Djinn, Lose, or Draw

by Erick Buckley

  That pun was so tortured, it might have been waterboarded. Jazzlyn wisely let it slide. “So. The Trial,” she murmured.

  Baba was immediately all business again. She tossed her champagne flute over her shoulder and it disappeared before smashing. “This is a big steaming pile you’ve stepped in. But your be-shitted feet will save lives. But only if you win that Lamp,” observed the Chairman of the Broads. “Otherwise, that flyspeck of a town… What’s it called again?”

  “Backcrack Creek.”

  “Goddess, but that djinn’s deflector spell is good. Even I can’t keep the name in my head for more than a few seconds,” she admitted ruefully. “Anyway, if either of the other Aspirants—don’t bother saying their names again, wins, I’ll never find the town. And more people will die from the shit they put out.”

  “I’ll do my best,” promised Jazzlyn earnestly.

  “Do better than your best. These Trials will get rough.”

  “Like ‘sitting through a Rob Schneider film’ rough?” asked Skye unhelpfully.

  “Like ‘shopping for your urn’ rough,” snapped Baba.

  Jazzlyn didn’t like the idea of anyone dying—especially her. And the thought of never seeing Abbie again after having just found him and him having to serve one of those horrible shit-nuggets made her so mad she could hex them into oblivion.

  “Well, I’m forced to do something I hate to do and admit that this is out of my flawlessly manicured hands for the moment,” said the Baba in all seriousness. “If you fail, I won’t punish you because you’ll probably be dead. Go. Gather your strength. Try and get some Persian snogging. And maybe a haircut. Don’t die. Or I swear I’ll kill you.”

  And just like that, she and Skye were dismissed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Abbie was both happier and more miserable than he’d been in centuries. He could still feel Jazzlyn’s skin against his. Could smell her scent everywhere in his Lamp. Heard her laugh in the rustle of the fabric hanging down. Could taste the sweet pomegranate on her tongue made sweeter still by her lips. It was a joy to miss her. It was also insane. Though he had just met this Witch, he understood her and knew her on a cellular level. It was the kind of claptrap of dime-store romance novels. He had to use a word he had thought lost to him from the curse and even before. He was in love. That was the happy.

  Now for the misery. She was caught up in a Lamp be damned Trial. He hadn’t even known there was such a thing until the Warlock, the WereElk, and his now-beloved Witch had all made a grab for the Lamp. Now the four of them were locked into this high-stakes game of Wipeout. And one of the contestants was this woman and he could do nothing to help her or interfere in any way. But he could watch.

  “Show me the Aspirants to the Lamp,” he called out to the miniature universe of the Lamp. Three large glowing spheres floated into view. The handsome, cruel face of Psycho appeared in one sphere, in another, the massive shaggy head of The Bastard, and in the third drifted the sweetest visage in this or any universe. His heart soared and he had to fight the incredibly cheesy impulse to place his hands on the sides of her glowing orb to kiss it.

  “So, what’s the plan for the Lamp Trial besides trying to climb into it to ride some Jet Blue?” squawked a voice. A blur of feathers went in front of Jazzlyn’s face and a bird’s head peered into view. Abbie smiled at this. His dear heart’s familiar Skye was as sassy as she had said.

  “If I could get back into the Lamp, don’t you think I’d…I’d…Hello,” stammered Jazzlyn and her eyes seemed to glaze over.

  “Fancy meeting you here!” said an all too familiar voice. Abbie whipped around to see the source and stared into the smiling face of Psycho as his sphere drifted across the room and melded with Jazzlyn’s. Abbie was so enraged, his teeth nearly cracked. And then the combined sphere popped like soap bubbles.

  “Fucking Psycho.”

  “Where’s bat boy, Slick?” fumed Skye with a tight beak. She was all prepared to dive-bomb Psycho’s face, which was halfway between Eddie Haskel and a Tex Avery cartoon wolf.

  “It’s ok, Skye,” muttered Jazzlyn and raised a hand to halt her. “We’ll see how fancy it is. Hello. Tran, right?”

  “People call me Psycho,” Tran said with a grin as he turned the wattage of his smile up to eleven.

  His bat familiar Kane crawled from his pocket perch and flapped himself up to a nearby streetlamp. Hanging upside down, he swung by his feet and piped, “What’s the word big bluebird?”

  “Zip it, Leather Lips,” snarled Skye. She was not buying the flapping jackwagon or his Fonzie wannabe master. “Why are you in Assjacket, ya’ jackass?”

  “Skye, don’t be rude.” snapped Jazzlyn. Then after a slight pause. “Why are you in Assjacket?”

  “I could lie and say shopping or looking for an advantage in the Trial, but I was looking for you,” Psycho announced in a greasy way.

  Skye started to dive-bomb Psycho’s skull but her flightpath was interrupted by Kane, who looked ready to throw down with the bluebird spell for spell.

  “Would you mind calling off feathered Cujo before our familiars go twelve rounds in the middle of the street?” pleaded Psycho. “I come in peace. Tell her I couldn’t harm you even if I wanted to.”

  “Skye, he’s right,” said Jazz and Skye begrudgingly returned to it. Jazzlyn took a deep breath which made both Tran and Kane stifle smiles. “So, spill it hot pants. What can I do you for?” probed Jazzlyn. This made Skye’s eyes narrow to the tiniest of slits.

  “Well, I don’t know if I feel comfortable talking on an empty stomach,” drawled Psycho flashing his brightest smile. “How about we chat over lunch?”

  The Warlock leaned in close, letting his potion-laden cologne waft all around Jazzlyn so it could take full effect.

  Skye barked a derisive laugh at the thought of Jazzlyn sitting down to eat with this greaseball. But it was cut short when Jazzlyn coquettishly answered, “Why not?”

  Stunned, she watched as Psycho extended an arm to Jazz, who took it easily. The two of them walked to an outdoor table at a nearby coffee shop called The Witches Brew. As they sat down, Kane the bat flapped from his perch and settled on the back collar of his Warlock’s jacket. The familiar drew back his leathery lips and smiled. He may have intended it to be ingratiating, but it came across about as appealing as well, as a smiling bat. Skye fluttered to Jazzlyn’s shoulder and pressed her beak to her ear and whispered, “What the Baba-loving fuck are we doing with this douche-nozzle?”.

  Jazzlyn gave Skye a somewhat vacant glance that made the feathery friend major concern. What is she doing? worried Skye as she turned her attention towards the two magic users conversation.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot,” drawled the Warlock.

  “You mean you and the walking wall of WereElk trying to cure me of my addiction to breathing?” quipped Jazz.

  Psycho looked suitably chagrined as he shrugged his shoulders and admitted, “Not my idea. You saw how powerful Glower was, not to mention the Bastard being, well, a bastard. A big one. If I hadn’t gone along with them, I wouldn’t have lasted long enough to turn on them when I had the chance.” He leaned in, smiling.

  Skye’s feathers puffed up in indignation. This fuck-stick was trying to use attempted murder to flirt with Jazzlyn! This son-of-a-bitch earns his nickname, she thought. Jazzlyn giggled and tossed her head in a patented flirt move. Skye almost vomited down her shirt.

  “We can come back to that. I’m guessing you’re not here to apologize or to pay for my iced tea,” said Jazz as she waved for the waitress.

  Tran held up two fingers. “There are three tickets to Lamp City and I want to get it down to two,” he said.

  “Cut out the Bastard? How? We can’t touch him before the Trial.”

  Psycho leaned in real close and purred through far too many teeth in his mouth and probed, “We make a pact. Let him think it’s every person for themselves. He gets a little in the lead and then…” Psycho pulled a dagger from n
owhere and stabbed it into the table. Kane’s sleek head peeked from around his head and grinned again unpleasantly.

  Jazzlyn leaned back and looked at Psycho through slitted eyes that held a completely different, flat, calculating look than what she had earlier. She lazily pointed her finger at Psycho and mock scolded, “That’s you. Stab everyone in the back as soon as they turn it. It’s why you’re wearing six fucking potions all at once so I feel comfy and compliant. Then BOOM!”

  Jazzlyn moved like a blur, snatched the dagger from Psycho’s hand, twirled it in her hand, and slammed it into the table through his jacket, pinning his arm to the table. Skye would have applauded if her wings could make sound.

  Kane swooped down trying to help the Warlock budge the dagger from the table as he shouted, “The Bastard is gonna stomp you to death. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  “Maybe not. But now I know what you’re capable of. That means I’m a third of the way there,” she said scornfully. She walked away with Skye taking one quick swoop to knock the bat on its ass. Jazzlyn snorted, “Got you, didn’t I?”

  “I really ought to peck your eyes out, ya’ beak-tease.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Abbie had passed from rage into an impotent despair. Watching Psycho’s face break into that insufferable leer had made him feel like the Lamp was both too big and claustrophobic. But seeing Jazz smiling back at the Warlock had seared a piece from his soul. Normally, the djinn would simply reach out to his connection with the universe of the Lamp, and it would respond to his needs. At the moment, the only thing he wanted in this or any other universe was Jazzlyn, and she seemed to have a need to taste other wares.

  Thinking about Jazz, he felt a pull in a spot inside of him that he thought had died centuries ago. He turned his vision inwards and found a dusty memory. He fell into that place and that time. He wasn’t recalling what happened; he was there again—feeling dry desert air, smelling the aromatic spice of desert flowers, and tasting the warm spice of iced ginger tea quenching his parched throat. He opened his eyes…

  Abdel’s eyes fell upon his own hand, holding a glass sweating in the afternoon heat. His hand—not blue—his own dusky, tawny skin. He lifted his gaze and his breath stopped.

  “My love? I asked if you wanted more tea,” murmured a dark, husky voice. Full lips curled into a warm smile under laughing, chocolate drop eyes. Jet black hair peeked from beneath a beautifully embroidered hijab.

  It had been nearly four hundred years since he had laid eyes upon her. It was like seeing a sunrise after a lifetime in a dungeon. She was his water in the desert. The oasis that made his journey of life possible. Abdel placed his glass down slowly, reached his hands out and pulled the woman’s face close and kissed her deeply. “My dearest heart, Fariba. I need nothing but you, my wife,” he whispered, and he kissed her again. Gently at first and then hungrily. He began to remove her headdress.

  “Husband?”

  “Yes, wife?” Abdel cooed. His hands found the stays of Fariba’s dress and began to free her from her clothes.

  “What has gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining,” purred Fariba as she beamed dreamily. Her own hands did not stay idle as they ran along the smooth muscles of his chest. When they met the resistance of his silken jacket, they slipped it off his broad shoulders. Strong arms and shoulders encircled Fariba’s own dusky, flawless skin.

  “Only my love for you, Dearest Heart,” he murmured throatily. He effortlessly finished undoing her beautiful garment and let it fall to the floor. Her full figure filled his eyes. He gently lifted her in his arms and strode into the rear of their tent on the northern side of their oasis. He laid her onto their sleeping pallet and guided her legs wide. He began slowly devouring her, starting at the instep of her foot. He tasted her delicious skin, working his way up the calf to her inner thigh.

  “Mmmm, husband. What a lovely gift. And I didn’t even get you anything.”

  “I am sure you’ll think of something. Now be a dear and shift to the left a bit so I might get a better spot.” She gasped as his fingers moved with practiced dexterity just out of sight in the most delightful of areas. “Thank you, My Heart.”

  And her hands found both sides of his smooth skull and they guided his face to her promised land.

  After an hour of mutually, blissful ministrations, Fariba lifted her head to gaze into his inky eyes and murmured, “While I am not complaining, that was most unexpected and perhaps not the wisest expenditure of your strength today. You will need access to all of your magic with Liana.”

  Abdel’s mind rocketed back to what occurred today. No, he reminded himself, on this day over four hundred years ago. He needed to change this. Not go with Liana. Not be greedy. To not be so willing to sacrifice the life he had for a life for more power, land, prestige, more fawning. But this was a memory, regardless of the reality of experiencing it again—Goddess be damned curse. He did push himself away from his Fariba, did follow Liana to the temple that housed the Lamp. He dispelled the traps with her, succumbed to her seductive words of glory. He felt every moment of discovering the Lamp had no inhabitant, of bleeding when she turned on him. While his life ebbed away, he saw the light of his wife and the pulsing power of the Lamp. He did choose the Lamp, begging it to take him as its new djinn instead of dying. The pain of the power which stained his flesh blue, marking him as immortal. Of never having seen his beloved Fariba again. The agony when he learned that she was with child when he left her that day. Of Liana lying to her that he failed and was taken by the magic of the temple. Of Liana’s cruelty in as she forced him to watch Fariba try and raise their child—a daughter—alone. He watched her struggle, watched her grow old and die.

  Liana died, and the Lamp claimed a new Master, one who never considered Abdel having had a life before being a djinn. He forced the djinn to abandon the last vestiges of his former life. And he was here, falling in love with a new woman for the first time since precious Fariba. And doubting her, failing her, too.

  That’s where his mind was when he sensed the rush of power from the Lamp crackle through him. The curse of the Lamp compelled him to raise his hands to the nothingness of his pillowed and silken prison and boomed, “Aspirants to the Lamp. If you will still make your claim, come to me. The Trial is Nigh!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Psycho, Jazzlyn, and their familiars appeared through portals into the Lamp’s realm at almost the same time. The Warlock gave Jazzlyn several furtive glances. It took all of Abbie’s strength not to snarl openly. Jazzlyn smiled radiantly at the djinn. He turned away. The Bastard came through his own portal glaring haughtily at the other two. Psycho glanced nervously from The Bastard to Jazzlyn and back. Jazz looked at Abbie, slightly hurt and confused.

  “Aspirants to the Lamp, you have been summoned and you have heeded the call. Whosoever completes the Trial shall become Master of the Lamp and its inhabitants,” intoned Abbie with almost no emotion. “As Warlock and Witch, your familiars are considered part of you and are therefore allowed to assist in the Trial.”

  “What kind of bullshit is this? It’s four against one, then,” complained the massive WereElk in a voice that was so whiny it would have gone well with a good brie cheese.

  “Then you should have been less of an ass and earned some friends willing to second you,” barked the djinn. Kane, the bat, preened from Psycho’s pocket and Skye flitted around Jazzlyn’s head crying whoop-whoop loudly.

  “And what is the Trial?” mewled Psycho in his sycophantic way.

  Abbie glared at him so ferociously that even with the awareness that he couldn’t harm him, Psycho backed up a step.

  “The first will be the Trial of Force,” announced Abbie.

  The Bastard snorted loudly. Jazzlyn bit her lip in a way that made Abbie want to bite it for her. He was angry—both at her for whatever was going on with Psycho and at himself for being angry at her.

  “You must pass through the Yoursen Mines,” he declared and he waved a h
and. A portal opened onto a very dark, natural stone passageway. Cold, moist air wafted out of the opening carrying the scent of rot and mold. “The inhabitants of the mine will not be kind and will do all they can to hamper your progress.”

  Psycho grumbled, “And once we get through?”

  “If you get through,” snarled the djinn. “You will have a short respite before the second part of the Trial.”

  “What are we allowed to do to get through?” queried Jazzlyn. She moved close enough to Abbie that he could feel her heat against his skin. He shuffled back in discomfort. This got Jazzlyn’s full attention.

  “Whatever you will. And I should warn you, the stricture against harming each other is void during the actual Trial. It is every person for themselves. Upon exiting the mine, the stricture shall return,” noted the djinn.

  The sound of The Bastard’s knuckles cracking like the snap of two-by-fours broke the mounting tension between Abbie and Jazzlyn. “Can we get started? I wanna finish in time to grab some grub,” guffawed the big man.

  “You may begin,” said the djinn as he clapped.

  The WereElk transformed into his glorious animal form, laughed again, and hit the portal at a gallop.

  Psycho sneered at Jazzlyn, sent Kane into the cave first, and followed slowly behind. This left Skye, Jazz, and the djinn in an uncomfortable silence. Abdel could feel Jazzlyn’s eyes boring into him. He folded his arms across his taut chest muscles. He’d be Goddess damned if he’d be the first to speak. Skye floated into his view to make that feeling moot,

  “By the Devil’s scrote, what is your problem?” screeched the bluebird, beady eyes burning into the djinn’s. Then with a smile and a wink, she said, “I’m Skye, by the way. Jazz says you shag like they’re going to outlaw shagging tomorrow. Glad to hear it. She deserves it.”