Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham (8 page)

“L
ukas will accompany you home,” Doc Mao said as he helped me load an extremely groggy Hexe into the livery carriage. “You will require assistance getting him upstairs.”

“That’s okay, Doc,” I replied. “I can handle him.”

The old were-tiger raised his unibrow in surprise. “Are you sure of that? Given your condition?” Dr. Mao chuckled as my eyes darted suspiciously at Meikei. “No, my daughter has not betrayed your confidence, my dear. However, I did not get to the age I am now without knowing a pregnant woman when I smell one,” he said, tapping the side of his nose.

As Lukas and I entered the front door, Hexe slung between us like a drunken sailor, we were greeted by Scratch, who was perched atop the newel post of the staircase like a living finial. “
Finally!
It’s about
time
you two came home!” the familiar yowled indignantly. “Beanie is about to
explode
! And if you think that I’m going to clean up after him . . .” He trailed off as he watched us guide Hexe toward the stairs, his hairless brow furrowed into a feline frown. “What’s wrong with the boss? Is he munted?”

“Yes, but not how you think,” I replied as we dragged Hexe upstairs and steered him into his room. The carved owls atop the bedposts swiveled their heads about in concern as I propped a pillow under his splinted right hand. “Thanks for helping me, Lukas,” I said as I unlaced and removed Hexe’s high-tops before tucking him in. “I can handle it from here.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asked worriedly.

“I’ll be fine,” I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Go home and get some sleep. It’s been a long day for everybody.”

“Call me if you need anything,” he said as he gave me a farewell hug. “I’ll bike right over.”

Scratch jumped up onto the bed, nervously slapping his tail against the footboard as he watched me do my best to make Hexe comfortable. “What’s going on?” he growled.

“There was an accident,” I replied.

“What
kind
of accident?” Scratch scowled.

“It doesn’t matter,” I answered hastily, trying to dodge any further questioning. “It’s none of your business. . . .”

“‘None of my business’?” the familiar spat. “Hexe is my master! I have no business
but
him!” He cast back his head, sniffing the air as if on the trail of a rat hiding in the wainscoting. “What’s that smell?” He hopped onto the mattress, slowly creeping forward. As his twitching whiskers brushed against Hexe’s injured right hand, he recoiled in disgust. “Saint of the Pit!” he screeched. “
Malleus Maleficarum
—the witch-hammer!”

The familiar threw back his head and gave voice to a yowl that sounded like a band saw chewing its way through sheet metal. As he leapt off the bed he cast aside his domestic skin, revealing his demonic aspect—that of a hairless saber-toothed tiger with the wings of a dragon and the tail of a crocodile.

“Who has done this thing to my master?”
Scratch roared, his outrage rattling the very walls and frightening poor Beanie so badly he peed himself in terror and dove under the bed skirt for protection.

“Calm down!” I shouted, clamping my hands over my ears.

“I’ll ‘calm down’ once I’ve torn the throat from whoever’s responsible for this affront!” the familiar snarled, his head nothing but blazing eyes and gleaming fang. The acerbic, wisecracking Scratch I thought I knew was nowhere to be seen, and in his place was a demon, born and bred in the pits of the Infernal Realm, transformed by anger into something truly terrifying.
“Tell me who did this!”
he thundered, slapping his tail against the floorboards so hard it shook the entire house.

“I
can’t
!” I replied, my voice quavering with fear.

Scratch roared again, his monstrous, curving fangs flashing like scimitars.
“Tell me their name, nump!”
he growled as he took a menacing step in my direction.

I stood there, momentarily paralyzed, like a frightened gazelle, before breaking free of my fear. I snatched up one of Hexe’s high-top Chucks and hurled it at Scratch’s head, striking him between the eyes.

“
Bad
kitty!”

The familiar blinked in surprise, completely taken aback. “Did—did you just throw a
shoe
at me?” he asked indignantly.

“Scratch! Stand down!”

Hexe was awake and sitting up in the bed, fixing his familiar with a disapproving scowl. Although he looked to be in a lot of pain, he seemed in full control of himself.

Scratch lowered his head, literally shrinking before my eyes as he reassumed his domestic form. “Forgive me, boss,” he said contritely. “I kinda lost it for a moment; you know how I get.”

“Yes, I do—but I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Hexe said sternly.

Scratch hopped back onto the foot of the mattress, staring down at his paws as he kneaded the bedclothes like a baker making biscuits. “Tate? I’m, uh, you know, uh, I’m, uh . . .”

“Sorry?” I suggested helpfully.

“Yeah! That’s the word,” he said, relieved that he hadn’t been forced to actually utter the phrase. “We good?”

“Yeah, we good,” I sighed, holding out my fist. The familiar bumped his forehead against it, his purr as loud as an idling tractor.

“Now that
that’s
out of the way,” Scratch said, turning to look at his master, “are you going to tell me who got medieval on your hand? It was Marz, wasn’t it? He’s the only cack-hander in this town, now that Esau’s out of the picture, crazy enough to use Witchfinder implements. Just say the word, boss, and I’ll get rid of that thug and his fancy-dress baboon once and for all!”

“Absolutely
not
,” Hexe replied firmly.

“Look, I know you don’t believe in offensive strikes, but you
can’t
let Marz get away with this!”

“Even if I
was
prone to revenge, I still wouldn’t permit it,” Hexe said wearily. “I need you
here
, Scratch. You’re the only defense I have left. I know you’re powerful, but Marz has more than just his familiar backing him up. What if you attacked and lost?”

“Phfft!”
Scratch snorted in derision. “Who? Me? Lose to that overgrown organ-grinder’s monkey? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“But what if you
did
lose, Scratch? What if you were slain? Not merely disincorporated—genuinely
killed
. Who would protect me then?”

“Your mother is no slouch in that arena,” Scratch replied. “And your dad has an entire police force at his disposal. . . .”

“And Marz has promised to kill everyone we know if we go to them for help—he went so far as to threaten Beanie.”

“Even he wouldn’t do something like
that
—would he?” Scratch gasped, his eyes widening in alarm at the thought of “his” pet being harmed.

“Now that you understand the position I’m in,
please
, stop tempting me with revenge.”

“But . . . but . . .” the familiar sputtered.

Hexe propped himself up a little straighter, fixing Scratch with a hard stare. “By whose blood are you bound?” he asked solemnly.

“Yours, my master,” Scratch replied, lowering his gaze.

“Whose will is your will?”

“Yours, my master,” the familiar said, bowing his head in ritual deference.

Hexe smiled and automatically reached out with his right hand to stroke the winged cat’s back, only to grimace in pain.

“Are you okay?” I asked nervously as I readjusted his pillows.

“I’ll be okay.” He smiled wanly. “I’m just . . . tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”

“Would you like some herbal tea?”

“Yes,” he replied, the strength that had been in his voice mere moments before fading like breath on a windowpane. “That would be nice.”

“Scratch, stay here with him, please.”

“It’ll take an exorcist to make me leave,” the familiar said, his eyes glowing like stoplights.

I made my way downstairs, Beanie scampering along behind me as if his tail was on fire. Upon reaching the kitchen, I was surprised to find our reclusive housemate, Mr. Manto, dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas and an old bathrobe, pouring hot water from the tea kettle into the steeping pot sitting on the table. I knew all too well that the aged clairvoyant rarely left his cavernous basement apartment save for buying cat food, as he preferred the company of his crew of feline friends and his vast collection of books to dealing with people who lived in the here and now.

“Mr. Manto! What are you doing topside?” I exclaimed as I opened the back door to let out Beanie, who sped out into the garden as if propelled from a crossbow.

The old oracle looked up from his task, peering at me over the tops of his bifocals. “I am here because I saw that I must be here,” he replied. “I am also making tea.” He placed his wrinkled, liver-spotted hand on my elbow, steering me gently to one of the kitchen chairs. “Please sit down, my dear, for a few moments.”

“But I need to bring Hexe his tea . . .” I protested feebly. I didn’t realize how tired I was until Mr. Manto made me sit down. The moment I did I was overcome by a bout of light-headedness identical to the one I’d experienced at Doc Mao’s. Up until that moment I had been propelled by nothing more than nervous energy and the fear that if I didn’t keep in constant motion, I would grind to a halt like an unwound clockwork.

“And that you shall,” Mr. Manto said gently. “But first you must take care of yourself. You will do no one any good by fainting while carrying a loaded tray upstairs—especially your child.”

“So, you know about me being pregnant, too,” I sighed. “The way things are going, half of Golgotham is going to know about it before Hexe does.”

“I know about a great deal more than the child you carry,” the oracle replied. “Earlier this evening I decided to celebrate the Jubilee in my own way by imbibing a certain hallucinogen, which resulted in a vision. In it I saw Boss Marz maim Hexe with a witch-hammer. I assure you, had I known what the Maladanti planned prior to that, I would have warned him—but you, more than anyone, know that my prophecies are not the easiest to decipher, once spoken. I also saw Boss Marz threaten your loved ones, should you go for help—and I am honored to find myself amongst those endangered.”

“You said you’re here because you ‘must’ be here. What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“It is difficult to explain,” Mr. Manto replied as he poured a cup of tea from the steeping pot and pressed it into my hand. “Drink this—it will help steady you.”

“
What’s
difficult to explain?” I asked, giving him a speculative look over the rim of the teacup.

“The means by which I see the future. Sometimes it points straight as an arrow, but more often than not, the future is more like a spider’s web. Some threads are stronger than others, while others are weaker than most. They all shine, in their way, but those threads that are the strongest shine the brightest, marking destiny’s trail. But when all threads shine
equally
—that indicates a Crossroads where
all
futures are valid. No soothsayer can see beyond a Crossroads until the fated one makes their decision. You stand now, my dear, at one such Crossroads. Only your will, and no other, shall decide which thread will be cut, and which will be followed.”

“But how will I know what decision is the right one to make?”

“Do you recall the final portion of the prophecy I spoke to you?” he inquired offhandedly, as if he was asking whether I had remembered to pick up a carton of milk on the way home from work.

“You know I can’t remember any of that stuff until it’s damn near too late.”

“It is true that the Fates do not surrender their mysteries gladly,” he admitted as he placed the teapot on the serving tray. “When you stand on the Crossroads, the prophecy will come to you and you will know what must be done. Just as I know that the Fates have led me to this time and place, to ensure you safely reach your destination.”

As I finished my tea, the oracle took the cup from me and, holding it in his left hand, swirled the contents about three times clockwise.

“I didn’t realize you read tea leaves,” I said. “I thought you foretold the future by tearing the pages out of books.”

“Bibliomancy is my preferred means of divination,” Mr. Manto replied as he placed the saucer on top of the cup and flipped it upside down, allowing what liquid remained to drain away. “But I have been known to dabble in tasseography, now and again.”

Upon righting the cup, he removed the saucer and peered inside, his brow furrowed like a freshly tilled field. After studying the inner rim for a long moment, he smiled, apparently relieved by what he had read in the tea leaves.

“What did you see?” I asked.

“That you will not faint and fall down the stairs,” he replied. “And that Hexe is waiting for his tea.”

•   •   •

As I carried the tea service Mr. Manto had been kind enough to prepare for me upstairs, it occurred to me that perhaps instead of simply relying on trusting a were-tiger’s sense of smell and a soothsayer’s tripped-out prophecies, perhaps I should confirm things for myself with a nice, old-fashioned home pregnancy test. At least that would allow me to hold off on breaking the news to Hexe, who already had enough to worry about without my dumping this on top of him.

The last time I had to deal with something like this was back in college. My boyfriend at the time was a music major named Taylor. We had been seeing each other for eighteen months, and I thought what we had together was pretty real—up until the moment I told him I was late. Within seconds, the man I believed cared for me became a distant, stony-faced stranger. As emotionally devastating as the possibility of my being knocked up was, it was nothing compared to Taylor’s rejection of me. A couple of days later I finally got my period, and we both heaved a sigh of relief, but the damage was done. There was no way our relationship could return to what it was after what I saw in his eyes. What disturbed me the most wasn’t just Taylor’s total disregard, but the sober realization that the love I believed we shared didn’t truly exist. It was like walking far out onto what appeared to be solid ground, only to realize it was actually quicksand.