Chapter 7
“W
hy do I smell blood?”
I looked up to see Scratch’s eyes glowing in the darkened front parlor. A second later the rest of the familiar became visible as he emerged from the shadows. He padded up to Hexe, only to freeze upon seeing the wound on his master’s head.
“What happened?” Scratch growled. “Who did that to you? How do you want me to kill them?”
“I got hit in the head by a bottle,” Hexe replied. “And you’re not killing anyone. Besides, I don’t know who threw it at me in the first place.”
“You’re no fun.” The familiar sniffed. “You also stink of smoke—both of you. You haven’t taken up arson as a sideline recently, have you?”
Scratch was right. Now that we were safely indoors, there was no mistaking the acrid odor. We smelled like we’d been standing in the middle of a bonfire. Something told me I would never get the stink out of my favorite peacoat. But then, my dry-cleaning bill was the least of my concerns.
“Are you all right?” I asked, alarmed to see how pale and drawn Hexe appeared.
“I’ll be okay,” he replied hoarsely. “I’m just—drained, that’s all. I never got a chance to really eat anything, and this has been a very busy evening. Lifting a heavy curse, getting in a slinging contest with my uncle, putting that cop in stasis, then using my magic to make us invisible to the helicopter crew . . .”
“So
that’s
why they stopped following us with the spotlight,” I said. “You need that wound cleaned up. I’ll go get a washcloth.”
As I headed to the linen closet, I was surprised to meet my sixteen-year-old housemate, Lukas, on his way downstairs. He was dressed only in a pair of jeans, and judging by how high he raised his unibrow, the young were-cat was equally surprised to see me.
“Oh—! You’re home early!” he exclaimed, nervously flipping his sandy blond hair out of his face. “I was just, uh, going to the kitchen to get some pizza from the fridge. . . .” He frowned and sniffed the air. “Have you been burning something?”
“Lukas—can you bring me back a soda?”
I looked up to see Meikei, the teenaged daughter of Lukas’s employer, leaning over the second-floor balustrade, dressed in nothing but one of his T-shirts. Upon seeing me, the young were-tigress gasped in embarrassment and her exposed flesh briefly covered itself with dark stripes.
“We weren’t doing anything, Tate!” Meikei blurted. “I promise!”
“Save it for your dad, Meikei.” I sighed as I pushed past Lukas. “It doesn’t matter to me what you two get up to on your own.”
“I don’t want you to think we were being disrespectful,” Meikei continued anxiously. “It’s just Lukas said you and Hexe were going to be out late tonight. . . .”
As I reached the second-floor landing, the sound of drunken, angry shouting echoed from the street, followed by breaking glass. Suddenly Meikei and Lukas no longer seemed quite so worried about explaining away their tryst.
“What’s going on out there?” Lukas asked, trailing after me as I searched for a fresh washcloth and hand towel in the hallway linen closet. “I heard sirens a little while ago.”
“A riot between humans and Kymerans broke out in front of the Calf,” I explained. “The NYPD is in Golgotham.”
“Oh, wow!” Lukas’s jaw dropped open like a nutcracker’s. “Are you
serious
?”
Meikei gasped once more, this time in fear. “Lukas, I need to go home
right now
! Father will be worried.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” I said sternly. “It’s far too dangerous out there, Meikei. Call your father and tell him you’re safe here and that Hexe and I insist you stay overnight. He’ll understand. If he asks, tell him you’re sleeping in
my
room. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Believe me—I have a
lot
of experience telling fathers what they want to hear.”
I left Lukas and Meikei to make their phone call and headed back downstairs to find Hexe in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, the box from Strega Nona’s Pizza Oven open by his elbow as he hungrily scarfed down a slice of andouille and artichoke. Scratch was perched on the corner of the sink, his hairless tail slapping against its enameled surface in agitation.
“C’mon—just let me out for a measly ten minutes!” the familiar wheedled. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll have the streets clear in no time!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of!” Hexe said around a mouthful of Cajun sausage. “There’s not going to be any killing, slaying, slaughter, mutilation, or mayhem. There’s enough chaos out there without you adding to it!”
“Stop tempting your master, Scratch,” I chided as I soaked the washcloth in hot water.
“I
am
a demon, y’know,” the familiar replied, hopping down onto the floor. “It’s in my blood.”
“More like an imp, if you ask me.” Hexe snorted, only to flinch as I began to clean his wound.
“Is it really
that
bad out there?”
I looked up to see Lukas standing in the kitchen doorway, staring in disbelief at the blood matted in Hexe’s hair. The young were-cougar was still barefoot, but had reclaimed his T-shirt.
“It’s worse,” Hexe grunted. He pointed at a hand mirror and a small ceramic container sitting on the shelf over his worktable. “Hand me those, will you?”
Lukas brought the items to the table, and Hexe opened the jar and daubed unguent on his wound, using the mirror to guide his hand. Meikei entered the kitchen, now dressed in her own clothes. She, too, seemed taken aback by the bloodstains on Hexe’s shirt.
“I did what you said, and called my father and told him where I was,” she said. “It’s a lucky thing, too. He was about to go out on the streets and look for me.”
“I thought it would be a good idea if Meikei stays here overnight,” I explained to Hexe.
“You made the right decision,” he replied as he watched his scalp heal in the mirror. “It’s safer to stay put.”
“Is your dad upset about you being here with me?” Lukas asked anxiously.
“He said he didn’t care
where
I was, just as long as I was somewhere safe,” Meikei replied. “But he
is
holding you responsible for my well-being.”
Lukas squared his jaw and puffed up his chest as he put his arm about Meikei’s shoulders. “Don’t worry—I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” Despite his youth, there was little in the way of adolescent bravado in his voice. After all, not many boys his age, were-cat or otherwise, could claim to have survived Boss Marz’s fighting pit.
“You two are to remain in the house,” Hexe instructed. “I don’t even want you stepping out into the garden before sunrise.”
“Is everything going to be okay?” Meikei asked, sounding more than a little scared. Although she was trying to remain calm, I could see the worry in the young were-tigress’s eyes.
I saw Hexe take a deep breath in preparation of an answer, and touched his shoulder. He glanced up at me and then gave a small smile and a nod of understanding. “I’m sure everything will be fine in the morning,” he lied.
While Lukas and Meikei ate what remained of the leftover pizza in the kitchen, I went upstairs to my studio to look out the window that faced the street, to see what was going on. As I pulled back the heavy drapery, I saw a tongue of flame flickering in the distance—no doubt the guttering remains of the ESU truck—dyeing the night sky an angry, hazy orange. The police helicopter continued to circle the neighborhood at a slightly higher altitude than before, its cyclopean searchlight sweeping back and forth across the maze of streets in search of unrulies.
For the first time since the riot broke out, I finally had enough time and distance to process what had happened. The initial shock and fear I’d experienced on the street were quickly giving way to outrage as I saw what had befallen my adopted home and its citizens.
Lowering my gaze to the street below, I noticed broken glass glittering like discarded diamonds on the sidewalk in front of the herbalist shop on the corner. As I watched, a couple of figures emerged from the smashed storefront, their arms laden with stolen goods.
“Halt! PTU!”
The looters sprinted in the opposite direction of the angry shout, dropping a trail of bat’s head root and kola nuts behind them. A moment later a bay centaur outfitted in riot gear came galloping past, a fellow PTU officer astride his back, holding on to his mane for dear life. The pair of peacekeepers quickly disappeared around the corner in pursuit of their quarry.
Hexe entered the room and stood behind me. “Tonight has changed everything in Golgotham,” he said. “It’s just a matter of figuring out how much.” As he looked out the window, the sorrow in his voice took on a sharp, bitter edge. “I’m angry right now—not so much because I came close to getting my head blown off, but simply because all of this could have been easily avoided. What happened tonight was the result of ignorance, stupidity, and fear. As pissed off as I am by the police brutality, I’m even more disgusted by how my people kept egging the situation on until it blew up in everyone’s face. There was no reason for things to get out of control the way they did. I’m just glad we managed to escape.” He slid his arms about my waist and kissed the nape of my neck. “You
are
okay, aren’t you?”
“I can’t help thinking how close I came to losing you tonight,” I replied, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “If that cop had pulled the trigger . . .”
“But he
didn’t
,” Hexe said, turning me around to face him. “I’m alive and okay, and so are you. That’s the important thing. Besides, I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”
“I wasn’t worried about me,” I replied, reaching up to caress the faint scar that was all that was left of his earlier head wound. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m nearly recovered,” he said. “Throw in a little tantric sex, and I’ll be good as new.”
“What do you say we take a nice, long, hot shower and wash tonight out of our hair?” I suggested, tugging at the bottom of his shirt.
“Sounds like a plan,” he replied as he started to unbutton my pants.
As we left my studio, I glanced out the window one last time and was relieved to see that the far-off flames had been extinguished. “By the way, thanks for sparing the kids the gory details,” I whispered.
“I didn’t see any point in freaking them out any more than they were already,” he said as he peeled off his bloodstained shirt. “Let them have one last night where the worst thing they have to worry about is Meikei’s father finding out they’re fooling around.”
Chapter 8
J
ust after sunrise someone started banging on the front door. Hexe threw on a silk dressing robe embroidered with swarms of dragons and went downstairs to see who was calling so early in the morning. When he did not immediately return, I tossed on a pair of yoga pants and an old T-shirt and headed down myself. I found Bartho, the photographer responsible for the article that had made Golgotham popular with the city’s youth, sitting at the kitchen table.
Bartho’s right eye was the color of a ripe eggplant, the pupil swimming in a pool of ruptured capillaries, and his left wrist was swollen and badly bruised. “Sorry about getting you guys up at this hour,” the photographer said sheepishly. “I would have come here sooner, but I was afraid to go outside while it was still dark.”
“I understand why you stayed put,” Hexe replied as he ground up a raw potato in his mortar and pestle. “Tate and I felt the same way, once we made it home.”
“I saw you get hit with that bottle last night,” Bartho said. “I’m glad you’re both okay.”
Hexe raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You were at the Calf?”
Bartho nodded, only to wince in pain. “I was in the back of the bar, taking pictures of the band. Talisman has hired me to be their official photographer. I still don’t know what started the whole shit-storm. One minute I’m watching the band, the next thing I know there’s this mass exodus. I went outside to see what was going on and started taking pictures of the crowd. Before I realized it, the NYPD and the PTU were throwing down on each other.”
“Did the cops do that?” I asked, motioning to his wounds.
“Fuckin’ A they did it,” Bartho replied bitterly. “I was taking pictures, and one of the pigs smashed his truncheon right into my face—damn near drove the camera into my eye. I’m lucky I can still see out of it. If that wasn’t bad enough, the asshole stole what was left of my camera! I guess he was trying to get rid of evidence. Luckily, I was able to palm the memory card before he got it away from me.” He grinned as he reached into the pocket of his jeans with his good hand and pulled out a memory card the size of a postage stamp. “There are pictures of the NYPD opening fire on the crowd on this thing—which means this little baby is worth its weight in gold!” The smile quickly disappeared from his face, to be replaced by a somber sigh. “Maybe it can make up for all the shit that’s gone down in Golgotham because of that stupid photo-essay of mine.”
“There’s no point in kicking yourself like that,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “There was no way you could have foreseen any of this. You were simply trying to show others the world as you see it. That’s what artists
do
. You’re not responsible for how people respond to your work.”