Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham (10 page)

“Tyr—go see to your sisters,” the older dancer said, pointing to the gaggle of strippers staring worriedly in our direction. “The last thing we need right now is someone getting rustled.”

The bartender nodded his understanding and went to put himself between his siblings and the leering throng of looky-loos that had gathered about them. Mrs. Cowpen knelt beside her husband, gently wiping the soot from his face with the end of her tail. She smiled up at me, tears shining in her cornflower blue eyes. Now that I was aware of the exact relationship between her and the rest of the club’s employees, I suddenly found myself too embarrassed to look anywhere but directly at her face. I’d heard of family businesses before, but nothing like this.

“Thank you, young lady, for helping us. My name is Svenda.”

“Well, we Golgothamites have to stick together, ma’am,” I replied. “And you can call me Tate.”

Suddenly there was the sound of a loudly clanging bell, and I looked up to see an old-fashioned pumper wagon, pulled by a brawny centaur wearing a fireman’s helmet and a heavy canvas coat, arrive on the scene. There were identically dressed firefighters clinging to the sides of the wagon, one of whom was Octavia, our new boarder. As the pumper came to a halt, the faun leapt down and snatched up a four-foot-long metal tool that looked like a cross between a pry bar and a sledgehammer, wielding it like it weighed no more than a broom.

“It’s a nasty one, Chief!” she shouted as she eyed the smoke and flames belching from the Big Top’s entrance.

A Kymeran bearing the badge of fire chief on his helmet reached into the pocket of his canvas coat and removed a small glass bottle the size of a Christmas ornament. “There you go, my friend,” he said as he removed the stopper. “Eat your fill!”

The jinn shot forth like a flash of lightning, and a second later the outline of a creature composed not of flesh and blood but from smokeless fire hovered in midair above Duivel Street. As the elemental turned its attention to the inferno before it, its eyes literally burned with hunger. It tossed back its blazing head and opened its fiery mouth and inhaled mightily, like a child preparing to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. A cascade of flame suddenly came pouring out of the building like the torrents of a flash flood. The gathered onlookers shouted in alarm and raised their arms to shield their faces and eyes from the blistering heat as the fire shot toward the hovering jinn. This seemed to amuse the elemental, whose laughter rang out like the peals from a great bell.

Within the space of a few heartbeats the conflagration was extinguished, and what had moments before been a raging inferno was now no more than a swelling in the jinn’s belly. The elemental yawned and stretched its flickering limbs as it disappeared back into the safety of its bottle, where it could digest its meal in peace.

The moment the jinn was contained, the firefighters trained their hoses on the front of the building, dousing it in high-pressure streams of water. Once they finished with the exterior, Octavia entered the burned-out club through the clown’s head, only now one side of it had melted from the extreme heat, causing the face to sag as if it had suffered a stroke. Using her metal fire tool as a walking stick, she made her way, sure-footed as a goat, through the charred ruins, searching for hidden hot spots to extinguish.

Bjorn Cowpen seemed woozy but otherwise unharmed. As his family gathered around him, he kissed each of his daughters on the forehead, muttering endearments in their native tongue, before warmly embracing the son who had carried him to safety. He slipped an arm around his wife and heir, using them as living crutches to hobble over to where I stood.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your club, Councilman,” I said, and was surprised to realize that I actually meant it.

“I have others,” he said with a weary shrug. “But this was the one I inherited from my father, when I was Tyr’s age.” As he looked me in the eye, I could tell he was truly seeing me for the first time. “You’re Canterbury’s apprentice, are you not?”

“Yes, I am,” I replied. “He sent me to hand over the title to your new carriage and take the final payment. But I’m afraid I left the paperwork in the club. . . .”

“That old horse-wizard must
really
trust you,” Cowpen said as he reached into the pocket of his skintight pants and pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he then handed to me.

I unfolded the paper and saw that it was a cashier’s check drawn on Midas National Bank. I checked that the zeroes lined up before and after the comma and decimal were of the correct number, then nodded my head and carefully transferred it to my own pocket.

“I appreciate what you did, human,” the councilman continued, stepping in close to shake my hand. “But if anyone asks you what happened today, you didn’t see
nothing
.
Understand?”

I stared down at the tightly bundled wad of hundred dollar bills pressed into my palm. Part of me wanted to give the money back and tell Cowpen that pretending nothing happened wasn’t going to keep the Maladanti away. But then I remembered my own delicate standing with Boss Marz, the stack of bills on Hexe’s desk, and the future cradled inside me.

“More than you realize,” I replied.

W
hile my “tip” from Cowpen wasn’t going to solve all our financial worries, it was enough to give us the first breathing room we’d known in months. For the first time since Jubilee Night, not only did there seem to be a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, for once it didn’t appear to be a train barreling down on us. However, the moment I set foot in the door and saw a scowling Hexe waiting for me in the front parlor, my high spirits came crashing back down to earth.

“Octavia tells me that you ran into a burning building today. Is that true?”

“For crying out loud, Hexe!” I groaned, setting down my lunch pail on the coffee table. “I didn’t do it for kicks! Did Octavia also mention I went in there to save Bjorn Cowpen?”

“What were you
thinking
?” Hexe exclaimed, coming out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box.

“I was thinking that I was the only person who saw him collapse and knew where to find him,” I replied. “Are you actually
mad
at me for saving a man’s life?”

“No, I’m more upset
than anything else,” he admitted, the scowl disappearing from his face. “You did a very brash thing. What if you’d been hurt? Did you give
any
thought at all to what might happen to you—or the baby?”

I blushed and dropped my gaze. He had me there. The fact I was now pregnant had not occurred to me in the heat of the moment. I simply knew what I had to do, and I just went ahead and did it, without taking anything else into consideration. “I guess you’ve got every right to be pissed off at me,” I agreed. “It’s not just me anymore, is it?”

“It hasn’t been ‘just you’ since the day we met,” he replied. “Were you in the club when the fire started?”

“Yes,” I admitted grudgingly. “The Maladanti are raising their protection fees. Bjorn told them to get stuffed in no uncertain terms—so Marz’s croggy Gaza hellfire-bombed the bar and put Cowpen under a sleeper spell. That’s why I had to go back in and get him. I’m certain Cowpen’s going to insist it was all an accident, though, and his family’s going to back him up on it.”

“What you did today was very courageous, Tate. But you’ve always been a brave woman—we would have never met if you didn’t have the guts to move to Golgotham in the first place. Just promise me you won’t do anything that dangerous again—at least not until
after
you have the baby.”

“And here I was planning on juggling chainsaws to bring in extra money!” I laughed. “I’m just joking!” I added hastily, seeing the flash of alarm in his golden eyes, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Oh—and speaking of putting off things until the baby arrives—have you told your parents the news yet?”

Now it was his turn to look at his shoes. “Not yet. I’ll call them in a day or two.”

“How about we put all this behind us and go out for dinner? After all, you were complaining about feeling cooped up earlier. . . .”

“That sounds great,” he said with a rueful smile. “But there’s no way we can afford it.”

“Don’t worry—I’ve got it covered,” I said, taking out the money Cowpen had given me.

“Where did you get
that
?” Hexe asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Let’s just say it was the councilman’s way of saying ‘thank you’ for saving his life, as well as keeping my mouth shut.”

“I don’t feel good about this, Tate,” Hexe said, frowning at the money.

“Uh-uh,”
I said, with a defiant shake of my head. “I
know
that look. You’re getting ready to give me the big lecture about the Right Hand path and tell me to give the money back and report what happened to the PTU. I realize you don’t want to compromise your principles—but I am
not
returning this money, and I am definitely
not
talking to your father about what I saw.

“For one, I’m pretty sure giving back this money will offend Bjorn Cowpen only slightly less than setting fire to his club. And, secondly, since we’re already playing our
own
little game of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ with Boss Marz, who are
we
to insist he go to the authorities? Hell, he’s a chuffin’ councilman; he
is
the authority in Golgotham! If Marz doesn’t hesitate to physically strike out at members of the Royal Family and the GoBOO, then he must
really
have some badass mojo up his sleeve. And I, for one, have no desire to find out what it might be. I’ll admit that running into a burning building in my current condition was reckless, but it’s nowhere
near
as dangerous as what you’re suggesting I do.”

Hexe’s shoulders dropped in resignation, as if all the weight in the world had suddenly settled upon them. “You’re right,” he sighed in agreement. “I can’t blame Cowpen for keeping silent. He’s doesn’t want to do anything that will jeopardize his family.” He gave a sad little smile as he rested his left hand on my belly. “It’s like you said—it’s not just me anymore.”

•   •   •

As luck would have it, Talisman was playing at the Two-Headed Calf that night. Since the Kymeran punk band had become extremely popular with the younger humans intrepid enough to venture beyond Duivel Street and the Fly Market, the evenings they played the Calf were always guaranteed to be packed to the rafters.

As crowded as it was, I could still easily spot Lafo, standing head and shoulders over his patrons, his bright red hair spilling over the collar of a purple pinstripe zoot suit. Upon seeing us, the restaurateur elbowed his way across the packed room

“Good to see you again, Serenity!” he grinned, shouting over the amplified accordions and electric hurdy-gurdy.

As his friend moved to shake his hand, Hexe hastily recoiled. “No offense, Lafo,” he said quickly, holding up his right hand by way of explanation, displaying the splint. “I had a little too much to drink Jubilee Night and lost my balance stepping off a curb. I tried to break my fall, and ended up breaking my hand instead.”

Lafo’s ketchup-red eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“I’ll be good as new within a week,” he lied. “I just have to give the bones time to strengthen after being reknit, that’s all. Tate and I were hoping to have dinner here this evening, but it looks like we picked the wrong night.”

“No need to worry about that; most of the kids who show up for the band never set foot upstairs,” Lafo snorted. “Luckily, they all drink like fish, though.”

Upon reaching the upstairs dining room, we were unsurprised to discover only a handful of the tables and booths occupied, as the regular clientele had learned to steer clear of the Calf on those nights Talisman was scheduled to play. Not wanting to call attention to ourselves, we chose a booth toward the back of the dining area and placed our drink and dinner orders.

As we waited for our food, we chatted about work, friends, and our pet, trying hard to have a good time and not dwell on current problems. And, for a while, we actually succeeded in doing so. Then our meals arrived.

“Oh,” Hexe said, his face collapsing as he stared at the roasted kangaroo tail draped across the platter. “I forgot you need two hands to eat this thing.”

“You can have my parsnip casserole, if you like,” I suggested.

“That’s okay,” he replied, as he unrolled the cutlery, fumbling with the steak knife. “I can cut it up into chunks.” He studied his food for a long moment, trying to figure out the best way to attack the problem without it ending up in his lap.

“Darling, do you need some help?” I asked gently. “I can cut it up for you, if you like. . . .”

“No!” he replied sharply. “I’m fine. I do
not
need anyone to cut up my food for me!” He began to saw at the roo-tail, only to have the knife fly out his hand and land on the floor. His face flushed bright red as he bent to retrieve it, before our server appeared tableside with a fresh roll of cutlery.

“If you like, Serenity, I can take your entree back to the kitchen and have it replaced with a chopped version?” the waiter suggested politely as he retrieved the soiled knife.

“Yes, thank you,” Hexe mumbled, his cheeks turning an even brighter shade of red.

After the waiter left with his plate, I learned forward, keenly aware that we were being watched by the other diners. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” I said sotto voce.

“I
said
I’m fine,” Hexe insisted as he picked up his pint of barley wine, only to slosh a good portion of it onto his shirtfront.
“Heavens and hells!”
he snarled, slopping even more out of the glass as he slammed it back down.

I looked away as he attempted to blot the dark, sticky fluid from his clothes with his napkin, afraid of what he might see in my eyes. Hexe was the most graceful man I had ever known; watching him fumble with silverware and spill his drink was absolutely heartbreaking. All I wanted at that moment was to somehow find a way of taking his burden onto myself, so that he did not have to suffer alone. My frustration at being unable to do so was so great it threatened to push me into despair.

“Excuse me, Serenity. . . .”

An unfamiliar Kymeran woman in her early thirties with slate-blue hair and intense, gray eyes was standing beside our table. I had not seen her approach, nor had I noticed her earlier in the dining room, but she must have been there, all the same.

“I could not help but notice the . . . difficulty you are undergoing,” she said with a discreet nod to Hexe’s splinted hand. “Please allow me to introduce myself: I am Erys. I am a glover, by trade. And I believe I have an item in my inventory that would be of immense service to you.”

“Thank you, but I’m not in the market for magic gloves, Madam Erys,” Hexe said with a wan smile.

“Not even the Gauntlet of Nydd?” she countered, her pale gray eyes gleaming like pieces of tin in the muted light of the dining room.

Hexe paused for a long moment, like a fish contemplating the bait on the end of a hook, before shaking his head. “I appreciate your offer, but the splint is merely a temporary inconvenience,” he explained. “I’ll be as good as new in just a few days.”

“Of course, Serenity,” Erys replied, with a bow of her head. “But in case you should change your mind—feel free to come by my shop.” She snapped her fingers, and a business card materialized from nowhere.

“Thank you for your concern, Madam Erys,” Hexe said politely as he accepted the proffered card.

Erys nodded her head and turned to go, but not before flashing me a sidelong glance harsh enough to peel paint. Although I had become somewhat inured to the casual misanthropy of most Kymerans, I was momentarily shaken by the unalloyed revulsion in the other woman’s pale eyes.

“Ugh!” I whispered, once she was out of earshot. “That woman gives me the creeps! And
magic gloves
? Is she for real?”

“There’s always a market for enchanted clothing,” Hexe replied with a shrug. “Seven league boots, cloaks of invisibility, ruby slippers, that sort of thing. Most of the shops are over on Shoemaker Lane.”

“So who’s this Nydd guy? And why would you want his gauntlet?”

“He was a lieutenant in the Dragon Calvary during the Sufferance,” Hexe replied, staring down at his damaged hand. “He was also the son of General Vlad. When Nydd’s right hand was badly maimed in a skirmish with Witchfinders, his father created a special gauntlet that enabled him to use his hand again.”

“That sounds like something you could definitely use right now.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But I seriously doubt she has the genuine article in her possession. The Gauntlet of Nydd disappeared during the Dragon War, and the spell that created it died with General Vlad.”

“How does something like that get lost, anyway?”

“Vlad cut it off Nydd’s hand when he refused to go to war against his uncle, the Witch King,” he replied matter-of-factly.

We finished our dinner and returned home, although Hexe was far less talkative than usual. I could tell by the furrow in his brow that he was mulling over Madam Erys’ words. The preoccupied look in his eyes was still there as we undressed for bed.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hexe said as I straddled him.

“I bet you say that to all the girls you knock up,” I grinned, removing my bra. I tossed it at the owl atop the nearest bedpost, covering its unblinking eyes with a C-cup.

“I have, so far,” he chuckled. Out of reflex, he reached up to cup my breasts, only to have his face go white with pain.

“Do you need your pills?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted, cradling his wounded hand against his chest as he rode out the wave of agony.

I hopped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom, returning with a glass of water, which Hexe gratefully accepted as he choked down more of Dr. Mao’s pills. After a minute or so the muscles in his face began to relax.

“I’m sorry, Tate,” he said, his words already beginning to slur. “But I don’t think I’m going to be of much use tonight.”

“It’s okay, baby,” I said, lying down beside him. “We can cuddle; I don’t mind.”

But by the time I pulled the bedclothes over us, his eyes were already closed. I lay there for a long time, watching him sleep. He mumbled a couple of things under his breath, and from the way his body twitched against mine, I could tell his dreams were troubled. I glanced up at the bedposts. The owls looked worried.

•   •   •

“I’m so happy for you, Tate!” Vanessa was finally able to articulate, after an initial squeal of excitement so loud I had to hold the cell phone a foot from my ear. “You two are going to make
kick-ass
parents! I am going to throw you one
awesome
baby shower! Ooh! Can I be the godmother—assuming you don’t already have an actual fairy lined up for the job?”

“Of
course
you’re going to be the godmother, Nessie!” I laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of appointing anyone else!”

“Speaking of mothers—have you told Mrs. E the big news yet?”

“You’re the first person, outside of Hexe, I’ve notified. We haven’t even talked to
his
mother, yet, much less mine.”

“Yeah, but you really ought to let your folks know, Tate. I know they’re horrible and everything, but becoming grandparents will turn their brains to mush,” Vanessa pointed out helpfully. “You would not
believe
what my mother is willing to agree to just to have access to my brother’s kid! And my dad! He actually stuffs twenty dollar bills in the brat’s rompers! I swear, it’s like someone stole my parents and replaced them with lobotomized doppelgangers.”