Abbie blinked. He turned a deeper shade of blue, thrown off balance by this compliment from a bird on his sexual prowess.
“I don’t want to talk with him because he feels flattered. He can go scratch himself in his Lamp for all I care,” grunted the Witch and she folded her own arms across her own chest.
“You’re mad at me? After who you were with in Assjacket?” squawked the djinn and turned from Jazzlyn.
“You’re mad that I told Baba Yaga?” she demanded incredulously. “She’d have skinned me, tanned me, and made matching shoes and a bag if I hadn’t.”
“That’s disgusting. And I’m sure you’d make a fabulous ensemble,” twittered Skye.
“Not Baba Yaga. Psycho,” answered Abbie petulantly.
Jazzlyn squinted at him and rasped, “How do you know Psycho came looking for me? Were you spying on me?’
Abbie flushed and stammered, “No. Not really. Sort of. The Lamp was showing me the Aspirants and…”
“Oh! It was the Lamp’s fault?” Jazzlyn scoffed. “Tell the “Lamp” he can suck my left…”
Skye flapped furiously between their noses. “Cut. The. SHIT!” screamed the familiar in a voice that made the unseen walls of the Lamp ring. The two arguing lovers pulled back in surprise.
“You!” growled Skye as she wheeled on the djinn. “The Warlock was using potions—real ones—to try and get her to join him turning on The Bastard. The only thing he got for his trouble was his arm pinned to the table by his own dagger.”
Abbie turned and looked chagrined at both the bird and Jazzlyn. Jazz opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t get the chance.
“And you!” squawked as Skye wheeled on Jazzlyn. “If this floating, bald biscuit here had been the one to go out into a not-so-friendly world with two epically gaping bungholes out there with ill-intentions aimed at him, I’m pretty sure you’d have done a little misguided but emotionally inspired spying on his well-being, too. True?”
Jazzlyn took her own turn blushing. The two lovers turned to each other and sheepishly stepped closer. Their heartfelt apologies tumbled over each other dissolving first into embarrassed laughter and then into kissing. Deep kissing. The kind of kissing that usually ended with ordering breakfast.
Abbie yelped as Skye pecked one of his hands that had strayed close to Jazzlyn’s nether region. Skye chirped, “Um, isn’t curvy-bottom here in a Trial for someone’s Lamp or something?”
Jazz and Abbie reluctantly came back to reality. Jazz grabbed the djinn by the hand and took him to the portal to the mine. “Anything you can tell me about what’s in there, silky britches?” she asked.
“I don’t know anything that’s in there. The Lamp only passed through me what you need to get through. No idea what awaits you in there. Be careful. Use everything you know and even try things you don’t know if you need it,” said Abbie and he pulled her into a crushing embrace.
“Skye,” he continued. His voice was muffled from being buried in the side of Jazz’s neck. “Do what you can. Do what you have to. Bring her back to me. I’ve waited hundreds of years to meet her.”
And they kissed again with a fierceness that gave off love in waves.
“Stupid mush,” mumbled Skye through tears. “And not a word about bringing my hot feathery ass back in one piece, too.”
And with that, Skye and Jazz were down the cave and the portal disappeared.
Chapter Seventeen
The Bastard was furious.
Of course, he was furious more often than not, but this was different. He entered the cave full gallop in his Elk form. The problem with this tactic became all too clear; the cave had narrowed after about ten minutes. Five minutes of scraping his antlers against the walls of the passage and The Bastard had to shift back to his human form. Which meant he was wandering through a rough-hewn stone cavern, bare-footed and buck naked. He could still see a bit in the near dark thanks to his small amount of enhanced vision, but his feet hurt and he was covered in goose-flesh in the dank damp.
The cavern closed in again and the WereElk had to crouch slightly to get through. Hunched over, he heard scratching from the walls. The Bastard had no interest in finding out the cause of the sound, but he realized that whatever it was, he was going to be in the middle of it. In several places, pebbles fell from the ceiling and the side walls. Holes opened where this detritus occurred. Wrinkly, pale, pink faces with two matching pairs of massive out-facing teeth peered out from them. Five child-sized, hairless creatures fell into the passage.
A high-pitched voice whined, “Y’all in our home, big fella. Don’t recall you askin’ our permission.”
Naked WereMolerats. The Bastard had heard they were sometimes hired as miners in parts of the mountains. Had even seen a few in Backcrack Creek. Smaller, albino folk that usually wore big hats, sunglasses, and a lot of sunscreen out in the towns. They kept to themselves and usually came out to trade for goods. Very shrewdly, if he remembered right. Otherwise, they kept to themselves.
“Just trying to pass and get myself out. I don’t want no trouble and neither do y’all,” warned The Bastard flexing. He knew he was impressive, even in his human form.
“No one wants trouble. But if we let folks just invade our place whenever it hits ‘em, when does it stop?” squeaked one of the pinkish things.
One of its compatriots picked up a rock and began tapping a complex rhythm against the wall with it. The Bastard could hear a whole lot more scratching and saw about five more spots where pebbles were falling.
Ten of them against one of him. He felt he could take them, but it would get messy. But that wasn’t a problem. He didn’t mind messy.
“Ok,” mumbled The Bastard. He rolled his neck with a sound like a rock polisher. “Let’s dance.”
Psycho thanked the Goddess for Kane. Not for the first time, the special abilities of his familiar being a bat came in handy. Kane’s echolocation gave Psycho a phenomenal advantage in this particular Trial. It had allowed him to avoid several pockets of creatures who had been laying in wait for him along the passageway. Kane guided him constantly upwards.
The bat quietly flapped into the sphere of magical light Psycho had summoned. He didn’t look happy.
“What’s ahead, Kane?”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind about facing some Naked WereMolerats or massive earthworms, there’s no direct route out,” piped the leathery friend.
“Shit. Ok. I’m going to have to magically drill myself out somehow,” grumbled the Warlock.
“Do you have a spell that can do that?”
‘I’ll have to, won’t I?” snapped Psycho.
He looked at the wall to his left around eye level. He started casting a spell that should pulverize thick layers of stone at a time. As he finished, about eighty pounds of sand poured rapidly out of the newly created hole. The force of it almost knocked him over. He realized he was going to have to be able to withstand the weight of the displaced sand as it was created since he’d be crawling up the passage as it slid out. Trial of Force indeed.
“Kane. Pocket,” barked Psycho as he crawled into the hole he’d created.
Kane hovered around Psycho’s feet, which were sticking out of the hole.
“You know what? I’m just going to hang out here until you’ve blasted yourself out. I’ll fly on out and join you. No need for both of us to get sand in every orifice,” Kane said.
“Goddess damned coward,” grumbled Psycho.
He cast another pulverizing spell and another eighty pounds of harsh sand sluiced over him. It was punishing in its weight, the friction against his skin, the energy of casting the spell, and the force of it pouring past him out the bottom of his escape hole. He inched his way up the newly created ten feet of crawlspace. He had no idea how many more times he’d have to do this, but he was going to wind up with grit in every crevice and cavity of his body.
“First thing I’m doing is filling that asshole djinn’s Lamp with sand. See how he likes it,�
�� complained Psycho as the next load of sand pounded against him.
“Girl, we are going to have to get you the longest, deepest, most expensive manicure in history after this,” Skye whistled in concern.
Her familiar was commenting on the insane state of Jazzlyn’s hands and nails. Well, they weren’t nails anymore, strictly speaking. Jazzlyn had a run-in with a host of nearly blind WereCreatures that resembled massive star-nosed moles. Fortunately, it didn’t dissolve into fisticuffs as they interacted with the world almost exclusively through smell and they appreciated the ginger perfume she happened to be wearing. They guided her past a few other enclaves of subterranean dwellers which might have not been as hospitable. She was making good time until she came to a cave in. She could use a pulverizing spell, but that would mean crawling the whole way. She told Skye to wait in this cavern until she emerged into the light. That went over like a fart in church.
“I will crawl on my wings and knees until I’m featherless before I let you go on your own,” squawked Skye in indignation.
This gave Jazzlyn a better idea. She cast a transmutation spell on her arms and hands and they became large, vicious-looking, metal hooks. She used them like pickaxes and attacked the solid rockfall, smashing and digging her way through mountains of detritus. Skye wanted so much to help that she transmuted her own beak into metal. Unfortunately, this made her too top heavy to fly. Instead, she relegated herself to the role of cheerleader.
“Smash that slag! Crush that rock! Find your way back to that big, djinn co…”
“Thank you, Skye!” shouted Jazzlyn between blows.
But that was the key to her winning this Trial. She was motivated by something far beyond the power of the Lamp. She was fighting for… It wasn’t just lust or attraction, which would be fun enough. Was it the other “L” word? It was too soon for that, wasn’t it? Or was it?
Jazzlyn had been digging through solid stone for almost an hour. Her shoulders and back were in agony. Sweat ran in rivulets down her face and neck. She desperately wanted to lay down. To quit. But an image of a bald, blue head and strong arms drawing her into an embrace allowed her to draw on reserves of strength she never knew she had. She had to save her cerulean snuggle-bunny from those two evil, selfish lumps of fish-shit. She had to do it for Abbie.
Chapter Eighteen
Abbie paced in front of the exit portal, which had opened as soon as the entry portal closed. As far as the djinn was concerned, The Bastard and Psycho could be trapped under a ton of rubble and the parts of their bodies not under a pile of rocks could be devoured by lice as they were forced to watch until dead. All he cared about was Jazzlyn. She had to make it, had to survive or…or… Or he’d be impotent to do anything about it.
The curse would not allow him to do anything but be tormented by his failing for the woman whom he believed he was falling madly in love with. If she didn’t survive, her memory would be another brick in the prison he’d built for the past four centuries. As these thoughts drew Abbie down the path to his own personal Hell, a sound down the passage hit him like a slap to the face.
Loud shuffling footsteps and guttural muttering about needing a “damn beer” crushed his hope that it was Jazz. A gore-covered, naked giant stepped wearily from the portal.
“ThisTrial can suck my left, hairy nut,” growled The Bastard in exhaustion. He slumped down onto a nearby pile of cushions. “Who’s a guy gotta fuck to get a beer around here?”
“How about yourself. I don’t serve you.”
“Not yet, Dog. Not yet,” mumbled the WereElk. He pulled down one of the hanging fabrics and began to clean the blood and guts off himself.
A second scraping sound came from the exit portal. Psycho crawled from the mine exit caked in so much sand and grit, he looked like he a living statue. He coughed, wheezed, and flopped onto his back. “Something to drink, for Goddess Sake,” wheezed the Warlock.
“He ain’t your waiter. But I sure wish I had to piss so I could fulfill your wish,” The Bastard grunted with a hoarse laugh.
Abbie hurried to the portal and stared down the dark passage. It seemed deep as the Earth and utterly empty. The fear rose in his gorge to a level that threatened to overwhelm him. He raised his hand and a beam of light shot from his hand. The phrase “silent as a tomb” fought through the part of his brain which tried to shout it down.
The Bastard walked over and bumped the djinn’s shoulder. “And then there were two, right Dog?” chuckled the Shifter, looking like a death mask.
Abbie wheeled on him, thrust out a hand pulsing with power, curled in a claw. The Trial’s magic prevented it from crushing the life from The Bastard. The big man had not so much as flinched. The djinn’s magic went out like a candle.
“Damned if I don’t love getting to quote MC-fucking-Hammer. Can’t touch this!” crooned the Shifter as he danced around the djinn in malicious glee.
“Soon as Kane flaps his lazy ass up here, close it up, djinn,” agreed Psycho as he sat up, dusting himself. “Ding, dong, the Witch is dead.”
Abbie quaked with sorrow and rage and utter powerlessness. Tears filled his eyes, but he refused to let one fall from his eyes in front of these vile curs. Jazzlyn isn’t gone. She can’t be. Abbie thought. I’d know. I’d feel something.
A loud crash came from the gaping portal. The three men shot to their feet. A flapping noise sounded in the distance. Psycho smiled evilly at the djinn as he stepped to the portal, hand out for his bat familiar to land. Instead, a blue blur slashed past his face. The Warlock cried out in surprise and fell backwards. A dusty Skye landed on Abbie’s shoulder. She stuck her beak close to the djinn’s ear and whispered, “She needs help.”
Abbie ran to the edge of the portal, unable to cross its threshold. Lying in the dim light of the tunnel, Jazzlyn was on her hands and knees. She had cuts on her face and neck and was drawing breath in desperate gasps. She dragged herself up the stone wall of the cavern to standing. Abbie’s heart was pressing against his ribs in absolute joy. He felt like the Grinch at the end of the book. She saw him, and as truly banged up as she was, she beamed at him like he was bringing her flowers at a prom.
As she limped towards the opening, she saw Abbie’s expression shift from joyous relief, to confusion, to horror as he screamed, “Run!”
She glanced over her shoulder and broke into an exhausting scramble fueled by terror. Behind her were dozens of chittering, enraged Naked WereMolerats flying towards her. Their thick-nailed, clawed hands reached for her and their hideous front facing teeth gnashing in the air. High screeches of “Vengeance! Murderer!” shredded the air. Since The Bastard was at the end of the passage, they assumed the four of them were a group.
She’s not going to make it! Abbie’s mind screamed. He had not felt this desperate since the first moment he was captured by the curse. She was still at least ten feet from the opening and the first clawed hand grasped the back of her shirt. She threw her weight forward to wrench herself away. There was a loud tearing sound as her shirt gave from her move of desperation. The momentum flung her through the portal into Abbie’s waiting arms.
She sobbed in relief as the portal flashed shut. Abbie held her in the gentlest of embraces as he whispered, “Shhhh. It’s alright. You made it. You’re alright.”
The Warlock stalked to the djinn and grabbed his shoulder, intending to wrench him around. He would have had more success wrenching the Rock of Gibraltar. “Kane’s not back. Open the portal,” Psycho demanded. “I said open the fucking portal!”
Abbie calmly lifted Jazzlyn in his arms as three doors appeared. “I have no control of the portals. Nor anything having to do with the Trials. The fact that you both still breathe should make that evident. Your familiar may survive or not. I don’t know, nor do I care. There is a room for each of you. Rest or don’t. Tend to your wounds or don’t. The Trial of Mind will begin in two hours.”
He opened one of the doors and with Skye hovering worriedly around him, cradled Jazzlyn into the room
and shut the door.
Chapter Nineteen
Jazzlyn’s muscles ached. Her aches were aching. She was cut and bruised and looked like she had tried to steal all the coffee from an AA meeting. Skye fluttered onto the headboard and she looked straight down onto Jazzlyn. “Girl, you look like shit.”
“I love you, too, you hag.”
The sound of running water came from her left. She turned with difficulty and saw a huge tub the size of a small pool. The scent of ginger and lemongrass wafted up in the curling steam. Abbie was tending to the unguents and oils in the tub. He looked at her with a combination of soft-eyed concern and a fierce need to protect her. He was wearing nothing but a towel and condensation glistened off the rippling muscles under his blue skin.
An appreciative trill filled the air as Skye floated down next to Jazzlyn’s ear and teased, “Shit. That’s a box lunch with all the trimmings, my friend.”
Jazzlyn smiled – and even that hurt. Abbie flushed slightly as he walked to the bed.
“And if I had any kind of avian kink, I would truly be up in your business, Skye,” complimented Abbie. Skye answered this with an “aw, shucks” kick of her foot. She rubbed her soft, feathered head against Jazzlyn’s cheek and flew behind a nearby privacy screen.
Jazzlyn used most of her strength to reach out for Abbie’s hand. He took it and gently kissed it. “I have never been more frightened in my life,” he hissed.
“Same here.”
“Relinquish your claim on the Lamp,” choked Abbie.
“What?”
“I can’t watch you go through the Hell that might be awaiting you on the next Trial. I want nothing more than to serve you for the rest of your life, but nothing is worth you being hurt or worse.”
Djinn, Lose, or Draw Page 9
