Wish in One Hand (Once Upon a Djinn Book 1) Read online

  “Your time starving on the streets of Copenhagen definitely taught you the value of treats.” I ruffled the long, white fur around his neck. “Ready for dinner?” The fluttering of his plumed tail was the only answer I ever got.

  Seconds after I set his large bowl of kibbles down, the wall nearby beeped at me. Only my business partner could be buzzing me on movie night.

  “What’s up, Baz?”

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  I refrained from pointing out to Basil if he’d come down like I asked, he wouldn’t need to wonder. Bless his good British work ethic, but all his efforts were definitely making him a dull boy. Considering our yearly auction would occur in a little over a week, I couldn’t fault him, but still, the man needed a break almost more than Mena.

  “We finished about an hour ago. And before you ask, Mena’s back in the vault charming the princess.”

  “It’s really too bad about the poor bird. Her rescue went a mite smoother than expected, but still—”

  “Out with it, Basil.” His stalling had to mean this wasn’t a social call. “No. Nix that. Do not come out with anything. I have a bed waiting downstairs. Barring that, a dozen boxes in the library need to be unpacked and catalogued. And then there’s the auction.”

  “Don’t you worry about the auction. I’ll bring you on if I need help. And if you need someone to help you with those boxes—”

  “I changed my mind. If we keep this up, we’ll be here all night. Spit it out.”

  “I need you out to New York. Tonight, if at all possible.”

  “The Big Apple?” I hated rescuing genies in metropolitan areas, but NYC presented a whole different set of issues, especially since 9-11.

  “Upstate,” he said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Besides the tactical nightmare New York presents, the city that never sleeps holds too many bad memories. “From what the network says, it’s an estate. Hundreds of acres surrounding the place.”

  “Great, then it’ll wait ‘til tomorrow.”

  “Umm… the owner? He’s gone and shuffled off his mortal coil. We don’t have much time before the inheritors arrive to pick things over.”

  “Say no more.” Once someone touched whatever bling the genie called home, rescuing him would present a whole new pile of problems. Especially since the new Master probably wouldn’t be too keen on losing his shiny, new windfall. “When do I leave? And how the hell am I getting there?”

  “Still bagged from the last rescue?”

  I sent a few feelers to my powers. “I’m probably at about twenty percent. Enough to get me out, but not back, and vice versa.”

  “Understood. Save it for emergencies.” He paused a moment, probably checking his own tank. “I’m good for your trip out, but if there’s trouble, you really will have to get yourself back.”

  “Then we’re agreed. I’ll be upstairs for a briefing and then off to The Empire State.”

  ~-~-~-~-~-~

  Basil said this would be easy-peasy. Hearing a centuries-old, tweed-loving genie use the phrase, in and of itself, should’ve been a heads-up. But, no. I took him at his word and dropped into upstate New York blind.

  Literally.

  I closed my eyes in Colorado and, before the breeze of teleportation could ruffle my hair, I stood in what could’ve been a storeroom at the Louvre. Except I knew better. Some guy with more cash than ethics had whipped out his double-platinum, diamond-encrusted Visa and bought a great many things he should never own. Judging from what I saw at first glance, this Master was a naughty monkey. No fewer than a dozen works of art reported lost or stolen graced his gallery. In one corner sat a jackal sculpture I knew for a fact went missing from a prestigious Italian museum.

  If only his immoral behavior had stopped at owning another person. Not that I have any room to talk, what with the whole set of rapacious genes galloping through me. But I’d never stoop to slavery.

  Growing up as the daughter of a cat burglar does have its advantages, though. As my fingers inched toward a priceless Faberge egg, I had to accept that being Reggie’s child had its disadvantages, too. One big one in particular—the need to touch things I have no business touching. A fingertip on the egg’s cloisonné surface started an alarm-ageddon loud enough to blow out eardrums in Pennsylvania.

  I jerked my hand away and threw a quick wish. The alarms stopped, but the damage had been done. Even in this sleepy backwoods, I had ten minutes tops before the authorities arrived.

  My senses made short work of locating the genie in question. His sanctuary—his lamp away from home, so to speak—sat nestled on a velvet bed in an ornate showcase. Stifling a cringe over the cliché of a genie living in a lamp—especially one as gaudy and gem-encrusted as this—I smashed the glass and snatched the offensive thing.

  And suddenly life became way more interesting than I needed.

  The initial appearance of a genie to any new friend usually ends up as ‘whoomp, here I am’. Some djinn like a little more pizzazz. This bastard’s full pyrotechnic display shot me halfway across the room. Only quick thinking and energy I couldn’t afford to waste stopped me from destroying a couple million dollars worth of masterpieces.

  “Sunuvabitch,” I shouted as the smoke coalesced into a human shape. Before I knew it, I found myself staring at a stand-in for Omar Sharif, Lawrence of Arabia style, but with more flair.

  “You are not my Master,” he said without looking at me.

  “Damn straight I’m not.” Throughout time, the whole Master/genie transaction has required more personal contact than latex gloves allow. Unless one of them had been pierced somehow, say by tiny shards of glass from a broken display case. “Shit.”

  Omar’s eyes finally rested on me while I cursed my stupid luck. Luck plus lack of rest between missions, to be more specific. Usually alerts from the network were weeks, sometimes months, apart. This one, only days after purloining the Ethiopian princess from a forgotten antiques store in New Orleans, might wreck me.

  As soon as Omar opened his mouth again, I figured I’d met our princess’s new playmate in the vault.

  “You are not my Master.”

  “You said that, but this time I can’t agree with you.” After stripping off my useless gloves, I let the garish lamp dangle from the crook of one finger. “Sorry, bud. But don’t worry, I won’t be your Master any longer than absolutely necessary. We’ll get it—” My brain stopped working when my new friend slid a wicked scimitar from his sash.

  “Whoa there, buddy,” I said, stepping back before I wound up as the world’s largest shish kabob.

  Aside from being dangerous as hell—it could probably slice, dice and make julienne fries—the blade represented centuries of history and a beautiful culture. Whatever era Omar hailed from could never have made high-quality steel like this. The delicate filigree etched along its surface almost had me weeping. As he shifted the hilt from hand to hand, my dealer’s eye tallied the worth of its embedded gems. Any human could retire on the rubies alone.

  “Be a good boy and get back into your lamp so we can get the hell out of here before the nice humans show up.”

  His eyes narrowed as confusion clouded his expression. “No,” he said, as if a single word sufficed to refute all the frigging rules.

  Outside someone shouted something unintelligible through a megaphone. “Great,” I told the maniac with the fancy machete. “The lovely police officers—human police officers, by the way—have arrived and I don’t think we really want them to find us in here.”

  The Bedouin shot a quick glance toward the room’s perimeter walkway. Through the high windows, a searchlight appeared. It seemed like overkill for one random burglary. The human homeowner must’ve had a lot of pull in the tiny Catskills town to draw this kind of attention. Omar didn’t even blink. Instead, he turned his attention and his sword back to me.

  “I hate to pull rank on you, but them’s the breaks. I’m your Master; you’re my slave. Yada yada yada. Now, get back in your lamp so
we can both get the hell out of here.”

  All things being equal, I don’t usually have to say too much more, and I typically say it in a nicer manner. Too bad things were definitely not equal. Instead of capitulating, the guy ignored me. I don’t know what world he thought he lived in, but in mine, no sane Djinn would ever think of blowing off a Master’s authority. Apparently, ‘no sane Djinn’ said it all. I wasn’t dealing with a genie in his right mind. As he waved his curved meat cleaver in my face, I realized he had to be more than a few cards short of a Hallmark store.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

  “You are not my Master.”

  I really wanted the guy to give it a rest. Outside, the bullhorn freak had stopped shouting, which only meant things were about to get a whole lot worse, and there I stood, haggling with a whacko who refused to obey my orders. Fine, if he wouldn’t come nicely, I was going to have to get tough.

  “I command you to return to your sanctuary until your services are required.” I said the words and then settled back on my heels waiting for the formality to hit him. It never fails.

  Except when it does.

  My reward? A hiss of air in front of me, my favorite turtleneck in ruins, and a line of blood welling up millimeters above my breasticles.

  “Sharp.” And then the burn hit me like the world’s largest paper cut. Holding back a gasp, I fought not to hit him with the last of my power. I didn’t want to hurt the guy—not that I thought I really could. I also didn’t want a spot in a pissing contest I had a snowball’s chance in Tahiti of winning.

  Pooling my power, I aimed what little energy I had toward the psycho. He didn’t even flinch. Before I could open my mouth, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me so hard I thought my arm would rip off. Good thing I’m put together well, or the world would be calling me Lefty now. With my arm attached, though, he had the perfect leverage to swing me hard against the glass case he just exited. Shards flew everywhere. Several more cuts opened on my arms and face even as the slice across my chest closed.

  While my new set of wounds healed, my options danced through my head. Let’s say the conga line was short. I needed to get the flock away from there. I needed to take Señor Slash along, when he obviously didn’t enjoy my company. Boiling it all down in my available seconds offered only one real option.

  I sucked down the pain and released the wish I’d been building just for him.

  “I wish you back into your sanctuary until you are summoned.” I don’t like forcing people to do things they don’t have a choice in. Of course, hating something doesn’t mean I won’t if I have to. I just don’t have a fine appreciation for it.

  Apparently, the idea didn’t thrill Omar either. I watched as he tried to fight the wish. Genies may not like the wishes we’re given, but we have to fulfill them regardless. Sure, we can hold off at first, but after that? Well, at first, the feeling is only uncomfortable. Ants crawling up your arms, maybe. A little longer and the ants start to burrow under your skin. If you can hold out for a little longer, the ants explode into a million tiny bursts of acid. No one can make it past the acid stage.

  Looked like my new buddy Omar was giving it the old college try, though. I expected him to give in after a couple minutes. After five, he was barely sweating. If not for the muscles twitching along his jaw line, I’d wonder whether he had it right and I wasn’t his Master after all.

  “You. Are. Not. My. Master,” he ground out.

  “Give it up, bud.”

  I about fell over when he did. A half-smile twitched at the corners of my mouth when he changed to smoke and retreated back into the lamp. As a final insult, though, he turned the damn thing’s temperature up to scorch. Despite the blisters, I held on.

  Well, for a moment anyway.

  “Drop it, lady, and put your hands up.”

  As soon as the words connected with my brain, my fingers let go. Lucky for everyone concerned, Omar didn’t make an encore appearance. As far as luck went, though, I doubted I’d get any more.

  I raised my hands. Just another day in paradise.

  “Where’d he go?” the officer said, gesturing with his gun toward the empty space Omar had occupied. The poor kid looked fresh out of the academy. Hell, I’d be surprised if he was older than I’d been the day I opened the wrong birthday present. The sweat soaking his uniform in the place’s glacial air conditioning didn’t help. Neither did the shaking hands. Of course, the tremor could’ve been caused by seeing a grown man evaporate.

  “What guy?” I said as I sent a few mental expletives toward the heavens. Bad enough the cops showed up, but now I’d have to tweak this one’s memory before I could beat feet back to Colorado. I really hate messing with people’s minds.

  “Your accomplice. The one with the…” The kid seemed little iffy even before he swallowed what I hoped was chewing gum and not, heaven forbid, chewing tobacco. When he didn’t initiate the Technicolor Yawn sequence, I figured he’d be fine, despite the fact he wasn’t so much speaking as squeaking. “Was he… Was that a sword?”

  “What?” As hard as it was to pass up a good zinger, I made myself ignore the fact he’d pronounced the silent W. “Oh. Him. He said something about being with a roving troupe of actors. I think they’re doing Shakespeare in the park. Or maybe he’s got an Arabian Nights complex.” I hoped the babbling could buy me the time I needed to take stock of my reserves and think of a way out of this.

  “Regardless, he had an alternate engagement. Sorry he couldn’t stay and entertain the troops.” The stock report told me I hadn’t used as much power as I feared. I let the energy heal my remaining abrasions as I formulated a new wish.

  “Speaking of which,” I continued, playing to his stunned silence. “I have a doctor’s appointment I need to get to.”

  The officer leveled his gun at me. “You ain’t going nowhere, lady.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” The barrel of his service revolver pointed toward my stomach. If he fired before I could stop him, I’d survive, but being able to survive a gunshot doesn’t make them hurt any less.

  I released the wish then realized neither the kid nor his weapon came alone. In the span of seconds, I heard his fellow officers ascending the stairs with more caution than the kid showed. If I had any chance of getting away, my exit had to be quick, perfect wording or not. Releasing a bubble of power, I told the officer, “I wish you would take a little nap now and wake up in about fifteen minutes not remembering anything about me or my strange friend.”

  The officer collapsed against the doorframe and slid to the floor. Within seconds his snore erupted so loud I feared his co-workers would come running. As luck would have it, the kid’s deviated septum seemed to stop them momentarily.

  Enough time to give the place a quick cleaning.

  When the rest of the officers mustered the courage to investigate, they wouldn’t find a shred of evidence to show a robbery occurred. And their brother in blue? He’d wake up with a headache and a strange story about selective amnesia. I didn’t care how he explained what happened. I’d be long gone.

  Hoping I hadn’t miscalculated my juice, I closed my eyes and wished myself home.

  THREE

  ~-~-~-~-~-~-~

  All the goodies in that mansion made me miss my father’s wealth, but not nearly as much as my Colorado storage garage did. Nothing like an unwelcome glimpse into my current reality. I might’ve chosen this landing point, but four stark metal walls plus my vehicle didn’t equal mahogany floors and Persian rugs.

  A wolf spider scuttled across the concrete. Plus, I never had to worry about creepy-crawlies back home. One of these days I’m going to have to fumigate. Or at least deodorize. The mouse rotting in the corner almost proved more than my djinned-up olfactory nerves could tolerate.

  They hadn’t quite recovered from the stench minutes later when I pulled up to a low-slung commercial building. Estes Park wasn’t much more than a quaint tourist town at the gateway to Rocky Mountain Nationa
l Park, but it suited our needs. Quiet for the most part, most of the year, Estes stood far enough away from Denver to separate us from the mortals and yet close enough to do business with the rest of the world.

  The sign outside my little slice of corrugated steel heaven says Mayweather Antiquities. Which is as close to the truth as I can come. Few things are more antique than your average genie. Besides, when I started this racket, I wanted some kind of legitimate enterprise to show mortals. If they had any inkling what my business really did, we’d be screwed blue and tattooed. Villagers coming after us with torches and pitchforks or picketing outside begging for a few freebie wishes don’t appeal to me.

  I have nightmares about the other possibility: being captured and studied.

  Of course, the fact we actually do sell antiques helps us hide. After living a few centuries, genies accumulate a lot of crap. When they want to unload, we’re the place. Without antiques from ancient people, I can’t imagine how we’d fund everything we do.

  We’re the first step between the slavery of a Master and running loose around the world. As such, we provide a place to acclimate to freedom. Plus, we give them vocational training, if they choose to become human again. Education isn’t cheap, no matter who you are, and it’s not like we can wish up the tuition. The Feds would be all over us, thinking we were counterfeiters. And wishing up gold disrupts the world market. Rather than deal with the hassle, we sell old things.

  Turns out everyone’s got to make a living somehow, even those with phenomenal power.

  The billboard out front shook me out of my musings and amped up my tiredness level. Mayweather Antiquities Annual Auction! I really didn’t have the patience for a crowd of dealers haggling over maple cabinets and the Blue Willow to fill them. Still, the influx of moolah from attendees who’d come from all over the country meant I couldn’t avoid it.