Left Hand Magic (17 page)
Authors: Nancy A. Collins
I hopped out of the cab and hurried after Hexe, who was kneeling beside the woman. As I got closer, I realized that what I had mistaken for red hair was actually mustard yellow, dyed carnelian by the blood flowing from her scalp. Her right eye was already swollen shut, and her lower lip was split open.
“Go help Jarl,” she croaked, pointing behind her to a man with apricot-colored hair who lay sprawled in a rapidly widening pool of blood.
“Stay here with her,” Hexe told me as he dashed to help the second victim.
“Don’t worry,” I said as I helped the bleeding woman back onto her feet. “My friend is a healer. Here, let me help you.” I fished a handkerchief from my purse and handed it to her so she could stanch the blood flowing from her split lip.
“Thank you,” she murmured gratefully, only to freeze upon seeing my hand. My stomach cinched itself into a knot as she recoiled, a look of fear in her eyes.
“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” I assured her. “I saw the men who mugged you—I know they were humans, but I have nothing to do with them.”
“They weren’t muggers,” she replied. “They didn’t want our money. They jumped us as we were coming back from dinner. They started hitting us with bats before Jarl or I realized what was happening. There wasn’t time to raise a hand to defend ourselves. It was horrible—they kept beating my husband even after he went down. The one without the ski mask said they were the sons of Adam, and that they were going to make us ‘dirty Kymies’ pay.”
As the woman related her story, a crowd began to gather around us, curious to discover what had happened. There was not a single human face to be seen.
“Did you hear that?” an older Kymeran man with mold green muttonchops loudly announced. “They were witch-bashed by a bunch of numps!”
An annoyed buzz rippled through the assembled onlookers, as if someone had just kicked a hornets’ nest.
“What’s this nump bitch doing here?” asked a teenaged Kymeran girl in an Arcade Fire T-shirt.
“Get your stubby hands off her, nump!” another hostile voice shouted.
Suddenly Hexe was between me and the rapidly contracting ring of onlookers. “Leave her alone!” he barked. “She didn’t have anything to do with this!”
Most of the assembled Kymerans backed away upon recognizing Hexe, but the warlock with the moldy muttonchops held his ground. “Why are you taking up for some nump bint, Serenity? What’s she to you?”
“She’s his concubine!” the teenager chimed in, holding up her Android phone. “It says so right here on TMZ!”
“So that’s it, eh?” the moldy warlock sneered. “Kymeran women aren’t
good
enough for you now, Serenity?”
good
enough for you now, Serenity?”
“Everyone calm down!” Kidron shouted as he pushed his way through the crowd, forcing the onlookers to part or risk being trampled. “The PTU are on their way. They’ll handle this.”
“In seven hells, they will!” The warlock spat as he returned to the pub from which he’d come. “They’ll roll over for City Hall, just like they always do, and you know it. No nump will ever be brought to justice for what they do in
or
out of Golgotham!”
or
out of Golgotham!”
Within seconds of the would-be mob’s clearing the streets, a centaur with a snowy lower body, the mark of an ambulance bearer, rounded the corner, harnessed to a whitewashed coach marked GOLGOTHAM GENERAL closely followed by a PTU response wagon.
A couple of Kymerans dressed in scrubs jumped out of the back of the ambulance, carrying a stretcher between them. Hexe hurried to greet them. “He’s got multiple skull fractures. You’re going to need to stabilize him before he’s moved.”
The boneknitter nodded his understanding and knelt down beside Jarl, gently placing his hands to either side of the wounded man’s head. He muttered an incantation in Kymeran and a pale white glow, similar to St. Elmo’s Fire, flickered into being around Jarl’s skull. A few seconds later he was carefully lifted onto the stretcher. As they carried him past me, I was shocked to see his face was little more than a mass of pulped meat, shattered bone, and twisted cartilage. It was a good thing the psychic surgeons at Golgotham General were capable of magic, because he was definitely going to need a miracle to survive his wounds.
As Jarl was strapped down in the back of the ambulance, I helped his wife climb in beside him. She seated herself on the passenger bench inside the coach, then turned to look at me.
“You’ve been very kind,” she said. “I’m sorry the others treated you like that. And I’m sorry
I
treated you like that, too. I should have said something. . . .”
I
treated you like that, too. I should have said something. . . .”
“They weren’t in the mood to listen, even if you had,” I said with a rueful smile. “And for what it’s worth—I’m sorry, too.”
She nodded her head, and then turned her attention back to her husband. The last I saw of Jarl and his wife before the ambulance pulled away, she was tightly squeezing his hand, as if to tether his life to hers.
“Looks like you two can’t stay away from trouble.”
I turned to see Captain Horn regarding Hexe and myself with a bemused look on his face. Normally a PTU officer of his rank wouldn’t show up to a routine mugging, but these were not normal times.
“Did you see what happened?” he asked, fishing a digital voice recorder from his breast pocket.
“No,” Hexe replied. “But we saw
who
did it.”
who
did it.”
“There were three of them, dressed in black. They ran that way,” I said, pointing in the direction of Pickman’s Slip. “They were definitely human. Well, at least the one without a ski mask was.”
“Do you think you could describe what he looked like?”
“I think so.”
“Good. I’ll send around a picturemaker first thing in the morning. Until then, I would recommend that Ms. Eresby go home and stay there,” Horn said grimly. “News like this travels fast in Golgotham, and there will be those looking to make any human they happen upon pay for what transpired tonight.”
“We understand, Captain,” Hexe said as he escorted me back to the waiting Kidron. “Thank you for your concern.”
“This is all so awful,” I groaned as I climbed back into the hansom. “The evening started off so wonderful, only to turn into something ugly.”
“Yes,” Hexe agreed with a sigh as he took his place beside me. “So much for all of this blowing over.”
Chapter 13
I
woke up early the next morning, chased from my slumber by troublesome dreams where I pursued three shadowy figures down a narrow alleyway, while Golgotham burned around me. Unable to return to sleep, I threw on my clothes and went downstairs. I started a fresh pot of coffee and went to see if the
Golgotham Gazette
was waiting for me on the front step. It was.
woke up early the next morning, chased from my slumber by troublesome dreams where I pursued three shadowy figures down a narrow alleyway, while Golgotham burned around me. Unable to return to sleep, I threw on my clothes and went downstairs. I started a fresh pot of coffee and went to see if the
Golgotham Gazette
was waiting for me on the front step. It was.
COUPLE VICTIMS OF VICIOUS WITCH-BASHING, the headline screamed above the fold. I guessed I could forget relaxing with a nice cup of coffee while working on the Word Jumble.
As I shuffled back into the kitchen, Hexe came padding downstairs, dressed only in last night’s jeans, carrying Beanie under one arm like a football. “Somebody needs to go potty,” he said around a yawn.
“Here, I’ll take him,” I said.
“It’s a deal.” Hexe handed over the wriggling bundle of dog.
One of the nicest things about Hexe’s boardinghouse was that it had not only a backyard—a rarity in itself, no matter where you live in Manhattan—but also a garden. Secreted away behind a high stone wall, it was far larger than it looked from the outside, much like the house itself, thanks to what Hexe referred to as “architectural origami.” It was here that he grew many of the herbs necessary in his practice, and even kept a huge living-hedge-maze. As I stood on the back porch and waited for Beanie to finish sniffing every blade of grass in his immediate vicinity, I took a moment to enjoy the peaceful solitude the garden provided. It was hard to believe that on the other side of its ivy-covered walls people were trying to kill one another over something as silly as an extra ring finger.
Once Beanie was finished, I picked him up and returned to the kitchen, where I found Hexe reading the
Gazette.
A cup of coffee sat waiting for me on the table. As I sipped my morning brew, Beanie scampered across the faded linoleum, making a beeline for his food and water bowls. I chuckled as I watched him eat. His head was so big compared to the rest of his body that his rear end tilted up in the air, lifting his hind feet off the floor. I heard a decidedly feline growl of disgust and looked up to find Scratch perched atop the fridge.
Gazette.
A cup of coffee sat waiting for me on the table. As I sipped my morning brew, Beanie scampered across the faded linoleum, making a beeline for his food and water bowls. I chuckled as I watched him eat. His head was so big compared to the rest of his body that his rear end tilted up in the air, lifting his hind feet off the floor. I heard a decidedly feline growl of disgust and looked up to find Scratch perched atop the fridge.
“Morning, sunshine,” I said by way of greeting. “What are you doing up there?”
“It’s the only place I can get any peace when that honyock’s awake,” Scratch explained. “The idiot never looks up. It’s as good as being invisible—even better, since I don’t have to waste energy on a cloaking spell.”
“That’s because dogs
can’t
look up,” Hexe replied from behind his paper.
can’t
look up,” Hexe replied from behind his paper.
“Sucks to be them, then. What’s this about a witch-bashing?” Scratch asked, gesturing to the headline with one of his wings.
“You can read?”
“No need to sound so
surprised
, nump,” the familiar retorted. “Of
course
I can read! In fact, I can read every language known to mankind, plus a few you bloodthirsty bastards don’t know about.”
surprised
, nump,” the familiar retorted. “Of
course
I can read! In fact, I can read every language known to mankind, plus a few you bloodthirsty bastards don’t know about.”
“Pull your claws in, Scratch,” Hexe warned, putting aside the newspaper. “Just because Tate is human doesn’t mean she’s responsible for what happened last night.”
“I won’t say I’m sorry, because that’s not how I roll,” Scratch said. “But I
will
say I’m not
unsorry
. How’s that?”
will
say I’m not
unsorry
. How’s that?”
“A double negative is close enough to an apology for me,” I replied with a shrug. “And about last night—what I don’t understand is how three humans, armed just with baseball bats, could get the drop on a pair of Kymerans. I mean, all Jarl and his wife had to do was point a hand at them—left or right—and wiggle some fingers, and they’d have been toast.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Hexe explained as he refreshed his cup of coffee. “While all Kymerans have
some
kind of magic, we’re not all dab hands at spell-slinging. Just like some humans have a natural aptitude for music, and others are born accountants—we all have our individual strengths and weaknesses. According to the paper, Jarl is an alchemist who distills katholikon and elixir vitae. His wife is a lapidary—her talent lies in the ability to transform pieces of quartz into scrying crystals. I’m certain neither of them was a quick draw, especially if they were ambushed. “
some
kind of magic, we’re not all dab hands at spell-slinging. Just like some humans have a natural aptitude for music, and others are born accountants—we all have our individual strengths and weaknesses. According to the paper, Jarl is an alchemist who distills katholikon and elixir vitae. His wife is a lapidary—her talent lies in the ability to transform pieces of quartz into scrying crystals. I’m certain neither of them was a quick draw, especially if they were ambushed. “
“So you’re saying the douche bags that attacked them were lucky. If they had picked a Kymeran like you or Oddo . . .”
“Or, heavens forbid, Uncle Esau.” Hexe grimaced. “If that had been the case, the results would have been far different.” Suddenly there came a knock on the front door. “I’ll go put on some proper clothes,” Hexe said as I went to answer the knock, Beanie trailing at my heels. “If it’s a client, tell them I’ll be there shortly.”
I opened the door to find a petite Kymeran woman who smelled faintly of menthol and pencil shavings standing on the front stoop. She had kumquat-colored hair worn in a loose bun and she carried an artist’s sketch case tucked under one arm. Around her neck was a lanyard attached to a laminated identity card.
“I’m Gale,” she said with a smile. “I’m the picturemaker for the PTU. I hope I’m not interrupting your breakfast.”
“Please come in,” I said, stepping aside. “Captain Horn mentioned you’d be stopping by.”
As Gale crossed the threshold, Beanie darted forward and loudly sniffed her shoes, his eyes bugging even farther from their sockets. “How—cute,” she said diplomatically. “Is that a baby gargoyle?”
I led Gale into the front parlor, and motioned for her to take a seat on the purple velour sofa. She sat down and opened her sketch case, placing a tablet of blank paper and several pencils on the table in front of her.
“We were just having coffee—would you like a cup?” I offered.
“No, thank you, Ms. Eresby. I find it interferes with my work—it makes my hands jittery.”
“So what do I have to do?” I asked, taking a seat opposite her. “Do I give you a description? Do I look through a mug book?”
“It’s quite simple,” she replied as she picked up a pencil with her left hand, leaned forward, and pressed the fifth finger—the Kymeran extra “magic” digit—of her right hand against my brow, where the “third eye” is located. “All you have to do is take a deep breath, clear your mind, and picture the face of the man you saw running away from the crime scene.”
I closed my eyes, and within seconds the images from the night before began to unspool within my mind. As I tried to focus on the face of the witch-basher, I heard Gale’s pencil scribbling across the sketch pad.
I opened my eyes to see Gale, her own eyes shut fast, frantically drawing with her left hand as if it possessed a life and purpose all its own. I glanced down at the picture, expecting it to be nothing more than a mass of unconnected squiggles, but was surprised to see an incredibly detailed portrait of a young Caucasian male in his mid- to late twenties, with medium-length hair. I looked over my shoulder and saw Hexe, now fully dressed, standing in the doorway, watching the picturemaker do her job.
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