“Do you recall the final portion of the prophecy I spoke to you?” he inquired offhandedly, as if he was asking whether I had remembered to pick up a carton of milk on the way home from work.
“You know I can’t remember any of that stuff until it’s damn near too late.”
“It is true that the Fates do not surrender their mysteries gladly,” he admitted as he placed the teapot on the serving tray. “When you stand on the Crossroads, the prophecy will come to you and you will know what must be done. Just as I know that the Fates have led me to this time and place, to ensure you safely reach your destination.”
As I finished my tea, the oracle took the cup from me and, holding it in his left hand, swirled the contents about three times clockwise.
“I didn’t realize you read tea leaves,” I said. “I thought you foretold the future by tearing the pages out of books.”
“Bibliomancy is my preferred means of divination,” Mr. Manto replied as he placed the saucer on top of the cup and flipped it upside down, allowing what liquid remained to drain away. “But I have been known to dabble in tasseography, now and again.”
Upon righting the cup, he removed the saucer and peered inside, his brow furrowed like a freshly tilled field. After studying the inner rim for a long moment, he smiled, apparently relieved by what he had read in the tea leaves.
“What did you see?” I asked.
“That you will not faint and fall down the stairs,” he replied. “And that Hexe is waiting for his tea.”
* * *
As I carried the tea service Mr. Manto had been kind enough to prepare for me upstairs, it occurred to me that perhaps instead of simply relying on trusting a were-tiger’s sense of smell and a soothsayer’s tripped-out prophecies, perhaps I should confirm things for myself with a nice, old-fashioned home pregnancy test. At least that would allow me to hold off on breaking the news to Hexe, who already had enough to worry about without my dumping this on top of him.
The last time I had to deal with something like this was back in college. My boyfriend at the time was a music major named Taylor. We had been seeing each other for eighteen months, and I thought what we had together was pretty real—up until the moment I told him I was late. Within seconds, the man I believed cared for me became a distant, stony-faced stranger. As emotionally devastating as the possibility of my being knocked up was, it was nothing compared to Taylor’s rejection of me. A couple of days later I finally got my period, and we both heaved a sigh of relief, but the damage was done. There was no way our relationship could return to what it was after what I saw in his eyes. What disturbed me the most wasn’t just Taylor’s total disregard, but the sober realization that the love I believed we shared didn’t truly exist. It was like walking far out onto what appeared to be solid ground, only to realize it was actually quicksand.
Although I knew my relationship with Hexe was completely different from the one with Taylor, part of me was still hesitant. The thought of his beautiful, golden eyes looking back at me with that same horrible, uncaring stare made my heart tighten with dread. I have withstood a lot of things in my life, but seeing that would completely destroy me. So I told myself it was best to put things off until I knew one hundred and ten percent for certain I was one hundred percent pregnant. Isn’t rationalization grand?
As I reentered the bedroom, I was relieved to find Hexe looking far more collected than he had earlier. Scratch remained perched on the footboard, his wings folded against his sides.
“About time!” the familiar sniped as I placed the tray on the bedside table. “How long does it take humans to boil water?”
“I would have been back sooner,” I said, ignoring the jibe, “but I ran into Mr. Manto in the kitchen.”
Hexe sat up a little higher in the bed, a concerned look on his face. “Does he know—?”
“Of course he knows,” I replied. “He’s an oracle. But since he’s in no hurry to end up on Boss Marz’s hit list, we can trust him to keep quiet.”
“It feels so strange, using my left hand,” Hexe said as he reached for the cup I held out to him. “I’m so accustomed to doing everything with my right. . . .” He grimaced as he slopped nearly half its contents onto the floor and bedclothes. “See what I mean?”
“You’ll adjust to it, in time,” I assured him. I turned to Scratch, who was still watching the bedroom door like it was a rat hole. “Would you mind giving us a little privacy, please?”
“If you can say it in front of them,” the familiar said, gesturing with his wings to the owls atop the bedposts, “you can say it in front of me.”
“Scratch: do as she says,” Hexe said firmly. “Go make a perimeter check.”
“As you wish, boss,” he grumbled, hopping off the bed. He padded over to the fireplace and, in a single bound, disappeared up the chimney.
“How’s the pain?” I asked.
“It’s not as bad as it was,” he replied. “But I can’t move my fingers.” He frowned at his splinted right hand, which lay motionless atop the pillow beside him. “I’ve been trying to make them twitch, but they won’t respond.”
“You shouldn’t push yourself so soon. Even with magic, an injury like that takes time to recover from,” I said, leaning in to deliver a reassuring kiss. “Remember the mauling you got in the pits? Even with your mother’s regenerative salve, you were bed-bound for a week. Give yourself some time to recuperate, and take it easy for a little while, okay?”
Hexe’s eyes abruptly darkened. “Where did you get that bruise on your cheek? Did Marz do that to you?”
Surprised, I reached up to touch my face, only to wince as my fingers came in contact with bruised flesh. “I must have gotten that when I passed out over at Doc Mao’s,” I explained.
“You fainted?” Hexe sat up even straighter, a look of concern on his face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I replied as I shrugged and dropped my gaze to the floor. “It was nothing, just . . .”
“Just what?” He frowned. “Tate, I can tell something is weighing on your mind.” He reached out and took my hand, gently pulling me toward him, so that I was sitting next to him on the bed. “My right hand is broken, but that doesn’t mean you have to treat me like I’m made out of spun glass.” He touched my chin, lifting it so that he could look me in the eye. “If there’s something you need to say, just tell me. Whatever it is, we can handle it together.”
As I looked into his warm, golden eyes, all the rationalizations I had lined up for why I should keep my big trap shut melted away, and before I knew it the words came bubbling out. “I’m pregnant.”
Hexe leaned back, his cat-slit pupils widening slightly as he absorbed the news. I held my breath, my mouth dry as cotton, as I waited for his reaction. I got it a second later when a wide, goofy smile spread across his face. I was so relieved, I promptly burst into tears.
“What are you grinning about?” I sobbed. “This couldn’t happen at a worse time!”
“I know,” he replied, clumsily dabbing at my tears with the corner of the bedsheet.
“It’s going to change everything forever!”
“Everything has already changed,” he pointed out gently. “But the one thing that is still the same is how I feel about you. I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you, Tate. The Crown of Adon burns above your head—a sign from the ancient gods of Kymera that we are meant for one another.” He picked up my hand and gently kissed its palm. “I am proud to be the father of your child, if that is what you wish.”
Without warning, the hair on my arms stood up and my scalp prickled, and I heard Mr. Manto’s voice, as if he was standing by my side, whispering in my ear, “From two will be one turned three.” I realized that the future was upon me, and it was now time to leave the Crossroads. “And I’m proud to be its mother,” I said, returning his kiss.
I shed my clothes and crawled into bed beside him, snuggling into the shelter of his left arm. As I rested my head on his chest, he kissed the na
pe of my neck and whispered something in Kymeran in my ear. “What did you just say?” I asked.
“‘You are my forever.’”
“And you are mine,” I smiled. As we embraced, there was suddenly a scrabbling sound from the direction of the fireplace, followed by a small explosion of tar-blackened brick dust. With a startled yowl, a sooty Scratch dropped out of the flue, landing on his butt in the hearth.
“Seven hells!” the winged cat spat in disgust. “What—wasn’t the puppy enough? Now you idiots are going to have a baby? I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised, since you two go at it like a pair of rabbits—!”
“You were eavesdropping on us!” I exclaimed.
“Technically, no, as I was in the chimney, not outside the window. . . .”
“Get out!” Hexe scowled, pointing to the door. “And this time stay out until I call you!”
Scratch trudged out of the bedroom, dragging his tail behind him like a length of wet rope. As the bedroom door closed itself behind him, I glanced up at the owls perched atop the four-poster bed. At least the furniture knew how to keep its mouth shut.
Chapter 10
Luckily, no one in Golgotham is expected to show up either to work or sober the day after Jubilee, so Hexe and I had a grace period to figure out a way to explain his broken hand that wouldn’t result in our friends and family ending up dead. We decided to go with it being the result of a drunken accident, which at least sounded believable.
The first day I was expected back at work, I woke up to discover Hexe no longer in bed beside me. At first I assumed he had gotten up to use the bathroom, but a quick check revealed that he was not there, either. That’s when I heard the sound of crashing crockery downstairs. I hurried down to the kitchen and found Hexe, dressed in only a pair of pajama bottoms, staring forlornly at the remains of what had been, moments before, a ceramic mixing bowl full of egg yolks. Beanie, who knew a bonanza when he saw it, was busily slurping away at the slimy goo as it spread across the linoleum.
“What are you doing down here?” I exclaimed as I scooped up the dog and deposited him on the back porch until I could clean up the mess. “You should still be in bed!”
“You’ve been waiting on me hand and foot, for two days,” Hexe replied. “I just wanted to make breakfast, like I always do.”
“I appreciate that you’re eager to get back into the swing of things,” I said, picking the larger pieces of broken crockery out of the rapidly congealing egg yolks. “But you’re trying to do too much too soon.”
“I need to get back to my old routine as soon as I can—I have it on very good authority that babies aren’t cheap.”
“Yes, but you’re running the risk of making things even worse,” I pointed out. “You’ve got to allow yourself to heal.”
“But having my hand in a splint for several weeks seems so . . . wasteful. Normally I’d use a panacea to heal the soft tissue damage before going to a boneknitter. And if the nerve damage was really bad, I’d book a psychic surgeon to take care of it. My downtime would be three, maybe four days, tops.”
“Granted, this way is slower, but it’s a system that’s worked for us humans for centuries,” I pointed out. “After all, most of us don’t have easy access to Golgotham General. And since these wounds are immune to magic, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be patient.”
“But we healers are famous for being awful patients.”
“So I’ve noticed.” As I let the dog back in, Beanie ran straight to the spot on the floor I’d just cleaned, frantically sniffing at the linoleum in search of a stray atom of food that might have been missed. “I think it’s really sweet that you want to still fix my breakfast for me, darling, but I can take care of myself. I’d rather you spend your time figuring out an easy way to break the news about the new addition to the Royal Family.”
“Don’t remind me.” He grimaced. “If my renting a room to a human got the Blue Hairs worked into a lather, I can just imagine how that will go over.”
As Hexe left the kitchen, I turned to look at Scratch, who was perched atop the refrigerator, licking his front paw. “Keep an eye on him while I’m at work, will you?” I said, keeping my voice low so as not to be overheard.
“I haven’t been his babysitter in a very long time,” the familiar replied. “But I’ll do what I can. However, if he orders me to leave him alone, there’s nothing I can do. He is my master.”
* * *
As I walked to work, the reality of my situation settled onto my shoulders like a shawl made of lead. Until Hexe regained his dexterity—assuming he recovered it at all—I was the breadwinner for the household. But how much longer would that be? My job at Canterbury Customs was nowhere near as strenuous as banging out horseshoes for Chiron, but it was far from an office job. At some point I would have to take maternity leave, assuming Canterbury didn’t simply fire me once he learned of my condition. As it was, telling my boss I was pregnant would have to wait until Hexe and I broke the news to his family. There is an etiquette to such things, after all.
Canterbury was working the forge as I entered the shop, his flanks shining with sweat. “I see you’ve finally come stumbling back from the Jubilee!” he chided. “And just in time! Bjorn Cowpen’s carriage is ready. I need you to accompany the delivery and handle the paperwork and final payment.”
As Canterbury’s apprentice, I was used to being sent on errands, but this was the first one that went beyond merely being his gofer. The fact he trusted me to collect a payment for him spoke volumes, as he usually was the only one who handled the money from the clients. Since this was a major new step in our working relationship, I felt both proud and a bit nervous about my new responsibility.
About an hour later a centaur claiming to be Cowpen’s chauffeur arrived and hitched himself to the awaiting carriage, which was about as subtle as a circus wagon. The carriage itself was a phaeton, the body of which was painted bright red, with overlarge wheels boasting gilded spokes and custom-designed hubs that bore the initials B.C. The calash top was made of faux–leopard skin, with matching plush velvet seat cushions, and had whirling mirrored disco-balls in place of the usual carriage lights. It was so gloriously, unrepentantly vulgar that it was totally awesome.
After Canterbury made sure I had all the necessary paperwork, I hopped inside the carriage, and although it may have looked like something Liberace used to race harness, it rode like a dream. I barely felt a single jounce as we made our way to Golgotham’s red-light district.
Although Duivel Street may be the shortest street in all of Golgotham, it is easily the busiest. Outside of Witches Alley, the Rookery, and the Fly Market, the flesh pits of Duivel Street are the biggest tourist attraction in the Strangest Neighbor in The Big Apple. If you can imagine a vice, there is guaranteed to be somebody or something catering to it somewhere along Duivel.
While Bjorn Cowpen owned several such adult entertainment operations, the Big Top Club was his flagship. The front of the building was shaped to resemble an enormous, leering clown’s head, like the entrance of a funhouse. The carnival decor was continued throughout the club, with vintage freak-show banners and circus posters covering the walls. Red-and-white striped canvas bunting was draped from the ceiling to give the illusion of a circus tent. Three candy-striped “tent poles” were located along the elevated runway that bisected the main room, providing the club’s entertainers the means to demonstrate their acrobatic skills. As I entered the Big Top it was obvious from the dancers strutting their considerable charms on the runway that the club’s name wasn’t just an excuse for circus-related decor.
I walked over to the bar, which resembled a shooting gallery you’d find at a carnival midway, complete with bull’s-eye targets and flying ducks. The bartender was a young huldu dressed in the straw boater, striped shirt, and red silk sleeve-garter of a sideshow barker.
“I’m from Canterbury Customs,” I said. “Councilman Cowpen is expecting me.”
The bartender cut h
is eyes to the darkest corner of the room. “The boss is, uh, in a meeting right now.” Cowpen was sitting in a red vinyl booth, talking to a shadowy figure whose back was to me. “Take a seat. He’ll be with you shortly.”
I glanced around the club. It was barely ten in the morning, but there were already a handful of patrons crowding the tip rail. No matter the hour, there was always someone ready to party on Duivel Street. The customers were watching a particularly pneumatic huldra in clear stripper heels wrap herself around a pole while using her cow tail to pluck the dollar bills from their hands. Back in their native Scandinavia, the huldrefolk were famous for their physical beauty, and the females of the species were especially notorious for luring human men into the woods for sex. Now they simply lured them into the champagne room.
As I sat down at one of the tables near the runway, a topless waitress wearing greasepaint on her face and a pair of red foam clown-nose pasties walked over to hand me a box of popcorn and take my drink order. I smiled politely and shook my head. She shrugged and went down to the foot of the runway, where a couple of tourists were flashing platinum cards.
Suddenly there was a loud thudding noise that had nothing to do with the music pumping from the sound system. I looked up to see Cowpen’s bull-tail thumping against the side of the booth he was sitting in as he talked to his guest.
“Thirty percent?” he exclaimed in angry disbelief. “Are you crazy? I’m already paying you guys fifteen for protection!”
“That’s the deal, Councilman,” the shadowy figure replied, his voice a throaty rumble.
“Look, your boss knows that I’ve always been amenable in the past. I’m sure we can negotiate a deal that’s fair to both sides. . . .”
“Marz ain’t lookin’ to be fair,” the other man said, cutting the strip club owner off before he could continue. “He’s lookin’ for thirty percent.”
“That’s outrageous!” the huldu exclaimed, this time slapping his tail onto the table for emphasis. “I refuse to pay it!”
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