“Because I can’t tell who paid to have a curse inflicted,” he replied, a little too sharply. “You know that.”
“But you can read the signatures of other wizards and witches on the spells they cast. And you know damn well who inflicted that curse on Mrs. Beaman. I could see it in your eyes when her husband asked you about it. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because,” Hexe said, with a heartsick look on his face, “the necromancer who placed the curse on Madelyn was Uncle Esau.”
Chapter 4
If there’s one thing I’ve discovered about sorcery in the brief time I’ve lived in Golgotham, it’s that after a hard day of inflicting and lifting curses, cooking up potions, and casting spells, all the average witch or warlock really wants is a hearty meal and a good drink. So Hexe and I headed out to his favorite local restaurant to celebrate his recent windfall.
However, just as we were leaving the house, Hexe’s cell phone went off. “I better take this,” he said, as he glanced at the caller ID. “What’s up? Uh-huh. Nothing—going to grab some dinner at the Calf . . .” He turned to smile at me. “Yes, of course she’s here. . . . No, why do you ask?” His smile abruptly disappeared. “That’s rather short notice, don’t you think? Hold on. Let me ask her.” He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece, an exasperated look on his face. “My mother has just invited us over for dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s up to you. We don’t have to do it if you’re uncomfortable with the time frame. . . .”
My initial surprise was quickly replaced by excitement. This was a Major Step. Although I’d met Hexe’s mother on a couple of occasions, I hadn’t spent any real time with her since we had started dating.
I took a quick physical assessment of myself, to see if I was presentable. While I wouldn’t say I looked like something the cat dragged in, I was keenly aware that I was in dire need of a haircut. Still, the peacoat, turtleneck sweater, and jeans I’d thrown on earlier could pass for dressy casual.
“Tell her I’d love to,” I replied.
“Tate says it’s okay with her,” Hexe translated. “See you soon, Mom.”
As he went to hail a cab, I started to get nervous. I told myself that it was only natural. After all, none of my previous boyfriends had mothers who were witches and queens.
Lady Syra lived on Beke Street, between Perdition and Shoemaker, which was only fitting, as it was named in honor of her ancestor, the founder of Golgotham. Her apartment building stood fifteen stories tall, towering over its humbler neighbors like a giant. With its multi-paned metal window casements, quatrefoil-pierced balconies, and crenellated parapets, it looked more like a neo-Gothic castle than a condo co-op.
“Now that’s swanky,” I said, pointing to the copper-sheathed observatory that crowned the penthouse.
“It was a gift from President Kennedy, after my mother warned him about Dallas in ’63,” Hexe said proudly. “Too bad he chose to ignore her concerning San Francisco in ’68.”
The ground floor of the apartment building boasted a limestone pointed-arch entryway with a massive oaken double door. As we approached, a handsome, broad-shouldered huldu, dressed in immaculate doorman’s livery, stepped forward to greet us.
“Good evening, Serenity,” the doorman said, his bull’s tail swishing discreetly below the hem of his long coat.
“Hello, Knute,” Hexe replied with a slight nod.
The lobby was as cavernous as a cathedral, lit not by electricity but by balls of blue-white witchfire that bobbed near the ceiling like helium balloons. As we headed to the elevator bank, the doors opened and a satyr tottered out of the car.
Up to this point, my only encounter with such a creature had been when one had tried to kidnap both me and Nessie while we were riding in a rickshaw. Although I knew I shouldn’t judge an entire species by one bad apple, I automatically took half a step back.
Unlike the satyr who’d tried to carry me off, this one was nattily dressed in a tailored dinner jacket and matching waistcoat, with a lavender cravat tied about his neck. In one hand he carried a golden-headed cane engraved with the initials GG, which he used to steady himself. He sported a neatly trimmed goatee, and his carefully coiffed hair was styled to accommodate the curling goat horns that jutted from his temples.
Upon spotting Hexe, the satyr paused to screw a gold-rimmed monocle into his left eye. “Pan’s beard!” he laughed. “How’ve you been doing, my boy?”
“I’ve been keeping myself busy, Giles,” Hexe replied.
“So I see,” the satyr replied archly, giving me an appreciative once-over. “Well, I must be off,” he said, raising his cane in a farewell salute. “I mustn’t keep a certain faun waiting. Tell your mother I said hello.” With that he hurried across the foyer, his hooves clattering loudly against the marble-clad floor.
“Who was that?” I asked as we stepped into an elevator that now smelled of equal parts barnyard and high-end cologne.
“That was Giles Gruff, businessman and notorious bon vivant,” Hexe explained. “He owns the rickshaw business in Golgotham, among other things. He is extremely conscious of how society views his people, and goes to great length to comport himself in as gentlemanly a fashion as possible. He can be a bit pretentious at times, but he’s an okay sort. He’s been our downstairs neighbor for as long as I can remember.”
“I thought you grew up in the boardinghouse,” I said.
“No, that was my mother’s and Uncle Esau’s childhood home,” he explained. “I did spend a great deal of time there with my grandparents, Eben and Lyra, though. I remember playing hide-and-seek with my grandfather in the hedge maze when I was little.”
Just then the elevator doors opened, revealing the foyer outside the penthouse. Having grown up surrounded by crystal chandeliers and antique furniture, I wasn’t impressed with the lobby’s decor so much as I was with the minotaur seated on a marble bench in front of the penthouse door.
The bull-headed man put aside the newspaper he’d been reading and snorted, causing the large metal ring hanging from the center of his nose to swing like a doorknocker. The horns jutting from his massive skull were the diameter of a man’s wrist, the points capped by a pair of golden balls. His shoulders were as wide as an ox yoke, his body covered in rippling muscles that strained against the jogging suit he wore, and he had the biggest, softest, most beautiful brown eyes I’d ever seen.
“Greetings, Serenity,” he mooed.
“Good evening, Elmer,” Hexe replied with a smile.
It was then that I recognized the minotaur as one of the many half-beasts Boss Marz had held captive and forced to fight to the death for the amusement of gamblers. The last time I’d seen him, he was wearing a werewolf on the end of his horns.
“How do you like your new job?” Hexe asked.
“I like very much,” Elmer said as he opened the penthouse door, speaking with a very thick Mediterranean accent. “Your mother . . . good woman.”
“Yes, she is,” Hexe agreed, as he escorted me across the threshold.
The first thing I noticed upon entering the apartment was a strange suit of armor set just inside the foyer, as if in challenge to unwanted visitors. The helm, breastplate, gauntlets, and greaves were elaborately detailed, much like those of a samurai warrior, and fashioned from a strange iridescent material that gleamed like the carapace of a scarab. In one gloved hand was a long metal pike similar to the hooks used to train elephants.
“What is this thing made of?” I asked, staring in fascination at the glittering armor. “I’ve never seen metal like this before.”
“That’s because it’s dragon skin, Miss Eresby.”
Lady Syra was standing next to her son, watching me with a little smile on her face. I had not seen or heard her arrive. She was dressed in a pair of black capri pants, ballet flats, and a cropped blouse with batwing sleeves. Her peacock blue hair was worn in an upswept style that accentuated her delicately arched brows and golden eyes. She still sm
elled, as I remembered, of roses and jasmine and wore what, at first glance, looked like an ivory necklace shaped like a serpent about her throat.
“May I touch it?” I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.
“Be my guest.”
I could hardly keep my hands from trembling as I ran my fingers along the breastplate of the armor. It felt like a strange mixture of leather, horn, and fiberglass, and seemed both lightweight and extremely resilient. The last dragons had been put to death over a thousand years ago, and yet here was a relic fashioned from the remains of one. The realization that I now knew what a dragon’s skin felt like was at the same time deeply exhilarating and tremendously sad.
“The ancient Kymerans made a number of items from the sheds of their dragons,” Lady Syra explained as I inspected the armor. “This particular suit has been in the family since before the sinking of Kymera. It was worn by my ancestor Lord Bexe.”
“The last Witch King,” I said in wonderment.
“Or so the human history books would have it.” She smiled wryly. “In any case, he was the last to rule over a true kingdom. The royal family still abides, as you well know. Tell me, Tate, what do you think of my new footman?”
“You mean Elmer? I thought he was your bodyguard!”
“Believe me, I have all the protection I might possibly need right here.” Lady Syra laughed, placing a hand on the tiny albino snake twined about her throat, mouth-to-tail. “But as Witch Queen, I am honor-bound to help all of Golgotham’s citizens, not just the Kymerans. It is a covenant that dates back to the Sufferance, and one the royal family takes very seriously. Elmer’s such a dear boy—I would hate to see him fall back into the hands of those who would abuse his good nature. Plus, he is exceptionally handy when it comes to rearranging the furniture. Come, let’s sit down. The foyer is no place to chat.”
As I followed Lady Syra to the living room, we passed down a hallway whose walls were covered with framed photographs: Here was a picture of Lady Syra with Elvis; there was one of her having tea with Queen Elizabeth II; and over there was a photo of her at John Lennon’s fiftieth birthday party, sitting at a table with Jimi Hendrix and Keith Moon. She had led quite the glamorous jet-setting life.
The living room was a large open area with a sunken conversation pit, and a signed Warhol serigraph of Lady Syra hung over the fireplace. Arranged on the mantelpiece was a collection of unusual bric-a-brac, from an African fetish doll bristling with nails to a fire opal the size of an ostrich egg set on a pedestal and sealed under a glass dome.
“Would you care for a smoke before dinner?” Lady Syra asked as we sat down, gesturing to the collection of hookahs arrayed on the coffee table. “I have a wide variety of shisha tobaccos—hazelnut, mocha . . . perhaps some lemon mint?”
“No, thank you,” I replied as she loaded the bowl of one of the water pipes with a sticky mixture that smelled of equal parts Turkish tobacco and cognac. “I don’t smoke.”
“Ah, yes! Cancer!” Lady Syra said, clucking her tongue in self-reproach. “How thoughtless of me! Would you care for a champagne cocktail instead?”
“That would be lovely.”
Lady Syra clapped her hands and a Kymeran butler with a vermilion buzz cut stepped into the room, an empty silver serving tray balanced on his right hand.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Miss Eresby would like a champagne cocktail, Amos.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The butler moved to where I was seated and leaned forward, extending the empty serving tray to me. I glanced at Hexe in confusion, but he did not act as if anything was at all unusual. When I looked back at Amos, I was startled to see a champagne flute full of bubbly on the silver platter.
“Thank you,” I said as I took the proffered glass, trying not to look impressed. The last thing I wanted to do was come across as a nump in front of Lady Syra.
“So—why did you really invite us to dinner, Mother?” Hexe asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“What a question!” she replied, blowing twin streams of hookah smoke from her nostrils. “Is it so strange for me to want to share a meal with my only son and his new friend? Why, I’ve barely seen the two of you since that unpleasantness with Boss Marz.”
“Dinner is ready, Your Majesty,” Amos announced, even though, as far as I could tell, he had yet to leave the room.
“About time! I’m positively famished!” Lady Syra exclaimed. “Do bring your drink along with you, Miss Eresby.”
“Please, Lady Syra—I’d rather you call me Tate.”
“You’re right.” The Witch Queen smiled. “There’s no need to be so formal. I will call you Tate and you shall call me Syra.”
The dining room was off the living room, and easily the same size as the one in my parents’ home. The table was long enough to accommodate up to twelve guests, outfitted with an Irish linen tablecloth, the finest cut crystal, and Tiffany flatware. In the middle was a centerpiece composed of deep-hued fruits arranged on a large platter around dark pillar candles. Overhead hung a French Renaissance Gothic chandelier decorated with gargoyle heads, with tiny balls of blue-white witchfire glowing inside their gaping maws.
As I made myself comfortable at the table, Amos the butler placed an empty plate in front of me. In the weeks since arriving in Golgotham, I had acquired a taste for certain Kymeran cuisine, such as rook pie and ostrich steak. But there were some “delicacies” I simply could not stomach. I hoped whatever Amos had in store for us didn’t involve bugs, snakes, or the boiled heads of barnyard animals. I tentatively sniffed the air, in hopes of preparing myself for whatever culinary “treat” lay ahead, but all I could smell was the butler’s own unique scent of black pepper and cinnamon.
“You’ve truly outdone yourself, Amos!” Lady Syra exclaimed in delight.
I looked over at my hostess, confused as to why she would be moved to compliment her butler so lavishly for simply putting an empty plate in front of her. To my surprise, I saw a heaping serving of crawfish étouffée, even though Amos had yet to leave the room.
Baffled, I glanced down at my own plate and was rewarded by the sight of a sizzling, thick-cut medium-rare New York strip and a loaded baked potato. I gasped in surprise and looked back up at Amos. “Where did this come from? How did you—? I mean, you haven’t moved an inch!”
“Amos is a wizard in the kitchen,” Lady Syra explained, amused by my bewilderment. “He charms my dishes, so that they manifest whatever it is you’re hungry for. It’s a very rare skill, and I’m lucky to have him in my service.”
“Madame is too kind,” Amos said, blushing slightly. “If everything is to your satisfaction, I must finish charming the dessert cart.”
Once the butler left the dining room, Hexe put down his fork and turned to face Lady Syra. “I know when something’s up, Mom. You wouldn’t have invited us for a friendly little dinner on such short notice if you didn’t have an ulterior motive.”
I was all too familiar with dinner table confrontations in my own family, and had long ago mastered the skill of keeping my head low and my eyes fixed on my plate. I started cutting into my steak, praying that the drama between mother and son would be relatively mild and over by the time Amos returned with that magic dessert cart of his.
Lady Syra heaved a deep sigh. “I had hoped we could forestall this conversation until after dinner. But the truth of the matter is, Hexe, I’ve been getting complaints about your behavior.”
“What kind of complaints?” Hexe demanded sharply. “About what? From whom?”
“Some of the more conservative members of the Kymeran community have complained about you publicly flaunting your relationship with Tate. . . .”
I looked up, my dinner totally forgotten. Suddenly I was very much a part of what was going on.
“You call going out to dinner and walking hand in hand in public flaunting?” he snapped, wadding up his napkin and hurling it to the floor. “By the sunken spires, you make it soun
d like we’ve been having sex on our front doorstep!”
“I know it sounds outrageous,” Lady Syra said, shifting about uncomfortably. “But you have to understand that this is not a good time for this sort of controversy. There is already significant anxiety concerning the increasing infiltration of numps—I mean, humans—into traditional Golgothamite venues. Some see you carrying on a romantic relationship with one of them as a conflict of interest regarding the gentrification issue.”
“That’s absolute spraint, and you know it. I’m not going to shun the woman I love simply to make a bunch of blue-haired bigots happy!”
“Do you truly love this woman?” Lady Syra’s golden eyes widened in surprise, as if it had never occurred to her that our relationship was anything other than physical.
Hexe paused and looked across the table at me. Suddenly the anger and irritation drained from his face, to be replaced by a gentle smile. For that brief moment, everything else disappeared, and we were the only ones that mattered in the room.
“Yes,” he replied, reaching out to take my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
I expected Lady Syra to smile and nod her head upon hearing her son confess his true feelings. After all, the whole world loves a lover, right? Instead, she began knotting and unknotting her cloth napkin. “Oh my.” She sighed in exasperation. “That complicates things even further.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Dalliances are one thing, but a committed relationship is something else entirely!” she explained.
“So Hexe has a human girlfriend—what’s the big deal?” I asked.
“The ‘big deal,’ as you put it, is that you’re not a ‘girlfriend.’ There is no such thing when it comes to the Heir Apparent. There are only consorts and concubines,” Lady Syra said pointedly. “Hexe, you know as well as I do that our private lives are not entirely our own. We have certain obligations to our people, no matter how difficult we find them to bear.”
“Times have changed,” he replied testily. “Just because you allowed Grandfather and Uncle Esau to ruin your happiness doesn’t give you the right to destroy mine.” Lady Syra flinched and quickly looked away. As soon as the words left his lips, Hexe’s outrage disappeared, and he got up and put his arms around his mother. “I’m sorry I said that to you, of all people! It was a cruel and thoughtless thing to do.”
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