Djinn, Lose, or Draw

by Erick Buckley

  And waited.

  Jazzlyn followed fawningly behind Brittany. The sexual energy coursing through the club could have powered Cleveland for a year with enough left over to cover Akron. They wove their way through the crowd getting drawn into dancing with dyads, triads, and crawdads of sweet, sweat-scented flesh. There was a ton of background magic in this club. Some of it from the same kind of bogus, tainted charms like the one Brittany had tried to use on the doorman and Jazz herself. The smell of nasty, impure potions was in the air, too. Nothing felt particularly volatile or dangerous at the moment, so she shut them out. If something was going to blow up or hurt a patron beyond making them up-chuck or break out in purple pustules, she’d feel it before it did and deal with it then.

  “You were amazing out there with the doorman. Sorry we couldn’t get everyone else in with us,” shouted Jazzlyn over the thumping bass of a heavy country blues riff.

  “Don’t thank me. He must have thought you had a finer ass than them other gals,” hollered Brittany into Jazzlyn’s ear as she spun the useless persuasion charm by its chain. She slapped Jazzlyn’s behind with a resounding thwack. “Can’t say he was wrong, neither! Let’s find my man and get down to some legendary partying!”

  They bopped their way across the expanse of the club. Various Shifters draped themselves around Brittany’s neck as they sashayed past. Brittany shrugged past most of them with perfunctory greetings. Her head was on a swivel with her nose twitching in the air. Jazzlyn saw Brittany’s head turn decisively. She had caught the scent of The Bastard and made a beeline for him.

  In the corner sat the largest human being Jazzlyn had ever seen. He was clearly a Shifter of the larger variety, with brown hair spiking out all over his head. He was also possibly the most “male” thing she’d ever sensed on the planet. His masculinity, confidence, and musk came off him in waves – she could literally see it. Not her type but she understood the appeal. There were several women encircled in his massive arms. The sight of this, of course, went over with Brittany like a fart in church.

  “Is that your man?” Jazzlyn called over the music as she tried to keep up with the rifle cracks of Brittany’s heels on the floor.

  “That’s The Bastard,” Brittany growled, not pleased.

  “Don’t blame you. I’d be pissed if my boyfriend was dripping in skank sauce.” Jazzlyn chirped in Brittany’s ear.

  “No. The Bastard’s his name. And he likes to live up to it.”

  The Bastard seemed unperturbed by the WereSkunk’s rage and kept his attention on his chorus of admirers. His admirers were less enthused by an oncoming, jealous WereSkunk whose anger was being expressed by a mounting stench that would soon be strong enough to cause their makeup to run and their big hair to collapse and fall out. They quickly skittered out of the line of fire. Jazzlyn’s Snoop-sense was raging off the charts every time she caught this man-mountain’s eye. If he was indeed the source of the illegal charms and potions, she was glad that she only had to find him and not bring him in. He was so big he probably had his own zip code. He may have been a WereElk, but he was eyeing her like he was a starving carnivore and she was a medium rare rib eye.

  “Dammit, Bastard! You’re in here sniffing any skirt within reach and I’m out there arguing with Trent, tits to the wind!” fumed Brittany.

  “You’re here, ain’t ya?” leered The Bastard. He reached out a ridiculously thick arm and pulled Brittany in and roughly kissed her. He still managed to spare an open eye to continue checking out Jazzlyn. The Bastard had balls. And they were all too visible in his cargo pants.

  “Your pet Shifter made me wait and then didn’t let my crew in,” pouted Brittany as she half-heartedly pushed against his building-sized chest. Jazz couldn’t help but notice that nothing moved under The Bastard’s tee shirt. His body appeared carved from stone.

  “He let you bring this fine thing in, didn’t he?” murmured The Bastard huskily. Jazz caught him openly ogling her again and became very warm.

  Brittany scowled at Jazzlyn—as if she had anything to do with it. “Had to use your gift to get him to do it. Lucky, I wore it tonight,” grumbled the WereSkunk. She twirled the powerless charm in her fingers.

  “Sure you did, Darlin,” rumbled The Bastard in a bass chuckle. He effortlessly moved her from one hip to the other. He sniffed the air deeply. “You got a name, Witchy-poo?” He snaked a meaty paw out to encircle Jazzlyn around the waist. She gracefully tipped out of the snare. He clearly knew the charm was bullshit. So, she leaned into his shoulder and smiled becomingly to get him talking. Flirting was probably the fastest way to do it.

  Brittany’s scent started to get pungent again as her ire started rising. “That’s J. She’s just a Witch on the outs with the council,” sneered Brittany. “Wanted me to ask you for a job. Can you use a waitress here?”

  “Waitress? That’d be a waste of talent,” noted The Bastard. His throaty voice was a whole Sunday Times of bad news. He twisted a ring on his pinkie and his gaze became a bit shrewder. “Not to mention power.”

  Brittany was in full stink-eye mode—which took on a different meaning with a WereSkunk. “Ain’t got no power no more. They busted her butt,” she scoffed. “She’s just looking for work. You got something? She said she might be willing to move some merchandise for- oof!”.

  Brittany yelped as she was suddenly on the floor on her ass. She looked up at The Bastard in hurt surprise.

  “You’re talking too much about shit that ain’t yours to talk about, Brit. Shut it.”

  “Hugo…”

  “I said shut it!” boomed The Bastard standing over Brittany. Jazzlyn was quickly concerned for the well-being of Brittany. The WereElk’s sheer mass was shocking.

  Instead, he reached down a hand to help the female Shifter up. His hand went nearly halfway up her forearm as he effortlessly lifted her from the floor.

  He turned his full attention on Jazzlyn, who started bringing a few of her more powerful spells to mind and seriously considered calling Skye and trying to follow this scam from another angle. “J, that right?” boomed The Bastard as gently as it was possible to boom.

  “That’s right, Shoog,” Jazzlyn shot back. She popped out a curvy hip and turned up her sass to eleven in hopes of disarming the situation.

  The Bastard twisted his pinkie ring, leaned into Jazzlyn, and grinned a huge, toothy grin. “Why’d you lie to Brit about your power?”

  Jazzlyn cursed inwardly. He must have a detect magic charm on him—a real one. Probably the pinkie ring. But she kept her poker face firmly on and bluffed, “You don’t let anyone see all of your cards if you don’t have to, do you?”

  She held her breath.

  The huge Shifter looked hard at her then barked with a huge guffaw, “I like you, girlie!”

  Brittany did not see anything funny about the situation. A swathe of white began growing down the middle of her dark hair as she began changing into her skunk form in the middle of the club.

  Without sparing her a glance, The Bastard reached out a hand and cupped her face in it with surprising gentleness. With his other hand, he gave a wave to the band on the stage. “Brit, honey,” The Bastard suggested. “Whyn’t you head up there and give us a couple songs, would ya?”

  Brittany’s rage and transformation stopped instantly. Both retreated. “Ya mean it, Shoog?” she cooed.

  “Course, Darlin’. Told ya’ I’d give you your shot, didn’t I?” declared the WereElk. “Go on so J and I can talk. Just business, Sweetie.”

  Brittany still flashed Jazzlyn a half of a hard look but her joy at joining the band drove everything else from her mind. She beat a quick path up to the stage. She briefly chatted with them then grabbed the mic. A lush, smoky, alto rolled out of the WereSkunk. Her voice was filled with pain and joy and told a story that was impossible to not love. And she was pouring it all straight out to the colossal Bastard who couldn’t care less. Jazzlyn felt a pang of pity for the poor, deluded girl.

  The Bastard sat back an
d gestured to the chair across from him. She took it staring right back into his chocolate-brown, cold eyes.

  The Bastard put his hands behind his head and cracked his knuckles. They sounded like a 21-gun salute. “Let’s not pussyfoot around, chickie,” snapped The Bastard coldly. “Let’s talk some bidness.”

  At least Jazzlyn wasn’t in the fire but she was still in the frying pan. Not the place she wanted to be. She was readying her pitch for why Hugo “The Bastard” Bastien should take a flyer on J “The Witch with Sass and an Ass You Just Can’t Pass”, when she got one of her feelings. Not a charm or potion. It was a kind of magic she had never felt before. It was strong and fresh, and it hit her in the face like a clean sea breeze after honest, sweaty work. It was a feeling of lightness, of a smile after too much grief. It was also making her Thunder in her Down-Under in a way she hadn’t felt since—no, even Karl had never made her feel like this. She felt inches away from tears of joy and other more pleasurable forms of dampness when she realized all of this was going across her face like she was a billboard. And her reaction and her scent were causing The Bastard to swell and react with paranoia and arousal—not a good look on anyone.

  “What kind of crap you trin’ to pull, girlie?” growled The Bastard as he reached across the table engulfing Jazzlyn’s entire hand in his bear-trap of a mitt.

  His rough grip made Jazzlyn realize she had to say something. She had no freaking clue what. The happy/horny feeling seemed to gain a point of focus to the empty space on the WereElk’s left. She turned in that direction with a look of combined joy, confusion, carnal hunger, and fear and whispered, “Hello. Who or what are you?”

  Chapter Eight

  Who is she? thought the djinn incredulously. This Witch saw him. No, that wasn’t quite right. She sensed him. And he sensed her. Sensed her in a way that he hadn’t sensed anyone in over four hundred years. He had known the moment she had walked into the club without understanding what had changed. She stood out without doing a thing, like a swan walking across a lawn filled with plastic flamingos. She smelled of jasmine, wood-smoke, brewing ginger tea, and the lightest, most potent musk – and Abbie knew he could not possibly be picking up an actual scent from her in the swampy air of the packed club. He almost became visible so he could answer her and learn more about whatever spell she was casting. Or if it was even a spell at all. It was then that the Bastard brought him back to what he was there for.

  The Bastard whipped his massive head around, looking right through Abbie. “Who are you talking to? What are you really here for?” he growled. His grip visibly tightened on the Witch’s arm. Seeing her eyes widen caused Abbie to do something very unlike him. He became visible in public.

  He popped right into view next to the WereElk and grasped The Bastards wrist to remove it from the Witch. The Bastard snatched his hand away as though burned causing the Witch to trip onto the floor. Abbie drew an angry breath in through his nose and even though The Bastard towered over the djinn, there must have been something truly dangerous in Abbie’s glare.

  As the WereElk backed into his chair, Abbie reached down and took the Witch gently by the hand. The utter electricity which passed between their hands could have powered every light in Las Vegas for a decade. Their eyes were no more capable of turning from one another than the sun was capable of rising in the west. Abbie realized neither of them were breathing and neither seemed to feel that it was a hardship. When they did inhale again, they would both have declared that they met in a field of lavender and not the beer, sweat, and pheromone-soaked air of the fetid club.

  “Are you ok?” bumbled Abbie.

  For her part, the warm, velvety, slightly accented purr of the djinn made Jazzlyn’s floodgates open, both in a sexy-time way and emotionally. She nodded dumbly, barely processing that before her stood a blue-tinted djinn and what that meant for her Baba Yaga-given mission.

  Abbie wheeled on The Bastard hissing, “You dare touch her, you giant twit! Fill your pants with what’s in your head – steaming shit!”

  A thunderclap of passing gas ripped through the club. The Bastard reached to his jeans which sagged as they indeed filled like those of a massive, incontinent toddler. The smell was foul and everyone around him scattered like oil drops in a Dawn soap commercial. Amidst new bleats erupting from his bottom, a near mortally embarrassed Bastard babbled, “Abbie! - blaaaaat! - I’m sorry! - blaaaaat! - I didn’t know she was under your protection! – blaaaaat - What does Glower want? - blaaaaaat!”

  “He’s got me tailing you and Tran. Guess why?”

  Jazzlyn came partially to her senses. A Djinn! His name is Abbie? Who’s Tran? Who’s Glower? Thoughts tumbled through her head and crashed against the tidal wave of the effect the djinn’s mere presence was having on her.

  The WereElk bleated, “Aw, shit! - blaaaaaat! - It was Tran’s idea! - blaaaaaat! - He threatened me! - blaaaaaat - I’d never touch any of Glower’s potion or charm shops otherwise! He knows I’m loyal! - blaaaaaaat! - I’d never do anything knowing you’d bust my ass! - blaaaaaaat!”

  Jazzlyn’s brain began calculating rapidly. Glower’s the boss! The Bastard and this Tran work for him! The djinn is under Glower’s control and he’s got him watching them! All these puzzle pieces were almost audibly clacking into place behind Jazzlyn’s eyes.

  At the same time, Abbie grunted in grudging admiration to Glover’s paranoia. The djinn snapped his fingers and The Bastard’s ass stopped trumpeting like the opening of Fugue For Tinhorns. Abbie looked to the Witch, whose name he realized he still did not know and realized she seemed not confused by what she was hearing but was shrewdly contemplating and collating the information. He wanted to take her gently by the shoulder for conflicting reasons—to tell her to forget whatever she just heard and to run. And to kiss this complete stranger and learn about her mind, soul, and body while letting her do the same to him.

  But because of the curse which made him a djinn, he was still a wholly owned creature of Glower McCracken and was forced to do his bidding. He reached a cerulean hand out and roughly grabbed the WereElk who was just coming out of his explosive intestinal eruption. As he was about to cast the spell that would drag the massive Shifter with him to spill his tale and face Glower’s wrath, he looked longingly at the Witch and mourned, “I wish I could know you, but I’m glad I can save you from me.”

  As Abbie transported with The Bastard, he felt the Witch grasp his shoulder. He also heard her inexplicably scream, “Skye! Tail!”

  All of this occurred in the space of time it took Brittany to croon, “Wrapped in your arms, I’ll gladly fade away!”

  Chapter Nine

  “Your pet djinn just left me there! If it weren’t for Kane and the little healing magic he has, I might not be here,” whined Tran to an impassive Glower.

  Tran had his hand inside his coat, scratching Kane gently under his chin. McCracken was spitting his foul tobacco slurry into his ever-present crystal spittoon in a cloud of boredom while Caleb used his long sticky tongue to snatch the tiny pieces of tobacco that fell from the old man’s pink gums.

  “If a shit-stain Warlock like Zeke could take you, I’d be well rid of your useless self,” snapped McCracken. “Least your livin’. Means the djinn didn’t catch you tryin’ to screw me with my pants on.”

  Spit.

  “Catch me? I would never…”

  “Shut yer hole ‘afore you trip over yer own lyin’ self,” hissed Caleb from Gower’s lap.

  “And you better hope the stupid WereElk is as good a liar as you. And at least half as smart,” grunted the ancient Warlock. He punctuated this with a particularly foul expectoration of tobacco wad into his favorite crystal receptacle.

  Spit.

  He waved a hand and the heavy crystal goblet floated onto its perch high on the wall behind him.

  The idea of his life depending on The Bastard’s guile did not set well with Tran. If asked, the oaf could lie well enough. If the djinn pushed the WereElk in the right way, he’d cra
ck like a gigantic egg. He was going to have to rely on The Bastard’s worst instincts to save them—that he couldn’t run his mouth because it would be too busy with beer and Brittany.

  He was about to proclaim his innocence more loudly when a gentle crack followed by the smell of ten thousand acres of manure filled the air of McCracken’s house. When he turned towards the stench, he saw the djinn looking like a pale-blue storm cloud, a lovely woman. A Witch, he sensed, who was making her blue jeans talk very eloquently, and the enormous bulk of The Bastard doubled over on the floor with his hands covering his ass. Even doubled over, The Bastard was nearly as tall as the Witch. Surprisingly, Abbie turned to the Witch with obvious concern bordering on despair.

  “Dog! I didn’t call you home, did I?

  Abbie ignored his Master. He gently grasped the Witch by the shoulders and guided his own body between McCracken and hers.

  “Why did you do that? You shouldn’t be here,” implored the djinn with genuine passion. Abbie was, in fact intoning the beginning of a portal spell. He was going to send this unknown woman miles away before anyone knew who she was and why she was there.

  “Dog! Heel!” commanded the wheedling, steely voice of McCracken. The djinn was hurled backwards, landing face-down at the old Warlock’s feet.

  “Psycho, stop the Witch!” cried out Caleb as he skittered along a shelf on the wall.

  Tran sent Kane out to fly at the face of the Witch to interrupt any spellwork she might be trying. He countered with a glimmering green barrier which encased Jazzlyn’s head, and she fell silent. But she was fighting his spell and, Tran realized, she was stronger than he was. Fortunately, she was rendered utterly immobile at that moment by The Bastard’s meaty arm wrapping around her throat.