Magical Gains, published by Eternal Press, March 2011
Chapter One
In a parallel world, not many dimensions from here, it was
okay to be a fairy—as long as you were registered. In fact, it was okay to be
an elf, dragon, griffin, or cockatrice, as long as you were registered with the
government. In this dimension, like many dimensions, governments liked to “manage”
minorities to ensure assimilation and equal rights. The Department of Magical
Beings (DMB), and its affiliates, had been created for this purpose. It was
quite effective, for the most part, so long as the magical being in question
was a clear-cut case. There were a few problem areas. The most pertinent to
this tale were the Genies.
So when Imran, a Genie,
finally revealed himself to his new mistress, it wasn’t to the gasp of pleasure
he had first expected. Instead, the rather fetching Primrose Brasco turned a
decidedly unfetching puce and clutched at her throat. Her first strangled words
to the Genie were not “Oh, my God!” or “Hooray! Three wishes for me!” but the
rather uninspiring “Are you registered?”
Imran, despite having a
rich knowledge of all things magical and political, was not registered. In
fact, he had made it his life objective not to be.
“No” was his first word
to her and it dripped from his mouth, heavy with irritation.
Primrose’s puce
complexion deepened into an undeniably ugly crimson.
“Then you’ve got to go!”
she exclaimed.
“I can’t do that,” Imran
replied, his white wolfish teeth glistening in his tanned face. “I’m your
Genie,” he said. “I can’t go until you’ve had your three wishes.” He spoke
softly and his voice had an indefinable accent, though he spoke in perfect
English.
“It’s illegal! The
granting of wishes has been banned in
Imran sank down onto the
squeaking leather sofa, apparently disappointed by Primrose’s unfriendly
response. He ran a hand through his short spiky hair and the gesture was ripe
with masculine sexuality. Primrose quite involuntarily felt something flip in
her stomach.
“Just make three little
wishes. No one will know,” Imran urged smoothly. “Just little things, you know,
a new pair of shoes, maybe a necklace, and a puppy.” He grinned.
Primrose looked aghast.
“A Magical Investigations
Team would be out here in a second!” she snapped.
“That’s not really a
problem since I’m not registered,” he drawled. “Correct me if I am wrong, but
it is only registered magical beings whose magic is traceable.” Imran’s black
eyes flashed with amusement.
Primrose Brasco, apart
from being incurably prudish, was a lovely-looking creature. Small and
curvaceous, with long, cascading chocolate brown hair and honey brown eyes, she
was every male Genie’s dream mistress.
Primrose sighed. “You may
be unregistered, but the government can still detect your magic, even if they don’t know who or what you are…”
She paused, taking yet another gulp of air. “I really don’t want to risk it.
I’m sorry. I think I’ll have to turn you in myself.”
A flash of anxiety
flickered in Imran’s dark eyes but was gone in an instant.
“I don’t think you should
do that,” he replied very casually, as his eyes became unreadable.
“Really? Why?”
“Because…” He paused for
subtle effect. “I will do everything in my quite substantial power to make your
life a misery.” He smiled again with wicked white teeth.
Primrose stiffened. “Then
I suppose we have a problem,” she whispered.
* * * *
In mythology, which in this particular
dimension was often common history, a Genie could only reveal himself to the
person who rubbed his lamp. Although this tactile myth resulted in the frantic
rubbing of many an old-looking lamp, the truth was no amount of lamp rubbing
could entice a Genie to reveal himself unless he truly wished to do so. It was
true, however, that a Genie could not find a master as long as his lamp was in
another’s possession nor could he leave his master until three wishes had been
granted. With all this considered, most Genies revealed themselves eventually,
with or without any lamp rubbing. Such revelations, though, were usually made
out of sheer boredom.
Imran, however, had seen
and studied his mistress while confined to the antique shop in which his lamp
resided. Upon seeing Primrose, who looked curiously sexual but restrained in
her formal work clothes, Imran knew he must have her. Being well versed in all things tantalizing, it
hadn’t taken Imran much to pique her curiosity and tweak circumstances to help
her buy his lamp. A sultry song playing through the loudspeaker, the exotic
scent of spice in the air—it was so easy. Like a fly into a web, Primrose
dazedly stumbled into the antique shop and bought his lamp. Imran thought since
his last master—the antique shop owner, who was making remarkably good business
these days—had been a boring sort, Primrose might prove to be some fun or, at
the very least, a brief amorous liaison.
Primrose Brasco bought
Imran’s lamp, a faded art deco electric contraption, from a fashionable antique
dealer in Leederville, without really knowing why.
As an educated member of
society, she ought to have known that a sound awareness of the magical world
was always a necessity when buying a second-hand lamp.
At the time of her
purchase, Primrose briefly studied the lamp and quickly decided not to question
the antique dealer about it. After all, he looked stressed, and she doubted he
could tell her the location of his toes, let alone where he sourced the lamp. Aside
from that, she knew Genies were not indigenous to Australia and were quite
rare. According to the ABMS (Australian Bureau of Magical Statistics) there
were only three registered Genies in Western Australia. Statistically, it was
highly unlikely that a magical being would be lurking in the lamp she was
buying. Had Primrose made the effort and asked the antique dealer about the
lamp, he would have been compelled to answer honestly. The antique dealer in
question, however, had been much relieved when she did not inquire, as then
many questions would have been asked about his extraordinarily successful
antiques business and the Department of Magical Gains would investigate.
Genies were a troublesome
bunch all round.
* * * *
Unsure what to do with
this sudden and unwanted disruption to her rather pedestrian existence, Primrose
stared blankly at the lounging Genie for a moment. He was tall and his long
legs were draped in expensive-looking pants. Unable to help herself, Primrose’s
gaze followed up his legs, resting for just the briefest of moments on the
junction of his thighs. There was no denying this man was comfortably endowed.
At that thought, blazing heat suddenly rushed through Primrose’s cheeks and
down her neck, leaving her décolletage that unflattering baking red. She
averted her gaze and it finally returned to settle on Imran’s face, which was
irrefutably handsome. His mouth curled in a smile as he endured her examination
with the sly self-assurance that only the truly good-looking possess.
Primrose’s eyes hovered over his lips a second longer. They were lush and sexy.
Watching for her response, Imran bit his pouting lower lip and released it
suggestively. Primrose felt a pulling tightness respond deep in her abdomen.
She inhaled deeply and battled with suddenly explicit thoughts.
Her telephone rang, a hollow echo, from the
depths of her handbag. She ignored it, but its incessant chime dragged her back
to sensibility.
“Well…what is your name?”
she finally asked, knowing with sudden certainty this problem was not going
away any time soon.
“Imran,” he replied, his
dark eyes watching her, guarded.
“It doesn’t suit you,”
she quipped, attempting cool detachment.
“What is yours?” Imran
ignored her rudeness.
“I should imagine you are
already aware of that, seeing as you’ve been stalking me,” she retorted dryly.
If Imran was shocked by
her suspicions, he didn’t allow it to show.
“Please, Mistress—your
name?”
“Primrose Brasco, as you
no doubt are already aware.”
“It suits you, Mistress,”
he countered with a seductive smile she did not return.
“Please don’t call me Mistress.
It isn’t appropriate.” She paused. “You can’t stay here, you know.”
“I can’t?” Imran replied,
seemingly shocked. “Where else would I be but by my mistress’s side?”
Primrose rolled her eyes.
“You can just quit the
act, Genie. I work in the Department of Magical Culture, and I know all about
your kind! You’re a criminal magician, punished God-knows-when and you’ve
chosen me as your mistress, effectively trapping me. I can’t turn you in, and
if I’m caught with a Genie, I’ll…at the very least, lose my job.
“Human employees in the DMC must be
impartial to magic, and are frequently given Random Magical Ion Tests to ensure
there are no illegal financial advancements made through magical means,” she quoted breathlessly.
“Well, no need for me to
read that brochure, now is there?” Imran retorted dryly as Primrose continued
to glare at him with frustration. “Honestly…” he paused. “I didn’t know you
worked for the DMC, but there is nothing I can do about it now.”
“Well, I can tell you
this, Genie. I cannot afford to lose my job!”
Imran stood and took a
step toward her with his hands wide in supplication. His shirt open at the neck
gaped a little, and Primrose caught a tantalizing glimpse of tanned, smooth
flesh. She pushed a wave of lust away, and scowled at him.
“Don’t you dare
contaminate me with even one of your magical ions!” Primrose ground out
angrily. “God know where you’ve been. You could be riddled with magical
diseases!”
Imran rolled his eyes. “I’m
not contaminating you by sitting here, am I?” he asked, and returned to the
couch. “As I said, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have…”
“What? Wouldn’t have chosen me? What were you looking for anyway, some quick shag and
three poxy wishes?” Primrose’s eyes flashed with every word.
Imran groaned. “Yes,” he
admitted, his dark gaze locking with hers unflinchingly.
Oh.
Primrose was speechless for a moment. “Well, at least you’re honest,” she
eventually whispered, fighting yet another furious blush. To distract herself, she
threw an exasperated glance at her watch. “God, I’m late! I’ve got to get
ready! Stay here!” she squeaked without so much as glancing at him again.
Primrose stormed into the
bathroom of her small brick veneer house in the outer suburbs of Fremantle. Despite
being a humble little house, it was her pride and joy. She tended the garden
lovingly, painted every room, and although it took years, Primrose transformed
the house into her haven.
She leaned back on the
bathroom door and inhaled deeply to cease the loud hammering of her heart. Her
body tingled where she’d felt Imran’s cool appraising gaze linger.
I shouldn’t be feeling
this, she thought, a little giddy, to herself. I’m
an engaged woman! Still,
the image of Imran’s long, lithe body reclined on the couch flashed in her
mind. He looked as though he belonged there. A small hysterical giggle bubbled
on her lips. He does belong there, he’s my Genie! Abruptly the giggle died, and reality returned like a cold smack
on the cheek. The fact was she couldn’t keep a Genie. Especially not an
incredibly sexy one, whose gaze alone left her weak-kneed. No, her job and her
future marriage left no room for such things. The pretty smile faded, and a
frown grew in its place. Sighing heavily, Primrose stripped off her clothes and
entered the shower.
* * * *
Imran scratched his head
absently as the sounds of showering echoed throughout the little house. The
décor was really quite lovely. Old, slightly faded, silken Persian rugs were
thrown on the high-gloss floorboards, and the ochre red walls reflected warmth
in the cool Perth winter air. Imran glanced at his lamp. Really, it was very
out of style with the house. He concentrated for a brief moment. Smooth arms of
black, spicy smoke caressed the lamp and almost imperceptibly it changed. It
shrunk into a smaller, ornately carved brass lamp with a wick. He smiled to
himself. It looked much better.
While Primrose remained
in the shower, Imran took himself on a tour about the house. The Persian theme
ran throughout, and made him feel very at home.
Suddenly there was a
clinking of keys in the doorway.
“Primrose!” an angry
masculine voice bellowed. “Are you ready? Bloody hell! You’re still in the
fucking shower!” The man’s voice was rising, bordering on irate. “Where the
hell have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
The man thundered loudly
down the corridor and passed the living room where Imran stood motionless.
Imran paused a moment,
wondering whether to stay visible. He quickly decided not to, and in a swathe
of sinuous black smoke, disappeared from view.
The man banged on the
bathroom door and barged in without further ado.
“Ian!” Primrose exclaimed
and quickly turned off the shower.
“Can you never do
anything on time?” he roared at her, evidently unmoved by her dripping
nakedness. “I told you to be ready at six! It’s six thirty and you’re not even
fucking dressed!”
Primrose shrank back a
little and reached for a towel. She said nothing.
Ian, her fiancé, a tall, blond
mountain of a man glared at her. “The one thing I ask you to do! Where have you
been?” he yelled, his face red and bulging.
“I…I just stopped at the
shops on my way home,” Primrose confessed, turning her back on him and facing
the fogged mirror.
A sharp hand cuffed her
hard on the back of the head, causing her to stumble forward and bang her
forehead on the mirrored cupboard. With a soft cry, Primrose brought up her
hand and rubbed it.
“Is there a problem here,
Primrose?” Imran’s rich, smooth voice came from the doorway.
Primrose spun around
clutching the towel, her expression one of horrified mortification.
“Who the hell are you?”
Ian barked, his ruddy complexion reddening further.
“Is there a problem here,
Primrose?” Imran asked again, ignoring Ian completely.
“I said, who the hell are
you?” Ian barked again, confounded by Imran’s lack of response.
“I said, is there a
problem, Primrose?” Imran spoke calmly, his dark gaze locked on Primrose alone.
“No,” Primrose whispered
and gripped the towel around her a little tighter.
“Good,” Imran replied and
stalked cat-like back into the living room.
Ian, the Assistant Manager
of the Department of Cerebral Management, a man very used to being obeyed,
stood with his mouth agape in silent fury.
“You’d better do some
explaining, Primrose. Now.” Ian’s small, piggy blue eyes didn’t leave Imran’s
back until he disappeared from view.
“Let me get dressed
first,” Primrose said, and slipped past his considerable bulk and ran for the
bedroom.
When in the solitude of
the bedroom, Primrose stood still and stunned. She was mortified that Imran had
witnessed Ian’s callous treatment of her. Ian didn’t often hit her, and when he
did, it was nothing serious, Primrose reasoned. Ian Beckwith had a very
demanding and stressful job. He couldn’t be blamed for lashing out sometimes, yet
suddenly Primrose was glad Imran was in the house. She wasn’t exactly
frightened of Ian, but she knew that with Imran here, he wouldn’t allow himself
to get too angry. She stared at her reflection for a long, miserable moment,
and then quickly brushed those difficult thoughts aside.
Quickly towel drying her
long wavy hair, Primrose slipped into a pale pink, knit dress and pulled on
sheer stockings and brown suede boots. She twisted her hair into a damp,
tussled French knot and clipped it in place. She glanced in the mirror. There
was the slightest hint of redness where she bumped the cupboard. With a sigh,
Primrose quickly smeared on concealer to mask it, and then lacquered her lips
with a light-tinted gloss and added mascara. It would have to do.
Suddenly she heard the
door click open behind her. Her chest tightened with panic as the door clicked
again, shutting with frightening finality. Gingerly, she turned around. Ian
stood enormous and radiating anger, blocking the only exit from the room.
“Your friend in there
refuses to speak to me…” Ian began angrily, casting a murderous glance over his
shoulder. “What am I to think, Primrose? Who is he? I come home and there is
this guy—and you in the shower? It doesn’t look good.” His questions were fired
like arrows, each making Primrose jerk with nervousness.
“He is Imran, a…a...friend
from university. He will be staying with us for a while, until he…sorts out
alternative accommodation,” Primrose stuttered.
“What? I live here too,
Primrose! You should have consulted me,” Ian yelled explosively and stepped
forward using his considerable size to intimidate her.
Primrose cowered slightly
from him.
“That is true,” she
conceded, “but Imran is my friend, and this is still my house.” She spoke extremely softly, stepping back away from
him until she collided with the bed. She stumbled in shock, nearly falling
over. Ian sneered in distain.
“I knew this would be a
problem!” Ian cursed. “I knew we should have moved into my apartment! Instead,
I gave in to you and am stuck living in this dump with your blow-ins!”
Primrose crumpled a
little under the assault. She loved her home, and agreeing to marry Ian had
been on the proviso that they lived in her house. The thought of living in his
sterile apartment in the city had horrified her.
“It’s not a dump and
Imran isn’t a blow-in,” she said.
“I know nothing about
this guy! Yet you just let him come waltzing into our lives! You really know
how to piss me off, don’t you?” Ian stepped toward her again, and Primrose
flinched as his hand clenched by his side. Ian hesitated a moment, his head
tilted as if he heard something. With a guttural growl and surprising speed, he
turned and pulled open the door. The hallway was empty. Ian stared, for a
second, down the hallway toward the living room, where Imran was visible beyond
the doorway. His eyes narrowed. “We’ll talk about this later!” Ian muttered before
stomping loudly from the room.
Primrose sank down on the
bed for a moment, trying to steady her rapidly beating heart. She felt foolish
and embarrassed, and more than anything wanted to hide in her room until this
awkward situation was over. Knowing there could be no resolution made by
hiding, after a few moments of procrastination, Primrose returned to the living
room. Ian was sitting stiffly, tapping and jostling his knee with agitation.
Imran however, in his black suit and open shirt, was lounging on the couch
looking completely relaxed. Primrose was struck by a physical yearning to touch
him. She stood still and stared, battling to control her feelings.
“Primrose,” Imran
interrupted, drawing Primrose’s attention back to reality. “I hope my presence
here isn’t going to be a problem?” He threw a questioning glance at Ian, who
tried unsuccessfully to turn his grimace into a neutral face.
“No, mate. Sorry, I’m
just a bit stressed at work,” Ian replied, and although his words were
conciliatory, his body language was still tense and angry.
Imran remained impassive
as Ian awkwardly thrust out a big meaty hand.
“I’m Ian Beckwith,” he
growled.
“Abdul Imran,” Imran
replied after a moment’s pause. He eyed Ian’s large paw with distaste, but took
it and shook firmly. “I see I have arrived at an inopportune time. You are
obviously going out.” His eyes locked on Primrose.
“Err, yes,” Primrose said
softly. “Perhaps, Ian, I might stay in tonight and get Imran settled. I didn’t
know he was arriving and haven’t sorted out the spare room.” Her gaze stuck on
the new brass lamp that sat on the coffee table. “Could you give my regrets to
Emma and Theo?”
Ian’s face hardened
again, but he gave a curt nod. Primrose knew that despite his boorish behavior,
Ian was upset a stranger had witnessed him manhandle his fiancée. Primrose knew
she had an irritating habit of managing to be late or out of contact when it
was most inconvenient. Sometimes Ian couldn’t stop himself, she reasoned, even
though he wanted to—at least some of the time.
Ian leaned over to
Primrose and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry. I overreacted,” he whispered
and gave her backside a rub for Imran’s benefit. “I’ll make it up to you.” His
voice was a gruff whisper.
“Bye,” Primrose muttered,
daring a glance in Imran, whose face showed nothing but disgust as Ian clunked
awkwardly from the room.
The silence between them
was heavy as they listened to Ian’s car reverse away.
“Well, who was that
charming piece of chewed carrion?” Imran asked, knocking Primrose from her
morbid musings.
“Oh. Ian, my fiancé.” She
tried to hold his dark gaze but failed.
“You deserve a prize for
picking such a fine miscreant.”
“Oh, be quiet,” Primrose
snapped. “You caught him on a bad day.”
Imran looked rather skeptical
on that account, and remained silent.
“Look, Ian can’t find out
you’re a Genie,” Primrose began. “It would ethically compromise his work…”
“Ethically compromise his
work?” Imran retorted. “Ian’s entire existence is one large ethical compromise by my reckoning…”
A snort of amusement
threatened to erupt into a hysterical fit, but Primrose soon had it under
control.
“Please don’t be mean,”
she whispered, unable to hold Imran’s unflinching gaze. “What are we going to
do, then?” Primrose asked, sinking down onto the couch. “I can’t accept your
three wishes. They will find out.”
“I don’t know. This has
never happened before,” Imran replied, watching her curl up and drape a blanket
over her knees. “When do you have an RMIT? Ah, what are they called? Magical
Traces test? Perhaps if we did the wishes after you have one of those?”
“They are random
tests! RMIT stands for
Random Magical Ion Test so, obviously, I don’t know when I will have one,” Primrose said rather heatedly.
“Look, besides that,” she added in a softer tone, “I don’t have anything I want
to wish for, not really.”
Imran laughed. The sound
of his voice was melodious, rich, soft, and smooth. Just like liquid chocolate.
Primrose shivered despite herself.
“Don’t do that,” she
gasped.
“Laugh? That is a crime
now?” Imran laughed again, his eyes creasing with amusement at her evident
discomfort. “Do not tell such pitiful lies to me, Primrose. Everyone has wishes.
Even you, despite your churlishness, must have some.”
Primrose frowned at being
called churlish, but thought for a moment.
Imran watched her.
What Primrose would have
liked to wish for wasn’t something she could readily admit to. She wished Ian
wasn’t so harsh and aggressive, she wished her friends hadn’t become Ian’s
friends, and she wished their sex life was better. She wished her life choices
had been better ones, but most of all, she wished for a happily ever after, and
it wasn’t with Ian. However, admitting these things would confirm her failure—her
failure to be a good partner, a successful daughter, and a strong woman.
Primrose could barely admit to thinking these thoughts, let alone tell them to
someone like Imran.
“No,” she replied a
little sullenly. “Nothing you could help with.”
Her unspoken thoughts
hung, obviously, between them.
Imran looked down and ran
his hands through his hair in a gesture that this time epitomized his
frustration. “You wouldn’t like to earn more money?”
Primrose felt a hot flush
of attraction. Surely not all Genies were this attractive.
“Of course, but I work
for the Department of Magical Culture and they have magicians to ensure no one
cheats by getting pay raises through magical means.”
“How dull,” Imran
replied. “Well, let me know when you’ve thought of something. I will be in the
spare room...if you want me,” he added with a slight laugh before stalking out.
Primrose began to say
something, but then saw black swaths of smoke billow from the spare room and
she rushed in.
“Don’t use magic!” she
shrieked, but her mouth fell agape as she saw the transformation of the spare
room. “Oh, gosh!”
Imran was reclined on a
large oriental bed. His shirt was gone, revealing a toned, tanned, and muscular
body. From the ceiling hung red silk curtaining that surrounded most of the
bed. The room was warm, and smelled intoxicatingly spicy. It looked like
something from a Sultan’s harem.
“I gather you like it?”
Imran said softly, patting the bed with a suggestive wink.
Primrose did like it,
very much. It fitted in with the Persian theme of her home beautifully.
“That’s beside the point,”
Primrose blustered, “if the DMC know you did this with magic!”
“How will they find out?”
he interrupted. “Do you intend on telling them? They don’t test your home, do
they?”
“Now there will be magical
ions floating all around my house! They might contaminate me!”
“Oh, for the love of all
that is sacred, you are difficult! You of all people should know you cannot
‘catch’ ions like that! You must be touching me while I am performing magic! So
unless they test your home, and come into this particular room, no one will
know!” Imran cried, his face taut with frustration.
Primrose shrank back,
feeling stupid and inferior. She collided with the door frame, and turned,
ready to leave. In an instant, Imran swept himself up off the bed and appeared
before her, his gaze now full of remorse.
“My apologies, Mistress.”
He inclined his head and his warm breath blew her hair lightly. “I didn’t mean
to treat you with disrespect—it is not a Genie’s way.”
Primrose looked away. Her
cheeks suddenly felt hot, and it had nothing to do with feeling stupid.
Awkwardly, she excused herself to the kitchen.
Primrose stood in the
kitchen, looking over the dark garden. She really did not know how to deal with
her wildly fluctuating feelings toward this Genie. She sighed, the trees
whispered in the light wintery breeze, and the moon began to shine weakly.
Suddenly Primrose felt quite empty and alone. She wished she could telephone
someone. However, what would she say? What could she say? None of her friends
knew anything of Ian’s darker moods as Primrose never had the strength to talk
about them. Besides, it wasn’t Ian she wanted to talk about anyway. It was the
strange magical being in her spare room, who looked like he just stepped from
the pages of a magazine. He was gorgeous and witty and had an air of confidence
Primrose could only hope to possess. More than anything, she wanted to wish
herself away from this mediocre existence, but that, she knew, was not an option.
Sighing and bottling her
rioting emotions and hormones in the darker recesses of her mind, she busied
herself making something to eat. When she had eaten and felt a glimmer of
confidence begin to warm in her gut, she knocked on Imran’s door.
“There is some dinner
here if you want it,” Primrose said a little more brusquely than she intended.
She placed the plate on the floor near the door and walked back to the living
room, without waiting for an answer. Primrose wasn’t exactly sure whether Imran
would want to eat his own magically created food or her plain fare. At any rate,
it seemed common politeness to offer, and despite their awkward circumstances,
she certainly did not want him to think ill of her.
Suffice to say, Primrose
spent the rest of the evening in front of the television watching reality TV
and occasionally mopping the errant tears that kept falling from her eyes,
although she didn’t quite know why.