“Bloody abdabs!” Hexe gasped upon seeing the eagle-headed lion. “Those things are on the Endangered Species List. And that son of a bitch uses them for pit fighting?”
The image in the crystal resolved into that of Lukas being taken from his cage and led down the tunnel yet again. Phelan gave him the same shot, just like before, and then sent him into the pit. But this time his opponent wasn’t a beast, or even a half-beast. It was a werewolf.
“That’s Rufus.” Lukas’s eyes shone with unshed tears as he stared at his friend’s image, trapped within the crystal. “Every one knows that once the lunacy is upon a werewolf, it can be slaked only by blood, and that the only thing that can kill a werewolf, besides silver, is another shape-shifter.” He lowered his head in shame, unable to continue.
Inside the crystal, Lukas and Rufus battled to the death as the heartless bastards who took delight in their suffering wagered handfuls of money on which friend would die. In the end it was Lukas who was triumphant, tearing out Rufus’s throat in a single bite.
“It’s not your fault,” I assured him, hoping to assuage the agony the poor kid was feeling. “It’s not as if you wanted to kill him. And he would have killed you, too—you said so yourself. It was self-defense.”
“I know.” Lukas’s voice was a ragged whisper when he finally spoke. “But I should have tried to escape before they made me fight him. I might not be able to run, but I can walk, sort of. I should have attacked one of the croggies and forced them to kill me. But I didn’t, and now I have Rufus’s blood on my claws, because I was afraid to fight back.”
As the guards escorted Lukas back to his cage, it was obvious they were too busy talking to pay proper attention to their prisoner. Suddenly Lukas lashed out, launching a surprise attack on the one holding the zapper. Lukas grabbed the arm holding the remote and twisted it until it came out of the guard’s shoulder like a roasted chicken wing. The severed arm was still holding the remote control in its hand as it hit the ground. Lukas picked up the zapper and smashed it to bits on the floor.
The second guard just stared in shock at his pal who was writhing at his feet, clawing at the bloody stump where his arm used to be. Lukas took him down with a quick snap to the throat. After that the picture got blurry again. There were glimpses of Lukas running through an underground complex full of caged creatures, both natural and supernatural, followed by partial images of street signs and what looked like the wall surrounding Hexe’s garden.
“I don’t remember much after attacking the guard. Just a dim recollection of wandering the streets, sniffing the air in hopes of catching the scent of grass, dirt, plants . . . something of nature. That’s how I ended up in your garden. I simply followed my nose.” Lukas turned toward me, a heart-stricken look on his young face. “I behaved like an animal toward you, Miss Tate. Can you possibly forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you, Lukas!” No one was more surprised than I to hear those words coming out my mouth, but I figured the poor kid had enough on his conscience already—the least I could do was make him feel better about trying to kill me while under the influence of mind-warping drugs.
“So, now that you know the whole truth—are you going to hand me back over to Boss Marz?”
“Of course not!” Hexe replied. “I’m going to do exactly what I said I’d do—nurse you back to health, and then make sure you’re returned to your people. You don’t have to be scared anymore, Lukas.” He patted him on the head, ruffling his sandy hair. “You are among friends now. Get some rest.”
“Aren’t you scared of Boss Marz?” Lukas asked in surprise.
“No, I’m not.”
“You should be,” the were-cougar said darkly.
Chapter 9
It was a couple of days after my misadventure in the garden maze, and I had gone out to buy art supplies. While standing on the front step, fishing around in my purse for my house keys, I heard someone behind me cough. I looked over my shoulder and saw a paunchy, middle-aged stranger with thinning hair standing on the stoop. Oh, yes, and he was wearing a kilt. That, in and of itself, would not have seemed too odd, save that from the waist up he was wearing two-thirds of a three-piece business suit. As I stared at him, it suddenly occurred to me that he was the first human I’d seen in Golgotham outside of the Rookery since I’d moved here.
“Excuse me,” the man in the kilt said, without the faintest hint of a Scottish burr. “Are you Hexe?”
“Not even close,” I laughed, wiggling the fingers of my free hand.
The stranger’s face turned beet red. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“You’re at the right place, though,” I assured him as I unlocked the front door. I quickly checked the foyer to see if Scratch was standing guard, but he was still upstairs, keeping an eye on Lukas.
“Hexe!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “There’s someone here to see you!”
Hexe emerged from the back of the house, drying his hands on an embroidered dish towel. He didn’t bat an eye at his visitor’s sartorial splendor.
“Yes, sir. How may I be of service?”
“The name’s Ottershaw. Wallace Ottershaw. You come highly recommended by a friend of mine—Louis Feldspar?”
Recognition sparked in Hexe’s golden eyes. “Ah, yes! Mr. Feldspar! His estranged wife cursed him with dysmorphophilia.”
“Dysmorpho-whatsit?” Ottershaw scowled.
I silently heaved a sigh of relief that someone else, for once, was willing to play the nump, because I didn’t know what the hell it was, either.
“It’s a compulsive preference for ugly sexual partners,” Hexe explained dutifully. “Mr. Feldspar was most relieved when I succeeded in lifting the curse.”
Ottershaw eyed Hexe, taking in his purple hair and the faded CBGB’s logo on his T-shirt. “Louis said you were good. Are you?”
“At the risk of sounding immodest, Mr. Ottershaw, I am very good.” Hexe gestured to the open door of his study. “Please step into my office and tell me what your problem is. Oh, before we start, I trust you won’t mind that I include Miss Tate on the consultation?”
Ottershaw gave me an uneasy look. “Is it absolutely necessary that she be involved?”
“I will need her help in preparing a potion,” Hexe replied with the utmost seriousness.
This was news to me, but I didn’t argue the point. I had always wondered what kind of services Kymerans provided for their human clients, and now I had a chance to find out firsthand.
I followed Ottershaw into Hexe’s office, which resembled a cross between a law office and P. T. Barnum’s rummage sale. Bookshelves crowded the walls, extending all the way to the ceiling, from which hung a stuffed crocodile. While some of the shelves housed leather-bound books, others were crowded with religious reliquaries, pickled pathology specimens, carnival sideshow memorabilia, and, in one case, a tableaux depicting taxidermy squirrels playing poker. In the middle of the room was a desk covered in drifts of arcane ephemera, on which sat a Tiffanystyle lamp with a shade made from an armadillo’s shell.
“Please be seated,” Hexe said, gesturing to the easy chair opposite the desk.
Ottershaw hesitated as he tried to figure out a way to sit down without flashing everyone in the room, before finally tucking the kilt between his milk white legs like a diaper. He sat down, wrapping his hands protectively across his knobby knees. The only way he could have looked more uncomfortable was if he set his hair on fire for good measure.
“The reason I came to see you is . . . I can’t wear pants.”
“I take it you’re not Scottish, then?” Hexe said with just a hint of a smile.
“I was born in Scarsdale, for crying out loud. My mother’s grandfather was from Aberdeen, though. This is his kilt I’m wearing. It’s an heirloom,” Mr. Ottershaw explained, shifting about uneasily. “And it’s as scratchy as hell.”
“So I see. Now, what makes you believe you can’t wear pants?”
Ottershaw’s cheeks
turned crimson. “It’s not that I can’t. It’s just that whenever I do put on a pair of trousers, I, uh, well, you see—I have this uncontrollable urge to go.”
Hexe frowned. “Go where?”
Mr. Ottershaw’s blush climbed all the way to his bald spot. “You know—go.”
Hexe’s eyes suddenly widened. “Oh! I see! Would that be Number One or Number Two?”
“Number One,” Mr. Ottershaw said as he glanced at me, a look of utter humiliation in his eyes. Admitting to wetting yourself in front of an attractive young woman is the last thing any man wants to do—unless he’s into that kind of thing; but that’s a whole other story.
“I see,” Hexe said as he jotted something down on a notepad. “So, what makes you think this condition is supernatural in origin?”
“As long as I’m not wearing trousers, I’m fine. But the moment I pull up a zipper—bam! Just like Old Faithful. I’ve ruined every pair of pants I own! Business, casual, formal, jeans, shorts . . . all of them, completely destroyed! You can’t tell me this is natural!”
“I agree. It sounds to me that someone has inflicted micturition upon you.”
“Mickey-what?”
“It means that you have been cursed so that you will urinate while wearing pants.”
“Ugh! That’s disgusting!” I exclaimed, forgetting my role as silent observer.
“Tell me about it,” Mr. Ottershaw grumbled.
“Be grateful for small favors—at least you weren’t inflicted with imbulbitation. That involves Number Two,” Hexe explained, seeing the blank look on his client’s face. “Still, let’s not be too hasty—I said it sounded like micturition. I need to confirm if that is, indeed, the case.”
He opened a drawer in the desk and removed a large crystal the size and shape of a goose egg. Stepping forward, he motioned for Ottershaw to stand up. Holding the crystal between his thumb and first forefinger, Hexe squinted through the scrying egg as he passed it up and down the length of his client’s body.
“Hmm. Very interesting. Yes, I was correct—you have been crossed. Luckily, the curse is a relatively simple one to turn widdershins.”
“Widder-what?”
“It’ll be easy to reverse.” Hexe sighed. “Tell me, Mr. Ottershaw. Do you know of any reason why someone might want to inflict a curse upon you?”
“No, of course not,” Mr. Ottershaw said indignantly.
“No troubles at home, I take it?” Hexe prodded.
“I’m not married,” Mr. Ottershaw replied.
“I see. How about your place of employment? Any friction with your coworkers?”
Mr. Ottershaw thought for a moment. Suddenly a light came on in his eyes. “Wait a minute! I’m supposed to give a presentation to the shareholders later today. If it goes well, I’ll be promoted. You don’t think that has anything to do with this, do you?”
“It’s very likely. Workplace rivalries are the second-highest cause of curses, right after sexual jealousy.”
“Of all the underhanded, sneaky, backstabbing ...” Mr. Ottershaw’s eyes flashed with anger. “Can you tell who did this to me?”
Hexe shook his head. “I can only identify the type of spell, and who might have cast it. Some wizards have more distinctive means of spellcasting than others. However, I cannot see who paid to have it done.”
“Do you know who cast the spell on Mr. Ottershaw?” I asked; utterly fascinated by what I was hearing.
“I recognize the signature as belonging to a juggler by the name of Bozz who slings spells out of Witch Alley. He does slapdash work that tends to be crude but effective.”
“I bet Boyland’s behind this,” Mr. Ottershaw muttered. He seemed to be paying more attention to his own thoughts than to what Hexe was saying. “That two-faced bastard! I wouldn’t put it past him to try and scuttle my promotion!” He scowled at his bare knees and then looked up at Hexe. “I want you to get back at the asshole who did this to me. Give him really bad flop sweat, or make him fart really loud every time he sees a pretty girl. ...”
Whatever sympathy I felt for Mr. Ottershaw abruptly evaporated. I was creeped out by how, within the space of a few heartbeats, the cursed businessman had gone from comical milquetoast to someone bent on revenge. “But you don’t even know who’s responsible for laying the curse on you!” I protested.
“That’s okay; The more I think about it, the more I’m pretty damned sure it’s Boyland,” Mr. Ottershaw insisted.
“I don’t care if there’s a video of him paying for it on YouTube; I refuse to curse him, or anyone else,” Hexe said sharply. “I practice Right Hand magic only, Mr. Ottershaw. That’s why my lifting powers are so strong. I don’t dilute them by practicing any Left Hand magic. If that’s what you really want, you can take your money and go elsewhere!”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to insult you,” Mr. Ottershaw said, unnerved by the outrage in Hexe’s voice. “Go ahead and get rid of this curse, spell, whatever the fuck it is. Assuming you can fix it, that is.”
“Are you asking if I can lift the curse?” Hexe sniffed. “Of course I can.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Ottershaw’s eyes looked as if they were about to leap from their sockets. “Five thousand! That’s outrageous!”
“If you say so.” Hexe shrugged. “You’re welcome to go elsewhere. However, I doubt you’ll be able to find anyone willing to do it any cheaper. And if you did find someone who could underbid me, I doubt they could reverse the spell in less than two days.”
“Two days?!?” Mr. Ottershaw wailed. “But my presentation is this afternoon!”
“All the more reason to get started, then,” Hexe said pointedly, folding his arms across his chest.
“Okay! Okay! You win! Five thousand it is!” Ottershaw snapped. “It’s not as if I have a choice in the matter, is it?”
“No, you don’t,” Hexe agreed as he reached inside the desk and removed a wireless handheld credit card terminal. “Will that be credit or debit, sir?”
I blinked, taken aback by the sudden intrusion of modern technology in the middle of a conversation about curses, sorcery, and the casting of spells.
“Credit,” Mr. Ottershaw replied as he fussed with the clasp of the horsehair sporran hanging from the front of his kilt. “Give me a second. . . . It’s somewhere in this damned fuzzy purse. . . . Is MasterCard okay?”
“I take everything except Diners Club.”
“So . . . are most of your clients like this guy?” I asked.
Hexe laughed without looking up from the cauldron he was stirring. We had withdrawn to the kitchen, leaving Mr. Ottershaw to ogle the pickled monkey’s paw and other oddities in the study while we concocted the potion needed to counteract the curse. I say “we,” but in reality Hexe was the one doing all the work. All I did was hand him jars full of dried herbs and less identifiable items when he asked for them.
“He’s pretty typical. Most curses are more embarrassing than deadly—more like elaborate practical jokes, really. For example, an angry wife makes her cheating hubby’s junk look like a balloon animal; a jealous man inflicts horrendous bad breath on his romantic rival; someone arranges for the coworker in the cubicle beside him to develop Tourette’s. Hand me that jar of dried frog feet, will you? Thanks.
“These curses might be socially awkward, but, in the end, they’re far from life threatening. They’re also the curses easiest to lift, because they’re normally cast by jugglers—Kymerans who use both Left and Right Hand magic. Because the caster is ambidextrous, the curse is rarely dark enough to do any real damage.
“But I also get victims of genuinely malevolent curses—where they vomit up sharp objects, like pins and needles, or are compelled to bite themselves or murder their own children. Those cases are extremely difficult to turn widdershins. Hand me that jar of fly agaric, please. . . .
“The reason those are harder to lift is because the caster is usually a necromancer. They practice noth
ing but Left Hand magic, and because of that, their curses tend to be very dark, and very, very strong.
“Luckily, Mr. Ottershaw’s enemy—whoever he or she might be—was only interested in hindering him, not harming him. I suspect he or she simply nicked down to Witch Alley during lunch and paid fifty bucks to have him ‘inconvenienced.’ I need the peppered lark’s tongue—no, not that bottle, the one next to it.”
“And you’re charging five thousand to lift a fifty-dollar curse?”
“I was going to charge him a thousand, but then he asked me to curse someone. Now he qualifies for the douche-bag rate.”
“So why did you tell him you needed me to sit in on your ‘consult’?”
Hexe shrugged his shoulders. “I have clients coming in and out at all hours, and I thought it might be good if you got an idea of what I do for a living.”
“Really? You mean you didn’t do it just to impress me with your wizardly ways?”
“How is keeping a man from pissing his pants going to impress you?” he laughed.
“Hey, I’m easily amused.”
Mr. Ottershaw was standing in front of a glass-fronted bookshelf, frowning at a shrunken head that bore an uncanny resemblance to Elvis. He jumped as we returned to the room.
“Here—drink this,” Hexe said, handing him a ram’s horn cup full of the potion. “Drink it fast, while it’s still warm. You’re going to want to throw it up—don’t. As bad as it is going down, it’s even worse coming up.”
Mr. Ottershaw stared dubiously at the viscous grayish green liquid. He did not look happy. “What’s in it?”
“If I told you, it would just scare you.”
Steeling himself, Mr. Ottershaw took a deep breath, closed his eyes, held his nose, and tossed back the potion. He gagged and hurled the ram’s horn to the floor.
“Mother of God! That’s the filthiest crap I’ve ever had to drink in my life!” he moaned. He pointed a trembling finger at Hexe. “If this doesn’t work, Kymeran, I want my money back!”
Right Hand Magic Page 7
