Free All Your Wishes by Cat Adams

myself, I’d admit that had hurt more than a little. We were engaged, weren’t we? No, I wasn’t wearing a ring, but we’d been seriously talking marriage for a while now. Didn’t that count? Didn’t it make me part of the family?
    I thought again about calling him. Of course, if he was at the hospital he’d have shut off his phone. And I didn’t want to talk to his voice mail if I didn’t have to.
    Oh, hell. I hoped he was okay. Well, as okay as he could be, under the circumstances.
    Life is awfully hard sometimes.
    I closed my eyes, taking a second to send my thoughts in his direction. My grandfather had siren bloodlines and my great-aunt Lopaka was their high queen. I inherited not only my looks, but the siren “call,” a type of telepathic ability. I’m not good at it, but I’ve been practicing, and my cousin gave me a ring that has given me better strength and range.
    As I expected, he was at the hospital, at his mother’s bedside, sitting vigil along with Matty and most of their other brothers. I carefully pulled my mind from his without interrupting.
    So voice mail it was. I whipped out my cell phone, waited for the beep, and said, “Hi. It’s me. I wound up taking a job and am going to be out of town for a few days. I’ll try to stay in touch. Tell the family ‘hi’ for me. Love you. Call when you get a chance and let me know how your mom’s doing, okay?”
    It was kind of a lame message, but I didn’t really know what to say. I was worried about him and his mom. I was even more worried about our relationship. I couldn’t really apologize—I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong. Then again, neither did he. I just wished … oh, hell, I wasn’t sure what I wished. But it would have been good to talk to him, just to hear his voice. Corny as that sounds, it was the truth. But I knew I really didn’t have time to chat—that might get me, or my client, killed.
    I slid my phone back into my jacket pocket as Rahim, finished sealing the plane away, came up beside me. Hefting his duffel onto one shoulder, he took his magical bag in the other hand and led me toward the office. I stayed about half a pace behind, keeping my eyes open, checking out the surroundings, looking for anything or anyone that seemed out of place. There was nothing unusual going on. The private plane area wasn’t heavily populated at the moment and everybody seemed to be busy going about mundane business. Still, I kept an eye out as we passed through the automatic doors and into the building.
    At the desk, Rahim filed his paperwork, then pulled a credit card out of his wallet to pay. I debated telling him to use cash. Credit cards are so easy to trace. But what was the point? We’d logged a flight plan and we were visiting a man the villains would be expecting us to see.
    Ever since 9/11 and the big threat of terrorism, it’s hard for a law-abiding person to go anywhere or do anything without leaving tracks. I suppose that makes life harder for the crooks, too, but I’ve never been sure it’s worth the loss of civil liberties to the rest of us.
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” Rahim asked.
    â€œNothing important.” I replied. For a second I thought he’d argue with me, demand that I answer. I was getting the impression he was way too used to getting his own way. Unfortunately, that’s not an uncommon situation among the type of folks who wind up needing my services. I gave him the polite, shiny, and utterly meaningless smile I use to settle clients down. As a result, while he compressed his lips in displeasure, he didn’t argue, silently taking his receipt from the attendant before leading me out a different set of doors.
    The rain had stopped, which was nice. But the wind was still gusty, tugging at my jacket, pulling it open. I didn’t want to flash my weapons at every passerby, so I took a