Magic and Loss g-3

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Perhaps I could have prevented you losing your hand if I’d cast your chart as a boy,” she said as she rifled through the collection of alchemical equipment, magical ingredients, and astrological charts before her. “But I have learned it isn’t wise to know too much of the future, especially of those you love. The temptation to muck about with that which has yet to be can be very strong, and often quite futile. If Greek tragedy has proven anything, it’s that attempting to evade the inevitable is what brings it about.”

  “But didn’t you cast a horoscope for my father?” Hexe countered.

  “There are different types of charts,” she replied. “The one I cast for your father was little more than a toy. And I certainly wouldn’t have given it to him as a birthday present if it revealed his death, or that of a loved one. In any case, blaming myself for not foreseeing what has happened does not change the fact it has occurred. This Erys woman, whoever she may be, seems determined to destroy you, and I’m not going to allow her to do any more damage than she already has.” After a few more moments spent rummaging about, she produced a small brass bowl, a large bottle of rosewater, an organic sponge, and a box of henna pens. “Okay—I need you two to strip down.”

  “Down to what?” I asked uneasily.

  “As far as you’re willing to go,” she replied. “I’ll need access to your entire torso. But first use the sponge to cleanse yourself with the rosewater.”

  A few minutes later both Hexe and I were down to our skivvies and smelling like a rose garden.

  “Are you ready?” Lady Syra asked.

  “Take care of Tate first,” Hexe said firmly. “I can wait.”

  His mother nodded her understanding and motioned for me to step forward. “Okay—let’s get started.” She uncapped the first henna pen and started to chant in Kymeran. As the tip of the applicator made contact with my skin, I felt an electric prickling that made the hair on my arms rise. For the next hour Lady Syra drew a series of interlocking symbols and patterns over my breasts, belly, and back, never once halting her sonorous incantation. By the time she was finished I was covered with an elaborate henna tattoo from my shoulder blades to my hips, with specific attention paid to my heart, spine, lungs, and belly.

  “That should protect you from the majority of curses for the next thirty days, or when the temporary tattoos wear off, whichever comes first,” Lady Syra said, looking considerably drained from when we’d first started. “Your turn,” she said, motioning for Hexe to take my place.

  As I waited for the protective wards inked onto my body to finish drying—it wouldn’t do to have the symbols smudged—I noticed a jumble of old photographs mixed in with the arcana littering Lady Syra’s workbench. The one on the top of the pile showed a five-year-old boy with purple hair and gold eyes, dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt, sitting on the lap of a dignified older Kymeran with dark blue hair, golden eyes, and a closely manicured German goatee. With a start, I realized I was looking at Hexe and his grandfather, Lord Eben.

  The next photograph was in black-and-white and showed a much younger Syra seated at a table in a restaurant, enjoying a cocktail and the company of Lou Reed and Andy Warhol. I flipped the picture over and read the notation: Elaine’s. Reed, resplendent in black leather, had one arm about Syra, and the two seemed to be sharing a laugh while Warhol stared directly into the camera, looking far more otherworldly than the teenaged witch seated at his elbow.

  The third photograph was also in black-and-white and showed three Kymerans—two men and a woman—gathered about one end of the formal dining table in the boardinghouse. It was strange to see Esau as a young man, as he was almost unrecognizable from the person I had come to know. It was not so much his youth that made the difference, but the fact the Esau in the photograph was . . . happy. Seated opposite him was a young man with a Beatles haircut and pair of tinted Ben Franklin glasses. It wasn’t until I saw his long, elegant fingers that I recognized him as the drug-addled, alcoholic Dr. Moot. However, the real shock came when I looked at the woman, seated between them. Although she was a little younger in the photo, I had no problems identifying her. I flipped the photo over and saw it was dated forty-five years earlier.

  I turned to look at Lady Syra, who had just finished inscribing the last protective sigil on her son’s body. “Who is this woman in this picture?” I asked.

  “That’s Nina,” she replied with a sad little sigh. “She was my brother’s wife.”

  “But that’s impossible,” I said as I handed the snapshot to Hexe. “That’s Madam Erys.”

  “Tate’s right,” he said excitedly. “This is the woman who gave me the Gauntlet of Nydd. But how can it possibly be the same woman—? She’s dead—isn’t she?”

  “Oh—Nina’s not dead,” Lady Syra replied. “Well, not exactly, anyway.”

  Chapter 27

  The Golden Years was located on the corner of Pearl and Hag, and, from the outside, resembled a Gilded Age hotel more than a nursing home. A twenty-foot-tall marble statue of a hooded and berobed figure leaning on a staff in its left hand while holding aloft an hourglass in its right stood in the center of the spacious lobby. At its foot was a reception station, manned by various Golgothamites in nurse’s whites.

  I glanced around the handsomely appointed lobby and noticed that most of the older people seemed to be Kymeran, their once-vibrantly colored hair now faded to pastel. A large knot of them where gathered about the flat-screen TV hanging over the fireplace, watching Wheel of Fortune, while smaller clusters were scattered about reading books, talking among themselves, or playing board games like Parcheesi and the Game of Thirty. As we approached the front desk, several of them stopped what they were doing to watch us, with expectant looks on their faces, only to return to their pastimes once they realized we weren’t family members. But I also saw flickers of confusion, fear, and mistrust in some eyes as well, and I wondered if a human had ever set foot inside the facility before.

  “Yes, may I help you?” the cyclopean receptionist asked, rising from her seat to greet us. Like most of the cyclopes living in Golgotham, she stood nearly seven feet tall and was built like a linebacker. A name tag affixed to her blouse identified her as Polyphema.

  “We’re looking for a certain patient who’s supposed to be here—”

  “We don’t have patients here at Golden Years, Serenity,” she replied. “We have residents. But I should be able to help you locate who you’re looking for. May I have the resident’s name and your relation to them?”

  “Her name is Nina, and she’s my aunt,” Hexe explained. “She was placed here by her husband, my uncle, thirty-five years ago.”

  The receptionist blinked her solitary eye, revealing a preference for dusky purple eye shadow, and typed the information into her desktop computer. “Ah, yes. She’s one of our Perpetual Care residents in the Eternal Rest ward. Please follow me, Serenity.”

  As we followed Polyphema through the lobby toward the elevators, we were approached by a Kymeran nurse pushing a very old warlock in a wheelchair. Although he was bald as an egg, he had a long, flowing pale green beard and bristling brows to match. His hands were encased in what looked like a cross between children’s snow mittens and boxing gloves that were laced tightly shut. As the old warlock was rolled past us, he turned his head to stare at Hexe with glaucoma-clouded eyes the color of mutton jade and said something in Kymeran, his voice a rasping croak.

  “This place reminds me of my grandfather’s last days,” Hexe muttered to me under his breath as we waited for an elevator to arrive. “He succumbed to the gazing sickness toward the end—it’s not unlike what your people call Alzheimer’s. He became unstuck in time, unaware of when and where he was—we had to bind his hands to keep him from casting spells against threats that didn’t exist. His mind was gone, but the magic was still there. . . .”

  “The old man—what did he say to you?” I asked.

  “‘My king,’” he replied grimly.

  * * *

  The Ete
rnal Rest ward was located on the sublevel of the facility. As the elevator doors opened we were greeted by the sight of a scarlet-haired Kymeran dressed in orderly’s whites with his feet up on his desk, reading a Louis L’Amour paperback. Around his neck hung a large, old-fashioned key, like the ones used to unlock treasure chests.

  “Sorry, Nurse Polyphema,” he said as he awkwardly righted himself.

  “As well you should be, Hark,” she replied frostily. “I have two visitors for the Eternal Rest ward. I need the manifest.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the orderly said meekly as he removed the key from about his neck and handed her the clipboard from his desk.

  At the end of the hallway was a large, featureless metal door. Upon the orderly unlocking it, the door swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges, revealing absolute darkness beyond its threshold. The orderly then flipped the light switch next to the door and rows of fluorescent lights flickered to life, illuminating a vast chamber filled with row upon row of glass caskets, all of them occupied.

  I stared in stunned horror at the various figures in repose. There were men, women, and even children from all the various races that comprised the citizenry of Golgotham, as well as humans, dressed in everything from pantaloons and knee-hose to the latest in modern fashion. I noticed that while some of them had long beards, hair, and fingernails, others were neatly coifed and manicured. Seeing the look on my face, Hexe took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “A-are they dead?” I whispered.

  “Yes—and no,” Nurse Polyphema replied. “All the residents in the Eternal Rest ward have been placed under a sleeping spell, balanced forever between life and death. They neither age nor decay, but instead exist in a perpetual state of suspended animation. However, their hair and nails do continue to grow. Those whose loved ones have paid for perpetual care are groomed by our staff every six weeks, as you can see. While most of the residents in this ward were cursed, the others were dying, and put to sleep by their loved ones in order to keep them from breathing their last breath.”

  “Why would someone want to do that to someone they loved?” I frowned.

  “Some simply have a hard time letting go, especially if the sleeper was taken from them too soon,” the cyclops replied, gesturing to a nearby casket that contained the sleeping form of a small Kymeran boy still dressed in knee socks and a sailor suit. “Many lift the spell when they, themselves, are close to death, so that they and their loved one will pass on at the same time.”

  “That’s the saddest and sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, forcing down the lump rising in my throat.

  Nurse Polyphema glanced down at the clipboard she was carrying. “According to the manifest, Madam Nina should be on this aisle. Number two forty-seven . . .”

  Hexe stepped forward and peered down through the glass lid of the casket at the sleeping form of a middle-aged Kymeran woman dressed in clothes from the late seventies.

  “That’s not Nina,” he said, pointing to the sleeper’s green hair.

  Polyphema’s single eye widened in surprise. “That’s Dyad! She’s one of our staff—or, rather, she was. She was the groomer for the perpetual care residents. She walked off the job without giving notice a couple months ago. Never even came to pick up her last check.”

  “Is it possible Nina somehow revived while Dyad was grooming her?” I asked.

  Hexe shook his head. “From all accounts, Nina was brain-dead. She was nothing more than an empty husk. My uncle put her under a sleeping spell before her heart stopped beating. Besides, even if she did somehow manage to revive, why would she place the groomer under a spell and exchange places with her?”

  “Well, someone managed to revive her,” I replied. “The question is who and why?”

  * * *

  Upon arriving back home, we were greeted at the door by Clarence, adorned in one of his Hawaiian shirts. “Welcome back home, Master Hexe, Miss Timmy. I trust you both are feeling better?”

  “You don’t have to be a butler anymore, Clarence,” I pointed out. “You’re retired, remember?”

  “Yes, but I feel somewhat at a loss, otherwise. It’s going to take me some time to get used to the idea. Please indulge an old man while he adjusts, if you will.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” I said as I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Miss Timmy.”

  “‘Miss Timmy’?” Hexe chuckled, raising his eyebrow.

  “It’s a long story,” I sighed.

  “By the way, Master Hexe,” Clarence said, “a young gentleman by the name of Bartho stopped by earlier with a package for you. I placed it on your desk. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish polishing the silver.”

  “You know, I could get really used to having a butler,” Hexe said with a laugh. “Clarence is nowhere near as snarky as Scratch.”

  “I heard that,” the familiar announced as he emerged from the shadows. “How are you doing, boss?”

  “You tell me,” Hexe said, taking the stump of his right wrist from its hiding place in his pocket.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, boss—but you’re better off without it,” Scratch said matter-of-factly.

  “I realize that now, old friend,” Hexe sighed. “All my life I’ve favored my right hand; but, in the end, it was my left hand that remained loyal to me. But the question is—what do I do now?”

  Suddenly my dream from the night before flashed before my mind’s eye and I remembered the words spoken by Mr. Manto’s dream avatar. “Last night—before everything went nuts—I had a dream. Except it was more like a vision. I should have mentioned it earlier, but with all the crazy shit that’s been going on, I pushed it to the back burner.

  “In my dream I was in a temple overlooking a strange city—I think it was in Kymera, because I could see dragons flying overhead. Mr. Manto was there, except he wasn’t Mr. Manto, but something called a Dragon Oracle. . . .”

  “Did he say anything to you in your dream?” Hexe asked intently.

  “Yes. He said ‘the hand is in the heart.’ I don’t know what it means, but it must mean something because I can remember it. Mr. Manto says that prophecy can only truly be heard and understood when the time is right.”

  A pensive look crossed Hexe’s face. “The hand is in the heart . . .” I couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me or simply talking out loud. Suddenly he broke into a smile and hurried down the hallway. His office was pretty much as he’d left it the night before. “Now that the gauntlet is gone, I’m thinking faster and clearer than I have in weeks,” he said excitedly as he bent to gather up the books strewn across the floor. “It’s as if scales have fallen from my eyes. ‘The hand is in the heart.’ Of course it is!”

  As he plopped the stack of books down onto his desk, he accidentally knocked a thick manila envelope onto the floor, spilling forth a number of full-color eight by ten photographs.

  “This must be the package Bartho dropped off earlier,” I said as I bent to retrieve the pictures. What at first looked like nothing but photos of people going about their daily business on the streets of Manhattan, on closer inspection revealed semitransparent, phantomlike figures, sometimes in the background, or occasionally in the foreground. Some of the wraiths were little more than blurs, but others were easily identifiable. There were Lenape Indians walking unseen among the stockbrokers of Wall Street; Colonial-era knickerbockers in tricorn hats and square-buckled shoes smoking long-stemmed clay pipes in the shadow of City Hall; women in hoopskirts, men in Victorian top hats and muttonchops, and flappers in cloche hats rubbing intangible elbows with the oblivious bike messengers, aspiring rap stars, and harried office workers thronging West Broadway. However, of all the ghostly images, there was only one that made my blood run cold.

  “Look at this!” I said, holding out the picture to Hexe with a trembling hand. “Do you see anyone you know?”

  He scowled at the photograph of Perdition Street, with its usual hectic mix of looky-loo
s and native Golgothamites going about their day-to-day business. His eyes widened as he spotted the image of Erys threading her way through the crowds. But, more important, was the spectral passenger she carried piggyback, his arms and legs wrapped tightly about her torso. Even when as substantial as morning fog, there was no mistaking the identity of Erys’ phantom rider.

  “Esau,” Hexe whispered.

  Chapter 28

  After finding the snapshot among Bartho’s prints, Hexe and I lost no time returning to his mother’s apartment. Amos ushered us into the sunken living room, where we found Lady Syra sipping a demitasse of civet coffee and listening to Aladdin Sane on the stereo.

  “There can be no doubting it—that is my brother,” Lady Syra said grimly as she studied the photograph. “And that is, most definitely, his wife, Nina.”

  “But isn’t he trapped in the Infernal Region?” I asked.

  “Physically, yes,” she replied. “But his spirit is another matter entirely. It appears he has regained access to this world by taking possession of the perfect empty vessel.”

  “I always thought Erys’ mannerisms were a bit stiff, but I just thought that was because she had a stick up her ass,” I said with a humorless laugh. “Now I realize she’s another one of Esau’s mindless meat puppets, like the Sons of Adam. It also explains why she kept giving me the stink eye. But why did he come back—? It can’t be easy for him to cross dimensions, even in spirit form.”

  “Tate’s got a point,” Hexe agreed. “I know Uncle Esau despises me, but expending that kind of energy just to try to drive me to the Left Hand path seems kind of crazy, even for him. There’s got to be something else he’s trying to accomplish. But what?”

  “If I know my brother, whatever it is will be operatic and apocalyptic.” Lady Syra scowled. “Not to mention extremely inconvenient.”

  * * *

  Upon leaving Lady Syra’s apartment, Hexe and I hailed a hansom. Normally, we would have walked home, but my back and feet were killing me and the idea of waddling six city blocks, the last two uphill, did not tantalize me in the least. However, as we reached Perdition, we were forced to come to a halt as the broad street was jammed with people waving picket signs.