Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham

by Nancy A. Collins

  • • •

  During the course of my life, my mother has dragged me through every upscale department store in the city at least once. But where my mother entered Bergdorf’s or Barney’s like an arctic explorer intent on driving a flag into the North Pole, Lady Syra was far more laid back. The moment she set foot on the sales floor, the personal shoppers seemed to appear as if summoned by a spell, greeting her with eager smiles, without any sign of the nervous trepidation usually displayed by whatever sales staff was unlucky enough to wait on my mother.

  However, while the floorwalkers and clerks were pleased to see Lady Syra, the same could not be said for our fellow shoppers, many of whom scowled in disapproval. But if Syra noticed them, she showed no sign of it as she moved through the stalking grounds of Manhattan’s elite with unflappable calm, as elegant and gracious as any crowned head of Europe stooping to visit a department store. No wonder Warhol had been so fascinated by her.

  After spending an hour trying on clothes, I found myself staring at a daunting array of flowing tops and frilly, Empire-waisted dresses, any one of which cost more than my take-home pay for a month.

  “Syra, I can’t let you pay for all of this!” I exclaimed.

  “Tosh! Of course you can!” She laughed as she handed the saleslady a platinum credit card. “I can’t allow the mother of my grandchild to go about dressed in nothing but a pair of overalls, can I? Besides, you’ve done a marvelous job of living lean and making ends meet. A lot of young ladies from your background would have chucked it all by now and returned home with their tails between their legs. You must love my son very, very much.”

  “Yes, I do,” I replied. “He’s the only man I’ve ever known who has looked at me and really seen me instead of what he expected to see, or wanted to be there. It’s like I don’t have to explain things to him—he just instinctively knows what’s important to me. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do. That’s how I felt about Hexe’s father, when I first fell in love with him. And I still feel the same way, all these years and hardships later.”

  “I like Captain Horn a lot. He reminds me of Hexe, sometimes.”

  “I suspect he inherited his sense of justice from his father,” Lady Syra said, nodding her head in agreement. “I just wish Hexe would be a little warmer toward him. I realize that it was difficult for him, growing up the way he did—but it wasn’t Horn’s decision to leave him without a father.”

  “I’m certain once he starts seeing things through the eyes of a parent, he’ll come to understand his dad a little better,” I assured her.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Lady Syra conceded. “And perhaps the same will hold true for you as well.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting I reconcile with my mother and father, are you?” I scoffed.

  “I’m well aware that your mother has cultivated a layer of bitch you can break a shovel on,” Syra said with a rueful smile. “However, in her defense, the mistakes we parents make trying to protect our children are often the hardest for us to admit.”

  • • •

  The sun was beginning to set by the time I returned home, laden with maternity swag. Since neither Hexe nor Beanie were there to greet me, I assumed he had elected to take the dog for a walk. I went upstairs and was hanging my three new maternity tops in the wardrobe when I heard a rustling sound behind me. As I turned around to see what was making the noise, one of the shopping bags from Barney’s abruptly tilted over, spilling Scratch out onto the floor. Although he may be a demon, in many ways the familiar was no different from the typical housecat—right down to the mad passion for investigating paper bags.

  “There you are!” I laughed. “Where’s Hexe?”

  “He’s out in the garden with Beanie,” the familiar replied as he rubbed the side of his face along the outer edge of a Neiman-Marcus bag.

  I walked over to the window and peered out into the backyard, which was incredibly huge, thanks to the Kymeran talent of folding physical space like origami. Hexe was at the bottom of the garden, beyond the living hedge maze, playing with Beanie, who was eagerly chasing a red rubber ball around like a star soccer player.

  “I see you survived your shopping expedition with my mother,” Hexe said by way of greeting as I made my way across the garden. “How many stores did she drag you to?”

  “I stopped counting at five,” I replied. “It wasn’t that bad. In fact, I actually kind of enjoyed myself. Your mom is a helluva lot more fun to go shopping with than anyone in my family.”

  “I’m glad you had a nice time. You deserve to treat yourself,” he said. “Now that I’ve got my hand back, maybe next time I’ll be the one buying you nice things.” He gave the ball another kick and Beanie leapt up as if he was spring-loaded, bumping it with his truncated snout like a trained seal. The ball flew into the dense tangle of ivy in the corner of the garden where the two walls joined, followed by the sound of breaking window glass. As I looked closer, I realized there was a small wooden structure, slightly larger than a potting shed, hidden deep in the dark green foliage.

  Hexe walked up to the overgrown door and tried the knob, but it was rusted shut and refused to turn in his hand. I glanced through the broken window, as the other remaining pane was heavily covered by dirt, and saw a small potbellied stove, a table with a solitary, overturned chair, and the rotting remains of a narrow cot, all of it covered in dust. I looked over at Hexe, who had plucked the ball from the ivy and was turning it in his hands like one of his scrying stones.

  “I had almost forgotten this was still here,” he muttered. “This was where Jake lived. I was very young at the time, but I remember how he and my grandfather used to sit over there”—he pointed to a pair of weathered Adirondack chairs positioned under a decorative wisteria bower—“and chat while sharing a hookah—not at all like servant and master. When Jake died, it was the only time I ever saw my grandfather cry.

  “I wonder what it was like for him, living out his life in the garden, serving those who lived in the house his father built. To be denied his birthright, yet have it constantly dangled in his face—how cruel is that?” He shook his head in disgust. “My family has a long tradition of getting too caught up in what we are, instead of who we are. The gods and devils know it’s hard enough being a half-caste in the Royal Family . . . but a norlock?”

  “Are you worried about what your mother said about the baby—?” I asked gently, slipping an arm about his waist.

  Hexe grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Astrologer or not, my mother doesn’t know everything. I don’t care how many fingers our kid has or what color his or her eyes might be—no one is going to make him ashamed of who and what he is. Or her.”

  “You’re going to make a hell of a dad, you know that?” I grinned.

  “I still can’t help thinking about how if Uncle Jack hadn’t disappeared, all those years ago, both Jake and I would have grown up knowing our fathers,” he said wistfully.

  “How so?”

  “Jack was the true Heir Apparent, not my grandfather. But when Jack was swallowed up by the dimensional rift on the third floor, the mantle was automatically passed to Eben. Had Jack taken his rightful place as Witch King, my grandfather would have simply become yet another member of the aristocracy. He would have no reason to disown Esau in favor of my mother. Indeed, Esau would have had no expectations of inheriting the Throne of Arum at all. And maybe, just maybe, my uncle wouldn’t have become such a twisted, bitter creature. As a minor noble without any claims to the throne, my mother wouldn’t have had a reason to hide her love away, and she could have married whoever she wished without anyone raising an eyebrow. . . .”

  “You might as well worry about what would have happened if President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, instead of San Francisco,” I countered. “Or what if Christianity and Islam had gone to war with one another, instead of uniting to fight the Unholy War? What’s the point of brooding about things that never h
appened? All you get is a bunch of what-ifs that don’t add up to anything real. You can’t change the fact your father wasn’t around when you were a kid. But you can take advantage of the fact he’s around now. Just like you can’t change what happened to Jake, but you can make sure our child will never be treated in such a manner.”

  Hexe laughed and pulled me into his arms. “You’re as smart as you are sexy, you know that? Why don’t you put on your cutest new maternity clothes? I might not be able to take you out on a shopping spree at Bergdorf’s, but I think I can swing a night out at the Calf. Hey, maybe if we tell Lafo we’re expecting, he’ll throw in dessert!”

  • • •

  The clientele at the Calf that night was what Hexe called “the new normal”: a sixty-forty mix of Golgothamites and humans, both sides skewing young, as most of the older, more conservative clientele had decamped to far less human-friendly establishments, such as Blarney’s and Steppenwolf’s, or stopped by only for lunch.

  As we made our way through the crowded pub toward the dining room, I spotted an all-too-familiar figure with curly, peach-colored hair ahead of us. I instinctively grabbed Hexe’s arm in fear.

  “That’s Marz’s croggy, Gaza,” I whispered.

  “I recognize him,” he said darkly.

  “He’s the one who fireballed the Big Top Club. What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Hexe replied as he watched the Maladanti disappear into the ground-floor kitchen. “But I intend to find out.”

  We changed course and made a beeline toward the swinging double doors. Hexe pushed one of them open just enough to peer inside without being noticed. I had expected the kitchen of the Two-Headed Calf to be a large, noisy place full of sizzling flattops, flaming grills, rack ovens, and stainless-steel prep stations, crammed full of loudly cursing sous chefs, cooks, sauciers, and dishwashers. However, to my surprise, the only person in the entire kitchen was Lafo, who stood before a huge antique stove dressed in his cook’s apron, stirring one of a dozen simmering copper vessels shaped like cornucopia arrayed atop the numerous burners. I had always assumed he was joking whenever he called himself chief cook, bartender, and head bottle washer, but apparently he was simply telling the truth.

  Outside of the total absence of other cooks, the kitchen seemed otherwise normal, with coils of handmade sausage and hams hanging from racks suspended from the ceiling, and a wheel of cheese large enough to roll a wagon sitting on one of the counters.

  Gaza strolled up behind Lafo as if he had every right to be there and announced himself by saying, “I gotta admit, this joint has the best owl soup in Golgotham.”

  “What are you doing in my kitchen, Gaza?” Lafo growled, turning away from his pots to glower at the intruder.

  “You’re in arrears on your protection money, Lafo,” the Maladanti replied tersely. “Boss Marz told me to come collect what’s due him.”

  “Did he also tell you to pull my foot out of your ass?” Lafo snarled. “Because that’s totally happening next if you don’t get out of here! And you can tell Marz I’m not coughing up another cent.”

  “I’d watch what I say if I were you, kitchen-witch,” Gaza glowered, raising his left hand in a menacing gesture. “It’d be a real shame if this place suddenly caught fire so soon after being renovated. . . .”

  “That’s all I’m taking from you!” Lafo exclaimed, tossing aside his apron. “I’m not going to stand here and be threatened by a jackal in a bad suit!”

  Before Lafo could make another move, Gaza made a snapping motion with his hand, freezing the business owner in his tracks. “Oh, but you are going to stand there, kitchen-witch,” Marz’s croggy sneered as he stepped forward. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the Witchfinder finger-cutter and held it up before Lafo’s temporarily paralyzed face, so that he could see it. He then slid it onto the magic finger of his victim’s right hand in a grotesque parody of a wedding vow. “Let’s find out how your customers like eating here once you’re no longer able to charm the pots and pans. . . .”

  “Get away from him!” Hexe shouted, pushing open the kitchen doors hard enough to make them bang into the walls.

  The fireball was already in Gaza’s left hand as he spun around, hurling the deadly missile like a southpaw pitcher tossing a knuckleball. Instead of moving his right hand in a defensive counterspell, Hexe caught the roiling ball of hellfire and held it in the palm of the gauntlet. He looked down at the mass of supernatural flame then back up at his attacker, and then, with the tiniest of smiles, he closed his mailed hand into a fist, snuffing out the fireball as if it were nothing more than a candlewick.

  Hexe gestured again with his right hand and one of the coils of sausage hanging from the kitchen racks over Gaza’s head suddenly wrapped itself around the Maladanti’s throat like a python and yanked him off his feet. I hurried past the struggling goon and snatched the finger-cutter from Lafo’s hand, as the restaurateur was still trapped by Gaza’s paralysis spell.

  “I’ve got it!” I exclaimed, holding up the torture instrument so Hexe could see it. But if he heard me, he showed no sign of it; the look on his face was both angry and distant at the same time. He moved his right hand a quarter turn, and the meaty garrote about Gaza’s neck tightened even further. The Maladanti’s eyes started from his head and his tongue protruded from his mouth as he fought to suck air into his constricted windpipe.

  I grabbed Hexe by the shoulder and shook him as hard as I could. “Stop it!” I shouted. “You’re killing him!”

  The look of horror on Hexe’s face as he emerged from his weird trance was identical to that of a sleepwalker who has awakened to find himself standing on a precipice. The noose about the Maladanti’s neck went slack, dropping him onto the floor. Gaza staggered to his feet, massaging his bruised trachea.

  “I’d get out of here if I was you, buddy,” I told the dazed goon, who promptly dashed out the swinging doors, but not before casting a scalding parting glance in Hexe’s direction. Normally, I would have put a call in to the PTU, but fear of Boss Marz making good on his threat against our friends and families kept me from doing so.

  A couple of seconds later Lafo snapped back to life, freed from the Maladanti’s spell. The first thing out of the restaurateur’s mouth was a stream of Kymeran which, even to my ignorant ears, was clearly profanity.

  “Heavens and hells!” Lafo bellowed angrily, once he finally switched over to English. “That was the most horrible feeling I’ve experienced in my life—being completely conscious of what was going on around me, but utterly unable to move or speak! That chuffer was going to take my magic!” He threw his arms around Hexe, yanking him into a brotherly embrace. “Praise Arum you showed up when you did, Serenity!”

  “I’m glad you’re not hurt, but really, I just did what anyone else would have done in the same situation,” Hexe said humbly.

  “That’s manticore bollocks and you know it!” Lafo replied. “Most Golgothamites are scared shitless of the Maladanti and won’t lift a hand against them. I can never thank you two enough!” He reached out and grabbed me with a long, heavily tattooed arm, dragging me into his impromptu group hug. “You guys are awesome! You’re both eating and drinking on the house for the rest of the year!” Once he let us go, Lafo finally seemed to notice the silver gauntlet covering Hexe’s hand for the first time. “Hey, what’s with the shiny glove?”

  “It’s a . . . family relic,” Hexe replied vaguely.

  “Is that how you were able to field Gaza’s fireball? I’ve never seen anyone actually catch hellfire before, much less snuff it out like that!”

  Just then a nymph with a pencil tucked in her laurel wreath crown barged into the kitchen. “Lafo! Where’s that order for the four-top at table twelve? Two more minutes and I’ll have to comp them their drinks!”

  Lafo snatched up his discarded apron and put it back on. “Excuse me, folks—I’ve still got a restaurant to run!” He returned his attention to the collection of bottomless pots still b
ubbling on the stove. “Go make yourself comfortable in the dining room. If there’s anything in particular you’d like that’s not on the menu, tell your server and I’ll whip it up special!”

  • • •

  Despite the rocky start, it turned out to be a wonderful evening, with good food and excellent company. And even though we didn’t need to tell Lafo I was pregnant to get a free meal, we went ahead and told him anyway.

  Upon hearing the news, he grinned and belted out yet another one of his “awesomes” and returned momentarily with a towering meringue concoction atop a devil’s food cake that, when doused in absinthe and set alight, burned an eerily beautiful blue. As we watched, the outline of a young man took form within the sapphire-colored flames, then just as quickly disappeared.

  “The dessert never lies!” Lafo crowed. “Congratulations! It’s a boy!”

  I looked across the table at Hexe, who had the same loopy grin on his face as when I told him I was pregnant. He reached across the table and took my hand in his own, the silver mail of the magic gauntlet shimmering like the scales of a bejeweled fish. I had never felt more loved and in love than I did at that moment. And yet, despite my happiness, the image of Hexe strangling Gaza by proxy continued to nag at the back of my mind.

  Chapter 15

  For the next couple of weeks Hexe dedicated himself to making up for lost time, cranking out potions and charms for all his regular clients who relied on him, as well as working hard to bring in new ones. For the first time in months it seemed as if we were finally starting to dig our way out of the financial hole we had found ourselves in. With both of us bringing in money on a regular basis, I was able to start setting aside part of my pay for the baby and other maternity-related expenses in a decorative cookie tin I kept on the dresser.