“I understand,” Hexe rasped, clenching his jaw. “Go ahead and do it.”
Dr. Mao flipped open the lid of the lacquer box, revealing rows upon rows of golden acupuncture needles ranging from near-microscopic to something you could knit with. As he inserted the first of them into the fractured right hand, Hexe’s body jerked and bowed, as if undergoing electroshock, and then suddenly went limp.
“Don’t worry, he’s still alive. He’s just fainted, that’s all. It is better he not be awake for this, anyway,” the were-tiger explained. Seeing the worried look on my face, he gave me a reassuring smile. “You got him this far, Tate. Lukas and I will take him from here.”
I nodded dumbly and stepped away from the exam table, leaving Dr. Mao and his apprentice to their work. It tore me up inside that the man I loved was in agony, and there was sweet FA I could do about it. As I entered the apothecary, I saw Meikei at the counter, wearing a half-mask respirator as she vigorously pounded the contents of a pharmacist’s mortar with a pestle.
“If my father wants to know what’s taking so long,” she said in a muffled voice, “you can tell him that I’m working as fast as I can and to get off my back, Dad.”
“Actually, I just came out here to keep from being underfoot,” I admitted.
“You can help me make the pills, if you like,” she said, gesturing to a machine that looked like a cross between an old-fashioned meat grinder and a die press. I joined her behind the counter and took my place at the compounding bench. “The Chin Koo Tieh Shang Wan will reduce the swelling and soft tissue damage, and dull the pain,” she explained as she poured the powder from the mortar into the machine’s hopper.
I turned the crank on the side of the press. There was a slight resistance, but not too much, and a second later the mechanism popped out a yellowish aspirin-sized tablet, which dropped down a narrow slide and fell into a small steel basin. Relieved to be of assistance, no matter how slight, I turned the handle faster and the solitary tablet was followed by several more. Suddenly, in midcrank, my vision abruptly dimmed and flared, like a malfunctioning video monitor, and the next thing I knew I was lying on the floor, staring up at a startled Meikei.
“Are you okay?” she gasped as she tore off her mask.
“Wh—what happened?” I muttered, blinking in surprise.
Meikei knelt beside me, checking my pulse and inspecting my pupils. “One moment you were cranking the pill press, the next you stopped and sat down—except there wasn’t a chair.”
“I’m sorry if I freaked you out,” I said apologetically. “I guess everything just kind of caught up to me. . . .”
Meikei frowned and leaned in closer, sniffing me like a cat checking out a mouse hole. “Have you been nauseous lately?” she asked.
“Well, I have been feeling a bit queasy, here and there,” I admitted. “But I’ve been under a lot of stress at work. . . .”
“That’s not why you fainted,” she said with a shake of her head. “You are with child, Tate.”
I sat there for a long moment, my brain vibrating like a struck gong. I tried to figure out what Meikei must have really meant to say, because there was no way it was what I just thought I’d heard. Maybe she said I’d been beguiled, and in my dazed state I heard something altogether different. Surely it must have been a simple misunderstanding on my part.
“Tate? Did you hear what I just said?” Meikei asked, snapping her fingers to get my attention. “I said that you’re pregnant!”
“No, you’re wrong.” Even as I shook my head in denial, my mind was zipping around like a hummingbird on speed, finally making the connections I’d been steadfastly ignoring over the last month. “I mean, it’s impossible! I’ve been on the pill for years!”
“Human contraception is all very well and good,” Meikei said with a smile, “assuming your partner is also human.”
“Oh, crap,” I groaned as my last defense crumbled before me.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently, resting her hand on my shoulder.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “It’s going to take a little while for this to really sink in. Right now, I’ve got to think about Hexe.”
“Of course,” she said as she helped me back onto my feet. “I won’t say a thing.”
* * *
“There you are!” Dr. Mao said as Meikei and I returned with the pills. “I was beginning to wonder if you had fallen into a black hole.”
“There was a mechanical problem with the pill press,” Meikei fibbed, glancing in my direction. “Tate was able to fix it, though.”
“Ah, very good,” her father replied, returning his attention to the last of the needles. Hexe’s right hand bristled liked an angry golden porcupine.
“Where’s Tate?” he moaned, drifting in and out of consciousness.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered as I brushed the hair from his face. “I’m here.”
“Don’t let them take it,” Hexe rasped, his eyes rolling about in their sockets like greased ball bearings. “My hand—don’t let them take it.”
“Nobody’s going to take away your hand, Hexe,” Dr. Mao said in a loud, slow voice, as if speaking to a child on a bad phone line. “Take these—they will help with the pain.”
Hexe clumsily tossed down the offered tablets with his left hand and chased them with a sip of water. Within a minute of taking them, the knot in his jaw unclenched and the muscles in his face relaxed. With a relieved sigh, he lay back down and closed his eyes.
“That should give him some relief for the time being. Safflower is similar to opioids for Kymerans,” Mao explained. “Now that he’s sedated, I can splint his hand properly.”
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked anxiously.
Dr. Mao paused for a long moment before finally answering. “I’ve done everything in my power to help him, but there was a great deal of nerve damage. The hand, once splinted, should heal well enough. But I seriously doubt he will regain complete dexterity without the aid of magic.”
My heart sank like a lead anchor, threatening to pull me downward into despair, but my brain told the rest of me that turning into a blubbering ball of boohoo was not going to help anything or solve any problems. I stared down at Hexe’s unconscious face, still pale and drawn, and felt a surge of love so intense I almost forgot to breathe. We had been through more, in the relatively short time we’d been together, than most couples would ever face in a lifetime: escaping angry mobs, angrier demons, and crazed homunculi, all while saving one another’s lives thrice over. If we could survive all that, then we would overcome this as well.
Despite Dr. Mao’s grim diagnosis, I refused to give up hope. Golgotham was filled with wizards, witches, and miracle workers—somebody, somewhere, had to know how to fix that which could not be repaired.
Chapter 9
“Lukas will accompany you home,” Doc Mao said as he helped me load an extremely groggy Hexe into the livery carriage. “You will require assistance getting him upstairs.”
“That’s okay, Doc,” I replied. “I can handle him.”
The old were-tiger raised his unibrow in surprise. “Are you sure of that? Given your condition?” Dr. Mao chuckled as my eyes darted suspiciously at Meikei. “No, my daughter has not betrayed your confidence, my dear. However, I did not get to the age I am now without knowing a pregnant woman when I smell one,” he said, tapping the side of his nose.
As Lukas and I entered the front door, Hexe slung between us like a drunken sailor, we were greeted by Scratch, who was perched atop the newel post of the staircase like a living finial. “Finally! It’s about time you two came home!” the familiar yowled indignantly. “Beanie is about to explode! And if you think that I’m going to clean up after him . . .” He trailed off as he watched us guide Hexe toward the stairs, his hairless brow furrowed into a feline frown. “What’s wrong with the boss? Is he munted?”
“Yes, but not how you think,” I replied as we dragged Hexe upstairs and steered him into his room. Th
e carved owls atop the bedposts swiveled their heads about in concern as I propped a pillow under his splinted right hand. “Thanks for helping me, Lukas,” I said as I unlaced and removed Hexe’s high-tops before tucking him in. “I can handle it from here.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asked worriedly.
“I’ll be fine,” I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Go home and get some sleep. It’s been a long day for everybody.”
“Call me if you need anything,” he said as he gave me a farewell hug. “I’ll bike right over.”
Scratch jumped up onto the bed, nervously slapping his tail against the footboard as he watched me do my best to make Hexe comfortable. “What’s going on?” he growled.
“There was an accident,” I replied.
“What kind of accident?” Scratch scowled.
“It doesn’t matter,” I answered hastily, trying to dodge any further questioning. “It’s none of your business. . . .”
“‘None of my business’?” the familiar spat. “Hexe is my master! I have no business but him!” He cast back his head, sniffing the air as if on the trail of a rat hiding in the wainscoting. “What’s that smell?” He hopped onto the mattress, slowly creeping forward. As his twitching whiskers brushed against Hexe’s injured right hand, he recoiled in disgust. “Saint of the Pit!” he screeched. “Malleus Maleficarum—the witch-hammer!”
The familiar threw back his head and gave voice to a yowl that sounded like a band saw chewing its way through sheet metal. As he leapt off the bed he cast aside his domestic skin, revealing his demonic aspect—that of a hairless saber-toothed tiger with the wings of a dragon and the tail of a crocodile.
“Who has done this thing to my master?” Scratch roared, his outrage rattling the very walls and frightening poor Beanie so badly he peed himself in terror and dove under the bed skirt for protection.
“Calm down!” I shouted, clamping my hands over my ears.
“I’ll ‘calm down’ once I’ve torn the throat from whoever’s responsible for this affront!” the familiar snarled, his head nothing but blazing eyes and gleaming fang. The acerbic, wisecracking Scratch I thought I knew was nowhere to be seen, and in his place was a demon, born and bred in the pits of the Infernal Realm, transformed by anger into something truly terrifying. “Tell me who did this!” he thundered, slapping his tail against the floorboards so hard it shook the entire house.
“I can’t!” I replied, my voice quavering with fear.
Scratch roared again, his monstrous, curving fangs flashing like scimitars. “Tell me their name, nump!” he growled as he took a menacing step in my direction.
I stood there, momentarily paralyzed, like a frightened gazelle, before breaking free of my fear. I snatched up one of Hexe’s high-top Chucks and hurled it at Scratch’s head, striking him between the eyes.
“Bad kitty!”
The familiar blinked in surprise, completely taken aback. “Did—did you just throw a shoe at me?” he asked indignantly.
“Scratch! Stand down!”
Hexe was awake and sitting up in the bed, fixing his familiar with a disapproving scowl. Although he looked to be in a lot of pain, he seemed in full control of himself.
Scratch lowered his head, literally shrinking before my eyes as he reassumed his domestic form. “Forgive me, boss,” he said contritely. “I kinda lost it for a moment; you know how I get.”
“Yes, I do—but I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Hexe said sternly.
Scratch hopped back onto the foot of the mattress, staring down at his paws as he kneaded the bedclothes like a baker making biscuits. “Tate? I’m, uh, you know, uh, I’m, uh . . .”
“Sorry?” I suggested helpfully.
“Yeah! That’s the word,” he said, relieved that he hadn’t been forced to actually utter the phrase. “We good?”
“Yeah, we good,” I sighed, holding out my fist. The familiar bumped his forehead against it, his purr as loud as an idling tractor.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Scratch said, turning to look at his master, “are you going to tell me who got medieval on your hand? It was Marz, wasn’t it? He’s the only cack-hander in this town, now that Esau’s out of the picture, crazy enough to use Witchfinder implements. Just say the word, boss, and I’ll get rid of that thug and his fancy-dress baboon once and for all!”
“Absolutely not,” Hexe replied firmly.
“Look, I know you don’t believe in offensive strikes, but you can’t let Marz get away with this!”
“Even if I was prone to revenge, I still wouldn’t permit it,” Hexe said wearily. “I need you here, Scratch. You’re the only defense I have left. I know you’re powerful, but Marz has more than just his familiar backing him up. What if you attacked and lost?”
“Phfft!” Scratch snorted in derision. “Who? Me? Lose to that overgrown organ-grinder’s monkey? Don’t be ridiculous!”
“But what if you did lose, Scratch? What if you were slain? Not merely disincorporated—genuinely killed. Who would protect me then?”
“Your mother is no slouch in that arena,” Scratch replied. “And your dad has an entire police force at his disposal. . . .”
“And Marz has promised to kill everyone we know if we go to them for help—he went so far as to threaten Beanie.”
“Even he wouldn’t do something like that—would he?” Scratch gasped, his eyes widening in alarm at the thought of “his” pet being harmed.
“Now that you understand the position I’m in, please, stop tempting me with revenge.”
“But . . . but . . .” the familiar sputtered.
Hexe propped himself up a little straighter, fixing Scratch with a hard stare. “By whose blood are you bound?” he asked solemnly.
“Yours, my master,” Scratch replied, lowering his gaze.
“Whose will is your will?”
“Yours, my master,” the familiar said, bowing his head in ritual deference.
Hexe smiled and automatically reached out with his right hand to stroke the winged cat’s back, only to grimace in pain.
“Are you okay?” I asked nervously as I readjusted his pillows.
“I’ll be okay.” He smiled wanly. “I’m just . . . tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”
“Would you like some herbal tea?”
“Yes,” he replied, the strength that had been in his voice mere moments before fading like breath on a windowpane. “That would be nice.”
“Scratch, stay here with him, please.”
“It’ll take an exorcist to make me leave,” the familiar said, his eyes glowing like stoplights.
I made my way downstairs, Beanie scampering along behind me as if his tail was on fire. Upon reaching the kitchen, I was surprised to find our reclusive housemate, Mr. Manto, dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas and an old bathrobe, pouring hot water from the tea kettle into the steeping pot sitting on the table. I knew all too well that the aged clairvoyant rarely left his cavernous basement apartment save for buying cat food, as he preferred the company of his crew of feline friends and his vast collection of books to dealing with people who lived in the here and now.
“Mr. Manto! What are you doing topside?” I exclaimed as I opened the back door to let out Beanie, who sped out into the garden as if propelled from a crossbow.
The old oracle looked up from his task, peering at me over the tops of his bifocals. “I am here because I saw that I must be here,” he replied. “I am also making tea.” He placed his wrinkled, liver-spotted hand on my elbow, steering me gently to one of the kitchen chairs. “Please sit down, my dear, for a few moments.”
“But I need to bring Hexe his tea . . .” I protested feebly. I didn’t realize how tired I was until Mr. Manto made me sit down. The moment I did I was overcome by a bout of light-headedness identical to the one I’d experienced at Doc Mao’s. Up until that moment I had been propelled by nothing more than nervous energy and the fear that if I didn’t keep
in constant motion, I would grind to a halt like an unwound clockwork.
“And that you shall,” Mr. Manto said gently. “But first you must take care of yourself. You will do no one any good by fainting while carrying a loaded tray upstairs—especially your child.”
“So, you know about me being pregnant, too,” I sighed. “The way things are going, half of Golgotham is going to know about it before Hexe does.”
“I know about a great deal more than the child you carry,” the oracle replied. “Earlier this evening I decided to celebrate the Jubilee in my own way by imbibing a certain hallucinogen, which resulted in a vision. In it I saw Boss Marz maim Hexe with a witch-hammer. I assure you, had I known what the Maladanti planned prior to that, I would have warned him—but you, more than anyone, know that my prophecies are not the easiest to decipher, once spoken. I also saw Boss Marz threaten your loved ones, should you go for help—and I am honored to find myself amongst those endangered.”
“You said you’re here because you ‘must’ be here. What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“It is difficult to explain,” Mr. Manto replied as he poured a cup of tea from the steeping pot and pressed it into my hand. “Drink this—it will help steady you.”
“What’s difficult to explain?” I asked, giving him a speculative look over the rim of the teacup.
“The means by which I see the future. Sometimes it points straight as an arrow, but more often than not, the future is more like a spider’s web. Some threads are stronger than others, while others are weaker than most. They all shine, in their way, but those threads that are the strongest shine the brightest, marking destiny’s trail. But when all threads shine equally—that indicates a Crossroads where all futures are valid. No soothsayer can see beyond a Crossroads until the fated one makes their decision. You stand now, my dear, at one such Crossroads. Only your will, and no other, shall decide which thread will be cut, and which will be followed.”
“But how will I know what decision is the right one to make?”
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