origins.”

  “You look human.”

  “True enough.” He dropped into his seat and crossed his arms, chin jutting like a sullen six-year-old. “I suppose if this were a planet populated by monkeys, I’d scratch my ass and eat bananas. I look human because you look human.”

  Okay. He believed he wasn’t human. She sought a way to present the facts. It wasn’t like she’d ever say I don’t believe you.

&nbs
p; Then again, he boiled water. With his hand. Why was she still trying to approach him logically? Logic itself had already run screaming from the therapy room. “You look ordinary to me.”

  “And, yet.” His mouth curved in a shrewd smile, scimitar sharp.

  “Tell me about your past.” She gave her head a tight shake, trying to dispel the feeling that this consultation had spun completely past her control. She served up the standard question as she struggled to find her way back to familiar ground. “We’ll focus on your present and future, but it’s a good idea to identify elements in your history that influence your decisions to date.”

  “Ah, I see.” He dipped his head, almost knowingly. “All right, then. I was born in Persia.”

  “Persia,” she repeated. The last time she’d heard anyone refer to Persia was in a high school world cultures class.

  “Yes, Persia. Should I speak louder, dear?”

  Okay. Persia. “No, I’m just trying to put a few dates to ancient history.”

  “Okay, you got me.” He bunched his lips, looking sullen. “It wasn’t Persia. Yet. Cyrus founded the First Persian Empire maybe…2500 years ago, or so?”

  His eyes slid upwards and to the left. He was actually trying to remember—it was one of the body language tells she’d learned to observe long ago. It couldn’t be easily faked.

  “It gets hazy.” He waved a hand, as if it weren’t important enough to recall. “Technically, it was Assyria, then. Would you have known what I meant if I had said Assyria?”

  She shook her head, still processing.

  “Figures,” he muttered. “No one remembers Assyria. But just say Persia. That, they know.”

  “So.” She sensed he was building up to a release of irritated steam and urged him along. Not that she didn’t want him to express himself—she was simply too curious to want him to get side-tracked. “The Mideast. How did you end up here in Philadelphia?”

  “Once upon a time my kind were limited to the Mideast. We’re desert-bred. We like dry places. Being immortal, however, means one must learn to adapt.”

  “Immortal.” Resisting the urge to take notes, she folded her hands and pressed them to the desktop.