Djinnx'd (The Tamar Black Saga #1)

by Nicola Rhodes

  ‘Not even a scar. Besides I’ve got you to protect me from that and I can protect you from everything else. Now, are you going to help me find these covens or what?

  Unless ...’ she bit her lip, ‘you really have changed your mind? I mean, you know, it’s up to you. Like I said I’m fine really, I don’t mean to push. I just got a bit gung-ho, but ...’

  ‘Oh shut up. You’re babbling again; I said I’d help you and I mean to do it. It’s just that I think that maybe we should be more careful. I can’t see that being free is going to be much use to you if you’re dead.’

  ‘I’m immortal.’

  ‘Are you? Are you sure?’ He gestured to her leg.

  ‘Even Askphrit can’t kill me.’

  ‘If it was him.’

  ‘Makes sense, I’m pretty sure he was waiting for me. Who else has a reason? Besides he was scared off by you and the only thing that scares a Djinn is a potential master, like you.’

  ‘Potential ...?’

  ‘You have the bottle, and the power to put him back in it.’

  Denny sighed. ‘Okay, so what do you mean – covens?’

  Tamar explained.

  ‘... So it was worth it, you see,’ she ended. ‘The only problem is that there are so many of these women’s groups. Most of them by now will be splinter groups formed in imitation by ordinary women. So we have to find the right one, looks like it’s back to the Yellow Pages after all.’

  * * *

  In the event, they used the Internet, the computer easily provided with a snap of the fingers (along with a satellite TV).

  ‘They don’t even have MTV in this dump.’ Denny maintained that he could think better with some background music.

  Tamar, however, was proved to be correct in her assessment of their difficulties. The websites provided names and addresses of meeting halls, but, unsurprisingly, failed to highlight those groups with supernatural affiliation.

  Tamar was starting her search with the W.I. in the hope that she would not have to resort to the other option. Let’s face it; it would take a whole lot more than suffrage to liberate her.

  Anyway, she ended up zapping in and out of meetings until she was dizzy; just one example of this should suffice to illustrate.

  She would materialise in the car-park or driveway of the hall or house and first try to sense the magic

  That she did not, did not necessarily mean anything. Witch magic was different from other kinds and difficult to quantify (witches learn their craft over many years and tend to use potions a lot). Also, they would undoubtedly be shielding. Witches traditionally do not like magical competition.

  Then there was the problem of actually infiltrating the meetings.

  Tamar considered simply appearing in a puff of smoke – “KA–BOOM!”, and judging the reactions of the women. Any heart attacks or seizures or just plain fainting fits or other signs of shock such as gibbering and pointing would definitely eliminate the group. But Denny had vetoed this as far too risky, besides, ‘No harming the innocent, remember?’

  Tamar argued about this. In her view, there was no such thing as an innocent person. ‘Everybody’s guilty of something, even if it’s just rubbish singing or the wanton infliction of hideous pullovers on undeserving sons in law.’

  Denny would not have it, though. ‘They haven’t done anything to you,’ he insisted.

  So that just left entering the normal way and trying the magic code signs to see if she got a response, a slow and tedious method at the best of times. But worse than that, it had in the present circumstances, the potential to be highly embarrassing since the codes included:

  Surreptitiously revealing a pentangle tattooed onto a normally inaccessible part of the body. (Not a wise thing to do in the presence of a gang of middle aged housewives.)

  Producing fire from the palm of your hand (anybody with a box of matches can theoretically do this these days) or making the sign of the goddess Hecaté, a gesture that could be interpreted as a rude sign by ordinary folk.

  And there were others, which were, if anything, worse. Whichever she decided on would almost certainly offend the old biddies, or else she would come across as a complete lunatic. Risking the latter seemed the better option given her choices. She decided to go with a verbal code, although these were not much better really, involving words or phrases that sounded either insulting or like complete gibberish, see options a and b above. Option c was to simply walk into the meeting and say ‘Any witches in here? No? Good I’ll be on my way then.’ She would still be accounted insane but at least it would be over quickly. So that is what she did and was met with blank stares, which could mean anything (witches are nothing if not cagey) so she caved and gave the sign of the goddess and was promptly pelted with Victoria sponges, and threatened with Mr. Triplow's dog.

  ‘You ill-mannered young hussy, how dare you?’ said one.

  ‘Somebody put you up to it didn’t they?’ said another. ‘One of your silly friends, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Young people today, no respect,’ chimed in another.

  She beat a hasty retreat. There can be few more terrifying sights, even to an ancient Djinn who had spent time with Caligula and Attila, than a phalanx of infuriated golden agers advancing on you with walking sticks and knitting needles raised like lances.

  Denny had laughed like a drain when she had appeared back in the room covered in jam and butter cream. It had taken Tamar longer to see the joke. Jokes like ‘They shouldn’t have “trifled” with you.’ And ‘They sure “creamed” you.’

  I did not say they were good jokes. Denny’s sense of humour was roughly equivalent to the average men’s club compere.

  * * *

  Tamar tried variations on this for a while, always with similar results. So we will gloss over this part and jump forward to her arrival in Basingstoke of all places.

  She felt the magic as soon as she arrived. Hmm, she thought grumpily, all that trouble for nothing.

  Tamar clapped her hands together producing a gratifyingly large explosion.

  ‘Well ladies, now you know what I am and, make no mistake, I know what you are, so let’s talk. Unlikely as it may seem, I need your help.’

  An elderly witch stepped forward. ‘We know who you are Tamar Black,’ she said.

  ‘I see good news travels fast,’ said Tamar, sourly. She had had her new surname less than a month.

  Another one stepped in. ‘And we are aware of what you want.’

  A third spoke up. ‘We know all, we can see much.’

  Tamar lost patience. ‘What are you, “the three fates”? If you know what I want so much the better, now give me any hassle and my master will wish you all into chickens. I’d hate to do it but ...’ she shrugged, ‘a wish is a wish.’

  The terrified witches tried hard but had to admit defeat in the end. A finding spell was tried, but only succeeded in finding a mountain of lost pencils, keys, odd socks and teaspoons. Quite a bit of lost weight (causing much distress) one lost cat and one witch's lost virginity. Since everything that had been found, so far, had been lost in the vicinity of the community centre where they were standing (also used as a slimming club as you will have realized) this caused some curious looks. Then they found the bottle, which created some excitement for a few minutes until Tamar explained, before they gave it up.

  At this point, one of the younger witches started to have hysterics. Be careful what you get into. Witchcraft may seem cool and glamorous, but it is a lot more than dressing in black and chanting at the moon (sometimes actual magic happens). Lucinda, for that was her name, left the order soon afterwards and after a short spell in a facility became an accountant – thus avoiding excitement of any kind for the rest of her life.

  As it happened, Tamar could not have made good on her threat even if she had wanted to (and you can be sure that she did want to, very much) she knew Denny would never have agreed to wish for any such thing.
So she shrugged ‘Well, you did your best ladies, back to the drawing board.’

  And she was about to leave when another youngish witch piped up. ‘You need a sorcerer, a powerful one.’

  ‘Really?’ snapped Tamar. ‘I never would have thought of that. And where do you suggest I find one? Look one up in the Yellow Mages?’

  ‘You could go to Kelon,’ said the witch. (She pronounced it Kay-lone.)

  ‘Kelon?’ Tamar intercepted the black looks the witch was getting from the whole group.

  ‘You girls been holding out on me? Speak up or it’s chickens to the lot of you. Or maybe ducks, how do you feel about penguins?’

  The witches looked at each other nervously. Obviously being changed into ungainly birds held less terror for them than whatever this Kelon would do to them.

  ‘Look girls,’ she wheedled, ‘don’t worry, I won’t tell him you sent me, he’ll never know.’

  ‘She,’ interrupted one.

  ‘She then, look help me out and there might be a little something in your Christmas stockings, you never know.’

  ‘She’s bad,’ piped up an elderly witch with a face like a wrinkled cushion. (Vain in the extreme, Tamar could not understand any witch allowing herself to look like that when a simple glamour would take care of it easily. And so much cheaper than plastic surgery.)

  ‘She’s a bad woman.’

  The other witches nodded sagely.

  ‘Terrible – evil,’ chipped in another. They all nodded again.

  ‘Worst one we’ve seen in a long time. Eat you alive as soon as look at you. You stay away from her dear.’ There was more nodding.

  ‘I can handle her,’ said Tamar. The synchronized nodding was getting on her nerves.

  ‘Where is she? Don’t nod any of you or I’ll make you stay that way. Do any of you fancy a career sitting in the back of a mini-van?’

  The witches did a remarkable imitation of a group of garden gnomes.

  ‘We don’t know where to find her, just sort of how to find her, if you understand me, sort of a quest sort of thing.’

  ‘She’s hidden herself with spells, enchantments you know? In a sort of maze, well no not a maze. But you need clues, only people who have the clues can find her.’

  ‘And you have the clues?’

  ‘No, just the one; she doesn’t let anyone have them all.’

  ‘Who has the others?’

  ‘We don’t know, we’ve never looked for her. One clue leads you to another you see, at least I think so.’

  ‘Like a treasure hunt?’

  ‘Yes I suppose so, a quest.’

  ‘Good, then she’ll never know if you start me off, will she?’

  ‘She’ll know, besides she’s bad news, you don’t want to go getting mixed up with her.’

  ‘Don’t nod, any of you.’ snapped Tamar, before they could start.

  The witches froze in mid nod.

  ‘Okay, that’s better. Now the clue, Kelon’s my problem – when I find her.’

  The witches looked at each other. She could see them thinking. “Just give her the damn clue and get rid of her. It’s her funeral”. They nodded then stopped suddenly, self-consciously. But Tamar was smiling.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said.

  ~ Chapter Nine~

  ‘I think those witches were pulling my chain,’ said Tamar. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to wish them into chickens, I’d really enjoy that. – Or puffins.’

  Technically this was breaking rule seventeen. Well, this was, in fact, actually breaking rule seventeen and Askphrit – the νόθος’ had warned her never to break the rules for fear of terrible consequences. What consequences he had not said. But so what? She did not care anymore; besides, nothing had happened so far, even though she had said it at least twelve times, probably, she thought, because there was no chance of Denny agreeing to it, and she knew it. Or maybe, there were no terrible consequences; she had never risked it before, although it had occurred to her that Askphrit had made up the Charter out of sheer spitefulness. He was an evil νόθος.

  Denny did not bother to answer this time, the truth was that he was tempted – perhaps Tamar was having a bad effect on his morals. In any case, he was not sure that she was not right. They had come home with the clue two weeks ago and still could make neither head nor tail of it.

  It was not, as Tamar had expected, a cryptic rhyme or an interestingly shaped amulet that would turn out to be a key, even an ordinary key would have been something. Nor was it an ugly but significant statue that they could have referenced or an elaborately carved box or in short any of the usual clues to a quest. Not a jewelled chaplet or a sword, not even a paper knife. It was, in fact, a cigarette.

  Benson and Hedges. Denny had wondered if the brand name had any significance, but a trip to the factory had proved both fruitless and tedious. Denny did not smoke – too expensive, and a Djinn can smoke without cigarettes.

  It appeared to be a perfectly ordinary cigarette too; they had undone it - naturally, and run a hot iron over the paper for hidden messages – nothing. They had had the ingredients tested for – for, well for something, but it contained only what it said on the packet, well more or less, but neither Tamar nor Denny thought it likely that sawdust or bits of cork were significant in any way.

  It seemed that the only thing left to do was smoke it and what would that prove? They already knew what was in it.

  Of course, the name “Benson and Hedges” might mean something, but trying to work out what would be a mental exercise on a par with doing the ‘Times’ crossword in Chinese – without clues, or trying to figure out the point of line dancing.

  ‘I’m going to work,’ said Denny, ‘be good.’

  For answer, Tamar transformed herself into a horned beast, complete with cloven hooves and a tri-pronged tail and stuck out her tongue (black) at him. They both laughed, but after he had gone she became depressed. It was over – already. They had run smack into a brick wall.

  She had, of course gone back to Basingstoke to ask for an explanation, to beat it out of them if necessary, but the witches had, quite predictably packed up and gone. She could have hunted them down, but it was not worth the bother. If they had shafted her, there was not a damn thing she could do about it without Denny, and he was relentlessly moralistic about that sort of thing. Omniscient my πίσω πλευρά! She thought. But, of course “All Seeing” is not the same thing as “All Knowing” (fine print) not to mention that she could only do it if her master wished. Who would have thought that someone so weedy looking could be so stubborn?

  ‘Benson?’ she mused, too vague. There must be thousands of Bensons. Hedges ditto. A man named Benson with a hedge? ‘Oh this is ridiculous.’ An anagram? This looked promising for a while, but in the end, all she could come up with was: ‘hens do ban edges’ which was, if anything, worse than ever.

  ‘How about Ben’s son?’ No, again too vague. ‘Cigarette, ciggie, fag, smoke – smoke! What else smokes? Chimneys, fires, dragons?’ Then it hit her; it was so obvious, why hadn’t she seen it before?

  The cigarette was not the point at all – how could it have been? It was nonsense, and that was the point. Of course, she still was not much further forward yet, but she felt sure she was on the right track now.

  Nonsense, that was the point. She had been thinking the most ridiculous things ever since she had got the clue. Hold that thought – follow it through. Denny would be better at this really; Tamar did not have a strong sense of the ridiculous. You could not have if you spent your existence popping out of a bottle and saying ‘Your wish is my command’ and still managing to take yourself seriously.

  But she had the train of thought now. Could she get him to understand?

  So – nonsense? Things that make no sense; but what constitutes nonsense? Jabberwocky, Soap operas, Baby talk, Elvis movies, Chris Evans? No, this was not the way; it had to be something obvi
ous. ‘Oh hell!’ Maybe she was on the wrong track after all. Of course, magic makes no sense; at least, it was not logical, “smoke and mirrors” that is what humans called it. Smoke and mirrors ...

  * * *

  ‘Ready?’

  Place two mirrors facing each other with magic in the middle and it magnifies as it repeats back and forth in the reflections. This is dangerous in the extreme as it can create distortions in the fabric of reality, a doorway through time and space or both. It was almost certainly not an ordinary cigarette; it probably had a strong finding spell on it – very clever.

  They had set up the mirrors with the cigarette in the middle, in an ashtray stolen from the pub.

  So she had been wrong; the cigarette had been the point. She could hardly believe it had taken her so long to figure it out, she was getting slow in her old age. Thank God Denny had not asked her how she had done it.

  ‘Ready?’ she repeated.

  Denny gulped. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he affirmed.

  Tamar touched his hand briefly (very briefly – she did not want him going dizzy on her). ‘We don’t have to – not if you’re not sure.’

  ‘No, I’m sure, we can’t stop now.’

  ‘It’s dangerous.’

  ‘You already said – just light the cursed thing – or do you want me to do it?’

  Tamar picked up a match, which lit itself, and said ‘Last chance.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  She smiled and lit the cigarette placing it back in the ashtray, and then they waited.

  The smoke swirled as smoke will, reflected in the mirrors, giving a peculiar effect. Instead of dissipating, it looked thick – solid almost, and it was starting to swirl in circles, faster and faster and denser and denser, until it filled the space between the mirrors. Denny looked concerned.

  ‘Should it be doing that?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably – it’s the magic.’

  The smoke was now almost completely solid. It stopped swirling and started to shimmer like the surface of a murky pond. They could not see through it, but they could see movement behind it, just under the surface.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘A doorway,’ she grinned, – ‘coming?’

  ‘A doorway to where?’

  ‘Or when?’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘Yes – this is where the fun really starts – coming?’