“Don’t bother with that. You’ll be waiting for fucking hours. I’ll give you a ride back to the train. Besides, I got a junker to pick up in Carroll Gardens.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“It’s the least I can do for a steady customer,” he replied with a shrug.
I climbed into the tow truck, the side panels of which read, in faded script, KECKHAVER & SON SALVAGE & TOWING. The “& SON” had been partially scratched out. It smelled strongly of WD-40 and diesel fuel, and a loose spring in the passenger seat kept goosing me in the ass as we jounced our way across the pothole-laden street. It was a far cry from my father’s Maybach, but then again, I could not recall my father ever driving me anywhere without a chauffeur.
When we reached the subway stop, I thanked Mike once again for the ride and started to get out. Before I could exit the vehicle, the junkman gripped my elbow. His hand was large, the knuckles scraped and scarred from a lifetime spent under the hoods of vehicles, and yet it possessed an odd gentleness.
“Look, Tate—you seem like a nice kid. Hell, I got a daughter your age. I hope I ain’t overstepping myself here, but you really ought to think about moving outta that place.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mike.” I smiled as I extricated myself from his grip. “But there’s really nothing to worry about—Golgotham is a lot safer than most people think. It’s certainly a lot less dangerous than walking around Red Hook after dark.”
The mechanic gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. “Look, I’ve lived in this part of Brooklyn all my life—I can remember back when it was a
real
shit-hole, back in the nineties. I know how to handle myself, you know what I mean? But you couldn’t
pay
me to set foot in Golgotham. The worst thing that can happen to you in Red Hook is you get yourself raped or murdered. In Golgotham you can end up damned.”
With that the junkman drove off, leaving me to mull over his farewell as I waited for the train that would take me back home.
It was early evening by the time I reached City Hall Station, the closest subway stop to Golgotham. As I stepped out onto the platform, a throng of hipsters exited the car before mine, talking and texting. It was as if the entire Urban Outfitters catalog had come to life and decided to take a train downtown.
As I passed underneath the station’s landmark stained-glass skylight, I noticed several of my fellow travelers clutching well-thumbed copies of
Manhattan Magazine
, the
Herald
’s Sunday supplement. I stifled a groan.
Two weeks ago
Manhattan
had published a photo-essay by my friend, the up-and-coming “hot” new photographer “Bartho” Bartholomew, titled
Golgotham Nightlife
. The six strikingly composed black-and-white photographs had shown, among other things, leprechauns playing darts at Blarney’s Pub, centaurs hauling carriages full of drunken revelers down cobblestone streets, the regulars crowding the bar at the Two-Headed Calf, a half-naked nymph standing in the doorway of a Duivel Street bordello, and the glitterati enjoying themselves at the ultra-exclusive Golden Bowery. More important, Bartho’s pictures had captured the citizens of Golgotham with an authenticity reminiscent of Ouija, the famed psychic photographer of 1940s New York.
Within twelve hours of the Sunday
Herald
hitting the streets, Golgotham suddenly found itself besieged by the young, bored, and semi-affluent. Unlike the majority of tourists who made their way to the neighborhood in search of magic or to score a new kind of kick on Duivel Street, these visitors came to experience the “real” Golgotham. The result was an unexpected and unprecedented increase in the number of human faces in the pubs, restaurants, and nightclubs that normally catered to native clientele. While the money spent by this recent spate of “looky-loos” was welcome, their intrusion into Golgotham’s traditional social scene was another matter.
As I emerged from under City Hall, the group ahead of me cut across the plaza in the direction of Broadway, making a beeline for the centaur-drawn hansoms and satyr-pulled rickshaws lined up at the taxi stand, leaving me standing at the curb. Since motorized vehicles aren’t allowed within Golgotham, I was now faced with a long walk after a tiring day. Grumbling under my breath, I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets and set out across Park Row in the direction of home.
I decided to head west and walk down Ferry Street, skirting Witch Alley, the neighborhood’s notorious open-air magic bazaar. Although this took me a block or two out of my way, it saved me from having to deal with the traffic jam created by the never-ending stream of tourists and bargain shoppers attracted by the various spell-slingers, potion-pushers, and charm-peddlers hawking their wares to those in search of quick luck or easy love.
“Need a ride?”
I looked over my shoulder and saw a familiar face smiling down at me. It was Wildfire, stablemate to Hexe’s childhood friend and primary means of transportation, Kidron. The female centaur’s long hair, currently worn in an elaborate French braid crowned by a wreath of interwoven sunflowers, was the same shade of sorrel as her lower body and tail. She was human from the withers up, and wore a leather bustier that also served as a harness to the Victorian-era hansom cab she was pulling. Save for the Bluetooth headset clipped to her right ear, she looked like she had just stepped off a Grecian urn.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I replied gratefully.
Wildfire pulled a harness line connected to her bustier, and the doors to the hansom cab flew open. I quickly jumped inside and made myself comfortable.
“It’s very busy this evening,” I commented as we trotted in the direction of the boardinghouse.
“Yes, we’ve been getting a steady stream of looky-loos since that article in the Sunday
Herald
,” Wildfire said. “If things stay like this, we should be able to afford a down payment within the year.”
“On a stable?”
“No, a ranch.” The centaur explained, “We have our eye on a place in Wyoming. We’ve been working hard for several years now to save up enough money. Kidron and I plan on starting our own herd someday.”
As she spoke, I realized, with a start, that Kidron and Wildfire weren’t just roommates, but actually husband and wife. I was both surprised and embarrassed that I had never made the connection before.
“The city is no place to drop a foal,” the female centaur said. “Colts and fillies need space to roam and run free without worrying about being hit by a car. The ranch we’re interested in is over three hundred acres, located thirty miles east of Laramie.”
“It sounds nice,” I replied. The idea of living out West didn’t appeal to me in the least, but I also wasn’t a horse from the waist down. “Where were you born, Wildfire?”
“I was foaled on a farm upstate, near West Winfield,” she replied. “Kidron was stable-born here in the city. He’s used to walking on pavement all day long, but I miss the feel of turf under my hooves, and the smell of fresh grass.”
“Are you sure you want to move that far away? I mean, you could probably find a nice farm somewhere in Pennsylvania.”
“Our ancestors came here on cattle boats from Greece in the 1850s, looking for a better life,” Wildfire said with a toss of her mane. “Kidron and I are simply continuing in that tradition. We want our foals to look forward to something besides dragging coaches full of tourists around Golgotham when they grow up. All we want is the American Dream.”
Wildfire dropped me off at the corner grocery a block from the house, where I made a last-minute purchase before hurrying home. Upon my arrival I found Hexe busy in the kitchen, brewing up something for one of his clients in the iron cauldron reserved for making potions.
“How was your day, honey?” Hexe asked as he stirred the bubbling concoction.
“Fairly productive,” I replied, setting the grocery sack on the kitchen table. “I would have been home sooner, but I stopped by Dumo’s to pick up a little something. Where’s Scratch?”
“What do
you
want?” The familiar sniffed, not bothering to get up from his resting place on the kitchen floor.
“I’m sorry I insulted you earlier today,” I apologized. “I brought you a peace offering.”
Scratch raised his head, ears perked and whiskers twitching. Suddenly I was the most interesting person he knew. “You brought me a present?”
“I hope this makes up for my being rude to you,” I said, removing a bundle wrapped in butcher paper from the grocery bag.
Scratch was on his feet faster than I could blink, his bloodred eyes the size of saucers. “Yeah, well, that depends on what you brought me,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the drool dripping from his lips.
The moment I tossed the package onto the floor, the winged cat jumped on it, tearing the paper with his claws and fangs, revealing a nice juicy cow’s heart. His mouth opened distressingly wide as he unhinged his jaw and swallowed the chunk of meat in a single gulp.
“You’re forgiven,” Scratch said as he licked his lips. “For
now
.”
“What have I told you about spoiling him?” Hexe chided.
“Hey,
somebody’s
got to!” Scratch grumbled. “All I ever get from
you
is that dry-ass Purina Familiar Chow.”
“So—how is Nessie?” Hexe asked as he took the cauldron off the boil.
“A tad frazzled, but that’s to be expected,” I replied, pouring myself a glass of green tea from the fridge. “She and Adrian have set the date for their wedding.”
“That’s nice,” Hexe said in a preoccupied tone of voice. He was busily sorting through the various jars of dried herbs, roots, and worts scattered along the kitchen shelves, in search of whatever ingredient it was that needed to be added while the potion cooled.
“Did I mention I’m her maid of honor?”
Hexe turned around, holding a bottle containing a pickled cobra. “Does this mean I have to go, too?”
“We’re a
couple
now,” I reminded him. “That means if
I
suffer,
you
suffer, and vice versa. At least
you
don’t have to wear the dress she picked out for the bridesmaids.” I grimaced and shuddered.
Further discussion concerning Vanessa’s wedding was derailed by the sound of someone hammering on the front door as if driving in a railroad spike. Hexe frowned and looked at me.
“Are you expecting a delivery?”
“Yeah, but not today,” I replied. “It’s probably one of your clients. Maybe someone got their nose turned into a balloon animal, or cursed with biohazard-quality halitosis?”
Hexe put a lid on the cauldron he was tending and hurried out of the kitchen. I tagged along after him, curious as to the reason for the frantic knocking. Hexe opened the front door, revealing our neighbor from across the street. Her name was Kama, and she was a witch-for-hire like Hexe, with a seafoam green bouffant and sequined harlequin glasses. She was on our front stoop, doing her best to keep the middle-aged human woman standing beside her from collapsing.
“Praise all the heavens! You’re home!” the sorceress exclaimed in relief. “I normally would have called before coming over, but there’s no time!”
“What’s the matter?”
“My client’s been afflicted with a Great Curse,” she explained. “I need help from a strong Right Hand if this poor woman is to survive.”
Kama’s client suddenly moaned in pain and clutched her abdomen, her sweaty face turning the color of oatmeal. She then vomited forth a handful of carpet tacks, which clattered across the hardwood floor of the foyer like the world’s worst game of jacks.
“We don’t have much time,” Hexe said grimly. “Follow me.”
Chapter 3
I
hurried ahead of Hexe and Kama, opening the door to the study for them as they maneuvered the feverish, semiconscious woman through the house. The walls of Hexe’s private office were covered with bookcases, and a stuffed crocodile hung from the ceiling like a coldblooded piñata.
“Put her down over there,” Hexe instructed, pointing to a red velvet fainting couch positioned under a taxi-dermied gorilla. “What’s her name?”
“Madelyn Beaman.”
“Madelyn, can you hear me?” Hexe asked in a loud, clear voice. The cursed woman groaned but otherwise did not respond. Hexe squeezed her hand until she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Did anyone give you something to eat or drink in the last two hours?”
Madelyn shook her head as if it took every ounce of energy to do so.
“She’s one of my regulars,” Kama explained as she knelt beside the suffering woman, gently combing the damp hair away from her brow. “She showed up on my doorstep ten minutes ago, complaining of severe nausea. I barely had time to diagnose her as being afflicted when she began to spit up bobby pins. That’s when I realized I was out of my depth.”
“If what she said is true about not ingesting anything, it means that whoever’s cursed her is using sympathetic magic,” Hexe said.
“Is that bad?” I asked nervously. The last time I’d seen anyone look as sick as Madelyn was when we’d gone to say good-bye to Great-aunt Florence in the cancer ward.