“If I help Omar, my wall will disappear!” he replied, his voice thick with desperation. “Omar is a strong Genie. He can get himself out of this. We need to think about getting out of here.”
Unfortunate for Imran and Primrose, Quillian, although busy tormenting Omar, could hear every word.
“I am going to drop the wall and get us out of here,” Imran murmured.
“Am I included in this or shall I stay to help my master?” Phil asked loyally.
“I think you should come with us,” Imran said steadily. “There isn’t much you can do against his corrupt magic. There isn’t much anyone can do,” he admitted.
They waited a moment longer, as Quillian tormented Omar in order to force him to reveal his lamp.
Phil rumbled, like low thunder, in frustration. “I can’t stand this. Omar isn’t a bad person!”
“Tell that to the Fomorian you ate,” said Imran.
Phil’s jaw dropped open, the odor of his breath became strong once again, and Primrose absently wished he could brush his teeth.
“What? What Fomorian? I’ve never eaten a Fomorian!” Phil growled after a moment of consideration.
“You ate a Fomorian in Main Bazaar a few months ago.”
A strange look grew on Phil’s peculiar face. “That was just a show!” His voice grew urgent as a barrage of small bolts of power hit Omar. “It wasn’t real! I don’t think Omar has killed a single soul in his life!”
Omar groaned in pain at Quillian’s onslaught of power and Phil hurried to explain. “When Lugh, the Fomorian, and I heard someone was questioning about Omar, we would make this big show. It was only to frighten people, and make them stop looking. It always worked. You can’t let Omar suffer like this!”
“He’s been putting up a front all these years?” Imran’s voice was thick with shame.
“Yes!” Phil roared. “He’s a good man. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Primrose’s attention was drawn away from Imran and Phil. She became absorbed in watching Quillian torture Omar. It was horrible, like watching a cat toy with a sleepy lizard. Omar, for what it was worth, was flatly refusing to move or give up his lamp, though his injuries were mounting. His clothing was torn and burned, his dark skin red and raw beneath it. Primrose was sickened and saddened. She liked Omar, and he didn’t deserve to suffer like this. Primrose knew how much Omar despised his life as a servile Genie, and how hard he had tried to prevent becoming a slave to yet another master. She couldn’t let his life end at the hands of a cruel magician.
“Imran, you’ve got to stop Quillian,” she said.
“I know.”
Suddenly Imran’s wall of smoke dissipated and Quillian spun around.
“Ah, so here you come, Abdul Imran!” he exclaimed with glee. Quillian was keeping a strong rope of power holding Omar down and immobile. As hard as he tried, Omar could not break through the acrid power, though he struggled wordlessly against it. Imran sent a swath of black smoke to surround Quillian, but it shattered like glass when it hit the wall of invisible bitterness.
Imran frowned.
“It won’t work. Your Genie magic is ineffectual against my, err, rather modified magic.”
From behind him, Omar grunted. His face was ashen and his nose bloodied. Trying to take advantage of Quillian’s shift in attention, Omar attempted to throw a smack of power at the magician’s back. Again it was unsuccessful, and Omar’s magic, already strangled by Quillian’s power, shattered uselessly against the corruption surrounding Quillian. The Harpies hopped about a little nervously, not wishing to be struck by a misfired bolt of power. Their continued presence, however, clearly stated even though they were not actively assisting, they were ready and willing to attack.
“You’re useless! Pathetic Genies!” Quillian sneered. “Can’t even defend yourselves.” Simultaneously he sent two strikes at Imran and Omar. Imran dodged his successfully, but Omar, who was weakened, got his straight in the stomach. He groaned in pain.
“Stop it!” Primrose screamed. “Just stop it!”
“As you wish!” Quillian appeared maniacally delighted. Within a fraction of a second, he took advantage of Imran’s distraction and wrapped a burning arm of power around Primrose’s waist and dragged her toward him. Primrose screamed.
“Help!” she cried, and the heat of his power began singeing her yellow T-shirt. His power was suffocating and bitter, and involuntarily she began to gag.
“Primrose!” Imran bellowed as he reached out and tried to grab her arm. Primrose reached out toward him but was unceremoniously yanked closer to Quillian.
“Say bye-bye.” Quillian grinned, and the Harpies jumped toward Omar and Imran, blocking Primrose and Quillian from their reach.
Primrose felt that strange fluttering in her stomach and throat, and the last thing she saw were Imran’s anguished eyes as she disappeared from sight.
Chapter Eighteen
Primrose struggled and coughed before she suddenly felt herself on solid ground. Cool air whished around her, causing her hair to cover her face. Frantically she shook her head to clear her vision. It was very dark. The air smelled wet and marshy. Her feet, dressed in Omar’s pretty sandals, sank into the ground. Moisture touched the ends of her toes and soaked into the leather lining of the shoes.
“Where am I?” she asked, looking around rather blindly in the dark.
“Somewhere I don’t think Imran will look for you.” Quillian’s voice came from somewhere close beside her. “Now, to more pressing matters—the lamp. Where is it? I want it.”
“You can’t have it.” Primrose clutched at her handbag.
“Oh, you are pathetically obvious, Primrose.” Quillian sighed and Primrose felt, rather than saw, her handbag being yanked away from her. She bellowed, enraged.
“Oh, hush, you’ll wake up the locals,” Quillian reprimanded quietly.
As Primrose was unsure of her actual locale, she fell silent.
“Can you tell me where I am?” she asked.
“Back in Australia, naturally. I can’t be too far from my…source of power, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Primrose was silent again, willing her eyes to focus in the gloom. Then, as the cool breeze slowly wrapped itself around her, she noticed the faint sheen of water in the background. It was eerily quiet and the skeletal remains of trees threw faint shadows in the depths of the dark.
“We’re at a river?”
“Well done, or should I say, no shit, Sherlock!” Quillian chortled at his own wit.
“Which river?” Primrose was desperate to find out where she was so she could will Imran to find her.
“We are somewhere in the Murray-Serpentine system is all you need to know,” Quillian said unexpectedly. “I don’t think Imran will find you here. It is steeped with old magic that will scramble his link to you.”
Primrose quaked. She knew ancient spirits and creatures lurked in the inky depths of the Serpentine River, and despite her rather dire circumstance, she would rather not displease those spirits by causing unrest in their midst.
“Now, back to the lamp.” Quillian’s sneer was feral, and Primrose turned to stare at him for the first time. Even in the dark moonless night, he seemed to glow and pulsate with his poisonous power.
“I will not take the wish! I simply can’t hand Imran over to you!” Primrose cried and turned to face the river again. Was it her imagination or was the dark water swirling a little faster than this docile river should?
“Well, I will have to use some persuasion. Remember, now, you don’t want to upset the locals by screaming, do you?”
“I would rather wake the locals than give Imran to you,” she replied hotly.
“We shall see about that,” Quillian said. “Now, I will ask you again. Take your wish.”
“No
!” Primrose exclaimed. This time, the water did swirl angrily in the center of the river. Primrose backed away from the bank. She went only a few steps when her back collided into something hard. The skeleton of a dead she-oak shuddered with the impact. “Sorry!”
Without Primrose even being aware of it, Quillian followed her and when she opened her eyes from a frantic blink, he loomed in front of her. With a lightening reflex, he snatched at her hand.
“You think he loves you, do you?” he taunted. He was so close she could feel his breath hot on her cheek.
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“He won’t when I’m finished with you.” Quillian beamed wickedly.
Primrose had little time to wonder what he meant. Quite suddenly she felt a prickling sensation in her hand—gentle, a little warm, but not entirely unpleasant. A second later, it was a little more intense, a bit hot and more like a dull pinprick. Another second later her hand was aflame and felt as though every square millimeter was bee-stung. She sobbed and struggled to pull her arm away. Quillian released her. The black waters of the river swirled in agitation.
“What did you do?” Primrose grabbed her hand and clutched it to her chest. The cool air felt good.
“Have a look.” Quillian giggled strangely.
For her benefit, Quillian held up a small orb of sickly light and Primrose stared in horror at her hand. All the flesh was gone. Her hand was skeletal with only a fine draping of paper-thin skin over the bones. Her veins bulged blue and obscene.
“An improvement to my mind,” Quillian commented.
Primrose was speechless.
“Will you make that wish?” Quillian asked again.
“No. I will not,” she said courageously.
Quillian tutted in disappointment and Primrose felt the same gentle prickling creep through her other hand and both feet. It began to crawl slowly and painfully up her arms and legs. Her body was hot, almost on fire, as Quillian’s curse stole through it. The pain became unendurable. She cried out.
“The wish?” Quillian pressed, his eyes glinting maliciously in the gloom.
The pain was extreme and it roared up through her face and scalp. Primrose whimpered. She just wanted the pain to stop. She could feel her face withering as the very muscles of her body shrank and dried. Her mind was flooded with morbid visions of her body, dried and desiccated. Imran would never have her now, would he?
“I…” Primrose sobbed as more thoughts of Imran flooded her mind. She wanted him so much. She wanted a life with him. The burning continued unabated as painful moments dragged past.
“Take the wish and I will make it stop.” Hot fumes of power shimmered all around Quillian.
“I…” She continued sobbing, struggling to organize her thoughts long enough to form cogent sentences. “I wish…”
Quillian made a strange hand gesture and muttered softly under his breath, and for the briefest of moments the pain eased.
“What do you wish?” he encouraged eagerly.
“I wish…” Primrose gasped, her mind filling with images of Imran and the life she wished she could have. “I wish that Imran and I could be together, happily ever after!” With that, she crumpled and cool tears ran down her burning face.
Quillian’s eyes widened wildly and his gaze rushed between the lamp and Primrose.
“You bitch!” he screeched. “You were meant to wish for something menial! You’ve just…” He clutched at Imran’s brass lamp and sniffed it. The gentle warm pulsing of power and the soothing aroma seemed to be seeping away.
Quillian roared, “What have you done?”
Primrose folded down and sank into the soft, moist soil. The moisture seeped into her jeans and met her skin with a cool kiss. She fearfully looked up through a tangle of hair at Quillian’s white, enraged face.
“You have killed him!” Quillian snarled, his power shimmering in a toxic haze. “There is no heat to his lamp! He is gone!”
Primrose whimpered. Was it true? “No! I just wished we could be together!”
“You contrary cow! You knew wishing such a thing would remove him from my reach, but your selfishness may have actually killed him!” Quillian threw down the lamp in disgust and it hit the moist soil with a soft thud. “What a bloody waste of my energy!” Both of them stared at Imran’s empty brass lamp.
“I should kill you now,” he said coldly.
Primrose cowered, raising her withered hands to shield her equally withered face.
Quillian reveled in the pathetic figure she made.
The river calmed slightly from the lull in aggression.
“I don’t suppose I really need to, do I?” He chuckled. “Look at you. Your body is decaying as we speak.”
As if in acknowledgement, Primrose’s heart thumped weakly in her rib cage like a sick canary, and she suddenly felt very, very old.
Quillian snorted, half in derision and half in frustration. “You’ve ruined everything,” he spat petulantly. He took one last withering glance at her and disappeared in a haze of fumes.
* * * *
Back in the Free Zone, Omar, Imran, and Phil sat immobile in the bolt-hole, and the Harpies hopped about nervously without Quillian to instruct them. Imran threw a few sharp tongues of smoke at them. An explosion of black feathers filled the room and Aello screeched, but no Harpy dared enter the room further. They knew they could not move freely in the confines of the bolt-hole. Their strange avian bodies would be a grievous liability in a fight against two Genies. In wordless consent, they retreated with some speed from the room, slamming the hidden door behind them.
Phil looked incredulous. “They’re gone? I don’t believe it!”
“They had no further instructions. They didn’t know what to do. When Quillian returns, so will they,” Imran replied stiffly.
They fell into silence again.
“I wonder if Primrose…” Phil began.
“Be quiet, Phil,” Omar snapped, mopping a hot graze of blood from his cheek.
Imran’s face hardened in consternation. “I cannot feel her,” he muttered. “I will kill that swine for hurting her!” Imran ran an anguished hand through his hair and glanced around the room. “Suddenly when things seem bad, they still manage to get worse.” His fury seared the atmosphere. “She also has my bloody lamp!”
Omar sighed heavily. “Why did she have it with her?”
“Well, she didn’t think she’d get caught, did she?” Phil offered in Primrose’s defense.
“No, I suppose not. Who would have thought he’d get past two Genies and a Manticore?” Omar agreed. “Well, we’d better get out of here. Quillian will be back for me, no doubt, and as we seemed to have proved, we are no match for him.” He struggled to his feet.
Imran assessed his brother dispassionately. He was covered in burns, cuts, and grazes from Quillian’s very systematic attack. “It would have been different if it had been a fair, one-on-one fight,” Imran said.
“When is it ever a fair one-on-one fight?” Phil quipped.
“Where shall we go?” Omar asked.
“I don’t know where you’re going,” Imran answered, “but I am going to find Primrose.”
At that instant, Imran began to feel very peculiar. His face froze, he clutched near his heart, and suddenly his breath seemed unable to leave his lungs. Imran felt his face puff, and heat burn throughout his body. Pressure was growing inside him, and he gasped trying to release it.
“Imran?” Omar asked. “Are you okay?”
“Does he look all right to you?” Phil contested. “He looks like he’s swallowed a shit sandwich!”
Omar ignored him, and then stiffly walked to Imran’s side. Suddenly Imran sunk to the ground, exhaling and wheezing as pain ripped through his entire being.
“It’s Primrose
, something…Oh, no! The last wish!”
Imran felt himself collapse completely onto the floor, his face landing on the thin carpet with an agonizing thunk. He couldn’t feel anything but a strange surging of power throughout his body. What was the wish? Did Quillian have his lamp? Is this how a Genie dies? he wondered vaguely, as sharp jolts and smooth waves of power rode him.
“Do you know what she wished?” Omar crouched down on the carpet beside his younger brother.
“No. I…” Imran gasped as another gush of power struck him. Again he struggled to exhale. His face reddened and his chest ached. His body felt full, close to exploding. It was unbearable. Suddenly, just as Imran teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, he released a massive gust of air. Something shimmered behind his eyes and he shook his head. Then the pain was gone as suddenly as it had come. Imran lay still for a moment, panting, struggling to control his breathing. After several more minutes he felt remarkably normal. In fact, Imran felt astonishingly free. He inhaled deeply. The air seemed fresh and cool and filled his entire body. His body felt whole, soul and flesh melded together once again after being separated for centuries. “I think…” Imran paused, and sent a tendril of power out as a test. His magic came out clear and shimmering, with no hint of black smoke.
“Did you?” Omar gasped. “You’re not a Genie!”
A look of total befuddlement swam across Omar’s face, as he stared searchingly at Imran.
“I think…” Imran repeated cautiously, as if it were a dream. “I think I am free.”
For a moment or two, Imran toyed with his shimmering, smokeless magic, as Omar stared.
“Now that is patently unfair!” he cried. Instead of joyous congratulations, Omar’s face fell and a dark frown marred his countenance. “What did Primrose wish for?”
Imran remained motionless, lost in thoughts.
It was one of the oddities of Genie magic that a Genie did not even have to be present at a wish-making. The curse of the Genie was so powerful that even in the mere presence of a lamp, a wish could be made and granted.
“I must find her,” Imran declared, a slow smile growing on his lips.
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