Djinn, Lose, or Draw

by Erick Buckley

  Sickly green tendrils of light shot from Zeke’s fingers and slammed into Tran, seeking to burst through his body and crush the life from him. Tran’s magic ring flared to life and minimized the impact of the spell to the point where he was merely brought to his knees in pain. His nose exploded in blood as it was clearly broken. He gasped in a ragged breath with a few possibly broken ribs.

  Tran croaked a retaliatory incantation. With his left arm protecting his body, green lightning shot forth from his outstretched right. The lightning sought out dozens of the faulty potion bottles around Zeke, shattering them and turning their combined contents into a roiling, noxious cloud. Zeke coughed and gagged while all the mixed potions tried to take effect at once. Patches of hair grew from Zeke’s face, while lust and sleep attempted to fill his eyes all at once. Zeke bent over and retched.

  Tran thought he had a moment to breathe. He thought wrong. The two hundred plus pounds of the third WereWolf slammed into him, driving him to the floor. Tran screamed as its jaws clamped against the arm he raised to protect his face and neck. The Shifter’s rear claws raked at his chest and belly opening deep wounds. Tran couldn’t focus or even think clearly enough to cast a spell. He knew this was it and two thoughts—which he assumed would be his last—went through his mind. First, the idea of Zeke standing over his dead body made him furious. And second, all the work he put into his plans of taking over Backcrack Creek from Glower were for nothing.

  Abbie wished he had popcorn to enjoy the show. But it was clearly time to do as he had been commanded. He stood up, cracked his neck, and called forth his power from the realm of the Lamp.

  The WereWolf’s jaws stopped their slavering an inch from Tran’s throat. Its eyes bulged, it whined, and its body violently burst, drenching Tran in a shower of gore and viscera. Abbie considered that to be pretty dramatic “help” and turned his attention to Zeke.

  The Warlock owner had recovered and his face went from vicious glee to utter shock in an instant. He grunted and lifted himself to his feet. Tran was still lying on the floor bleeding. Zeke walked over and stood above him. He extended his arms, which began to glow with magic, and growled, “I’ll send what’s left of your greasy carcass to McCrac-urk!”

  The sickly green light surrounding Zeke’s hands went out as the final word of the spell was literally choked off. Abbie’s powerful hand wrapped around Zeke’s throat and lifted him two feet clear off the ground. Zeke’s eyes searched for the source of the vice-like grip as his hands scrabbled against the unseen assault. Tran sat in his own blood unable to move as Zeke, hovering in the air, turned the colors of a sunset from deep red to purple.

  Abbie felt Zeke’s windpipe crunch and his body went limp in his hand. He tossed the inanimate shell away from him. He strolled over to Tran who was panting in fear, staring wildly around the room for the invisible assailant. His hand found the spent enchanted blade and began waving it erratically in the air in front of him screaming, “Show yourself!”

  Between dispatching these jack-wagons and continuing his deflector spell, Abbie was exhausted. But there was no way he was going to show Tran that. He invisibly walked up to Tran, grasped the blade, and plucked it from his grip. He then brought his face incredibly close to the Warlock’s, popped into sight, and said, “Boo.”.

  Tran’s screamed, “What the fu…” He groaned in pain. “Djinn, it’s you.”

  “In the flesh, so to speak.”

  “I guess I’m glad you showed up when you did.”

  “Oh, I’ve been here for a while.”

  “What? When?”

  “Since you got here.”

  “Why the fuck didn’t you step in earlier?”

  “I was told to help you if you needed it. Glower never said how much help I had to give you, Psycho,” taunted the djinn.

  “You Son-of-a-Bitch,” hissed Psycho.

  “Maybe you should be asking yourself why Glower sent me to watch you without your knowing in the first place.”

  That stopped Psycho short. Abbie began to fade from sight.

  “Don’t just leave me bleeding here. Heal me up, you son of a bitch,” groaned Psycho.

  “Glower didn’t say anything about me healing you. Besides, you’re a big, strong Warlock. Heal yourself. Course, I wouldn’t take any of these healing potions in the store. I hear they might be black market,” said the djinn innocently. He left the hidden room, walked to the front door at which a frantic Kane was banging, and let him in.

  “Where?” pleaded the bat to Abbie.

  Abbie inclined his head towards the hidden room. Kane sped towards his master. Abbie cast the tracking spell to find The Bastard and he winked out of sight.

  Chapter Six

  “That was some dee-licious Afternoon Dee-light. Thank you, Darlin,” purred the Shifter with the hockey hairdo as he unwound himself from the twist of hotel sheets he had been braiding himself and Jazzlyn into for the last hour or so.

  Skye hopped happily from one bedpost to the other. Her whistle was easier than it had been for the past year. It reflected an utter lack of angst for Jazzlyn. Jazz reached up and traced a lazy finger over the sweat-slicked muscles of the Shifter’s back. He flexed unconsciously, which made her grin.

  He stood and gave her a tasty eyeful of his backside. “Sure we can’t get to know each other a bit better?” he hinted breezily over his shoulder.

  “We know each other the perfect amount, Sweet Cheeks,” Jazzlyn said and smacked the indent of his ass with a bright thwack sound. He hopped from the impact, grinned, and chuckled at her.

  “Fare thee well, then, Sweetness. Pleasure’s been mine,” he growled playfully. He gathered his clothes from the four winds she had flung them to and leaned over the bed. She twined her fingers in his hair and pulled his head into a not-too gentle kiss. He drew one finger over the length of her body, brought the finger to his mouth, licked it playfully, then left.

  He was smiling.

  “Are we going to be flying by the seat of our pants now—when we decide to wear pants?” cackled Skye as she dipped and dashed about the hotel bedroom.

  “No. Just sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes…” she said wistfully.

  Skye stopped flitting and perched herself on the bedside table. She sighed. “Aw, girl.”

  Jazzlyn shook off the melancholy that the thought had brought on. “I’m trying to navigate this funk. I guess junk food nookie—even the tastiest – isn’t going to cut it,” said the Witch.

  She kicked the covers from her legs and stood in the air-conditioned room, letting the sheen of sweat dry gently on her skin. She unzipped her suitcase, went through a few outfits, and pulled out a cute camisole and a pair of jeans she would have to paint on. It wasn’t really her style, but she thought it hit the right note. As she dug for a satiny thong and push-up bra, she unearthed a battered concert tee shirt—Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band. Her fingers brushed over the herd of horses splashing through their own reflection. A few holes dotted the hem of the extra-large shirt, which fit her like a nightshirt and Jazzlyn’s eyes got shiny. Skye howled and dive-bombed the fondling fingers.

  “Get your hands off that evil rag and get your mind off of Karl!” barked the angry bird.

  Skye tried to grab the shirt, but Jazz snatched it clear, threw it onto the top shelf of the closet and slammed the door shut. Skye banged against the door a few times and angrily flew to the other side of the room.

  “Let’s stay focused on the situation at hand,” groused Skye.

  Jazzlyn shimmied into the jeans laying on the bed to hermetically seal them with the button fly. “Well, if you’re not going to help me gussy up, keep your beak shut, and squawk the hell off,” groused Jazzlyn.

  Skye paused, hopped slowly over to a makeup bag, dug her talon through it without taking her black eyes from Jazzlyn’s face, and tossed over a tube of ugly, frosted pink lipstick. Jazzlyn had no idea how that had survived in her bag and regretted not having purged it.

  “There. I hel
ped,” snapped Skye mulishly. If it were possible for a bird to smile with snark, then she was doing it.

  “Thanks. A. Lot,” responded Jazzlyn with her own saccharin, acid smile. She popped the tube open and applied the pink, Marshmallow Peep frost to her lips. She blotted on a napkin then asked, “How do I look?”

  “Like a strawberry Pop Tart Ho.”

  Jazzlyn puckered up and blew a kiss to her familiar off her raised middle finger. Skye popped her own middle claw at her. The bird’s meaning came across perfectly.

  “Glad we could clear the air,” chirped Jazzlyn as she capped the tube.

  “Rules of Engagement?” asked Skye, seeming to want to let the squabble pass.

  “Same as usual. I’ll cast an Alert Spell now. If I run into any trouble I can’t handle, I’ll trigger it.”

  “And I’ll fly in, beak blazing, to save your curvy ass. As usual.”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I couldn’t survive without you. You’re the brains of the outfit. Blah, blah, blah,” said Jazzlyn, putting the finishing touches on her face.

  “Damn right, I am. And no matter how simple you think this Snoop job is…”

  “No Snoop job is ever simple. I know. Are you ready?” asked Jazzlyn.

  Skye nodded. She flew to Jazzlyn’s outstretched hands. Jazzlyn gently cupped her familiar and began:

  “You’re attitude sucks but you’re there without fail. When I need you, I know that you always haul…” chanted Jazzlyn. Purple light surrounded Skye. It flared then seemed to suffuse into her feathers and eyes. Once it completely faded, she released her familiar and it alighted on her shoulder.

  “I’m only going to say this once; you wear the shit out of those jeans, Girl.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Hag.”

  “Finch fucker.”

  “Touché.”

  As Jazzlyn pulled up to The Stagger Inn, her first thought was that it lived up to its name. The yellow neon sign buzzed and flickered like electric pee. The clientele stumbled in and stumbled out like a drunken tide. They were laughing, cackling, groping, and kissing in various states of debauched delirium. Mostly Shifters but with a sprinkling of Witches and Warlocks thrown in for flavor. In fact, there was a small cluster of familiars lounging about a small patch of grass and perched among some fruit trees to the left of the front door.

  “Handstamp as you enter. STD screening as you exit,” groaned Jazzlyn.

  “Pretty big words for someone who was ankles in the air about an hour ago,” snorted Skye.

  Jazzlyn grunted. She reached into her purse and checked a few supplies; several potions, a charm, and even a small pair of brass knuckles all tucked in the small, strappy shoulder bag.

  “Keep an eye out for anyone suspicious in this crowd of saints, ok?” said Jazzlyn with mock seriousness as they climbed out of the rented car.

  Skye hovered around Jazzlyn as she sashayed through the crowd. A bunch of heads swiveled appreciatively as they followed the swing of Jazzlyn’s denim-clad curves as she passed. She found a clear spot and searched the parking lot.

  “You have eyes on Brittany?” Jazzlyn asked as she snapped open a compact mirror and searched in its reflection.

  Skye floated up about ten feet in the air and made a circle of the area.

  “Not yet,” Skye said. Then she started to laugh out loud.

  “What’s so funny?’

  “I was picturing her “no showing” you. And you getting tarted up for nothing,” cackled Skye.

  Jazzlyn did not even crack a smile as she said, “You are a hateful, horrible McNugget-to-be and you will die smothered in honey mustard.”

  “I’ll chalk that one up to having just had your brains banged out. Now pipe down, Brittany and a gaggle of mean-girl wannabe’s are incoming at seven o’clock,” chirped Skye.

  “Ok. Make like a tree and buzz off. I hope you don’t get too bored. Skye?”

  Skye had stopped listening. She was just hovering in front of Jazzlyn with her chest feathers suddenly puffed up and her crest standing straight on end. Jazzlyn followed Skye’s gaze to a huge, stunning hawk taking up an entire branch of a tree. It was staring right back at Skye. It spread its wings wide and flapped them lazily once. If Jazzlyn had the slightest avian kink at all, she’d have been making breakfast reservations for her and this hawk. Instead, Skye shivered and almost fell out of the air. She turned to Jazzlyn wide-eyed.

  “Go on, you hot wing. Go get a cloaca full of that hunk of a hawk. I’ll call if I need you,” Jazzlyn said. The words had barely left her mouth before Skye had become a blue blur.

  “Thank you!” hooted Skye as she shot straight up to the hawk’s tree. She hovered there for a moment and flew into the nearby woods with the hawk hungrily circling her tailfeathers.

  Jazzlyn turned to see Brittany and a surfeit of WereSkunk gals, all clopping on precarious heels towards her. Brittany was the clear leader of the gathering, especially with the beautiful Christian Louboutin Wedges strapped to her feet. While Jazzlyn had erred on the side of bad taste, she had chosen her outfit appropriately. Every one of the WereSkunk gals had painted on pants and a top that would have made a Hooters waitress ask if they were cold.

  “Brittany!” called Jazzlyn as she trotted over to the group. They eyed her warily, chewed gum, and all snapped it. It sounded like a firing squad. “It’s me. J.”

  “Oh. Hey,” muttered Brittany. “You’re here.” She was going to make Jazzlyn work for it. Jazzlyn smiled though inside she was seething.

  “Yeah. You said it might be cool if I came,” Jazzlyn reminded her. She feigned nervousness while praying to the Goddess for patience, so she didn’t hex every product-fried hair off Brittany’s skull.

  “S’cool. Let’s head in. I told The Bastard I might sing a few numbers with the band tonight. We can skip the line,” Brittany said, gloating. Her gaggle of gals giggled.

  “Who’s “The Bastard”?” asked Jazz as nonchalant as possible. Her Snoop-sense was sounding a claxon in her ears.

  “That’s Brittany’s boyfriend,” one of the gaggle of gals announced.

  “He’s a big ol’, slab of WereElk. He runs this place,” crowed Brittany with a sassy snap of her gum.

  Brittany led her group past the complaining people in line to a huge, overly muscled Shifter manning the door. His biceps were as big as Jazzlyn’s head and he wore jet-black sunglasses even though it was night. He peered over the shades at Brittany. She stuck her tongue through her gum and blew a petulant bubble.

  “Hey, Trent. I told Hugo I was coming with friends tonight. He said he might want me to sit in with the band again,” Brittany told the man.

  Trent looked at his clipboard blankly. He lifted a hand to the earpiece jammed into his skull and talked into its mic.

  “Tell The Bastard Brittany’s here, again,” announced Trent in a bored monotone. “Yeah. And about ten more just like her.”

  This went over with the other club gals like a fart in church. They stomped, sucked their teeth noisily, and stared with open-mouthed aggrievement at Brittany, whose face was getting redder by the moment.

  Trent ignored them all and focused on the tinny voice in his ear. “Uh-huh,” grunted Trent, “I’ll take care of it.” Trent looked at Brittany, then at Jazzlyn and all the other girls. “You can bring two of ‘em.”

  Brittany flushed angrily. She tugged at the useless pendant around her neck. Twirling it in her fingers, she purred, “Can’t we all just go in, Shoog?”

  Trent snorted. “Just for trying to use that weak-ass shit on me, you get just one of ‘em in.”

  Brittany was about to explode. Jazzlyn considered casting a charm spell directly on the big galoot but thought it might make Brittany look weak in front of the group. Instead, she focused on the pendant and muttered a Charm spell. A sprinkle of purple sparkles shimmered around the pendant making it seem as if the magic were actually coming from it. Trent tipped his glasses for a second and his eyes sparkled then went glassy. He said, “Tell you wh
at, I’ll make it easy on you. You and you,” he said pointing at Brittany and Jazzlyn. “You’re in. Rest of you, get in line.”

  The screaming and complaining gaggle of gals were herded away from the door. As Brittany ushered Jazzlyn inside, several of the WereSkunks shifted into their black and white polecat forms aimed their hindquarters at Trent who was holding up his arms in warning while shouting into his mic.

  Chapter Seven

  Abbie wearily rode the wind back to Backcrack Creek, following the glowing trail of the tracking spell to The Bastard. As he got closer, he realized where the WereElk was and groaned inwardly. The Bastard ran The Stagger Inn. It was one of the seedier clubs Glower owned and was one of the busier outlets for the sale of his questionable charms and potions. The djinn had been summoned there more than once to dispose of victims of the Black-Market magic gone awry. When he was done doing what Glower made him do, there was so little left of the remains of those poor souls that there would be no idea how to identify them, which meant they would be un-mourned with their loved ones left to wonder what became of them. This always hit Abbie close to home. He was pretty sure that was one of the main reasons Glower assigned the tasks to him and it made him loathe the old Warlock with the heat of a thousand suns.

  He floated in through an outside vent into the pulsing main room of the club. He was immediately struck in the face by the air thick with hormones and pheromones which were hoping to transform into audible moans by the end of the night. For the millionth time, he cursed Glower down to the cellular level for denying him even the indulgence of a sad, little, sinful spank.

  He drifted above the horny herd of Shifters, Warlocks, Witches, and others searching for the massive form of The Bastard. He was beyond tired. He had been performing magic for nearly thirty-six hours straight. Though light enough to float through the musk-laden air, he felt draggy and leaden. He spotted the massive WereElk over in the corner surrounded by a small throng of female admirers. He’d never been so happy to see the smelly behemoth. Goddess, The Bastard was big. Even sitting down, he was nearly as large as the women standing around him. Abbie took solid - but still invisible - form and creakily settled himself on The Bastard’s left.