Our hero hung in black loneliness for a thousand years each time his overlord put him in the ring. For the bearer of the ring, only a few hours or days might have passed, but to our hero it was always a quarter of an eternity in the darkness. The ring bounced from time to time and reality to reality. He could be put into the ring near the end of World War II, and reemerge in Snow White’s kingdom a century after her second death.
The ring never stayed on one finger for long. It was cursed to be lost or stolen or pried off their cold dead hand by the mortician. Which is why it didn’t remain a ring for long either. It was wished into different shapes by its possessors: Necklaces, bottles, jars, boxes.
Once, a teenage girl cleaned up her childhood dollhouse and filled it with antique doll furniture and repurposed objects. This gave him a slight reprieve from his hellish other-dimensional prison, until her father sold the doll house during a school day to procure enough cash to pay the overdue gas bill. After that, he lived with a struggling interior designer in a downtown apartment who wished the vessel, as our hero began to call it, into the shape of an actual lamp with a shade and a lightbulb for irony’s sake.
She moved him to California, where her career magickally sky-rocketed, and where she ended up in the hospital after wrecking in a three-car pile-up on the I-710. She died during surgery, and her boyfriend helped clean up and sell her belongings, and the lamp was sold to a struggling actor.
He unwittingly took the lamp home, plugged it in, and pulled the chain. A cloud of smoke and lightning whirled from the tungsten, and the young actor leapt to hide behind his couch. He tried to find something to arm himself against whatever thing was forming before him.
The man who emerged from the smoke was over six feet tall and had the musculature of an action movie stuntman. His skin was adorned with scars and strange tattoos like a Hell’s Angel, but he was dressed like an Armani model.
“Who are you?” The actor’s voice was fierce, despite the fact he was peeking up from behind the couch like a gopher.
The Jinni sighed at the vision of the new apartment before him. He had liked the last girl and her Norwegian-style decor. She had wished that he could materialize his own clothes and food. She had let him cook dinner from time to time. She had taken him shopping and sightseeing. She had even let him pick out his own name. It was sweet, but his name was whatever his new master wanted it to be. He considered her a friend, but he had known this would happen eventually.
Sardonically, he answered the man before him, “The Jinni of the Lamp…” He cast his eyes across the sea of pizza boxes in his new master’s home, towards the lamp with its curved base and blue velvet shade.
“You’re a Jinni?”
“So it would seem,” our hero growled, exhausted with this repetitive Groundhog’s-Day-Bill-Murray routine.
“You grant wishes?” asked the actor, who was cautiously rising to full height.
“From what I understand...” Our hero’s eyes examined the apartment. He could tell from the beer cans, clothes, and DVDs on display exactly what this guy would wish for and when. The Jinni could predict what promises the actor would break and the stupid decisions he’d make.
“How many? Just three? Are there rules? Or guidelines as it were?” The actor laughed as he said this in his best pirate-voice.
The Jinni raised an eyebrow and lied, “Yeah… just three. And I’ve got plenty of advice, but no one ever listens.”
The actor hopped back over the couch and grabbed a notepad and pen from the end table on which the lamp was sitting, surrounded by a stack of empty Chinese boxes.
“Sure! What’s your advice? I’ll listen, and on my third wish, I’ll even wish you free.” The actor beamed with naive innocence due to having watched too many Jinni movies growing up in the 90’s.
Our hero laughed a dark and bitter laugh. “My first bit of advice… don’t be a hero, and don’t wish me free.”
The struggling actor clicked his pen. “I have follow up questions.”
“Sure. But, nothing’s for free. You listen to me, and I might be able to answer some of your questions. Deal?”
The actor nodded.
“Okay,” the Jinni said, pushing up his sleeves. “Here we go…”
***
Eros and Loki were greeted by the doorman at the entrance of the mansion. The man took their coats, and they were ushered through the Rococo corridors to the library, wherein Victor Devereaux, The Vampire King, waited.
Upon entrance, the gods bowed at the neck and stepped forward to shake the King’s ringed hand. He was young in appearance with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and an anemic complexion. His black silken curls gently fell just above his green eyes. His choice in apparel was far more modern than the decor, but still quite dated.
“Welcome, Loki.” Devereaux’s voice was light and as smooth as his blue, velvet waistcoat.
“Your highness, this is Eros,” Loki introduced, but Loki’s eyes were scanning the walls of books.
“Eros, pleased to meet you. Loki mentioned you have been organizing his collection.”
“Yes. I have.”
“When he mentioned this, I knew I must speak with you. I have been hearing many tall tales of the artifacts he’s procured, and I have been eager to see them. But he told me it was in no shape for visitors.”
“It really isn’t.” Eros smirked, “But, it will be soon, and we’d be happy to give you a tour once we’re through.”
“You see, the reason I called him over so early in the morning is that I have a matter of great importance which needs magickal remedy. Perhaps, we might be able to do business today instead of a hazy future date?”
“Oh?” Loki prodded.
“Please, sit.” The Vampire King gestured to the lavish seating arrangement in the center of the room.
They sat on one side and he on the other.
“May I offer you anything to drink?”
Loki didn’t miss a beat. “I appreciate the offer, but unfortunately I have to watch my red-blood-cell intake. The blood sugars do horrors for my cholesterol.”
Eros gave him a slack-jawed, reproachful look for speaking to a King like that.
But Devereaux smiled like a child and laughed like an aristocrat. “Very well. I recently have taken in the progeny of my eldest, Alec, and-” The King’s face grew intricately distressed. “Can I count on your utmost discretion?”
Both of them nodded.
“The girl is rabid. My contemptuous son suckled her on deadman’s blood, which is the least of what he did to her… for sport.” He rapped his rings against the wooden arm of his chair. “I need the antidote.”
Eros leaned forward in interest and concern. “Which is?”
“Blood from the Fountain of Youth.”
“Ah.” Said Loki. “I see. Well, I probably could have saved you a load of trouble had you asked me on the phone. I know for certain, I don’t have a giant fountain anywhere in my townhome.”
“You do, actually.” Said Eros.
“I do?” Loki turned to him.
“Several. Metaphorical fountains, that is. Artifacts which give you immortality. The idea is the same as the Holy Grail, the Elixir of Life, the Philosopher’s stone-”
“You can’t get blood from a stone. He said he needed blood,” he whispered condescendingly from the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t worry. I have this handled,” Eros whispered sharply back.
In unison, Loki and Eros looked back at the King, and gave him an apologetic smile.
“I’m sure I can find something in the rubble that can help,” Eros assured him, and each man stood.
Devereaux shook Eros’s hand. “I’d appreciate anything you could do. I’ve known Josanna since she was a young girl. Her mother was a friend of mine. Money is no object.”
“Oh. No, no, no.” Loki jumped in, “No money need be exchanged. You can write me out an I.O.U.”
“I insist,” Devereaux urged.
Loki’s eyes turned dark and piercing. “No, I insist. I won’t take no for an answer. You’ll just owe me one… It’s no skin off my back. Anything I can do to help a friend. Ciao.” Loki about-faced and hastened towards the door, leaving Eros standing there stranded and confused.
“Er… We appreciate you,” Eros tried to appear composed after Loki’s abrupt departure, “your highness. We’ll uh… show ourselves out… I suppose. I apologize… Lovely to meet you, sir…” He backed away slowly, until he was out of the library door. Then he slipped off after Loki.
When Eros entered the white and gold hall, his accomplice was already halfway down it. Eros brisked up to him. “What in the bloody hell was that all about?”
“I’ll explain outside.” The giant didn’t slow, and Eros was nearly jogging at his side.
The doorman, who seemed to be dozing off, was stunned awake by their approach. He stood at attention and retrieved their coats. He opened the door, and they exited the mansion. They walked down the cobbled path, past the garden, out the gate, and as soon as they were beyond the grounds, far enough away that the predatory hearing of the vampires was out of range, Loki stopped.
Eros took an aggravated breath.
“Again, I reiterate, what the bloody hell was that all about?”
“Remember what I said about my most favorite items in my collection, that they aren’t in my collection.”
“People?” Eros blurted out the answer to Loki’s tired riddle.
“Yes. People. What people are capable of. What people can do. It’s best to have them in your favor.”
“You mean owing you a favor? You mean in your debt.”
“Yes. That is exactly what I mean, and Devereaux is an asset!”
Eros rolled his eyes, but Loki pressed on.
“His power and legacy, his contacts, the legions at his command! He might not be in the same fight we’re in, but he can damn sure help. Did you see that library?”
“Yes. I did,” Eros said matter-of-factly.
“There could be countless grimoires in there, alchemical and necromantic, that relate to the items I have at home.”
“I take it you didn’t look closely enough at his library then.”
“What do you mean?” Loki asked.
“His literary collection is not necromantic, but romantic. He collects poetry. Love poetry, to be more precise. Mostly French and Italian, but some German as well. I didn’t see a single occult book on the shelves.”
“That’s… that’s unlikely.” Loki’s hands shied away into the pockets of his wool overcoat. “This is the Netherworlds!”
“Yes, well, the Netherworlds is bleak and dangerous and, most of all, it is a lonely world. Most of the time, when one has all the money in the world, one buys power. But sometimes, when one has any money at all, they buy something beautiful. Both think they are buying happiness, and sadly, both are wrong.” Eros gave Loki a critical glance, and turned to walk away.
Loki looked off after him for a moment, then called, “Are you sure you’re not a Nihilist?” before following after him.
“I’m sure,” he called back.
Loki caught up to him quickly.
“Still,” Eros conceded, “an asset is an asset. I don’t really see how Devereaux can help, but… at least we can help the girl.”
Loki squinted down at Eros. “What exactly is your philosophy? I’m a bit baffled at the fact I can’t figure it out.”
“What makes you think I subscribe to a particular philosophy?”
“Well, on the whole, most people tend to side with one philosophical stance or another.”
“Well…” Eros thought of something clever and smirked, “I happen to find myself in the wonderful position to be on no one’s side but my own.”
Loki smirked, unreasonably pleased that Eros was flippantly quoting him. He tried to restrain his smile as they walked silently side by side back to the townhome.
