Nancy Collins - Magic and Loss

“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 waterfront in Golgotham. He wanted to make an example to the others, so he sicced his familiar on some poor wretch. It was horrible.”

Hexe’s smile vanished like breath on a mirror. “Did he see you?”

“Yes,” I said quietly, shuddering as I replayed the moment over in my head.

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No, he just smirked and gave me this little wave,” I replied, unable to suppress a grimace of disgust. “I was so shook up, Canterbury sent me home for the day.”

“I thought I heard something interesting going on,” Scratch snarled, leaping from the kitchen floor to his usual perch atop the refrigerator. “I can’t believe that asshole has the balls to show his face again in Golgotham!”

“You mean Marz?” I asked.

“ Phfft! Screw Marz!” the familiar spat in disgust. “I’m talking about that jumped-up organ-grinder’s monkey! I kicked Bonzo’s baboon-butt so hard he teleported back home rather than risk getting killed in this dimension. Now that’s what I call a wuss!”

Whoever coined the term “absence makes the heart grow fonder” clearly had never met Boss Marz. Over the next few days the Maladanti quickly picked up from where they had left off, collecting “tribute” from the businesses along the waterfront and the brothels and cabarets of Duivel Street.

The return of the Maladanti was not felt just by the citizens of Golgotham; the twunts who had come to know the red-light district only during the crime cartel’s eclipse were swiftly and roughly schooled as to what was considered proper decorum in the gentlemen’s clubs under their “protection.”

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. After that creepy little smile he gave me at the Fly Market, I was convinced Marz had something villainous planned for us. But no one left a decapitated goat’s head on our doorstep or attempted to curse me. I guess Boss Marz was simply too busy trying to reestablish his hold on Golgotham to waste time and energy on personal revenge.

Still, despite the Maladanti’s apparent disinterest in us, Scratch continued his nightly patrols, and I never took off the protective glad eye amulet Hexe created for me. Better safe than sorry. I’ll admit I was initially anxious, but after enduring jealous ex-girlfriends trying to curse me, being attacked by soulless homunculi, and having my arm broken by a demon, I had built up a pretty thick skin, and once several days had gone by and the crime lord had yet to make a move, I decided I had better things to do than worry about what Boss Marz’s evil plan might be.

So I put on my welder’s helmet and fired up my torch and threw myself headlong into my work. The Maladanti be damned, I had a project to finish and I wasn’t going to let a bunch of spellslinging goons in bad suits screw with my deadline. For the next month, Canterbury and I put in long, arduous hours every day of the week. I came home so exhausted I could barely take off my clothes before crawling into bed.

We finished the installation at the end of March, less than a week before the Jubilee. Even replicated in reduced scale, it still took three brawny Clydesdale-sized centaurs and six ipotane drovers to load and haul the crates containing the clockwork dragon to its new home. On the day of the delivery Canterbury led the convoy from the shop, hitched to a cart containing our welding equipment and other tools, while I rode shotgun with Fabio, the head drover.

The Museum of Supernatural History, located on the corner of Nassau Street and Maiden Lane, towers ominously over the surrounding buildings like some ancient temple dedicated to a long-forgotten god. It is set atop a thirteen-hundred-foot-square granite-clad concrete platform that covers an entire city block. A fifty-foot-wide, three-hundred-step staircase leads to a pair of huge bronze doors embossed with scenes depicting such ancient heroes as Chiron, Pan, and Arum. To the right of the stairs are six forty-foot-tall marble statues of Kymerans, male and female, in historical dress, while on the left are arrayed six rampant jade battle-dragons.