Magic and Loss g-3

by Nancy A. Collins

  As we exited Dr. Moot’s surgery, we were greeted by a wall of fog from the nearby river, which turned the surrounding buildings into smeared outlines and hid us from any nosy neighbors. Although the streets seemed deserted, Hexe kept his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, just to be on the safe side.

  As we headed back to the boardinghouse, I noticed that his shoulders were no longer stooped and that he now walked with a far more confident stride. I wasn’t sure how much of it was directly due to the gauntlet, or simply a placebo effect, but I was glad to see him more like his old self.

  Upon our return to the boardinghouse Beanie came scampering out of the kitchen. He was so eager to tell us “hello,” he leapt up in the air like a two-tone springbok.

  “I’m glad to see you, too!” Hexe laughed, reaching out to pet Beanie, only to have the dog suddenly yelp in alarm.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” Hexe frowned as Beanie dropped his ears and drew away, shivering as if he was freezing.

  “He’s freaked out because your hand doesn’t have the same scent as the rest of you,” Scratch explained as he entered the front parlor.

  Hexe lifted the gauntlet to his nose and gave it a sniff. “I hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that you mention it, it does smell like Erys. I guess that’s to be expected—it was in her possession for some time. No doubt it’ll eventually acquire my scent once I’ve worn it for a while.”

  “A little heavy on the bling, don’t you think?” Scratch asked, eyeing his master’s silver-clad hand.

  “It can glow in the dark, for all I care, just as long as it enables me to use my right hand.”

  Later, as we prepared for bed, I found myself watching Hexe as he undressed, marveling at how the silver filigree mesh of the gauntlet gleamed like crushed ice on a hot summer day. Hexe caught me staring and halted his disrobing.

  “Does the sight of it bother you?” he asked.

  “No, I think it’s quite beautiful,” I replied truthfully. “But I’m uneasy about Madam Erys’ motivation for giving it to you. I don’t like that woman, Hexe, and I don’t trust her. Whenever she looks in my direction, I can feel hatred oozing out of her.”

  “Granted, Madam Erys is a misanthrope,” Hexe agreed. “But there’s no reason to suspect her of anything more than calculated self-interest. It’s fairly common for tradesmen to curry favor from the Royal Family by presenting us with elaborate gifts in hopes of winning a royal warrant. Why do you think Lafo and Lorelei are always so glad to see me at their establishments? It’s not just because they’re my friends. Being able to claim a member of the Royal Family as a regular client still means something in Golgotham, even in this day and age. Sometimes it’s good to be the Witch King—or at least the Heir Apparent. And tonight was one of those times.”

  “Does it feel like your hand?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” he smiled, sliding it along my naked body until it finally came to rest on my hip.

  The silver chain mail was so tightly woven it was more like the skin of a snake than something forged from metal. Although his right hand felt slightly cool and distant against my flesh, it didn’t keep me from noticing how warm and close the rest of him was.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, after thoroughly testing how his gauntleted hand held up under pressure (which turned out to be “pretty well”), I woke up from a sound sleep. I lay in the bed for a long moment, my thoughts still muzzy, trying to figure out what had jettisoned me back into the waking world. Did I have to pee? Was I thirsty? Was I tangled up in the bedclothes? Was Beanie snoring? Was Scratch kicking me in his sleep again?

  As I ran down the checklist, answering “no” to each question, I became aware of a rhythmic tapping sound. I rose up on one elbow and looked down at Hexe, who was asleep on his back, his left arm carelessly thrown across his forehead and his right hand resting on his naked chest. The tapping noise—which I now realized was what had awakened me—was that of the fingers of his gauntleted hand drumming against his sternum, as if patiently biding their time.

  Chapter 14

  Now that he had regained the use of his right hand, Hexe was his old self once again. I was relieved to see the gleam back in his golden eyes and hear the confidence return to his voice. Since that very next day was my day off, Hexe had planned a leisurely, romantic breakfast for the two of us. However, those plans were quickly dashed by an unexpected knock.

  Upon opening the door, Hexe was surprised to find his mother, Lady Syra, standing on the stoop. Before he could say hello, she breezed past him and into the front room.

  “So, exactly when were you going to tell me I’m going to be a grandmother?” she asked, fixing him with a withering glare. “Before the baby arrived, or after?”

  “How did you know—?” Hexe sputtered in surprise.

  “Besides being your mother, I am also a professional astrologer,” she reminded him sharply. “And it so happens, while I was drawing up your father’s horoscope, as a present for his birthday—and don’t you dare tell him that’s what he’s getting—I saw in the stars that he was going to be a grandfather! Imagine my surprise! Especially since I was finding out from the orientation of Orion’s Belt and not my own son! I might as well have read it in the gossip column of the Gazette!”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Hexe apologized. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but Tate and I just wanted a little private time as a couple before everything goes crazy and the Blue Hairs start calling for my head on a pike.”

  “Granted, the hard-line aristos are not going to be thrilled when they hear the news,” she sighed. “But that’s no reason to keep me out of the loop!”

  “So—you’re not upset that we’re having a baby?” I asked anxiously.

  “Heavens and hells, no!” Lady Syra exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. “I can’t wait to be a grandmamma!”

  I blinked in surprise. “You mean you don’t have any problems with the new Heir Apparent being half human?”

  An odd look crossed the Witch Queen’s face, which she quickly tried to camouflage by smiling. “Why don’t we deal with that problem when it arises, shall we? Whatever happens, I won’t love my grandchild any less.”

  “What do you mean by ‘whatever happens’?” I asked suspiciously.

  “You think our child is going to be a norlock, don’t you?” Hexe said flatly.

  “A what-lock?” I frowned.

  “It’s slang for Kymerans born incapable of working magic,” he explained grimly. “Their ‘extra’ fingers end at the second knuckle. My grandfather used to employ a norlock named Jake when I was a boy. He lived in a little cottage at the foot of the garden.”

  “Please don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way, my dear,” Syra said apologetically. “But very few half-castes are born fully functional in the magic department. Understand I’m not trying to be negative, my dear; I’m just being practical. There is also a very good chance your child might not even be of Royal blood. . . .”

  “Are you suggesting that Hexe isn’t the father?” I gasped.

  “Of course not!” Lady Syra replied quickly. “It’s just that . . .”

  “Just what, exactly?” I retorted, trying to keep hold of my temper.

  “If the baby doesn’t have gold eyes, it can’t be recognized as heir to the Throne of Arum,” she replied, shifting about uncomfortably. “It can never be a member of the Royal Family.”

  “Why are you so certain this will be the case with our child?” Hexe scowled.

  “Because you’re not the first Heir Apparent to take a fancy to a human,” Lady Syra explained. “Great Uncle Jack, the one who built this house, had a child by a human mistress shortly before he disappeared. His son was born a norlock. Your great-grandfather, Lord Jynx, refused to acknowledge him as one of us because he had his mother’s eyes.”

  “This norlock child of Uncle Jack’s—what happened to him?” Hexe asked.

  “After Lord Jynx died, my father to
ok pity on the boy and made him his gardener.”

  “You mean Jake was—?”

  “Your first cousin, once removed,” Syra said with a sad nod of her head. “But you must remember that was another time. Things are different now.” She reached out to touch her son’s arm, only to have the ivory bracelet wrapped about her wrist abruptly rise up, revealing itself to be a tiny albino serpent. The familiar hissed loudly and flared its hood, which popped open like the miniature parasol in a Mai Tai. “Trinket—!” Lady Syra scolded, delivering a light tap to the top of its milk-white head with the tip of her finger. “By the Outer Dark! What has come over you?”

  The micro-cobra flinched at the reprimand, but did not resume its previous, passive stance, and continued to keep its ruby-red eyes focused on Hexe.

  “Perhaps this is what has her upset,” he said, holding up the glittering glove that now covered his right hand.

  “By the sunken spires!” Lady Syra exclaimed in surprise. “What is that thing?”

  “The Gauntlet of Nydd.”

  “Well, no wonder Trinket became alarmed!” His mother frowned. “She’s very sensitive to charmed objects. But I thought the Gauntlet of Nydd was lost during the Dragon War. Where on earth did you find it—and how could you possibly afford it once you did?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mother—it’s not a forgery,” Hexe assured her. “I checked the enchantment—the signature on the spell is General Vlad’s. And as to how I ended up in possession of it—it was a gift from a tradeswoman seeking a royal warrant. It’s really no different from that time Bulgari sent you that cocktail necklace. . . .”

  “Yes, yes, that’s all very well and good,” Lady Syra said impatiently. “But why are you wearing it?”

  “I find it helps focus and enhance my Right Hand magic. I need all the help I can get if I want to bring in even more paying business. After all, I’m going to be a father soon.”

  Although it was obvious that Lady Syra did not completely believe what her son had just told her, she did not push the issue. “In any case, you should be careful. The Gauntlet of Nydd was neither truly Left or Right Hand magic. Since it is ambidextrous it can easily go either way, depending on the user.”

  “Well, I don’t think you have to worry about me using a right-handed glove to work Left Hand magic,” Hexe reassured her.

  “I’m not the one who’s concerned,” Lady Syra replied, gesturing to Trinket, who was still weaving about atop her wrist. “There, there, little one,” she said soothingly, planting a kiss atop the familiar’s wedge-shaped head. “No need to be upset.” This seemed to placate the albino serpent, which once more resumed its role as living jewelry. “Now go get dressed, dear,” Lady Syra exclaimed gaily, turning to address me. “I’m taking you shopping!”

  * * *

  During the course of my life, my mother has dragged me through every upscale department store in the city at least once. But where my mother entered Bergdorf’s or Barney’s like an arctic explorer intent on driving a flag into the North Pole, Lady Syra was far more laid back. The moment she set foot on the sales floor, the personal shoppers seemed to appear as if summoned by a spell, greeting her with eager smiles, without any sign of the nervous trepidation usually displayed by whatever sales staff was unlucky enough to wait on my mother.

  However, while the floorwalkers and clerks were pleased to see Lady Syra, the same could not be said for our fellow shoppers, many of whom scowled in disapproval. But if Syra noticed them, she showed no sign of it as she moved through the stalking grounds of Manhattan’s elite with unflappable calm, as elegant and gracious as any crowned head of Europe stooping to visit a department store. No wonder Warhol had been so fascinated by her.

  After spending an hour trying on clothes, I found myself staring at a daunting array of flowing tops and frilly, Empire-waisted dresses, any one of which cost more than my take-home pay for a month.

  “Syra, I can’t let you pay for all of this!” I exclaimed.

  “Tosh! Of course you can!” She laughed as she handed the saleslady a platinum credit card. “I can’t allow the mother of my grandchild to go about dressed in nothing but a pair of overalls, can I? Besides, you’ve done a marvelous job of living lean and making ends meet. A lot of young ladies from your background would have chucked it all by now and returned home with their tails between their legs. You must love my son very, very much.”

  “Yes, I do,” I replied. “He’s the only man I’ve ever known who has looked at me and really seen me instead of what he expected to see, or wanted to be there. It’s like I don’t have to explain things to him—he just instinctively knows what’s important to me. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do. That’s how I felt about Hexe’s father, when I first fell in love with him. And I still feel the same way, all these years and hardships later.”

  “I like Captain Horn a lot. He reminds me of Hexe, sometimes.”

  “I suspect he inherited his sense of justice from his father,” Lady Syra said, nodding her head in agreement. “I just wish Hexe would be a little warmer toward him. I realize that it was difficult for him, growing up the way he did—but it wasn’t Horn’s decision to leave him without a father.”

  “I’m certain once he starts seeing things through the eyes of a parent, he’ll come to understand his dad a little better,” I assured her.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Lady Syra conceded. “And perhaps the same will hold true for you as well.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting I reconcile with my mother and father, are you?” I scoffed.

  “I’m well aware that your mother has cultivated a layer of bitch you can break a shovel on,” Syra said with a rueful smile. “However, in her defense, the mistakes we parents make trying to protect our children are often the hardest for us to admit.”

  * * *

  The sun was beginning to set by the time I returned home, laden with maternity swag. Since neither Hexe nor Beanie were there to greet me, I assumed he had elected to take the dog for a walk. I went upstairs and was hanging my three new maternity tops in the wardrobe when I heard a rustling sound behind me. As I turned around to see what was making the noise, one of the shopping bags from Barney’s abruptly tilted over, spilling Scratch out onto the floor. Although he may be a demon, in many ways the familiar was no different from the typical housecat—right down to the mad passion for investigating paper bags.

  “There you are!” I laughed. “Where’s Hexe?”

  “He’s out in the garden with Beanie,” the familiar replied as he rubbed the side of his face along the outer edge of a Neiman-Marcus bag.

  I walked over to the window and peered out into the backyard, which was incredibly huge, thanks to the Kymeran talent of folding physical space like origami. Hexe was at the bottom of the garden, beyond the living hedge maze, playing with Beanie, who was eagerly chasing a red rubber ball around like a star soccer player.

  “I see you survived your shopping expedition with my mother,” Hexe said by way of greeting as I made my way across the garden. “How many stores did she drag you to?”

  “I stopped counting at five,” I replied. “It wasn’t that bad. In fact, I actually kind of enjoyed myself. Your mom is a helluva lot more fun to go shopping with than anyone in my family.”

  “I’m glad you had a nice time. You deserve to treat yourself,” he said. “Now that I’ve got my hand back, maybe next time I’ll be the one buying you nice things.” He gave the ball another kick and Beanie leapt up as if he was spring-loaded, bumping it with his truncated snout like a trained seal. The ball flew into the dense tangle of ivy in the corner of the garden where the two walls joined, followed by the sound of breaking window glass. As I looked closer, I realized there was a small wooden structure, slightly larger than a potting shed, hidden deep in the dark green foliage.

  Hexe walked up to the overgrown door and tried the knob, but it was rusted shut and refused to turn in his hand. I glanced through
the broken window, as the other remaining pane was heavily covered by dirt, and saw a small potbellied stove, a table with a solitary, overturned chair, and the rotting remains of a narrow cot, all of it covered in dust. I looked over at Hexe, who had plucked the ball from the ivy and was turning it in his hands like one of his scrying stones.

  “I had almost forgotten this was still here,” he muttered. “This was where Jake lived. I was very young at the time, but I remember how he and my grandfather used to sit over there”—he pointed to a pair of weathered Adirondack chairs positioned under a decorative wisteria bower—“and chat while sharing a hookah—not at all like servant and master. When Jake died, it was the only time I ever saw my grandfather cry.

  “I wonder what it was like for him, living out his life in the garden, serving those who lived in the house his father built. To be denied his birthright, yet have it constantly dangled in his face—how cruel is that?” He shook his head in disgust. “My family has a long tradition of getting too caught up in what we are, instead of who we are. The gods and devils know it’s hard enough being a half-caste in the Royal Family . . . but a norlock?”

  “Are you worried about what your mother said about the baby—?” I asked gently, slipping an arm about his waist.

  Hexe grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Astrologer or not, my mother doesn’t know everything. I don’t care how many fingers our kid has or what color his or her eyes might be—no one is going to make him ashamed of who and what he is. Or her.”

  “You’re going to make a hell of a dad, you know that?” I grinned.

  “I still can’t help thinking about how if Uncle Jack hadn’t disappeared, all those years ago, both Jake and I would have grown up knowing our fathers,” he said wistfully.

  “How so?”

  “Jack was the true Heir Apparent, not my grandfather. But when Jack was swallowed up by the dimensional rift on the third floor, the mantle was automatically passed to Eben. Had Jack taken his rightful place as Witch King, my grandfather would have simply become yet another member of the aristocracy. He would have no reason to disown Esau in favor of my mother. Indeed, Esau would have had no expectations of inheriting the Throne of Arum at all. And maybe, just maybe, my uncle wouldn’t have become such a twisted, bitter creature. As a minor noble without any claims to the throne, my mother wouldn’t have had a reason to hide her love away, and she could have married whoever she wished without anyone raising an eyebrow. . . .”