Left Hand Magic (15 page)

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Authors: Nancy A. Collins

BOOK: Left Hand Magic
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“Please, call me Tate, Ms. Jones.”
“Tate it is. And you can call me Lorelei. The ‘Jones’ is only because I needed a last name for the liquor license.”
As we exited GoBOO Headquarters, the throng of TV reporters stationed outside the building surged up the stairs to greet us, shoving cameras in our faces.
“Hexe! Hector Lafcadio with WPIX! Is it true you’re dating the heiress to the Eresby fortune?”
“No comment. Please, let us by—,” Hexe said as he pushed the microphones aside. “I have nothing to say to the media.”
“Hexe! Miranda Joyce with WCBS! Is it true that Kymerans attacked the New York Police Department?”
“No comment!”
“Miss Eresby! Sally Ann Klutter for
Entertainment Tonight
! Is it true you’re living with a Kymeran? Is he your lover? Is it true what they say about Kymeran men?”
“What kind of question is
that
?” Hexe said heatedly. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”
Before things could get out of hand, Lieutenant Vivi suddenly appeared, inserting herself between Hexe and the reporters.
“Step back!” she barked. “You heard him—they don’t want to talk to the press! Now clear off before I run you all in for blocking the sidewalk and disturbing the peace!” The PTU officer glanced over her shoulder and gave us a crooked smile. “I’d make a break for the cab stand right now if I were you.”
Hexe grabbed my hand and dashed to the nearest hansom. As we climbed into the cab, I looked across the street and saw Captain Horn standing there, gazing at Hexe with a contemplative look on his face. When he saw I had noticed him, his features became as unreadable as a slab of granite, and he quickly turned on his heel, disappearing into the crowd.
Chapter 11
 
W
hen we returned home, we were promptly greeted by Scratch, who was seated expectantly in the foyer, his eyes glowing murder-red. “About time you two got back,” the familiar yowled. “I’m positively
starving
.”
“I’m so sure,” Hexe scoffed. “When I opened the door, I thought Tullamore had turned another college student into a flying pig.”
“Do
not
go there, if you want to come back in one piece,” Scratch growled.
“Far be it from me to damage your fragile self-image by snarking about your girlish figure.” Hexe laughed as he removed his coat. “Anything happen while we were out?”
“A delivery person from the Bestiary dropped off a package addressed to Tate. Lukas accepted delivery and put it in your office before he left for work.”
I frowned. “I didn’t order anything from anyplace called that. What is it?”
“How would
I
know?” Scratch replied with a shrug of his wings. “I’m not the one who signed for it—no thumbs, remember?”
“I suggest we go see for ourselves,” said Hexe.
There was a small plastic travel crate, the kind used for transporting animals on airlines, sitting next to the desk. A sticker glued across the side read LIVE ANIMAL. As we entered the office, the crate began to rattle and I heard a piteous little yelp.
“Somebody, somewhere definitely made a mistake,” I said. “I didn’t buy a dog.”
“There’s no mistake,” Hexe said, his smile breaking into a grin. “
I
bought him!”
“You bought a
what
?!” Scratch exclaimed, his eyes bugging out in alarm.
“Thought about what you said the other day, and decided you might appreciate having a real pet—one that doesn’t talk back.”
“Owning a dog is a big commitment,” I protested. “You have to walk them, groom them, make sure they get their shots. . . . I don’t know if I’m ready to handle something like that right now.”
“I just wanted you to feel at home,” he explained. “Just take a look at him, then decide if you don’t want him.”
I knelt down and unlatched the travel crate. Without warning the wire door swung open and a Boston terrier puppy came bounding out into the room. My first impression was that he was black and white and made mostly of head and belly. The puppy celebrated his freedom by running in figure eights between Hexe’s feet and my own, ears and tongue flapping like flags. As I’ve said before, I’m a sucker when it comes to animals, and the minute I looked into those big brown eyes, I was instantly and irreversibly smitten.
“He’s
adorable
!” I squealed, scooping my new dog up in my arms.
The puppy responded by licking every square inch of my face as fast as he could, while wriggling so hard I was afraid he would pop out of my hands like a wet bar of soap.
“I can still take him back if you want me to,” Hexe offered.
“Don’t you
dare
!” I gasped, cradling the puppy in the crook of my arm.
“So—do you like him?”
“Like him? I
love
him! Thank you, baby—he’s wonderful—and so are you!” I gave Hexe a big fat kiss, only to have the puppy join in. I laughed and put the dog back on the floor so I could properly express my appreciation.
Scratch warily eyed the newest member of the household as the puppy continued exploring his environment, sniffing the corners, the carpet, and other furnishings in the room. “
That’s
a dog?” the familiar grumbled. “It looks like a cross between a monkey, a bat, a goldfish, and a potbellied pig. Are you
sure
they didn’t slip you an unfledged gargoyle instead?”
“He’s a Boston terrier,” Hexe explained.
“Where’s his snout? He looks like he chased a parked car,” Scratch grunted.
The puppy came to a halt and did a double take, as if he’d just seen Scratch for the first time. As the winged cat turned his back in disgust, the puppy gave the familiar’s hairless butt a tentative sniff.
“Hey!”
Scratch snarled, spinning back around.
“Watch where you’re sticking that thing, buddy!”
Instead of yelping in fright, the puppy dropped down into play stance, his chin and forepaws resting on the floor, his hindquarters wriggling in the air.
“Isn’t that cute?” I cooed. “He wants to play with you.”
“Gag me with a grapefruit spoon.” Scratch groaned. The familiar glowered reproachfully at Hexe. “How could you do this to me after all these years?”
As Scratch turned to leave the room, the puppy bounded after him, landing with all four feet on the end of his hairless tail. The familiar whipped about a second time and hissed like a bag of angry cobras, spreading his batlike wings in warning.
“Bang off, chuffer!”
The puppy took a couple of steps back, as if surprised by Scratch’s response, then nimbly jumped forward and licked him on the face, and then just as quickly jumped back and began to dance around the familiar, yapping for him to come play.
“I don’t think he’s scared of you, Scratch,” Hexe observed.
“He will be after I bite off an ear!”
I snatched the puppy up and held him in my arms. “Don’t you
dare
hurt Beanie!”
Scratch rolled his eyes. “Is
that
what you’re calling him?”
“You’ve got a better name for him?” I challenged.
“Yeah—‘Snack’!”
“Scratch! Stop threatening to eat Beanie!” Hexe admonished.
“
She’s
the one who named it after food!”
“Don’t argue with me!” Hexe said sternly. “You are forbidden to kill, eat, maim, or otherwise hurt Beanie. Do you understand?”
Scratch sighed, his wings drooping in resignation at his master’s command. “I gotcha. No eating the stupid dog. What about burglars, salesmen, and door-to-door missionaries?”
“Those are still permitted.”
“Praise the pits for small favors,” Scratch grumbled, as he flapped away in disgust. “Please excuse me while I go piss in your sock drawer. . . .”
The rest of the afternoon was spent “puppy-proofing” the house, which consisted of putting down newspapers and constructing makeshift barricades to ensure that the newly christened Beanie didn’t wander anywhere he wasn’t supposed to. The last thing we needed was for him to end up on the third floor, which had a bad habit of disappearing into alternate dimensions, if Hexe’s great-uncle was anything to go by.
I used my iPhone to look up information on the proper care and feeding of a new dog, and was immediately overwhelmed by the list of dos and don’ts from various experts. While the store where Hexe bought Beanie had included a bag of dry dog food, along with the travel crate, as part of the purchase price, it was becoming increasingly clear that taking care of a puppy was going to require more than some wee-wee pads and a chew toy.
Although the PTU had rescinded its previous curfew, we decided it was still a little too soon to be wandering the streets after dark, and chose to order in for dinner. I put a call in to Strega Nona’s Pizza Oven for two pies—a small Trojan Horse for myself (pepperoni, feta, spinach, portabellas, garlic, and sun-dried tomatoes) and the Six-Fingered Discount for Hexe (hot dogs, maple syrup, artichokes, flash-fried crickets, and pickles). I love that man to death, but I learned the hard way never to go half and half on the toppings with him.
Just after I finished ordering, my phone rang. The “Psycho Theme” ringtone alerted me to who was calling without my having to look at the caller ID.
“So—we don’t hear from you for weeks, and
this
is how we find out you’re shacking up with some Kymie lothario!”
“Hello to you too, Mother,” I said with a sigh. “Hexe isn’t a ‘lothario,’ whatever that is, and what do you mean by ‘this’?”
“The
television
!” I could hear the faint rattle of ice cubes in her Old Fashioned in the background. “It was one of those horrid entertainment gossip shows—not that I watch them, of course. Muffie Potter Aston rang me to say she’d seen you in the company of some purple-headed wizard. I was positively
mortified
!”
“Hexe and I testified before the GoBOO—I mean, the Golgotham Business Owners Organization—today,” I explained.
“Why on earth would their Chamber of Commerce want to talk to you?”
“They wanted to question us about the riot, Mom.”
My mother’s bafflement quickly switched to alarm. “Wait—what would you know about a riot?”
“Hexe and I were there when it broke out. We were practically in the middle of it.”
“Merciful God—are you all right, Timmy?”
As much as I dislike my given name, it is nothing compared to how much I loathe my childhood nickname. But since my mother sounded genuinely upset, I chose to ignore her use of it. “I got exposed to some tear gas, but not too bad. Hexe was hit on the head with a bottle—”
“Timothy—did you hear that?” my mother called out to my father, not bothering to muffle the mouthpiece. “Timmy was caught in that riot!”
There was the sound of footsteps crossing the hardwood floor of the grand salon, followed by one of the numerous extensions in my parents’ penthouse being picked up. “Princess? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Honest. I was just telling Mom I’m okay. . . .”
My father heaved a weary sigh, which indicated that he was getting ready to lay down the law. “Sweetheart, I know you want to find yourself, and we’ve been tolerant of that . . . but between what happened at the gallery and now this riot thing, your mother and I think it’s time you came home. Golgotham is just too dangerous.”
“Dad, I appreciate that you and Mom are worried about me, but I’m perfectly safe,” I lied. Like I told Meikei, I have a great deal of experience in telling fathers what they want to hear. “I have friends here, and I know my way around. Nothing bad is going to happen to me. I promise.”
“Yes, well . . . about your ‘friends’—your mother is
extremely
alarmed about this Hexe fellow. She believes he has some kind of control over you.”
“Mom’s just being paranoid. And racist. You know how she is.”
“I’m afraid so,” my father admitted.
Suddenly my mother was back on the line—she must have gone off to freshen up her Old Fashioned. “Would it have
killed
you to pick up the phone and tell us what was going on? We had no
idea
you were involved in that horrible riot downtown!”
“Mom, Dad—maybe if you actually came down here and checked out the neighborhood, maybe met a couple of my friends, it might ease your mind,” I suggested. “Right now isn’t the greatest time, but maybe after things cool off and get back to normal . . . ?”
“Me—? Go downtown? To
Golgotham
?” my mother gasped. I could see her clutching her pearls at the very suggestion. “Have you lost your mind?!?”
“Now, Millie,” my father countered, “Timmy does have a point—”
“Sure! Take
her
side!” my mother replied huffily. “Like you
always
do!”

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