I took a quick look at the ornate French mantel clock that sat on the nearby nightstand and muttered a few choice words under my breath. Then I hurried into the master bathroom and stepped into the claw-footed tub, pulling the curtain shut behind me. Water blasted out of the showerhead shaped like a medieval dolphin, delivering the necessary kick start for my day.
I was supposed to be meeting my best friend for lunch. After that, I was going to take a trip to my favorite junkyard in Red Hook to scrounge raw materials for a new set of metal sculptures to replace the ones destroyed by Boss Marz. Not that anyone was in a hurry to exhibit my work now that it had a reputation for marching out of the gallery under its own steam. It’s a long story.
After a quick rinse, I grabbed a towel off the rack and headed back into the bedroom—only to discover a hairless winged house cat perched atop the footboard, gazing at me with blazing red eyes.
“So you finally decided to get out of bed, eh?” the familiar growled. “You numps sure like to lollygag. . . .”
I yelped in surprise and awkwardly tried to wrap the towel around myself. “
Scratch!
What are you doing in here?”
“If you
must
know,” he said with a sniff, “this perfectly
delicious
sun spot is about to materialize on the floor for the next half hour, and I simply
must
get my sunbathing in.”
“I don’t care
why
you’re in the room!” I snapped. “Just get out!”
“How dare you tell me to ‘get out’!” Scratch replied crossly, furrowing his feline brow. “I
live
here! Long before you ever showed up, I might add.”
“You heard me—
scat
!” I shouted, waving toward the door while trying to hold my towel closed.
“You did
not
just shoo me away!” the familiar gasped indignantly. “What next? Are you going to throw an old boot at my head?”
“What’s all the noise about in here?”
I looked up to see Hexe standing in the doorway, dressed in a pair of corduroys and an old sweater, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee in one six-fingered hand.
“Don’t look at me—
she’s
the one doing the yelling,” Scratch said, nodding his head in my direction.
“I just don’t want you in the room while I’m getting dressed! Is that so hard to understand?”
“What’s the big deal?” the familiar replied grumpily. “It’s not like I
want
to look at your hairless ape-bits. Besides, I’ve seen Hexe naked nearly every day of his life.”
“That’s different,” I said.
“How so?”
“It just
is
!”
Hexe stepped forward, motioning toward the door with his thumb. “You heard the lady, Scratch—get lost.”
“The nerve of some people!” The familiar unfurled his batlike wings, and with a couple of brisk snaps, he sailed off the end of the bed, through the doorway, and into the hall.
Hexe closed the bedroom door and turned to face me, shaking his head in bemusement. “I understand you wanting your privacy, Tate. But you’re going to have to get used to Scratch being around. He
is
my familiar.”
“I understand that,” I said as I tossed my towel aside. “But there’s such a thing as being
overly
familiar.”
Hexe sat down on the edge of the bed, watching me with his golden eyes as I hurried to get dressed. “To be honest, I have to agree with Scratch—what’s the big deal about him seeing you naked? Do humans always keep their clothes on in front of the household pets?”
“Hexe, baby, where I’m from, the pets don’t
talk
. And, more important, they don’t
know
I’m naked.”
“You’ve got a point,” he conceded. “Come to think of it, I guess familiars
are
more like household servants than pets in your world.”
“Exactly.”
I smiled in relief. “I’m glad you understand where I’m coming from. For me, being undressed in front of Scratch is like flashing the family butler. It just feels—inappropriate.”
“Where are you going?” Hexe asked, reaching out to caress my naked hip. Every time he touched me, it was as if a mild electric current passed between us. I smiled, savoring the tingle.
“I’m meeting Vanessa for lunch.”
“You don’t have to hurry off right this minute, do you?” He smirked, snaking a muscular arm about my waist.
As Hexe began planting kisses on my bare midriff, I checked the time on the mantel clock. I did some extremely quick math in my head, and decided I could spare another fifteen minutes—maybe even twenty. If I was lucky, I might get there just before the margaritas ran out.
I met up with Vanessa Sullivan at Frida’s, a Mexican restaurant in the East Village, the walls of which are covered with murals inspired by the artwork of its namesake. Vanessa was sitting in front of the self-portrait of the famed surrealist in her shape-shifter form, that of a deer-faced woman. My old college roomie had a basket of tortilla chips in front of her and a half-finished pitcher of margaritas at her elbow.
“About time you showed up!” She grinned, hoisting her drink in welcome. “I got tired of waiting.”
“So I noticed.” I chuckled as I sat down. “How’s engaged life treating you, Nessie?”
“I’m drinking, aren’t I?” she replied with a toss of her coppery head. “It’s amazing how planning a wedding can drive otherwise sane people to absolute lunacy.”
“Anyone in particular?” I asked as I helped myself to a margarita.
“After being a lapsed Catholic—no, make that
prolapsed
—my entire life, now my mother has decided I should have an old-school wedding—priest, cathedral, the whole shebang! And if
that
wasn’t bad enough, my future mother-in-law is insisting on a rabbi.”
“Oy.” I grimaced. “So what are you going to do?”
“Adrian and I have decided that if our families don’t get off our backs, we’re going to chuck it all and have ourselves a nice, old-fashioned Druid marriage ceremony. That should shut both sides up. But enough about me—what’s new with you? We haven’t seen each other since your opening night at the gallery.”
“It was also the closing night,” I reminded her. “And now the gallery owner is suing me for breach of contract because I ordered my artwork to march out during the show.”
“Please!” Vanessa groaned, rolling her eyes in disgust. “Derrick Templeton should get down and kiss your feet! The art scenesters are
still
talking about that show—when’s the last time that gallery of his stirred up that kind of interest?”
“Yeah, it got everyone talking all right,” I replied with a sigh. “Now they think my work’s enchanted—no respectable art dealer will represent me.”
“Screw respectability. I’ve found it to be highly overrated. All that matters, Tate, is that you’re an amazing sculptor. Anyone with one eye in their head can see that. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and the right people will find you.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself, Nessie,” I said. “But I’m starting to wonder if I have what it takes to gut it out.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re the bravest woman I know! You’d have to be, to agree to be my maid of honor!”
“I never would have taken you as a flatterer,” I said with a laugh.
To my surprise, Vanessa’s demeanor suddenly became very serious. “Don’t laugh. I am being one hundred percent irony-free. I don’t know
anyone else
who would have gone to the lengths you did to help a friend in trouble.”
“What else could I do?” I shrugged, humbled by the unexpected praise. “I couldn’t stand by and let Boss Marz put that poor kid to death.”
“What are they going to do with that creep, anyway?”
“Right now they’ve got him locked up in the Tombs, awaiting trial on a number of charges. What’s left of his gang is lying low for the time being, thank goodness.”
“And how’s your teenaged were-cat?”
“Lukas is doing great. He’s got a job as a delivery boy for Dr. Mao’s apothecary shop. Between work and his girlfriend, he doesn’t hang around the boardinghouse that much. He’s assimilating into Golgotham a lot faster than I am. Not that Hexe and I mind—we appreciate the privacy right now.”
Vanessa arched an eyebrow. “So you finally made the move on your magic man, eh?”
“Yeah. It’s been a couple of weeks since we took our relationship to the next level,” I said, blushing slightly.
“Oooh, I like how you phrased that. It sounds a lot classier than ‘since we started screwing like weasels.’” A look of alarm crossed her face. “Have you told Mrs. E?”
“Of
course
not!” I replied. “I may be eccentric, but I’m not crazy enough to tell my mother I’m romantically involved with a Kymeran.”
“What about Hexe? Does he have family?”
“Yes, he has family,” I replied evenly. Although I have to admit that if anyone besides Nessie had asked me that question, I probably would have been pissed. “He wasn’t hatched from an egg! In fact, I’ve already met his mother.”
“Really? What’s she like? Does she rhyme with ‘witch,’ too?”
“No, thank goodness. She’s actually very nice. I’ve only met her once, but I like her. Her brother’s another story, though.” I automatically frowned as I thought about Hexe’s dreaded uncle. “He blames me for Golgotham becoming the new hipster hot spot, thanks to that photo-essay in the Sunday
Herald
.”
“But those were Bartho’s photographs—you had nothing to do with that!”
“It doesn’t matter. As far as Uncle Esau is concerned,
all
humans are one and the same. However, I
am
responsible for Bartho deciding to move to Golgotham.”
“Ah—so you
are
guilty!”
“Afraid so. Behold! I am Tate, Destroyer of Worlds,” I said, lifting my margarita in a mock toast.
Chapter 2
A
plate of enchiladas and two more margaritas later, I bid Vanessa adieu and hopped the F train to Brooklyn. I got off at the Carroll Street station, where I caught a cab into Red Hook. Once a warren of junkyards and derelict factories, inhabited by longshoremen and other blue-collar workers, the South Brooklyn seaside neighborhood was now showing signs of finally succumbing to the real estate developers. As the taxi wound through funky little side streets, I spotted a billboard advertising the IKEA warehouse located just off the Gowanus Expressway. Wine bars and condos wouldn’t be far behind.
The cabbie dropped me off outside Keckhaver Salvage, two and a half acres of automotive scrap surrounded by chain-link fencing that offered an unparalleled view of the Statue of Liberty. I had been a regular customer for the last three years, and was on a first-name basis with the owner, Mike, who was standing outside the one-room hut just inside the front gate that served as his office.
He was a tall, wide-shouldered man in his late fifties, dressed in a pair of greasy overalls, with long gray hair that spilled down past his shoulders, and a braided salt-and-pepper goatee with a ceramic bead swinging at the end of his chin. He smiled and lifted his hand in greeting as I entered his domain.
“Welcome back, Tate. Looking for something in particular?”
“Just scavenging for whatever strikes my fancy, Mike,” I replied. “How’s business?”
“Depends on how you look at it,” the junkman grunted. “You see that construction over there?” He pointed to a couple of cranes off in the distance. “Some big-shot real estate developers are converting the old industrial piers into condos, stores, and a marina. They want to buy my property. I don’t really want to sell—but I don’t have a choice. The new property taxes have gone through the roof now that I’m gonna be next door to a fuckin’ marina!
“The wife’s thrilled—it’s a lot of money. Me? I don’t want to leave, but I can’t afford to stay. This business has been in my family for three generations—” The phone in the office/shack started ringing, cutting off his train of thought. “I better get that—it’s probably the real estate guys again. Anyways, you’re welcome to browse the yard.” He motioned to the wilderness of junked parts and rusted vehicles. “Better get what you can while the getting’s good.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon doing exactly as Mike had suggested, scrounging through the towering piles of scrap metal for buried treasure that would inspire my next creations. I ended up with the steering knuckles pulled off an old Ford Bronco, some differential covers, and a box of mixed gears.
I located Mike, who was elbow-deep in a ’73 El Camino engine compartment, and pointed out the items I wanted. We then returned to his office to set up the delivery information. He frowned when I told him where I needed it shipped.
“That’s the address for the Relay Station in Golgotham,” he said.
“I’ve been living there for a couple months now,” I explained.
Mike grunted and nodded his head and returned to his paperwork, but I could tell he was slightly perturbed by what I’d told him. As I fished out my cell to call for another taxi to return me to the subway stop, he motioned for me to hang up.