Magical Gains

by Nicola E. Sheridan

  “Oh,” Ian replied, seeming strangely vague.

  Imran’s dark implacable eyes masked his surprise at Ian’s flat and woeful manner. Could losing Primrose have actually meant something to this uncouth moron?

  They were silent a moment and Imran paused awkwardly on the footpath beside the unearthly depths of the park.

  Ian, meanwhile, appeared to be thinking furiously.

  “Come on, Imran, I’ll give you a lift to Primrose’s. You’ve got your key, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Imran said, although it was a lie. He had nothing on him, excluding the clothes on his back. “Of course I do.”

  Imran looked down the darkened road and thought of what he was going to do. How will I get my lamp? Will the kidnapper just let me saunter in and retrieve it? Unlikely. Perhaps it is best if I regroup my thoughts at Primrose’s and determine the best plan of action there.

  “You want this lift or not? If I hang about here much longer, the cops will think I’m soliciting you.” Ian laughed and Imran heard the nervous timbre in it.

  “Okay, to Primrose’s house, right?”

  “Yep,” Ian replied, and the relief was palpable in his voice.

  Imran began to feel uneasy. He knew he could use Omar’s power to fight Ian, but how little would be left after such an episode? Imran then made the decision to only use Omar’s power as a last resort. Even as Imran climbed into Ian’s ute, he could feel the slow sapping of his magic and knew Omar’s power would eventually be the only thing sustaining him.

  Imran sat back in Ian’s roaring V-8 and within moments, they were positively hurtling through West Perth. As they drove, Ian eyed his mobile telephone nervously.

  “You don’t mind if I make a call, do you?” he asked Imran uncertainly.

  “No, should I?” Imran retorted and glanced away from Ian’s reddening face.

  “It’s just that talking on mobiles and driving is, you know, not allowed. I thought you might have a problem.” Ian was babbling.

  “I said no,” Imran repeated sharply.

  Ian took a nervous look at him before dialing.

  “Mr. Quillian’s office, Narana speaking.”

  Imran could hear a woman on the other end of the telephone. Her voice was tinny and distant, and barely discernable above the loud hum of the ute’s engine. His ears pricked at the name Quillian, though he was unsure where he had heard it. Unease crept down Imran’s spine like an army of body lice and he strained his ears to listen into more of the conversation.

  “Err, hello, it’s Mr. Beckwith here,” Ian began uncertainly. “I need to speak with Mr. Quillian.”

  “He has gone home for the evening, I’m afraid.” Imran heard the woman’s reply.

  “It’s rather important, Narana.” Ian’s eyes darted from the road and settled on Imran for a brief second before returning to the road. “I wouldn’t be calling at this time of day if it weren’t.” Ian’s voice was clipped and precise. He was using his most professional and superior tone. Imran had heard him bully Primrose with it countless times.

  “I understand that, Mr. Beckwith. Do you have his mobile number?” the woman asked.

  “Not with me.” Ian’s pink tongue flickered over his dry lips. “Look, I’m driving. Can you text me the number immediately?”

  “Yes, Mr. Beckwith,” the tinny voice answered.

  Ian smiled and slid his phone closed.

  As Ian drove impatiently through the leafy suburbs and turned onto Stirling Highway, his phone beeped with Narana’s message. Paying very little attention to the traffic around him, Ian’s hand excitedly dialed the number, and Imran primed his ears to eavesdrop once again. “Quillian.” A faint but smooth male voice answered.

  “Ah, Mr. Quillian,” Ian began, sounding distinctly uneasy.

  Imran frowned again. Where had he heard that name?

  “Who is this?” Mr. Quillian’s tiny voice sounded sharp and irritable.

  “It’s Ian Beckwith,” he replied tremulously. “We spoke earlier today.”

  There was a pause.

  “Mr. Beckwith, how can I help you?” Quillian’s voice became smooth again.

  “Err, you know the subject we spoke of earlier?” Ian began cagily, taking a glance at Imran and turning on the radio to mask the conversation.

  As the distorted harmonies of the latest top ten music hits jumped out of the many speakers in the ute, Imran struggled to continue eavesdropping.

  “Your lodger?” Imran thought he heard Quillian say.

  “Yes!” Ian exclaimed, relief audible as he took a glance at Imran.

  It was obvious Ian was talking about him. To whom, Imran wasn’t quite sure, though the name Quillian was definitely familiar. He frowned again, the coil of unease in his belly tightening with the certainty he was getting himself into a nasty situation.

  The man on the phone said something that made Ian gasp with surprise and forget to indicate while changing lanes.

  Imran’s hands tightened on the seat.

  “Now? Where?” Ian asked, turning down the radio minutely to hear better.

  Imran listened intently. “987 Victoria Avenue, Dalkeith. The front gates will open for your immediate admission to the property. I am delighted, just delighted, at this turn of events.”

  Imran’s jaw tightened with unease. Where was Ian taking him?

  “Yes, sir, I will be there in about ten minutes,” Ian answered.

  Imran’s heart sank, and alarm bells began to chime in earnest.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, in the Free Zone, Primrose sat awkwardly at a banquet.

  Phil, the Manticore, stood silently at guard by the door in place of Lugh.

  Primrose looked down at the table. It was lavishly spread with all manner of food and a lovely vase of primrose flowers, which she couldn’t help feeling pleased by.

  “Sorry I am late, Primrose,” Omar said smoothly as he swept into the room. Primrose was momentarily taken aback by how similar he was to Imran. “I had business with Silenus, if you can believe it.”

  Primrose flinched and looked away, reddening with embarrassment.

  “Sorry, it’s a bit uncouth of me to talk about the Satyrs, isn’t it?” Omar said with a wry smile. “I’m sorry you had such a…stressful time under their care.”

  Primrose looked away, willing the blush from her cheeks. “Actually, it wasn’t stressful as such, not with that wine, just disturbing.”

  “Indeed, I can only imagine! I’ve never been invited to one of their Revelries.” Omar sounded disappointed.

  An awkward silence fell between them.

  “Where is Imran?” Primrose asked abruptly.

  Omar looked up and his eyes, which were so like his brother’s, became hard and unreadable. “He has returned to Perth to collect his lamp. At the very latest, he will be back by next Friday.” Omar sent a bread roll to her on a wisp of red smoke. Primrose stared at the roll in disbelief.

  “He left me? I didn’t give him permission to leave!” she exploded.

  Omar smiled. “Ah, but I’m afraid you did. You nodded when he asked the question. You may not remember. You were very tired,” Omar explained patiently, as if to a distressed toddler.

  “I was not tired!” Primrose retorted. “That leads me to another question! Why was I asleep? Who put me there and who undressed me? I am not a doll to be played with! I played that game for too many years with Ian! I don’t intend to do it again.”

  Omar watched her little outburst with impassive black eyes. “You were tired,” he assured her. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  Suddenly Primrose felt a wave of tiredness, despite the fact she’d just woken. “Lugh carried you to your boudoir, and Tallathalla dressed you in your nightgown,” Omar continued.

  P
rimrose frowned, and tore at the bread roll with her fingers before buttering it.

  “Who is Tallathalla?” she asked, not sure if she really wanted to know.

  “I am,” came a voice from behind her.

  Primrose spun around. A blond woman with unnaturally green eyes stood motionless in the corner. Has she been there all the time? Primrose wondered and stared at the woman a moment longer. She was perfect. Her firm athletic body was flawlessly displayed in a thin silk slip dress and her beautiful, ethereal face was free of makeup. Primrose couldn’t stop staring. It wasn’t Tallathalla’s flawlessness that caused her to stare. Something seemed to be missing, for despite all Tallathalla’s beauty and poise, there was no soul to her. Not a flicker of intelligence or thought lay beneath her limpid green eyes.

  “What is she?” Primrose breathed, although she suspected she already knew.

  “That is not your concern,” Omar replied, his tone suddenly evasive. “Tally, you may leave and go to your room.”

  Tallathalla turned to leave immediately.

  “Tallathalla, stop,” Primrose interrupted, and the woman stopped immediately. “What are you, Tallathalla? Tell me the truth, please.”

  A flash of what could have been anxiety flickered for the briefest of moments over Omar’s face, as Tallathalla turned around and looked directly at Primrose. The effect was unnerving. Absolutely nothing flickered behind Tallathalla’s emerald eyes. The scent of Genie was suddenly thick in the air.

  “I am a Magical Construct Mistress,” Tallathalla replied evenly, and Omar relaxed.

  Wow, Primrose couldn’t help but think.

  “Who made you?” she whispered.

  There was a slight hesitation before Tallathalla answered. “My master.”

  Primrose spun back to Omar, anger igniting within her.

  “You? You did this? You made her?”

  “A long time ago, yes.” Omar’s face tightened and his eyes darted to Tallathalla.

  “It has been illegal since time immemorial to magically create a human!” Primrose cried. “She has no soul!”

  “A bothersome thing, anyway! The trouble I have had with mine!” Omar tried to make light and laughed.

  “Do not make fun of this! It’s awful!” Primrose stared back at Tallathalla, who gazed peacefully straight ahead. “She shouldn’t exist.”

  “She does, however, and that’s the end of it,” Omar replied with finality.

  Primrose mouthed thoughts wordlessly while her gaze flickered between Tallathalla and Omar.

  “I just…can’t believe…” she mumbled. “You have a living blow-up doll!” Primrose finally exclaimed.

  Omar raised an eyebrow. “I am not familiar with that term.”

  “She is your soulless whore!” Primrose spat at him, hot with disgust.

  Much to Primrose’s dismay, Omar erupted into laughter. “You are too sweet!” He laughed. “Such shock! Such outrage!”

  “I am not sweet. I am disgusted by you!” Primrose glared at him. “She has no choice but to serve you because she has no free will. It’s awful.”

  “That is your opinion, Primrose, and I accept it, but what has been done is done. What should I do? Destroy her?”

  Throughout this dialogue, Tallathalla stood motionless, waiting to be addressed. It was as if she couldn’t hear the conversation around her, or wasn’t aware it referred to her.

  Primrose stared at Omar in disbelief, realizing despite similar appearances, Omar was nothing like Imran.

  “If you wish her destruction, you have only to say the word. Primrose, for you, I will do it,” Omar continued.

  Primrose was silent, unable to comment. “I wish nothing of the sort.”

  What Primrose privately wished for was that Imran would come back soon and get her away from Omar. She knew, however, if she so much as uttered this thought aloud, Imran would appear in a haze of black smoke—weakened beyond all reasoning—and still without his lamp. Primrose sighed with frustration and watched as the Magical Construct served up her food.

  “Tallathalla, you may leave now,” Omar said. “Go to your room.”

  Primrose watched, tight-lipped, as Tallathalla mutely left the room.

  They ate without speaking for several long moments. The silence between them was perforated only by the sounds of embarrassed munching and crunching. Finally Primrose spoke.

  “Tell me, Omar, how exactly did Imran get enough power to get to Perth?”

  Omar smiled, obviously relieved the subject shifted from his magically created concubine. “Ah, I gave him some of my power. It should be ample for him to retrieve his lamp, I hope.”

  “You hope? I thought you despised Imran.”

  Omar smiled again, showing his perfectly white teeth. “What occurred in the past should be left there, don’t you agree?” he said amiably. “I do hope he discovers who is capturing Genies. It isn’t nice to be so confined.”

  Primrose looked around at the decadent surroundings. “You don’t seem confined here,” she commented. “Besides, I have been told you have no master. You don’t need to fear the magician who is taking the Genies, do you?”

  Omar shrugged nonchalantly.

  “I still have a lamp, and if that lamp were to get into whomever’s hand, I would certainly be in strife. The spell that freed me from having masters had the unfortunate consequence of binding me even tighter to my lamp.” He smiled sadly. “Although I do not have to do any master’s bidding, I cannot so much as move ten meters away from my lamp. I must have it with me at all times.”

  Primrose was silent and absorbed this information, and took a surreptitious glance around the room to see if she could locate it.

  “What happens if you move away from your lamp?” Primrose asked, uncertain Omar would even grace her question with an answer.

  “It hurts,” he replied simply. “The further I move the more excruciating it becomes.”

  “Wow, how horrible. What happens if someone stole your lamp?”

  “I would kill them and get it back. The blessing is I wouldn’t have to be their servant,” Omar replied, his voice showing little trace of emotion. “Whereas in Imran’s unfortunate case, should you take all your wishes now, whomever has Imran’s lamp would automatically become his new master, and there is nothing Imran could do about it. In fact, Imran is very lucky he has you as his mistress at this precarious stage in his life.”

  Primrose nodded her head, and began to eat some of the food. It was very nice. “Are you sure you gave Imran enough power to get back here?” she asked after a while.

  Omar flushed with evident annoyance that the subject had returned to his brother yet again.

  “If he gets his lamp back, he will not require my power anyway,” Omar replied dryly.

  “Are you certain if your power runs out, this magician or whatever it is cannot drain all Imran’s power because he belongs to me? Some of his power will always remain and keep him alive because I haven’t taken my wishes?” Urgency echoed in Primrose’s voice.

  “Yes,” Omar replied, trying ardently not to let his annoyance show.

  “That’s good, that’s good,” Primrose breathed, “and when did you say he would be back?”

  “Friday, all being well.” Omar’s eyes did not leave her. He seemed dismayed. Primrose could tell he wanted to impress her. After all, he had been cooped up for years with only Lugh, Phil, and Tallathalla. A small bug of pity bit her and she lifted her gaze to meet Omar’s. A spark of interest lit his dark eyes, and he affected a smoldering gaze.

  “So, Primrose, tell me about yourself,” he said, oozing charm.

  Primrose looked warily at him, and took a sip of wine.

  “Well, not much to say really,” she began.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back in P
erth, Imran and Ian were silent in the car. Imran noticed Ian was developing a sheen of sweat on his brow, despite the temperature being almost uncomfortably cool.

  “Are you all right?” Imran asked reluctantly, but Ian didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed. “Where are we going? This is not a direction I am familiar with,” he added coldly, looking at the dim tree-strewn gardens around them.

  “Err, yes, it’s just that I have to stop off at my boss’s house. He needs to speak with me.” Ian paused. “You’re not in a rush, are you?”

  The alarm bells that had started to chime began wailing in Imran’s head. “No,” he replied cautiously as they pulled off the highway and into the decadently rich suburb of Dalkeith. The distant pulsing of his lamp grew closer, and a tiny flicker of hope ignited in his heart.

  “It shouldn’t take too long,” Ian said, turning down yet another darkened leafy avenue. “Imran.” He paused. “I need to ask you something.” Uncertainty was audible in Ian’s voice and Imran glanced at him curiously. “I don’t blame you if you are, but I need to know if you are having an affair with Primrose.”

  Thrown off balance by this unexpected question, Imran didn’t notice they were pulling into the open gates of a massive mansion.

  “No,” Imran answered and looked away, now noting the enormous white mansion settled in rolling green gardens.

  Ian sighed loudly, evidently much relieved. “Good. She is a slut, you know. I wouldn’t have put it past her.” His confidence surged once again. “Dermott, a friend from work, said she’d been having lunches with you…and I thought…she might have tried something on.”

  Imran felt hot anger bubble up through his chest and sit throbbing at his temples. “She is not a slut, and never tried anything ‘on’ with me,” he retorted.

  Ian’s boorish temperament became apparent once more as all appearances of uncertainty departed.

  “Don’t be so shocked! All women are the same. You can’t trust them as far as you can throw them.”

  Imran wished he could punch Ian’s gloating face.

  “She’ll take me back, you know,” Ian continued. “I’ll help all this mess blow over at work, and she’ll be so grateful we’ll be together again.”