Magical Gains

by Nicola E. Sheridan

  Mrs. Michaels’ jowls dropped and she scurried back to her own home, but not before yelling over her shoulder. “She’s a good girl, is Miss Brasco. You ought to leave ‘er well enough alone!”

  As the door opened, Primrose’s alarm started squealing. One of the team silenced it immediately with an electronic device.

  “Get your RMITs out and search every room. Start from the backyard and back rooms, ending in the living room. Take anything that gives off unregistered magical readings,” the man at the front ordered.

  Each of the team pulled out an RMIT device from his suitcase, and began to scour the rooms.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile Imran, after arguing pointlessly with Primrose a few more moments, angrily disappeared in a swath of smoke, yelling, “Do not leave this apartment! Understand?”

  A few seconds later he staggered weak and hungry, at the steps of Primrose’s house. The door was open. Imran heard men stomping about inside and the loud wailing sirens of RMIT devices.

  “Oh, no,” Imran moaned. He could hear the team exclaiming delightedly over the discovery of his room, where everything the RMIT tested resulted in an unregistered magical reading.

  “Them lot’s from the Magical Investigations Team or whatever they call them.” Mrs. Michaels addressed Imran from the veranda of her home after recognizing him. “You’d best get yourself well away from that lot,” she said. “I saw you materialize. If them RMIT devices are wailing in there where you’ve been staying, they’re going to wail a lot more when they catch you. Get out of here!” she urged.

  “I can’t…I’ve got to get something from the house. It’s important…I can’t let them get it.”

  Imran wasn’t sure if it was the ill-disguised desperation in his voice, or just that Mrs. Michaels liked the look of him. Nevertheless, Mrs. Michaels scurried down from the veranda with surprising speed.

  “What is it, then? What do you need from in there?”

  “A brass lamp. In the living room,” he replied, willing her with his words to go and get it for him.

  Mrs. Michaels hesitated for only a second. “I’ll get it for you. Just you see.”

  Imran felt a wash of relief as Mrs. Michaels bustled her way into Primrose’s house.

  The men were just about in the living room when Mrs. Michaels entered the room.

  “Oi, I said, you need a warrant or something to be allowed to do this.” She edged over toward the corner cabinet where the ornate brass lamp sat innocently.

  “Madam, you are hindering a government investigation,” one of the men growled. “Leave these premises immediately. You may be contaminating the site of a magical assault.”

  “Magical assault. What rot,” Mrs. Michaels said, turning to face the lamp. She caressed it a moment and picked it up. “Oh, my lamp. My niece brought this from Abu Dhabi. I must have left it here when I showed it to Miss Brasco. I’ll take it home with me, then.”

  Imran, who stood by the window unseen by the investigators, cringed. As if in slow motion, one of the team took out an RMIT device and switched it on. The siren began wailing with a new intensity.

  “It’s off the meter,” he said to his comrade who lurched forward and snatched it from Mrs. Michaels.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Give that back! It’s mine!”

  “It is now the property of the Western Australian government,” the investigator murmured. “Now get out of this house, woman, and go home, or we will arrest you for hampering an investigation.”

  Mrs. Michaels needed no further urging. She scurried out of the house and back into her own where Imran was now waiting.

  “Why don’t you stop them?” Mrs. Michaels gasped. “You’ve got magic! You could do it!”

  Imran banged his head with his hands and howled softly in frustration. “I cannot! I’ve exhausted myself traveling here. I wouldn’t be able to perform any useful magic right now! Besides that, it is an international offence to attack Magical Investigators. There is no way…” He ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the wall. Unable to suppress a groan, he cursed the absurdity of his situation. He was a Genie! He should have known better.

  Mrs. Michaels brushed her hands down her floral dress and matching pink cardigan, struggling to contain her own dismay at the situation. “Oh, come now. It can’t be that bad, and I did try.”

  “I know. I thank you,” Imran replied, though he didn’t make any attempt to move.

  “Come, I’ll make you a cup o’ tea and have some cake. You’ll feel better.”

  Imran nodded weakly and allowed the old woman to take his arm and lead him to the kitchen.

  As a Genie, Imran’s lamp was his most precious possession. The lamp was a powerful magical artifact, imbued with the Genie’s own life force and a potent reservoir of power. Imran knew it was only a matter of time before the investigators realized they had a Genie lamp, and started experimenting with it.

  * * * *

  Primrose sat still in Leucosia’s loft apartment, reading one of the many magical—and banned—texts in the bookshelf. There was a soft knock on the door and Leucosia’s singsong voice asked for entry.

  When Leucosia entered, Primrose was again struck by her extraordinary ugliness.

  “Don’t stare, child,” Leucosia chided softly. “I’ve brought you lunch. I thought you may be hungry.” She looked around the empty apartment. “Imran not returned, then? It is a very exhausting journey for him I suppose.”

  “How did you know he’d left?” Primrose asked, suspiciously eyeing the steaming bowl of soup before her.

  “I can sense his presence, just as I can sense yours. I also heard your argument,” she added helpfully.

  Primrose looked down, sick with shame. “Gosh, I hope his lamp is okay. It will be all my fault if they get it. I just thought it would be safe at home.” Primrose paused, and felt compelled to continue. “Well, actually, I just didn’t think about it at all. Imran always seemed so in control, and I just didn’t know.”

  Leucosia made some understanding noises before speaking. “I don’t know a great deal about the workings of the male mind,” she began, and Primrose cringed, unsure where the conversation was leading. “Most men don’t have a taste for my flesh, you see.” Leucosia paused, allowing Primrose a little gasp of distaste. “What I do know is this. Men loathe admitting a weakness. That lamp is Imran’s weakness. With it, he is a mightily powerful being, although trapped within certain parameters of course. Without it, he is weakened and vulnerable. I am guessing he automatically supposed you knew this and even if he suspected you didn’t, he felt too proud to mention it, which in hindsight, may have proved a very costly mistake and one I am deeply surprised Imran made.”

  Primrose’s face crumpled, and the frustrated tears she held at bay began to fall.

  * * * *

  Back at the Department of Cerebral Management, the investigations team finished their report to Mr. Quillian. They set out the magical artifacts they’d found at Primrose’s house, namely Imran’s entire bedroom suite and the lamp. Mr. Quillian tried to hide his excitement.

  “Tell me, Investigator Morris, do these artifacts correlate to the magical ions found on Mr. Beckwith?”

  “Indeed,” Investigator Morris answered, without removing his sunglasses. “The whole house reeked of magic. It is little wonder Miss Brasco ran. She won’t be able to continue working for the government with levels like this.”

  Quillian again struggled to contain his excitement. “In her escape, she used an unregistered magical being. Is that correct?” Quillian asked.

  “Yes, and again the ions detected in her office correlate exactly to those on these artifacts and those on Mr. Beckwith. It is our suspicion the magical being in question has befuddled Mr. Beckwith’s mind for reasons unknown and Miss Brasco has fled with it. She is therefore
guilty by association. Although…” Investigator Morris paused. “I believe we ought to question Mr. Beckwith, to decide whether to put out a warrant for them. I think there is sufficient evidence to continue pursuing our investigation.”

  Mr. Quillian murmured thoughtfully and nodded his head, his eyes never leaving the lamp. “Tell me, do you have any idea what this magical being may be?”

  Investigator Morris nodded. “It is likely to be a magician turned Genie. The lamp in particular seems to be a very powerful magical artifact. We are most anxious to examine it further. I suspect it is his reservoir of power.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Quillian said and looked thoughtful for a moment. “However, based on what you have told me, I do not think this truly requires any further investigation.”

  Investigator Morris’s jaw dropped. “Sir! Miss Brasco, a non-magical human, has fled with a magical being, and Mr. Beckwith has hazy recollections of last night and strong magical ionic traces! It all indicates a magical assault! The whole situation is deeply suspicious! Not to mention that power in that lamp!”

  Mr. Quillian’s lips thinned. “As I said, Investigator Morris, I do not think there is sufficient evidence to continue spending taxpayers’ money on an investigation based on what, in my opinion, is Mr. Beckwith’s drunken argument with his fiancée. After all, it isn’t a crime to have a magical being in your home. Although the unregistered nature of the being is somewhat problematic…” Mr. Quillian paused, and settled his stern gaze on the Magical Investigations Team. “I will discuss with Miss Brasco, when she returns, the dangers of harboring an unregistered being. Other than that, I do not believe any further investigations are required.” He smiled grimly. “I will arrange for a Magical Artifact Team to remove these artifacts and place them in storage, until such a time that Miss Brasco comes out of the woodwork to claim them.”

  There was a murmur of dissent amongst the team, and once again Investigator Morris stepped forward to speak.

  “If Miss Brasco returns, you will question her regarding Mr. Beckwith’s magical traces? Won’t you?” Morris insisted.

  Quillian scowled, lips curling. “If Miss Brasco returns, I will determine what disciplinary action ought to be taken, and will indeed inquire as to Mr. Beckwith’s magical traces. It is my opinion she has made a mistake, one she must learn from, but not necessarily suffer from.”

  “She should at least be sent to a Cerebral Management Center to reform her ideas. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?” Investigator Morris’s eyes gleamed with zeal.

  Quillian, who by this stage simply wanted the Magical Investigations Team to leave, rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “When, and if Miss Brasco returns, I shall deal with her directly. You have no further part in any ongoing investigations or correctional punishments that may take effect upon her return. I do. Good day to you!”

  Frustration was palpable as the team turned and left, but Quillian did not care. He followed and securely closed the door behind them.

  When Quillian was certain he was alone, he slowly walked up to the furniture and paraphernalia taken from Primrose’s house. He first went to the bedding and ran his fingers over the soft, cool silk of the bedspread. He stared at the glittering cloth, excitement itching through his muscles. Finally, Quillian knelt down beside it and buried his nose into the soft cover. He inhaled long and hard. As he exhaled, he breathed one word, Genie. A sadistic grin grew on his face. He then walked over to the lamp that shone innocently in the halogen light of his office and picked it up. The lamp was warm and the heated scents of cinnamon and spice exuded from it. “I’ve got you now,” he cackled.

  When Quillian sobered enough to take action, he dropped Imran’s lamp into his Samsonite suitcase and locked it. Then he marched back over to Imran’s bed suite. Concentrating hard and holding his hands over the bed, he began to chant. The air around the bed suite shimmered like heat haze. Slowly in the midst of it, an exact replica of Imran’s lamp appeared. He smiled to himself and walked back to his desk and removed a silver RMIT device from his top drawer. He casually returned to the bed and turned on the RMIT, pointing at the lamp. The siren wailed enthusiastically, and Quillian looked down to read the notification. Unidentifiable/unregistered magical ions detected. 10 000 ppm. Quillian grinned. No one would know the difference.

  When the men finally came to take the items into storage, the lamp sat lying on the bed.

  “How long shall these be held for?” the man asked.

  “Oh, until Miss Brasco returns, I should think.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, and none-the-wiser took the lamp and other pieces to the Holding Area.

  * * * *

  In Mrs. Michaels’ house, Imran felt his lamp being moved and he shivered.

  “What’s the matter, luv?” Mrs. Michaels asked, after having been delighted by Imran’s prodigious appetite.

  “My lamp,” he whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  Primrose knew instinctively something had gone very wrong. She sat miserably in the humid silence of the apartment, close to the balcony window, hidden by the curtains. As she ate Leucosia’s soup, which was surprisingly delicious and refreshing, she watched the myriad of magical beings walk, fly, and crawl up and down Main Bazaar. A few times, she suspected they sensed her presence up in the loft apartment, but as far as she was aware, none saw her.

  When Leucosia wasn’t dealing with customers, she would pop up, and have a quick chat. Primrose got the impression Leucosia wasn’t impressed with her treatment of Imran, and Primrose was beginning to realize she was right.

  As the sun began to set and there was still no sign of Imran, Primrose stood up. Her legs cramped instantly and she wobbled before stumbling and banging into the balcony window.

  Several creatures in the street immediately turned and stared up at the window where Primrose was clearly visible. She stood there momentarily, immobile with shock.

  “Human!” a small group of Satyrs exclaimed excitedly, pointing up at her.

  It was then, as the saying goes, all hell broke loose.

  The group of Satyrs, led by a horned Stag Satyr, broke into a run. Primrose heard their cloven hooves clattering on the wooden floor of Leucosia’s shop.

  As Primrose felt panic rush through her body, she anxiously thought of what action to take.

  With only a brief hesitation, Primrose pelted to the bed and tried to push it to block the doorway, but it was far too heavy. Frantically, she fiddled with the lock, but there was no key. She could hear Leucosia trying to calm the Satyrs. “Desist this nonsense!” Leucosia sang loudly.

  “Move out of the way, old Harpy,” one of the Satyrs said.

  “I am a Siren, not a Harpy,” Leucosia corrected haughtily. “What on Earth do you think you are doing barging through my shop in this manner?”

  Primrose’s heart hammered as she leaned into the door, listening.

  “We saw a human woman at the window of your apartment. You have no right to hold a human here,” the Satyr replied with equal hauteur.

  “You have none either,” Leucosia quipped. “I must insist you leave her where she is.”

  For an instant, Primrose wondered why Leucosia did not deny she was a human, but realized with a sick swoop of certainty that Satyrs, like most magical beings, had an incredible sense of smell for the arcane. Denial wasn’t a realistic option.

  “We shall escort her out of the Free Zone. She is not safe here,” the Satyr replied, and Primrose felt a new wave of panic flood her.

  “She is safe with me. Safer than she would be with you and your insatiable desire for human females,” Leucosia retorted.

  “She may be partial to Satyr flesh, and who are you to deny her the chance?” Primrose could hear the defiance echo in his voice.

  “I doubt that very much.” Leucosia’s tone was dry. “She is in m
y care. I cannot allow you to pass.”

  Primrose held her breath tightly, and didn’t move.

  “How will you stop us?” the Satyr jeered. “Sing to us?” Primrose heard his companions bay with laughter. “Your singing won’t work with us. Now move.”

  There was nothing Leucosia could do to stop the Satyrs, and Primrose knew it. Although a Siren was strong, she wasn’t anywhere near as strong as the horned Stag Satyr Primrose had glimpsed from the window.

  Leucosia’s voice was resigned. “Very well, although I must insist you treat her gently.”

  “I do not take orders from you, crone,” the Satyr said dismissively. Primrose could hear him clip-clop up the stairway awkwardly on his cloven hooves. Her heart began to hammer even harder.

  * * * *

  Back in Western Australia, Mr. Quillian drove home at a rapid pace with Imran’s lamp safely on his lap.

  As he drew into his Dalkeith mansion alongside the sparkling Swan River, he exhaled in relief. He didn’t think anyone would notice the switch of the lamps. The Magical Investigations Team had been removed from the case, so it was unlikely, but you could never be too sure. He parked his antique Jaguar in the garage and strolled into the house. It was empty. His wife was out. Good.

  Quillian’s mansion was centered on an enormous block. He had bought six riverside properties and demolished everything to build his mansion. The house sat in the center of his land. A one kilometer radius surrounded it perfectly. He built it precisely to house his collection.

  The house was silent, and neither the cleaner nor the cook appeared to be at home. Quietly Quillian walked to the west wing of the house, and by finger-scan technology entered his office. It was a desolate and barren room, with only his desk and Spartan bookshelf. The only thing of interest in the entire room was an ornate small door on the west wall. Again he walked through the room, this time more hurriedly, feeling the warmth of Imran’s lamp pulse in his hands. He unlocked the ornate door with yet another finger scan.

  The next room opened up, large and windowless. It was tiled entirely with black granite and the halogen lights made it dizzying. On intervals along the walls were various lamps encased in boxes of thick, clear glass. Some were very ancient pottery, and some newer. All were covered in electrodes with wires that disappeared into the walls.