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 dont 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! Youll always be the little brother who shape-shifts into a cougar that I never had!
So youre 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, youll learn more about herbs and acupuncture from him than you ever thought possible. Besides, its not like you signed a lease with me.
Im moving out tomorrow, if thats okay with you, Lukas said excitedly. Its been great living here. Ill miss you bothand Beanie, too.
What about Scratch? Hexe asked archly.
Yeahhhh, him, too, I guess, Lukas replied. Just dont 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 months budget for a loop, he said sourly. He picked up the checkbook and studied it as if it were one of his grimoires. Ill have to advertise for another lodger. Its time-consuming, but theres no getting around it. As long as Mr. Manto doesnt drop dead on us anytime soon, well squeak by.
I slipped my arms around him and kissed his cheek. Dont look so stressed, sweetie. Well manage to muddle through, just like we always do.
I suppose youre right, he replied, returning my embrace. But were going to have to tighten our belts even further.
I propose we loosen our belts, I smiled saucily.
I dont 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. Its a text from Captain HornI mean, my father.
Theres 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 Hexes dad, and Beanie positively adored himevery 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 dinnerhis treat. I wonder whats up.
Why does there have to be a reason for him to invite us to dinner? I replied with a shrug. Hes not just The Captainhes your dad. Thats reason enough to take you out to dinner for most people.
I suppose youre right, he agreed grudgingly. Besides, it might be some time before we can afford going out to eat again.
* * *
The Two-Headed Calf, Golgothams 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-shifterin 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 Calfs 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 Calfs 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 neednt bother escorting us.
As we made our way across the crowded pub, I spotted the Calfs 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 Calfs double-headed logo. Would you believe were 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 youll excuse me, Ive 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 Lafos 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 sons mouth and jawline.
Youre 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 likedinner 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 wont be necessaryIll 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, Ill have cod liver oil, Hexe replied. What about you, Tate?
Ive got to get up and go to work in the morning, I reminded him. Ill have herbal tea, if you dont mind.
As our waiter hurried off, Hexe turned to his father. Sowhats 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 Horns face. I just wanted you to hear it from me, not the media, thats all, he sighed.
Hear what? A look of dismay crossed Hexes face. Heavens and hellsyou and mother arent getting married, are you?
No! Its 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, hell 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 dont have to tell you that Boss Marz is not one to forgive and forget. You need to keep on your toes once hes back. If I know him, it wont be long before hes 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 Im more than capable of protecting both myself and Tate.
I do not doubt your abilities, Horn replied. Theres no question that youve got the strongest right hand in Golgotham. But theres 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 Horns 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. Theres no glad eye amulet made that will protect you against a well-aimed knife or a cosh to the back of the head. All Im 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. Theres 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?
Arent 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 Im 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, youre not helpless anymoreyou have the ability to protect yourself, even when Im not around.
I appreciate the vote of confidence, but Im nowhere near ready to defend myself against the Maladanti! I protested. Thats like expecting someone with a learners permit to drive a getaway car.
One of the most important things about magicno matter what hand you useis 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, Ill 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 dragons 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 hed relieved himself. I finished my tea and followed him inside. I peeked into the study and saw Hexe peering at one of Barthos cameras through a teardrop-shaped scrying crystal, just like a jeweler studying the cleavage plane on a diamond.
Dont 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 Whats 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 Canterburys 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 theyre 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 theyre not busy at workand centaurs are easily the most industrious race to be found in Golgothamthey 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. Theres 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. Canterburys 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 zaatar to housewives and warlocks 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 Rienzis 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.
Im here to pick up Canterburys 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 masters 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 Marzs left shoulder. I had hoped Id 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.
It has come to my attention that many of you, over these last few months, have failed to pay your tribute to the Maladanti! In case you are suffering from the delusion that because I and my associates, here, have been detained elsewhere, that you are no longer under any obligation to provide us with a percentage of your profits in order to continue to do business in the Fly Marketplease allow me to disabuse you of such wrong thinking!
The crime lord pointed his left hand at a nearby magic candle booth, tended by an elderly Kymeran man with receding mint-green hair. In Arums nameplease, no! the candlemaker begged, lifting his hands in supplication.
But there was no point in pleading for mercy from Boss Marzand none at all to be found from his familiar. With a squeal of delight, Bonzo leapt from his masters shoulder and scampered along his outstretched arm, jumping from Marzs hand like a swimmer off a diving board.
The moment the squirrel monkey hit the floor it took on its demonic aspect, transforming into what looked like the misbegotten result of a threesome between a mandrill baboon, a hyena, and a stegosaurus, while still dressed like an organ-grinders monkey. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the familiar bounded over the counter and snatched up the hapless vendor, disappearing with his captive in a cloud of smoke that reeked of brimstone and monkey house.
A moment later, Bonzo, once more reduced in size, reappeared on his masters shoulder, licking his lips and picking at his teeth. Boss Marz chuckled and rewarded his familiar with a pistachio nut, which it greedily grabbed and devoured.
I trust I have made myself perfectly clear, he said to his horror-struck audience. Come the next tribute day, I expect each and every one of you to make good on all you owe me. Good day, citizens.
A gasp of horror rippled throughout the Fly Market, followed by a chorus of fearful murmurs as the merchants began frantically talking among themselves. As the lord of the Maladanti turned to leave, he looked about the Fly Market a final time. I desperately wanted to somehow duck out of sight, but I found myself rooted to the spot, too terrified to move. As his gaze fell on me, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and he raised his right hand to his brow, in a mock salute, accompanied by an unpleasant little smile.
The moment Marz turned his back on me, the fear that had kept me glued to the spot instantly dissolved. I snatched up the bundle I had been sent to retrieve and hurried in the opposite direction as fast as I could go.
Chapter 4
When I arrived at work, I told Canterbury what Id seen at the Fly Market. He was visibly shocked and immediately told me to take the rest of the day off.
But what about the exhibit for the museum? I asked, pointing to the bits and pieces of clockwork dragon scattered about the workshop.
Dont worry about that, he replied. Youd be of no use to me, and a danger to yourself, if you tried to work right now. The last thing I need is for you to fire up a welding torch with shaky hands and a wandering mind. Just be here all the earlier tomorrow. And dont worryIm not going to dock you for the day.
Thanks, Master, I said with a wan smile.
No problem. Now beat it before I kick myself for my generosity.
Upon returning home, I heard voices conversing in the study. I peeked in and saw Hexe sitting at his desk, with Beanie cradled in his lap and Scratch perched atop the back of his chair while he talked to Bartho.
What do you mean my cameras arent jinxed? The photographer frowned.
I went over each of them several times with my finest scrying stones, Hexe replied, gesturing to the cameras arrayed before him. They are definitely not cursed. However, I did discover that they have been exposed to magical energy.
Can you tell whos responsible? Because I really want to put a boot up the ass of whoever did this.
Then you better bend over. Because, according to my divinations, youre the source of the magic.
Barthos jaw dropped open like a drawbridge. Youre kidding, right? I mean, how is that possible?
Because youre manifesting through your art form, just like I have, I interjected.
Hexe raised an eyebrow in surprise. What are you doing home this time of day?
Canterbury gave me the day off, I said, brushing aside the question. Im more interested in hearing how Bartho got himself all magical.
Well, Im not exactly sure whats happening, but its a well-known fact that the human psychics who live in Golgotham have considerably stronger abilities than those who live elsewhere, Hexe explained. Perhaps artistic humans are affected in much the same way? I mean, artists routinely create something from nothing using only their craft and force of willits essentially the same thing a witch or warlock does when we work magic.
If thats true, then why hasnt this phenomenon been documented before now? Bartho asked, a dubious look on his face.
For the simple reason that, despite a long history of artists being drawn to my people, up until recently normal humans such as you and Tate have steered clear of Golgotham and similar enclaves, Hexe sighed. Of course, Goya and Dali dont count, as they were Kymeran themselves. And then there was Toulouse-Lautrec, who was a member of the dwarven community. And while Picasso may have kept a Kymeran mistress, he did not live with her in the heart of the Pigalle, surrounded by her family. No, it has only been recently that the old prejudices against my people have finally begun to fade and humans like you and Tate have become brave enough to dwell amongst us.
The photographer scratched his head. You mean any human who hangs out in Golgotham is going to end up with a case of the magics?
No, I suspect it will only affect artistic types, and only those that live here for several months. But, in any case, this is a very interesting development.
But how does it explain why my mojo, or whatever you call it, is generating double exposures?
Oh, those arent double exposures, Hexe replied matter-of-factly. Theyre ghosts.
Barthos eyes widened until it looked like they would launch themselves out of his skull. You mean I see dead people?
No, you only take pictures of them, Hexe explained. Youve become a spirit photographer, just like the original Ouija. As your talent matures, and you learn to control it, the images will become more and more distinct and youll be able to see them in the cameras viewfinder. In time, you may even learn to communicate with your subjects.
Why the hell would I want to do that? Bartho yelped.
Theres nothing to be worried about, Hexe said reassuringly. The vast majority of ghosts are perfectly nice people. They just happen to be dead, thats all. However, should you see any with red eyes, run away as fast as you can.
That doesnt sounds scary at all, Bartho groaned. So what do I do about these ghosts popping up in my pictures?
Well, you can always Photoshop them out. . . .
* * *
After a bewildered Bartho left with his collection of cameras, Hexe and I retired to the kitchen. So why did Canterbury give you the day off? he asked. Was there an accident at work?
Before I could answer, I heard an odd clattering sound from upstairs, as if someone were walking around in wooden shoes. Whats that noise? I frowned.
Thats the new boarder, Hexe explained.
I raised an eyebrow in surprise as I glanced up at the ceiling. That was quick! You didnt even have time to put up a flier at Strega Nona!
We were lucky. I got a call from Giles Gruff, right after you left this morning. He said a lady friend of his was in a tight spot. . . .
Why am I not surprised? I said sarcastically. Giles was the leader of the satyr community and Golgothams most notorious bon vivant and rarely seen without a comely nymph on both arms.
Sorry about all the noise while I was traipsing about upstairsI left my mufflers in my work locker.
I turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice and saw an attractive young faun standing in the kitchen doorway. She had almond-shaped eyes with luxurious auburn curls that accented the small horn buds jutting from her forehead, and from the waist down she had the hind legs and tail of a goat. She was dressed in a long-sleeved red shirt with a black vest emblazoned with a stylized tongue of flame over her heart along with the initials GFD embroidered in gold threadthe traditional uniform of a Golgotham firefighter.
You must be Tate; its a pleasure to meet you, the faun said. My uncle speaks very highly of you. Im Octavia. She then flashed Hexe a heartfelt smile. Thank you, Serenity. I appreciate you allowing me to move in on such short notice. It was something of a surprise, coming home after my shift to find an eviction notice tacked to my door.
Its no problem at all, he replied. Any friend of Giles is a friend of mine.
I assure you both that you neednt worry about me partying to all hours, Octavia said solemnly. We fauns are far more domesticated than our satyr brethrensave for Uncle Giles, of course.
Let me guessyou had an apartment in the Machen Arms, didnt you? I asked.
You must have seen the headlines the other day, the faun said with a humorless laugh. I had a one-bedroom apartment there for the last five years, she explained, her tone becoming bitter. My lease came up for renewal yesterday, and suddenly my rent skyrocketed from seven hundred dollars to five thousand a month, literally overnight! Can you believe that minotaur shit?
Im afraid I can, I sighed. Ronald Chess has been playing the exact same game in the rest of Manhattan for over thirty years now. He buys up older, rent-controlled prewar apartment buildings and then, when the leases come up for renewal, he jacks the rent up through the roof. Once the previous tenants are evicted, he slaps granite countertops on everything and slops a new coat of paint on the walls and turns it condo.