“What does that have to do with anything?” I frowned.
“Nothing at all,” Hexe replied hurriedly, his cheeks suddenly pink. “Just curious, that’s all.”
As I closed the door to the office behind me, I allowed myself a little smile.
Just curious? Yeah, right.
Later that same evening I spoke on the phone to Kidron, who agreed to talk to his brother for me. An hour later he called back to inform me the pickup was scheduled for the day after next and would run me two hundred bucks, cash on the barrelhead.
The next day I dragged out the two wooden crates I had used during my recent move to transport my sculptures and placed them in the front parlor. Then I went and arranged for the delivery of a “slightly used” plywood import box from a waterfront warehouse for the ones I had recently finished. Later that same afternoon, a wagon pulled by a sorrel centauride dropped off my purchase, and by that evening the front parlor was almost as impassable as Mr. Manto’s apartment.
“What’s going on?” Hexe asked as he squeezed through the front door. He kicked at a tumbleweed of snarled excelsior at his feet. “It looks like a roc’s nest in here!”
“Kidron’s brother is picking up the sculptures tomorrow,” I explained as I distributed wood shavings between the containers. “I have to get them ready.”
“That’s great!” He smiled. “You must be very excited—this is your first show, isn’t it?”
“I’ve displayed my work at group shows at university, and I was involved in a couple of art installations in Williamsburg, but this is the first time my stuff will be in a real gallery. Templeton isn’t exactly Gagosian, but it’s a good start. So, yeah, I’m pretty excited.”
“You know, I’ve never really seen your work—”
“What are you talking about?” I snorted. “You’ve seen me in a welding helmet more than you have a dress!”
“That’s the thing—I’ve seen you at work, but not the finished pieces themselves.”
“Would you like to take a look at them before they’re packed up?” I asked.
“I should, in case you sell them all.”
“I hope so!” I smiled as we headed upstairs. “But this won’t be your last chance to see them. You are coming to the opening, aren’t you?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”
“Good, because I’m totally counting on you and Lukas to be there. I need all the moral support I can get.”
“What about your parents? Aren’t they going to be there?”
My smile dimmed. “I haven’t told them about it yet.” I opened the door and ushered him into the room before he could ask any more questions—only to cringe at the sight of the tools strewed across my workbench, my unmade bed, and several days’ worth of dirty clothes scattered about the floor.
Oh, yeah. I forgot my place looks like a disaster area right now.
“Please forgive the mess,” I said as I hastily gathered wadded-up socks and panties and tossed them in the full-to-overflowing laundry hamper behind the door “Things have been hectic lately, and I kind of let things slide. ...”
If Hexe heard my feeble excuses for why I lived like a pig, he showed no sign of it. He pointed at the collection of sculptures in the far corner of the room. “Is that them?”
The Dying Gaul lay on the floor, atop his fallen shield, staring with repurposed taillight eyes at his dropped sword, a torque fashioned of recycled copper wire about his pipelike neck. With his exposed machine-made joints and ligaments, he looked more like a chrome-plated skeleton than an ancient gladiator.
The Thinker sat opposite him on a folding chair, metal chin resting on a fist made from old typewriter parts, lost in cold steel thought. I wasn’t sure if he was pondering the Dying Gaul’s fate or trying to ignore the Lovers beside him, wrapped in their eternal kiss.
Lover Number One twiddled the hollow nipple of Lover Number Two’s aluminum funnel-breast with typewriter-key fingers, while she wrapped hers about the piston jutting from his galvanized thighs.
Next to them was the regal Ariadne, her face fashioned from a silvered Venetian carnival mask. She reclined upon the metallic panther as if it were a chaise lounge, her clock-spring tresses held in place by a hair band made of baling wire. A length of silver lamé cloth hung from one shoulder, exposing breasts made from vintage Bugatti headlights. The Cyber-Panther bore his mistress’s weight without complaint, green plastic LED eyes glowing in their metal orbits, his head turned toward hers in snarling adoration.
“Heavens and hells, Tate,” Hexe said, shaking his head in wonder. “These are absolutely incredible!”
“Yeah,” I replied drily. “But all I can think about right now is that it’s going to be a real bitch hauling these things downstairs.”
“I think I can help you out with that,” he said, a gleam in his eye. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried out of the room and ran downstairs, only to return a few moments later carrying a small chafing dish and a Grecian urn decorated with satyrs and nymphs. He placed the chafing dish on my workbench and, after removing the lid, poured out a light green oil that smelled strongly of frankincense. He then dipped his extra ring finger, what the Kymerans called their “magic”digit, of his right hand in the scented oil and pressed it against the Dying Gaul’s polished brow, muttering an incantation in Kymeran under his breath. He then did the exact same thing with the other statues. Once finished, he produced a cigarette lighter and set fire to the oil in the chafing dish.
Before I realized what was happening, Hexe dipped his right hand into the blaze. I cried out in alarm and moved to stop him, but it was too late; he was already wrist deep in the flames. To my surprise, he showed no sign of either pain or concern. When he withdrew his hand a few moments later, licks of flame danced on the end of each digit.
As I watched, transfixed, upon the air he traced, with fingers tipped in fire, a word never spoken. It shimmered for a heartbeat in midair before returning to the unknown. Hexe then picked up the lid and quickly smothered the flame in the chafing dish.
“There you go.” He smiled. “This should make getting these things downstairs a little easier for you.”
I scratched my head, baffled as to how any of what I had just witnessed could make carrying several heavy statues down two flights of stairs any less cumbersome. I was startled by a loud rattling sound, like that of hailstones striking a tin roof. The cacophony was so thunderous, I covered my ears. As I looked around for the source of the racket, I realized that the noise was coming from the statues, which were vibrating in place like tuning forks. Just as I thought all my hard work was going to collapse in a pile of loosened bolts and torn welds, the noise stopped.
To my amazement, the Dying Gaul picked up his shield in one hand and his sword in the other and levered himself upright. The Thinker rose from his chair, standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow creation. The Lovers freed themselves from their embrace, their fingers flexing and clicking like the legs of metal spiders. Ariadne abandoned her repose, gathering the silver lamé about her so as to hide her nakedness, while the Cyber-Panther ghosted forward on his paws. Together they turned to stare at me, like troops awaiting an order, their eyes aglow in their empty faces.
I felt a swell of true pride as I watched my creations move. While I had designed them to be poseable, it had never occurred to me that they could truly be capable of walking. It was both exhilarating and disturbing to see my handiwork moving about under its own steam. With their metal skin, exposed hip and shoulder joints, and polished steel bones, they looked like chrome-plated cadavers brought to life. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be playing the part of Pygmalion or Dr. Frankenstein.
“Why are they looking at me?” I whispered nervously.
“Because you are their maker,” Hexe explained. “They’re waiting for you to tell them what to do.”
“But you’re the one who brought them to life—shouldn’t they be paying attention to you?”
; “I merely provided the spark that animates them. It is your hands and will that fashioned them. That makes them an extension of your spirit.”
“Are they—alive?”
“Not as you mean the word, no. They are animate. They have the power to move, but not the will. They must be told what to do, like golems. Go ahead, give them a command.”
I cleared my throat, uncertain how loud I should speak, since the only one that had ears was the Cyber-Panther. I decided I would utilize the same basic volume I used whenever I talked to my grandparents—something just this side of shouting.
“Go downstairs and get inside your crates.”
The Dying Gaul brought his sword hand up to his chest in a centurion’s salute and dutifully clanked his way toward the door, the others falling in line behind him. Last in the parade were Ariadne and the Cyber-Panther. The mechanical princess walked with her head held high, as befitting the wife of a god, while her feline companion switched its segmented metal tail like a mouser on the prowl.
I followed them downstairs and watched as they placed themselves inside their respective crates, pairing up without being told to do so. The Lovers crawled inside their crate together, pulling the excelsior down around them like children preparing for bed. Ariadne carefully lowered herself into her plywood container, and then motioned for the Cyber-Panther to join her. The great metal cat hopped in after its mistress, curling up beside her like an overgrown tabby. The Thinker stepped inside his box, followed by the Dying Gaul, who placed his sword and shield upon his chest as he lay down, like a sleeping warrior awaiting reveille.
I was downstairs in the kitchen when I heard the knock on the door. I threaded my way through the crowded parlor, trying my best not to bruise myself on one of the wooden crates awaiting pickup.
Upon opening the door, I was taken aback to find myself staring at a fat, bald man with a squat nose, thick lips, and horse’s ears. From the waist down he was built like a satyr, but instead of goat’s legs, he sported a pair of horse’s legs, as well as a tail to match. He wore a T-shirt emblazoned with the Teamster logo—a wagon wheel with the profile of a horse’s head on one side and a centaur’s on the other—and seemed just as nonplussed to see me as I was to see him. He frowned and double-checked the clipboard in his hands, then frowned even harder.
“You Tate?” the horse-legged Teamster growled.
“Yes,” I replied, trying to cover my surprise. I held out my hand in greeting. “You must be Rowdy.”
The Teamster did not accept my offered handshake, but instead turned to the bay centaur hitched to the draft wagon parked on the curb. “Check it out, Rowdy!” he brayed. “This nump thinks I’m you!”
“You wish, Sylvester!” the centaur-horse laughed.
“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t realize—” I stammered, my cheeks bright red.
“Who you apologizing to, lady?” Sylvester snarled as I brushed past. “Me or Rowdy?”
The centaur hitched to the wagon was considerably larger that Kidron, his lower body resembling that of a Clydesdale. His upper torso was correspondingly stocky, with muscular shoulders and bulging forearms. His hand engulfed my own as I introduced myself.
“I’m Tate. You must be Kidron’s brother, right?”
“Three-quarters, actually,” Rowdy replied. “We got the same mom, but our dads are half brothers. It’s kinda complicated, but that’s how it is in the herd.”
“I’m awfully sorry for the mix-up,” I apologized.
“That’s okay,” Rowdy said, taking off his Teamster cap so he could shake out his mane. “I realize there ain’t much of a family resemblance. First time I’ve been mistook for an ipotane, though.”
I frowned. “An ipo-what?”
“Like my buddy over there,” Rowdy explained, nodding in Sylvester’s direction.
“Is that what he is?” I replied in surprise. “I thought he was some kind of satyr or something. ...”
Sylvester hurled down his clipboard, stamping his hooves in anger. “A satyr?” He spat on the sidewalk. “We all look alike to you damned numps, don’t we? Chuffin’ human can’t tell a hard-workin’, gods-fearin’ ipotane from a worthless, lolly-gaggin’ satyr! I bet you couldn’t tell a basilisk from a cockatrice, neither!”
“Syl, calm down,” Rowdy said evenly. “She didn’t mean nothing by it.”
I glanced about uneasily, hoping the ipotane’s outburst might go unnoticed, but no such luck. A passing Kymeran with maroon hair slowed down to stare, while a trio of leprechauns watching from across the street sniggered among themselves.
“I’m sorry I offended you, Mr., uh, uh—Sylvester,” I said, trying to figure out some way of mollifying the half-horse. “I really don’t want to cause any trouble. ...”
Sylvester barked a humorless laugh. “Ha! If you ain’t lookin’ for trouble, lady, then what in seven hells are you doin’ in Golgotham?”
“You tell ’er, boyo!” one of the leprechauns shouted from across the street as he recorded the event for posterity with his cell phone camera.
I froze, unable to think of anything I could say that would not make matters worse than they were already. A crowd was starting to gather, as everyone on the street stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I was alarmed by the open dislike I saw in the eyes of some of my neighbors, and for the first time since moving to Golgotham, the realization I was the only human on the street was actually frightening.
Without warning, a beer bottle came flying toward my head. Unable to dodge the missile, I instinctively raised my hands to protect my face. Just before it was about to hit me, the bottle stopped as if caught by a phantom hand. It was so close I could clearly read the label, BLARNEY’S ALE.
The bottle hung suspended in midair for a split second before flying back the way it came, smashing to the pavement next to the trio of leprechauns across the street. The one with the cell phone nimbly jumped aside to avoid the flying shards of glass.
“Oi!” he shouted, shaking his fist in my direction.
“Is there a problem?”
I turned to see my knight in shining armor—or, in this case, My Chemical Romance T-shirt—standing framed in the doorway of the house, his right hand held up, palm outward, in a warding gesture, all six fingers bent in strange angles. The look on Hexe’s face was the most serious I had seen since the meeting with Boss Marz.
Sylvester gulped audibly. “No. No problem at all, Serenity.” The ipotane bent and picked up his clipboard, signaling the end of the confrontation. The various onlookers quickly turned away and went back to their business.
Sylvester coughed nervously into his fist and glanced back at Hexe, who had yet to leave the doorway. “You got your cartage fee, ma’am?” he asked, suddenly the soul of courtesy.
“Yes, I do,” I said, reaching into my pocket.
Sylvester quickly counted the cash I handed him and tucked it into a fanny pack zippered about his equine waist. He removed a hand truck from the back of the wagon and dragged it up the stairs into the house. Hexe stepped out of the way to allow him to enter, but not before fixing Sylvester with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
“Sorry about my friend there,” Rowdy said, a look of genuine embarrassment on his face. “Sylvester’s already got a horse’s ass, but that don’t give him the right to act like one. If any of this got back to our boss ...”
“It’s okay,” I said, eager to put the whole unpleasant episode behind me. “It was just a misunderstanding. Nobody got hurt.”
“That’s pretty decent of you,” the centaur said gratefully. “Kidron said you were straight up for a, uh, I mean—”
“Nump?” I suggested wryly.
“I was gonna say ‘human.’ ” The Teamster smiled. “Anyway, my brother’s a good judge of character, and if he says you’re okay with him, then you’re okay with me.”
“Thank you, Rowdy. I appreciate that.”
Despite his paunch, Sylvester proved as strong as his lower half, and managed to load the thr
ee large crates into the back of the wagon in just a matter of minutes. After getting my signature (in triplicate) on some forms, he climbed back into the wagon.
As he and Rowdy rumbled off down the street, the ipotane cast a final, worried look over his shoulder at Hexe, who still stood watching on the front stoop.
“You don’t have to stand guard,” I told him as I reentered the house. “Everything’s okay now.”
“I’m sorry that happened,” he said grimly. “If I’d been there from the start, none of this would have happened. ...”
“Don’t worry about it. I knew when I first moved here that I might run into some antihuman resentment.” I smiled and placed my right hand atop his. “I’m beginning to understand how much my being your friend has shielded me. But you can’t protect me all the time.”
“I can try,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
A peculiar feeling stole across me, and the world seemed to curve gently around me, as if I were standing inside a giant soap bubble. I had the strangest feeling that not only did I know the man standing before me, but that I had always known him. I looked into his eyes and found myself there, just as he saw himself in mine. I could sense his presence in my heart, filling my soul with every breath I took.
I was being drawn toward him, his handsome face filling my view, as if I were a compass and he were true north. His smell was intoxicating, and his breath was warm and sweet against my cheek. And I knew that all I wanted right there, in that moment, was to have his arms around me and feel his lips against my own.
Suddenly my coat pocket began to play the chorus from They Might Be Giants’ “Instanbul (Not Constantinople).”
The magic bubble that seemed to surround us disappeared, shattered like a hammer tossed through a stained glass window. Despite myself, I let go of his hand and reached for my phone.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to take this,” I explained apologetically as I turned my back. “It’s Derrick calling to find out about the delivery. ...”
My conversation was brief—no more than a minute—but when I turned back around, Hexe was gone, like moonlight come the dawn.
Right Hand Magic Page 16
