Born of Magic
Mata Hari Series - Short Story 2
Jo-Ann Carson
JRT Publications
Nanaimo, B.C. Canada
Born of Magic Copyright © 2015 by Jo-Ann Carson Terpstra.
Contents
Foreward
Praise for Born of Magic
Aknowledgements
1. And so it begins..
2. The Sorceress
3. The Alley
4. The cruelty of fate
Also by Jo-Ann Carson
About the Author - Jo-Ann Carson
Excerpt from Ancient Danger
Foreward
Born of Magic Blurb
The Egyptian Sorceress wanted a child of her own.
The arms-dealer wanted power at any cost.
Together they conceive a son destined to change the world.
Praise for Born of Magic
“Born of Magic is a short, fun romp in the world of espionage Jo-Ann Carson has created with her Mata Hari Series. In the first installment of the series, Covert Danger, I found myself wanting to know more about the mysterious, yet handsome arms dealer, Bakari al-Sharif and his sorceress, Djeserit, and boy, does Carson deliver! As an interlude from the series’ main characters, Seb and Sadie, Born of Magic is full of delicious information, rich with history, and saturated with details of international destinations. Carson weaves magical scenes full of sensory details that ensure the readers gets transported to the fictional time and place. We learn more about the history between Bakari and Djeserit, and I have a feeling the events in this installment will lead to some of the conflict in the next book of the series, Ancient Danger. I fully recommend this read.” ~ JC McKnzie, 5 star Goodreads review
“… a seamless bridge between books one and three in the Mati Hari Series… The author gives us the background story of Bakari Al Sharif, an arms dealer, and Desjerit, the sorceress. Bakari is in Amsterdam and it is 1996. He’s enjoying the thrill of pulling off a huge arms deal with Nigeria and is in the prime of his life. Meanwhile, Desjerit has a premonition she’s going to die a painful death. She’s frightened and in a desperation, she embraces the dark powers within her.
A seductive and enchanting short story, Born of Magic is sure to whet your appetite for Ancient Danger.” ~ N.N. Light, 5 star review on Amazon.com
“…Another great addition to the Mata Hari series!” ~ J Reads, 5 star review on Amazon.com
Aknowledgements
I’d like to thank my husband, Piet, for being an awesome beta reader for this short story.
Philip Newey for his detailed copy editing, and Nina French for her beautiful cover design.
Some old cars can never be fixed.
1
And so it begins..
“Proud people breed sad sorrows ….”
Emily Brontё
Amsterdam, spring, 1996
Arms dealer, Bakari al-Sharif leaned back in the rickety, wooden, café chair with a smile so wide it made his damn cheeks hurt. He’d made it. All the battles he’d waged in his lifetime; all the years of cultivating connections in every country of the world; and yes, even the cruelty he’d meted out to gain respect, had been worth it, for this one moment of victory. He had made his operation the biggest and the best in the business.
Stretching his neck to release tension, he let his tough-negotiator face relax. The smell of rancid sweat still hung in the air, from the nervous client who’d left only two minutes before. Everything had come together for Bakari at last.
The door of the café opened. Two new coffee drinkers entered. Outside, dusk seeped slowly into the streets of Amsterdam, under a dark and heavy sky that threatened rain. Although it was spring, the air held the damp chill of winter and the wind blowing in off the Ij river carried a bitter bite. Bakari took a long sip of his tea.
Scanning the café he carefully checked patrons’ faces and hands, a practice he honed years ago. Faces for recognition, hands for weapons. The place bustled with energy. The tables were filled with people talking mostly in Dutch, but in other languages as well. German, French, English and a little Italian. Laughter spilled into the room as friends and lovers met for conversation and “together time.” The Dutch called it gezellig, which translated as “cozy”, but it was much more than that.
The Dutch culture embraced this basic sense of humanity in a way Bakari had not experienced anywhere else. A wave of comfort washed over him as the warm feelings in the crowd pushed against his gruff exterior. One didn’t visit Amsterdam. One lived it
People minded their own business. A “live and let live,” philosophy ran deep in the Dutch blood. That made it a good place for him to conduct his business deals.
No one noticed him negotiating a contract in a café. No one cared. No one, at all.
Having checked-out every person in the establishment, Bakari chuckled. “I love the freedom of Amsterdam. The people are so… liberal,” he said.
Across the round table sat his two brothers, younger versions of himself. Fit-looking Arabs, with raven black hair cut short, olive skin and dark eyes so cold they could make the devil shiver.
Chasisi, the elder of the two, sneered back at Bakari, then blew cigarillo smoke into the air. “Amsterdam.”
Hasani, the youngest, nodded and looked down at the table covered in a colorful tablecloth. His agitation spoke volumes to Bakari. The man wanted this meeting to end so he could have some fun. Who could blame him? He was only twenty and the night looked promising.
Their waitress, a young women, with wide, blue eyes and round, firm breasts that threatened to fall out of her tight shirt whenever she bent over, had been giving Hasani flirtatious looks since she took their order thirty minutes ago. Possibly she hoped for a big tip, but more likely she’d been drawn by his handsome features and distinctly, bad-boy look.
Rubbing his cleanly shaven chin, Bakari couldn’t help but smile again. He’d chosen the quiet, corner café on the Keizergracht, in the cobblestoned, medieval center of the city, to close the biggest deal their business had ever landed, because the place looked normal. Scores of bicycles lined up outside its doors. Tour books called it “quaint.”
Intoxicating smells of cinnamon, cardamom, ginger and star anise rose as he poured more chai into his cup. Beside it sat a slice of appeltaart made with Granny Smith apples, buttery pastry and thick, whipped cream. After a sip of his tea, he sighed. A quiet moment of celebration in his otherwise chaotic and violent life.
Yes, things had gone well. The arms deal they’d completed with the Nigerian, added twenty million dollars to their bank account, and increased their influence. A sweet deal. Bakari cut into his pie for his first bite. The pastry flaked around his fork.
“You say you like the freedom of Amsterdam, but you just like the sex,” Chasisi said in a dry, practical voice as if he were discussing a sum of numbers on a bank sheet. His bitterballen lay untouched on the table in front of him.
As he sucked hard on his cigarillo, his eyes flowed around the room, like water in a mountain stream surrounding, stopping, flowing, turning, and winding around every object in its way. The head of security for the family business, he stood on guard at all times. Taller and leaner than Bakari, his angular face could turn as hard as rock in an instant, and terrify the roughest scum on the earth. A trait Bakari honored.
Bakari laughed good naturedly. “Sex? Yes, sex is good in Amsterdam,” he said. “But I just married my third wife and I’m content for now. I like new wives.”
“You? Content?” Chasisi’s eyes dramatically strayed to the tall blond dressed in a tunic that clung to her curves as she walked down th
e narrow aisle between tables. His eyes rested on the slow, seductive sway of her hips.
Following his brother’s gaze, a hungry smile spread across the young Hasani’s face and then it drained of color. He had the overwhelmed look of a puppy left in a car on a hot day. Chasisi turned back to look at Barkari and cocked a brow.
Bakari shook his head. “Nice. Very Nice. But like I said, I’m satisfied for now. Next week I turn twenty-seven. I’ve attained all the goals I set for myself and then some. Not many men can say that. We are no longer a poor family living off the charity of others, and with tonight’s deal there is no stopping us.”
The young Hasani stared at Bakari, fire kindling in his eyes. “Be careful what you say Bakari. You could anger the…”
Bakari laughed. “Gods? Let your gods be angry with me. Let everyone’s gods be angry with me. I built the largest, arms-dealing organization in the world. No one can take me down.”
His brother’s eyes narrowed and his lips trembled, but he held his tongue.
The door opened and a fresh gust of wind hit Bakari’s face. He blinked and felt the color drain from his face. Then he laughed, a deep belly laugh. “It’s just the wind. I’m not a superstitious man.”
“You can’t ignore Allah.” The young Hasani shook his head. “Pride will be your downfall.”
“Religion is a weakness. One I can’t afford.” Bakari shrugged.
Chasisi stopped looking around for a moment and let his eyes stay on Bakari’s. “What about Djeserit? Is she not a weakness?” The edges of his thin lips twitched.
“She’s necessary. I value her counsel.”
Chasisi laughed. “Bakari, you delude yourself. She claims to be an Egyptian sorceress, an adept, schooled in the arcane magic of ancient Egypt. But I’ve seen her type before. She’s nothing more than a con-artist.”
“She gives good advice.”
“Bull shit. She manipulates you.”
Heat rose to his cheeks. Bakari slammed the table with his fist. “I don’t pretend to understand what she does, but she has been instrumental in making me who I am.”
“And is well paid.” Chasisi’s eyes hardened.
“I don’t know why we’re talking about this now. Djeserit is not your business. She will never hurt you or anyone in the family.”
“You chose to have the meeting here in Amsterdam, so you could visit her. I’m not stupid.”
Bakari shrugged and looked away.
“Explain it to me brother. It doesn’t make sense to me. You refuse to worship any gods. You don’t acknowledge any of them. Yet you go to her as if she were an altar to another world. I tell you, she’s a manipulating bitch who spouts mumbo-jumbo-crap. She plays with your mind. She’s dangerous.”
“You’re letting gossip cloud your head. She poses no threat. Djeserit’s a normal woman with an extraordinary understanding of life. Nothing more. Her vision has helped me over the years.”
“And how much does she charge you, to tell you that you are strong, handsome and… will succeed?”
Bakari scowled. Anger churned like acid his gut. He had trouble controlling it, but he didn’t want to make a scene here. “Enough Chasisi. Your scorn cannot dent my good mood this night. Eat. Enjoy.” He motioned to the untouched food in front of his brother.
The corners of Chasisi’s mouth twitched.
Bakari nodded. “Okay, I pay her and I take her gifts, but I can afford to treat my friends well.” He waved his hand in the air. “Consider her a paid adviser. Or if that doesn’t suit you, consider her a good-luck charm, a living talisman, for me. Whatever. I don’t ask that you believe in her. Just believe in me. My relationship with her works to our advantage. Never knock what works.”
“Works? With gypsy cards and moldy incense?” Chasisi scoffed and spit on the floor. “I tell you she’s in league with dark forces. You should stay away from her.”
Dark forces? Strong words from him. “Have you heard something?”
He shook his head. “Djeserit claims to be initiated in the old ways. She says she communes with spirits living and dead, controls people around her with spells and travels into their dreams. She says she knows the old ways of Egyptian magic. Many believe in her. She plays the part of the sorceress well.”
“Interesting,” he said and meant it. Whatever she did it helped him. That’s all he knew, and all he needed to know. He was a pragmatic man. He wasn’t superstitious, but the wisdom and the arcane knowledge of ancient Egypt was another thing. Larger somehow. He used Djeserit for her knowledge and her skills.
“And worst of all…” Chasisi’s face paled.
Bakari leaned in.
“She has been asking questions about you.”
Bakari laughed and sat back. “She’s not my type.”
“I’ve never known you to care about “type” when it came to women. I warn you, Bakari, Djeserit is dangerous. She has too much… influence over you.”
Bakari waved his hand in the air. “Let’s talk football.” Enough gossip from the markets of Cairo. It had been Djeserit’s advice that had cinched this last contract. She’d told him exactly how to handle the Nigerian. She had told him to ask about the man’s son, the key to his heart. Her advice had been dead-on. She had an ability to read people and situations that had proved valuable time and time again. He trusted her and would continue to trust her, until she gave him reason not to.
“She’s after you, Bakari.”
“After me?” Nah. He knew women, and he’d know if that were the case. Their relationship had always been platonic. She’d never shown signs of wanting him sexually.
He had nothing to fear from her—only to gain. Power.
Bakari shook his head. “Enough about women and… ancient Egyptian magic.”
[i] Emily Brontё
2
The Sorceress
“There is no evil in sorcery, only in the hearts of men…”
(Merlin, the TV show)
Eighteen years ago, Amsterdam
Djeserit, the sorceress, sat by her crackling wood stove in the tiny cabin of her house-boat in Amsterdam, watching the flames rise, and wishing… wishing with all her heart, that she could change fate. The cards had warned her years ago that she faced a horrible death, but she’d paid no heed to them. She heard the truth in the wind, but refused to listen. But when her own sister, Chione, confronted her, she finally faced what lay ahead. And it wasn’t good.
Why couldn’t she be a normal woman, live and love, have a family, have a place in the future, as well as the here and now? Why?
Life was unfair. She opened the door of the small stove and stirred the fire with a poker. She put on another log, even though its heat would never reach the icy coldness she held inside. The icy grip of fear stilled her heart, made her blood run as cold as a mountain stream, made everything, even the simple act of breathing, difficult.
She had to accept her fate. She would die alone, in physical agony and emotionally devastated. The truth had been revealed, so horrible, it could not hide. There were many things in the future that could be changed, but some things could not. Her death was set, as inevitable as the rising tide. Etched in the chronicles of time.
How could that be? She practiced only white magic. She had always been kind and compassionate. She wanted to do good, only good. How could things go so wrong for her? Why must she suffer?
Chione demanded she examine her life, find a different way of living, seek counsel, do whatever it took to change the images of the future looming on her path. But she’d done all of that. For six months she tried different ways of living her life, but nothing in the visions of her future changed. A horrible—truly horrible—death awaited her. She’d seen the images in the fire, heard her cries in the wind.
Black, her cat, sitting across the room on her favorite chair, let out a long meow. Okay, Djeserit thought, that’s not the whole truth. She pushed her long black hair out of her face and watched the flames rise again.
One element of
her life she hadn’t changed. Bakari. She had helped him make decisions for years, hoping to steer him more towards the light. The man intrigued her. His strength, his determination, his iron will. And, yes, his dark mysterious eyes with those long, thick eyelashes that could flash anger one moment and love the next. So passionate. So damn passionate! She sighed. Could he be her weakness? Her mistake?
In the time they’d been together, he had made no progress towards the light. And worse, she had fallen more in… What exactly? Not love. More like enrapture.
Enough moaning. She stood and stretched her hands to the sky. Answers. No matter what it took, she needed to find answers.
From her altar she pulled out her ivory wand. She traced the sacred hieroglyphs etched on its side, with her finger tips, feeling the power of the ancient incantation. This had to be done. She lit incense and pulled on her scarlet-red ceremonial robe. The only way to deal with fear is to face it.
Taking a deep breath she used the wand to make a wide, sideways figure eight in the air and then held it still. Touching the multi-jeweled golden ankh that hung around her neck, she focused inward. “I call on the gods to help me.” Her wand warmed in her hand. “I call on the ancient ones to gather round…” Her throat closed and wouldn’t let her say another word.
Tears rolled from her eyes. Her teachers had taught her not to ask for favors. Her powers were a gift, not to be used for selfish reasons. How could she?
But, how could she not? Self-preservation is a strong motivator. I am only human.
She took a deep breath and waited for her body to still. To clear her mind and open the channels she chanted, “Ahr… eee… oh… ew… mmm.” Each sound stimulated a different part of her being. She raised her voice and repeated, “Ahr… eee… oh… ew… mmm.” The tears stopped.
Born of Magic: Mata Hari Series #2 Page 1
