Charming Blue
Authors: Kristine Grayson
Copyright © 2012 by Kristine K. Rusch
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Jodi Welter
Cover images © Thomas Barrat/Shutterstock.com, Zoonar RF/JupiterImages.com, Goodshoot/JupiterImages.com
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Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
An excerpt from
Wickedly Charming
For my wonderful husband, as always
Chapter 1
Ninety-five degrees in the shade, and still the magical gathered outside Jodi’s office, pacing through the landscaping, huddling under the gigantic palms, pushing past blooming birds of paradise that she spent a small fortune on, and leaning on the fountain she paid some city administrator extra just so she could keep it running in the middle of the day. She needed that damn fountain, not because she liked flaunting water laws, but because any minute now a cell phone would explode, and its owner would throw it in panic.
Usually the magical would have enough presence of mind to throw an exploding cell phone
at
water, although she had learned over her long and storied career that using the words “the magical” and “presence of mind” in the same sentence could be a recipe for disaster.
She pulled her sporty red Mercedes convertible into driveway, waved at her current, potential, and former clients, and parked under the carport, dreading the next few minutes. She would have to thread her way along the curved tile sidewalk that she put in a decade or more ago, before cell phones forced her magical clients to stand outside (she
hated
it when cell phones exploded inside). Back then, she thought the smokers might be a problem, so she installed an antique upright ashtray that she bought at a flea market—one of those ashtrays, she had been assured, that had stood on the MGM lot back when Clark Gable roamed the premises.
The ashtray still got a lot of use, but mostly the cell phone users had pushed the smokers aside. And no matter how much she told her magical clients that the longer they used a phone, the more likely it was to explode, they never listened to her.
Of course, you really couldn’t survive in Los Angeles without a phone. She bought hers in bulk. The manager at the phone store finally taught her how to transfer her number to a new phone, so she wasn’t stopping in every other day demanding an emergency phone repair.
She grabbed her purse, today’s phone, and her briefcase, stuffed to the gills with contracts, memos, and all that junk computers were supposed to replace.
By the time she waggled her car door open, she nearly hit four dwarves (of the Snow White variety), two selkies (clothed, thank heavens), and one troll. He was a sweetie named Gunther whom she used to find regular work for in Abbott and Costello movies, before he returned to the Kingdoms. Now that he had come back to the Greater World, she was having trouble placing him, which she thought was just plain weird, given the popularity of fantasy movies these days. But whenever he went to a casting call, he was told to remove his costume, and he couldn’t, since he truly was tall, gray, stone-like, and glowery.
She hadn’t figured out a way around that yet, but she would.
“I don’t have time, Gunther,” she said as she slung her purse over her shoulder and closed the car door with her foot. She hadn’t looked, so she hoped she didn’t catch one of the small magical in that move. Pixies in particular liked to get between cars and doors.
But no one screamed, so she was probably safe.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, Miss Walters,” Gunther said slowly, ever proper. He had nineteenth-century manners, which was another reason she loved him. “But I do need a moment—”
“Can Ramon deal with it?” she asked. “Because I have an emergency.”
She wasn’t sure what the emergency was, but Ramon, her assistant, had called her out of a meeting with Disney and told her she was needed in the office. The Disney meeting was a bust anyway. For some reason the kid in charge, and he really was a kid (twenty-five if he was a day), thought she worked in animation. She couldn’t seem to convince the kid that she
didn’t
work in animation, so she was happy to leave.
Still, it was unlike Ramon to interrupt her at all. He was the best assistant she had ever had, which was saying something, considering how many of her assistants went on to manage Fortune 500 companies. Ramon knew how important the meeting was in Hollywood, even if it was a bust-deal with Disney.
“I
hope
Ramon can deal with it,” Gunther said slowly. He was trying to keep up with her, which showed just how panicked he was. Trolls didn’t like to walk fast. “It’s the first of the month…”
She stopped, closed her eyes, and sighed. The first of the month. Of course. The rent was due. And Gunther couldn’t get work, even though when he returned to the Greater World she had told him she’d have no trouble placing him. All the
Lord
of
the
Rings
knockoff films, the Syfy Channel, the five fairy tale movies in development in three different studios—she had thought at least one of them would need a troll. A real, honest-to-God troll, not something CGIed. But so far, no takers, and Gunther was reluctant to go home and ask for more gold from his family so that he could pay his rent.
“Okay,” she said. “Sit quietly in the waiting room. I’ll have something for you after I solve this emergency.”
Gunther nodded. It took him nearly a half an hour to smile, and the smile was never worth the wait. (In fact, it was a bit creepy.) So the nod had to do.
At least his bulky presence had dissuaded some of her other clients from approaching her. She smiled at them all, held up a hand, and kept repeating, “Make an appointment, make an appointment,” as she headed to the front door.
Her office was in a 1920s Hollywood-style bungalow, which meant that it had been upgraded and expanded far outside of its original floor plan. The house had belonged to some important starlet before the Crash of 1929, and then purchased by an even more important starlet in the 1930s, “improved” by said starlet’s second husband (a successful screenwriter) in the 1940s, and suffered a decline along with the studio system in the 1950s. An entire counterculture of hippies lived in it during the 1960s, and it was nearly condemned in the 1970s, until Jodi bought it, restored it, and “improved” it some more.
Now it had air conditioning, a large pool for her mer-clients, a cabana, and four other side buildings. She had kept her office in the main building, the historic bungalow, even though she kept thinking she should move to the very back, away from the crowds.
And she had crowds, every single day. This client, that client, this friend of a client, that enemy of an old flame. They made her head spin. She had hired help, but none of them had the organizational magic that she did. They had all been competent, but none were as good as she was.
She had come from a family of chatelaines, the people who kept the castles and great manor houses of the Kingdoms functioning. Her family had served—and still did serve—some of the greatest rulers the various Kingdoms had ever known.
But Jodi was a modern woman, one who did not want to waste her time managing someone else’s household. She had fled the Third Kingdom in the early twentieth century, when it became clear that modernity would cause tensions in the Kingdoms themselves.
Until the late nineteenth century, the Kingdoms were isolated from this place, which folks in the Kingdoms called the Greater World. Sure, there was occasional crossover, mostly from literary types. Shakespeare stole half his oeuvre from his Kingdom visits, and Washington Irving had written down Rip Van Winkle’s story damn near verbatim, only changing the name of the poor hapless mortal who had stumbled through a portal between the Greater World and the Fourteenth Kingdom.