"What do you think of this one?"

A file was slapped down on the table in front of him. Thick due to a couple of DVDs tucked inside and various still photographs, it made a loud thud and Justin jumped in surprise. A month into looking for a new choreographer - a month! - and he still couldn't find one he liked. They were all... Wrong.

Routines too campy. Routines too old-fashioned. Routines too stiff. And, unbelievable as it was, a couple had been too sexual. Justin was all for sexually-infused dancing, but he drew the line at having the female dancers bare their chests. Especially considering that a couple of them were so well-endowed that they needed the support of their clothing...

"Who's this?" he asked, masking his indifference as he flipped through the contents. He saw most of the photos featured Disney characters and couldn't help but roll his eyes. Disney? Really? From Hustler-inspired to Disney?

Was Will just yanking his chain?

"I don't think a dance from a Disneyland is exactly the style I'm looking for," he admitted after a moment, shaking his head in disbelief over the series of photographs featuring Donald Duck.

"What is the style you're looking for, Justin?" Will questioned as he took the file and placed it in the Hell No stack. The Maybe stack only featured two. They hadn't even started a Sure stack. The Hell No stack was the largest of all. It seemed every choreographer was vying to work on Justin's tour. But Justin didn't know what he wanted. Will had known him for years and knew that the man was always eloquent when it came to describing what he wanted when it came to a particular look or feel, but this time around it was like pulling teeth to get the man to vocalize his particular desires. In Will's opinion it should have been pretty damned easy to decide what it wanted when it came to dancing.

"When I see it, I'll let you know," Justin sighed.

If he ever saw it.

***

The address she had memorized led Calandra to a side street that she had never heard of before. It led her to a tiny, dark building tucked between two abandoned warehouses. Despite the full sun of the afternoon, as soon as she approached the building the sky seemed to become overcast. Glancing up, she saw that the sun still shone brightly and shivered. She had no idea why she had come. It had seemed like a good idea at the time: Ariella had fluttered off for her monthly meeting with other fairies and Calandra had been alone. She just wanted to see what the Dream Weaver could do for her.

Not much, judging by the looks of the place. There was no sign, not so much as a piece of paper taped to the dusty window to announce the name of the place. A heavy cloud skittered over the sun and she blinked at the sudden wash of darkness, swearing she saw a light flicker within the depths of the building. Shaking her head to clear away the confusion, she was about to turn and head for home when a wispy voice slithered through her mind.

"Come in."

Before she knew how or why or could even think not to, she reached for the doorknob. It turned easily despite the rust that flaked into her palm and the door swung open as though the hinges were brand new. Stepping inside she was aware of the heady fragrance of incense and her eyes easily adjusted to the dimness of the small room, feet propelling her toward the table at the back wall. Shelves lining the walls were cluttered with bottles and with each step she would have sworn the contents of the bottles turned to watch her. But then her gaze fell on the shadowed figure at the table.

"Sit."

That same wispy voice that pushed away what little inhibition that still lingered within her. The flame she had seen earlier came from a small oil lamp in the center of the table and it flickered as the chair closest to her slid away from the table. She settled into the battered chair across from the figure, clutching her hands in her lap. "Are you--"

"You will know all when the time is right." The flame rose and she saw thin fingers that formed a steeple over the faded red tablecloth. The thin fingers were attached to equally thin hands, which led to bony wrists that disappeared beneath immaculate black sleeves. Her gaze traveled up as the lamp grew brighter and she was taken aback by his appearance. Thin and reedy, he resembled a skeleton more than a man, but there was an electricity in his dark eyes that was impossible to deny. Atop his head rested a shiny top hat, a jaunty red feather tucked into the band that bobbed each time his fingers tapped each other. Dry lips parted in a smile over yellowed teeth and from thin air he pulled out a stack of cards. "Now," he said in that wispy voice, expertly shuffling the cards before spreading them on the table before him, "I think I know what you want."

He touched the cards, humming a strange tune as his fingers drummed a beat over the backs of the cards. The beat filled the room and Calandra was certain that behind the tattered curtain in the corner someone played a set of drums. Her heartbeat accelerated until it matched the dark beat and her hands unclenched, moving to rest atop the soft tablecloth.

"The American Dream," he sneered under his breath, bony fingers flipping over a series of cards. The images on them meant nothing to her; in truth they appeared to be ink blots, but he seemed to understand them implicitly. "Fortune. A touch of fame. And, ah, yes, the Prince Charming that will sweep you away from your pitiful life," he continued, indicating each card in turn before sweeping the deck away. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as his smile widened. "We can make that happen, my dear."

"How?" she whispered, barely audible over the beating drums in her head.

"Typical young person. No imagination," he sighed, clapping his hands together.

The room burst into color suddenly as he stood, rounding the table. With each step he touched the furniture, the shelves, the bottles and Calandra sat, transfixed, as the room was transformed before her eyes. As though computerized special effects had taken over, everything was turned to beauty. The tattered curtains were now gleaming silk. The tablecloth a luxurious brocade that shimmered with golden threads. The faded wallpaper snapped into glorious shades of red and green, the rose vines seeming to move they were so prominent. The shelves gleamed, the bottles glittered. The bare floorboards shone as though they had just been polished.

She felt positively dowdy in comparison.

"You've always been the one that fancies dreams, haven't you, my dear?" He asked, spinning her around so she faced him. He stood back, suddenly twirling a gold chain with his fingers as he regarded her. "That dream of dancing on a stage and being watched by thousands of admirers. That dream of being one of them. The beautiful people. The people that other people always look up to and admire."

"How did you--"

"I know all."

For some reason, she didn't doubt him. She didn't doubt his words or his abilities as she sat, mesmerized by the glinting of the chain. It disappeared, tucked into a pocket of his waistcoat, as he turned to look over the rows of glittering bottles and jars.

"Now, let's see..." He picked one up and examined it. "No, that one won't do." He said as he put it back on the shelf. "Last time I used that the poor girl fell off a cliff. And that one," he mumbled, pointing to a different bottle, "always makes the object of affection turn into a snake, don't ask me why." He shrugged and looked at Calandra over his shoulder. He gave her an innocent smile and turned back to the bottles. Let's see--" he cut off into a shout of realization, plucking a thin bottle from the topmost shelf without having to reach. "Here we are. Guaranteed to work! My best potion ever."

"A potion?" She repeated softly, biting her bottom lip as she stared at the bottle.

"Just a smidge, really. You don't have to guzzle it down like a coed at a frat party," he assured, slipping the bottle into his pocket. "But first, we must discuss payment."

Stricken, she thought of her lack of available funds. The savings account that never seemed to grow was strictly off limits, no matter how tempting the offer. Her checking account had just enough in it to cover the service charge. And when it came to credit cards...

"Again, typical. Money does not make the world go 'round. Stand up." She was on her feet before the words registered and her breath caught in her throat when he moved closer. Fingers trailed over her cheeks, her neck, flicked her hair behind her ears. "Hmm... You are a pretty morsel. I doubt he'll have any problems wanting to fall into bed with you."

"What do you mean? Who are you talking about?" The questions burst from her mouth and she surreptitiously glanced over her shoulder. The sudden fear that someone other than Ariella had been intruding on her private thoughts was horrifying and she began to regret following her impulsive nature.

"You know who I'm talking about." His finger traced her cheek and he hummed softly. "The man you long for. The man that many women long to be with. The man that sings and dances and acts and lives that Hollywood dream."

"You could be talking about anyone," Calandra whispered with a faltering smile.

"Ah, I'll have to go further." He snapped his fingers and a cutting from a newspaper appeared. She only glanced at it before recognizing it as the article about Justin's mugging. It detailed what had happened to him and she had hated the bland words, had longed to write to the reporter and give the true story. But one line had stopped her. One stupid line.

"'Timberlake informed authorities that his attackers were disrupted by a young woman who has not come forward to provide her statement'. As usual, the media missed the real story, didn't they?" He asked after reading the last line of the article.

"It wasn't—I just—I did what anyone would have done." She faltered.

"I doubt that. Most people would have come forward and held out their hand for some of his money."

"I don't want his money." She insisted. "I want—"

"Him." He finished her sentence. "Justin Timberlake. Mr. Sexyback. The man who touches dirt and it turns to gold."

All of her earlier doubts swept away at his words. Her disbelief over his knowing all was now gone. She longed to ask how he knew but somehow understood that his answer would only be more riddles that would raise more questions. "How do I get him?"

"How does any woman get any man?" The dark eyes roved her figure and in spite of the dimness of the room she felt exposed. A pointed tongue slipped over his dry lips and she felt sickened. "Now, about my payment."

Was that all she was good for? Her eyes widened as a sudden, horrible thought occurred to her. "I refuse to--"

"Do not worry on that account. Sex for payment hardly ever works out right for either party. Besides, I don't know where you've been." He backed away, moving to a large drawer in one of the cabinets along the far wall. "People move so quickly these days, I hardly know what time frame to give you... A week isn't long enough. Pity. A month? Yes, that sounds good. A month sounds reasonable to you, doesn't it, my dear? Once the deal is done you'll be in his life and after that, it's all up to you. Thirty-one days to help your dreams come true. After you pay me."

"What if he doesn't... What if I fail?" She asked softly, fingers sliding anxiously over her thighs as she stood.

"Oh, the usual clause. You'll simply be available to do my bidding at any time I see fit to need you."

"But--"

"You do know his tour starts up within a couple of weeks, don't you? We haven't time to waste. Trying to land a man while he's going hither and yon and up to his ears in work is hardly easy. Much easier for you to win if you get into his life immediately."

"How will I know? What has to happen for me to win, as you put it?"

"Three little words, my dear," he explained, plucking a dropper from the drawer. He shook it once and the dust melted away, revealing a jeweled handle. "All you have to do is have him profess his love and that's it. Happily ever after and all that fairy tale sweetness you desire." His eyes narrowed as he crossed the room in large strides, placing the bottle and the dropper in the center of the table. "But of course, he must mean it. It must be a profession of real, true love. Not that he loves to sleep with you. Not that he loves you as a friend." He snapped his fingers and, blessedly, the heavy beating stopped. "Do we have a deal?"

"My payment--"

"Ah, yes. Nothing major, really." He waved his hand in the air in dismissal. I'll need that pretty voice of yours."

"My voice?" She repeated -- nearly screeched. Immediately one hand reached up to cup her throat.

"Did you or did you not sing to him when you first met him? I can't have you going into this with an upper hand, you see. Besides, there are other ways to communicate." The top of the bottle flew off and landed precisely in a tub of bottle caps in the corner. "Those pretty eyes of yours, for instance. And we mustn't underestimate this body of yours. I'm sure you know how to use it to your advantage." He tipped the bottle and a droplet of the purple liquid landed with a sizzle on the tablecloth. "Ah, it's still in good condition. Do we have a deal?"

She hesitated, watching his fingers quickly lay out the things that were apparently needed to make her dreams come true. His eyes lit up when she looked to him, and she thought longingly of the gentle hand that had held onto her. The soft voice that had warmed her considerably. What could it hurt? Without anymore questions, without further hesitation, she nodded, reaching to shake the extended hand.

His lips spread wide into a maniacal, almost devilish, grin. "Excellent," he hissed. Her head was tipped back by invisible hands and her mouth fell open in surprise. The dropper poised over her face for a moment and the beating drums returned, his wispy voice chanting unintelligible words as the liquid drizzled into her mouth.

It had barely gone down her throat when the world tipped beneath her and everything went black.