“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 bo
ttom 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 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 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.
“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 Market—please 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 Arum’s name—please, no!” the candlemaker begged, lifting his hands in supplication.
But there was no point in pleading for mercy from Boss Marz—and none at all to be found from his familiar. With a squeal of delight, Bonzo leapt from his master’s shoulder and scampered along his outstretched arm, jumping from Marz’s 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-grinder’s 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 master’s 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 I’d 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.
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied. “You’d 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 don’t worry—I’m 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 aren’t 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 who’s 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, you’re the source of the magic.”
Bartho’s jaw dropped open like a drawbridge. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, how is that possible?”
“Because you’re 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. “I’m more interested in hearing how Bartho got himself all magical.”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure what’s happening, but it’s 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 will—it’s essentially the same thing a witch or warlock does when we work magic.”
“If that’s true, then why hasn’t 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 r
ecently ‘normal’ humans such as you and Tate have steered clear of Golgotham and similar enclaves,” Hexe sighed. “Of course, Goya and Dali don’t 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 aren’t double exposures,” Hexe replied matter-of-factly. “They’re ghosts.”
Bartho’s 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. “You’ve 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 you’ll be able to see them in the camera’s viewfinder. In time, you may even learn to communicate with your subjects.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Bartho yelped.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Hexe said reassuringly. “The vast majority of ghosts are perfectly nice people. They just happen to be dead, that’s all. However, should you see any with red eyes, run away as fast as you can.”
“That doesn’t sounds scary at all,” Bartho groaned. “So what do I do about these ghosts popping up in my pictures?”
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