The heat beat down on the soukh. The merchant huddled deeper into the shadow of the awning and flicked away the flies with a camel-hair whisk. Few passerby paused to browse the wares set before him on a blanket. There was little reason why they should. To the casual eye, the collection of battered junk represented the meanest collection of merchandise in the entire market. A rusty dagger in one corner, a scarred wooden cup in another, a brass oil lamp green with neglect by its side. Nothing even worth tempting the street rats who would nick nearly anything to sell for bread or hashish. But the merchant was patient. There was always that one customer who would glance at a certain object. Who would turn it over in his or her hands. Then the haggling would begin.

A shape blocked out the sun.

"Good aftenoon!" The merchant grinned with a smile mostly made up of gold. "I am but a humble merchant, but perhaps something here may interest--"

"Silence." The arrogant command's effect was spoiled somewhat by the raspy cough that followed. The figure in once-fine robes clutched his throat. "I know well who you are, wonder-seller."

"Ah." The merchant sighed. One of those customers. How disappointing. It was much more entertaining to deal with the unsuspecting. "And how may I aid you, oh great magus."

"Do not mock me," the man in the threadbare robes snarled. "I once commanded legions of the djinn, made the Caliph himself tremble in fear of my displeasure, forced princesses infidel and Faithful to worship me."

"But now," the merchant replied, spreading his hands, "difficulties?"

"Erm." The mage tugged the collar of his dishdash. "There was a...misunderstanding with a jinnayah."

"Oh? They are known for their tempers."

"Indeed. She cursed me with this damned thirst." The mage coughed again, harder. "No matter what I drink, how much, I can never rid myself of it. You try casting a spell of great subtlety and puissance when your throat is as arid as the Empty Quarter."

"And what can I sell you, then?" The merchant waved at his small stock. "And what will you trade?"

"To trade, this." The magus placed a box of dark wood before the merchant. A design of silver chain studded with pretty gems decorated the lid. Opening it, the merchant raised his eyebrows at the gleaming contents.

"A most unusual bauble." He laughed. "Worship of princesses, eh? Well, it will do. What do you desire?"

"Something that will end my thirst forever!"

A pause.

"Are you...sure about that?"

"Yes!"

"Absolutely sure?"

"Yes, you damned excrescence from Iblis' syphilitic bowels!" thundered the mage.

"Oh if you put it that way..." The merchant plucked a golden goblet from beneath a pile of drinking cups. "Here. Go over to the fountain, fill the cup with water, make a toast in Allah's name. Your thirst will most definitely be ended."

The mage seized the cup with the fervour of a Christian captive choosing conversion over eunuchood. The merchant turned the small jewel box over in his hands while the magus plunged the goblet into a public fountain down the street. Quite a clever piece of sorcery, the merchant mused. It would fetch a high price from its intended customer. He ignored the ragged youth approaching the magus from behind as the golden goblet was raised. Preoccupied with assessing the latest condition to his stock, he spared little attention to the magus even after the street urchin slashed the man's throat with a razor. The youth seized the goblet, running into the maze of alleyways, no doubt intent on fencing his loot.

The merchant folded up the blanket with his stock clinking inside. He made sure to wrap the box in a soft shawl to preserve the wood, In a few moments, the blanket was a peddlar's sack. The merchant gave the sorceror's corpse, surrounded by palace guards, an idle glance before shuffling towards the city gates. Some customers never learned that one must be careful about what one wishes to buy. "End my thirst forever" was such a final request, after all. Oh well, in a fashion, the customer's desires were satisfied. It was not his fault that some people were impulse buyers.

The merchant of wonders scratched his chin. To Baghdad? To the jungles of the Khmer? Or perhaps this time north, to Venice or London or Paris? Anywhere he went, he knew he would find customers. Always.

SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS

This fine blade once struck down a would-be usurper of the Roman Republic. But tyranny is an everpresent evil.

For a minor price compared to the rewards of wielding it, this dagger will bring one through any means a tyrant may employ to protect himself from assassination. No guard will block your path, no investigation will reveal the identity of the wielder until it is time to strike!

Caveat emptor, escape from the scene NOT guaranteed.

Current bid: one soul

Richard Schneider shook his head. The weird stuff people sold on EBay! He'd seen his fair share of joke auctions--including a deed to the province of Quebec--but was the oddest one by far. The Roman pugio pictured in the ad's photograph certainly looked real. Probably a very good reproduction, since it was doubtful someone would sell a valuable antiquity online. They'd even included rust-brown streaks on the blade to suggest Caesar's dried blood yet stained the blade. But, c'mon--Brutus' dagger? A bid of a soul? Had to be a joke. Backspacing in his browser, he returned to the search page where he'd accidentally come across the link to the EBay ad. Best to stop wasting time and get down to the real research for his essay on the rise of Augustus to power. The assignment for Mr. Pieczbowski's history class was due for next week, and distracting yourself was a sure way to eat up time.

He groaned when he heard the piercing whistle come through his open bedroom window. Putting his computer on standby, he grabbed a leather jacket and motorcycle helmet before clambering out onto the fire escape. The squat form of Enzo, the chief pie slinger at Pendelli's Pizza, gestured at him to get his ass in gear. Richard took the stairs two at a time down the side of the apartment building. A grunt escaped him as his work boots took the impact of a leap off the bottom landing. Just in time, too. Mr. Pendelli was already shoving a good six pizza boxes and a sack full of soda bottles at him. The pizzeria owner's walrus moustache twitched in irritation while Richard juggled with both food and the delivery slip.

"Sorry about that," he said, re-arranging the stack. "Was a little busy on the computer up there."

"Yeah yeah kid," Pendelli growled. Sweat gleamed on his bald brow from the kitchen's heat. "I pay you to deliver, not jerk off to porn on your shift."

"I wish." Richard smirked. "Schoolwork calls."

"Maybe it shoulda been porn," Enzo said. "I mean, most of the time I either see you running out for a delivery or your nose stuck in a book. You need, like, whatcha call 'em, extracurricular activities."

"Beating off to net sex won't do me any good with the college recruiters." Richard wrangled the pizza boxes into an insulated cooler. He found space to shove in the bag full of grinders and fries on top. "And trust me, first time a girl asks for something extra-curricular, I'll be all over it."

"Not on your shift!" Pendelli's fierce expression softened a touch, though. "Enzo's right, though. More to life than work or school. You ever want a night off, go out on a date--"

"Nah. I'm good." Richard twisted his head so they couldn't see his face. He checked the delivery slip. "Glendale Heights? Fancy."

"Fuckin' rich kids, sounded drunk too." Pendelli shook his head. "Just remember, cash only, no cards, no tabs..."

"And don't let 'em stiff you!" chorused Richard and Enzo.

Mr. Pendelli's good-natured snarl was enough to get Richard moving. He sprinted to the old Honda Passport parked on its centerstand by the dumpster. Securing the food on the rear rack and front basket, he steadied the step-through with one boot poised on the kickstarter. One sharp kick brought the bike's small four-stroke engine to life. Richard hummed "Born to Be Wild" under his breath while tugging on his helmet. The motorcycle sped out of the alley and the still-warm September evening. Tapping through the gears, Richard wove through the downtown streets and alleys through a series of shortcuts learned during the past summer. Pendelli's had no thirty minutes or free policy--"these pies are so good, they can fuckin' wait" being the unofficial motto--but Richard found that people tipped way better the quicker you got there. Each tip made an extra bit of difference to the college fund. Scholarships could only take you so far. He leaned the bike hard at the sharp curve by Montrose Park. The buildings past this point changed from downtown's apartment buildings and strip malls to houses surrounded by huge lawns. He clicked down a gear--the cops in Glendale were notorious for busting kids insolent enough to ride anything on two wheels that could disturb the residents' peace. With what he was making, one ticket could wipe out a week's worth of pay. Richard consulted his mental GPS for the best route. He wasn't as familiar with the meandering streets and crescents around here. Dithering at a T-intersection, he noticed the heavy thud of bass overwhelming the Passport engine's idle. Right. Drunk kids, pizza--that meant party. Richard followed the loud music echoing around the neighbourhood up into the exclusive section of Glendale known as the Heights. The house matching the address on the delivery slip was a huge McMansion with at least twenty cars parked in the carport and by the curb. Not cheap ones either, given the number of Benz and Hummer logos among them. Richard parked his bike on the opposite side of the street.

One look at the hulking figures gathered on the lawn convinced him to use his heavy chain lock around a lamp post. The beer-drinking guys louging in lawn chairs one size too small for their muscle-bound frames were members of the Team. Richard didn't really know their names. He could barely tell one from the other on a good day; he suspected his school's athletics department cloned them in the science lab after hours. Several years of casual harassment when his bookishness tipped him into the "nerd" category convinced him it was best to stay invisible. There was a decidely lions-sleeping-by-the-waterhole vibe as he passed by them. Richard tried very hard not to look like a tasty gazelle with a limp. Arms occupied with the cooler, he rang the doorbell. A querelous voice asked for someone to "get the door, already" until, after a minute, it swung open. He gulped. Standing in strappy high-heeled sandals, a wrap, and a very well-fitting bathing suit was Portia "Princess" Caldwell. The lowered visor of his helmet thankfully hid the instinctive glance at cheerleader squad captain's lean, sleek form. One word of displeasure from the Princess would have him getting some unfortunate attention from the Team.

Portia's hazel eyes stared down at him from the porch. Richard hefted the load of pizza boxes as explanation. Sighing, she tossed long red hair curled into ringlets. A thumb jerked at the side of the house. Rolling his eyes, he walked towards what was obviously the servant's entrance. Oh well, what did he care? As long as she wasn't too bitchy to tip... The side door was at the top of a small flight of stairs. It afforded an excellent view of the Caldwell's back yard. Eyes wide, Richard gazed upon the party in full throttle by the pool. Most of the Team was there. So was what looked like all of the junior and senior cheerleaders. He bit his lip at seeing the most desirable girls at school in skimpy swimwear. And, going by what he saw in the pool, not even that in some cases. A whistle from the diving board caught his attention. His jeans fly became suddenly confining upon seeing Brianna Madison waving at her squadmates. Let loose from its usual ponytail, her blonde mane waved in the breeze. Toned muscles shifted beneath tanned skin. Round, firm breasts strained a barely-there pink bikini top. Richard followed the graceful lines of her form as she crouched for a dive--

"Ugh!" Richard jerked when a finger poked his midsection.

"Enjoying the show?" Portia's high-cheekboned features were twisted in the disapproving expression all the girls at school dreaded.

"Uh--heh." He shrugged. Fine so he got caught. Brushing past her, he went inside into a large kitchen. He placed the food on a counter and doffed his helmet. "Right, six pies, two pepperoni, two all dressed, one Mexican, one veggie. Got seven grinders, four bottles of--"

"Yes yes, just tell me how much I owe you." She took her purse when he handed her the delivery slip. "As if I care. Christ, these assholes cleaned out the fridge in the first hour. Bunch of 'roid-popping locu-- Oh."

"Problem?"

"A...slight oversight." Portia drummed lacquered fingernails on the marble counter. "It seems that I forgot to top up with cash today. I have Visa and Amex, though."

"Can't do that. No cards or checks." He shook his head. "Mr. Pendelli is really strict about that. Maybe you could get someone to drive...uh, maybe walk to a cash machine. There's one ten blocks over at the Carry-N-Go on Harper."

"Oh please." Portia abruptly smiled, leaning over. Richard noticed that, while smaller than Brianna's, the mounds beneath her white single-piece compared favorably in the shape and perkiness categories. "I'm sure that we can work something out. Couldn't you, oh, pay for the this yourself? I promise you that I'll pay it all back."

"That's sixty bucks worth!"

"I'm good for it," Portia said. Scribbling on a scratch piece of paper, she tucked it into a jeans pocket. The caress that followed caused more confining feelings south of the border. "Come on, join the party, mingle. Have a beer."

"No!" Richard squeaked. Tempting, god, tempting! "I really hate to say this, but Pendelli's doesn't make exceptions. No cash, no 'za."

"My word isn't good enough for you?" The sunny smile was replaced by the storm system of rage.

"I have to go by the rules," Richard said. "Look, I'll wait outside for a few minutes before I have to take the food back. Maybe you can scare up enough to pay for a pizza or two."

"How very nice of you." Portia narrowed her eyes. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you're paid for everything I owe you."

Wonderful, he thought. Now she's pissed. A year left at school, and I have to get the bitch-queen of school on my ass. Richard retreated to the shadows at the base of the stairs. Through the high wooden fence surrounding the yard, he heard the drunken shouts and squeals of the partiers. You'd think with a crowd with this much money, he observed, they'd have enough to pay for some damned take-out. Even the stoners he delivered to out by the community college eventually rustled up some cash after looking under the seat cushions. He took out the IOU for a moment" "I owe Richard" followed by her signature. Maybe he should just pay off Mr. Pendelli and make nice with the Princess. Probably the smarter play. Go up, grovel for a bit, maybe even get a chance to ogle Brianna for a little while before being thrown out. Pride's pride----

A tap on his shoulder.

Richard blinked. A solid wall of Team Members surrounded him. In the forefront was Brandon McCalley--quarterback, bigger than a Kodiak bear, and oh yes Portia's boyfriend of the month.

"Enjoy the tip, cocksucker," was the last thing he heard before a dozen sets of fists and a dozen pairs of feet went to work.

Mr. Pendelli lurched to his feet when Richard limped through the front door of the pizzeria. He dragged his Passport behind him, the bent wheels awkward to drag along the sidewalk. He shook his head at his boss' shocked look. Silently, he placed sixty dollars on the counter. Pendelli studied Richard's swollen face for several minutes. It felt like eternity. The young man's eyes were already darkening, and he hugged his right arm close to his side. Twists of scarlet-stained toilet paper straggled from his nose. Just as quietly, the stout man in the dirty red-and-white apron pushed the money back. The register rang as Pendelli added five twenty dollar bills to the stack. Richard hesitated. Then, biting a swollen lip, he pocketed the bills. Pendelli stood aside while Richard stowed the Passport, instrument cluster smashed and seat ripped, into the storage room.

Richard climbed up to his family's apartment alone. Pausing at the door, he listened carefully for the tell-tale sounds of footsteps or television. Good. His mom and dad were still out on their "Friday Night Date" at the movies. He had a few hours before he had to come up with an explanation for his injuries. The fridge freezer provided a cold pack for his face, the medicine cabinet some Tylenol Extra Strength that might dull the bruises covering his entire body. Easier to deal with than his bike. A single tear slipped down his cheek. His bike. He'd spent weeks last spring putting it together from a frame and boxes of parts. An entire day alone spent cleaning up the engine and carb. It would cost him lots to fix cosmetic damage to a bike that hadn't been sold in the US for a long time. Rims, speedo, headlight-- Mr. Pendelli's gift might not even cover the full amount he might spend on EBay.

EBay.

Sic Semper.

On impulse, Richard woke his computer from stand-by and dialed in to his ISP. He clicked the link to the dagger he had discovered on the auction site. C'mon, even if it isn't real, I just want to fantasize about what I could do to those--

BIND THEIR WILLS

The hell? Richard frowned when a different ad appeared. A picture showed a box fashioned from wood so dark it seemed made of night itself. On the top of the half-open lid was a design of silver inlay. Centered within each silver chain link was a semi-precious stone--jade, sapphire, tourmaline. Within the box, displayed on the black velvet padding, was an array of silver jewellery. Earrings, bracelets, anklets, necklaces all with two things in common. All incorporated chain into their design and all had tiny spherical bells dangling from them.

Created by the late Arabian magus Haroun Al-Azif, this curiosity from Arabia will bring one the companionship of even the most resistant lady. Simply speak the identity of your intended, open the box, and out will come a trinket she cannot help but desire. It will unerringly seek her presence. Once donned, it will heal all flaws and shape her body into the beauty she is capable of assuming. The chains she dons will chain her mind to your will, the bells driving all contrary thoughts away. She will become the perfect slavegirl, young and healthy to the end of her natural life.

Caveat emptor: the enchantment is permanent barring direct intervention by major celestial, infernal, or other puissant powers.

Coincidence, he thought. It had to be. It was impossible that the seller could know exactly what he could use to avenge himself. Still... His fingers paused over the keyboard. Portia kneeling before him, apologising. Her red hair swaying while trembling lips took in his cock. Doing a striptease in the middle of class. Now that would knock her right off the social ladder wouldn't it? And all he needed to bid was, say, his soul. That wouldn't be that much to ask for. It's not as if he would be really risking his immortal soul. This was probably just some strange scam like the Nigerian banking fraud spam that showed up in his email filters. Or some hacker's prank. But if it were real-- Richard suddenly dipped his hand into his pocket. He stared thoughtfully at the IOU Portia had written. There was only the date, "I owe Richard", and her signature. It looked a lot like a blank check. He laughed. Why not? I wonder what she should owe me. Forget her soul, I'm not sure she has one. Something just as precious. Like-- Perfect! He scribbled a phrase on the slip of paper. For insurance, he endorsed the back. A few keystrokes and EBay accepted his offer.

Current bid: a cheerleader's grace and talent

The perfect vengeance. Not that it would actually work.

It couldn't.

Could it?

The Passport lay disassembled on the alley floor. Richard analyzed the damage with grim determination. Luckily, his assailants had concentrated on beating on him rather than his ride. Their demolition job was less thorough than it looked. The torn seat could be re-upholstered if he could make out a pattern for a shop to follow. The instrument cluster's glass was smashed, but not the speedo itself. Cables could be replaced. The cracked plastic legshields could be plastic welded and repainted. The real pain in the ass would be the tires. He'd have to scour online for parted-out bikes or order from an Asian supplier. Even with the most optimistic time-frame, though, he wouldn't have the Passport fixed before the first snowfall. Jerks. Richard flexed the bent rear wheel, imagining it was Brandon's neck. There went any hope of earning money for deliveries for the rest of the fall. He carried the pieces into the pizzeria's back storage room. As long as the gas tank was drained, Mr. Pendelli allowed him to store the Passport free of charge. Otherwise the pizzeria owner never talked about the incident from last night. He had even backed up Richard's story to his parents about clipping a curb during a delivery. Old school, Richard mused. A man's vendettas are his own business. Although since then, just by coincidence, every call for a pizza delivery to the Heights got mysteriously disconnected before the order could be taken down.

"Mr. Schneider?"

"Huh?" Richard nearly dropped the step-through's frame. The lanky man in the distinctive brown UPS uniform had approached so silently! "Oh, is that a delivery for Mr. Pendelli? He usually takes those at the front."

"No, this is for you." A flash of gold when the courier smiled. He proffered a yellow parcel envelope. "This is for you. Payment on delivery, mind, as per the terms."

"Terms of--" Richard's skin crawled. Oh no. Oh no no no...

"Yes, the auction ended about five minutes ago." The courier held out an electronic signature pad. "Sign here and I'll take receipt of the payment."

"There must be some--" Richard's shoulder blades did their best effort to claw through the brick of the alley wall. "Oh man. I thought you'd show up in an Armani suit or something."

"With brimstone Old Spice?" The courier laughed. "No, Mr. Scheider. Not Him, nor any other such faction Above or Below. You won't have to sign in blood or anything so, ah, melodramatic. But I will insist on payment. EBay terms are most specific: all winning bids are considered final."

"I-- I-- I--" Richard shivered. "This was just a joke!"

"No joke." A flash of gold again. "The sale was made in good faith. Failure to pay would be unwise."

"I'm guessing, worse than a negative feedback rating." Portia's IOU was still in his pocket... "Look, this won't hurt her or anything? Because if it will, no way. I'm not giving this to you if it means that a truck runs over her and paralyzes her or she gets brain cancer."

"Why would you care?" The courier pointed at the broken pieces of the Passport. "Miss Caldwell signed that promissory note in good faith. It is not your fault if you use it to your own advantage. Especially since she cheated you of dignity and livelihood. A disgusting crime for which she roundly deserves to pay."

"Because--" Richard squared his shoulders. "I have to pay a penalty, fine. But I'm not giving you this IOU if it means Portia will be harmed."

"I take no more than what the seller gives," the courier said. "'Grace and talent'. No more, no less. She will retain health, youth, life, the privileges she garners unearned from her family's position."

"At least I didn't sell her soul on consignment." Richard wiped his brow. "Or mine."

"Souls? A drug on the market," the courier remarked. "People sell their souls all the time for a cause, a desire, a whim. You can pick them up for pennies on the ton. Now, talent and destiny are different matters. Those are precious."

"And I've torn it away from her."

"If you have buyer's regret, it is up to you to deal with your conscience, Mr. Schneider. Morality is a mortal concern. My sole interest is that the balance of exchange be maintained. It will be, one way or another. Sign here, please."

Richard pursed his lips. And signed.

"Very good," the courier said after taking the IOU. "Enjoy your purchase."

"This thing is for real." The parcel felt oddly heavy for something its size. "Um, can you give me a manual?"

"It operates exactly as explained on EBay," the courier answered. "Focus on the intended target, utter a suitable phrase--'I chain thee, insert name here' is appropriate--open the box."

"So it has to be a deliberate thought and I have to say it." Richard licked his lips. "So, if I think 'my mom looks kinda hot tonight', I'm not going to end up--"

"I don't judge a man's personal fetishes."

"Gahhhh! Spork my brain out, will you?"

"Mr. Schneider, relax." The courier tapped the parcel. "I do not sell monkey's paws. This artifact will not suddenly 'go off' due to random thoughts. It requires deliberate, focused desire and intent. The sole caveat being that once opened, the process is not reversible. The late Haroun Al-Azif neglected that minor issue."

"Late?"

"A lesson in not reading the manual, as it were." The courier tipped his cap. "Please feel free to patronize this service again, Mr. Schneider. Repeat custom is appreciated. If rare."

Richard thought a "muhahaha" followed by a cloud of smoke would have been dramatically appropriate about then. Instead, the courier merely turned right past the alley mouth. No footsteps, no sound of a delivery van leaving. The only trace of his existence was the yellow parcel in Richard's grasp. Shaking, he tugged open the little strip near the sealed flap. Nestled within the bubble-wrap lining was a slim object. He drew it out as if it were a bottle of nitroglycerine. The box was exactly as it was pictured on the auction photograph. Polished to a high sheen, the varnished black wood dimly reflected his now ghost-pale features. Silver and gems gleamed in the sunlight filtering down through the fire escape. He ran a finger along the almost imperceptible seam where the two halves of the box met. There was no obvious latch. But he could tell. All he had to do was think of say, Brianna and say "I chain you--"

The box twitched.

Richard dashed up the fire escape. His aching muscles protested the unwelcome strain. He didn't stop, though, until he jammed the jewel box of Haroun Al-Azif to the very back of the highest shelf in his closet. Blankets and pillows hid it away. Too close. His breath hitched. Way too close. The safety on that thing was a bit more hair-trigger than the courier had let on. It had felt like the box had wanted to open. For him to say the words. To make Brianna Madison his submissive, obedient, sexy-- Balled fists ground against his temples. No no no. Soon as he could, he would put that thing into a safe place. A deposit box, maybe. Or into a building foundation form before it was poured. There was just way too much risk. Too much temptation to say irrevocable words. He had done enough damage already.

Idiots. Portia surveyed the damage to her kingdom from her bedroom balcony. The pool area was a mess. Empty cups, shattered bottles, towels everywhere. And, ewww, vomitus. Thank God she had forbidden her guests from entering the house. Brandon and his team-mates were sufficiently popular and decorative to ensure the party's success. A neccessary gesture to maintain her reputation on the school's social ladder. They also had the collective intellectual capacity of a retarded flatworm. She had thoroughly chewed out Brandon for ordering those pizzas and bringing that little shit of a delivery boy into her home. Of all the nerve, not taking her credit-- Well, that had been quietly dealt with, and her party hadn't been ruined. That success might prove pyrrhic, however, if Mummy and Daddy discovered any damage. That was why she insisted the party happen on the easily-cleaned patio. The maids and pool service she had engaged before the invitations would remove any incriminating evidence before her parents' return from the country house.

Slipping on a robe, she descended downstairs for her early-morning diet shake. Ooof! Must still be a bit tipsy from the white wine. She had almost stumbled on that next-to-last stair. Which was silly. Portia Caldwell never stumbled. She snaked a path through the comatose cheerleaders sleeping off the night's festivites; she had allowed them to stay to maintain the cover of a "girl's sleep-over". They would be turfed out as soon as possible. Three of her squadmates were awake, however. They sat around the kitchen's central aisle. Brianna was disgustingly fresh faced and perky as always. Brandon's adopted sister Trinh was reading a book. She hid behind her long black hair when Portia passed by. Honestly, the only reason the scrawny nerd was on the team was to keep Mrs. McCalley happy. Rhianna Jackson glared over her coffee mug at her host. Her cafe au lait was a few shades darker than usual. As if she were blushing. Or angry. Come to think of it, all three of them bore somber expressions at Portia's entrance. The redhead gritted her teeth. The last thing she needed right now was rebellion among her subjects.

"Up so early?" Portia said.

"We crashed around midnight," Rhianna replied. "We decided we had someplace else to be."

"Hope I'm not keeping you." Portia busied herself mixing her strawberry diet shake. She added a teensy bit of vodka from an almost empty bottle for hair-of-the-dog. "You're perfectly welcome to leave any time you want."

"We wanted to talk to you first." Brianna toyed with the ends of her blonde locks. "Like, you know, getting busted by the cops!"

"Please, don't worry," Portia said. "All of the neighbours are away for the weekend. No noise complaints."

"We were more worried about something else." Rhianna smacked the counter. "You crazy, Portia? You had some guy beaten up last night?"

"I heard Brandon bragging about it." Trinh peeked out from behind her hair. "That was really mean."

"Forget mean!" Brianna's sky-blue eyes were wide with concern. "He could have been hurt. Bad. Not to mention he could have called the cops on us."

"Like my 'rents need to bail out Tyrell for assault and theft," Rhianna hissed. "You yank Brandon's chain all you want, but you don't get my brother in trouble. Even if he's a dumbass."

"No comebacks, girls." Portia calmly sipped her shake. The vodka added just the right amount of bite. "The deliverything--"

"His name's Richard," Brianna said. "I checked."

"--Richard, whoever, won't dare do anything." Portia gestured dismissively. "I'm sure Brandon explained between punches that, even if he was arrested, there would be plenty of other guys on the Team who would make Richie's life a living hell for the rest of the year. Nerds like that know their place. They just have to be reminded every so often."

"Maybe Mrs. Herrington should hear about this," Brianna said, naming the squad's coach. "You've pulled a lot of stuff over the years. This is way over the line. We all think so."

"Ohhhh, this is blackmail, right?" Portia leaned back. "Don't even try, Bri. It's pathetic. How about I tell the teachers about the papers that geek Ernie Detwiller wrote for you. Say, did you pay him cash, or flash him some thigh? And you, Rhianna, want me to let slip about what I saw you doing with Mark Bailey behind the poolshed? They're all liberal, but maybe not thrilled their baby was getting touch from a white boy. And maybe I tell your mom, Trinh, that you're not really committed to team excellence."

Silence. Rhianna's jaw muscles clenched, Brianna blushed, Trinh hunched down.

"Good. Settled." Portia finished her shake. "Now, feel free to raid the fridge, watch some TV. I'm going for a little dip."

Nothing like reminding the others why she'd clawed her way into the top spot on the squad. Leaving them fuming, she sauntered out onto the patio. The maids had already cleaned up most of the detritus. One of the pool service men oggled her when she doffed her robe. She was still wearing the French-cut single-piece. She didn't mind. If he tried anything more, she'd just report his ass to La Migra. Portia climbed up to the diving board for her habitual morning laps. A swift trot to the end, legs bent to propel her off for a shallow dive out-- Portia yelped when her ankles tangled with one another. The diving board smacked her in the face. Sliding off the board, she belly flopped into the water. Air driven from her lungs, she flailed her limbs to get to the surface. Hands grabbed her from the poolside. Portia clutched her stomach against the pain. Around her were Brianna and Rhianna...and several other cheerleaders who had just seen their squad captain trip herself up. Her cheeks burned as red as her hair while she scrambled away. Already she could hear whispers. And laughter.

What happened to me? I stumbled. I never stumble!

The cheerleaders twirled and tumbled. Short pleated skirts in the school colours of white and gold swirled. If one paid attention, one might just see a tantalizing hint of white or pink cotton flash by. The short sleeved white tunics embossed with the golden initials of the school clung tightly to the athletic forms below. Someone could imagine any one of them twirling about at the foot of a bed. Perhaps tossing their pom-poms in a corner before slowly bending over. Glazed eyes staring into nothingness while the girl's panties were teased down slim thighs and calves. Another twirl to reveal pink folds already wet with arousal. The tunic deftly stripped off. Breasts arched out begging to be cupped and kneaded and teased. Pink lips forming an O the bells adorning her body chimed and rang and--

Richard swore under his breath. The weight in his pocket was there again. Barely perceptible, but there. His fingers clamped down onto the rectangular object outlined through the denim. Go away For good measure he closed his eyes to the sight of the cheerleaders practising for the game tonight. Thinking of ice floes helped. Antarctica. The stern faces of nuns. Nuns in tight habits. Nuns stripping one of the novices. Tongues assaulting the frightened yet aroused virgin as the bells rang, faster and faster as the crescendo of pleasure.... No! Maggots. Big, heaping handfuls of maggots! Acres of them! Richard concentrated on this for several minutes until the box left his pocket. It had become a trick he had practised often during the past two weeks. The box was supposedly kept in a safe deposit box in the bank branch where Mr. Pendelli deposited the day's receipts. Naturally it wasn't that simple. Any time he saw a pretty girl at school, or a sexy music video, or even a magazine ad he felt the box appear on his person. The only way to stop it was by tamping down on the arousal. Hard.

Why did he torture himself by coming out onto the bleachers for lunch period with the temptation below? Guiltily, he glanced at the two figures to one side. Miss Herrington crouched with hands laced together. Breathing heavily, Portia Caldwell braced herself in the ready position. He was pretty far away. Still, he could see a couple of large bruises on her legs and a scrape on her left cheek. At the cheerleading coach's whistle the redhead ran...skipped...leapt with one foot squarely in the joined hands. Miss Herrington raised Portia high. It was a move Richard had seen during dozens of halftime periods. Portia extended her arms for balance. Then, overbalancing, she fell flat on her ass. He winced. That had to hurt. Miss Herrington reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder. Maybe give her a pep talk. She never had a chance. Shoving her away, Portia fled back into the school building.

The worst part of it was, he reflected, that all this could be fixed. "Heal all flaws", the instructions had read. Just...reach into a pocket. Hold the box in hand. Picture her in your mind, arrogant, cruel, laughing mockingly. The click of the hidden latch releasing. Silver bells and chains jangling gently upon the black velvet within. He'd pick out something at random, feel it changing within his clenched fist, and say the name of the girl he'd take. So easy. Her skill would be restored and she would be his slavegirl for the rest of her life. The word on the tip of his tongue.

"Hi." A hesitant voice behind him.

"What--" Richard choked. The box right in his lap. Open.

"Oh cool." A petite raven-haired figure stood behind him. Delicate Asian features peered wonderingly at the treasures within the box. "Those are..."

"Trinh!" Richard blurted. Slamming the box shut, he jammed it deep into his knapsack.

"I'm sorry." Her hair fell across her face like curtains. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I--I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," Richard assured her. "I was just looking over this costume jewelery I, uh, got at a garage sale last weekend. Thought my mom might like it. I think it's a little tacky, though."

"They look neat." Trinh came close to the knapsack. Not sure if it was conscious or not, Richard shoved the knapsack behind him.

"I guess." He forced what he hoped was a grin. Probably more a corpse's rictus. "Taking a break from practise?"

"Sort've." The glamour cast by the box seemed to have faded. Trinh retreated a few paces, settling on the bleacher above him. "I asked Brianna if I could skip the rest of the drill. She said okay."

"Isn't that Miss Herrington's call? Or Portia's?"

"They're busy," Trinh said. "And Portia's kinda not captain anymore. I mean, she is, but until the inner ear thing or whatever she has is gone, Brianna is acting squad captain."

"Really." Richard thought about Portia's likely reaction to the news. Despite himself, he couldn't help an silent, economy-sized belly-laugh. "Good for her, then. I figure she deserves it. So, you usually take five up here."

"No, I don't like--I mean." Trinh took a deep breath. "I want to apologise. For my brother. And her. And everything. We all do."

"All?" Richard asked.

"Brianna and Rhianna and some of the others." Trinh took out a purse. "We took up a collection. The price of the pizza was easy to find out, but we don't know how much your bike will cost to fix. So if we're short--"

"Whoa, hold on," Richard said. "You don't owe me anything. It's okay. That's been handled. I didn't have to spend as much as I thought. Mr. Pendelli reached out to a cousin of his who had a bike like mine he was parting out. Everything's been fixed."

"Well..." Trinh placed a folded wad of pills between them. "Maybe just as a tip? And, maybe kinda as a negotiating fee? None of us have been able to order from Pendelli's since the party."

"He still has the Heights under embargo?" Richard paused, then took a single twenty from the stack. Better to graciously accept a gift than protest. "Alright, I'll ask him to reconsider. No guarantees. It would go down better if one of you apologized in person."

"I don't think--" Trinch seemed to curl up. "I have to go. I think I hear my brother, and I don't want to get you into more trouble."

"Brandon? I don't see him."

When he turned back, Trinh was already at the base of the bleachers. She scurried towards the school at what looked like Mach 3. Richard couldn't help watching her run. He had never noticed her much outside of cheerleading during school athletics. Two years, after all, seperated seniors from sophomores. During halftime routines, she was usually the one at the top of a pyramid or other formation because of her small size. She was always smiling and beaming to the crowd. Outside those few times, she faded into the background. Wonder why? She wasn't as elegant as Portia or toned as Brianna or muscled like Rhianna. But her slender body had a ballerina's grace when she chose to show it. Those canted, dark eyes showed a bright if reserved intelligence. He could see her curled up against a sofa armrest, reading a book, legs curled up beneath her. One socked foot dangling a sneaker off her toes. The swell of pert breasts beneath a sweater.

smack

I have to stop this! Bad enough when I have to cover up with a textbook in class. Every time I get a wet dream these days, I get close to turning some poor girl into a zombie. Richard trudged away from temptation. He had almost released the box's magic. He had even had a piece of jewelery in his hand. Damn it, he should get that thing back into the box before he said something. He froze. A chill stole through him, colder than the fall afternoon breeze. Said. "Speak the identity of your intended". He had been thinking of Portia. Yet what he had spoken was-- A hand clenched on nothing at all.

No.

Oh. No.

Trinh stayed in the corner of the locker room while her fellow cheerleaders changed. She avoided watching as uniforms were stripped off and naked bodies padded into the shower. Perfect, pretty, healthy bodies. Not like her skinny form. Portia or her friends often stage-whispered her views on the rare occasions Trinh plucked up the courage to shower alongside them. See every one of her ribs. Flat-chested, puberty must be late. Must be sick, why her skin was so yellow. It was easier to hide behind a locker until she was alone. No one to see her. No one to pay attention to her. Just like in class where she could sit in the back, doing her work, without having everyone stare when called to do a problem on the blackboard. Or at family dinner or meetings of the squad, letting her step-brother's bluster or the personality of a Brianna or Portia distract attention away from her existence.

Quiet. Trinh hung her uniform in her locker. What she truly desired was to shred it with scissors and toss it in the dumpster behind the kitchen. She was such a fraud with it on. Pretending to be a pretty popular girl while the audience in the bleachers saw and knew and condemned. It would break her mom's heart, though. She wasn't her blood mother. But she had been mom ever since that day at the orphanage in Pho Dac. Before Mrs. McCalley came, there was loneliness and hunger. The jeers of the older children taunting her for being a "metis", the European ancestry her mother had given her from some French plantation owner or American GI ancestor evident to them. Half-breed, imperialist's whore's slut. Tainted. After Mrs McCalley chose her--why?--there was food and warmth and...love. Affection, perhaps. As long as Trinh was a smart girl. A pretty girl. A girl on the cheerleading team the way Mom had been so many years ago. Trinh had learned long ago to wear the mask that pleased her mother so much. It simply never fit very well.

ching

Trinh startled. Her purse lay on the floor spilling out its contents. Must have bumped it. Kneeling, she scooped up her things. Something silver glinted on the worn concrete floor. Her eyes widened when she fished the earrings out of a puddle. Wow! They were beautiful! A single slim chain seperating into five smaller ones with a tiny spherical bell dangling from the end of each. The flickering light of the fluorescents played off the silver chains. Dazzling. Exactly like the costume jewelery she had briefly seen in Richard Steiner's box. Trinh flushed. Richard wasn't a hunk like the jocks her mom urged her to date. More stocky with a hint of a belly from the freebies he likely got from Mr. Pendelli. His dark brown hair was mussed from the his motorcycle helmet. His eyes though, hazel, a bit of humour in them when he'd joked with her. I should return these to him, she thought. They're for his mom. They must have fallen into my purse by accident. I'll go-- No, I'll mail them back.

ching

Her vision lost focus. Everything was so wavery as the light glinted off the chains. Absently, she touched the gold studs in her ears. Her one concession to mom's pleas for a bit of jewelery. Maybe for a bit. Richard wouldn't mind...trying these out. Fumbling, she took out the studs without losing grip on the earrings. She raised them to her earlobes. click Trinh shivered. They has almost locked into place by themselves the moment they touched. Fingertips touched the tiny rings now piercing her lobes. Where-- She frowned. The rings were seamless. There was no catch. A vague panic blossomed in her belly while she tried to take them off. Nothing she seemed to do was able to release their hold. The chains slid out of her grasp. The rings holding them in place had no crack to pry open. This was wrong. This was very wrong. This was--

chingchinginginging

Trinh rose. Nothing was wrong. She had to shower. She had to get ready for...someone. Someone important. Silent, she turned off all the lights in the locker room. Better if people outside thought the lockers were unoccupied. She could have time alone in the dark. Alone except for the ringing of the bells with each step. A gentle sigh escaped her lips. The music of the bells was an inescapable melody. They chimed with each step. Each breath. So easy to listen. Thought scattered like light off silver. Hot water poured down on her from a showerhead. Arching her back, she moaned when the spray hit her naked skin. Intense. Every droplet pattering on her body inspired a flash on sensation through her nerves. The flow hit the bells, setting them to a wild ringing. Felt so good just to sway in time with the bells, turning beneath the heat, losing herself in the roar of the shower and the metallic chimes. Liquid soap from a dispenser in the wall foamed over her nude form. Lazily, Trinh soaped herself off over. Clean. Must be clean and soft.

Trinh paused when she reaches her breasts. Her hands widened and cupped. No. That was impossible. Through sleepily-blinking eyes she saw high, firm breasts growing where there had only been gentle rises upon her chest. Each blink advanced their growth like a stop-motion film. A choked cry echoed off the shower room tiles. Larger. Blink. Larger. Blink. Larger. She cupped her breasts. Please, no, not so big, she wasn't used to this! No, no, no! The bells clanged discordantly when she tossed her head. The sound tore through her consciousness. CHANG CHANG CHANG It didn't hurt. But it scattered all thought. So unpleasant compared to the gentle ching when she nodded her head. No, this was insane, her breasts couldn't be CHANG can't be CHANG were normal ching totally normal ching so beautiful, firm globes high on her breasts ching large yet not grotesque for her frame ching lovely breasts each chime making the nipples stiff.

ching

Trinh circled a nipple with a fingernail in time with the bells. Tiny bursts of pleasure came while her fingernail flicked and teased.

ching

A hand slipped between her thighs. Soapy fingers glided over bare folds devoid of any cover. Swaying, she watched the last of her curls disappear down the drain. Her other hand paused its play with her breasts to investigate her body. She skimmed over skin smooth and hairless and flushed with pleasure. Only the hair on her scalp and her eyelids and lashes remained. All gone. All erased.

ching

She traced her face. Once familiar, the landscape had shifted. Altered. Cheekbones slightly higher. Nose slightly less of a snub, finely formed. Her eyes slanted just a little bit more, wider.

ching

What is happening?

CHANG

Mommy, Brianna, please, someone, this is bad, this is very--

CHANG

I--

CHANG

i

ching

i am

ching

i am pretty.

CHANGching

i am beautiful.

chingching

i must be beautful.

chingchingching

i must be beautiful for--

This time, the bells rang long and long. Forever and ever as trinh swayed underneath the water until it turned ice-cold. They rang while she dried her nude body very carefully. Getting every crack, every crevice. Not drying herself. Buffing herself. Burning herself like she were polishing silver chains. Ringing of the bells drowned out the voice calling her name. Distracted her while she was laid on a bench, a hand stroking her cheek. The bells rang and rang and rang until she heard the voice in their chimes. The voice. His voice. His wonderful voice chiming in her mind, His always there, filling her brain.

"Trinh? Oh Christ, Trinh, speak to me."

trinh opened her eyes. Him. Hazel eyes. Mussed brown hair. He who spoke like the chingchingchingching in her mind.

"Master?"

And her voice trilled like a thousand thousand bells.