Page 12 of Gifted Thief
He shrugged. ‘It’s true that you don’t seem to be the smartest owner I’ve ever had but, hey, it’s not like I had much of a choice.’
My eyes narrowed. That was an interesting – and incredibly distasteful – choice of words. ‘Owner?’
‘Of course!’ He pointed to the letter opener. ‘I am Bob. The Genie of the Sword.’
I looked from the fallen blade to him and back again. ‘You mean letter opener.’
‘No, no, no, no,’ he declared. ‘This is a sword.’
‘It’s really not.’
He flicked a disdainful glance at it. ‘Alright,’ he conceded, ‘it’s not a sword. But it is a very fine example of a dagger.’
‘It’s a letter opener.’
‘No, it’s a…’
I held up my palm to forestall him. ‘Let’s agree to disagree, shall we? Besides, I thought genies lived in lamps. How do you live in a letter opener?’
‘Dagger. And there was one genie who lived in one lamp a very long time ago who gets all the sodding credit and is in all the sodding stories. Most of us aren’t that lucky.’
‘You live in the metal?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Of course!’ He sprang back to the blade, grinning. ‘Watch.’
There was another painful flash of light. I swore again, wincing because my eyeballs felt like they were on fire. When I recovered enough to see properly again, I picked the knife up gingerly between my finger and thumb. Sure enough, reflected there in the flat surface, was Bob’s smiling face. He gave me a two-dimensional wave. Then the air filled with a hum once more. At least this time I was smart enough to cover my eyes.
‘So,’ Bob said cheerfully, ‘what would you like?’
I frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘What wishes would you like? You get three, you know.’
No way was I going to fall for that trick. Anyone with a scrap of intelligence knew to steer clear of anyone offering wishes. ‘I’m good,’ I told him with a definite edge to my voice.
‘I don’t care whether you’re good or bad. What do you wish for first?’
‘Nothing. I don’t need anything.’
‘Hah!’ he scoffed. ‘Everyone needs something. Go on. You can tell Bob everything. I can make it happen.’
‘No thank you,’ I said primly.
He gazed at me, disappointed. ‘Why ever not?’
‘I know how these things work,’ I told him. ‘I ask for money and the next thing I know I’m receiving compensation for having my leg chopped off in a freak accident. I’ve read the stories. Everyone’s read the stories.’
He pouted. ‘You’re no fun.’
That stung. ‘You know what the psychiatrist said to the genie, right?’
Bob looked at me suspiciously. ‘What?’
‘That his feelings were all bottled up.’
He deadpanned me. ‘I don’t get it.’
I thought about explaining and then decided against it. Life was too short. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘jump back into the let— I mean the dagger, and I’ll take you back to where I found you. You can give the banker his wishes instead.’
