Genie Knows Best (29 page)

But then the bells over the service door jingled, and Obo jumped to his paws so fast it was a wonder he
didn’t
knock her bottle over. He ducked behind the black marble obelisk on the shelf next to her.

“If you’re counting on the lack of sunlight to hide you, it’s not working,” she whispered, flicking the butterflies and hummingbirds onto the gardenia and honeysuckle bushes in her flower garden and Humphrey onto the mini acacia tree he used as a perch when she let him fly around. The twirling glass balls went into the padded box that prevented them from breaking whenever someone moved the bottle. “You better get out of here, Obo.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” The cat wiggled his butt trying to shrink into the shadows. “I have to go out the way he’s coming in, so we’ll need to distract him.”

“Keep talking and that ought to do it,” she whispered, using her magic to clean up a spot of yellow the rainbow had left behind.

Mr. Murphy walked into the room, but didn’t flip over the
open
sign like usual. Instead, he went behind a French Provincial sideboard beneath a Baroque mirror and brought out a large cardboard box—an empty one—that he soon started filling with every knickknack from the top of the sideboard. And from the bookcase next to that. And the top of the retro refrigerator next to that.

Eden ducked behind the big stone marker Hadrian had given her as thanks for the carpet ride all those years ago when he’d surveyed the land for his wall. True, Mr. Murphy wouldn’t be able to see her spying on him, but years of habits weren’t so easily forgotten, no matter how rarely utilized those habits were. “This doesn’t look good.”

“Gee, ya think?” Obo muttered, his back end tiptoeing toward the edge of the shelf. “I’m outta here, babe.” With that, Obo executed the perfect stealthy leap cats were known for, hit the floor running, and was into the back room before Mr. Murphy heard anything.

Lucky Obo. Eden could only sit and worry.

***

Obo nudged his way out of the back of the shop. Skulking in the shadows again. Story of his life—and one he was heartily sick of.

For years, over two thousand of them, he’d been hiding. First from the assassins, then from tomb raiders, then from anyone who wanted a “pet kitty.” He’d lived a life of luxury before being on the run, and while pâté and room service were heavenly, the plotting and backstabbing by usurpers was anything but. He’d been done with that life when his mistress had ended hers, and he hadn’t looked back. Obo looked out for one thing and one thing only: his own life.

With the end of it approaching—nine magical lives could only take a cat so far—he had to look out for his
After
life now.

Walking along the back of the store, Obo tried to keep his paws out of the puddles. Futile, but worth a shot because nothing was worse than soggy paws. Well, except burning ones. He might complain about the weather here, but it definitely beat the hot sands of the desert. If he never saw a desert again, it’d be too soon.

Getting out of that part of the world had been an added bonus to Bastet’s offer: keep an eye on Eden and balance the heavenly scales for a good number of his transgressions. He had a
lot
of transgressions to make up for, so this seemed to be a simple enough task.

All he’d had to do was pack up his meager belongings and get himself to this part of the world, then provide monthly reports via the mockingbird the goddess had sent to, well,
mock
him. A bird was her messenger? Seriously? Bastet was a cat goddess and she sent a
bird
to collect her reports? There was probably some sort of test in that, too: don’t kill the messenger and knock off two extra bad deeds from his celestial tally.

However the goddess was keeping tabs, Obo was in.

A gutter groaned overhead, and its contents gushed down in front of him, a good portion splashing off the concrete and soaking his fur. He wouldn’t mind being
in
right now, but any of his regulars—mortals who took in stray cats—lived far enough from Eden’s store that he’d be just as soaked anyway.

Obo shook the rain water off and rounded the end of the building. Maybe Wilson would provide some cover. At least he could hang out in the branches to keep his paws somewhat dry.

He dragged himself into the crook of Wilson’s lowest branch just as Mr. Murphy walked out of his store and dumped that cardboard box on top of a garbage can by the curb, then ran back inside and adjusted the
closed
sign.

What was the mortal up to? Why was he tossing things he’d been trying to sell? Cardboard dissolved in this much rain. It didn’t make any sense.

Then a trash truck turned the corner and it suddenly did.

Except—

Son-of-a-bichon! The top of Eden’s bottle was sticking out of that box!

Once again, a huge, heartfelt thank-you to my Egyptian friend, Tarek Amer, for all of his help with the Arabic, customs, references, and sayings, and for giving his time. Any mistakes are all mine. And to Valerie Amer for the fabulous dinner at Little Marakesh. (And our great concert tickets!)

To the owners and staff at Little Marakesh, in particular, Alycea Moss, whose knowledge was incredibly helpful, thank you for a delicious evening, amazing ambiance, and wonderful entertainment.

To Deb Werksman, my editor. I can’t say thank you enough for making my stories so much better. Congratulations on being named editor of the year!

To my agent, Jennifer Schober, for all you do.

To Sue Grimshaw, for all you’ve done.

To Steph for walking me through it. Over and over. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. You are worth more than any goddess’s amulet. ;)

To The Wisdom, my Writing Wombats, possessors of all types of information, who so amazingly and generously share their time and expertise, in particular, beta readers and grammarians extraordinaire: Beth Hill, Wanda Hughes, Jill Lynn Anderson, Olivia Cunning, and Wendy Christy. Thank you for your help, speedy reads, and great insight!

And especially to my readers. Thank you for coming on this (magic carpet) ride with me—it’s because of you that I can do this.

Judi Fennell has had her nose in a book and her head in some celestial realm all her life, including those early years when her mom would exhort her to “get outside!” instead of watching
Bewitched
or
I
Dream
of
Jeannie
on television. So she did—right into Dad’s hammock with her Nancy Drew books.

These days she’s more likely to have her nose in her laptop and her head (and the rest of her body) at her favorite writing spot, but she’s still reading, whether it be her latest manuscript or friends’ books.

A PRISM-Award winner, Golden Leaf award winner, and author of the Mer series:
In
Over
Her
Head
,
Wild
Blue
Under
, and
Catch
of
a
Lifetime
, and Book 1 of the Bottled Magic series,
I
Dream
of
Genies,
Judi enjoys hearing from her readers. Check out on her website at www.JudiFennell.com for excerpts, deleted scenes, reviews, contests, and pictures from reader and writer conferences, as well as the chance to discover a whole new world!