Djinnx'd (The Tamar Black Saga #1)

by Nicola Rhodes

The Tamar Black Saga - Book One

  Djinnx’d

  Nicola Rhodes

  © copyright 2009 Nicola Rhodes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  In the same series

  Reality Bites

  Tempus Fugitive

  The Day Before Tomorrow

  Faerie Tale

  Anything But Ordinary

  Rise of the Nephilim

  Pantheon

  ~FOREWORD~

  The author accepts no liability for the opinions expressed by the characters in this work (who are all insane anyway). Nor can any responsibility be taken for the possible mind bending effects (or terminal boredom) produced by the reading of this work.

  This is a work of fiction and any similarity to persons living, non-living or back from the dead is purely coincidental – as I will explain to my father when he is speaking to me again. (Sorry Dad.)

  No animals were harmed in the production of this work, but several members of the author’s family will never be the same again. This book is dedicated to them.

  For Mum with thanks.

  And for Claudia with love.

  And for Dad, thanks for bringing round carrier bags full of inspiration, and for talking endless nonsense with me.

  Note to readers

  The original printed text of this book contained many footnotes throughout, as comments or asides from the main text, but, since the ebook format does not support these, they have been added to the main text in this fashion* since they are meant to be read during the story, and not, as many footnotes or endnotes are, after the story.

  *[footnote text here]

  ~ Prologue ~

  In the beginning, there was the word. (Actually, there were two words.)

  And the words were “System Ready” because it was.

  And the programmers saw that it was good. Not as good as it could have been, because the bosses upstairs had only given them a week to build the program. So the universe was something of a rush job in the end, but deadlines were deadlines and it would just have to do. So they pushed “Enter” and the screen flashed up “Mainframe universal systems online”

  And underneath that > “Which file?”

  So, the programmers accessed the stellar matrix and switched on the stars.

  And the void was filled.

  And the programmers saw that it was good.

  So they switched on all systems and checked the files.

  There were files for all things that were and all things that would ever be. And there were some files for things that would never be, but this was dismissed as a system error. They could sort it out later. After all, it had been a rush job, and they could use the overtime.

  And so, the planets spun and the stars burned. Mainframe was up and running.

  And the programmers saw that it was good.

  So they left mainframe, which could pretty much run itself now anyway, and went home for their tea. After all, it was Sunday, and the bosses had temporarily vetoed the file for time and a half on weekends.

  And it was on the weekends that some pretty interesting new files were created that the programmers completely missed. A good example of this was the “magic” or “virtual reality” files. By the time the programmers realized what had happened within mainframe, the error was too large to correct. Magic was an integral part of the system, which could not be shut down from within. And the paradox, of course, was that once mainframe was up and running, the programmers who created it, were a part of the system, and always had been, so, when they tried to delete the files, the programmers found that they could not do it. All that could be done now was to try to modify the files from within to minimise the problems for the future. Many subroutines were written to exercise some control over the many and various types of magic that had been created.

  One of the worst type of magic files that had been created were the Djinn files. In order to try to sort this one out the programmers demanded, and got, their time and a half weekend pay. Even management could see that they would have to back down on this one.

  Even so, the problem was only partly resolved in the end. However, the programmers felt that they had it under control.

  There were around twelve hundred Djinn files to be amended. That is a lot of work in anyone’s book. Perhaps it is no wonder that they missed one.

  In the beginning, there was the word.

  And the word was “Error” And that explains a lot, doesn’t it?

  ~ Chapter One ~

  Have you ever pondered on what you would do if you were omnipotent for a day?

  Would it be world peace, an end to famine, the total eradication of all forms of county music? For one day? Obviously, what you do is, you make yourself omnipotent forever. Obviously! You are omnipotent, aren’t you?

  Okay, suppose you are offered three wishes. What should you wish for? Anybody who has given this any serious thought surely knows that the first thing to do is to wish for more wishes; which makes sense, don’t you think? Wrong. If it ever happens to you, I suggest you think seriously before uttering the words ‘I wish ...’

  The people in myths, fairytales and the “Arabian Nights” are notoriously lackadaisical about this. Take, for example, a humble fisherman who takes pity on a small and suspiciously glittering fish, or a poor, fatherless, teenage troublemaker who accidentally releases a Genie from a lamp not to mention every heroine who has ever been startled out of their hysterical fit by a Fairy Godmother. What they all have in common is that they all choose their wishes from the standard wish catalogue (aka wishes with hidden consequences.) Favourites include.

  Wealth beyond the dreams of avarice (but you cause the economic collapse of several small countries and end up in prison for tax fraud).

  Becoming a Prince (and then spending years croaking on a lily pad or wearing a monster suit because you offended a witch). Personal beauty (Beauty fades).

  True love and of course, a new frock and a glass coach so that you won’t miss the big celeb bash after all (the downside to this one should be obvious).

  And this, of course, is only the fortunate few who do not waste at least two wishes on a thoughtless slip of the tongue, i.e. ‘I wish you’d shut up and let me think.’ Genies in particular are obnoxiously talkative; it is all part of their plan to confuse you. All that they want is for you to make your wishes quickly and set them free (at least until the next time they get trapped in a lamp by some cunning sod). Then there is the absolutely fatal, ‘I wish I’d never opened that damned bottle/lamp in the first place.’ Genies do not like this one for obvious reasons.

  So, what would you wish for? The thing to remember is that all wishes come with a hidden catch, a trap for the unwary (and that all Genies are evil, devious, conniving swine). Better not to wish at all really, but let’s face it, how many of us would have the courage to say no?

  * * *

  Tamaria was bored. Picnics by the river with her sisters were a regular penance. Although it was hard to imagine anything else to do in ancient Greece on a hot, sunny day, except go shopping, which was what she wanted to be doing. Xanthe, who was a year older than herself, was dull and scholarly and always spent the whole day reading under a tree, leaving her to look after Lydia who was only four and usually fractious. What she really wanted, was to be at the Agora with her friends, buying silks and jewellery and staring at young men, who would almost certainly not stare back. Tamaria was ninete
en years old.

  The sun was burning down on her head; the wine was warm, and the food starting to smell bad.

  Xanthe, as usual, had not touched a bite, she was not interested in food or indeed in anything but literature, nor was she interested in anyone who was not interested in literature. She liked to think of herself as an intellectual, not being aware that there is a significant difference between intelligence and academia. In fact, Tamaria, who could not have quoted Aristotle if you had paid her, was far more intelligent than her elder sister (who, nevertheless, looked down on her) and she had, in addition, a store of natural cunning that she was not afraid to make full use of.

  And now Lydia was starting to yell, because no one was taking any notice of her. Tamaria longed to slap her. ‘Kids!’ she thought. Her head was aching, and she longed for some peace.

  She made a decision. ‘Xan, watch Liddy for me,’ she called out, ‘I won’t be long.’

  Although her sister showed no sign of having heard, Tamaria nevertheless started to walk away, leaving Lydia howling unheeded in a muddy puddle.

  Once the sound had faded away, Tamaria sat under a tree, slipped off her sandals and dangled her feet in the cool water.

  ‘Ahhh – OUCH!’ She jumped up. Something extremely solid and heavy had crashed into her ankle. ‘By Zeus!’ she cursed and then clapped her hand over her mouth and waited for the thunderbolt. Her mother had warned her about blasphemy. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ she had said, ‘seems as if there’s a god behind every tree these days.’

  When nothing happened to her, she said it again; then she bent over the water; rather like Narcissus, she thought, although with, she had to admit, little chance of the same result; her own face having what is charitably called an “unfortunate aspect”.

  She fished out what turned out to be a large, unusual looking bottle (unusual to Tamaria that is – in the Far East, where it had come from; it was a perfectly ordinary oil bottle such as you would find a dozen of in every household). To Tamaria, however, it was an intriguing curiosity. She turned it over a few times, shook it and pulled out the cork.

  BANG! (In point of fact, “BANG!” is a bit of an understatement when describing a noise that would make a nuclear explosion sound no louder than an Aerosmith concert, and when accompanied by the kind of special-effect that would have George Lucas throwing in the towel and going into radio).

  After the dust had settled and she had stopped seeing stars, Tamaria looked up and saw a …a …god? It had to be a god of course. Tamaria was basing this assumption on the manner of its arrival and the fact that it was twelve feet tall; apart from that, indeed, anything less godlike was hard to imagine (although Tamaria had never actually seen a god). For the most part, it just looked exceedingly odd. It had a large black, shiny face with teeth like tombstones in its grinning mouth. It was wearing a small, pointed beard with large black mustachios and enough bangles, earrings and chains to make The King of Thebes appear underdressed. On its head, it looked to have a large and colourful bandage fastened with a large jewel. Its chest was bare, apparently because the creature was so large that it needed two togas, one for each of its legs. Despite this, it had managed to find footwear that was much too large and had, therefore, curled up rather amusingly at the toes. Its first comment was ‘A HA, HA, HA, HA, HAR!’ which was not calculated to be remotely soothing or encouraging.

  Remembering her earlier blasphemy, Tamaria fell on her knees, trembling, but the apparition was speaking.

  ‘O’ My Mistress,’ it was saying, bowing low as it did so; ‘I am Askphrit the Black and you have released me from my long imprisonment. My wish is your command – curse it - I mean your wish is my command.’

  ‘I implore your forgiveness my Lord … sorry, what?’ Tamaria shook her head to clear it. Her ears were still ringing from the louder than BANG! Evidently, she decided, she had misheard; what it was undoubtedly saying was, ‘COWER IMPUDENT MORTAL ...’ etc. etc.

  The thing brought its face close to hers and repeated. ‘Your wish is my command.’

  ‘ ...?’ Tamaria gaped and followed this up with a pretty long silence.

  And then, again. ‘What?’ Tamaria was emboldened by the total lack of smiting that had so far occurred, although she was still feeling highly suspicious.

  This god (she wondered which one it was and was leaning towards Hephaestus as the most likely suspect, since all the other gods were reputed to be handsome). Be that as it may, this god apparently wanted her to make a wish, and Tamaria did not like it. Since, she reasoned, the gods knew her every thought, it had to be a trap to make her say something to offend them. The only question was, why bother?

  Gods, as she understood the concept, did not need much of an excuse to start the smiting or indeed any excuse at all, and they had no conscience to speak of. Still, it was probably safer to say nothing.

  The putative god tried again. ‘I said your wish ...’

  ‘Yes, but ... why?’ Tamaria interrupted. ‘My Lord,’ she added hastily, ‘I am but your lowly humble servant and as such surely not worthy of such kind attention, not that it is for me to decide my Lord.’

  Abasement, as her mother had often told her, was seldom out of place around a god. ‘The lower you can put your face the better really’, was what she had said.

  Tamaria agreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly, what she wanted more than anything at this moment, was to be several leagues underground.

  The “god” sighed. ‘Not this again,’ he said wearily, ‘look, get up you silly girl.’ He glowered at her, and Tamaria scrambled to her feet so fast that she dug a small trench, tripped over it and got up again, much slower this time. The “god”, to her horror, was changing form. He now looked reasonably human, if far too handsome to be real, and at least he was now a normal height.

  ‘Better?’ he asked.

  ‘Gnnng,’ said Tamaria.

  ‘Hmmm – no?’ said the “god” changing again. This time it looked like what you or I would recognise as a dragon, but Tamaria had never seen a dragon, nor did she know what one was.

  ‘AAAAGH!’ was the only comment, therefore, that she could come up with on short notice, not the most constructive criticism perhaps, but to the point.

  The dragon was immediately replaced by a venerable old man who looked rather like Zeus did in his paintings, but perhaps a little less muscular and fierce than the famed Thunder God.

  ‘How about this?’ asked the “god”.

  Tamaria fell on her knees again. ‘Mighty Lord ...’ she began.

  ‘By Allah!’ cursed the “god” and disappeared.

  ‘...?’ said Tamaria and looked around her in a slightly comical way rather like a cat chasing its tail. And then, because she was hot and tired and had been badly frightened she sat down and began to cry, she was, after all only young and had, up to this point, led a rather dull life and excitement apparently, was not all it was cracked up to be.

  ‘Huh, more weeping women – just what I need,’ said a voice from above her head crossly and mysteriously as far as Tamaria was concerned.

  ‘So how’s this?’ it added inconsequentially. She looked up, and saw … the best way to describe his appearance was, what in a modern American teen movie, would be the school nerd, bad clothes, pimples and a gormless expression.

  Tamaria smirked automatically; no it was more of a sneer really. She could not help it. She was, after all only nineteen and was popular among her peers by virtue of being from a well off family as well as being naturally bossy, which more than made up for her lack of personal attractions.

  She had also long since learned to hide her shrewd intellect, intelligence being anathema to popularity among the rich and brainless. Had she been beautiful, she would have been, on the surface anyway, the perfect airhead.

  ‘Ah, thought so,’ said the “god”, ‘good.’

  Tamaria was now more confused than ever. The voi
ce was the same, but surely no god would choose to look so ... so ... Well, ordinary was only the half of it.

  ‘LOOK,’ she said, finally losing her nerve, ‘if you’re going to smite me, just get on with it, will you? I don’t have all day you know.’ This, she could not help thinking, was the stupidest thing she had ever said, on so many levels.

  ‘Smite?’ said the “god” looking confused.

  Then his brow cleared. ‘Oh, its suicide then, is it? That was a wish then?’

  ‘No,’ Tamaria was alarmed. ‘No, please, I don’t want you to smite me – please!’

  ‘Someone else then?’ said the “god” equably. ‘Who’d you have in mind? Your wish – you know – is my command.’

  Finally, Tamaria opened her ears. ‘It is?’ she asked in wonder.

  ‘Yes,’ he told her patiently.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘By Allah!’ The “god” exclaimed suddenly.

  ‘Who’s Allah?

  ‘Who’s ...? Look; you really don’t understand do you?’ he said kindly. ‘Let me try to explain. I am a Djinn, Genie or Ifrit ...’

  ‘Well, which is it? And what are those anyway?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘As I was saying, I am a Djinn, sometimes known as a Genie or Ifrit. I am the slave of the bottle. You opened the bottle; therefore, you are now my mistress – until I have granted you three wishes. Then I will be free. They call me Askphrit the Black,’ he added, feeling sure that she had not been listening to him when he had told her this earlier.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Askphrit shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘They just do – the other Djinn I mean.’

  ‘Other Djinn?’

  Tamaria thought about all this, and then realized that she could not think about this, not yet, so instead she asked. ‘And who is Allah?

  ‘That’s not relevant right now,’ said the Djinn impatiently.

  ‘So, who is the mistress here,’ she said tartly, ‘and who is the slave again hmm?’ You can see that she was getting comfortable with the role already.