“I can’t give his name. It is too dangerous.”
“Then you will die, Miss Brasco. If what you say is true, then only the individual who cast this spell can undo it…Surely you know that.”
“I know,” Primrose admitted. “I know.” She leaned back heavily in her bed. Dr. Chau bustled about observing her vital signs and frowning all too frequently.
“Miss Brasco, is there anyone I can call for you?” He knew the deterioration of her body would not be stopped by any medication. “Family? A priest?”
Primrose felt tears well in her eyes. It was so unfair.
“Am I such a lost cause?” she asked breathlessly.
“Unfortunately, if you are cursed as you claim, then it is the magic causing the accelerated deterioration to your body and organs. No medicine will work against it. I am sorry. We could perhaps work to prolong life by controlling the cardiac arrhythmia with a pacemaker...but with your rate of deterioration this would be a high-risk procedure...”
Primrose looked up at him through her ever-blurring vision. Her brain was working slower, her breathing harder. “My parents, my sister,” she rasped. “Call them.”
Oh, Imran, where are you? she thought. Her mind swam with images of him arguing with Omar. Then another popped in her mind—Imran sitting alone in her kitchen. The image was gone as soon as it had come.
“I will need phone numbers,” Dr. Chau said uncertainly.
Primrose shook her head. “I…I…” She coughed, and felt moisture on her lips and a metallic taste in her mouth. “I can’t remember.”
In a gesture that seemed unusually gentle for such an awkward man, Dr. Chau removed a tissue from the box beside the bed, and mopped the bloodied spittle from her mouth.
“I will see what I can do, Miss Brasco. I will organize a transfer to Fremantle Hospital. Our facilities here do not meet your requirements.” He hadn’t finished his sentence before Primrose fell asleep.
Back in Primrose’s little house, Imran awoke from his trance. He felt her, down there, south of the city. He had seen blurred images of her surroundings, a hospital? During his trance, the sun had risen and a new day dawned fresh and brisk.
Imran knew instinctually he must reach Primrose now, as whatever it was that still linked her to him was fading.
In a shimmering haze of sweet magic, Imran concentrated. He concentrated so hard his head pounded and his stomach churned. He willed himself to Primrose’s side. Finally, with a throbbing head and a fluttering heart, his body materialized in a hospital room.
Chapter Nineteen
When Imran opened his eyes, sirens were wailing and startled patients were scurrying out of their beds and into the corridor.
“Unregistered magical being detected, ward 5. Unauthorized magic usage, ward 5. Unregistered magical being detected, ward 5,” an androgynous voice boomed across the PA system in the corridor.
Without taking a glance at the bed and its occupant, Imran slammed the room’s door closed and locked it with a spell.
The siren in the corridor wailed all the louder.
The hospital room itself was quieter. Gathering his bearings, Imran spun around to face the bed.
He frowned, glancing at its withered occupant. “Have mercy, I’m in the wrong room!” Imran grumbled to himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair. Feeling a hot spasm of panic, he threw an angry glance at the observations chart. “I’m sorry to disturb you Miss…Bras…” Imran stopped, the name caught in his throat. “Brasco?”
Someone was pounding on the door.
“Open up! This is Dr. Chau! That patient is in a critical condition! We need to send her up to Fremantle ICU. Let me in!”
Imran heard nothing of this. He silently swept to the bedside and crumpled down beside it.
“Primrose!” he gasped.
Primrose was unconscious, and evidently ancient. Flesh clung to her face like thin, wet rice paper, and her bluish veins pulsed weakly behind the thin veneer. Her hair, or what was left of it, was grey and frighteningly sparse.
“Is that really you?” Imran ran a tentative hand over her skeletal arm. He was alarmed by the number of tubes. “Please, Primrose!” He sobbed.
Primrose’s eyes fluttered open, and she rolled her head to the side and stared at him blankly.
A thick lump grew in Imran’s throat as he looked into those rheumy brown eyes, so familiar, yet now so alien. Cataracts clouded the center. There was total incomprehension in their depths.
“What did he do to you?” Imran cried with shock and horror.
Chau was banging on the door again, screaming for orderlies to break it down. Imran pulled Primrose to him. He could feel her life force struggling like a bird in the mouth of a cat. “I won’t lose you!” he declared furiously. “I can’t lose you! Not now!”
Pressed hard against Imran’s strong, broad chest, Primrose blinked and struggled to breathe. Imran ran his hands over the bones in her back.
“Please fight, Primrose! For me!” He released her gently back into the bed.
Those strange brown eyes regarded him warily, and a frown grew on her forehead. She couldn’t remember how to speak.
They stared at each other a moment before Primrose’s heart monitor began to beep alarmingly.
Imran knew he had only a very short amount of time left with her and there was nothing this hospital could do to help.
He grabbed her and lifted her from the bed, tubes and monitors broke free, and a crashing was heard on the door.
“By God, I will get you healed!” he hissed as Primrose crinkled like a dried leaf in his arms. They disappeared.
Imran could think of only two things, Primrose and Quillian. He knew without a doubt Quillian was the only one who could fix this curse. Imran’s only concern was how to make him.
They materialized in a tumble of arms and legs at Quillian’s mansion. It wasn’t the easiest arrival Imran ever made. Primrose groaned as they crumpled onto Quillian’s cool, smooth floor.
“I wondered if you would be back.” Quillian’s voice echoed from somewhere nearby before Imran had time to center himself.
Imran stood up abruptly. Primrose was still and light in his arms. He looked around and saw Quillian standing somewhat awkwardly behind his desk. The door to the Genie room was open as if he had been caught in the middle of something. From a quick glance into the Genie room, Imran could see it had been cleaned up and there was no indication of broken glass or Hamza’s presence.
Within a few seconds, Imran’s attention returned to Quillian. His eyes were guarded, and he shifted nervously behind the desk, but didn’t attempt to move. Primrose gave a hiccupping gasp and blood bubbled in her mouth.
“What have you done?!” Imran screamed, hysteria as the thought of her dying flooding him. “What have you done to Primrose!”
Quillian shuffled uncomfortably behind the desk. “Oh, settle down. Surely you can recognize the Aetate provectus curse when you see it?” He sniggered.
Imran’s face hardened and he threw a smack of power at Quillian. It hit the evil magician like a sharp wet towel in the face. The smirk disappeared in a shocked scowl, and a red welt appeared in its stead.
“That wasn’t nice, Genie!” he hissed, but strangely didn’t move to attack.
“It wasn’t intended to be!” Imran snarled. “Fix her. Fix her now!”
Quillian raised his hand and rubbed at his reddened cheek. “Hold on now, Genie. I want to know a few things first. Let us not hurry.”
“Primrose doesn’t have time!” Imran lowered her to the ground, trying to keep an eye trained on Quillian. Blindly, Imran felt for her pulse and it fluttered weakly under his touch. Imran stared down at her as if absorbing the horror of her emaciated form for the first time. The vibrant yellow T-shirt was stained and hung usel
essly, exposing some of the bones in her décolletage. She looked like a mummified cave woman. Imran could feel tears thicken his throat. He closed his eyes a moment, and pushed a little of his power into that stricken, fluttering heart muscle. Imran’s power pulsed through his hand, and washed rhythmically into her body. In response, Primrose’s weakened heart pulsed a little livelier, but Imran knew within a few moments, or minutes it would cease to beat at all.
“Oh, so you do know a little healing. Quillian watched with interest Imran’s gentle interaction with Primrose. Imran looked up at Quillian’s face and just for the sheer malevolence of it, threw another smack of power right into his chest.
Quillian jerked back and a singe mark cut through his perfectly ironed white shirt.
“Oh, my wife will not be pleased,” he murmured, and ran his hand over it, wincing.
“Why aren’t you moving?” Imran hissed, watching him perplexedly.
“I…” Quillian paused uncertainly, his strange yellowish eyes darting around nervously.
Quickly uttering a spell, Imran created a small soft pillow to cushion Primrose’s head, his eyes only leaving Quillian for the briefest of moments.
“Do not come any closer!” Quillian barked as Imran stepped toward him. Anger and fear at losing Primrose made him feel like a dangerous and vicious animal. He couldn’t contain the hatred and anger that radiated from him.
“Why? What are you going to do?” Imran growled, throwing a gentle shield of shimmering power around himself. Imran glowed golden and sparkling, with not a hint of scented black smoke.
Quillian noticed this with interest. “Where is your smoke, Genie?”
“I don’t know,” Imran replied, stepping cautiously closer.
As a little test to himself, Imran threw some power at Quillian, and again Quillian was struck on the face.
Quillian grimaced and a welt appeared where the blow struck his left cheek.
“Hmmm, my power seems once again to be my own, and I can use multiple magic. Won’t that be fun, Quillian?” Imran taunted. “What did Primrose wish for, Quillian? What did that poor woman wish for while you tortured her?”
Quillian’s eyes narrowed as Imran approached, but he didn’t move from his position behind the desk. Imran now stood only a foot away. From this distance, Imran could see Quillian standing in some sort of a tub. The magician’s bare feet appeared to be locked into a highly developed foot spa!
“Are you?” A smile lit up Imran’s face. “Are you…recharging?”
Quillian’s face reddened, but he said nothing. Imran suspected he could not move until his power had been replenished. This replenishment would no doubt take significant time, considering how much power the magician used in the past forty-eight hours.
Imran smiled with feral joy and knew Quillian could do nothing to stop him. In a gesture of defiance, Imran lifted Primrose up and rested her skeletal remains on the desk before Quillian. The jerky movement suddenly interrupted her breathing and Primrose coughed again, bloodied spittle seeping from the side of her mouth and dribbling down onto the expensive desk. Quillian scowled, but said nothing.
“How fortuitous, Quillian! You’ve not been able to set up any security wards, have you? Used up too much stolen power moving those Harpies around, did you?” Imran beamed but the smile dropped immediately. “Now,” he said, his face cold and angry, “fix her.”
“I can’t,” Quillian groaned. “I cannot perform magic when I am, as you so quaintly put it, recharging.”
At that moment, the door to the study swung open and Leucosia strode in, looking very cross indeed.
She stopped and her eyes widened as she recognized Imran standing near Quillian. Leucosia absorbed the scene before her eyes narrowed and settled on Primrose, who lay withered and ancient on the desk.
“What is going on here?” she sang, her voice flighty and upset. She ignored Imran and focused on Primrose. “Who is she?” Leucosia’s beautiful melodic voice was flattened by what Imran could only understand to be jealousy. Imran looked at her incredulously. Leucosia’s weathered skin was pink with anger and her strange opaque eyes flashed with irritation.
“No one, dear. Nothing for you to worry about!” Quillian murmured soothingly.
“No one for me to worry about?” snapped Leucosia. “Hardly! I believed you when you told me you only consorted with Harpies for business—despite the fact you know how I loathe Harpies!” Quillian recoiled from her rage. “Now I find you with this! A Baba Jaga by the look of things! I knew your taste in women was…eccentric, but you said I was the only one you wanted! What is your excuse this time?”
Imran was astounded to realize Leucosia thought Quillian was having another affair. If Primrose’s situation hadn’t been quite so dire, Imran would have left him to his Siren mistress, but time was not on Primrose’s side.
“Leucosia, I don’t think now is the time to discuss things,” Quillian said, and Imran wondered why he didn’t just deny the accusation. A long moment strolled past, and Imran began to notice a lot of nonverbal signaling coming from Quillian.
Leucosia stared at Quillian uncomprehendingly. “What? Not the time? I have been haunting this house with nothing to do for days! Hiding from your human wife, like some…criminal! Now I find you with another woman prone on your desk! I demand to know what is going on!” she screeched. “I have given up everything for you! This is how you repay me?”
Leucosia obviously wasn’t taking Quillian’s nonverbal cues.
“Leucosia!” Quillian pleaded, looking distressed. “Please!” His eyes darted toward Imran.
Leucosia stared at Imran as if only just realizing his presence. “What are you doing here again?” she sang irritably.
“He has cursed Primrose,” Imran began. “He must cure her.”
Leucosia was briefly silent.
“This…is Primrose?” Leucosia asked, her orb-like eyes absorbing her as if trying to fathom where the young thirty-one-year-old had gone. “I can’t say it is an improvement,” Leucosia crooned.
“Depends on whose eyes you’re looking through,” Quillian commented, with a disturbingly lewd gaze. It was only when Leucosia flew at him that Quillian realized he had said the wrong thing.
“You bastard!” Leucosia screamed, her voice still a song but a very churlish one. “You did this to her on purpose, so you would find her desirable!”
Leucosia slapped Quillian’s face with her taloned hand, leaving yet another reddened mark.
Quillian stood sullenly with his battered face, completely unable to move. “No,” he said in his defense. “I only did it so she would make her last wish…It has nothing to do with my…preferences.”
“Enough!” Imran interrupted. “She is dying, Quillian. Fix her.”
“I told you I cannot! Not until my power has been restored,” he snapped.
“Do you think I am a fool, Quillian? Primrose may well be dead by that time, and I am not likely to let you fully charge and attack me with all that power―oh, no.”
Quillian’s face was stony, but it paled significantly.
Leucosia remained motionless as the heat of Imran’s rage grew.
“Have you ever felt the exquisite pain of one thousand pins being forced through your heart, Quillian?” Imran whispered. “Perhaps a fire being lit in the pit of your belly, and slowly cooking your innards alive?” Imran laughed bitterly. “In the homeland of my youth, I learned many interesting and cruel torture techniques in readiness for my Sultan’s needs…Shall I put them into practice now?”
Quillian stiffened but said nothing. He knew, without being told, some of the barbaric torture techniques used in the Ottoman Empire of Imran’s youth.
“Cure my mistress now, for if she dies, you shall follow—only slower and with a great deal more pain.”
Quillian looked
imploringly at Leucosia. “You aren’t going to let him kill me, are you? My love?”
Leucosia’s brow furrowed. “Fix her,” she sang. “Perhaps that will be some recompense to Imran for my betrayal.”
Imran nodded curtly.
“I can’t!” Quillian groaned. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, although the room was uncomfortably cool.
Primrose spluttered and heaved for breath.
“You have two minutes, Quillian,” Imran commanded, his heart beginning to pound in sympathy for Primrose.
“I can’t!” Quillian pleaded, panic-stricken.
“Then you will die.”
Imran glared at him, and under his breath he began to chant something.
Quillian suddenly squealed like a piglet, the pitch rising with every passing second. “Okay!” Quillian roared, clutching his stomach. “I will try!”
“You will do more than try!” Imran snarled, his white teeth flashing.
Quillian bent closer to Primrose, studying her. He raised his hands above her chest as if testing the strength of her life force.
“I don’t know if this will work! I may not have enough power!”
“You better!” Imran renewed the burning sensation in Quillian’s gut and he doubled over, grunting in pain. “You will suffer, Quillian. If she dies, I will go mad! I will flay the flesh from your bones until your fleshless face begs for mercy, and when you die, I will torture your very soul. Be forewarned, I will be capable of cruelty greater than you could ever imagine!”
Through the raucous groaning of Quillian, Primrose began spluttering again.
“Do it, man!”
Leucosia remained unmoved throughout the process.
Frantically, like a drowning man, Quillian leaned closer to Primrose and started whispering something that sounded like a prayer. Imran listened intently and he could hear the words of the curse being muttered repeatedly. It was evident Quillian was struggling. The few beads of sweat turned into showers of moisture that spattered and plopped over Primrose.
The room exploded in the corrupt stench of Quillian’s power. It hung like a heavy blanket over them as he worked his magic. Slowly, however, under Quillian’s constant utterings, Primrose’s face seemed to fill, and her hair began to grow back thick and lustrous. Her breathing became less shallow and color returned to her cheeks. Her recovery was breathtaking.
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