Right Hand Magic (3 page)

Two weeks later the movers arrived at my old apartment early in the morning and carried everything I owned into a van. The supervisor in charge of the load-out assured me that his crew would arrive at my new apartment by noon.

As I was sweeping out the corners of the emptied loft, there came a knock. I looked up to see Roger standing on the threshold of the open front door, holding a bouquet of roses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. I sighed and put aside the broom.

“What do you want?”

“I saw the moving van earlier,” he said sheepishly. “I just wanted to say good-bye before you left for good.”

“Thank you, Roger,” I said as I placed the flowers and wine on the kitchen counter. I had to admit that his going away present actually made me smile a little bit. If there was one thing Roger excelled at, it was making the romantic gesture. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“We had something really good going on, didn’t we?” he asked, staring at his feet as he scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor. He was playing the mawkish schoolboy card—his favorite way of getting around me, and one that usually worked, despite my better judgment.

“It was good for a while, yes,” I agreed. “But then it fell apart, Rog. You know that.”

“I really don’t know what to say, Tate, except I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel like I’m the one responsible for your leaving, and that’s tearing me up. ...”

“I’ll admit that what you did made giving up my loft a lot easier, but you’re not the reason I’m moving, Roger,” I replied. “Believe it or not, this wasn’t all about you.”

“I’m just worried about you,” he said, apparently shrugging off that last little dig. “Are you sure you’ll be okay living there? Golgotham’s a pretty sketchy neighborhood.”

“I appreciate the concern, but I’ll be fine.”

“Just do me a favor, as a friend, and watch your back, okay? What with all the freaks that live there . . . You don’t know whom you can trust.”

“So far I haven’t had to worry about Kymerans double-crossing me,” I said pointedly. “Now, if you don’t mind—I need to finish cleaning up so I can be at my new apartment in time for the movers.”

“Promise me if anything goes wrong and you end up needing help, you won’t hesitate to call.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Roger,” I lied as I closed the door behind him. “Thank you for stopping by.”

Once he was gone, I was free to turn my attention to tidying up the kitchen one last time. After I finished, I took the bouquet and bottle of wine and placed them inside the refrigerator, as my gift to whatever yuppie would end up moving in after me.

 

 

I looked out the window of my new apartment, searching the street in vain for some sign of the moving van. I then checked my cell phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was after three o’clock. Even giving the crew time for lunch and possible traffic tie-ups, there was no excuse for such a delay.

“Triple-A Aardvark Moving Company,” the receptionist announced cheerfully. “We’re number one in the book. How may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to Vinnie.”

“One moment, please.”

The receptionist’s chirpy voice was abruptly replaced by that of Vinnie, who talked as if everyone around him were slightly deaf.

“Yeah, whaizzit?” the mover growled.

“Vinnie, this is, uh, Tate. . . . You picked up my stuff this morning?”

“Yeah. Whattaya want?”

“I was calling to find out when your guys are going to show up? You said they’d be here by noon. ...”

“Oh, yeah! About dat ...” I could hear him riffling though papers on the other end of the line. “I’m afraid dere’s been a
problem
with yer delivery.”

The schadenfreude in the mover’s voice made my guts cinch. “What
kind
of problem?”

“My guys ain’t bringing yer stuff.”

“
What?!?
” I screamed into the receiver. “Why the hell not?”

“You see, when my driver plugged the address you gave ’im into his—whaddaya call it?—GPS, it came up Golgotham.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Well, we ain’t licensed to make deliveries to dat part of town. The streets down dere are too narrow to accommodate movin’ vans.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier?” I asked as I massaged the throbbing veins in my forehead. “The sales rep from your company didn’t say a thing about any of this!”

“Dat guy?” Vinnie chuckled nastily. “He ain’t workin’ here no more. Listen, lady, I don’t know what he told ya, and it don’t matter what he said, ’cause we don’t deliver dere. Never have, never will. If ya want yer stuff delivered, yer gonna hafta arrange for a second movin’ company to pick it up at da Relay Station over dere on South Street near da Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Then where’s my stuff? If it’s not on the way here, where the hell is it?”

“Don’t you worry. Everything’s sittin’ here in our warehouse, safe ’n sound. We’ll be storin’ it for ya until ya gets someone t’take it where it needs t’go. After dat, we’ll be happy t’drop it off at da Relay Station. Of course, we gotta charge ya storage fees. . . . ”

“What about the money I paid you to move my things in the first place?” I asked heatedly.

“Storage is different from movin’, lady.” Vinnie’s voice was as cold and blunt as a lead pipe. “Or wouldja rather we left yer stuff sittin’ out on da coib?”

As much as I wanted to give that smirking cretin a piece of my mind, I knew it would only turn a bad situation into a horrible one. I sighed in resignation. “Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yeah, ya do dat. Oh, and by th’ way—we charge for storage by th’ day. Have a nice day, and t’ank youse for usin’ Triple-A Aardvark Movin’. We’re number one in da book.”

“Damn it!”
Since I didn’t have anything to throw except my cell phone, I had to be satisfied with hopping up and down in a rage. “That no-good, lousy, stinkin’ son-of-a-bitch ...!”

“Hey! What’s going on in here? The chandelier downstairs is swinging like a pendulum.”

I looked up to see Hexe standing in the open door of my very empty apartment, watching me with a bemused look on his face.

“I’m sorry,” I replied sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to jump that hard. It’s just—damn it! The movers are holding everything I own hostage. My bed, my clothes, the tools I use in my work—
everything!
They’re holding my entire life for ransom!”

Hexe raised a purple eyebrow. “Who did you use?”

“Triple A . . . ”

“Let me guess the rest of the sentence—Aardvark Moving?”

“You know about them?”

“Yeah, I know about them,” he replied sourly. “They’re ‘number one in the book.’ They’re also notorious rip-off artists. They pull the same crap on everyone who moves to Golgotham. You didn’t pay them up front, did you?”

“I gave them half. They were to get the rest after they delivered my belongings.”

A thoughtful look crossed Hexe’s face. “I know a fellow in the moving business who can help you. He’s very good at what he does, but I warn you—he’s not cheap.”

I sat down on the window seat in my room to ponder the options open to me: either resign myself to being screwed over, talk to my landlord’s friend in the moving business, or call Daddy’s law firm and have them sue Vinnie’s back brace off.

But as rewarding as that latter option sounded, I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it. I was determined to strike out on my own, without relying on the family name and connections. And doing something like that would definitely be cheating.

“I’ll pay whatever it takes to get my stuff back.” I sighed. Since this move was already costing me more than expected, I decided I might as well see what Hexe’s friend could do. “Those douche bags are holding my sculptures hostage.”

“Then grab your coat. You’ll have to meet with him face-to-face.”

“Where are we going?” I asked as I slid into my jacket.

“You moved here to experience Golgotham’s unique atmosphere, right? Well, I’m taking you to the Rookery. It doesn’t get more atmospheric than that.”

With its narrow, twisting streets and alleyways, Golgotham was a world apart from the orderly grid-pattern and towering glass skyscrapers that made up the rest of Manhattan. Most of the buildings that lined the streets were tenements that dated back at least a century, the ground floors of which housed various commercial businesses. While the corner markets were no different from ones found in the rest of the city, the herbalists and alchemical supply stores clearly catered to the neighborhood’s unique inhabitants.

Hexe wound his way through the crowded sidewalks of Golgotham with the speed and certainty of someone who knew the route by heart. I followed in his wake, trying not to stare as we passed a trio of leprechauns sitting at a sidewalk patio. While the little men were all dressed in green, the clothes they wore were designer labels, and each had the latest Bluetooth headset affixed to his pointed ears.

One of the leprechauns noticed me looking in their direction and gave me the finger. I blushed and hurried to catch up with my native guide.

“When we first met, you said something about being a lifter—what is that, exactly?” I asked.

“A lifter removes curses for a living.”

“But I thought Kymerans only laid curses?”

Hexe shot me a sharp look from the corner of his golden eyes. “Not
all
of us. I don’t inflict curses on people. I refuse to practice Left Hand magic.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, waving away my apology. “Some of us work only Left Hand disciplines, and some work only the Right Hand. Truth of the matter is most Kymerans are jugglers, meaning they practice both Left and Right Hand magic. I’m what’s called a dexter—Right Hand only.”

“That’s commendable.”

“I’d make more money if I were willing to perform ligatures and mix up love potions for date rapists,” he replied with a humorless laugh. “That’s why my mother insisted on my taking over the boardinghouse—at least I’d have a place to sleep and a reliable income to fall back on. She doesn’t have the greatest faith in my career choice.”

“I can relate to that. My parents were less than thrilled when I told them I wanted to be a sculptor.”

Hexe gave me another, softer look, accompanied by a warm smile. “Nice to know we have something in common besides the same roof over our heads, Miss Tate.”

“Forget the whole ‘Miss’ business. Call me Tate, please
.
”

His smile grew warmer still. “Very well . . . Tate it is.”

The Rookery was located at the crooked crossroads where Skinner Lane intersected with Ferry, Vandercliffe, and Hag streets. Standing five stories tall and occupying an entire city block, it had once, centuries ago, been a brewery. After the original business closed up shop, the mammoth building became an indoor bazaar where Kymeran spellcasters, charm peddlers, potion pushers, and assorted oracles, of both the Right Hand and Left, gathered to offer their services to the human community.

The interior of the building had long been gutted of its machinery, and each floor was subdivided into smaller makeshift chambers. Some were the size of two-room apartments, while others were no bigger than a broom closet. While some had proper doors affixed to them, others were partitioned by a scrap of tapestry or a curtain of beads. It was here that those seeking to thwart a business rival, win the heart of an unwilling paramour, or punish a straying spouse sought their respective remedies.

The different floors were accessible only by a latticework of rickety wooden stairways and ladders that looked like the work of a drunken carpenter trying to re-create a spiderweb. I stared in awe as the inhabitants of the Rookery clambered back and forth on the hodgepodge network of tottering stairs like so many mountain goats.

The original beams and rafters met high overhead, and stray fingers of sunlight stabbed downward into the hazy darkness through breaks in the roof; otherwise the only light inside the building came from balls of blue-white witchfire that burned in a series of braziers on each floor. The air inside the converted brewery smelled of incense, smoke, and the unique, heady musk generated by hundreds of Kymeran bodies crammed into the same enclosed space.

“Come along.” Hexe motioned to me as he mounted a stairway that looked as though it should lead to a child’s tree house. “Faro does business on the third floor.”

The steps groaned mightily, as if on the verge of giving way, as I followed his lead. I held my breath and did not take another one until I reached the relatively sound footing of the third floor.

Double rows of rooms stretched from one end to the other, with narrow, winding passageways threaded throughout. Everywhere I looked I saw Kymerans, easily recognizable by their bizarrely colored hair. I’d never seen so many hot pink, electric blue, and bright green coiffures outside of a rave.