I Dream of Genies

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  I

  Dream

  Genies of

  J u d i F e n n e l l

  Copyright © 2011 by Judi Fennell

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration by Anne Cain

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its pub-lisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  WC

  /28/10 10:19 AM

  Once again, I dedicate this story to my husband:my life with you is magical.

  And to my children, who were created by that magic.

  Chapter

  Scheherazade, the famed Arabian storyteller, had to come up with a thousand and one nights’ worth of tales to save herself.

  Eden should have it so easy.

  But at least her life wasn’t on the line like Scheherazade’s, so that was a plus. Her mind, though, was another mat er. There was only so much magic a genie could do to pass three thousand years of confinement and not go mad.

  Unwil ing to succumb to such madness, Eden flicked her wrists and snapped her fingers, her magic sending the but erflies, hummingbirds, and twirling glass bal s she’d bewitched toward the ceiling of her bot le so she could have a bet er view through the hazy saffron glass.

  The rain of yet another Pacific Northwest storm streaked the storefront display window she’d inhabited for the last forty-five years, two months, and thirteen days. If the Arabian weaver of tales had used Eden’s last half century as the basis of the stories that had saved her life, the poor woman would have been dead before her first sunrise.

  “Mornin‘, babe.” Obo, the cat she’d been cursed—or blessed, depending on one’s viewpoint—to share this latest part of her penance with, leapt onto the shelf beside her bot le, licking his Egg McMuffin breakfast from his whiskers. The cat was a master forager. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

  “Wilson.” Eden nodded to the tree in front of the store. She’d watched it grow from a sapling to its current block-the-rest-of-the-world-from-view size for so long that she’d named it.

  “Kind of pitiful that you named a tree after a volleyball.”

  “It worked for Tom Hanks.”

  “Yeah, but he was stranded on a deserted island.

  You’ve got the bustle of the city and hundreds of people right in front of you to keep you company.“

  Hundreds of people she couldn’t interact with. She was on the outside looking in—well, actually, she was on the inside and wanting to get out. But the High Master had sealed her bottle with so much magic that nothing short of an explosion would set her free.

  “And me, of course.” The cat winked at her, his yellow eyes against his black fur making the motion notice-able. “You’ve always got me. I know I’m the bright spot in your day.”

  “In your dreams, Romeo.”

  “Speaking of lover-boy, has he been by yet?” Obo nudged the copper ashtray with the mermaid cigaret e holder out of the way and curled his tail around her bottle before plunking himself onto his belly. Mr. Murphy, the store owner, hadn’t shown up yet, so Obo could get away with hanging out here. Once the man did, however, all bets were off.

  It was a sad state of affairs to look forward to these daily chats with Obo, who was high on her list of Least Favorite Beings ever since he’d let her take the fall for his necklace heist from Ramses II’s tomb. It showed just how lonely and bored she was that she even deigned to talk to him, let alone looked forward to it. Other than her thoughts and her magic, she had only him to keep her company.

  Oh, and “lover-boy” Matt Ewing. Couldn’t forget him. And she didn’t. He was pretty unforgettable, and heavens knew, she thought about him more than she should.

  “No, he hasn’t been by. I guess this weather’s keeping him inside.” Almost every morning, Mat jogged around the corner of the store in those tight, form-hugging running clothes. The perspiration slicking his face, that sexy curling hair, the controlled, even grace of his movements had fueled her fantasies ever since Mr.

  Murphy had moved her glass bottle to the front window.

  “Or he could have had a hot date last night and it carried over.”

  Eden curled her legs under her, the curly toes of her slippers catching on the piping around the edge of the new sofa. She propped her elbow on the back cushion and plopped her chin onto her palm. “Thanks, Obo.

  That’s helpful.“

  The cat licked his paw and swiped it over his ear.

  “Just callin‘ it like I see it.”

  Eden turned to look at him, brushing a wayward hummingbird out of the way, her gold shackle, er, bracelet flashing in the lone weak beam of sunlight that somehow fought its way through Wilson’s leaves and the steady rain. “And how do you see it, Obo? You’ve been to his house. What’s his world like?”

  The cat shuddered and tucked his paws beneath his chest. “A damn sight wetter than yours. You should be thankful you’re in this place. It’s a monsoon out there.”

  The cat could be tight-lipped when he wanted to be.

  Which was often. All she asked for was news of the outside world and its people, descriptions of the smells and sounds, and the general feeling of being free to come and go as she pleased, but other than get ing Mat ‘s name out of Obo, the cat barely shared anything else.

  He had no idea how lucky he was to have the ability to go where and when he wanted.

  She definitely didn’t understand why he chose to be here. In this musty old shop, surrounded by things other people wanted to get rid of. How Mr. Murphy stayed in business was beyond her, because most of the stuff had been here as long as she had, and there certainly hadn’t been any runs on antique plant stands or tarnished brass headboards.

  Flicking her wrists again with the accompanying finger-snap that completed her Way of doing her magic, Eden arced a rainbow from one side of her bottle to the other, the purple ray disappearing into the shadow of the bottle’s neck. The butterflies immediately began flying through it, and the hummingbirds raced along the ribbons of color that matched their wings.

  She snapped her fingers again, and Humphrey poof ed onto her arm like a trained parrot. The dragonlet, a baby dragon about the size of her palm and her latest “foster child,” reminded her of Bogart in his early movies, with a long face, high forehead, and large eyes, hence the name, though the dragon’s eyes were blue to Bogart’s brown.

  In that, Humphrey reminded her of the High Master, but Adham was such a lofty name for such a tiny thing.

  And besides, like the Humphrey of those on-demand movies, this Humphrey was on loan, too—until he reached unmanageable proportions, which, with a dragon, was usually around the one month mark, meaning she had about five days left with this one before the hormones kicked in.

  She stroked Humphrey’s golden scales, then pointed to the rainbow. He gave her the tiniest nip on her palm—f
ull blown dragon love could be really painful—then flut ered his lit le wings, his strength increasing daily. Today was probably the last day he could fly with the butterflies. The hummingbirds were fast enough to evade his beak-like jaws, but the but erflies wouldn’t be a match; they’d more likely be lunch. But for today, he could play among the colors with them.

  Dragons loved rainbows.

  She did, too, because of the happiness they innately engendered, especially on dreary days like today.

  But rainbows were infrequent manifestations for her because, while Mr. Murphy couldn’t see in and most things couldn’t pass through the magical barrier of her bottle walls without her okay, rainbows required an in-ordinate amount of light and, therefore, could be seen.

  Light shining from a dusty, and supposedly empty, old bottle would definitely be noticed.

  “Uh, babe?” The gentle whoosh of Obo’s fur thrummed softly along the ribbed lower portion of her bot le as he brushed his tail against the outside. “The rain might be murder on pedestrian traffic, but it’s upped the vehicular kind. And the traffic light is red. A couple of interested kids, and your beacon there is going to get some notice.”

  Eden sighed, hating that he was right, but flicked her wrists anyway. The rainbow dissipated, leaving traces behind on the winged creatures. Humphrey sported a blue stripe down the ridge of his back and one of the iridescent Blue Morpho butterflies was going to have to change its name to Purple Morpho.

  “Why are you here again, Obo? With the free run you have of this town, I’d think this has to be the most boring place you could be.”

  Obo’s tail paused mid-flick and his ear twitched.

  “Ah, well, you know… I, uh, can’t talk to mortals without freaking them out, and none of the animals in this country have been on the planet as long as me. Who else can I share the good ol‘ days with? You’re the closest I get to normal, babe.”

  Which was sad because nothing in her life had been normal from the moment she’d gone to live with the High Master over two thousand years ago following her parents’ death.

  Eden sighed and gathered her magic to summon a pomegranate smoothie on the teak inlay table next to the lime green sectional she’d ordered last month. The persimmon-colored pil ows weren’t pul ing the whole look together as she’d hoped. While she loved color, the backdrop of the saffron bot le made her art deco a lit le too avant-garde. Ah, wel , she’d do some redecorating today to keep herself occupied. The satel ite dish Faruq had given her for her birthday a few years ago came in handy.

  Not that she’d ever admit it to Faruq. The High Master’s vizier, charged with monitoring Genie Compliance, already had too much control of—and too much interest in—her life.

  She sipped the smoothie. The dish, and the high-def TV that had replaced the antiquated electronics she’d accumulated over the years, were gods-sends. Much easier to shop, teach herself new languages, keep abreast of changing societies and customs, and learn al about new technology and the sel ing power of J.D. Power and Associates. Not to mention, how to make smoothies.

  And with her bottle’s magical ability to alter its interior without changing the dimensions on the outside, she could order up a swimming pool and Mr. Murphy would never know the difference.

  Actual y, maybe she’d do that. She’d like to hear Faruq’s comment when he found out he was going to have to magick up a couple thousand gallons of water.

  And as for getting it through the magic channels to her, well, that ought to give him a few fits.

  She took another sip of her smoothie. Such were the pleasures of her life.

  “Hey, that looks good.” Obo peered into her bot le, the tapered neck distorting his yel ow irises until he looked like the Cyclops she’d seen off the coast of Crete that last summer she’d been on the outside. “Can you conjure one up for me?”

  Eden set her treat down on the Egyptian brazier topped with a circular mosaic tile plat er she cal ed an end table. Nothing like combining Old World and New.

  “Sorry, Obo, but my magic won’t leave the bot le for the mortal world while the stopper’s in.” Otherwise she would have zapped herself somewhere warm and sandy years ago.

  “Wel , could you calm the but erflies down then?

  Their flapping wings are driving me nuts. And the dragon…“ He shuddered and dropped his head onto his paws. ”I don’t get that at all.“

  Humphrey did a loop-the-loop above her head and Eden held out her hand for him to land on as a reward.

  Baby dragons were so lovable and eager to please. Until they hit that unmanageable milestone—then their fiery heritage took over. It was a treat to be able to enjoy them at this stage, one far too rare for her liking.

  As for her other cohabitants, they were the only living things Faruq approved to be in her bottle. She’d tried to talk him into a kitten after a few hundred years of solitude, but he’d refused. Said kittens would grow up to be cats, and cats were sneaky. That any cat he gave her might be able to figure a way out of the bot le.

  It didn’t speak well to the High Master’s magic if his own vizier thought a cat could undo it, but Eden didn’t buy Faruq’s argument for one minute. Just one more thing he wanted to control about her.

  So she’d volunteered to foster orphan dragonlets and hadn’t complained when Obo had shown up. Not that the cat had any interest in helping her out of her bottle.

  Knowing where to find her so he could “share the good ol‘ days” was incentive enough, apparently, for him to make sure she stayed put. Probably worried what she’d do to him after he’d abandoned her during that necklace fiasco. A few hundred years ago, she might have done something, but nowadays, she was just thankful for the companionship. She’d told him so and had even tried bribing him into tipping the bot le off the shelf with promises of making all his wishes come true, but the cat had turned her down.

  She hadn’t held out any great hope of a fall breaking her bottle anyway. She’d been dropped many times over the years as her bottle had changed hands—sometimes on purpose—but nothing had budged that stopper.

  She conjured up an acacia seedpod for Humphrey and his blue tongue flicked out to taste it. A bunch of cooing ensued, complete with lit le claw marks on her arm as he hunched into his “don’t take my food” position over the pod. He happily munched away on the outer casing. Nothing like the throaty rumblings of a contented dragonlet. “What time is it, Obo?”

  Obo didn’t even look at the cuckoo clock hanging on the wall by the shop’s door. “Matt’s not coming, Eden.

  You wore your sexy little outfit for nothing.“ He opened one eye and the black slit of pupil thinned even more.

  “Thinking of auditioning for a TV show, are we?”

  Eden shrugged. The costumes hadn’t been purchased specifical y with Mat in mind, but if the opportunity ever presented itself, wel , hey. She had urges just as much as the next person. And after being cooped up so long with only Obo and Faruq to talk to, those urges were teetering on the brink of meltdown.

  But she’d just had to buy the harem girl outfits, one in every color, after watching that genie on the television show. She didn’t know who’d ratted out her race, but that Mr. Sidney Sheldon had got en almost every detail right. Except the costume. No self-respecting genie would be caught dead in this little get-up while in The Service. But it was comfortable and it was colorful. And there was no one but her to see her in it.

  “I wonder where Mr. Murphy is? He’s usual y here by now.”

  Obo sighed and rolled onto his side, his tail whispering along her bottle again. “Probably rowing his canoe in. I’m beginning to wonder if Noah’s up to his old tricks.”

  Eden smiled. Crotchety and full of complaints—and a liar and a thief—Obo might be, but he was right; they didn’t have anyone but each other to share the old times with. Unless she counted Faruq. And she wasn’t about to.

  But then the bells over the service door jingled, and Obo jumped to his paws so fast it was a wonder he
didn’t knock her bot le over. He ducked behind the black marble obelisk on the shelf next to her.

  “If you’re counting on the lack of sunlight to hide you, it’s not working,” she whispered, flicking the butterflies and hummingbirds onto the gardenia and honey-suckle bushes in her flower garden and Humphrey onto the mini acacia tree he used as a perch when she let him fly around. The twirling glass bal s went into the padded box that prevented them from breaking whenever someone moved the bottle. “You better get out of here, Obo.”

  “Tel me something I don’t know.” The cat wiggled his but trying to shrink into the shadows. “I have to go out the way he’s coming in, so we’l need to distract him.”

  “Keep talking and that ought to do it,” she whispered, using her magic to clean up a spot of yel ow the rainbow had left behind.

  Mr. Murphy walked into the room, but didn’t flip over the open sign like usual. Instead, he went behind a French Provincial sideboard beneath a Baroque mirror and brought out a large cardboard box—an empty one—that he soon started fil ing with every knickknack from the top of the sideboard. And from the bookcase next to that. And the top of the retro refrigerator next to that.

  Eden ducked behind the big stone marker Hadrian had given her as thanks for the carpet ride al those years ago when he’d surveyed the land for his wal . True, Mr.

  Murphy wouldn’t be able to see her spying on him, but years of habits weren’t so easily forgot en, no mat er how rarely utilized those habits were. “This doesn’t look good.”

  “Gee, ya think?” Obo muttered, his back end tiptoeing toward the edge of the shelf. “I’m outta here, babe.”

  With that, Obo executed the perfect stealthy leap cats were known for, hit the floor running, and was into the back room before Mr. Murphy heard anything.

  Lucky Obo. Eden could only sit and worry.

  Obo nudged his way out of the back of the shop. Skulking in the shadows again. Story of his life—and one he was heartily sick of.

  For years, over two thousand of them, he’d been hiding. First from the assassins, then from tomb raiders, then from anyone who wanted a “pet kitty.” He’d lived a life of luxury before being on the run, and while pâté and room service were heavenly, the plotting and back-stabbing by usurpers was anything but. He’d been done with that life when his mistress had ended hers, and he hadn’t looked back. Obo looked out for one thing and one thing only: his own life.