Right Hand Magic (5 page)

The moment the door closed behind him, I launched myself at my armoire in search of something halfway decent to wear. After a couple of minutes, I decided on a black twill pencil skirt, a red V-neck cardigan sweater, and a pair of black leather wedges. I made a quick visit to the bathroom to check my hair and apply some lipstick and mascara, then hurried downstairs. I found him waiting for me in the parlor, thumbing through that day’s edition of the
Herald
.

“You look nice,” Hexe said, lifting a purple eyebrow.

“It’s not too much, is it?” I asked nervously.

“No, I think it’s just enough,” he replied with a smile.

“So where are we going?”

“There’s a place not far from here that serves up some decent grub—it’s a favorite haunt of mine. It’s called the Two-Headed Calf. Trust me, it’s better than it sounds.”

The restaurant was located on Morder Lane, a couple blocks over from the boardinghouse, between Nassau and Horsecart Street. It was a three-and-a-half-story, gambrel-roofed Georgian brick building, with four ground-floor bay windows. Above the entrance swung an old-fashioned wooden pub sign depicting the establishment’s namesake. The calf head on the left looked more than a little drunk, with its tongue hanging out of the side of its mouth, while the head on the right contentedly munched on a daisy.

“Here we are,” Hexe said. “It’s something of a landmark. The Calf was first open to the public in 1742. That makes it America’s oldest restaurant in continuous service. Of course, because it serves Kymeran cuisine and is located in Golgotham, it gets overlooked by the record books. But that’s okay, because that way we don’t have to worry about looky-loos ruining the place.”

Upon opening the door, we were greeted by the sound of laughter, music, and the smell of tobacco. Just to the left of the entrance was an open, semicircular oaken bar with a copper sheet-metal top, behind which stood several ornate beer pulls and a mirrored shelf with an impressive array of liquors. The stools that lined the bar were supported by cast-iron poles and fastened to the floor. The rest of the seating on the ground floor consisted of stall-type booths, some of which were outfitted with privacy curtains.

The bartender, a towering Kymeran with wiry, ketchup red hair and a matching beard that hung halfway to his belly, nodded in greeting as Hexe steered me toward one of the booths.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“None other than the owner of this fine establishment. We went to school together.”

As I looked around the comfortingly cramped interior of the Two-Headed Calf, it suddenly occurred to me that I was the only human in the pub. Everyone else was either a Kymeran or a member of some other supernatural race. All of them were socializing over whiskey, ale, and tobacco—lots and
lots
of tobacco.

Since Kymerans can’t contract cancer, they tend to ignore the state and federal guidelines concerning smoking in public places, which makes them no different than Parisians, I suppose. Still, I was unprepared for the pall of secondhand smoke that hovered above the room. As I discreetly coughed into my fist, I noticed a couple of Kymerans glare in my direction.

One thing I can say for sure is that Hooters’ waitstaff has nothing on that of the Two-Headed Calf. The barmaid who came to take our drink order was not only a dead ringer for a young Sophia Loren, she was dressed in the classic chiton of the ancient Greeks. The outline of her voluptuous body was clearly visible through the diaphanous material, save for the portion hidden by the leopard skin draped over her left shoulder.

“Evening, Hexe. Drinks or dinner?” the maenad asked, plucking the pencil from the wreath of ivy and grapevine that adorned her dark head.

“Evening, Chorea. Dinner. How long before a table opens up?”

“Table?” I frowned, puzzled by the statement. “We’re already seated.”

Chorea rolled her eyes in open contempt of my ignorance and pointed with her pencil at the wooden staircase at the back of the room and the arrow-shaped sign that read in big block letters DINING ROOM UPSTAIRS. Although she didn’t say “nump” out loud, I knew she was thinking it. My face turned as red as my cardigan.

“Shouldn’t be more than a ten-minute wait,” Chorea said. “Fifteen, tops. How about a drink to pass the time?”

“I’ll have a barley wine,” he said.

The maenad nodded as she scribbled the order down on her pad, and then glanced at me. I thought about ordering a light beer, but changed my mind at the last moment. I didn’t want to come across as any more of a nump than I did already.

“I’ll have the house red.”

Chorea’s eyes lighted up, and she favored me with a smile that would have made a satyr blush. “
Excellent
choice, ma’am.”

As our waitress headed to the bar to place our drink order, I leaned across the booth and whispered, “Is she for real?”

“As real as it gets,” Hexe assured me. “I’ve known her for some time. She’s a good person, when she’s sober. Hell of a mean drunk, though. Sadly, there aren’t many places Dionysian cultists feel comfortable nowadays, save for bars and strip clubs.”

I looked up and was startled to find the bartender looming over us. He stood nearly seven feet tall and wore a pair of battered bib overalls and a plaid work shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled back to reveal swarms of tattoos on both arms. I don’t know if it was his personal scent, or a result of working in a restaurant, but he smelled of corn dogs, tobacco, and bananas Foster.

“Thought I’d come over and say hello,” the bartender said as he placed our drinks down in front of us. “Who’s your friend?”

“Tate, this is Lafo. Lafo, I’d like you to meet Tate,” Hexe said, nodding in my direction. “She’s my new tenant.”

“Taking on a human lodger, eh?” The burly bartender lifted a bristly red eyebrow in surprise. “What does old Esau have to say about that?”

A look of distaste flickered across Hexe’s handsome face. “I don’t give a shit what he says—even less for what he thinks.”

“Always the diplomat!” Lafo said with a throaty laugh and a twinkle in his sapphire blue eye. He thrust a large six-fingered hand in my direction. My smaller five-fingered one fit inside his palm with room to spare. “Nice meeting you, Miss Tate. Welcome to Golgotham.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lafo,” I replied.

“Just call me Lafo. I’m not much for formalities.”

“Lafo it is—and, please, call me Tate.”

“Will do. FYI, when you get upstairs, I recommend the blackbird pie. I made it fresh this afternoon.” With that, Lafo returned to his post behind the bar, pouring drinks for his thirsty customers.

“Who’s Esau?” I asked as I sipped my house wine.

Hexe made a sour face, as if the very mention of the name were somehow painful to him. “He’s my uncle.”

“I take it you two don’t get along?”

“That’s a polite way of describing it.” He sighed. “Esau is my mother’s older brother, and therefore family . . . but there’s no love lost between us.”

“I understand. You don’t have to explain. I’m sorry I brought him up.”

Hexe waved his hand, dismissing my apology. “You’d find out about him sooner or later. This way, at least, you’re forewarned. Uncle Esau is a terrible misanthrope.”

“He hates humans, I take it?”

“Only slightly more than he hates me.”

“You’re exaggerating, I’m sure.”

“I wish I were. And it’s not as if I’ve given him any reason to be so ill disposed toward me. The old fecker has despised me since I was in diapers. I suspect it’s because his father—my grandfather—disinherited him in favor of my mother.”

I was tempted to tell him that his family sounded suspiciously like my own, but I didn’t want to come off sounding either glib or proud of being dysfunctional.

“I hope your boyfriend won’t take offense by my asking you out to dinner,” Hexe said as he drank from his tankard of barley wine.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I replied.

“I find that hard to believe, what with your being such an intelligent and lovely young woman.” He smiled.

“Well, I am just getting out of a relationship,” I admitted.

“Oh?”

“The breakup was my idea,” I explained. “It’s part of the reason I moved. I decided I needed a change of scenery to get my head straight.”

“I can understand that.” He nodded.

Now that Hexe had finished his little fishing expedition, it was time for me to start mine. “How about you?” I asked. “Is your girlfriend cool with our dining together?”

“She’d have to exist, first,” he laughed. “I’m not much of a catch, I’m afraid.”

“Now that
I
find hard to believe,” I replied.

A second maenad, this one a blond Brigitte Bar-dot clone, tapped Hexe on the shoulder. “Your table is ready, sir.”

As we followed the hostess to the dining room above, I paused to look at a few of the framed photographs of famous celebrities arranged along the narrow staircase. Some were human, such as Charlie Chaplin, Oscar Wilde, and John Lennon; others, like Houdini, Bowie, Marilyn Manson, and Picasso, were long rumored to be either half-breeds or full-blooded Kymerans surgically altered in order to pass.

“That’s my great-great-grandfather,” Hexe said, pointing to a steel engraving depicting three men posed in front of the horseshoe-shaped bar. They were dressed in colonial-era clothes, complete with buckled shoes and tricorn hats, and wore Freemason aprons about their waists. I recognized the men on either side of Hexe’s ancestor as George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. “My family’s been coming here since Lafo’s great-great-grandmother first opened the doors.”

The dining room was one large open room with a coffered ceiling and dark weathered wood. Save for me, everyone seated for dinner was a Kymeran. As we wended our way to our table, I was keenly aware of being watched. When I dared to challenge the stares aimed at me, most looked away, but one or two continued to glower in my direction, letting me know my presence was unwelcome.

Once we were seated, our waiter—a young Kymeran with mango-colored hair who smelled of herbal tea and vetiver—handed us a pair of menus. It was then I discovered that Lafo’s parting comment about the blackbird pie wasn’t a joke.

I’d always assumed that the stories about Kymeran cuisine were born of ignorance and cultural bias. As I stared at the listings for owl soup, soaked cod, pork brains in milk gravy, and blood dumplings, I realized that all stereotypes have to get their start somewhere. I wondered if I would have to resort to a stomach pump before the evening was over.

“What will the lady be having this evening?” the waiter asked. I couldn’t help but notice a hint of malicious amusement in his voice.

“I’ll try the blackbird pie,” I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

“One house special—very good! And you, sir?”

“I’ll have the same, with a Cynar aperitif.”

“Excellent choice.”

“What’s Cynar?” I asked after our waiter hurried off to the kitchen.

“It’s a liqueur made from artichokes. Would you like to try some? It tastes like copper pennies. ...”

“No—! Thank you,” I replied quickly. “Not tonight.”

Hexe leaned back in his seat, a quizzical look on his handsome face. “Tell me—how much do you know about my people?”

“Not a whole lot. We studied the Unholy War in school, of course. ...”

“
We
call it the Sufferance,” he corrected politely.

“Of course. Forgive me.” I dropped my gaze to the table, embarrassed by yet another faux pas on my part.

“You needn’t be so apologetic. I don’t view you or any other human alive today as personally responsible for what happened a thousand years ago. However, there are a few Kymerans who do hold grudges against human-kind, such as my uncle Esau. They resent encroachment on what they view as their territory. As you’ve noticed, there’s a lot more to Golgotham than what’s printed in the tour books. I am happy to volunteer my services as your native guide—assuming you’ll have me.”

As I looked into his golden, catlike eyes, I felt myself getting light-headed. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was feeling something exciting and new, or because I hadn’t eaten all day. In any case, I hoped I didn’t look like, well, like a nump.

“I’d be honored,” I said, returning his smile.

Just then our waiter returned, placing the blackbird pie on the table with a flourish usually reserved for the finest cuisine. To both my delight and surprise, it smelled delicious.

Maybe I wouldn’t need that stomach pump, after all.

“What made you decide to become an artist?”

We were walking back to the house when he asked me that. I paused in midstep, forcing Hexe to turn and look back at me as I spoke.

“I’ve always had a creative bent, even as a toddler. At least that’s what my nanny claimed. The first time I realized I wanted to be an artist was in middle school. My school took a day trip to the Guggenheim. I was fascinated by the exhibits—enough that I went back on my own every weekend for nearly three months. When we studied sculpting in art class, I tried to re-create this statue I’d seen there called
The Dying Gaul
, in modeling clay, no less. It was awful, of course, but there was something about creating something from nothing, using only my hands and will, which was very—gratifying. After that, I was hooked.