Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham

by Nancy A. Collins

  “You both are,” he replied quietly.

  With a start, I realized he was right. The initial burst of adrenaline that had first spurred me to fight, and then kept me on my feet, was finally starting to disappear. I felt like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, watching helplessly as the light from the world above dwindled into nothingness. As my vision telescoped down from gray into black, I thought I could hear the Queen of Hearts shouting somewhere off in the distance: Off with his hand! Off with his hand!

  Chapter 26

  I woke up to find myself in one of the recovery rooms at Golgotham General, the community hospital that served the city-state’s diverse population. I had been there, once before, when a demon broke my arm. I sat up straight, gasping like a swimmer coming up for air. “The baby . . . ? Hexe . . . ? Are they—?”

  “Your baby is fine, Miss Timmy,” Clarence said reassuringly from his post at my bedside. “As for your young gentleman, I would say he’s in amazing spirits for someone who has just chopped off his own hand.”

  I looked to where Clarence was pointing and saw Hexe sitting propped up in the hospital bed beside me, talking to his parents. His face was still pale but no longer bloody and the bites and claw marks Scratch dealt him had already disappeared, as if nothing had happened. The same could not be said for his right wrist, which now ended in a gauze-wrapped stump. Upon seeing I was awake, Hexe tossed aside his blankets with his remaining hand and swung his legs out of the bed. He took a couple of steps, only to have his knees buckle. Captain Horn stepped forward, helping to steady him. Hexe flashed his father a brief but grateful smile.

  “Thank God you’re alive; I was so afraid I’d lost you,” I sobbed as he wrapped his arms about me.

  “Don’t cry, Tate,” he said soothingly, wiping at my tears with his left hand. “Everything’s going to be better now.”

  “But your hand—!”

  “What’s done is done,” he replied. “Ever since I put on the Gauntlet of Nydd, my mind has been filled with a thick fog. Sometimes I was aware of what was going on, but most of the time it was like I was watching myself in a dream. I could hear horrible, ugly words coming out of my mouth, and at the same time I was wondering ‘why am I saying this to her?’ It broke my heart to see the hurt look on your face, but I still couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. I realize my saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t begin to cover everything I’ve done and what I’ve put you through—”

  “Of course I forgive you,” I said, cutting him off in midapology. “I knew something was wrong. You would never hurt me or our baby.”

  “I had my forensics team go over the gauntlet,” Captain Horn interjected. “Turns out there was a puppetry spell woven into the original enchantment that allowed the spellcaster to exert control over whoever wore the gauntlet. I’ve never seen such an insidious bit of spellwork in all my years of investigation. Do you think this Madam Erys is the person responsible?”

  “It has to be her,” Hexe replied. “She’s the one who approached me about the Gauntlet of Nydd and arranged for Moot to do the surgery.”

  “I looked into this woman—there’s no evidence of her living either here or the Faubourg, at least under that name. It’s like she simply walked, full grown, from the Outer Dark. The landlord who actually owns the glover’s shop on Shoemaker Lane says she only paid him to rent the storefront for a month or two, and used cash to do it with. As soon as the two of you are clearheaded enough, I’ll send our picture-maker around to do an automatic drawing of the suspect, so my people will have an idea of who to look for.”

  “First things first, though,” Lady Syra said firmly. “Once news of Hexe losing his hand begins to spread, both of you are going to need charms and spells for protection. You have plenty of enemies—not all of them Maladanti—who will no doubt make a move against you when they realize you are defenseless.”

  “What do you propose we do?” Hexe asked.

  “Just leave it to me. I am the Witch Queen, after all.”

  • • •

  After being released from Golgotham General, Hexe and I rode back to Lady Syra’s apartment building in her private coach, driven by the albino centauride Illuminata. The panacea I’d been given at the hospital had healed me, inside and out, but left me feeling like I’d just finished fifty laps in a swimming pool. Suddenly I felt the baby kick. I automatically reached out to place Hexe’s hand on my belly, only to have my fingers close upon thin air.

  Lady Syra lived on Beke Street in a fifteen story neo-Gothic apartment building. Like my parents, her home was the penthouse, which was crowned by a copper-sheathed observatory that she used in order to draw up astrology charts for her clients. As we entered the ground floor lobby, the elevator doors began to open, prompting Hexe to hide his missing hand in his jacket pocket.

  A second later Syra’s fellow tenant, Giles Gruff, accompanied by Mayor Lash, stepped out into the lobby. While Giles was dapper as ever, monocle in place and monogrammed cane in hand, Lash was nervously working the five-foot-long periwinkle blue braided ponytail he wore about his shoulders like a rosary. The two politicians were so heavily engaged in their conversation they did not seem to notice our little contingent.

  “But I’ve always been able to count on you delivering the satyr and faun vote in the past, Giles—!” The mayor protested.

  “Well, you should have thought about that before you decided to get into bed with Ronald Chess!” Giles replied sharply. “Because of you, my niece was kicked out of her apartment!”

  “How else could I afford to campaign against O’Fae?” Lash snapped. “Do you have any idea how many pots of gold that sawed-off shyster has in his war coffer?”

  Lady Syra scowled and mock-coughed into her fist. Mayor Lash started at the sound, his face losing all color as he realized who was standing before him. Giles, on the other hand, merely smirked as his companion quickly scurried across the lobby and out the front door.

  “Your Majesty,” the satyr said, touching the brim of his top hat with his cane.

  • • •

  The first thing I noticed upon reaching Lady Syra’s penthouse was that there was no minotaur stationed outside the front door.

  “What happened to Elmer?” I asked.

  “I had to let the poor dear go,” she explained. “He was the proverbial bull in a china shop—always getting his horns caught in the chandeliers. He’s now working as a longshoreman down on the docks. I think he’s much happier there, to tell you the truth.”

  As we entered the apartment, we were greeted by Lady Syra’s manservant, Amos, whose welcoming smile quickly dissolved as he caught sight of the beige-colored arm sock that covered the stump of Hexe’s right hand.

  “My son’s condition is not to be discussed. Is that understood?” Lady Syra stated firmly.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Amos replied with a bow of his maroon buzz cut.

  “Come with me,” Lady Syra said, motioning for us to follow her up the spiral staircase that led to her workshop.

  The inside of the observatory reminded me of an inverted copper bowl and was dominated by an antique sixteen-inch refracting telescope measuring twenty feet in length. The gleaming brass eyepiece was positioned six feet off the floor and was accessible only by a wrought-iron gangway. The retractable roof was decorated with murals depicting the zodiac and other astrological signs, and the walls were lined with bookcases, pigeonhole bins full of rolled-up charts, and a glass display case containing a taxidermied crocodile—the hallmark of the Kymeran archmage. Lady Syra made a beeline to a large horseshoe-shaped table at the foot of the telescope.

  “Perhaps I could have prevented you losing your hand if I’d cast your chart as a boy,” she said as she rifled through the collection of alchemical equipment, magical ingredients, and astrological charts before her. “But I have learned it isn’t wise to know too much of the future, especially of those you love. The temptation to muck about with that which has yet to be can be very strong, and ofte
n quite futile. If Greek tragedy has proven anything, it’s that attempting to evade the inevitable is what brings it about.”

  “But didn’t you cast a horoscope for my father?” Hexe countered.

  “There are different types of charts,” she replied. “The one I cast for your father was little more than a toy. And I certainly wouldn’t have given it to him as a birthday present if it revealed his death, or that of a loved one. In any case, blaming myself for not foreseeing what has happened does not change the fact it has occurred. This Erys woman, whoever she may be, seems determined to destroy you, and I’m not going to allow her to do any more damage than she already has.” After a few more moments spent rummaging about, she produced a small brass bowl, a large bottle of rosewater, an organic sponge, and a box of henna pens. “Okay—I need you two to strip down.”

  “Down to what?” I asked uneasily.

  “As far as you’re willing to go,” she replied. “I’ll need access to your entire torso. But first use the sponge to cleanse yourself with the rosewater.”

  A few minutes later both Hexe and I were down to our skivvies and smelling like a rose garden.

  “Are you ready?” Lady Syra asked.

  “Take care of Tate first,” Hexe said firmly. “I can wait.”

  His mother nodded her understanding and motioned for me to step forward. “Okay—let’s get started.” She uncapped the first henna pen and started to chant in Kymeran. As the tip of the applicator made contact with my skin, I felt an electric prickling that made the hair on my arms rise. For the next hour Lady Syra drew a series of interlocking symbols and patterns over my breasts, belly, and back, never once halting her sonorous incantation. By the time she was finished I was covered with an elaborate henna tattoo from my shoulder blades to my hips, with specific attention paid to my heart, spine, lungs, and belly.

  “That should protect you from the majority of curses for the next thirty days, or when the temporary tattoos wear off, whichever comes first,” Lady Syra said, looking considerably drained from when we’d first started. “Your turn,” she said, motioning for Hexe to take my place.

  As I waited for the protective wards inked onto my body to finish drying—it wouldn’t do to have the symbols smudged—I noticed a jumble of old photographs mixed in with the arcana littering Lady Syra’s workbench. The one on the top of the pile showed a five-year-old boy with purple hair and gold eyes, dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt, sitting on the lap of a dignified older Kymeran with dark blue hair, golden eyes, and a closely manicured German goatee. With a start, I realized I was looking at Hexe and his grandfather, Lord Eben.

  The next photograph was in black-and-white and showed a much younger Syra seated at a table in a restaurant, enjoying a cocktail and the company of Lou Reed and Andy Warhol. I flipped the picture over and read the notation: Elaine’s. Reed, resplendent in black leather, had one arm about Syra, and the two seemed to be sharing a laugh while Warhol stared directly into the camera, looking far more otherworldly than the teenaged witch seated at his elbow.

  The third photograph was also in black-and-white and showed three Kymerans—two men and a woman—gathered about one end of the formal dining table in the boardinghouse. It was strange to see Esau as a young man, as he was almost unrecognizable from the person I had come to know. It was not so much his youth that made the difference, but the fact the Esau in the photograph was . . . happy. Seated opposite him was a young man with a Beatles haircut and pair of tinted Ben Franklin glasses. It wasn’t until I saw his long, elegant fingers that I recognized him as the drug-addled, alcoholic Dr. Moot. However, the real shock came when I looked at the woman, seated between them. Although she was a little younger in the photo, I had no problems identifying her. I flipped the photo over and saw it was dated forty-five years earlier.

  I turned to look at Lady Syra, who had just finished inscribing the last protective sigil on her son’s body. “Who is this woman in this picture?” I asked.

  “That’s Nina,” she replied with a sad little sigh. “She was my brother’s wife.”

  “But that’s impossible,” I said as I handed the snapshot to Hexe. “That’s Madam Erys.”

  “Tate’s right,” he said excitedly. “This is the woman who gave me the Gauntlet of Nydd. But how can it possibly be the same woman—? She’s dead—isn’t she?”

  “Oh—Nina’s not dead,” Lady Syra replied. “Well, not exactly, anyway.”

  Chapter 27

  The Golden Years was located on the corner of Pearl and Hag, and, from the outside, resembled a Gilded Age hotel more than a nursing home. A twenty-foot-tall marble statue of a hooded and berobed figure leaning on a staff in its left hand while holding aloft an hourglass in its right stood in the center of the spacious lobby. At its foot was a reception station, manned by various Golgothamites in nurse’s whites.

  I glanced around the handsomely appointed lobby and noticed that most of the older people seemed to be Kymeran, their once-vibrantly colored hair now faded to pastel. A large knot of them where gathered about the flat-screen TV hanging over the fireplace, watching Wheel of Fortune, while smaller clusters were scattered about reading books, talking among themselves, or playing board games like Parcheesi and the Game of Thirty. As we approached the front desk, several of them stopped what they were doing to watch us, with expectant looks on their faces, only to return to their pastimes once they realized we weren’t family members. But I also saw flickers of confusion, fear, and mistrust in some eyes as well, and I wondered if a human had ever set foot inside the facility before.

  “Yes, may I help you?” the cyclopean receptionist asked, rising from her seat to greet us. Like most of the cyclopes living in Golgotham, she stood nearly seven feet tall and was built like a linebacker. A name tag affixed to her blouse identified her as Polyphema.

  “We’re looking for a certain patient who’s supposed to be here—”

  “We don’t have patients here at Golden Years, Serenity,” she replied. “We have residents. But I should be able to help you locate who you’re looking for. May I have the resident’s name and your relation to them?”

  “Her name is Nina, and she’s my aunt,” Hexe explained. “She was placed here by her husband, my uncle, thirty-five years ago.”

  The receptionist blinked her solitary eye, revealing a preference for dusky purple eye shadow, and typed the information into her desktop computer. “Ah, yes. She’s one of our Perpetual Care residents in the Eternal Rest ward. Please follow me, Serenity.”

  As we followed Polyphema through the lobby toward the elevators, we were approached by a Kymeran nurse pushing a very old warlock in a wheelchair. Although he was bald as an egg, he had a long, flowing pale green beard and bristling brows to match. His hands were encased in what looked like a cross between children’s snow mittens and boxing gloves that were laced tightly shut. As the old warlock was rolled past us, he turned his head to stare at Hexe with glaucoma-clouded eyes the color of mutton jade and said something in Kymeran, his voice a rasping croak.

  “This place reminds me of my grandfather’s last days,” Hexe muttered to me under his breath as we waited for an elevator to arrive. “He succumbed to the gazing sickness toward the end—it’s not unlike what your people call Alzheimer’s. He became unstuck in time, unaware of when and where he was—we had to bind his hands to keep him from casting spells against threats that didn’t exist. His mind was gone, but the magic was still there. . . .”

  “The old man—what did he say to you?” I asked.

  “‘My king,’” he replied grimly.

  • • •

  The Eternal Rest ward was located on the sublevel of the facility. As the elevator doors opened we were greeted by the sight of a scarlet-haired Kymeran dressed in orderly’s whites with his feet up on his desk, reading a Louis L’Amour paperback. Around his neck hung a large, old-fashioned key, like the ones used to unlock treasure chests.

  “Sorry, Nurse Polyphema,” he said as he awkwardly righted him
self.

  “As well you should be, Hark,” she replied frostily. “I have two visitors for the Eternal Rest ward. I need the manifest.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the orderly said meekly as he removed the key from about his neck and handed her the clipboard from his desk.

  At the end of the hallway was a large, featureless metal door. Upon the orderly unlocking it, the door swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges, revealing absolute darkness beyond its threshold. The orderly then flipped the light switch next to the door and rows of fluorescent lights flickered to life, illuminating a vast chamber filled with row upon row of glass caskets, all of them occupied.

  I stared in stunned horror at the various figures in repose. There were men, women, and even children from all the various races that comprised the citizenry of Golgotham, as well as humans, dressed in everything from pantaloons and knee-hose to the latest in modern fashion. I noticed that while some of them had long beards, hair, and fingernails, others were neatly coifed and manicured. Seeing the look on my face, Hexe took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “A-are they dead?” I whispered.

  “Yes—and no,” Nurse Polyphema replied. “All the residents in the Eternal Rest ward have been placed under a sleeping spell, balanced forever between life and death. They neither age nor decay, but instead exist in a perpetual state of suspended animation. However, their hair and nails do continue to grow. Those whose loved ones have paid for perpetual care are groomed by our staff every six weeks, as you can see. While most of the residents in this ward were cursed, the others were dying, and put to sleep by their loved ones in order to keep them from breathing their last breath.”

  “Why would someone want to do that to someone they loved?” I frowned.

  “Some simply have a hard time letting go, especially if the sleeper was taken from them too soon,” the cyclops replied, gesturing to a nearby casket that contained the sleeping form of a small Kymeran boy still dressed in knee socks and a sailor suit. “Many lift the spell when they, themselves, are close to death, so that they and their loved one will pass on at the same time.”