Henry Winsor was not a man who believed in wishes, until he met the men who made them.
When Henry and his best friend, Myron, need them most, a pair of genies stumble into their lives, promising good fortune and a bright future--for a price.
In one...
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I had been staring at my coffee for three minutes when the door creaked open.
The curl of the steam was so familiar, the gentle warmth leaching through the ceramic and into my hands such a human sensation. I wasn't ready to shatter the careful self-deception I'd created.
I breathed in the almost intoxicating scent. Freshly ground. Just a dash of cream swirled in. There had never been a more perfect cup of coffee set before me. I sighed and lowered the mug, losing myself once more in its twisting tendrils of steam.
Behind me, the door creaked closed. The other man didn't say anything, but I could feel his concerned eyes pricking at the back of my head.
I twisted my body so our eyes could meet, forcing out a smile for him. In this place, his skin was unhidden, red as an overripe tomato. Raghnall, my guide, my new roommate, the one who gave me this coffee. His curly hair fell a little in his eyes as they searched mine.
I brought the mug up to my lips and drank. When he caught sight of my frown, his face fell.
"Did I pick up the wrong one?" Raghnall glided over to the seat next to me. "I knew I should've written it down, human drinks have gotten so complicated--"
"No, Raghnall, it's fine. You," I sighed, "you did it perfectly."
"Then what's wrong?"
I stared at the brown liquid as it spun in slow circles around the mug. "It didn't taste the same. There was no bite, no rush, it was like I wasn't tasting it in real time, like I was--"
"Like you were only remembering what it's supposed to taste like." Raghnall took the cup from my hands and rose.
His clothes still perplexed me. He wore a black tunic to mid-thigh made of a canvas-like material that shimmered, but only in the moonlight. On his legs and arms were wrappings, also in black. They had tiny, silver symbols scrawled on them near the seams. When Raghnall wasn't looking, I tried to read them, but they weren't English, or any other language I'd ever seen. And the wrappings changed, like he did them by hand each morning.
He looked like he belonged in the desert, or an ancient Egyptian Tomb, or Tatooine.
"It's because you don't need it. We're not meant to eat their food, or drink their coffee." He was in the kitchen now, rinsing out the mug and placing it back in the cabinet. "I know the transition's been hard on you, Hedwynn, but it will get better." Raghnall sat back down next to me. "I promise."
I held out my hands and examined them. Most of the time, I didn't feel any different. The freckle on the back of my hand was still there. I could still feel the breeze dance across my skin through the open window. I was still me.
But, there were small things. Little things you wouldn't notice if distracted. The tone of my skin had changed. Not as dramatically as Raghnall's, of course, but just under my skin the veins weren't blue anymore.
