“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way—but aren’t you kind of young to be a landlord?” I asked.
“I inherited the job,” he explained. “The house has been in the family for two centuries. When I told my mom I wanted to try my hand at lifting for a living instead of going to thaumaturgical college, she insisted I take over things here. It’s worked out pretty good, so far.”
Just then something small and close to the ground ran past me, brushing against my leg before disappearing into the shadows at the top of the stairs. Whatever it was didn’t have fur.
“What the hell?!?” I yelped.
“Oh, that was just Scratch,” the landlord laughed. “Don’t mind him. He’s always like that with strangers.”
“Scratch is a . . . pet?” I asked uneasily.
“Something like that.” He turned and addressed the darkness gathered at the second-floor landing. “Scratch! Come out and meet our guest!”
There was the sound of claws scrabbling on hardwood, followed by a flapping noise. Something resembling a house cat, save that it was utterly hairless with bat wings growing out of its back, leaped out of the shadows and made a perfect four-point landing on the second-floor balustrade.
“Dear God!” I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late to hide my shock.
The winged, hairless cat fixed me with an eye as red as murder. “Who’s the nump?” it sneered. “Another looky-loo?”
“Scratch! Where are your manners? Be nice. Or at least nice-ish. I’d like you to meet Miss . . . ?” The landlord gave me a smile that pinned me to the spot like a butterfly. “I’m afraid I did not get your name earlier . . . ?”
“Just call me Tate.”
“Scratch, this is Miss Tate.”
“Humph,” Scratch sniffed, clearly unimpressed.
“Pleased to meet you, uh, Scratch.”
“As well you should be,” the flying cat replied curtly.
“Scratch is my familiar. I’m sure you’ve heard about such things from books and movies.” As the landlord stroked the winged cat’s back, Scratch butted his forehead against him, just like any other tabby would. “He is also my rent collector.”
“Yeah—I eat the deadbeats!” The familiar grinned.
“Honestly, Scratch. You’re such a liar. You’re not allowed to take more than one bite, and you know it. Come along now, Miss Tate. ...”
I nervously glanced over my shoulder at the winged cat still perched on the banister; the creature’s eyes glowed like hot coals in the dim light. My mouth went dry as paper. Maybe moving to Golgotham wasn’t that great an idea after all. . . .
“Ah! Here we are!” The landlord held up an old-fashioned key that looked better suited to unlocking a pirate’s treasure chest than a door. He slid it into the keyhole and gave it a quick turn. The door swung open, revealing only darkness. He crossed the room and pulled aside the heavy velvet draperies that covered the windows facing the street. “Let’s get some light in here.”
As the late-afternoon sunlight spilled into the room, my trepidation about living among witches, demons, and things that go bump in the night instantly disappeared. The space was easily two thousand square feet—twice the size of the SoHo loft I currently called home—and outfitted with antique oriental carpets, a marble fireplace decorated with satyrs and nymphs, and a fifteen-foot vaulted ceiling.
“It’s much bigger than I expected,” I gasped in amazement.
“Yes, that’s one of the unique features of this house. It was designed by my great-uncle Jack. He was a Mason of Hidden Degree, famous for utilizing a form of geometric origami that allows you to occupy more space than is physically available.”
“That’s amazing! How many rooms are there?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Some of them only manifest during certain astronomical convergences. This floor is relatively stable, but you should never go upstairs by yourself. That’s how we lost Uncle Jack.”
“You mean something up there killed him?” I asked, trying to control the alarm in my voice.
“Heavens and hells, no! We just lost him, that’s all. He’s still wandering around up there somewhere,” he said, gesturing to the ceiling. “So, do you want the room or not?”
“I’ll take it,” I said as I pulled out my checkbook. “Who do I make this out to?”
“The name’s Hexe, with an extra ‘e’ at the end,” he replied, returning my smile. “And welcome to Golgotham.”
Chapter 3
I was really buzzing by the time I returned to my Crosby Street loft, without having taken a single drink or having indulged in any illicit substances. Landing a gallery show and a kick-ass apartment in one day? It looked like the gods were smiling on me, after all. Yet, as exciting as those two developments were, I found myself thinking more about my handsome new landlord than my recent good fortune. There was something about his golden eyes with their catlike pupils that intrigued me. My good mood abruptly ended, however, when the elevator door opened on the ground floor of my building, revealing Roger Price.
He had a boyishly handsome face, soulful brown eyes, a shock of carefully mussed dark hair, and an eternal case of five o’clock shadow that played up his strong chin. He also had a fondness for black Armani T-shirts and designer jeans that showed off his body to its best advantage. He worked as a graphic designer at an advertising company, and we’d met eighteen months ago at a gallery opening for a mutual friend. Our relationship had been extremely intense, both physically and emotionally, before it turned to utter shit.
“There you are.” Roger smiled. “I just left a note on your door, since you’re ignoring my calls. ...”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I growled.
“Don’t be like that, Tate,” he said, trying to make it sound, as usual, as if I were the one being unreasonable. “I realize you have every right to be upset, but I really want to try and work things out between us.”
“There’s nothing to ‘work out,’ Roger,” I said flatly. “You cheated on me. Now get out of my building.”
“That’s just it,” he said, smirking as if he’d pulled a particularly clever move. “It’s my building now, too.”
“What do you mean?” I frowned.
“I just signed a lease on a loft on the next floor up from yours. We’re going to be neighbors!”
“That’s great, Rog,” I laughed. “You’re more than welcome to take my place as the token ‘artist’ in this so-called artists’ loft.”
Now it was his turn to look nonplussed. “What are you saying?”
“I’m moving out of this place,” I explained, entering the elevator as he exited it. “The condo board doesn’t appreciate me, and I certainly don’t appreciate them. But that’s okay—I found a place better suited for me.”
“Where are you going?” The look of consternation on his face as he realized his attempt to woo me back was beginning to tailspin perked me back up. “Tribeca? Williamsburg?”
“Golgotham.”
I really should have tried to take a picture of Roger’s face as I told him the news, but the elevator doors closed before I could get my cell phone camera ready.
Two weeks later the movers arrived at my old apartment early in the morning and carried everything I owned into a van. The supervisor in charge of the load-out assured me that his crew would arrive at my new apartment by noon.
As I was sweeping out the corners of the emptied loft, there came a knock. I looked up to see Roger standing on the threshold of the open front door, holding a bouquet of roses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. I sighed and put aside the broom.
“What do you want?”
“I saw the moving van earlier,” he said sheepishly. “I just wanted to say good-bye before you left for good.”
“Thank you, Roger,” I said as I placed the flowers and wine on the kitchen counter. I had to admit that his going away present actually made me smile a little bit. If there was one thing Roger excelled at, it
was making the romantic gesture. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
“We had something really good going on, didn’t we?” he asked, staring at his feet as he scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor. He was playing the mawkish schoolboy card—his favorite way of getting around me, and one that usually worked, despite my better judgment.
“It was good for a while, yes,” I agreed. “But then it fell apart, Rog. You know that.”
“I really don’t know what to say, Tate, except I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel like I’m the one responsible for your leaving, and that’s tearing me up. ...”
“I’ll admit that what you did made giving up my loft a lot easier, but you’re not the reason I’m moving, Roger,” I replied. “Believe it or not, this wasn’t all about you.”
“I’m just worried about you,” he said, apparently shrugging off that last little dig. “Are you sure you’ll be okay living there? Golgotham’s a pretty sketchy neighborhood.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine.”
“Just do me a favor, as a friend, and watch your back, okay? What with all the freaks that live there . . . You don’t know whom you can trust.”
“So far I haven’t had to worry about Kymerans double-crossing me,” I said pointedly. “Now, if you don’t mind—I need to finish cleaning up so I can be at my new apartment in time for the movers.”
“Promise me if anything goes wrong and you end up needing help, you won’t hesitate to call.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Roger,” I lied as I closed the door behind him. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Once he was gone, I was free to turn my attention to tidying up the kitchen one last time. After I finished, I took the bouquet and bottle of wine and placed them inside the refrigerator, as my gift to whatever yuppie would end up moving in after me.
I looked out the window of my new apartment, searching the street in vain for some sign of the moving van. I then checked my cell phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was after three o’clock. Even giving the crew time for lunch and possible traffic tie-ups, there was no excuse for such a delay.
“Triple-A Aardvark Moving Company,” the receptionist announced cheerfully. “We’re number one in the book. How may I direct your call?”
“I need to speak to Vinnie.”
“One moment, please.”
The receptionist’s chirpy voice was abruptly replaced by that of Vinnie, who talked as if everyone around him were slightly deaf.
“Yeah, whaizzit?” the mover growled.
“Vinnie, this is, uh, Tate. . . . You picked up my stuff this morning?”
“Yeah. Whattaya want?”
“I was calling to find out when your guys are going to show up? You said they’d be here by noon. ...”
“Oh, yeah! About dat ...” I could hear him riffling though papers on the other end of the line. “I’m afraid dere’s been a problem with yer delivery.”
The schadenfreude in the mover’s voice made my guts cinch. “What kind of problem?”
“My guys ain’t bringing yer stuff.”
“What?!?” I screamed into the receiver. “Why the hell not?”
“You see, when my driver plugged the address you gave ’im into his—whaddaya call it?—GPS, it came up Golgotham.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Well, we ain’t licensed to make deliveries to dat part of town. The streets down dere are too narrow to accommodate movin’ vans.”
“Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier?” I asked as I massaged the throbbing veins in my forehead. “The sales rep from your company didn’t say a thing about any of this!”
“Dat guy?” Vinnie chuckled nastily. “He ain’t workin’ here no more. Listen, lady, I don’t know what he told ya, and it don’t matter what he said, ’cause we don’t deliver dere. Never have, never will. If ya want yer stuff delivered, yer gonna hafta arrange for a second movin’ company to pick it up at da Relay Station over dere on South Street near da Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Then where’s my stuff? If it’s not on the way here, where the hell is it?”
“Don’t you worry. Everything’s sittin’ here in our warehouse, safe ’n sound. We’ll be storin’ it for ya until ya gets someone t’take it where it needs t’go. After dat, we’ll be happy t’drop it off at da Relay Station. Of course, we gotta charge ya storage fees. . . . ”
“What about the money I paid you to move my things in the first place?” I asked heatedly.
“Storage is different from movin’, lady.” Vinnie’s voice was as cold and blunt as a lead pipe. “Or wouldja rather we left yer stuff sittin’ out on da coib?”
As much as I wanted to give that smirking cretin a piece of my mind, I knew it would only turn a bad situation into a horrible one. I sighed in resignation. “Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yeah, ya do dat. Oh, and by th’ way—we charge for storage by th’ day. Have a nice day, and t’ank youse for usin’ Triple-A Aardvark Movin’. We’re number one in da book.”
“Damn it!” Since I didn’t have anything to throw except my cell phone, I had to be satisfied with hopping up and down in a rage. “That no-good, lousy, stinkin’ son-of-a-bitch ...!”
“Hey! What’s going on in here? The chandelier downstairs is swinging like a pendulum.”
I looked up to see Hexe standing in the open door of my very empty apartment, watching me with a bemused look on his face.
“I’m sorry,” I replied sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to jump that hard. It’s just—damn it! The movers are holding everything I own hostage. My bed, my clothes, the tools I use in my work—everything! They’re holding my entire life for ransom!”
Hexe raised a purple eyebrow. “Who did you use?”
“Triple A . . . ”
“Let me guess the rest of the sentence—Aardvark Moving?”
“You know about them?”
“Yeah, I know about them,” he replied sourly. “They’re ‘number one in the book.’ They’re also notorious rip-off artists. They pull the same crap on everyone who moves to Golgotham. You didn’t pay them up front, did you?”
“I gave them half. They were to get the rest after they delivered my belongings.”
A thoughtful look crossed Hexe’s face. “I know a fellow in the moving business who can help you. He’s very good at what he does, but I warn you—he’s not cheap.”
I sat down on the window seat in my room to ponder the options open to me: either resign myself to being screwed over, talk to my landlord’s friend in the moving business, or call Daddy’s law firm and have them sue Vinnie’s back brace off.
But as rewarding as that latter option sounded, I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it. I was determined to strike out on my own, without relying on the family name and connections. And doing something like that would definitely be cheating.
“I’ll pay whatever it takes to get my stuff back.” I sighed. Since this move was already costing me more than expected, I decided I might as well see what Hexe’s friend could do. “Those douche bags are holding my sculptures hostage.”
“Then grab your coat. You’ll have to meet with him face-to-face.”
“Where are we going?” I asked as I slid into my jacket.
“You moved here to experience Golgotham’s unique atmosphere, right? Well, I’m taking you to the Rookery. It doesn’t get more atmospheric than that.”
Chapter 4
With its narrow, twisting streets and alleyways, Golgotham was a world apart from the orderly grid-pattern and towering glass skyscrapers that made up the rest of Manhattan. Most of the buildings that lined the streets were tenements that dated back at least a century, the ground floors of which housed various commercial businesses. While the corner markets were no different from ones found in the rest of the city, the herbalists and alchemical supply stores clearly catered to the neighborhood’s unique inhabitants.
Hexe wound his way through the crowded sidewalk
s of Golgotham with the speed and certainty of someone who knew the route by heart. I followed in his wake, trying not to stare as we passed a trio of leprechauns sitting at a sidewalk patio. While the little men were all dressed in green, the clothes they wore were designer labels, and each had the latest Bluetooth headset affixed to his pointed ears.
One of the leprechauns noticed me looking in their direction and gave me the finger. I blushed and hurried to catch up with my native guide.
“When we first met, you said something about being a lifter—what is that, exactly?” I asked.
“A lifter removes curses for a living.”
“But I thought Kymerans only laid curses?”
Hexe shot me a sharp look from the corner of his golden eyes. “Not all of us. I don’t inflict curses on people. I refuse to practice Left Hand magic.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t,” he said, waving away my apology. “Some of us work only Left Hand disciplines, and some work only the Right Hand. Truth of the matter is most Kymerans are jugglers, meaning they practice both Left and Right Hand magic. I’m what’s called a dexter—Right Hand only.”
“That’s commendable.”
“I’d make more money if I were willing to perform ligatures and mix up love potions for date rapists,” he replied with a humorless laugh. “That’s why my mother insisted on my taking over the boardinghouse—at least I’d have a place to sleep and a reliable income to fall back on. She doesn’t have the greatest faith in my career choice.”
“I can relate to that. My parents were less than thrilled when I told them I wanted to be a sculptor.”
Hexe gave me another, softer look, accompanied by a warm smile. “Nice to know we have something in common besides the same roof over our heads, Miss Tate.”
“Forget the whole ‘Miss’ business. Call me Tate, please.”
His smile grew warmer still. “Very well . . . Tate it is.”
Right Hand Magic Page 2
