Left Hand Magic

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Yeah, they’ll do that to you.” I chuckled as I scratched the dozing puppy behind the ears. Beanie responded by snoring louder and stretching out his little legs even farther in order to take up as much of the bed as doggishly possible.

  Hexe raised himself onto his elbow. “What do you think he’s chasing in his dream?”

  “He’s probably pursuing something unobtainable, just like us, but in his case it’s a chicken bone or a chocolate chip cookie, instead of world peace.”

  “If I want to know what Scratch is thinking, I just ask him. It seems strange, not being able to do that with Beanie. I mean, how do I know when he’s hungry, or needs to go outside?”

  “Don’t worry—he’ll let you know.” I smiled. “All you have to do is pay attention to him and be a good daddy.”

  “Like I know anything about that,” he scoffed.

  I’d been waiting for Hexe to get around to telling me about his father of his own free will, but I now realized that simply wasn’t going to happen. It was up to me to broach the subject.

  “Can I ask you something about your dad?”

  Hexe glanced at me, his golden eyes seeming to glow in the darkness of the bedroom. “What about him?”

  “Is he dead? I mean, you never talk about him. . . .”

  “He might be,” he replied with a shrug. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know who he is. My mother never told me his name, and the rest of her family refused to speak of him.”

  “Why?” I frowned. “Was the divorce that ugly?”

  “My parents were never married. But the reason my grandparents and uncle never talked about him around me was because he wasn’t a member of the aristocracy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because my hair isn’t blue,” he said wryly. “There’s a reason Kymeran hair is the color it is. Back in ye oldie days—before Kymera sank—there were three distinct castes: the Aristocrats, the Crafters, and the Servitors. The Aristocrats had blue hair and were the ones with the strongest magic. The Crafters had yellow hair and were talented in the creation of talismans, scrying stones, tarot cards, and the like. The Servitors were—well, they were redheaded and served the Aristocrats. And so it went for millennia.

  “Then, fifteen thousand years ago, Kymera was drowned by a massive tsunami. Only a hundred Kymerans managed to escape the Deluge on their dragons. My ancestor, Lord Arum, led them to New Kymera, in what would become Eastern Europe. Because there were so few left, the castes were forced to mingle, and that’s when green, orange, and purple hair began to appear among my people. Yet the royal family has always remained some shade of blue, at least until I came along

  “As far as Esau’s concerned, my mother disgraced the family beyond all forgiveness, and it galls him that when she dies, a half-caste will inherit the title of Witch King. Of course, if I’d been born with my mother’s blue hair, instead of her golden eyes, he would have automatically become the next in line and reclaimed the title.”

  “What does the color of your eyes have to do with it?”

  “Only the descendants of Arum have golden eyes,” he explained. “And only they may claim the throne.”

  I thought about it for a second, and realized that of all the Kymerans I’d met since moving to Golgotham, only Hexe and his immediate family shared the same distinctive golden eyes.

  “I can understand why your uncle and grandparents wouldn’t talk about your father. But what about your mother? Haven’t you asked Lady Syra about him?”

  “Once or twice, when I was a boy,” he replied wistfully. “All she would say was that they had loved each other. It upset her so much, I dropped the subject. I do know that it was my grandfather who ordered her to end the relationship. It broke her heart, but she did what was expected of her. Of course, she didn’t realize she was pregnant at the time she sent him away. Even if she had, it still would not have changed anything.

  “My mother having a child out of wedlock was not a scandal. But when my hair started to grow in, the aristocracy was outraged. The fact she’d had an affair with a Servitor was nowhere near as appalling as her decision to give birth to his child. My people are not famous for their fertility. There are barely a million of us worldwide. The fact that my mother chose to carry me to full term—knowing I was a half-caste—was a slap in the face to the blue hairs.

  “My grandfather always felt guilty for what he did to my mother, and he worked hard to replace my father in my life. I love and treasure his memory. But I do not delude myself. If I had been born with my father’s eyes, Lord Eben would have placed me with a foster-family of trolls, hidden away where my mother could never have found me. He told me as much, when I was five.”

  “What a terrible thing to say to a child!” I gasped. Up to this point, I had assumed that Hexe’s family, with the exception of dear old Uncle Esau, were far more functional than my own. But now I was starting to see that they had much more in common with the Borgias than the Waltons. “I can’t believe he would’ve done something like that to his own daughter and grandson.”

  “We witches and warlocks have earned our reputations,” Hexe replied with a sad smile, “even among ourselves.”

  Chapter 19

  Though I was exhausted, sleep proved elusive. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the faces of the rally audience sneering at me, their laughter echoing in my ears. The one time I did doze off, I started awake with a convulsive jerk, convinced I had been levitating above the bed. After an hour of struggling to fall asleep, I decided to get up. I eased out of bed, careful not to wake Hexe and Beanie, and threw on one of my welding jumpsuits. As long as I couldn’t sleep, I might as well get a little work done, right?

  I shuffled down the hall, past Lukas’s room and the second-floor bathroom, and opened the door to my apartment, flicking on the overhead light. As I entered, I realized that the drapes on the window facing the street were still pulled back. Normally I’m against flashing the neighbors, but since I took up with Hexe, my room had become more studio than living space, although it still housed the majority of my personal belongings.

  My drafting table was covered with preliminary sketches and small-scale models of my newest art project, which stood in mid-fabrication beside my workbench. When Boss Marz turned the Dying Gaul, the Thinker, and the Lovers into piles of junk, he didn’t just destroy a bunch of magically animated sculptures; he effectively obliterated my life’s work. Now I was back to square one, using the bits and pieces I’d scavenged from the salvage yard to build yet another fully articulated found-metal “action figure.”

  So far my newest creation was little more than a pair of metal legs with piston knees joined to a pair of hips made from the steering knuckles off an old Ford Bronco, with a partial spine composed of various gears. I would have to fabricate the rib cage and sternum from sheet metal, but the skull was going to be made from some spare parts I’d found. I told myself I might as well get a head start (pun intended).

  I placed the pair of differential covers I was going to repurpose into a cranium on my workbench and then changed into my boots and leather welding jacket. At the last moment I decided against my full helmet in favor of a pair of protective goggles. I marked the cuts I would be making on the metal with a piece of soapstone, and then checked the gauges on my acetylene torch. Satisfied with the pressure readings, I put on my welding gloves and lifted the striker to the tip of the torch. A second later a small yellow flame leaped into being as the sparks ignited the gas.

  As I adjusted the flame on my torch, I got the distinct feeling I was being watched. The back of my neck prickled as the hairs along the nape stood on end, and my arms covered themselves in gooseflesh. I also caught an overpowering scent, far stronger than that of the garlic-like odor of the acetylene gas. With a start, I realized it was brimstone. I turned around, to look out the window, fearful of what I might see, yet unable to look away.

  Standing on the ledge on the other side of the glass was a humanoid creature that from
the waist down had the legs and hooves of a goat. Large batlike wings grew out of its back, just below the shoulders. It sported curling ram’s horns at the temples, and it had three eyes—the extra one located in the middle of its brow—with a piglike snout and the tusks of a boar, from which dripped long, ropy strands of drool.

  Seeing my look of terror, the demon grinned and smashed the window as if it was made of spun sugar and balsa wood. It grabbed me, its filthy yellow talons shredding the reinforced leather of my welding jacket like so much tissue paper. I cried out as its apelike hands grabbed my left arm, snapping it like a twig. This seemed to please the demon, as it made a weird, grunting noise like Porky Pig having a giggle. My tormentor’s amusement quickly turned to squeals of agony, however, as I shoved the acetylene torch I was holding in my right hand into its face, boiling its third eye like a poached egg.

  The creature let go of me so it could clap its hands over the oozing ruin in the middle of its forehead. I moved as far away as the hose attached to the welding tanks would allow; since the acetylene torch was my only weapon, I wasn’t about to let go of it. The pain from my broken arm was so intense the edges of my vision were starting to turn gray, but I could not allow myself the luxury of passing out. If I wanted to stay alive, I had to remain on my feet.

  Having a third eye reduced to bubbling goo must not be traumatic, at least not for a demon, as this one seemed to shake it off pretty quickly. The creature advanced on me, hurling my half-finished sculpture aside as if it was made out of nothing more than coat hangers and baling wire.

  The sight of all my hard work being turned back into scrap metal threw a switch inside me, and suddenly all the pain and fear fled, to be replaced by indignant fury. Terrorizing and trying to kill me was one thing—fucking up my art was something else entirely.

  “Do you realize how long I’ve been working on that, you chuffer?! Do you know what I had to go through just to get those goddamn parts shipped to this part of town? That’s it! You want to fuck with me, Porky? C’mon—what are you waiting for?” I shouted, making the universal “bring it” motion to the demon with the acetylene torch.

  The creature hesitated for a second, surprised by my outburst, and then a nasty smile spread across its face and a malignant glee filled its remaining eyes as it contemplated the fun it would have defiling my fragile human body with its talons and tusks. With an excited squeal it spread its membranous wings and launched itself at me.

  As the shadow of the demon fell across me, I did not flinch or look away, but instead tightened my grip on the cutting torch. Even in the face of certain, horrible death, I felt no fear, only a deep resolve peculiar to those who know they are doomed, no matter what. Even if I was armed with a plasma arc welder, I was no match for a hellspawn. My only consolation came from knowing that if this was how it was going to end, at least I’d be burning some bacon on the way out. Suddenly there was a flash of white light and a squeal like that of a herd of swine trapped in a slaughterhouse as the demon was hurled backward.

  Hexe was standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but a pair of boxers, his right hand held aloft. His eyes glowed like molten gold, and his right palm burned with a white heat so intense I couldn’t look at it, even with my welding goggles.

  “Get thee hence, foul one!” he commanded, his voice echoing as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well. “Leave this place! You are not welcome here!”

  The demon turned on him, growling in defiance. It raised its hand to shield its piggish eyes from the brilliant white light, but did not cower. As it moved toward him, I felt my fear return—but not for myself. The glow surrounding Hexe’s right hand grew even brighter, and tendrils of smoke rose from the demon’s body. It snarled but continued to advance as if walking into a strong headwind. Its skin grew red and blistered, while sweat poured down Hexe’s face and his right arm began to tremble.

  As I watched, the right side of the demon’s face sloughed away, like the cheese on a pizza, revealing glistening tendons and gleaming bone, and yet it continued to press onward. There came a sudden, condensed flare of light, like the final, defiant flicker of a guttering candle, and Hexe’s right arm dropped to his side. With a squeal of bloodthirsty victory, the hellspawn pounced on him, grabbing him by the throat.

  I lunged forward to go to his aid, only to be pulled up short by the hoses tethering me to the acetylene/oxygen tanks. I shut off the valves to the cutting torch and grabbed a pair of sheet metal snips from the workbench.

  “Leave him alone, asshole!” I screamed as I plunged the shears into the demon’s neck. The creature shrieked in pain and let Hexe go. But as I tried to pull the snips free, I was struck by one of the demon’s pinions and landed on my broken arm.

  The agony was so excruciating I could not suck enough air into my lungs to scream, so all that came out was a groan. Although my life depended on getting back on my feet, every time I moved my left arm I came perilously close to blacking out. The only thing that kept me from doing so was the certainty that if I lost consciousness, I would be torn limb from limb.

  There was a thunderous roar that rattled the very walls of the house as Scratch, in his true form, smashed into the demon. Hellspawn and hell-beast rolled about the room, smashing my workbench into kindling as they tore at one another. The demon screamed like a stuck pig as Scratch buried his sabrelike fangs in its left shoulder. With an angry shriek that sounded like a band saw chewing through concrete, the pig-demon jumped out the broken window and soared off into the pre-dawn sky.

  I felt a hand touch my cheek, and I opened my eyes to see Hexe kneeling over me. He seemed pale and drawn, and had a ring of bruises around his throat, but was otherwise unharmed. Scratch stood by the window, staring after the escaping fiend. The familiar turned and gave his master a beseeching look.

  “He’s getting away, boss.”

  “Go get ’im, tiger,” Hexe said.

  With a roar of delight, Scratch spread his own drag-onlike wings and leaped out the window in pursuit of his enemy.

  Now that the danger was over, I could feel myself start to slip into shock. My teeth began to chatter and suddenly everything seemed far away, as if I were looking down the wrong end of a telescope.

  “Holy Bast! What happened in here?” Our housemate, Lukas, dressed in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, was standing in the doorway, staring in disbelief at the wreckage.

  “Tate’s been attacked,” Hexe replied. “Call nine-one-one. Tell them we need an ambulance!”

  As Lukas hurried off to call the authorities, I felt myself sinking down, as if something had hold of the back of my head and was trying to drag me through the floorboards, into endless night. I tightened my grip on Hexe’s hand, fearful that should I fall into the void, I might never find my way back again.

  “Don’t worry, Tate,” he whispered as the shadows began to expand. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  And then the darkness rose up and wrapped itself around me.

  Chapter 20

  The next thing I knew, I was on a gurney, surrounded by noise and movement and unshaded lights. I had no idea how long I’d been out or where I was; all I knew was that Hexe was still standing next to me, holding my hand. He was listening intently while a Kymeran in hospital scrubs spoke to him in an earnest voice. Suddenly a sliver of pain pierced the damp gray fog wrapped around me, and I moaned out loud. I glanced over at my broken arm and saw that it had been placed in a splint.

  Hexe bent over and brushed the hair out of my face and kissed me on the forehead. “Everything’s going to be okay, baby,” he whispered, then let go of my hand and stepped aside so the man dressed in scrubs could take his place.

  “Hello, Tate, my name’s Dr. Gyre. I’m a boneknitter, and I’m going to be healing your arm now. Before we get started, I have to warn you that what I’m about to do will only take a few seconds—but it will hurt. During that time, you can’t move or jerk away from me, no matter how much you might want to. Do you underst
and?”

  I nodded yes, even though I didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about. All I wanted was my arm fixed.

  “Good girl,” Dr. Gyre said with a smile. Then he put a padded stick in my mouth and clamped his hands just below the wrist and above the elbow of my splinted arm. There was a flash of white light, and my broken arm was healed in less than two minutes.

  What did it feel like? Imagine hitting your funny bone with a ball-peen hammer while smashing your hand in a car door—that’s what it felt like. The truly excruciating part, though, was an intense tingling sensation—part burning, part itching—from inside the bone itself, as if a colony of fire ants armed with tattooing guns was scurrying about underneath my skin. Despite the agony, I did not move, for fear that my arm might come off in his hands.

  Just when I thought I would go mad from the pain, Dr. Gyre let go and stepped back, taking the pain with him. The boneknitter plucked the surgical cap from his head, revealing a shock of olive green hair, and used it to wipe away the sweat dripping from his face. He nodded to Hexe, who quickly removed the padded stick from my mouth. I took a deep, shuddering breath, as I blinked the tears from my eyes. Although I was no longer hurting, I was so exhausted I felt like I’d just run the New York City Marathon and the Boston Marathon back-to-back.

  “She should be good to go later today,” Dr. Gyre said. “She’s going to need to sleep it off for a few hours, though. I’ll have one of our orderlies put her in a recovery room.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Hexe said gratefully.

  Dr. Gyre pulled aside the curtain behind him, revealing the controlled chaos of what looked to be a typical emergency room—or a veterinary clinic, judging by the pregnant huldra going into labor in the cubicle to the right of me.

  “How are you feeling, Tate?” Hexe asked. “Can I get you anything?”