Instead, Hal drew the messy, jumbled blankets up over her, his knuckle brushing the curve of her hip as he settled the cloth carefully. At the very least, she had done him a service, and he could hope she was not too demanding.
What Kind of Drugs
A faint, faraway buzzing noise. Bright light striping her face. Her head was being squeezed in the fist of an invisible giant, she was sweating, and she’d slept in her bra and hairpins.
Ugh. Em groaned, realized the buzzing was her phone. Had she blacked out? She managed to peel one eyelid up a little, wincing at the light. She groaned again, this time with feeling—what the fuck had May put in the jungle juice this time? It had gone down suspiciously easily, and she’d felt like she had a handle on things until the shoes started giving her trouble.
The last thing she remembered was the Canadian cowboy offering to call her a cab, and Gloria tossing handfuls of candy into trick-or-treaters’ bags. Something about panties, too. Her own panties, not Gloria’s.
Oh God. Did I do something May would have done?
Well, the cowboy had been cute enough. Probably too young to find the clitoris, though. They learned that late, if ever.
Her phone kept buzzing. Her work bag was cuddled against her head, too lumpy to be a real pillow, and her neck had a gigantic crick in it. It took her three tries, then dumping the leather bag’s contents out onto the floor before she could scoop the phone up and grimace at the familiar photo blinking on its stern little face.
She hit the talk button. “God, stop calling, I’m fine.”
“Good morning, sunshine.” May sounded altogether too fucking perky. “Nifty Irish goodbye, by the way.”
Emily winced, holding the phone away from her ear. Her head felt like it was going to explode. Even the framed print of da Vinci’s Madonna on the Rocks on her bedroom wall was too bright. “I needed to be home to greet my hangover properly.”
“Yeah, well, you did a number on Jake.”
“Who?”
“Jacob. Cowboy hat, remember? Long tall drink of Texan?”
Oh. Cowboy. “He’s not from Texas.”
“Whatever. Well?”
“Well what?” Emily managed to roll over, squinting at the curtains. They were wide open, and pale wintery light was flooding her entire bedroom. Dear Past Emily, you are a bitch. No love, me. “I think he called me a cab.”
“Isn’t he nice? You made a big impression.”
Did I? “Oh, Christ. I have to go throw up now.” Her sheets were still clean and smelled of fabric softener, which was grand except even that wonderful fragrance made her head pound.
“What? He’s not bad at all, I know you like them a bit thick—”
No, they were not going to discuss her tastes right now. Not while she felt like this. “What the fuck did you put in the jungle juice, May?”
“Trade secret.” May’s laugh was only a little jagged. She’d probably already had time to drink a ton of water and take some aspirin; hangover nursing was the only thing she got up early for on weekends. “You never used to be such a lightweight. You could thank me, you know. Boy is stacked.”
That is entirely beside the point, sweetheart. “Mrgle,” she muttered, hoping the sound would pass for gratitude, and disconnected. She checked the date—yes, it was Saturday. Yes, she was hungover. She had all day to recuperate, and the first step in that was…
She sat straight up, wished she hadn’t because an invisible spike went straight through her brain and her stomach sloshed. There was no doubt about it. She was smelling coffee.
Had she set up the coffeemaker last night? Drinking to blackout was not good, and if she’d even touched any of the kitchen appliances there was likely to be a huge mess out there.
Another groan worked its way out of her throat, and she took stock. Her legs would carry her. At least her shoes were off, so her feet weren’t cramped and swollen. The dress was twisted and bunched in interesting ways, but it didn’t smell as if she’d vomited all over herself. Though if she had, she would probably be feeling better right about now, since the alcohol would have been outside instead of in.
She shuffled for the bathroom, moving gingerly and hoping the coffeemaker wasn’t dying. Maybe it was a scent-hallucination. Was that a symptom of liver failure?
Brushing her teeth, ridding herself of excess fluid, and getting the goddamn bra off helped, but not nearly as much as she wanted it to. There was no cup by her bathroom sink, so unless she wanted to try to slurp from the faucet she had to go into the kitchen. Water. Some aspirin. Maybe calling that burrito place on 34th that delivered, too. Her stomach rumbled a bit at the thought, caught between hope and disgust like the beginning of a second-and-last date.
Gratefully tasting minty toothpaste instead of sour bile, she opened the second bathroom door and shuffled out, rubbing at the underside of her left breast where the wire had poked unmercifully. She rounded the corner and halted, her head tilting and her hair falling into her eyes.
What the everloving fuck?
There was a man in her kitchen.
Well, shit.
Tall enough, though a bit narrow-shouldered, and olive-skinned. He had a nose that could have passed for architecture and high cheekbones too, dark eyes and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail—well, at least it wasn’t a man-bun. He wore jeans and a blue cable-knit sweater that looked vaguely familiar, and he had his long-fingered hands up, palms out, as if he expected her to start screaming.
“You’re not a cowboy,” she blurted. And a quick internal rundown came back with the answer that they probably hadn’t had sex, thank God. Still, this was goddamn awkward.
He blinked. He had great eyelashes, nice and thick. He didn’t look like one of the strippers. Maybe a cab driver?
“Ah. No. I am not.” He seemed a little at a loss. A faint accent behind the words.
“Great. So…did we, um…”
“What?” He sounded just as stunned as she felt. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I—”
Madam? Was he foreign? She chided herself for assuming, and decided at the same moment that candor was the best policy. “Did we have sex?”
“No. Did you wish to?” His eyebrows lifted a little, as if he either hadn’t considered the option or he was surprised she’d asked. Or maybe she wasn’t his type.
It was probably the latter. “Uh, no thanks. I’m trying to grow my hymen back.” She folded her arms, maybe a little defensively. “So, you brought me home last night?”
A relieved nod. “Yes. I had to, because—”
Because I was shitfaced. “Okay, so you’re a nice guy. Do I owe you gas money?”
“What?”
Not very bright. “What do I owe you? For bringing me home.”
His hair was very thick, too. The ponytail looked braid-able. If he was just a little more stacked he’d be exotic. As it was, he was quite respectable, but the priority now was to thank him kindly and move him along before he got any funny ideas.
“Ah, nothing. I believe some explanations are in—”
Well, she should start at the beginning. “Did I puke in your car?”
“What?” He couldn’t look more baffled if he tried. Well, maybe he could, but it would be hard.
Jesus Christ. Well, that’s probably a no. Her head gave another flare of pain, so she headed for the sink. “You slept on my couch, right?”
“…Yes. After a fashion.” His boots were nice, though. The whole outfit looked familiar, but her head hurt too much to pin it down.
It was small consolation that even with her skull pounding this way, she was obviously quicker on the uptake than this random stranger. “Well, you’re a good egg. Thanks. Look, I’ll call for breakfast, but I need some water and some aspirin first. Unless you’d rather just boogie now.”
“Boogie…now?”
Did he not understand English? He seemed to get most of what she was saying. “Sure. There’s the door.”
“You…wish for me to go away?” H
is air of puzzlement intensified. Guess she’d been wrong about just how baffled a guy could look.
“Don’t you want to go home?” Her head would not stop pounding. Next Halloween, she was putting on a Designated Driver badge and comfortable shoes. To hell with all this.
“I have no home.”
Great. A homeless guy in my kitchen. Never drinking again. “Oh. You live in your car, or…” May got drunk and picked up stockbrokers or Austrian pilots-in-training. Em, the one time she really went overboard, picked up a bum.
“The ring.” He pointed at her left hand, a quick sketch of a movement. “It is my fetter.”
What, he wants it? “I bought it at Thrift-Eez. Buck-fifty. Cute, huh?” She filled the glass and took a long drink of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. He really racked up her weird-o-meter, but he didn’t seem dangerous.
If he had been, he had every opportunity to be an asshole last night, and as far as she could tell, he hadn’t. It was a close shave, and one more reason to jump on a sobriety wagon. Getting older made you risk-averse. May would no doubt call her no fun at all. But in a world where you could be shot by an ex on courthouse steps, or get your tits cut off by the ‘nice guy’ who brought you home, that kind of fun had too high a price tag.
He opened up his mouth, and proved he was not only weird but completely batshit. “I was bound into that ring, and now I serve each bearer to the limit of my ability. Whatever you wish for, I may provide. I am—” Here he sort of melted down, kneeling on her kitchen floor, with his back to her round silver garbage can, “—your slave.”
She needed the water too much to choke and spray it all over the kitchen, but it was damn close. When she finished drinking, suppressing the acidic belch of an empty, liquor-abused stomach, she fixed him with a steady look and took a deep breath.
First things first. “Okay, dude. What kind of drugs are you on?”
Picked Up For a Song
Their books were full of strangeness. The blank screen that showed moving pictures—tele-vision—was full of so much conflicting information it strained even his comprehension. He had been locked in the castle for over three hundred mortal years, and a single night spent devouring every scrap of reading material he could find while learning the use of the television and the cold cabinet for perishables, not to mention the other machines, was not enough. Apparatuses for heating food, for making coffee—just imagine that, a woman drinking coffee, it threatened to strain even his excellent comprehension.
Their plumbing was extremely efficient. The shining chariots were cars, and it was their metallic breath choking the air. He had passed his hands through the television, enjoying the tingles of their electricity and learning how it was made, inferring what he could not sense.
A brave new world, indeed.
The woman glared at him, clearly not understanding the import of his words. She was smaller without those high shoes, and her hair was a soft, wildly curling nest. She had wide dark eyes, a trifle bloodshot, and had soused herself thoroughly last night. For all that, she would be accounted handsome indeed in Cavanaugh’s time. Her teeth were strong, and the curve of her hips was enticing. Lovely round, frank breasts—her nipples showed through the thin fabric, and there were tiny glittering specks across her décolletage.
Yes, she was pretty, in the way only young, healthy mortals could be.
He decided to speak very slowly, so she could understand. “I am not drugged.” Unless it is with wonder, to see what has been wrought in my absence. “You wear the ring, I am your servant.”
She filled the glass again. A marvel—fresh, clean water, with merely a twist of the wrist. Their sewers must be miraculous, too.
She drank, her throat moving with long swallows, then refilled the glass afresh. A prodigious thirst—she took a deep breath, and turned, her small, tender, bare feet quick and light. The dress hid nothing of her body. They were strangely forthright in all their equipage, these new mortals. Their men were children, and their women walked about without protection or guidance. It would be maddening until he adjusted.
If she did not condemn him to return to the castle with misunderstanding.
“Sure,” she said indulgently. “I’m going to get some aspirin. I’ll get breakfast, and then you can run along. For right now, though, get up off the floor.”
As a command, it lacked a certain…something. He rose, slowly, and followed her. The mirrored cabinet in her bathroom opened, she extracted a small bottle—plastics, high-quality glass, mirrors not of polished metal but of glass itself, no end to the wonders—and, he realized, she was carefully watching him in the mirror.
So. There was some caution in her. That was good. He took care not to block the door, standing further away than he wanted to. “You do not believe me.” At least his other bearers had deliberately invoked him. It looked as if this one had not.
What had happened to Cavanaugh? The man had sent him away in the middle of his debauch.
Your expression does not please me, lying sprite. Begone until I summon thee again.
“Oh, I believe you believe what you’re saying. I very much believe that.” A tight smile accompanied the fine distinction, one that did not reach her wide dark eyes. “And if I didn’t have such a headache I would love to hear more about it. I really would. You want some aspirin?”
“No.” Cavanaugh should not have sent him away, but who was Hal to argue? He had known others of Cavanaugh’s so-called brothers were jealous of the man’s power, and it was part of his curse to protect the bearer.
He could not do so from inside the castle, however. He had to be summoned, at the very least implicitly.
What had happened?
His new bearer’s expression had shifted. She eyed him much as she would a wild animal, one quiescent for the moment but otherwise of uncertain temper. “Okay. Look, go sit down or something. We’ll have burritos, and then I have some errands to run.” Her pupils changed slightly, and he could smell the lie. She was increasingly nervous.
Hal lifted one hand, as if swearing one of Cavanaugh’s ridiculous oaths. “You do not have to fear me.”
“I don’t.” A wide bright smile, but her grip changed on the glass. Did she think he intended violence? This was extremely interesting.
So, she did not know what she had done. He was required to show her. The terms of the curse were stringent; he could not let a bearer languish in ignorance once he was summoned. “The ring you wear is powerful. It was crafted in the great age of—”
“Look, that’s really fascinating. Come on and tell me more.” She brushed past him, down the hall. “Let’s see what the weather’s like, huh?”
“Weather? My lady, you must listen. I am required to explain the—”
“Oh, come on.” She reached another door, this one securely locked, and spent a few moments fiddling with the mechanisms. He followed, reluctant but impelled. “Okay, this way.” She took his arm, and he was over the threshold in a trice, obeying the tacit pressure of her small hand. “There. That’s just great.”
He was now in a long hall, with doors on either side, all matching hers. Now it made sense—they lived stacked in boxes. Perhaps she was not as wealthy, or she preferred the closeness to others of her kind. “You must listen, the ring—”
“It’s a piece of junk jewelry I picked up for a song. Goodbye.” She was quick, and swept the door closed. He stood, hearing her move the locks, and exhaled sharply.
It was frustrating. Even Cavanuagh’s first commands, uttered in a portentous mishmash of ancient tongues, had not been this irritating.
Hal stepped through the door, a brief pleasurable shiver filling him as he noted its flimsy construction. He would have to attend to that. “You are not listening, my mistress.”
Whatever he expected, it was not her reaction—a brief scream, and the water-glass flickered through the air. He did not duck—there was no need, the cup stopped in midair at the end of a long trail of water held in stasis, dropl
ets shimmering in the golden light from bulbs overhead. They had harnessed an elemental force to heat their homes, to give them light to read by, to drive away the dark.
He was, really, quite proud of mortals. He had even been one, so long ago. Now, however, he was something else, and that something tried an encouraging smile at the black-clad, barefoot woman who had gone transparent-pale, staring not at him but at the glass suspended in empty space, the water spinning as it retracted all its tentacles and droplets, becoming a perfect liquid globe.
“You may call me Hal,” he repeated patiently. “You are the bearer of the ring, and I am your servant as long as that is so.”
Her throat worked. She really was quite pale, and he was half afraid she might swoon. Her gaze flickered to the water, to the floating glass, to his face, and back to the water, which floated to the cup’s mouth and crawled in as the cup righted itself, still in midair.
“Um,” was all she said, in a quiet, hurt little voice.
It was a start.
Fairytales Closed
Emily huddled on her couch, her legs pulled up and her head spinning. This was, without a doubt, the worst hangover she’d ever had.
The guy crouched in front of the television, passing his hands through it as if he was a ghost. Or as if the TV was. It made her feel woozy. Now she noticed that her bookshelves were a little disarranged—nothing much, but the dust was disturbed and each book was ever-so-slightly repositioned. As if it had been taken down, flipped through, and carefully replaced.
“You paid for the ring, I presume?” His head turned, a beaky profile. His hair was secured not by an elastic band but by a leather thong, tied in an intricate knot.
“Cash money,” she heard herself reply. At least her mouth was still working. “Right on the barrelhead.”