At Your Command Read online

  A smile invaded Maggie's lips. It fled when her mother spoke.

  "Will you be going back to L.A. or applying to some other university?"

  "I haven't decided. I guess I will." Fat chance of getting a placement without a recommendation from her supervisor, and she sure as hell couldn't ask Chet for one. He had retaliated, swift and sure. Two days after her announcement, lacking an answering machine on which to leave his message, he'd sent her an equally impersonal telegram. He needed an assistant with whom he could work closely. He would find someone else.

  Her mother refreshed her coffee and patted her arm with uncharacteristic warmth. "You know, I thought you were so happy those two years you worked with kids. Our school here is too small to afford a full-time psychologist, but other districts in the state do. That is if you want to stay in Minnesota."

  Did she want to live in the place she'd fled, impatient with small town attitudes and people? She'd left to explore the world, face new challenges that would force her to grow. She had thought Chet offered just that when he picked her out of a room full of high school counselors and offered her a post-graduate position as his assistant.

  Living for three years on the pay of a research assistant had wiped out her savings. She'd moved into Chet's apartment six months ago to save rent money to pay for their wedding. Now all of it was gone. Her money, her job, her plans.

  Not just her plans, their plans. Chet was perfect. A tenured professor, ready to start a family, emotionally mature and stable. Three children, "our own personal lab rats" Chet had called their future offspring. Maggie hugged her middle, which suddenly felt hollow. How could she have thrown it all away? She didn't even know why.

  She wasn't the suicidal type and if she stayed in bed much longer, Mother would send for her brothers. Maggie didn't need their condescending concern. The twins would probably compete to see which one could offer her the most insulting job. The picture sprang too easily to mind. Receptionist for Eric the hotshot software developer or Freddy the optometrist. She shuddered at the next image, nanny for Freddy's kids, to replace the second wife who'd walked out on him.

  One thing she did know. Before she put her life back together, she had to face whatever neurotic twist had created such a disturbing image in her mind and placed it in her bed.

  If the vision resembled Chet, the connection would have been made. She'd made a mistake and wanted him back in her bed, in her life. But the naked man upstairs didn't look anything like Chet.

  Chet, the classic Nordic type, had blond hair, broad shoulders, blue eyes, hairy chest, and shifty expression now that she thought about it.

  The man she conjured up had a smooth chest, not a hair on it. She noticed his chest right away. Broad, not overly muscled like a body builder, but enough so you knew he worked out. Distinct nipples, dark brown, almost black. Smooth, dark olive skin accented by the broad, silver necklace that lay loose across his collarbone. His hair was black. Long and straight, it hung down his back and in his eyes, keeping her from discerning their color.

  But then he was her vision. She could imagine him with any color eyes she wished.

  Brown, she decided, as she pushed away from the table, distressed to find her knees still wobbled. The only men she wanted in her life now were imaginary ones, but even imaginary men could gain the upper hand. She planned to stay in control.

  "Mom, I going to clean up my mess upstairs. I'll get to work on finding a job tomorrow."

  BOY FORCED himself not to cringe when footsteps sounded on the stairs. It was She. The special bond between master and slave revealed her presence. They were tied together, linked as surely as his collar was linked around his neck. Impossible to separate without the proper key. Until she banished him into the abyss or she died, he belonged to her.

  When he first emerged and saw the look on her face, he'd feared she'd left for good. She had only to travel a few leagues and he would dissolve where he stood. But she hadn't gone far. If she had, he would have returned to his prison. He remained free on her suffrage. He swallowed past the knot in his throat, checking with his hands to make certain his collar remained slack on his shoulders. The metal that now circled his neck was only one of the changes the curse had brought him. Boy had been human once and the concentric bands that circled his neck had been made of leather.

  If he wanted to remain free, he would have to please this new master, or trick her. Keep her alive and close to him. She was obviously a powerful lady to have received him as a gift, but she was only a female. More than one master had taught him how traitorous and weak a female could be.

  His Tandia had been sweet, gentle. He would have killed anyone who hurt her if he'd had the power then. He hadn't seen her or Owl or Prince in thousands of years.

  The moment he sensed his new master standing behind the door, he stretched out on the bed, arranging himself for her. He had grown during the last six thousand years. One day for each cycle of the moon he spent free from his prison. He was a man now, and more than one of his owners had used him for their pleasure. He was confident of his skills and of his beauty.

  When her eyes met his, he knew he'd made a mistake.

  "What are you doing still here?" She didn't give him a second glance but bent to pick up the discarded package where he'd been hidden so many decades ago.

  The women had no interest in him as a man, but she seemed to need a house slave. Taking care not to touch her, he scrambled from the bed. On his hands and knees, he swept dust with one hand into the palm of the other.

  He looked up to find her collapsed in a chair, staring at him, her mouth open. She didn't seem as fine a lady as he'd first supposed. His head lowered to appear focused on his task, he noted her shorn golden hair and worn plaid gown. Possibly, he could trick her. She was only a woman, and a poor one at that. He would grant her two wishes, and perform some small service if she insisted on a third.

  If he could remain close to her side, he could spend the rest of her life in freedom, returning to his prison only after her death. Or even better, when her death became imminent, grant her last wish, twisted and dark, guaranteed to have her end her days screaming. He, after all, would have to return to his living death no matter what her fate.

  After sweeping the last of the mess under the bed, Boy waited on his knees, his head bent at the proper angle to display his subservience. He knew how to play this game. He'd had thousands of years to practice, thousands of years to plot revenge. But he couldn't do anything if this strange new master continued to ignore him.

  His head turned to the side, he peeked up at her. Heat crept up his neck when he realized she'd forgotten him entirely. She obviously didn't find him attractive or useful. He had to please her in some way, make himself indispensable, or she would make her wishes quickly and dismiss him. Lazily, she turned the pages of a small book. An educated woman. Very dangerous indeed.

  "Cybele, your servant awaits your pleasure."

  "Cybil who?" She sounded annoyed.

  Perhaps the gods of Phrygia had fallen out of favor. People were fickle in their worship of gods. Boy held no being more powerful than himself, except for the Shadow who had cast him into this darkness. He did not worship the Shadow, he wished the Shadow a life of torture and the death of the damned. But then, he could not make wishes for himself.

  "Oh, great mother, goddess queen." Damned little woman. Holder of my chain. Cause of my pain. "What would you have me do to serve you? No duty is too great or too small?"

  The woman had the nerve to giggle.

  He had to admit goddess queen was a bit of an exaggeration, considering her state of dress. She appeared to be a totally ordinary woman, but in the past, he had found it best to flatter his masters before broaching the matter of wishes. He had served more than one queen. This one did not seem to appreciate the honor he paid her.

  Soon the woman was laughing and muttering at the same time, "Oh, god. Oh, god."

  He remained on his hands and knees, and gave her a wide berth
when she lurched from the chair to her bed.

  When she didn't move he approached, his back straight but still on his knees, inching forward so he wouldn't startle or offend. She lay supine, staring at him. Now that he was inches from her, he could see she wasn't ordinary at all.

  Her eyes were the most brilliant blue, filled with the tears of her laughter. Or was she crying? Short, golden curls framed her delicate face. She was clean, as clean as Tandia before she entered the tent to do her master's bidding. He had since learned what duties she must have performed in that tent. Boy's face flushed and his loins tighten. With skill practiced all too often, he cooled his blood. Seldom did his masters take an interest in his pleasure.

  This master looked like a child, her face almost lost among the deep pillows. Her breath smelled like mint. He rose to his feet, while being careful not to tower over her. With great care, he drew the blanket over her body. "If not Cybele, what shall I call you?"

  "Maggie, of course." She still looked like a child, but now a petulant one. "Tomorrow, I'll be myself, and you'll be gone. So if you want formal introductions, you'd better tell me your name now."

  "My name is whatever you wish it to be, Goddess Maggie."

  She rolled her eyes and pulled the blanket over her head.

  How did she expect him to serve her if she hid? A dozen accusations, a hundred insulting names crossed his mind before he cooled his anger. Anger, like passion, was a commodity seldom required by his masters. Some had required both.

  Perhaps he could persuade her to emerge. The least she could do was give him permission to dress. The room was cold and he'd be hungry soon. He tugged on the blanket. She resisted, curling her fingers around the top of the cloth.

  Of course, he could force her to look at him. He could fill the room, fill the house with his presence. He could speak with the voice of thunder. He could make himself as big as a mountain, but that seldom did anyone any good, including himself.

  At best he was left with a trembling fool who asked for three wishes guaranteed to ruin his life, and Boy was back where he started before lunch. Imprisoned for a minimum of fifty years. At worst, the idea of having a powerful jinn at his command went to the master's head. Boy returned to his prison months or years later chased by memories of bloodshed and grief.

  After surveying the room, he decided he could persuade this master with gentle words and soft deeds. She would settle for a few crumbs and consider herself lucky to have escaped a worse fate. "Does my Maggie desire to chose a name for her slave or shall I find one for you."

  She snapped the blanket back so quickly she startled him. "Don't call me that. I am not your Maggie."

  He scrambled to resume his position in the middle of the room on his hands and knees. Forehead resting on the floor, he bit his lip to keep from trembling. He fought the urge to move his hands from their prayerful position and check his collar, which seemed to tighten with every breath.

  "Don't you ever call me that. Only Daddy calls me, My Maggie. You're not my father. That would be too weird."

  Not certain how far her anger would carry her, he lost his fight to keep from trembling. Beginnings. He hated beginnings, and women were so unpredictable. If she wished to harm him, he could not protect himself or retaliate, not until she made a wish.

  A feather light touch brought his head up. Her delicate hand, nails unpainted, revealing the pink beneath, rested on his shoulder. Her impossibly pale skin revealed the flow of blood beneath and the outline of inner workings he did not understand. With her finger, she traced the scar on his shoulder. It ended beneath his collar, which lay loose around his neck. She no longer appeared angry. He didn't dare move.

  As quietly as she'd left, she crept back under the covers. How he wished he could join her. He continued to tremble, now only partially from fear. The muscles in his shoulders and back knotted from the cold and the awkward position. In this anxious state, his jaw muscles clenched and unclenched out of his control.

  "I'm going to sleep now," she said, and closed her eyes.

  He rose on his knees and wrapped his arms around himself for some warmth. Inconsiderate bitch. She could at least offer him a scrap of cover.

  "Why don't you write down your name and I'll look at it in the morning. I might as well give my psyche something to do while I'm asleep."

  He couldn't make out if she was talking to him. Certainly, she didn't want to waste a wish providing him with parchment and ink. "Mistress? What shall I use to write my name?"

  "Use Mom's computer. If you tell me your name, I can figure out what it means and who you are. Then maybe you'll disappear."

  Disappear. Yes, he would disappear, no doubt, but not until he had a chance to live. Live and find some small measure of revenge. "At your command, Master."

  Chapter 2

  MAGGIE WOKE to a blissfully empty room. The only man in sight was the one on her mother's calendar. That explained it, of course. Without realizing it, she'd been staring at that naked man for the past three weeks. No wonder one had turned up in her bed.

  On her way to bathroom, she lifted January to peek at Mr. February. He didn't resemble her hallucination either. February 15 was circled in red.

  Half expecting to find her mystery man in the shower, she flung back the curtain to reveal unoccupied tile. Her stomach made a tiny flip. Hungry. You are hungry, damn it, not disappointed.

  After her shower, she felt ready to take on the world. A towel firmly wrapped above her breasts, she hesitated, then reentered the bedroom. She lifted a second towel from her head long enough to determine she was still alone. With what sounded suspiciously like a sigh, she dropped both towels on the floor and walked to her closet.

  Alone. She was alone and likely to remain that way for quite some time. Dammit, she was going to enjoy this. She would be the happiest single woman alive, or die trying. She certainly didn't need to create an invisible friend as if she were a neurotic five-year-old.

  "Are you awake, dear?" Her mother's voice carried up the stairs. "I've asked Tom to move my computer out of there this morning so I can get some work done."

  "Okay, Mom, just give me a few minutes." Who was Tom? Maggie shrugged. Probably one of the neighbors. People moved in and out in this part of town. Not that Rawley had much town to move in and out of with a population of twelve hundred people. Couples moved to smaller houses after raising their kids, retired folks moved into town after selling their farms. No one remained on their block whom she remembered.

  She threw her dad's old plaid robe to the back of the closet and rummaged through what she'd brought from California. Most of the clothes were for the honeymoon. Had Chet gone to Florida alone? He did have the tickets since his parents paid for the trip. The closet held mostly sundresses and things suitable for throwing over a bathing suit. She hated the beach.

  Don't you just love Minnesota winters? With a grimace at the glimmering snow outside, she pulled out a pair of jeans and a summer sweater, as close as she'd get to winter clothes. At least she had sunglasses. She adjusted the frames and looked out the window. She no longer had to squint. The world had turned a peaceful gray. Just the color for someone who wanted to get their life back on track, but not too quickly.

  When she opened the bedroom door, the smell of coffee and bacon immediately enveloped her. Voices sounded below, one her mother, the other male, both too low for her to understand. "I'll be right down," she called.

  A look behind her revealed a trail of debris between the door and the computer. She whisked up the discarded towels, a pair of socks, and a brush. The path clear, she continued to the desk. This Tom was probably some old codger who didn't know a Macintosh from a lamp. She grabbed the mouse to shut down the computer. If the program hadn't asked her if she wanted to save the document, she wouldn't have noticed it at all.

  "Cancel," she mumbled to herself, then waited the fraction of a second it took for the document to reappear. The sight turned her knees watery. "Oh, shit." She sat with a thud, then scr
olled down the document.

  A list of my humble names, as master Maggie hath commanded.

  Dasa--slave

  Shami--husband

  Yama--god of death

  Nadim--friend

  Aolus--god of the winds

  Daemon--guardian spirit

  Tristan--full of sorrows

  Maggie put her hand to her forehead. She didn't have a fever and she felt rested. Yet, sometime during the night, she'd gotten out of bed and written this list of names.

  Tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood at alert and she knew she wasn't alone. Spinning away from the computer, she found her imaginary friend standing in the door fully clothed. She allowed herself to breathe. He wore blue jeans that were much too tight and a baggy flannel shirt she recognized as her father's. He held a stack of laundry close against his chest, as if he were afraid someone would try to take them from him.

  "Go away."

  His brow wrinkled, but he didn't move.

  "No, don't go away. Not yet." She slid past him to the door, not wanting to know if he would still feel solid beneath her fingers this morning. Last night she had totally freaked when she worked up the nerve to touch him.

  He had knelt there trembling like a frightened little boy. For a moment, she'd forgotten he wasn't real and had gone to reassure him. His skin was satin smooth, a rich, light brown. The white scar on his shoulder had drawn her fingers as if she had no control over them.

  Maggie had seen scars before. Scars on children, old scars and new. This one appeared to be several years old. The original wound must have been deep and not properly cared for. The ragged scar tissue showed no evidence of stitches. When her fingers met his necklace, a spark had leapt from the silver metal to her hand, sending shivers up her entire body. This was crazy. The collar did not exist. The scar did not exist. The man did not exist.

  Now, with the voice she used with parents of her more disturbed patients, she called to her mother. "I'm going to be a while longer, Mom. I have some things to straighten out up here. But I'll be down eventually, and then we can talk."