Right Hand Magic (7 page)

Now that I knew precisely where to look, I had no problem seeing a cougar with a shock collar about its neck crouched in the shadows. I stared at the creature for a long moment, trying to decide whether it was better to flee or stand my ground.

“
Thaaaat’s
a good kitty,” I said like an idiot. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a friend. ...”

As it stood upright, the cougar revealed the torso and lower body of a man. Although I had never seen one in the flesh before, I recognized the creature as one of the bastet, a species of shape-shifter that took the form of various big cats—in this case, a mountain lion.

The were-cat’s fangs flashed in the moonlight as it hissed at me. I screamed and fled in what I thought was the direction of the house. I glanced back and saw the bastet in hot pursuit. It ran with a strange, rolling gait, as if hobbling. No doubt that was the only reason I wasn’t cat food already.

Hoping I wasn’t making things worse than they were already, I ran in the direction of the hedge maze. At that moment I decided it was better to chance whatever dangers might lie inside it to the certainty of being torn limb from limb by a ravening hell-beast.

The moment I entered the maze, its living walls shot upward, until they towered over me like evergreen monoliths, sealing off the sky. All I could see wherever I looked was tightly grown shrubbery, broken here and there by arch-shaped openings. Not sure which way to go, but fearful of stopping, I dodged through a passageway on my left.

As I crossed the living threshold, there came a sound like the rustling of a thousand crinoline skirts. I turned and saw the opening behind me seal itself shut. The hedge abruptly shook, knocking a few leaves free on my side of the wall, as the were-cat collided against it on the other side.

The were-creature tried to push its way through the dense growth, but it could not pass. I could hear it sniffing the ground, less than three feet from where I stood. I was too terrified to scream, much less move. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I was swaying in time to phantom music.

My paralysis was broken by the sound of the were-cat shrieking as it caught my scent. I turned, raw terror spurring on my weary body, and headed down the narrow passageway that opened up before me like Alice’s rabbit hole, sending me even deeper into the living maze.

My lungs ached from running, and my face and arms were bleeding from scratches inflicted by the maze, which plucked at my hair and clothing with grasping twigs like a mischievous child, but I dared not stop for even the briefest moment.

Although I could not see it, I knew I was being stalked like a deer in the wilderness. What at first had seemed a godsend—the ever-changing maze—now heightened my fear even more, for I realized that I could run headlong into the creature at any moment without any warning.

After what seemed an eternity of twists and turns, I finally stumbled into the clearing at the center of the maze. Once more the moon overhead was visible, as was the boardinghouse. Still disoriented, I looked around the open green space and saw a group of people standing about, talking to one another. I called out as I ran toward them.

My momentary sense of relief died as I realized I was looking at a collection of statues. There were four of them, gathered around a small reflecting pool, arranged so that they appeared to be holding a conversation. Three of the statues were male, one female, each from very different periods of history. One was dressed like an Egyptian queen, another wore a toga and laurel wreath, a third was dressed in the chain mail and helmet of a knight, while the last one wore a tricorn hat.

The sound of snapping branches grabbed my attention, and I turned to see the were-cat stumble free of the maze, pieces of twigs and leaves still stuck in its coat. The moment it saw me, a feral grin spread across its face. Now I knew how Bambi must have felt. I wished I had my welder’s helmet and oxyacetylene torch handy. I’d probably still end up dead, but at least the bastard would know he’d been in a fight.

The man-cougar dropped into a crouch and began to advance, staring at me with these horrible, burning eyes. I knew that the moment I turned to flee, it would be on me, so I did the only thing I could do—I stared back.

Suddenly a shadow slid across the heart of the maze, one so large it covered not only me, but my attacker as well. The were-cat looked up, its growl turning into a hiss, and I thought I saw fear in its eyes.

The next thing I knew, something big swooped down, striking the shape-shifter with enough force to take it to the ground. The bastet screamed like a house cat hit by a car and, idiot that I was, I automatically felt sorry for the damned thing.

However, although I was glad the were-cat was no longer a threat to me, the sight of my rescuer did nothing to calm my fears because standing before me was a hairless, dragon-winged saber-toothed tiger with a long, scaly tail that looked like it belonged on a crocodile. The creature’s skin was olive in color, with glowing red eyes, and it had long, downward-curving fangs. It also smelled strongly of brimstone and cat—
big
cat.

“Scratch?”
It came out more like a squeak than a question.

“Yeah, it’s me,” the familiar growled. “You okay, nump?”

“I think so,” I replied. As soon as I spoke, my head started to swim, and I sat down heavily on the ground. The dew from the grass soaked through the seat of my yoga pants.

Scratch turned his attention back to the wounded were-cat squirming under his front paws. “You picked the wrong garden to trespass in, Garfield,” he snarled, licking his fangs with a serpentine forked tongue. “I eat trespassers. It’s what I do. Me, I like to start with the head. ...”

“Scratch! Stop that right this minute!”

Hexe was hurrying toward me, dressed in nothing but a pair of jeans. Although I was going into shock, I still noticed he looked damned good without a shirt on.

“Can’t I take just a
teensy
bite?” the familiar grumbled, his crocodilian tail swishing back and forth in consternation.

“No!” Hexe replied sternly. “Not even a nibble—and that includes the ears!”

“You’re no fun.”

Hexe knelt beside me, peeling back one of my eyelids to study my pupil. “Are you okay?” As he reached to take my pulse, he noticed the bloody scratches on my arms. “You weren’t bitten, were you?”

“I’m all right,” I assured him. “Just scratched up, that’s all.”

“Thank goodness. Bites from shape-shifters can be worse than those from a rabid animal for humans. I’m glad you’re unhurt.” He looked genuinely relieved I was okay. I hoped it wasn’t simply because he’d have to find a new tenant if I’d been eaten alive.

As Hexe helped me back onto my feet, I felt a tiny thrill of excitement brushing against his naked chest. I was expecting him to put a solicitous arm about my shoulders and escort me safely back to the house. No such luck. Instead, he sprinted over to the pinned-down were-cat.

“It’s okay, boy,” he said soothingly as he inspected the creature’s wounds. As he knelt beside the were-cat, the beast tried to squirm free of Scratch’s talons. “Nobody here’s going to hurt you. ...”

“Speak for yourself, buddy,” Scratch growled.

After a cursory inspection of the bastet’s hind paws, Hexe stood up, a disgusted look on his face. “He’s been hambled. The balls of his feet have been cut out.”

To my surprise, I saw something like sympathy flicker in Scratch’s eyes. “Poor bastard,” the familiar grunted.

From the pocket of his jeans Hexe removed a copper tube the size and shape of his sixth finger. He placed it to his lips and a puff of fine white powder jetted forth, coating the were-cat’s muzzle like a French Market beignet. The creature struggled for a moment; then its eyes rolled back and it went limp.

“Is it dead?” I whispered.

“No, only sedated. And he’s a ‘he,’ not an ‘it.’ ” Hexe turned and spoke to his familiar. “Take him to the house. Put him in the spare room on the second floor and keep an eye on him.”

“As you wish,” Scratch said, bobbing his head in ritual obeisance. Without another word, the demon picked up the unconscious shape-shifter the same way a mother cat moves a newborn kitten, and, with a single beat of leathery wings, soared into the air.

“Are you nuts?” I exclaimed in disbelief.

Hexe frowned, genuinely puzzled by my reaction. “Beg pardon?”

I was so mad I could barely see straight. It was all I could do to keep from taking a swing at him. “You’re actually bringing that thing into the house? After it did its best to try and turn me into a chew toy? What is a were-cat doing in New York in the first place? Don’t they live on the wildlife preserves?”

“I don’t know why a were-cougar would come to the city,” Hexe replied. “But not all of them live on the preserves. All I know is what was done to him once he arrived in this city is a crime. That ‘thing,’ as you put it, is an innocent victim, I can tell you that much. He is also badly injured. I am a healer. I can not turn him aside simply because of what he is. I understand your being scared—but Scratch and I have things well in hand. Now, are you ready to come back inside? Or do you need me to refund your deposit?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” I grumbled. “I’m upset, but I’m not
that
upset.”

“Good. Because I already spent the money on bills,” he said wryly. “C’mon—let’s get back in the house. I’m getting cold.”

“So I noticed,” I said, nodding to his bare chest. His nipples were standing so erect they looked like little pink pencil erasers.

“Same here,” Hexe laughed, returning my nod.

I glanced down and noticed my own chest made it look like I was trying to smuggle candy corn out of the country, two at a time. I quickly crossed my arms over my breasts. I wanted to say something clever and flirty, but I decided trying to sound like James Bond wasn’t the smartest move—especially if I ended up coming off more like Roger Moore than Sean Connery.

As we headed out of the maze, I fixed Hexe with a curious look. “How did you know I was in trouble? And how did you know where to find me?”

“It’s simple, really,” he replied. “Phoebe told me.”

“Phoebe?” I frowned. “Who’s she?”

Hexe pointed to the sycamore that stood in the far corner of the garden, overlooking the hedge maze. In its uppermost branches, which were too frail to support anything but the slightest of sparrows, crouched a young woman.

The hamadryad was incredibly beautiful, by human definitions, with long hair the color of grass and large, gray-green eyes. She wore a simple shift made of stitched sycamore leaves, and her exposed skin blended in with the bark of the tree. I lifted a hand in greeting to the nymph, who smiled shyly and waved back.

 

 

Hexe spent the walk back to the house reassuring me that the were-cat in the spare bedroom down the hall from me was in no way a danger. I told him that I believed him and trusted in his ability to keep things under control.

I then returned to my room, changed out of my dew-soaked clothes into something drier, and pushed the armoire in front of my door. Then I went back to bed.

It had been a long first day in Golgotham.

I woke up the next day feeling as though someone had been using me for batting practice. I staggered to the bathroom at the end of the hall and took a shower in the cast-iron lion-footed tub. I’m not sure which woke me up more, the brisk shower or the stinging of my scratches. After changing into clean clothes, I headed downstairs in search of coffee. I found Hexe at work in the kitchen.

“Good morning.” He smiled as he dropped three cinnamon sticks and six cloves into the saucepan sitting on the front burner. “Or, should I say good afternoon?”

I glanced up at the electric clock hanging over the stove—a quarter past twelve.

“Crap. I didn’t mean to sleep this late.”

“You were up late,” Hexe said with a shrug as he added a large lump of brown sugar to the pan. “And you had something of a rough night.”

“That’s an understatement,” I grunted. “By the way—I thought were-cats came out only during the full moon?”

“You’re thinking of werewolves,” he replied as he broke off a chunk of Baker’s Chocolate and added it to the mix. “The bastet can shape-shift anytime they like. So can werewolves, for that matter. That full moon stuff is just in movies.”

“So why did this one attack me?”

“That’s something I’m hoping to find out,” he said, stirring the melting chocolate with a wooden spoon.

I didn’t know what he was concocting, but it smelled yummy. My curiosity got the better of me. “What’s that you’re making?”

“You could call it a restorative,” he laughed as he poured coarsely ground coffee into the saucepan. “The Aztec king, Montezuma, would drink a version of this every night, before visiting his harem. The Mayan priests made theirs with vanilla beans, honey, and chile peppers. ...” He retrieved a mug from a nearby cabinet that had WITCHES’ BREW printed on it in a comical font and set it on the kitchen counter.

“Who’s it for? One of your clients?”

Hexe lifted the saucepan frOM the burner and poured the steaming contents through a small steel mesh sieve into the waiting mug. “No, it’s for you,” he replied. “I knew you were up because I heard the shower running, and I figured you’d be in the mood for a pick-me-up after last night. You can add milk to that, if you like. Let it cool down a bit before you drink it, though.”

I stared at the steaming cup apprehensively. “What does it do?”

“It wakes you up. It’s coffee,” Hexe replied sarcastically. “Not everything I make is a magic potion, y’know. I got the recipe off the Internet. It’s called Mexican clay-pot coffee. Normally it’s made in a Mexican clay pot, hence the name, but since I didn’t have one handy, I decided to improvise.”