Free Reality Bites by Nicola Rhodes

somewhere to put the Athame.  For some reason, he did not really want to put it down.  He balanced it on a fence post, being careful not to lay the blade on the wood, and picked up his wallet, keeping an eye on the Athame just in case it vanished or something.  He had plenty of money, more, in fact, than he usually had.  He picked up the Athame with a strong sense of relief to have it back in his hand, and headed toward the café.
    As he reached the door, he was struck with a thought. How was he going to manage to pay for his food, carry it back to the table and eat it without putting the Athame down?  Apart from his reluctance to put it down, he had visions of it slicing through the counter top or the table.  This was likely to cause comment, and perhaps arrest for criminal damage. Perhaps he could prop it up in a napkin holder, but that would still entail letting go of it, somebody might pinch it.  If only he could put it in his pocket, but he would not feel comfortable with even an ordinary knife unsheathed in his pocket. He looked at the Athame, he looked at the door.  Torn between mortal hunger and the strange hold the Athame had over his mind.  On the one hand, he was starving, and he was not really much of a fighter – more of a runner really. Anyway, he could not go for much longer without food. It was not as if you could wield a knife with any great force when you were faint from hunger.  On the other hand, to just abandon it would be wanton ingratitude, it was a gift, it could be very useful; how, exactly, he had not quite worked out.  But there, hadn’t it already been useful?  Without it, he would still be in a grotty cell waiting to be sliced and diced or, more likely, exsanguinated.
    The Athame won; he turned away from the café with considerable reluctance. ‘Damn the thing,’he thought.
    ‘I wish I had a proper sheath for this thing,’ he said aloud.
    Then the strangest thing happened.  Black smoke began to swirl around the blade, thick and oily it formed into a solid shape, but dense and shimmering with intricate patterns that moved constantly like a living thing.  He touched it, yes, it was solid enough.  He pulled the blade out and slid it back in, out, in, out, in again quite easily.
    ‘Wow!’  He glanced around. ‘ Magic? ’he thought; first the café (he was now pretty sure that it had not been there before) and now this.  What was causing it?  He was pretty sure he had not opened any bottles or rubbed any lamps. He would have remembered. Anyway, a Djinn was something you could not miss, and the same went for fairy godmothers he was sure.  But still – two wishes granted; the mere idea made him nervous.  On the other hand, it was too late now; he might as well take advantage of it.
    After he had eaten, he decided, he would set off to find Tamar.  He was back on track.  He jammed the Athame into his belt loop (his belt now abandoned in slices back in the field) and went into the café.
    * * *
    The camp vampire, who had reminded Denny of Julian Clary, and whom all the others were afraid of for some reason. – Perhaps they suspected him of harbouring a fetish for whips and chains.  Although he dressed immaculately at all times in a cream linen suit (an odd choice in itself given his eating habits – surely it must cost him a small fortune in dry cleaning bills) it was not hard to imagine him in a basque and spiky high heels.
    Anyway, he was listening courteously to the stammering explanations of the beefy guard and his smaller cohort. He did not lose his temper or interrupt them at all. It was nerve racking, as if he was actually listening to them. They both trailed off eventually and stared uncomfortably at the floor.
    The “Master” as the others called him, steepled his hands, always a bad sign.  ‘I see,’ he said.
    They quavered inwardly; this was going to worse than they had anticipated.
    ‘Hmm.’
    Both vampires shook.
    ‘Explain something to me,’ he