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“Get in the car.”

“Where are we going?” He asks. His voice is dispassionate but I know his nature better. He’s curious, the wanker. Exasperated, I march around to the passenger side and wrench the door open myself. With the grandest gesture I can manage I wave him toward the seat. “You know,” he says, arching an eyebrow, “if I knew where we were going I could just...” He wiggles his fingers in a gesture that I’m supposed to interpret as “magic.”

“If you knew where we were going, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” I say. It’s a little difficult forming the words around my gritted teeth.

He sighs as if the weight of the world is carried on his thin but elegant shoulders. I wonder how much he weighs; half of my brain using my body flat on a bed with him on top as a scale, and the other half resolutely pondering how hard it would be to force him into the vehicle. Fortunately, I don’t have to try. Majestically he slides into the passenger seat. I don’t slam the door when I close it behind him.

At least, not very hard.

As I drive he regards me from behind those enigmatic eyes. I feel naked—no, I remind myself, no more of that. I feel flayed. My nerves are raw, I haven’t been sleeping well, and my fingers are cramped from holding my pencils so tight they threaten to shatter. This is not what I signed up for. I’m tired of it. I need rest. I need sleep.

I know, now, how to get it.

“You look tense, love,” he says. Another nerve snaps like the string on an over tuned ukulele. My hands tighten on the wheel and I remember that the red octagonal signs mean I’m supposed to stop. My brakes only squeal a little.

“I’m not tense,” I lie. “I’m tired. It’s exhausting having you for a muse, Your Majesty.”

“I agree,” he says. I must look a little shocked because he laughs that low, throaty laugh that makes me shiver and wish for a pencil so I can capture the line of his throat where it’s highlighted beneath the lamp light. “You really should prioritize your time better. If you stop with some of those silly commissions and really concentrated on my portraits you’d be so much better off. What’s that sound?”

It’s my teeth grinding. I don’t answer. He gives a shrug designed to make his jacket adjust to his frame a little better. I’ve learned in the last few years that the motion causes me to drool a bit. I can’t help it. Just call me Pavlov. I swallow heavily and try to remember the address that I memorized earlier.

He taps his chin with one gloved finger and studies the streets as they flash past. I hope there aren’t any cops around. I wouldn’t mind the speeding ticket, but having to explain why my “friend” has hair like that, and pants like that... it’s more than I want to deal with tonight.

Three years of this. Three years since he first found me. Three years of goblins stealing my stuff, of being awakened at all hours of the night because his royal Vanity needed a new portrait Right Now. Three years of chicken feathers turning up in the worst places.

Never, never, never should have taken him up on his offer. “A gift my arse,” I mutter. More like a curse. Mortals were never meant to live such dreams. Well, I have to amend, most mortals.

“You’re taking me home?” he says suddenly, glancing around with interest. “I usually fly this way, I recognize the street.”

“Home?” I say. “I thought you lived in the Underground?” This is unexpected.

He smirks. “Sometimes,” he says, but fails to elaborate. We pull up in front of an address that turns out to be a fairly decent apartment building not far from the college campus. “You honestly didn’t know I lived here?”

“No,” I say. He laughs again. I force myself to keep my hands on the wheel and off his pretty throat. “C’mon,” I say, trying to maintain some control over the dissolving situation. We get out and he follows slightly behind me as we approach the building, radiating amusement. There’s a short guy standing outside the front door, smoking a pipe. At first I think it’s a kid, so I try to get another look, but Jareth grabs my arm.

“Not wise,” he says. “Don’t make eye contact. Just go inside, love.”

With a shrug I manage to dislodge him, but I can still feel the heat of his gloved hand on my arm, like after burn. The lobby is quiet, the management gone for the night. There’s a lift at the end of the hall and he follows me on, still with that same smug expression. He helpfully pushes a button, I assume, to his floor. Deliberately I push the button for the floor below his. His eyebrow raises, but he’s blessedly silent and irritatingly smug. Still, he’s curious.

When the doors open I decide I shouldn’t take any chances. With a firm grasp on one of his ridiculous sleeves I tow him out of the lift and down the hall. He manages to follow gracefully, in spite of my death grip. “B6, B8, B10... Ah!” I say. “B12”

If I pounded on the door harder than necessary, who could blame me? I hear voices inside, two women maybe. The door opens on a pretty young woman, close to my own age, with long cascading blond curls and a surprised expression. I can feel her scan me, from my unkempt ponytail to my paint stained shoes, then she registers my “guest.”

“Sarah Williams?” I ask. I try not to sound too desperate but I’m sure it shows. She smiles with amusement. I’m so damned tired of these people being amused at my expense.

“One moment,” she says, the words lightly accented French. “Sarah! You have visitors!”

I can feel him tense up behind me. “Perhaps this isn’t—,” he says.

“Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” I say. He tries to pull away, but even with his slightly better than human strength I manage to root him in place. My determination is stronger. A breath later she’s at the door. Older than I remember her, with long dark hair and flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

“Can I help you?” She says, then sees him behind me and backs up.

“Please,” I say, dragging him forward and shoving him at her with all my strength. “Please take him back. You’re my only hope. I can’t deal with him anymore. Every day, every night, goblins! In my kitchen, in my bedroom, drinking from the toilet, knocking things over. And chickens! And moldy cheese and SOCKS! And this one, constantly, ‘paint me, paint me, paint me, look how sexy I am, how can you resist, paint me!’ I’ve had it! I can’t take it any longer. I need sleep. I need to breathe without inhaling glitter. I need my socks back! Please, can’t you just do whatever it is he wants from you? Just, you know, fear him, love him... whatever it takes! He’s crazy about you. Really, honestly, truly crazy! Like head over heels! And he makes me paint him all the time so he can show you how hot he is and how lucky you’d be if you’d just make out with him for an hour or two! So please, take him and the goblins and the socks and the PANTS! Please!”

I pause for breath.

There’s silence. She stares at me like I’m some strange creature straight out of her dreams and he stares at me like I’ve laid an egg or something, and the blonde chick peers over their shoulders with a cell phone in hand, looking nervous. “Sarah,” Blondie whispers over my panting breath, “do we need to call the cops?”

Sarah shakes her head slowly. She turns to look at him. She frowns. He actually cringes a little.

“Thank you for bringing him back,” she says, as if I’ve returned a lost cat. “You,” she points a finger at his chest, poking him in the sternum, “have some explaining to do, Goblin King.” He winces a little.

I don’t stay for his answer. Like the coward I am I slink back down the hall, leaving them to bicker in the doorway. The trip down the elevator is blissfully quiet. The little man with the pipe is gone when I step outside and take my first free breath in what seems like years. It might even be. My car glides down the city streets, windows down, night wind bathing my face. I know I’ll sleep tonight.

When I get home, I tidy up. Carefully I wipe up all the glitter on the counter tops, sweep it off the kitchen floor, and vacuum it out of the carpets. I throw out a garbage bag full of assorted chicken and owl feathers. I sleep on glitter free sheets and when I dream it’s about normal things, like Hilary Duff turning into a giant cat monster and ravaging the city with magical cyclones.

I hit the snooze button six times in the morning, just for the luxury of staying in bed. I make myself tea that doesn’t have sparkly bits in it, and sit down at my sketchbook and stare happily at the blank page.

The phone rings. “Hello?”

“Sarah says that I should be more polite and call ahead if I want to commission a portrait,” drawls his voice over the line. “I’ll be around in about an hour.”

Description
“Get in the car.”

“Where are we going?” He asks. His voice is dispassionate but I know his nature better. He’s curious, the wanker. Exasperated, I march around to the passenger side and wrench the door open myself. With the grandest gesture I can manage I wave him toward the seat. “You know,” he says, arching an eyebrow, “if I knew where we were going I could just...” He wiggles his fingers in a gesture that I’m supposed to interpret as “magic.”

“If you knew where we were going, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” I say. It’s a little difficult forming the words around my gritted teeth.

He sighs as if the weight of the world is carried on his thin but elegant shoulders. I wonder how much he weighs; half of my brain using my body flat on a bed with him on top as a scale, and the other half resolutely pondering how hard it would be to force him into the vehicle. Fortunately, I don’t have to try. Majestically he slides into the passenger seat. I don’t slam the door when I close it behind him.

At least, not very hard.

As I drive he regards me from behind those enigmatic eyes. I feel naked—no, I remind myself, no more of that. I feel flayed. My nerves are raw, I haven’t been sleeping well, and my fingers are cramped from holding my pencils so tight they threaten to shatter. This is not what I signed up for. I’m tired of it. I need rest. I need sleep.

I know, now, how to get it.

“You look tense, love,” he says. Another nerve snaps like the string on an over tuned ukulele. My hands tighten on the wheel and I remember that the red octagonal signs mean I’m supposed to stop. My brakes only squeal a little.

“I’m not tense,” I lie. “I’m tired. It’s exhausting having you for a muse, Your Majesty.”

“I agree,” he says. I must look a little shocked because he laughs that low, throaty laugh that makes me shiver and wish for a pencil so I can capture the line of his throat where it’s highlighted beneath the lamp light. “You really should prioritize your time better. If you stop with some of those silly commissions and really concentrated on my portraits you’d be so much better off. What’s that sound?”

It’s my teeth grinding. I don’t answer. He gives a shrug designed to make his jacket adjust to his frame a little better. I’ve learned in the last few years that the motion causes me to drool a bit. I can’t help it. Just call me Pavlov. I swallow heavily and try to remember the address that I memorized earlier.

He taps his chin with one gloved finger and studies the streets as they flash past. I hope there aren’t any cops around. I wouldn’t mind the speeding ticket, but having to explain why my “friend” has hair like that, and pants like that... it’s more than I want to deal with tonight.

Three years of this. Three years since he first found me. Three years of goblins stealing my stuff, of being awakened at all hours of the night because his royal Vanity needed a new portrait Right Now. Three years of chicken feathers turning up in the worst places.

Never, never, never should have taken him up on his offer. “A gift my arse,” I mutter. More like a curse. Mortals were never meant to live such dreams. Well, I have to amend, most mortals.

“You’re taking me home?” he says suddenly, glancing around with interest. “I usually fly this way, I recognize the street.”

“Home?” I say. “I thought you lived in the Underground?” This is unexpected.

He smirks. “Sometimes,” he says, but fails to elaborate. We pull up in front of an address that turns out to be a fairly decent apartment building not far from the college campus. “You honestly didn’t know I lived here?”

“No,” I say. He laughs again. I force myself to keep my hands on the wheel and off his pretty throat. “C’mon,” I say, trying to maintain some control over the dissolving situation. We get out and he follows slightly behind me as we approach the building, radiating amusement. There’s a short guy standing outside the front door, smoking a pipe. At first I think it’s a kid, so I try to get another look, but Jareth grabs my arm.

“Not wise,” he says. “Don’t make eye contact. Just go inside, love.”

With a shrug I manage to dislodge him, but I can still feel the heat of his gloved hand on my arm, like after burn. The lobby is quiet, the management gone for the night. There’s a lift at the end of the hall and he follows me on, still with that same smug expression. He helpfully pushes a button, I assume, to his floor. Deliberately I push the button for the floor below his. His eyebrow raises, but he’s blessedly silent and irritatingly smug. Still, he’s curious.

When the doors open I decide I shouldn’t take any chances. With a firm grasp on one of his ridiculous sleeves I tow him out of the lift and down the hall. He manages to follow gracefully, in spite of my death grip. “B6, B8, B10... Ah!” I say. “B12”

If I pounded on the door harder than necessary, who could blame me? I hear voices inside, two women maybe. The door opens on a pretty young woman, close to my own age, with long cascading blond curls and a surprised expression. I can feel her scan me, from my unkempt ponytail to my paint stained shoes, then she registers my “guest.”

“Sarah Williams?” I ask. I try not to sound too desperate but I’m sure it shows. She smiles with amusement. I’m so damned tired of these people being amused at my expense.

“One moment,” she says, the words lightly accented French. “Sarah! You have visitors!”

I can feel him tense up behind me. “Perhaps this isn’t—,” he says.

“Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” I say. He tries to pull away, but even with his slightly better than human strength I manage to root him in place. My determination is stronger. A breath later she’s at the door. Older than I remember her, with long dark hair and flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

“Can I help you?” She says, then sees him behind me and backs up.

“Please,” I say, dragging him forward and shoving him at her with all my strength. “Please take him back. You’re my only hope. I can’t deal with him anymore. Every day, every night, goblins! In my kitchen, in my bedroom, drinking from the toilet, knocking things over. And chickens! And moldy cheese and SOCKS! And this one, constantly, ‘paint me, paint me, paint me, look how sexy I am, how can you resist, paint me!’ I’ve had it! I can’t take it any longer. I need sleep. I need to breathe without inhaling glitter. I need my socks back! Please, can’t you just do whatever it is he wants from you? Just, you know, fear him, love him... whatever it takes! He’s crazy about you. Really, honestly, truly crazy! Like head over heels! And he makes me paint him all the time so he can show you how hot he is and how lucky you’d be if you’d just make out with him for an hour or two! So please, take him and the goblins and the socks and the PANTS! Please!”

I pause for breath.

There’s silence. She stares at me like I’m some strange creature straight out of her dreams and he stares at me like I’ve laid an egg or something, and the blonde chick peers over their shoulders with a cell phone in hand, looking nervous. “Sarah,” Blondie whispers over my panting breath, “do we need to call the cops?”

Sarah shakes her head slowly. She turns to look at him. She frowns. He actually cringes a little.

“Thank you for bringing him back,” she says, as if I’ve returned a lost cat. “You,” she points a finger at his chest, poking him in the sternum, “have some explaining to do, Goblin King.” He winces a little.

I don’t stay for his answer. Like the coward I am I slink back down the hall, leaving them to bicker in the doorway. The trip down the elevator is blissfully quiet. The little man with the pipe is gone when I step outside and take my first free breath in what seems like years. It might even be. My car glides down the city streets, windows down, night wind bathing my face. I know I’ll sleep tonight.

When I get home, I tidy up. Carefully I wipe up all the glitter on the counter tops, sweep it off the kitchen floor, and vacuum it out of the carpets. I throw out a garbage bag full of assorted chicken and owl feathers. I sleep on glitter free sheets and when I dream it’s about normal things, like Hilary Duff turning into a giant cat monster and ravaging the city with magical cyclones.

I hit the snooze button six times in the morning, just for the luxury of staying in bed. I make myself tea that doesn’t have sparkly bits in it, and sit down at my sketchbook and stare happily at the blank page.

The phone rings. “Hello?”

“Sarah says that I should be more polite and call ahead if I want to commission a portrait,” drawls his voice over the line. “I’ll be around in about an hour.”