“Do you know who’s responsible for afflicting my wife?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. It could be any of a number of practitioners here in Golgotham.” Although Hexe’s face was otherwise unreadable, his golden eyes seemed to darken for a moment. “Great Curses are neither cheap nor simple to procure. Do you know of any reason why someone would pay thousands of dollars to curse your wife?”
“Of course not!” he replied with an overly loud laugh. “My Maddy’s a wonderful woman! Not an enemy in the world!” He turned back to help his wife get to her feet. “Come along, Cupcake—let’s go home.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Beaman,” Hexe said, moving to block the couple’s path. “There is still the matter of my fee. . . .”
“Oh, of course!” Mr. Beaman said, reaching for his wallet. “How much is it? Five hundred? Six?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“What?!”
Mr. Beaman shouted, his toupee abruptly coming unseated. “Ten
thousand—
? Have you lost your Kymie mind? That’s highway robbery!”
“As I said, your wife’s affliction was not only deadly but expensive. The same holds true for its removal,” Hexe replied evenly. “However, you’re getting a priceless added value: Not only is Mrs. Beaman fully recovered from the mortal wounds inflicted by the allotriophagy, but she’s also cured of any other ailment or disease she might have been suffering from.”
“I don’t care if you throw in a free set of steak knives and a glass cutter! I’m
not
paying you ten thousand dollars!” Mr. Beaman barked. Suddenly I was back to wanting to karate-chop him in the throat.
“Oh, for crying out loud, Chuck!” Madelyn groaned. “Pay the man his money! Lord knows he earned it!”
Mr. Beaman glared at his wife, his cheeks turning beet red. “You
know
I don’t carry that kind of cash on me!”
Madelyn sighed and reached for her purse. “Will you take a personal check?”
“Of course, Mrs. Beaman.”
Hexe waited patiently while Madelyn used her husband’s back as a writing desk. As she handed the signed check to him, Hexe leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Whatever you do, never,
ever
remove the gladeye from around your neck for as long as you—or your husband—live.”
Mrs. Beaman glanced at Mr. Beaman, who was busy trying to reattach his toupee, and I saw something flicker in the back of her eyes. Whether it was the birth of suspicion or the death of love was impossible to say.
As Hexe escorted his visitors from the house, he paused to take Madelyn’s husband aside for a moment. “I would advise you not to try and put a stop-payment on the check your wife just gave me,” he said in a quiet, firm voice. “You would
not
like the means by which I collect bad debts.” He gestured in the direction of Scratch, who, having shed his “normal” appearance for that of his demon aspect, lay curled in the shadows at the foot of the stairs. Mr. Beaman’s eyes bulged and his Adam’s apple went up and down like a yo-yo as the dragon-winged saber-toothed tiger yawned and fixed him with a baleful stare. I was surprised his toupee didn’t jump off his head and run out of the room.
Once the humans were safely away, Hexe turned to address Kama. “Let me guess—she’s the one with the money?”
“Boatloads of it,” the sorceress replied. “They’ve been married for nine years. It was a natural union, as far as I know—no come-hither or love potions involved. Madelyn is, at heart, a good woman, but an insecure one. She was afraid he was going to leave her for another woman, so about six months ago she paid me to cast a Stay-With-Me spell over Chuck. I warned her that without an accompanying love potion, the spell wouldn’t guarantee her husband’s devotion. She said she didn’t want to compel his love, just keep him from leaving her. I fear tonight we saw the upshot of that decision.”
“People should be careful about what they wish for—they might just get it,” Hexe said grimly. “If he couldn’t leave her, he was going to make sure she left him—the hard way.”
“He certainly wasn’t happy about paying double—first to try and kill his wife, then to save her,” Kama replied with a humorless laugh. “In any case, I can’t thank you enough for your help, Hexe.”
“Glad I could be of service,” Hexe replied, holding up Madelyn’s check for her to see. “We’ll split the fee fifty-fifty, agreed?”
“Agreed, Serenity,” Kama replied, bowing her head in ritual obeisance.
“Yes, well—what are neighbors for?” Hexe said, blushing to his purple roots. He always became uncomfortable when fellow Kymerans treated him like royalty. Once Kama had left, Hexe headed back into the kitchen, where he took the cauldron he’d been tending and upended it into the sink. “So much for
that
batch of Balm of Gilead,” he muttered.
He had just saved a woman’s life and pocketed a nice chunk of change in the bargain, but I could tell that something was bothering him—and it wasn’t simply that he’d ruined a potion.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Of course not,” he grunted as he lugged the cauldron back over to the stove.
“Why did you tell Mr. Beaman you didn’t know who was responsible for cursing Madelyn?”
“Because I can’t tell who paid to have a curse inflicted,” he replied, a little too sharply. “You
know
that.”
“But you
can
read the signatures of other wizards and witches on the spells they cast. And you know damn well who inflicted that curse on Mrs. Beaman. I could see it in your eyes when her husband asked you about it. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because,” Hexe said, with a heartsick look on his face, “the necromancer who placed the curse on Madelyn was Uncle Esau.”
Chapter 4
I
f there’s one thing I’ve discovered about sorcery in the brief time I’ve lived in Golgotham, it’s that after a hard day of inflicting and lifting curses, cooking up potions, and casting spells, all the average witch or warlock really wants is a hearty meal and a good drink. So Hexe and I headed out to his favorite local restaurant to celebrate his recent windfall.
However, just as we were leaving the house, Hexe’s cell phone went off. “I better take this,” he said, as he glanced at the caller ID. “What’s up? Uh-huh. Nothing—going to grab some dinner at the Calf . . .” He turned to smile at me. “Yes, of course she’s here. . . . No, why do you ask?” His smile abruptly disappeared. “That’s rather short notice, don’t you think? Hold on. Let me ask her.” He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece, an exasperated look on his face. “My mother has just invited us over for dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s up to you. We don’t have to do it if you’re uncomfortable with the time frame. . . .”
My initial surprise was quickly replaced by excitement. This was a Major Step. Although I’d met Hexe’s mother on a couple of occasions, I hadn’t spent any real time with her since we had started dating.
I took a quick physical assessment of myself, to see if I was presentable. While I wouldn’t say I looked like something the cat dragged in, I was keenly aware that I was in dire need of a haircut. Still, the peacoat, turtleneck sweater, and jeans I’d thrown on earlier could pass for dressy casual.
“Tell her I’d
love
to,” I replied.
“Tate says it’s okay with her,” Hexe translated. “See you soon, Mom.”
As he went to hail a cab, I started to get nervous. I told myself that it was only natural. After all, none of my previous boyfriends had mothers who were witches
and
queens.
Lady Syra lived on Beke Street, between Perdition and Shoemaker, which was only fitting, as it was named in honor of her ancestor, the founder of Golgotham. Her apartment building stood fifteen stories tall, towering over its humbler neighbors like a giant. With its multi-paned metal window casements, quatrefoil-pierced balconies, and crenellated parapets, it looked more like a neo-Gothic castle than a condo co-op.
“Now
that’s
swanky,” I said, pointing to the copper-sheathed observatory that crowned the penthouse.
“It was a gift from President Kennedy, after my mother warned him about Dallas in ’63,” Hexe said proudly. “Too bad he chose to ignore her concerning San Francisco in ’68.”
The ground floor of the apartment building boasted a limestone pointed-arch entryway with a massive oaken double door. As we approached, a handsome, broad-shouldered huldu, dressed in immaculate doorman’s livery, stepped forward to greet us.
“Good evening, Serenity,” the doorman said, his bull’s tail swishing discreetly below the hem of his long coat.
“Hello, Knute,” Hexe replied with a slight nod.
The lobby was as cavernous as a cathedral, lit not by electricity but by balls of blue-white witchfire that bobbed near the ceiling like helium balloons. As we headed to the elevator bank, the doors opened and a satyr tottered out of the car.
Up to this point, my only encounter with such a creature had been when one had tried to kidnap both me and Nessie while we were riding in a rickshaw. Although I knew I shouldn’t judge an entire species by one bad apple, I automatically took half a step back.
Unlike the satyr who’d tried to carry me off, this one was nattily dressed in a tailored dinner jacket and matching waistcoat, with a lavender cravat tied about his neck. In one hand he carried a golden-headed cane engraved with the initials
GG
, which he used to steady himself. He sported a neatly trimmed goatee, and his carefully coiffed hair was styled to accommodate the curling goat horns that jutted from his temples.
Upon spotting Hexe, the satyr paused to screw a gold-rimmed monocle into his left eye. “Pan’s beard!” he laughed. “How’ve you been doing, my boy?”
“I’ve been keeping myself busy, Giles,” Hexe replied.
“So I see,” the satyr replied archly, giving me an appreciative once-over. “Well, I must be off,” he said, raising his cane in a farewell salute. “I mustn’t keep a certain faun waiting. Tell your mother I said hello.” With that he hurried across the foyer, his hooves clattering loudly against the marble-clad floor.
“Who was that?” I asked as we stepped into an elevator that now smelled of equal parts barnyard and high-end cologne.
“That was Giles Gruff, businessman and notorious bon vivant,” Hexe explained. “He owns the rickshaw business in Golgotham, among other things. He is
extremely
conscious of how society views his people, and goes to great length to comport himself in as gentlemanly a fashion as possible. He can be a bit pretentious at times, but he’s an okay sort. He’s been our downstairs neighbor for as long as I can remember.”
“I thought you grew up in the boardinghouse,” I said.
“No, that was my mother’s and Uncle Esau’s childhood home,” he explained. “I did spend a great deal of time there with my grandparents, Eben and Lyra, though. I remember playing hide-and-seek with my grandfather in the hedge maze when I was little.”
Just then the elevator doors opened, revealing the foyer outside the penthouse. Having grown up surrounded by crystal chandeliers and antique furniture, I wasn’t impressed with the lobby’s decor so much as I was with the minotaur seated on a marble bench in front of the penthouse door.
The bull-headed man put aside the newspaper he’d been reading and snorted, causing the large metal ring hanging from the center of his nose to swing like a doorknocker. The horns jutting from his massive skull were the diameter of a man’s wrist, the points capped by a pair of golden balls. His shoulders were as wide as an ox yoke, his body covered in rippling muscles that strained against the jogging suit he wore, and he had the biggest, softest, most beautiful brown eyes I’d ever seen.
“Greetings, Serenity,” he mooed.
“Good evening, Elmer,” Hexe replied with a smile.
It was then that I recognized the minotaur as one of the many half-beasts Boss Marz had held captive and forced to fight to the death for the amusement of gamblers. The last time I’d seen him, he was wearing a werewolf on the end of his horns.
“How do you like your new job?” Hexe asked.
“I like very much,” Elmer said as he opened the penthouse door, speaking with a very thick Mediterranean accent. “Your mother . . . good woman.”
“Yes, she is,” Hexe agreed, as he escorted me across the threshold.
The first thing I noticed upon entering the apartment was a strange suit of armor set just inside the foyer, as if in challenge to unwanted visitors. The helm, breastplate, gauntlets, and greaves were elaborately detailed, much like those of a samurai warrior, and fashioned from a strange iridescent material that gleamed like the carapace of a scarab. In one gloved hand was a long metal pike similar to the hooks used to train elephants.
“What is this thing made of?” I asked, staring in fascination at the glittering armor. “I’ve never seen metal like this before.”
“That’s because it’s dragon skin, Miss Eresby.”
Lady Syra was standing next to her son, watching me with a little smile on her face. I had not seen or heard her arrive. She was dressed in a pair of black capri pants, ballet flats, and a cropped blouse with batwing sleeves. Her peacock blue hair was worn in an upswept style that accentuated her delicately arched brows and golden eyes. She still smelled, as I remembered, of roses and jasmine and wore what, at first glance, looked like an ivory necklace shaped like a serpent about her throat.