Djinn, Lose, or Draw

by Erick Buckley

  Abbie lifted her up almost effortlessly and sat her on the table. They found each other in a rush of lips, tongues, and tiny bites.

  With difficulty, he dragged his mouth from hers and whispered into her ear, “Please let me please you first.”

  She was about to speak but he stopped her with a gentle kiss. “It has been over a hundred and fifty years since I have been allowed to. I have zero doubt that I shall finish this race first—probably long before you’ve gotten to the starting line.”

  Jazz smiled and mumbled huskily, “Don’t worry, this is going to be a marathon.”

  Abbie smiled, snapped his fingers and Jazz’s shoes, sox, jeans, and thong disappeared from her body and appeared in a neatly folded pile. Her eyebrow arched in appreciation. He went down to his knees, kissing and flicking his tongue along her ankles while gently brushing his fingers up her calves and thighs. She murmured pleasantly and spread her knees apart.

  And then Abdel Malek prayed at Jazz’s “temple”. As wave after wave of pleasure surged outward from the djinn’s patient, creative, and enthusiastic tongue, Jazz hazily recalled Abbie saying something about enforced celibacy for over a century. That meant he was far older than any Witch, with the possible exception of the Baba. The djinn then did something with his mouth that seemed physically impossible, and her mind sang out, In praise of older men! She laced her fingers around the djinn’s smooth skull, pulled his face deeper into her, and the Goddess heard her name cried out loudly.

  Several times.

  After a deliciously long satisfied shudder, Jazz pulled him up from what he clearly considered his “happy place”. He reached to her left and lifted a goblet filled with an icy white wine to his mouth. He let the cold, golden liquid pour over his chin. Jazz cupped her hand under his chin and kissed him deeply.

  “You are delicious, my dear Smurf,” she cooed.

  “What’s a Smurf?”

  “So not important. Mind if I finish folding the laundry?” she murmured thickly. She waggled her fingers and Abbie, too, was sans pants.

  Abbie raised his fingers. Jazz kissed his fingers and he snapped them. The two of them were now wearing nothing but the skin they were born in, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Then their eyes devoured each other’s bodies in a way that was almost more intimate than doing so by touch…almost. They pressed the length of their nude bodies against each other. An audible groan was pulled from Abbie’s throat. Jazz reached behind him, grasped Abbie’s ass firmly, and pulled him harder against her. Abbie drew in an involuntary breath. She drew back and glanced down appreciatively at Abbie’s anatomical salute.

  If she waited for the djinn to move past his insecurity—most unwarranted based on what she was looking at—they’d be standing here for a while. She decided she should take matters into her own hands, and did just that by taking his delightful appendage in hand and led him to a particularly comfy looking pile of cushions. She gently placed her hands against the hard muscles of his chest and playfully pushed him backwards. As he lay on his back with his anatomy still at full attention, she smirked, “Care to dance?”

  The next few hours were spent in a sweaty, sublime tangle of arms and legs and tongues and fingers and all manner of anatomical parts that fit like puzzle pieces. There was thrusting and riding and cuddling and biting and laughing and moaning. And the Goddess was given her due with many, many cries to her name.

  In the vernacular, they rutted like rabbits.

  In between rounds, they ate and drank to recover their strength, and because Abbie just wanted to enjoy the flavor of food and wine once again.

  And they talked. They realized that despite all the glorious, orgiastic gymnastics they had just engaged in, they were utter strangers. They both openly admitted that neither of them had ever been drawn to another in the unstoppable way they had been drawn to each other. Jazzlyn told Abbie about being a Snoop for the Council, about how she found The Bastard through Brittany, and about sensing him.

  “How did you know I was there? I know I was exhausted by then, but my deflector spell managed to keep me invisible to everyone but you,” Abbie said in a most satisfying rumble.

  “This is going to sound like a shitty Harlequin Romance, but because we are supposed to be together,” cooed Jazzlyn.

  Abbie chuckled, “That is Harlequin Romance shitty. Ow!” he grunted as Jazz’s elbow found his ribs. “But also, probably true.”

  “I just felt you. Like…”

  “Like a limb you could finally feel and move again?”

  “Yes! I can’t describe it any other way.”

  Abbie grinned, “I am you and you are me—oof.”

  Another elbow from Jazz. “More shitty poetry.”

  Abbie looked deeply into Jazz’s eyes and said, “I thank the Goddess that I found you. And I curse her that you have been dragged into these Trials.”

  “What are the Trials?”

  “I have no idea. The curse won’t allow me that knowledge until it decides the time is right. And before you ask, I have no idea when the time will be right,” Abbie told her.

  “That curse is a real cocksucker,” snorted Jazzlyn with a lightness she didn’t feel.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “How did you get the curse?” asked the perky Witch.

  “It won’t allow me to tell you that either,” muttered the djinn with a sigh.

  “Again, a serious sucker of cocks.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Abbie.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Bastard reappeared in the Stumble Inn. It was about three in the morning. Late but not late for the club on a Friday night. It should have still been hopping but the place was empty. Tables were littered in half-empty bottles and the remains of nachos. He briefly thought about tearing someone a new asshole for leaving the place in this state, then he realized he had bigger catfish to fry.

  The Goddess-be-damned djinn could be his. This was a huge opportunity. It was one he’d planned on for years, figuring he’d only have to sidestep or stomp the smarmy shit, Psycho. Then he could let rip with that blue boob’s power. No skulking around that bitch, Baba Yaga. Even thinking about that made him look around to make sure she somehow hadn’t heard his thoughts. Well, having the djinn would mean he wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.

  Of course, that was before that pretty little Witch got involved. Jazzlyn was the name. She seemed to have been snooping around, trying to find out how the scheme with Backcrack Creek was going down. Now she was in it. Weren’t nothing to do about but go through her, too. He wasn’t particularly worried about her. He had survived McCracken and had kept Psycho at antlers length for years. He’d figure out how to deal with her, too.

  He scented someone in the bar. A familiar scent. He put one hand in his pocket as he whirled around in time to catch a stinging slap in mid-arc with his other hand before it reached his face.

  “Dammit, Bastard! Let go of me, you son of a…” snarled the WereSkunk.

  The Bastard pulled her into a kiss. She gave a half-hearted struggle, then melted into the kiss. Before she pulled away, she bit his lip hard enough to draw a little blood. He pulled back, grinning.

  “Damn, girl. I ain’t sure what I did for that kind of treatment,” he said and swatted at her ass playfully. She skittered back out of the way.

  “You ain’t? You don’t think disappearing with that lying skank of a Witch in the middle of my set should piss me off?” growled Brittany. “Were’d y’all get to? Her place? Weren’t at your place ‘cause I checked.”

  “Aw, Hell, Brittany. Didn’t nobody tell you I got hijacked by a full-on djinn?” growled The Bastard. He reached behind the bar, pulled a cold beer from the cooler, and popped the cap with his teeth. He took a deep drink. Spinning one of the chairs around, he sat heavily. Lord, he was tired. He rifled through the plates of nachos, found one that wasn’t too old, and tucked into it.

  “Djinn? What shit you tryin’ to pull?” whined Brittany as she grabbed a chip,
shook off some of the orange cheese, and popped it in her mouth.

  “Blue guy, who popped out of nowhere? A true to life djinn. Big power. Gonna be mine soon,” boasted The Bastard leaning in and cleaning cheese from Brittany’s chin with his finger, then licking it clean.

  “Power? Like you could take on McCracken?” probed Brittany, who was interested now.

  “McCracken’s worm food, baby. Gone from the holler and back to hell,” chuckled The Bastard with real mirth.

  “He hears you saying that you ain’t going to be laughing,” hissed the WereSkunk with her head on a swivel. She looked back to The Bastard, who was still grinning like a damn pumpkin. “For reals?”

  “For really reals, Darling. And when I get my hands on that djinn, you’re looking at the new McCracken,” boasted the WereElk as he worked the words around a mouth full of nachos.

  “So, the club is yours?” whispered Brittany as she put a tentative hand on the side of the WereElk’s face.

  “The club. The charms. The businesses. The whole town is mine. I just got a couple bumps I got to flatten out,” crowed the big man slapping his and down on the table hard enough that it cracked.

  “And what about me? Where does Brittany fit in this big plan? You just done with this dumb, old WereSkunk?” snapped Brittany angrily. She stalked off behind the bar. She poured herself a shot and slammed it back in irritation.

  The Bastard followed her, cupped her face in a meaty paw and said, “Darling, if you want the club, it’s yours. I can’t be watching the small potatoes when I’m gonna have a whole buffet to look after.”

  “My club?” gasped Brittany. She leaped to her feet and ran around the club. “This bar needs to go from here to over there. That shit sound system needs an upgrade. The walls are gonna crack and shake. And I want a ton of lights for the stage over here. Ones that spin, so bitches will see me from Goddess-be-damned space!”

  The Bastard focused, ignoring Brittany’s grand plans for The Stumble Inn. He was gonna get that Lamp. He imagined his feet shifting into hooves and could almost feel the warm pop and squish of a certain Warlock and Witch underneath them.

  And he smiled.

  “A Trial?” murmured Kane, leathery wings beating furiously.

  Psycho crankily poured himself a drink at the amply stocked bar at his apartment. Banging the bottle down, he gulped the brown liquor at a go. He hurls the glass against the wall and the dregs splash out at his bat familiar.

  “Watch the wings, Psycho! Don’t take it out on me, I’m not The Bastard,” screeched Kane flying to a safe distance.

  “It’s not The Bastard. I always knew I was going to have to deal with the walking venison shank,” grumbled Psycho.

  He walked to the fridge and grabbed a handful of grapes. He opened the large pocket on the front of his jacket, offering the perch to Kane in the way of apology. The familiar sulkily floated to his Warlock and took a grape, delicately nibbling it as he nestled snugly into his accustomed pouch.

  “So, you’re worried about the Witch with the nasty bird?”

  Psycho growled, “I ain’t worried. But she’s a complication. I hate complications.”

  He dropped another grape into his pocket. Kane caught it deftly and slyly whispered, “So…we get rid of the complication.”

  “Not directly. She’s strong.”

  “As strong as Glower?”

  “Not hardly,” Psycho muttered. “But without knowing I can take her? Not worth the risk.”.

  “An alliance?” mused Kane.

  “Not with The Bastard. I trust him as far as I could throw his giant carcass.”

  “Not to mention he trusts you even less. That leaves the Witch and her stupid chicken,” said the bat with a gloomy sigh.

  “Bluebird, you flying handbag. We should start using the Witch’s name: Jazzlyn,” Psycho said as he headed down the hall to a locked door in the back of the apartment.

  He pulled a key from a chain around his neck, carefully enunciated the words of a spell as he pressed his thumb hard against the grip. As he did, the key glowed and the shape altered. He muttered another spell and the lock to the door disappeared from the doorknob and appeared on the door itself. He unlocked the door and the scent of minerals, herbs, flowers, and spices. He searched through a library of small vials and grabs several. Kane peeped over the edge of his pocket perch.

  “No Witch is going to let you get anywhere near her food or drink,” guffawed the wrinkly pink maw.

  “Please let more knowledge fall from your mouth like the guano you’re full of. Going subtle,” he drawled while rolling his eyes. The Warlock took an empty bottle and poured equal parts of each potion into it. He capped it with an atomizer giving it a testing spritz.

  “Nice. What’d you pick? Charm potion? Lust? Command?” asked Kane, like a fisherman asking what kind of lure you’ll use.

  “All of ‘em. This is too important to dick around with.” Psycho tucked the bottle into an inner pocket. “She wasn’t from around here or I’d have noticed her before. We have to make a visit to Assjacket. I’ll need you to scout from above for her familiar. I’ll make the approach in the open so….”

  “So she doesn’t electrocute your ass?” chirped Kane in mock concern.

  “I would like to avoid that, yes,” Psycho grumbled as he dropped the rest of the grapes into his pocket to shut Kane up, as much as anything. The Witch was a complication, but like everything else, Psycho would find a way to turn it to his advantage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “A djinn?!” fumed the thunderhead in a cloud of L’Air Du Temps that was Baba Yaga. Her insanely expensive, insanely high sling-backs clicked like gunshots on the floor as she paced from one side of the room to the other. “Glower McCracken had a djinn?!?”

  Skye hovered pensively in mid-air, unable or unwilling to land in any one place for fear of accidently getting fricasseed by a rogue spark from the furious Yaga.

  Jazz just sat with her hands in her lap, trying oh-so-hard to keep a smile from playing across her lips. As they had shared one final round of slippery, naked wrestling, Abbie had told her to expect this reaction. The Goddess-damned curse didn’t allow him to leave his bottle until the Trial of the Lamp started, so she had to tell Baa-Baa about him by herself. He knew the Witchiest of Witches would be apoplectic about his existence so close to Assjacket. With the wrong master, a djinn is like someone you don’t know or trust having a stealth bomber in their garage.

  “McCracken used the djinn to cover any and all activity from scrying,” Jazz explained in as neutral a voice as possible. She was working really hard not to say “Abbie” every time she said “djinn”.

  Skye had screeched with joy when she had portalled back from the Lamp. That was until she got a whiff of Abbie that was all over Jazz, inside and out. Mother hen became the blue meanie. Then through a clenched beak she squawked, “If Baba Yaga finds out you’re playing “hide-the-shawarma” with the Indigo Lothario, she’ll be wearing your ass for a garter.”

  “And now I’m caught in a three-way to be the new Master of the Lamp,” grumbled Jazz.

  Baba Yaga harrumphed into her overstuffed chair and said, “Any other three-way and I’d have infinite pointers for you. Hell, I’d be able to draw you an Oscar nominated animated short. But a Lamp Trial is no joke.”

  “I have been telling her this since the floating blue buffoon let her leave his…” offered Skye. She stopped short as she caught a glare from Baba Yaga that was so cold; Jazzlyn swore she saw frost come from Skye’s beak.

  Then Baba Yaga’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head in a way that made Jazzlyn feel dissection would be less invasive. “How did you get him to let you leave, Dear, Sweet, Little Jazzlyn?” purred Baba Yaga.

  Jazzlyn’s mouth twitched as she said, “He just decided to let me go. To prepare for the Trial. He let all of us go. You know? To get ready.”

  Sky fluttered, landed on Jazzlyn’s shoulder, and very calmly hid in her hair.

 
Baba Yaga very quietly tapped one long, perfectly manicured, blood-red nail against her pearl white teeth. “Jazzlyn. Did you, perhaps, shag the djinn’s brains out?” inquired the Witch of Witches.

  Skye cleared her throat from inside Jazzlyn’s hair and warbled, “It is unclear whether the djinn’s brains have been shagged out or if she merely screwed him into a light coma.”

  Jazzlyn reached up and gently pinched Skye’s beak closed.

  The mounting tension in the room was such that Jazzlyn considered briefly finding the nearest IKEA, purposely wearing a yellow and blue shirt, and begin selling FLŰRGEN bookcases. To her shock, Baba Yaga only said, “Why?”

  Jazzlyn let go of Skye’s beak. The bluebird stayed remarkably silent and turned her own black eyes to Jazz to see the answer. Jazzlyn considered being coy or glib or sarcastic. Instead, she told the truth. “It wasn’t a decision,” admitted the Witch. “It was… like it is when a Shifter finds their one true mate. We were drawn to each other. He was using a deflector spell and I still felt him. Knew he was there without seeing him or hearing him. It felt like we were like gravity. We were inevitable.”

  Skye used her wing to wipe a tear from her eye and rubbed her head against Jazzlyn’s cheek. Then she brazenly hovered in front of the mighty Baba and declared, “You got a problem with that? You gotta come through me.”

  Baba glared for a moment, then threw her arms around Jazzlyn who almost peed herself in relief. Skye flew around both of their heads, chirping like she was the sidekick in a Disney movie instead of the foul-beaked feather-wench she was.

  “Darlin’, I’m always happy when one of my sisters scores some prime beef and ecstatic when it’s true love. True blue, in this case,” gushed Yaga O’Reilly. She snapped her fingers at the hideously ornate mirrored bar in the corner and a bottle of Dom Perignon appeared, the cork popped and filled two glasses which floated over to the two women. “Here’s to you pulling a djinn-side straight!”