Right Hand Magic

by Nancy A. Collins

  “You know what I say is true, Syra! You can’t stay blind to his weakness forever.”

  “I said that’s enough, Esau!” Her tone was so cold you could almost see ice crystals hanging in the air. “I’m not speaking to you as your sister.”

  Esau raised an indigo eyebrow in surprise. “Ah. So that’s how it is.” He glanced at the raven riding his shoulder. “It would seem we have offended the royal ear, Edgar.” The familiar cawed in agreement. Esau executed a formal bow to his sister, one hand placed above his heart. “In that case, I beg your leave, milady.”

  “You are free to go, sir,” Lady Syra said with a curt nod of her head.

  With a dramatic flourish of his coat, Esau marched out of the pub, leaving nothing but embarrassed silence in his wake.

  Lady Syra heaved a huge sigh as she watched her brother leave. “My. How very public that was.” She turned and gave me a wan smile. “Please forgive my brother, Ms. Tate. He is a necromancer by trade, and I fear it has warped him. I assure you that I do not share his prejudice.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your standing up for me.”

  Lady Syra turned to her son and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I hope you won’t think ill of me, sweetheart, but I’m going to call it a night. It was a pleasure meeting you, my dear.” She was smiling as she left, but I could tell that the confrontation with her brother had affected her greatly.

  “I’m really sorry you had to see that,” Hexe said as he returned to the booth. “But I warned you about Uncle Esau.”

  “He’s rather, uh, opinionated.”

  “He’s a racist asshole.”

  “I was trying to be polite.”

  “Why bother?” Hexe snapped. “He doesn’t care what humans think about him. And it’s obvious he doesn’t care about alienating his family. I hate him for how he treats my mother! She bends over backward to incorporate him into family gatherings and celebrations, only to have him shit all over everything.”

  “Yeah, about your mother—why is she called ‘Lady Syra’? I mean, it’s not a stage name, is it, like ‘Professor Azar’ or ‘Madame Lola’?”

  Hexe looked down at his tankard of barley wine, avoiding my gaze.

  “So, are you going to tell me the reason?” I prodded.

  “I will,” he replied. “But you have to promise me that it won’t change things between us.”

  “What things?” I asked, my helium-filled heart suddenly racing.

  “You know.” He gestured at the empty space between us. “Our friendship.”

  “Oh.” I tried not to sound disappointed. “Of course. Okay, I promise.”

  “My mother’s family members are the direct descendants of Lord Bexe.”

  “The last Witch King? The one who signed the Treaty? That Lord Bexe?”

  “One and the same.” Hexe nodded. “Except that he wasn’t really the last Witch King. The royal family didn’t go away—we simply no longer have a standing army or hold court. My great-great-grandfather Lord Beke, the one I told you about, was responsible for bringing the Kymerans to this country and was the founder of Golgotham. His son, Elas, inherited the title of Witch King after him. He had two children, Jack and Eben. Jack was the heir apparent. ...”

  “The one who got lost on the third floor?”

  Hexe gave me a smile. “Nice to know you pay attention. Anyway, my grandfather ended up having to take Jack’s place. When the time came to pass along the title, he chose my mother over Esau, making her the Witch Queen. It was an unusual decision on Grandfather’s part, but not unheard of.”

  “So that makes you . . . ?”

  “Prince Hexe, heir to the throne of Kymera. Such as it is.”

  “So that’s why they were calling you Serenity.”

  “It’s an anachronistic form of address,” he said with a shrug. “It’s not like being the Prince of Wales, or even the Prince of Monaco. My title and a dollar won’t get me in the subway. But that’s the real reason Uncle Esau is such a prick toward my mother and me. Of course, she feels guilty about it. I’ve told her time and again that it’s his problem, not hers, but she still tries to find ways to make it up to him.”

  “Why were you afraid of telling me this?”

  “Because being royalty—even fucked-up witch royalty—makes people act differently around you. When I was growing up, I was never sure if people liked me for myself. Take Dori, for instance. I always got the feeling she was more in love with my title than with me.”

  I leaned forward, dropping my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I realize this is going to sound completely fake, but I totally know how you feel.”

  Hexe was too polite to verbally respond, but the look on his face was openly dubious. I didn’t want him to think I was one of those types that, no matter what the situation, tries to one-up whomever they’re talking to. However, since he had finally come clean, I decided this was as good a time as any to reveal my own secret.

  “You know that Tate isn’t my given name, right?”

  Hexe frowned. “But it’s on your checks. I saw it when you paid the rent.”

  “Yes, but that’s my business account. I’m actually incorporated as T.A.T.E. That’s what my initials spell. It’s short for Timothea Alda Talmadge Eresby.”

  Recognition dawned in his eyes “Eresby? As in Timothy Eresby? One of the richest men in the country?”

  “That’s my dad. But I understand exactly what you mean about people seeing you as what you are instead of who you are. My last boyfriend, Roger, attached a great deal more importance to my being an heiress than I ever have.”

  “You said your family was rich, and I knew you were a trust fund baby, but I never dreamed—” He caught himself in midsentence, a chagrined look on his face.

  “That’s okay, Hexe,” I laughed. “I am a trust fund baby. It’s the truth, after all. But I’m not a numpster.”

  “I wouldn’t have rented to you if I thought you were.” He leaned back and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Now that we’ve revealed our secret identities to each other, what do you say we enjoy the party my mother was kind enough to throw for me? Just wait until you try Lafo’s parsnip and prune cake. It’s even better than his dark chocolate turnip bread.”

  “Yum,” I said, forcing the corner of my mouth up into a smile. “Sounds delicious.”

  A few hours and several tankards of barley wine later, we headed back home, our bellies full of Lafo’s unique culinary efforts. Hexe was right—the cake had indeed been delicious, although I drew the line at the candied sea horses and the deep-fried starfish.

  Hexe and I strolled side by side while Lukas walked ahead of us, surreptitiously sniffing the utility poles and trash cans along the street. Part of me longed to reach out and take his hand, but I told myself that we’d both been drinking, and I didn’t want either my action, or his reaction, to be the result of too much barley wine and not enough thought. It was a lie, but one I could almost believe.

  Lukas, on the other hand, had spent the evening engrossed with Meikei, and he was happier than I’d ever seen him. The chemistry between the teenagers was obvious, which made the course of their romance far easier to chart. Despite his harrowing ordeal in the pits, the young bastet’s heart was unafraid of surrendering itself. I envied the bravery his naïveté allowed him.

  Despite the warm feeling in my belly and the lightness in my heart, my mind kept going back to what Esau had said about me. After a lifetime of being viewed as a freak, it felt odd to be denounced for not being weird. Even odder was the feeling that came with being condemned as the harbinger of cultural devastation. Although I instinctively disliked him, the necromancer had a point.

  All I wanted was to be somewhere I loved living in, shop locally, try to get to know my neighbors, and go about my business as an artist. But I knew that if enough white twentysomething fellow artists joined me, eventually the culture and commodity such a community created would draw those farther up the gentrification chain, triggering the i
nevitable real estate feeding frenzy and the erasure of everything I loved about Golgotham.

  As we walked down the narrow, canyonlike street back to the boardinghouse, I stared up at the lights burning in the high windows of the buildings that surrounded us, and I wondered who—or what—might live there and if they viewed my arrival in their neighborhood the same way as Uncle Esau.

  For the most part, everyone I had met in Golgotham had proved to be extremely welcoming. But now I found myself wondering how much of that was not out of genuine friendliness, but because I was under Hexe’s royal protection.

  Chapter 15

  Canal Art Supplies, a second home to the Big Apple’s students, artists, and artsy-craftsy set since the Great Depression, is located on Canal Street, on the border between Chinatown and Tribeca. Sandwiched between fly-by-night stalls selling knockoff designer handbags, the store’s dingy exterior does little to hint that all six floors house everything from handmade paper to airbrush respirators. Compared to the big arts-and-crafts chains out in the suburbs, it’s definitely disheveled, and more than a little rough around the edges. But with its dark wood floors and pressed-tin ceilings, Canal Art Supplies has always offered a classic New York shopping experience.

  As I entered, I was greeted by the faint but familiar smell of good oils and turpentine. I ignored the ancient elevator at the back of the store, which was not only excruciatingly slow, but also bobbed up and down like a yo-yo whenever someone set foot inside the car. Instead, I climbed the creaky stairs to the fourth floor, where the sculpting and pottery supplies were kept.

  As I poked about the shelves, trying to decide on which color of plastilina to buy, I was vaguely aware of a half-dozen other fellow shoppers wandering the tightly packed aisles. Then someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find myself staring at a young woman with a shock of copper-colored hair, harlequin-style glasses that framed a pair of emerald green eyes, and a tiny scar on her chin from that time I opened the door to our dorm room without realizing she was standing on the other side.

  “Nessie!” I exclaimed as we both squealed in school-girlish delight and embraced each other. “How have you been?”

  Vanessa Sullivan and I met our freshman year at Wellesley and became fast friends during Introduction to Sculpture. Our sophomore year we arranged to share a room at Tower Court, and we pretty much lived in each other’s back pockets until we graduated. She’s the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever known. We gave each other nicknames—I called her Nessie, and she called me Tate, which I adopted as my nom d’acetylene torch.

  “I’m doing okay. I’ve been throwing art pots for this pet cremation service out on Long Island to pay the bills. You would not believe the cash people will put down for an urn to store Rover’s ashes! What’s new with you?”

  “I’ve got a show coming up at Templeton Gallery.”

  “Chelsea? Sweet! You deserve the exposure.”

  “What about you—you up to anything nowadays?”

  “I just joined this new arts collective near where I live in Tribeca. We’re looking to do a group show in a couple of months. We’re called the Art Farm,” Nessie replied with a grimace. “ ‘Art Form,’ right? The guy who started it has a thing for puns—God help me. I’ll drop off some invites once the dates are set. You still live over on Crosby Street?”

  “I moved out of there a few weeks back. I’m living in Golgotham now.”

  Nessie’s jaw dropped as if I’d told her I’d bought a condo on the moon. “No way!”

  “It’s true. I found this great place over on Golden Hill Street, in the heart of the neighborhood, not the touristy section. Plenty of space. Great light. It’s cheap. And, best of all, the neighbors don’t care how much noise I make. ...”

  “Wow! What’s it like?” Nessie asked, her eyes gleaming. “I mean, I’ve been to Perdition and Duivel streets—but everyone’s been there.”

  “It’s—different,” I replied, “and it takes a little getting used to, at first, but I love it. You really ought to come over and check out my studio. ...”

  Nessie glanced at her cell phone. “I’ve got a couple hours before I have to be anywhere. Why not?”

  We decided it would be best if we took the Number Six train to City Hall and caught a hack into Golgotham. I was keen to catch up with my old friend, since it was nearly a year since we’d last seen each other. That was due largely to my ex, thank you very much. As we took our seats on the subway, Nessie turned and gave me what I knew was her “Please don’t disappoint me” look.

  “So—Are you still seeing Dickweed?”

  “You mean Roger?”

  “Of course Roger. What other Dickweed have you been dating? Recently, that is.”

  “I broke up with Roger a couple of months ago.”

  “Good. I always hated that jerk. He acted like he was God’s gift to women. And to some dudes.”

  “Tell me about it.” I smiled sourly. “I walked in on him ‘gifting’ himself to some bimbo he picked up at a bar.”

  “Awk-ward!”

  “And he was in my loft! I was out of town and the bastard didn’t want to take her back to his place, but he was also too cheap to spring for a motel room. Since he hadn’t bothered to check the voice mail I’d left him, he didn’t realize I was coming back earlier than expected.”

  Vanessa rolled her eyes in disgust. “Ugh! Now that’s just tacky. What a he-ho. I hope you burned the sheets.”

  “I dumped them down the incinerator chute.”

  “Close enough. Personally, I could never understand what you saw in that guy. ...”

  “Well, the sex was good,” I conceded grudgingly. “And he laughed at my jokes.”

  “Good in bed and a sense of humor—the smart woman’s Achilles’ heel!”

  “Sadly, smart women can’t live on orgasms alone.” I sighed.

  “Although, you gotta admit, it’s fun trying.” Nessie grinned.

  We collapsed into a giggling fit, just like we used to do back in our dorm room. By the time the train reached City Hall, we had finally regained enough composure to look relatively sane, if not particularly respectable. We exited the car and headed toward the street, hurrying through the Guastavino tile arches of the platform and mezzanine, past the colored glass tile work and antique brass chandeliers that are a hallmark of the station.

  Upon reaching street level, we cut across the plaza toward Broadway, where a mixture of yellow taxis and centaur-drawn hansoms lined the cab stand. I looked for Kidron’s top hat or Wildfire’s garland, but I did not spot them.

  Suddenly a man’s voice spoke from behind us. “Excuse me, ladies—are you going to Golgotham?”

  We turned to find a satyr standing behind us. Due to his crooked hind legs, he appeared slightly shorter in stature than an average man. His upper body was identical to a human male’s save for his long, flat ears and horns of a goat. The only item of clothing he had on was a Mets jacket.

  “I can take you anywhere you want—cheaper than any centaur,” he said, pointing to his rickshaw, which sat nose down next to the curb, awaiting the next customer.

  “No, thank you,” I said, recalling Kidron’s advice about taking rides from satyrs.

  “Oh, come on, Tate!” Vanessa grinned. “I’ve always wanted to ride in one of these.”

  “I don’t know. ...” I eyed the satyr, who was politely waiting for us to come to a decision. It suddenly occurred to me that I was being unfair to the man-goat. Perhaps Kidron’s warning me away from the rickshaw drivers had more to do with the satyrs cutting into his livelihood. No doubt they, too, suffered the same bigotry and prejudice as the Kymerans and the various shape-shifting races endured, with people projecting dark motives onto them simply because they were different. Besides, there were two of us. Safety in numbers, right?

  “C’mon,” my friend teased. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Okay, we’ll hire you,” I agreed.

  “Right this way, lovely ladies.”
The satyr grinned. The rickshaw he ushered us into was, like most of those found in Golgotham, large enough to accommodate two adults. It was painted bright red, with a canvas canopy that could be folded forward or back, depending on the weather.

  I gave the satyr the address, and after we made ourselves comfortable, he stepped between the running posts of the rickshaw. Within seconds we found ourselves rattling down Broadway toward Golgotham. The satyr dodged in and out of the motorized traffic with surprising speed and agility, his hooves clattering loudly against the pavement.

  “So, are you still seeing Adrian?” I asked, finally returning to our previous conversation.

  “We’re still with each other.” She sighed. “But I’m afraid we’ve reached that stage where we need to either get married or break up. I’m not sure which it’s going to be, just yet. In fact, he proposed to me a couple of days ago. I told him I had to think about it.”

  “Adrian’s a nice guy, Nessie.”

  “I know that—but I’m not sure I’m ready to settle down. What if I decide I want to take a lesbian lover?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, not really,” she admitted. “But what if I wake up one morning and regret never doing so because I married Adrian and had a bunch of kids?”

  “That’s what the Internet’s for,” I laughed. “But all joking aside, it sounds to me you’re just trying to find reasons not to make a decision about something you know will change your life forever—whether for good or for bad.”

  “How about you—?” she asked. “Are you seeing anyone now that Roger’s out of the picture?”

  “Well, there is someone I’m interested in ...” I admitted, blushing as I spoke.

  “Is it anyone I know?” she asked excitedly. “Ooh! I bet it’s the bartender at Max Fish! I saw how you were eyeing him the last time we went there. ...”

  “No, I seriously doubt you know him,” I laughed. “He’s, uh, not from our scene.”

  “Oh, God—he’s not a stockbroker, is he?”

  “Of course not,” I replied, aghast at the very suggestion. “He’s a Kymeran.”