Lukas shook his head. “Of course not!” he said emphatically. “I’m not going back to the Preserve. It’s just that—well, Dr. Mao has offered to make me his apprentice, and that means moving into the spare store room at the apothecary.”
“Sounds to me like the old tiger wants to keep an eye on you and Meikei.” Hexe chuckled, sending Lukas’ blush all the way into his hairline.
“You don’t hate me for leaving, do you?” The youth asked nervously.
“Oh, Lukas, you silly kitty cat!” I exclaimed as I threw my arms around him. “Of course not! You’ll always be the little brother who shape-shifts into a cougar that I never had!”
“So you’re not mad at me?” Lukas raised his shaggy unibrow in surprise. “You understand why I have to move out?”
“Of course we understand,” Hexe said. “I wish you luck on your apprenticeship, my friend. That old were-tiger can be tough at times, but if you serve your master well, you’ll learn more about herbs and acupuncture from him than you ever thought possible. Besides, it’s not like you signed a lease with me.”
“I’m moving out tomorrow, if that’s okay with you,” Lukas said excitedly. “It’s been great living here. I’ll miss you both—and Beanie, too.”
“What about Scratch?” Hexe asked archly.
“Yeahhhh, him, too, I guess,” Lukas replied. “Just don’t tell him I said that, though.”
As Lukas headed upstairs to pack his few belongings, Hexe let out a sigh and allowed the smile to drop from his face. “Well, that knocks next month’s budget for a loop,” he said sourly. He picked up the checkbook and studied it as if it were one of his grimoires. “I’ll have to advertise for another lodger. It’s time-consuming, but there’s no getting around it. As long as Mr. Manto doesn’t drop dead on us anytime soon, we’ll squeak by.”
I slipped my arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Don’t look so stressed, sweetie. We’ll manage to muddle through, just like we always do.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he replied, returning my embrace. “But we’re going to have to tighten our belts even further.”
“I propose we loosen our belts,” I smiled saucily.
“I don’t know if that will help with the bills,” he said, as his hands slipped under my blouse. “But it will definitely take our minds off them.”
As we headed hand in hand up the stairs to our room, the opening bars of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put A Spell On You” suddenly came out of nowhere. Hexe fished his cell phone out of his pocket and grimaced at the caller ID. “It’s a text from Captain Horn—I mean, my father.”
There’s an old saying about closing doors and opening windows. Four months ago my parents disinherited me. At the same time, Hexe finally learned the true identity of his biological father. I liked Hexe’s dad, and Beanie positively adored him—every time Captain Horn came to visit, Beanie would bring him one of his favorite plush toys, so they could play tug-of-war. Hexe, on the other hand, seemed to be somewhat ambivalent about the whole thing.
“The Captain wants us to meet him at the Calf for dinner—his treat. I wonder what’s up.”
“Why does there have to be a reason for him to invite us to dinner?” I replied with a shrug. “He’s not just ‘The Captain’—he’s your dad. That’s reason enough to take you out to dinner for most people.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed grudgingly. “Besides, it might be some time before we can afford going out to eat again.”
• • •
The Two-Headed Calf, Golgotham’s oldest tavern, was busy as usual when we arrived. Upon entering the downstairs pub room, we were greeted by Bruno, the new bouncer. He was heavyset and stood seven feet tall, his unibrow marking him as a shape-shifter—in his case one of the berskir.
Ever since the Calf found itself with a four-star listing on Yelp, more and more humans continued to make their way into Golgotham to sample its “authentic atmosphere” alongside the locals. It was this lucrative, potentially volatile mix of clientele that resulted in the now-famous Golgotham Race Riot. In the months since the initial conflict, the Calf’s proprietor, Lafo, had hired the were-grizzly as a means of nipping another such clash in the bud. So far it seemed to be working.
“Good evening, Serenity,” Bruno growled in welcome, running a pawlike hand through his unruly brown hair. “Good evening, Miss Eresby.”
Chorea, the Calf’s hostess, stepped forward to greet us. Although she had set aside her leopard skin and chiton in favor of AA and saving her marriage, she still wore the garland of ivy that marked her as a maenad. “Welcome, Serenity.” She smiled. “Captain Horn is waiting for you in the dining room.”
“Thanks, Chory,” he said. “You needn’t bother escorting us.”
As we made our way across the crowded pub, I spotted the Calf’s owner, head chef, and chief bottle washer balancing a serving platter loaded with bowls of flash-fried crickets and battered dragonflies. The towering restaurateur was almost as tall as his bouncer, with long, ketchup-red hair and a matching beard. He was dressed in a pair of bib overalls and a loud Hawaiian shirt nearly as colorful as the tattoos covering his forearms. Like all Kymerans, he exuded a unique scent that was part body odor and personal signifier, in his case a combination of corn dogs and bananas Foster.
“Welcome back, Serenity! Have you checked out our new merchandise yet?” Lafo nodded toward the small booth under the staircase that was stocked with T-shirts and beer mugs emblazoned with the Calf’s double-headed logo. “Would you believe we’re selling as many T-shirts as we are drinks now? A couple of my old regulars got their noses out of joint over it, but you gotta make hay while the sun shines! Those renovations after the riot set me back quite a bit, even with the insurance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to replenish the snack bowls at the bar.”
I followed Hexe up the stairs, past the framed lithographs of his great-great-grandfather and the Founding Fathers signing the Treaty of Golgotham, to the dining area, with its dark wood floors and coffered ceiling. While I was no longer the only human to be seen in the dining room, the vast majority of the customers were still Kymeran. Despite the token addition of cheeseburgers to the menu, most of Lafo’s newly acquired human clientele no doubt found it far easier to catch a buzz than enjoy a meal at the Calf.
Captain Horn rose from his seat as we approached. Although he had removed his hat to reveal his maroon crew cut, he was still wearing his PTU dress uniform. As he smiled down at me in welcome, I glimpsed a hint of his son’s mouth and jawline.
“You’re as lovely as ever, Tate,” Horn said as he hugged me. I found myself enveloped by the sturdy and reassuring scent of oak leaves and musk. “Please, sit down. Feel free to order whatever you like—dinner and drinks courtesy of the Paranormal Threat Unit.”
As we took our seats at the table, a waiter with mango-colored hair came forward and handed us menus. Hexe laughed and handed them back without looking. “That won’t be necessary—I’ll have the pork brains in gravy, and the lady would like the filet of herring.”
“Very good, Serenity,” the waiter said, bobbing his head in ritual obeisance as he jotted down our order. “Any drinks before dinner?”
“Yes, I’ll have cod liver oil,” Hexe replied. “What about you, Tate?”
“I’ve got to get up and go to work in the morning,” I reminded him. “I’ll have herbal tea, if you don’t mind.”
As our waiter hurried off, Hexe turned to his father. “So—what’s the reason for inviting us to dinner?” he asked brusquely, ignoring my gentle kick to his shins. “And why is the PTU paying for it?”
The smile disappeared from Captain Horn’s face. “I just wanted you to hear it from me, not the media, that’s all,” he sighed.
“Hear what?” A look of dismay crossed Hexe’s face. “Heavens and hells—you and mother aren’t getting married, are you?”
“No! It’s nothing like that!” Horn assured him, only to fall silent as the waiter returned with
a brandy snifter and a small pot of tea.
“What is it, then?” Hexe asked as he swirled his cod liver oil in its glass like a fine cognac. “What else could you possibly tell us that would require cushioning the blow at company expense?”
“The charges against Boss Marz and his croggies have been dismissed.”
I gasped, nearly dropping the teapot in midpour. It was as if the floor beneath my feet had suddenly disappeared, sending me into freefall. I looked over at Hexe, who was equally shocked. He reached out and took my hand and squeezed it. “How is that possible?” he asked.
“That fancy lawyer of his managed to spring him on a technicality,” Captain Horn explained. “Come tomorrow morning, he’ll be out of the Tombs and back on the streets. Son, I know what happened between you and the Maladanti, how they tried to force you to fight your friend Lukas the were-cougar to the death. I also know your biker friends were the ones who put the hurt on Marz before we arrived on the scene.
“I don’t have to tell you that Boss Marz is not one to forgive and forget. You need to keep on your toes once he’s back. If I know him, it won’t be long before he’s up to his old tricks again. If he or one of his croggies so much as looks cross-eyed at you, I want to know about it.”
“I appreciate the concern,” Hexe said stiffly, “but I’m more than capable of protecting both myself and Tate.”
“I do not doubt your abilities,” Horn replied. “There’s no question that you’ve got the strongest right hand in Golgotham. But there’s only one of you, while Marz has a squadron of spellslingers at his command. None of them are half the wizard you are, but add them all together . . . well, you can see what I mean.”
“I can keep us safe,” Hexe said firmly. “I was doing it long before I knew my father was the head of the Paranormal Threat Unit.”
The corner of Captain Horn’s mouth twitched slightly at the barb, but otherwise he remained impassive. “Boss Marz is not above relying on physical force as well as magic to get his way,” he warned. “There’s no glad eye amulet made that will protect you against a well-aimed knife or a cosh to the back of the head. All I’m asking is that you not take any unnecessary risks.”
He fell silent once again when the waiter arrived with our food. As I stared down at my filleted smoked herring on buttered rye, garnished with radishes, snipped chives and raw egg yolk, my stomach did an abrupt barrel roll. I jumped from my chair and ran to the ladies’ room as fast as I could. My fellow diners shook their heads in reproach, smirking at the sight of yet another nump with a glass stomach.
Chapter 3
“I knew there had to be a reason why he invited us to dinner,” Hexe said as he unlocked the front door. “There’s no such thing as a free meal.”
“Ugh! The thought of Boss Marz walking the streets again is making my guts flip-flop all over again,” I exclaimed as I sat down at the kitchen table, holding my head in my hands.
“Stress will do that to you,” he replied. “How about I fix you a nice cup of chamomile and skullcap?”
“Aren’t you the least bit scared?” I asked as I watched him calmly tinker with the teapot. “Boss Marz tried to kill you last time, and he damn near succeeded.”
“Of course I’m concerned,” Hexe admitted. “But I refuse to be frightened by Marz and his croggies. Living in fear of someone like that lets them in your head and gives them control over you. And remember, you’re not helpless anymore—you have the ability to protect yourself, even when I’m not around.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m nowhere near ready to defend myself against the Maladanti!” I protested. “That’s like expecting someone with a learner’s permit to drive a getaway car.”
“One of the most important things about magic—no matter what hand you use—is that you have to be as strong as, if not stronger than, the power you seek to control. That means possessing both will and vision. Anyone who could turn a car transmission into a fully articulated panther, even before it was brought to life, will rock out at being a wizard. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll put Scratch on night patrol for the time being. Now drink up,” he said, pushing a steaming cup of tea into my hands. “This will ease your stomach and settle your nerves.”
Just then Beanie scratched at the kitchen door and began to do his “gotta pee” dance. I opened the door and followed him out onto the back porch, hoping the night air would clear my mind. I wrapped my hands around the steaming cup of tea, savoring its warmth, as I looked out across the garden. My eye automatically strayed to the copper “maternal furnace” I had unwittingly built for Uncle Esau, which now sat in the far corner of the yard, its copper dragon’s head pointed at the night sky, as if baying at the moon. Where once it hatched murderous, bird-footed homunculi, now it simply composted lawn clippings.
Beanie came bounding toward the door, ready to get out of the chill night air now that he’d relieved himself. I finished my tea and followed him inside. I peeked into the study and saw Hexe peering at one of Bartho’s cameras through a teardrop-shaped scrying crystal, just like a jeweler studying the cleavage plane on a diamond.
“Don’t stay up too late,” I said, kissing him good night.
“Love you, too,” he replied absently, not taking his eyes off his work.
Beanie ran up the stairs ahead of me, and upon reaching the second floor landing, he turned around and stared back down at me, his little Boston terrier head tilted to one side, as if to say “What’s keeping you, Mom?”
As I crawled into bed, Beanie hopped in after me, burrowing under the covers like he was going after a vole. I heard the eaves outside the bedroom window groan ever-so-slightly, as Scratch, dressed in a far fiercer skin than the one he wore earlier that day, prowled about the rooftop, keeping watch for the things that go bump in the night.
• • •
One of the downsides of being an apprentice is that you do a lot of scut work. If a chore is trivial, tedious, or unpleasant, you can rely on your master to assign it to you. In this case, I was to pick up Canterbury’s new suit from his tailor.
Before moving to Golgotham it had never occurred to me that centaurs were into couture. In fact, I had assumed what clothing they did wear was more for our modesty than theirs. Boy, did I get schooled. Turns out centaurs, male and female alike, are the biggest fashionistas this side of the Garment District.
While centaurs do tend toward minimal dressage while at work, once they’re off the clock they like to dress to the nines in fancy jackets and vests, with matching ornamental caparisons that drape over their hindquarters. Oh, and they are absolutely mental for hats, the more elaborate the better. When they’re not busy at work—and centaurs are easily the most industrious race to be found in Golgotham—they can be found swanning about the Hippodrome or the Clip-Clop Club, showing off their newest duds.
I guess the reason centaurs are so fashion-conscious is because everything they wear has to be either custom-made or retrofitted. There’s no such thing as buying off-the-rack when your top half is a size six and your bottom half is a size horse. That means every centaur worth their oats has a personal tailor. Canterbury’s happened to be Rienzi, who worked out of a stall in the oldest open-air market still operating in New York City.
The Fly Market, located inside an Industrial Gothic loggia with an iron-clad roof and brick porticos, is alive, in its way. And like all living things, it is constantly growing and changing. There are literally hundreds of stalls inside it, and just when I think I have a grip on who runs what, or what stall belongs where, everything seems to up and move about, if for no other reason than to be mischievous.
As I entered, the constant noise generated by the surrounding merchants as they haggled and argued with customers and suppliers made it sound as if I were walking into a gigantic beehive. I passed a mustard-haired Kymeran woman selling owl-faced tea sets, who sat across the aisle from an herbalist with plum-colored dreadlocks who was selling Arabian za’atar to housewives and warlo
cks alike, who was set up next to a confectioner selling lollipops coated in chili powder and hand-dipped chocolate centipedes. I scanned the labyrinth of stalls, finally spotting Rienzi’s banner several aisles in.
As I walked up, the tailor was putting a hem in a length of fabric with a manual sewing machine especially designed to accommodate his lower body, working its treadle with a front hoof. Rienzi was a handsome bay centaur, with a reddish lower body, mane, and tail, dressed in a striking waistcoat fashioned from liquid satin and covered in embroidered silver roses.
“I’m here to pick up Canterbury’s suit,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the noise of the sewing machine.
The tailor gave an equine snort and set aside his work. “Here it is,” he said, handing me what looked like a folded satin quilt with a deep wine paisley pattern. “Will you be paying for it now, or should I add it to your master’s bill?”
Before I could answer, the buzz and hubbub of the Fly Market stopped as if cut by a knife. Baffled, I looked around to see what could possibly make everyone fall silent all at once. I got my answer: Boss Marz was walking down one of the aisles, flanked on either side by strutting Maladanti spellslingers. The crime lord did not seem in the least diminished by his time in the Tombs, nor did he seem to be suffering any ill effects from taking a war-hammer to the solar plexus.
What made my blood run cold, however, was the sight of the tiny squirrel monkey, dressed in a red velvet fez and matching vest, perched on Marz’s left shoulder. I had hoped I’d seen the last of his familiar when Bonzo disincorporated rather than risk being killed on the mortal plane by Scratch when they tangled one-on-one. But there he was, the little shit, accompanying his master on his rounds as if nothing had ever happened.
Boss Marz stood in the intersection of two wide aisles near the center of the loggia and smirked at the sea of fearful faces staring at him. His voice boomed out, echoing through the now-silent Fly Market like thunder from an approaching storm.
Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham Page 3