Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham

by Nancy A. Collins

  “This is probably the closest you’re going to get to ‘typical’ carnival food. Most of the other vendors are far more, uh, ethnic than this,” I explained, pointing to another booth across the street advertising python kabobs and caramel apples dipped in deep-fried mealworms.

  Vanessa and Adrian quickly agreed that I had a point, and decided to go with the roasted goat tamale and chili-cheese funnel cake, which they washed down with souvenir muskets of prickly pear margaritas.

  Food in hand, we wandered deeper and deeper into Golgotham, past booths selling souvenir tricorn hats and red-white-and-blue papier-mâché skulls on sticks, leprechauns competing in clogging contests, and the occasional fire-eater. I decided not to drink anything harder than orchid cream soda, just in case a sober head might be needed, since Nessie and Adrian seemed determined to sample every wine, mead, and ale stall they saw. All in the name of epicurean curiosity, of course, not because they’re lushes—or so they kept reassuring me.

  The plaza that surrounds the Fly Market was temporarily transformed into a carnival midway, where Kymeran youngsters with Technicolor hair stood in line with their parents to ride the Ferris wheel, and the Flying Bobs. I watched in amusement as a pair of bleating satyr kids clattered excitedly up the metal steps of the Tilt-A-Whirl, while centaur foals rode a carousel outfitted with gaily colored moving stalls instead of merry-go-round horses.

  At the far end was a large, raised wooden platform festooned in tricolor bunting, atop which could be seen the members of the GoBOO as well as Lady Syra and Mayor Lash. The assembled dignitaries were reviewing a collection of jars and bottles arrayed atop a long table, while down on the ground level, a nervous group of competing witches and warlocks watched their every movement, eager to find out who would claim the blue ribbon for best potion of the year.

  While most of the booths sold concessions and souvenirs, there were more than a few manned by local merchants eager to advertise their businesses to potential customers. One such booth belonged to Dr. Mao, whose red awning boasted gold and black tigers and signage in Mandarin, Kymeran, and English. Behind the counter stood the proprietor himself, dressed in a traditional Chinese tunic and cap. His bushy gray eyebrow, which stretched across his forehead without a break, marked him as a shape-shifter, as did the extra-long ring fingers on either hand.

  “Jubilation to you, Serenity,” the old were-tiger said, bowing slightly.

  “Jubilation to you and your family as well, my friend,” Hexe replied. “I see you’re putting my former lodger to good use.” He pointed to Lukas, who was at the back of the stall, grinding roots and herbs with a mortar and pestle alongside Dr. Mao’s only child, Meikei.

  “Yes, if you call finding excuses to paw my daughter in public ‘working,’” Dr. Mao said acerbically.

  “Daddy!” Meikei protested. Lukas quickly let go of her hand, his ears suddenly bright pink.

  “Don’t ‘daddy’ me!” Mao said, wagging a long fingernail in her direction. “Don’t forget I’m the boss of both of you! Now grind up some more fossilized dragon bone—we’re almost out!”

  As I chuckled at Lukas’ expense, I felt Hexe suddenly grab my arm. I looked up to see Boss Marz walking through the crowd in our direction, flanked on either side by a pair of his croggies. His familiar, Bonzo, rode on his left shoulder, chattering excitedly.

  “Get out of here, Lukas,” Dr. Mao said in a quiet yet urgent voice. “I don’t want him to see you.”

  “But, Master Mao—!” The youth protested, his eyes flashing like an angry cougar’s.

  “You heard me—go home!” Mao’s drooping mustache suddenly became bristling whiskers as dark stripes swam to the surface of his skin. “Meikei and I can handle the booth.”

  The young were-cat bowed his head to his master and quickly slipped away, disappearing into the bustling street without a trace.

  “I give Lukas a hard time,” Mao said as he watched his apprentice leave, “but he is a good boy and I’ll be skinned if Marz gets his hands on him again.”

  Speaking of the Maladanti, I stole another look in Boss Marz’s direction and saw him stop at a Hit the Cats booth operated by a cyclops in a Knicks T-shirt. Although the carnie smiled as he handed the crime lord an envelope, it was clear from the glint in his solitary eye that he was nervous.

  As Marz reached out to take the “tribute,” Bonzo screeched and ran down the length of his master’s arm and snatched up not only the payment, but a small plush teddy bear as well, before scampering back to his perch. Marz pocketed the money while Bonzo plucked the eyes off the toy before tearing its head off and gutting it of its stuffing. Chuckling, Boss Marz turned to stare directly at us.

  Hexe stood his ground and looked at Marz and his men defiantly, his right hand at the ready, refusing to shrink from view or dodge detection. There was a gleam in his golden eyes, as if some hidden fire was being stoked deep within him, and for a heartbeat it was as if I was staring at Lord Bexe, the Last Witch King of Arum.

  One of Marz’s croggies started to raise his left hand, only to have his boss swat him like a parent correcting a child acting out at the supermarket. The Maladanti goon quickly stepped down, placing his left hand in the small of his back. The trio then turned away and proceeded down a nearby side street.

  “That was a close one,” I sighed in relief.

  “Don’t let him ruin the Jubilee for you,” Hexe said, slipping his arm about my waist. “Marz isn’t going to do anything that will bring the PTU down on him—not while he still has tribute to collect.”

  I smiled and nodded in agreement, but seeing Boss Marz wandering about the festival was like splashing about at the beach, only to have a shark brush your leg with its tail. Glimpsing the hesitation in my eyes, Hexe dragged me over to a nearby booth, where he spent the next fifteen minutes and twenty dollars throwing rubber rings at upright soda bottles in order to win a plush toy white gorilla wearing a plaid tam-o’-shanter.

  You know how some women get excited over their men giving them jewelry? Well, in my case I get the exact same way when someone wins stuffed toys for me at carnivals. Needless to say, much kissing and squeezing followed.

  As late afternoon turned into dusk, the Jubilee began to undergo a gradual sea change as Golgotham’s darker denizens gradually joined in the celebration. Vanessa, Adrian, Hexe, and I were sitting in a beer garden when a group of trolls ambled past, muttering among themselves in their thick, unintelligible language, lashing their heavy, ropelike tails as they sniffed the air with big, bumpy noses the size of knockwursts.

  “Gracious! Look at the time!” Adrian said, pretending to look at a wrist watch. “Nessie and I must be getting back home! I need to be ready for work in the morning, you know.”

  Vanessa frowned. “I thought you said you had arranged with the head of your department to get tomorrow off—”

  “Yeah, but he changed his mind,” Adrian said quickly as he helped his wife up from the table. “Remember, I told you I got a text from him this afternoon—?”

  “Huh?” Vanessa’s frown deepened for a second; then her gaze fell on the gaggle of goblins, their bare, paddlelike feet slapping against the cobblestones like wet laundry. “Oh, yeah! That’s right!” she said, gathering up her purse. “I was having such a good time I totally forgot!”

  As a pride of sphinx moved through the street fair like lions on their way to a watering hole, Adrian and Vanessa hurried in the opposite direction, eager to return to the humdrum hazards of lower Manhattan.

  “Well, that wasn’t awkward at all, was it?” I sighed.

  “Nessie and Adrian stayed a lot longer than I gave them credit for,” Hexe said as he sipped his musket of barley wine. “Jubilee can be overwhelming even for Golgothamites—especially after dark. And it was good to see you enjoying yourself with your friends, especially after you’ve pushed yourself so hard at work. It’s time you relaxed, kicked back, and had some fun.”

  “Sitting downwind from Ghastly’s food stall is making me queasy,
” I said, pointing in the direction of the gaunt, bat-nosed ghouls lined up in front of the booth belonging to Golgotham’s worst cook. Given the clientele, I really didn’t want to know what was listed on the menu board.

  As we wandered along Perdition Street, I realized what Hexe said about the Jubilee after dark was right—the feel of the festival had definitely changed with the setting of the sun. All the families—human and otherwise—had disappeared, surrendering the field to the more dedicated revelers and those citizens of Golgotham who normally shunned the sun’s rays.

  As the moon rose, a group of nymphs cast aside their flimsy chitons and began to run naked through the streets hand in hand, weaving in and out of the crowds like living daisy chains, giggling like mischievous schoolgirls. An amorous frat boy made a grab for one of them, only to have her slip free of his arms in the form of a cloud, her laughter tinkling like a silver bell.

  It was not long before the nymphs were joined by maenads, who spun about, crying out in ecstasy, wineskins in one hand and drawn knives in the other, their eyes blazing like funeral pyres. A herd of satyrs quickly fell in among them, adding wild piping and the crashing of cymbals to the merrymaking. Suddenly one of the passing nymphs grabbed my hand and yanked me into the street, spinning me around and around like a child playing with a top. Her laughter was as clear as an Attic sky and sweet as honey fresh from the comb, and for a heartbeat I understood how handsome young shepherds could abandon their flocks in mad pursuit of such impossible, primal beauty.

  After two or three spins, the nymph let go of me and hurried after her sisters as they continued to wind their way through the festival-goers. I staggered backward, shaking my head to try to clear the dizziness from it, then turned to where Hexe had been standing a moment before, only to find him gone.

  I looked around, at first thinking he must have gone to one of the concession booths to freshen his drink, but there was still no sign of him. However, there was an unpleasant smell in the air, one that seemed familiar, yet which I could not immediately place. Just as I was beginning to get worried, I caught a glimpse of purple hair half a block away, headed in the direction of the riverfront. I hurried after him, shouting his name, but his back was to me and my voice was drowned out by the noise of the carnival. I pulled out my cell phone to try to call him, only to find my battery drained.

  Just as I was closing in, he suddenly ducked into one of the nameless alleyways that thread their way through the neighborhood. Upon following him, I was surprised to find Hexe standing in the middle of the narrow passageway with his back to me, his limbs twitching and jerking as if afflicted with Saint Vitus’ dance.

  “Hey!” I shouted, more exasperated than angry. “What’s the big idea ditching me back there?”

  Upon hearing my voice, the thing I had mistaken for Hexe turned to face me. Although it possessed the exact physical build, with the same color hair, worn in the exact same style, and was dressed in identical clothing as Hexe, the face was a blank oval, save for a pair of gaping, empty holes where the eyes should be.

  As I backed away from the decoy, I caught the distinct smell of scorched metal, as if someone had left a saucepan on the burner for too long. I turned to see Boss Marz looming behind me, blocking my escape.

  “Foolish little nump.” He grinned. “Don’t you know better than to believe anything you see on Jubilee Night?”

  Chapter 7

  The next time I opened my eyes I was relieved to find myself looking across a table into the real Hexe’s face, not that of the hideous simulacrum Marz had conjured forth to lure me away from the crowds. That relief was short lived as I realized I was tied to a chair and Hexe’s arms were pinned down atop the table by what looked like croquet hoops fitted into holes drilled into its surface. The fingers of both his hands were kept splayed and rigid in metal splints, therefore preventing him from working magic.

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked anxiously. Although his purple hair was hanging down into his face, I could see that his right eye was blackened and his lower lip was split.

  “I’m okay,” I replied, looking around as best I could at our surroundings. We seemed to be in a warehouse of some kind, and I could distinctly smell the river. “What is this place?”

  “We’re somewhere in the Stronghold—the Maladanti’s private pier,” Hexe replied.

  “How did we get here?”

  “Marz’s familiar grabbed me the moment that nymph started spinning you around,” he explained. “They must have been watching us the whole time, waiting to strike. He teleported in and out within the blink of an eye.”

  “I thought I caught a whiff of something hellish.” I grimaced.

  “This is all my fault,” Hexe said bitterly. “We should have left the festival when I saw Marz, but I was unwilling to back down. Because of my pride, I’ve put both of us in danger.”

  “How gracious of you to take the blame, Serenity. But then, you’ve always been one for noblesse oblige,” Boss Marz said as he emerged from the shadows, his familiar riding his shoulder, trailed by a pair of Maladanti goons. He smiled as he approached us, like a gracious host greeting welcome guests. “While I was away in the Tombs, I learned how little there is to do when one is in solitary confinement with steel mittens locked about your hands. They only allowed me the free use of my hands—and then, only the right one—for a few minutes each day to tend to meals, ablutions, and excretions. Having to rely on my weak hand to feed and groom myself proved quite eye-opening.”

  “Not enough to take you off the Left Hand path, it would seem,” Hexe replied acidly.

  “Ah, but it did provide me with a great deal of inspiration.” Marz’s smile became almost beatific as he stroked his familiar, Bonzo, who screeched and flashed his tiny fangs in my direction. “Gaza, show him the implements.”

  A Maladanti soldier with peach-colored Jheri curls stepped forward and placed a small bundle on the table next to Hexe. Without anyone touching it, it unrolled to reveal a collection of metal items that resembled a cross between surgical instruments and a handyman’s tools. My blood ran cold as my mind suddenly flashed back to the display case wrapped in police tape at the museum.

  “Those are witchbreaking devices,” Hexe gasped.

  “You’re quite right, Serenity,” Boss Marz replied. “Isn’t it ironic that the Witchfinders, in order to rid the world of our kind, were forced to use magical weapons? But I can also appreciate the need to have the right tool for the job. Take this little beauty, for example,” he said as he picked up what looked like a double-edged cigar cutter. “The last time it tasted Kymeran blood was when Lord Bexe scattered his people to the wind.”

  “You’re still grinding that axe, Marz?”

  “Aye, and it’s quite sharp now,” the crime boss replied as the finger-cutter’s twin blades shut with an audible click.

  Hexe’s face went white and his cat-slit pupils expanded until they swallowed the gold in his eye. “You wouldn’t dare,” he croaked.

  “I wouldn’t be so certain as to what I might or might not do, if I were you, Serenity,” Marz sneered. “After all, you’re the one who didn’t think I would make a move against you during the Jubilee. But you needn’t worry—I’m not going to steal your magic so easily,” he said, tossing the finger-cutter back onto the table. He then pulled open the cuffs of his shirt as if to invite inspection. “Please notice that there is nothing up my sleeves.” He waved his left hand in an extravagant gesture, but instead of conjuring a bouquet of flowers from thin air he produced a metal mallet. “Prest-o change-o!”

  Hexe tried to evade the blow, but there was no way to escape it. I closed my eyes, but could not block the sound of Hexe’s scream as his metacarpals splintered. Although I didn’t want to, I forced myself to look and saw that the color had drained from his face. He was hyperventilating and struggling to keep the pain from showing. Hexe raised his head to glare at Marz.

  “Is that all you got?” he croaked.

  Boss Marz brought t
he hammer down a second time, reducing the already-damaged fingers to kindling. Although he had to be in immense agony, Hexe gritted his teeth and remained silent, determined not to give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

  However, I wasn’t as strong. “Stop it!” I screamed as Marz lifted the hammer a third time. “Please, don’t hurt him any more!”

  “Very well, Ms. Eresby,” Marz said, tossing aside the witchbreaking device. “Far be it from me to go against the wishes of a lady.”

  “You’ve gone too far, even for the Maladanti,” Hexe rasped. His face was starting to go gray with shock and his pupils were distressingly large. “They’ll throw you so deep into the Tombs you’ll never see sunlight again.”

  “If I was frightened of your mother or the GoBOO, I never would have tossed you in that fighting pit in the first place,” Marz snorted in derision. “Understand this, Serenity: nobody interferes with me and gets away with it—I don’t care how blue their hair is! The fact you are the Heir Apparent means less than nothing to me. You are not, and never will be, my Witch King.” He motioned for Gaza to remove the restraints pinning Hexe’s arms to the table, and then ordered the other croggy to untie me from my chair. As I jumped to my feet and rushed to his side, Hexe instinctively reached out to me, only to grimace in agony. I sobbed as I saw the swollen mass of tortured flesh that was now his right hand.

  “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” he whispered hoarsely, clumsily wiping away my tears with his left hand. “It’s going to be okay.” Cradling his ruined hand to his chest, he turned to face his tormentor. “I don’t care what you have planned for me, Marz—but leave her out of this. She’s done you no harm.”

  “I would beg to differ,” Boss Marz replied sourly. “That accursed mechanical cat of hers cost me an excellent lieutenant. But there’s no need for you to plead for the nump’s life. I don’t want either of you dead, Serenity. Seeing you reduced to using your left hand to survive is far more satisfying to me than watching your blood dry on the floor. But I warn you: should you breathe a word of this to the authorities, I’ll make sure your loved ones pay the price, starting with Her Majesty. And I won’t stop there: the centaur Kidron and his mare; the kitchen-witch Lafo; that runaway bastet, Lukas, as well as the old were-tiger Mao and his cub—each and every one of them will die because of you. And do not think my reach is limited to Golgotham,” he said, flashing me a nasty grin. “It would be quite gauche if your mother began to vomit venomous snakes in the middle of a garden party, don’t you agree? And just imagine the headlines should your father and his yacht be attacked by a kraken! And it’s always so sad when newlyweds like your nump friends come to an early, tragic end. And then there’s the matter of your dog. . . .”