Shimmer

by Sharon Ashwood

  “Maybe, but I’m serious.”

  “You worry too much. Just enjoy the ride, like your partner.” Henry chuckled.

  Alana turned to see Tina lip-locked with a handsome young fan. The youth was a river fae with pale green skin and curly hair—drinking age, but not much more. When the pair finally parted, he staggered back with a dramatic hand-to-heart gesture.

  Tina caught Alana’s gaze and gave a shrug. “What can I say? He started it. I just obliged.”

  Then the first bell sounded, and they took their places. Both teams were armed up to—and including—the proverbial teeth. The fights allowed for weapons of all kinds, but not offensive magic. So, the combatants could sprout horns or breath fire, but not put their enemy into a snooze, shrink them to a convenient squishing size, or make them stand still while they poked them with a spear. This was a blood sport, and the audience wanted real action.

  Filled with misgivings, Alana slid a dagger from her boot sheath, the whisper of metal against leather like a familiar benediction. Across the circle, one of the Slash drew a kukri knife. The other simply flexed his claws.

  By that time, Tina was already weaving on her feet. When the second bell sounded, the fighters advanced, but she stumbled. The gasp of the crowd echoed in the rafters of the makeshift arena. Alana caught a whiff of something sweetly acidic, like strawberries—the poison working in Tina’s blood.

  The fight spiraled into hell from there. By the time it was over, Henry’s rugged face, as seamed as old granite, had been running with tears. Alana saw it from where she was strapped to a gurney, crippled and shorn of everything she’d trained for. And yet, that wasn’t the worst of it. Tina was dead, her throat sliced open by the kukri knife. The other casualty was the young river fae who had poisoned her with his kiss. Someone had tricked him into his own death as well as murder.

  “Greed never makes for a fair fight,” Henry had growled, the only coherent words amid a string of violent curses.

  It had been a throwaway line at the time, but one that came back to Alana later. People had placed bets against them, of course, one much bigger than the rest. That wasn’t unusual in itself—there was always someone trying to beat the odds. What was remarkable was that it had worked. The Martigen family were the bookmakers. They knew who’d placed that one big bet, and Alana needed that piece of information. It was the only solid lead on whoever had fixed the fight.

  The door chimed, and Alana automatically slid off her perch atop the cash desk. Her soles barely hit the floor before she saw the newcomer was Barleycorn. He must have read her surprise, because he laughed.

  “I do venture outside my office from time to time, Ms. Beech.” Then he gave her a considering appraisal. “You’re looking much better than when I saw you last. The store must agree with you.”

  “Sure. I’m very grateful for the opportunity,” she said automatically. “Mr. Corby isn’t here.”

  “I came here to see you.”

  “Oh?”

  Barleycorn moved to stand beside her. “I wanted to see how you were getting on.” His eyes were a dark blue rimmed with gold that seemed to give them their own light. Definitely fae eyes, but different from any others she’d seen. Barleycorn was one of a kind.

  One Ronan didn’t like much, from what she could tell. That put this conversation in an interesting light.

  “I’m getting along just fine,” she said. “Learning a lot about the business.”

  No point in telling him she was on the verge of quitting.

  “The collectible business as well as the books?” The question was asked lightly, but it made her squirm inside.

  “Much of what Mr. Corby buys seems to be garbage.”

  Barleycorn’s smile was bland. “No doubt.”

  Alana lifted her brows. “Do you have an interest in vintage telephones and eight-track tapes?”

  He folded his arms, the emeralds in his cufflinks flashing. He seemed so out of his element in the bookstore, yet Alana knew that wasn’t the case. Barleycorn was rooted more deeply in the fae world than even Corby. “Not all commerce is equally good for the community. Not everything should be for sale.”

  So Barleycorn knew Corby was selling magical knickknacks out the back door. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad for her plans. “And why discuss that with me?”

  “I hoped you would be willing to share your observations.”

  “You want me to spy on my boss?”

  “I gave you this job for a reason.” His tone was casual, as if he expected her to fall into line.

  That annoyed her. “It hardly makes me employee of the month. If you’d asked ahead of time, I would have declined.”

  The blue-gold eyes turned cold. “You weren’t in a position to decline. Nothing about that has changed.”

  Any inclination she’d had to tell Barleycorn about Tyrell Martigen—or any other part of her plan—died right then. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  His expression remained steady. “A number of parties are currently seeking a dangerous item. It is imperative this item is neutralized before it has the opportunity to work its evil.”

  “A weapon?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

  “Yes, though it masquerades as more of a faery godmother.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Alana retorted. “My godmother gave up on me when I showed no signs of magical talent.”

  “Think lucky charm, then,” Barleycorn said wryly. “One that helps you realize your secret dreams.”

  The lamp. He had to mean the lamp. “And when you say neutralize…”

  Barleycorn straightened, unfolding his arms and smoothing out his sleeves. “There are only so many meanings for that.”

  “Why is it so bad if it realizes dreams?”

  “How many dreams unexpectedly turn into nightmares?”

  Alana’s mouth went dry, just like it had before that fatal fight. “I’ll be sure to let you know if something turns up.”

  His smile was empty. “You do that, Ms. Beech.”

  She stared after Barleycorn long after he left the store. What would he say if he knew she was mistress of the lamp? Would he neutralize her, too?

  7

  Dusk—and Ronan—found Alana in the same place he’d first met her. She sat by her friend’s grave, her arms wrapped around her knees. Every line of her body curved inward, that relentlessly straight spine of hers finally bowed. It was a private moment, one where she’d felt safe to drop her guard, and Ronan hesitated to break it.

  At the same time, she needed to know there was no such thing as a safe, private place. Not with the enemies she was planning to take on. He cleared his throat.

  She raised her head, gray eyes luminous in the soft light. Her open expression showed him the grief she carried, and for an instant, his heart twisted in sympathy. His breath caught before he resolutely shook off the emotion. Doing her a good turn in exchange for a meal was risky enough. Real emotional involvement with his owners would break him. In the end, he’d be forced to betray each one. That was the way of genies.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  “I’ve told you before. You own me,” he replied, sitting by her side. “That cuts both ways.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “Apparently.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Considering my options.”

  “You chose a grim place for it.” He surveyed the headstones. “It is such a human thing, to be sown in the ground like seeds.”

  “My mother was forest fae. We bury our dead, too.” She plucked a blade of grass.

  “And your father’s folk?”

  “I don’t know who he was.” She rolled the grass into a tiny ball and cast it aside. “What about yours?”

  Ronan ducked his head, remembering wind against his flanks, the hum of air past his wings. “We choose fire and wind at the end. The flames free our souls to become one with the sky.”

  “You’re air fa
e?” she asked, clearly impressed. “I don’t meet your kind that often. Not many of your exiles live in the city.”

  That didn’t surprise him. The air here stank. “You know the history of the conquest?”

  “Of course. I learned it in school.”

  He didn’t need a reflection to know the bitterness of his smile. “In school.” As if the horror of the Shades’ desecration could be reduced to a lecture.

  “Did you see it?” Alana asked. “The exile, I mean.”

  “I did. I saw the Shades.”

  “Only the dragons stayed behind to fight them,” she said slowly. “That’s what Barleycorn said. I don’t understand why. It was as good as suicide.”

  Resolutely, he met her serious gray gaze. “They stayed so someday our people can go home.”

  “Do you think they’re still there?”

  What a question! No one had ever asked him that. Perhaps he should have been grateful for her curiosity, but she’d used it like a sword blade. And it was clear she’d never met a dragon, or she would know at once he was one of them. Even in their two-legged form, the tall, dark-haired people of Bright Wing were distinctive—and now no more than a footnote in a school lecture. Yes, oh yes, he’d been a prince of the air, powerful and free to hunt and fight. Had been.

  “I have to believe they’re still there.” He shrugged, burying his rage as best he could. Someday he would see his family and home again. Someday.

  “How did you come to the human realm?” she asked.

  “I passed into exile in my owner’s luggage.” That was how he’d slipped Harin’s net. It was his single scrap of luck. He might still be cursed by Harin Blacktongue and forced to offer wishes, but at least he was no longer at his beck and call.

  She hugged her knees tighter. “Barleycorn wants to neutralize you.”

  Ronan leaned back on his elbows, holding onto his anger hard. “I’ve caught glimpses of John Barleycorn since coming to the human realm. Exile seems to have wiped away his sense of humor. He used to be something of a—how do you say it?—party animal.”

  She let lose a strangled laugh. “That’s hard to picture.”

  “We were all different back then.” Why was he telling her this? It had nothing to do with solving their problems. It had nothing to do with anything—yet he couldn’t stop talking. The same thing had happened last night. He’d missed the back and forth of casual conversation.

  This was Alana’s doing, offering her friendship until he couldn’t help but take it. She was so strong, but so naive. That frank openness made her vulnerable. He could read her far too easily, and he could already guess what that first wish would be. Even so, she was a drug he couldn’t resist. The beast inside him—torn, bloodied stump that it was—responded to her kindness like a feral thing shyly snatching scraps from her fingers. She made him remember who he was. What he might have been.

  The truth was, he wanted to possess her in ways that simply couldn’t happen, because it would destroy them both. He palmed his face, grinding the weariness from his eyes. What was he going to do about her? Once she was gone, the withdrawal would be hell.

  “What does Barleycorn have against you?” Alana asked.

  “He knows the truth about me. I told you I was a weapon.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think happens to a person when I grant their wish?”

  “They’re happy?”

  “For a day, a year, twenty years. The length of time depends on the wisdom of the person doing the wish. The smarter the wish, the longer it seems to last.”

  “But?”

  “Sooner or later, they want another. No one is perfectly happy every day of their lives.”

  “So they make another wish.”

  “Of course they do. They always want something more.”

  “And eventually, they run out of wishes.”

  He nodded. “And then they’re sad.”

  That was the understatement of all time. However long his owners lasted between wishes one and two, barely any time elapsed between two and three. The second wish never worked as planned. And then the heartbreak began.

  “So Barleycorn is basing his assessment on a string of customer complaints?”

  “Essentially.”

  “That hardly seems fair.”

  Ronan wanted to say it was absolutely fair, but all he could do was shake his head. The spell that made him a nightmare wouldn’t permit more than that. Otherwise, who would ever make a single wish?

  His first owner had wished for a beautiful girl child—as harmless a request as could be. Wish two was for a brilliant match for the darling daughter when she turned seventeen. Wish three was to save her when she struggled to give them a grandchild. Then they’d needed a fourth wish to save the grandchild, but there’d been no fourth wish. Their darling girl faded away in grief, mourning her child until she joined it in the ground beneath a willow tree.

  His second wish-maker had been a soldier who wanted glory, and Ronan gave it to him. But then the brave captain had to repeat that success to maintain his good name, so his second wish requested another chance for fame and fortune. When that plan went awry, his third wish had been to save his men from disaster. There’d been no fourth wish to save the captain’s limbs from the surgeon’s knife, of course. He’d died a beggar.

  But they had been fortunate, compared to others. The wishes were a trap. The only ones to escape were those who had something Harin wanted—fortune, power, or extraordinary magic. He’d grant a fourth wish if they had an acceptable trade. The fourth wish didn’t guarantee happiness, either, but Harin would make bargain after bargain until they had nothing left to give. Two wishes seemed enough to make addicts of the wisest man or woman, however powerful they were.

  Ronan’s only comfort was that Harin Blacktongue wasn’t around in this realm to make those final deals, so the damage stopped at three and the lamp moved on. His past owners never recovered. It was as if all their life’s luck had run out, but at least they died as themselves. Those Harin had touched eventually became his willing servants, corrupted to their core. Ronan always wondered what piece of their hearts they had, in their final desperation, bargained away.

  Alana chose that moment to reach out and take his hand—again. Her skin was cool from the chill of the graveyard air. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  Pain shuddered through his chest, and he took a deep breath to fight it down. “You’re kind, but I’ve had time to get used to it.”

  “Still, I think I’m going to take your advice and go to work for Martigen.”

  “Ah…” Ronan sat up, folding his free hand around their joined ones. “That’s what I came here to talk to you about. I spent the afternoon following young Tyrell over hill and dale.”

  “And?” Alana inched closer.

  They must have made an interesting picture, heads bowed together like conspiratorial lovers. Romantic, except for the graveyard location and the fact he could never, ever have this woman as he wanted. Oh, he could pleasure one, sure enough, but not as a mate. Not as anything more than a physical act, because sooner or later…

  “I followed him from house to business to club,” he said. “Martigen met with important families of the fae. I knew the names, if not all the members of this generation.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t get close enough.”

  She squinted at him doubtfully.

  Ronan felt suddenly inadequate. “I wasn’t designed to be a spy. I can’t read lips or eavesdrop from a mile away. You want a leprechaun for that.”

  “Okay, fine,” Alana said, patting the air to calm him down. “What do you think it was about?”

  “He visited noble families, regardless of their tribe. Fire fae, water fae, earth fae,” Ronan mused. “What do all the groups have in common, regardless of business alliances or family connections?”

  “The fights,” Alana said without hesitation. “Even if they desp
ise each other, they’ll all attend. It’s neutral ground, and they all need to let off steam.”

  Ronan understood. In the human world, they had to obey human laws, but fae were still half-wild. Blood sports satisfied a thirst no human spectacle could quench.

  “If it’s about the fights, I have a chance of uncovering something,” she continued. “I understand how that world works. I just have to get close to Tyrell, because he runs the bookmaking part of the family business.”

  Her mouth was set in a determined line that made Ronan want to press his lips to hers. He could almost taste her brave spirit from where he sat an arm’s-length away. But it would be oh so much sweeter with their bodies pressed skin to skin. Her eyes seemed to shimmer in the softening light, making a portal Ronan wished he could enter. Inside this woman was a world he longed to visit—but he knew better. He pulled his hand from hers, forcing himself to remain apart. His hand felt lost without hers, as if she were the only thing binding him to the earth.

  It was time he shut this—whatever it was—between them down. “How do you plan to approach Martigen for a job?” he asked.

  Alana heaved a sigh of frustration. “That’s why I came here to think. I don’t have a lot of choices, especially if I cross Barleycorn. He wants me at Corby’s in case a certain lamp turns up.”

  Suddenly things were making a pattern he didn’t like. “Barleycorn will be watching you.”

  “All the more reason not to be working in the exact place where that lamp is supposed to turn up.”

  “True.”

  “My main option is to show up at Martigen Industries and ask for a job, but Barleycorn and Corby will be lousy references.”

  “And your other options?”

  Alana sighed. “There aren’t any other good choices.”

  There was one, but he hated it. All the same, the suggestion welled inside him, driven by Harin’s spell. They were words he’d said a thousand fateful times. “You could use a wish. You’ve got two others to spare.”

  Alana laughed ruefully, casting a long look at her dead partner’s headstone. The inscription was unreadable in the gloom, but the white marble glowed in the final, fading shreds of daylight. “Maybe. I wouldn’t be able to be a guard at all unless you’d healed me. You’ve already got me halfway there.”