She had a sudden conviction they had to leave before Corby and Martigen returned from the back. Wasting no time, she grabbed the sign on the door and turned it around so the “closed” side was out. “Let’s go.”
Ronan raised an eyebrow.
“I’m entitled to a lunch break,” she replied. “And you’re coming.”
“Of course,” he said dryly. “I live to obey.”
A flash of irritation made her grab a fistful of his T-shirt and propel him toward the door. She released him once they were on the pavement, trying to ignore the body warmth that clung to her hand. She turned to lock the door, then gave him a shove toward the restaurant on the corner. He looked over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his face, as if her attempts at physical control were laughable. Alana gritted her teeth, pretending not to notice.
“Do you mind Italian?” she asked.
“In what way?”
“In a fettuccini way.”
“I do not require food.”
“I didn’t ask if you required it. Do you eat?”
“I am capable.”
“Then join me.” It came out in a growl. The thought of not needing to eat—it said more than anything else about how he was trapped, suspended in some in-between state, not really alive and not quite—whatever. She didn’t want to think about it too closely. Something told her pity was the last thing he wanted.
The place was a tiny, family run affair that had a menu almost as small as their premises. Mama Taglioni wrote the menu on the chalkboard every morning. She was also prone to emerging from the kitchen to chat, check out the newcomers, and generally rule over her oregano-scented domain. The eatery was the neighborhood’s kitchen away from home.
Despite the steady stream of regulars, Alana always managed to find room at one of the two-seater wooden tables that lined the walls. She suspected it was because Mama had made her a personal project, down to subscribing a home remedy for her aching muscles. Of course, her injuries hadn’t so much as twinged since Ronan had healed her. She would find a way to thank him, somehow.
They took a seat in the back, out of sight of the windows. Alana and Ronan both went for the seat facing the door, but she got there first. He settled slowly as Maria, the daughter of the formidable Mama, came over with menus. She cast an appraising glance at Ronan, her lips parting slightly as she got an eyeful of his handsome dark features.
“Two specials,” Alana said before the waitress settled in for a serious flirtation. She’d seen the girl with other patrons, and was stopping that show before it started. For some absurd reason, she felt protective of the genie, at least where Maria was concerned.
Maria left with one meaningful sidelong perusal of Ronan, who seemed oblivious. He was staring out at the street, his long-fingered hands drumming a complicated rhythm on the wooden tabletop.
“What are you thinking?” Alana asked.
When he turned, the sun caught his features, sculpting them with stark light and shadow. “Let me ask rather what you were thinking when you rushed us out of the bookstore.”
She shrugged. “I was worried Corby would recognize you.”
“He does not know me.”
“He would know you’re magical. That’s his talent.”
“Perhaps,” Ronan agreed. “And your concern is charming. What else were you thinking?”
She straightened the container of paper napkins, lining them up with the salt and pepper. Nerves made her fidget. “Martigen. How would they know about your lamp?”
Ronan’s hands stilled their drum solo and his expression grew thoughtful, for once devoid of resentment. “No one seeks the lamp for a good purpose.”
It wasn’t an answer, but it was revealing. “Why not? Who wouldn’t want to get their hands on you?”
His eyebrows lifted. “You, apparently.”
Their lunch arrived, Maria lingering a little too long before she sashayed back to the kitchen. Alana scowled, but it was hard to hang onto dark thoughts. Steam arose from the plates of pasta, richly scented with garlic. It was like a potion for contentment.
She dug in, gesturing for Ronan to do the same. He took a forkful, tasting it slowly. She watched the expressions dance across his face—caution, surprise, and then pleasure. His second bite was hearty, his third following along without delay.
“Doesn’t anyone feed you?” Alana asked incredulously.
He swallowed, running his tongue along his teeth. “Not until they want something I cannot easily give.”
“You need a union.” She chewed, briefly closing her eyes to better taste the spices before regarding him once more.
His face had gone carefully neutral, back to the blankness she’d first seen from him. It was only then she realized how much of himself he’d shown her.
She reached out, putting a hand on his wrist. “I’m sorry.”
Confusion flickered across his features, but then he went back to business. “If Martigen is required to find my lamp, his investor is in deep with the worst of villains.”
Alana blinked, surprised by the fact he’d volunteered information. “What do you mean?”
Ronan set down his fork. “I’m a weapon, not a curiosity.”
Alana quirked a brow. “Explain that.”
He sat back. “There are things I cannot explain.”
“Try harder.”
Something like dismay flashed behind his eyes, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by the cannonball form of Mama Taglioni bustling up to the table. She cast a calculating glance at Ronan, then at Alana. “So who is this you bring to my kitchen, Alana?”
By her tone, she might as well have asked if they were engaged. Then her eyebrows went up as she spotted the half-eaten pasta. Alana watched in fascination as Mama put one finger under Ronan’s chin and turned his face to hers. “You do not eat all my food?”
Unbelievably, a wide grin split Ronan’s face. It was like heavy curtains parting on a cloudless noon sky. Alana hid her stunned reaction behind a bite of pasta.
Ronan rose, his tall frame towering over the woman. He took her weathered hands in his and—Alana’s eyes bulged—bowed low in a gesture of respect. “On the contrary, I treasure the welcome that flows through your meal. If I am slow to finish, it is merely because of my captivating company.”
Mama Taglioni’s round face turned pink. The princely response—there was no other word for it—had charmed her down to her orthopedic soles. “Ah, yes, our Alana has eaten here alone far too many times.”
“I’m never alone,” Alana said defensively. “We’re all family here.”
Yes, she had far more in common with a hard-working human family than she did with the genie. Whoever he’d been in his pre-lamp days, he’d been schooled in the social graces, and that meant wealth and rank. Under any other circumstances, Alana would have been beneath his notice. It made the thought of them as a couple ridiculous.
She almost cringed when Mama gave her cheek a motherly tap. “Of course you’re family, dear, always,” their hostess said. “Though it’s nice to see you bring a friend. Eat up, but save room for dessert.”
“Dessert?” Ronan asked with the first spark of eagerness Alana had seen.
Mama laughed, giving his broad shoulder a squeeze. “The first of the strawberries are in,” she said, then launched into a catalogue of ice cream, pies, and cream pastries. Just listening made Alana feel fat. It earned Mama another of Ronan’s heart-stopping grins.
“We will do the selection justice,” Ronan promised, somehow closing the conversation without sounding as if he were doing so. More of those upper-crust skills Alana had never mastered.
After that, Mama left them alone. Ronan leaned across the table. “Returning to our previous conversation, you learned a few of Corby’s secrets this afternoon—he is a dealer caught in Martigen’s web. You need to find your answers at a level above him. Learn what Martigen is involved in.”
“How?” Although she knew the answer as soon as she
spoke. She’d originally intended to work as a bodyguard for some young shark like Tyrell Martigen.
Ronan’s gaze searched her face. “You have an idea.”
Alana shook her head. “Barleycorn got me the job with Corby. He never sees a client twice, and he pretty much handles all the employment contracts in the fae community. If I leave and need a job again, I’m on my own and not likely to survive.”
“Barleycorn…” Ronan repeated the name slowly. “I know him of old. John Barleycorn can be a formidable ally, but also a fox among the fowl.”
“I want answers,” Alana said, slumping in her chair. She had to know why Tina was poisoned, and who’d done it. If she worked for Tyrell Martigen, she’d be near the fighting scene again. It wasn’t a direct route to finding her betrayer, but it was as good as she could hope for. At the same time…
“You are afraid to risk Barleycorn’s displeasure,” Ronan guessed.
“Maybe I’m overestimating what I can do. I’m not a trained investigator.” She chewed a mouthful of cooling pasta. It might as well have been cardboard, for all she tasted it.
“Have faith. You are battle hardened, and you know the fighting business.” Ronan smiled, but this time it was rueful. She hadn’t earned the grin he’d given Mama Taglioni. “Experience and knowledge are more than most get in their moment of crisis.”
Alana imagined herself working as Tyrell Martigen’s protector. A flutter of anticipation reminded her how most women would relish the idea of guarding his lean and sculpted body. At the same time, he—or at least his family—was at the heart of the deception that ended with Tina’s death. Either way, it was a hazardous path.
A path she had to take. Otherwise, the fact she’d survived the fight meant nothing. “I’ll do it. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way.”
Ronan sat back, his face a shade paler than before. “You could use a wish. You have three.”
Alana pushed her plate away. “No. This is my fight. I’ll do it myself.”
“I could help you. You don’t need to do this alone.”
“I am alone.”
Ronan raised a brow. “We’ll see. Now, how about dessert?”
6
After their meal was over, Alana returned to the store to finish her shift. Ronan explored the town alone, his stomach full for the first time since—he didn’t know. Time had no meaning inside the lamp. All that mattered right now was that someone had seen to his needs.
The repast had fed more than his body. Once upon a time, he would have scorned such simple fare, for a dinner with seven or eight courses was standard at his father’s court. But the matron who had cooked his meal, with her rough hands and food-stained apron, had looked upon him with concern for his comfort. When had that happened last?
And what of Alana? She had taken him there—pushing and pulling like an impatient shepherdess—to keep him safe. She wasn’t magically powerful—she’d barely been fae enough to summon him in the first place—yet she’d done what she could. No one had tried to protect him since he was a boy learning to toddle. He had been Prince Ronan of Bright Wing, the one born to safeguard his people—not the other way around.
Being looked after for a change was, in a word, amazing. Gratitude was a meager term for the storm of feeling inside him. This was a lesson the lamp had taught him. Oh, he had been grateful before—his parents had taken care to raise their children well. But they had been royalty, and they had the best and the most. There were so many simple gifts he would never have noticed as a prince. The freedom to choose his own comings and goings. To be seen as a person, not just a provider. A hand over his own.
Escaping the relentless solitude of the lamp was almost as good. He wandered through the downtown, marveling at the tall buildings and the rushing crowds. He’d seen cities like this over the centuries, each one bigger and busier than the last. He liked the excitement of them, the noisy bustle and raw vitality that swept him along the streets. For a moment, he belonged to the world again, even if it wasn’t his own.
Ronan arrived at his destination, which was the street corner opposite Comfy Chair. There was a coffee shop there. If he took a seat at one of the tables, he could watch the bookstore’s doorway without being seen. The waitress brought his order in a plain white mug. Ronan sniffed and then took a sip, wincing a little at the bitterness. Coffee was an acquired taste, and he’d only had a few opportunities to try it.
Which begged the question of why, when he had so few chances to roam free, was he spending his time watching Alana’s workplace like a dog moping for his owner’s return? Frowning, Ronan set the mug down. He was compelled to offer wishes, but he didn’t have a time limit. He could take a day off.
He scratched his chin, feeling the beginnings of stubble. It felt strange. He was rarely out of the lamp long enough to need a shave—and maybe that was why he was here. All this unprecedented freedom had him off balance. Alana’s kindness made him anxious to reciprocate. It had been too long since he’d shared in the give and take that wove relationships. So here he was, watching out for her interests. He knew the Martigen family from before the war, and he wondered what nonsense they were up to now.
The door to Comfy Chair swung open, and Tyrell emerged. Whatever he’d been discussing with Corby, it had been a long conversation. Since Ronan himself was one of the topics, that wasn’t reassuring. He watched the man saunter down the street, his hands in his pockets and his head held high. The thought of Alana—cool, strong, beautiful, and lithe—guarding the young idiot rankled. Would she try to comfort him, too? Would she put her hand over his as well? If Martigen overstepped the line…
Ronan leashed his imagination, stopping it cold. He’d do best to focus on what he, a genie with virtually no freedom, could realistically achieve. Well, Alana had dragged him off and fed him lunch, so the least he could do was see if Tyrell Martigen was likely to get his bodyguards killed. Given the players involved in this drama so far, that was a distinct possibility. He pushed back his chair, stood, and left his half-drunk coffee to go cold. With a flick of his fingers, he conjured human money from Tyrell’s wallet and left it for the waitress, including a generous tip.
Ronan slipped out of the café and fell into step behind Martigen, determined to find answers.
No sooner had Martigen left the back room of the bookstore than Corby emerged, stomped past Alana, and then took off down the street in the opposite direction from Tyrell. Whatever had passed between the two men, Alana was certain Corby had been the loser.
The murmur of voices coming from behind Corby’s office door had been low and intense—which made it hard to eavesdrop once she got back from lunch. Not that the two men had paid any attention to her comings and goings. She doubted they would have noticed a parade of dancing trolls, they’d been so wrapped up in their debate.
Left alone in the store, she hitched herself onto the counter, swinging her feet as she puzzled over what to do. Did she really want to work for Tyrell? How would Corby react? Would it really get her any closer to finding out what really happened the night Tina was killed?
Alana had been over her last fight a hundred times. What she remembered first was the dry sensation in her mouth, as if sand coated her tongue all the way down her throat. That was her fear response. Others got twitchy or went to the bathroom a dozen times before a match. She got a thirst nothing could cure.
That night, her dry mouth was worse than ever because it was the finals. Alana and Tina—known to the world as the Incorruptible and the Indestructible—were set to fight the Slash, two cat shifters who had sprung on the scene that season and literally clawed their way to the top. The betting was astronomical, and it had gone in favor of Alana’s team. The hopes and dreams of fans and gamblers alike rode on her will to win.
Alana stood in her place by the fighting circle, Henry to her right and Tina carrying on with an impromptu entourage. The battleground was really just a chalk dust circle on the sand floor of an underground arena. Bleachers circl
ed it, with balcony boxes for the officials and wealthy patrons. The rank and file sat on the bare wood. If they had wings, they fluttered above the throng. The air smelled of nervous sweat and the honey wine favored by the fae.
Alana checked the buckles of her leather body armor for the fifth time, fingers clumsy with nerves. Henry handed her the water bottle, demonstrating how well he knew her. Alana rinsed her mouth, wishing it would ease her throat.
“Remember to stop telegraphing with your left foot,” Henry reminded her. “And keep your eyes up. If the dirt’s telling you something, it’s because you’re about to kiss it.”
He’d put them through their paces hard that week, leaving nothing to chance. Alana was good, but Tina moved like a molten blade, brilliant and lethal. She was indestructible because she was impossibly fast.
Alana glanced at her partner, who in turn was making a rude gesture at the Slash. Their opponents fought half-shifted, upright but furry. Alana had always liked kitties, but this was enough to turn her against pets for good. The big one was staring across the circle with a sharp-toothed grin.
Just one more thing to make Alana jittery that day. She’d rolled out of bed with an unexpected chill in her belly. The air was rife with an electricity that stirred the hair along her arms. Something wasn’t right.
“We need to call this off.” The words came out of Alana’s mouth unbidden.
Henry stared at her in bewilderment—as if she’d suddenly turned into a giraffe. “What?”
Her heart thundered. “There’s something off about this fight. Don’t ask me what it is because I don’t know, but it’s there.”
Henry snorted. “What you’re feeling is normal, kid. You’ve never been in a fight this big.”
He was right about that. They’d had to post guards on their workout rooms to keep the curious away. All the same, no practice went without pictures appearing online—Tina in a spin kick, Alana punching a bag, their sparring partners flat on their backs. The upcoming battle was their few minutes of fame among the fae.
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