Magic and Loss

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But I seriously doubt she has the genuine article in her possession. The Gauntlet of Nydd disappeared during the Dragon War, and the spell that created it died with General Vlad.”

“How does something like that get lost, anyway?”

“Vlad cut it off Nydd’s hand when he refused to go to war against his uncle, the Witch King,” he replied matter-of-factly.

We finished our dinner and returned home, although Hexe was far less talkative than usual. I could tell by the furrow in his brow that he was mulling over Madam Erys’ words. The preoccupied look in his eyes was still there as we undressed for bed.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hexe said as I straddled him.

“I bet you say that to all the girls you knock up,” I grinned, removing my bra. I tossed it at the owl atop the nearest bedpost, covering its unblinking eyes with a C-cup.

“I have, so far,” he chuckled. Out of reflex, he reached up to cup my breasts, only to have his face go white with pain.

“Do you need your pills?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted, cradling his wounded hand against his chest as he rode out the wave of agony.

I hopped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom, returning with a glass of water, which Hexe gratefully accepted as he choked down more of Dr. Mao’s pills. After a minute or so the muscles in his face began to relax.

“I’m sorry, Tate,” he said, his words already beginning to slur. “But I don’t think I’m going to be of much use tonight.”

“It’s okay, baby,” I said, lying down beside him. “We can cuddle; I don’t mind.”

But by the time I pulled the bedclothes over us, his eyes were already closed. I lay there for a long time, watching him sleep. He mumbled a couple of things under his breath, and from the way his body twitched against mine, I could tell his dreams were troubled. I glanced up at the bedposts. The owls looked worried.

* * *

“I’m so happy for you, Tate!” Vanessa was finally able to articulate, after an initial squeal of excitement so loud I had to hold the cell phone a foot from my ear. “You two are going to make kick- ass parents! I am going to throw you one awesome baby shower! Ooh! Can I be the godmother—assuming you don’t already have an actual fairy lined up for the job?”

“Of course you’re going to be the godmother, Nessie!” I laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of appointing anyone else!”

“Speaking of mothers—have you told Mrs. E the big news yet?”

“You’re the first person, outside of Hexe, I’ve notified. We haven’t even talked to his mother, yet, much less mine.”

“Yeah, but you really ought to let your folks know, Tate. I know they’re horrible and everything, but becoming grandparents will turn their brains to mush,” Vanessa pointed out helpfully. “You would not believe what my mother is willing to agree to just to have access to my brother’s kid! And my dad! He actually stuffs twenty dollar bills in the brat’s rompers! I swear, it’s like someone stole my parents and replaced them with lobotomized doppelgangers.”

“Yeah, but your brother didn’t marry a witch,” I replied.

“That’s what you think!”

“I’m not going to lie—we could really use some outside financial help right now,” I admitted as I dug the keys to the boardinghouse out of my pocket. “But I’m not breaking down and calling my parents. They’re the ones who demanded that I give up Hexe, and then cut off my trust fund when I refused. If they want to be a part of their grandchild’s life, it’s up to them to make the first move, not me.”

Before I could unlock the front door I heard a woman’s voice from inside the house angrily shouting, “Look at me! Look! At! Me!”

“Uh, Nessie, I’m going to have to get back to you later,” I said as I quickly cut off the call. Upon opening the door I saw Hexe desperately trying to block the path of a statuesque woman with auburn hair. I knew from her height, bone structure, and anorexia that she was a model of some sort, although it was difficult to tell if she was anyone famous or not, due to the luxurious full beard and mustache that covered the lower half of her face.

“I am dreadfully sorry, Ms. Pasternak,” Hexe said in all earnestness. “I must have miscalculated one of the ingredients in the exfoliant I prepared for you. All I have to do is formulate a new batch, that’s all. . . .”

“It’s bad enough I woke up this morning with a handlebar mustache! I did not pay you good money so I could go to bed looking like the bearded lady at the freak show!” Ms. Pasternak exclaimed indignantly.

“Of course you didn’t,” Hexe said, using his best client-whisperer voice as he struggled to defuse the situation. “Now, if you would just give me some time, I’m sure I’ll be able to reverse the condition. . . .”

“How much time?” Ms. Pasternak frowned as she stroked her bearded chin.

“An hour, perhaps—certainly no more than two . . .”

“I don’t have that kind of time to waste hanging around waiting to see if you might be able to reverse this . . . this . . .”

“Hypertrichosis,” Hexe supplied helpfully.

“I don’t care what you call it. I want it gone!” she snapped, grabbing a handful of beard in illustration. “And I want it gone now! I came here because I was told you were the best curse-lifter in Golgotham! I’ve got an important fashion shoot tomorrow; I can’t show up looking like I belong on a box of cough drops!”

“As I said, I simply need to reformulate the lotion and reapply it to your face. . . .”

“If you think I’m going to let you put more of that stuff on me again, you’re out of your mind!” the hirsute Ms. Pasternak exclaimed. “I’m getting out of here before I end up like Rip Van Winkle! Now give me back my money!”

“But Ms. Pasternak, if you would just give me another chance—!”

“I’d rather take my chances in the Rookery, if it’s all the same to you,” the bearded fashion model said sternly, thrusting forth a perfectly manicured hand. “I demand a refund, or do I have to call the cops—or whatever the hell you people call them in this godforsaken ghetto of yours?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said glumly. Hexe stuck his left hand in his pocket, reluctantly withdrawing five crisp hundred dollar bills. “Here’s your money.”

Ms. Pasternak snatched the cash back, tucking it into whatever cleavage lurked behind her whiskers. “Just be glad I didn’t ask for damages as well!” she snapped. As she headed for the door, she paused to give me a warning glance. “I wouldn’t waste your money on him if I were you, sister. The guy’s a charlatan!”

After the front door slammed behind his disgruntled former client, Hexe silently strode out of the parlor and headed for his office. A second later he returned with Madam Erys’ business card.

“C’mon,” he said in a clipped voice. “Let’s go try on some gloves.”

Chapter 12

Shoemaker Lane had, at one time, been the home of the leprechaun cobblers who make footwear for Kymerans and other hard-to-fit customers. They also had a thriving side business selling charmed boots and shoes to humans. Although there were still quite a few signs shaped like oversized boots visible along the street, most of the Wee Folk had relocated eastward to Ferry Street, allowing other tradesmen to take their place.

I paused outside one of the remaining enchanted cobbler shops and stared at a dazzling array of gleaming glass slippers. Each pair had a little sign with a brief description of its particular charm to potential buyers, such as “makes you irresistible,” “world-class ballroom dancer,” or “beautiful until midnight.” Of course, you might have to cut off a toe or two to get them to fit, but then, all fashion has its price.