Djinn, Lose, or Draw

by Erick Buckley

  The Bastard shook as hard as he could, tried to reach back to strike his father, anything to escape from his grip. But he couldn’t budge. Tears formed in his eyes and he wouldn’t have it. He was The Bastard, and no one was going to see him cry and live.

  “You go to Hell, Old Man! You don’t know nothing about me. Ain’t nothing soft about me. You try me! You try me and I’ll gut you like a fish,” he cried out in a kind of pain he had never felt.

  His father stopped and released The Bastard, who flailed backwards as though on fire. “Ok, son. I know it’s on me,” he said with such sorrow and care that it shook The Bastard. “I should have given you what you needed more’n what you wanted. But I hear you now. I’ll do it, so it ain’t on you. I love you, Hugo.”

  And with a sadness that was like a blowtorch to The Bastard’s gut, the Old Man hefted the axe handle in his large hands and buried it in his own skull. The Bastard was in shock as the Old Man bashed himself over and over and over again with a look of such utter and complete sadness and love. And then he collapsed.

  Suddenly, the bloody axe handle was back in his hand and his torso was spattered with gore. The Bastard caught his father as he fell, trying to ease him to the ground. He tried to find his rage, his indifference, that feeling of bulletproof arrogance that he would have sworn allowed him to do this to his dad. But it wasn’t there. All he had was loss and grief and an empty, endless madness that he could never fill or bridge.

  His father sighed with unfocused eyes and whispered, “I love you, Hugo. My son.”

  “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy…”

  And he was lost.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As Jazzlyn released her grip on the sphere. Skye made a bee-line for her. They nuzzled one another. Abbie felt like he could breathe again. He hated the Trials. The Lamp. The curse. Hated whatever it was that had caused tears to stream down her face. Hated it in a more visceral and desperate way more than he had in the previous four hundred years, if possible.

  He rushed to her and took her in his arms. He brushed the tears from her face. She grasped his hand, kissed it, and looked into his eyes. There was a new depth and even lightness there. Her smile seemed even more radiant than ever.

  The Psycho had come out of his insensate stupor, too. But whatever he had been through had seemed to only add a brighter gleam of madness to his eyes. A ruthless smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  The Bastard dropped his hands. And that was all. The curse of the Lamp let the djinn understand that The Bastard had not returned, would never return. The WereElk had not survived the Trial of the Mind. Wherever he was, the djinn hoped it was the kind of Hell he deserved. Given that it was devised by the Goddess-be-damned Lamp, he was sure it was. He guided the empty shell that once housed The Bastard to a pile of cushions.

  “Lights are on but no one’s home. Eh, djinn?” sneered Psycho.

  “There are indeed. Now two Aspirants left,” the djinn announced solemnly. The Bastard stared a million miles into the distance.

  “The Trial of the Spirit has begun,” said Abbie with weariness. He turned his gaze on Psycho with utter hatred and then to Jazzlyn with care and total devotion.

  “So soon?” muttered Jazzlyn in surprise. She placed her hand on Abbie’s shoulder.

  He gazed at her and just spoke from his deepest heart. “Yes,…my love,” he whispered.

  Abbie waited for the shock or confusion or piteous look to cross her face. Instead, she lifted her hand to his cheek, nodded, kissed him, and trembled, “Yes, my love.”

  Skye actually sniffed back a tear of her own.

  “Enjoy it while you can you big, blue gas bag. No more of that when I take over,” mocked Psycho with a crazed glee. Skye blew a massive raspberry—no mean feat without lips.

  The room faded from sight and the four of them were on a blank, open plane. There were no features beyond the differentiation between ground and sky. The combatants sat down onto the ground and Skye settled onto Jazzlyn’s lap. Suddenly, a large ethereal version of Jazzlyn emerged from her body followed by Psycho’s spectral form. Surprisingly, a spectral form of Skye blossomed into the arena. Abbie was the only solid being there.

  Psycho was the first to understand the nature of this Trial. This would be pure combat of their spiritual forms. He flew at Jazzlyn and struck out at her with a fist encased in shining force. Jazzlyn was able to twist at the last minute, suffering only a glancing blow. However, even this caused a ripple in her ethereal form shredding part of it away.

  Psycho cackled, “This should be quick. Oh, the things you will do, djinn.”

  That momentary monologuing allowed Jazzlyn to strike back. A palpable hit which removed a quarter of Psycho’s left shoulder.

  “You fight like wet cotton candy, douche-nozzle,” Jazzlyn yelled.

  Back and forth they struck, both being far more cautious and on defense than they were in the beginning. Skye and Abbie could see Jazzlyn’s spirit was more solid than Psycho’s and her blows were causing more damage than his. Psycho was clearly sensing the same endgame approaching. In panic, he struck out blindly.

  Skye was on the periphery of the battle, but the blow nearly cleaved the familiar in half. The smear of the damage to her ethereal form was terrifying.

  “Skye! No!” screamed Jazzlyn.

  Jazzlyn’s momentary distraction allowed Psycho to land a substantial strike. Her form quavered and faded slightly.

  “Keep your eyes on the prize, Darlin,” snarled Psycho evilly.

  Abbie howled, “Skye, if he can interact with you…”

  “Already there, Hot Pants,” Skye shouted as she rocketed towards the center of Psycho. Psycho’s ethereal body phased palely. But Skye’s mass was so much smaller than Psychos that the blow spread her out and with a cry of pain, she spread into nothingness. Abbie lunged forward and caught Skye’s limp physical form.

  “Skye!” raged Jazzlyn and her form grabbed Psycho’s by the throat. Psycho flailed but her grip was like iron.

  That son-of-a-bitch’s end is almost here, thought Abbie grimly. He stepped back to watch this stain on the underwear of the world fade away.

  Psycho saw Abbie and his face twisted in rage and terror. The Warlock looked from the djinn to the Witch and struck out—at Abbie.

  In spite of every claim of the Trial of the Lamp, Psycho’s hand grasped hold of Abbie’s spirit and began to drag it from his physical form. The scream that was torn from the djinn’s body was deafening.

  “Back away or Deep Blue is history!” threatened Psycho, gripping harder to Abbie’s spirit.

  Jazzlyn backed away in fear of Abbie’s life. “What do you want?” she begged.

  “Relinquish your claim on the Lamp,” sneered Psycho.

  “Ok. Just let him alone,” cried The Witch.

  “Fucking say it,” demanded the Warlock.

  “I relinquish my claim,” called Jazzlyn.

  There was a deafening gong sound. They were immediately transported back to the Lamp. Abbie slumped to the ground. Psycho howled in triumph. Jazzlyn ran to Abbie.

  “Djinn, answer me. Who is your Master?” ordered Psycho.

  “You, Master,” grunted Abbie in impotent rage.

  Jazzlyn started to cast a spell. Psycho caught her out of the corner of his eye.

  “Silence her,” ordered Psycho. Abbie waved a hand in sadness and Jazzlyn was enveloped in silence. “Immobilize her.” Abbie did so and Jazzlyn was unable to move. She looked imploringly at the djinn, who was utterly gutted.

  Psycho looked hungrily at Jazzlyn. He reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Abbie roared and lunged at him.

  “Down, Dog,” quipped Psycho. Abbie was slammed face down to the ground. Psycho pulled out his dagger and grinned like a kid in a candy shop.

  “Now, after all of your contempt, all your haughty threats, you kneel to me,” cackled Psycho. “You will watch me dispose of your girlfriend, carving piece by tiny piece.” He dragged his blade along her neck.
<
br />   “No,” grunted Abbie.

  “You get no say in this, Dog,” chortled Psycho.

  “No,” Abbie ground out. He pushed himself to one knee. Power emanated from him in waves as he forced his own will against that of the Lamp itself.

  “I said down, Dog.”

  “No,” said Abbie. He rose to both feet.

  “Stop, djinn!”

  “No!” shouted Abbie. And he was nearly upright.

  “I said…”

  “Go fuck yourself, you fucking fuck!” And with a blue whoosh the remains of Skye’s ethereal form burst from the floor and flew past Psycho’s face. He wheeled back in surprise. And with a monumental effort, Abbie stood, reached his hand out, and grasped Jazz’s.

  “I. Am. No. One’s Dog!” Abbie bellowed to the Lamp.

  With a sound like a cracking Universe, a Universe cracked.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Universe of the Lamp swirled around them in chaos. Jazzlyn held the remains of Skye’s ethereal form pressed against her.

  Abbie felt the same sensation as he did when he first chose the curse over death. His soul was stretched to the breaking point. He felt the pull of the Lamp. It could save him again, make him whole. But he knew the cost was too high. He gave himself over to the knowledge that his existence had finally come to its inevitable end.

  “Abbie,” a voice roared that thundered over the sound of swirling chaos and power.

  “Come to me, my Abbie. My love,” a voice sang.

  Jazzlyn’s voice.

  His Jazzlyn.

  His love.

  He turned to her then. Saw her. Flew to her across a vastness and void. And they found each other. Twined around each other. Clung to each other in the face of a Universe gone mad. They looked into each other’s eyes and even with an entire world of magic roiling around they said with full hearts, “I love you.”

  Elsewhere, Psycho was thrashing and screaming as the powers of the Lamp ripped at the very fabric of his being. Every atom of his body was on fire. He understood its source and knew, beyond doubt, the pain would never stop. Torment through eternity.

  He needed to find power to coalesce around, to find a center that would hold. In the maelstrom, he sensed a point. It must be whatever was left of the djinn or the Goddess-damned Witch. He swam through the chaos, losing vital scraps of his body and soul to the maelstrom. He gathered close to this source and, heedless of the consequences, latched hold of it. It spun him around it like the string in the center of a golf ball. It tied him and twined him, ensnaring him. He had access to channels of power he had never dreamed of, but he was blocked from using it somehow. His body was rebuilding itself but there was a change. The flavor of his magic was wildly different. The weave of his body was different. Was…blue.

  “No!” he moaned, and the sound of his voice was swallowed up inside a hollow negative space.

  Then all was calm. And soft. And satiny.

  Abbie awoke with his arms wrapped around Jazz. A muffled squawking and poking in his abdomen forced him to loosen his grip. Skye, whole and complete, fluttered out from the flesh panini of the two lovers. She shook out her wings and fluffed her crest feathers back into shape. She opened her beak to sass Abbie and then stopped in shock. “I guess I should be grateful that people will stop asking me if we’re related,” she said, grinning.

  Abbie looked perplexed until he looked at his hands. His deep, dusky hue greeted his eyes. He was no longer blue. He reached out for his connection to the Lamp. There was none. He tried for the natural source of his power as a Warlock instead, an avenue of energy that had been denied him for over four hundred years. It responded to his call and a gentle light, a golden yellow one, grew brighter and warmer in his hands.

  He was no longer a djinn.

  He was a Warlock again, as he always should have been. He looked around. They were in The Stagger Inn. The Bastard was curled into a ball on the stage, motionless. Next to him was the Lamp.

  “Hey, tall, dark, and handsome,” purred a tired voice. He turned to the face of his Jazzlyn. His love. He buried his face into the nape of her neck and drank in her scent. Her fingers played along the smooth skin of his skull. Their lips and tongues shared a delightful mambo for a moment. Then Jazz’s eyes fell upon the Lamp.

  They got unsteadily to their feet and walked to the stage. Jazzlyn reached out to grab it.

  “Don’t. It is seeking a Master,” warned Abbie. “It should never have one again. Ever.”

  “What should we do with it?” asked Jazzlyn.

  They stared at the bottle gleaming with promised power. Abbie found a bag and some ice tongs behind the bar. He picked up the Lamp with the tongs and placed it in the bag. They then turned to what was left of The Bastard.

  “And him?” growled Abbie at the cowering husk of the big WereElk.

  “I have an idea,” said Jazzlyn.

  Brittany led the utterly void Bastard to the clearing in the woods. He wore a robe and nothing else. While she had feelings for the giant Shifter, she had known he was not good for her and never truly cared for her. Still, she’d like him to have some kind of peace. She tugged the robe over his broad shoulders, taking one last appreciative look at his fineries, and led him past the remains of the log cabin into the woods. He inhaled deeply and his instincts took over. In a moment, he was clothed in his Elk form, pawing at the pine needle covered forest floor. He let out one long, flowing blast of sound, then ran full gallop into the trees.

  Brittany sighed. She had a thought to take a bit of a break in her own Skunk form but changed her mind. Jazzlyn—J’s real name apparently—and her hunky bald Warlock had said they would honor The Bastard’s promise to her and let her run the club. And they gave her one of Glower’s old debit cards to melt buying all the things to make the newly christened “Queen B’s Cabaret” the hottest spot in these damn mountains.

  “So, you’re saying ne Lamp pas?” rejoined Baba Yaga to Jazzlyn and Abbie.

  “Yes, ma’am. Destroyed when the curse was broken by the Trial,” confirmed Abbie with Boy Scout-like conviction.

  Jazzlyn and Skye remained quiet.

  The High-Mucky-Muck of Magicdom had been grilling them for an hour in their new condo. She had enough to deal with, explaining to the population of Assjacket the appearance of an entire town right on their border. It would have been convenient for her to have the Lamp to prove what happened, not to mention her own desire to have access to a new reservoir of power untethered to her own considerable power. But Abdel had such a good poker face; you’d have thought he had just gotten a face full of Botox. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  “Hmmm. I can see I’m not going to get anywhere with you – not a statement I say about men often, toots,” Baba said as she rose from her seat. “And how convenient that I couldn’t sense the Lamp even if it were in this very room.” She took one extra moment to check out the vase of flowers on the coffee table.

  She rose on her impossibly high heels, grabbed her vintage Hermes bag. She leaned in, kissed Jazz on the cheek, and scratched Skye under her chin. “Baba will be watching you, of course, Darlings,” she whispered. She stood and reached out her hand to the courtly Abdel. He took it and gave it a kiss. “I like him. He’s a keeper.”

  And she vanished in a Charlie scented cloud.

  Jazz wrapped her arms around his midriff and kissed him on the side of the neck and cooed, “I think I will keep you, you know.”

  They shared a delightfully deep kiss.

  “Y’all need to get a room,” groaned Sky in mock disgust. The familiar leaped from Jazzlyn’s shoulder, gave them each a loving peck on the cheek then flew to her new perch in a living room cubby.

  “Smartest thing that bird-brain’s ever said,” quipped Jazz. And with that, she and the former djinn went into the bedroom.

  “Do you think Baba knows?” Abbie asked as he bent over, moving things around under their bed until he found a box.

  “She suspects but she can’t p
rove it. I think she’ll leave it for now.”

  He took out a key and they each cast a spell on it and they unlocked the lid. He swung the lid open, and they looked at the Lamp. He imagined he could hear Psycho screaming and raging inside. He’d be lying if he said he cared. He relocked the box and placed it back under the bed. They wrapped their arms around each other and watched as a steady rain began drumming against their window.

  “I just realized. I never asked you this, Jazz. And it’s something really personal and important to me. Do you believe in the Hereafter?” Abbie asked solemnly.

  The question caught Jazz of guard. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Why?”

  A naughty grin broke across his face. “Good. Then you know what I’m here after,” he crooned. His nose wrinkled mischievously and Jazzlyn’s bra unclasped.

  Jazzlyn let out the most inviting peal of laughter and giggled. “That is an incredibly old joke.”

  Jazzlyn wrinkled her own nose and Abbie’s shirt was off and folded in a corner.

  “I’m an incredibly old man, my love,” Abbie said. He lifted her shirt over her head and their firm nipples delightfully grazed each other’s skin.

  “Not from where I’m standing. And not from where that’s standing, either,” she indicated with a leer looking down at his personal effects, which were very much at attention.

  Then their pants were gone. “Now, let’s make sure we can honestly tell Baba we looked everywhere,” Abbie said with a grin.

  And as a small, disgruntled bat perched near their window, getting soaked in the rain, they began to explore every part of their bodies with fingers, with tongues, with lips, and with glee.

  * * *

  The End… for now