Magic and Loss g-3

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Yes, thank you,” Hexe mumbled, his cheeks turning an even brighter shade of red.

  After the waiter left with his plate, I learned forward, keenly aware that we were being watched by the other diners. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I said sotto voce.

  “I said I’m fine,” Hexe insisted as he picked up his pint of barley wine, only to slosh a good portion of it onto his shirtfront. “Heavens and hells!” he snarled, slopping even more out of the glass as he slammed it back down.

  I looked away as he attempted to blot the dark, sticky fluid from his clothes with his napkin, afraid of what he might see in my eyes. Hexe was the most graceful man I had ever known; watching him fumble with silverware and spill his drink was absolutely heartbreaking. All I wanted at that moment was to somehow find a way of taking his burden onto myself, so that he did not have to suffer alone. My frustration at being unable to do so was so great it threatened to push me into despair.

  “Excuse me, Serenity. . . .”

  An unfamiliar Kymeran woman in her early thirties with slate-blue hair and intense, gray eyes was standing beside our table. I had not seen her approach, nor had I noticed her earlier in the dining room, but she must have been there, all the same.

  “I could not help but notice the . . . difficulty you are undergoing,” she said with a discreet nod to Hexe’s splinted hand. “Please allow me to introduce myself: I am Erys. I am a glover, by trade. And I believe I have an item in my inventory that would be of immense service to you.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not in the market for magic gloves, Madam Erys,” Hexe said with a wan smile.

  “Not even the Gauntlet of Nydd?” she countered, her pale gray eyes gleaming like pieces of tin in the muted light of the dining room.

  Hexe paused for a long moment, like a fish contemplating the bait on the end of a hook, before shaking his head. “I appreciate your offer, but the splint is merely a temporary inconvenience,” he explained. “I’ll be as good as new in just a few days.”

  “Of course, Serenity,” Erys replied, with a bow of her head. “But in case you should change your mind—feel free to come by my shop.” She snapped her fingers, and a business card materialized from nowhere.

  “Thank you for your concern, Madam Erys,” Hexe said politely as he accepted the proffered card.

  Erys nodded her head and turned to go, but not before flashing me a sidelong glance harsh enough to peel paint. Although I had become somewhat inured to the casual misanthropy of most Kymerans, I was momentarily shaken by the unalloyed revulsion in the other woman’s pale eyes.

  “Ugh!” I whispered, once she was out of earshot. “That woman gives me the creeps! And magic gloves? Is she for real?”

  “There’s always a market for enchanted clothing,” Hexe replied with a shrug. “Seven league boots, cloaks of invisibility, ruby slippers, that sort of thing. Most of the shops are over on Shoemaker Lane.”

  “So who’s this Nydd guy? And why would you want his gauntlet?”

  “He was a lieutenant in the Dragon Calvary during the Sufferance,” Hexe replied, staring down at his damaged hand. “He was also the son of General Vlad. When Nydd’s right hand was badly maimed in a skirmish with Witchfinders, his father created a special gauntlet that enabled him to use his hand again.”

  “That sounds like something you could definitely use right now.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But I seriously doubt she has the genuine article in her possession. The Gauntlet of Nydd disappeared during the Dragon War, and the spell that created it died with General Vlad.”

  “How does something like that get lost, anyway?”

  “Vlad cut it off Nydd’s hand when he refused to go to war against his uncle, the Witch King,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  We finished our dinner and returned home, although Hexe was far less talkative than usual. I could tell by the furrow in his brow that he was mulling over Madam Erys’ words. The preoccupied look in his eyes was still there as we undressed for bed.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Hexe said as I straddled him.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls you knock up,” I grinned, removing my bra. I tossed it at the owl atop the nearest bedpost, covering its unblinking eyes with a C-cup.

  “I have, so far,” he chuckled. Out of reflex, he reached up to cup my breasts, only to have his face go white with pain.

  “Do you need your pills?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he grunted, cradling his wounded hand against his chest as he rode out the wave of agony.

  I hopped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom, returning with a glass of water, which Hexe gratefully accepted as he choked down more of Dr. Mao’s pills. After a minute or so the muscles in his face began to relax.

  “I’m sorry, Tate,” he said, his words already beginning to slur. “But I don’t think I’m going to be of much use tonight.”

  “It’s okay, baby,” I said, lying down beside him. “We can cuddle; I don’t mind.”

  But by the time I pulled the bedclothes over us, his eyes were already closed. I lay there for a long time, watching him sleep. He mumbled a couple of things under his breath, and from the way his body twitched against mine, I could tell his dreams were troubled. I glanced up at the bedposts. The owls looked worried.

  * * *

  “I’m so happy for you, Tate!” Vanessa was finally able to articulate, after an initial squeal of excitement so loud I had to hold the cell phone a foot from my ear. “You two are going to make kick-ass parents! I am going to throw you one awesome baby shower! Ooh! Can I be the godmother—assuming you don’t already have an actual fairy lined up for the job?”

  “Of course you’re going to be the godmother, Nessie!” I laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of appointing anyone else!”

  “Speaking of mothers—have you told Mrs. E the big news yet?”

  “You’re the first person, outside of Hexe, I’ve notified. We haven’t even talked to his mother, yet, much less mine.”

  “Yeah, but you really ought to let your folks know, Tate. I know they’re horrible and everything, but becoming grandparents will turn their brains to mush,” Vanessa pointed out helpfully. “You would not believe what my mother is willing to agree to just to have access to my brother’s kid! And my dad! He actually stuffs twenty dollar bills in the brat’s rompers! I swear, it’s like someone stole my parents and replaced them with lobotomized doppelgangers.”

  “Yeah, but your brother didn’t marry a witch,” I replied.

  “That’s what you think!”

  “I’m not going to lie—we could really use some outside financial help right now,” I admitted as I dug the keys to the boardinghouse out of my pocket. “But I’m not breaking down and calling my parents. They’re the ones who demanded that I give up Hexe, and then cut off my trust fund when I refused. If they want to be a part of their grandchild’s life, it’s up to them to make the first move, not me.”

  Before I could unlock the front door I heard a woman’s voice from inside the house angrily shouting, “Look at me! Look! At! Me!”

  “Uh, Nessie, I’m going to have to get back to you later,” I said as I quickly cut off the call. Upon opening the door I saw Hexe desperately trying to block the path of a statuesque woman with auburn hair. I knew from her height, bone structure, and anorexia that she was a model of some sort, although it was difficult to tell if she was anyone famous or not, due to the luxurious full beard and mustache that covered the lower half of her face.

  “I am dreadfully sorry, Ms. Pasternak,” Hexe said in all earnestness. “I must have miscalculated one of the ingredients in the exfoliant I prepared for you. All I have to do is formulate a new batch, that’s all. . . .”

  “It’s bad enough I woke up this morning with a handlebar mustache! I did not pay you good money so I could go to bed looking like the bearded lady at the freak show!” Ms. Pasternak exclaimed indignantly.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Hexe said, using his best
client-whisperer voice as he struggled to defuse the situation. “Now, if you would just give me some time, I’m sure I’ll be able to reverse the condition. . . .”

  “How much time?” Ms. Pasternak frowned as she stroked her bearded chin.

  “An hour, perhaps—certainly no more than two . . .”

  “I don’t have that kind of time to waste hanging around waiting to see if you might be able to reverse this . . . this . . .”

  “Hypertrichosis,” Hexe supplied helpfully.

  “I don’t care what you call it. I want it gone!” she snapped, grabbing a handful of beard in illustration. “And I want it gone now! I came here because I was told you were the best curse-lifter in Golgotham! I’ve got an important fashion shoot tomorrow; I can’t show up looking like I belong on a box of cough drops!”

  “As I said, I simply need to reformulate the lotion and reapply it to your face. . . .”

  “If you think I’m going to let you put more of that stuff on me again, you’re out of your mind!” the hirsute Ms. Pasternak exclaimed. “I’m getting out of here before I end up like Rip Van Winkle! Now give me back my money!”

  “But Ms. Pasternak, if you would just give me another chance—!”

  “I’d rather take my chances in the Rookery, if it’s all the same to you,” the bearded fashion model said sternly, thrusting forth a perfectly manicured hand. “I demand a refund, or do I have to call the cops—or whatever the hell you people call them in this godforsaken ghetto of yours?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said glumly. Hexe stuck his left hand in his pocket, reluctantly withdrawing five crisp hundred dollar bills. “Here’s your money.”

  Ms. Pasternak snatched the cash back, tucking it into whatever cleavage lurked behind her whiskers. “Just be glad I didn’t ask for damages as well!” she snapped. As she headed for the door, she paused to give me a warning glance. “I wouldn’t waste your money on him if I were you, sister. The guy’s a charlatan!”

  After the front door slammed behind his disgruntled former client, Hexe silently strode out of the parlor and headed for his office. A second later he returned with Madam Erys’ business card.

  “C’mon,” he said in a clipped voice. “Let’s go try on some gloves.”

  Chapter 12

  Shoemaker Lane had, at one time, been the home of the leprechaun cobblers who make footwear for Kymerans and other hard-to-fit customers. They also had a thriving side business selling charmed boots and shoes to humans. Although there were still quite a few signs shaped like oversized boots visible along the street, most of the Wee Folk had relocated eastward to Ferry Street, allowing other tradesmen to take their place.

  I paused outside one of the remaining enchanted cobbler shops and stared at a dazzling array of gleaming glass slippers. Each pair had a little sign with a brief description of its particular charm to potential buyers, such as “makes you irresistible,” “world-class ballroom dancer,” or “beautiful until midnight.” Of course, you might have to cut off a toe or two to get them to fit, but then, all fashion has its price.

  “Come on,” Hexe said, giving my arm a tug. “You can window-shop later.” He continued down the street, checking the address on the business card with the house numbers over the shops. After passing a tailor specializing in cloaks of invisibility and a millinery selling thinking caps, he came to a stop in front of a wooden trade sign in the shape of a six-fingered hand. Perched atop it was a large raven, preening its shiny black feathers with its ebon beak. As we approached the storefront, it cawed noisily and took to the air.

  In the window of the shop were a number of mannequin hands posed in a variety of spell configurations, both left-and-right handed, each sheathed in a glove of some kind. Some of the gloves looked fairly ordinary, but the display also included one made from spiderwebs and another that looked like it was fashioned from pieced together bits of a broken mirror.

  The bell over the shop door tinkled discreetly as we entered. The atmosphere inside the shop was strangely close and smelled faintly of dust, like a rarely used storage locker. The back of the shop was curtained off from the sales floor, which featured a long glass display counter, behind which stood a cabinet full of small, narrow drawers that took up the entire wall. An antique cash register, the kind with elaborate scrollwork and amount flags instead of digital readouts, sat unattended on the counter. A pair of white, full-length silk opera gloves were casually draped over the edge of the counter like the shed skins of twin albino pythons.

  Hexe stepped forward, looking about the otherwise empty store. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  The curtain at the back of the shop twitched aside and Erys emerged, moving with slightly overly deliberate movements, like an actress playing a part onstage. “Ah! Serenity! Welcome to my humble establishment! You honor me greatly!” She smiled. “I take it you’ve changed your mind since last we spoke?”

  “Let’s just say you’ve piqued my interest,” Hexe replied. “How long have you been keeping shop on Shoemaker Lane, Madam Erys?”

  “I am a relative newcomer to Golgotham,” she explained. “I only recently relocated my business from the Faubourg Cauchemar.”

  “Is there that much of a demand for magic gloves nowadays?” I asked, staring at the wall-sized cabinets in disbelief.

  Madam Erys’ pale gray eyes flickered toward me in thinly veiled distaste. Away from the aromas of the Calf’s dining room, I was finally able to get a good whiff of her scent. She smelled strongly of dill and sulfured molasses—two scents that were, in and of themselves, pleasant enough, but, when combined, seemed unnatural.

  “Should a customer wish to be a classical pianist, or a virtuoso violinist, I can make them the next Rachmaninoff or Isaac Stern with a pair of silk concert gloves,” she replied stiffly. “Or should they desire to win at the crap tables, I have a pair of special kid gloves that will ensure they’ll never roll snake eyes again. I also have an outfielder’s mitt guaranteed to attract baseballs like a magnet. Anything that can be done by hand, can be enhanced by my merchandise.” She turned to Hexe, flashing him an obsequious smile. “Allow me to show you the gauntlet. Once you inspect it, you’ll see it is, indeed, the genuine article.” Madam Erys pulled one of the drawers from its cubby hole, like a banker removing a safety deposit box, and placed it atop the counter. The interior of the drawer was lined in velvet and contained a solitary chain-mail glove that shimmered in the dusty light of the shop like a jeweled fish still wet from the sea.

  It didn’t look forged as much as woven from silver filigree. The palm and knuckle-bridge were protected by a metal cuff of white gold and engraved with the sinuous form of a dragon, while the tips of each digit—all six of them—were capped in platinum and inset with pieces of polished jade to give the semblance of fingernails. It was, without a doubt, the most breathtakingly beautiful item of clothing I’d ever seen in my life.

  Hexe removed a small scrying stone from his pocket and passed it back and forth over the gauntlet like a magnifying glass. “It does appear to be Vlad’s spellwork,” he mused aloud. “I recognize his signature from the family archives.” He studied it for a long moment, the glittering silver skin reflected in his golden eyes. “How much do you want?” he asked.

  “Are you nuts?” I whispered. “There’s no way we can afford that thing, even if I wasn’t cut off from the family fortune!”

  Hexe gave me a tiny shake of the head and put a finger to his lips, his signal for let me handle this. I grudgingly fell silent.

  “I would rather not bring something so vulgar as money into this,” Madam Erys replied carefully. “As a loyal Kymeran, it is my honor, nay, my duty to offer such an artifact to you, Serenity.”

  “You humble me with your generosity, Madam Erys,” Hexe said, with a ritual bow of his head. “But surely there is something I can offer in return?”

  “A royal warrant of appointment would be most appreciated, Serenity. As you can see, my business is not what it could be,” she sa
id, gesturing to the dust gathering in the corners of the shop. “There are still those in Golgotham, and elsewhere, who put great stock in where members of the Royal Family receive their goods, especially the Heir Apparent.”

  “Consider it done, Madam Erys,” Hexe replied. “But I only accept your kind offer on condition that it is merely a loan. As soon as I no longer require the use of the gauntlet, I will return it to you, with my sincerest thanks.”

  “Of course, Serenity,” Erys smiled, bowing her head. “However, I must warn you that in order for you to wield the Gauntlet of Nydd, it must be bonded to your nervous system.”

  “Ah. I see,” Hexe said, the smile falling away from his face. He pushed the gauntlet’s display case back toward the glover. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave it in your care until I can afford such elective surgery.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Serenity,” Madam Erys said quickly. “I know a psychic surgeon who owes me a favor. I’m certain he’ll quote you a reasonable price.”

  “How soon would he be able to do the work?”

  Madam Erys reached into her décolletage and removed a heart-shaped locket-watch on a golden chain. “If we hurry, he should be able to squeeze you in today.”

  * * *

  “I thought you said we were going to your doctor-friend’s office?” Hexe frowned.

  “I didn’t say he was my friend,” Erys replied a bit sharply. “Just that he owed me a favor. Besides, he conducts most of his business from here.”

  As it turned out, “here,” as Madam Erys so put it, was none other than the Stagger Inn, one of the lowest of Golgotham’s low taverns. It was not the kind of establishment one would expect a respectable psychic surgeon to be hanging out in during office hours. However, if you were looking for cheap intoxicants and a knife fight, you’d definitely come to the right place.

  “I don’t like this at all,” I whispered. “And I really don’t like her. Something’s screwy about all this. Can’t we just forget about this gauntlet thing and go back home, please?”