Your Wish Is His Command Page 3

  “The combination?” One of the fox’s bat-like ears ticked forward as he leapt onto the recliner in front of the high-def. “Gee, Kal, that might be kind of hard.”

  “I was just kidding, Dirt—Dirham.” Kal shooed him out of the chair and sank onto the cool leather. He’d have to wipe it down afterwards, but the beauty of not living with anyone was that no one would care if he didn’t.

  That was also the curse of not living with anyone.

  “So what are we going to do today, Kal?” Dirham hopped up and down like a rabbit. He was the size of a rabbit actually.

  “Today? Let’s see.” Kal pretended to contemplate the vast opportunities available to him. Trouble was, there weren’t any. He was stuck in this lantern until a master summoned him. Bad enough he wasn’t able to move forward with his life, having to hang out until Fate passed him around to one thousand and one masters, but to be stuck waiting while he was waiting… Kal hated being an alpha male in a beta role. Hated treading water and this sentence the High Master had imposed on him was the ultimate deep end.

  “Want to paint rainbows in the air?” Dirham asked, swiping his tongue over his lips. Mist-paint was like catnip to fennecs.

  Kal shook his head. “I’m not in the mood, but don’t let me stop you.” He pointed to the pull-down table on the wall that he stored the supplies behind. Without altering the outer lantern dimensions, the interior could expand to house whatever he wanted to order through the Genie Supply System—a race track, football field, the island of Crete, a camel—but Kal was into minimalism. Give him his fridge, workout equipment, the recliner, and a high-def TV, and he was good. Oh, and the remote. Definitely needed the remote. It was the only magic he could do these days.

  Thanks to Faruq.

  Kal gripped the leather arm rests. The prick had stolen not only his High Master’s thesis and his magic, but also his reputation. Instead of the promotion Kal had expected all those centuries ago, his name had been dragged through endless jeribs of worthless desert sand and buried so deep that even Mudd was a better name than his.

  Well, Karma could be a bitch and she’d finally bitten Faruq on the ass. The High Master’s vizier was currently under lantern arrest for exactly what he’d framed Kal for, trying to double-cross the High Master in an effort to gain the title sooner rather than later, so the job was back up for grabs. As soon as Kal was finished serving his next master, he fully intended the position to be his. He hadn’t really wanted to leave the djinn world because of its practices, but he also hadn’t want to be a part of any world where Faruq was in charge.

  But if he could be… Gods knew, he’d worked hard enough for it, but then that prick had come along and stolen it so he’d wanted out.

  He should probably feel some pride in being the only djinni who’d ever figured out how to remove the bracelets, but if there was one thing these last two millennia had taught him, it was that pride was a lonely bedfellow and a poor substitute for losing his magic.

  “You know what, Dirham? I would like something.”

  The fox turned around with seven paintbrushes sticking out of his snout. “Wwaah is ih?”

  Kal stood up, then stripped off his gym shorts. He finally had a shot at getting the job; he might as well look the part. Dress for the job you wanted, not the one you had. “My uniform. The orange one. And don’t forget the scimitar.”

  Dirham dropped the brushes. “Scimitar?” His tongue snaked around his snout and not with the same enthusiasm as it had for mist-paint. “Have I displeased you?”

  Kal shook his head and forced a smile to his face. Dirham was the one being who still believed in him. Probably because the fennec didn’t have a suspicious bone in his tiny body, but Kal would take every supporter he could get. Which, as of now, consisted of only one. “It’s been a while and I don’t want to lose my edge.”

  “Phew!” Dirham’s tail twitched upright, a sure sign the little guy was happy. Some days he was so happy he looked like a show dog determined to win Best in Breed. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  Kal took a quick shower while Dirham was gone. One more master; that’s all he had left. After two thousand years of having his hands tied, with pewter cuffs instead of gold, an end was in sight—

  An end that might come sooner rather than later thanks to the orange smoke that began to fill his lantern. Smoke heralded his transmission to the outside world, and that particular shade of orange meant only one thing.

  He was about to get his last master.

  ###

  Want to find out what happens when Kal manifests himself back into the mortal realm?

  Check out Genie Knows Best today!

  Read on for excerpts from all of the Bottled Magic series and a few bonus ones as well!

  Excerpts

  I Dream of Genies

  Matt Ewing was having a shitty day in a month of shitty days—several months of them, actually—so when a half-naked harem girl knocked him onto the sidewalk and ended up facedown in his lap, Matt figured one of the shittier days of his life had just gotten better.

  Especially when, raising himself up on his elbows, he got the best view of curvy female ass this side of a strip club: one covered in see-through pink gauze and sequins, with tassels caressing cheeks that were tight and firm and just the right size for his hands.

  Matt’s breath took a hiatus and, despite the rain, his mouth dried up like a desert.

  Or was that dessert?

  Matt shook his head. No, dessert was in the bakery behind him, not the woman lying across him. He sat up just as the trash truck by the curb pulled away with a groaning yawn, something metallic bouncing out and clipping his ankle.

  “Son of a bitch.” Well, at least his wind had come back. He kicked the thing away and got a good look at the woman sprawled with her face in his lap.

  Now there was an image.

  Okay, he was a sick bastard to even go there when she had yet to move.

  “Hello?” He wiggled his legs, but she didn’t budge.

  A blue, no, purple butterfly flitted onto the slice of midnight black ponytail that slid sideways from under a veil clipped to the crown of her head. The rest of her hair fanned an expanse of tanned skin below the half-shirt plastered to her body.

  He looked around. The storm left few people on the street, and those who were held their umbrellas so low they appeared to be dueling the weather. No one was paying any attention to the woman. Looked like it was up to him.

  “Miss.” He tried jiggling her shoulder. The butterfly moved, but she, sadly, didn’t. Christ, he hoped she wasn’t seriously injured, although it’d be just his luck if she was—mainly because bad was the only kind of luck he’d been having lately. The Riverview project was a no-go, Jerry hadn’t called with an update on the Baker roof, and now, thanks to the weather, he’d have to reschedule a job that would’ve covered the cost of the damaged materials some moron had backed over and hadn’t ponied up the cash for yet. Yeah, definitely a shitty day.

  Matt eased out from under the woman and something slid off his thigh onto the sidewalk. Faceted yellow crystal, or maybe a hunk of glass, with enough weight to do some damage—an ornament or paperweight about the size of a walnut on steroids. That would explain why she was out cold.

  He shoved the crystal into his pocket and turned her face to the side. Dark lashes swept tan cheeks. Her lips were pursed, and the rain was channeling into her mouth. Not good.

  He put his hand on her back. She was breathing, but her outfit was hardly appropriate for the weather. The gauzy pants were soaked, plastering them to a pair of legs that showed her ass wasn’t the only toned part of her and revealing those boy-cut shorts women were into these days. Why they thought guys liked clothing called boy-cuts on women he didn’t get, but at least she had something on. Otherwise she’d be naked and wet in front of him.

  He was definitely an ass for that thought.

  Every wish comes with complications…

  November 17, approximately 10
p.m.

  Samantha Blaine held her breath and rubbed the copper lantern on the desk in her father’s office one more time. A little harder. A little longer.

  But still… nothing.

  No smoke, no genie, not even a dust bunny. She was being ridiculous; the thing was as much a genie lantern as Albert, her double-crossing, soon-to-be-fiancé—make that, her double-crossing, soon-to-be-ex-soon-to-be-fiancé—was Prince Charming.

  Useless. Albert thought she, like this lantern, was useless.

  “Trust me, Henley,” he’d said during the phone conversation she’d inadvertently overheard not ten minutes earlier. “Daddy’s little girl is clueless. Useless. On all fronts. Run the company? Her old man must have had another stroke back when he had that will drawn up. She’s incapable. Inept. Hell, she doesn’t even have a clue what I’m up to. She doesn’t have a clue about anything, so as soon as this memorial thing is over, I’ll get my ring on her finger and my hands on the contents of that safe. Then you’ll get your money.”

  Samantha flicked the edge of the letter with the combination to the safe. Dad’s attorney had given it to her earlier. He’d said Dad had wanted her to have it tonight during the funeral—no, during Dad’s life celebration. That was her father, always looking for the good in everything, but what good had there been in opening it now, in the middle of this party, just to retrieve a souvenir from her parents’ honeymoon? She didn’t really want a reminder of the happily-ever-after she apparently wasn’t going to have with Albert. Without him. Whatever.

  She traced the lantern’s curved spout, thoroughly appreciating the irony that Albert had been tearing the house apart for weeks trying to find the combination to the safe, yet she’d been the one to open it.

  Useless, was she? Who was the inept one now?

  She tapped the flame-shaped finial on the lid. Finding this wasn’t a victory, though, because while Albert might not have been Prince Charming material, she’d thought he’d had some redeeming qualities, namely claiming to love her for her. Not because of who her father was or how much she’d be worth someday, or what great merger-acquisition material she’d be, but because of her. Not Samantha Blaine, heiress, but Samantha, the woman who had hopes and dreams of a long, loving relationship like her parents’ and the big family she’d never had. She’d wanted so much to believe, so she’d let herself hope that this time it was for real.

  The troll had helped the illusion along not only by offering to sign a pre-nup, but also by stepping in and taking over the burden of running her father’s custom-car manufacturing company while she’d been at Dad’s hospital bedside these past six months. She’d been so grateful.

  And now this. And tonight of all nights. The jerk.

  She blinked back the tears, determined not to let him get to her. But, God, she’d been so trusting. So hopeful. Again.

  And again she’d been disappointed.

  Samantha tucked some curls behind her ears, plopped her chin in her palm, and ignored Wanda, the housekeeper, who was calling her name from the foyer. Samantha wasn’t up for seeing anyone right now.

  Oh, not because Albert had just broken her heart. Sadly, deep down, she’d known he wasn’t the guy for her. She’d known that. But he’d been the first—she’d thought—guy in her life who’d sincerely been interested in her. When Dad had had the stroke, Albert had been there. He’d helped out with the company and hadn’t made any demands on her other than to sign paperwork.

  That was when he’d started mentioning marriage, and Samantha had let herself go along with the idea because, more than Albert being her One True Love, she hadn’t wanted to deal with the fact that when Dad was gone, she’d be alone in the world. Mom had died when she’d been a toddler, so it’d just been the two of them all these years. She’d never felt the lack of family more than she had when Dad died.

  Albert had offered her a way out, so she’d given in to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was the real deal. Stalwart, supportive, there when she’d needed something… That was what she’d always wished for, so she’d let him in. Trusted him. Believed in the fairy-tale ending.

  And now he’d betrayed her.

  She shook the long sleeve of the djellaba over her street clothes up her arm and picked up the lantern, her reflection not distorted enough to hide the pain in her eyes at being betrayed.

  Again.

  Why was everyone always looking for handouts from her? What was wrong with her that she couldn’t have someone want her just for who she was instead of what she had in her bank account or what she could do for them? It was sad, really, how, with everything money could and had bought for her, love wasn’t one of those things.

  She ran her fingertips over the lantern’s rounded side. Wouldn’t it be perfect if this actually were a genie lantern? She could use a little magic in her life right now.

  For her first wish, she’d turn Albert into a belly-crawling lizard. Then she’d bring Dad back, and then…

  “And then I’d wish for the genie to take me away from all this to some place where all my troubles would just disappear.”

  And, in a billowing cloud of orange smoke, that’s exactly what happened.

  Or… was it?

  Careful what you wish for…

  Northeast Pennsylvania

  41,646 days ago

  But who’s counting?

  Vana cringed as the stairs vanished beneath Peter’s feet.

  Again.

  Luckily, this time, he was holding on to the railing.

  Which also started to disintegrate.

  Holy smokes! Would her magic ever turn out the way she wanted it to?

  At least she could manage Invisibility, and did so, standing at the top of the staircase and gripping the railing so it wouldn’t fall apart. Luckily for everyone attending Peter’s weekly gathering, the structure seemed sound—despite the stair-mangling efforts of the bear she’d accidentally conjured.

  Vana winced. A bear.

  Thankfully, Mr. Hornberger had chased it out before it could do any more damage, but she shouldn’t have tried to repair the steps, let alone varnish them. Especially with the way her magic worked. Or rather, didn’t work.

  “I know you’re here, Vana,” Peter called loud enough for everyone at the luncheon to hear. Not the best idea. Peter still hadn’t grasped the concept of secrecy when it came to having a genie—anymore than she’d grasped the concept of being one.

  “And don’t try fixing it again. I’ll take care of it mysel—agghh!” Peter threw his hands in the air as the remaining spindle disintegrated and another stair tread caved in.

  “Oh, dear, Peter’s tippled too much again, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Otto waddled out from the dining room with Mrs. Ertel following her, dressed in her Sunday best and tsk-tsking behind her gloved hands. “I’m sure it’s understandable, Bertha. After all, a bear! Can you imagine? Quite the spectacle.”

  Just one in a long line of them. Vana had the feeling that the townspeople’s appearances at Peter’s gatherings had more to do with her and her magic than the food he served. Not that anyone ever saw her; no one had but Peter. Which was half the problem. Peter was what the locals liked to call eccentric. He’d made money in shipping and imports before she’d entered his life (obviously, or she would have lost it all for him), and he’d invested it heavily in the town, but not necessarily in things people wanted him to invest in.

  But that was Peter. He’d erected a big statue to his grandmother, the sternest-looking woman to walk the earth. Considering that Vana had lived for more than a few centuries, she ought to know.

  He’d paved the path to the home for unwed mothers with cobblestones, saying it’d prevent falls when the path iced over in the winter. The church ladies disagreed and periodically took up a collection to have the stones removed. But each time, Peter would have them put back in place. After all, he did own the property; he could do what he wanted with the path. It became an unending cycle until the women eventually gave up.

  No,
Peter Harrison had been an oddity long before Vana had come along, but her special brand of ineptitude helped put the icing on Peter’s cake of eccentricity.

  Peter never seemed to mind, and that, more than the fact that he possessed her bottle, made Vana happy to be his genie.

  “Jonas, why don’t you send Mrs. Hamm to get your father?” one of the church ladies asked Peter’s son kindly. “I think he might want to take a nap.”

  Sleep it off, she meant. Everyone thought Peter liked his whiskey, but the truth was that Peter couldn’t stand the stuff. He did, however, like a special blend of chilled tea that Vana could manage to magick up correctly.

  She would pour the tea into empty whiskey bottles to encourage the locals’ belief that Peter liked his drink. That it had all started after the death of his wife (which, also not so coincidentally, coincided with the round-the-world trip during which he’d come across a certain bottle) lent credence to the story.

  Everyone knew how distraught Peter had been, so what else could Vana do? Let them think he was full-blown crazy with his talk of genies and magic? He might own the town, but he’d also built that nice hospital at the far end, and there was a wing there with his name on it. She was half worried they’d send poor Peter there, and then where would she be? Where would the children and Eirik and all the rest be?

  The children. Vana shook her head. The children had been dancing in the study earlier, which normally wouldn’t be a problem. But when children were enchanted to be everyday dishware, and those dishes were twirling and swirling and leaping and do-si-doing all over the place, that was definitely an issue.

  Especially if anyone had seen them.

  “Out of the way! Out of the way!”

  Vana winced once more when Mrs. Hamm, the housekeeper, strode into the foyer, bellowing as usual. “The master needs his nap!”