Magic and Loss
( Golgotham - 3 )
Nancy A. Collins
Located on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, Golgotham has been the city’s supernatural district for centuries. Populated by creatures from myth and legend, the neighborhood’s most prominent citizens are the Kymera, a race of witches who maintain an uneasy truce with the city’s humans...
It has been several months since Tate Eresby developed her new magical ability to bring whatever she creates to life, but she is still learning to control her power. Struggling to make a living as an artist, she and Hexe can barely make ends meet, but they are happy.
That is until Golgotham’s criminal overlord Boss Marz is released from prison, bent on revenge against the couple responsible for putting him there. Hexe’s right hand is destroyed, leaving him unable to conjure his benign magic. Attempts to repair the hand only succeed in plunging Hexe into a darkness that can’t be lifted—even by news that Tate is carrying his child.
Now, with her pregnancy seeming to progress at an astonishing rate, Tate realizes that carrying a possible heir to the Kymeran throne will attract danger from all corners, even beyond the grave...
Magic and Loss
Golgotham - 3
by
Nancy A. Collins
For Judy Coppage, Golgotham’s Fairy Godmother
As you pass through the fire
your right hand waving
there are things you have to throw out
That caustic dread inside your head
will never help you out
—“Magic and Loss,” Lou Reed
Chapter 1
I awoke, as usual, to the sound of the alarm clock, the smell of bacon, and the sight of a winged hairless cat curled up beside me. I yawned and stretched as I swung my feet out of bed, glancing at the darkness outside my window. Still yawning, I made my way to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, I returned to find the previously mentioned butt-naked bat-winged feline sprawled full-length across the bed like a bolster.
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” I chided the familiar as I put on my work clothes.
“You lose, I snooze,” Scratch replied, eyes still shut.
As I headed downstairs, the aroma of breakfast grew stronger. I entered the kitchen and saw Hexe, my landlord and lover—and, oh yeah, heir to the Kymeran throne—standing in front of the antique stove, dressed in nothing but a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and an apron that said KISS THE COOK. He was frantically shaking a couple of cast-iron skillets, while our Boston terrier, Beanie, sat planted at his feet, intently watching every move, just in case an errant molecule of food might find its way to the floor.
I obeyed the apron and planted a big old sloppy smooch on my six-fingered cook. I glanced down at the stove top and saw that one pan contained yummy, yummy bacon and scrambled eggs, while the other held a grayish slice of what could charitably be described as pâté frying in a half-inch of grease.
“What’s that?” I asked, cautiously eyeing the slab of mystery meat. One of the first things I had learned upon moving to Golgotham was that Kymerans had a far more, ahem, adventuresome palate than that of the average human, and exhibited a fondness for foods that would make even the most daring gastronome think twice. I took it as a testament of Hexe’s love for me that he was willing to make a traditional “human” breakfast every morning and send me off to work with a neatly packed lunch pail that didn’t contain such Kymeran staples as lutefisk sandwiches and white fungus soda.
“It’s scrapple,” he explained cheerfully, tossing a lock of purple hair out of his eyes with a practiced toss of his head. “It’s made from hog offal—the heart, snouts, liver, that kind of stuff—mixed with cornmeal and seasonings. Want some? It’s really good with maple syrup, ketchup, and horseradish.”
“That’s okay, honey,” I replied, pushing aside the flutter in my stomach. “Some other time, perhaps. I think I’ll stick to my usual this morning.”
“You got it!” Hexe grinned as he snatched the other skillet off the burner and slid its contents onto a waiting plate. “Your coffee’s already on the table.”
“You really spoil me,” I said with a laugh as I sat down. “None of my other boyfriends ever made breakfast for me, much less every day.”
“That’s because your other boyfriends sucked,” he replied as he flipped over the square of scrapple.
“True, that,” I agreed as I nibbled on my bacon—crisp as always, just the way I like it.
“Besides, it’s only right that I make your breakfast and fix your lunch. After all, you’re the one bringing home the steady paycheck.”
“You lift curses and concoct potions for your clients,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but I’m self-employed. I never know what I might make on any given day. You’re the one putting in ten hours a day, six days a week, to support us.”
“Speaking of which, I better get going,” I said, washing down my last bite of scrambled eggs with a slug of French roast and chicory. “If I’m not punched in by seven, Canterbury will be champing at his bit.”
“What time do you think you’ll be home?” Hexe asked as he handed me my lunch pail.
“Hard to say,” I replied with a sigh. “The deadline for that installation we’ve been working on is coming up fast, and we’re nowhere near finished yet. What about you? Do you have any clients lined up for today?”
“Just some salves and ointments, that’s all. Oh, that reminds me—here’s that liniment Canterbury asked me to mix up for him,” he said, handing me a bottle wrapped in twine and butcher paper. “Tell him to keep it below the waist, if he knows what’s good for him.”
As I stepped out onto the front stoop Hexe gave me my usual off-to-work kiss, a public display of affection guaranteed to scandalize the Blue Hairs, and I don’t just mean old Madam Yaya, who lived across the street. The traditional Aristocrat class of Kymeran society, the same ones who were far from pleased by the fact Hexe’s biological father was a member of the Servitor class, had made no secret that they disapproved of their Heir Apparent taking up with a—gasp!—human, even one with magical powers.
The dawn’s first blush was lightening the morning sky as I made my way through Golgotham’s winding cobblestone streets, passing shopkeepers cranking out the awnings above their stores in anticipation of another day of business. I shook my head, thinking about how many times I had witnessed such early-morning rituals while staggering home to bed after a night on the town. A year ago if anyone had told me that I would find myself romanced by a Kymeran warlock prince, disowned by my parents, and working a blue-collar job to pay the bills, I’d have laughed in his face. But here I am, knee-deep in love and gainfully employed—all for the very first time.
When I came to this ancient, exotic part of the city, all I was looking for was cheap rent and someplace where I could bang away on my metal sculptures without my neighbors trying to evict me. And, to be honest, I also sought out Golgotham because I knew my douche bag of an ex would be too chickenshit to follow me. At the time, I was on the verge of making a real name for myself, with an established gallery opening in my pocket. . . .
But there’s no point in dwelling on that. What’s done is done, and I wouldn’t change what happened, even if it were within my power to do so. My dreams of breaking onto the New York art scene might be delayed, but for the first time in my life I truly felt like I was where I belonged—although there are those who would argue that point.
There is no denying that my decision to move to Golgotham had repercussions. Many consider me responsible for establishing a beachhead for the recent influx of human artists and hipsters who have made the neighborhood the newest hot spot in the city. But then, Golgotham has changed
me, as well—as evidenced by my recently acquired ability to bring the things I build to life. I don’t know whether my relocating to Golgotham awakened a latent power within me, but there’s no denying that I’ve got magic now. Who’s to say where it came from? For all I know I caught it from a toilet seat.
My daily walk to work was just long enough to qualify as exercise, and helped me clear my mind and organize my thoughts for the day ahead. However, as I strolled past the local newsstand, I made the mistake of glancing at the headline of that morning’s Golgotham Gazette: MACHEN ARMS SOLD TO CHECKMATE PROPERTIES.
Great. Just freaking wonderful. Things had finally calmed down after the race riots and the Sons of Adam panic, and now this. Golgothamites were worried enough about gentrification without Ronald Chess, the most rapacious real estate developer in the Triboroughs, snapping up an apartment building. This was exactly the kind of thing Hexe’s race-baiting uncle, with his Kymeran Unification Party separatist group, used to whip up fear and resentment against humans.
The KUP had fallen idle since Esau’s mysterious disappearance several months ago, which also coincided with the Sons of Adam’s suddenly going to ground. It wasn’t really that big a coinkydink that Esau and the SOA happened to fall off the face of the earth at the exact same time, since the necromancer was actually the one controlling the human supremacists from behind the scenes, having gone so far as to create them via alchemy. The last I saw of dear old Uncle Esau, he was being dragged to hell—or at least the Infernal Regions—by the very same demon he had summoned forth to kill me. And while the hateful old bastard was no longer around to stir up trouble, that didn’t mean there still wasn’t plenty of it to go around.
I sighed and tried to push my worries aside. Canterbury and I had a lot of work ahead of us, and fretting about something I had no control over or say in wasn’t going to help us meet our deadline. Canterbury had been paid half the commission up front, and promised the rest upon delivery. Needless to say, the financial well-being of Canterbury Customs hinged on finishing the installation on time.
I would have to say that outside of falling in love and acquiring magical powers, joining the workforce has been the biggest change to my life since moving to Golgotham. After I refused to give up Hexe and move back in with my parents, I found myself cut off from my trust fund. No doubt my parents hoped I would wither up like a worm on a hot sidewalk. However, all it did was make me even more determined to stay put.
For the first time in my life I was living without a safety net, just like most Americans my age. Luckily I had a skilled trade to fall back on—in my case, welding and metalworking. I was also lucky that Hexe’s childhood friend Kidron was willing to put in a good word for me at Chiron Livery.
I’m not going to lie—banging out horseshoes on an anvil is hard, dirty work. After my first week, my arms were so sore I could barely lift them over my head and my left thumb was the size and color of a plum. But, instead of quitting, I took my first pay voucher and settled that month’s grocery bill. After six weeks, I was arm wrestling my coworkers on the line and no longer hitting my thumb on a regular basis. As much.
However, I will admit to being bored with the assembly line nature of the work and bummed there was no outlet for creative expression. But what bothered me the most was that by the time I got home, I was normally too tired to focus on my art.
Then, two months into my job as a blacksmith, I was approached by Canterbury and offered a job as a striker—essentially working as his apprentice. I jumped at the opportunity, as he was not only a well-regarded Master Smith but also a ferromancer.
One of the biggest misconceptions humans have when it comes to magic is that it’s like water from a tap, with the only difference being whether it’s hot or cold. The truth is, there are as many different variants of magic as there are specialties in medicine. For example, weather witches summon storms; pyromancers control fire; necromancers work dark magic using the bodies of the dead; and ferromancers shape and control metal.
While centaurs normally are without magic, Canterbury was quite literally a horse of different color, courtesy of a Kymeran father. While he could be a bit of a taskmaster at times, we got along very well together and I had become quite fond of him. In many ways he reminded me of my old art instructor at Wellesley, Professor Stobaugh, who had been the first to suggest I focus on metalwork rather than on the more traditional clay and stone.
Unlike the other businesses along Horsecart Street, Canterbury Customs did not have a proper storefront. Instead, it was located in Fetlock Mews, a dead-end alleyway situated between Perdition Street and Shoemaker Lane. The mews was lined with two-story stables that served as both places of business and homes for various centaurian farriers, wainwrights, and saddlers. Although Chiron Livery churned out most of the horseshoes used by the centaur and ipotane communities, there was still plenty of commercial business for those who catered to Golgotham’s carriage trade.
As I walked onto the shop floor, I saw my boss and mentor inspecting the armature for the wings of the clockwork dragon that took up half the workspace. The scale-model saurian was scattered about—a head here, a leg there, another leg somewhere else—like a classic car undergoing restoration. But in this case we were trying to rebuild a model that had not been seen on the road—or the skies—for over a thousand years.
Canterbury wore a leather blacksmith’s apron over his upper torso, as well as safety goggles, and kept his chartreuse mane short and tail bobbed for fear of flying sparks from his forge. Although he had the power to shape metal without the use of tools, he also utilized traditional fabrication methods as well, in order to conserve energy. After all, magic can be exhausting work, even for someone with the constitution of a horse.
“Morning, boss. Here’s that liniment you wanted,” I said, tossing him the bottle. “Hexe says to keep it off your Kymeran bits.”
“Understood,” Canterbury replied, catching the package with a six-fingered hand. “And don’t forget to punch in.”
I nodded my understanding and plucked my card from its slot on the “out” board of the antique time clock hanging on the wall and slipped it inside the slot in its face, accompanied by a loud “clunk,” then dutifully placed it in a slot on the “in” side of the board. It seemed a lot of trouble for a single employee, but Canterbury was a stickler for punctuality.
“Do you think we’ll make the deadline for the museum?” I asked as I opened my work locker and removed my safety gear.
“There’s no ‘thinking’—I know we’ll make deadline,” he replied. “We have to. I promised the Curator it would be ready in time for the Jubilee. I’ve got a lot riding on this piece.”
“What part of it are we working on today?”
“The right foreleg,” he replied, picking up the bar of steel sitting on the workbench in front of him as if it weighed no more than a two-by-four.
I watched in mute admiration as Canterbury stroked the metal as if it were a kitten, causing it to instantly soften beneath his touch. He then reworked it, like a potter at his wheel, with nothing more than his hands, teasing it into a new shape. Within minutes what had once been a simple steel bar was now the shin bone of a dragon.
Canterbury stepped aside, so I could pick up the piece with a pair of tongs and quench it in the nearby water bath. Although he had used his bare hands to shape the steel, the finished piece was as hot as if it had just been pulled from the heat of a forge. There was a mighty hiss and a plume of steam arose from the converted horse trough, as if the dragon we were assembling piecemeal was trying to communicate with us.
Once the tibia was properly tempered, I would then fit it into the articulated knee joint and weld it into place. After that we would construct the ankle and move on to the foot. In many ways, what I was doing with Canterbury was no different from what I had done creating my “action figures,” save that instead of scrounging salvage yards for found metal, I was working with a living machine shop who could literally fabri
cate any necessary part by hand.
“What about the skin for this thing?” I asked, as I pulled on my welding gloves. “It doesn’t seem right to send him out into the world with all his cogs and gears hanging out.”
“I asked the Curator about that. She said the museum would be providing an actual shed.”
I wasn’t surprised that they had a dragon skin that had lasted so long. Hexe’s mother had a suit of armor made from the same thing standing in her foyer. That shit’s hardcore. We continued to labor over the clockwork dragon for the rest of the morning, until Canterbury signaled it was time for lunch.
As I retrieved my lunch pail from my locker, a tall, good-looking man with blond hair entered the workshop unannounced. He was dressed in a full-length mink pimp-coat, an open-necked velour shirt, and a pair of extremely tight pants cinched by a thick, buff-colored suede belt. It wasn’t until the belt unknotted itself from about his waist and dropped to the floor, switching back and forth like the tail of a cat, that I recognized the visitor as Bjorn Cowpen, the leader of Golgotham’s huldrefolk, a council member of the GoBOO, and owner of several adult entertainment establishments located on Duivel Street.
“Good afternoon, Councilman,” Canterbury said, bobbing his head in ritual greeting. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’m in the market for a new carriage, Master Canterbury. Something suitably upscale, of course. Chiron tells me you’re the best in Golgotham.”
“Lord Chiron is most kind,” the centaur replied, “but not inaccurate. There is nothing my apprentice and I can not fabricate.”
The huldu turned to look at me as I sat at my workbench eating my lunch. “You have a female apprentice?” he asked, raising a dubious eyebrow. “And human, at that?”
My cheeks flushed as I bit into the sandwich, vigorously chewing in order to keep myself from saying something that might cost Canterbury Customs a sale.
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