A Genie's Perilous Predicament, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Sammi Mason
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [include publisher/author contact info].
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by GetCovers
Edition One, 2023
Contents
Title Page
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-One
A note from Sammi
A Genie's Perilous Predicament
A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel
Sammi Mason
One
A deeply frustrated sigh escapes me as I close the Emporium's thick, wooden door, ready to call it a day and head home. I was expecting more from this afternoon, something to justify or even reflect the monumental life decision I made this morning. Instead, I have a pounding headache as more questions bombard my poor midlife brain.
Not that any of that diminishes the excited trickle of anticipation that has set up home in my spine. I came to Whispering Isle for a new start after my husband got his young intern pregnant, and I have that in spades. Buckets, even. Along with a life crammed with magic, mystery, danger, and the odd sexy man or three. All on a tropical island paradise hidden from the world by a magical dome. It's a uniquely enchanting place full of amazing people and extraordinary sights everywhere you glance.
Those extraordinary things range from someone shifting or flying high in the skies above my head to a fruit tree miraculously changing from a sapling to full grown with an abundant harvest, courtesy of magic.
With my first step, the Emporium, the sentient and highly magical store I now run, sends a flare hurtling through me. Someone is coming.
Back inside, I take my seat, delving into what Empy, our pet name for the Emporium, can sense. She has no inkling if this is a Procurer, who has found an artifact that belongs here, a Seeker to claim something they need, or a Bestower, some poor individual with something created with dark magic they must relinquish for their safety. It's them I have the most sympathy for. Most have no idea the item in their possession has the power to wreak havoc with their lives or sometimes destroy all they hold dear.
My hand hovers over my bracelet, but with no imminent sense of danger, I decide against tapping it to release my concealed leather suit of armor and my weapon of choice, a long chain that transforms from smooth to vicious spikes depending on what I ask of it.
If you think that all sounds mysterious and clandestine, you'd be right.
Draven, my muscled, sexy-as-sin dragon shifter co-worker, follows seconds after, standing guard by my side. I say mine, but don't get your hopes up; he mum-zoned me the instant we met.
The door opens to a woman with bright blue hair, a massive, shockingly pink, geometric necklace, teamed with a denim swing dress and cowboy boots, who steps one foot over the threshold before drawing back.
"Hello, I'm Ginny. Would you like a cold drink?" The heat here is still at boil-in-the-bag levels, and the parcel she's carrying looks heavy. As I stand to fetch cans of soda, the shelves containing the genie lamps catch my eye. They are a stark reminder of how much has changed as well as the abyss of stuff I still don't understand, such as why my genie lamp is trying to lure me back or if the magic I've performed is my own or a gift from the Emporium.
Genies were long ago stripped of the abilities to return to the safety of our lamps in a puff of smoke and grant wishes. While that freed us of the constant tyranny of those who sought to exploit our powers, it left us with nothing more than a hideous inner swirl of emotions that plagues our lives.
"That would be mighty fine." Her accent has a strong, southern Texas twang that reminds me of my year living there. I place the cans on the coffee table. If she wants a drink, she'll need to come in. Which could be daunting. What people experience in the Emporium depends on their motive for being here. For all I know, this woman could be caught in a wonderland or horror movie. I feel Empy ready to probe, but the store is holding back for some reason. "Well, I had better come in then. Hadn't I?"
"Please, do, and make yourself comfortable." With a grimace, she steps inside, stands straight, and stares at the door with confusion. She sits, gulping down nearly a can of soda. "You're welcome to a second. Getting here is thirsty work. Please, explain your purpose and start with your name."
"I'm Sindy, and I believe this should be here." She pulls a roll of bright white lace from her bag and lays it on the table. I touch the delicate fabric. It doesn't seem to have magic qualities, whether good or arcane. In fact, it appears nothing more than a perfectly normal roll of lace.
The artifacts housed by the Emporium are everything but that. They range from the bizarre to the outright evil. Literally, anything that shouldn't be in the wider world ends up here because the Emporium is a depository that holds and protects objects of arcane and non-light magic. Only releasing them to the worthy seekers, who provide justification and payment in the form of retribution.
"How did it come to be in your possession?" Draven frowns down at her, being his best intimidating self.
"An elderly aunt passed away and left me her house. This was in the dusty attic, sitting under a leaking roof, but it was still white and dry. That is not normal." Sindy shakes her head at me. I give her one of those weird agreeable, not a smile, not a grimace, things. "Anyway, I decided to make a dress from it for my granddaughter. She's such a girly girl, into frills and princesses, but whenever I cut the fabric, it ended up whole again. The last time I tried, the scissors broke. They were brand new, large and strong."
That casts a different light on the otherwise innocent fabric that cannot remain with the Bestower but does not belong here. However, figuring out where it should be will have to wait.
"Thank you for bringing it. We will ensure it is properly utilized." I retrieve a small, velvet pouch from under the counter and pass it to her. "Please, accept this as a thank you for your trouble and in retribution."
"Sure. I'll leave y'all to it." She stands and is half through the door before she turns. "Strange, I never saw this place before. It's only a block from my house. There was me thinking I knew my whole neighborhood."
"She isn't from Whispering, is she?" I ask, watching her disappear into thin air.
"No." Draven slides on the sofa. "The Emporium helps Bestowers and Seekers get here and back."
As Sindy isn't the first person who arrived and left that way, I let it go. Percy, the merman whose essence was condemned to a thimble, watches on from his perch on a shelf, his busy brow furrowed, mouth tight. He casts his gaze at me. I see the longing to say and do so much in his eyes. My personal vow to free him deepens.
"What do we do with this?" I pick up the lace; its heaviness and dense texture takes me by surprise, and I nearly drop it.
"That's probably what I'm here for." Sera pokes her head inside, perfectly attired as always in a black, ankle-length skirt with a slit to her knee and a dark red blouse with large buttons. The magnetic pin holder tied around her wrist is not something I've seen her wear.
"Hey, want a coffee?" She was the first person on the island to befriend me and has battled by my side. She has her own bracelet concealing her leather suit of armor and engraved golden sword.
"I can't stop. I'm pinning alterations to a wedding dress, and the wedding is next week." As she moves closer, the stress around her large amber eyes becomes more evident. I hand over the lace, and she inspects it. "This is pretty. They aren't normally."
"Normally?" Draven gets there immediately before me.
"Any material or fabric, really, any sewing or dressmaking items, tends to end up with us." She turns and strides away, calling over her shoulder. "See you later."
"Is it just my impression, or is our connection to the Emporium getting weaker?" Draven drawls, sitting back, crossing his ankle over his knee. His gray eyes almost holding me captive.
"That is a possibility." I sigh, not wanting to admit it. Doing so seems like a breach of Empy's confidence, which is bizarre. We, or at least I, should be able to tune into her and sense, well, I'm not sure what, but more than the vague awareness we currently share.
It's no doubt a symptom of the Adjustment. It affected every single person with an essence, even me, and I had no clue I was a genie. I put my profound sense of loss down to peri-menopausal hormones.
Some essence people were severely changed. Until then, Draven was an Overseer away from the island, an official Essence Authority or EA for short. It was a role he never anticipated losing.
It also coincides with the disappearance of the former Merchant, my aunt
It's all a harsh consequence from the destruction of a single book. Although, considering my ancestors wrote death wishes in it, one of which created the Emporium and brought life to this once barren island, maybe it isn't. This is unchartered territory for everyone, not just Draven and me. Nobody can be sure what the book's destruction and the Adjustment means for Whispering or anyone with an essence. Seriously, not a single living person. But there's no doubt it's damaging or that we absolutely must keep the artifacts safely confined within the Emporium walls where they are.
I haven't told anyone, but I had a vision of the moment the deathwish that created Empy was cast. A young woman wearing a red cloak collapsed where the Emporium now stands. She clawed the ground with her bare hands and buried something, all while clutching an urn, then in the final moments of her life, she wrote her death wish in a purple book. I even saw the page, but it was in a language I could not understand, it wasn't even similar to any current language I've come across. We shared a face, every feature was identical.
Now, despite lacking the vital heritage knowledge, I'm the Merchant, doing my best to hold it all together before I lose my sanity or life. I'm still figuring out the full scope of what that means. Empy is doing what she can to reinforce our tentative connection, but her voice is lost behind the caterwauling of the artifacts that are desperate to tell their stories.
"Sera said we'll want to wear these tonight," Bee, a sixteen-year-old who has been living with me since she fished me from the ocean a few days ago, says, scowling at a suit bag folded over her arm. Before you ask, yes, I am completely glazing over the fact she dropped me into the ocean in revenge for killing her grandfather after he and his men tried to invade the Emporium.
"Any idea what's inside?" I take it from her to carry with more care. Bee shakes her downcast head. Her enthusiasm from this morning has somewhat dissipated. I guess the first day of school comes as a shock, especially since it was her first ever. Her life before was spent sailing the world looking for people to blackmail or ways to make ill-gotten, easy money. None of which she appreciated.
We reach the cozy, blue cottage we both call home and walk through the door as it opens for us. We're instantly engulfed in a warm, welcome-filled with rejuvenating energy. Bee cocks her head at me, and I grin, hoping this is our new normal. The house is connected to the store. I look after the store, and the house looks after me, taking care of my needs, from food to healing.
Doesn't that sound perfect? On the flip side, if a storeholder cannot care for their store, no matter what the reason, it is a horror show.
I tug the bag's zipper to reveal a knee-length, fit-and-flare, mid-blue dress with cap sleeves and a round neckline. I trace the silky fabric, marveling at having a bespoke outfit made by seamstress witches that I never knew I needed. It is by far the nicest item of clothing I have ever owned.
My marriage consisted of being a wife, mother, and errand-runner. My clothes reflected that - dowdy, miserable, and colorless. Thankfully, courtesy of shopping trips in my stopovers in California and Hawaii on my way from the UK to Whispering, hardly any of that wardrobe remains.
"That's pretty." Bee swallows, her eyes wide.
"I'm sure yours is very different," I quickly reassure her. We're still getting to grips with her dress style, but it isn't this. She had been forced to wear Xena: Warrior Princess style get-ups that left little to the imagination. Despite her young age and slight frame, she has one hell of a figure.
I hang my dress over the door frame and open Bee's, revealing a black skater dress with short sleeves and a high neckline. Bee inspects it from a distance, her pursed lips slowly easing. "It isn't so bad, I suppose, but why do we need dresses?"
I open my mouth to answer and realize this is another thing I have no idea about. We're having dinner at my gran's house, where I'll meet most of my family for the first time. Until now, I'd only really met my parents, half-sister, and Gran. Rose is fifteen years younger than me, and our mothers refused to talk. As much as I love her, our relationship has not always been the typical sibling bond.
Our dad wasn't exactly the one to stay around. He'd turn up every few years, destroy mum and my lives, then disappear. He was in Rose's life far more. I always pitied them for that.
As a child, I wondered why Gran never stopped him. If I'm honest, I still do. If it was my son, I'd be mortified. But then, my son is a wizard and never told me. My belief we had a strong, close relationship was obviously a fallacy, so who am I to judge someone else's parenting? And let's not mention my daughter, who actually said I should have stuck around to help her father and the naïve mouse—I must stop using that nickname for her—Brittany, with the new baby. Ruby is spoiled. Lawrence indulged her every whim, but that takes the biscuit.
"If Sera sent them, there's a reason." I shrug at Bee, who huffs in resignation. "You are free to wear anything you want."
"If you trust Sera, then so do I." Bee takes her dress, pausing defiantly by the stairs. "I draw the line at makeup."
I beam, trying to hide the nausea cresting through my stomach. Her upbringing was far from innocent. She was used and abused, perhaps even sold to a mystery man, who may still try to claim her. I grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge and head upstairs to my stunning master suite. It's all I could ever have dreamed of and more. Probably because, as with everything in the house, it was made, or maybe I should say conjured, to fit my tastes.
The best thing, though, is that it stays at the perfect temperature despite the baking heat of our location. Whispering shares a climate with neighboring Hawaii, which is a challenge when your heat tolerance and complexion are about the same as a glass of milk. I am not gifted with the ability to achieve a healthy, sun-kissed glow or look cool, calm and collected. Think more reddish pink ice cream that's melting in a blob.
My new dress fits like a glove, sucking in and flaring out in all the right spots. I slip my feet into a pair of strappy, heeled sandals in the exact same color, one of my new purchases. I cram my stuff into the matching handbag and add a touch of makeup.
Stepping back, I stare at the reflection of the polished, confident woman before me. My sophistication and poise are virtue of the magic Sera's family wove through the dress. I owe them big. I'm not sure I've ever looked better.
It's even concealing my fatigue. There wasn't much time to sleep last night. In the early hours, the Emporium was invaded by hideously animalized men. Someone's twisted attempt to combine the intelligence of a person with the strength of animals. A pig, rat, and cockroach. The memory sends an icy chill down my spine. I take a second to stop it from cascading through me as it has several times already today. More men are missing, which should be impossible.
My hunk, aka Rhett, the sheriff, should be able to find any person from Whispering no matter where they are in the world. There's no evidence these men have left the island. Which isn't that easy. The dome conjured to protect the island and maintain the secret it exists means coming and going needs special magic.
When I think of it that way, there's a strong resemblance to a prison. Although, if jails had a quarter of the facilities we do, people would commit crimes and just wait for the authorities to turn up, it's that idyllic.
The dark side leaves a lot to be desired, such as a regard for life, but one of my hopes is that understanding how Whispering came to be will help solve that problem.
We ride the plentiful electric scooters to Gran's house and Gerry, her much younger assistant come lover, directs us to the back garden with a bow. I have deliberately not considered what my family looks like, but the anticipation of meeting a group of people who don't have a random passing similarity to me but actually resemble me in a meaningful way has been building all day.
Swallowing the nervous lump in my throat, I step into a space filled with people of every size, shape, and skin tone imaginable, including silver to blue with scales. They all turn to stare, and I gawk right back. The likeness is there for a few here, but not as I'd fantasized about since I was little. I raise a hand in a shocked and somewhat dazed wave. Bee stiffens beside me. I suspect she's ready to go home.
