Magic and Loss

technology.

There was a clinic just across the river, in Brooklyn, just off the F, that offered a low-cost prenatal service. It was eight hundred dollars up front, which was a hefty chunk of change for our household, but it would pay for monthly office visits for the first twenty-four weeks, as well as blood tests and one ultrasound. I’d been squirreling away a percentage of my paycheck, plus whatever money was left over after paying the bills, in the cookie tin. So far I had just over six hundred dollars saved up.

Upon finding myself with a spare thirty dollars after settling the grocer’s bill, I opened the lid on the tin, only to find the kitty considerably lighter than before. My heart somehow managed to both sink and speed up as I counted out the bills, then tallied them up twice more, telling myself I must have miscounted. But each time it came up short the exact same amount: one hundred and fifty dollars.

Surely some nefarious burglar had managed to sneak into the house, somehow managed to make it past Scratch, and then made a beeline to the cookie tin on my dresser without touching anything else at all. I really, really wanted to believe that was the case, because, otherwise, I would have to suspect the only other person in the world—well, the only one with thumbs, anyway—who knew where I was stashing money.

“Do you know anything about this?” I asked, shaking the cookie tin at Scratch.

“I ain’t no snitch,” the familiar replied and quickly ran out of the room.

I glanced in the direction of the four-poster, only to find the carved owls perched atop the bedposts had turned their backs to me.

Maybe it was the hormones, but that’s when I lost it. I had put up with his increasing moodiness and going out drinking every night because I felt bad about him losing his magic, but I had finally had enough of being treated like a clueless fool simply because I had five fingers instead of six.

“Where are you going?” Scratch asked as I yanked my peacoat out of the downstairs closet.

“I’m going to go and get my money back,” I snapped. It didn’t help my mood that I now discovered my coat would no longer button thanks to my baby bump.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist! So he took some money without telling you . . .”

“You don’t understand, Scratch!” I snapped. “He didn’t do this to me; he did it to the baby!”

* * *

I managed to keep a pretty good mad-on all the way to the Two-Headed Calf. Over the last month or so, Hexe had put Lafo’s promise of free eats and drink to the test. Up until recently we had been eating at the Calf twice a week, but now that I had stopped drinking because of the baby, Hexe had been hitting the pub every night on his own, coming back later and later each time. I was usually asleep by the time he would stagger home, reeking of artichoke schnapps. Half the time he didn’t even bother to come to bed, passing out instead on the couch in his office.

Since it was a weeknight, the Calf was relatively quiet when I arrived. Bruno nodded in welcome as I entered, but I brushed by without responding. I was too busy scanning the booths and tables for some sign of Hexe. I then hurried upstairs, but he wasn’t among the diners, either.

As I went back downstairs, I caught sight of Lafo, who was manning the taps behind the bar. He smiled in welcome as I approached. “Evening, Tate. Looking for someone?”

“Has Hexe been here tonight?” I asked.

“No, he hasn’t,” he replied as he pulled a pint for one of his customers. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him in a couple of weeks.”

“What? But he’s been coming here almost every night . . .”

Lafo shook his head, a grim look on his face. “I don’t know where he’s going, Tate—but it ain’t here. In fact, I had to cut him off. He was coming in here every night, drinking on the cuff. You know I don’t grudge him that, don’t you? After all, the man saved my life and livelihood. But then he started getting stroppy with the paying customers. It wasn’t too bad, at first—just some snide remarks, here and there. But the last time he came in here, it got ugly. He picked a fight with this human—only Arum knows what about—and next thing I know they’re getting into it, throwing punches left and right! Bruno put a stop to it, quick enough—but not before the nump, uh, I mean, human punched Hexe in the eye. After it was over, I told him he’d had his last drink on the house. I haven’t seen him since.”

My mind flashed back to the night Hexe came home looking like he’d been in a fight. Although I could not believe what I was hearing, I had to admit that a lot of things were suddenly starting to make sense.

“He told me he got that black eye from fighting off a mugger.”

Lafo glanced about, as if on the lookout for spies, then leaned forward, his voice dropping down into a husky whisper. “You know I consider Hexe to be a true friend, not just another one of my customers. So I’ve got to ask: what’s going on with him? I know Hexe enjoys his drink, but he’s always known when to stop. I’ve never seen him drink like that before. He seemed like a totally different person. I hated having to cut him off like that, but he gave me no choice.”

“I’m really sorry, Lafo. Hexe has been under a lot of stress lately, what with money being tight and the baby on the way. . . .”

“The buzz I’ve been hearing is that he’s shut down his practice and handed his clients over to Madam Kuka. Why would he do that?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself. That’s Hexe’s business, not mine,” I replied, perhaps a little too tersely. As much as I so wanted to tell Lafo the truth, I didn’t dare say anything more. It’s not that I didn’t trust the restaurateur, but if news of Hexe’s hand being broken managed to reach the Maladanti, Boss Marz could very well jump to the wrong conclusion and decide to take action.

“I didn’t mean to butt in, Tate,” Lafo said gently. “I’m just concerned about the guy, that’s all.”

“I know,” I sighed. “So—if he hasn’t been coming here every night—where is he going?”

Lafo shrugged. “I wish I could tell you, Tate—but I honestly don’t know.”

As I turned to leave, I felt a hand on my arm. It belonged to Chorea, the hostess for the Two-Headed Calf. I could tell she was still on the wagon since she was wearing a low-cut cocktail dress in place of the traditional diaphanous gown and leopard skin of her sisterhood. The maenad had joined Alcoholics Anonymous in an attempt to save her marriage to the Kymeran mover, Faro. Something about consuming raw flesh while in a Dionysian frenzy—it’s complicated.

“I heard you asking about Hexe,” she whispered. “I’d look across the street if I were you.”

“You mean the Highlander?” I frowned. “Are you sure, Chory?”

“I saw him go inside a couple of hours ago,” she replied.

I thanked the teetotaling bacchante and left the pub, setting my sites on the hookah lounge across the street. On the sliding scale of Golgotham nightspots, with the Golden Bough at the very top and the Stagger Inn at the bottom, the Highlander hovered somewhere in the lower middle. Unlike similar establishments elsewhere in the city, the Highlander’s customers weren’t there to smoke exotic tobaccos—they were there for the hashish. While there were plenty of hookah joints near Duivel Street that served human stoners looking for a hassle-free high, the Highlander’s clientele tended more toward the locals.

The wooden sign outside of the lounge depicted a hookah with a sinuous dragon in place of the hose, smoke pouring from its nostrils. Although I don’t have any issues with the idea of a hash cafe, I had never had occasion to step foot in the Highlander before because, well, I don’t smoke. Hell, the average Kymeran place of business was smoky enough to cure meat—I could just imagine what one of their hookah lounges was like. I paused for a moment to steel myself, taking a final breath of clean air, and then opened the door.

The interior of the Highlander was dark and surprisingly elegant, with low couches and ottomans scattered about a rambling layout. There were also curtained booths, where smokers could retire to enjoy their pipes in privacy. Everywhere I looked there was a bluish haze that smelled strongly of musk and hash-oil. I couldn’t keep from wondering how much my dry-cleaning bill was going to be once they finally got the reek out of my jacket.

There was a kiosk just inside the door, manned by a young Kymeran with green dreadlocks. Inside the booth were rows upon rows of water pipes of different sizes, including one with so many hoses radiating from its vase it was positively octopedal. “Rent a pipe, lady?” he asked helpfully.

I shook my head. “I just stepped in to see if a friend of mine was in here.”