Right Hand Magic

by Nancy A. Collins

  “It’ll work,” Hexe assured him. “Of course, it’ll be two or three hours before it takes full effect. ...”

  “Two or three hours?” Mr. Ottershaw glanced at his wristwatch. “My presentation is in an hour and a half! I can’t show up wearing a kilt!”

  “I have good news for you, Mr. Ottershaw. I’m willing to throw in a pair of magic pants that you can wear without fear of micturition, at no extra charge.”

  “Magic pants? You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” Ottershaw groaned.

  Hexe pulled a small wooden sea chest from one of the bookshelves. From it he removed a pair of men’s trousers unlike any I’d seen before. They were made of purple velvet and decorated with countless tiny mirrors.

  “Are you nuts?” Mr. Ottershaw yelped. “I’m not wearing that monstrosity! At least with the kilt I just look like I’m Scottish, not a freaking disco ball!”

  “Granted, they are somewhat unconventional,” Hexe agreed. “But the mirrors that cover the pants are enchanted. Not only do they deflect the curse that was inflicted upon you, but once you put them on, those around you will only see what they expect to see—in your case, a nice pair of conservative suit trousers, nothing more. You’ll be protected from fouling yourself, and your junk will no longer be at the mercy of updrafts.”

  “What the hell—at this point, I’m willing to risk it,” Mr. Ottershaw said, snatching up the mirrored pants. “This kilt chafes like a bear!”

  After a quick visit to the powder room under the staircase, Mr. Ottershaw emerged dressed in his glorious magic pants. The myriad mirrors caught and refracted the low light from the armadillo lamp, bouncing it back upon itself until I had to avert my gaze. When I looked again, I was surprised to see a pair of staid, slate gray trousers with a razor-sharp pleat in their place.

  “Wow!” I breathed. “They really work!”

  “Of course they work,” Hexe said proudly.

  Mr. Ottershaw checked his watch again. “I’d better leave—I have to get back to the office in time for that presentation.”

  “Good luck, sir. And I appreciate your business today,” Hexe said, sliding a card into Mr. Ottershaw’s pocket. “Please don’t hesitate to recommend me to your friends and colleagues.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mr. Ottershaw replied uneasily.

  “Allow me to see you to the door. ...”

  As Hexe and I watched Mr. Ottershaw leave, it occurred to me that if he was trying to get back to the financial district, he was headed in the wrong direction.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked.

  “If I had to guess, I would say he’s headed for Witch Alley,” Hexe replied. “No doubt in search of someone willing to curse the unfortunate Mr. Boyland on the cheap.”

  “You’re right,” I grunted. “He is a douche bag.”

  “That’s probably why someone cursed him in the first place.” Hexe sighed wistfully. “I suppose I should have mentioned that the enchantment on those pants is good for only two hours at a time. Oh, well—he’ll find out for himself.”

  Chapter 10

  Although I was no longer frightened of Lukas, it was still kind of weird living under the same roof as a were-cougar. I’ve had unsavory neighbors before—this was New York, after all—but knowing your housemate changes into a bloodthirsty hell-beast is a lot different than suspecting the dude down the hall from you sells X.

  Instead of dwelling on being murdered in my own bed, I opted to throw myself into my work. I had a show coming up, and I needed to finish the last two pieces on time. Being killed by a were-cat would be a walk in the park compared to dealing with an irate gallery owner—especially one as influential as Derrick Templeton.

  I work in metal, sculpting fully articulated, life-sized human figures out of electrical conduit, transmission parts, plumbing pipe, and twenty-gauge steel. Unlike conventional sculpture, they’re fully poseable. I landed the show in Chelsea on the strength of my prototype, The Dying Gaul.

  I suspect my parents’ dislike of my being an artist had more to do with the discipline I chose than an intrinsic distaste for the medium itself. After all, my father wrote sizable checks to the Guggenheim and the Whitney every year. There might even be a wing with his name on it at MoMA, come to think of it.

  Had I chosen to become a painter or a photographer, they might have been willing to accept my decision, but being a sculptor was simply beyond the pale. What with my oxyacetylene equipment, steel-toe boots, overalls, and welder’s helmet, I might as well have been a blue-collar worker. At least that was my mother’s opinion. Then again, she also thought Roger was suitable son-in-law material simply because his father was a cardiologist and his mother a psychiatrist.

  The last time I went to dinner with her, she actually called me “Rosie the Riveter.” That was my mom: always on the cutting edge of culture. I’m surprised she didn’t throw in a “twenty-three skidoo” for good measure.

  I was in the middle of crafting a hip joint from a Dodge transmission when I heard a loud thump outside my door. I turned off my torch and flipped back my helmet in time to hear a string of profanity coming from the hallway.

  I opened the door to find Lukas sprawled on the floor outside the bathroom. Although I should have been concerned to see a were-cat near my door, I couldn’t muster even the tiniest amount of dread. Frankly, it’s impossible to fear someone dressed in Star Wars pajamas a half size too small.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed as I hurried to his side. “What are you doing out of bed, Lukas?”

  “I just wanted to go to the bathroom by myself, instead of using the bedpan,” he explained. “I managed to get there on my own . . . but coming back . . . my legs gave out from under me. ...”

  “Let me help you up,” I said, sliding my arm behind his back. “Are you able to stand?”

  He nodded weakly. “I think so . . . but I feel dizzy. ...”

  “Come into my room and sit down—I’ll go fetch Hexe.”

  “No, don’t bother him,” Lukas insisted. “I’m a nuisance enough as it is.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said as I guided him to the easy chair on the “living” side of my space, safely removed from my workbench and tools. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because it’s true.” The young were-cat sighed. “I’m taking Hexe away from his paying clients. And I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me, either, after I traumatized you in the garden. . . . ”

  “I’ll admit you scared the shit out of me.” I smiled. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself ‘traumatized.’ Who told you that?”

  “Scratch.”

  “Yeah, well, you really shouldn’t give anything Scratch tells you too much credence. He says shit like that to everyone—that’s just his style. I should know. You are not a nuisance, Lukas.” I could tell from the look in his eye that the boy didn’t believe me, so I decided to change the subject. “Anyway, I’m impressed that you made it that far on your own steam. That means you’re healing. Maybe you’ll be ready to go back home soon.”

  Lukas dropped his eyes to the floor. “Great,” he mumbled.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked, surprised by his response. “Don’t you want to go back home?”

  “Of course I do.” He sighed. “It’s just that I don’t think home wants me back.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Your parents must be out of their minds with worry over you!”

  “I doubt it. I’m sure they’ve forgotten they ever had a son by now.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that no one runs away to New York City just to see the sights, no matter what they say, even if they’re a were-cat. “So the stuff you said about coming to New York to mark fresh trees, that was all bullshit, wasn’t it?”

  “Not all of it,” Lukas admitted sheepishly. “But it’s not the real reason I left the preserve. I love my family, and I love my people. But life on the preserve can be . . . difficult.

  “My father is an alpha. His father was
an alpha, as was his father before him. Me? I am so not an alpha. I’ve always tried to live up to what my dad—and my mom, she’s an alpha, too—expect from me. It’s been hard, because I just don’t have it in me, you know? Dad says I think too much, instead of relying on my instincts.

  “There’s this female in our village the same age as I am. Her name’s Yvonne. We were cubs together. She’s got the prettiest fur. . . . Anyway, we grew up together on the preserve. I liked her and she liked me. Then she went into season. ...”

  “Girl trouble, huh?” I rolled my eyes. “I think I know where this is going.”

  “Suddenly Konrad comes sniffing about. He’s big and stupid and treats everyone else like shit and ...”

  “He challenged you for Yvonne?”

  Lukas grimaced in disgust. “It was horrible. The only reason Konrad didn’t tear out my throat is because I soiled myself first. After that, I was looked at as a submissive by everyone, including my father.”

  “I’m sure he’ll get over it, in time.”

  “You don’t understand. By my kind’s rules, I’ve lost the right to mate,” Lukas said mournfully. “My family’s blood-line ends with me. I shamed my father and lost the one I love. I was forced to watch Yvonne become the mate of that thick-skulled bully. Everywhere I went, the others were mean to me because they knew I was weak. And every time I looked into my parents’ eyes, all I saw was disappointment and disgust. That’s when I decided I had to leave the preserve.

  “I picked New York because I knew there were supernaturals living within the city. I hoped I could lose my past and reinvent myself here. So much for hope.” He sighed, slumping down even farther into the easy chair.

  “Don’t you think your family misses you even a little?” I asked.

  “What’s to miss? I’m a failure—worse, than that, I’m an evolutionary dead end! My parents are young enough to try again and get it right with a new cub. I’m doing them a favor by disappearing, Tate.

  “As it is, there’s no way I can truly rejoin my people—I’ve killed a fellow were. Even though I had no choice, and Rufus was a lycanthrope and not a bastet, in the eyes of my people, killing a fellow were-being is worse than killing a human—sorry. No offense.”

  “None taken,” I replied.

  “I’m a pariah, now. Just like Phelan is a lone wolf.”

  “You’re nothing like that creep!” I suddenly found myself angry—not at Lukas but at all those who had conspired to try and break this young boy’s spirit and turn him into the monster they expected. “I don’t want to hear you talking like that anymore. You’re a good kid. You’ve just gone through a lot of shit, that’s all. After listening to you, I feel like a jerk complaining about my folks.”

  “You have problems with your parents, too?” His eyes widened in surprise.

  “Nothing on the order of what you’re dealing with. Mine just don’t like what I do, where I live, and who my friends are, that’s all.”

  “What is it you do they do not like?”

  “This,” I replied, gesturing to the sculptures, both assembled and in progress, that crowded the “working” side of my space.

  Lukas turned to stare at me, a look of amazement in his eyes. “Why would they not like this?”

  Now it was my turn to shrug. “My parents simply disapprove on general principles. They think I’m wasting my time.”

  “They’re wrong,” he said, his voice surprisingly sure for one so young.

  There was a quick rap on the half-open door as Hexe entered the room. “Sorry if I’m interrupting—but have you seen Lukas?”

  I pointed to the easy chair. Lukas smiled wanly at Hexe and waved hello.

  “There you are. I was afraid Scratch had made good on his threats and eaten you. You got all the way down the hall on your own—? I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be,” Lukas replied. “The only reason I’m sitting in this room is because Tate picked me up off the floor.”

  “He fell down,” I explained. “But he seems okay. We were just comparing family drama before you arrived.”

  Hexe nodded in understanding. “Well, in my experience, everyone has two families. The first is the one you’re born into; the second is the one you create for yourself. So what if your first family doesn’t want you around or understand you? Your second family does. As long as you have someone who cares, everything’s right in the world. And that’s how it should be. Being alone isn’t healthy for shape-shifters or humans.”

  “You’re a wise man, Hexe.”

  “I have my moments,” he laughed. “But the real reason I came looking for you, Lukas, is that I want to take you to see a friend of mine named Dr. Mao. He’s a healer.”

  “Aren’t you a healer?” Lukas asked. “Why do I need to go see another one?”

  “It’s called a second opinion. Besides, I’m nowhere as skilled as Dr. Mao. He operates an apothecary on the corner of Pearl and Frankfort, on the border between Golgotham and Chinatown.”

  “Frankfort Street? There’s no way he can walk that far!” I exclaimed.

  “That’s why I’ve arranged for Kidron to pick us up. But before we go anywhere, we need to camouflage our young friend,” Hexe said, pointing to Lukas’s forehead.

  As I stared at the were-cat’s telltale unibrow, I was struck by inspiration. “Stay right there—I’ve got just the thing!” I returned a minute later with a pink disposable razor, a small hand mirror, and a can of strawberry-banana-scented shaving cream. I squirted a dollop onto my fingers and daubed it on Lukas’s brow, just above the bridge of his nose, then proceeded to scrape away the excess hair, creating the illusion of two separate eyebrows.

  “Oww!” Lukas winced. “Not so rough!”

  “Consider yourself lucky I’m not giving you a brow wax,” I replied. “Now hold still.” I stepped back and held up the hand mirror so Lukas could admire my handiwork. “What do you think?”

  “I feel naked.” The were-cat frowned as he gingerly rubbed the freshly denuded space above his nose.

  Hexe’s BlackBerry rang. He fished it out of his pocket and peered at the caller ID. “It’s Kidron. He’s waiting for us outside.”

  As Hexe helped Lukas to his feet, the young bastet looked in my direction. “Tate—aren’t you coming with us?”

  “Well, I was hoping to get some more work done on this sculpture. ...”

  “Pleeeease?”

  I glanced at Hexe. “I don’t want to get in the way. It’s a doctor’s visit, after all.”

  “The more the merrier, I always say,” Hexe said. “Besides, I think you’ll find Dr. Mao very . . . interesting.”

  “Not in the Chinese sense of the word, I hope,” I replied.

  It took a little doing, but we managed to rustle up enough clothes for Lukas to go out in public without calling too much attention to himself.

  Hexe loaned him a pair of jeans that were an inch too short, as well as an old hoodie sweatshirt, while my contribution consisted of a pair of scuffed-up old Vans.

  Once he was dressed, Hexe and I escorted Lukas downstairs, careful to keep him sandwiched between us so he couldn’t fall down. Walking the single flight was torture for the poor kid, but he put up a brave front, moaning only once.

  Upon reaching the first floor, Hexe disappeared into his study and returned carrying a cane, the shaft of which was fashioned of ironwood and the handle made from a goat’s horn.

  “Use this,” Hexe said, handing Lukas the cane. “The handle’s a scapegoat’s horn. It’ll absorb most of the pain while you’re walking. Be careful with it, though—anyone who touches it after you’ve used it will be in for a nasty surprise.”

  As Lukas leaned his weight upon the charmed cane, I could see the pain drain from his face. He paused on the threshold of the open door, staring in wonderment at the buildings that crowded the streets.

  “I’ve been in New York for weeks, but this is the first time I’ve really seen this city,” he marveled.

  “Believe me
, the rest of New York looks nothing like this,” I assured him.

  Kidron was waiting patiently at the curb in front of the house. Instead of the two-wheeled hansom cab, he was hitched up to a closed, four-wheeled carriage.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Tate,” the centaur said, tipping his top hat. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Hello, Kidron,” I replied as I opened the door of the cab. “It’s nice to see you, too.”

  As I turned to help Lukas into the carriage, the shape-shifter eyed the centaur uneasily. Hexe stepped forward and patted his young patient on the shoulder. “There’s no need to be scared, Lukas. Kidron is a friend. Isn’t that so?”

  The cabbie bobbed his head in agreement. “We all run in the same herd, do we not?”

  After we situated ourselves inside the cab—Lukas and I side-by-side, Hexe seated opposite us—Kidron trotted off in the direction of Pearl Street. Hexe glanced over at Lukas, who was looking out the window of the moving cab, taking in the sights.

  “Do you mind telling me why you hesitated before getting in the cab?” he asked. “Was it because you’ve never seen a centaur before?”

  “No. That’s not it.” Lukas dropped his gaze in shame. “It’s just that I—well, I fought one in the pit.”

  “Bloody-minded fecker!” Hexe spat in disgust.

  Lukas flinched and lowered his head. Seeing his reaction, Hexe reached out and clasped the boy’s shoulder.

  “Please don’t misunderstand—I’m not mad at you, Lukas. I realize you had no choice in what happened. Marz is the one I’d like to get my hands on. He’s a vile piece of bad business.”

  It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination: a row of mixed-use tenement buildings facing the elevated Brooklyn Bridge access ramps. Dr. Mao’s apothecary shop was on the ground floor, sandwiched between a plumbing supply shop and a tapas restaurant.

  As Kidron pulled up to the curb, a one-armed pink-haired Kymeran dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit emerged from the apothecary. I glanced over at Lukas. The young shape-shifter was trembling like a malaria victim.