Magical Gains

By
Nicola E. Sheridan

Eternal Press
A division of Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.eternalpress.biz

Magical Gains
by Nicola E. Sheridan

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-308-9

Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-309-6

Cover art by: Dawné Dominique
Edited by: Carolyn Crow

Copyedited by: Carrie Richardson-Orosz

Copyright 2011 Nicola E. Sheridan

Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American and UK Print Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Mark, Claude, and Georgette

for enduring the many hours

I spend on the computer.

I would like to acknowledge and thank EP for giving Magical Gains a chance. Also, thanks to my parents, parents-in-law, siblings, and siblings-in-law—your enthusiasm for what I do has helped me get where I am today. Finally, to Shona Husk, fellow author, for showing me that persistence eventually pays off. Thanks.

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, was 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 Australia for three years! I could be put into a detention center or worse. Try and pay Magical Gains tax! No one can afford Magical Gains taxes!”

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 swath 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 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, still 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! 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.

Chapter Two

It was about ten thirty before Primrose decided to retire for the night. She walked past Imran’s room and noticed the food was gone. She hesitated there for a moment. “Good night, Imran,” she called through the door.

“You’re welcome to spend it with me,” he replied with a smile in his voice.

“Thank you, but no.” She laughed softly. “I think Ian would definitely have a problem with that.”

It was shortly after midnight when Primrose awoke to the sound of a strange car in the driveway. She then heard the awkward fumbling of keys and the doorknob. Ian was home, by taxi, and he was drunk. This meant only one thing—drunken sex. Primrose cringed as Ian’s silhouette loomed in the doorway.

“Prim?” he whispered loudly. “You awake?”

“Shhh. You’ll wake Imran!” Primrose whispered, equally as loud.

Ian closed the door behind him and switched on a bedside lamp.

“Jeezuz, I’m sorry, Prim,” he said and knelt beside the bed. Primrose squinted in the sudden light. His face was close and his breath was laced heavily with beer. Primrose despised beer. “I don’t know why I get so angry…” He kissed her wetly. Primrose fought her revulsion and kissed him softly back before pulling away. “Let me make it up to you…” He kicked off his shoes, heaving his massive bulk onto the bed and pinioning Primrose under the covers.

“I’m not in the mood, Ian. I’m tired,” Primrose whispered, hoping Imran couldn’t hear through the thin cement sheeting walls.

“I love you, Prim,” Ian groaned, kissing her again and weaseling his way beneath the covers. He lay next to her a moment, his breathing heavy. Primrose remembered a time when she found Ian Beckwith the most romantic and loving man in the world, but that had been years ago. Bit by bit, Ian’s shining personality corroded and tarnished, and Primrose wasn’t sure why. She lay there musing over this fact as Ian’s big hand roved toward her, lifting up her nightie and rubbing her stomach. It was rough from the rugby he played, and so big its span spread the width of her belly.

“Ian, I’m really…”

Ian gave Primrose another gut-curdling beer kiss to silence her, and his hand ventured lower and grappled roughly, although not intentionally so, with her most sensitive parts. He groaned excitedly and released himself from the confines of his trousers. Primrose could feel the hot, hard length of him press between her thighs.

“God, I love you,” he said thickly, and without further foreplay he thrust forward heavily. Ian groaned noisily in satisfaction, while Primrose moaned in dismay and discomfort. As he pummeled backward and forward, Primrose knew this wasn’t going to be a short coupling. After drinking, Ian—like many men, Primrose presumed—found it difficult to climax, and became more brutal and determined to reach it. After fifteen minutes, Primrose felt raw and close to tears. “Stop, Ian, please,” she gasped into the cloth of his shirt.

“I’m…almost…there,” he grunted and thrust.

A loud sob erupted from Primrose “Please…you’re hurting…”

Ian silenced her with yet another wet kiss and thrust even harder and quicker to achieve his goal. When Ian was finally sated, Primrose bit her lip to stop from crying.

“God, Prim. I love you,” Ian whispered as he rolled off her.

Primrose gasped in relief, and rolled out of the bed.

“Where ya going?” he murmured sleepily, tugging off his clothes and crawling back into the bed.

“I need a bath,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

“Yeah? Well, don’t wake up Imran,” Ian replied, without a trace of irony.

Primrose said nothing, but slipped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. She noticed there was no light coming from the cracks in the doorway from Imran’s room and she prayed he was fast asleep.

Primrose put some sandalwood-scented bath salts in the bath and waited until it filled. She stripped off her nightie and sank into the hot brackish water. She stung where she had been used, and the tears she held onto fell fast and furious down her cheeks, plopping into the steaming, scented water.

Primrose didn’t know why she put up with this. She really didn’t. Some part of her reasoned that at thirty-one, she ought to be married and Ian was the only one willing to take the job. Additionally, Ian would support her when they had children, so she could stay at home and rear them. Not many men could, or would, do that these days. Was it such a bad compromise, she wondered?

When the bath water cooled and the clock read 2:30 a.m., Primrose crept back to the bedroom. She felt much better, and as she walked past Imran’s room, a red light glowed. Hesitating at the doorway for a moment, she wondered whether she should enter. She decided not to, and slunk back unwillingly to Ian, who was fast asleep and snoring loudly. Primrose sighed heavily, dug out her earplugs, curled up next to the behemoth, and went to sleep.

The next morning was a Saturday, and Ian arose early and nosily to ready himself for rugby training. He already asked Primrose to drop him off at the oval, as his car was still at Emma and Theo’s. Tired and unsettled, Primrose really wanted a sleep-in, but knew there was little she could do but comply.

Reluctantly, Primrose dressed in the bedroom, and slipped on a warm, pale blue tracksuit and white socks. Now that she was up, at least she could get to the gym early.

Ian was in the kitchen, and much to her surprise, had made her a breakfast.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said softly, throwing a worried glance at Imran’s still-shut door.

“Which part?” Primrose asked archly.

Ian looked confused for a moment. “About in the shower, I shouldn’t have cuffed your head. I’m sorry.” He roughly patted her back.

Primrose looked down, barely acknowledging the patting. Arguments and acidic remarks flooded her brain, but all that came out was a “That’s okay,” when she knew it really wasn’t.

Both Ian and Primrose fell silent, and he gently passed her a hot cup of mint tea.

As she sipped at the tea, Imran appeared. He was dressed in tan corduroy trousers and a V-neck white sweater. He looked refreshed and confident, the antithesis of Primrose, who nervously neatened her hair into a low ponytail.

“Morning, Imran,” Ian said, his eyes instantly hardening. “You want breakfast?”

Imran ignored him and looked searchingly at Primrose. “Sleep well, Primrose?” he asked, his tone mildly accusing.

Primrose’s stomach lurched. Had he heard what happened last night? Primrose felt an unflattering blush crawl up her neck and settle on her burning cheeks. She knew in her heart he heard every one of her muffled cries of discomfort. Primrose’s mouth went dry and her heart raced. Imran’s gaze did not leave her. “Yes,” she finally replied with a croak.

Ian grinned, looking very pleased with himself. “Do you want breakfast?” he repeated, now with a smile.

“No,” Imran replied curtly, not even gracing Ian with a glance. “Primrose, I have things to attend to this morning. Is it all right if I leave until this evening?”

Ian’s mouth dropped. “You don’t need her permission, mate!” He laughed awkwardly.

Primrose looked at Imran. Of course, he did need her permission to travel beyond the kilometer radius of his lamp. It was one of the things she had been taught at university in her magical beings unit.

“Of course you can,” Primrose replied softly. She looked up and met his eyes evenly. “Where do you intend to go?”

“I have some acquaintances in Perth whom I haven’t seen in some time,” he said cautiously. “If you do not require my presence, I would rather like to see them.”

“Of course,” Primrose replied again, although secretly she was desperate to find out who he was going to see.

Ian looked from Imran to Primrose and a frown marred his brow.

“Come on, Prim, I’m going to be late.” He scoffed the last of his toast and tightly grasped the top of Primrose’s arm. As Ian tugged her to her feet, Primrose threw an apologetic glance at Imran, whose face was also creased with a frown. He stood immobile in the kitchen for a moment, holding her gaze for a second too long. Clearly, he was not pleased with the situation at all. As Primrose was pulled from the room, she heard Imran’s angry sigh, and smelled the sweet scent of his magic as Ian doggedly ushered her away.

* * * *

“He’s a pretty strange guy, that Imran,” Ian said when in the relative solitude of Primrose’s car.

“Yes, I suppose,” Primrose replied evasively.

“What does he do for a living?” Ian asked.

Primrose paused, pretending to be absorbed in the Stock Road traffic. “Um…private investigations or something, I think.”

Ian frowned, unsure whether to believe her. “What’s that got to do with your university degree?” Ian asked, his eyes not budging from her profile.

“Oh, I think he was only in one of my units at Uni. Probably Magical Culture 101 or something, before he specialized into investigations,” she added quickly, hoping she sounded convincing. Primrose was not a good liar.

Again, Ian looked unconvinced. “Where has he come from, then? If he went to Uni in Perth, surely he’s lived here since? Where is his family? Friends?”

“Ian! I don’t know! It’s not like we’ve stayed in touch much!”

Ian frowned, and failed to look reassured. Primrose knew that as a high-ranking official in the Department of Cerebral Management, Ian had her emails monitored. If Imran had ever emailed her, Ian would have known about it. She hoped this knowledge would put his mind at rest, but knew by the vicious way he was tearing at his fingernails, it hadn’t. “How did he know how to find you?” Ian asked after a pause.

“Ian!” Primrose snapped. “I said I don’t know! Maybe he looked me up in the phone book! It wouldn’t be that hard. After all, I am still Primrose Brasco!”

“Not for long,” Ian remarked, looking out the window.

Primrose stiffened. “There isn’t a wedding date set yet, Ian,” she reminded him.

“Oh, so now it comes out! You have an ex come and stay with us, and suddenly I’m not good enough to marry?” Ian’s fists clenched.

Primrose concentrated on the road.

“That’s not what I meant,” Primrose said, as Ian scowled at her. “Besides, Imran is definitely not an ex. He’s so not my type.”

Ian fell into an angry silence, and his frown remained in place until they finally arrived at the oval.

Primrose stepped out into the cool air and watched Ian pull his training bag out of the trunk.

“Are you going to stay and watch?” Ian asked mulishly, leaning back on the car.

The glary winter sun shone down on them, making Ian’s small blue eyes seem more piggy than before.

“I don’t think so. I want to go to the gym,” Primrose replied, brushing an errant strand of dark hair from her face and taking a glance at the huddle of wives and girlfriends at the end of the oval. With the exception of Emma, Primrose detested the wives and girlfriends of Ian’s rugby team. Mostly they were all fake nails, fake tan, fake blond and the complete opposite of Primrose.

“Well, I’ll see you back at your place this afternoon,” Ian replied, his gruff tone failing to hide his disappointment.

Primrose didn’t fail to notice the emphasis put on “your place” and she swallowed a chuckle. “Okay. Have a good session,” she said, and before Ian could stoop to kiss her, she leaped into the car and closed the door.

As Primrose drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. She watched, with a pang of sadness, Ian heave his bag over his shoulder and dejectedly turn to join the rest of the team.

Chapter Three

As Primrose drove into the fairly light Saturday morning traffic, she grappled with guilt. Why did the mere sight of Ian irritate her? Why did his sparkling, if not a little piggy, eyes not fill her with joy anymore? When had this started happening?

Primrose was just about to pull into the gym car park when, in a swirling black haze of smoke, Imran appeared in the seat beside her.

“Holy shit!” Primrose screamed and slammed on the brakes. The woman in the car behind screeched to a halt and gesticulated offensively before slamming on the horn. “Don’t ever do that again!” Primrose gasped, recovering control of the car and driving into the car park.

“My most sincere apologies,” Imran replied without remorse.

“Aren’t you supposed to be visiting a friend?” Primrose asked haughtily.

“I did,” he replied, leaning back in the warmth of the car. “Now I am at my mistress’s side, where I should be,” he answered with a quirky smile.

Primrose laughed, the first real laugh in days. “Such meek servility doesn’t suit you at all, Imran.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he replied rather seriously, “which is exactly why I was made into a Genie in the first place.”

Primrose looked startled for a moment.

“You were made into a Genie as punishment?” she asked softly.

“You know that is how all Genies are made.” Imran stared at her unflinching, his dark eyes boring into hers, as if daring her to ask the next question.

“What did you do to warrant such a humiliating punishment?” Primrose chose her words deliberately to bite.

Imran smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach those impenetrable eyes. “I couldn’t tell you that…” His voice resounded with finality, and Primrose wisely chose not to pursue that particular question.

“Well, you could tell me how old you are at least? I’ve never met any true immortal before.”

“I am a magician turned into a Genie, not an immortal, but humor me and guess my age.”

“Well…judging from the original form of your lamp, I’d say you’re from the 1920’s?”

Imran laughed with true amusement this time. “No. No! Much older! Surely you know you cannot judge a Genie by his lamp!” He laughed again. “Primrose, isn’t it obvious I can manipulate the form of the lamp? That chrome and onyx was just a fad to get me into an antique shop and make the lamp affordable for someone a little interesting...”

Primrose knew he meant her. “I don’t like 1920s style,” she replied, looking away.

“You bought it anyway,” he retorted.

“Only because you enticed me. I know Genies.”

“Not well enough, I suspect. Tell me, Mistress, what happens when a Genie has given his master the three wishes?”

Primrose sighed, taking a glance at her watch. She was going to miss the Combat Aerobics class. “Is this necessary?” she grumbled, but continued anyway, enjoying this moment of privacy with him. “The Genie goes back into his or her lamp and it gets passed on.”

“There is a little more to it than that,” Imran interrupted. “The Genie begins to fade from the master’s memory.” He looked sad. “Eventually the master forgets that Genie ever existed and wonders why they have such an ugly lamp in their possession…A rather ignominious end to a special relationship, don’t you think?”

Imran sounded tired and Primrose sighed heavily in subconscious sympathy.

Will that happen to us? she wondered sadly, strangely hoping it never would.

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “What if I wish to set you free? Then you could go and live your own life.”

Imran’s head jerked up in an uncharacteristically awkward motion. “Never set a Genie free. We die if set free!” He took a deep breath. “You see, the curse that has carried me into this long life of servitude ceases to support my life if broken by a wish of freedom.” He paused abruptly, as if he had divulged too much information. “Never wish a Genie free, unless he asks you to end his life.” Imran glanced away. “Now,” he added with a slight smile, “guess how old I am.”

“You’re old enough to die if I set you free?”

“Oh, yes,” Imran replied slowly.

“How old?”

“Approximately three hundred and forty years old.”

Primrose was struck by the age of the man beside her. At a glance he couldn’t be more than mid-thirties, but when she looked once again into those impenetrable black eyes, she could see there was an old soul hiding behind that beautiful and ageless face.

Primrose and Imran were silent for a moment. Both were oblivious to the curious stares of a passerby, as they each sat motionless in the warm stillness of the car.

“Wow. How long can a Genie live?”

“I am not sure,” Imran shrugged. “I suspect I shall live forever in the servitude of humanity. As long as humans exist, so shall I. That is my supposition at least.”

Primrose absorbed this and realized with horror that Imran, eternally handsome, was also eternally a slave. “Wow,” she murmured. “I don’t think we’ll be extinct anytime soon.”

Imran smiled vacantly, more out of habit than sentiment, and they sat in silence a moment longer.

“I don’t know what to do…” Primrose began. “You know I can’t take your wishes. I don’t know what to do.”

Imran rubbed his chin, considering her words for a moment. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Primrose. Invariably, these things have a way of sorting themselves out.”

With that, he leaned over toward her and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but it set Primrose aflame. His lips were warm and soft, and he smelled like roast cinnamon and allspice. As Imran leaned into the kiss a little more, he murmured something beneath his breath and tendrils of black smoke stroked her face and hair, although Imran’s hands themselves lay immobile.

“I can’t do this!” Primrose gasped and pulled away from him, opening her eyes. The black smoke shimmered in the sunlight and disappeared. “I can’t do this to Ian. It’s just not fair.”

Imran scowled. “That oaf? Do not deny us for the sake of that irritant hemorrhoid of a man!”

Primrose felt an unaccustomed flush of anger. “Ian is not a hemorrhoid, and what am I denying us, a paltry fling? No doubt hundreds of women have fallen into your arms over the centuries! Well, I’m not one of them, Imran! I’m not a repressed housewife in need of servicing either! You are not my whore, and I certainly will not be yours!”

Imran bit back a nasty retort and was silent.

“I am going to marry Ian, and I will not jeopardize my future marriage for a crazy three wishes! Ian is forever. You are until we can sort this business out!”

Imran’s face was cold. “Why you endure that man, I cannot fathom, but if my advances are so unwelcome to you, Mistress, I will withdraw them.”

Primrose flushed hotly. In truth, his advances weren’t unwelcome at all. It was the best kiss she’d had in years, and the only kiss in her recollection that ever made her heart pound.

“I would appreciate that,” Primrose replied sharply, forcing any warmth she felt lingering from the kiss far out of reach. “Now I’m going to the gym. I will see you when I get home.” Without a further glance at Imran, Primrose slammed the car door and stalked to the gym. As she did, Imran couldn’t help but admire the sight of her derriere in tight tracksuit pants wiggle and jiggle its way into the gym complex.

As Imran watched her, Primrose stumbled on the step of the gym. Once again, Imran was reminded he made a dreadful mistake in choosing Primrose as his new mistress. He hadn’t taken into consideration the large diamond on her finger, or ever inquired as to her profession. Now as a direct result of his negligence, they would be stuck together for quite some time. This was particularly shocking to Imran as he had never been subject to rejection by a woman, especially one as gauche and inept as Primrose. Even as a magician, he always considered himself something of a ladies’ man and it was no surprise his transformation into a Genie was due to this fact.

Suddenly Imran made a decision. If their relationship was not going to work in the manner in which it was meant, the relationship must be broken. There was no point following Primrose around and lusting after her if his attentions would never be rewarded. Additionally, the thought of watching Ian paw over her for months, even years while he waited for Primrose to take her wishes was simply untenable. If he could find a magician strong enough and learned enough in the ancient magic of Genies, it would be possible to break the bond. Imran knew, with little doubt, the only magician able to do this was Omar.

Omar was the only Genie who made himself truly masterless. The problem was finding Omar could prove incredibly difficult. Omar always had an evasive nature. This fact, compounded with Omar and Imran’s shared painful past, would make him a difficult man to find. Many years ago, Imran’s transformation into a Genie had been effected by Omar as vengeance. Imran pushed the unpleasant memories from his mind. After all, he could only try to appeal to Omar’s kinder side, and hope time healed some wounds.

As Imran watched a rather obese woman wobble into the gym, he realized, with a growl of frustration, he would again need Primrose’s permission to leave the one kilometer radius of his lamp to search for Omar. Sighing with irritation, he went to ask his mistress’s permission.

Primrose was pounding away furiously on a treadmill overlooking the car park when Imran materialized silently behind her. Again, he took a pause to admire her backside before speaking.

“I can see you in the reflection. Stop staring at my ass,” she snapped, and several of the other women in the vicinity jumped, startled at the appearance of a very attractive man in their midst.

“This is a women’s only club, you know,” a particularly large woman barked, her triple chin dripping with perspiration.

“Yes, and now I know why,” Imran replied with a cool glance at her rippling lard shuddering on the cross trainer. The large woman gasped, and enraged at the slur, screeched for security.

“Primrose,” Imran said, ignoring the woman’s warbling cries. “Can I have your permission to search for Omar, who may be able to assist in our dilemma?”

“Yes! Just get out of here!” Primrose whispered harshly as a security guard thundered toward Imran.

“Can I go anywhere in this search?” Imran continued. “Even if it means I may be gone days? Even weeks?”

“Yes!”

“Oi, you!” came a gruff Yorkshire accent. “This is a women’s only club!” The security guard strode up to Imran and grabbed his arm.

“Then you would have to be the ugliest woman I have ever seen!” Imran said with mock sincerity. “Good bye, Primrose,” he added. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, Imran disappeared in a swath of black smoke, leaving the security guard and other patrons looking thoroughly bamboozled.

Primrose stifled a laugh.

“Make sure your mate doesn’t come back ‘ere though!” snarled the security guard, who looked decidedly flushed with embarrassment. “Whatever the ‘ell ‘e is.”

Primrose ignored him and continued running on the treadmill.

Much to Ian’s delight, and Primrose’s secret dismay, Imran didn’t come back the next day, or the next week, or even the next month.

Primrose’s work began to suffer. She found herself constantly wondering where Imran was. She knew she could call him, one word whispered into the night would have been enough, but pride, among other things, always stopped her.

* * * *

Far away in the bustling “Free Zone” of Main Bazaar Kuching in Malaysian Borneo, Imran stood in a dark, hot shop.

The Free Zone was an area where magic was deregulated and magical beings could work magic, without fear of recrimination. Most Western governments heavily governed magical beings so they could not out-compete their non-magical counterparts. However, as it was patently unfair to restrict magical beings so completely, the Free Zones were created. There were many such zones in the world, but all were situated outside Western government control. Kuching’s zone was one of the busiest, and was a significant tourist attraction, though human tourism to the Free Zone was strenuously discouraged. Many of the Free Zone occupants were magical beings whose habits, abilities, and tastes did not conform to modern human rights conventions.

The long street was lined with shops and studios, where magic was sold and performed. It was alive with all manner of creatures, bustling about without pause.

Imran entered a small shop sandwiched between a magical medicines shop and a magical resource center, a magical library. The shop itself was no more than two meters wide but was rather deep. It smelled somewhat of curry, but that could have been because its occupant just had lunch. Many small wooden figurines lined the shelves in jumbled piles. Toward the back of the shop was an old door that looked like it had been salvaged from a ship wreck, as it still had dried barnacles in situ. In front of the door was a glass cabinet, in which precious magical items lay. Above the cabinet was a dried wooden stick, about which an emerald-green python was entwined.

“Well?” Imran asked. “Is Leucosia here or not?”

The snake blinked purposefully at Imran, so he took a seat on a wobbling stool beside the cabinet. From behind the barnacle-encrusted door, a melodious voice rang out.

“Could that be? Abdul Imran?” The voice was soft and feminine.

“Yes, Leucosia, I have been searching for you.”

“As I have heard,” came the reply and Imran could hear her steps coming closer.

Slowly the door opened and a tall, dark shadow appeared.

“You must have traveled far, Imran.”

“Yes. I need your help.”

Leucosia stepped out from the shadows, into the flickering glow of the lone lightbulb.

Imran inhaled slightly, taken aback as always by Leucosia’s appearance.

“Time has…” he began, “been, um…” Imran couldn’t take his eyes from her.

Leucosia laughed beautifully, and threw back her head of glittering black hair. Imran felt the hairs on his forearms prickle.

“Do not lie. Time has never been kind to me, or my kind.”

Betraying Leucosia’s beautiful melodious voice was a haggard, wretched face. She was skeletally thin. Her skin hung like tanned flaps of leather from her face and arms, ending in talon-like hands. Her eyes were opalescent pearls in her head, with a pupil no bigger than a pinprick. She was assuredly the ugliest creature to walk upon the Earth except, Imran supposed, for her sisters, all of whom looked remarkably similar. Leucosia was a Siren. Her hair was glossy and black, completely at odds with her other desiccated features. The voices of the Sirens had once driven men to crash their boats into reefs in search of the beautiful songs they sung. It was fortunate, really, that most died in the subsequent shipwrecks, for they certainly would have died in horror had they ever clapped eyes on the singers themselves. The Sirens would then salvage what they could from wrecks to sell at markets and somewhat gruesomely eat the surviving sailors. Of course, such activities were now considered highly illegal in every country, but in the Free Zones, Sirens still existed and traded antiquities and other such items they could get. As for their Homo sapiens diet, Imran wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“How long has it been, Imran?” she asked, staring at him with unfathomable pearl eyes.

“One hundred years,” he said quietly.

“Ah, just before I left the sea…” she sung wistfully.

Sirens lived extraordinarily long lives in and around the sea, but when living on land, they became more desiccated and wretched. Leucosia wore a long black dress that covered her lower limbs completely. Imran had always been curious to know, though he never dared to ask, if she had human legs or the bird-like ones in mythology. Although Sirens could never have been called beautiful, their mournful melodious voices took the listener’s breath away. The wistful tone suddenly disappeared, and she continued in a much more business-like fashion.

“How can I possibly help you, Genie Imran?” Leucosia asked as she sunk down onto another stool behind the glass cabinet. Imran thought he could hear the scrape of a taloned foot on the stone floor but wasn’t sure.

“I need to find Omar,” he said, looking searchingly into her eyes.

Leucosia snorted, and the leathery folds of skin below her jaw wobbled unflatteringly.

“Omar! I have not seen him for at least seventy years.” Her strange pearly gaze caught Imran’s and without breaking contact, she reached down beneath the glass cabinet and opened a book. “This was his parting gift.”

Imran glanced at the book that now rested on the cabinet between them. It was a standard spell book dating back to the 1930s.

“He gave you that? It’s useless, human-made no less!” Imran said incredulously. “Why would he give it to you anyway? You’re a Siren, not a magician.”

“I’m so glad you noticed,” Leucosia replied dryly, and smiled. Imran’s eyes were drawn down to her mouth. Beyond the thin parched lips lay rows of sharp pointed teeth. Imran glanced away quickly, repulsed and ashamed of his own weak response to another magical creature.

“You have been with humans too long, Genie. You’re disturbed by my appearance. You need to stay here a while and get used to being around your kind again.” Leucosia’s voice wove the idea of staying into his mind and for a moment, Imran really wanted to. He gazed at her, the magic in her voice making him blind to her physical appearance. She reached out with her sharp-clawed hand and stroked his cheek. Imran closed his eyes, and quite involuntarily an image of Primrose looking embarrassed and confused burst into his mind.

“I can’t. My mistress is waiting,” he said, physically shaking his head to rid it of Leucosia’s touch.

The gnarled hand retreated to the folds of the dark dress once more.

“A mistress? Why would your mistress send you to the Free Zone? In fact, why would your mistress send you away at all?” Leucosia asked with a suggestive timbre in her voice.

Imran stared at Leucosia, absorbing her ugliness anew. “She doesn’t want me or my wishes,” he admitted. “I have come in search of Omar to break our bond so I may be able to find a master who does.”

Leucosia erupted into a symphony of laughter. “After more than three hundred years of a being a Genie, finally you are rejected! I wish I could meet this mistress! She has not fallen for your charms? You have not tricked her into wishing?”

“No,” Imran answered. “It isn’t a becoming trait to laugh at another’s misfortune,” he added.

“As you can well see, Genie, there is little becoming about me to begin with!” Again, sweet, fluid laughter poured from her dried mouth.

“Do you know where Omar may be?” Imran asked. “I cannot stay long.”

“No, I do not know where he is, or if indeed he is even alive,” she said, raising a threadbare eyebrow. “Besides, even if he were alive, Imran, I doubt very much he would wish to see you who caused his enslavement to the lamp all those years ago.”

Imran sighed heavily and rocked backward on the rickety stool. “No, I don’t suppose he would…Still, if you do see him, or hear of him, I will leave my address, so you may contact me.”

Leucosia slowly looked up from the cabinet where a gold-edged calling card appeared in a small cloud of smoke. Her pearl-globe eyes met his steadily, and Imran knew a question dwelled in their pale depths.

“Why do you want to break this bond with your mistress?” she sang. “Do you want to be passed from master to master like a whore? If your mistress doesn’t require you, you are relatively free…With her permission, of course, you could live your own life as you chose, at least for the duration of hers. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting?” Leucosia’s gaze didn’t waver.

Imran hated hearing what she said, so he looked away uncomfortably again. “I don’t know what I want, Leucosia. I thought I had made a good choice when I chose her.”

“You chose her?” Leucosia asked, surprised. “I didn’t know you had the ability…”

Imran ignored her. “My old master was beginning to forget my existence. He’d only remember I was around intermittently. I didn’t want to be stuck in that limbo state. Then I saw Primrose walking outside the antiques store.” He sighed, remembering. “She looked so calm and in control. A perfect mistress, just perfect...”

Leucosia raised a frayed eyebrow. “I gather she isn’t perfect?”

“She is gentle, sweet, and totally dominated by a boorish man.”

“The problem is that man isn’t you, right?” Leucosia laughed.

Imran stopped, irritated by her interruptions. “She doesn’t need me in her life. I must break the bond, as she will not take the wishes.”

“Why not? Most humans would jump at the chance.”

“Magical Gains are excessively taxed by the governments, as you well know. To make matters more complex, she also works for the government! It makes her accepting the wishes virtually impossible to hide with all those magical ion tests.”

Leucosia hissed. Most of the occupants of the Free Zone were rigidly antigovernment, having been forced to work there simply to maintain an existence.

“I wish I could help you, Imran,” Leucosia said, “but there is little I can do. Take Omar’s book. Perhaps it will help you.” She paused and looked down at the book. “Take it, as a token of my friendship.”

Imran knew he was being dismissed. He looked at the useless book, out of date, and completely inappropriate for a Genie whose magic went far beyond any human comprehension.

“Thank you, Leucosia,” he replied awkwardly and turned to leave, the book tightly gripped underneath his arm.

“This problem will sort itself out, Genie. Things such as these usually do…” she sang as he walked out into the hot tropical sun.

The day was dwindling as Imran walked slowly down Main Bazaar. The area was packed to capacity with magical beings. He saw several posters urging magical beings to petition heads of state to extend the Free Zones around the world, and he could understand why. He looked at the amassed assortment of creatures, amazed they all came to seek refuge in these tiny reservoirs of magic.

As he passed a large tree, Imran noticed a gathering of magical birds. They sat in the shade, their heads lowered, possibly communicating mentally for all he knew. He recognized a phoenix, an enormous roc bird, and—he paused and took another glance. A strange creature with the head and forelegs of a dog, covered in colorful scales with a long peacock-feathered tail, sat with the others watching him silently. Its eyes were the same dark as Imran’s. It was a Simurgh. Deeply ancient, and thought extinct, this benevolent Persian animal sat still in the bustle of Main Bazaar.

Involuntarily, Imran bowed low in honor at the creature, when he heard a serpentine voice behind him.

“He’s alive, you know.”

Imran spun around and found a man-sized, twisted humanoid creature behind him. Imran took another glance at the Simurgh, but it was gone. He only hoped its appearance bode well for him.

“Who?” Imran finally replied, turning back to the creature.

“Omar. He just doesn’t want to be found…but I know. I know.” The creature danced excitedly on the spot.

Imran eyed it with revulsion. It had pale white skin, thick fat lips, and freckles over the bridge of its small nose. It was dressed in modern clothing, well-fitting jeans and a cream linen shirt. Its clawed feet were neatly wrapped in soft leather sandals. The shape and form of the feet clearly indicated this being was several times removed from standard human origins.

“Well, I am sure he wouldn’t appreciate you declaring your knowledge all about the Free Zone,” Imran said curtly, though still interested.

The creature wilted under the criticism, but its watery blue eyes lit up again after a moment. “Do you want to see Omar, eh, Genie? I heard you talkin’ with that old Harpy.” The accent was decidedly Irish and the creature grinned and hopped a moment, obviously overcome with excitement.

Imran did indeed want to see Omar, but he knew taking assistance from this addle-brained creature was likely to cause much more damage than good. If Omar were alive and in hiding, it meant he didn’t want to be hunted down by anyone, and Imran wasn’t going to attempt it with this creature hopping and bouncing with ineptitude.

“Leucosia is a Siren, not a Harpy, and I do not—”

Before Imran could finish, a tall man strode through the crowd, pushing everyone aside in his haste. Imran’s eyes widened momentarily with surprise as the tall man roared when he saw the creature beside him. “Stupid Fomorian!” the man bellowed, his blond hair ablaze in the hot sun. “Silence your tongue!”

The creature next to Imran cowered momentarily, and then turned to run. Without warning, the tall man drew an enormous bronze sword and swept down, killing it instantly.

“Ah, a Fomorian,” Imran murmured to himself as the creature fell to the ground lifeless.

The tall man was Irish and obviously a Tuatha De Danaan warrior. He snarled at Imran. “Leave this place, Genie.”

“Yes, I suppose I should,” Imran agreed as the Fomorian’s blood, red as any human’s, began flowing down the street to the drain.

“Ask no more questions, Genie.”

“No more questions,” Imran said, looking up at the towering ancient Irishman. Through his golden skin, Imran could see blue blood racing through the veins. He wondered why Fomorians and the Tuatha were in the Free Zone. Perhaps the Irish government, like all the other Western governments, was imposing stricter regulations on their magical beings. It was odd, but Imran wisely chose to say nothing.

After taking another glance at the dead Fomorian, Imran was about to dematerialize when the Tuatha spoke again. “Clean it up,” he barked, and Imran noticed the surrounding crowd, who tried ineffectually to avoid looking, gasp. The sharp intake of horror from such a group was too overwhelming to ignore, so Imran turned around to watch. Slowly padding up to the corpse was an enormous Manticore. The body of a tremendous lion with the deformed face of a man parted the crowd, and sniffed the Fomorian.

“The shame of it,” the Manticore growled in a gravelly voice. “If I had my way, I would only feast upon human flesh.” It sniffed the Fomorian corpse again. “Revolting.”

“It is not your way, so clean it up,” the Tuatha said again, nudging the beast with his boot.

The Manticore gave a guttural growl and even the Tuatha took a step back. It flicked its massive tail and struck a small Elven woman standing nearby. She shrieked and pushed her way back into the crowd. The Manticore chuckled and then began to eat.

Imran had seen enough and without further word, he disappeared into smoke.

Chapter Four

With the sound of crushing bone resonating in his ears, Imran appeared at Primrose’s front door. He stood there in the sudden chill of a Perth evening, pondering what he had seen. Omar was alive, he didn’t want anyone to know about him, and he had a Tuatha warrior and a Manticore doing his bidding. Perhaps Omar should be left alone, Imran thought. Perhaps the only way to deal with this is the typical Genie way.

Imran heard Primrose laugh from within the house, and quite involuntarily his heart leaped at the sound. I have to get out of this mess, he decided. I will have to trick her into wishing. Again he heard Primrose’s laugh followed by Ian’s. Annoyance flushed through him, and he hesitated irritably before entering. She probably doesn’t want me to return anyway, he thought somewhat morosely. It was disturbing for Imran to realize just how weary of life he was. He smiled ruefully to himself. It may have taken over three hundred years, but he was finally beginning to feel the Genie curse was actually a punishment, not simply a way of life.

Slowly Imran walked into the house, knowing Primrose would be annoyed if he simply appeared inside. The house smelled like coffee and baked cookies, and instantly he felt hungry. Materializing and dematerializing over long distances took a lot of energy, so Imran felt a little weak. He walked quietly into the living room. The rest of the house was in darkness except for the flickering of the television. Primrose lay on the couch with her head on Ian’s lap, and both were laughing at something amusing on the television. Again, Imran felt a hot wave of annoyance, bordering on jealousy.

“I’m back,” he said dryly. “Miss me, Primrose?”

Primrose was nearly airborne with the speed at which she launched off Ian’s lap.

“Imran!” she shrieked, her cheeks visibly red in the dim room.

Ian looked thoroughly pissed off. “Where have you been, mate? I thought you’d done a runner,” he muttered.

Imran gave him a dismissive glance and looked at Primrose instead of replying.

“You could have called,” she said a little sharply, her cheeks slowly regaining their normal color.

“You could have too,” Imran countered.

“I had no idea when you’d be back…If you’d be back.” Primrose all but whispered.

There were many things Imran would have liked to have said, but with Ian’s glowering presence, it wasn’t the time or the place.

“You knew I’d be back,” Imran replied. “Is there any coffee left? You know, after all that travel, I am exhausted.”

“Tell me all about it.” She spoke with a hint of command in her voice. “I’ll get you coffee and dinner if you like. It’s only Bolognese, but I did make cookies for sweets.” Primrose grinned, obviously delighted at having Imran back.

“You’re not his bloody wife!” Ian barked as Primrose walked into the kitchen. “He can get it himself!”

Imran glared at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Ian fell quiet.

“She never does that for me!” he reluctantly grumbled.

“Perhaps if you acted more like a gentleman and less like a bull in a rut, she might,” Imran quipped and followed Primrose into the kitchen, leaving Ian with his mouth agape.

In the kitchen, Primrose poured Imran a cup of sweet, hot coffee from the percolator. He sipped it gratefully.

“How did your trip go? Did you find the magician?” she asked.

Imran considered his response for a moment. “No, though I did have an interesting time.”

Primrose put a plate of spaghetti Bolognese and salad on the table. “Where did you go?” she asked and sat down beside him.

Surprised by her sudden close proximity and newfound confidence, Imran paused and looked at the food.

“Err,” he began and started eating, hoping she wouldn’t pursue the question. There was a general rule that magical beings didn’t discuss the Free Zone with humans. It wasn’t that humans weren’t allowed there. It was just the less they knew about the Free Zone, the safer everyone was.

“I command you to tell me where you went,” Primrose whispered, her voice resonating with strength and the knowledge that her Genie could not refuse.

At the command and with a moist gurgle, the partially masticated food leaped from Imran’s mouth and plopped onto his plate, allowing for his immediate reply. “The Free Zone, Kuching.” He scowled. “Do not demand things from me mid-mouthful. It is humiliating!”

Primrose chewed her lip, suppressing a smile. “I did a bit of research on Genies while you were gone.”

This was actually a gross understatement. Her work had suffered because she had researched every known source on Genies instead of her prescribed jobs.

“Is that so, Mistress?” Imran replied as dryly as he could manage, and then continued to eat.

“I know what you’re going to do. You went in search of a magician who could break our bond, and as that failed, you plan to trick me into making those wishes. Am I correct?”

Imran stared at her, his mouth full. Primrose’s lips slammed into a tight line of disapproval. He swallowed quickly, but still didn’t answer.

“I command you to answer my question!” she whispered again.

“Yes,” Imran conceded, finishing his meal hastily and returning to his coffee.

Primrose took an awkward glance toward the living room, making sure Ian was still there. “I command you do not use trickery to entice me into making those wishes. Do not trick me in any way, shape, or form, Genie.”

Imran stared at her sparkling brown eyes, and knew there was nothing he could do but acquiesce. “As you command, Mistress,” he agreed steadily.

Primrose flushed with excitement and kept her gaze on him.

“You do realize I will be with you until your dying day if you do not take these wishes willingly.” Imran’s voice was deceptively mild.

“I know that,” Primrose replied, “but for the moment it will have to do. Perhaps in a few years’ time when I no longer work for the government, I may take your wishes, when it is not so risky.”

Imran raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, before they furrowed with annoyance. “In the meantime, you expect me to follow you around like a moon calf?” His fist clenched around his fork. “While you go about your life, I get nothing but the tail end of your interest?”

“I suppose so.” Primrose smiled and Imran realized she was exercising some level of control, and enjoying it. “Think of it as freedom, as the greatest freedom a Genie could ever be capable of. Most Genies would dream of a mistress like me.”

Imran frowned petulantly, not liking his lack of control in their relationship. After all, he was used to being in charge of the situation. Primrose conversely grinned even wider.

“Prim!” came Ian’s irritated bellow from the living room. “Are we watching this movie or not?”

It was like watching a flower wilt in the face of the hot sun. Primrose’s smile dropped, and her head fell forward. She stepped forward to join Ian in the living room, but Imran caught her arm.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go to him.”

Primrose looked at the deep black eyes and the handsome face. She wanted to throw herself into his strong, tanned arms and inhale the spicy scent of him, and never let go, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice taut with what Imran could only hope was longing. “Ian’s real. What you offer is just an illusion. He’ll be there forever. You will one day disappear.” Primrose turned and scurried out of the room to Ian.

Imran felt his shoulders tense as he watched her go. What she said wasn’t true, yet potentially it was. He growled under his breath and in a swath of smoke, disappeared into his room. Damn her.

Late that night, Imran was woken by the sounds of rhythmic animal grunting occasionally perforated by a pained feminine moan. Imran bit back a howl of frustration, jealousy, and anger. After a moment of unsuccessfully fighting the urge to feed Ian to a Manticore, he dematerialized and sat in a park not far from the house, to calm his raging temper.

A few weeks later things hadn’t changed much in Primrose’s household. Ian was still a boor and Imran, though noticeably distant, was the epitome of grace and chivalry. The only difference was the ever-mounting tension between the trio.

Although Imran was distant toward Primrose, it was mainly just to retreat from his consuming jealousy. Never in his life as a magician or Genie had he suffered as he did when Primrose was with Ian alone. Ian constantly belittled Primrose, and used her like a toy. Imran was forced to remain silent and not interfere, but what he really wanted was to scream his frustration out and beat Ian’s boorish face to a pulp. Whenever Imran was around, Ian would possessively put his arm about Primrose, a gesture Imran found beyond irritating. Primrose would glance somewhat apologetically at Imran and gently shrug Ian away. This in turn would make Ian even more suspicious and possessive than before. The only consolation for Imran was that when Primrose was at work and away from Ian’s possessive eye, she would allow him to take her to lunch.

At their lunches Primrose was in control, confident and beautiful. Imran was a perfect gentleman, opening doors and pulling chairs even before the waiter had time to do it for him. Imran, in his own mind at least, would watch her like a starving man. Behind his inscrutable black eyes, he would hungrily devour Primrose’s every movement. He would watch the way she brushed her dark hair from her eyes when the wind blew and how she licked her lips when she felt uncertain, and memorize each gesture. At these quiet, intimate lunches, Ian was a million miles from either of their minds. Primrose and Imran had not kissed since that first time in the car and Imran didn’t attempt to seduce her again. The sexual tension was there, palpable, like a tight rubber band they kept pulling in separate directions. Still, it was pleasant and fun and Imran relished their lunches away from Ian’s angry, reddened face. Occasionally he would let his knee rest against hers as they ate. It was all very innocent, but still tempting. Imran could sense Primrose’s desire for him, and both admired and bemoaned her strength of will. At these times Imran often wondered how a woman with such evident strength and composure could suffer to stay with a creature like Ian. Nonetheless, in those bustling cafés and restaurants of West Perth, they could be alone, talking and enjoying each other, almost as though they weren’t Genie and mistress. They didn’t discuss their situation, nor at this time did Imran continue his search for Omar. Instead, they just relished the times they were together, and fantasized at the times when they were not.

* * * *

Unfortunately, the day came when Ian found out, by way of office gossip, about Primrose’s private lunches.

“You know who I saw at the Villa restaurant on Tuesday?” Dermott said as he and Ian met for a coffee one lunch hour.

“Who?” Ian asked, only mildly interested. The Villa restaurant was a fancy establishment, and not many of his friends could afford a lunch there on a departmental budget.

“Primrose.”

Ian’s head snapped up and heat rushed to his cheeks. “My Primrose?” he asked, struggling not to grab Dermott and force him to elaborate.

Dermott attempted a smile, but it was more of a sneer and his pale freckled face lightened with malevolent amusement. “Do you know any other Primrose?” he countered before continuing. “She was there with some guy. He looked like a walking GQ Model, or whatever they call them these days.” Dermott smiled through thin lips.

Ian gritted his teeth so hard it was audible, and Dermott looked momentarily taken aback. “I’ve actually seen her there quite a bit,” he added a little nervously. “I didn’t tell you the first few times because I thought it might have been a business thing, but…” Dermott was rambling as Ian grew quieter and his face grew redder. After a moment Dermott stopped rambling altogether and fell into a hot, awkward silence.

“Err, bathroom.” Ian excused himself abruptly, the blood roaring in his ears.

Bloody Imran! Primrose, the fucking cheating bitch, he thought furiously. Hurriedly, he walked toward the men’s bathroom, crashing into someone as he blindly sought his way to the toilets through a haze of rage.

“Watch out!” Ian growled, not even pausing to glance at the person with whom he collided.

“Young man!” came a stern voice. “Mind who you are speaking to!”

The haze of rage was cleared by a cold dash of reality. Standing beside him was a man, short and beige-looking, with neat ash-colored hair and a small goatee beard. Mr. C. L. Quillian, the new Acting CEO of Cerebral Management was speaking to him and, in fact, looking rather cross.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” Ian gasped in horror. “I—”

“A mistake easily made, I suppose, when one’s in such a terrible rush.” Quillian’s frown lifted and his strange honey-yellow eyes glittered. “It’s Mr. Beckwith, isn’t it?”

Ian nodded numbly.

“Mr. Beckwith, I advise you to watch where you are walking in the future.” Mr. Quillian inhaled sharply, as if sniffing the air. He gave Ian another searching look before continuing on his way, and Ian rushed into the bathroom.

As Mr. Quillian arrived in his office, he spoke to his secretary briefly. “Tell me about Ian Beckwith.”

The secretary looked up at her new boss, shrinking back into her seat under his penetrating gaze. He was slightly creepy, but not definably so.

Quillian had come to the Department of Cerebral Management only a few months previously. His predecessor, Mr. Tyrone Kimberley, developed early onset dementia at the age of fifty-five and had to take an early retirement. Quillian was brought in as his temporary replacement. From where, no one seemed to know, but everyone held him in high regard. Additionally, although Quillian was only Acting CEO, there was strangely no action in arranging for his permanency.

“Mr. Beckwith? Um…I don’t really know anything about him,” Narana said after a pause.

Mr. Quillian sighed with irritation. “You dim-witted girl, go and find out about Ian Beckwith, everything.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I get someone from Investigations?”

“No. Just you,” Quillian replied quickly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Narana.”

“Yes, sir?” she answered tremulously.

Quillian looked at the petite blond intently.

“Never mind.” he said, and walked into his office.

* * * *

Late that night, after pretending all was well throughout dinner, Ian confronted Primrose as they watched television.

“Are you sleeping with him?” Ian asked, as Imran headed to bed early after bidding Primrose good night and ignoring Ian.

“Who?” Primrose replied sharply.

“Don’t fucking ‘who’ me, Prim! Bloody Imran!” Ian growled and pulled closer to her on the couch. His big meaty hand reached over and clutched tightly to her thigh.

“No,” she replied, although her heart beat a little faster at the accusation. In an attempt to reassure him she rested her own hand lightly on his.

“Dermott said you’ve been having lunch with him every single day,” Ian spat jealously.

“Dermott said that, did he?” Primrose replied as nonchalantly as she could manage.

Primrose knew, through office gossip, Dermott was the proverbial nosey parker so she wasn’t particularly surprised.

“Yes, he bloody did. I was so fucking embarrassed! My fiancée, repeatedly having cozy lunches with another man! What am I supposed to think, Primrose!”

Primrose looked at the television blankly.

“Tell me what I’m supposed to think!” he repeated angrily, his hand gripping her tighter.

“Being the Assistant Manager of Cerebral Management, I should hope you could do that for yourself!” Primrose finally snapped, peeling his bruising fingers from her thigh. “Imran is working in the vicinity, and has been able to have his lunches with me. Why shouldn’t he? After all, I don’t see you rushing to join me for lunch.”

“Don’t blame me for this,” he snarled, “and stop this shit about him being an investigator! He is not an investigator! I’ve known that for weeks. I did some investigations of my own and there is absolutely no record of Imran anywhere. I really need some explanations, Primrose.”

Primrose felt as though she had been dashed with ice water. “I’m not the one to provide them. Sorry, Ian. It isn’t my place to talk about Imran’s private life.”

“Well, I can’t get a thing out of him!” Ian yelled. “He doesn’t even answer me. I want him out of our home.”

Primrose had known this was coming. Truthfully, if Imran was to leave, it would probably be for the best, but as they had discussed, unless she took her wishes, he couldn’t. With things the way they were at the DMC, she wasn’t going to risk it. Jobs were hard to come by at the moment. “He hasn’t found anywhere else to live yet,” Primrose began lamely. “You know how hard the rental market is.”

“He can have my apartment,” Ian suddenly said. “The lease is up in two weeks.”

Primrose was surprised by this and although she could order Imran to live there, she simply didn’t want him away from her. She liked Imran, much more than she would ever dare admit. The sad fact of the matter was she wanted to get rid of Ian, not Imran. Primrose felt safe when Imran was in the house. She simply did not feel safe with Ian, and had come to realize she never really had.

“Perhaps you should move back there.” Primrose said very softly, but she knew Ian heard.

“What?” he gasped, his face instantly reddening.

“You heard me, Ian. This isn’t working. We aren’t working.” Primrose avoided his angry face.

Ian roared, and his hand came crashing down on her cheek. “You bitch!” he screamed, his face purple with rage. Primrose cowered a moment, as pain blossomed in her face. Ian roared again, but this time Primrose was ready. She jumped from the couch in a bid for safety. Unfortunately for Primrose, although Ian was big, he was also quick. With amazing speed, he jumped up and grabbed her arm. “You bitch!” he howled again. “No fucking way! You’re not ditching me for some fucking Turk!”

“Imran!” Primrose screamed, shocked by the hysteria in Ian’s voice. She needn’t have called. Imran appeared only seconds after Ian threw the first blow. He materialized silently behind Ian. As Ian made an angry lurch toward Primrose, Imran caught him around the waist and held him momentarily immobile.

Ian continued yelling profanities and despite being held firm by Imran, did not release Primrose’s arm. He yelled at her again and twisted her arm violently.

“Let me go, Imran, you bastard—or I’ll break her fucking arm!” Ian screamed.

Primrose screeched in pain and in response, Imran tightened his grip around Ian’s waist and squeezed.

“Release her,” Imran whispered to Ian and squeezed even tighter. Primrose tugged at her twisted arm, sobbing as Ian’s eyes bulged. It was then Primrose realized Imran was using his power to enhance the pressure around Ian’s waist. Still, Ian didn’t let go. Instead, he twisted her arm a little further.

Tears were running down Primrose’s cheeks.

“You’re breaking it!” she cried at Ian’s bulging face.

“I’m warning you, release Primrose now!” Imran said furiously.

Primrose tugged but Ian’s grip still did not lessen.

“I warned you!” Imran released Ian, who staggered toward Primrose. She began screaming afresh as Ian lurched, gasping toward her. Imran stood silent and, almost imperceptibly, black arms of smoke entwined around Ian’s head. The smoky snakes insinuated at rapid speed up Ian’s nose and down his ears and mouth.

Ian stopped advancing and began a long, choking scream. Instantly, he released Primrose, who watched with mounting horror as Ian clutched, to no avail, at the vaporous sinews that forced their way through his facial and cranial orifices.

“Don’t kill him!” Primrose sobbed and ran to Imran, who stood immobile and watching.

“It won’t, unfortunately,” he replied.

Ian collapsed, pitifully choking and howling, to the floor.

“Stop now, please!”

“Primrose, I must render him unconscious. He must have no memory of this! If I stop now, he will remember and we will both go to prison…or worse. You know the heavy penalty for magical assault!” Imran hissed, his face creased with concentration.

Ian kept wailing, clutching at his face and ears, trying ineffectually to pull the smoky sinews from himself.

“It’s awful!” Primrose sobbed and held onto Imran, burying her head in his chest to try and block the horrible sounds of strangulated retching.

“It is no worse than what I have to endure when he molests you every other night,” Imran replied coldly, his eyes never leaving Ian’s writhing form.

Primrose pulled away quickly. Her stomach lurched as she curled on the couch. Hot shame and embarrassment clashed with the adrenaline and fear coursing through her body. Her gaze locked on Ian who, with wide unseeing eyes, writhed in pain on the floor. Finally Ian’s wailing softened into whimpers, and within another moment he was silent and immobile on the floor.

“I didn’t think you could hear.” Primrose whispered, her cheeks aflame.

“Of course I could hear. The walls are paper thin,” Imran retorted, his voice stiff and restrained.

Primrose, sick with embarrassment, didn’t know what to say. “You never said—”

“What could I say, Primrose?” Imran paused and then began in parody, “Oh, Primrose! I heard your fiancé brutishly fucking you last night! It sounded dreadful. Please keep it down next time?” Imran was being deliberately cruel, but weeks of pent-up anger erupted. Primrose paled. A guttural sob broke from her and guilt instantly creased Imran’s features.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Imran apologized and walked toward her.

He stood there for a moment, motionless, clearly unsure of what else to say, unsure whether to touch her.

Primrose didn’t look at him but stared at motionless Ian on the floor.

“He isn’t dead?” Primrose asked. “You’re sure?”

Imran looked at her, relief flickering over his face now that the conversation had shifted.

He sighed heavily. “No, Primrose, he is not. However, we now have to decide what we are going to do, before he wakes.”

Imran sank down on the couch beside Primrose and wrapped a comforting arm around her. Primrose, still embarrassed and hurt by his outburst, inhaled his spicy scent and relaxed briefly.

“He will be riddled with magical ions, and if he suspects a magical attack, he will go straight to a doctor who will test him. We are in serious trouble, Primrose,” Imran whispered.

Primrose closed her eyes, and felt very weary. There was silence for a long moment. Primrose’s clock ticked impatiently from the mantelpiece. “Okay, here’s what we can do,” Primrose finally began, her voice steady. “I’m going to phone his mother.”

Imran raised an eyebrow in surprise, and Primrose continued. “I’ll tell her Ian and I are breaking up, and he has got drunk and passed out. Then we’ll see what happens and go from there.”

Imran was silent and Primrose felt awkward. He leaned over and stroked her reddened cheek gently. For a moment, Primrose thought he might use his power to take the pain away, but he didn’t, and she was glad. She wouldn’t have let him anyway.

“You would do best to make that telephone call, then,” Imran said, reluctantly retracting his hand.

Primrose nodded mutely and picked up the telephone.

Within half an hour, Ian’s younger brother, Jeremy Beckwith, arrived at Primrose’s door looking sheepish and embarrassed. “Hey, Prim. God, I’m sorry about Ian. He’s such a shit.”

Primrose smiled wanly. Jeremy was the complete opposite of Ian. Although still big and brawny, he had warm hazel eyes and bright auburn hair and was always a gentleman.

“Have you got all of his stuff packed?” Jeremy asked. “I’ll take him and his stuff to Mum’s and when his lease is up he’ll probably move back to the apartment. It will all be okay. I can’t believe he…” Jeremy was rambling, mainly because he saw Primrose’s reddened cheek and knew his brother, so like his father before him, was a domestically violent man.

“His things are in the hallway, and he’s on the living room floor. I’ll get Imran to help you lift him,” Primrose said, suddenly tearful.

If Jeremy was surprised by the sudden appearance of a tall, dark, and handsome man, he hid it well. Imran ushered him into the living room and they both carried Ian out to the car. Primrose had liberally scattered beer bottles and whisky tumblers around the room and splashed a little on Ian to make him smell authentic.

“Holy shit, he stinks like a brewery,” Jeremy gagged. “Now I remember why I stopped drinking!”

Imran smiled but said nothing, and assisted Jeremy in loading the car.

“Prim, I’m really sorry things ended this way with Ian. I really do think you’re great.”

“Thanks, Jer. I’m sorry it’s ended this way too. Please tell him when he wakes I’ve changed the locks and alarm code, so he can’t come back. I will not tolerate it.”

Jeremy blushed awkwardly, obviously unsure how to reply. “Sure. See ya later.”

“Bye,” Primrose replied, and Imran, who stood in the shadows behind her, remained silent.

Chapter Five

Primrose didn’t go to bed that night, but sat on the couch crying. Imran sat beside her, wrapping his arms around her in comfort. She cried for the loss of a future with Ian, even though she knew that future would have been a bleak one. She cried because at thirty-one she was single again. She cried because her hand looked naked without the glittering diamond. All the while, Imran sat, patiently bored, until her weeping lessened and her breathing deepened and sleep finally overcame her.

When Primrose awoke, it was to the morning sun streaming through the living room window. She panicked momentarily, wondering where she was, and then like a sharp barrage of bullets she remembered last night.

“Imran?” Primrose called, sitting up and rubbing her still-red cheek.

“I have made breakfast,” he replied and came in with a tray of muesli and tea.

“Oh,” she gasped, surprised. The only thing lacking was a freshly picked flower in a small vase. “Thanks.”

Imran’s emotions were unreadable behind those dark eyes.

“What is the time?” Primrose asked before commencing eating.

“It’s about eight thirty.” Imran glanced at the clock.

“Jesus, I’m going to be late!” Primrose shrieked and began scoffing the muesli into her mouth.

Imran watched her with a wry smile. “You will be attending work today?”

“I’ve got to! I can’t get a doctor’s notice when I’m not sick!” Primrose flew off the couch and rushed into the bathroom.

Within fifteen minutes, Primrose was dressed and ready to go. Imran watched her silently. She looked good. She was wearing a pale pink cashmere sweater with a pencil skirt, sheer stockings, and comfortable, but stylish heels. Her hair was tightly pulled back into a long, neat ponytail. Primrose knew she looked competent and confident, as if nothing were wrong in the world, an impression she knew was so at odds with the truth.

“I’ll see you for lunch?” Primrose asked, secretly delighted by his admiring gaze.

Imran noticed her lightly bruised cheek was covered in a thin veneer of makeup. His eyes hardened. “Yes, if you think it is a good idea.”

“Why not? People break up with their partners all the time, and I have to say I had good reason to end it with Ian. I grieved last night, and I’m so over it.” Primrose smiled weakly. “Besides that, I love having lunch with you.”

Imran shrugged, and glanced out the window.

“Right then…” Primrose murmured, looking slightly abashed at his unexpected nonchalance. “I’ll, err…” She looked up at him expectantly as if wishing a kiss, or other familiar farewell. “I’ll be off then,” she finished, as Imran’s eyes finally met hers. With a look she couldn’t define, Imran inclined his head slightly before she turned and left.

Primrose arrived at the office noticeably late. Normally she would have been in the office by nine, but due to traffic it was nearing ten. As she strode into her office, Dermott watched her through the glass of his own office. When Primrose disappeared behind her door, Dermott rang Ian’s direct line without hesitation.

“Beckwith.” Ian’s voice was hoarse as if he had a sore throat.

“She’s in,” Dermott whispered.

“Primrose?”

“No, the Fairy Queen!” Dermott replied. “You’re the one who wanted to know.”

Ian hung up. He needed to talk to Primrose. He had awoken at his mother’s house, with what appeared to be a very bad hangover. His mother and brother were treating him like scum, and he really wanted to apologize to Primrose. He never meant to hurt her, Ian reasoned, even though he knew he frequently did. Something changed, and it was all Imran’s fault. Primrose had never thrown him out before and Ian felt disturbed, upset, and angry. He couldn’t remember drinking last night and had no recollection of anything other than sitting down with Primrose to talk about Imran. Ian stared into space, deep in thought, and wondered how he could possibly make amends with her.

* * * *

In Mr. Quillian’s office, Narana the secretary was briefing her boss on Ian Beckwith.

“He’s engaged to Primrose Brasco, who works over in the Department of Magical Culture. They live in a small, three-by-one in Hilton and have done so for the past year. There is no date set for the wedding,” Narana finished, her voice trembling slightly.

“Do they live alone? Any magical beings in the family?” Quillian asked.

“As you are aware, sir, all government employees are screened for magical heritage and traces, and as far as I am aware, neither have any MBs in their families. However, they currently have a lodger living with them.”

Mr. Quillian’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have a name for their lodger?”

Narana mumbled to herself, deeply puzzled as to why Mr. Quillian would suddenly take such interest in the assistant manager.

“Um, yes, he’s referred to in first name only. It’s um…oh, there it is, Imran. The lodger’s name is Imran. I haven’t had time to research him as yet though.”

Quillian froze. “You’re quite sure?”

“I’m certain. My informant heard Mr. Beckwith refer to him several times.”

“Thank you, Narana,” Mr. Quillian snapped. “I have one further request of you. Mr. Beckwith must have an immediate Random Magical Ion Test.”

“An RMIT?” Narana breathed. “On the assistant manager? Mr. Quillian, I can’t possibly ask him to do that!” she cried, her pretty face reddening with distress.

“Tell him I request it,” Quillian said, ignoring her evident anguish and dismissing her.

Narana gulped audibly, nodded, and left Mr. Quillian’s office. She removed a key from her desk and unlocked the closet to her right. From the closet, she withdrew a strange contraption and hurried down the hallway.

* * * *

Ian sat staring at the wall for a moment, pondering his situation, when his telephone rang.

“Ian Beckwith.”

“Ian, it’s Kay. I need your approval to admit Gary Forthright into Cerebral Care. You know the case. He married an elf and now his magical traces are all over the shop. The investigations are an interesting read.” Kay paused, but Ian didn’t respond. “I’ve got the psychiatrists’ report here for you to view and the Magical Traces Expert report too. I’ll send them up now if you’ve got time?”

“Yep, sure thing, Kay,” Ian replied uncertainly.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ian replied, looking up as he heard a gentle knocking at the door. “I have to go, Kay. Send the info down when you’re ready. I’ll look at it and approve it for you.”

He hung up the phone quickly, and smoothed back his hair. “Come in,” Ian called in his most professional voice despite his hoarseness.

The door opened and Ian’s eyes widened as gorgeous Narana, object of many an office fantasy, strode in. She looked cool and calm, almost glacial.

“Mr. Beckwith, I am here with an RMIT.”

Ian’s eyes widened. “Random Magical Ion Test? What the hell for?” he exploded. “I’m the assistant manager. You can’t just order me to do that!” He was outraged.

“Mr. Quillian ordered it himself. I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Narana replied, her cobalt-blue eyes steady, but now glittering with nervousness.

“Mr. Quillian?” Ian whispered. “Why?”

“I do not know the workings of the CEO’s mind, Mr. Beckwith. I only do as I am told. Please let me do the test.”

Ian sighed. It was an odd request, especially since not a single member of his family was a magical being.

“Fine. You’ll be amazingly disappointed. I’m about as magical as a—”

Narana pulled out the RMIT and switched it on. It looked and sounded like a small handy vacuum, with a large screen and several buttons. It had three USB ports on the side. Ian stood up and Narana stepped toward him, pointing the RMIT close to his face. Ian could feel the air being sucked past his skin with a sudden chill. Abruptly, a loud panicky beeping sounded. Narana looked as startled as Ian.

“What the hell?” Ian cried.

Narana looked down at the screen in amazement. Unidentifiable/unregistered magical ions detected. 1700 ppm.

“Let me look at that!” Ian grabbed the RMIT from Narana. “That’s impossible.”

“Um, Mr. Beckwith, I think you should see Mr. Quillian immediately.” Narana quickly took the RMIT away from him. The incessant bleeping of the device drew the attention of several other staff members, so she quickly switched it off.

“Err. Um.” Ian was lost for words. “Okay.” He leaned down and locked his computer and followed Narana out of the office.

On the way up to Mr. Quillian’s office, Ian wracked his brain trying to reason why he was riddled with magical traces. “This can’t be happening. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

Narana said nothing, but kept a swift pace toward Mr. Quillian’s office.

Mr. Quillian’s office was marked by two thick, ornate, old-looking doors, which didn’t suit the rest of the décor of the office.

Narana paused at her small sparse-looking desk and picked up the telephone. “Mr. Beckwith is here to see you. He had an unidentified magical ion result of 1700 ppm,” she said clearly into the mouthpiece.

Narana looked coolly at Ian, who was fidgeting with his tie, flushing red. “You can go in immediately.”

Ian stared at her, quite aghast for a moment. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to be sacked or detained for this. Surely they wouldn’t detain an executive employee, he thought furiously as he opened the old doors into Mr. Quillian’s office.

Mr. Quillian’s office was decorated in a style Ian couldn’t really define, with expensive paintings on the walls depicting English Regency scenes. One wall displayed an ornate tapestry, and an enormous window opened up onto a Spartan balcony.

“Mr. Beckwith. Do sit.” Mr. Quillian was standing next to a side credenza and pouring a small shot of whisky. “Do you drink?”

“Err, not this early in the morning,” Ian replied and immediately regretted it, thinking he offended his boss.

“Of course.” Mr. Quillian smiled. “I forget that.”

Ian frowned. He never spent much time with Mr. Quillian. The Manager of Cerebral Management liaised directly with the CEO, not the assistant manager, after all, but it seemed to Ian that Quillian might be an alcoholic.

Mr. Quillian walked up to Ian, who was sitting nervously on a straight-backed and uncomfortable chair. Quillian inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring and his brow furrowing. “Mr. Beckwith, have you any idea why you, a decidedly non-magical human, has significant magical traces?” Mr. Quillian’s voice was smooth and well modulated, not divulging a hint of emotion.

“No. I really have no idea,” Ian blustered, fiddling awkwardly with his hands.

“Have you been anywhere…strange lately, or seen anything out of the ordinary perhaps? Maybe something strange happened to you while you slept? Odd dreams perchance?” Quillian pressed.

“Umm, no, not really.” Heat flushed into Ian’s cheeks at the thought of revealing the embarrassing truth that he woke up at his mother’s house with no recollection of how he got there.

“You don’t sound too sure of that, Mr. Beckwith,” Quillian said, sniffing sharply again and retreating to his desk. Mr. Quillian’s eyes were wide and blinked with odd irregularity.

“Um…”

“Please, Mr. Beckwith, by telling me the truth you could save yourself a lot of…trouble,” Quillian coaxed gently.

Ian knew Quillian was right. If he didn’t cooperate fully, it was likely he would be sent to Cerebral Detention and forced to. This was a frightening thought, as some of the methods for extracting the truth from a person were quite uncomfortable.

“I don’t have much to tell, Mr. Quillian,” Ian mumbled, looking away from those strange yellowish eyes.

“Do tell, for your own sake, Mr. Beckwith.”

“Um, well, I woke up at my mother’s house this morning,” Ian began, glancing out the window. “I, err, don’t remember getting there, though my brother said he took me. I apparently had been drinking, but I don’t remember drinking at all. The last thing I remember was…” Ian’s words were coming out in an awkward jumbled rush, but Mr. Quillian looked delighted.

“Go on, boy!”

“The last thing I remember was sitting on the couch with my fiancée and, um…” Ian didn’t want to continue. He didn’t want his superior to know he’d been arguing with his fiancée. In fact, he didn’t want anyone to know.

“Go on, boy!” Mr. Quillian barked and then cleared his throat and sniffed again, his nostrils flaring widely.

“Um, we had an argument, and that’s all I can remember.”

Mr. Quillian looked mildly irritated by this vague recollection. “Then you woke up at your mother’s? Was there anyone strange there?”

“By strange do you mean a magical being?” Ian asked.

“Of course, boy!”

“No, my mum, she…she’s a bit frightened of magic.”

“Then at your home, were you and your fiancée alone?” Quillian asked.

“Yes, well, Imran had gone to bed.”

Quillian straightened in his seat. “Imran you say? Who is he?”

“A friend of my fiancée. He’s been intermittently staying with us. Odd bloke, though. I did…” Ian paused, wondering whether he should confess he used his governmental powers to research an individual. “I did a bit of a background check on him, and I found nothing. I mean nothing. He’s never been to university here, he’s never owned a house here, he’s never done anything here. It’s as if he just appeared.”

“Did you check with the government in other countries?” Mr. Quillian asked excitedly.

“No, I didn’t think it right to abuse my position.”

“More so than you already have?” Mr. Quillian chuckled.

Ian blushed red. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth, Mr. Beckwith. I will send some men from Magical Investigations to question your fiancée, I think. Now tell me more about this Imran character.”

“Well, there isn’t much to say, really. About two months ago I came home and there he was. Primrose said he was a friend from Uni who needed to stay until he sorted himself out. I guess he just hasn’t sorted himself out. I guess they don’t want me to know what’s going on either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think they are having an affair,” he whispered so quietly Quillian could barely hear.

“I am indeed sorry to hear that, my boy.”

“I accused her, last night. I don’t remember what happened though. I remember saying it, and then…nothing.”

Mr. Quillian’s strange eyes lit up and he looked delighted.

“I think there is more to your unusual evening than you suspect. You may go. We will give you another RMIT test tomorrow to see if your levels are decreasing.”

“Okay,” Ian said. “You’re not going to detain me in Cerebral Care to discover why? You’re not putting me on leave?”

“No. I don’t think that is necessary. You are excused, Mr. Beckwith. I will let you know how our investigations progress.” Mr. Quillian looked away, and Ian was duly dismissed.

As Ian left the office, he felt a little concerned about the implications for Primrose, but he really didn’t know what happened. If he was drinking, which according to his brother, he had been, it was his entire fault. It was confusing because Ian didn’t feel he had a real hangover, just a dry throat, itchy eyes, and a dull inconsequential earache. Ian frowned and walked back into his office. What if Primrose put a spell on him? She wasn’t a magical being, was she? Ian dismissed the thought. It had to be Imran, who was always so quiet, abrupt, and now that he thought about it, deeply suspicious. Ian scowled at the thought of Imran’s smirking handsome face. Without speaking to any of his colleagues about what just happened, Ian sat at his desk. He saw a number of files. Kay must have delivered them in his absence. Involuntarily, his mind was drawn back to Primrose and Imran, and hot flushes of rage surrounded him afresh.

* * * *

Several blocks away from Ian, Primrose sat in her office. Something felt wrong, and she knew it had something to do with Imran’s attack on Ian. Although she couldn’t criticize Imran for attacking him in her defense, the chance of Imran’s unregistered magical traces being detected was high, and it would send Magical Investigators swarming all over them.

“You okay, Miss Brasco?” Melody, Primrose’s secretary, asked as she set down a cup of mint tea for Primrose.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, Melody,” she said, taking a glance out the window. Was she mistaken, or could she see a gaggle of black-suited government officials walking hurriedly toward her building?

“Now, how far have we got with Rockingham Council in developing land for the Tengu Cultural Center?” Primrose asked, pulling her eyes from the procession in the street.

As Melody recited information from her notepad, Primrose became distracted and again her attention was drawn to the men striding closer to her building. They looked like Magical Investigators, dressed the same, everything the same, even hair color. Was she being overly suspicious?

“Melody, look out the window. Do you think those men are a Magical Investigation Team?”

Melody maneuvered her substantial bulk to the window.

“Definitely. I wonder who they’re after? Oh, wow, they’re coming into our building!” There was a trill of excitement in Melody’s squeaky voice.

Panic rushed through Primrose like a flood of ice. “Um, Melody, would you excuse me a moment?” Primrose tried not to let the tremor betray her nervousness.