“You might as well worry about what would have happened if President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, instead of San Francisco,” I countered. “Or what if Christianity and Islam had gone to war with one another, instead of uniting to fight the Unholy War? What’s the point of brooding about things that never happened? All you get is a bunch of what-ifs that don’t add up to anything real. You can’t change the fact your father wasn’t around when you were a kid. But you can take advantage of the fact he’s around now. Just like you can’t change what happened to Jake, but you can make sure our child will never be treated in such a manner.”
Hexe laughed and pulled me into his arms. “You’re as smart as you are sexy, you know that? Why don’t you put on your cutest new maternity clothes? I might not be able to take you out on a shopping spree at Bergdorf’s, but I think I can swing a night out at the Calf. Hey, maybe if we tell Lafo we’re expecting, he’ll throw in dessert!”
* * *
The clientele at the Calf that night was what Hexe called “the new normal”: a sixty-forty mix of Golgothamites and humans, both sides skewing young, as most of the older, more conservative clientele had decamped to far less human-friendly establishments, such as Blarney’s and Steppenwolf’s, or stopped by only for lunch.
As we made our way through the crowded pub toward the dining room, I spotted an all-too-familiar figure with curly, peach-colored hair ahead of us. I instinctively grabbed Hexe’s arm in fear.
“That’s Marz’s croggy, Gaza,” I whispered.
“I recognize him,” he said darkly.
“He’s the one who fireballed the Big Top Club. What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Hexe replied as he watched the Maladanti disappear into the ground-floor kitchen. “But I intend to find out.”
We changed course and made a beeline toward the swinging double doors. Hexe pushed one of them open just enough to peer inside without being noticed. I had expected the kitchen of the Two-Headed Calf to be a large, noisy place full of sizzling flattops, flaming grills, rack ovens, and stainless-steel prep stations, crammed full of loudly cursing sous chefs, cooks, sauciers, and dishwashers. However, to my surprise, the only person in the entire kitchen was Lafo, who stood before a huge antique stove dressed in his cook’s apron, stirring one of a dozen simmering copper vessels shaped like cornucopia arrayed atop the numerous burners. I had always assumed he was joking whenever he called himself chief cook, bartender, and head bottle washer, but apparently he was simply telling the truth.
Outside of the total absence of other cooks, the kitchen seemed otherwise normal, with coils of handmade sausage and hams hanging from racks suspended from the ceiling, and a wheel of cheese large enough to roll a wagon sitting on one of the counters.
Gaza strolled up behind Lafo as if he had every right to be there and announced himself by saying, “I gotta admit, this joint has the best owl soup in Golgotham.”
“What are you doing in my kitchen, Gaza?” Lafo growled, turning away from his pots to glower at the intruder.
“You’re in arrears on your protection money, Lafo,” the Maladanti replied tersely. “Boss Marz told me to come collect what’s due him.”
“Did he also tell you to pull my foot out of your ass?” Lafo snarled. “Because that’s totally happening next if you don’t get out of here! And you can tell Marz I’m not coughing up another cent.”
“I’d watch what I say if I were you, kitchen-witch,” Gaza glowered, raising his left hand in a menacing gesture. “It’d be a real shame if this place suddenly caught fire so soon after being renovated. . . .”
“That’s all I’m taking from you!” Lafo exclaimed, tossing aside his apron. “I’m not going to stand here and be threatened by a jackal in a bad suit!”
Before Lafo could make another move, Gaza made a snapping motion with his hand, freezing the business owner in his tracks. “Oh, but you are going to stand there, kitchen-witch,” Marz’s croggy sneered as he stepped forward. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the Witchfinder finger-cutter and held it up before Lafo’s temporarily paralyzed face, so that he could see it. He then slid it onto the magic finger of his victim’s right hand in a grotesque parody of a wedding vow. “Let’s find out how your customers like eating here once you’re no longer able to charm the pots and pans. . . .”
“Get away from him!” Hexe shouted, pushing open the kitchen doors hard enough to make them bang into the walls.
The fireball was already in Gaza’s left hand as he spun around, hurling the deadly missile like a southpaw pitcher tossing a knuckleball. Instead of moving his right hand in a defensive counterspell, Hexe caught the roiling ball of hellfire and held it in the palm of the gauntlet. He looked down at the mass of supernatural flame then back up at his attacker, and then, with the tiniest of smiles, he closed his mailed hand into a fist, snuffing out the fireball as if it were nothing more than a candlewick.
Hexe gestured again with his right hand and one of the coils of sausage hanging from the kitchen racks over Gaza’s head suddenly wrapped itself around the Maladanti’s throat like a python and yanked him off his feet. I hurried past the struggling goon and snatched the finger-cutter from Lafo’s hand, as the restaurateur was still trapped by Gaza’s paralysis spell.
“I’ve got it!” I exclaimed, holding up the torture instrument so Hexe could see it. But if he heard me, he showed no sign of it; the look on his face was both angry and distant at the same time. He moved his right hand a quarter turn, and the meaty garrote about Gaza’s neck tightened even further. The Maladanti’s eyes started from his head and his tongue protruded from his mouth as he fought to suck air into his constricted windpipe.
I grabbed Hexe by the shoulder and shook him as hard as I could. “Stop it!” I shouted. “You’re killing him!”
The look of horror on Hexe’s face as he emerged from his weird trance was identical to that of a sleepwalker who has awakened to find himself standing on a precipice. The noose about the Maladanti’s neck went slack, dropping him onto the floor. Gaza staggered to his feet, massaging his bruised trachea.
“I’d get out of here if I was you, buddy,” I told the dazed goon, who promptly dashed out the swinging doors, but not before casting a scalding parting glance in Hexe’s direction. Normally, I would have put a call in to the PTU, but fear of Boss Marz making good on his threat against our friends and families kept me from doing so.
A couple of seconds later Lafo snapped back to life, freed from the Maladanti’s spell. The first thing out of the restaurateur’s mouth was a stream of Kymeran which, even to my ignorant ears, was clearly profanity.
“Heavens and hells!” Lafo bellowed angrily, once he finally switched over to English. “That was the most horrible feeling I’ve experienced in my life—being completely conscious of what was going on around me, but utterly unable to move or speak! That chuffer was going to take my magic!” He threw his arms around Hexe, yanking him into a brotherly embrace. “Praise Arum you showed up when you did, Serenity!”
“I’m glad you’re not hurt, but really, I just did what anyone else would have done in the same situation,” Hexe said humbly.
“That’s manticore bollocks and you know it!” Lafo replied. “Most Golgothamites are scared shitless of the Maladanti and won’t lift a hand against them. I can never thank you two enough!” He reached out and grabbed me with a long, heavily tattooed arm, dragging me into his impromptu group hug. “You guys are awesome! You’re both eating and drinking on the house for the rest of the year!” Once he let us go, Lafo finally seemed to notice the silver gauntlet covering Hexe’s hand for the first time. “Hey, what’s with the shiny glove?”
“It’s a . . . family relic,” Hexe replied vaguely.
“Is that how you were able to field Gaza’s fireball? I’ve never seen anyone actually catch hellfire before, much less snuff it out like that!”
Just then a nymph with a pencil tucked in her laurel wreath crown barged into the kitche
n. “Lafo! Where’s that order for the four-top at table twelve? Two more minutes and I’ll have to comp them their drinks!”
Lafo snatched up his discarded apron and put it back on. “Excuse me, folks—I’ve still got a restaurant to run!” He returned his attention to the collection of bottomless pots still bubbling on the stove. “Go make yourself comfortable in the dining room. If there’s anything in particular you’d like that’s not on the menu, tell your server and I’ll whip it up special!”
* * *
Despite the rocky start, it turned out to be a wonderful evening, with good food and excellent company. And even though we didn’t need to tell Lafo I was pregnant to get a free meal, we went ahead and told him anyway.
Upon hearing the news, he grinned and belted out yet another one of his “awesomes” and returned momentarily with a towering meringue concoction atop a devil’s food cake that, when doused in absinthe and set alight, burned an eerily beautiful blue. As we watched, the outline of a young man took form within the sapphire-colored flames, then just as quickly disappeared.
“The dessert never lies!” Lafo crowed. “Congratulations! It’s a boy!”
I looked across the table at Hexe, who had the same loopy grin on his face as when I told him I was pregnant. He reached across the table and took my hand in his own, the silver mail of the magic gauntlet shimmering like the scales of a bejeweled fish. I had never felt more loved and in love than I did at that moment. And yet, despite my happiness, the image of Hexe strangling Gaza by proxy continued to nag at the back of my mind.
Chapter 15
For the next couple of weeks Hexe dedicated himself to making up for lost time, cranking out potions and charms for all his regular clients who relied on him, as well as working hard to bring in new ones. For the first time in months it seemed as if we were finally starting to dig our way out of the financial hole we had found ourselves in. With both of us bringing in money on a regular basis, I was able to start setting aside part of my pay for the baby and other maternity-related expenses in a decorative cookie tin I kept on the dresser.
One evening, as I returned home from work, I spotted a woman standing on the sidewalk outside the boardinghouse, frowning at a piece of paper she held in her hand. She had red-gold shoulder-length hair that shone like a burnished shield. As I headed up the front steps, she stepped forward, casting her brilliant green eyes about nervously. She looked to be slightly older than myself and was easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen outside of a movie theater, although the Aéropostale dress she was wearing was way too young for her.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” she asked. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” I replied, trying to hide my bemusement at being addressed as “ma’am” by someone at least four years older than myself. Although I was three months pregnant, I wasn’t in that big a hurry to be mistaken for someone’s mom.
“Does someone called Hexy live here?” she asked anxiously, gesturing to the boardinghouse.
“Why, yes, Hex lives here,” I answered politely. “He’s my boyfriend. Are you looking to become a client?”
“I dunno,” the beautiful redhead said. “I guess so. This guy with a green mustache in Witches Alley said he’s the person I needed to talk to if I wanted to get a curse lifted. All I know is that I’m in a lot of trouble and I’m scared.”
Her lower lip suddenly began to quiver and she started to cry. And not the way a grown woman breaks down, either, by choking back tears and trying to keep it together—she was just straight-up boohooing. Maybe it was my hormones kicking in, but I felt instantly protective of her. I put my arm around her shoulders, trying my best to comfort her as I escorted her up the front stairs and into the house.
“Don’t worry; it’s going to be okay,” I said soothingly. “By the way—what’s your name?”
“Ashley,” the redhead snuffled, wiping at her eyes.
“Hello, Ashley. My name’s Tate, and I can tell you that you’ve come to the right place. Hexe is one of the best lifters in all of Golgotham. And I’m not saying that simply because he’s my boyfriend,” I assured her as I unlocked the front door.
Once we were inside, I ushered her into the front parlor and had her take a seat while I went in search of Hexe. He was in the kitchen, dressed in an apron and a half-mask respirator, decanting a freshly brewed potion into a row of smaller bottles.
“Honey—you’ve got a new client! I found her on the front steps, trying to work up the nerve to knock on the door. Her name’s Ashley and she thinks she’s been cursed.”
“Good! I haven’t had a chance to do any real spell-lifting yet. I’m curious to find out just what the gauntlet can do,” he exclaimed as he stripped off the respirator. “Welcome to my home.” Hexe smiled as he entered the room. “Tate informs me that you are in need of my services, Ms. Ashley. What exactly is the problem?”
“Ashley’s my first name,” she said with a nervous giggle. “My last name is Lattimer.”
“I see. How may I be of assistance, Ms. Lattimer—or is it Mrs.?”
Again with the nervous giggle. “Mrs. Lattimer’s my mom.” Ashley’s eyes suddenly widened upon catching sight of Scratch as he emerged, yawning, from under the skirt of the couch and hopped onto the back of one of the chairs. “Hello, kitty cat!” she said with a laugh, reaching out to stroke the familiar’s sleek skull. “What happened to your hair?”
Scratch recoiled from her touch, fanning out his batlike wings in warning. “Are you drunk or are you just stupid?”
Ashley’s eyes widened even further. “You can talk—and you’ve got wings!” she exclaimed in delight. “That is so cool!”
“Glad you approve,” Scratch grunted, his ego mollified by her display of awe.
“Do you mind? I have business to conduct,” Hexe scolded, shooing the familiar off the furniture. “Where were we? Ah, yes! Tate informed me that you believe you have been cursed. May I ask the nature of the infliction, Ms. Lattimer?”
“Can’t you see? Just look at me!” she said in exasperation, gesturing to her outwardly perfect body. If there was anything physically wrong with Ashley Lattimer, I certainly couldn’t see it.
“Could you perhaps be a bit more specific?” Hexe suggested.
Ashley sighed and opened her purse, fishing out an official-looking piece of paper bearing the seal of the state of New York, which she then handed to him. “This is a New York State learner’s permit,” Hexe said, still baffled. “Wait a minute—!” His golden eyes widened in surprise. “You’re sixteen?”
“I was when I went to bed last night,” Ashley replied, her voice beginning to tremble again. “But when I got up this morning I was like—this!”
“I see,” Hexe said sympathetically, handing her back her learner’s permit. “Please step into my office, Miss Lattimer.”
Now that I was fully aware of the situation, it wasn’t hard to see the teenaged girl trapped within the body of the grown woman standing before me. As she entered Hexe’s office she stared in openmouthed amazement at the taxidermied crocodile hanging suspended from the ceiling. Hexe took one of his scrying stones from his rolltop desk and passed it over her body like it was a magnifying glass.
“It’s as I suspected—you’ve been inflicted with progeria,a supernatural form of accelerated aging.”
“Am I going to keep getting older?” she asked nervously.
“No,” he assured her. “It doesn’t appear to be an ongoing curse. Do you have any idea why anyone would have done something like this to you?”
Ashley nodded, an unhappy look on her face. “I go to this fancy prep school called Pridehurst. My parents aren’t rich or anything like that—I got in on an academic scholarship. I really like it there, and I’ve made a lot of friends. Then last week I found out I’m on the Homecoming Queen ballot.”
“I get it,” I said knowingly. “So someone decided to cut down on the competition by turning you from prom queen to chaperone. Sounds like a
really lovely school.”
“Not everyone at Pridehurst is like that,” Ashley insisted. “But the ones that are like that are really rich, and they’re very mean.”
“They’d have to be rich; progeria is a pricey curse,” Hexe said in a serious voice. “It’s considered a petit mal infliction—straddling the line between Greater and Lesser curses.”
“Can you help me, Mr. Hexe?” Ashley asked plaintively.
“Yes, but I need the permission of one of your parents to go forward,” he explained. “Despite your current physical condition, you’re still legally underage.”
“Please don’t make me call my mom and dad!” Ashley pleaded, sounding very much like the sixteen-year-old she truly was. “I don’t want them knowing about this! I snuck out of the house before they could see me this morning. If they find out what happened, they’ll yank me out of Pridehurst and sue the school! I really like it there—I don’t want the school and the rest of the student body to get a bad name, because it’s not really their fault.”
“I understand your position, Ashley. Truly, I do. And it’s commendable that you don’t want to drag anyone else into this. But, like I said, progeria curses are pricey. That also holds true for lifting them. It’s going to cost a thousand dollars to reverse the spell cast over you.”
“I’ve got my own money!” she exclaimed, frantically scrambling inside her purse. “I’ve been babysitting to save up for an iPad. I’ve got almost five hundred dollars—I’m good for the rest. My neighbor, Mrs. Moretti, has twins. . . .” She pulled out an envelope filled with five, ten, and twenty dollar bills and handed it to him.
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