Right Hand Magic (6 page)

“As you may have guessed, I grew up rich. Filthy, stinking rich. All that was expected of me was to grow up, marry someone else who grew up filthy, stinking rich, and have a couple of filthy, stinking rich kids to inherit the family fortune. I knew so many brats with Roman numerals behind their names who had no reason or desire to make anything of themselves besides what they were the minute they were born, it was disgusting. The last thing I want to do is add to that ‘tradition.’

“The trouble with that lifestyle is this: Hanging around doing nothing while waiting for an inheritance is boring. So many of my old schoolmates got fucked up on drugs and alcohol, mainly out of boredom. I swear, half of the girls in my graduating class in high school developed eating disorders simply to have something to do! The sick thing is, my mother wouldn’t have any problems with my being an anorexic—after all, that’s
expected
from someone of my background.”

“I take it your parents don’t approve of your career choice?”

“They like to call it a ‘phase’ I’m going through, like I’m the moon. I guess they think I’ll eventually grow out of it—kind of like baby teeth. They keep saying they don’t want to see me get my hopes up and end up hurt, which is another way of saying they’re expecting me to fail—at least, that’s what they’re hoping for.”

“Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“You haven’t met my mother,” I grunted. “What about you? What made you decide to practice only Right Hand magic? You said so yourself, you could make a lot more money if you used both hands.”

“A lot of it has to do with family, and what’s expected of someone like me,” he explained, his voice taking on a bitter edge. “Humans tend to view my people as no better than drug dealers and pimps. If you want to destroy somebody’s life, just line a kymie’s palm with silver, am I right? We’re the rapist and the murderer’s best friend, are we not? My people are, for the most part, good-hearted. But a lifetime of good can be undone by a single evil act. I wanted to prove that it’s possible for a Kymeran to make a living without resorting to the Left Hand Path.”

“Do you? Make a living at it, that is?”

“I’m renting out rooms, aren’t I?” he replied with a depreciative laugh.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Most of the musicians signed to labels in this city still have their day jobs. Do
you
think you’re doing okay?”

“I have some steady clients,” he admitted. “I rely a lot on word of mouth. And word is getting around that I’m
very
good at what I do. ...”

Hexe broke off in midsentence and turned to look in the direction of the voice. A Kymeran with bright orange hair came staggering out of the Highlander Tavern across the street, closely followed by another warlock whose hair was the color of lime sherbet. Both looked extremely inebriated.

“
Gardy-looooo!
” the orange-headed Kymeran shouted drunkenly, his voice echoing down the street. “I’ll show
you
who’s the fastest slinger in Golgotham, Oddo!”

“Bloody abdabs!” Hexe groaned. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the nearest doorway.

“What’s going on?”

“Looks like we’re caught in the middle of a pissing contest.”

“A what contest?” I grimaced.

“It’s when wizards get into a duel with each other,” he explained, then added, as an afterthought, “when they’re drunk.”

“What’s he yelling ‘Gardy-loo’ for?”

“It means ‘Look out.’ It’s kind of like shouting ‘fore,’ when you play golf. Except instead of getting hit by a golf ball, you’re likely to be set on fire or turned into a lamppost.”

The orange-haired Kymeran drew back his left hand, like a baseball player winding up for the pitch. A tongue of flame suddenly burst to life in his palm, rapidly growing in size and intensity until it looked like a snowball made of fire. With a drunken shout, he hurled it at the other Kymeran’s head.

The warlock with the lime sherbet hair, the one called Oddo, raised his right hand and made a dismissive gesture, as if waving off a bothersome fly. The fireball abruptly changed trajectories, flying across the narrow street and striking the fire escape of a nearby tenement building. It flew apart in a shower of white-hot sparks, which cascaded downward, sizzling as they made contact with the sidewalk below.

“Don’t let any of it touch you,” Hexe warned, pulling me even closer to him. “Those projectiles are made of hellfire. It burns hotter than natural fire, and once it gets on you, it burns clean to the bone.”

“Is that the best you can do, Zack?” Oddo sneered, drunkenly pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “I’ll show you some real slingin’!”

Suddenly the wail of an approaching police siren could be heard. The drunken warlocks exchanged worried looks, their reason for their duel forgotten.

“Some fecker called the PTU on us, Oddo!” Zack exclaimed, genuinely surprised that someone might take offense at his hurling balls of molten death in public.

The drunken wizards linked arms and lurched up the sidewalk in an attempt to escape before the Paranormal Threat Unit arrived. They had barely managed to stagger a dozen yards before a black paddy wagon, a flashing blue light on top and pulled by a centaur outfitted in a PTU flack jacket and riot helmet, rounded the corner at a dead run.

The paddy wagon came to a halt and a half-dozen uniformed PTU responders, a mix of human and Kymeran law enforcement agents, jumped out of the back, spells and riot gear at the ready.

“Hands behind your backs! Hands behind your backs!” a Kymeran officer shouted. “Put your hands where I can’t see ’em!”

The fleeing drunks did as they were told, dropping to their knees as they placed their hands in the small of their backs.

“It’s safe to go now,” Hexe said, stepping out of the doorway. “The PTU have it under control.”

“Does that happen a lot around here?” I asked.

“Not as often as it used to. The Paranormal Threat Unit does a good job of keeping the duels off the street. Some resent their interference, viewing it as humans trying to force their ways on our culture, but it’s what has kept the NYPD out of the neighborhood so far.”

“What’ll happen to those two?”

“They’ll take them to the Tombs to sleep it off, then fine ’em for public dueling. Which means Zack will be knocking on my door tomorrow, wanting his usual hangover cure. Speaking of which, I need to harvest some herbs from my garden. Would you care to join me?”

“You have a garden?”

I was genuinely surprised. Open green space in New York City is a rarity, especially in the older neighborhoods like Golgotham. Hexe’s only response was to smile mischievously at me.

Although the boardinghouse stood in the middle of the block, there was a long, narrow passageway between it and the building next door. Hexe ducked down the alleyway. I had to turn sideways to follow him. After about thirty feet, the passageway widened enough for us to move normally, although still in single file.

After another fifty feet, he came to a halt in front of a metal door. As I looked up, I realized the brick wall ended six feet over my head. I glanced back the way we came and saw the back of the boardinghouse looming over us. Hexe fished his jangling key ring out of his pocket and inserted a green key into the lock.

Like the house itself, Hexe’s garden was far larger than it appeared from the outside. Just inside the entrance was an undulating walk, bordered by monkshood, verbena, and hydrangea bushes that led to thyme-covered steps that ended at a bed of lavender. Moonflowers as big as my hand wound about pieces of classical statuary, interlaced with honeysuckle vine that filled the night air with its sweet perfume.

“Hexe, this is incredible!” I gasped. “This belongs to you?”

“It belongs to the house,” he replied. “I wouldn’t dare claim it as mine. Uncle Jack originally designed it. ...”

“The one who went upstairs?”

“And didn’t come back. Yes, that’s him.” Hexe stepped inside a small wooden shed built next to the garden wall and returned a moment later with a pair of work gloves and some pinking shears.

“Cool.” I stared in open amazement at the neatly trimmed hedge maze at its center. “Gardens are like works of art. They’re meant to be experienced, not just looked at. You can’t create a garden without its revealing a basic truth about you. He must have been, uh, must
be
an interesting man. Still, you must have a doozy of a green thumb!”

“Not really. I grow herbs and other organics necessary for my salves and unguents, but most of the gardening is handled by a hamadryad that lives in that tree over there.” He pointed to a stately sycamore that stood in the far corner. “She’s pretty shy around strangers, so I doubt we’ll see her tonight.”

We walked down a winding pathway past strange-looking plants, some of which seemed to rustle and move of their own volition. Hexe knelt and clipped a double handful of sage.

“Since you’re a tenant, you’re allowed access to the garden,” he explained as he stood up. “So feel free to explore—however, steer clear of the maze. Humans were never meant to navigate it.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“It can be, if it has a mind to.”

Before I could ask any more questions, Hexe turned and headed in the direction of the house. “It’s been a long day for you. I’m sure you must be exhausted.”

“I’m doing okay,” I lied. As excited as I was about my new surroundings, I was pretty much running on fumes. Still, I didn’t want to admit my weariness, just like when I was a little girl and would protest being put to bed, even though my eyelids were so heavy I could barely keep them open.

Hexe went up the porch stairs and unlocked the back door, ushering me inside. Sitting on the kitchen table like a Halloween centerpiece was none other than Scratch.

“About time you got home!” the winged cat meowed. “I’m
staaaarving
!”

“Bloody abdabs, Scratch! You know you’re not supposed to be on the table!” Hexe snapped. “We have to eat on that, you know.”

“The nerve!” the familiar sniffed as he leaped onto the floor. “Here I am, practically skin and bones, and all you do is insult me.”

“Poor you, you’re so mistreated,” Hexe snorted as he rinsed off the sage in the kitchen sink. “If you’re so clever, why don’t you pour it yourself? Oh, that’s right—thumbs.”

“It’s not that I can’t feed myself; it’s that I refuse to,” Scratch said defensively. “Why should I, when I can get you to do it for me?”

“All right! All right! Quit your bellyaching!”

Hexe opened the pantry door and dragged out a fifty-pound bag of Purina Familiar Chow. Scratch’s eyes grew larger and took on an even stranger gleam than usual. Hexe opened the bag and withdrew an aluminum scoop, which he used to ladle out the dried demon kibble into a food bowl the size of a mop bucket. Hexe glanced up at me as he dumped a second heaping portion into his familiar’s dish.

“You really don’t want to be in the same room when Scratch feeds,” he said meaningfully. “He can get . . . carried away.”

As I could see a long strand of drool hanging from the corner of the demon’s mouth, I decided that was as good a time as any to say my good-nights and retire to my room.

I don’t know what else is in blackbird pie, but I do know it will make you thirstier than you’ve ever been in your life a few hours after you’ve eaten it. I was dragged out of a sound sleep around three thirty in the morning by my body’s need for water. I smacked my lips, trying to work up enough spit to swallow, but no luck.

I stared blearily around at my surroundings, momentarily disoriented, until I woke up enough to remember that I was no longer living in SoHo. I also remembered seeing a watercooler next to the fridge downstairs. Since my rent included kitchen privileges, I lost no time pulling on a T-shirt and my yoga pants and heading downstairs.

As I slaked my thirst with a glass of cold spring water, it suddenly occurred to me that this was the first time I was able to experience the house without either Hexe or Scratch being nearby. If the gothic romance novels I’d read in middle school were anything to go by, this would be the time I’d expect to hear mysterious noises and see spectral figures flitting across the lawn.

I tilted my head and listened to the sounds the house made late at night. Instead of rattling chains and ghostly moans, all I heard was the slow, steady grind of the electric clock over the stove, the gurgle of the watercooler, and the muffled rattle of the ice maker inside the fridge. So much for the sisters Brontë.

As I turned to rinse my glass in the sink, I glanced out the window and saw something flit across the backyard. At first I thought it might be Scratch, but whatever it was seemed larger than the familiar, and I was pretty sure it had hair.

I am a sucker for animals in distress. Always have been, always will be. It doesn’t matter if it’s a duckling or a wildebeest; if it’s limping, lost, or hungry, I’ll try to nurse it back to health, find it a home, or feed it. And although I had caught only a fleeting glimpse of whatever it was, the way it moved told me it was hurt.

I unlocked the back door and stepped out onto the porch, peering into the shadowy garden. “Don’t be afraid,” I called out softly as I headed down the steps and crossed the yard. “I’m not going to do anything bad to you.”

A rustling sound came from deeper in the garden. The moon was a third full, and its distant light limned everything in silver and shadow. I could make out the tops of the shrubbery shaking as something pushed through it.

“It’s okay, boy,” I whispered, patting the side of my leg in hopes of calling the animal into the open. I eased my way down the path, the gravel crunching under my slippered feet. “C’mere, boy. ...”

My desire to help a poor, hurt animal was suddenly replaced by a sliver of fear as whatever was in the bushes moved to circle behind me. It was too big to be a house cat, of that I was sure. My heart began to race. I took a step backward, only to freeze when I heard a growl coming from a nearby elder bush. As I looked into the shrubbery, I saw a pair of yellowish green eyes set two feet from the ground staring back at me. I realized then that what I had seen running across the garden lawn wasn’t a dog, either.