Djinn's Desire: A Mates for Monsters Novella

by Tamsin Ley

  Getting out of the car, he paused on the sidewalk, trying to decide which persona to adopt for this mid-America Main Street kind of town. Although he couldn’t change his six-foot-three height, bone structure, or skin color, he’d become quite adept at altering his clothing, posture, and voice to affect anything from geeky college student to wealthy billionaire. Today he decided to choose the latter, but in a low-key sort of way, magically fitting himself with a pair of Givenchy jeans and an untucked button down shirt.

  The door of the dive cafe he’d parked next to swung open, letting out a waft of fresh baked goods along with a young woman carrying a white paper bag. He smiled at her and she drew up short, her mouth hanging open. He was quite used to this reaction from women, especially in this persona. “This place any good?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said in a breathy voice.

  “Thanks.” He winked and moved past her to the door. He’d developed a fondness for sweets, discovering that an infusion of sugary carbs staved off the weakness he experienced being away from his home dimension. If he carb-loaded, he could sometimes even manage the more exhausting spells without being laid out for days afterward. The energy burst was nothing compared to the energy a djinn acquired upon harvesting a soul, but carbs were easier to acquire.

  Inside, the cafe’s cheery interior surprised him. Buttery yellow walls with white trim made the place seem larger around the three small wood tables. A hand-written sign at the door said WELCOME, PLEASE ORDER AT THE COUNTER. At the back, a large glass case displayed rows upon rows of freshly-baked cookies, breads, and pastries.

  Moving past the tables, he stood behind a man in a charcoal-gray suit placing his order. At the register, an old man in a white apron greeted the customer by name and quickly took his order, handing him a cup of coffee to sip while he waited for his food. Ophir stepped up to the counter, eyeing the sumptuous desserts in the case. “What do you recommend?”

  The old man’s eyes were red-rimmed and tired, but he smiled and pointed to a chocolate-glazed eclair. “I only make these once a week, and they go fast. If you’re in the mood for something to stick to your ribs, we’re offering free-range turkey club sandwiches today.”

  “I’ll take three eclairs,” Ophir dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “And what the heck, a sandwich, too.”

  “Something to drink?”

  “Coffee with ten sugars.”

  Raising his brows, the old man produced the coffee plus a white bag with the eclairs. “There’s sugar over there.” He pointed to a small ledge near the exit that held a tall white sugar dispenser and a carafe that presumably held cream. “Sandwich’ll be just a minute.”

  Ophir poured his sugar then took a seat against the wall. The door jingled, and an older woman entered. Her plain cotton-print dress screamed poverty, but she wore antique cameo earrings and paid in coins out of her vintage sequined coin purse. Stingy widow but spoils her grandkids. He once would’ve used his people-reading skills to play on a human’s greatest fears or deepest vices, encouraging them to make a wish that would expend their soul. Now he only read people out of curiosity.

  Closing his eyes, he tipped his chair back against the wall, breathing the buttery-yeasty-cinnamon-chocolate-vanilla air. Oh, so many delights to sample. He’d have to remember this place while he was here in town. The scent of anise drifted his direction, and he inhaled deeply.

  His eyes popped open.

  Anise?

  The scent lingered around the woman who’d just entered. His chair clattered sideways to the floor as he launched himself at the woman. She took a step back, one hand fluttering to her heart. “Excuse me?” she asked.

  His nostrils flared, eyes scouring her from head to toe. The scent was on her, but not from her. It trailed toward the door like perfumed breadcrumbs. Spinning, he dashed for the exit, yanking the door open so hard the glass rattled.

  “Sir! Your sandwich!”

  Ophir didn’t bother with a response. On the sidewalk, the trail led to the right. He shoved past a wide-eyed passerby. The scent was fresh and sharp, guiding him as surely as a leash.

  He passed a bicycle repair shop, a vacant storefront, a photo shop. The scent ended as suddenly as it began, and he realized he’d overshot. Veering around, he slammed open a blackened glass door and entered a shop curiously devoid of appeal. Two shabby hairdresser chairs sat to the left, their accompanying mirrors hand painted with the names Birdie and Tanika across the tops. A ceiling-to-floor velvet curtain cordoned off an area at the back next to a small door marked “restroom.” No one was in sight, but the anise scent filled the place like heat in an oven. It coated everything with an oily magic that would make a mortal’s eyes slide away in disinterest. Interesting spell choice for a place of business.

  Ophir’s gaze cut right through the glamour. A portal had been used here for at least a few, solid years to have left behind this thick residue.

  From a small door at the back, he heard a toilet flush, then a woman emerged, her dark curls a tangled mess on top of her head. Dark eyes, olive skin, cheeks still rounded by youth. Gypsy ancestry. She wore a billowy blouse that floated over her hips in a feather-light caress but still managed to show off the rounded curves of her breasts. Despite his urgency to find the portal, his cock stirred.

  Her face broke into a genuine smile. “Welcome to the Seance Salon! How can I help you?”

  “I’m… looking for someone.” He shifted his gaze around the room, trying to pinpoint the source of the magic. But the portal had apparently been here so long, opened and closed so often, it was impossible to pick out a single location.

  “Oh.” Her smile faltered, then resumed in a more plastic fashion. Her voice had lost its perky hopefulness. “I’m afraid I’m the only one here. Perhaps I could interest you in a reading?”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to read her, but the oily magic was causing interference. He’d only encountered a handful of humans with a hint of their own magic during his many centuries on Earth. Most genuine magic came from a human passing off a djinn’s powers as their own. She must know about the portal. Perhaps during her “reading” she’d reveal its location. He forced his shoulders to relax and smiled. “I think I’d like that.”

  She blinked. “You would? I mean… of course! Come this way.”

  Leading the way, she pushed aside the worn velvet curtain to reveal a table draped in a cheap red tablecloth flanked by two folding chairs. He stepped inside the cramped space, senses alert for any sign of the portal. The curtain dropped behind them, plunging them into semi-darkness, and she moved to the opposite side of the table. A match grated to life, polluting the anise scent with burning sulphur, followed by a candle smelling of bay leaf and vanilla.

  He frowned. “Do you have to burn that?”

  She paused, flame hovering over a second candle. The flickering light reflected from her eyes. “It helps me center my psychic energies.”

  Being this close to a portal was making him antsy. If he could touch her, he could at least determine if she had the portal on her. Maybe even cut through the magic to gauge her fears and desires. Clenching his jaw, he thrust a hand across the table. “You read palms?”

  She blew out the match and gave him an uncomfortable smile. “I’m afraid I have to ask for payment up front.”

  He stifled a laugh. Of course she wanted money. She was a gypsy. Who needed magic to read this kind of human? Digging out his wallet, he pulled several hundred dollar bills free and let them flutter to the table. He had no time to haggle. “Enough?”

  Her dark eyes went round, and she nodded tightly, sweeping the bills toward her. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He thrust out his hand again, laying it palm up on the table. “Ophir.”

  “Ophir.” She rolled the word around on her tongue, and he was surprised to find himself wondering what that tongue might feel like running over his cock. “That’s an unusual name. Ancient.”

  “I know,” he growled, t
rying to stay focused. It had been a long time since a woman had exerted this kind of influence on him. Find the portal, then you can dally. He wriggled his fingers insistently.

  Without touching him, she leaned over the table to look, her breath tickling his flesh. Above the gaping neckline of her shirt, her cleavage seemed to scream for his attention. She studied his open hand, still without touching. What was she doing? He curled his fingers into a fist, hiding his palm.

  She looked up to meet his gaze, the her dark eyes like vortexes in the candlelight. “I can’t read it if you don’t show me.”

  He swallowed, mouth suddenly and inexplicably dry. “Don’t you need to touch me? To trace my lifeline?”

  “I prefer not to influence the reading with my own aura.”

  He flared his nostrils, quickly running out of patience. Slowly he uncurled his fingers, curious what line of bullshit she’d feed him about his future.

  She stared down again, her gaze lingering for what felt like an eternity. When she finally looked up, her brows were furrowed. “I’m not… your lines are all there, but they read like a textbook. Like they were drawn on instead of emerging from your soul.”

  Ophir jerked his hand back as if burned. He looked into her eyes, pulling threads of his magic around him like cloak, unsure if he should run away or move closer. Had he actually found a human who could touch his realm? She’d definitely seen something of the truth, but didn’t understand. And he had no idea what that meant.

  She chewed one corner of her upper lip, her gaze shifting to her lap. Slowly, she brought the money he’d given her back into view. Shoving the bills across the table at him, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  He stared at the money, stunned. The paper meant nothing to him. He could conjure more whenever he pleased. What surprised him was that she was giving it back. And very little about humans surprised him these days. Shaking his head, he said, “Tell you what. You let me read your palm, and you can keep the money.”

  Her gaze cut to him, suspicion flickering in her eyes. “You want to pay me to read my palm? Why?”

  He shrugged and held out his hand in request. “Call it a whim.”

  After a moment, she lay the back of her hand against his open palm. Her face remained completely serious. “Okay. But if this is a gimmick to ask me out, the answer is no. And I’m still keeping the money.”

  Chuckling, Ophir wrapped his large hand around her smaller one and drew it close. Her knuckles were slightly chapped, but the rest of her skin was soft and warm. A fresh, citrusy smell rose from her flesh, and he breathed deep, seeking the sharp anise bite of djinn magic. It was there, ingrained within her flesh, as if her very cells were infused with the power.

  And he still couldn’t read her.

  He caressed her wrist with his thumb, sensing the very mortal pulse beneath her skin. There was something more within her, something of his own world. Something djinn. Certainly she wasn’t the source of the magic? A portal had to be metal.

  “So what’s it say?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  Keeping his face serious, he leaned forward over the table. He wasn’t sure what was going on here, but he knew how to find out. “Believe it or not, it says you’re going to go out with me.”

  From where the stranger’s fingers wrapped around Tanika’s wrist, a shiver ran up her arm and seemed to settle in her chest. More unexpectedly, a heated longing began to pulse deep in her core. She got asked out on a regular basis, but always said no. Dating meant emotion. Attachment. A longing for family. The one thing she could never have. To allow such a thing to come true would release her djinn, and she’d sworn to do anything it took to take him to the grave for what he’d done.

  At twenty-seven years old, she was still a virgin, and planned to be until the day she died. Yet this man, this strange and sexy man, gave her the urge to break her rule, just this once.

  “You don’t even know my name,” she said, her heart thundering in her ears.

  “Mmmm,” he said, screwing one coffee-brown eye half-closed and peering at her palm. He had lashes a supermodel would be jealous of. “I’m going to say your name is… Tanika.”

  She gasped and jerked her hand away, her heartbeat turning from excited to fearful. Her mother’d had the sight much stronger than Tanika, but even she couldn’t guess a person’s name by looking at their palm. “How on Earth could you see that there?”

  He grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Normally, a magician doesn’t reveal his secrets. But your name is painted across the mirror out there. I took a chance that you don’t look like someone called Birdie.”

  Tanika relaxed into her folding chair. He was just a player. That, she could handle. Tit for tat. Reaching out, she retrieved the bills still lying on the table and tucked them into her pocket. With these, she’d be able to stave off eviction for at least another month. Putting on her most mysterious smile, she looked at him through her lashes. “I’m afraid I don’t date. But if you’d like to come back for another reading tomorrow after my psychic energies have renewed themselves, I’d be happy to look into your fortune again.”

  He leaned his broad shoulders back against his chair, folding his hands in his lap, his eyes dancing with mirth. “How do you know I have a fortune?”

  Flushing, Tanika put a hand to her neck. “I didn’t mean… I was only offering…”

  “Oh, now my sweet little gypsy girl’s all flustered.” The sultry depth of his voice reminded her of a tiger about to pounce, and his perfect white smile threatened to dazzle her. No one man deserved to have so much sex appeal.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m after your money.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  She blinked, unsure how to answer. Of course she was after his money. Just not in an underhanded sort of way. “I’ll give you your next reading for free.”

  “I’d much rather you simply went out with me.”

  “I already said no.”

  “I believe in second chances.”

  She licked her lips, wondering what a date with this man might be like. She’d never been on a date. Not once. Although she hadn’t been able to read his fortune, she’d had a lot of experience reading people in general. Ophir seemed like the kind of guy who’d treat a girl like a princess, at least for the short duration he was playing her. Plus he was sexy as hell. She shook her head, squeezing her thighs together. Sex wouldn’t fulfill her wish, but her djinn would do anything he could to make her wish come true, even turn a player into a devoted husband. Yet… how would it feel to kiss Ophir? To even say she’d kissed a man like Ophir?

  The bell at the entrance rang, and Birdie’s familiar mincing footsteps clicked across the linoleum, bringing Tanika back to reality. She rose and pushed the heavy velvet curtain aside. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  Ophir stood as well, moving closer to her than he needed to exit. His impressive height made her dizzy as much as the masculine scent surrounding him. Was that Polo? He leaned down close to whisper in her ear. “You will. I’m a patient man.”

  With that, he turned toward Birdie. “You must be Birdie! Perhaps you could find time to give me a trim?”

  Tanika watched as the petite woman flushed to her platinum blonde roots while Ophir took a seat in her chair. She shot Tanika a glance as if asking for permission. Tanika shrugged and nodded. Let him move his attention to another woman. No skin off her nose.

  Yet as Birdie trimmed his hair, chattering about inane things like the weather, Tanika found herself looking for tasks to keep her nearby, her gaze straying to Ophir’s handsome face far too often. And worse, catching him looking back at her—far too often—the sexy hint of a dimple at the edge of his mouth.

  Unsurprisingly, he gave Tanika a broad wink, paid in cash, and sauntered out the door without a backward glance.

  Birdie collapsed into her chair. She kicked off her high heels and fanned herself with the hundred dollar bill he’d left. “Where’d that hunk of man come fr
om?”

  Tanika blinked at the door, still feeling dazed, then returned her attention to the curlers she was sorting for the third time. “He just walked in here off the street. Said he was looking for someone.”

  “Lordy, he can look for someone in my seat any time he likes. Or under my seat, if you know what I mean.” Birdie sat up and tucked the bill into her bra. “Why didn’t he ask you to trim his hair?”

  Shrugging, Tanika carried the curlers back to the plastic storage shelf. “Spreading the wealth? I gave him a reading. Or tried.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook her head, remembering the strange, rubbery resistance when she’d focused her sight on him. “It was weird. Like he’d been coated in plastic or something. I could see the surface, but not the real man underneath.”

  “Ohhh, mysterious. Maybe now someone’ll finally pique your interest, eh?”

  Tanika snorted. “Yeah, right. Like he’d be interested in me.”

  “The way he kept looking at you in the mirror, I don’t think he heard a word I said.”

  “No one hears a word you say, Birdie. You talk about the weather.”

  “What’m I supposed to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Juicy stuff.”

  Birdie hopped out of the chair and grabbed the broom, sweeping up the nearly non-existent traces of Ophir’s hair. “Not all of us have the sight to find the juicy stuff.”

  Tanika placed a hand over her heart. “I never use my gift for evil.”

  “Mmm. Well, maybe you should once in a while. At least to get us more customers like that.”

  Sighing, Tanika went to fetch the dustpan. Any more customers like that, and her demon might just get his wish.

  Chapter Three

  Ophir returned to the bakery to find the eclairs sold out. Disappointed, he bought a huge blueberry muffin and three cookies instead and sat at one of the tables, watching customers come and go in the small cafe. Over the centuries, he’d gone through periods of indulgence—food, drink, sex, even some of the interesting drugs created by humans. His immortal body could be drowned in pleasures the same way a mortals could. But unlike mortals, a saturation of vice always ended in boredom rather than death.