Magical Gains

by Nicola E. Sheridan

  Imran frowned. He didn’t know any Genies called Hamza, but at least he had a name.

  “Was he your Genie?” Imran asked.

  Quillian again was pulled from his reverie and looked blank for a moment before replying. “Yes, of course, all of them were mine.” He became anxious. “Look, I’m going to leave you here with your lamp a while. Don’t try anything. I will be just in the next room. I need to figure out a few things.”

  “Like how to get Primrose here, or how to drain me quicker into my own vessel?”

  “Exactly. I think this room would be the safest in which to keep you. I doubt greatly you will even be able to get close enough to your lamp to touch it. There are some very strong spells around its box.”

  Imran did indeed know that. In fact, the entire room was shrouded in a faint spicy spell. A spell he had little doubt the Genie Hamza placed on the room.

  “Don’t try anything, Imran. I am warning you, tamper with that box and it may explode, destroying your lamp and you with it.”

  “I get the message.” Imran rolled his eyes. “You needn’t be quite so dramatic.”

  Quillian swept irritably out of the room.

  Imran smiled to himself, settled down in the center of the room, and focused on the clay lamp.

  “Hamza? Are you there?” he called softly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Meanwhile, back at Omar’s townhouse, Primrose drank a fair amount of wine, and enjoyed a good meal. She now felt remarkably safe with Omar, and conversation as well as the wine flowed freely.

  “I take it you liked the dessert?” Omar asked, leaning close to her.

  Without Primrose even being aware of it, Omar was now sitting directly beside her, his knee resting warmly against her own.

  “Oh, yes, it was lovely.” Primrose blushed, and looked away from his unflinching gaze.

  “It is so refreshing to have a new companion for dinner,” Omar murmured a little suggestively.

  “Oh,” Primrose gasped, and the blush rose to her cheeks again. She really ought not to have drunk so much wine.

  “It has been a long time since…well…” Omar lowered his head to hers and gently breathed along the length of her neck.

  “Umm,” Primrose moaned, internally outraged for yet again getting involved, and aroused, by a man she barely knew.

  “You are divine,” Omar whispered. His voice was so much like Imran’s, with its placeless accent so deep and smooth. Primrose closed her eyes. “I desired you from the moment I saw you.” His lips met the arch of Primrose’s neck where it met her jaw.

  Primrose’s body lit up with heat and desire, but Omar’s words didn’t quite ring true.

  “I looked like a hag when you first met me,” Primrose said, humor barely suppressed.

  “You certainly don’t look like one now.” Omar gazed appreciatively. Then, with his warm hand, he pulled her face to meet his, and kissed her.

  Primrose’s heart skipped a beat as his warm, sweet lips met hers. She could not help but kiss him ardently back. Omar’s hands ran the length of her arms, sweeping her into his lap.

  “Primrose,” Omar breathed into her, and she could smell the intoxicating spice of his power fill the room.

  Within a moment, breathless, Primrose finally pulled away from him. Her cheeks were burning a hot crimson. “Omar,” she gasped, her eyes meeting his dreamily. Omar was truly a magnificent kisser. Heat swept through her body and she felt deliciously wanton, almost as though she had drank Dionysus wine, although she was almost certain she hadn’t. At that moment, she wanted Omar. She wanted to taste him, touch him, and sleep with him. Primrose knew the skill and passion in his kiss could only be a whisper of his expertise in bed. No one had kissed her with such skillful ferocity, or had they? With that thought, her stomach and heart lurched awkwardly. “I can’t do this,” she cautioned.

  “Do what?” Omar asked, with impatience in his voice and his hand a heavy warm weight on her thigh.

  “Do this, be with you,” she mumbled, chewing on her lower lip.

  “Why ever not? I want you, and I can tell you want me.”

  “I do. I do,” she groaned, “but I can’t.” She slipped off his warm lap back to her chair.

  “I am not proposing marriage, Primrose,” Omar muttered stiffly, lifting his hands away from her.

  “I know that.” Primrose shifted awkwardly in her seat.

  “What can be the problem? Can we not finish this lovely night together?”

  Heat flooded Primrose again, and she looked away from Omar. The sharp angles of his face were broader than Imran’s and his lips a little less full. It was Imran she wanted, not Omar.

  “No.”

  “May I ask why?” Omar’s voice was still stiff and growing more agitated.

  “Because it wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Not be fair to whom? I would fathom that it is being unfair to us.”

  “To Imran!” Primrose cried softly and a fat tear rolled down her cheek.

  Omar could barely suppress his irritation. “Oh, him. It’s amazing how most things in my life seem to inevitably rotate around my little brother.”

  Primrose looked away again. “I really am sorry, Omar. I really think you are very attractive, but I’ve had too much wine and I’m still reeling from the shocks of the past few days. Now really isn’t the best time to proposition me.”

  “It would seem to be an ideal time to proposition a woman, when she is weak, fragile, and a little drunk.” The feline growl of Phil, the Manticore, broke the silence.

  Omar scowled. He had forgotten Phil still stood guard at the door.

  In the dim light of the dining room, Phil’s coat shone a deep auburn-gold and he looked a little less fierce.

  “I would appreciate you keeping your comments to yourself, Phil,” Omar snapped. “Why are you still here? What do you want, anyway?”

  Primrose pulled her gaze from Phil and back to Omar.

  “Nothing in particular, Master. I will finish my shift in the other room, shall I?” Phil grinned.

  “Get the hell out!” Omar roared and Primrose was taken aback by the wrath in his voice. Primrose swore she heard the Manticore chuckle as he swished his long tail and disappeared from the room.

  When they were alone again, it was Primrose who finally broke the silence.

  “Omar, I really would like to go to bed now. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  Omar said nothing but inclined his head as graciously as he could manage, and watched as Primrose pulled herself up from the table and turn to leave.

  An involuntary sigh parted Omar’s lips as Primrose turned her back on him. Her dress was slightly rumpled from where she had been sitting, but it didn’t detract from the lush curves of her body, clearly visible through the filmy material.

  Primrose turned at a noise. “Did you say something?” she asked.

  “Good night,” Omar whispered.

  Primrose gazed at him for a moment. In a gentle swoosh of dress, she turned around and swiftly walked back toward him. Omar’s eyes widened in surprise as she leaned over and kissed his smooth cheek.

  “You do smell good though.” Primrose sighed and straightened, then as gracefully as possible, swept from the room.

  Outside the room, Phil was waiting to escort her.

  “Enjoy your evening?” Phil asked with a touch of amusement in his voice. “It’s still early, you know.”

  “What would you have me do with the rest of it?” Primrose asked a little more defensively than she intended.

  Phil snorted. “If it were up to me, I’d have you for dinner.” His sharp teeth shone brightly in the hallway light. “As it’s not, I’d wish you for my master. He’s very lonely.”

  “You’re not?” Primrose quipped,
ignoring his jibe. “Aren’t you, Omar, and Lugh all effectively isolated here?”

  “Not really,” Phil replied, surprised by her question. “We have time off. Omar doesn’t. Lugh has his friends and I have mine. I don’t get to spend as much time as I would like with them, but still, it could be worse.”

  “There are other Manticores around here?”

  “Of course there are. You’re in the Free Zone! It’s the only place we can exist these days,” he said with a touch of bitterness.

  Primrose knew he was speaking the truth. After all, who would want a carnivorous Manticore as a next door neighbor?

  Primrose didn’t know what else to say, so she remained quiet. As they reached the door to her room, Phil spoke again.

  “You know, Omar isn’t a bad guy.”

  “I know he’s not a bad guy, but he could have helped Imran more. I don’t understand how or why he sent Imran away, alone. God only knows what’s happening to him!”

  “Imran once did Omar a grave disservice. You cannot truly blame Omar for being reluctant to help.”

  “No. I don’t suppose I can, but I don’t have to like it. Remember, Imran is my Genie. He’s in this mess because of me and I feel awful. I can’t just sleep with his brother when he’s probably fighting for his life.”

  Phil raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Good point.”

  * * * *

  Back in Perth, Imran was not fighting for his life. He didn’t need to.

  The pale golden Genie sat in front of Imran in the lamp room of Quillian’s mansion.

  “I am so pleased you have come. I think you have a chance in saving us all,” Hamza said. “I have been waiting, holding on for someone who could outsmart Quillian.”

  “I haven’t outwitted him yet, Hamza,” Imran replied regretfully. “Tell me, do the other Genies still exist? Could they be restored?”

  “Yes, I think so. When the electricity draining the power from our lamps is switched off, we seem to grow stronger again. Within time, though it may take many years, I think all of us here would regenerate our forms, with or without the help of the power in the vessel. Though, what degree of regeneration I am not certain.”

  “Interesting,” Imran replied. “Hamza, these are your spells on the walls, are they not?”

  “Indeed, it was his third wish that I do it,” Hamza admitted guiltily. “He makes all his Genies spell this room.”

  “Then how is it you cannot touch or move your lamp? Surely your spell doesn’t affect you?”

  “Alas, it does. It was a stipulation in his wish.” Hamza sighed. “Quillian was a most thorough master.”

  “What happens if I were to touch the glass cabinets?”

  “You would burn,” Hamza replied, “like a magnesium flame.”

  Imran winced. “Doesn’t sound too pleasant. Is there any loophole you can think of?”

  Hamza’s transparent cheeks puffed and then deflated. “If there was, I would have found it.”

  Imran grimaced. “At least the vessel doesn’t seem to drain me very well,” he muttered. “I think it is because I am the one who created it.”

  “That can only be a good thing,” Hamza said with as much cheer as he could muster.

  “Alas, bit by bit, it’s working.”

  The two Genies sat in silence again. It seemed a long while before either spoke again. Imran broke the silence.

  “Tell me about the other spells on the cabinets,” he said.

  Hamza’s transparent self seemed to flicker momentarily. “Well, other than my magnesium flame curse, Quillian created spells to keep the magic in the cabinet inside it, and repel the same magic on the outside.”

  “That means whomever’s lamp is in the box cannot get it out. The spell repels the same Genie’s magic that it keeps inside?” Imran clarified.

  “Yes.” Hamza nodded. “Exactly.”

  Imran devoured this information a moment longer before speaking again. “If you had more power, could you use it to get my lamp out? The cabinet that contains my lamp shouldn’t repel your magic, only mine.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is possible, but the magnesium flame curse would ultimately destroy me.” Hamza drifted off into silence.

  Very clever, Imran thought. He knew the only possible way to get his lamp out would be for Hamza to smash the glass case for him, but doing so would kill Hamza.

  The two sat in silence again. Through the wall Imran thought he could hear Quillian on the telephone. His mind wandered a moment and finally settled on Primrose. He wondered what she was doing. A hot lump of jealousy grew in his throat as he thought of the seduction Omar was planning for her. Truthfully, Imran didn’t know whether Primrose cared enough for him to rebuff Omar’s advances.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Hamza said, his form flickering a little weaker.

  “My mistress.”

  “It sounds like you have a story.”

  “No, not really. She is with my brother, who is trying to seduce her.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It shouldn’t,” Imran said, “but it does.”

  They fell into silence again.

  “I need to rest, Imran, to reserve some power. I will think on what I can do to help get your lamp out.”

  “Of course,” Imran replied dully.

  Hamza disappeared in a weak waft of golden smoke, and Imran was left again with his thoughts.

  Within a moment, Quillian stormed into the room and appeared surprised to see Imran sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  “Aha, so you cannot escape!” he chortled. “I didn’t think so. I have been very particular about security.”

  Imran said nothing and Quillian practically skipped over to his lamp. He looked at it closely.

  “The draining still isn’t very effective though,” Quillian murmured to himself. “Most of the other Genies were practically gone by now.” He looked at Imran with a peculiar mix of admiration and hunger. “Do you think this has more to do with the fact you owe your mistress wishes, or the fact you created the storage vessel yourself?”

  “I do not know.” Imran’s tone was dismissive.

  “I’m searching for her, you know, all over the world. I have friends, you see, in lots of…unusual places. They are all looking.”

  “I would have thought you would use your governmental position to find her.”

  Quillian looked shocked. “Oh, no! That would be quite wrong! Besides, that might get me into some trouble. Too many questions are never good when you’re in,” he added, chuckling, “a delicate position like mine.”

  “I suppose not,” Imran agreed.

  “Are you hungry, thirsty?” Quillian asked suddenly.

  “No. Not at all,” replied Imran, although it was a complete fallacy. He was absolutely ravenous.

  Quillian looked a little irritated. “No? Unusual.” He stared at Imran with irritable fascination, as if the Genie were a cockroach crawling on a barbeque. “Well, it’s getting late, and my wife has been calling, so I ought to call it a day.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well…don’t try and escape now,” Quillian cautioned. “I wouldn’t want you bursting into flame…very messy to clean up.”

  Imran raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Well. Good night,” Quillian said hesitatingly.

  Again Imran said nothing and Quillian wrung his hands in agitation.

  “Good night!” he huffed and strode out of the door.

  Imran was amused. At least his last days could be spent at good use irritating Quillian.

  * * * *

  In the Beckwiths’ house, Ian, Jeremy, Mr. Beckwith, and Mrs. Beckwith all sat around the table for a late dinner. Things were a little tense now that Ian was back in the fa
mily home. Since Primrose had thrown him out, he’d had nowhere to stay while he waited for the lease to finish on his own apartment.

  “How was work, Ian?” Mr. Beckwith asked, his face ruddy and enormous, just like his son’s.

  “Okay,” Ian replied cautiously, not wanting to irritate his easily agitated father.

  “Any word from Primrose?” Jeremy interrupted.

  The whole table fell silent. Knives and forks hung motionless.

  “No.” Ian choked, his steak caught thick in his suddenly dry throat.

  “Shame,” Jeremy replied. “I hope she’s okay.”

  Mr. Beckwith scowled. “Jeremy, you softheaded retard! She’s run off with a magical being for goodness sakes! She’s abandoned your brother! She should rot in hell as far as I’m concerned! Little tart!” he barked thunderously.

  Ian gave an appreciative snort, and Jeremy and Mrs. Beckwith lowered their eyes in discomfort.

  “I did see Imran, though, so I guess it wasn’t him after all,” Ian said through a mouthful of broccoli. A hazy recollection of Imran walking beside the road flittered weakly in his mind.

  Mrs. Beckwith frowned. “Who is Imran?” she asked.

  “You know, Primrose’s university friend I said was staying with us.” Ian thought a moment. “I think…” He hesitated and his memory went blank, as Quillian’s spell worked its magic. “God. I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.” Ian frowned and shoved another mouthful in. “Well, I for one am glad Primrose has disappeared, so I don’t have to see her bloody gloating face.”

  “Goodness. I wonder where she is? I wonder if the police will get involved?” Mrs. Beckwith thought aloud.

  “What does it matter? The little tart couldn’t look after my son, so she can piss off! I’ve had enough talk of Primrose bloody Brasco!” Mr. Beckwith roared.

  Suffice to say, the rest of the conversation revolved around fishing and rugby, with no further mention of Primrose.

  * * * *

  As the next day dawned bright and hot in Kuching, Primrose stretched and felt a lurch of unease when she remembered where she was and what was going on. The room this morning was lit by the same red lamp, and a large vase of flowers had appeared on the side board. Primrose rolled out of bed and looked at them. Freesias and frangipanis were arranged artfully in a beautiful vase. How typical of a Genie, two flowers from opposite seasons, Primrose thought, inhaling and enjoying the scent. There was a knock on the door.