pumps looked like they cost more than my entire longed-for paycheck. Everything about her shouted professional—her calfskin briefcase only accentuated the fact that she had to be a lawyer.
Except my eyes were drawn to the hand that held that briefcase, to the woman’s creamy wrist. A tattoo blazed there, the ink so brilliant that the design might have been completed only a heartbeat before. A delicate border of black highlighted shimmering tongues of red and gold, individual licks of glittering flame. The design reached out to something deep inside me, burrowing into memories I’d never known I had.
I gaped, speechless, as the woman smiled. She extended one perfectly manicured hand, which made the captivating tattoo dance with an energy all its own. “Let me guess,” she said, with a nod toward a sheaf of papers that had suddenly materialized in her manicured, tattooed hand. “You’re the party of the first part, aren’t you?”
CHAPTER 4
THE PARTY OF the first part.
“I—” I wanted to answer. I really did. I wanted to say something calm, cool, and collected, something that would drag me back to my safe, little normal corner of the world, one where I only had to worry about failed romance, economic disaster, and copyright law.
But I couldn’t keep my gaze from slipping back and forth, from the lamp to the genie.
She had to be a genie, right? If she’d come out of the lamp? Even if she didn’t look like one? Even if she seemed miles and centuries away from magic carpets and turbans and abracadabra and open sesame and all that?
The woman clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, the perfect picture of corporate exasperation. “It wasn’t that difficult a question. If this were a real deposition, I’d be asking the court reporter to let the record reflect your speechlessness.”
“You’re a lawyer?” I gasped.
She shrugged, a perfectly controlled little roll of her shoulders, eloquently dismissing my boggle-eyed amazement. “I’m not a lawyer, but I play one in my lamp.”
“In your lamp,” I repeated. Suddenly, I glanced at my office door. Was this all a joke? Was Kira standing out there, listening to every word I said? Or didn’t say, as the case might be? But if this was a trick, how had Kira done it? How had she made the fog, summoned a living, speaking body out of nothingness? I forced myself to choke out, “So you really are a genie?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I’m Teel.” She gave me a single firm nod, as if she were checking an item off on some mental list. She delivered the unfamiliar name as smoothly as if she were announcing that I should call her Tiffany or Madison or Crystal. “At your service.” She placed her right hand across her heart in a gesture that an ordinary human would use if she were pledging allegiance. That is, if I were the flag. I found myself unable to look away from the sparkling tattoo on her wrist.
“What is that?” I asked, stretching my own fingers toward the fresh-inked flames. My hands tingled with a diluted version of the same compulsion that had led me to rub the lamp.
That movement was enough to make faint shadows leap to life on my own fingertips. I tilted my hand in front of me, making out the vaguest echo of flames on my own flesh, as if my fingerprints had been magically transformed from police-procedural arches and whorls into pulsating works of art. Fascinated, I pressed my thumb to my index finger and squeezed, half expecting to see color leak out from the crease. I started to ask a question, but I needed to clear my throat. Then, I realized that the impossible creature in front of me—the genie?—had started to root around in her briefcase. Trying to smother an almost incapacitating wave of shyness, I pressed my fingers together even more tightly and raised my voice to get her attention. “Teel?” I asked.
As I spoke, the genie’s own fingers flew to her temples. She shook her head queasily, as if I’d shouted through
Except my eyes were drawn to the hand that held that briefcase, to the woman’s creamy wrist. A tattoo blazed there, the ink so brilliant that the design might have been completed only a heartbeat before. A delicate border of black highlighted shimmering tongues of red and gold, individual licks of glittering flame. The design reached out to something deep inside me, burrowing into memories I’d never known I had.
I gaped, speechless, as the woman smiled. She extended one perfectly manicured hand, which made the captivating tattoo dance with an energy all its own. “Let me guess,” she said, with a nod toward a sheaf of papers that had suddenly materialized in her manicured, tattooed hand. “You’re the party of the first part, aren’t you?”
CHAPTER 4
THE PARTY OF the first part.
“I—” I wanted to answer. I really did. I wanted to say something calm, cool, and collected, something that would drag me back to my safe, little normal corner of the world, one where I only had to worry about failed romance, economic disaster, and copyright law.
But I couldn’t keep my gaze from slipping back and forth, from the lamp to the genie.
She had to be a genie, right? If she’d come out of the lamp? Even if she didn’t look like one? Even if she seemed miles and centuries away from magic carpets and turbans and abracadabra and open sesame and all that?
The woman clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, the perfect picture of corporate exasperation. “It wasn’t that difficult a question. If this were a real deposition, I’d be asking the court reporter to let the record reflect your speechlessness.”
“You’re a lawyer?” I gasped.
She shrugged, a perfectly controlled little roll of her shoulders, eloquently dismissing my boggle-eyed amazement. “I’m not a lawyer, but I play one in my lamp.”
“In your lamp,” I repeated. Suddenly, I glanced at my office door. Was this all a joke? Was Kira standing out there, listening to every word I said? Or didn’t say, as the case might be? But if this was a trick, how had Kira done it? How had she made the fog, summoned a living, speaking body out of nothingness? I forced myself to choke out, “So you really are a genie?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I’m Teel.” She gave me a single firm nod, as if she were checking an item off on some mental list. She delivered the unfamiliar name as smoothly as if she were announcing that I should call her Tiffany or Madison or Crystal. “At your service.” She placed her right hand across her heart in a gesture that an ordinary human would use if she were pledging allegiance. That is, if I were the flag. I found myself unable to look away from the sparkling tattoo on her wrist.
“What is that?” I asked, stretching my own fingers toward the fresh-inked flames. My hands tingled with a diluted version of the same compulsion that had led me to rub the lamp.
That movement was enough to make faint shadows leap to life on my own fingertips. I tilted my hand in front of me, making out the vaguest echo of flames on my own flesh, as if my fingerprints had been magically transformed from police-procedural arches and whorls into pulsating works of art. Fascinated, I pressed my thumb to my index finger and squeezed, half expecting to see color leak out from the crease. I started to ask a question, but I needed to clear my throat. Then, I realized that the impossible creature in front of me—the genie?—had started to root around in her briefcase. Trying to smother an almost incapacitating wave of shyness, I pressed my fingers together even more tightly and raised my voice to get her attention. “Teel?” I asked.
As I spoke, the genie’s own fingers flew to her temples. She shook her head queasily, as if I’d shouted through
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