Left Hand Magic

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Yeah. It’s been a couple of weeks since we took our relationship to the next level,” I said, blushing slightly.

  “Oooh, I like how you phrased that. It sounds a lot classier than ‘since we started screwing like weasels.’” A look of alarm crossed her face. “Have you told Mrs. E?”

  “Of course not!” I replied. “I may be eccentric, but I’m not crazy enough to tell my mother I’m romantically involved with a Kymeran.”

  “What about Hexe? Does he have family?”

  “Yes, he has family,” I replied evenly. Although I have to admit that if anyone besides Nessie had asked me that question, I probably would have been pissed. “He wasn’t hatched from an egg! In fact, I’ve already met his mother.”

  “Really? What’s she like? Does she rhyme with ‘witch,’ too?”

  “No, thank goodness. She’s actually very nice. I’ve only met her once, but I like her. Her brother’s another story, though.” I automatically frowned as I thought about Hexe’s dreaded uncle. “He blames me for Golgotham becoming the new hipster hot spot, thanks to that photo-essay in the Sunday Herald.”

  “But those were Bartho’s photographs—you had nothing to do with that!”

  “It doesn’t matter. As far as Uncle Esau is concerned, all humans are one and the same. However, I am responsible for Bartho deciding to move to Golgotham.”

  “Ah—so you are guilty!”

  “Afraid so. Behold! I am Tate, Destroyer of Worlds,” I said, lifting my margarita in a mock toast.

  Chapter 2

  A plate of enchiladas and two more margaritas later, I bid Vanessa adieu and hopped the F train to Brooklyn. I got off at the Carroll Street station, where I caught a cab into Red Hook. Once a warren of junkyards and derelict factories, inhabited by longshoremen and other blue-collar workers, the South Brooklyn seaside neighborhood was now showing signs of finally succumbing to the real estate developers. As the taxi wound through funky little side streets, I spotted a billboard advertising the IKEA warehouse located just off the Gowanus Expressway. Wine bars and condos wouldn’t be far behind.

  The cabbie dropped me off outside Keckhaver Salvage, two and a half acres of automotive scrap surrounded by chain-link fencing that offered an unparalleled view of the Statue of Liberty. I had been a regular customer for the last three years, and was on a first-name basis with the owner, Mike, who was standing outside the one-room hut just inside the front gate that served as his office.

  He was a tall, wide-shouldered man in his late fifties, dressed in a pair of greasy overalls, with long gray hair that spilled down past his shoulders, and a braided salt-and-pepper goatee with a ceramic bead swinging at the end of his chin. He smiled and lifted his hand in greeting as I entered his domain.

  “Welcome back, Tate. Looking for something in particular?”

  “Just scavenging for whatever strikes my fancy, Mike,” I replied. “How’s business?”

  “Depends on how you look at it,” the junkman grunted. “You see that construction over there?” He pointed to a couple of cranes off in the distance. “Some big-shot real estate developers are converting the old industrial piers into condos, stores, and a marina. They want to buy my property. I don’t really want to sell—but I don’t have a choice. The new property taxes have gone through the roof now that I’m gonna be next door to a fuckin’ marina!

  “The wife’s thrilled—it’s a lot of money. Me? I don’t want to leave, but I can’t afford to stay. This business has been in my family for three generations—” The phone in the office/shack started ringing, cutting off his train of thought. “I better get that—it’s probably the real estate guys again. Anyways, you’re welcome to browse the yard.” He motioned to the wilderness of junked parts and rusted vehicles. “Better get what you can while the getting’s good.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon doing exactly as Mike had suggested, scrounging through the towering piles of scrap metal for buried treasure that would inspire my next creations. I ended up with the steering knuckles pulled off an old Ford Bronco, some differential covers, and a box of mixed gears.

  I located Mike, who was elbow-deep in a ’73 El Camino engine compartment, and pointed out the items I wanted. We then returned to his office to set up the delivery information. He frowned when I told him where I needed it shipped.

  “That’s the address for the Relay Station in Golgotham,” he said.

  “I’ve been living there for a couple months now,” I explained.

  Mike grunted and nodded his head and returned to his paperwork, but I could tell he was slightly perturbed by what I’d told him. As I fished out my cell to call for another taxi to return me to the subway stop, he motioned for me to hang up.

  “Don’t bother with that. You’ll be waiting for fucking hours. I’ll give you a ride back to the train. Besides, I got a junker to pick up in Carroll Gardens.”

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  “It’s the least I can do for a steady customer,” he replied with a shrug.

  I climbed into the tow truck, the side panels of which read, in faded script, KECKHAVER & SON SALVAGE & TOWING. The “& SON” had been partially scratched out. It smelled strongly of WD-40 and diesel fuel, and a loose spring in the passenger seat kept goosing me in the ass as we jounced our way across the pothole-laden street. It was a far cry from my father’s Maybach, but then again, I could not recall my father ever driving me anywhere without a chauffeur.

  When we reached the subway stop, I thanked Mike once again for the ride and started to get out. Before I could exit the vehicle, the junkman gripped my elbow. His hand was large, the knuckles scraped and scarred from a lifetime spent under the hoods of vehicles, and yet it possessed an odd gentleness.

  “Look, Tate—you seem like a nice kid. Hell, I got a daughter your age. I hope I ain’t overstepping myself here, but you really ought to think about moving outta that place.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Mike.” I smiled as I extricated myself from his grip. “But there’s really nothing to worry about—Golgotham is a lot safer than most people think. It’s certainly a lot less dangerous than walking around Red Hook after dark.”

  The mechanic gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. “Look, I’ve lived in this part of Brooklyn all my life—I can remember back when it was a real shit-hole, back in the nineties. I know how to handle myself, you know what I mean? But you couldn’t pay me to set foot in Golgotham. The worst thing that can happen to you in Red Hook is you get yourself raped or murdered. In Golgotham you can end up damned.”

  With that the junkman drove off, leaving me to mull over his farewell as I waited for the train that would take me back home.

  It was early evening by the time I reached City Hall Station, the closest subway stop to Golgotham. As I stepped out onto the platform, a throng of hipsters exited the car before mine, talking and texting. It was as if the entire Urban Outfitters catalog had come to life and decided to take a train downtown.

  As I passed underneath the station’s landmark stained-glass skylight, I noticed several of my fellow travelers clutching well-thumbed copies of Manhattan Magazine, the Herald’s Sunday supplement. I stifled a groan.

  Two weeks ago Manhattan had published a photo-essay by my friend, the up-and-coming “hot” new photographer “Bartho” Bartholomew, titled Golgotham Nightlife. The six strikingly composed black-and-white photographs had shown, among other things, leprechauns playing darts at Blarney’s Pub, centaurs hauling carriages full of drunken revelers down cobblestone streets, the regulars crowding the bar at the Two-Headed Calf, a half-naked nymph standing in the doorway of a Duivel Street bordello, and the glitterati enjoying themselves at the ultra-exclusive Golden Bowery. More important, Bartho’s pictures had captured the citizens of Golgotham with an authenticity reminiscent of Ouija, the famed psychic photographer of 1940s New York.

  Within twelve hours of the Sunday Herald hitting the streets, Golgotham suddenly found itself besieged by the young, bored, and semi-affl
uent. Unlike the majority of tourists who made their way to the neighborhood in search of magic or to score a new kind of kick on Duivel Street, these visitors came to experience the “real” Golgotham. The result was an unexpected and unprecedented increase in the number of human faces in the pubs, restaurants, and nightclubs that normally catered to native clientele. While the money spent by this recent spate of “looky-loos” was welcome, their intrusion into Golgotham’s traditional social scene was another matter.

  As I emerged from under City Hall, the group ahead of me cut across the plaza in the direction of Broadway, making a beeline for the centaur-drawn hansoms and satyr-pulled rickshaws lined up at the taxi stand, leaving me standing at the curb. Since motorized vehicles aren’t allowed within Golgotham, I was now faced with a long walk after a tiring day. Grumbling under my breath, I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets and set out across Park Row in the direction of home.

  I decided to head west and walk down Ferry Street, skirting Witch Alley, the neighborhood’s notorious open-air magic bazaar. Although this took me a block or two out of my way, it saved me from having to deal with the traffic jam created by the never-ending stream of tourists and bargain shoppers attracted by the various spell-slingers, potion-pushers, and charm-peddlers hawking their wares to those in search of quick luck or easy love.

  “Need a ride?”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw a familiar face smiling down at me. It was Wildfire, stablemate to Hexe’s childhood friend and primary means of transportation, Kidron. The female centaur’s long hair, currently worn in an elaborate French braid crowned by a wreath of interwoven sunflowers, was the same shade of sorrel as her lower body and tail. She was human from the withers up, and wore a leather bustier that also served as a harness to the Victorian-era hansom cab she was pulling. Save for the Bluetooth headset clipped to her right ear, she looked like she had just stepped off a Grecian urn.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I replied gratefully.

  Wildfire pulled a harness line connected to her bustier, and the doors to the hansom cab flew open. I quickly jumped inside and made myself comfortable.

  “It’s very busy this evening,” I commented as we trotted in the direction of the boardinghouse.

  “Yes, we’ve been getting a steady stream of looky-loos since that article in the Sunday Herald,” Wildfire said. “If things stay like this, we should be able to afford a down payment within the year.”

  “On a stable?”

  “No, a ranch.” The centaur explained, “We have our eye on a place in Wyoming. We’ve been working hard for several years now to save up enough money. Kidron and I plan on starting our own herd someday.”

  As she spoke, I realized, with a start, that Kidron and Wildfire weren’t just roommates, but actually husband and wife. I was both surprised and embarrassed that I had never made the connection before.

  “The city is no place to drop a foal,” the female centaur said. “Colts and fillies need space to roam and run free without worrying about being hit by a car. The ranch we’re interested in is over three hundred acres, located thirty miles east of Laramie.”

  “It sounds nice,” I replied. The idea of living out West didn’t appeal to me in the least, but I also wasn’t a horse from the waist down. “Where were you born, Wildfire?”

  “I was foaled on a farm upstate, near West Winfield,” she replied. “Kidron was stable-born here in the city. He’s used to walking on pavement all day long, but I miss the feel of turf under my hooves, and the smell of fresh grass.”

  “Are you sure you want to move that far away? I mean, you could probably find a nice farm somewhere in Pennsylvania.”

  “Our ancestors came here on cattle boats from Greece in the 1850s, looking for a better life,” Wildfire said with a toss of her mane. “Kidron and I are simply continuing in that tradition. We want our foals to look forward to something besides dragging coaches full of tourists around Golgotham when they grow up. All we want is the American Dream.”

  Wildfire dropped me off at the corner grocery a block from the house, where I made a last-minute purchase before hurrying home. Upon my arrival I found Hexe busy in the kitchen, brewing up something for one of his clients in the iron cauldron reserved for making potions.

  “How was your day, honey?” Hexe asked as he stirred the bubbling concoction.

  “Fairly productive,” I replied, setting the grocery sack on the kitchen table. “I would have been home sooner, but I stopped by Dumo’s to pick up a little something. Where’s Scratch?”

  “What do you want?” The familiar sniffed, not bothering to get up from his resting place on the kitchen floor.

  “I’m sorry I insulted you earlier today,” I apologized. “I brought you a peace offering.”

  Scratch raised his head, ears perked and whiskers twitching. Suddenly I was the most interesting person he knew. “You brought me a present?”

  “I hope this makes up for my being rude to you,” I said, removing a bundle wrapped in butcher paper from the grocery bag.

  Scratch was on his feet faster than I could blink, his bloodred eyes the size of saucers. “Yeah, well, that depends on what you brought me,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the drool dripping from his lips.

  The moment I tossed the package onto the floor, the winged cat jumped on it, tearing the paper with his claws and fangs, revealing a nice juicy cow’s heart. His mouth opened distressingly wide as he unhinged his jaw and swallowed the chunk of meat in a single gulp.

  “You’re forgiven,” Scratch said as he licked his lips. “For now.”

  “What have I told you about spoiling him?” Hexe chided.

  “Hey, somebody’s got to!” Scratch grumbled. “All I ever get from you is that dry-ass Purina Familiar Chow.”

  “So—how is Nessie?” Hexe asked as he took the cauldron off the boil.

  “A tad frazzled, but that’s to be expected,” I replied, pouring myself a glass of green tea from the fridge. “She and Adrian have set the date for their wedding.”

  “That’s nice,” Hexe said in a preoccupied tone of voice. He was busily sorting through the various jars of dried herbs, roots, and worts scattered along the kitchen shelves, in search of whatever ingredient it was that needed to be added while the potion cooled.

  “Did I mention I’m her maid of honor?”

  Hexe turned around, holding a bottle containing a pickled cobra. “Does this mean I have to go, too?”

  “We’re a couple now,” I reminded him. “That means if I suffer, you suffer, and vice versa. At least you don’t have to wear the dress she picked out for the bridesmaids.” I grimaced and shuddered.

  Further discussion concerning Vanessa’s wedding was derailed by the sound of someone hammering on the front door as if driving in a railroad spike. Hexe frowned and looked at me.

  “Are you expecting a delivery?”

  “Yeah, but not today,” I replied. “It’s probably one of your clients. Maybe someone got their nose turned into a balloon animal, or cursed with biohazard-quality halitosis?”

  Hexe put a lid on the cauldron he was tending and hurried out of the kitchen. I tagged along after him, curious as to the reason for the frantic knocking. Hexe opened the front door, revealing our neighbor from across the street. Her name was Kama, and she was a witch-for-hire like Hexe, with a seafoam green bouffant and sequined harlequin glasses. She was on our front stoop, doing her best to keep the middle-aged human woman standing beside her from collapsing.

  “Praise all the heavens! You’re home!” the sorceress exclaimed in relief. “I normally would have called before coming over, but there’s no time!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My client’s been afflicted with a Great Curse,” she explained. “I need help from a strong Right Hand if this poor woman is to survive.”

  Kama’s client suddenly moaned in pain and clutched her abdomen, her sweaty face turning the color of oatmeal. She then vomited forth a hand
ful of carpet tacks, which clattered across the hardwood floor of the foyer like the world’s worst game of jacks.

  “We don’t have much time,” Hexe said grimly. “Follow me.”

  Chapter 3

  I hurried ahead of Hexe and Kama, opening the door to the study for them as they maneuvered the feverish, semiconscious woman through the house. The walls of Hexe’s private office were covered with bookcases, and a stuffed crocodile hung from the ceiling like a coldblooded piñata.

  “Put her down over there,” Hexe instructed, pointing to a red velvet fainting couch positioned under a taxi-dermied gorilla. “What’s her name?”

  “Madelyn Beaman.”

  “Madelyn, can you hear me?” Hexe asked in a loud, clear voice. The cursed woman groaned but otherwise did not respond. Hexe squeezed her hand until she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Did anyone give you something to eat or drink in the last two hours?”

  Madelyn shook her head as if it took every ounce of energy to do so.

  “She’s one of my regulars,” Kama explained as she knelt beside the suffering woman, gently combing the damp hair away from her brow. “She showed up on my doorstep ten minutes ago, complaining of severe nausea. I barely had time to diagnose her as being afflicted when she began to spit up bobby pins. That’s when I realized I was out of my depth.”

  “If what she said is true about not ingesting anything, it means that whoever’s cursed her is using sympathetic magic,” Hexe said.

  “Is that bad?” I asked nervously. The last time I’d seen anyone look as sick as Madelyn was when we’d gone to say good-bye to Great-aunt Florence in the cancer ward.

  “If the one who invoked this curse has hair or nail trimmings to work with, or some item of clothing that once belonged to her, it makes things . . . complicated, but not impossible to reverse,” Hexe said carefully.

  “Thank you for helping me, Serenity,” Kama said gratefully. “If you hadn’t been home, I don’t know who I could have turned to.”