The Ring

It had been the fifth freefall day in a row on Wall Street, the kind of day that grinds all the anger and frustration out of an investor and leaves him feeling nothing at all, unless it’s a weary desire for rest or death and either would be fine with him.

Which was why Nick Powell, department store floor manager and formerly-hopeful stock market investor, walked completely past the small curio shop on his way home from work before the exotic gold ring sitting on its black velvet pad in the window finally registered.

Even then, he almost didn’t stop. His modest and carefully nurtured portfolio had been nearly wiped out in the bloodletting, and there was no place for impulse purchases in a budget that included food and clothing and a Manhattan rent.

But his girlfriend Lydia loved odd jewelry, and a week’s worth of preoccupation with the markets had turned their permanent simmering disagreement about money first into a shouting argument and then into a cold and deadly silence. A suitable peace offering might help patch things up.

And who knew? In a little shop like this the ring might even be reasonably priced. Retracing his steps, Nick went inside.

“Afternoon,” the shopkeeper greeted him. He was an old man, tall and thin, with wrinkled skin and a few gray hairs still holding tenaciously to his pale skull. But his blue eyes were sharp enough, and there was a sardonic twist to the corners of his mouth. “What can I do for you?”

“That ring in the window,” Nick said. “I wonder if I might look at it.”

The old man’s eyes seemed to flash. “Very discerning,” he said as he left the counter and crossed to the window. Nick winced as he passed, something about the air that brushed across his face sending a tingle up his back. “Antique German,” the shopkeeper went on as he turned around again, the ring nestled in the palm of his hand. “Here—don’t be afraid. Come and see.”

Don’t be afraid? Frowning at the odd comment, Nick leaned over to look.

Sitting behind a dusty window in the fading sunlight, the ring had been impressive. Pressed against human flesh in a bright, clean light, it was dazzling.

It was gold, of course, but somehow it seemed like a brighter, clearer, more vibrant gold than anything Nick had ever seen before. The design itself was equally striking: a meshed filigree of long, thin leaves intertwined with six slender human arms, each complete with a tiny but delicately shaped hand. “It’s beautiful,” he managed, the words catching oddly in his throat. “German, you say?”

“Very old German,” the shopkeeper said. “Tell me, are you rich?”

Nick grimaced. So much for any peace offering to Lydia. It probably would just have earned him a lecture on extravagance anyway. “Hardly,” he said, taking a step toward the door. “Thanks for—”

“Would you like to be rich?”

Nick frowned. There was an unpleasant gleam in the old man’s eyes. “Of course,” Nick said. “Who doesn’t?”

“How badly?”

The standing disagreement with Lydia flashed through his mind. “Badly enough, I’m told,” he muttered.

“Good.” The old man thrust his hand toward Nick. “Here. Take it. Put it on.”

Slowly, Nick reached over and took the ring. The old man’s skin, where he touched it, felt cold and scaly. “What?”

“Put it on,” the old man repeated.

“No, it’s not for me—it’s for a lady friend,” Nick said.

“It doesn’t want her,” the old man said flatly, an edge to his voice. “Put it on.”

Nick shook his head. “There’s no way it’ll fit,” he warned, slipping the filigreed gold onto his right ring finger. Sure enough, it stopped at the second knuckle. “See? It—”

And broke off as the ring somehow suddenly slid the rest of the way to the base of the finger.

“It likes you,” the old man said approvingly. “It knows you can do it.”

“It knows I can do what?” Nick demanded, pulling on the ring. But whatever trick of flexible sizing had allowed it to get over the knuckle, the trick was apparently gone. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s the Ring of the Nibelungs,” the old man said solemnly.

“The what?”

“The Ring of the Nibelungs,” the old man repeated, the somber tone replaced by irritation. “Crafted hundreds of years ago by the dwarf Alberich from the magic gold of the Rhinemaidens. It carries the power to create wealth for whoever possesses it.” His lip twisted. “Don’t you ever listen to Wagner’s operas?”

“I don’t get to the Met very often,” Nick growled, twisting some more at the Ring. “Come on, get this thing off me.”

“It won’t come off,” the old man said. “As I said, it likes you.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Nick shot back. “Come on, give me a hand.”

“Just take it,” the old man said. “There’s no charge.”

Nick paused, frowning. “No charge?”

“Not until later,” the other said. “Shall we say ten percent of your earnings?”

Nick snorted. The way things were going, a deal like that would soon have the old man owing him money. “Deal,” he said sarcastically. “I’ll just back up the armored car to your door, okay?”

The other smiled, his eyes glittering all the more. “Good-bye, Mr. Powell,” he said softly. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Nick was two blocks away, still trying to get the Ring off, when it suddenly occurred to him that he’d never told the old man his name.

There weren’t any messages from Lydia waiting on his machine. He thought about calling her, decided that it wouldn’t accomplish anything, and ate his dinner alone. Afterwards, for the same reason people tune into the eleven o’clock news to see a repeat of the same multicar crash they’ve already seen on the six o’clock news, he turned on his computer and pulled up the data on the international stock markets.

Only to find that, to his astonishment, the six o’clock crash wasn’t being repeated.

He stared at the screen, punching in his trader passcode again and again. The overall Nikkei average was down by nearly the same percentage as the Dow. But somehow, impossibly, Nick’s stocks had not only survived the drop but had actually increased in value.

All of his stocks had.

He was up until after four in the morning, checking first the Nikkei, then the Hang Seng, then the Sensex 30, then the DJ Stoxx 600. It was the same pattern in all of them: the overall numbers bounced up and down like fishing boats in a rough sea, but Nick’s own stocks stubbornly defied the trends, rising like small hot-air balloons over the violent waters.

He fell asleep on his desk about the time the London exchanges were opening … and when he awoke, stiff and groggy, the NYSE had been open for nearly an hour, he was two hours late for work, and already he’d made up nearly everything he’d lost in the past two days. By the time the market closed that afternoon, his portfolio’s value had made it back to where it had been before the freefall started.

By the end of the next week, he was a millionaire.

He broke the news to Lydia over their salads that Saturday at Sardi’s. To his annoyed surprise, she wasn’t happy for him.

In fact, just the opposite. “I don’t like it, Nick,” she said, her face somber and serious in the candlelight. “It isn’t right.”

“What’s not right about it?” Nick countered, trying to keep his voice low. “Why shouldn’t one of the little people get some of Wall Street’s money for a change?”

“Because this was way too fast,” Lydia said. “It’s not good to get rich so quickly.”

Nick shook his head in exasperation. “This is one of those things I can’t win, isn’t it?” he growled. “I head into the dumpster and you don’t like it. I turn around and bounce into the ionosphere, and you still don’t like it. Can you give me a hint of what income level you would like me to have?”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Lydia said, her eyes flashing with some exasperation of her own. “It’s not about the money. It’s about your obsession with it.”

“Could you keep your voice down?” Nick ground out, glancing furtively around the dining room.

“Because you’re just as focused on money now as you were a week ago,” Lydia said, ignoring his request. “Maybe even more so.”

“Only because I’ve got more to be focused on,” Nick muttered. Heads were starting to turn, he noted with embarrassment, as nearby diners began to tune in on the conversation.

“Exactly,” Lydia said. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t believe someone can make a million dollars in two weeks without some serious obsessing going on.”

Heads were definitely turning now. “Half the people in this room do it all the time,” Nick said, wishing that he’d waited until dessert to bring this up. Now they were going to have to endure the sideways glances through the whole meal.

Still, part of him rather liked the fact he was being noticed by people like this. After all, he was on his way to being one of them.

“I’m just worried about money getting its claws into you, that’s all,” Lydia persisted.

Out of sight beneath the table, Nick brushed his fingers across the filigreed surface of the Ring that, despite every effort, still wouldn’t come off. “It won’t,” he promised.

“Then prove it,” Lydia challenged. “If money’s not your master, give some of it away.”

The old shopkeeper’s face superimposed itself across Lydia’s. Ten percent of your profits, Mr. Powell. “I can do that,” Nick said, suppressing a shiver. “No problem.”

“And I don’t mean give it to the IRS,” Lydia said archly. “I mean give some of it to charity or the community.”

“No problem,” Nick repeated.

Lydia still didn’t look convinced. But just then a pair of waiters appeared at their table, one sweeping their salad plates deftly out of their way as the other uncovered freshly steaming plates, and for the moment at least that conversation was over.

Despite the rocky start, the meal turned out to be a very pleasant time. Lydia might like to claim the high ground in her opinions about money, a small cynical part of Nick noted, but she had no problem enjoying the benefits that money could bring.

They were halfway through crème brulee for two when a silver-haired man in an expensive suit left his table and his dark-haired female companion and came over. “Good evening,” he said, laying a gold-embossed business card beside Nick’s wine glass. “I couldn’t help overhearing some of your conversation earlier. My congratulations on your recent achievement.”

“Thank you,” Nick said, his heartbeat picking up as the name on the card jumped out at him. This was none other than David Sonnerfeld, CEO of one of the biggest investment firms in the city. “I was just lucky.”

“That kind of luck is a much sought-after commodity on Wall Street,” Sonnerfeld said, smiling at Lydia. “Would you by any chance be interested in exploring a position with Sonnerfeld Thompkins?”

“He already has a job,” Lydia put in.

“Actually, I don’t,” Nick corrected her. “I quit this afternoon.”

Lydia’s eyes widened. “You quit?”

“Why not?” Nick demanded, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. Was she never going to let up? “It’s not like I need it anymore.”

“Quite right,” Sonnerfeld put in smoothly. “A man with the talent for making money hardly needs a normal job. On the other hand, the right position with the right people can certainly enhance both your career and your life.” He gestured down at the card. “Why don’t you come by the office Monday morning. Say, around eleven?”

“That would be—yes, thank you,” Nick managed.

“Excellent,” Sonnerfeld said, reaching out his hand. “Mr.—?”

“Powell,” Nick said, reaching out and taking the proffered hand. “Nick Powell.”

“Mr. Powell,” Sonnerfeld said, giving his hand a quick, firm shake. “That’s an interesting ring. Oh, and do bring your portfolio and trading record with you.” With a polite smile at Lydia, he returned to his waiting companion and they headed toward the exit.

“I take it he’s someone important?” Lydia murmured.

“One of the biggest brokerage men in the city,” Nick told her, his hands starting to shake with reaction. “And he’s interested in me.”

“Or he’s just interested in your money.” Lydia dropped her gaze to his hand. “So you’re still wearing that thing?”

“I happen to like it,” Nick said, hearing the defensiveness in his voice. He’d been too embarrassed at first to tell her he couldn’t get it off, and now he was stuck with the lie that he actually liked the damn thing.

“It’s grotesque,” she insisted, peering at the Ring like it was a diseased animal. “Those leaves look half drowned. And the hands all look like they’re grabbing desperately for something.”

Nick held the Ring up for a closer look. Now that she mentioned it, there did seem to be a sense of hopelessness in the arms and hands. “It’s old German,” he said. “Styles change over the centuries, you know.”

“I don’t like it,” Lydia said, a quick shiver running through her.

“I’m not asking you to wear it,” Nick growled, scooping up a bite of the crème brulee.

But the flavor had gone out of the delicate dessert. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said, laying down his spoon. “You coming back to my place?”

“That depends,” she said, gazing evenly at him. “Will you promise not to check on your money every ten minutes?”

“What, you mean go into the vault and count it?” he scoffed.

“I mean will you leave the computer off?”

He sighed theatrically. “Fine,” he said. “I promise.”

But later, an hour after she’d fallen asleep, he stole out of the bedroom and went online to check the foreign market predictions. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her; and besides, his finger underneath the Ring was suddenly hurting too much for him to sleep.

An hour later, his curiosity satisfied and the pain gone as inexplicably as it had appeared, he crept back into bed.

And in his dreams he was the master of the world.

The Monday meeting at Sonnerfeld Thompkins was every bit as impressive as Nick had expected it to be. Sonnerfeld pulled out all the stops, introducing him to the rest of the firm’s top people and studying Nick’s portfolio with amazement and praise.

Midway through lunch, under Sonnerfeld’s polite but steady pressure, Nick agreed to join Sonnerfeld Thompkins on a trial basis.

The first month was like a chapter from a financial success book. Nick’s Midas touch continued, with every stock or bond or commodity he picked turning to gold with a perfect sense of timing. There were a few false starts, but every time he tried to buy a property that he would later find was irretrievably on its way down, his finger started hurting so badly he could hardly type. Eventually, he learned how to read the telltale twinges that came before the actual pain started.

Pain or not, though, his purchases made money for himself and the firm and its clients, and that was the important thing. By the end of the month Sonnerfeld was talking—just theoretically, of course—of putting Nick on the fast track to full partner, and wondering aloud about the flow of the name Sonnerfeld Thompkins Powell. Everything was going perfectly.

Everything, that is, except Lydia. In the midst of all the success she continued her self-appointed role as rainmaker to Nick’s private parade. Before the Ring had come to him Nick had been ready to ask her to marry him, his lack of proper finances the only thing holding him back. But now, just when he was gaining the sort of wealth and power that would attract most women, Lydia was instead growing more distant. While she still permitted him to spend money on her for dinners and modest gifts, her disapproval of what she called his obsession was never far below the surface. He couldn’t pause in the middle of an evening to check the international funds without getting a lecture, and she went nearly ballistic when he tried to give her a simple little thirty-thousand-dollar necklace.

Nothing he did seemed to make any difference. He set up a charity distribution trust fund with direct access from one of his accounts to fulfill his promise to share the wealth; she applauded it as a good first step but thought the five percent he routinely sent to it was far too small for a man of his means. He bought a new cell phone with internet trading capabilities programmed in so that he could make any last-minute trades on the way home from work. He put Sonnerfeld and the rest of his staff on a special vibration mode on his cell phone and a special flashing-light code on his home phone so that he could let any late-night calls go to voice mail if Lydia was around to disapprove.

None of it helped. Lydia seemed bound and determined to make him feel guilty about his success.

And finally, midway through the last weekend of that otherwise glorious first month Nick decided he’d had enough of her complaining.

He was still brooding over it Monday morning when the runaway bus slammed into a line of pedestrians twenty feet in front of him.

“I’m surprised you even came in,” Sonnerfeld said, sitting on the corner of his desk as he handed Nick a cup of coffee. Or rather, tried to hand it to him. Nick’s hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t even hold it. Eventually Sonnerfeld gave up and instead set it down on the desk. “Why don’t you just go home?”

“I’m okay,” Nick said, gazing out Sonnerfeld’s floor-to-ceiling windows at the brooding clouds hanging over the New York cityscape. “It was just a freak accident.”

“Still had to be pretty unnerving,” Sonnerfeld said. “But if you think you’re okay … ?”

“I’m fine,” Nick said, getting up and heading for the door. “Time and tide, and all that.”

Sonnerfeld gave him a thumb’s up. “Good man.”

It was mid-afternoon, and Nick had finally managed to put the bus crash mostly out of his mind when he heard that one of the firm’s up-and-coming young brokers had been mugged and beaten while returning from lunch. Returning, in fact, from the very restaurant Nick had been planning to go to until he’d been pulled into a last-minute emergency meeting.

Ten minutes later Nick was in a cab, heading for the bank. Ten minutes after that, he was on his way to the shop where he’d gotten the Ring.

The old shopkeeper was waiting. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said gravely. “How are you enjoying your new success?”

“I’ve got your money,” Nick said, pulling out a certified check. “You said ten percent—I’ve made it twenty.”

“Very generous of you,” the old man said approvingly, his hand darting out like a striking rattlesnake to pluck the check from Nick’s fingers.

“So we’re square, right?” Nick said, wincing again at the unpleasant touch of the other’s skin. “So call them off.”

“Call who off?”

“Whoever it was tried to run me down with a bus this morning and then mugged Caprizano at lunch,” Nick said. “I got the message, and you’ve got your money. Okay?”

The other shook his head. “I had nothing to do with any of that, Mr. Powell,” he said. “It’s the curse working.”

“No, but look, I got you the—” Nick broke off. “The what?”

“The curse,” the old man said softly. “You didn’t think all that money was just going to fall into your lap without any consequences, did you?”

Nick’s skin began tingling. The whole idea of a curse was absurd … but then, so was a Ring that could make you rich. “What kind of curse are we talking about?” he asked carefully.

“Death and destruction, of course,” the old man said, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “The Rhinemaidens laid it on the gold when Alberich stole it from them.” His eyes came back and he smiled tightly. “That’s the one part Wagner got wrong. He said it was Alberich who cursed it.”

“Never mind who cursed it,” Nick snapped. “Are you saying it’s coming after me?”

“Of course,” the old man said, sounding surprised that Nick would even have to ask. “You have the Ring.”

“So that’s why you let me have the damn thing instead of using it yourself,” Nick bit out, twisting at the Ring.

The old man shook his head. “It won’t come off, Mr. Powell,” he said. “It likes you. More than that, it likes the money you’re making.” He cocked his head to the side. “I don’t suppose you’d consider turning your assets into gold? It especially likes gold.”

“In a minute I’m going to get on the phone and convert it to Rwanda francs,” Nick growled. “Now tell me how I get it off.”

“You don’t,” the old man said softly. “Not while you’re alive.”

Nick stared at him. “How do you know so much about this?”

“Because I was there from the beginning.” The old man lifted his hand to the side of his head and tugged at something.

And abruptly shrank into a short, wide, bearded man holding a sort of metal cap in his hand. “I am Alberich,” he said.

Nick looked at the metal cap. “The Tarnhelm,” Alberich answered his unspoken question, wiggling the cap between his fingers. “It gives its owner the power to change shape at will.” He smiled. “Wagner did get that one right.”

And with that, the reality of magic Rings and their curses suddenly came sharply into focus. “This curse,” Nick said between dry lips. “If it’s coming after me, why did Caprizano and those people just walking down the street get hurt?”

“The Ring’s trying to protect you,” Alberich said. “It will succeed, too, for awhile. And I can also help.”

“For a price, I suppose?”

“Of course,” Alberich said.

“Why am I not surprised?” Nick growled. “And if I refuse, or you miss one? The curse nails me, I die, and the Ring moves on to someone else?”

“Basically,” Alberich said casually. “But at least your heirs will still have your money.” He shrugged. “If any of them are still alive.”

And right on cue, Nick’s cell phone vibrated.

He snatched it from his pocket, his heart suddenly pounding. “Powell.”

“Nick, it’s Amy,” the choked voice of Sonnerfeld’s assistant said. “There’s been a terrible accident. Mr. Sonnerfeld’s fallen down an elevator shaft.”

Nick looked at Alberich. How many times, he wondered, had the dwarf watched this same scenario play itself out, losing victim after victim to the Ring’s curse while he grew rich on his ten percent?

Amy was still talking. “I’m sorry—what was that?” Nick asked.

“I said you need to get back here right away,” she said. “The whole board’s coming in for emergency session—oh, God—”

“I understand,” Nick cut in. “I’ll be right there.”

“Your boss?” Alberich asked as he closed the phone. “Yes, that’s the usual pattern. From the edges of your life inward—strangers, co-workers, boss. Fortunately, you don’t have a wife or children, or they’d be next.”

Nick’s stomach twisted into a hard knot. Lydia. … “I’ve got to go,” he said, his voice sounding hollow in his ears as he headed for the door.

“Remember what I said,” Alberich called after him. “For an extra forty percent I can help protect you from the curse.”

“I’ll think about it,” Nick called over his shoulder.

To his relief, Lydia was sitting safe and sound at her desk when he barged into her office. “Come on,” he said, without preamble, grabbing her wrist and all but hauling her out of her chair. “We’re going on a trip.”

“Nick, what in the world do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as she tried to pull from his grip.

“I’ve got a cab waiting,” he said, ignoring her struggles as he pulled her across the room under the astonished stares of her colleagues. “You’ve got ten minutes to pack, and you’ll need your passport. We’ve got just three hours until the next flight to Frankfurt.”

“To Frankfurt?” she echoed as he got her out the door. “You mean … Germany?”

“I don’t mean Kentucky,” Nick said. “Come on.”

A moment later they were in the cab, weaving their way through the city’s streets. Nick could feel Lydia’s puzzled and hostile glare on him, but he ignored it. As long as he kept her close, maybe the Ring’s protection would extend to her, too.

Meanwhile, he had to find a permanent solution to the problem. It was these damn Rhinemaidens who had put the damn curse on the damn Ring. Maybe they could take it off.

The sky had been clouding over as they landed at Frankfurt International Airport. The commuter flight to Stuttgart had run into some more serious weather, and as Nick got them on the road in their rental car, the rain was starting in earnest.

By the time he pulled off the road beside the slope leading down to the Rhine river the full fury of the storm had broken.

“This is the place?” Lydia shouted over the wind as they picked their way carefully through the trees and rocks toward the surging water below.

“Assuming Wagner knew what he was talking about,” Nick called back. “This is definitely the place he described for the scenery in the first Bayreuth production of Götterdämmerung. We’ll just have to see if he got it right.”

They fell silent, concentrating on the climb, and Nick found himself marveling once again at the remarkable woman beside him. He’d told her the whole story on the way to the airport from her apartment, fully expecting her to order the cabby to forget LaGuardia and take them straight to Bellevue. But to his surprise, she’d not only taken it calmly, but had actually believed the story.

Or at least, she’d pretended to believe it. Still, that was more than he would have gotten from anyone else he knew.

The rain had moderated a little by the time they reached the bottom of the slope, but the winds had become more turbulent. Carefully, Nick moved to the edge of the river, wiping at the sheet of water streaming down his face as he peered across the roiling whitecaps spilling over the treacherous rocks. “Rhinemaidens!” he shouted. “I’ve brought you your Ring. Come and get it.”

There was no answer but the whistling of the wind. “What if they’re not here?” Lydia asked.

Nick shook his head wordlessly, looking back and forth down the shoreline.

And frowned. There, about fifty yards downriver, he could see a squat figure standing with the stillness of a rock, facing their direction.

It was Alberich.

“I knew you’d come,” the dwarf said as Nick and Lydia slogged through the wet grass to him. “They all do, sooner or later. Hoping to bribe or beg or threaten their way out of the curse.”

“News flash—I’m not here to beg,” Nick told him. “I’m here to give them back their Ring.”

Alberich snorted in disgust. “Fool. You really think you’re the first one to think of that?”

“They won’t take it back?” Lydia asked.

Alberich looked her up and down. “You must be the one he was going to buy the Ring for.” He snorted. “Waste of effort. You’re not nearly ambitious enough.”

“You mean I’m not greedy enough,” Lydia shot back. “Why won’t they take it back?”

“Of course they’ll take it back,” the dwarf said maliciously. “The problem is, the Ring won’t leave him. That means the Rhinemaidens will have to take a bit more than just the gold.”

Lydia inhaled sharply. “You mean … his finger?”

“Or his hand,” Alberich said. “Possibly his whole arm.”

Lydia looked at Nick in horror. “No! They can’t.”

“They will.” Alberich pointed to a jagged rock in the middle of the river, barely visible above the surging water. “That’s their rock, and they’re already on their way. But there is an alternative.”

“What is it?” Lydia asked.

“Forget it,” Nick snarled. “He’s just playing another angle.”

“I’m as strong as they are,” Alberich told her. “For another twenty percent I can keep them away from him.”

“I said forget it,” Nick said again. He could see something in the water now, moving toward him just below the surface. “Even if it costs my whole arm, it’ll be worth it.”

“Nick, that’s insane,” Lydia said urgently. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, with our car fifty feet up a hill. You’ll bleed to death before we can get you to a hospital.”

And then, abruptly, three slender bodies surged out of the water onto the shore, and six hands grabbed at his clothing.

“Back!” Alberich snapped, leaping to Nick’s side and pulling his right arm away from the grasping hands.

“The Ring!” the Rhinemaidens called in unison, their voices thin and ancient and terrifying. One of them shoved her way beneath Alberich’s grip; and suddenly there was a tug-of-war going on for Nick’s right arm.

“Give us the Ring,” one of the Maidens said, her hand wrapping like a vice around Nick’s ankle and tugging him toward the river. “You retain it at your peril.”

“I know,” Nick said. “I want to give it to you—really I do.”

“Only the waters of the Rhine can wash away the curse,” the third Maiden said, her hands on Nick’s jacket, her face up close to his. Over the smell of fish he caught a glimpse of sharp barracuda teeth.

“It won’t let go,” Nick pleaded.

“It likes him,” Alberich said, pushing the first Maiden’s hands off Nick’s arm. “Don’t be a fool, Nick. I can still save you.”

Nick blinked. It likes you. Alberich had said the same thing the first time Nick had set eyes on the Ring.

Only the Ring didn’t like Nick. All it liked was his money.

His money. “Lydia!” he shouted, shaking his left arm free long enough to dig his phone from his pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing it awkwardly toward her.

For a second she fumbled, then caught it in a solid grip. “Who do I call?” she shouted back, flipping it open.

“Phone list one—second entry,” Nick said, stumbling as the third Maiden got a fresh grip on his left arm and pulled him another step closer to the river. The one who’d been tugging on his ankle abandoned that approach and moved instead to Nick’s right arm, and now Alberich had two sets of hands and teeth to fight off. “Input trader passcode 352627.”

Lydia nodded and leaned over the phone. The Maiden on Nick’s left arm shifted one hand to his belt. He kicked at her legs; it was like kicking a pair of oak saplings. “I’m in,” Lydia called.

“There are five funds listed.” On Nick’s right arm, one of the two Maidens opened her mouth and lowered the pointed teeth toward the Ring. Nick cringed, but Alberich slapped the creature’s cheek and shoved her back again. “Transfer everything in the first four into the fifth.”

“What are you doing?” Alberich demanded, frowning at Nick in sudden suspicion.

“The Ring doesn’t like me,” Nick said. “It just likes my money.”

“What?” The dwarf spun toward Lydia. “No!” Abandoning Nick’s arm, he charged toward Lydia.

And suddenly Nick was fighting all three Maidens by himself. “Alberich!” he shouted as they dragged him toward the river. “Help me!”

“For what?” the dwarf spat, lunging for the phone. But Lydia was faster, twisting and turning and keeping it out of his reach even as she continued punching in numbers. “Seventy percent of nothing? She’s throwing it all away, isn’t she?”

“She’s transferring it into my charity distribution account,” Nick said. His feet were in the icy water now, the Maiden on his left arm already in up to her knees. “All the Ring cares about is money. And as of right now—”

“You’re broke!” Lydia shouted in triumph. “You hear me, Ring? He’s broke.”

Spinning away from Lydia, Alberich threw himself back at the Ring. “Get away from the Ring!” he shouted.

“The Ring is ours,” the Maidens chorused in their eerie unison.

“It’s mine!” Alberich snarled, grabbing Nick’s wrist.

Something cold ran up Nick’s back, something having nothing to do with the water swirling around his feet. Lydia was right—with all his money now in the irrevocable trust fund, he had nothing left in the world.

But the Ring still wasn’t letting go.

“Is this how you want to die?” Alberich demanded, pulling at Nick’s arm with one hand as he shoved at the Maidens with the other. “Drowned in the Rhine by ancient creatures who have nothing left but hate and greed? There’s still time for us to make a deal.”

“I don’t want a deal,” Nick said. He was knee deep in the river now, the numbingly cold water threatening to cramp his calf muscles. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lydia doing something with the phone. “I don’t want money. All I want—”

And without any warning at all, the Ring came loose.

Nick’s arms were still pinioned, but for the moment no one was gripping his hand. With a desperate flick of his wrist, he sent the Ring arcing into the air toward the center of the river and the Rhinemaidens’ rock. “No!” Alberich screeched, diving toward it.

But the Maidens were ready. Two of them twisted their arms around the dwarf’s neck and dragged him into the river, swimming backwards toward their rock. The third Maiden dived into and then out of the water like a dolphin, reaching up and catching the Ring in midair as it fell. For a moment she held it triumphantly aloft, then turned and disappeared with her sisters beneath the waves.

And then Lydia was at Nick’s side, pulling at his now aching arms, helping him back to the shore. “What did you do?” Nick asked, shivering violently. The storm, he noticed, was starting to abate. “How did you get it to let go?”

“You had no money,” she told him, wrapping her arm around his waist and leading him toward the cliff where their car waited. “But you still had the potential to earn it all back.”

He nodded in understanding. “So you fired me.”

“I text-messaged your resignation to Sonnerfeld Thompkins,” she confirmed. “I guess it’ll never be Sonnerfeld Thompkins Powell now. I’m sorry.”

Nick blinked a few lingering drops of water from his eyes. “I’m not. Thank you.”

“I’m glad it worked.” She paused. “Nick … your phone list. Number two was your on-line investment number, three and four and five were Sonnerfeld and your office. Number one …”

“Is you,” Nick confirmed with a tired sigh. “You’ve always been number one. I just forgot that for awhile.”

She squeezed his hand. His aching, ringless, free hand. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s go home.”