Right Hand Magic

by Nancy A. Collins

  The Rookery was located at the crooked crossroads where Skinner Lane intersected with Ferry, Vandercliffe, and Hag streets. Standing five stories tall and occupying an entire city block, it had once, centuries ago, been a brewery. After the original business closed up shop, the mammoth building became an indoor bazaar where Kymeran spellcasters, charm peddlers, potion pushers, and assorted oracles, of both the Right Hand and Left, gathered to offer their services to the human community.

  The interior of the building had long been gutted of its machinery, and each floor was subdivided into smaller makeshift chambers. Some were the size of two-room apartments, while others were no bigger than a broom closet. While some had proper doors affixed to them, others were partitioned by a scrap of tapestry or a curtain of beads. It was here that those seeking to thwart a business rival, win the heart of an unwilling paramour, or punish a straying spouse sought their respective remedies.

  The different floors were accessible only by a latticework of rickety wooden stairways and ladders that looked like the work of a drunken carpenter trying to re-create a spiderweb. I stared in awe as the inhabitants of the Rookery clambered back and forth on the hodgepodge network of tottering stairs like so many mountain goats.

  The original beams and rafters met high overhead, and stray fingers of sunlight stabbed downward into the hazy darkness through breaks in the roof; otherwise the only light inside the building came from balls of blue-white witchfire that burned in a series of braziers on each floor. The air inside the converted brewery smelled of incense, smoke, and the unique, heady musk generated by hundreds of Kymeran bodies crammed into the same enclosed space.

  “Come along.” Hexe motioned to me as he mounted a stairway that looked as though it should lead to a child’s tree house. “Faro does business on the third floor.”

  The steps groaned mightily, as if on the verge of giving way, as I followed his lead. I held my breath and did not take another one until I reached the relatively sound footing of the third floor.

  Double rows of rooms stretched from one end to the other, with narrow, winding passageways threaded throughout. Everywhere I looked I saw Kymerans, easily recognizable by their bizarrely colored hair. I’d never seen so many hot pink, electric blue, and bright green coiffures outside of a rave.

  As my eyes became adjusted to the dim light, I realized the majority of those coming and going from the different shops and stalls were, in fact, humans. Most of these visitors to the Rookery kept to the shadows, their collars pulled up and heads pointed down, purposefully avoiding eye contact with those around them for fear of being recognized. No doubt a good number of the Rookery’s regular clients worked at nearby City Hall and did not want to be seen going about whatever business they were on. Attitudes toward consorting with Kymerans had changed a great deal in the last century, but it was one thing to get a promotion or win an election through the natural course of events, quite another to arrange it via sorcery.

  After leading me through a series of confusing turns, Hexe came to a halt in front of a small room only slightly larger than the average office worker’s cubicle. Sandwiched between a magic candle peddler and a crystal ball pro shop, it didn’t even have a real door, just a flap of old tapestry with a business card pinned to it. The card read FARO MOVING: IF I CAN’T MOVE IT, IT’S NOT YOURS.

  “You can’t be serious?” I groaned as I eyed the threadbare covering over the doorway. “I came all the way for this?”

  “I know how it looks,” Hexe replied, sotto voce, as he ushered me inside, “but looks are deceiving in Golgotham. Trust me, he’s the best in the city.”

  The scores of maps covering every inch of the aged walls were the first thing I noticed upon entering Faro Moving’s minuscule “office.” Most were of the city and the triboroughs, but there were also various different maps of the state, the country, the world, and even the moon.

  Sitting behind a tattered old desk was a Kymeran male with spiky blue hair. His eyes had the same cat-slit pupil as Hexe’s, but they were emerald green instead of gold. He was dressed in frayed jeans and a vintage Black Sabbath T-shirt, his sneaker-clad feet resting in an open drawer as he thumbed through a Rand McNally atlas. The only light in the small room was from a ball of witchfire that bobbed above the desk like a child’s toy balloon.

  “If you’re lookin’ to fuck somebody up or make somebody fuck you, you’re in the wrong place,” the blue-haired Kymeran said without bothering to look up from his reading.

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Hexe chided.

  The blue-haired Kymeran laughed and set aside his reading material. “Heavens and hells! Hexe! It’s been dogs’ years! I thought you worked out of your house? What brings you to the Rookery?”

  “I’m bringing you some business. Faro, this is Tate. She’s my newest lodger, and she’s in dire need of your services.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Tate,” Faro said as he got to his feet, offering me his hand. “Any friend of Hexe’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Faro,” I replied, trying hard not to think about how weird the Kymeran’s sixth digit felt in my palm as we shook hands. Instead, I focused on his scent, which was a pleasant mixture of oakmoss, citrus, and the deep woods.

  “Just call me Faro. So, what can I do ya for?”

  “I was supposed to move in today, but the company I hired to handle it is refusing to deliver to my new address. ...”

  Faro cut me off before I could finish. “Triple-A Aardvark, right?”

  “I take it you’re familiar with them?”

  “Like the back of my hand.” Faro sighed. “Normally I charge about a grand for an in-city move, but seeing how you’re renting from Hexe, I’ll cut you a deal. How does five hundred sound?”

  “It sounds pretty damned good, at this point.” I reached into my purse and took out five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “I had this money on me so I could pay the movers, but I might as well pay you instead.”

  “Excellent! That saves us a trip to the ATM on the second floor.” Faro grinned as he slipped the money into his own pocket. “Let’s get right to it, eh?”

  He walked around the desk and stood in front of me, the witchfire following him like a loyal pet. He fished what looked like a monocle out of his pants pocket and screwed it into place in his right eye, and then looked me up and down as if measuring me for a wedding dress.

  “Good—you have a very strong, extremely distinctive aura. It’ll be no problem at all.”

  I wasn’t sure what my aura had to do with moving my belongings out of storage, but I decided it was best to remain silent. Faro went back to his desk and took a handheld GPS device out of one of the drawers and entered an address, all the while muttering under his breath in a language I’d never heard before. He paused only to glance up in Hexe’s direction.

  “Which floor?”

  “Second,” Hexe replied. “The front room that overlooks the street.”

  “Gotcha.” A couple of seconds later, the GPS made a beeping noise, and Faro nodded his head in approval. “Okay. Everything’s taken care of.” With that he returned the GPS to its hiding place.

  I glanced around, unsure of what had just happened. “When can I expect your guys to show up?”

  “What ‘guys’?” the Kymeran snorted. “I’m the proprietor and sole employee of Faro Moving.”

  “But—what about my stuff—?”

  “It’s already been delivered.”

  “How’s that even possible? You haven’t left my sight!”

  “All the same, your belongings are waiting for you.”

  Hexe stepped up and took my arm, squiring me out the door. “Thanks for the help, Faro!”

  “Always a pleasure, dude,” Faro called after us. “And give my best to Lady Syra.”

  The moment we were out of the cubicle, I yanked my arm free of his grasp. “What the hell just happened in there—? Did you bring me here just to get ripped off again?”

  “Of
course not,” he replied indignantly. “Look, things are done differently in Golgotham—a lot differently. Faro’s one of the most respected movers in not just this city, but the entire world. If he says it’s taken care of, it’s taken care of.”

  I was suddenly aware that I was staring deep into Hexe’s golden, catlike eyes, which seemed to shine with an inner light. They were unlike anything I had ever seen before. I quickly looked away, fearful that I had offended him yet again.

  “I’m sorry if I sounded angry. But after everything I’ve gone through today, I’m kind of leery of movers, human or otherwise,” I explained.

  “It’s okay,” Hexe assured me as we headed back through the Rookery. “You have every right to be skeptical.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. So I hadn’t screwed things up—at least not yet, anyway. “So, why did Faro ask you to say hello to Lady Syra?”

  “Because she’s my mother,” he said matter-of-factly, as if talking about the weather.

  “No way!” I grinned, my surprise momentarily overcoming my need to seem cool. “Lady Syra, ‘Witch to the Stars,’ is your mom?”

  “Could you say that a little louder?” Hexe winced. “I think there’s a deaf granny in Hoboken who didn’t hear you.”

  My face flushed bright red and my ears started to burn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, you know, get all fan-girl on you.”

  “That’s okay.” He sighed. “I’m used to it.”

  As we exited the Rookery, Hexe waved down one of the neighborhood’s trademark cabs. A blue roan centaur, dressed from the waist up in a black cutaway coat, stopped at the curb, tipping his top hat in greeting.

  “Evening, Hexe.”

  “Good evening, Kidron. Here’s that salve for your hooves.” Hexe took a jar from his coat pocket and handed it to the cabbie. “Use it first thing in the morning and again before bedding down, and it should keep the tenderness at bay.”

  “Thank you.” Kidron smiled. “Where to? The ride’s on me.”

  Hexe turned to face me. “Look, I have some personal errands I need to run. Why don’t you go back to the house and see things with your own eyes? That should put your mind at ease. Kidron, could you give my friend here a lift to my place?”

  “No prob,” the centaur replied, bobbing his head in assent. “Hop in, ma’am.” He gestured to the open door of the hansom cab he was harnessed to.

  “Thanks, man, uh, dude, uh . . . ”

  “The word you’re looking for is ‘stud,’ ” Hexe whispered helpfully into my ear, the warmth of his breath raising goose bumps along my neck.

  “Yeah, thanks, uh, stud,” I said, involuntarily blushing as I spoke.

  “Don’t mention it, ma’am,” Kidron replied with a toss of his plaited dorsal mane. “Any friend of Hexe’s is a friend of mine.”

  As the two-wheeled carriage pulled away into traffic, I turned to watch Hexe as he crossed the street. I managed to keep my eyes on him until Kidron rounded the corner. I dropped back in my seat and smiled to myself.

  Lady Syra was the most prominent Kymeran in the city, if not the whole country. Her clientele included names like Astor, Vanderbilt, and Carnegie, not to mention movie and rock stars, as well as numerous politicians. Yet here was her son, trying to establish himself on his own terms, without flaunting his family name and connections.

  No wonder I liked him.

  Chapter 5

  “Here you go, ma’am,” Kidron said as he pulled up to the curb in front of the boardinghouse. While the carriage horses in Central Park might appreciate a nice apple or a lump of sugar, the same could not be said of their centaur counterparts. As I climbed out of the hansom, I fished a five-dollar bill out of my purse and handed it to my cabbie.

  “Thank you for the ride. Here’s something for your trouble.”

  “No trouble at all, ma’am.” The centaur smiled as he pocketed the money. “But your graciousness is most appreciated.” He reached up and plucked a business card from the band of his top hat. “If you ever need a ride anywhere in Golgotham, please give me a call. I’m licensed outside the neighborhood, so I can take you as far as Tribeca or the Battery, if necessary. The last thing a beautiful young lady wants to do is ride in a rickshaw pulled by a satyr.”

  I nodded my understanding, at the same time fighting the urge to pat him on the rump and say, “good horsey.” As he trotted away in search of a fare, I dropped Kidron’s card into my purse and retrieved my keys.

  As I stepped inside, I was startled to find Scratch sitting in the foyer, glowering at me. I realized this was the first time I had ever been alone with him. While Hexe was home, he kept Scratch out from underfoot, but whenever his master was away, the familiar had free run of the house.

  “Oh. It’s you,” he said, disgust dripping from every syllable. “Where’s Hexe?”

  “He, uh, had some errands to take care of,” I replied, careful not to look directly at the familiar. However, it was impossible to avoid smelling him, as Scratch reeked of equal parts brimstone and cat. The familiar unnerved me in a way that centaurs and leprechauns did not. I was not at all used to winged cats, hairless or not, and I certainly wasn’t accustomed to ones that talked.

  As I headed for the stairs, Scratch leaped in front of me and blocked my way by spreading his batlike wings. “What kind of errands?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Don’t you know that curiosity killed the cat?” I snapped, no longer bothering to hide my irritation.

  “I can’t be killed,” the familiar sneered as he moved out of my way. “Don’t you know that? Oh, that’s right—you’re a nump. Numps don’t know anything.”

  “What is a nump, anyway?”

  Scratch laughed, and it was as snide as you would expect a cat’s laugh to be. “A nump is an uncouth, smelly fool who knows nothing about everything. You know—a human.”

  Stepping past him, I continued up the stairs, muttering curses under my breath. I was determined not to let the familiar get under my skin. After all, I told myself, I had better things to do than hang around and be insulted by a flying, bald cat.

  Despite Hexe’s assurances as to Faro’s abilities, I fully expected to find my room as empty as I had left it earlier. However, as I unlocked the door, I could only open it halfway, as something was blocking it from the other side. Peering around the jamb, I saw stacked throughout the room all of my earthly possessions, the same ones that Vinnie and his gang had loaded onto the Triple-A Aardvark van earlier that day.

  “Faro, my man, I’m sorry I ever doubted you!” I shouted in delight as I squeezed past a jumble of boxes marked “kitchen.”

  Outside of a canopy bed, an easy chair, and a battered old armoire, the only real furniture I owned was a set of bookcases and my workbench. Once I had these furnishings properly situated, I began opening boxes. I was especially relieved to discover that my welding equipment and finished sculptures had made the journey intact. I was so engrossed in sorting through my belongings, I lost track of time. It wasn’t until I heard a polite cough behind me and turned around to see Hexe standing in the doorway that I realized I’d been working nonstop for several hours.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said. “I just stopped by to see how you’re settling in. It looks like you’ve been very busy.”

  “I’m trying to make up for lost time. After all, the sooner I get unpacked, the sooner I can get back to work.”

  “Indeed.” Hexe arched a purple eyebrow upon catching sight of the welder’s helmet and oxyacetylene torch resting atop the workbench. “I’d like to find out more about the art you make. By the way, you must be famished—perhaps you’d like to join me for some dinner?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it beforehand, but once Hexe brought up the subject of food, I was suddenly aware of just how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and the thought of dinner was enough to make my belly growl like an angry puppy.

  “Sounds good to me,” I admitted. “Give me a couple of minutes to get
ready.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Do you invite all your boarders out to dinner?” I asked as he turned to leave the room.

  Hexe paused on the threshold, his hand resting on the doorknob, and favored me with another of his warm smiles.

  “Only the ones I find interesting.”

  The moment the door closed behind him, I launched myself at my armoire in search of something halfway decent to wear. After a couple of minutes, I decided on a black twill pencil skirt, a red V-neck cardigan sweater, and a pair of black leather wedges. I made a quick visit to the bathroom to check my hair and apply some lipstick and mascara, then hurried downstairs. I found him waiting for me in the parlor, thumbing through that day’s edition of the Herald.

  “You look nice,” Hexe said, lifting a purple eyebrow.

  “It’s not too much, is it?” I asked nervously.

  “No, I think it’s just enough,” he replied with a smile.

  “So where are we going?”

  “There’s a place not far from here that serves up some decent grub—it’s a favorite haunt of mine. It’s called the Two-Headed Calf. Trust me, it’s better than it sounds.”

  The restaurant was located on Morder Lane, a couple blocks over from the boardinghouse, between Nassau and Horsecart Street. It was a three-and-a-half-story, gambrel-roofed Georgian brick building, with four ground-floor bay windows. Above the entrance swung an old-fashioned wooden pub sign depicting the establishment’s namesake. The calf head on the left looked more than a little drunk, with its tongue hanging out of the side of its mouth, while the head on the right contentedly munched on a daisy.

  “Here we are,” Hexe said. “It’s something of a landmark. The Calf was first open to the public in 1742. That makes it America’s oldest restaurant in continuous service. Of course, because it serves Kymeran cuisine and is located in Golgotham, it gets overlooked by the record books. But that’s okay, because that way we don’t have to worry about looky-loos ruining the place.”

  Upon opening the door, we were greeted by the sound of laughter, music, and the smell of tobacco. Just to the left of the entrance was an open, semicircular oaken bar with a copper sheet-metal top, behind which stood several ornate beer pulls and a mirrored shelf with an impressive array of liquors. The stools that lined the bar were supported by cast-iron poles and fastened to the floor. The rest of the seating on the ground floor consisted of stall-type booths, some of which were outfitted with privacy curtains.