Jasmine Flynn bolted upright in bed at the scream of sirens outside her bedroom window. The sirens faded to a long, slow wail as she groped for a lamp. Apprehension flooded her as her eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar dark and sinister room.
Then the lamp’s light threw the dingy off-white walls into focus, and the used dresser no longer looked like a demon crouched in the corner. Once-eerie sounds transformed to the leaky bathroom faucet drip, drip, dripping as the ancient radiator blew off steam.
Jasmine threw the blankets off her, irritated and way too awake. She peered out of the frosted window. Three A.M. and the streets below still teemed with people like rush hour at high noon. New York City never rolled up the sidewalks. Unnatural, the way New York stole away her nights.
Jasmine walked across the cold tiles of the tiny studio apartment to the kitchenette and filled the teapot with water. The perfume bottle she’d left on the dresser caught her eye. She’d bought it yesterday from a junk store on her lunch break–a beautiful thing. Intricately crafted, iridescent glass threaded with gold and glossed with a patina of age. The stopper scintillated like a diamond, scattering color.
She’d found the bottle buried under heaps of old fabrics. The shop owner had gazed at it as if he�d never seen the bottle before. He hadn’t wanted to sell it. But she had to have the frivolous purchase, even though with New York prices and costs, her C.P.A. salary didn’t stretch as far as it did in Georgia. She insisted that he name a price. When she heard the outrageous sum, she passed over her credit card with nary a flinch.
Jasmine picked up the bottle. What old-fashioned fragrance did it hold? Its scent had probably soured. She tugged at the stopper. It didn�t budge. She struggled with it a few minutes, then growled with frustration and yanked at the stopper with her teeth.
A hot wind rushed against her face. Startled, Jasmine dropped the bottle. It rolled on the carpet and a spume of a smoky substance issued from it. She clenched the hard stopper between her teeth as the smoky cloud grew bigger. Was it steam or fog? Was it toxic? What the hell had been in that bottle?
Jasmine had always known that a for-real horror film couldn’t have black folk in it because as soon as the freaky stuff started, that was when any sensible brother or sister would hit the door.
So why was she standing here with her mouth hanging open, panicking instead of hoping her feel didn’t fail?
Suddenly a man stepped from the cloud, and Jasmine discovered what it felt like to be too scared to scream. She croaked and fell backward on the bed.
“You better spit out that stopper in your mouth,” he said, his voice deep, husky, and altogether too calm and reasonable. “You look like you�re going to choke on it.”
Jasmine spit out the stopper and dived for the phone.
He waved his hand. “Lady, you might as well chill. I�m not going to hurt you.”
Might as well chill? Spooky man had to be kidding. She lifted the phone and frantically pushed 911, her fingers trembling. She lifted the phone to her ear. It was dead. Her stomach twisted and she stared up at him, her gaze full of dread. Too damn scared to scream.
He shook his head at her. “Calling 911 wasn’t a good idea anyway. Do you realize they charge to come out? A good amount, too.” He took a step toward her.
Jasmine opened her mouth and let loose a screech that shook the windows. She bounded off the bed. But to get to the door of her tiny studio apartment, she’d have to pass right by him.
He crouched next to the door with both hands clapped over his ears. “In the name of the Most High, please stop that noise,” he begged. “It’s worse than the Hall of Banshees.”
The teakettle shrieked and he flinched. Jasmine decided she’d have to take another approach. Her hands shaking, she moved the kettle off the burner, pulled out the largest carving knife she had, and wheeled to face him.
“Get out of my house. Get out this second or I swear I’ll carve you like a Thanksgiving turkey!” she yelled.
He straightened and lifted his eyebrow at the knife. “Supposing I did leave–then you wouldn’t get your wish.”
Jasmine tightened her hold on the knife and wished fervently she believed in owning guns. “What wish?”
“I’m a djinni–from the bottle.” He pointed to the perfume bottle on the floor. “You saw the visual effects. You opened the bottle, released me, and now you get a wish. I thought everybody knew how it worked.”
Her eyes narrowed. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Was that a pack of Newports stuck in the shirt cuff? “A djinni?”
He sighed. “Commonly know as a genie, but I much prefer–”
“You don’t look like a genie. You don’t talk like a genie. Where is your genie outfit?”
He grimaced. “What do you think a djinni is supposed to look and sound like? Frankly, dressing up in Aladdin togs is not exactly my style. The whole shiny genie getup looks sort of gay, don�t you think?” He gave her a disarming grin.
The finest man she’d ever seen in her life had come out of a sparkly cloud from a perfume bottle, and now he was leaning against her wall telling her that genie outfits looked gay. She pinched herself, hard. This had to be a dream.
He sauntered to her kitchenette and peered into her refrigerator. “Not much for cooking, are you?” he asked.
His back was exposed. Maybe she should stab him. But she heard herself saying instead, “I didn’t know genies ate.”
“Only when we want to. Mind if I make a sandwich?”
An intruder was asking her if she minded if he prepared food in her kitchen?
She decided to ignore him, in hopes that he’d go away. She pulled out a pair of jeans from her dresser, handily adjacent to the kitchen, and quickly pulled them on.
He washed lettuce, then spread mayonnaise on white bread. She took the opportunity to pull a sweater over her head. It looked weird over her nightgown, but the more coverage she had, the safer she felt.
He laid half a pack of bologna on the sandwich and topped it with three pieces of cheese. “Want one?” he asked.
A polite intruder. She pulled on her running shoes.
“Suit yourself. But you’re kind of scrawny. You should eat.” He stuck his head back into her refrigerator. “Got anything other than diet soda?”
Jasmine’s nerves stretched to a thread and snapped. “No! Get out of my refrigerator and explain yourself!”
“I thought I just did. Milk will have to do, I guess.” He rummaged in her cabinets until he found a large glass and filled it to the brim.
Jasmine edged to the door while he flopped his long body into her lone recliner in front of the television, set his glass down on her end table, and chomped contentedly on his sandwich. Her hand was on the doorknob when suddenly he paused mid-chew. “Got any potato chips?” he mumbled, around a mouthful of sandwich.
This was not how an intruder was supposed to behave. Worse, he turned on the TV and was flipping channels on her remote. He settled on a 24 hour news channel.
“Depressing. When are you humans ever going to get it right?” he muttered to the television. “Hey, would you get me a napkin?” he called.
Jasmine handed him a stack of napkins from her tiny kitchen table, then snapped, “When you barge into a woman’s apartment, do you always make yourself a sandwich?”
“Only when she doesn’t have anything better to eat. Thanks for the napkins.”
He gave her a grateful grin, causing her stomach to lurch. The man looked simply too good. The whole thing had to be a dream, she decided. The intruder was her dream man. How could he be otherwise? Look at him! He was tall, at least six feet, two inches, with deep bronze skin. He wore jeans that fit his long, sexy thighs like a glove and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his muscled biceps. His hair was cropped short with crispy big black curls. A gold hoop earring encrusted with tiny diamond and sapphire stones dangled from his left ear. His features were chiseled and so handsome, he was breathtaking. His wicked grin showed teeth so white they gleamed.
Her mind lingered on several interesting possibilities that she and Dream Man could get into.
So, she did the sensible thing. She dropped the jeans and sweater on the floor and climbed back into bed. The hell with it. As soon as Dream Man finished his snack, he could dive on in the bed with her and they’d get to the good part. All in all, this could be a very satisfying dream.
“You say you’re a genie?” Jasmine asked, making conversation while she impatiently waited for him to finish his sandwich and get the party started.
“Right,” he mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich.
“And I get three wishes, whatever I want?”
He took a gulp of milk. “Not three wishes, one wish.”
“I thought genies always gave three wishes,” Jasmine said, frowning.
“That’s a myth. You get one wish. The rules are that you have to say the wish three times for it to become true. Oh, and there are stipulations.”
“Stipulations?” Her dreams had never had stipulations before.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, swung his long legs over the side of the recliner, and stood. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an impossible scroll that unraveled to the floor.
“This is the short version,” he said apologetically. “Your wish can be for personal gain only,” he read. “No wishes for world peace or any other far-fetched altruism. No wishes for somebody else, unless there’s a significant element of personal gain, of course. No coercion of another human, no torture, no death wishes. Wishes are covered by the following clauses–”
“What’s your name? Do I call you Genie?” Jasmine interrupted. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Damn, he was fine. She’d never realized she could imagine a man who looked that luscious. His fingers were long, slender and elegant. She imagined his hands on her body and her throat dried. But he talked too much. Less talk and more action, Dream Man.
He hesitated. “My name is Raziq. I really should finish going over the policies and procedures.”
“Sit, Rayzeek.” Jasmine patted the bed next to her. “Tell me about yourself.” It was way past time this dream became more interesting.
“It’s Raziq,” he said.
She turned on her side, letting the sheet fall away. He moved toward her.
“Can genies . . .?” Her gaze drifted below his waist
“Only when we want to,” he said with a salacious leer to let her know without a doubt where he stood.
A man who looked like that could get away with any leer he chose to give, she thought. He touched her. His hand traced the line of her thigh. Her body burned in response. Her breath quickened as she felt her nipples harden against the fabric of her gown while moist heat seeped through her.
“I can grant your wish,” he whispered, his voice husky, his hand moving to her panties.
Jasmine drew back, her eyes narrow. “I’d have to use a wish for you to . . . to . . . you know?”
His teeth gleamed. “I’m here to grant your one desire. And if this is what you want” his hand moved to his belt “I’m more than happy to comply.”
“Hold up! You mean, if we did it–that would use up my wish?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” he answered, unbuckling his belt.
Jasmine sighed. Even her dreams were jacked up. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Few things are.”
His jeans dropped to the floor. His T-shirt followed. Jasmine gasped at the awesome display of male pulchritude. Cut muscles, not too bulky, but without an ounce of fat on his body, all covered with delicious brown pecan skin. A redbone man–probably mixed with something. Too fine. His broad shoulders, lightly furred chest, and rippling six-pack narrowed to a perfect triangle. And then there was the bulge his briefs covered. His mighty bulge.
Lord ha’ mercy. Jasmine looked around on her bedside table for something to fan her hot cheeks. This dream might be too much for her to handle.
He fluffed the pillow next to her. Then he crawled into her bed and pulled the blankets over his head. “Wake me up when you decide what you want to do,” he said, his voice muffled. He flipped over to his side and promptly started to gently snore.
Was that it? He was going to sleep? Genie Man had to be kidding. “Wake up!” She shook his shoulder. “You need to leave.”
He muttered something unintelligible, not moving.
“Get up and get out! Or I will have the police come and remove you, I swear!”
He said something that sounded like a curse and stood in a fluid motion. Jasmine drew back, suddenly afraid.
But he only glowered down at her as he reached for his jeans and T-shirt. “Sheesh, lady, you won’t give a guy a break, will you?”
Jasmine shrieked as he dissolved in a shower of sparks and steam and whooshed back into the bottle. The stopper few through the air and jumped into the bottle top as if a tiny door had slammed.
Jasmine blinked once, twice. Well, well. She’d finally lost her last cookie. She’d knew it was coming. The last year had been hell and she’d been expecting this nervous breakdown. She’d earned it. What is a sista supposed to do in these circumstances?
She frowned. She’d go to work as usual, call her shrink, and beg that he squeeze her in. Professional advice: that’s what she needed.
Jasmine felt better as she carefully picked up the perfume bottle from the carpet, wrapped it in a layer of paper towels, and set it carefully in her purse. But all things considered, if she was going to lose her mind–going off the deep end with a hunky genie of her very own wasn’t half bad.

Chapter 2

Dr. Takesaki leaned back in his overstuffed leather chair and surveyed Jasmine through half-lowered lids. “What’s going on?”
Jasmine shifted, perched on the edge of a similar chair adjacent to him. Dr. Takesaki kindly worked her into his schedule over his lunch break, alarmed at her uncharacteristic fluster when she’d called him that morning. Telling him about the genie was harder than she’d thought. Yo doc, this fine man materialized out of this perfume bottle and . . . Yep, it was hard.
She dug in her purse and took out the perfume bottle bundled in white paper towels, and laid it on the arm of his chair.
Dr. Takesaki edged to the far side of his chair. “What is that?” he asked, giving it a look she assumed he reserved for examining the soles of his shoes after stepping in dog doo-doo on the street.
Jasmine unwrapped the paper towels from around the bottle and Dr. Takesaki looked relieved and settled back in the center of his chair.
She proffered him the perfume bottle. He raised his eyebrow and didn’t touch it. “It’s very pretty. So what’s going on with you?” he repeated.
Jasmine laid the perfume bottle on the end table, leaned back in her chair and focused on a spot in the ceiling. Nope, not easy at all. “Late last night. Early morning really–um, a genie came out from that bottle.”
Silence.
Jasmine cleared her throat and kept her gaze fixed on the spot. “He didn’t look much like a genie. He looked like a regular guy. He wore jeans. He was very handsome though. Gorgeous even.” Words tripped over each other in her haste to get them out. “He ate a bologna sandwich and then he took off his clothes and got into my bed–”
A strangled sound emanated from Dr. Takesaki’s direction. Alarmed, Jasmine stared at him. Dr. Takesaki was looking suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do go on,” Dr. Takesaki said, his voice strained. “You were at the part when he got into your bed naked.”
“He kept his briefs on! Those white Fruit of Loom kind.”
Dr. Takesaki coughed. “Of course.”
Jasmine shot him an indignant glance.
“Then he went to sleep,” she said, still peeved.
More silence.
“Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”
“Is that all?” Did Dr. Takesaki look disappointed?
“I told him to leave and he smoked back into the bottle.”
“Ahhhhhh. And you felt unsatisfied? Sexually frustrated?”
“Yes. No! I think you’re missing the point, Dr. Takesaki. I saw a genie come out of that bottle.” She pointed. “I’m afraid I’m losing my mind!”
“Because of your unsatisfied desires?”
“No!” She restrained herself from yelling at Dr. Takesaki, although she really, really wanted to. “Because. I. Saw. A. Genie. Come. Out. Of. That. Damned. Perfume bottle!” She couldn’t prevent her voice from going up. “Do you get it now?”
“Could this handsome male genie merely be a reflection of your unsatisfied sexual desires?” Dr. Takesaki mused.
No, she wouldn’t hit the man. Knocking him upside the head wouldn’t be appropriate at all. But how else could she budge Dr. Takesaki’s sexual obsession. She’d heard that was an occupational hazard of being a shrink, but still.
“I think the genie was a reflection of what came out of that perfume bottle,” Jasmine said, her voice dry.
“Did he want to satisfy your every desire?”
“Yes. I mean no! He would only give me one wish.”
“Only one?”
“And he told me if we made love that would use up my wish.”
“That’s quite interesting.” Obviously Dr. Takesaki must feel as if he made quite an understatement because he looked as if he was using much effort to hold back an urge to rub his hands together in glee. “You have the ultimate tool of satisfaction at your disposal, yet he denies you. How do you feel about that?”
“He had some nerve. . . Hey! You keep missing the point. I’m seeing imaginary–DON’T DO THAT!”
Dr. Takesaki had pulled out the bottle stopper and was sniffing the opening.
“No fragrance,” he said, handing the bottle back to her. “Sorry. But why did you give this to me if you didn’t want me touch it?”
“I’m afraid he’ll come out,” she said, stuffing the stopper back into the bottle.
“I doubt it,” Dr. Takesaki said.
Jasmine frowned. “Why do you suppose that?”
“Because we both know that genie is mostly here.” He tapped his head.
“You may know it. But I’m not so sure, doc. That’s why I’m here.”
Dr. Takesaki grinned. “A breakthrough. Your feelings of betrayal from your married ex-lover are finally dissipating to let your sexual desires through! You thought you had him, yet he denies you. So much like Keith!”
Good lord, what had Dr. Takesaki been smoking? “The genie has nothing to do with Keith.”
“Ahhhh,” he said.
Before she gave in to her impulse to slap the cheerful, smug look off her doctor’s face, she pulled out the stopper and called out, “Raziq, come forth.”
Dr. Takesaki shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t recommend that you to unleash your sexual desires here and now. Perhaps–”
“Shush. Raziq?” she called.
Nothing. She peered into the bottle. Empty. She sniffed it. No smell. She turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing. It figured.
“You�re not crazy.” Dr, Takesaki said. “You have been hurt recently. Badly hurt. The mind has all sorts of tricks to protect and educate itself in a way the conscious mind can accept. Go with the flow, Jasmine. Enjoy your genie.”
“But he was so real,” she whispered.
“This is a breakthrough,” Dr. Takesaki said again. “We’ll talk about it next session, okay?”
It was a dismissal. Poor Dr. Takesaki was probably starving.
Jasmine stood. “Thanks for seeing me. You really don’t think I’m crazy?”
He shook his head. “No, you�re not crazy,” he said with a kind smile.
She exhaled. “Good.”
“You tell me what happens between you and genie next time, okay? Maybe he will change his mind about the lovemaking?”
Jasmine glowered at him. “Goodbye, Dr. Takesaki.”

***

Jasmine picked up Chinese on the way home. She should go to the gym, but she didn’t feel up to facing the after work crowd’s jockeying to get one of the coveted cardio machines. Last time she went to the gym, she thought a fight was going to break out by the treadmills. By February, the crowd would thin, their New Year’s resolve faded. Until then, it was near impossible to muster up the fortitude to face the gym, although she sorely missed her workouts.
She let herself into her tiny studio. Kicking off her shoes, she changed to sweats, neatly hanging her navy blue suit in the closet. She turned on the evening news and settled in her recliner with a carton of Chinese food, ready to dig into her lonely evening. She eyed her purse sitting on the end table.
With a sigh, she retrieved the perfume bottle and twisted off the stopper. She sniffed the empty bottle. It must have been a dream after all, she thought. It was almost disappointing because, damn, that genie was–Jasmine yelped as what felt like a warm, moist wind went up her nose. She sneezed violently.
“God bless you,” a husky masculine voice said near her ear.
Jasmine jumped and knocked the ice cold can of diet coke in her lap. She cursed as she leapt out of the chair.
“Girl, you could make a sailor blush,” he said.
She glared at him as she grabbed a pair of jeans from her dresser drawer and went to the bathroom to remove her sweatpants. She sure wasn’t dreaming now. A freaking genie was sanding in the middle of her studio.
Jasmine stepped tentatively out of the bathroom.
Raziq was stretched out in her recliner, chowing down on Chinese food, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt.
“I dried the chair,” he said, brandishing his chopsticks. “Do you have anything to drink besides diet–”
“Get out of my chair! And how dare you eat my dinner?” Jasmine roared.
He lifted his brow at her. “Since you put it like that.” He moved out of the chair with one graceful movement. “Sorry about your food. I always seem to be starving when I leave that bottle. . .”
He grinned at her. “Tell you what, I’ll take you out to eat to make it up.”
Jasmine’s mouth snapped shut on her retort. Go with the flow, she heard Dr. Takesaki’s voice say. “Why didn’t you come out when I opened the bottle in Dr. Takesaki’s office?” she asked.
“I don’t put on a horse and pony show for just anybody. M.B. Statute 1.278 states that thou shalt not reveal yourself to mortals without due cause.”
“You revealed quite a bit of yourself to me,” she said, remembering smooth copper skin and cut muscle.
“You opened the bottle, lady. That’s how it works. Your wish is my command.” He made a pass of his hand and a pair of pristine white Nikes appeared in his hands. He sat on the bed to don his shoes. “Where do you think we should eat?” he asked.
Jasmine blinked. It all seemed so normal. But a genie was sitting on her bed and pulling on magically appearing expensive white sneakers over sparkling clean white cotton socks and wondering where they should eat.
“Italian might be good.”
“Yeah, I like that,” he said. “That Dr. Takesaki thinks you’re hot, you know,” he said.
“Thinks I’m hot?” Her face heated as she thought of plump, balding and gentle Dr. Takesake. “He’s my psychiatrist. He doesn’t think I’m hot.”
“He’s a man. How can he not? You are like a honey-colored cat, sleek, and beautiful with big eyes and graceful languor.”
His voice was soft and husky and sent a shiver down her spine right to . . . “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous. It would be unethical for–and Dr. Takesaki is very ethical.”
“There are no ethics that can police a man’s thoughts about a woman.” He stood, his shoes laced. “Shall we go?”
A thought struck her. “Will this use up my wish?”
“No. You get a free ride for dinner.” Wicked glints shone from his eyes as his gaze floated over her body.
Images of the sort of ride he could choose to give her filled her mind, and she almost choked.
“We can talk over food. Come,” he said, his hand on the door.
“I need to change first.”
“You look fine.”
“Impatient for a genie, aren’t you?” Jasmine said. “Hold up a sec.” She pulled off the scrunchie pulling back her hair after she’d loosed it from its tight and confining businesslike French roll, and it cascaded past her shoulders, a wavy black cloud. “How long were you in that bottle?” she asked.
“Djinni, not genie. I was last released from the bottle in 1969.”
Jasmine drew a sharp breath. “1969! How do you know what’s happening now so well? You seem like a regular guy.”
“I can hear what goes on outside the bottle. Besides I get television.”
“Inside a perfume bottle?”
“Sure. Satellite and all the premium cable stations too. I like movies.”
Jasmine’s temples started throbbing with tension. A TV watching, movie loving genie. It was too much. She turned to her dresser and picked up a hairpin to put her hair up again.
Raziq touched her hand. His touch burned.
“Let your hair be,” he said, standing far too close. “I prefer it like that.”
Heat flushed through Jasmine in a wave, causing to lose every bit of her hard won self-composure. She drew in a sharp breath. He smelled of sandalwood and fire. Jasmine moistened her lips with her tongue as arousal warred for space within her already stirred emotions. What was happening to her?

Chapter 3

The restaurant was a small, family owned place, known for the food. Dark and intimate, it was made for lovers.
Jasmine ordered lasagna while Raziq ordered a double order of vegetable penne with extra olive oil, and a bottle of good rose wine.
“What do you think you’re going to wish for?” Raziq asked, munching on a breadstick. The waiter returned with the wine, giving her a moment’s reprieve.
The wish. She never really thought about it, mostly because she never really believed that he could grant a real wish. But what if he could?
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“Most wish for wealth or success,” he said.
“Do you think such wishes are best?” she asked.
“No,” he said shortly.
“Why not? Wealth and success sound pretty good to me.”
“Humans invariably find that neither brings them the happiness they sought. They discover that the obstacles to their happiness are as big as they ever were, only that the obstacles are different.”
“Then why not wish for happiness directly?”
“The problem with that wish is that only the dead have no troubles.”
Jasmine’s eyebrows shot up. The dead, huh? Well, that nixed that idea.
“What would you wish for?” she asked him.
Raziq looked surprised. “Nobody has ever asked me that question.”
He took a sip of water. “The thing I would choose to wish for isn’t possible for me to have.”
“I thought magic could make anything possible.”
“Not everything. It can’t turn back time.” He drew in a breath. “We need to concentrate on your wish.”
The waiter brought steaming bread and their wine.
“Smells heavenly,” Jasmine said, reaching for the butter knife.
“You need to word your wish very carefully,” Raziq said. “The djinn are obligated to be very literal in wish fulfillment. Often, people find the very thing they hoped for most has transformed into a curse.”
“You would do that to me?” she asked. There was something about Raziq that soothed. She’d bet money that he was good. Funny, she never thought of people that way–good or evil, but she supposed Raziq didn’t count because he was exactly a person.
“How your wish is granted isn’t within my control,” he said. “Wish granting is more of a group endeavor, and uses the power of every djinn in existence. It strictly follows our statutes and is thoroughly literal.”
“Oh.” Jasmine savored the bread and chased it with a swallow of wine.
“What are your deepest desires, your passions? These are often rooted in your experiences.” His voice was low and husky.
She remembered how he looked at her when he touched her hand, then her hair. Her thoughts melted into a jumble. He confused her, made it hard for her to think clearly, to breath evenly. It made no sense. Nothing made any sense.
She mentally shook her head to clear it. Okay, so she wouldn’t mind a tumble heels over head with this fine genie, but even the best bonin’ in the world wasn’t worth a wish that could grant any desire. Men who looked as good as he did never lived up to their advance billing.
“You need to wish soon,” he said.
Jasmine bit her lip. Having a wish should be good enough for any woman. If wishes were fishes, everybody would be trying to drown. “You’re in a hurry to get back into that bottle?” she asked.
He took a swallow of wine and looked away. “Your doctor said you’d been betrayed. Maybe you could wish for revenge or reconciliation?”
“Keith isn’t worth a wish. And doesn’t revenge always come back to bite you in the ass?”
“That’s usually the rule. But a djinn wish would circumvent the karma,” he said. “Killing him or extreme physical torture is prohibited. But impotency is a popular revenge wish,” he added with a wicked grin.
“As tempting as that would be, there is no way I’m going to waste a wish on Keith.”
He beamed at her. “There was pain in your voice when you first mentioned his name. Whether a woman has the capacity to move on says something about her character.”
“You care about my character?” Jasmine said, nonplussed. She blinked and moved the subject back to more comfortable ground. “When I think about getting whatever I really want–my mind draws a blank.”
“You know have all you desire in life?” Raziq asked.
Jasmine snorted. “Please. I hate this city, hate my job, hate–”she snapped her mouth shut before she uttered the words.
“Hate your life?” he finished for her.
Jasmine looked away, pained. “I’ve only been in New York for about a month,” she said slowly. “I moved here from Macon, Georgia. I work at a large accounting firm.”
“You relocated for the job?”
“I got the job after I arrived. I’m a CPA and employment ops have never been a big problem if I’m not too picky.”
“But your phone doesn’t ring. You’ve spoken to no one outside of work related issues except your psychiatrist. You come straight home from work, eat your take-out food and watch television or read until bed. You have no lover.”
Raziq’s words felt like an indictment. She knew her face reflected how she felt inside–exposed and vulnerable, and for a moment she resented him for it. She had more than enough reasons for her . . . dissatisfaction.
“Why did you come here?” he asked.
She waited until the waiter set their plates in front of them and left before answering. “I was running away.”
Raziq said nothing. She sensed he was waiting for her to continue.
“I slept with a married man for five years,” she said. “He was my boss and the reason I moved to Macon from Atlanta. He asked me to be patient, wait until his children were older. So I waited . . . year after year. I wanted my own family, sure, but I wanted one with the man I thought I loved.”
The fact that the pain was still so sharp surprised her. Keith wasn’t worth hurting over, and she wondered why the pain didn’t fade.
“Go on,” Raziq said.
“Keith told me that he left his wife,” she continued. “He said he wanted to live before he got to old to enjoy life. I was ecstatic. I knew that with his marriage finally out of the way, he’d openly declare his love for me and we could marry and start our own family. After all, that’s what I’d been waiting for all those years. But, but–” She dropped her head.
“It’s a classic story,” Raziq said. “There’s no need to tell me the ending if it pains you.”
“I need to finish. Apparently Keith’s idea of living didn’t include me. He confessed about our affair to his ex-wife. She confronted me with every little detail, every lie I told. From her lips, what I believed was the pure, self-sacrificing love we shared seemed sordid and dirty. I was a fool and no better woman. Then she fired my ass.” Jasmine shook her head.
“Keith packed up and moved to Atlanta. He didn’t say a word. No hello, goodbye or kiss my ass. I found out where he was and called him. He told me to leave him the hell alone and hung up on me.” Tears stung her eyes at the memory. “I was a fool.”
“Maybe. But he was the one who made the vows. He had his cake, over ate it, and thought he could vomit out the consequences. He betrayed his family, and accepted your love, then trampled on it. He did the greater evil.”
“And I only the lesser? So, now he’s living it up in Atlanta and look at me.”
Raziq touched her hand. That curious heat burned her again. “Remember karma. It does exist, cause and effect. Look at what you have now, a wish to make true. Forgiveness exists, if you want it.”
She smiled at him and toyed with her food. It was too easy to expose her soul to this man. Who was he? What was he?
“They say you can’t run from yourself. Guess they’re right. My mistakes follow me wherever I go.”
“Look at me,” Raziq commanded. She raised her gaze to his and wanted to drown in his beautiful brown eyes. “If you didn’t move to New York, you would have never met me.”
The wish be damned, she thought and pondered the joys of uncomplicated sex with the best-looking man she ever seen in her life, She swallowed hard.
“Jasmine!” Sharon Drumm, a woman who shared an adjacent cubicle at work, was bearing down on her.
“Uh, hello,” Jasmine said. Sharon looked expectantly at Raziq as soon as she reached their table.
“Sharon this is my friend, Raziq . . .,” Jasmine said, at lost for a last name.
“Sharon Drumm,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Raziq. I didn’t quite catch your last name.”
“Just Raziq,” he said with his easy grin.
“Where have you been hiding this wonderful man, Jasmine?”
“In my purse,” Jasmine said truthfully.
“Funny girl,” Sharon said. She dropped a card on the table.
“Here’s my number. Why don’t you give me a call sometimes?” She directed the words toward Jasmine, but her gaze didn’t move from Raziq’s masculine form. She flashed a smile at him and glided away?
Jasmine sucked her teeth. Did that heifer just try to cop her man from right under her nose? Oh, no she didn’t. “That woman barely says hello, goodbye or kiss my butt in the office,” she said picking up the card and tearing it in half with a flourish. “What a difference a man makes.”
“Djinni” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not a man, I’m one of the djinn and you’d do well to think on your wish.” He looked around him, uncomfortable. “I’m sensing you don’t have much time.”
“Why the rush?”
He leaned back in his chair. “That’s not it. It has to do with me. I dare not tarry long.”
What the hell was he talking about? As far as she was concerned, she’d like him to tarry as long as possible.
“If you don’t wish soon, you may have some. . . uncomfortable experiences,” he said.
“What do you mean, uncomfortable experiences?” Was he threatening her?
“I’m nonhuman, a material magical being. Since I’m continually revealing myself to you, if you don’t make your wish soon, you might see things now hidden from your eyes. Also things that threaten me, may affect you. Not good.”
“What are you talking about?” Jasmine said irritably.
“There are many things in this world that you’d prefer not to know about.”
“Witches, wizards, leprechauns and the like, I suppose.”
He shook his head. “Wizards and witches are human. Leprechauns are magical beings, true, but merely Irish gnomes. There are very few magical beings such as myself left in the world–the djinn, unicorns, nymphs, dragons, gnomes, trolls and fairies. What I’m speaking of is more in the line of spirits.”
“Spirits?” Jasmine laid down her fork.
“Lingering dead, elementals, occasional angels.” He lifted his glass. “But you’ll find the demons most alarming.”
Speechless, Jasmine stared at him. All the spooky stories she heard growing up, everything she’d ever heard about demons ran through her mind. He was trying to scare her. Her fear instantly transformed to anger and rushed through her mind. She felt herself tremble inside.
“What sort of game are you playing?” she asked him.
He raised an eyebrow. His sardonic good looks enraged her. It was crazy, he was crazy.
“I don’t know how you manage the David Copperfield magic tricks, appearing and disappearing in a big puff of smoke, but now that you’re talking about demons, I think it’s time your game ended.” Her voice was shaky and she pushed back from the table and stood.
The idea of demons rattled her. She didn’t make it to church much any more, but her roots were deep. Her family had been fundamental Holiness folk and they had no truck with demons.
She pulled her purse over her shoulder. “Never mind, don’t tell me about your game. I’m not that interested. Thanks for the meal, but if I ever see you again, you’ll be telling the cops about your demons.”
With those words, Jasmine picked up her purse and dashed out of the restaurant. The cold air hit her as she whistled for a taxi.
“Tale me to north 113th, off Broadway,” she said.
“Okay, lady.” The taxi driver put the car into gear and glanced over his shoulder. Jasmine’s mouth dropped open. He had no eyes but great gapping pits where his eyes should be. Black holes. A smell wafted from him, putrid and rotten. Sulfur?
Red fires flickered in the awful emptiness of his eyes. Holy-heavenly-father, it knew. It knew she could see what it was. It reached for her with a skeletal hand. Jasmine shrieked and scrambled out of the moving taxi, falling in the street. Cars honks and tires screeched, she didn’t care, she had to get away from that thing.
She rolled on the pavement and jumped up, running before her feet hit the ground, heading for the sidewalk, weaving through the traffic. She paused at a subway station, but hesitated before going down stairs. She couldn’t go. . . underneath.
There was a flapping of wings, a large leathery sound from above. She looked up and apparitions stared back down at her. Black bat wings stretched from the back of ugly skeletal figures whose flesh dripped as if it rotted away on their bones. They circled above her, laughing like hyenas.
She went down the stairs at a dead run. The turnstile stopped her and she dug in her purse for a token. She found one and dropped it in. She would not panic. No, no, no. She was only having a little psychotic break. She wouldn’t make it worse by acting a fool. She didn’t want to be carted off to Bellevue in a strait-jacket. Not her style at all. There were medications. Medications that would make it all go away. She’d be okay. Okay.
She stood with the crowd in front of the train tracks. She would get on a subway and go home. A low voice whispered behind her and the scent of sulfur hung thick in the air. She would not look up or look around. She’d look at her feet. Feet only. But around her feet, shadows reflected that couldn’t possibly be human.
She mumbled Bible verses, under her breath. People stood around her in attitudes of boredom or preoccupation. Nobody else looked around in fear and wonder. Nobody else screamed and ran. Only she heard. Only she saw.
The train pulled up and she got on, concentrating on putting one step in front of another.
When she reached her stop, Jasmine hurried up the stairs into the night. She’d make it to her apartment, as long as she didn’t look up.
The leathering wing sounds met her as she emerged from the subway station, along with mocking laughter.
Oh, shit. Demons, freaking demons. She couldn’t believe it. Even though she hoped she was crazy, she probably wasn’t. Raziq warned her and all she did was lose her temper.
Her steps speeded up to a run. When she reached her apartment building, she felt the wind from their wings as she fumbled for her keys.
Tension drained from her body when finally slammed her apartment door behind her. She locked all four of her deadbolts securely and put on the chains. Spying the perfume, with its stopper securely in place in the upright bottle, she drew in a relieved breath. When they’d left, the bottle had been uncapped on her kitchen table, lying on its side, the stopper about four inches away. He was back. She removed the stopper with trembling hands. Shimmering smoke streamed and Raziq stood in front of her, his arms folded across his chest.
“Now, do you believe me?” he asked.