Magic and Loss g-3

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Very well,” Hexe sighed. “I’ll do it. But only because I’m going to be in the market for a babysitter pretty soon.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Mr. Hexe! And you, too, Mrs. Hexe.”

  I opened my mouth to correct her, then shrugged my shoulders. What the hell. I was having his baby—might as well get used to it.

  Hexe walked over to one of the glass-fronted barrister cases that lined the walls of his office and removed what looked like an old-fashioned windup alarm clock, save that it was made of brass and the face was set with Kymeran numerals. He spoke an incantation in his native tongue under his breath while winding the clock with his right hand, then handed it to Ashley.

  “Miss Lattimer, I need you to sit on that sofa over there,” he said, pointing to the fainting couch, “and hold this clock in your hands while pointing its face away from you. Is that understood?”

  Ashley nodded her head and took her place on the couch, tightly clutching the magic clock as if it might leap from her hands and go running out the door. Although she looked like a woman in her early thirties, her face was as open as that of the young girl she really was.

  Hexe raised his silver-clad hand over his head and began to chant in a loud voice. As he did so, the Gauntlet of Nydd became bathed in witchfire, the spiritual luminescence all Kymerans possess. The phosphorescent glow grew in intensity until, with an earsplitting crackle, a jagged finger of supernatural energy shot from his palm like the spark from a Tesla coil and struck the face of the clock. Ashley flinched and gave voice to a mouse-sized squeal but, to her credit, she did not let go.

  As I watched in amazement, the hands on the clock began to turn backward, and Ashley’s adult features began to soften and grow younger. Then, all of a sudden, there was a weird noise, as if the gears of some great, invisible machine had been thrown into reverse, causing the entire room to vibrate, as the color of the witchfire shrouding Hexe’s hand changed from bluish white to purple-black. At the same time, the hands on the clock began turning forward, and I gasped in horror as Ashley’s reclaimed youth melted away and her brilliant red hair rapidly faded as traceries of white sprouted from her temples.

  Hexe shouted something in Kymeran and grabbed his upraised right hand by the wrist with his left, abruptly forcing it against his side, severing the feed to the magic clock. His face was drawn and pale, and his golden eyes shone with barely controlled panic as he stared at his handiwork. Instead of reversing the progeria, his spell had aged Ashley twenty years further. Crows feet and laugh lines—evidence of a life yet to be lived—marked the corner of her eyes and mouth, and her throat and cleavage both had sagging skin.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice sounding huskier than before. She let go of the clock and reached up to touch her face, only to freeze upon seeing the wrinkled skin and bulging veins on the backs of her hands. “Oh my God—what did you do?”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, Ashley,” Hexe said. “Whoever cast the progeria spell over you protected it with a stinger—a magical booby trap. That means anyone who tries to reverse it will, instead, age you even further. I had no way of knowing the stinger was there until it was too late.”

  “What can we do?” Ashley asked, her voice wavering on the verge of tears.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Hexe replied solemnly. “However, most progeria spells will reverse themselves after a month or two.”

  “But what about Homecoming? I can’t show up looking like my Aunt Lorraine! Please, can’t you try something else to fix this?”

  “I’m not willing to take that risk, no matter how much I’m paid,” Hexe replied. “I could accidentally kill you, Ashley. Here, take your money,” he said, handing back the stack of bills. “I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

  My heart went out to Ashley as the poor girl began to weep in despair. High school is bad enough already without adding menopause on top of it. I slipped an arm about her shoulders as she sobbed, doing my best to comfort her. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out—isn’t that right, honey?” I said, overloudly.

  “Of course! I just need time to consult my spell books. Leave your contact information with Tate, and the moment I find the proper counterspell, I’ll remove the curse free of charge—it’s the least I can do, given the, um, circumstances.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hexe,” Ashley sniffled.

  “Thank me once the curse is lifted, not before.”

  “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this when I get home,” Ashley groaned as I walked her to the front door.

  “Just tell your mom and dad you’ve been cursed,” I said gently. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “No, not my parents,” she sighed. “I mean my boyfriend, Justin. I love him, and he says he loves me. But the last time he saw me I was me. What if he doesn’t love me anymore now that I’m like, you know—?” She hesitated, afraid to speak the word aloud.

  I turned her by her shoulders so that we were facing each other. Despite the crow’s feet, her eyes were still those of a young girl. “Ashley, if your boyfriend doesn’t love you now, he didn’t love you then,” I said in a kind but firm voice. “Because you’re still the same person, no matter how different you appear to be. And if this Justin kid won’t stand by you, simply because of how you look—? Well, I may have only just met you, but I think you deserve something better than that.”

  “You sound just like my mom,” Ashley said, smiling with her fifty-year-old mouth.

  “Good. I need the practice.”

  * * *

  Once I had seen Ashley safely to the door, I returned to Hexe’s office to find him seated at his desk, peering intently at his gauntleted hand through one of his many scrying stones. He looked like a scientist trying to identify a particularly malignant strain of bacteria.

  “Something’s wrong with the gauntlet,” he announced in a worried voice. “There was no ‘stinger’ on that child’s progeria curse. When I was in the middle of lifting it, the spell I was working began to reverse itself without me willing it. It was as if my Right Hand was being used to work Left Hand magic.”

  “You mean you’re the one responsible for aging that poor girl even further?”

  Hexe nodded his head, a heartsick look on his face. “I’m sorry I lied, Tate, but things are bad enough already without being sued by her parents!”

  “Are you sure the problem is with the gauntlet?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind,” he replied, returning his attention to the scrying stone. “The spell-signature has mutated. There seems to be a second signature emerging from beneath the original—like a message written in invisible ink that’s finally becoming detectable.”

  “You mean this isn’t the real Gauntlet of Nydd?”

  “No, it’s authentic all right. But it appears that the original charm has been used as a Trojan horse for another spell—not unlike a computer virus.”

  “What do we do?”

  “The same thing you do whenever a microwave or television starts malfunctioning: take it back to the store it came from.”

  * * *

  The first thing I noticed as we approached Madam Erys’ shop was the FOR LEASE sign posted in the front window. Hexe rattled the door, but it was tightly locked. Although the interior of the shop was dim and dusty, there was still enough light to see that the pair of silk opera gloves still lay draped over the counter, apparently untouched since the last time I’d seen them, more than two weeks ago.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Hexe said, addressing an older Kymeran with thinning, puce-colored hair, who was sweeping the stoop in front of the millinery next door. “Do you know when Madam Erys closed her shop?”

  “I couldn’t give you an exact date, Serenity,” the hatter replied, pausing to lean on his broom. “It’s been at least a couple weeks since I last saw her. Not that she was one for ‘how-you-dos’. I thought it passing strange when I saw the FOR LET sign in the window, since she had just opened for business
a day or two before.”

  “How could I be such a fool?” Hexe groaned as we headed back down the street. “I was so desperate to reclaim my magic, I waltzed right into a trap!” He banged his gauntleted fist against his thigh in frustration. “I was stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said, placing a hand on his arm. “You had no way of knowing what she was up to.”

  “Yes, but part of me knew it was all too good to be true, even for magic!” he replied bitterly. “But I was so desperate to make myself whole, I ignored my instincts! And that bitch Erys played me like a hurdy-gurdy.”

  “What now?”

  “We go find Moot,” Hexe said grimly. “It was obvious from the way they talked there’s plenty of history between those two. If anyone might know where to find Madam Erys, it’ll be the good doctor. And even if he doesn’t have a clue as to where she is, he’s the one who bonded the gauntlet to my hand. If he can put it on, the bastard can sure as hell take it off again.”

  * * *

  The Stagger Inn was little changed from the first time I saw it, except maybe even smokier and more vomit-drenched, if possible. The odor was sickening, and I had to clench my jaw in order to keep from adding to the establishment’s already impressive collection of puke puddles.

  Dr. Moot was seated in the same booth as last time, although, like the rest of the Stagger Inn, considerably worse for wear, with his chin resting on his breastbone and his hands curled limply about a glass of absinthe.

  “Where is she, Moot?” Hexe barked, causing the more alert patrons of the bar to turn and stare in his direction. “Where’s Erys?” When the disgraced psychic surgeon did not even twitch in reply, Hexe grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a rough shake. “Wake up, you miserable old tosspot! Tell me where I can find Erys!”

  As if in response, Dr. Moot toppled out of the booth and onto the sawdust-strewn floor, staring up at us with the cold, cloudy eyes of the dead.

  Chapter 16

  “Was he like that when you found him?” Lieutenant Viva asked, gesturing to the body, now hidden under a soiled tablecloth acting as a makeshift shroud.

  “Yes. I mean, no,” Hexe replied with a shake of his head. “He was sitting upright when we arrived. He only fell onto the floor after I touched him. I just thought he was dead drunk not, you know, actually dead.”

  “I see,” the PTU officer muttered as she jotted down notes, her badge dangling about her neck from a lanyard. Her long, vivid-red hair was worked into a French braid that hung all the way down to the base of her spine, and her scent—that of pink peppercorns and fresh cranberry—was a welcome respite from the sour reek of the Stagger Inn.

  Once news that the PTU was on its way percolated through the tavern’s clientele, most of them had vacated the premises, leaving behind half-finished drinks and upended chairs, save for those too stupefied to either notice or care.

  “Do you think it was murder?” I asked as I eyed a slightly built Kymeran with tangerine-colored hair inspecting what was left of Moot’s last drink.

  “We’ll know for sure once our potion-master finishes his tests,” Viva replied. “Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out the old tosser simply rode the dragon one time too many—you know, mixing safflower oil capsules with absinthe,” she explained, upon seeing the look of confusion on my face. “Addicts claim it gives them the sensation of riding on the back of a battle-dragon—not that anyone really knows what that feels like anymore.”

  “Lieutenant—? The absinthe tests positive for Green Death,” the potion-master announced grimly. “It’s a palytoxin made from a highly venomous form of coral. There was enough in his glass to kill him three times over.”

  “Green Death was considered a relatively quick means of execution and an honorable death in ancient Kymera—there’s no known antidote,” Hexe explained. “The condemned were given a choice of either death in the arena or drinking it mixed with wine.”

  “Is that bastet friend of yours still working for Dr. Mao?” Viva asked pointedly.

  “Surely you don’t think Lukas had anything to do with this?” I gasped.

  “I have to start my inquiries somewhere,” Viva replied with a shrug. “Your friend certainly had a reason to hate Moot—after all, he worked as Boss Marz’s hambler, mutilating the feet of the weres who fought in the pits, including his own. I’m sure it pissed him off that Marz’s case getting chucked out meant Moot would be back at work, sooner or later.”

  “The same could be said of most of the half beasts and werefolk who were liberated from the Maladanti’s gladiator pens—including my mother’s footman, Elmer,” Hexe countered. “Moot had plenty of enemies in Golgotham.”

  “True, but even a Stagger Inn regular would have noticed a minotaur in their midst. No, whoever did this had to be able to pass for Kymeran—or at least human. And doesn’t Lukas work in an apothecary—with access to all sorts of drugs and poisons? That gives him a lot of motive and plenty of means in my book.”

  “You’re assuming this was murder and not suicide?”

  “Green Death might be preferable to dying in the arena, but it’s not a pleasant way to go. You basically suffocate, while remaining conscious to the very end. As a psychic surgeon, Moot would have known that. And I never pegged him as one to suffer unduly,” Viva said wryly. “Now, Serenity, if you don’t mind telling me—what, exactly, was your reason for seeking out this man?”

  Hexe shifted about uncomfortably, sliding his gauntleted hand into his coat pocket. “He was my surgeon.”

  Lieutenant Viva raised a bright red eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Yes, I know what you’re thinking.” Hexe sighed. “But being the Heir Apparent and two dollars won’t get me a tall latte at the Devil’s Brew.”

  “You let that butcher work on you?”

  I turned to see Captain Horn, frowning in disgust, striding toward us.

  “He was all I could afford,” Hexe replied stonily. “Beside, when he was sober—or close enough to it—Moot was still a skilled psychic surgeon. It was his indiscretion, not a lack of ability, that got his license to practice revoked.”

  “The man sold organs to the black magic market!” Horn exclaimed, barely able to restrain his revulsion. “Hearts, livers, fetuses—!”

  “I am well aware of that,” Hexe sighed. “However, I have come to believe Dr. Moot may have taken the rap in that case out of a sense of misplaced guilt.”

  “He’s the one who stitched the Gauntlet of Nydd onto you? No need to look surprised—your mother told me all about it.”

  “Yes,” Hexe replied hesitantly. “I sought him out today because I felt the gauntlet was in need of a slight . . . adjustment. When we arrived, we found him dead.”

  “Son, I realize you have your pride,” Horn sighed wearily, “but if you needed money for something like that, you could have asked me. I would have fronted you the funds, no questions asked.”

  “I don’t go to my mother for financial help,” Hexe replied stiffly, getting to his feet. “So why would I come to you? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere. Good evening, Captain.”

  Once we were back on the street, I grabbed Hexe by the arm, forcing him to turn and face me. I was alarmed to see the same strange, cold cast to his eyes I first glimpsed when he tried to kill Gaza. “How can you speak to your own father like that?” I exclaimed. “He’s just worried about you, that’s all!”

  “I’ve gone my entire life without his help,” Hexe replied stonily, yanking his arm free of my grasp. “And I don’t need him butting in now. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try to track down Erys. I’ll see you at home.” With that he stalked off, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

  I stared after him for a long moment, feeling as if I’d just walked into someone else’s life. I kept telling myself that Hexe was under an immense amount of stress. He had already undergone a life-altering event that would have shattered a lesser man, and was extremely
worried about being able to not only provide for, but also protect, both me and our unborn child. Hexe’s entire professional life, not to mention his personal identity and sense of purpose, was tied up in his ability to work Right Hand magic. And now he had discovered, in the worst way possible, that not only was his talent corrupted, but that he had been tricked into going along with it. I realized I could never fully understand the turmoil he must be going through, no more than he could truly know what it was like to be pregnant—so perhaps the best I could hope to do was be there for him while he wrestled with the question of what to do next.

  As I arrived at the house, I found Captain Horn sitting on the front stoop. “I handled that badly back there, didn’t I?” The PTU chief smiled sadly. “I always had this fantasy in my head about how it would be between us, once the truth was known—but the reality is that I don’t know how to be his father, and he doesn’t know how to be my son.” He sighed as he stood up. “It may be too late for me to be the father I always wanted to be, but it’s not too late to be a proper grandfather. Here, I want you to have this,” he said, pressing money into my hand. “It’s not much—but it’s the least I can do.”

  “Cap, I can’t accept this. You know how Hexe feels about parental charity.”

  “And I respect him for it. But the money isn’t for him or you—it’s for my grandchild.”

  “Then you should put it in a college fund,” I said as I handed the cash back to him. “That’ll do more good in the long run.”

  “Very well,” Horn sighed. “If that’s what you think is best. But I want you to promise me that you’ll call next time my son is desperate enough to resort to someone like Moot.”

  “I promise, Cap,” I smiled, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

  “That’s a good girl,” he said, favoring me with a wink as he left. “And maybe, some day, you’ll get around to telling me what really happened to his hand.”