“What were you thinking?” Hexe exclaimed, coming out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box.
“I was thinking that I was the only person who saw him collapse and knew where to find him,” I replied. “Are you actually mad at me for saving a man’s life?”
“No, I’m more upset than anything else,” he admitted, the scowl disappearing from his face. “You did a very brash thing. What if you’d been hurt? Did you give any thought at all to what might happen to you—or the baby?”
I blushed and dropped my gaze. He had me there. The fact I was now pregnant had not occurred to me in the heat of the moment. I simply knew what I had to do, and I just went ahead and did it, without taking anything else into consideration. “I guess you’ve got every right to be pissed off at me,” I agreed. “It’s not just me anymore, is it?”
“It hasn’t been ‘just you’ since the day we met,” he replied. “Were you in the club when the fire started?”
“Yes,” I admitted grudgingly. “The Maladanti are raising their protection fees. Bjorn told them to get stuffed in no uncertain terms—so Marz’s croggy Gaza hellfire-bombed the bar and put Cowpen under a sleeper spell. That’s why I had to go back in and get him. I’m certain Cowpen’s going to insist it was all an accident, though, and his family’s going to back him up on it.”
“What you did today was very courageous, Tate. But you’ve always been a brave woman—we would have never met if you didn’t have the guts to move to Golgotham in the first place. Just promise me you won’t do anything that dangerous again—at least not until after you have the baby.”
“And here I was planning on juggling chainsaws to bring in extra money!” I laughed. “I’m just joking!” I added hastily, seeing the flash of alarm in his golden eyes, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Oh—and speaking of putting off things until the baby arrives—have you told your parents the news yet?”
Now it was his turn to look at his shoes. “Not yet. I’ll call them in a day or two.”
“How about we put all this behind us and go out for dinner? After all, you were complaining about feeling cooped up earlier. . . .”
“That sounds great,” he said with a rueful smile. “But there’s no way we can afford it.”
“Don’t worry—I’ve got it covered,” I said, taking out the money Cowpen had given me.
“Where did you get that?” Hexe asked, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Let’s just say it was the councilman’s way of saying ‘thank you’ for saving his life, as well as keeping my mouth shut.”
“I don’t feel good about this, Tate,” Hexe said, frowning at the money.
“Uh-uh,” I said, with a defiant shake of my head. “I know that look. You’re getting ready to give me the big lecture about the Right Hand path and tell me to give the money back and report what happened to the PTU. I realize you don’t want to compromise your principles—but I am not returning this money, and I am definitely not talking to your father about what I saw.
“For one, I’m pretty sure giving back this money will offend Bjorn Cowpen only slightly less than setting fire to his club. And, secondly, since we’re already playing our own little game of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ with Boss Marz, who are we to insist he go to the authorities? Hell, he’s a chuffin’ councilman; he is the authority in Golgotham! If Marz doesn’t hesitate to physically strike out at members of the Royal Family and the GoBOO, then he must really have some badass mojo up his sleeve. And I, for one, have no desire to find out what it might be. I’ll admit that running into a burning building in my current condition was reckless, but it’s nowhere near as dangerous as what you’re suggesting I do.”
Hexe’s shoulders dropped in resignation, as if all the weight in the world had suddenly settled upon them. “You’re right,” he sighed in agreement. “I can’t blame Cowpen for keeping silent. He’s doesn’t want to do anything that will jeopardize his family.” He gave a sad little smile as he rested his left hand on my belly. “It’s like you said—it’s not just me anymore.”
• • •
As luck would have it, Talisman was playing at the Two-Headed Calf that night. Since the Kymeran punk band had become extremely popular with the younger humans intrepid enough to venture beyond Duivel Street and the Fly Market, the evenings they played the Calf were always guaranteed to be packed to the rafters.
As crowded as it was, I could still easily spot Lafo, standing head and shoulders over his patrons, his bright red hair spilling over the collar of a purple pinstripe zoot suit. Upon seeing us, the restaurateur elbowed his way across the packed room
“Good to see you again, Serenity!” he grinned, shouting over the amplified accordions and electric hurdy-gurdy.
As his friend moved to shake his hand, Hexe hastily recoiled. “No offense, Lafo,” he said quickly, holding up his right hand by way of explanation, displaying the splint. “I had a little too much to drink Jubilee Night and lost my balance stepping off a curb. I tried to break my fall, and ended up breaking my hand instead.”
Lafo’s ketchup-red eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“I’ll be good as new within a week,” he lied. “I just have to give the bones time to strengthen after being reknit, that’s all. Tate and I were hoping to have dinner here this evening, but it looks like we picked the wrong night.”
“No need to worry about that; most of the kids who show up for the band never set foot upstairs,” Lafo snorted. “Luckily, they all drink like fish, though.”
Upon reaching the upstairs dining room, we were unsurprised to discover only a handful of the tables and booths occupied, as the regular clientele had learned to steer clear of the Calf on those nights Talisman was scheduled to play. Not wanting to call attention to ourselves, we chose a booth toward the back of the dining area and placed our drink and dinner orders.
As we waited for our food, we chatted about work, friends, and our pet, trying hard to have a good time and not dwell on current problems. And, for a while, we actually succeeded in doing so. Then our meals arrived.
“Oh,” Hexe said, his face collapsing as he stared at the roasted kangaroo tail draped across the platter. “I forgot you need two hands to eat this thing.”
“You can have my parsnip casserole, if you like,” I suggested.
“That’s okay,” he replied, as he unrolled the cutlery, fumbling with the steak knife. “I can cut it up into chunks.” He studied his food for a long moment, trying to figure out the best way to attack the problem without it ending up in his lap.
“Darling, do you need some help?” I asked gently. “I can cut it up for you, if you like. . . .”
“No!” he replied sharply. “I’m fine. I do not need anyone to cut up my food for me!” He began to saw at the roo-tail, only to have the knife fly out his hand and land on the floor. His face flushed bright red as he bent to retrieve it, before our server appeared tableside with a fresh roll of cutlery.
“If you like, Serenity, I can take your entree back to the kitchen and have it replaced with a chopped version?” the waiter suggested politely as he retrieved the soiled knife.
“Yes, thank you,” Hexe mumbled, his cheeks turning an even brighter shade of red.
After the waiter left with his plate, I learned forward, keenly aware that we were being watched by the other diners. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I said sotto voce.
“I said I’m fine,” Hexe insisted as he picked up his pint of barley wine, only to slosh a good portion of it onto his shirtfront. “Heavens and hells!” he snarled, slopping even more out of the glass as he slammed it back down.
I looked away as he attempted to blot the dark, sticky fluid from his clothes with his napkin, afraid of what he might see in my eyes. Hexe was the most graceful man I had ever known; watching him fumble with silverware and spill his drink was absolutely heartbreaking. All I wanted at that moment was to somehow find a way of taking his burden onto myself, so that he did not
have to suffer alone. My frustration at being unable to do so was so great it threatened to push me into despair.
“Excuse me, Serenity. . . .”
An unfamiliar Kymeran woman in her early thirties with slate-blue hair and intense, gray eyes was standing beside our table. I had not seen her approach, nor had I noticed her earlier in the dining room, but she must have been there, all the same.
“I could not help but notice the . . . difficulty you are undergoing,” she said with a discreet nod to Hexe’s splinted hand. “Please allow me to introduce myself: I am Erys. I am a glover, by trade. And I believe I have an item in my inventory that would be of immense service to you.”
“Thank you, but I’m not in the market for magic gloves, Madam Erys,” Hexe said with a wan smile.
“Not even the Gauntlet of Nydd?” she countered, her pale gray eyes gleaming like pieces of tin in the muted light of the dining room.
Hexe paused for a long moment, like a fish contemplating the bait on the end of a hook, before shaking his head. “I appreciate your offer, but the splint is merely a temporary inconvenience,” he explained. “I’ll be as good as new in just a few days.”
“Of course, Serenity,” Erys replied, with a bow of her head. “But in case you should change your mind—feel free to come by my shop.” She snapped her fingers, and a business card materialized from nowhere.
“Thank you for your concern, Madam Erys,” Hexe said politely as he accepted the proffered card.
Erys nodded her head and turned to go, but not before flashing me a sidelong glance harsh enough to peel paint. Although I had become somewhat inured to the casual misanthropy of most Kymerans, I was momentarily shaken by the unalloyed revulsion in the other woman’s pale eyes.
“Ugh!” I whispered, once she was out of earshot. “That woman gives me the creeps! And magic gloves? Is she for real?”
“There’s always a market for enchanted clothing,” Hexe replied with a shrug. “Seven league boots, cloaks of invisibility, ruby slippers, that sort of thing. Most of the shops are over on Shoemaker Lane.”
“So who’s this Nydd guy? And why would you want his gauntlet?”
“He was a lieutenant in the Dragon Calvary during the Sufferance,” Hexe replied, staring down at his damaged hand. “He was also the son of General Vlad. When Nydd’s right hand was badly maimed in a skirmish with Witchfinders, his father created a special gauntlet that enabled him to use his hand again.”
“That sounds like something you could definitely use right now.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But I seriously doubt she has the genuine article in her possession. The Gauntlet of Nydd disappeared during the Dragon War, and the spell that created it died with General Vlad.”
“How does something like that get lost, anyway?”
“Vlad cut it off Nydd’s hand when he refused to go to war against his uncle, the Witch King,” he replied matter-of-factly.
We finished our dinner and returned home, although Hexe was far less talkative than usual. I could tell by the furrow in his brow that he was mulling over Madam Erys’ words. The preoccupied look in his eyes was still there as we undressed for bed.
“You’re so beautiful,” Hexe said as I straddled him.
“I bet you say that to all the girls you knock up,” I grinned, removing my bra. I tossed it at the owl atop the nearest bedpost, covering its unblinking eyes with a C-cup.
“I have, so far,” he chuckled. Out of reflex, he reached up to cup my breasts, only to have his face go white with pain.
“Do you need your pills?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted, cradling his wounded hand against his chest as he rode out the wave of agony.
I hopped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom, returning with a glass of water, which Hexe gratefully accepted as he choked down more of Dr. Mao’s pills. After a minute or so the muscles in his face began to relax.
“I’m sorry, Tate,” he said, his words already beginning to slur. “But I don’t think I’m going to be of much use tonight.”
“It’s okay, baby,” I said, lying down beside him. “We can cuddle; I don’t mind.”
But by the time I pulled the bedclothes over us, his eyes were already closed. I lay there for a long time, watching him sleep. He mumbled a couple of things under his breath, and from the way his body twitched against mine, I could tell his dreams were troubled. I glanced up at the bedposts. The owls looked worried.
• • •
“I’m so happy for you, Tate!” Vanessa was finally able to articulate, after an initial squeal of excitement so loud I had to hold the cell phone a foot from my ear. “You two are going to make kick-ass parents! I am going to throw you one awesome baby shower! Ooh! Can I be the godmother—assuming you don’t already have an actual fairy lined up for the job?”
“Of course you’re going to be the godmother, Nessie!” I laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of appointing anyone else!”
“Speaking of mothers—have you told Mrs. E the big news yet?”
“You’re the first person, outside of Hexe, I’ve notified. We haven’t even talked to his mother, yet, much less mine.”
“Yeah, but you really ought to let your folks know, Tate. I know they’re horrible and everything, but becoming grandparents will turn their brains to mush,” Vanessa pointed out helpfully. “You would not believe what my mother is willing to agree to just to have access to my brother’s kid! And my dad! He actually stuffs twenty dollar bills in the brat’s rompers! I swear, it’s like someone stole my parents and replaced them with lobotomized doppelgangers.”
“Yeah, but your brother didn’t marry a witch,” I replied.
“That’s what you think!”
“I’m not going to lie—we could really use some outside financial help right now,” I admitted as I dug the keys to the boardinghouse out of my pocket. “But I’m not breaking down and calling my parents. They’re the ones who demanded that I give up Hexe, and then cut off my trust fund when I refused. If they want to be a part of their grandchild’s life, it’s up to them to make the first move, not me.”
Before I could unlock the front door I heard a woman’s voice from inside the house angrily shouting, “Look at me! Look! At! Me!”
“Uh, Nessie, I’m going to have to get back to you later,” I said as I quickly cut off the call. Upon opening the door I saw Hexe desperately trying to block the path of a statuesque woman with auburn hair. I knew from her height, bone structure, and anorexia that she was a model of some sort, although it was difficult to tell if she was anyone famous or not, due to the luxurious full beard and mustache that covered the lower half of her face.
“I am dreadfully sorry, Ms. Pasternak,” Hexe said in all earnestness. “I must have miscalculated one of the ingredients in the exfoliant I prepared for you. All I have to do is formulate a new batch, that’s all. . . .”
“It’s bad enough I woke up this morning with a handlebar mustache! I did not pay you good money so I could go to bed looking like the bearded lady at the freak show!” Ms. Pasternak exclaimed indignantly.
“Of course you didn’t,” Hexe said, using his best client-whisperer voice as he struggled to defuse the situation. “Now, if you would just give me some time, I’m sure I’ll be able to reverse the condition. . . .”
“How much time?” Ms. Pasternak frowned as she stroked her bearded chin.
“An hour, perhaps—certainly no more than two . . .”
“I don’t have that kind of time to waste hanging around waiting to see if you might be able to reverse this . . . this . . .”
“Hypertrichosis,” Hexe supplied helpfully.
“I don’t care what you call it. I want it gone!” she snapped, grabbing a handful of beard in illustration. “And I want it gone now! I came here because I was told you were the best curse-lifter in Golgotham! I’ve got an important fashion shoot tomorrow; I can’t show up looking like I belong on a box of cough drops!”
“As I said, I simply
need to reformulate the lotion and reapply it to your face. . . .”
“If you think I’m going to let you put more of that stuff on me again, you’re out of your mind!” the hirsute Ms. Pasternak exclaimed. “I’m getting out of here before I end up like Rip Van Winkle! Now give me back my money!”
“But Ms. Pasternak, if you would just give me another chance—!”
“I’d rather take my chances in the Rookery, if it’s all the same to you,” the bearded fashion model said sternly, thrusting forth a perfectly manicured hand. “I demand a refund, or do I have to call the cops—or whatever the hell you people call them in this godforsaken ghetto of yours?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said glumly. Hexe stuck his left hand in his pocket, reluctantly withdrawing five crisp hundred dollar bills. “Here’s your money.”
Ms. Pasternak snatched the cash back, tucking it into whatever cleavage lurked behind her whiskers. “Just be glad I didn’t ask for damages as well!” she snapped. As she headed for the door, she paused to give me a warning glance. “I wouldn’t waste your money on him if I were you, sister. The guy’s a charlatan!”
After the front door slammed behind his disgruntled former client, Hexe silently strode out of the parlor and headed for his office. A second later he returned with Madam Erys’ business card.
“C’mon,” he said in a clipped voice. “Let’s go try on some gloves.”
Chapter 12
Shoemaker Lane had, at one time, been the home of the leprechaun cobblers who make footwear for Kymerans and other hard-to-fit customers. They also had a thriving side business selling charmed boots and shoes to humans. Although there were still quite a few signs shaped like oversized boots visible along the street, most of the Wee Folk had relocated eastward to Ferry Street, allowing other tradesmen to take their place.
I paused outside one of the remaining enchanted cobbler shops and stared at a dazzling array of gleaming glass slippers. Each pair had a little sign with a brief description of its particular charm to potential buyers, such as “makes you irresistible,” “world-class ballroom dancer,” or “beautiful until midnight.” Of course, you might have to cut off a toe or two to get them to fit, but then, all fashion has its price.
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