Just a Whim

Just a Whim

by Jocelyn Aitkin

Copyright 2011 Jocelyn Aitkin

Smashwords Edition

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Cover image and divider art copyright 2012 Rebecca Miller

Dedicated to everyone who helped me get to this point at last. Thank you all. I would never have been able to publish anything without you.

Chapter One

Some would call him fate. Some would call him karma. He was not really about balancing the scales. It was a charming idea, that there is some balance. There is not. Or there was not. That was now in question as well. That was complicated. He had no name, no official title. Others thought he was the reason bad things happened to good people. It was somewhat like that. It was more complicated.

He had a gift. It seemed simple at first, a special insight into others, to see what they wanted most. It was just a passing thing in the beginning, something simple. It was a surface understanding, then it got deeper. It was not just the passing momentary desire, but it was more and more long term, until he could finally see the lifelong hopes, dreams, and fears of a person.

Perhaps it was because he was ancient. He lived for a long time, always knowing what others wanted. It was later that the other ability appeared, the one that made him truly twisted. It wasn't like he wanted to know everything about everyone. He didn't. Then he found he could grant these wishes, desires, hopes, or fears. He was not amused or pleased when he saw them get what they wanted. It made him more and more bitter.

He granted more and more fears, but even that was not pleasurable enough to counter the ever present knowledge of what everyone wanted. Then he realized that giving the dreams and taking them away was the worst possible thing he could do. Naturally, he wanted to do it. He did little else. He was not bound by the normal human needs of food, water, and sleep, not in the same way. He needed very little of any of them. He was more than they were, better and superior to all of them.

He hated them. Really hated them.

It was not hard for him to do what he did. The ability to manipulate what people needed and wanted and to crush them as they lost everything, that was his sole purpose in life. It was a purpose that suited him, that he enjoyed and loved.

He found the longer a person had a dream, the more it was cultivated and nurtured, the better it felt to take it away. That was what made a single woman like Louise Jones perfect. She was ordinary in every respect, plain but scarred and shy and socially awkward. From when she was a little girl and playing with her dolls, she wanted a child. Growing up, it was just one disappointment after another, from men who would not even try to those who left her brokenhearted to the failure of fertility treatment after fertility treatment, the rejection of her applications for adoption and even foster care. She was quickly headed for the change of life, menopause, about to lose any chance of having a child when he went to her.

He was not bothered by the human limitations of her body or his, and he was capable of granting almost every wish. He was also capable of taking things away. That was what he did. He gave her the child that she had always wanted, and she held him in her arms for an hour.

Then he took the boy. The mother withered away slowly, pining for the child.

As for the child, he was small, a nuisance that cried. Louise wanted this, but he did not understand the appeal. The boy had nothing, was nothing. Ending the child's life should have been easy. It would have been, if not for what he discovered about the child.

He could not see what the child wanted. Even simple things, the basic needs of a newborn, they were not there. He could not see them.

So he let the child live. As the child grew, so did his frustration.

The boy grew. He was not an unhealthy child, for all that he was not the most loved or well cared for. He was just a nuisance, but there were unanswered questions. How was it that he could not see the hopes, dreams, and fears of his child? It should have been even easier with someone from his own blood.

What he had not realized was how specific the dream of Louise Jones was. Her most cherished hope was one she had envisioned over the years, repeatedly, so many times that she had perfected the idea of what she wanted. She had considered every possibility. She wanted to account for everything, or maybe she just believed that her dream would be the only way she ever experienced having a child of her own. She had dreamed up the child's whole life. She had some stories for a little girl, but most of them were stories about a boy. She had really wanted a son.

He failed to see the appeal of a child, any child, but his son only had one interesting feature, his immunity to his father's gift.

Over the years, he tried to figure out his son's wants, his dreams. He wanted to take them more than anyone else's in the world. He did what he could, took the obvious things, the things that every small child thought they wanted. He denied the boy basic things, denied him a family, a mother's love, a father's love. He gave him pain and denied him the outdoors, the sun, friends, and toys. The boy had nothing.

Yet nothing seemed to bother that child. There was something unnatural about him. Given his parents, the circumstances of his conception and birth, it was not surprising. He did not care for the child's immunity, always seeking to destroy it.

He remained unsuccessful. As long as he was unsuccessful, he was angry.

Whoa. All I asked you was how you were today. I was just trying to be polite, the girl—was she a woman or a girl, he was not sure when that distinction changed—said, holding up the hand that was not cradling a cup of coffee. She looked down at the cup and then back at him, pushing some loose hair behind her ear. He found that ritual strange, but he did not understand much of this world yet. He knew it only from books he had read and television or films he had been able to see, not from any real or practical experience. His short forays into the world had been limited by whatever his father's agenda was that day, and he had not liked the journey much. This was different. This he was learning all on his own. "Are you always like this? Telling everyone this... creepy life story of yours?"

He lowered his head. I tried; I admit. You're the first one that let me get that far. I assume... with good reason?

You think?

I admit to uncertainty, he began, nodding quickly. He was learning. Learning was a good thing. He needed to know how to interact with others, which was why he'd started with the coffee shop. He'd gotten shuffled to the next counter and tried to start conversations, but no one had listened before this girl. Woman. He still wasn't sure. Girls were almost completely unknown to him. He understood why she was shorter than him physically and slighter, though she looked almost unhealthily slight like she did not eat well, and her hair was longer, at least to her shoulders, going down her back, and she wore a skirt to match a business suit and long coat. He was no judge of fashion, but it did not look like she belonged in those clothes. I am... socially awkward. This is very confusing to me. I was not allowed to interact much, not with other people.

She nodded. Meaning the child in the creepy story is supposed to be you?

Obviously, I am not a child any longer, and while my education has improved, despite my father's efforts, the interpersonal dialogues are the ones I have the least experience and knowledge of, he tried to explain, and he thought he saw her wince.

Even your explanations are awkward, she told him. Her nose crinkled a little, but he thought he saw laughter in those intelligent brown eyes. "You are always like this."

I suppose I am, he agreed. He took a sip of his coffee. He had decided quickly that he liked it, but it was better with cream. The darker brew was bitter. It reminded him of his father. He did not like to think too much of his father. He added more cream to the coffee. He was curious about what she had. Was it better tasting than his?

"I'm actually starting to think you're not flirting, that it's not some kind of weird come on, she said, shrugging. That's cute. And pathetic, all at once. All right, I'll humor you. You're not trying to pick me up, and I do have this thing about strays..."

You... believe me a stray?

Did I miss something with the story, or didn't you supposedly just leave your jerk of a father and set off on your own? You have some place to stay?

He frowned. That was something he had not given much thought to, not yet, anyway. Sleep was not that important, nor was having a place to sleep, because he required very little, but he did not have anywhere to go just yet. Well... no. I do not. I am just... finding my way. It has been an interesting day so far. Coffee I like. I haven't really decided much else.

Nice to see you have your priorities in order, she laughed. He liked the sound of her laughter. It was something beautiful. He smiled at her as she took a sip of her coffee. I'm Thyme, by the way.

That is your name? Intriguing. You don't actually control time or anything, do you? he asked, earnestly. She rolled her eyes and started walking away from him. She threw her coffee cup away violently and pushed through the door angrily. She headed down the street.

Wait! I'm sorry. I know you wanted to tell me your name without me making fun of you, and I promise I wasn't, he pleaded earnestly, trying to get her to understand. He knew, because of the way he knew everything, that she had heard that question too many times in her life, even too many times in this particular day, but he hadn't meant it like the others did. She was the first person that had been even remotely willing to listen. And he liked her laugh. He didn't want to stop talking to her yet. "Honestly. I was just curious. I mean, I have this gift, and it's not exactly normal. I'm not normal, for that matter. If I can do what I can do, why wouldn't I wonder if you can control time?"

She stopped, whirled around, and faced him. You're nuts. You actually believe that story you told me back there? And what gift do you have?

My father's. No, not entirely. That is to say, I can see what he can, and I can do what he does, but it's different with me. I have always been able to know what people wanted, to see it like he does. Only I can see it clearer, instantly, and people he had difficulty with, I do not. And I can do or create or grant anything people want. My father's gift is limited. Mine... is not.

Right, she said, mocking him a little. Unlimited power in the hands of a socially retarded guy with delusions? That's great. So what is it that I want?

He held out a cup of coffee, like the one she had just finished, and a bottle of Irish crème liqueur in the other hand. She looked from one to the other and shook her head, her mouth hanging open a little in disbelief.

Nice trick. Who told you I was a coffee and Bailey's girl? Who set you up to do this?

Set up? No. Do you want to keep playing? I can keep doing this. I can show you more if that's what you need to convince you. Ask for something difficult, something I couldn't have hidden in my coat like you think I did, he offered, and she frowned.

Are you a mind reader?

Partially, yes. It's complicated.

Complicated, Thyme repeated, shaking her head. She took a deep breath, exhaling strongly enough to flip her bangs up for a moment. Fine. If you can do this wish thing, can you travel, too? So we can just... teleport from right here to the top of the Eiffel Tower or something?

Yes, he agreed. He took her hand for a moment, letting the world around them disappear and reform in another location. She looked at him, her mouth really open in surprise. I apologize. This is not the top, but I did not think that it was a good idea to try and perch on the radio tower.

Most people consider this the top, you crazy loon, Thyme said, pinching her own arm. He'd heard of that. It was something people did when they thought they were dreaming. Accepting that she was, in fact, awake, she looked around again. How the... How did you do that?

He shrugged. I don't know how it works. I just know that it does. And I know if my father wanted to grant the dream of a trip, he'd do it with a ticket and then he'd make the trip horrible or crash the plane or kill the person on the trip.

She stared at him for a moment, processing that. Your father is, what, the root of all evil?

"Well, now, that goes a bit too far. My father is not a nice man, not by any means. He is evil; I would agree with that, but certainly not the root of all evil. He has a gift that makes him bitter, but he is not the cause of all badness that exists. Even he does not have that kind of reach."

She nodded. I'll have to remember that you take everything literally. So you know what my life long goal is?

No. Because you don't know what you want. There's a lot of confusion there.

Oh, so now I'm confused?

You're standing on the top of the Eiffel Tower when you were outside an American coffee shop less than ten minutes ago. You would be something other than confused now?

I'm going with insane. Yep, definitely insane.

Are you... going to take me home?

Yes, if you'd like. I was just waiting for you to say so, he told her, and Thyme looked at him for a long time. She'd just been standing there, in her usual coffee shop, waiting for her coffee, and he got knocked into her. He apologized, and she asked him how he was to be polite. Next thing she knew, she was hearing a story that seemed to come from the warped part of her brain where her darker stories originated. And she was starting to think that it was true. All of it. That was creepy. She was not naïve enough to think that horror stories didn't exist in some form, but she had not expected to meet someone who just stated it all like fact. You didn't actually know you wanted to leave until just now.

Is there any way to shut that off? she demanded, frowning. She was proud of herself so far. She hadn't screamed or run off or started cowering yet, despite how weird all of this was. She had to admit, though, he was something different. It wasn't just the lost puppy thing—though she doubted anyone could resist that look with those strangely compelling eyes of his—but here was this guy who stood in front of her, told her a creepy story, actually seemed to have a gift that only belonged in fantasy books, and she was actually listening to him. She couldn't stop. He intrigued her as much as he frightened