Granting Wishes - An Aladdin Retelling (Once Upon a Curse Book 5) Read online

  Shouts cut through the chaos.

  The crowd parts and a hundred feet ahead, in the center of a square, I see four warriors in black sitting on horses. A whip snaps through the air and everyone on the street pauses. I freeze—not out of fear, but because finally, I see Mace. He’s with the group of prisoners chained up behind the horses. I could spot his cherry high-tops from a mile away. I did, after all, rag on him for a week after he bought them. They’re the most ridiculous shoes I’ve ever seen, yet right now, I could kiss him for being such an arrogant idiot. He’s huddled with the others by the base of some sort of fountain. The carved statue glistens with moisture, and the stones are a dark, wet brown compared to the more honeyed hue of all the other buildings around me. It must’ve broken in the quake because I don’t see a spout. The area has an air of importance—an idea that’s confirmed a moment later when a horn sounds in announcement.

  The people go quiet.

  The subtle thump of marching feet echoes down the streets, growing louder and louder, until a carriage appears. It’s not pulled by horses, but rather carried on the shoulders of a dozen men. The top is gilded and bright in the sun. The sides are decorated with mosaic tiles, gaudy and almost shockingly colorful against the monotone tan of everything else. There are no windows, but rather carved wooden trellises that keep whoever resides inside steeped in shadow while still providing air. It’s the king—it has to be—or at least someone royal. The entire city is still and silent. I’m half expecting a tumbleweed to roll by.

  Instead, a voice booms.

  “Citizens of Bahagar, do not be afraid.” I feel the words in my soul, as though they aren’t coming from the air, but from within, as though the speaker has a direct connection to my eardrums. “Though the events of the day go beyond our understanding of the world, our family has watched over this kingdom for generations and our promise to you remains unchanged. We will protect you. We will provide for you. We will not let foreign enemies steal your home or your lands. We do not know who they are, but we know what they are—flesh and bone. And like all the usurpers who have come before them, they will soon discover that flesh and bone have no power here.”

  The quiet returns but the king must have given some sort of signal, because one of the warriors in black climbs down from his horse. The clang of his metal plates and whine of his leathers are loud in the silence, as are his steps, an ominous stomp, stomp, stomp that mirrors the thudding pound inside my chest. He grabs one of the prisoners by the neck and shoves him forward. It’s not someone I recognize, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand anyway. My gaze darts to Mace, but his eyes are locked on the prisoner. The warrior removes the man’s chains and pushes him so he stumbles forward, separated from the rest. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt beneath a green apron with the logo of the coffee shop around the corner from our high school. He’s a barista, probably in college, not that old now that I look at him. His hair is shaggy and unkempt. His hands tremble. His face is angled toward the ground as though he’s too terrified to look up or even move. He’s frozen and shaking and I want to look away, but I can’t.

  The warrior steps forward and slides his sword from its scabbard. A tingle shoots down my spine as the steel rings. The prisoner flinches, but the warrior doesn’t move any closer. He just stands there, holding his sword before his face, waiting. We’re all waiting. The world is quiet with waiting. A buzz grows beneath my skin and across the air—suffocating anticipation. I think we all feel it, for different reasons, maybe. The people of the city look at the barista as though he’s a dragon that might blow fire at any moment. I know he’s just a guy probably trying to pay off student loans, but they don’t. How could they? He looks different, and to so many, different automatically means dangerous, though that’s hardly ever the case. They’re as terrified of him as he is of them. The only difference is right now, they have the power.

  I want to step forward.

  I want to speak up.

  Maybe if I can speak in English to the prisoners and Erick’s language to the rest, I can explain what’s going on. I can negotiate some sort of release. I can clarify that we mean no harm, that we’re just as confused and terrified as they are. I can describe everything Erick told me, and maybe we could, maybe we can—

  The barista breaks under the pressure of so many foreign eyes. Something snaps. I can see it in his eyes as he looks up. Before I can say anything, he sprints forward. A growl releases from his lips as he charges the warrior, some sort of animal instinct to fight for his life. The warrior doesn’t even flinch. His sword is level, held perfectly straight before his face. His feet are square. I’m waiting for him to launch into action, to provide a single lethal strike.

  Instead, the barista explodes.

  Literally.

  One second he’s running, and the next he’s nothing more than a cloud of red mist hanging in the air. A ruddy stain seeps into the sandy pavement. Drop after drop falls like rain as the cloud disintegrates.

  A scream cuts through the silence.

  I don’t realize it’s me until I feel my throat burning.

  Eyes turn toward me, too many to count, but there’s only one set I see—Mason’s. Those hazel eyes find mine through the crowd, wide with a mixture of relief, fear, and utter disbelief. I’m sure mine look the same, wild yet somehow tamed by the fact we know we still have each other. From the corners of my eyes, I see the warriors in black spin, searching for the source of that cry. The people close to me step back, distancing themselves. I don’t look away from Mace. I can’t, because nausea churns deep in my gut, the rotten sense that it might be the last time I ever see him again.

  Someone grabs my hand and yanks.

  Mace disappears as I stumble to the side and slam into a hard chest.

  “Hey—”

  A warm palm covers my lips, cutting off my protest, as my back is pushed into the rough side of a building. I glance up into the most piercing gaze I’ve ever met. Deep brown eyes laced with golden highlights stare down at me, alight with sympathy, as though this stranger can see all the way into my soul. His thick black brows press together in concern, and I can’t help but notice he’s got the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen as he darts his gaze to the side once before returning it to me. The rest of his face is hidden behind cream fabric, stark against the dark olive tone of his skin. For some reason, I’m itching to see more.

  “It’s not a good day to be an outsider in Bahagar,” he murmurs, voice deep and smooth, like the purr of a panther in the night. “If you want to live, follow me.”

  Well, when you put it that way…

  The stranger drops his hand from my lips and uses his other one to grab my fingers before pulling me down a side street. Though every fiber of my being wants to stay behind with Mace, I know I’m our only chance out of this mess—and I won’t be able to do very much if I spontaneously combust. So I follow the stranger around a corner, losing myself in his city.

  “Was that magic?” I ask, forcing my voice to come out steady.

  He doesn’t respond. He just keeps pulling me along.

  “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere safe,” he says without glancing back.

  I’m starting to believe that no such place exists.

  Still, I keep pace with him as we swerve down side streets, cutting and turning as much as possible. The heavy thump of boots on stone haunts my ears, warriors chasing after us. At first, it’s all I can hear, but gradually my own heavy breathing drowns out the sounds of pursuit. We’re gaining distance, but I’m not sure if it’s sufficient. I don’t blend in enough to hide in plain sight. We need to get off the streets, and the stranger must think the same. Halfway down the next road, he cuts sharply to the left and rams his shoulder into a door, which flies open. As soon as I step inside, he shuts it behind me, drenching us in shadow. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware that I’m in a strange city, with a strange man, in a sealed building where no one would think to find me
.

  I step back and wrench my hand free. “Who are you? Why are you helping me?”

  “I’ll answer all your questions,” he says smoothly, voice a rumble in the dark. I can only just see the whites of his eyes and the subtle glow of his cream cloak. “But first, come with me.”

  Yeah. I’ve heard that line before. “Where? Why? Who are you?”

  “Cyrus.” He sighs heavily. “My name is Cyrus.”

  “And why are you helping me?”

  “Because…” He cuts off, leaving the air heavy. His lips smack as he licks them, then draws in a deep breath. “Because I’ve spent eighteen years bottling up my screams, and in a single instant, you showed me the truth. We shouldn’t be silent. We should be appalled. In your cry, I finally found the courage to do what I’ve been waiting my entire life to do—defy the king. Now please, let me finish what I started. Let me save you.”

  He extends his hand forward.

  My mom told me never to trust boys who are smooth with words. They’re too practiced, too deliberate, too rehearsed when life is supposed to be stumbling and awkward and real. But this feels different. Maybe it’s the raw emotion in his tone, the depth to the words, or the subtle fragility to his final plea—I’m not sure what.

  Against my better instincts, I believe him.

  Cyrus laces his fingers through mine and leads me through the dark. His palm is hot and his touch sends a fiery current up my arm, making my skin tingle. My heart flutters embarrassingly in my chest and I take a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden bout of nerves. I’m not used to being alone with boys, especially boys with sultry eyes like his. Surrounded by shadows with nothing to distract me, I can’t help it as the memory of his stare surges to the forefront of my thoughts, making my stomach flip. After school, I always have gymnastics practice, then homework. On the weekends, I have competitions. Sprinkled through all of that are my hours at the rock wall earning some much-needed cash. My free time is sacred and usually reserved for my best friends, who, contrary to depictions of teenage girls on television and film, aren’t boy-crazed. We go hiking. We go to the beach. We aren’t really the partying types. Sure, I’ve been kissed a few times, but not so much I’d consider it blasé.

  Something about Erick, with his baggy leather pants and goofy blue vest, calmed my nerves. Something about Cyrus sends them into a tizzy.

  He leads me up one set of stairs, then another. When I stumble and trip, he wraps his forearm around my waist to stop the fall. Then he lets go, like a gentleman, and keeps guiding me forward, slower this time.

  “Wait here,” he whispers, then puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

  I can tell he’s been in this house a hundred times—even in the dark, it’s familiar to him. The windows are shuttered, letting only slivers of light penetrate, but he has the route memorized. He doesn’t need to see. That fact becomes clear as he jumps and something clicks, releasing with a rolling sort of sound. A ladder, I realize a second later, when the wood creaks and he climbs up. With a grunt and a heave, he forces some sort of trapdoor open. His feet thud overhead as he traverses the space. A moment later, sunlight spills through the opening, so bright I need to cover my eyes.

  “Ow,” I mutter and wince.

  “Sorry.” His deep voice washes over me. “We’re almost there.”

  I lower my forearm, then freeze when I look up to find Cyrus’s face staring down at me, open and honest, laced with apology. He removed the wrap that had been covering his head, and this first full glimpse of him is…wow. I mean, yeah. Just wow. He’s got jet-black hair with the perfect amount of wave, full lips, a defined jaw, and a slightly prominent chin with the subtle hint of a dimple. His nose is a little large and hawkish, but for some reason it just adds to his appeal. The real kickers are those eyes, deep and churning with some secret inner turmoil. I don’t think I really understood the word brooding until this moment.

  “Do you need help?” he asks, dipping his head lower.

  “No, thanks.” I jolt, inwardly cringing. No, I don’t need help. I was just struck dumb by his hotness, but I’m good now. I’m over it.

  Despite the nuisance of my skirts, I quickly scramble up the ladder. It’s nothing compared to the climbing I’d been doing to prep for my week-long camp at Yosemite. For some reason, I want Cyrus to see that I’m capable of handling myself—most of the time, at least.

  “What is this place?” I ask when I reach the top.

  The space is mostly empty aside from a mound of pillows near the window and a small stack of books. With the shutters folded back, the view is astonishing. We’re above the other structures, allowing for uninterrupted sightlines of the entire sprawling city. With the afternoon sun shining bright and the dust mostly settled, the buildings look like butter against the blue sky—saturated and yellow. I step closer, realizing that all the way to the right, the palace looms, and all the way to the left there’s a hint of the San Diego I remember—telephone poles, apartment buildings, a cell tower that I suspect no longer works.

  “It’s my hideout,” Cyrus answers as he stops beside me, then sinks to a seat on the window’s ledge. He scans the skyline, pausing for a moment on the palace, before he looks up toward me.

  “What are you hiding from?”

  “The same thing everyone else runs from, I suspect.” He shrugs and returns his gaze to Bahagar. “The responsibilities I don’t want to face. The rules I don’t want to follow. The truths I can’t stand to believe.”

  I take a seat by his side. “Sounds like you lead a pretty constricting life.”

  “Don’t we all?” He turns to me and arches a brow as his lips pucker with humor. “Though I guess beautiful strangers who defy kings might not be used to the same restrictions as the rest of us. Is it different where you come from?”

  Beautiful? Did he say beautiful?

  I’m so not a blusher, but I feel my cheeks warm as I look away, back out the window. The world I come from and the world I’m in couldn’t be more different, and yet, I understand what Cyrus is saying. Why else do I practice gymnastics for so many hours each day when I could be relaxing with friends or watching TV? I might not know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know that whatever I decide, getting into a good college will help make that dream happen. And if I want to graduate from a good school without a mountain of debt, an athletic scholarship could make a world of difference. And in order for that to happen, I need to be the best. My life has its own stresses. My friends’ lives do too. There’s so much pressure to be everything at once—smart and popular and beautiful and fun and hardworking. I know a lot of high school students who get drunk every weekend to escape those realities. I guess the rock wall was my escape, and the gym was my hideout.

  I glance back to Cyrus, who studies me intently with those knowing eyes of his. “My world couldn’t be more different, but I think I know exactly what you mean.”

  He sighs and slides off the windowsill to land on the heap of pillows on the floor. In the process, his thumb brushes over the topside of my hand. I’m not sure if it was deliberate or an accident, but the spot burns. Cyrus doesn’t seem to notice. He leans into the cushions and folds his hands behind his head, the picture of ease. Those dark eyes are trained on me. I’m not sure he understands the effect his gaze has, but under it, my skin crawls, a mix of discomfort and delight.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alanna,” I say and look back out the window. Maybe if I just ignore him, I won’t feel so flustered. If only it were so easy, but at least the cool breeze blowing off the Pacific keeps the heat from coloring my cheeks.

  “And where are you from, Alanna?”

  My gaze darts to the bits and pieces of the modern world I can see in the distance. If I told Cyrus my crazy story, for some reason I think he’d believe me. But then my eyes drift back to the palace on the other side. It looks like something I could’ve built at the beach, with tall sandy spires and thick walls. The center structure is topped by a massive
golden dome, while the smaller domes circling around it are adorned with colorful tiles. Patterns are carved into the stones—trellises and florals. I suspect that if I got a little closer, I’d see even more intricate detail covering every inch of the façade. My gaze drops, down and down, until in my mind’s eye I see the lowest layer of the structure, buried deep underground. The dungeons. The place where Erick said they’d take my brother—the place I need to go to save him.

  I can’t tell Cyrus the truth.

  Not until I have Mace.

  “I need to go to the palace,” I say, glancing back at the boy lounging on the floor.

  His body immediately stiffens and he frowns. “Why?”

  “I—” What was it Erick told me to say? I try to remember the cover story he spoon-fed me, but so much has happened in the short amount of time since I left that cave. “I need to see the king.”

  At that, Cyrus sits up, brown eyes flashing with something I don’t quite understand, something almost like betrayal. “Why? You screamed at him. You were terrified.”

  “I was…surprised,” I murmur, measuring my words. At my tone, Cyrus narrows his gaze, as though he can somehow tell I’m lying. My defensive instincts rise. “I mean, can you blame me? After today? We were coming to Bahagar to rest, just for warm food and a night off the road, when the earthquake struck. My, um, my—my carriage! Yeah, my carriage was thrown and it rolled. When it stopped, I was finally able to crawl out, but I was alone. All my guards were gone. And the horses. And, um, everyone. And I was in a strange city. The people looked different. The buildings. Everything. Then I saw Bahagar in the distance, and I made a run for it, because—because—”

  I break off, not sure what to say next.

  Is any of this coming across as plausible? Because I sort of feel as though I’m pulling it out of my butt, bona fide crappola. Cyrus is leaning forward, staring at me intently, waiting for me to finish. I’ve never had a flair for the dramatics, but if there was ever a time, this is it. So I yank on my muddy-brown cloak and let it drop to the floor as I straighten my spine, trying to put on the haughtiest attitude I can imagine.