Magic and Loss

Chapter 2

I arrived home that evening to find fellow artist, human, and recent citizen of Golgotham “Bartho” Bartholomew conferring with Hexe. They were drinking spiced chai and staring at a collection of cameras, both digital and old-school 35mm, which were sitting on the middle of the kitchen table like a paparazzi centerpiece.

“Where have you been keeping yourself?” I grinned as the photographer rose to hug me. “I haven’t seen you since the morning after the riot!”

“Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been on the road with Talisman. I’m their official photographer, now,” he explained.

“Well, I’m glad to see your eye no longer looks like an eggplant.”

“You and me both!” he said with a humorless laugh. “I’m bringing a police brutality suit against the city, by the way. I’m not going to let those pigs get away with smashing my camera and trying to blind me! Seamus O’Fae is representing me, along with anyone else who got roughed up that night.”

“Seamus is going up against City Hall?” I gave a low whistle of admiration. “Now that is going to be one hell of a courtroom battle! But what’s with the cameras?”

“I think someone’s put a curse on them,” Bartho sighed. “The last couple of weeks I’ve been getting these crazy double exposures, even when I’m using the digital cameras. They were blurry at first, but now they’re becoming more and more distinct.”

“Who would want to curse your cameras?” I frowned.

“I don’t know. Maybe someone jealous of the attention I’m getting? Or maybe the asshole cop I’m suing? That’s usually who pays to have curses put on people, isn’t it, Hexe—jealous bastards and assholes?”

“That has certainly been my experience,” Hexe admitted as he turned one of the cameras over in his hands. “But, to be honest, I’m not so sure that’s what is going on here. Usually curses have some sort of occult signature, if you know where to look—kind of like a poker player’s tell. But I’m not seeing anything like that. Are you sure it isn’t a manufacturing defect of some kind?”

“I’ve taken them to two certified repair shops—one here, and the other in London, when I was on the road. Each swears up and down there’s nothing wrong with them. Besides, how could a manufacturing defect replicate itself identically in cameras made by three completely different companies?”

“You’re right; that doesn’t sound natural,” Hexe conceded, his brow knitting even further. “Perhaps an individual component was cursed, instead of the entire mechanism? That would make it a lot harder to detect,” he mused aloud. “I’ll run a series of scrying stones over these so I can get a better idea of what I’m dealing with. I should be able to ascertain what’s up within the next day or so.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Hexe.” Bartho grinned. “Holy crap—is that the time? Sorry I can’t hang around and chat, Tate, but I’ve got to go over depositions with Seamus.”

As Hexe escorted Bartho to the front door, I headed upstairs to change out of my work clothes and take a shower. Twenty minutes later I returned to find Hexe sitting at the desk in his study, balancing the checkbook. I bent over and nuzzled his neck, savoring his unique scent of citrus, moss, and leather as I did so.

“So how was your day at work?” he asked, reaching up with one hand to stroke my hair.

“I made a dragon leg,” I replied. “You know—same-old-same-old.”

“Is that so?” He chuckled as I sat down in his lap.

“And how was your day?” I asked between kisses.

“Fairly.” Smooch. “Uneventful.” Smack. “I lifted a minor curse off a client.” Smooch. “Someone afflicted him with crossed eyes.” Double smooch.

I glanced down at the open checkbook and the stack of bills that sat beside it. “So—how are we doing?”

Hexe heaved a sigh, prodding the calculator as if it were a poisonous toad. “Well, between your day job, the rent from the boarders, and what I bring in from my steadier clients, we’re making ends meet. But just barely.”

“Why can’t we use witchfire to light the house like they do at the Rookery?” I asked as I scowled at the most recent ConEd bill.

“Witchfire might not be metered, but it’s not free,” he replied. “Sorcerers can drain themselves pretty quickly, if they’re not careful. The braziers at the Rookery are communal fires—each Kymeran who rents a booth there contributes a flame to the kitty. That’s why they burn as brightly as they do. The GoBOO allowed gas lines and electricity into Golgotham because it frees up occult energy that normally would go toward ‘public utilities.’ Of course, there are those who claim that dependence on human inventions weakens us far more than lighting our homes with witchfire.”

“So much for snapping your fingers and magically making the rent and keeping the lights on,” I sighed.

“Hey, I’m just a wizard, not a miracle worker,” Hexe said with a wry smile. “ConEd has no more qualms about shutting off a past-due warlock than they do a plumber in Queens.”

“Is this a good time to talk, or would you guys rather be alone right now?”

I looked up to see our housemate and friend, Lukas, standing in the doorway of the study. The young shape-shifter had been living at the boardinghouse ever since he ended up in the backyard after escaping from Boss Marz’s fighting pit, months ago. Despite the fact he was a boarder, I was actually surprised to see him, as he now spent most of his time working at Dr. Mao’s apothecary and acupuncture parlor. Of course, the fact Lukas’ girlfriend, Meikei, was also the boss’s daughter might have had something to do with that.

“You’re not interrupting anything—yet,” Hexe replied. “What’s on your mind, Lukas?”

The young were-cat frowned and lowered his gaze to his scuffed Vans. “I owe you guys everything,” he said uneasily as he scratched at his sandy hair. “I mean, if it weren’t for you, I’d either be pit-fighting or dead right now. You know I consider you guys more my family than the one I was born to. . . .”

Hexe quietly motioned for me to get out of his lap. “Lukas—what are you trying to say?” He frowned.

The young bastet’s cheeks turned even redder. “I—I’m moving out.”

“What?” I yelped. “You’re not going back home, are you—?”

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.