Chapter One
Ok, so that was a little hypocritical. She was looking for stuff to sell, too.
That was the whole point of these auctions, wasn’t it?
Finding a long-lost Rembrandt to make your millions?
And even without big-ticket discoveries, she had a tidy little business refurbishing dusty old crap into sparkly old crap that sold well enough to pay for her living expenses and her half of the apartment’s rent and utilities.
Which was only half as much as she needed, now that Mandy had moved out.
Frickin’ Mandy. How dare she actually get married to her fiancé and move into a house with him?
Felicity knew her thoughts were unfair. That Mandy had been more than generous, paying her share of the last two months remaining on the lease before she took all her stuff to her new digs.
And it wasn’t Mandy’s fault she owned most of the common-room furniture.
And the TV. And the coffeemaker. Felicity had been focused on filling the shed with equipment and hadn’t realized how much her daily comfort had relied on her roommate until it was all gone.
Mandy had been a good roommate, and she would probably be a good friend for a long time to come. Felicity wasn’t mad, not really.
But in the short term, she needed to either double her income or find another roommate who wouldn’t mind, well, her.
She wasn’t a bad person. Mostly. She didn’t leave towels on the floor or days of dirty dishes in the sink.
She didn’t bring home random dudes for sex.
And she paid her share of the rent and all on time.
But her work was...loud. Often stinky. Occasionally hazardous.
And while Mandy had been okay with the dining room table (also gone) being strewn with decoupage scraps and tiny faceted crystals in dozens of colors and sizes, Felicity was pretty sure that most roommates would want to use their future dining room table to, well, dine.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today’s problem was winning some damn treasure. Especially since today’s auction featured her nemesis Mr. Plaid Asshole, who apparently had endless cash. Or at least deeper pockets than hers.
The clatter of yet another storage unit door being rolled up jarred Felicity out of her thoughts, and she halted just in time to not crash into the deep-pocketed asshole’s back.
Repressing a growl, she began to work her way toward a gap in the crowd, ignoring the short people got no reason to live glances from the other patrons. Can’t bid if I can’t see.
Except she was getting a feeling in her gut. A tickle—or no, a pull. Like that time she’d been the “drowning person” in lifeguard class and been dragged through the water by her classmate. It had felt weird, moving without any volition at all.
And before the auctioneer even started to talk, before Felicity had even gotten a good look at the contents, she stuck her hand high in the air. “Five hundred.”
She froze, hand up. That was her whole budget! What was she thinking?
There was a murmur around the group, and Mr. Plaid Asshole scoffed. The auctioneer blinked at her like she was a few marbles short of a Rube Goldberg machine.
Felicity raised her chin higher. Now that she could see the unit, it was entirely boring.
Worn cardboard liquor boxes with words scrawled in shaky marker.
Board Games. Clothes. Shoes. Books. All the things that were hardest to make money off of.
There was a mattress shoved up against one side—basically not even worth the effort to transport it—and a cheap pipe bed frame barely visible at the back.
A rack of staid brown suits, probably vintage but also threadbare.
And in the front was a recliner, but not a nice La-Z-Boy like the one she’d been outbid for.
No, this one was peeling brown vinyl with duct tape on the arms, listing to the side like it had been stomped on by a giant.
She’d seen better chairs on the curb and passed them up because she might not be rich but she knew a piece of crap when she saw it.
“Do I have five-fifty?” the auctioneer said with a cynical sigh.
Mr. Plaid Asshole glanced sidelong at Felicity, then raised his hand. “I’ll do five-fifty.”
“Six hundred,” Felicity snapped.
“Six-fifty.”
“Seven hundred.” Dizziness washed over her. What am I doing?
But she had to have this unit. She had to.
She didn’t know why.
But she knew it.
This is the one.
Mr. Plaid Asshole turned toward her with a smirk. He was middle-aged and stocky, with a smarmy, self-satisfied look on his face. “Guess I’ll let you have this one, darlin’,” he drawled in a way that said, clear as day, I was only bidding against you to be a dick, little girl.
I’m twenty-nine, she didn’t bother saying because responding to subtext in actual text was futile. Also, responding to misogynistic assholes at all was futile.
“Going once... Twice... Sold to bidder number eight for seven hundred dollars.” The auctioneer scribbled on the pad in her hand and tore off a yellow invoice. “Pay at the front. You have seven days to clear out the unit.”
Well, okay then. Felicity had won a storage unit. She’d spent more than planned, but that was okay, right? There had to be something in there she could bedazzle into usefulness.
Either that or she’d made a horrible mistake.
Dimitri had made a horrible mistake.
To be fair, he’d made a lot of horrible mistakes over the centuries, dating back to the original mistake, the magical battle that had ended with him trapped in a bottle, cursed to grant wishes for everything under the sun until he found a master willing to free him.
More recently, there had been Harold, his last master, who had kept him around for decades because all he really wanted was a partner for Go and an occasional cigar.
Maybe a Cuba Libre, if he was feeling his oats.
Who had died before reaching his limit of wishes, leaving Dimitri stuck in his bottle, presumably in an attic somewhere.
For all he knew, he’d been buried with the old coot.
And while it was nice not to be at someone’s beck and call, and eventually he’d be found, it was boring to be all alone for...
however long he’d been alone. A year? Two? Ten?
Harold had died. Dimitri had felt the master-link fade, and he’d expected his bottle to pass into new, curious hands, either his heirs or some estate-sale scavenger.
A new master to grant wishes that never turned out right—at least not if Dimitri could find a way to twist them.
But instead his whole outside view had gone dark and stayed dark. He was stored somewhere.
Maybe he would be trapped forever.
But that was tomorrow’s problem.
Today’s problem stemmed from the fact that he had, in his boredom, conjured up a screen on which he could watch TV. He’d gotten used to watching and rewatching Columbo with Harold, and so he’d started with that, then cast about on the various services for something else to watch.
And he’d found Vivi Jupiter.
Spunky girl detective with more love-life drama than you could shake a stick at.
All the old clichés Columbo had developed into art, but made fresh and new.
He’d growled at some boyfriends, forgiven others their sins, laughed at the ridiculous cases she solved.
He’d mourned the lost ideas of Season Three, the one that ended halfway on a cliffhanger, canceled in its prime.
Loved the movie that fans had crowdfunded into existence, which set up his favorite relationship with a hopeful future.
Imagined a hundred exciting future cases for Vivi and Shiloh to solve together.
And then there had apparently been a surprise revival.
Season Four had appeared on his menus, and Dimitri had eagerly watched it.
It had irritated him in places—Vivi absolutely did not need a revived romance with fucking Levi—but at the end Vivi and Shiloh had been together, married, ready for a glorious future.
And then Shiloh’s car had exploded. With him in it.
And that was where it had ended. Vivi mourning, Shiloh gone. Probably a redemption arc planned for her fucking Season One boyfriend, who’d had as much chemistry with her as a stale loaf of bread.
Dimitri should never, never have watched Season Four.
Lesson learned.
Also, if he ever got out of his bottle again, he was absolutely going to find a new master who hated Vivi Jupiter Season Four as much as he did and coax them into wishing Vivi’s creator Bob Thompson would develop pustulent sores, especially on his hands, so that he could never write again.
It was against the rules, of course, but he could perhaps find a loophole, one that punished the showrunner without technically infringing on his person.
He’d do it himself if his magic could extend that far without a master’s command.
And now he needed something new to watch.
“You still working this gig?”
The voice was familiar...and annoying. Dimitri turned away from his screen to greet his unwelcome guest. “I see you have yet to learn common courtesy.”
Aziz grinned, flinging himself into Dimitri’s circular couch. “I thought you could use a visitor. Seeing as you’re still trapped.”
Dimitri glared at him. “And you’re not?”
“You have been out of the loop.” Aziz laughed and lay back on the couch, tucking his hands behind his head. “I’ve been free for years now.”
His wrists were, indeed, bare of the metal shackles that remained on Dimitri’s arms. “Lucky you.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” Aziz rolled onto his side. “I found the best loophole.”
“Did you,” Dimitri said flatly, not even bothering to make it a question.
“You want to know the secret? Why I’m here even though your bottle is stuck in storage?”
Dimitri repressed an eyeroll. “Do tell.”
“Love.” Aziz sighed happily.
“You...fell in love?”
“Fuck no. She fell in love. My mistress.”
Dimitri frowned. “That’s not allowed.”
“It’s not allowed for us,” Aziz said slyly. “But it’s allowed for them. They’re not cursed. They can wish for anything they want, can’t they?”
“And your mistress...”
“She was lonely. I saw it before she made her first wish. And so I... Well, I made sure she got a good look at the goods, didn’t I?”
“How?” Dimitri had grown used to the prudish conventions that bound him.
Specifically the silk trousers that might as well have been glued to his body when he was fully material.
Whatever magic ruled geniedom, they were insistent that nudity was forbidden.
Dimitri had been celibate for the entirety of his imprisonment, other than some delightful fully clothed encounters with other bored genies.
He couldn’t even show his fucking navel. It was ridiculous.
“There are ways,” Aziz said airily. “And as it turns out, we’re not forbidden physical contact with our masters. The secret”—he flopped onto his side again—“is consent.”
That earned him a glare. A double glare, even. “They cannot ask for such things.”
“They cannot,” Aziz agreed. “Or more to the point, they cannot command such things. But if you consent to what they desire...”
Dimitri’s head was spinning. “And what happened?”
“We made love,” Aziz said with a sigh. “I had to remain clothed, of course, but my hands and mouth did as she desired. I ensured that her pleasure was immense, that she reached the pinnacle of ecstasy over and over. And then... Then she wished for me.”
It was impossible. Wasn’t it? “We cannot be wished for,” he managed to say.
“Indeed we cannot. And so I told her. I said I was not free to love a mortal woman.”
Dimitri gasped. “You are diabolical.”
Aziz nodded smugly. “And so she wished me free, without me ever having to ask.”
“And now you are lovers?”
“Oh, gods, no!” Aziz laughed brazenly. “She was a mortal woman, with a laugh like a braying donkey. And she drank canned wine. Ugh. So once I was free, I departed with my bottle. It was most diverting, her wail of anguish as I left.”
Dimitri’s lips thinned. “Cruel of you.”
“Necessary of me,” Aziz replied.
“You tricked her.”
“Well, of course!” Aziz sat up, regarding Dimitri with compassionate eyes.
“There is no one alive—not man, nor woman, nor anyone between—that would willingly set a genie free. Not before their wishing is exhausted. I merely encouraged her to want me more than she wanted her wishes. There is no shame in finding freedom from slavery.”
“There is not, but...” Dimitri swallowed. Freedom. It was all he’d desired since the moment his magical shackles had welded themselves in place on his wrists. “My last master was not...vulnerable in such a way.”
“Perhaps your next will be.”
Dimitri snorted. “Perhaps.” If he ever had a new master. He was beginning to doubt—
The master bond pierced him like a stake to the heart. He grunted and clutched his chest, eyes grinding shut.
It always felt this way. A lance of pain, followed by a blossoming warmth that spread throughout him like spiced mead. He relaxed into it, sighing as his fingertips and toes tingled. He felt loved, overflowing with joy.
It was a false joy. Another kind of shackles. He knew it was a lie. But it was the only joy he could own now, and he would not deny himself its warmth, the crumbs and semblance of true affection.
And if he freed himself, he could find something real and true.
He opened his eyes, resolve taking him like a thunderbolt.
Aziz was regarding him with sympathy. “There,” he said. “You are already on your way.”
Dimitri could not answer. Not through the hope that was suddenly clogging his throat.
“Seduce her,” Aziz murmured. “Or him. Or them. Whoever they are, they will not give you your freedom. You must take it.”
Shuddering, Dimitri nodded. “I will. I’ll—”
But Aziz was gone.
Dimitri flung himself onto the couch, anticipation building in his gut. Seduction was not his greatest strength, but...freedom.
Freedom.
He would have to prepare. Arm himself for the battle ahead.
Dimitri settled comfortably on his couch and sent out his energies into the universe. In return, a pile of books appeared in the air, falling in a heap on the cushion beside him.
Fascinating. He’d known from YouTube that fantasy romance had grown in popularity of late, but he hadn’t expected quite so many genie romances. Not when orcs and minotaurs were so popular. But he certainly would not complain. Not when freedom was only a seduction away.
He tucked his bare feet beneath him and began to read.