Right Hand Magic (24 page)

“I’m writing a paper on Goya, the Kymeran painter,” he explained. “And I thought it might be interesting to find out how accurate his portrayals of Kymeran life and culture at the time really were. I’d love to talk to your, um, landlord, and get his take on the whole thing.”

“He’s not here yet,” I explained. “But he should be arriving any minute now. Why don’t you two get yourselves something to drink? I’ll be sure to introduce you once he arrives.”

“Don’t mind if we do,” Vanessa said, pulling her new fiancé along behind her.

 

 

There was a sudden tap on my shoulder, and I turned to find Derrick at my elbow.

“I’d like you to meet another of my artistic ‘discoveries, ’ ” the gallery owner said, indicating the dark-haired young man standing next to him. “This is Greer Bartholomew. He goes by the name of Bartho.”

“Oh, yeah, the photographer,” I said as I shook his hand. “You had the show before mine. I saw what was left of it in the foyer. You take some mean pictures.”

“Derrick tells me you’ve recently moved to Golgotham,” Bartho said, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “How do you like it there?”

“It’s as though I’ve moved to a completely different world without having to leave the city,” I replied. “Every time I set foot out of my door I can honestly say I see something I’ve never seen before in my life. It’s proved an immense inspiration, both artistically and personally.”

“I’ve been fascinated by that part of the city all my life,” Bartho confessed. “I think it’s wonderful that you found the courage to actually move there.” He leaned forward and whispered, “But aren’t you frightened? I mean, you
are
surrounded by witches and monsters.”

“I assure you, Golgotham is a lot safer than the Bronx or Bed-Stuy,” I laughed, warming to the subject. This was the first time anyone had reacted to the news of where I lived with something besides open horror. “Knowing your neighbor is a witch or a warlock isn’t any different than knowing they’re a stockbroker or a civics teacher. It’s just what they do for a living, not who they are. I’ll admit I’ve had a couple of brushes with antihuman bias, but for the most part my neighbors treat me just like any other New Yorker would. The worst I can say about Golgotham is that it can be a little inconvenient at times, because they do things so differently, but that’s also part of its charm. There’s a real sense of community there, and I’ve made some very good friends since I’ve moved to the neighborhood. I can honestly say I’m happier there than I ever was living in SoHo.”

“I really like your sculptures, Tate, especially the
Cyber-Panther
,” Bartho said, handing me one of his cards. “I’d
love
to use it and a couple of your other pieces in a photo shoot. Maybe we can work something out?”

“Yeah, that sounds cool,” I agreed. “It kind of depends on Derrick, though. The pieces are supposed to be on display for six weeks. . . . ” I glanced over at the gallery owner, who nodded his head.

“I think we can work something out.” He smiled.

Just then the girl who handled the sales in the front of the gallery popped in, looking extremely nervous. “Excuse me, Mr. Templeton ...”

“Yes, what is it, Gretchen?” Derrick replied.

“There’s an ‘issue’ up front, sir.”

“Very well.” Derrick sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

Although I was somewhat perturbed that Hexe and Lukas had yet to make it to the gallery, it was still necessary for me to socialize with the prospective buyers and casual well-wishers floating through the gallery. But while I was talking to one of Derrick’s wealthier collectors, a familiar voice cut through the babble of the crowd.

“Why won’t you answer my messages and e-mails, Tate? I thought we were still friends? Oh, and thanks for not inviting me to your opening.”

I turned to find Roger standing behind me. From the way he had his arms folded across his chest and from how he was scowling at me, I knew he thought he looked like a brooding, romantic hero, like Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester. Instead, he came across like a spoiled, sulky child trying to guilt me into being nice to him, for fear of his causing a scene.

“For crying out loud, Roger, can’t you take a chuffing hint?” I retorted. “Just because I restrained myself from kicking you in the balls the last time we spoke doesn’t mean I want you in my life.”

“But I
apologized
,” he said, still pouting. “That means you’re supposed to forgive me.”

“Really?” I snorted. “Is
that
how you think it works?”

Just then I spotted a flash of purple-and-blue hair over Roger’s shoulder. I pushed him aside and hurried to the front of the gallery. There I saw Hexe and Lukas locked in an animated discussion with Derrick. Hexe was wearing a shiny gold vintage jacket and black pegged, Elvis-style trousers, while Lukas was dressed like a skate punk, complete with hoodie and NOFX T-shirt. The teenaged were-cat was holding out the invitation I’d given him earlier.

“You don’t understand,” Lukas protested. “We have invitations, see? We’re her guests. We were
invited
.”

“These things aren’t engraved invitations,” Derrick said, folding his arms across his chest. “You could have gotten them anywhere
.
My PR girl drops off stacks of these things at every hipster joint on the Lower East Side and Williamsburg. ...”

Lukas broke into a relieved grin upon seeing me approach. “Hexe, look! There she is. Tate! Over here!”

“I see you, Lukas. You don’t have to wave.” I turned to frown at Derrick. “What’s the problem here?”

“Do you
know
these ... people?” Derrick asked, looking genuinely aghast.

“These are the friends I was telling you about,” I explained. “This is my landlord, Hexe, and that is my model, Lukas.”

“Your model?” The consternation drained from Derrick’s voice. He smiled as he shook Lukas’s hand. “Ah! So you’re the young man who posed for
The Dying Gaul
and the other male statues?”

Lukas shook his head.“I posed for the
Cyber-Panther
.”

Derrick dropped Lukas’s hand as if it were attached to a leper. He grabbed my elbow and steered me away from my friends.

“Did I hear him right?” Derrick whispered, shooting a worried glance at Lukas, who smiled and waved hello at him.

“Afraid so.” I sighed.

“I can’t have a were-cat running around loose in my gallery,” he hissed. “
Especially
one that turns into a tiger!”

“Cougar, actually. And he’s harmless, I assure you.”

“I don’t care if he turns into Snagglepuss!” Derrick snapped. “My insurance
doesn’t
cover shit like this! Damn it, I wish you’d discussed this with me beforehand.”

“I
told
you I was inviting some friends,” I reminded him.

“Yes, but I thought you meant
human
ones!” He paused to take a deep breath to steady himself. “Look, I’m not prejudiced. In fact, one of my best clients is Kymeran. But, that said, openly consorting with a warlock at your show looks bad. People will talk. They’ll say your success isn’t natural. They’ll say you charmed your way into the art world . ...”

I shot the gallery owner a withering look. “I don’t care what ‘they’ think! And you shouldn’t, either, if you truly believe in my art. Hexe and Lukas are my friends. I invited them here because I wanted them to share this evening with me, not to be insulted!”

“I’m sorry, Tate,” Derrick said sincerely. “I wish things were different, but the truth of the matter is that you can’t afford being seen with a Kymeran at this stage of your career. If people think your artwork is charmed, they won’t buy it for fear the spell will break when you die and they’ll be stuck with a piece of worthless junk. Remember what happened to Bouguereau? He was the most popular painter in France during the late nineteenth century. His paintings sold for astronomical sums during his lifetime. Now you can’t
give
his canvasses away.”

Hexe stepped forward, gently touching my arm. “Mr. Templeton’s right. Lukas and I should go.”

“You don’t have to leave!” I protested. “This is twenty-first-century America, damn it! You have as much right to be here as anybody else!”

“I know that,” Hexe replied. “Believe me, I
really
want to be with you for this. But it’s more important that your work get the proper recognition it deserves, without people getting the wrong idea. You’ve worked long and hard for this night, Tate. I’m not going to be the one who ruins it for you.” He turned and motioned to Lukas. “Come along, kiddo. Time to leave.”

“You heard me, Lukas,” Hexe said firmly. As they headed back down the stairs, he flashed me an encouraging smile. “Good luck with the opening, Tate. We’ll see you back at the house. Nice meeting you, Mr. Templeton.”

“Same here,” Derrick replied.

As I watched him leave, I felt a painful ache of longing that was as maddening as it was exhilarating. “This really blows,” I grumbled.

“Your friend made the right decision,” Derrick assured me. “And he was quite the gentleman about it.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “He’s a real prince.”

 

 

“I can’t believe they made Hexe leave,” Adrian exclaimed between sips of chardonnay. “Doesn’t Templeton know the Unholy Wars are over?”

“Derrick didn’t
make
them leave—Hexe left of his own accord,” I explained. “He said he didn’t want to screw things up for me by being here.”

“That’s more than your ex is willing to do,” Vanessa commented acidly. “Roger’s been tossing back glasses of wine like they’re shots of tequila. Why couldn’t Templeton tell
him
to leave?”

As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, Roger suddenly barged into the conversation. “Hey, Nessie! Adrian! Long time no see!”

“Hi, Roger,” Adrian replied stoically.

If Roger noticed Vanessa’s and Adrian’s coolness, he didn’t show it. “It’s been months! What have you been up to? You still teaching at NYU?”

I groaned inwardly. Where did this idiot think he was? Facebook?

“Yes,” Adrian answered.

Finally realizing that Adrian wasn’t going to provide anything more than monosyllabic responses, Roger turned his attention back to me. “So—are your parents coming tonight?”

“No,” I replied, shooting him a poisonous glare. The son of a bitch
knew
how things were between my parents and me. Having failed to guilt me into doing what he wanted, he had switched over to trying to push my buttons.

Before I had the chance to lose my temper, there was a loud commotion at the front of the gallery. I looked up to see Hexe pushing through the crowded room, his jacket muddied and his face bruised.

“Let me in!” he shouted. “I need to see Tate!”

Roger stepped forward, blocking Hexe’s path. “What do you want with her, witch-boy?” he sneered.

“Please . . . It’s
important
I speak to her!”

“Leave him be, Rog!” I snapped.

Roger’s eyes narrowed. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re the one who lured her away from me.”

Hexe raised an eyebrow in recognition. “Ah! So you’re Roger? For your information, I didn’t ‘lure’ anyone. And from what I’ve heard, she wasn’t
yours
to begin with.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Roger spat. “Everyone knows how it is with you kymies. You slipped her something, didn’t you? You put a love potion in her food. Or maybe you’ve got a poppet with a lock of her hair wrapped around it hidden somewhere? Is that it?”

“Roger, shut up! You’re embarrassing me.” I grabbed his sleeve, trying to pull him away from Hexe, but he yanked his arm free. The gallery had fallen deadly silent as everyone turned their attention to the confrontation between the two men.

“I’ll handle this, Tate,” Roger said, from over his shoulder. “Can’t you see? You’re under this creep’s spell.” He then turned and stiff-armed Hexe, sending him staggering backward. “Are you going to get lost, or am I gonna have to kick your kymie ass?”

“I’m not leaving until I speak to her,” Hexe insisted.

Roger advanced, fists raised in anticipation of the promised ass-kicking. Hexe straightened his lapels, smoothed back his tousled hair, and pointed the extra ring finger of his right hand. Roger froze in midstep, as if someone had hit the PAUSE button on a DVD. Gretchen, Derrick’s assistant, squealed in terror and darted off in search of her boss.

“What did you do?” I gasped, peering into Roger’s face for some sign of life. He was still staring straight ahead at Hexe, but his eyes did not seem to register any awareness of his situation.

“Is he dead?” Adrian asked. He tentatively pushed his finger against Roger’s chest, causing him to slightly rock in place like a statue.

“Don’t worry about him,” Hexe said with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “He’s very much alive. He’ll snap out of it in a few minutes.”

“Too bad,” Vanessa snorted. “I like him better this way. Oh, where are my manners? Hexe, this is my fiancé, Adrian.”

“Nessie told me about you,” Adrian said, staring at Hexe in open awe. “Apparently it was all true.”

For the first time since he reappeared in the gallery, I realized Hexe was alone. “Where’s Lukas?” I asked, looking around for some sign of the young were-cat.

“Boss Marz has him,” Hexe said grimly. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the smaller of the scrying eggs. He quickly breathed upon it and held it up so Vanessa, Adrian, and I could see the grainy black-and-white images that flickered inside the crystal’s depths.

Hexe and Lukas were walking back toward the subway, talking to each other. Suddenly, an unmarked black panel van swerved out of traffic and onto the sidewalk, heading right at them. Hexe jumped out of the way, landing in the street. Lukas, however, was struck head-on. I gasped in horror as the young were-cat’s body was sent flying through the air, only to land as a tangled mass of broken limbs on the pavement.