“It has come to my attention that many of you, over these last few months, have failed to pay your tribute to the Maladanti! In case you are suffering from the delusion that because I and my associates, here, have been detained elsewhere, that you are no longer under any obligation to provide us with a percentage of your profits in order to continue to do business in the Fly Market—please allow me to disabuse you of such wrong thinking!”
The crime lord pointed his left hand at a nearby magic candle booth, tended by an elderly Kymeran man with receding mint-green hair. “In Arum’s name—please, no!” the candlemaker begged, lifting his hands in supplication.
But there was no point in pleading for mercy from Boss Marz—and none at all to be found from his familiar. With a squeal of delight, Bonzo leapt from his master’s shoulder and scampered along his outstretched arm, jumping from Marz’s hand like a swimmer off a diving board.
The moment the squirrel monkey hit the floor it took on its demonic aspect, transforming into what looked like the misbegotten result of a threesome between a mandrill baboon, a hyena, and a stegosaurus, while still dressed like an organ-grinder’s monkey. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the familiar bounded over the counter and snatched up the hapless vendor, disappearing with his captive in a cloud of smoke that reeked of brimstone and monkey house.
A moment later, Bonzo, once more reduced in size, reappeared on his master’s shoulder, licking his lips and picking at his teeth. Boss Marz chuckled and rewarded his familiar with a pistachio nut, which it greedily grabbed and devoured.
“I trust I have made myself perfectly clear,” he said to his horror-struck audience. “Come the next tribute day, I expect each and every one of you to make good on all you owe me. Good day, citizens.”
A gasp of horror rippled throughout the Fly Market, followed by a chorus of fearful murmurs as the merchants began frantically talking among themselves. As the lord of the Maladanti turned to leave, he looked about the Fly Market a final time. I desperately wanted to somehow duck out of sight, but I found myself rooted to the spot, too terrified to move. As his gaze fell on me, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and he raised his right hand to his brow, in a mock salute, accompanied by an unpleasant little smile.
The moment Marz turned his back on me, the fear that had kept me glued to the spot instantly dissolved. I snatched up the bundle I had been sent to retrieve and hurried in the opposite direction as fast as I could go.
Chapter 4
When I arrived at work, I told Canterbury what I’d seen at the Fly Market. He was visibly shocked and immediately told me to take the rest of the day off.
“But what about the exhibit for the museum?” I asked, pointing to the bits and pieces of clockwork dragon scattered about the workshop.
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied. “You’d be of no use to me, and a danger to yourself, if you tried to work right now. The last thing I need is for you to fire up a welding torch with shaky hands and a wandering mind. Just be here all the earlier tomorrow. And don’t worry—I’m not going to dock you for the day.”
“Thanks, Master,” I said with a wan smile.
“No problem. Now beat it before I kick myself for my generosity.”
Upon returning home, I heard voices conversing in the study. I peeked in and saw Hexe sitting at his desk, with Beanie cradled in his lap and Scratch perched atop the back of his chair while he talked to Bartho.
“What do you mean my cameras aren’t jinxed?” The photographer frowned.
“I went over each of them several times with my finest scrying stones,” Hexe replied, gesturing to the cameras arrayed before him. “They are definitely not cursed. However, I did discover that they have been exposed to magical energy.”
“Can you tell who’s responsible? Because I really want to put a boot up the ass of whoever did this.”
“Then you better bend over. Because, according to my divinations, you’re the source of the magic.”
Bartho’s jaw dropped open like a drawbridge. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, how is that possible?”
“Because you’re manifesting through your art form, just like I have,” I interjected.
Hexe raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What are you doing home this time of day?”
“Canterbury gave me the day off,” I said, brushing aside the question. “I’m more interested in hearing how Bartho got himself all magical.”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure what’s happening, but it’s a well-known fact that the human psychics who live in Golgotham have considerably stronger abilities than those who live elsewhere,” Hexe explained. “Perhaps artistic humans are affected in much the same way? I mean, artists routinely create something from nothing using only their craft and force of will—it’s essentially the same thing a witch or warlock does when we work magic.”
“If that’s true, then why hasn’t this phenomenon been documented before now?” Bartho asked, a dubious look on his face.
“For the simple reason that, despite a long history of artists being drawn to my people, up until recently ‘normal’ humans such as you and Tate have steered clear of Golgotham and similar enclaves,” Hexe sighed. “Of course, Goya and Dali don’t count, as they were Kymeran themselves. And then there was Toulouse-Lautrec, who was a member of the dwarven community. And while Picasso may have kept a Kymeran mistress, he did not live with her in the heart of the Pigalle, surrounded by her family. No, it has only been recently that the old prejudices against my people have finally begun to fade and humans like you and Tate have become brave enough to dwell amongst us.”
The photographer scratched his head. “You mean any human who hangs out in Golgotham is going to end up with a case of the magics?”
“No, I suspect it will only affect artistic types, and only those that live here for several months. But, in any case, this is a very interesting development.”
“But how does it explain why my mojo, or whatever you call it, is generating double exposures?”
“Oh, those aren’t double exposures,” Hexe replied matter-of-factly. “They’re ghosts.”
Bartho’s eyes widened until it looked like they would launch themselves out of his skull. “You mean I see dead people?”
“No, you only take pictures of them,” Hexe explained. “You’ve become a spirit photographer, just like the original Ouija. As your talent matures, and you learn to control it, the images will become more and more distinct and you’ll be able to see them in the camera’s viewfinder. In time, you may even learn to communicate with your subjects.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Bartho yelped.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Hexe said reassuringly. “The vast majority of ghosts are perfectly nice people. They just happen to be dead, that’s all. However, should you see any with red eyes, run away as fast as you can.”
“That doesn’t sounds scary at all,” Bartho groaned. “So what do I do about these ghosts popping up in my pictures?”
“Well, you can always Photoshop them out. . . .”
• • •
After a bewildered Bartho left with his collection of cameras, Hexe and I retired to the kitchen. “So why did Canterbury give you the day off?” he asked. “Was there an accident at work?”
Before I could answer, I heard an odd clattering sound from upstairs, as if someone were walking around in wooden shoes. “What’s that noise?” I frowned.
“That’s the new boarder,” Hexe explained.
I raised an eyebrow in surprise as I glanced up at the ceiling. “That was quick! You didn’t even have time to put up a flier at Strega Nona!”
“We were lucky. I got a call from Giles Gruff, right after you left this morning. He said a lady friend of his was in a tight spot. . . .”
“Why am I not surprised?” I said sarcastically. Giles was the leader of the satyr community and Golgotham’s most notorious bon vivant and rarely seen without a comely nymph on both arms.
I turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice and saw an attractive young faun standing in the kitchen doorway. She had almond-shaped eyes with luxurious auburn curls that accented the small horn buds jutting from her forehead, and from the waist down she had the hind legs and tail of a goat. She was dressed in a long-sleeved red shirt with a black vest emblazoned with a stylized tongue of flame over her heart along with the initials GFD embroidered in gold thread—the traditional uniform of a Golgotham firefighter.
“You must be Tate; it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the faun said. “My uncle speaks very highly of you. I’m Octavia.” She then flashed Hexe a heartfelt smile. “Thank you, Serenity. I appreciate you allowing me to move in on such short notice. It was something of a surprise, coming home after my shift to find an eviction notice tacked to my door.”
“It’s no problem at all,” he replied. “Any friend of Giles is a friend of mine.”
“I assure you both that you needn’t worry about me partying to all hours,” Octavia said solemnly. “We fauns are far more domesticated than our satyr brethren—save for Uncle Giles, of course.”
“Let me guess—you had an apartment in the Machen Arms, didn’t you?” I asked.
“You must have seen the headlines the other day,” the faun said with a humorless laugh. “I had a one-bedroom apartment there for the last five years,” she explained, her tone becoming bitter. “My lease came up for renewal yesterday, and suddenly my rent skyrocketed from seven hundred dollars to five thousand a month, literally overnight! Can you believe that minotaur shit?”
“I’m afraid I can,” I sighed. “Ronald Chess has been playing the exact same game in the rest of Manhattan for over thirty years now. He buys up older, rent-controlled prewar apartment buildings and then, when the leases come up for renewal, he jacks the rent up through the roof. Once the previous tenants are evicted, he slaps granite countertops on everything and slops a new coat of paint on the walls and turns it condo.”
“I can’t believe a Golgothamite would agree to sell out to such a character,” Hexe scowled. “Who was your old landlord?”
Octavia shrugged her shoulders. “Some company called Golden Egg Realty. All I did was drop off a rent check every month to the leasing agent who managed the property.”
“When will you be settled in?” Hexe asked.
“I’ll be moved in by tonight. I’m putting most of my belongings into storage until I can find a large enough place. As it is, you won’t be seeing that much of me, anyway,” she explained. “I work five days on, five days off, so I spend more time at the firehouse than I do at home. Speaking of which, I better fetch my spare set of mufflers from my work locker so I don’t ruin these lovely hardwood floors of yours!” With that, the firefighter turned on her hooves and clattered away.
Once I was certain Octavia had left the house, I turned to face Hexe. “You asked me why Canterbury sent me home—it’s because I saw Boss Marz at the Fly Market this morning. He was reminding everybody who runs the waterfront in Golgotham. He wanted to make an example to the others, so he sicced his familiar on some poor wretch. It was horrible.”
Hexe’s smile vanished like breath on a mirror. “Did he see you?”
“Yes,” I said quietly, shuddering as I replayed the moment over in my head.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No, he just smirked and gave me this little wave,” I replied, unable to suppress a grimace of disgust. “I was so shook up, Canterbury sent me home for the day.”
“I thought I heard something interesting going on,” Scratch snarled, leaping from the kitchen floor to his usual perch atop the refrigerator. “I can’t believe that asshole has the balls to show his face again in Golgotham!”
“You mean Marz?” I asked.
“Phfft! Screw Marz!” the familiar spat in disgust. “I’m talking about that jumped-up organ-grinder’s monkey! I kicked Bonzo’s baboon-butt so hard he teleported back home rather than risk getting killed in this dimension. Now that’s what I call a wuss!”
Chapter 5
Whoever coined the term “absence makes the heart grow fonder” clearly had never met Boss Marz. Over the next few days the Maladanti quickly picked up from where they had left off, collecting “tribute” from the businesses along the waterfront and the brothels and cabarets of Duivel Street.
The return of the Maladanti was not felt just by the citizens of Golgotham; the twunts who had come to know the red-light district only during the crime cartel’s eclipse were swiftly and roughly schooled as to what was considered proper decorum in the gentlemen’s clubs under their “protection.”
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. After that creepy little smile he gave me at the Fly Market, I was convinced Marz had something villainous planned for us. But no one left a decapitated goat’s head on our doorstep or attempted to curse me. I guess Boss Marz was simply too busy trying to reestablish his hold on Golgotham to waste time and energy on personal revenge.
Still, despite the Maladanti’s apparent disinterest in us, Scratch continued his nightly patrols, and I never took off the protective glad eye amulet Hexe created for me. Better safe than sorry. I’ll admit I was initially anxious, but after enduring jealous ex-girlfriends trying to curse me, being attacked by soulless homunculi, and having my arm broken by a demon, I had built up a pretty thick skin, and once several days had gone by and the crime lord had yet to make a move, I decided I had better things to do than worry about what Boss Marz’s evil plan might be.
So I put on my welder’s helmet and fired up my torch and threw myself headlong into my work. The Maladanti be damned, I had a project to finish and I wasn’t going to let a bunch of spellslinging goons in bad suits screw with my deadline. For the next month, Canterbury and I put in long, arduous hours every day of the week. I came home so exhausted I could barely take off my clothes before crawling into bed.
We finished the installation at the end of March, less than a week before the Jubilee. Even replicated in reduced scale, it still took three brawny Clydesdale-sized centaurs and six ipotane drovers to load and haul the crates containing the clockwork dragon to its new home. On the day of the delivery Canterbury led the convoy from the shop, hitched to a cart containing our welding equipment and other tools, while I rode shotgun with Fabio, the head drover.
The Museum of Supernatural History, located on the corner of Nassau Street and Maiden Lane, towers ominously over the surrounding buildings like some ancient temple dedicated to a long-forgotten god. It is set atop a thirteen-hundred-foot-square granite-clad concrete platform that covers an entire city block. A fifty-foot-wide, three-hundred-step staircase leads to a pair of huge bronze doors embossed with scenes depicting such ancient heroes as Chiron, Pan, and Arum. To the right of the stairs are six forty-foot-tall marble statues of Kymerans, male and female, in historical dress, while on the left are arrayed six rampant jade battle-dragons.
However, as majestic and awe-inspiring as its public face may be, we were essentially tradesmen making a delivery, and the museum’s loading dock, accessed via a subterranean deck, proved no different from that of any other skyscraper in New York.
“Stay put and keep an eye on the gear,” Canterbury instructed as he unhitched himself from the equipment cart. “I’ll go find the Curator.”
“No need, Master Canterbury,” said an elderly, but firm female voice. “I am already here.” A Kymeran woman with long cornflower blue hair woven into an elaborate double-drape French braid emerged from the shadows at the far end of the receiving platform. She wore a floor-length satin jacket the color of celadon pottery, with wide, stiff sleeves and a Mandarin collar, and about her neck was hung the badge of her office: a jade dragon with its tail in its mouth.
“I take it this is the installation?” the Curator asked, pointing to the crates the drovers were loading onto the
dock.
“Yes, milady,” Canterbury replied, with a ritual bow of his head. “The larger box contains the body, while the others hold the wings, head and tail. It shouldn’t take more than six hours for it to be assembled.”
The Curator turned her pale gray gaze upon me. “I see your apprentice is human. That is most interesting. Please follow me to the exhibit hall.” Without further explanation, she turned her back to us and began to walk away, forcing us to hurry after her as she headed into a warren of rooms filled with warehoused exhibits. Everywhere I looked the past and present seemed to be colliding in a jumble of dust, rust, and flaking paint, as a small army of restorers cleaned and rehabbed artifacts that dated back before the pyramids of Giza.
Eventually we came to a large freight elevator. As we drew near, a sloe-eyed sphinx stepped forward, blocking our path. Like most of her kind, the human-headed lioness wore a golden vulture cap atop her jet-black head and a bejeweled pectoral about her neck. When she spoke, her voice was deceptively beautiful.
“Wood, wire, iron or stone,
Inside of me are treasures sown.
Some say I’d be a seat on high
For those unable to decide.
I cannot be opened by lock or hinge,
And protect all things that lie within. What am I?”
“You’re a garden fence,” the Curator replied without pause.
The sphinx smiled, displaying a fearsome double row of very sharp teeth, and then bowed her head, moving aside. As we passed by, the Curator ran her hand down the length of the monster’s spine, and in response the sphinx made a purring noise and arched her back like a house cat.
“Please forgive the extra security measures,” the Curator said, “but we have recently suffered a theft.”
Canterbury raised an eyebrow. “Was anything of value taken?”
“All our exhibits are of historical value,” the Curator replied as the freight elevator’s accordion gate opened on its own, revealing a car the size of a studio apartment. Upon entering, the gate trundled shut behind us, as if closed by spectral hands. “But, luckily, that which was taken is not completely irreplaceable.”
Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham Page 4
