Magic and Loss g-3

by Nancy A. Collins

  “What are you doing down here?” Hexe asked, sounding more surprised than pleased to see me. The smell of barley wine and cigarette smoke clung to him like perfume. No doubt he had rounded off the evening by stopping in at the Calf and claiming his fair share of free drinks.

  “Waiting for you.” I yawned. “I’ve got some big news. I tried calling you earlier, but you didn’t pick up. Why didn’t you call me back?”

  “My phone lost its charge,” he replied with a shrug.

  As I got off the couch to greet him, I noticed for the first time that his right eye sported a nice new shiner. “Heavens and hells! What happened?”

  “I got jumped by a couple of unrulies,” he replied bitterly.

  “What for?”

  “Because I’m walking around wearing the equivalent of five solid gold Rolexes,” he explained, holding up his gauntleted right hand.

  “You need to get an ice pack on that,” I said, steering him toward the back of the house. As Hexe took his place at the kitchen table, I removed a bag of frozen vegetables from the freezer and wrapped it in a dish towel. “Here—put that over your eye,” I said, holding it out to him. Hexe did as he was instructed, wincing slightly as the ice-cold compress touched his face. “It’s not magic, but it’ll work.”

  “So—what did you have to tell me that was so important?” Hexe asked.

  “Canterbury offered to make me a partner in his business today.”

  Hexe perked up upon hearing this news. “Does that mean you’re getting a raise?”

  “I suppose so,” I replied. “We haven’t really hammered out the details yet. But it does mean my job is secure. He took me to lunch to talk it over, and on the way back we passed the Machen Arms—except now it’s GolgothamVue—just as Ronnie Chess was evicting this old couple. I saw Octavia trying to help them and stopped to see what was going on—well, long story short, they’re staying here until their new apartment is ready. It shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

  “How much are you charging them?”

  My smile suddenly faltered. “Huh?”

  “We’re in no position to hand out charity right now. We’ve got bills to pay. Anyone who stays under my roof is using electricity and water, and they’re eating our food. You are charging them rent, aren’t you?”

  “It never even crossed my mind,” I admitted. “I mean, Octavia’s already paying for her room. I just assumed—”

  “Of course it didn’t cross your mind,” he snapped, tossing aside the makeshift ice pack. “Why should you care, after all? It’s not your name on the utility bills, is it?”

  “Are you serious?” I asked, suddenly feeling as disoriented and off-balance as a sleepwalker who has awakened to find herself standing in the middle of someone else’s house. Within a heartbeat everything I had imagined safe and familiar had turned hostile and alien, and I was at a loss at how to change it back.

  “Do I look like I’m having a laugh?” he replied in the kind of deliberate, overloud voice reserved for particularly slow children.

  “But these aren’t just two random nobodies who came in off the street,” I said, trying my best to explain the situation. “Hana and Torn used to work for your grandparents! They’re really looking forward to seeing you again. . . .”

  He gave an incredulous laugh, as if I’d just said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Why would I want to interact with my grandfather’s old servants? Perhaps you’d like me to spend time with a discarded coat and a bent paper clip as well?”

  “I—I just thought you might want to say hello—” I stammered.

  “You just ‘thought’; is that it?” he jeered mockingly. “See, that’s the problem with you, Tate—you’re human. You can’t think like me, and you never will.” Hexe lurched to his feet, swaying unsteadily. I knew he had been drinking, but up until that point I had no idea just how drunk he truly was. “Either you get some money out of them or I show them the door—it’s as simple as that. I don’t need another pair of mouths to feed under my roof. And I certainly don’t need a couple of doddering antiques getting in my way, yammering on about the ‘good old days.’ I don’t care who they are—they could be my chuffing grandparents for all it means to me! Either they pony up some rent, or they’re out on the curb!” With that, he staggered into his office, slamming the door behind him loud enough for it to be heard throughout the house.

  I stood in the kitchen, trembling like a tuning fork, my cheeks burning with shame, as I struggled to try to understand what I had done to trigger such a flood of venom. He had never spoken to me in such an insulting, dismissive tone before, even when I’d done things to deserve it. I kept telling myself he was drunk and upset about being mugged, but that didn’t keep the words from hurting any less. I wiped the tears from my eyes and then went to the sink and threw some water on my face before going upstairs to bed.

  As I crested the second floor landing, I was startled to see Hana and Torn standing in the doorway of their room. I could tell from the looks on their faces that they had heard more than enough of Hexe’s harangue. I opened my mouth to try to apologize, but before I could say anything they closed the door.

  When I got up the next morning to go to work, they were already gone.

  Chapter 19

  To be honest, it would not have surprised me if I never saw Hana and Torn again. But, to my relief, they showed back up at Fetlock Mews later that day. Torn explained that they had decided it would be better “for everyone involved” if they stayed elsewhere until the loft space was ready, and had taken a room at the Sabbat Inn, the only hotel located within Golgotham. A couple of days later, they moved into the refurbished loft and set about making it their new home. Neither of them ever said a word to me about what had transpired that night, but I could see the shadow of it in their eyes whenever they stopped by the shop, which was quite often, as Hana seemed determined to stuff both Canterbury and myself as if we were taxidermy with a seemingly never-ending supply of freshly baked breads, pastries, and cookies.

  A couple of weeks after they moved in, Canterbury’s attorney came by with a sheaf of legal documents requiring my signature. While my salary as junior partner wasn’t large enough to completely offset the loss of Hexe’s income, it did provide me with the stability and peace of mind that comes with job security. And for the first time since learning I was pregnant, I was finally able to focus on truly getting things ready for the baby.

  Outside of the boneknitters and psychic surgeons found at Golgotham General, the majority of health care in Golgotham was provided by hedgewitches such as Hexe. Although I knew from personal experience their healing arts were effective, I still wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of trusting the health of my unborn child to someone dangling a crystal pendulum over my rapidly swelling belly. Magic was all well and good for Kymerans in my situation, but I was human and I needed the comfort afforded by my people’s own unique arts—science and technology.

  There was a clinic just across the river, in Brooklyn, just off the F, that offered a low-cost prenatal service. It was eight hundred dollars up front, which was a hefty chunk of change for our household, but it would pay for monthly office visits for the first twenty-four weeks, as well as blood tests and one ultrasound. I’d been squirreling away a percentage of my paycheck, plus whatever money was left over after paying the bills, in the cookie tin. So far I had just over six hundred dollars saved up.

  Upon finding myself with a spare thirty dollars after settling the grocer’s bill, I opened the lid on the tin, only to find the kitty considerably lighter than before. My heart somehow managed to both sink and speed up as I counted out the bills, then tallied them up twice more, telling myself I must have miscounted. But each time it came up short the exact same amount: one hundred and fifty dollars.

  Surely some nefarious burglar had managed to sneak into the house, somehow managed to make it past Scratch, and then made a beeline to the cookie tin on my dresser without touching anything else
at all. I really, really wanted to believe that was the case, because, otherwise, I would have to suspect the only other person in the world—well, the only one with thumbs, anyway—who knew where I was stashing money.

  “Do you know anything about this?” I asked, shaking the cookie tin at Scratch.

  “I ain’t no snitch,” the familiar replied and quickly ran out of the room.

  I glanced in the direction of the four-poster, only to find the carved owls perched atop the bedposts had turned their backs to me.

  Maybe it was the hormones, but that’s when I lost it. I had put up with his increasing moodiness and going out drinking every night because I felt bad about him losing his magic, but I had finally had enough of being treated like a clueless fool simply because I had five fingers instead of six.

  “Where are you going?” Scratch asked as I yanked my peacoat out of the downstairs closet.

  “I’m going to go and get my money back,” I snapped. It didn’t help my mood that I now discovered my coat would no longer button thanks to my baby bump.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist! So he took some money without telling you . . .”

  “You don’t understand, Scratch!” I snapped. “He didn’t do this to me; he did it to the baby!”

  * * *

  I managed to keep a pretty good mad-on all the way to the Two-Headed Calf. Over the last month or so, Hexe had put Lafo’s promise of free eats and drink to the test. Up until recently we had been eating at the Calf twice a week, but now that I had stopped drinking because of the baby, Hexe had been hitting the pub every night on his own, coming back later and later each time. I was usually asleep by the time he would stagger home, reeking of artichoke schnapps. Half the time he didn’t even bother to come to bed, passing out instead on the couch in his office.

  Since it was a weeknight, the Calf was relatively quiet when I arrived. Bruno nodded in welcome as I entered, but I brushed by without responding. I was too busy scanning the booths and tables for some sign of Hexe. I then hurried upstairs, but he wasn’t among the diners, either.

  As I went back downstairs, I caught sight of Lafo, who was manning the taps behind the bar. He smiled in welcome as I approached. “Evening, Tate. Looking for someone?”

  “Has Hexe been here tonight?” I asked.

  “No, he hasn’t,” he replied as he pulled a pint for one of his customers. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him in a couple of weeks.”

  “What? But he’s been coming here almost every night . . .”

  Lafo shook his head, a grim look on his face. “I don’t know where he’s going, Tate—but it ain’t here. In fact, I had to cut him off. He was coming in here every night, drinking on the cuff. You know I don’t grudge him that, don’t you? After all, the man saved my life and livelihood. But then he started getting stroppy with the paying customers. It wasn’t too bad, at first—just some snide remarks, here and there. But the last time he came in here, it got ugly. He picked a fight with this human—only Arum knows what about—and next thing I know they’re getting into it, throwing punches left and right! Bruno put a stop to it, quick enough—but not before the nump, uh, I mean, human punched Hexe in the eye. After it was over, I told him he’d had his last drink on the house. I haven’t seen him since.”

  My mind flashed back to the night Hexe came home looking like he’d been in a fight. Although I could not believe what I was hearing, I had to admit that a lot of things were suddenly starting to make sense.

  “He told me he got that black eye from fighting off a mugger.”

  Lafo glanced about, as if on the lookout for spies, then leaned forward, his voice dropping down into a husky whisper. “You know I consider Hexe to be a true friend, not just another one of my customers. So I’ve got to ask: what’s going on with him? I know Hexe enjoys his drink, but he’s always known when to stop. I’ve never seen him drink like that before. He seemed like a totally different person. I hated having to cut him off like that, but he gave me no choice.”

  “I’m really sorry, Lafo. Hexe has been under a lot of stress lately, what with money being tight and the baby on the way. . . .”

  “The buzz I’ve been hearing is that he’s shut down his practice and handed his clients over to Madam Kuka. Why would he do that?”

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself. That’s Hexe’s business, not mine,” I replied, perhaps a little too tersely. As much as I so wanted to tell Lafo the truth, I didn’t dare say anything more. It’s not that I didn’t trust the restaurateur, but if news of Hexe’s hand being broken managed to reach the Maladanti, Boss Marz could very well jump to the wrong conclusion and decide to take action.

  “I didn’t mean to butt in, Tate,” Lafo said gently. “I’m just concerned about the guy, that’s all.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “So—if he hasn’t been coming here every night—where is he going?”

  Lafo shrugged. “I wish I could tell you, Tate—but I honestly don’t know.”

  As I turned to leave, I felt a hand on my arm. It belonged to Chorea, the hostess for the Two-Headed Calf. I could tell she was still on the wagon since she was wearing a low-cut cocktail dress in place of the traditional diaphanous gown and leopard skin of her sisterhood. The maenad had joined Alcoholics Anonymous in an attempt to save her marriage to the Kymeran mover, Faro. Something about consuming raw flesh while in a Dionysian frenzy—it’s complicated.

  “I heard you asking about Hexe,” she whispered. “I’d look across the street if I were you.”

  “You mean the Highlander?” I frowned. “Are you sure, Chory?”

  “I saw him go inside a couple of hours ago,” she replied.

  I thanked the teetotaling bacchante and left the pub, setting my sites on the hookah lounge across the street. On the sliding scale of Golgotham nightspots, with the Golden Bough at the very top and the Stagger Inn at the bottom, the Highlander hovered somewhere in the lower middle. Unlike similar establishments elsewhere in the city, the Highlander’s customers weren’t there to smoke exotic tobaccos—they were there for the hashish. While there were plenty of hookah joints near Duivel Street that served human stoners looking for a hassle-free high, the Highlander’s clientele tended more toward the locals.

  The wooden sign outside of the lounge depicted a hookah with a sinuous dragon in place of the hose, smoke pouring from its nostrils. Although I don’t have any issues with the idea of a hash café, I had never had occasion to step foot in the Highlander before because, well, I don’t smoke. Hell, the average Kymeran place of business was smoky enough to cure meat—I could just imagine what one of their hookah lounges was like. I paused for a moment to steel myself, taking a final breath of clean air, and then opened the door.

  The interior of the Highlander was dark and surprisingly elegant, with low couches and ottomans scattered about a rambling layout. There were also curtained booths, where smokers could retire to enjoy their pipes in privacy. Everywhere I looked there was a bluish haze that smelled strongly of musk and hash-oil. I couldn’t keep from wondering how much my dry-cleaning bill was going to be once they finally got the reek out of my jacket.

  There was a kiosk just inside the door, manned by a young Kymeran with green dreadlocks. Inside the booth were rows upon rows of water pipes of different sizes, including one with so many hoses radiating from its vase it was positively octopedal. “Rent a pipe, lady?” he asked helpfully.

  I shook my head. “I just stepped in to see if a friend of mine was in here.”

  “We’ve got a special tonight on Dragon Balm,” he said, pointing to a nearby service counter, where various blends of hashish wrapped in brightly colored foil were offered for sale alongside pot brownies and demitasses of espresso.

  “That’s okay,” I said, sidestepping the suggested selling. “I’ll just go look for my friend. . . .”

  I moved past the kiosk into the open social room, but did not spot Hexe among the groups of smokers lounging about, talking to one another as they list
ened to the acoustic hurdy-gurdy player in the corner. Trying not to look too nosy, I pulled back the curtain on the privacy booth next to me to find Giles Gruff reclining on a pillow-strewn bench, his behorned head resting in the lap of one well-endowed, naked nymph while she dutifully massaged his temples, while a second, equally busty and unclothed nymph fed him grapes. Although he was missing his vest, his monocle and ascot were still in place.

  “Hello, my dear,” the satyr said, between puffs on his hookah. “Good to see you again—if somewhat unexpectedly.”

  “I’m sorry, Councilman,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’m simply unwinding after another day of butting heads with Mayor Lash. He’s so desperate to outspend O’Fae in his reelection campaign, he’s willing to court a scheming cormorant like Ronald Chess. It’s bad enough I have to combat such recklessness amongst my own people—but to have to deal with the same trait in others is most tiresome. I am the lord of the satyrs, after all, not a congressman from Delaware. But on to a more pleasant subject: I trust my niece Octavia has settled into her new digs?”

  “I suppose so, although we don’t see that much of her. She spends most of her time at the fire station.”

  “Such is the life of a dedicated civil servant, I fear,” Giles said, pausing to sample another grape. “But then, the females of our species have always been industrious and civic-minded, and for that I am truly thankful, or else the satyrisci would have gone the same route as the woodwoses and ogres during the Sufferance.”

  “You wouldn’t have happened to have seen Hexe?” I asked. “I was told he was here.”

  “Indeed he is. You should find him in his usual spot—the far corner booth. Now, if you don’t mind, my lady friends and I have some business to attend to,” he said, gesturing to his tumescent goat-pizzle.

  I quickly dropped the privacy curtain. I was going to need a lot of brain bleach to erase that particular image from my mental catalog.