Free Agent (2 page)

NOT THAT IT
was ever my choice. No one chooses to be traded by their parents to pay a magical debt, certainly not when they are sixteen. Still, if I had to be a debt slave, Grimm was about as good an employer as I could ask for. For instance, he let me stay with my parents until I was eighteen (which I think was saving him room and board) and he insisted I attend night school at the community college (a smart agent is a good agent). But it was still slavery.

Grimm was a Fairy Godfather, and he was good about making wishes come true if you had the Glitter to make it happen. My parents didn't, but they needed a wish in the worst way, and Grimm gave them one. My little sister got her miracle; Grimm got me. So I did what he told me to, mostly, and I saved up my Glitter. One day, I told myself, I wouldn't be answering calls in the mirror, or going monster hunting at the movies.

Monday came around before I felt like rolling into the office. When I got out of my morning shower, Grimm gave me a call.

“Marissa,” he said.

I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me. “Not here. Call back in a few minutes when I'm dressed.”

He gave a presumptuous laugh. “I could peek on you, you know, and you'd never see me. We've never properly signed your contract.”

“Not gonna happen, you disgusting, lecherous son of a—”

“That will do. Get dressed. I'll meet you in the office at eight thirty sharp, my dear. New assignment.”

I was late on purpose.

We rented office space like everyone else. You'd be surprised how much cheaper it was than buying. A throng of wishers, as usual, packed the lobby. I nodded to the receptionist and slipped into a door marked “Staff.” Down the hall, I meandered into the conference room, ignoring a stare from Grimm that said
You are late.

“Bring in the princess,” said Grimm, from the conference room mirror.

The receptionist buzzed the door and she came in.

“Marissa, meet Princess Arianna.”

She didn't look like a princess. She looked like a college intern for a radio station. Five foot three, strawberry blonde, and a complexion that could sure as hell use work. Plus she was packing the freshman five on her hips, along with the sophomore seven on her thighs and, well, you get the idea. “Pleased to meet you, m'lady,” I said, using the formal language Grimm preferred when I met new clients.

She pushed back a pair of wire-frame glasses. “Call me Ari, please.”

“Grimm.” I started, then took a breath. “Fairy Godfather, what is her destiny?”

Grimm swirled in the mirror the way he always did, and spoke in that monotone voice he'd practiced over the last four hundred years. “She will meet a fair prince and find love. They will live happily ever after.” Sometimes, I was amazed he could say that with a straight face. I'd read the divorce statistics, and being a princess didn't help matters.

Ari sighed and sat down, apparently satisfied.

“I need to consult the stars in order to aid you,” I said, and excused myself.

Grimm waited in my office, looking out from the full-length mirror. “Consult the stars?”

I picked up a copy of
People
magazine and flipped through it. “What's the deal?”

“Standard princess setup,” said Grimm, now peering out at me from the goblet on my desk.

“Who's the guy?”

“Standard prince.”

I knew the type. Pitcher, quarterback, CEO. Whoever he was, he could afford a little fortune worked out in his favor. Glitter was the currency of magic, but plain old money could buy almost anything. “I'm in.” I headed back into the conference room.

I gave Ari a smile as real as the plastic ferns out front. “The stars are very favorable.”

She looked relieved. The stars never looked anything but favorable, a fact we didn't mention in the sales pitch.

“It will take a few days to prepare the rituals,” I said, “but Leona will set you up for a makeover and style rescue—I mean, enhancement—and everything will be ready right on time.” I left her there and got down to the real work.

See, we could do magic. Well, Grimm could, and I almost could because I worked for him, but magic was expensive. If it were a prince seeking a princess, things would be a little harder, and we might have had to actually shell out the Glitter for a love potion. Setting up a princess was a whole different matter, thanks to one fundamental law of the universe: Men are stupid.

Oh, I'm not saying they are too dumb to tie their shoes. I'm just saying the only thing a man needs to fall in love is a little prep work from the wrong woman. Then, when the right woman appears, it's like magic. Only less expensive.

 • • • 

WE STARTED ARI'S
setup with a meeting, that's how it always went, and that's where Grimm came in handy. He wasn't technically a “he,” but “Fairy God Person” sounded weird. While he could appear any way I wanted him to, a balding, sixty-eight-year-old man served as a good reminder of his true nature.

“Where's this prince going to be?” I asked, knowing full well he'd already done auguries. When I was seventeen, on one of my training trips, Grimm actually took me into Kingdom to see how an augury was done. Basically, they took a living animal, opened it up with a knife, and let its insides be outsides. From the patterns, Grimm could tell what was going to happen.

Grimm always used rabbits, on account of a grudge he had with the Easter Bunny. I'd had a pet rabbit when I was little, and the first time I saw an augury I think I managed to throw up and faint at the same time. After that, Grimm had it done without me. Not that it mattered. After six years in this business, I'd gut Thumper himself for an ounce of Glitter.

“He's going to be taking a fine stroll along the waterfront tomorrow. He'll be quite hungry, and you're going to meet him there.”

I knew the rest well enough to tune out the drone of his instructions. I'd made a career out of being the wrong woman. I flirted, I teased, I got them a little hopeful, I strung them along, and I dumped them like a rock. Ari would waltz in with a kind smile and a hot cup of coffee. You get the picture. It was a different kind of magic.

“I need to pick up a few new spells. I've still got bruises from that shoplifter and if I'd just knocked her flat to start with, I wouldn't look like an ink blot.” Grimm didn't mind me carrying the basics. A few thunderbolts, a flame or two, but I wanted wild magic.

“I don't think that's necessary, Marissa. You handled yourself quite well, and our client was most appreciative. He doubled your payment.”

“So I can take the day off, pretty up, get ready?” I grabbed my purse, hoping I'd make it out before he stopped me.

“I think not. I need you to drive into the suburbs and deal with an imp.”

I sighed. Imps reminded me of teenagers, if teenagers were hundreds of years old, hyperactive, and homicidal.

“A certain young lady there had her first child.”

I knew where this was headed. “How many guesses at the name did she waste before she called you?” I had a feeling I already knew what the answer was.

“I'll give you one guess.”

“Did you get the name?”

Grimm gave me that stern look I get so often and crossed his arms. If there was anything Grimm was good at, it was divining.

“Of course you did. Bet you lunch I can guess too.” He was paying for lunch either way, so I liked to play “Guess the Imp Name.”

“Rumplestiltskin,” I said, wasting my first guess.

Grimm rolled his eyes.

“Humperdink?”

He sighed impatiently. “Really, Marissa, I thought I trained you better.”

“You did,” I said with a laugh. “The name is Brittany.”

Grimm pursed his lips and glared at me over his glasses. “You know it doesn't count unless you can spell it right.” Some things never changed.

I went back to my office to call in backup. Some of Grimm's agents had magic in their blood. I got mine the old-fashioned way: I hired it. I drummed my fingers on the desk and punched in the number for Grimm's contract agency from memory. They were a bunch of lowlife scum who would never stab you in the back because it might ruin a kidney they could sell. I worked with them a lot.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang.

“Hello?” asked a woman on the other end.

I dropped the receiver. My hands felt like ice and my tongue wouldn't move, but this was no spell.

“Hello? Hello?”

After several seconds I recovered enough to pick up the phone “Mom—”

Only the dial tone waited on the other end of the line. I slammed the phone down on the desk hard enough to crack it.

“Marissa,” said Grimm, appearing in my mirror. “What is wrong? I heard that through the walls.”

“I called home again.”

He nodded. “Did you speak to her?”

My tongue felt thick as I tried to answer. “No. I wanted to. I wanted to.” I couldn't look at him. I knew this wasn't a spell he put on me. I froze every time that happened, because it wasn't supposed to.

“Marissa, if you're ready—”

“I'm not.” I said. “Let me make a call and I'll get over there.” It wasn't what he meant, but the answer was the same. I picked up the phone and dialed the contractors, watching each number with care. With each digit I damned myself for dialing a number I couldn't consciously remember.

“I need someone who can help me trap an imp,” I said to the receptionist. “Standard pay. Hold him long enough for me to christen him, I'll take it from there.” I hung up the phone and went down to my car. I was ready to face a half-demon imp that would just as happily devour my brain as my soul. My family, on the other hand, was a different matter.

I DIDN'T GET
down to the waterside until nearly eleven in the morning. Turned out our little slice of royalty miscounted the number of guesses she'd made at the imp's name. I had to use kinetic energy–based negotiation techniques, and those royal types got ticked when I ventilated their palace. I looked a bit like death, with imp blood in my hair. One glance at my watch told me I couldn't possibly make it back to my apartment to clean up. In fact, I had just enough time to rent a hotel room and take a shower.

At least Grimm had the decency to stay out of the bathroom mirror this time. “You're running late,” he said while I got dressed.

“Sue me. And while we're at it, how do you want this played?” Grimm was a master manipulator. He'd have made a good matchmaker, if it weren't for the fact that his idea of “great chemistry” usually involved explosives.

“Same as always. Have him meet you over an accidental meal, stroll along the waterfront, spend the evening at the marina,” said Grimm. He sounded tired, or maybe that was just me. He didn't sleep, as best I could tell.

“Kiss?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“Absolutely not. You need to go now.”

So I checked out of a hotel room I'd had for exactly fifty minutes and rushed to the restaurant. It was an Italian place at the corner of the pier, and I knew Grimm had a table with my name on it. “Table for Goldilocks,” I said. I didn't have blond hair but that'd always been Grimm's nickname for me. If I was doing something, it would be done just right.

The host looked at his reservations and nodded. It was supposed to be hard to get a reservation here, but I practically had a standing appointment. He took me on through to my table on the patio. I could watch the ferries come and go, and the prince, well, he could watch me.

I handed back my menu to the waiter without looking. “I'll have the usual.” I scanned the crowd, then popped the compact open. “Grimm. You might have left out something important.”

“Marissa, close that at once, and go ahead and remove your bracelet.”

Grimm was right. While most princes were so self-absorbed they'd miss a giant, there was the occasional exception that paid attention, and they might be able to see Grimm. Questions about the “Man in the Mirror” would be somewhat awkward at this stage of the relationship. I'd be flying solo for a bit. With his permission, the bracelet hung limp instead of clamped to my wrist.

“You might have forgotten to mention what he looks like.”

Grimm huffed at me. “My dear, he's a prince.”

So I took the bracelet off and put it in my purse. When I was younger I'd tried running once. I'd put the bracelet in a bag and threw the bag off into the water and ran. I'd made it six blocks away to the bus station when I realized the bracelet was hanging from my wrist. Grimm stood in the window of the terminal watching me, but he never said a word. I did my running on the track after that.

Without the bracelet, my compact was a round mirror attached to a tray full of base that gave me hives if I wore it. I didn't need it to tell me that my hair had enough curl to misbehave, and not enough to flow in waves over my shoulders. I worked hard at being the wrong woman. My mother always said I'd never turn heads. I told Grimm that once and he said all I needed to do was turn hearts.

I'd have loved to be beautiful. To have flawless skin and a nose that didn't look tiny, or eyes that didn't look like my father was part bat. Grimm said the men loved my large brown eyes. I didn't. I wanted blue eyes like Mom and Dad, but you didn't get a say in genetic roulette. If I ever got to go home, I was planning on asking Grimm to change my eyes to be like them. A push-up bra and a firm running regimen were the other components of my beauty treatment. To be the wrong woman you didn't have to look great, just available and interested.

I looked for a prince. He was the real deal, and that was why Grimm wouldn't take any chances on being spotted. So our prince would have the shine. They all did, and anyone with the slightest relation to magic could see it on them. Even the normal folks could tell in their own way, recognizing that man who walked by with the gleam and the look. The women wanted to melt into him. The men all wanted to be him or beat him. Life was hard for princes.

I saw him from halfway down the pier. Black hair cut short, wide shoulders, and arms that looked like they could pull a tree out by the roots. He wasn't all that attractive, but if you were a prince you didn't have to be. The tiny scar on his cheek could have been from battling a dragon, or a skiing accident, or any of those other acts of derring-do princes were known for. I waited at my seat, making sure my wineglass was just so and my fork just right.

Grimm didn't deal in essence or evocation, usually. That wasn't his style, though I wouldn't say he couldn't do it. He dealt with direction, and he was truly talented. The prince and I were two random people among thousands. I knew his steps, and the directions, and every little glance that would lead him right by my table. He meandered over to look at the Sunglass Hut, then, drawn by a force he couldn't possibly see, wandered toward me. I focused on my plate, on the half-eaten steak, and looked up at the right time.

Our eyes met, and he smiled at me. The sunlight served to highlight the shine on him. I let myself play along and smiled back.

“Afternoon,” he said, his voice not exactly melodic but plenty deep.

“And to you.” I took a sip of my wine.

On cue the waiter appeared. “Is the gentleman joining you for lunch?” he asked, unhooking the rope.

The prince looked a little surprised. They always did.

“Please?” I said, and he was hooked.

He sat down and I ordered for him in Italian. I only knew three phrases in Italian, and the other two were “pepperoni” and “mama mia.” It didn't matter.

“I'm Liam,” he said, and I thought that was a fine name for a prince.

“Marissa.” I could use my real name. I wasn't the one they'd remember. “What do you do for a living, Liam? No, wait, Let me guess. CEO?”

He shook his head.

“Lawyer,” I said and from the look on his face I knew that wasn't it. Those sorts of arms didn't come from crunching numbers, so he wasn't a stock trader. “Entrepreneur?”

He shrugged. “Got me. I own my own business.”

“Coal?” I gave him a playful wink, the kind that normally had them so certain of themselves.

“In a way. Iron.”

I'd met a lot of oil princes, quite a few stock market princes, but Liam was my first rust prince. We finished our meal with the barest of conversation, and I confess I was a little worried. Normally these guys couldn't wait to talk about their second favorite subject (their work) and their favorite subject (themselves). Liam was more the listening type. Given his face and his demeanor, he was definitely not a first son. First sons got all the good stuff—dashing good looks, a voice like a minstrel. Second sons got the okay stuff—they'd turn heads in the hall or on the field. By the time you got to a third son, the magic was sort of worn out.

I looked at him over my wine. “So what brings someone like you down to the waterfront on a day like this?”

He gave me a wide grin that looked kind of goofy. “I work hard. Sometimes it gets to me. So I decided to come down here, take a stroll. Then here you were,” he said, getting up.

The waiter came over with the check. Liam reached for it and I “accidentally” took it from his hand, running my fingers across his palm. “My treat,” I said, with a smile.

“That's not how a gentleman treats a lady.”

I was at least two steps ahead of him. “Make it up to me. I'm done here, but I'm in the mood for a stroll.”

He took my arm and we made our way down the waterfront. At the commercial pier, they had modern sculptures. We stood where the cold sea wind came in and listened to the chimes. I shivered in the wind and he leaned toward me.

“I'd offer you a jacket, but I don't usually wear one. I'm warm-blooded.”

So I leaned back into him and enjoyed the warmth. That moment, right there, is where it hit me like a wave coming in from the harbor. I was twenty-four, turning twenty-five in a few months. Home was a stale apartment with an answering machine that never blinked, and I hadn't seen or heard from my family in six years. In a few minutes, I'd walk a path I knew by heart. I'd waltzed on piers, walked through galleries, held a dozen hands, and broken a dozen hearts. None of those hands were mine to keep holding, and there was never a second dance. I was tired, and though the word never passed my lips, lonely.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

I blinked my eyes. “Nothing.” One more lie in a pile of them. As I moved away I heard my bracelet clink at the bottom of my purse, and something woke up inside me. It was sad, and empty, and I was sick of being the wrong girl for every Mr. Right.

“Let's go,” I said, and took his hand. That was a complete violation of the usual setup script.

I didn't care. In a few days he'd be Ari's prince, but right now he was mine. We had pictures done in caricature, and he laughed at how my eyes were twice the size of my nose. We walked close together through the artists' booths.

“I don't know your last name,” he said, as we admired paintings that weren't actually good. That's sort of a sticking point with me, and it didn't usually come up with princes. See, when my parents made the deal with Grimm, we had an agreement. The day I turned eighteen, Grimm hid my memories of them. He said it would make it easier, and in a way it did. Last names, phone numbers, addresses; I didn't remember any of them. We didn't often use last names in my business.

“Locks,” I said. Goldy Locks was how I usually signed into hotels when I was on a business trip.

“Well, Marissa Locks, I have to say this is the best day off I've ever had.”

I'd heard that a lot, but I didn't usually allow myself to enjoy this part. That would lead to tears. We passed the carousel, each horse hand-carved and over a hundred years old.

I let go of his hand and caught the fence. It was one of the things I did remember. Grimm couldn't hide the important memories. My dad brought me into the city for my birthday. I remembered riding it at night with him, when the world was a swirl of light.

Liam tugged at my hand. “Let's go.”

I allowed him to pull me away from the fence and prepared to continue our walk toward the marina. He ran down into the line for the carousel. He looked over his shoulder at me. “Coming?”

Definitely a third-string prince at best, but I liked him. The part of me that made good decisions was screaming at me, but I'd spent eight years listening to it every minute of every day, so I think it was a little hoarse. I joined him and we rode around and around, a bunch of kindergarteners and two adults riding high. I closed my eyes and listened to the music and the pull and the whirl, and drank in the memories.

In the late afternoon there were theater groups (which I loved) and mimes (whom I abhorred). They set up in the pavilion and we sat and listened to one fumbled line of Shakespeare after another.

“How many brothers do you have?” I asked, knowing full well this wasn't part of the script.

“Six, but one died before I was born.” That certainly explained where the magic went. “What do you do for a living, Marissa Locks?”

That question, at least, I had a good answer for. “I work part-time in loss recovery for clients, and sometimes as an errand runner, and sometimes I do whatever the boss says.” It was nice to give an answer that wasn't a lie. “Girl's gotta make a living.”

Liam laughed that soft laugh of his, the only true prince quality he had. In the evening sun the shine drifted lazily from him, and I wondered if he even saw it anymore. “I know how that goes. I once had a boss who was a real tyrant. It was his way or his way, and only his way. These days, I'm doing the things I want to, the way I want to.”

So was I, if only for a day. We had dinner at the pavilion, and of course I let him pay. We almost didn't get a table.

“I'm sorry, madam,” said the hostess, “but you are late for your reservation.” Grimm was slipping. Then again, I'd probably upset his predictions by not following the rules.

Liam stepped up, and I was sure he'd have a hundred- dollar bill in his hand and a threat in his voice, as they always did. “I've had a wonderful day with my friend here,” he said, “and nothing would make it end better than a meal here. Could you help me?”

Amateur. I bet his big brother would have put it differently, but Liam had his own way of handling things. He would have made a lousy king, but he was a gracious date.

“I have a table by the kitchen,” said the hostess, and we followed her back. It wasn't dinner under the stars, but it was fine. When it was done we danced by the marina to the band. It turns out all those self-defense moves had another use—dodging your dance partner.