Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham

by Nancy A. Collins

  Scratch froze in midpurr. “Who’s the nump in the suit?” he growled.

  “Clarence is an old friend of mine. Please don’t call him a nump. He’s going to be living here now. Clarence, this is Scratch.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance . . . sir?” Clarence said, with his usual aplomb.

  “Great, another num—I mean, human underfoot,” the familiar sniffed, fixing the butler with a bloodred glare. “But if Tate and Beanie say you’re cool, then I guess I’m okay with it.”

  “Where’s Hexe?” I asked.

  “He’s still locked in his office,” the familiar replied in a worried voice. “He won’t talk to me anymore. I’ve never seen him like this—it scares me.”

  • • •

  “Hexe—it’s me, Tate,” I called out, tapping on the closed door. “Can you hear me?” The dead bolt abruptly unlocked itself, although I had not heard any movement inside the room. I glanced down at Scratch, who nodded his head, before pushing open the door.

  The office looked like it had been ransacked. The floor was covered with books and scattered papers pulled from Hexe’s sizable collection of grimoires, as if someone had been frantically searching for something. The shadows thrown by the Tiffany lamp with the armadillo-shell shade made the taxidermied crocodile hanging from the ceiling seem far less dead than usual. Hexe was slumped across his desk, surrounded by empty bottles of absinthe, Cynar, and barley wine, with a hookah sitting by his silver-clad right hand.

  As I stepped into the office, I was struck by the peculiar odor that permeated the room. At first I was at a loss to identify it; then, with a start, I realized it was Hexe. He normally had a warm, pleasantly chypre-like smell that reminded me of citrus and oakmoss with just a hint of leather, but now he seemed to be exuding something closer to bitter lime with a touch of mildew. I knew then I had made the right decision coming back.

  He stirred as I drew closer, raising his head to squint at me. “Tate—? Is that really you?” he asked in a ragged voice. Although his hair was uncombed and he was wearing a couple of days’ worth of beard, there was no sign of the sneering, cold-eyed stranger in his weary face.

  “Yes, it’s really me.” I smiled gently as I knelt beside him. “I’ve come back to help you, baby.”

  “I never meant to say and do those things to you,” he said in an earnest whisper. “It makes me sick to my stomach to even think about it. I never wanted to harm you, Tate—you’ve got to believe me.”

  “I know,” I said as I caressed his stubbled chin. “The gauntlet is doing something to you, poisoning you, somehow. Your mother says she knows a psychic surgeon who can help you.”

  Hexe drew back and a flicker of fear crossed his face. “But—but—I need the gauntlet.”

  “Do you need it more than you need me? More than you need our baby?”

  “But that means I’ll no longer be able to work Right Hand magic.”

  “You can’t work Right Hand magic now, anyway. So why fight getting rid of the damned thing?”

  Hexe dropped his gaze to his gauntleted hand, which he had yet to move or try to touch me with. “I was going to cast a Come Hither to summon you back and hold you to me. I even looked up the spell. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Does that make me weak?”

  “No,” I said as I put my arms around him. “You’re the strongest man I know.”

  • • •

  It took a pot of coffee and a couple of Vegemite sandwiches, but I eventually coaxed Hexe out of his office and into the kitchen. As he sobered up he became more and more like his old self, even though he still smelled a bit “off.” Throughout it all, Scratch sat on his favorite perch atop the refrigerator and watched his master intently, as if afraid Hexe might disappear if he looked away.

  “What did you say to my mother about the gauntlet?”

  “Just that it’s cursed and turning your Right Hand magic widdershins. I didn’t tell her about Boss Marz smashing your hand with a witch-hammer. She’s scheduled a meeting with the psychic surgeon for tomorrow.”

  Hexe froze in midchew. “That soon?”

  “The quicker we can get that thing off you, the better,” I replied.

  “I suppose you’re right.” He set down his half-eaten sandwich and stood up from the table. “I’m going to go take a shower. Care to join me?”

  “I’ll be there shortly,” I said. “I just want to check in on Clarence and see how he’s settling in. This has been a big day for all of us.”

  After tidying up the kitchen, I headed upstairs and stopped by what, until recently, had been Octavia’s room and knocked on the door.

  “It’s unlocked, Miss Timmy.”

  I opened the door to find Beanie sitting on the bed, patiently watching Clarence as he unpacked a collection of loud Hawaiian shirts from his luggage and placed them in the wardrobe.

  “I see you’ve got a fan.” I laughed.

  “He seems to find everything I do fascinating and of the utmost importance,” Clarence replied. “It’s certainly a boost to my self-confidence.”

  “What’s with all the Hawaiian shirts?”

  “All my adult life, I have dressed like a butler. Years ago, I promised myself, once I retired, I would never wear a suit and tie again. I have been collecting Hawaiian shirts for exactly this occasion. I can’t wait to start trying them out.”

  I tried to picture Clarence in something besides the tidy three-piece suits he had worn for as long as I could remember, but my mind just wouldn’t go there. It was like trying to imagine my grandparents naked.

  “I trust your young man is feeling better?” he asked solicitously.

  “He’s not out of the woods yet, but he’s doing a lot better,” I replied. “He’s more like his old self than he’s been in a while.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I know you love him very much. I can see it in your eyes whenever you talk about him.”

  “I was never able to sneak much past you when I was a kid.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” he agreed as he unpacked the clay ashtray I made for him at summer camp twenty years ago, and carefully placed it on the bed stand. “But, then, you were always a very loving child.”

  “Clarence—are you sure about all this?” I asked gently. “I appreciate you wanting to help me, but if this places any hardship on you at all . . .”

  “Ever since I was a boy I’ve wanted to see exotic places and unusual people,” he smiled wryly. “However, I am not much for travelling. I have a deathly fear of flying, I turn green the moment I set foot on a boat, and I have an unfortunate tendency to become carsick after a couple of hours. For someone like me, Golgotham is the answer to my prayers . . . provided the cat doesn’t eat me.

  “And as for hardships . . . what I said to your mother wasn’t hot air, Miss Timmy. You don’t have to worry about money for the time being. I would be honored to handle the household finances until you and your young gentleman get back on your feet.”

  I jumped off the bed and threw my arms around the old butler—or at least tried to, since my belly was now in the way. “Clarence, you’re my very own fairy godfather!” I exclaimed. “And you’ve really got to stop calling me ‘Miss Timmy.’”

  “Whatever you say, Miss Timmy.”

  • • •

  As I entered the bedroom, Hexe strolled out of the bathroom, fresh from his shower. As he toweled his hair dry I realized it was the first time in weeks I’d seen him naked, and was startled to see how thin he had become.

  “I went to see an obstetrician today,” I said.

  Hexe lowered the towel to stare at me apprehensively. “Is the baby—?”

  “He’s perfectly healthy,” I replied. “But we’re going to be parents a little sooner than we thought.”

  He laughed joyously as he grabbed me up in his arms, twirling about as if we were on a dance floor. For a few glorious moments everything we’d gone through seemed to disappear, and we were happy again, just like we used to be. We were still lau
ghing as he pulled me down onto the bed.

  “When you went away, I was afraid I’d never get the chance to be a father to my child,” he said, placing his hand over my gravid belly. “I know what it’s like, growing up without a father. I don’t want to perpetuate that kind of a family tradition.”

  “You’re not being fair to your dad, Hexe. Your mother sent Horn away to keep your grandfather from banishing him.”

  “I realize it’s stupid and childish,” he sighed, “but part of me is still mad at him for not being around when I was a kid. There’s so much I needed to learn that only he could teach me—like how to be a father and a husband. This is all new territory for me, and I’m afraid I’m going to fail at it.”

  “The fact that you’re worried about being a good dad is a good sign,” I reassured him. “I attended some of the most exclusive private schools in the city and, believe me, truly bad fathers fuck up their kids without giving what they’re doing a single thought.”

  Hexe held up his right hand, turning it from side to side as he studied the Gauntlet of Nydd. “The funny thing is, I just wanted to be able to support you and the baby. You would think I, of all people, would know that magic has its price. The gauntlet may have given me back the use of my right hand, but it’s come at the cost of nearly driving away those I care most for in life.”

  “Well, it’ll be gone for good in a couple of days,” I said firmly.

  “Still, even though it perverts my magic, at least it allows me to use my hand for more wholesome purposes, such as brushing my hair . . . and other things,” he said as he slipped his hands underneath my blouse. The gauntlet’s finely crafted chain mail felt as smooth and organic as snakeskin sliding against my flesh. “It’s been a long time . . .” he whispered.

  “Too long,” I agreed, as I pulled his hungry mouth toward mine. We made love for the first time in weeks, fumbling and giggling until we found the best position to accommodate the changes to my anatomy. And once it was done, we drifted off to sleep, with Hexe cradling me in his arms as if I might disappear. The bitter lime smell that clung to him was almost entirely gone, save for a faint, lingering trace.

  • • •

  I am walking up a long, winding staircase of living glass, its colors forever shifting and pulsing. The staircase twines about a towering pillar, and as I climb I look out across a vast cityscape made of living glass, its spires shining and strobing in the sunlight. I raise my eyes to the skies and see massive dragons wheeling far above my head, their long, narrow tails fluttering in the wind like the tails of a kite.

  At the top of the staircase is a temple. Although it, too, is made of living glass, its doorway is fashioned from the skull of a massive dragon, its fleshless maw yawning wide to accept the faithful. I enter the temple, the interior of which is one vast room, in the center of which is a huge cauldron filled with multicolored flames. Kneeling before the holy fire is a figure dressed in a hooded robe, its head lowered in prayer. Although I have never seen this place or this person before, I know that I stand in the Temple of Adon and that this is the Dragon Oracle.

  The robed figure rises and turns to face me. In one hand he holds a tall staff made from the shin of a battle-dragon. I start with surprise, for the face of the Dragon Oracle is that of Mr. Manto. The only difference is the white sash that binds the blind prophet’s eyes. The Dragon Oracle points to the multicolored fire dancing in the cauldron, causing it to flare and jump even higher. When he speaks, his voice echoes like a struck gong.

  “The hand is in the heart.”

  As the Dragon Oracle intones the words, I recognize them as the final portion of the prophecy pieced together by Mr. Manto, a world and countless millennia away. But before I can unravel the meaning of his words, I am overwhelmed by the smell of rotting limes. Suddenly a disembodied six-fingered right hand emerges from the sacred fire and strikes with the speed of a cobra, grabbing me by the neck. I try to pry the phantom hand from about my throat, only to have it tighten its grip. I struggle to free myself as the life is throttled from my body. . . .

  And I awoke from my dream to find Hexe leaning over me, his eyes rolled back in his head, as his gauntlet-clad hand squeezed my windpipe.

  Chapter 25

  I tried to call out his name, but all that came out was a strangled groan. I kicked and flailed at him, but he did not let go. Just as my vision started to turn gray around the edges, there was a horrific screeching noise and Scratch launched himself at Hexe, beating his master about the head and shoulders with his batlike wings while raking him with his claws.

  Hexe let go of me and jumped off the bed, cursing in Kymeran as he grappled with Scratch. Blood poured down his face and neck and onto his naked chest and arms from the dozens of deep scratches that the familiar had dealt him. His eyes had dropped back down, but were as glassy and unfocused as those of a sleepwalker.

  “You dare attack your master, hellspawn!” Hexe shouted indignantly as he tore the madly clawing winged cat off his head and hurled it to the floor.

  “I don’t know who you are, buddy,” the familiar hissed, his eyes glowing like live coals, “but you’re not my master!”

  As Hexe lifted his left hand, I saw the flicker of hellfire ignite in his palm. Scratch flattened his ears against his skull and growled in preparation of a second attack.

  I tried to shout, but the best I could do was a hoarse croak that made me grimace in pain. “Hexe! Don’t do it!” To my relief, his eyes regained their focus and his left hand dropped to his side, extinguishing the flame.

  “You did it, Tate!” Scratch said. “You woke him up!”

  “What—what happened?” Hexe winced as he touched his face, staring in bafflement at the blood staining his left hand. His eyes jerked in my direction, only to widen at the sight of the bruises that now ringed my neck. He then looked down at his right hand, to find its fingers still moving of their own accord, as if trying to strangle an unseen throat. With a shout of wordless horror, Hexe dashed from the bedroom.

  “What’s wrong with him, Scratch?” I rasped.

  “The boss is possessed,” the familiar replied. “But not by a demon; I’d recognize the smell if he was. It’s some kind of evil spirit—” Whatever else Scratch had to say after that was abruptly drowned out by the bansheelike screech of a power tool.

  “He’s in my studio!” I exclaimed. I leapt from the bed and hurried down the hall without bothering to throw on my housecoat, Scratch following at my heels.

  As I entered the room, I saw Hexe standing naked at my workbench, brandishing one of the cordless power saws. He held his right hand away from his body, staring in disgust at its wildly writhing fingers as if they were venomous snakes.

  “Hexe! Put that down!” I croaked, my voice still rough from being throttled. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to do this, Tate! Don’t stop me!” he replied, gesturing with the power tool. “The darkness is in my hand—I can feel it—it’s crawling up my arm, creeping into my brain, and spreading through my heart. I can hear it inside my head—it’s whispering to me—it’s telling me things—promising me things—it wants me to hurt you and the baby—I can’t let that happen—I won’t let that happen—!”

  As if in response, the gauntleted hand suddenly lunged at his left forearm, as if to knock the saw away. Hexe responded by menacing his right hand with the spinning blade, and it promptly recoiled.

  “You were right, Tate!” Hexe exclaimed, his eyes filled with a terrible determination. “I have to get rid of the gauntlet—before it takes me over completely and makes me hurt you and the baby again!”

  “Hexe! No! Don’t do it!” I pleaded.

  “There’s no other way!” he replied. “The voice is too strong—if I don’t do it now, it’ll be too late!”

  “Miss Timmy—? What on earth is going on? Oh. My.”

  I turned to see Clarence standing in the open doorway of the studio, dressed in his pajamas and bedroom slippers, his eyes agog at the sight of a
naked, crazed Hexe wielding a live power tool. Hexe used the distraction to bring the saw down on his right forearm, just above the Gauntlet of Nydd’s white-gold cuff. There was a sickening crunching sound, followed by an agonized scream as blood sprayed across the floor. I added my screams to Hexe’s own and covered my eyes, unable to bear the sight of the saw blade ripping through unresisting flesh and bone.

  The gauntleted hand dropped to the floor with a heavy thud, only to promptly right itself and scuttle away like a silver-clad spider. Scratch gave an angry yowl and pounced on the amputated limb, sinking his fangs deep into the back of the hand, just like a house cat attacking a rat. The fingers of the severed hand wriggled frantically for a few seconds, like the legs of a crab, before finally going limp.

  The power saw slipped from Hexe’s grip mere seconds before he collapsed. I knelt beside him, desperately trying to stem the lifeblood spurting from the stump of his right wrist. I felt something drape across my shoulders, and I realized that I had just been covered with a blanket. Suddenly Clarence was there, kneeling beside me with a first-aid kit.

  “It’ll be all right, Miss Timmy,” he said reassuringly as he placed a tourniquet fashioned from one of his ties about Hexe’s forearm. “I was an Eagle Scout, in my day—always be prepared.”

  “I had to do it. . . . There was no other way . . .” Hexe mumbled, his golden eyes seeming to grow paler with each spurt of blood.

  “Hold on, Hexe,” I said, squeezing his remaining hand as hard as I could. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  “Boss—are you in there?” Scratch mewed, butting his head against his master’s bloodied chin. “Can you hear me?”

  “I’m still here, old friend,” Hexe replied with a faint smile as he squeezed my hand, his voice sounding frighteningly weak. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You better not,” I said through the tears streaming down my cheeks. “You’ve got a son to raise, you know.” Suddenly Hexe’s eyelids flickered and his eyes once again rolled back, exposing their whites. “He’s going into shock, Clarence,” I said anxiously.