Wu-jiu stepped onto the water as though it were solid. Rippling striations radiated from the ball of her foot with each slippered step. Her crown of flames dissipated as she released the magic, pure bravado. Assured victory. “You fight well,” she said. It was more praise than Farid deserved. “You might be too troublesome to keep around, but your moye magic is impressive. I think I will take it for my own.”
Wu-jiu raised her hand, fingers splayed, then tightened them one by one into a fist. The water clutched at Farid with a thousand fingers. Farid tried to push himself up, but the water pulled on him until he could only keep his head above the surface with agonizing effort.
Flame dribbled from Wu-jiu’s fingertips, sizzling where it struck water. Farid waited. He’d always wanted to die fighting. Not this. Tóu Mǎ’s faith in him was misplaced. Even with his moye ti, he was no match for the warlock. The water grew warmer. He choked out a cry for help.
A low mewling answered, hot needles in Farid’s ear. It grew louder and became a reverberating shriek which shook the walls. Blood trickled from his ears and nostrils, tickling its way through his drenched beard. Wu-jiu clamped her flaming hands over her ears, turning frantically to find the source of the banshee cry. It was Tóu Mǎ, the magic that bound her shattered by her resounding fury. She leaped at her sister, latching onto Wu-jiu’s back like a child clinging to its mother. Strong fingers gouged at the warlock’s eyes, fingers sinking deep into the shadows shrouding her face. The water loosened its grip on Farid. He struggled to his feet, back aching, and clambered from the fountain. The assault lasted only moments before Wu-jiu sent Tóu Mǎ tumbling across the courtyard engulfed in flame.
Hoping to catch the warlock off guard, Farid summoned the fire djinn and launched his own attack. Wu-jiu turned at the last moment, but too late. Her nose crunched under his fist, blood flowing. Fire licked at her face, revealing the crazed eyes that lay behind the shadows.
Farid’s back spasmed and his punch faltered. Wu-jiu skittered away, bloody and limping on a twisted ankle. A blast of magic catapulted Farid into the air, but he slammed to a halt before hitting the ground, enveloped in a cocoon of translucent skin. Veins and arteries threaded through its walls, pulsing in time with a large heart forming the prison’s crown.
“Not much air in there,” Wu-jiu said. Cold panic washed over Farid. He’d survived worse odds, but only just. “I’ve decided to keep you as a living husband—if that makes the choice easier for you.”
Farid snorted. Waste of a breath. A thought came to him. The desperate beginnings of a plan. He dismissed the fire djinn, slowing the consumption of precious air considerably. As it disappeared, he sent a silent message, followed by a prayer.
Wu-jiu turned to her unconscious sister who was sprawled on a bed of flowers.
“Sister,” she said.
Tóu Mǎ’s eyes flickered open.
“You’ve always been a coward, dear sister. Spirit wandering without my consent? Too weak and stupid to create a greater destiny for yourself. From the moment father died, you bore the pathetic burdens of others on your back. A draft animal. You must be punished. I will grant you the body you deserve.”
Wu-jiu’s magic reached out for Tóu Mǎ, scooped her up.
The djinn rose—from every corner, rattling out of dead moye ti, crawling from the cracks and crevices of the huge exoskeleton, they filled the room. A metallic cacophony filled the courtyard. At their head, wreathed in flame, was Farid’s fire djinn. Several of the more aggressive types began to harry the warlock—biting her, ripping with their claws, spewing venom. As one, the rest converged upon Tóu Mǎ’s glowing form. They consumed Wu-jiu’s magic like it was water and they were parched. Every broken moment in Tóu Mǎ’s life fed the transformation, twisted Wu-jiu’s spell against her. The dark magic mixed with the primal magic of the djinn—became something new. Raw. Bound by shared sorrow, the djinn fed the new magic into Tóu Mǎ as she changed.
From the amalgam of warlock magic and djinn bodies, Tóu Mǎ emerged transformed. Her lower body was human perfection—hard muscle and long limbs, as if carved from marble by the finest stoneworker—but she bore the head of a horse—equine eyes, flaring nostrils, and gnashing teeth. Her dress was tatters, and her skin was covered by a coat of fine black hair. She wielded an enormous chain-link whip in one hand, a pitchfork in the other. Ghostly venom dripped from the pitchfork’s prongs.
The djinn who had aided her were gone. Or, rather, they were part of her now.
Farid fought back memories of the night terror that had haunted him since Tseng Aa. The world turned white, his conscious mind trying desperately to shut off. Tóu Mǎ’s low laughter snapped him back to the waking world.
“Blood ghost,” Wu-jiu whispered between ragged breaths. For the first time, Farid hear fear in the warlock’s voice. The djinn that had attacked her were smoking heaps scattered amongst the flowers. All except for Farid’s djinn, who could not be killed by fire. Flecks of light danced before Farid’s eyes.
Wu-jiu limped as she and Tóu Mǎ circled each other silently.
“I am the blood and tears of your Yoo-in,” Tóu Mǎ said, cracking her whip. “I am their fury.” The battle began with breathless ferocity. Wu-jiu led with a flurry of flaming skulls, but she was injured, and they lacked the force of her earlier attacks. They hit Tóu Mǎ, but were absorbed by her new magic and only gave her more strength. Tóu Mǎ’s whip snapped, and the warlock’s hand was severed from her body. Indigo flame poured from the stump. Without effort, Tóu Mǎ’s pitchfork slid deep into Wu-jiu’s belly. Red silk and soft flesh parted with ease.
Wu-jiu looked down, her face marked with broken acceptance. She grabbed at the pitchfork with her remaining hand. Tóu Mǎ shoved harder, driving it deeper. Blood oozed through Wu-jiu’s fingers.
The head of the pitchfork burst into flame, but its poison was already spreading across Wu-jiu’s torso. Dark lines crept up from the wound to the soft skin of her neck, across her jaw. Tóu Mǎ dropped the weapon and huffed like an angry stallion. She lashed out with her whip. Sinuous, alive, it wrapped about Wu-jiu. The whip’s links grew—bigger than Farid’s hands, big enough to blot out the sunlight pouring into the garden. Mountainous. Massive enough to imprison a god. Farid thought the world might break, collateral damage from this meeting of sisters. He slumped against the side of his prison as Wu-jiu’s magic weakened.
The whip glowed with divine light. Wu-jiu’s body absorbed the light until it leaked from her once-shadowed eyes. Until she was the light.
Farid’s prison broke apart, skin sloughing gelatinously across flowerbeds. Tóu Mǎ released the whip. The sound of it hitting the floor made the firing of Farid’s pistol nothing more than a settling petal. Tóu Mǎ’s gaze fell on Farid. He shrank under that look from her red-rimmed eyes. He saw the melancholy of her people. But there was also relief. Freedom.
Tóu Mǎ stepped into the light. She split in two as she broke its outer edge. Her physical being sluiced away from her other half—the spirit that had travelled to Tseng Aa, summoned him to aid the Yoo-in. They formed two distinct silhouettes in the great brightness.
Euphoria washed over Farid as the light spilled outwards, bathing the garden, until all that was left was the scarlet scarf binding Tóu Mǎ’s hair. Then, even that was gone.
Farid was woken by a slobbery kiss from the donkey. They were alone on the swampy knoll. No hint remained of Tt’Hsiung and its Yoo-in. In a futile effort to find food, the donkey had spread the contents of Farid’s pack about the camp. Gathering his things, he found his coin purse sitting on a rotting stump. It was heavier than he remembered, and a quick inspection revealed a small fortune. More than enough to pay passage from Tseng Aa to O’oa Tsetse aboard a comfortable airship.
Next to the purse was the map scroll he so desperately wanted, but it held only wry disappointment. He unrolled the map, laughed. It was half complete, covering their route into the mountains but offering no way forward to O’oa Tsetse. Tóu Mǎ had created it as s
he travelled from the ghostly village to Tseng Aa. He pocketed it, bitterly amused.
Tóu Mǎ was gone—released alongside the rest of the Yoo-in. The terrible responsibility lifted from her tired shoulders. She had hired Farid to save her village, but it was her strength and sorrow that had woken the djinn and raised them against their captor. Tóu Mǎ and those dead moye and djinn could rest now.
The fire djinn slumbered in his moye ti, enjoying a well-deserved rest. Farid wondered for a moment how much it had known about the village of Tt’Hsiung before they’d even set foot inside its ethereal borders.
Grief still blanketed the swamp, and Farid could stay no longer. Despite a wicked headache, he shouldered his pack, loaded up the donkey, and left. He didn’t stop until long after dark.
When Farid arrived in Tseng Aa, the moon was a sliver away from full. The fastest airship would get him to O’oa Tsetse in time, but just. He was hungry, angry, and, when he allowed himself to admit it, a little confused. He took a room at his favourite teahouse. Not in hopes of seeing Tóu Mǎ again—the memory of their misadventure was curiously faded in his memory—rather, because he liked the tea and dumplings.
“It is nice to see you, again, Master Sulayk!” said the ancient host. “You cannot stay away from the glory of Tseng Aa? Or your tab? It remains just where you left it.” The words left her tongue with the slightest chime of irony and a wink.
“Not Tseng Aa,” he laughed. “Your tea.” He reached into his purse, and pulled out a coin that would cover his tab and more.
She smiled.
“But first, my room.”
She led Farid upstairs to the same room he had stayed in previously, then invited him for dinner and left. He dropped his pack beside the bed, then sat on its edge. He was weary enough to sleep, but hungry enough to take the host up on her offer. He stretched, sighed. Weariness won out. He released the djinn from his moye ti and lay down.
Just for a moment, he thought.
He didn’t bother undressing, drew the quilt up and slid his hand under the cool pillow. His fingers brushed something soft. Sitting up, he lifted the pillow. A scarlet scarf, smelling of flowers and tobacco.
Django Wexler
* * *
Funny story . . . I was at one of our regular Seattle writers’ meet-ups, and my friend Janine said that she had an anthology that needed contributors.
“We’re looking for SFF erotica, set in coffee shops,” she said.
“Hmm,” I said. You know? Hmm.
I am not normally a writer of erotica. But something about the prompt tickled me—it seemed like such a weird premise that it work as a comedy. I happened to have a writing retreat the next weekend, and instead of doing the novel I was supposed to be doing I sat down and banged out “Magic Beans” in about three days, having a blast the entire time. When I sent it to Janine, she was kind enough to help me through the finer points of writing erotica, and it appeared in the anthology Coffee: Hot. (My eternal thanks to Janine, and I hope nobody who bought that book feels cheated by the reprint here!)
It got a good response from the people who read it, but I’ve always wanted to get it in front of a larger audience, since this weird fantasy-coffeehouse-erotica piece is actually one of my favorites. So when Shawn asked me for something for Unfettered II, I asked what kinds of stories he was looking for.
“Anything!” he said.
“Really?” I said. “Anything?”
And here we are.
Django Wexler
Magic Beans
Django Wexler
The alley behind Apollo’s wasn’t the kind of place I enjoyed hanging out at any hour, much less four in the morning. In daylight, it was cramped and unpleasant, stinking of whatever trash was baking in the steel dumpsters that lined it on both sides. By night it was equally fragrant, but with 100 percent more impenetrable shadows, perfect for hiding unnamable terrors of the darkness or murderous hobos. All told, I would much rather have been snug in my bed in the semi-furnished attic of John’s Comics and Collectibles ($450 per month, utilities included, must be willing to tolerate raucous D&D until the small hours of the morning) than standing out here waiting to be knifed and/or consumed by ravenous beasts from beyond the stars.
Needs must, though, when the devil drives. With “the devil” in this case being “my penis.” Or possibly “Daniella Atherton.” Or possibly a conspiracy between the two. It would take two such evil geniuses to so thoroughly ruin a good night’s sleep, just when I needed every bit of strength to energetically fail my linear algebra exam tomorrow afternoon.
I slammed on the sliding back steel door again with my free hand, and heard the snick of the lock from inside. The door rattled open half an inch, giving me a view of a bright green eye.
“Who is it?” Danny said.
“Who do you think it is?” I said. “How many people do you get banging on the back door at four in the morning?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Would you let me in?”
“Did you bring my curry?”
I held up a package wrapped in green paper. “Yes, I brought your curry. Now open the door, the rats are massing for an attack.”
“No rats out there,” Danny said, pulling the door the rest of the way open in a chorus of squeaks and groans. “They were all eaten by the giant spiders.”
“Oh, lovely.”
I stepped past her, and she hauled the door shut again, grunting with the effort. Once she’d locked and bolted it, she turned back to me, and I leaned in for a kiss.
I had to lean quite far. Danny brushes five feet tall only in thick-soled shoes, though she can add an inch or two if she teases her blue-and-purple hair into spikes. She’s as pale as things that live under rocks and fear the light of day, and stick thin in spite of an enthusiastically unhealthy diet and a voracious, unpredictable appetite. One of the perils of dating her is the occasional frantic four a.m. text demanding curry.
“Thank god,” she said, pulling away from me and grabbing for the green paper package. “I was literally going to die if I didn’t get something to eat before the end of my shift.”
“Literally?” I said.
“Literally. They’d find me in the morning, shriveled into a desiccated corpse. ‘Local Barista Wastes Away During Overnight Shift: Film at 11.’”
“There’s always the scones at the counter.”
“Have you ever tried one of those things?”
“No.”
“Neither has anyone else. Ever. I don’t think you could break one open with a chisel.”
She carried the curry through the back of Apollo’s. (The name has to be a joke, but I’ve never been able to find anyone to admit to it.) Since Danny and I started dating, I’d become intimately familiar with the rear of the coffee shop, places that normal men were not meant to wot of. There was the storeroom, where the back door opened onto the alley and bulk supplies were kept; the kitchen, almost entirely occupied by coffee-making apparatus; a tiny employee bathroom; and the sex closet.
The kitchen had a little table, on which Danny deposited the curry before busying herself with one of the machines. Coffee machines always looked vaguely alien to me, all plastic and chrome with mysterious spigots and levers, inexplicably hot or cold to the touch and prone to making unexpected glooping noises. The one Danny was fiddling with was even stranger than most, a blocky monster of a thing whose plexiglass front offered a glimpse into a complicated network of grinders, bubblers, boilers, and other arcane mechanisms. A maw at the top gaped ominously; Danny tore the lid off a small container and dumped a rattling handful of beans inside, standing on tiptoe.
“Is this new?”
“Uh-huh. The very latest. It’s for special magic beans.”
“Magic beans,” I deadpanned.
She handed me one of the small round containers off a stack beside the machine. It said magic beans on the label, with a picture of a startled Jack staring up at an enormous beanstalk.
&nbs
p; “I don’t think Jack planted coffee beans,” I said, handing it back. “I mean, they wouldn’t grow after you roasted them.”
“Pedant. They installed it this evening and I haven’t gotten a chance to try it yet.” Danny threw a big Frankenstein-style switch, and the machine startled to rumble. “It’s alive!”
I watched the thing for a moment as rollers rolled, grinder ground, and bubblers started to bubble. “How long does it take?”
“A while.” Danny sighed. “We need to talk, but not until after I’ve had coffee and something to eat.”
“All right.” The devil was getting hopeful signals here, and practically jumped for joy when Danny’s eyes flicked to the sex closet. I raised my eyebrows, and she pushed herself back from the counter and unlocked the door with a key from the ring on her belt. The kitten calendar hanging from the front of the door flapped as she pulled it open.
“It’s weird to have a kitten calendar on the door of the sex closet,” I told her, stepping inside.
“Would you stop calling it the sex closet?” she said. “I have to come in here like fifty times a day for beans and shit. Calling it the sex closet makes that weird.”
The sex closet is fairly roomy, and lined with a few shelves at head height piled with replacement alien-coffee-machine parts and filters. The floor is piled high with plastic sacks of coffee beans, which are just about stable and soft enough to be useful. When Danny pulled the door closed behind us, she left us in complete, coffee-scented darkness. By the time I’m old, I’m going to have a weird fetish for the smell of coffee beans, and I’m going to send Danny the therapy bills.
“I mean, we do use it for sex,” I said. There was a rustle as she pulled off her apron and tossed it aside.
Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy Page 25