Magic and Loss

Chapter 19

To be honest, it would not have surprised me if I never saw Hana and Torn again. But, to my relief, they showed back up at Fetlock Mews later that day. Torn explained that they had decided it would be better “for everyone involved” if they stayed elsewhere until the loft space was ready, and had taken a room at the Sabbat Inn, the only hotel located within Golgotham. A couple of days later, they moved into the refurbished loft and set about making it their new home. Neither of them ever said a word to me about what had transpired that night, but I could see the shadow of it in their eyes whenever they stopped by the shop, which was quite often, as Hana seemed determined to stuff both Canterbury and myself as if we were taxidermy with a seemingly never-ending supply of freshly baked breads, pastries, and cookies.

A couple of weeks after they moved in, Canterbury’s attorney came by with a sheaf of legal documents requiring my signature. While my salary as junior partner wasn’t large enough to completely offset the loss of Hexe’s income, it did provide me with the stability and peace of mind that comes with job security. And for the first time since learning I was pregnant, I was finally able to focus on truly getting things ready for the baby.

Outside of the boneknitters and psychic surgeons found at Golgotham General, the majority of health care in Golgotham was provided by hedgewitches such as Hexe. Although I knew from personal experience their healing arts were effective, I still wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of trusting the health of my unborn child to someone dangling a crystal pendulum over my rapidly swelling belly. Magic was all well and good for Kymerans in my situation, but I was human and I needed the comfort afforded by my people’s own unique arts—science and technology.

There was a clinic just across the river, in Brooklyn, just off the F, that offered a low-cost prenatal service. It was eight hundred dollars up front, which was a hefty chunk of change for our household, but it would pay for monthly office visits for the first twenty-four weeks, as well as blood tests and one ultrasound. I’d been squirreling away a percentage of my paycheck, plus whatever money was left over after paying the bills, in the cookie tin. So far I had just over six hundred dollars saved up.

Upon finding myself with a spare thirty dollars after settling the grocer’s bill, I opened the lid on the tin, only to find the kitty considerably lighter than before. My heart somehow managed to both sink and speed up as I counted out the bills, then tallied them up twice more, telling myself I must have miscounted. But each time it came up short the exact same amount: one hundred and fifty dollars.

Surely some nefarious burglar had managed to sneak into the house, somehow managed to make it past Scratch, and then made a beeline to the cookie tin on my dresser without touching anything else at all. I really, really wanted to believe that was the case, because, otherwise, I would have to suspect the only other person in the world—well, the only one with thumbs, anyway—who knew where I was stashing money.

“Do you know anything about this?” I asked, shaking the cookie tin at Scratch.

“I ain’t no snitch,” the familiar replied and quickly ran out of the room.

I glanced in the direction of the four-poster, only to find the carved owls perched atop the bedposts had turned their backs to me.

Maybe it was the hormones, but that’s when I lost it. I had put up with his increasing moodiness and going out drinking every night because I felt bad about him losing his magic, but I had finally had enough of being treated like a clueless fool simply because I had five fingers instead of six.

“Where are you going?” Scratch asked as I yanked my peacoat out of the downstairs closet.

“I’m going to go and get my money back,” I snapped. It didn’t help my mood that I now discovered my coat would no longer button thanks to my baby bump.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist! So he took some money without telling you . . .”

“You don’t understand, Scratch!” I snapped. “He didn’t do this to me; he did it to the baby!”

I managed to keep a pretty good mad-on all the way to the Two-Headed Calf. Over the last month or so, Hexe had put Lafo’s promise of free eats and drink to the test. Up until recently we had been eating at the Calf twice a week, but now that I had stopped drinking because of the baby, Hexe had been hitting the pub every night on his own, coming back later and later each time. I was usually asleep by the time he would stagger home, reeking of artichoke schnapps. Half the time he didn’t even bother to come to bed, passing out instead on the couch in his office.

Since it was a weeknight, the Calf was relatively quiet when I arrived. Bruno nodded in welcome as I entered, but I brushed by without responding. I was too busy scanning the booths and tables for some sign of Hexe. I then hurried upstairs, but he wasn’t among the diners, either.

As I went back downstairs, I caught sight of Lafo, who was manning the taps behind the bar. He smiled in welcome as I approached. “Evening, Tate. Looking for someone?”

“Has Hexe been here tonight?” I asked.

“No, he hasn’t,” he replied as he pulled a pint for one of his customers. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him in a couple of weeks.”

“What? But he’s been coming here almost every night . . .”

Lafo shook his head, a grim look on his face. “I don’t know where he’s going, Tate—but it ain’t here. In fact, I had to cut him off. He was coming in here every night, drinking on the cuff. You know I don’t grudge him that, don’t you? After all, the man saved my life and livelihood. But then he started getting stroppy with the paying customers. It wasn’t too bad, at first—just some snide remarks, here and there. But the last time he came in here, it got ugly. He picked a fight with this human—only Arum knows what about—and next thing I know they’re getting into it, throwing punches left and right! Bruno put a stop to it, quick enough—but not before the nump, uh, I mean, human punched Hexe in the eye. After it was over, I told him he’d had his last drink on the house. I haven’t seen him since.”

My mind flashed back to the night Hexe came home looking like he’d been in a fight. Although I could not believe what I was hearing, I had to admit that a lot of things were suddenly starting to make sense.

“He told me he got that black eye from fighting off a mugger.”

Lafo glanced about, as if on the lookout for spies, then leaned forward, his voice dropping down into a husky whisper. “You know I consider Hexe to be a true friend, not just another one of my customers. So I’ve got to ask: what’s going on with him? I know Hexe enjoys his drink, but he’s always known when to stop. I’ve never seen him drink like that before. He seemed like a totally different person. I hated having to cut him off like that, but he gave me no choice.”

“I’m really sorry, Lafo. Hexe has been under a lot of stress lately, what with money being tight and the baby on the way. . . .”

“The buzz I’ve been hearing is that he’s shut down his practice and handed his clients over to Madam Kuka. Why would he do that?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself. That’s Hexe’s business, not mine,” I replied, perhaps a little too tersely. As much as I so wanted to tell Lafo the truth, I didn’t dare say anything more. It’s not that I didn’t trust the restaurateur, but if news of Hexe’s hand being broken managed to reach the Maladanti, Boss Marz could very well jump to the wrong conclusion and decide to take action.

“I didn’t mean to butt in, Tate,” Lafo said gently. “I’m just concerned about the guy, that’s all.”

“I know,” I sighed. “So—if he hasn’t been coming here every night—where is he going?”

Lafo shrugged. “I wish I could tell you, Tate—but I honestly don’t know.”

As I turned to leave, I felt a hand on my arm. It belonged to Chorea, the hostess for the Two-Headed Calf. I could tell she was still on the wagon since she was wearing a low-cut cocktail dress in place of the traditional diaphanous gown and leopard skin of her sisterhood. The maenad had joined Alcoholics Anonymous in an attempt to save her marriage to the Kymeran mover, Faro. Something about consuming raw flesh while in a Dionysian frenzy—it’s complicated.

“I heard you asking about Hexe,” she whispered. “I’d look across the street if I were you.”

“You mean the Highlander?” I frowned. “Are you sure, Chory?”

“I saw him go inside a couple of hours ago,” she replied.

I thanked the teetotaling bacchante and left the pub, setting my sites on the hookah lounge across the street. On the sliding scale of Golgotham nightspots, with the Golden Bough at the very top and the Stagger Inn at the bottom, the Highlander hovered somewhere in the lower middle. Unlike similar establishments elsewhere in the city, the Highlander’s customers weren’t there to smoke exotic tobaccos—they were there for the hashish. While there were plenty of hookah joints near Duivel Street that served human stoners looking for a hassle-free high, the Highlander’s clientele tended more toward the locals.

The wooden sign outside of the lounge depicted a hookah with a sinuous dragon in place of the hose, smoke pouring from its nostrils. Although I don’t have any issues with the idea of a hash café, I had never had occasion to step foot in the Highlander before because, well, I don’t smoke. Hell, the average Kymeran place of business was smoky enough to cure meat—I could just imagine what one of their hookah lounges was like. I paused for a moment to steel myself, taking a final breath of clean air, and then opened the door.

The interior of the Highlander was dark and surprisingly elegant, with low couches and ottomans scattered about a rambling layout. There were also curtained booths, where smokers could retire to enjoy their pipes in privacy. Everywhere I looked there was a bluish haze that smelled strongly of musk and hash-oil. I couldn’t keep from wondering how much my dry-cleaning bill was going to be once they finally got the reek out of my jacket.

There was a kiosk just inside the door, manned by a young Kymeran with green dreadlocks. Inside the booth were rows upon rows of water pipes of different sizes, including one with so many hoses radiating from its vase it was positively octopedal. “Rent a pipe, lady?” he asked helpfully.

I shook my head. “I just stepped in to see if a friend of mine was in here.”

“We’ve got a special tonight on Dragon Balm,” he said, pointing to a nearby service counter, where various blends of hashish wrapped in brightly colored foil were offered for sale alongside pot brownies and demitasses of espresso.

“That’s okay,” I said, sidestepping the suggested selling. “I’ll just go look for my friend. . . .”

I moved past the kiosk into the open social room, but did not spot Hexe among the groups of smokers lounging about, talking to one another as they listened to the acoustic hurdy-gurdy player in the corner. Trying not to look too nosy, I pulled back the curtain on the privacy booth next to me to find Giles Gruff reclining on a pillow-strewn bench, his behorned head resting in the lap of one well-endowed, naked nymph while she dutifully massaged his temples, while a second, equally busty and unclothed nymph fed him grapes. Although he was missing his vest, his monocle and ascot were still in place.

“Hello, my dear,” the satyr said, between puffs on his hookah. “Good to see you again—if somewhat unexpectedly.”

“I’m sorry, Councilman,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“That’s quite all right. I’m simply unwinding after another day of butting heads with Mayor Lash. He’s so desperate to outspend O’Fae in his reelection campaign, he’s willing to court a scheming cormorant like Ronald Chess. It’s bad enough I have to combat such recklessness amongst my own people—but to have to deal with the same trait in others is most tiresome. I am the lord of the satyrs, after all, not a congressman from Delaware. But on to a more pleasant subject: I trust my niece Octavia has settled into her new digs?”

“I suppose so, although we don’t see that much of her. She spends most of her time at the fire station.”

“Such is the life of a dedicated civil servant, I fear,” Giles said, pausing to sample another grape. “But then, the females of our species have always been industrious and civic-minded, and for that I am truly thankful, or else the satyrisci would have gone the same route as the woodwoses and ogres during the Sufferance.”

“You wouldn’t have happened to have seen Hexe?” I asked. “I was told he was here.”

“Indeed he is. You should find him in his usual spot—the far corner booth. Now, if you don’t mind, my lady friends and I have some business to attend to,” he said, gesturing to his tumescent goat-pizzle.

I quickly dropped the privacy curtain. I was going to need a lot of brain bleach to erase that particular image from my mental catalog.

I found Hexe exactly where Giles said he would be—sitting by himself in the farthest booth, in the deepest corner of the room, where the shadows were so thick there was no need to draw a curtain for privacy. Judging from the empty wrapper crumpled beside the brass hookah at his elbow, he was smoking Dragon Balm.

“What are you doing here?” He scowled, looking up at me with the same cold, distant eyes I’d seen the night he’d supposedly been mugged.

The last of the anger that had spurred me on my quest disappeared, to be replaced by unease. Although his features and voice were still the same, there was something imperceptibly “off” about the way he spoke and moved—as if I wasn’t talking to Hexe himself, but rather a clever simulacrum.

“I want you to come home, Hexe.” I cringed at the sound of my own voice. It sounded so weak—almost wheedling; like a mother trying to coerce an unruly child to go to bed.

“What for?” he grunted.

“It’s really important that we talk,” I said, shifting about uneasily, aware that the hurdy-gurdy player had halted and our conversation was now perfectly audible to everyone seated nearby.

“Why? You can talk to me here,” he retorted.

I stepped inside the booth and sat down opposite him, pulling the privacy curtain shut as I did so. “Look, I know you took money from the baby stash.”

Instead of looking surprised or ashamed, Hexe merely shrugged his shoulders, his face as unreadable as a mask, while his silver-gloved fingers drummed against the tabletop, as if waiting for me to say something interesting. I wasn’t really sure what his reaction would be when I confronted him with the truth, but I certainly hadn’t expected it to boil down to “So?”

“Hexe, please—this is serious. We need to talk about what’s going on with you, and I’d rather do it at home.”

“What’s going on with me, huh?” he sneered. As he took another hit, the water pipe gurgled as if it was laughing. “I’ll come home when I damn well feel like it, and not because you nagged me into doing it.”

There it was. The “why do you have to be such a bitch?” card. The one that every other boyfriend had played—usually just before the end of the relationship. I felt my heart sink as if it had been filled with lead. I didn’t dare say anything for fear I would lose what little control I had and start to cry. That’s all I needed at that moment—to be dismissed as an overemotional pregnant woman. And I definitely didn’t want to freak out in public, only to find it splashed all over YouTube by the time I got home. Fighting back my tears, I yanked back the privacy curtain and angrily strode toward the door, hoping with every step that Hexe would come to his senses.

I was halfway down the block when I realized he wasn’t going to follow. That’s when I started to cry.

I’d never felt so overwhelmed in my life. The framework on which I had chosen to build my new life was suddenly crumbling underneath me, in a way that was all too familiar. I had committed myself to Hexe to a degree I had never done before. Until now, the trust I had in him was as pure and strong as that of a child. Even on those occasions where I had been leery of the choices he made, I still knew that his decisions were born from genuine concern for both me and the baby. But now—?

I remembered how Lady Syra and Dr. Moot spoke about Esau—about how he had once been a good friend and loving brother—a healer, just like Hexe. But then he lost his wife, and anger and bitterness dragged him down the Left Hand path until he became a misanthropic, racist, homicidal zealot who wouldn’t think twice about killing his own flesh and blood. Was that what was occurring with Hexe now that he had lost his Right Hand magic—?

Just then the image of Hexe’s silver-clad hand drumming its fingers against the table, as if waiting for something to happen, flooded my mind’s eye. Hexe may have been depressed and frustrated after Boss Marz maimed him, but the cold, distant look in his eyes didn’t appear until Madam Erys tricked him into donning the Gauntlet of Nydd. If the Trojan spell on the gauntlet could somehow turn Right Hand spells into Left Hand magic, maybe it was also capable of doing the same thing to the wearer as well.

Upon reaching the house I was greeted at the door by Beanie, who licked the drying tears from my face as I hugged him. It was way past my normal bedtime, and I had to be at work the next day. I changed out of my clothes and crawled into the big, empty bed, feeling both emotionally and physically exhausted. Over the last few weeks my pregnancy had really started to affect my body—my feet and ankles had started to swell, along with my breasts, and my lower back felt like it had been whacked with the flat of a cricket bat. But my physical discomfort was nothing compared to the gnawing fear that I was losing Hexe—not to another woman, but to something dark within himself.

I fell asleep with the sound of his silver fingers drumming, drumming, drumming in my ears.

Suddenly the lights were on, rendering me as blind as the owls standing guard atop the four-poster. Hexe was standing by the bed, looming over me like a vengeful ghost, his face contorted in munted rage, smelling of tobacco, hashish, and safflower. His gauntleted hand flashed like the scales of a fish as he snatched away the bedclothes, leaving me exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a camisole.

“How dare you come hunting me down like a nagging fishwife, embarrassing me in front of my subjects?” he thundered.

I clambered out of bed moments before he grabbed the edge of the mattress and upended it onto the floor. Beanie, who had been sleeping at the foot of the bed, gave a frightened yelp and quickly scurried for cover under the nightstand.

“Why shouldn’t I take that money?” he bellowed. “You’re living rent free, aren’t you? I’m just taking what’s owed me!”

“Hexe, please, calm down! Just listen to what you’re saying!” I pleaded as I moved away from him, trying my best to stay beyond arm’s reach. “Something’s wrong with you!”

“Of course something was wrong with me, you stupid nump! But it’s all better now, see?” he said with a nasty laugh, holding up his gauntleted right hand and wiggling the fingers in parody of a wave.

“No, Hexe—that’s what’s making you act this way! The gauntlet is cursed! It’s perverted your magic and now it’s trying to do the same thing to you! You’ve got to get rid of it, Hexe!”

“You’re the one who’s crazy if you think I’m going to surrender my hand!” he snapped. “You’ve got no idea what you’re asking me to do!” Suddenly he lunged forward, his right hand moving with the speed of a striking cobra, grabbing my upper arm. For the first time since we first met, his golden eyes with their cat-slit pupils seemed genuinely inhuman. “You’re always yammering about how much you ‘belong’ in Golgotham—but the truth is you’ll never know what it really means to be Kymeran. It doesn’t rub off, no matter how hard you try.”

“Hexe, please, let go! You’re hurting me!”

“So what are you going to do about it?” He smirked, his gloved fingertips digging deeper into the flesh of my upper arm.

I don’t know who was more surprised when I punched him. My months of working as a blacksmith came in good stead as I landed a hard enough blow to his jaw to stagger him. The moment he let go of my arm I darted past him and ran out of the bedroom and headed down the hall to my studio. I closed the door behind me and I felt it shudder as he threw his weight against it, trying to force it open.

“Let me in, Tate!” he barked, rattling the doorknob like a tambourine.

“Go away!” I sobbed as I hastily secured the locks. “Just leave me alone, Hexe!”

“You can’t tell me to leave! This is my house!”

I cried out in alarm as he struck the door with his gauntleted fist, causing one of the upper panels to split. I backed away as the second blow shattered the panel entirely, allowing him to reach the lock and kick open the ruined door. I realize this might sound deluded, considering the situation I found myself in, but although I was surrounded by power tools and other equipment, I did not move to arm myself because I knew the man that I loved was still in there somewhere. If I could just say the right word or do the right thing to trigger his reemergence, to replace this angry stranger with the man I loved and who loved me in return, then everything would go back to the way it should be. . . .

As he moved to cross the threshold, there came a clattering sound from up the hall. Hexe frowned and turned his head to look in the direction of the noise, only to be sent flying beyond my field of vision.

“Leave her alone!” Octavia bleated.

I stepped out of the studio to see Hexe lying sprawled on the second floor landing. The cruel, distant look had disappeared from his eyes, to be replaced by one of dazed confusion. “What in seven hells is going on—?” he groaned.

As I moved to go to his side, Octavia blocked my way with her arm and shook her head. She then turned back to address Hexe in a stern voice. “Get out of here—go take a walk.”

“Tate—what’s going on—?” Hexe’s eyes widened and his voice trailed off as he caught sight of the livid hand-shaped bruise that now adorned my upper arm.

“I mean it,” Octavia said, stamping one of her cloven hooves in emphasis. “Or do you want me to knock some more sense into you?”

With that the look in Hexe’s eyes abruptly changed again, reverting to the previous cold, hard stare. I automatically took a step backward as he glared at me. “I could use some fresh air,” he sneered. “It smells like a barnyard in here.” He turned and headed down the stairs and, a few seconds later, we were rewarded by the sound of the front door slamming.

Octavia heaved a sigh of relief and then turned to look at me. “Good thing I switched shifts with a friend of mine, or I wouldn’t have been home for that. Did he hurt you?”

“Not really,” I replied. “The door got the worst of it. But thank you for stopping it before it could get really ugly.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t had to do for my sisters, time and again. All men are alike, at some point. It’s just that satyrs are at their worst all the time.”

“The thing is, Hexe isn’t like that. No, I mean it—truly he’s not. Something’s happening to him—I just don’t know how to explain it, but he’s genuinely not himself anymore.”

“Is it drugs?”

“Not exactly,” I replied.

“Do you have someplace where you can go?” Octavia asked gently. “Somewhere outside of Golgotham?”

I blinked in surprise, taken aback by the question. “Do you think that’s really necessary?”

“Do you trust him not to do it again?” the faun countered.

Up until that moment, the thought of leaving Hexe had not crossed my mind. But now that the subject had been broached, there was no banishing it. I went into my studio and stared out the window that overlooked the street. I could see Hexe trudging away from the house, fists jammed deep into the pockets of his coat. At this time of night there was only one place he could be headed: the Stagger Inn.