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Sarah encounters Jareth and makes a deal.

"Do you want it?"

I want it.

"Then you have to come and take it."

In my dreams, it's always Jareth's voice. He's officially my inner voice of determination and conquest. Trust me, the irony isn't lost on me either. Just a little subconscious bonus from my teenage otherwordly adventures, I guess.

I need all the help I can get really, from wherever it comes. My glittering vocal performance career is going exactly nowhere faster than a speeding bullet. I can usually get an audition of some kind by riding my mother's proverbial coat tails - the Williams name still has some cachet, and I look a hell of a lot like her (thanks for your genes, Mom). But then it's the same old tune - "a very fine voice, Sarah", "we'll keep you in mind, Sarah", etc, etc.

Let me tell you, "fine" is nothing special. In the real world, fine is tragically, pathetically different from special. And special is what makes stars.

I look at the stars out there, and I see what they can do to an audience. Things with their voice and eyes and that intangible charisma that makes you want to crawl towards them on your knees just to hear a little more. They make you feel, whether you want to or not.

I want that so bad I can taste it every hour of every day. I can recognize it when I see it. But I don't know how to get to it myself.

That's probably why I find myself at hole-in-the-wall clubs like this one more often than not, trying to find inspiration. The singer tonight was supposed to be doing covers of David Bowie songs.

I smiled to myself as I waited for him to come on stage - David Bowie always reminds me of Jareth for obvious reasons. I don't know who borrowed inspiration from whom during the Thin White Duke stage, but even if they didn't already look somewhat alike, that alone would cement the resemblance.

I blinked as the lights dimmed to almost nothing and the singer coalesced onto the dais. For a heartbeat before he began, I honest-to-goodness prayed. Please be amazing. Please show me the way.

Well, someone up there must have been listening because the singer began to do things with his voice that scraped my insides right out. The lower notes rolled out with liquid grace, sending shivers shimmering just beneath my skin. The higher notes thrummed with heady power before tapering off with heart-rending delicacy. The spontaneous ornamentation was rich and effortless, a masterful waxing and waning that pulled emotions like taffy, sculpting them just so.

He was even better than Bowie, and that was a pretty blasphemous thought in and of itself.

When the house lights came up at the end of the first song, I nearly fell off my chair. But there was no mistaking it - it was him, Jareth, the Goblin King. I'd know those supercilious patrician features anywhere, that cornsilk hair, that arrogant grace of movement. And whatever his faults, the man could sing. Somehow I'd forgotten.

My decision was unconscious and instantaneous. I had to make him teach me.

But what could I possibly offer in return to someone like him? Stories of immortal faerie beings swam in my head (all that fantasy reading was good for something at last), and one thing emerged crystal sharp.

Well, it would have to do. Let's see if he'd bite.

After the show finished, I cornered him in the alley behind the club where the secret backstage door let out. I knew about it because I'd performed at this club too, but my Tori Amos covers didn't hold a candle to his Bowie covers, and that was a fact.

I blocked his way, refusing to let him pass me by.

He stood as still as death, waiting, the sense of him overwhelming in the narrow space. The man had presence in spades, and that was a fact, too.

But I was a girl on a mission, and no amount of preternatural charisma would move me. I lifted my chin. "I want you to teach me to do that."

He raised a mocking eyebrow. "And what might 'that' be?"

"To use your voice like a weapon."

His sudden interest was sharp as a scalpel. "Why should I?"

"Because I'm betting you're bored just now, and teaching me would be amusing as all hell to you."

A half-smile flickered at me. "You think I'm bored?"

I flicked a smile back at him. "You're doing Bowie covers in a no-name club in LA, so you're not in it for the money nor apparently the riotous adulation of the fans who would quite willingly throw themselves at your feet given half a chance. I'm betting you do it for the rush and pleasure of the performance itself." I heard the innuendo just after it escaped my mouth, and firmly clamped said mouth shut before it traipsed further into Dangerous Territory.

He noticed, his eyes flashing with a very masculine amusement. "Not into riotous adulation, am I?"

Get back on track, Williams. "Not from them, anyway. Else you wouldn't be using The Hole to make your escape after."

Both eyebrows raised at that. "The Hole?"

I nodded at the backstage door behind him. "Typically reserved for disastrous performances and the subsequent avoidance of shame. Not your problem clearly."

That surprised a soft laugh from him. "Mmm. Clearly." He cocked his head to the side then, that avian tilt I remembered so well. "So you want me to teach you. What if you haven't the skill?"

"I'm betting I do."

"It's not merely vocal skill you need."

"I'm still betting I have what it takes."

There was a much more thorough scrutiny from him this time, a peeling away of layers of history and preconception that seemed to take an eternity.

I stood my ground, waiting.

At last, he blinked slowly, reaching a decision. "That you might." A certain unmistakable hunger was in his eyes. "And what would I get in return?"

I smiled wide. "To never be bored again."

His laughter drifted around us both, patronizing as hell. "A tall order. Never is a long time."

My lips twitched. "Not long at all. Try me. I'm young, impressionable, and yet decidedly full of cynicism. Very amusing to someone like you, I'd imagine."

Something lit behind his eyes at that. "I'm demanding beyond all reason."

"I'd expect nothing less."

He nodded. "Well then, I believe we have a deal, Miss Williams."

Holy shit, it actually worked. I took a deep breath. "Excellent, Ja-...wait, what do I call you?"

His eyes glittered. "Supreme Lord and Master."

The hell I would. "Too long."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"If you insist on it, SLM will have to do, though I'll be the first to admit it does sound rather silly." I smiled sweetly at his frozen expression. "I did say you'd never be bored."

"Mmm. Perhaps 'sir' will do for now."

Good enough. I bobbed my head and dropped a quick curtsy. "When do we start, sir?"

"Insolent wretch," he muttered. "Now's soon enough."

His gloved hand captured mind just before we both disappeared.