Magic and Loss

work right now. The last thing I need is for you to fire up a welding torch with shaky hands and a wandering mind. Just be here all the earlier tomorrow. And don’t worry—I’m not going to dock you for the day.”

“Thanks, Master,” I said with a wan smile.

“No problem. Now beat it before I kick myself for my generosity.”

Upon returning home, I heard voices conversing in the study. I peeked in and saw Hexe sitting at his desk, with Beanie cradled in his lap and Scratch perched atop the back of his chair while he talked to Bartho.

“What do you mean my cameras aren’t jinxed?” The photographer frowned.

“I went over each of them several times with my finest scrying stones,” Hexe replied, gesturing to the cameras arrayed before him. “They are definitely not cursed. However, I did discover that they have been exposed to magical energy.”

“Can you tell who’s responsible? Because I really want to put a boot up the ass of whoever did this.”

“Then you better bend over. Because, according to my divinations, you’re the source of the magic.”

Bartho’s jaw dropped open like a drawbridge. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, how is that possible?”

“Because you’re manifesting through your art form, just like I have,” I interjected.

Hexe raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What are you doing home this time of day?”

“Canterbury gave me the day off,” I said, brushing aside the question. “I’m more interested in hearing how Bartho got himself all magical.”

“Well, I’m not exactly sure what’s happening, but it’s a well-known fact that the human psychics who live in Golgotham have considerably stronger abilities than those who live elsewhere,” Hexe explained. “Perhaps artistic humans are affected in much the same way? I mean, artists routinely create something from nothing using only their craft and force of will—it’s essentially the same thing a witch or warlock does when we work magic.”

“If that’s true, then why hasn’t this phenomenon been documented before now?” Bartho asked, a dubious look on his face.

“For the simple reason that, despite a long history of artists being drawn to my people, up until recently ‘normal’ humans such as you and Tate have steered clear of Golgotham and similar enclaves,” Hexe sighed. “Of course, Goya and Dali don’t count, as they were Kymeran themselves. And then there was Toulouse-Lautrec, who was a member of the dwarven community. And while Picasso may have kept a Kymeran mistress, he did not live with her in the heart of the Pigalle, surrounded by her family. No, it has only been recently that the old prejudices against my people have finally begun to fade and humans like you and Tate have become brave enough to dwell amongst us.”

The photographer scratched his head. “You mean any human who hangs out in Golgotham is going to end up with a case of the magics?”

“No, I suspect it will only affect artistic types, and only those that live here for several months. But, in any case, this is a very interesting development.”

“But how does it explain why my mojo, or whatever you call it, is generating double exposures?”

“Oh, those aren’t double exposures,” Hexe replied matter-of-factly. “They’re ghosts.”

Bartho’s eyes widened until it looked like they would launch themselves out of his skull. “You mean I see dead people?”

“No, you only take pictures of them,” Hexe explained. “You’ve become a spirit photographer, just like the original Ouija. As your talent matures, and you learn to control it, the images will become more and more distinct and you’ll be able to see them in the camera’s viewfinder. In time, you may even learn to communicate with your subjects.”

“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Bartho yelped.

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Hexe said reassuringly. “The vast majority of ghosts are perfectly nice people. They just happen to be dead, that’s all. However, should you see any with red eyes, run away as fast as you can.”

“That doesn’t sounds scary at all,” Bartho groaned. “So what do I do about these ghosts popping up in my pictures?”

“Well, you can always Photoshop them out. . . .”

* * *

After a bewildered Bartho left with his collection of cameras, Hexe and I retired to the kitchen. “So why did Canterbury give you the day off?” he asked. “Was there an accident at work?”

Before I could answer, I heard an odd clattering sound from upstairs, as if someone were walking around in wooden shoes. “What’s that noise?” I frowned.

“That’s the new boarder,” Hexe explained.

I raised an eyebrow in surprise as I glanced up at the ceiling. “That was quick! You didn’t even have time to put up a flier at Strega Nona!”

“We were lucky. I got a call from Giles Gruff, right after you left this morning. He said a lady friend of his was in a tight spot. . . .”

“Why am I not surprised?” I said sarcastically. Giles was the leader of the satyr community and Golgotham’s most notorious bon vivant and rarely seen without a comely nymph on both arms.

“Sorry about all the noise while I was traipsing about upstairs—I left my mufflers in my work locker.”

I turned in the direction of the unfamiliar voice and saw an attractive young faun standing in the kitchen doorway. She had almond-shaped eyes with luxurious auburn curls that accented the small horn buds jutting from her forehead, and from the waist down she had the hind legs and tail of a goat. She was dressed in a long- sleeved red shirt with a black vest emblazoned with a stylized tongue of flame over her heart along with the initials GFD embroidered in gold thread—the traditional uniform of a Golgotham firefighter.

“You must be Tate; it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the faun said. “My uncle speaks very highly of you. I’m Octavia.” She then flashed Hexe a heartfelt smile. “Thank you, Serenity. I appreciate you allowing me to move in on such short notice. It was something of a surprise, coming home after my shift to find an eviction notice tacked to my door.”

“It’s no problem at all,” he replied. “Any friend of Giles is a friend of mine.”

“I assure you both that you needn’t worry about me partying to all hours,” Octavia said solemnly. “We fauns are far more domesticated than our satyr brethren—save for Uncle Giles, of course.”

“Let me guess—you had an apartment in the Machen Arms, didn’t you?” I asked.

“You must have seen the headlines the other day,” the faun said with a humorless laugh. “I had a one- bedroom apartment there for the last five years,” she explained, her tone becoming bitter. “My lease came up for renewal yesterday, and suddenly my rent skyrocketed from seven hundred dollars to five thousand a month, literally overnight! Can you believe that minotaur shit?”

“I’m afraid I can,” I sighed. “Ronald Chess has been playing the exact same game in the rest of Manhattan for over thirty years now. He buys up older, rent-controlled prewar apartment buildings and then, when the leases come up for renewal, he jacks the rent up through the roof. Once the previous tenants are evicted, he slaps granite countertops on everything and slops a new coat of paint on the walls and turns it condo.”

“I can’t believe a Golgothamite would agree to sell out to such a character,” Hexe scowled. “Who was your old landlord?”

Octavia shrugged her shoulders. “Some company called Golden Egg Realty. All I did was drop off a rent check every month to the leasing agent who managed the property.”

“When will you be settled in?” Hexe asked.

“I’ll be moved in by tonight. I’m putting most of my belongings into storage until I can find a large enough place. As it is, you won’t be seeing that much of me, anyway,” she explained. “I work five days on, five days off, so I spend more time at the firehouse than I do at home. Speaking of which, I better fetch my spare set of mufflers from my work locker so I don’t ruin these lovely hardwood floors of yours!” With that, the firefighter turned on her hooves and clattered away.

Once I was certain Octavia had left the house, I turned to face Hexe. “You asked me why Canterbury sent me home—it’s because I saw Boss Marz at the Fly Market this morning. He was reminding everybody who runs the