Djinn, Lose, or Draw Read online

  Djinn, Lose or Draw

  Erick Buckley

  Copyright © 2021 by Erick Buckley

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  All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is coincidental.

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  This book contains content that may not be suitable for young readers 17 and under.

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  The Author of this Book has been granted permission by Robyn Peterman to use the copyrighted characters and/or worlds created by Robyn Peterman in this book. All copyright protection to the original characters and/or worlds of the Magic and Mayhem series is retained by Robyn Peterman.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  More from the Magic and Mayhem Universe

  Acknowledgments

  I could not have written my first foray into the MAGIC AND MAYHEM UNIVERSE without Robyn Peterman allowing me to come play in her sandbox and making me the inaugural “tripod” to do so. If you enjoy, she made it entirely possible…if you don’t enjoy it, she is to blame. Either way, you now have a target at which to aim your gratitude or ire as you see fit.

  And a special thank you to the other MMU writers for not pantsing me and sending me crying from the room, never to be heard from again.

  Dedication

  To Robin I. and Miranda B for cutting me some slack in my duties as Hubby and Daddy while I scribbled my silly story.

  And to the infinite monkeys of inspiration who took time off working on HAMLET to help me write this little book.

  Foreword

  Blast Off with us into the Magic and Mayhem Universe!

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  I’m Robyn Peterman, the creator of the Magic and Mayhem Series and I’d like to invite you to my Magic and Mayhem Universe.

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  What is the Magic and Mayhem Universe, you may ask?

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  Well, let me explain…

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  It’s basically authorized fan fiction written by some amazing authors that I stalked and blackmailed! KIDDING! I was lucky and blessed to have some brilliant authors say yes! They have written brand new stories using my world and some of my characters. And let me tell you…the results are hilarious!

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  So here it is! Blast off with us into the hilarious Magic and Mayhem Universe. Side splitting books by fantabulous authors! Check out each and every one. You will laugh your way to a magical HEA!

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  For all the stories, go to https://magicandmayhemuniverse.com/. Grab your copy today!

  And if you would like to read the book that started all the madness, Switching Hour is FREE!

  https://robynpeterman.com/switching-hour/

  Chapter One

  “When I find the person who decided a djinn’s abode should look like the powder room of the Trump Taj Mahal, I am going to grab the nearest satiny pillow and shove it so far down his throat he’ll be shitting goose feathers for eternity,” Abdel Malek muttered during his daily three o’clock tantrum.

  After four hundred years, Abbie, as he was known to his friends—if any had still been alive—was sick and tired of living in a room where everything was as shiny and slippery as MC Hammer’s crotch. After kicking the last of the cushions within reach away and flailing at the gauzy fabric hanging from the ceiling, he flopped onto the floor with a thud wishing he’d left one cushion for his ass. He sighed deeply. At least the harem pants were roomy and allowed his bits and pieces to air out, not that it mattered in here. He slowed his breath and began the journey into the deepest of meditative states. This allowed him to fall gently into his “happy place”—standing upon the white sands of his favorite oasis in the deep desert, the sweet and tangy flavor of pomegranate on his tongue, the gentle dusk sun warming his hands as they squeezed the life out of that prick of a Warlock Glower McCracken. This was one of the few things which brought a smile to Abbie’s deep blue face, his curling lips surrounded by a jet-black goatee. A resonant gong reverberated the walls of his home. His eyes opened as the smile fled his face as though chased off by an asp.

  Abbie hissed through gritted teeth. “Coming, prick.”

  His body began to fade into blue smoke starting with his legs. The rest of him soon followed. He felt himself stretch in the all-too-familiar agony. Felt the air get squeezed forcibly from his lungs as though it were the last bit of toothpaste in the tube. Felt bile flood his body with a bitterness which only paled in comparison to the bitterness in his soul. His vaporous form exploded from the opening of his bottle with a silent scream like a muzzled tea kettle. He hovered, bulging arms crossed over a smooth, muscular chest. His misty legs drifting lazily back into the opening of his bottle.

  His home. His prison.

  Abbie’s eyes fell flatly on the shriveled, ancient remains of a once robust man, Glower McCracken. Sitting on McCracken’s lap was his equally ancient familiar, Caleb—a crusty bearded dragon lizard almost as ill-tempered as its master. Glower was talking with his two lieutenants. One was a Warlock. The other was a Shifter—a creature of magic who could switch forms from human to animal. Hugo “The Bastard” Bastien, a WereElk, was as big as a truck and almost as smart, with sandy colored hair jutting off his head at strange angles. The other was Tran “Psycho” Ward, a minor Warlock, slight, dark, and lean with slicked back hair. Not strong but smart. And vicious. His familiar was an undersized, cowardly bat named Kane, which liked to snipe from Tran’s inner pocket. Two more pricks who deserve a good, firm handshake around the throat, thought the djinn.

  “You summoned me, Glower?” Abbie growled in a voice that could melt the very stones of the Kentucky mountains he could see through the window.

  The Bastard and Psycho backed up cautiously at the sound. But Glower McCracken just curled his lips and spat a brown, slimy stream of tobacco juice into a huge, priceless, crystal spittoon he kept almost constantly floating nearby him. He desecrated the priceless antique in that way just to show he could. He raised one disinterested eyebrow.

  Glower, unfortunately, wasn’t made of stone. Stone was nowhere near as hard or cold.

  Caleb roused one scaly eye and hissed, “Ya’ mean Master, don’cha?”

  Spit.

  “Master,” seethed Abbie as he lowered his arms to his sides with eyes downcast.

  “And don’t forget it neither. Now grow some legs and cop a squat, ya floatin’ fart.”

  Spit.

  Abbie looked down at the tiny stool where Glower always made him sit. He glared at the old man’s mottled neck. His hand itching to wrap around it and squeeze until snap, crackle, and pop.

  “Sit, dog,” McCracken snapped.

  Abbie fel
t the electric shock of the magical curse that made him a djinn. His misty bottom half suddenly solidified into legs and he was slammed down hard onto the surface of the stool six inches off the ground, his knees up around his ears. Glower’s La-Z-Boy seemed like a pasha’s throne in comparison. Which was, of course, the desired effect. Caleb peered over the footrest and gave a sizzling chuckle.

  “I don’t care to put you down, Abdel. Remember that the next time you think to sass me,” McCracken sneered. He punctuated the threat with another vile stream of sputum into the spittoon. He pulled the handle on his recliner, his nasty feet extending into Abbie’s face.

  “Of course, Master,” Abbie said with a grimace. One of his favorite fantasies about doing away with the vile McCracken involved burying the massive spittoon in his egg-shaped skull with what he imagined would be the most satisfying sound in the world—like a choir of angels intoning the word THUD in eight-part harmony.

  “Now, I called you because our little town of Backcrack Creek could use some of your special skills,” McCracken drawled. “Seems like we’re drawing a bit of unwanted attention from ‘cross the river in West Virginia.”

  He snapped and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Psycho and The Bastard fell over themselves trying to be the first to open a small cabinet behind Glower. Psycho was quicker and drew out a bottle of moonshine but The Bastard got his huge hands around three glasses. As Glower poured the drinks, Abbie licked his lips. It had been centuries since he’d had a drink. While he preferred a deep draught of Persian arak with its sweet anise flavor, at this point a shot glass of antifreeze sounded good.

  “You need me to renew the deflector spell on your black-market magic operation from the Witches over in Assjacket, again, Master?” Abbie asked with a dramatic sigh.

  About a hundred and fifty years ago, Glower McCracken decided to take over the flyspeck town of Backcrack Creek, Kentucky. Seemed like a waste of time and resources. Glower was a pretty major Warlock with some serious mojo who owned a secret djinn fixer to boot. Why not aim for a bigger burg than Backcrack Creek? The place was so small, it wasn’t even a one-horse town, just a half-horse town… and that half was the horse’s ass. But Glower was evil, not stupid. Backcrack Creek, Kentucky was about ten miles over the border from Assjacket, West Virginia—a magical Mecca in the heart of Appalachia. A community filled with Shifters, Vampires, Witches and every manner of supernatural spectre known to man, beast, or demon. The location gave Glower endless customers for his off-market magic and had an ample supply of crooks looking for work. The only fly in the ointment was Baba Yaga, or as Glower called her, Bag O’ Yogurt. Not only did her power scare the bejeezus out of anyone with a pulse, or without one, for that matter, but she also commanded every damn Witch and wielder of White Magic in the ‘verse. That’s where Abbie came in. Due to how the djinn curse works, he was powerful. Not remotely Baba Yaga’s class—a few weight classes below her. Also, a djinn’s domain and source of power—the Lamp—was a little Universe unto itself. A djinn’s power didn’t draw from nature or Heaven or Hell. Their magic affected the world but couldn’t be traced or tracked. They were the magical equivalent of a Russian internet troll—anonymous. Abbie was able to cast a deflector spell that kept Backcrack Creek the seedy, Black Magic megamall that could operate undetected right under Baba Yaga’s nose.

  “Wouldn’t need to do it again’, if’n you’d done it right the first time, Smokey,” barked The Bastard. He lifted the shot glass to his lips. But he froze as a purple cloud of spiders crawled out over the rim and covered his ham-sized hand. He brayed loudly in panic and threw his glass across the spacious cabin.

  A last crackle of purple sparks snapped off Glower’s fingers. “First, I rub the dog’s nose in its shit, not you.” Glower didn’t raise his voice which meant he was irritated. “Second, weren’t his mess. Need him to boost the glamour around the town ‘cause there’s more magic about since I been expanding business. Third, shut your grass-eatin’ piehole till I tell you what to put in it, you stupid deer.”

  Spit.

  “Elk. Not deer,” grunted The Bastard as he cleaned up the shattered remains of the shot glass.

  “You’re whatever hoof-licking, furbag I call you,” McCracken huffed as he sipped deep off the potent, colorless liquor, “And that goes for you, too, ya’ shit eating pissant.”

  With a flick of his finger, the glass in Psycho’s hand shattered in a shower of alcohol causing Kane the bat to yelp inside his coat. Abbie had been summoned for enough of Glower’s “business meetings” with these two that he was used to the path they followed… slap everyone around and allow no one to feel like there was solid ground beneath them. Abbie quietly mourned the wasted liquor. He stared at Glower dreaming about drinking from his hollowed-out skull.

  “Shield us good and tight from pryin’, Witchy eyes. Later tonight, meet up with these boys and visit some of the good residents of my town, quiet like.” Abbie had now been ordered to be invisible to everyone but Psycho and The Bastard. Another benefit of drawing power from a different universe. “See if anyone been leechin’ some of the magic off ‘n that deflector spell to hide any fuckery about,” Glower grunted, pouring himself another drink.

  “Ain’t no one takes a dime from Glower’s pocket and keeps their fingers,” Caleb said, grinning as he licked some of the spilled moonshine from the side table next to McCracken’s chair.

  The Shifter and Warlock shuffled back and forth muttering banal agreement. Glower tilted his head towards the door indicating he was done. They backed out with a mix of fear and malice. Abbie turned to go with them.

  “Dog. Stay,” Glower grunted as his lieutenants hurried out, glad they weren’t the object of that tone. Glower was the djinn’s master and had him rooted to the spot. Abbie’s teeth would have cracked if he bit down any harder.

  “Master?”

  “I need you to stay and scan my chickies for me.” Glower expelled the desiccated wad of tobacco into the spittoon and let it come to a rest on a high shelf. He grabbed Abbie’s bottle and walked into his bedroom. The djinn had no choice but to follow. Scanning his chickies was one of the things Abbie truly despised having to do for the sagging old scrote. Glower’s room looked like a giant wood-grained box that held a room size bed. Two curvaceous young ladies with more natural padding than the massive mattress were draped all over each other. WereFoxes, Abbie could sense. They hadn’t waited for Glower to enter the arena—they had started the game without him.

  “That sure is a purdy candle holder, Mr. M.,” purred one of the vixens languorously.

  Abbie’s eyes goggled but he was invisible and undetectable to these women. This sight made the djinn’s mouth water far more than the moonshine. Four centuries without a drink was one level of Hell. A four hundred year long case of blue balls was something even Dante hadn’t come up with. Glower smirked. It was just another reminder for Abbie about who had the power. As if he needed reminding. Glower had gone so far as to forbid the djinn from “oiling his own Lamp” without permission. Abbie would never give him the pleasure of asking which meant he denied himself the pleasure—not to mention the release. The djinn scanned the ladies for any pre-cast spells which might be triggered while Glower’s attention was otherwise occupied, leaving him momentarily vulnerable to attack. He needn’t worry. Everyone in Backcrack Creek knew better than to mess with Glower McCracken. And these fine lasses were here for their own pleasure, as well as Glower’s. McCracken was old as dirt but he had a reputation for skills in the conjugal arena. Unfortunately for Abbie, McCracken was paranoid enough to want the scan to continue during the entire sexual Olympics that would ensue. The djinn had seen enough in those unwanted peep shows to know it was more than hype.

  McCracken shook the bottle, which was Abbie’s cue to sit while still scanning. Once the djinn was settled on the floor at the foot of the massive bed, Glower tossed the bottle onto his side table and let Caleb down next to it.

  The lizard wrapped itself around Abbie’
s Lamp with cranky glee. “We got it free with the last fill up,” he chortled.

  “Enough jawing. Let’s play,” leered McCracken.

  Abbie jammed his fingers into his ears, desperate to block out the giggles as they morphed into moans, visions of a grisly demise for McCracken at his hands danced in his head.

  Chapter Two

  Wispy clouds dragged through the combs of the pine trees in the West Virginia mountains. They were a magical sight, even in a place lousy with the actual phantasmal force. Jazzlyn Horn despised the gorgeous view and wished she had permission to burn the whole state to cinders. The sight of those mountains shrouded in gauze filled her heart with bitterness. She’d rather have had a pap smear from a doctor with hook hands than set foot in West Virginia again. But there she was, in the town of Assjacket, drinking coffee almost as black as her mood staring out at all of Appalachia’s stupid splendor. Even knowing she looked fine as hell in her skimpy sundress and combat boot combo did nothing to lift her spirits.

  “Y’all like a bear claw?’ asked the waitress, a tall, perky Shifter. A WereCat, Jazlyn would have guessed.