One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.
I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and
the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast
library at my father’s home and collected thousands
of volumes of fantastic tales.
I learned all about ancient races and bygone
times. About myths and legends and dreams of all
people through the millennium. And the more I read
the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered
that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually
become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: شهريار, “king”) married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
Chapter One
“Girls! What have I told you about running around Uncle Ollie’s house? You could step on a nail or knock over a can of paint. Plus, it’s not polite to go crazy when you’re a guest.”
The girls stopped on a dime, then aimed angelic faces in his direction. “Sorry, Uncle Ollie,” Lara said, her big, brown eyes on him. She poked her little sister, Anne, a wide-eyed imp, who piped up with, “We’ll be good.”
Ollie grinned. “You two are always good. Clearly your mom is confused.”
At nine, Lara immediately burst out laughing, but the more literal seven-year-old frowned, then shook her head. “No, Uncle Ollie. We were being little pests.”
He shot a glance toward their mother, Nikki. She tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear, her sea-green eyes dancing as she struggled not to laugh. “You, my friend, are a bad influence.”
“Hell, yeah,” he said with a shrug. “Isn’t that part of the Uncle job description?”
“It’s definitely part of being an aunt,” Jamie said from across the room. The three of them—Ollie, Jamie, and Nikki—had formed a tight triangle of friendship back in Texas, and those bonds had held strong over the years and the miles. They’d been tested, sure, but there were no two people he loved and trusted more in the world than Jamie and Nikki.
“Oh, come on, James,” Nikki said. “Being an aunt has nothing to do with it. You’ve always been a bad influence.”
“She has a point,” Ollie said dryly, then pretended to cower under her glare. Whereas Nikki had a girl-next-door beauty that suggested innocence, Jamie was nothing short of wildly sexy with a definite hint of badassery, a fact she knew well. And which she’d used to her advantage on more than one occasion before she’d met her match in Ryan Hunter.
Now, she shrugged, then looked at the kids. “What can I say? Your mom and uncle know me well.”
Lara giggled, but Anne asked, “Can we have some cookies now?”
“Yes, can we?” Lara chimed in.
The entourage had arrived with a dozen freshly baked chocolate chip cookies from Upper Crust, an amazing beachfront bakery near Nikki and Damien’s Malibu house.
“I thought we were giving those to Uncle Ollie,” Nikki said, making Lara roll her eyes.
“Mommmy. You know he’d just share with us anyway.”
Anne nodded. “Uncle Ollie is very polite.”
“Only one each. Daddy’s taking us to dinner tonight. More than one means no dessert.”
They raced toward the kitchen, their responses of okay and thank you drifting back to the adults.
“Anything in there that will send a couple of rambunctious kids to the ER?” Nikki asked.
“Actually, the kitchen’s mostly done,” Ollie said. “I still need to put the cabinet doors back on, but at least this way we’ll see them if they decide to hide.”
“Do you want us to hang out for a bit? I wouldn’t be any help if you were laying tile, but I can attach a cabinet door.”
“She says,” Jamie retorted. “I won’t believe her until I see it with my own eyes.”
“Then it’s going to stay a mystery,” Ollie said. “I’m not putting you two to work. I’m just glad you were able to swing by.” Nikki had called earlier to see if he wanted to join them for lunch, and when he’d said that he was tied up painting, they decided to come see the progress.
“You’re doing an amazing job,” Nikki said. “The front of the house looks great, and the entry hall is amazing. I love the tile.”
“I wasn’t sure about it,” he admitted. “But Mom had Saltillo tile in the Highland Park house. Nostalgia,” he added, then winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Nikki said. “I’m nostalgic for the time I spent at your house, too.”
He knew she meant it, but he still wished he hadn’t said anything. He adored his parents, and he’d loved growing up in the posh Dallas neighborhood. Being next door to Nikki had only made it better.
For her, though, those years had been torture. The visits to his house were rare moments when she was free of her abusive bitch of a mother.
“This part is looking great,” Jamie said coming back from where she’d been peeking into one of the halls. “But you’ve still got your work cut out for you back there.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Why don’t you hire someone to come in and get it finished? Jackson could recommend a zillion contractors,” she added, referring to Nikki’s brother-in-law, a world-renowned architect.
“Because he wants to do it himself,” Nikki said. “I get that.”
“Yeah,” Jamie said with a shake of her head. “Not so much. But whatever floats your boat.”
“Seriously, though,” Nikki said, “put us to work. Or is getting out of your hair the most useful thing we can do?”