Right Hand Magic (10 page)

“Okay! Okay! You win! Five thousand it is!” Ottershaw snapped. “It’s not as if I have a choice in the matter, is it?”

“No, you don’t,” Hexe agreed as he reached inside the desk and removed a wireless handheld credit card terminal. “Will that be credit or debit, sir?”

I blinked, taken aback by the sudden intrusion of modern technology in the middle of a conversation about curses, sorcery, and the casting of spells.

“Credit,” Mr. Ottershaw replied as he fussed with the clasp of the horsehair sporran hanging from the front of his kilt. “Give me a second. . . . It’s somewhere in this damned fuzzy purse. . . . Is MasterCard okay?”

“I take everything except Diners Club.”

 

 

“So . . . are most of your clients like this guy?” I asked.

Hexe laughed without looking up from the cauldron he was stirring. We had withdrawn to the kitchen, leaving Mr. Ottershaw to ogle the pickled monkey’s paw and other oddities in the study while we concocted the potion needed to counteract the curse. I say “we,” but in reality Hexe was the one doing all the work. All I did was hand him jars full of dried herbs and less identifiable items when he asked for them.

“He’s pretty typical. Most curses are more embarrassing than deadly—more like elaborate practical jokes, really. For example, an angry wife makes her cheating hubby’s junk look like a balloon animal; a jealous man inflicts horrendous bad breath on his romantic rival; someone arranges for the coworker in the cubicle beside him to develop Tourette’s. Hand me that jar of dried frog feet, will you? Thanks.

“These curses might be socially awkward, but, in the end, they’re far from life threatening. They’re also the curses easiest to lift, because they’re normally cast by jugglers—Kymerans who use both Left and Right Hand magic. Because the caster is ambidextrous, the curse is rarely dark enough to do any real damage.

“But I also get victims of genuinely malevolent curses—where they vomit up sharp objects, like pins and needles, or are compelled to bite themselves or murder their own children. Those cases are extremely difficult to turn widdershins. Hand me that jar of fly agaric, please. . . .

“The reason those are harder to lift is because the caster is usually a necromancer. They practice nothing
but
Left Hand magic, and because of that, their curses tend to be very dark, and very, very strong.

“Luckily, Mr. Ottershaw’s enemy—whoever he or she might be—was only interested in hindering him, not harming him. I suspect he or she simply nicked down to Witch Alley during lunch and paid fifty bucks to have him ‘inconvenienced.’ I need the peppered lark’s tongue—no, not that bottle, the one next to it.”

“And you’re charging five thousand to lift a fifty-dollar curse?”

“I
was
going to charge him a thousand, but then he asked me to curse someone. Now he qualifies for the douche-bag rate.”

“So why did you tell him you needed me to sit in on your ‘consult’?”

Hexe shrugged his shoulders. “I have clients coming in and out at all hours, and I thought it might be good if you got an idea of what I do for a living.”

“Really? You mean you didn’t do it just to impress me with your wizardly ways?”

“How is keeping a man from pissing his pants going to impress you?” he laughed.

“Hey, I’m easily amused.”

 

 

Mr. Ottershaw was standing in front of a glass-fronted bookshelf, frowning at a shrunken head that bore an uncanny resemblance to Elvis. He jumped as we returned to the room.

“Here—drink this,” Hexe said, handing him a ram’s horn cup full of the potion. “Drink it fast, while it’s still warm. You’re going to want to throw it up—don’t. As bad as it is going down, it’s even worse coming up.”

Mr. Ottershaw stared dubiously at the viscous grayish green liquid. He did not look happy. “What’s in it?”

“If I told you, it would just scare you.”

Steeling himself, Mr. Ottershaw took a deep breath, closed his eyes, held his nose, and tossed back the potion. He gagged and hurled the ram’s horn to the floor.

“Mother of God! That’s the filthiest crap I’ve ever had to drink in my life!” he moaned. He pointed a trembling finger at Hexe. “If this doesn’t work, Kymeran, I want my money back!”

“It’ll work,” Hexe assured him. “Of course, it’ll be two or three hours before it takes full effect. ...”

“Two or three hours?” Mr. Ottershaw glanced at his wristwatch. “My presentation is in an hour and a half! I can’t show up wearing a kilt!”

“I have good news for you, Mr. Ottershaw. I’m willing to throw in a pair of magic pants that you can wear without fear of micturition, at no extra charge.”

“
Magic pants?
You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” Ottershaw groaned.

Hexe pulled a small wooden sea chest from one of the bookshelves. From it he removed a pair of men’s trousers unlike any I’d seen before. They were made of purple velvet and decorated with countless tiny mirrors.

“Are you nuts?” Mr. Ottershaw yelped. “I’m not wearing that monstrosity! At least with the kilt I just look like I’m Scottish, not a freaking disco ball!”

“Granted, they are somewhat unconventional,” Hexe agreed. “But the mirrors that cover the pants are enchanted. Not only do they deflect the curse that was inflicted upon you, but once you put them on, those around you will only see what they expect to see—in your case, a nice pair of conservative suit trousers, nothing more. You’ll be protected from fouling yourself, and your junk will no longer be at the mercy of updrafts.”

“What the hell—at this point, I’m willing to risk it,” Mr. Ottershaw said, snatching up the mirrored pants. “This kilt chafes like a bear!”

After a quick visit to the powder room under the staircase, Mr. Ottershaw emerged dressed in his glorious magic pants. The myriad mirrors caught and refracted the low light from the armadillo lamp, bouncing it back upon itself until I had to avert my gaze. When I looked again, I was surprised to see a pair of staid, slate gray trousers with a razor-sharp pleat in their place.

“Wow!” I breathed. “They really work!”

“Of course they work,” Hexe said proudly.

Mr. Ottershaw checked his watch again. “I’d better leave—I have to get back to the office in time for that presentation.”

“Good luck, sir. And I appreciate your business today,” Hexe said, sliding a card into Mr. Ottershaw’s pocket. “Please don’t hesitate to recommend me to your friends and colleagues.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mr. Ottershaw replied uneasily.

“Allow me to see you to the door. ...”

As Hexe and I watched Mr. Ottershaw leave, it occurred to me that if he was trying to get back to the financial district, he was headed in the wrong direction.

“Where’s he going?” I asked.

“If I had to guess, I would say he’s headed for Witch Alley,” Hexe replied. “No doubt in search of someone willing to curse the unfortunate Mr. Boyland on the cheap.”

“You’re right,” I grunted. “He
is
a douche bag.”

“That’s probably why someone cursed him in the first place.” Hexe sighed wistfully. “I suppose I should have mentioned that the enchantment on those pants is good for only two hours at a time. Oh, well—he’ll find out for himself.”

Although I was no longer frightened of Lukas, it was still kind of weird living under the same roof as a were-cougar. I’ve had unsavory neighbors before—this
was
New York, after all—but knowing your housemate changes into a bloodthirsty hell-beast is a lot different than suspecting the dude down the hall from you sells X.

Instead of dwelling on being murdered in my own bed, I opted to throw myself into my work. I had a show coming up, and I needed to finish the last two pieces on time. Being killed by a were-cat would be a walk in the park compared to dealing with an irate gallery owner—especially one as influential as Derrick Templeton.

I work in metal, sculpting fully articulated, life-sized human figures out of electrical conduit, transmission parts, plumbing pipe, and twenty-gauge steel. Unlike conventional sculpture, they’re fully poseable. I landed the show in Chelsea on the strength of my prototype,
The Dying Gaul
.

I suspect my parents’ dislike of my being an artist had more to do with the discipline I chose than an intrinsic distaste for the medium itself. After all, my father wrote sizable checks to the Guggenheim and the Whitney every year. There might even be a wing with his name on it at MoMA, come to think of it.

Had I chosen to become a painter or a photographer, they might have been willing to accept my decision, but being a sculptor was simply beyond the pale. What with my oxyacetylene equipment, steel-toe boots, overalls, and welder’s helmet, I might as well have been a blue-collar worker. At least that was my mother’s opinion. Then again, she also thought Roger was suitable son-in-law material simply because his father was a cardiologist and his mother a psychiatrist.

The last time I went to dinner with her, she actually called me “Rosie the Riveter.” That was my mom: always on the cutting edge of culture. I’m surprised she didn’t throw in a “twenty-three skidoo” for good measure.

I was in the middle of crafting a hip joint from a Dodge transmission when I heard a loud thump outside my door. I turned off my torch and flipped back my helmet in time to hear a string of profanity coming from the hallway.

I opened the door to find Lukas sprawled on the floor outside the bathroom. Although I should have been concerned to see a were-cat near my door, I couldn’t muster even the tiniest amount of dread. Frankly, it’s impossible to fear someone dressed in
Star Wars
pajamas a half size too small.

“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed as I hurried to his side. “What are you doing out of bed, Lukas?”

“I just wanted to go to the bathroom by myself, instead of using the bedpan,” he explained. “I managed to get there on my own . . . but coming back . . . my legs gave out from under me. ...”

“Let me help you up,” I said, sliding my arm behind his back. “Are you able to stand?”

He nodded weakly. “I think so . . . but I feel dizzy. ...”

“Come into my room and sit down—I’ll go fetch Hexe.”

“No, don’t bother him,” Lukas insisted. “I’m a nuisance enough as it is.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said as I guided him to the easy chair on the “living” side of my space, safely removed from my workbench and tools. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because it’s
true.
” The young were-cat sighed. “I’m taking Hexe away from his paying clients. And I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me, either, after I traumatized you in the garden. . . . ”

“I’ll admit you scared the shit out of me.” I smiled. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself ‘traumatized.’ Who told you that?”

“Scratch.”

“Yeah, well, you really shouldn’t give anything Scratch tells you too much credence. He says shit like that to everyone—that’s just his style. I should know. You are
not
a nuisance, Lukas.” I could tell from the look in his eye that the boy didn’t believe me, so I decided to change the subject. “Anyway, I’m impressed that you made it that far on your own steam. That means you’re healing. Maybe you’ll be ready to go back home soon.”

Lukas dropped his eyes to the floor. “Great,” he mumbled.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked, surprised by his response. “Don’t you want to go back home?”

“Of course I do.” He sighed. “It’s just that I don’t think home wants me back.”

“You’re kidding, right? Your parents must be out of their minds with worry over you!”

“I doubt it. I’m sure they’ve forgotten they ever had a son by now.”

It suddenly occurred to me that no one runs away to New York City just to see the sights, no matter what they say, even if they’re a were-cat. “So the stuff you said about coming to New York to mark fresh trees, that was all bullshit, wasn’t it?”

“Not all of it,” Lukas admitted sheepishly. “But it’s not the real reason I left the preserve. I love my family, and I love my people. But life on the preserve can be . . . difficult.

“My father is an alpha.
His
father was an alpha, as was
his
father before him. Me? I am so not an alpha. I’ve always tried to live up to what my dad—and my mom, she’s an alpha, too—expect from me. It’s been hard, because I just don’t have it in me, you know? Dad says I think too much, instead of relying on my instincts.

“There’s this female in our village the same age as I am. Her name’s Yvonne. We were cubs together. She’s got the prettiest fur. . . . Anyway, we grew up together on the preserve. I liked her and she liked me. Then she went into season. ...”

“Girl trouble, huh?” I rolled my eyes. “I think I know where this is going.”

“Suddenly Konrad comes sniffing about. He’s big and stupid and treats everyone else like shit and ...”