One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.
I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and
the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast
library at my father’s home and collected thousands
of volumes of fantastic tales.
I learned all about ancient races and bygone
times. About myths and legends and dreams of all
people through the millennium. And the more I read
the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered
that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually
become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: ??????, “king”) married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
Prologue
Chandeliers twinkled overhead, and a string quartet played Led Zeppelin. All while our friends and family ate and drank and made merry. Out the nearest window you could see the Eiffel Tower all lit up for the night, and I couldn’t have been happier if I tried. The hotel suite was wonderful. Everything was perfect. Just perfect.
“Here you go,” said my husband, David, passing me a Moscow mule. “Happy seventh wedding anniversary, Mrs. Ferris.”
“Right back at you, Mr. Ferris.”
He pressed a kiss to my lips. “Who the hell would have thought?”
“We had a rough start.” I smiled. “But I sure am glad we persevered.”
“Me too. This dress you’re wearing…” His fingers traced down my spine in a thrilling fashion. My back was bared by the low square cut of the short, black Hervé Legér fit and flare dress. It also had a plunging v-neckline, and my man definitely noticed. “Have I said how much I appreciate the easy access?”
“I may have learned a thing or two about how you like it,” I said coyly.
“We are in the city of love.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s not like we’d be missed.” He nuzzled the side of my neck, making my toes curl. “What do you say, baby?”
“You want us to sneak out of our own party?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
I nodded. “True.”
“Did I mention we’re in the city of love?” he asked, nibbling on my earlobe.
“Yes. I believe you did.”
We were in France because Stage Dive was doing a world tour. It started three months ago and would continue on for another ten. A whole year and a bit on the road with one of the biggest rock bands in the world. From North America to Europe, Asia, Australia, New Zealand, South America, and then back home again. Not all of the family would be on the whole tour. People had lives and children had school and so on.
But tonight they were all here. Just for this. For us. And the celebration of our seven years together. I’d intended it to be a casual get-together, but this was so much better. Everyone dressed up to the nines and was having the time of their life. Touring was hard work with constant stresses, and we deserved some fun.
“Coming through,” hollered Mal, the blond drummer.
David and I separated to allow the dance line to pass. Because even fancy parties in France needed a dance line, apparently. First came Mal bopping along with his two-year-old son, Tommy, on his shoulders. Followed by five-year-old Gibson and his dad, Ben, the tall, bearded bassist. Behind them came the band’s lead singer, Jimmy, with his twin girls. They were almost six and would in all likelihood be taking over the planet any day now. Hooray for strong women. Their father couldn’t have been any more delighted with their energy and enthusiasm for life. Jimmy might have been the slick bad boy of the band back in the day, but he’d grown into a good man and a great father.