Djinn, Lose, or Draw

by Erick Buckley

  Skye circled the shoe rack and went into a dive that took her out of sight for a moment, then her bourbon roughened alto called out, “Back off, sister. I’ve got a sharp beak and I will use it. Big J, wiggle it on over here!”

  A Shifter gal of eighteen or so who clearly admired the early Daisy Duke look, stood up from where Skye had landed. “That ain’t fair!” whined the Shifter. “Why’s some uppity Witch gotta come slummin’ where normal folk shop?” She folded her arms in a grumpy huff, snapped her gum like a gunshot, and glared at Skye.

  Jazzlyn turned into that aisle and caught her breath. Skye was perched upon the Holy Grail of the second-hand experience—an actual piece of designer clothing. A glorious pair of Christian Louboutin Bellamonica Platform Wedge Sandals stood glowing like a lighthouse beacon atop the broken rocks of lesser shoes on the rack. Jazzlyn reverently lifted them. Her mouth fell open when she saw the tag was still attached. They had never been worn. She seriously considered stripping down and rubbing these shoes all over her naked body.

  Jazz peeled her eyes from the shoes to the Shifter who had been about to claim the sartorial plunder. The girl was a WereSkunk. She was young but they were some tough years. To use her mother’s favorite phrase, she looked like she had been ridden hard and put away wet. Her outfit was a knock-off melange of pieces that should never have been worn on one gal at the same time. The girl was twirling a necklace that stopped Jazz in her tracks. It was supposed to be a charm, a persuasion spell, but it was shit. It couldn’t have persuaded a mouse to eat cheese. But the girl clearly didn’t know that because it had just enough of an enchantment to feel like the real deal. She muttered the incantation trying to force her will on the situation and get those sweet kicks.

  Jazz had a feeling that made her baby hair stand on end. A “don’t ignore me or I’m going to haunt you until blood comes out of your eyes” type of feeling. A feeling that this was a charm or potion made with unusual, imperfect, or ill-tamed magic. When she had one of these feelings, she knew she should listen. It was one of the things that made her a good Snoop.

  “Excuse me, sissy, I think you had these first,” choked out Jazzlyn to the pouting Shifter. She held out the fabulous footwear with shaking hands.

  Skye looked horrified, which for a bluebird was saying something. “Are you out of your mind?” hissed Skye. “You know what you have there in your hands? This is a vintage store. The rules of the jungle apply. It is Bloodsport and you are Jean Claude Van Damme.”

  “You funny little feather duster. They’re just shoes and this gal beat us to them,” Jazz said as convincingly as she could.

  “They’re not just shoes, they’re Christian Louboutin and I will beat her to death with them before I let her wear them,” snarled Skye with genuine menace. She fluttered until she was facing the WereSkunk with eyes just a bit too wide.

  Jazzlyn waved Skye to her shoulder where she hid sulkily under her hair. “You’ll have to forgive my familiar. She’d rather be fried and served with a side of cornbread than pass up on a deal on shoes,” she said. Jazzlyn extended her hand to the Shifter. “I’m…J,” she lied.

  The Shifter stared at the proffered hand, then at the shoes. She said, “I don’t need no hand-outs.”

  Jazzlyn pulled her hand back and popped it on her hip. This girl wasn’t going to buy the “good Samaritan” approach. Too much rough life lived. She’d have to come in sideways. “That’s good, cause I’m not offering any. You just found them before me. I’d be happy to take them. Save me a bitch session from my bluebird,” Jazzlyn shot right back. And she meant it. Those shoes were to die for.

  The WereSkunk stood for a second and then succumbed to the siren song of spectacular savings. She reached out, which forced Jazzlyn to hand them over. This girl was going to be one tough nut to crack. Jazz liked her already.

  “Can’t blame your bird, though. These sure are pretty shoes. Name’s Brittany,” said the WereSkunk grudgingly. She held out a hand with chipped, blood-red nails.

  Jazzlyn – or “J” at the moment – took it in hers.

  Jazz moved her hair aside, “Pleasure. This is…Blue.” Skye’s beak fell open incredulously. “I love your necklace.”

  “A guy I’m seeing makes ‘em.”

  A tumbler clicked in Jazzy’s mind. “Lucky girl. We just came in looking for some wedges.”

  “Well, this place has been picked over. These were the only ones I’ve seen,” snickered Brittany. Jazzlyn cringed at the thought of that glorious footwear adorning those uncouth feet. “You’re a Witch, ain’t you? Why don’t you just pop into some fancy store and pop on out with a whole outfit?”

  “The Big Baba frowns on that. And I’m already on the shit list for…other things the Head Buzzkill thinks Witches aren’t supposed to do,” groused Jazzlyn. She thought this might be the tack to take—pretend to be on the wrong side of The Witch’s Council and see if there’s any “employment” opportunities.

  “You got heat on you?” whispered Brittany. Her eyes swiveled around to see if anyone was watching.

  Jazzlyn shook her head. She needed to be subtle with this next step. “Not how Bathtub Yaya works. It would be too much work to follow me around all the time,” bitched Jazzlyn. “The Witches Council depowered me a bit. But that’s not the big punishment. If I don’t follow the straight and narrow, I start to age normally,” she said with her eyebrows darkening over her eyes.

  “What are you playing at, ‘J’?” Skye hissed into Jazzlyn’s ear.

  “A feeling,” muttered Jazzlyn quietly.

  “A Charlie Brown’s dog kind of feeling?” Skye asked. Jazzlyn nodded ever so slightly. Skye chirped in understanding.

  “Well, I ain’t got no love for Council, neither. Uppity assholes sticking their noses in everyone’s business,” snarled Brittany. She snapped her gum to punctuate her disgust.

  “Speaking of business, they’ve got me on such a short leash with my powers, I’m hurting for work. Let me know if you hear of anyone looking to hire a low-power Witch with zero job skills,” Jazzlyn said sheepishly.

  “Can’t run. Can’t hide. Can’t get out from under the evil eye,” warbled Skye.

  “Don’t know about that. There’s ways around anything,” cracked Brittany. She walked her wonderful wedges up to the counter.

  “Uh-uh, girl. There’s no getting around Baba and the Council,” snarled Skye.

  The cashier handed Brittany her purchase and she, Jazzlyn, and Skye exited the store into a day so muggy it could have robbed a tourist in Central Park.

  “Y’all don’t know everything, Shoog. It can be done if you’re willing to pay for it,” crowed Brittany.

  “Sissy, I will literally pay anything to get them off my back,” implored Jazzlyn.

  Brittany stared from Skye to Jazzlyn, twirled her necklace, and snapped her gum.

  “I’m meeting friends in a little shit-stain of a town about ten minutes from here. A place called Backcrack Creek.”

  “You’re shitting me,” chortled Skye.

  “I shit you not. Bar called The Stagger Inn. Tonight around nine. Maybe you want to be there, too?”

  And before Jazz could respond, Brittany turned sashayed away, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

  Skye hopped out from under Jazzlyn’s mass of hair. “We’re going tonight?”

  “We’re going.”

  “Are you sure she can lead you to the tool that gave her that nonsense necklace?” asked Skye.

  “Nope. But the last thing I was sure of, was Karl,” muttered Jazzlyn.

  She had her eyes on her fluttering familiar as they turned the corner—and ran smack into someone coming the other way who knocked her flat on her ass. She let her eyes slowly take in the muscular legs and other lovely bits of the be-mulleted Shifter from the coffee shop. He smiled a mega-watt grin and Jazzlyn felt a “zip-a-dee-doo” in her “da”.

  “So, let’s start ignoring anything I’m sure of,” she whispered to Skye as she took his hand.

&
nbsp; “I heard that,” squawked Skye.

  “If I’m gonna keep runnin’ into you, we should at least know each other’s names, Darlin,” he said with a grin that would have made the Cheshire Cat blush.

  “No names needed,” Jazzlyn assured him. She let him pull her up from the sidewalk and threw her arms recklessly around his sinewy neck.

  For once, Skye was speechless.

  Chapter Five

  The morning had started normally for Abbie. With his floating crystal phlegm-catcher nearby, Glower summoned him to punish a Witch who refused to carry his bullshit charms and potions in her shop.

  Glower commanded, and just like that, the djinn cast a spell that caused the Witch to deflate into a sack of flesh and muscle with no structure. Still alive and aware but unable to do anything, not even scream. Caleb climbed down off Glower’s shoulder and actually wiped his feet on the poor Witch’s body. Abbie imagined the worst part for her was she had no idea where the spell had come from. She’d just watched as Glower nodded at an empty space in the room and said, “Do it, Dog.”

  Spit.

  Caleb climbed off the Witch and with a nod from Glower, Abbie cast the dweomer that rebuilt her.

  As her new bones snapped into place, the Witch screamed in agony. She stared at Glower in terror. “How…?” she stammered.

  “Don’t you never mind about how. Just mind about me doing it again. So, now you gonna sell my shit and your cut is five percent less. Sass me again and you’ll have five percent less bones. You feeling me?” purred Glower.

  Spit.

  The Witch nodded, white as a sheet. Glower smiled his evil smile and she left as fast as her newly re-boned feet could carry her. Glower then ordered Abbie to make him strawberry pancakes and Caleb ordered a cockroach omelet. By hand. So, Abbie, a djinn who had power enough to bend the very laws of physics, made Glower McCracken pancakes with strawberries and eggs with bugs for a damn lizard.

  This indignity was followed by being sent on an errand with The Bastard and Psycho to find a new source for the ajoite crystals used in some of their Black Market charms. His job was to block their movements from the Council of Witches in general and Baba Yaga specifically. Shielding them like that while maintaining the general deflector spell over the whole town was both boring and exhausting.

  He returned afterwards. Hoping to be allowed to rest in his Lamp. As his head hit one of the satiny pillows, the walls of his I-Dream-of-Genie world vibrated with that tooth-rattling gong. Abbie’s body immediately stretched spaghetti thin and vaporous and was forcibly ejected out the spout. He appeared in front of Glower and his lizard and slumped.

  “Don’t get lazy, Dog. I got some work for you.”

  Spit.

  “My apologies, Master. I have used…” began Abbie. Caleb stopped him with a raised claw.

  “We didn’t ask for none of your blather, so don’t give us none,” snapped the ancient lizard.

  Abbie glared at the insolent Caleb but turned to McCracken and grumbled, “What is your wish, Master?”

  “I need you to tail those idiots Bastard and Psycho. Their shit’s starting to stink.”

  “Will they be together?” asked the djinn.

  “Probably not. Even they ain’t that stupid,” guffawed McCracken. “Follow Psycho first. He’s shaking down a Warlock at an illegal potion shop on the edge of Assjacket. The store’s been skimming on my cut. If Psycho’s nose is clean, help him if he needs it. Then follow The Bastard. You let me know if either of the little shits so much as says boo against me. And stay outta sight.”

  Spit.

  “Yes, Master,” said Abbie. He bowed his head, dreaming of the myriad of ways he wished he could dismember, dissolve, or destroy Glower McCracken while picking his teeth with Caleb’s bones.

  With a soft incantation, Abbie became a gust of wind. He blew through the window and flew high through the clouds at the speed of a hurricane. Within minutes he spotted the arrogant swagger and black-clad figure of Tran ‘Psycho’ Ward. He glided down and alighted, unseen and unknown, behind him.

  Tran looked up at the sign which read ZEKE’S UNIQUE BOUTIQUE in the most overly done calligraphy he’d ever seen. He checked his equipment—an enchanted blade at the small of his back and a magic ring with a shield spell. He opened his coat and the small, black shape of Kane slipped out and landed on the sign. “Eyes open, Kane. I don’t want to be surprised from behind,” said the Warlock. Kane saluted with one wing. The Warlock went in. The djinn breezed in with him.

  Zeke’s store had the tackiest, ugliest collection of porcelain figurines, doilies, pictures of angels, and candy dishes in the Western Hemisphere. The smell of rose water filled the whole dimly lit space. Abbie imagined this was Dante’s “Early Bird Special” Circle of Hell.

  The balding man behind the counter fussed a heavily waxed mustache. Zeke Justice, the Warlock who owned the store, smiled and one gold tooth glinted in the heavily red-scarved lamplight.

  “Tran! You mystical ballbag, what dragged your ugly carcass all the way to Assjacket? Ain’t collecting day until next week,” snorted Zeke.

  “I see your store is just as big an offense to taste as always,” groaned Tran as his eyes scanned from one shelf of kitschy horror to the next.

  Zeke extended his arms expansively as if to embrace the hideous décor and inventory. “I focus on my core demos. Meemaws with a penchant for chintz and chachkies and those looking for some bargain basement, slightly irregular potions – tax deferred,” drawled Zeke in his best pitch voice.

  Tran rolled his eyes and said, “Save it for the old ladies and desperate suckers. Glower has concerns that some inventory might have grown legs and left without him getting his piece.”

  The wattage of Zeke’s greasy smile faded a bit and his eyes narrowed. Abbie drifted behind Zeke, sight unseen, as the owner placed his hands under the counter for a second and touched a small button under the counter. This relaxed him a little and his smile returned to its previous wattage, plus some extra.

  Buttons are rarely good, thought Abbie.

  A bookshelf covered in the treacliest, self-help pablum imaginable, slid sideways revealing a doorway covered in a beaded curtain. “Don’t want no misunderstanding ‘tween me and Glower. Right this way, Tran-ie boy,” Zeke said as he parted the clattering covering to allow himself to enter first.

  They were immediately in a large room with long tables covered in heavy red tablecloths with lighting that would be appropriate for an opium den. The tables were covered with small bottles in virtually every color, each with a small, handwritten label. Tran picked a few up—Lust Potion, Age-Defier, Becalmer, Strengthener. He popped the top off each and sniffed deeply. They all smelled strangely herbal and sweet. Tran wisely would have chosen to bite the barrel of a gun than drink one.

  “What are your numbers? Glower thinks you should have moved more product than you’re paying him for,” grunted Tran.

  “Now, Tran. Ain’t no call to be rude. We might just take offense,” warned Zeke as he leaned carelessly on the table.

  “We?” questioned Tran. His hand found the enchanted blade at the small of his back and moved it up his sleeve.

  Three burly Shifters, WereWolves, came through a beaded curtain. He hadn’t heard from Kane which meant they had been in a different hidden room. They were unhurried and relaxed. These weren’t dumb, hired muscle. These were seasoned killers who exuded menace and confidence without flexing a muscle. They calmly took strategic positions throughout the store without rushing. One kept himself between Tran and the door.

  Tran’s eyes flickered around the room, taking each man in. Shit, thought Tran.

  Dumb ass, laughed Abbie silently. He wouldn’t mind seeing Psycho reduced to a greasy spot on the hideous floral carpet, but he had orders to see how this played out. It didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the scene until then.

  “If you haven’t been skimming, I’m sure Glower will apologize. Books, please,” said Tran in a calm dangerous voice.


  Zeke glared for a second, then barked out a laugh. The other men chuckled deeply in their throats. It was a disturbing sound, like low growls.

  “Sure thing, Cuz,” chuckled Zeke. He reached under a table and pulled out a ledger. He banged it down on the table. “But let’s say I did make my pot a little sweeter than I should have. How sweet would I need to make it for you to turn a blind eye?”

  This was what Abbie was here for—Psycho had no idea his life hung on his next words.

  “Aren’t enough honey-bees flying to make me throw in with you over Glower. My mother didn’t raise a Warlock with a death wish. Step back from the book,” snapped Psycho. He made sure to say the words death wish clearly, as they armed the powerful enchantment on his dagger.

  Abbie sighed in disappointment. At least his orders were to help Psycho if he needs it, so he needn’t jump in until he had to. Djinns were bound by the letter of their commands, not the spirit.

  “Think not, Cuz,” cackled Zeke. He nodded at the two WereWolves nearest Tran. Their forms rippled with new muscles and bones cracked as they shifted into two enormous wolves. Their jaws slavering and snapping as they stalked towards Psycho. They leapt in unison; one went high, one went low. Normally, that move could have taken down a full-grown moose. But they were trying to take down much more dangerous prey. The blade slid from Tran’s sleeve and slashed out. With a bright flash, both WereWolves were flung away from him in a spray of red. As they landed, Abbie could see they had both been disemboweled and desperately clutched their entrails to keep them from spilling out. Abbie quietly leaned against a table, counting them down and out of the fight.

  Tran dropped the spent blade and turned in time to hear Zeke shriek a particularly lethal spell.