by Ash Krafton
She didn’t want to wear her usual office clothes, either. By the time she settled on jeans and a light sweater, it was quarter of the hour. And she hadn’t even touched her hair yet—
A thin ribbon of excitement curled through her chest, speeding her heartbeat.
Burns. He was close by. Had to be. She wouldn’t be feeling this way if he wasn’t.
She blew out a breath, trying to calm herself. She’d never get used to this whole feeling thing, not even if she lived forever.
The doorbell rang, shaking her from her distractions. She only had time to give herself a final, reprimanding look in the mirror. It would have to do.
He arrived, looking causal in a beach-resort kind of way; a coral button-down, open at the neck, sleeves rolled to mid forearm, with khakis. A windbreaker was draped over his arm. And flip-flops.
She hid a grin. She had never taken him for a flip-flop kind of guy.
Maybe he did it to show off his feet. She had to admit, his feet were as handsome as the rest of him. Slender toes, neatly manicured. Not a rough patch in sight. Being a fire elemental certainly seemed to have its perks.
He held out a box, wrapped in a wide ribbon, and bowed. “I am honored to be invited into your home.”
“You didn’t have to bring me anything, Burns. This isn’t a date.”
“Of course, it isn’t. That would be highly inappropriate.” He walked around the living room, glancing out the windows. “It is simply a polite thing to do. My mother taught me manners.”
A wave of heat flashed over her cheeks. A date? What possessed her to even say such a thing?
“Of course,” she said, hurrying to cover the awkward moment. “My grandmother was the same way. It’s lovely. Thank you.”
“They are Turkish Delights. It’s hard to find pomegranates in season when you want them. I hope the candies please you.”
“I’m sure they’re wonderful.” She set the box down, but immediately missed having something to do with her hands.
His voice boomed through the spacious apartment. “Lovely. I like the openness. It feels fresh in here. If only the weather weren’t as miserable as camel scat. I imagine it’s even lovelier with the windows wide open.”
“It is.”
“But—” He turned back to face her. “It seems like such a large space for a single person.”
“It is,” she admitted. “Two bedrooms and two baths. And the rent is exorbitant. But, I’ve been here for so long. I’m settled. Why change now?”
“Change is constant. It is impossible to not change.”
“Then I would most likely surprise you. I had a—roommate. Years ago. When he moved out—”
“He?” His tone held more than a hint of curiosity.
“Yes, he. When he moved out, I never looked for a replacement.”
“This—roommate.” He added unnecessary emphasis to the word. “Were you close?”
She shrugged. “In a fashion.”
“Aren’t you lonely?”
“No.” She hugged herself, realized she was doing so, and stuck her hands in her pockets. “I’ve never been lonely.”
“Never been lonely?” He tilted his head as if he hadn’t heard her clearly. “I can’t imagine that. You’ve really never been lonely?”
She shook her head. How could she be lonely if she didn’t even understand the concept?
“Myself, I never had a large family. But I had them. And they are all gone now and I…” He blinked a few times, pacing away from her to look out the windows. “And even after I was taken to Solomon’s court, I was never alone. In court, a sea of people. And my own quarters were like a street bazaar. Always full, churning with life. But afterwards…no one. No one, really. I roamed this planet. Every empty corner, every silent street, every lonely mile of it. Surrounded by strangers and haunted by a past that could just one day reach out and—”
He swiveled back to capture her with his shining eyes. His voice was husky. “You’ve never felt lonely. You have no idea how fortunate you are.”
The moment that passed between them—she’d never be able to define it, not in a million years. It was tender and sad and warm all at the same time, so foreign and confusing to an ingénue like herself. What could she possibly say to any of that?
A change of topic. Seemed like the only option.
“So, ah. You’d like to see the jewelry.” She pointed to a large steamer trunk that stood against the far wall.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. That.” He had been sneaking furtive peeks at it.
Oh, no. He wasn’t being at all obvious.
He cleared his throat and slid his hands into his pockets, rocking on his feet. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” With noisy effort she dragged the great trunk across the room toward the couch. It was a large antique dome-top trunk, made of glossy cherry-stained wood and decorated with brass fittings and leather handles.
It would have been nice if he’d offered to help instead of sitting down, perching on the couch cushion like a sultan, awaiting the sight of her treasure. His lips parted and he leaned forward, his liquid gaze intense, as she slid it close enough for him to reach it.
The djinn stretched down to caress the lid. “Such craftsmanship. And old, well over a hundred years old. The years...” He half-closed his eyes and stroked the edge, hard wood and gleaming brass. “Time is pressed into the grain. I can feel the years.”
His voice sounded strained. Was he becoming ill? “Burnsie?”
He opened his eyes, gaze cloudy, looking quite stoned. With visible effort, he refocused on her. “Yes?”
“It’s...nothing. I just never saw you act like this before.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not often I get to experience such wonder.”
She chuckled, deep in her throat. He was a strange one, all right; that much hadn’t changed. But something in his voice, his eyes, captured her attention. It was undeniably sexual.
He licked his lips and rubbed his palms on his thighs. “Will you show me?”
“Open it. I’ll get something to drink. Wine?” She looked up at him. “Can you drink?”
“I’m not religious.”
“I mean, the liquid part. Will it—I don’t know, quench you?”
He looked at her a long moment. “No. In this form, I am not threatened by liquid unless I’m drowning in it. And that, I think, would take much effort on the liquid’s part. Wine is fine. Would you have a Burgundy, perhaps? A Gevrey-Chambertin, or a Volnay?”
“Ah, no. But I do have a bottle of Burgundy from Mount Hope.”
His left brows lifted. “Mount Hope? Is that French?”
“Not quite. It’s a bit more domestic than that.” As in really domestic. The winery was perhaps two hours away. She took two glasses from the cupboard and selected a bottle from the countertop. At least it wasn’t a screw top bottle; she doubted he would have approved in the least.
She scowled. Why did it matter? He was still a client. She was already pushing ethical limits by having him here in the first place. And drinking with him, no less.
Pouring the wine, she left the bottle behind in the kitchen. Better play it safe. Why provoke a heated response by showing him the label?
Back out in the living room, he stared at the still-closed chest.
She set his glass down on the end table beside him. “Aren’t you going to open the trunk? I thought you were eager to see the collection.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I cannot open it myself.”
“Wimp.” She grinned.
“Magic,” he grumbled. “Your treasure. I cannot open the trunk because I am forbidden. I cannot take another’s treasure. It is the reason why my family and I were entrusted with positions of security for so long. I am trustworthy with the treasures of my masters.”
“But I’m not your master.” She sipped at her glass before setting it down. “You don’t even treat me like your therapist.”
“It is no matter. Y
our treasure. But please.” He held up his palms. “This human body is unaccustomed to such anticipatory reactions. My palms are perspiring and my mouth is uncomfortably dry. It’s rather unsettling. Please? The lid?”
“Wow. I never—okay.” In a sudden whim of impetuousness, she sank to her knees behind the trunk, facing him.
His eyes took her in, smoldering with promise. “You are a tease.”
“Shh.” She locked her gaze with his. “Watch.”
He went perfectly still, mesmerized. He even seemed to stop breathing.
She stroked her hands across the wood, noticing for the first time the thick varnish, the hard shine. Splaying her fingers, she palmed the surface, delighting in the feel of the wood, and ran her fingers toward the clamps in front. Her bare forearms glanced upon the top fittings, colder than the wood, and she gasped, eyes widening with surprise.
He missed nothing, pressing his lips together and hiding his mouth behind his hand, his eyes flashing. He looked like the slightest nudge would knock him off the ledge he so precariously teetered upon.
She wanted nothing more than to see him fall.
With a leer, she clicked the buckles and released the clamps; the flat twang of brass on brass made him tighten, a physical reaction. Deftly she slid the loops forward. Her fingers played over the center latch, a tongue-shaped flap of brass with a keyhole in the center. It wasn’t locked; the key itself was taped to the back of the trunk. She lingered, not opening the lid.
His breathing was audible. This was the closest to losing composure she’d ever seen him. It was beyond sexual; it was lust, greed, perhaps no difference between the two. Spurred on by the heat in his eyes, she titled her head suggestively and rested her chin in her palm. “You sure you want to see this?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded strained and he swallowed with visible effort. “Please.”
“What will you give me?”
“One wish.” Tiny bits of flame danced in his eyes. His knuckles were white, so tightly he gripped the tops of his thighs.
“Okay.” She winked and pulled back the lid to reveal its contents. The top tray was a solid mass of gold, silver, and gems that caught the light and exploded into shimmer.
He groaned with pleasure, a gust of held breath, as if he’d reached completion.
“Wow.” She chuckled and rocked back to sit on her heels. “You really do like shiny things.”
Less than forty-five minutes later, he had nearly every piece of jewelry out. She sat at the far end of the couch, cradling her glass and watching him with bemusement. He was a child on Christmas morning, a groom on his wedding night.
The trunk’s top tray lay on the cushion between them, and she idly played with a broach between sips of wine. He’d relaxed somewhat when he realized that most of the jewelry was costume grade, although he was no less enthralled. Burns alternatively chattered like a chipmunk and murmured like a priest as he lifted out each item. Velvet hinge-boxes, cardboard containers from department stores held shut with rubber bands—he handled each one as if he were sorting through King Tut’s treasure.
“The years,” he whispered. “You’ve never gone through this, have you?”
She shrugged and swallowed. “Not really.”
“Look at this.” He lifted a delicate broach, one of many that needed a good polishing. “This is old. This, I think, could have belonged to someone…” His eyes lost focus, and he covered it in his palms. “Four generations from you.”
“How can you tell?”
“I feel it,” he said simply. “Here.”
He took her hand and lay it over the broach, covering her hand with his. His skin, she noticed, was no longer perspiring; his touch was pleasant, dry and warm. He curled his fingers around hers, pressing their flesh together around the trinket. “Years. They feel like layers of linen on this, thin but real. Deep layers.”
“Can you see the people that—” She broke off, aware that he was looking at her with that touchable gaze of his. “What’s wrong?”
He opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut and released her hand. “Nothing. I was too forward.”
“I don’t mind. Tell me. What did you see?”
He seemed to struggle to regain his thought. “The piece is old. I see a woman in a high-necked blouse and a feathered hat. The broach is on her collar. I don’t know who, but I remember the style. Your post-Civil War era, maybe 1880. Gas lamps were becoming popular. It was a grand time. Less water used to extinguish flame.”
“Amazing. You can see that when you hold it?”
“That, and much more.” Again that intense stare. He shifted in his seat, drawing away from her. “May I trouble you to refresh my glass?”
She retrieved the wine bottle from the kitchen and sat on the floor next to the trunk. Just as well. He had spread more jewelry on the cushion where she’d been sitting a few moments earlier.
The last item in the trunk was a shallow cardboard box, the kind chocolates came in. An old rubber band had been used to hold it closed, and the corners were bent and tattered, the tan decorative wrapper having torn off long ago. The only other marking on the lid was a scribble on the top of the box from where someone had tried to start up a stubborn ballpoint pen.
It sat in the corner of the trunk, as if forgotten. He eyed it for several long moments before reaching in to lift it out. He grasped it with the fingertips of both hands, setting it down upon his lap with a breathless kind of care. His hands trembled as he rolled off the rubber band.
Very odd, indeed, but then again, he’d been acting strangely all evening. Or maybe she just didn’t know him well enough, and this was perfectly normal for him.
He gave the box a slight shake to loosen the lid. Inside was a collection of what she’d really call junk—broken brooches, pin backs, orphaned earrings, less splendid rings and gaudy plastic beads. Pieces that hadn’t been considered worthy of boxes of their own.
He handled these mismatched and ugly items with the same respect as he had the more precious items from the top trays. He gently untangled the strings of beads from crimped metal chains, laying out each item in the cardboard lid. Sometimes he’d pause over an item, his vision glazed.
She sipped her wine, watching him. What thoughts were streaming around his head?
Whatever he was thinking, they were happy thoughts. He was so relaxed, his contentment giving off a subtle but pleasant glow.
A mass of metal rings had been strung on a large safety pin, which he opened. He plucked off each ring, one at a time, peering at them, One ring, in particular, caused him to take a swift breath.
She scooted closer. “What is it?”
In the center of his palm was an old discolored ring, its shiny finish having peeled off in places, giving way to rust. It was a large ring, for a man’s finger, and had no adornments. The ring could have easily hidden away in a junk drawer or a tool box and no one would have thought it strange.
She reached out a finger and poked at it, her palm brushing against his. “That’s ugly.”
“That’s old,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, a sheen of perspiration dotting his forehead. “That’s ancient.”
“Is it worth anything?” Frankly, she doubted it. Nothing that ugly could be worth much, not even if it belonged in a museum.
“It’s beyond price.” He shook his head. “I cannot even begin to sift through the years—”
His voice slipped away on a long, slow exhale. “Oh. I see her.”
“Who?”
“She has long dark hair, loose and straight, hanging down to her waist. Brown eyes. A beauty mark, you would call it, on her left cheek beneath the outside corner of her eye. She stands in a field, surrounded by wild flowers, the pocket of her apron stuffed with the blossoms. Lily. Her name is Lily. And…”
He reached out, curling his fingers around the empty space in front of him. “She can see me.”
“Lily,” she whispered. “My great-grandmother. You can see her? What is she doi
ng?”
“Running. Always running.” He rubbed his eyes and set the ring down, chafing his fingers together.
She peered up into his face. “Are you okay? You look very troubled.”
“I—” He gaped at her a moment before shaking it off. “Only distracted, my dear. I hadn’t expected to find something this old.”
“Well, I’m not surprised. Gram had collected this stuff for a long time.” She pushed to her feet and stooped to swipe her empty glass from the floor. “You ready for a refresher?”
“You need to be careful with these things.” He called after her, staring at her with an intense light in his eyes. “Someone might try to steal something. You need security in here. A dragon. May I conjure you a dragon?”
She leaned to peer out of the kitchen doorway at him. “Are you serious?”
“I may be.” He glanced back down at the upturned lid on his lap, fingering the ugly old ring. “You mustn’t lose these things.”
“What’s with that ring?” Her glass filled, she walked back to the couch. She jutted her chin at the old clunker. “That seems to be the root of our worry.”
“I don’t know. I thought I knew it—but I just don’t know.”
He began packing up the collection, laying each box inside the trunk with deft precision. She knelt down to help, noticing his shy smile when they bumped hands.
That tiny touch made things inside her tilt and shift and tingle.
He really was content. If he needed a mental image on which to focus when he needed to calm himself, she’d remind him of this moment.
It might be her moment, too, if she ever needed calming. She tucked the image away in a corner of her mind, way in the back of the “If Only” file. But tonight, it seemed harder for her to close that mental door. Tonight, it would have been worth spending a wish upon.
The very last thing he replaced was the ugly old ring. He’d left a square empty in the sectioned velvet tray that sat atop the trunk’s compartment, laying the ring inside with reverent ceremony. A place of honor. Was it the years that had made him so enamored? Or sight of her great-grandmother, a vision of the young woman that had been?