At Your Command Page 3

  "That's okay, dear. You take your time." Her mother's voice added to Maggie's calm.

  Everything was fine. She wasn't going insane. Even the air felt different. No longer charged with expectancy. Maggie turned. The man, still clothed, stood in the middle of the room, his head bowed.

  "Where did you get those clothes you're wearing?" I really am crazy. What difference could it make? The clothes aren't real. He isn't real.

  A slight smile curved his lips. "Does my master wish me to remove them?"

  When the silence stretched out between them, his smile faded. The muscles in his throat rippled as he swallowed again and again.

  "God, no!" This was too weird. Her psyche had him dressed as her father and now he was asking if she wanted him to undress. "I want to know who you are. I need to figure this out, so you can leave."

  He bit his lower lip then, like a little boy waiting for punishment, and his frown grew. With exaggerated care he placed the clothes and towels in a neat stack by the door. "I would beg my master's indulgence to stay in her presence a moment longer." With lowered eyes, he pointed to the computer. "I have prepared the list as requested. The list is long and contains many powerful and honored names."

  He stepped aside, making room for her. Keeping as close to the bed and as far away from him as possible, she inched toward the computer. The list was still on the screen. At least she hadn't imagined that. The names hadn't changed. Maybe Chet knew the name of a good psychoanalyst. After ten years of therapy, she'd be her normal, non-hallucinating self.

  While she stared at the list, he knelt beside the empty computer chair and palmed the mouse. "Perhaps my goddess did not feel her humble slave's list worthy to follow to the end."

  Maggie watched, fascinated, while the document scrolled. Her hands were nowhere near the controls. The scrolling stopped and the I-bar moved to highlight some of the text. The words sprang out in bold type for her to read.

  After a thorough search of your data banks, I prefer Thomas. Thomas--twin or one filled with doubt. Not as I wish, but as thou.

  "Okay," she started, not quite certain what to say next. Psychotherapy wasn't her field. She should consult an expert instead of trying to treat herself. Then, she wasn't likely to sue for malpractice. Maybe another entire personality had typed this list. Split personalities were rare, but they did occur. She'd just never heard of such a break occurring in a person with a background as mundane as hers.

  It had to be something simpler than that. Like what, Maggie, the worst damned case of wedding jitters in the history of the universe? Only the thought of her mother downstairs kept her from screaming.

  "That's where we'll start. My name is Margaret and your name is Thomas. My friends call me Maggie. Please feel free to do so. May I call you Tom?"

  Still on his knees, he looked up at her. She had made his eyes brown, a soft, rich brown, and sculptured black brows with a graceful arch. A tentative smile crept across his lips. Full, sensuous lips, several shades darker than his skin. "Yes, Master Maggie." He dipped his head reverently.

  "Tom? No, that can't be." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Calm down. Tom is only a coincidence."

  "I am hardly that." Her hallucination sounded indignant. "My transformation is the result of centuries of study in the black arts. The culmination of a life's work--"

  "Oh, shut up. I have to think."

  Tom looked as if she'd slapped him. His olive skin darkened as a blush spread across his face. Her first instinct was to reassure him, but she didn't have time to comfort someone who might not exist. Might not exist? Might?

  "You, whoever you are, stay here and don't move." She needed to know if Tom was real, and she no longer had any faith in her own sanity. Maggie ran across the room and slammed the door shut behind her.

  The one person in her life Maggie knew who was utterly sensible and grounded in reality, was her mother. If Sarah Yates could see Tom, then Tom was real.

  WITH EVERY STEP she took down the stairs, Maggie prayed she would not find her mother alone in the kitchen. Tom had to be with her, another Tom, a normal Tom, a crotchety old Norwegian Tom, waiting to help her move the computer. Despite her efforts, her bare feet made the eighth stair squeak.

  "Is that you, Maggie?"

  "Yes, Mom." Maggie continued down, no longer on tiptoe.

  "Do you want some breakfast?"

  No men in the kitchen, but everything seemed perfectly normal. Her mother stood at the kitchen sink washing the dishes. Hadn't she always sung while she washed dishes? Maggie didn't think she'd heard her mother even hum since she came home.

  Sarah Yates looked the same as ever to Maggie, several pounds heavier than in her wedding pictures, but still fit. After Dad died, Mother had seemed to gain energy to compensate for his loss. She'd even started dyeing her hair, and looked a decade younger than her fifty-plus years. But she didn't look happy. Come to think of it, she hadn't looked happy before the wedding was canceled.

  "I hope you're not hungry, because Tom ate every last egg and piece of bread I own. I don't suppose I could persuade you two to go shopping for me, could I?"

  It was the strangest feeling. Her mouth opened, then closed. Maggie couldn't utter a word.

  Her mother dried her hands and joined Maggie at the breakfast table. "Now, I'm only going to say this once."

  Maggie managed to nod. She squinted while she listened to her mother, as if that could bring focus to the words.

  "I have nothing against nudity and I realize it's a perfectly natural lifestyle, but I do prefer that your young man wear something while he's here. Occasionally, people do stop by and I really can't afford to keep the house warm enough for him. I understand it's quite a bit warmer in California this time of year, so I showed him where I keep some old clothes."

  Maggie's mouth dropped open again. Her mother could see Tom--a naked Tom--and didn't seem to be the least bit disturbed by it. What had she called him? Your young man.

  "You could have told me, dear. I would have understood."

  If Tom isn't a figment of my imagination, then what--who--is he? "Sorry, what did you say?"

  "I said it's perfectly understandable why you called off the wedding with Chet. I didn't want to say anything before, but Chet always did seem a bit cold to me."

  "Cold? You said he reminded you of Dad."

  Her mother winced, but continued. "When you talked about your plans with him, well, they didn't sound very romantic, dear. All I heard was how well your professions meshed and your desires for a family had peaked at the same time. Hardly things marriage dreams are made of."

  "Dreams, Mom? I'm almost thirty. I'm hardly a little girl waiting for Prince Charming."

  "I'm afraid you're right."

  Maggie ignored the sarcasm. "We made a logical, considered decision, just the way I'm sure you and Daddy did. We're in the same profession, Chet doesn't go to church any more, but we were both raised Lutherans and we both want children. Our financial situation isn't ideal, but you can wait forever for the perfect moment."

  "What about love, Margaret Yates? Those marriage vows don't just say honor and cherish. Love should come in there someplace. You might not think so, but I'm in a position to know." Her mother's eyes teared over, an alarming sight. When was the last time anyone had seen Sarah Yates cry?

  Maggie's throat went dry. She croaked her answer. "Of course, I loved...ah, love...Chet."

  "Then why did you call off the wedding?" Her mother stood and threw down the dishtowel, as if she'd settled the entire matter.

  What could she say to that? Maggie didn't know why. She hadn't had a coherent thought since she made that phone call to Chet.

  "You just be glad you did call off that wedding, Miss Yates. Some people can't marry their one true love, some people have to settle, but you don't. You've got an unmarried man upstairs who worships you. Don't you go letting him slip away."

  Tears welled in her mother's eyes again. Tears that didn't dare fall, not if Sarah Yates ordered them not
to.

  "Man? What man?"

  Her mother pursed her lips and gave her a stern look. "Don't forget to tell Tom to wear clothes from now on. I've already told him to feel free to take anything he wants from the spare bedroom. Your brothers won't mind." She turned her attention to wiping the kitchen counter. "Make sure he's dressed warm when you two go shopping."

  The last of her mother's words chased Maggie up the stairs. Tom. Damn. If he wasn't an illusion, that meant she had a Loony Toon in her bedroom. No reason to freak out Mom... I'll try to talk him out of the house first. No telling who a call to 9-1-1 will bring to the door. Probably old Sheriff Rustad, still hung over from New Year celebrations.

  This time when she found her room empty, Maggie wasn't at all relieved. If she did have a nut loose in her house, she wanted to know where he was. She expected to find him kneeling in the middle of the room or sitting at the computer. He wasn't in sight, but the shower was running.

  When she flung open the door, she met the smiling face of Mr. January in all of his unclothed glory. Quietly, Maggie eased the bathroom door closed. The last thing she wanted was to startle him and she certainly didn't want a confrontation with a naked man. He might not be so docile this time. He had seemed indignant when she referred to him as a coincidence.

  She looked at the list of names on the computer again, searching for some clue--slave, husband, god of death, friend, god of the winds, guardian spirit, full of sorrows, twin, full of doubt. Not universally happy monikers, but no pattern she could immediately identify. Chet was good at this sort of puzzle. If he kept to his usual schedule, he'd be checking his e-mail in another hour. As long as he didn't automatically delete her message when he saw her screen name, she knew he'd help. Chet could never turn down a good mystery.

  During the pause that followed the hum of booting software, Maggie noticed the water had stopped running. Tom was humming but she couldn't make out the tune. Too dissonant to be most popular music she listened to, certainly not Christmas carols.

  When the sound grew louder, she turned. Tom stopped humming, his easy smile fading when their eyes met. He was wearing jeans. These fit him better than the others, but still managed to show off his well-conditioned thighs. The loose, silver necklace lay across his shoulder blades. Water fell from his hair and dotted his chest. He shook his head, sending his tangled hair over his shoulders and back. Water splattered the naked calendar man.

  Instead of looking frightened, he looked angry. A muscle at the corner of his eye twitched. "Does my dress meet my master's approval?" His voice, soft and controlled, didn't match his belligerent stare.

  Figure out what he wants to hear and say it. "You look fine, Tom. I'm glad to see that you've decided to wear some clothes. I wouldn't want you to catch cold."

  "Sarah is a kind woman. She has seen to it that I am taken care of."

  Her mother had obviously made a good impression on her crazy boarder. He looked at least twenty-five, but she had a hard time judging his age. Middle Eastern or possibly Indian descent. "Why do you need taking care of, Tom?"

  Tom scowled and tugged at his necklace. "Do you wish me to be cold? To starve?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then don't complain. Someone else has fulfilled your duties."

  Her duties? Where had he gotten the idea he was her pet or her responsibility? Sounded like a chauvinistic pig to her, but that didn't make him crazy. Maybe Chet could help. Tom could be someone he knew, someone who knew they were getting married and had followed her here.

  If she was lucky, he was only slightly delusional. She could convince him to go home. "What are your duties, Tom? Why are you here?"

  "To fulfill your fantasies, of course. To make your wishes a reality." Spoken through clenched teeth, he made granting wishes sound like a threat rather than a promise. Instead of cringing as he had yesterday, he drew himself to his full height, over six feet, and looked down his nose at her.

  Damn this man was arrogant. She almost preferred the cringing boy. This Tom sounded like a condescending fool. Again, not necessarily delusional or dangerous. Time to retreat to some simple, direct questions he could answer. "How old are you, Tom?"

  "Age is a measure of relative units."

  So much for simple and direct. "In what year were you born?"

  "The year of the great flooding of the plains."

  He had to be kidding. She tried to keep sarcasm from her voice. "Can you translate that into a number?"

  "I have always favored the old ways, but under your modern way of measuring the unmeasurable, I was born in the year five thousand four hundred. A rough estimate only."

  Great, her nut thought he was from the future. "You traveled back in time just to grant me wishes? That makes me feel very special."

  "That is five thousand four hundred before the birth of your god."

  "B.C., you mean?"

  He nodded and puffed out his chest. She expected him to pound it at any moment and proclaim himself the biggest bully on the playground. She hid her smile.

  "If you don't mind my saying, you look extremely well preserved for someone over six thousand years old."

  His arrogant expression wavered. "Does my master wish me to remove my clothes?"

  That strange pounding started in her chest again. "No, please, keep them on."

  This time he did strike himself in the chest with his fist. "Tom is over six thousand years old, and in very good shape."

  "I bet you are...I mean, I don't understand why you look so young for someone your age."

  His shoulders lost their tension as he relaxed. He sat on her bed, his legs crossed in yoga fashion. "I will explain all to my Maggie. Come sit."

  Gingerly, Maggie sat on the edge of the bed. The man experienced extreme mood swings, not a good sign.

  "The bodies of my kind age only when we are free from our receptacle. One cycle of your moon equals one day of age for me."

  "Your receptacle?" she repeated, not certain she'd heard correctly.

  "Box in this case. I have been in bottles before. Vases. A violin on one occasion. The vessel that holds me when I leave this plane and enter the next is for you to decide. When the time comes."

  Maggie couldn't think of anything sensible to say. "A box?"

  "I believe it is under your sleeping pallet. Would you like to see it?"

  She pictured him on his hands and knees in those exquisitely fitted jeans, rummaging under her bed. "No, thank you. I don't think the method of your arrival is important right now."

  "No, not important. I have no interest in returning immediately." Panic veiled his eyes for a moment before the arrogance returned. "Not that I fear returning."

  "So, let's review what we know, shall we? You were born thousands of years ago, but you only age when you are out of your bottle or box or whatever. Right?"

  Tom nodded and gave her an indulgent pat on the head.

  Maggie swallowed hard but managed not to pull away. "So, why are you here in my bedroom?"

  "You called me forth, master. You broke my dark slumber and called me from the box." His condescending smile in place and his arms opened wide, he announced, "Now, I am here."

  "But for what purpose, exactly."

  "To grant your wishes, of course."

  Light finally dawned. "Oh, my three wishes, you mean?"

  Tom nodded eagerly and crossed his arms over his rather impressive chest. He looked nothing like the blue genie in the movie and certainly didn't sound like Robin Williams, but if he was delusional, small details like that wouldn't bother him.

  "Oh, wait, I know the rest. I've seen this movie twice. You can't make anyone fall in love with someone else, and let's see, you can't kill anyone or bring anyone back from the dead, and I can't ask for more wishes. Right?"

  Tom stood. He did not look pleased.

  Maggie's patients were children. She'd never run across this psychosis in her work. Maybe if she tested his fantasy world, he'd find remaining uncomfortable and go look for
someone who would play along.

  "If you're really that old, how did you know how to work the plumbing?"

  In response to her challenge, Tom's chest expanded. "The time of my last great sleep began fifty years ago. Your primitive society has made pitiably few advances in plumbing. In fact, over the past three thousand years, you've lost ground."

  "There weren't any computers around fifty years ago, at least not like these." She nodded at her mother's Macintosh. "But you used it."

  Tom shook has head as if preparing to address a painfully ignorant child. "Because you commanded me. You did not make a wish, so I did not need to use my special powers, but I must fulfill you commands. Within reason," he added.

  "So, how did you know how to operate the computer?"

  "That is not for you to know."

  "I thought so."

  "What?" he thundered.

  Maggie expected her mother to knock on the door at any minute. But then her mother thought Tom was wonderful, he worshiped her. Yeah, right. "Never mind. Why don't you grant wishes for someone who needs them?"

  Like an angry storm cloud, he stood over her. "Woman, you called me, and you will have your wishes. As for the rules, you may have only three wishes, at which time I must return to my great sleep for fifty years before I can hear the call from another master. I have never tried to bring anyone back from the dead. No master has proved so idiotic as to make the request. The result would be quite distasteful for all involved, I'm certain. Making one person fall in love with another is as easy as making a hungry man desire food, and I have killed on more than one occasion. With my bare hands."

  Maggie swallowed hard at the last, and stared at his rather impressive hands, which he clenched into fists. She forced herself to smile. "That's quite an interesting list of rules you have there, Tom, especially, that last one."

  "Does My Maggie want someone dead? This Chet person, perhaps. Lady Sarah believes he has made you most unhappy."

  Great. The last thing she needed was a homicidal maniac. "No, no, don't kill anyone, Tom. You don't want to kill Chet, or anyone, do you?"