Magical Gains

by Nicola E. Sheridan

  Imran was silent for a moment and the car slowed to a halt. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to take her back if that’s the way you feel…” Imran snarled, and Ian was silenced prematurely by a sharp rapping on the car window.

  Both men’s heads jerked to the window. There, standing in the evening gloom by the passenger side window, was Mr. Quillian. He was still dressed in his suit and tie, though his greying hair was a little disheveled.

  Imran recognized him with a cold splash of horror. Mr. Quillian was a magician he once came across when he lived in England a hundred years previously. Quillian had been his master.

  “It is you, Imran. Long time no see?” Quillian grinned with evident delight. “I’ve been doing a lot more research since we were last acquainted. Would you like to see how far the research has come? I have a wonderful little laboratory!”

  Ian frowned. “How do you know Mr. Quillian?”

  Imran didn’t immediately answer, and his throat was suddenly dry. “Get me out of here. Get me away from him!” he hissed through gritted teeth. Imran could feel his lamp pulsing close nearby, and he knew beyond any doubt it was in Quillian’s possession.

  Ian remained immobile, bordering on entranced. Mr. Quillian’s hand now rested on the car door and Imran could smell acrid magic working to unlock it.

  Ian froze. “He’s my boss. He only wants to talk to you,” he said woodenly, his eyes unblinking and staring straight forward.

  “He’s not human!” Imran spat, now holding the door closed with all his strength. “He can’t be your boss!”

  Ian frowned weakly, but still remained immobile. “Of course he is human, Imran. He wouldn’t have got his job otherwise. You must go and talk with him.” Ian spoke stiffly and in a practiced fashion. The smell of bitter magic was filling the vehicle. There was little doubt Quillian’s magic was working the words into Ian’s weaker mind.

  Imran glanced out the window. Quillian remained smiling benignly at the two of them in the car, though his hand was still on the door and he was silently exerting pressure to open it.

  Imran looked pleadingly at him. “Don’t leave me with him.”

  Ian stared blankly back.

  “You must speak with him. He is my boss. You must do as he says.” Again Ian spoke with an odd stiffness that told Imran Quillian’s magic was a lot more powerful than his had ever been.

  There was an odd moment of silence, and Imran again felt his lamp pulsing nearby. He wondered if he should just magic himself out of the situation, but the knowledge he was so close to his lamp was intoxicating. He couldn’t leave it.

  Suddenly Imran’s door sprung open and the overwhelming stench of bitter magic smothered them. Without even being aware of it, Imran was hauled out of the car.

  “You may go, Mr. Beckwith, thank you. I will see you at work on Monday. You have done very well.” Mr. Quillian closed Imran’s door with his free hand. With his other, he gripped Imran tightly on the shoulder so he could not move.

  Imran knew he was as good as hog-tied. He didn’t dare waste Omar’s magic, and he physically couldn’t overwhelm Quillian, who was exuding toxic power by the cloudful.

  Ian smiled blindly. “Okay. Good-bye, Mr. Quillian. Imran.” He drove away, blissfully unaware anything happened at all.

  Mr. Quillian looked gleefully at Imran.

  “I have searched many years for you, Imran,” he said, the benign smile still tight on his lips.

  Imran had been Quillian’s Genie when Quillian was little more than a young and ambitious magician. Things had obviously changed. Even though Quillian didn’t appear magical, he literally pulsed with sour, acrid, and corrupted power.

  “What have you done?” Imran gasped. His shoulder stung with discomfort in Quillian’s strong grasp. Quillian did not reply as he concentrated on controlling Imran and steering him into the mansion. “You should be dead by now,” Imran muttered with a glance at his captor.

  Indeed, Quillian did look much older than when they’d first met a century ago, but not as old as he should considering the time lapse.

  “Ah, well,” Quillian began cheerfully, “I have found a good source of power, and I have you to thank for that.”

  “Me?” Imran said. “What have I to do with this?”

  “You gave me the idea all those years ago. I remember you telling me, as a naïve youngster, about the immortal power of Genies. Well, it gave me a glorious idea!”

  It didn’t take Imran long to figure out his meaning. “You’re stealing Genies’ power? Just to keep yourself alive?” Imran asked, taking notice of every twist and turn in the labyrinthine mansion.

  “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  As Quillian fell silent, part of Imran reasoned he should make his escape now, while he still had the power, but he was getting closer to his lamp and he wanted it back badly. Steeling his mind and reserving his power, he followed Quillian though the mansion, thinking fervently of possible attack plans.

  They came to Mr. Quillian’s office and he proceeded to use a finger scan to open the door.

  “Tell me, Quillian, how is it none of the humans have figured out you’re a magical being? Surely you’re subject to RMIT tests?”

  Quillian was obviously having difficulty containing his glee.

  “Ah, now that would be telling!” he chortled, and then ushered Imran into a stiff-backed chair to sit. “Now I have a question for you, dear Imran.” Quillian’s honey-colored eyes hardened. “How is it that despite my draining power from your lamp, you are still here walking and talking as if you are 100 percent whole?”

  “That would be telling,” Imran mimicked.

  Quillian frowned briefly, but it was quickly smoothed over by his beige smile. “It must be to do with the fact you still have a master,” Quillian said shortly, and then muttered under his breath, “That vacuous Pansy you call a mistress.”

  Quillian again smoothed his manner, making his face a bland but amiable mask, and sank down behind his desk. Every now and then he would throw a curious glance at Imran and bury his head in a notebook and scribble frantically.

  “How many wishes does she have owing to her?” Quillian asked without looking up from his scribbling.

  Imran didn’t answer for a moment. He could feel his lamp throbbing and pulsing just through the wall. He stood, raised his hand, placed it against the thin, cool granite tiles, and absorbed what energy he could from the close proximity, which unfortunately wasn’t a great deal.

  “I said, how many wishes does Pansy have owing to her?” Quillian looked up. A flash of annoyance rushed over his face. “Do sit back down!” he snapped, his benign facade shattered.

  “Two,” Imran replied disinterestedly, but smoothly returned to his seat. “Two,” he repeated, his gaze leaving the wall and returning to Quillian’s excited face.

  “Hmmm,” Quillian muttered, “that poses a little bit of a problem. One wish would have been so much easier.” He paused and chewed on his pen a moment. “Still, I’m sure I could encourage her to take the wishes sooner. Where exactly is Pansy?”

  “Her name is Primrose, not Pansy,” Imran retorted, “and she is far away from you.” He raised his chin in a subtle gesture of defiance.

  “That I gathered,” Quillian said, either ignoring the gesture or not recognizing it. “Can you bring her to me?”

  “I don’t have enough power,” Imran replied cautiously.

  “You seem powerful enough to me.” Quillian stood up and strode to where Imran was sitting and took a strong sniff of air. “You do smell good. I just love the smell of Genies.”

  Imran felt himself involuntarily shy away from Quillian who, in his excitement, seemed to be losing some of the tight control over the stolen power filling him. The air around the small grey man bristled with magic and smelled like burning p
lastic. The odor filled Imran with revulsion.

  “Can I see my lamp?” Imran tried to ignore the disturbing fumes.

  “Do I look stupid to you?” Quillian replied with a hard laugh. “Do you think I am a fool? Was I foolish Master all those years ago?”

  Imran looked away. “No. You were not.” He remembered now with vivid clarity what his mind had discarded years ago.

  As Imran’s master, Quillian veritably picked Imran’s brain about the nature of magic and Genie magic. One of Quillian’s wishes was he be taught all Imran knew about magic, so that was exactly what Imran had done. At the time, Imran recalled thinking it quite a lame wish and treated Quillian with a dismissive condescension. In doing so, Imran failed to recognize the danger lurking beneath Quillian’s cheery and normal façade. Quillian’s second wish was for Imran to give him some of his own power so he could experiment. Again, Imran wasn’t particularly surprised or shocked by this request. He experienced other masters who wished the same thing. The giving of power wasn’t particularly draining or difficult, and the power rarely ever worked for the receiver anyway. Finally, Quillian’s third wish had been that Imran create a storage device to hold magic. This had been a challenge, so much so Imran actually consulted another magician, and needed a month to complete.

  Imran looked down in shame. He had little doubt his lamp was draining directly into the same large vessel he created all those years ago. “Only magic can hold magic” was one of the first lessons he taught Quillian as his Genie and teacher. Imran now suspected—if not for the burglar who fortuitously stole his lamp the very night he bestowed the final wish—he would have been the first to be drained into the vessel.

  “All these years, you have been working on stealing Genies’ power? One hundred years?”

  “Yes,” Quillian admitted brightly, “though more recently, I have worked on how to cheat RMIT devices.” He smiled. “I’ve been very busy, you know.”

  “I see that.”

  “When your lamp was stolen, I was most worried you would tell the authorities about my ‘experiments.’ I am grateful you did not! I am also exceedingly pleased you taught me about magical memory, so I could recall all you taught me so long after the event. You see, as angry as you may be at me for taking this particular path in life, you should also be cross with yourself for allowing it. Oh! I know it was impossible for you not to tell me once I’d commanded it, but afterward, you were free to tell anyone about my experiments. You did not, so you can’t really blame me, can you?”

  Imran cringed. In all honesty, he never gave Quillian a second thought. When Quillian was Imran’s master, he was just a young, seemingly talentless magician, slightly excitable and dithering. Imran never expected Quillian would one day be as powerful as he was. Imran took an enormous inhalation of air and sighed heavily. Quillian was as powerful as he was because Imran hadn’t thought him important, or strong enough, to make use of the information he had been forced to impart. A very careless mistake.

  “Now, Imran, are you hungry? How do you feel? Weak?”

  “I am fine,” Imran replied coldly. “My disgust with you is consuming me. I cannot fathom why you would do this. It is cruel. I never thought you a cruel man, Quillian.”

  “You never thought anything about me at all, Imran. Be truthful. That is what makes it so sweet that you will now finally become part of my power base. Then you won’t be quite so dismissive of me, will you?” Quillian chuckled.

  Imran glared at him, wondering how on Earth he could get to his lamp and get the hell out of there. Potential escape scenarios ran through his mind. Imran wondered if he could just magically call it through the wall and get back to the Free Zone on Omar’s power. He doubted it. Quillian was not stupid and more than likely there were charms and curses everywhere. Imran realized, with some certainty, he couldn’t do this alone.

  Quillian looked at him steadily. “You’re thinking very hard there, Genie. It’s giving you wrinkles, not flattering on such a smooth countenance.” He laughed at himself. “Perhaps you would like to see my collection after all?”

  Imran looked at him blankly.

  “It’s just in the next room.” Quillian smiled, his strange yellow eyes crinkling at the edges.

  “How many Genies have you killed?” Imran asked.

  “Killed? Oh, no. They’re not dead, Imran! You should know that. Apparitions of their former selves still exist, so long as their magic and life force live on in the vessel.”

  “Do they have any power left?”

  Quillian paused and looked thoughtfully at Imran for a moment, obviously pondering whether Imran could use any information against him.

  “Well, enough to form a transparent image of themselves,” he answered, and added as an afterthought, “Some have the strength to speak still, though that usually disappears after a few years. You see, once their magic is in the vessel, they can’t get it out again, though they do try so ardently, for a while at least. Then the only energy left is that fundamental energy residing in the lamp itself. It isn’t a great deal, so I don’t bother about that.”

  “You are surrounded by ghosts of Genies?” Imran asked, sickened at the thought that he may eventually become one.

  “Ghosts? No, Imran, reflections, perhaps, of their former energy. A holographic image if you will. Surely you, a learned man in such matters, knows the difference,” Quillian chided.

  Imran ignored the jibe and glanced back at the wall where he knew his lamp rested, being drained of his power.

  “Well, I asked, would you like to see my collection?”

  Imran wasn’t sure exactly how dangerous it was for him to be in that room. Would he be able to get out?

  “Are you planning on trapping me in there?” Imran asked cautiously.

  “I can only trap you in there if you have no energy, and as you stand there, I can see you still have a substantial amount, which I must admit, is much more than I had anticipated.”

  Imran glared at him. “Surely you have placed spells to block my exit?”

  “Again, Imran, you surprise me with the paucity of your knowledge! A mere magician cannot create a spell to block a Genie. Only a Genie could do that.”

  Imran’s face became impassive and emotionless.

  “I am aware of that fact, Quillian. After all, I taught you. Let me rephrase the question. Have you wished one of those unfortunate Genies to block the exit of a Genie from that room, or this room, for that matter?”

  Quillian’s grin turned a little carnivorous. “I can’t answer your question.”

  “I gather it’s the affirmative, then,” Imran quipped.

  Quillian inclined his head slightly.

  Imran paused, and grinned in return. “All right, I will see your collection.”

  Quillian’s eyes widened in shock and then narrowed, as he obviously wondered why Imran would dare enter the room. Did Imran know something he didn’t? Quillian’s eyes darted to the wall and he marched over, without saying a word, and opened the door with his finger scan.

  It opened with a gush of cool, spicy air. The smell of Genies was thick, and contrary to making Imran feel stressed or worried, it calmed him slightly. If there were Genies in there, in any form, they would help him—if they had the power. Halogen lights blazed in the black-granite-tiled room and Imran’s eyes immediately found his small brass lamp on the far wall, wrapped in electrodes and wires. Imran was momentarily struck by its strong pulsing power. He opened his magic gently and absorbed some of its glow. It felt as though he was bathed, for one millisecond, in cool water after standing in the sun. However, as soon as it came, the sensation was gone.

  Quillian looked furious.

  “Do not steal my magic!” he roared, and with stunning speed, lashed out at Imran with a sharp whip of power.

  Imran was taken aback by such aggressive ma
gic and stood motionless with a burning slash across his chest. Quillian’s poisonous power actually sliced through Imran’s shirt and caused a red welt to appear where the magic hit.

  “I will not tolerate theft in my own home!”

  “You are stealing my magic!” Imran bellowed in return, his chest searing with pain. “I cannot steal what is my own!”

  Quillian breathed heavily for a moment, and it seemed difficult for him to calm down. Finally, after a tense moment, he spoke.

  “Quite right.” His sudden civility surprised Imran. “However, in this particular instance, your power is actually my power as your lamp is being drained into my vessel.”

  Imran looked around at the other motionless lamps in the room. There was quite a number, and a few still throbbed with residual power.

  “You are wrong. My power is Primrose’s power. You can’t get all of it, and the vessel, far from being your vessel, is actually mine. Its magic will respond to my magic and not drain so aggressively.”

  Quillian looked frustrated and seemed at a loss for words. The moments ticked by noisily. Imran could hear them echo from Quillian’s watch.

  “Well,” Quillian finally said, “I hadn’t actually thought about that.” He paused, looking at the lamps until his eyes finally settled on Imran’s brass contraption. “I suspect I need to think this through a little more.”

  Imran said nothing but reached out with his own weakened power once more to feel the room. His lamp pulsed with a lively beat, a sure sign it still had a substantial volume of power within its brass walls. The next liveliest lamp was a rustic clay one that was placed several boxes away from Imran’s. Imran studied the lamp. It had some rather modern Chinese-looking patterns on it, so despite the rustic clay appearance, it wasn’t an old lamp. Imran presumed it was probably one of millions pumped out of a Chinese sweatshop to be sold at a two-dollar store. How ignominious.

  “Who did that clay lamp belong to?” Imran asked.

  “What?” Quillian looked confused for a moment. “Oh, err, a Genie named Hamza, I think.”