…
Sarah Williams kept a polite smile frozen on her face as her date bragged about his car, his job, and even his watch, all without asking a single question about her. It was looking like tonight was a complete waste of makeup. She hated to judge someone so quickly, but it hadn't even been ten minutes and she already wished she was at home in bed with a book.
No, it was good to get out there, she didn't want to be a complete hermit before she turned thirty. Besides, she felt beautiful and powerful and sexy in this little black dress, and even if she lost Harold's number after this date, it was worth it to feel this good. Although the way his eyes kept crawling over her cleavage while he talked just made her lip curl in anger and distaste.
He paused in the flow of braggadocio, and scowled at the bar. "Where the hell are our appetizers?" he demanded. "God, the service here is shit."
"It's a Friday night, we haven't even been waiting fifteen minutes, give them a break," Sarah replied, with an edge of disapproval in her tone.
"I'm gonna go get us some drinks," Harold said. "You want a Long Island Iced Tea?"
"No, just a mojito, thanks," Sarah said. She didn't want to drink quite that much this early in a date that was rapidly going south.
Harold went up, ragged on the bartender – who had nothing to do with the situation anyway – and ordered them a pair of Long Island Iced Teas. She glowered at his back; he'd tried to order her appetizer, but she'd politely corrected him. Some guys thought that was romantic. But the drink? She'd told him directly that she didn't want a Long Island, and he went ahead and ordered one anyway.
At this point she felt justified in tossing the drink in his face, except it would cause too much trouble for the restaurant staff. "God, I'd rather be anywhere but here," she groaned, rolling her eyes.
Harold was walking back over, grinning like he'd proven something, and their waiter arrived with the appetizers. Harold stopped the man on the way to the table to harangue him some more, and Sarah dropped backward into her seat and growled her frustration. Why did men think that treating servers like shit made them look good? "Fucking idiot," Sarah muttered, knowing there was going to be an ugly scene when she got up to leave. She wasn't wasting another moment of her life on this jerk, grabbing her purse and getting ready to stand. She cracked a joke to herself to bolster her bravado, knowing she'd need it to deal with Harold's inevitable meltdown. Sarah let herself grin, and whisper, "Times like this, I wish the goblins would come and take me away."
A moment of woozy disorientation, and the edges of her vision went sparkly. Sarah staggered, falling to her knees, catching herself on her hands. How embarrassing, fainting in public right in the middle of a disastrous date…
This wasn't the restaurant floor.
Cool stone under her palms, and the sound … no more cutlery on plates and murmurs of polite conversation. She heard metallic scraping and stifled laughter, and caught her breath.
It was just a joke, a reference to a play she'd been way too into as a kid. None of it was real.
There was a faint tapping noise, like the impatient drumming of fingertips, but slower.
Slowly, Sarah looked up, not trusting herself to rise just yet.
Past the ranks of goblins, scowling or leering at her, to the throne where he lounged, tapping that riding crop of his against his boot.
Jareth, the Goblin King. Every bit as dangerous and beautiful as her dreams.
He stopped tapping the boot when she looked up at him, and swung around to sit up, hands on the sweeping arms of the throne as he grinned at her. "Well hello, precious," he chuckled. "Took you long enough."
Sarah swallowed, her throat tight, trying to process this. One moment she'd been gearing up for an unpleasant confrontation with her braggart date, and now … now she was facing a whole other kind of confrontation, with someone more arrogant than any mortal man. "This isn't real," she said at first, and all the goblins laughed, making faces at her.
She hated to be mocked, and welcomed the anger that lent steel to her voice. "I didn't really ask for this. You're nothing but a story for children, all of you, and I am no child. Not anymore."
"Oh, we can see that quite well," Jareth said, and when he looked her over so deliberately, it just wasn't the same. Harold's had made her want a shower, as if he'd been touching her with sticky hands. Jareth, though … Jareth's eyes on her body felt like the briefest caress of flame, heat and danger and gone just an instant before they'd burn.
Jareth continued, "Wise of you, really, to wish yourself away. That fool who tried to prance like a peacock before you would have no idea what to do with a woman of your caliber, were he ever lucky enough to charm one to his side."
"I didn't ask for this," she said stubbornly. "I was making a joke. Take me back."
He smiled. "Oh, you asked for it. You certainly wanted something tonight, someone who could properly appreciate the fit of that dress and the shade of your lipstick. You're not going back, Sarah. It's far too late for that."
The way he said her name called up all kinds of associations from before she'd really understood those feelings. Old enough for men – not boys, men – to take notice of her, young enough to feel the weight of their regard as threat. Now, she knew it for power, though she rarely used it so. She preferred to fight, and win, on her own terms, with wit and courage and tenacity. Still she knew what she could do, if she chose.
And Jareth had no right to make her think such things in reference to him. Sarah leaned back, raising her chin. She remembered, she knew what would work here, and she spat the words at him proudly. "For my will is as strong, and my kingdom as great. You have no power over me."
The last time, that had broken his power, broken the spell, sent the room around them spinning into pieces as his proffered crystal burst like a soap-bubble on her fingertips. (But she had reached for it, hadn't she? Despite saying the words to save her brother, when he tossed the crystal she tried to catch it.)
This time … nothing happened.
Nothing.
After a pause, Jareth smiled. He rose, and walked toward her, Sarah's fingers gripping the cold stone floor as unease twisted within her, and the goblins watched avidly. Part of her wanted to spring to her feet and flee, yet part of her refused to rise. "My dear Sarah," Jareth said, almost kindly. "You gave me power over you, precious. You wished yourself away … to me. You cannot take that back, now."
He stood over her, looking thoughtful now, and she refused to cower before him. Not again, not ever again, even if she had done the unthinkably stupid and wished herself into his power. Maybe that was why she couldn't bring herself to stand up – but at least she wasn't kneeling at his feet.
Not quite, anyway.
"Only one question remains," Jareth murmured, the dangerous kind of musing in his tone. Sarah looked away from him, eyes darting to find some kind of escape, seeing herself surrounded by goblins and by the strong stone walls of his castle. The crystal at the head of his crop was smooth and hard against her skin, when he slipped it under her jaw and forced her head up to meet his gaze. Her breath caught at the sight of his smile.
"Whatever shall I do with such a magnificent gift you've given me?" Jareth purred.
Sarah forced herself to jerk away from the crop, tossing her hair back, and muster some defiance. "I bet you have a list," she snapped.
"Oh precious, why bother making a list when the answer is everything?" he taunted.