‘The others? Who are—’ But Kieran’s words slurred, and his head was suddenly heavy.
Jo caught his arm, guiding him forward. ‘Come on,’ she murmured. ‘Nearly home.’
The walk back was a blur. Streetlights smeared into gold streaks. His limbs felt like lead and his mind fizzed with fragments of music, light and laughter.
When he collapsed on his bed, Prom was already curled beside him, paper crown still perched at a jaunty angle.
‘Sleep,’ Kieran muttered. ‘Need to sleep.’
As his eyes fluttered shut, words drifted through his half-dreaming brain, spoken by the same silky voice that had haunted the pub.
Sweet dreams, darling boy. You’re part of the story now.
And then he fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘I didnotwish for that to happen!’
Gigi didn’t even look up. He was busy buffing his already pristine fingernails to a mirror shine.
‘Oh, but you did, naughty girl. I heard the words as clear as a bell. “I wish the bar would come to life.”’ He waggled a sequinned finger at her.
Beth folded her arms. ‘Hah! But I said that privately, in my head. Not here. And I thought I actually had toplaythe pinball machine for wishes to come true.’ She glared at him.Wriggle out of that one, you barrel-bellied buffoon.
Gigi pouted theatrically. ‘As youobviouslyknow, I can tune into your thoughts. I must say, they’re very hurtful.’
‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But it’s not fair. The sign saysthreewishes, and I’ve only had one.’
So here I am, arguing with a genie about wish regulations, while my almost-ex-husband goes off to hew driftwood into artisanal nonsense and the village descends into dance fever. Just another perfectly ordinary day in Cranley.
‘Hmm. Perhaps the FBI has done an update. Let me check.’ Gigi whipped something out of a pocket Beth hadn’t seen before.A wand-like instrument, emitting a high-pitched beep and flashing like a Christmas tree on steroids.
‘What on earth is that? And what does a US law-enforcement agency have to do with anything?’
‘This,’ Gigi said, waving it about like a conductor’s baton, ‘is aWish-Instigating Finder Instrument.’ He beamed, ridiculously proud of himself. ‘WIFI for short.’
Beth blinked. ‘Of course it is.’
‘The FBI,’ he continued breezily, ‘isn’t that dreary human lot with badges and bad suits. It’s theFederation of Benign Intelligent Beings. Along with CHUG – the Charter for Harmonious Upstanding Genies – they have ultimate power over our existence. Meaning other genies.’
Beth considered herself intelligent. OK, she might be crap with numbers and foundation colour choices – Trump orange, anyone? – but this was way beyond dodgy counting skills and needing to blend something hideous at the jawline. ‘Explain, please, in layman’s terms. Including how this affects me.’
Gigi fiddled with the wand. ‘Stupid useless WIFI,’ he muttered. ‘Some genies think this is cool to the max, but… Oh, fiddlesticks. It is granting wishes it has no right to grant. Which makes a mockery of my preferred modus operandi.’
Beth had had enough of Gigi’s gibberish. And what did he mean bysome genies?‘Are there others like you?’ she whispered. ‘Here, in Cranley?’
Gigi guffawed. ‘There ain’t nobody like me around here, darlin’. In the past, yeah, but they wriggled back into their lamps and vamoosed. Poof! Gone, just like that.’ The ridiculous crushed-velvet turban on his head rotated, its disco-ball centrepiece flashing incessantly.
‘You said Cranley was dull!’ shrieked Beth. ‘I don’t see anything dull about a village that’s housed a horde of genies.’
Gigi shrugged. ‘Every village has its secrets. It’s a sort of … hotspot, if you will. Like Ibiza for stag dos, only with less vomit and more metaphysical chaos. A long time ago, Cranley was designated a Holding Zone. A waiting room for wayward wish-granters who couldn’t keep their turbans on straight.’
Beth blinked. ‘A Holding Zone? For genies? You’re telling me this sleepy corner of Scotland is basically a halfway house for magical misfits?’
‘Correctamundo.’ Gigi stroked his stomach with exaggerated elegance. ‘Some villages get Roman artefacts. Cranley gets us.’
‘But why here? Why not somewhere exciting? London, Paris, even Milton bloody Keynes?’
