Magic and Loss

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