Nancy Collins - Magic and Loss

I awoke, as usual, to the sound of the alarm clock, the smell of bacon, and the sight of a winged hairless cat curled up beside me. I yawned and stretched as I swung my feet out of bed, glancing at the darkness outside my window. Still yawning, I made my way to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, I returned to find the previously mentioned butt-naked bat-winged feline sprawled full-length across the bed like a bolster.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” I chided the familiar as I put on my work clothes.

“You lose, I snooze,” Scratch replied, eyes still shut.

As I headed downstairs, the aroma of breakfast grew stronger. I entered the kitchen and saw Hexe, my landlord and lover—and, oh yeah, heir to the Kymeran throne—standing in front of the antique stove, dressed in nothing but a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and an apron that said KISS THE COOK. He was frantically shaking a couple of cast-iron skillets, while our Boston terrier, Beanie, sat planted at his feet, intently watching every move, just in case an errant molecule of food might find its way to the floor.

I obeyed the apron and planted a big old sloppy smooch on my six-fingered cook. I glanced down at the stove top and saw that one pan contained yummy, yummy bacon and scrambled eggs, while the other held a grayish slice of what could charitably be described as pâté frying in a half-inch of grease.

“What’s that?” I asked, cautiously eyeing the slab of mystery meat. One of the first things I had learned upon moving to Golgotham was that Kymerans had a far more, ahem , adventuresome palate than that of the average human, and exhibited a fondness for foods that would make even the most daring gastronome think twice. I took it as a testament of Hexe’s love for me that he was willing to make a traditional “human” breakfast every morning and send me off to work with a neatly packed lunch pail that didn’t contain such Kymeran staples as lutefisk sandwiches and white fungus soda.

“It’s scrapple,” he explained cheerfully, tossing a lock of purple hair out of his eyes with a practiced toss of his head. “It’s made from hog offal—the heart, snouts, liver, that kind of stuff—mixed with cornmeal and seasonings. Want some? It’s really good with maple syrup, ketchup, and horseradish.”

“That’s okay, honey,” I replied, pushing aside the flutter in my stomach. “Some other time, perhaps. I think I’ll stick to my usual this morning.”

“You got it!” Hexe grinned as he snatched the other skillet off the burner and slid its contents onto a waiting plate. “Your coffee’s already on the table.”

“You really spoil me,” I said with a laugh as I sat down. “None of my other boyfriends ever made breakfast for me, much less every day.”

“That’s because your other boyfriends sucked,” he replied as he flipped over the square of scrapple.

“True, that,” I agreed as I nibbled on my bacon—crisp as always, just the way I like it.

“Besides, it’s only right that I make your breakfast and fix your lunch. After all, you’re the one bringing home the steady paycheck.”

“You lift curses and concoct potions for your clients,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m self-employed. I never know what I might make on any given day. You’re the one putting in ten hours a day, six days a week, to support us.”

“Speaking of which, I better get going,” I said, washing down my last bite of scrambled eggs with a slug of French roast and chicory. “If I’m not punched in by seven, Canterbury will be champing at his bit.”

“What time do you think you’ll be home?” Hexe asked as he handed me my lunch pail.

“Hard to say,” I replied with a sigh. “The deadline for that installation we’ve been working on is coming up fast, and we’re nowhere near finished yet. What about you? Do you have any clients lined up for today?”

“Just some salves and ointments, that’s all. Oh, that reminds me—here’s that liniment Canterbury asked me to mix up for him,” he said, handing me a bottle wrapped in twine and butcher paper. “Tell him to keep it below the waist, if he knows what’s good for him.”

As I stepped out onto the front stoop Hexe gave me my usual off-to-work kiss, a public display of affection guaranteed to scandalize the Blue Hairs, and I don’t just mean old Madam Yaya, who lived across the street. The traditional Aristocrat class of Kymeran society, the same ones who were far from pleased by the fact Hexe’s biological father was a member of the Servitor class, had made no secret that they disapproved of their Heir Apparent taking up with a—gasp!—human, even one with magical powers.

The dawn’s first blush was lightening the morning sky as I made my way through Golgotham’s winding cobblestone streets, passing shopkeepers cranking out the awnings above their stores in anticipation of another day of business. I shook my head, thinking about how many times I had witnessed such early-morning rituals while staggering home to bed after a night on the town. A year ago if anyone had told me that I would find myself romanced by a Kymeran warlock prince, disowned by my parents, and working a blue-collar job to pay the bills, I’d have laughed in his face. But here I am, knee-deep in love and gainfully employed—all for the very first time.

When I came to this ancient, exotic part of the city, all I was looking for was cheap rent and someplace where I could bang away on my metal sculptures without my neighbors trying to evict me. And, to be honest, I also sought out Golgotham because I knew my douche bag of an ex would be too chickenshit to follow me. At the time, I was on the verge of making a real name for myself, with an established gallery opening in my pocket. . . .

But there’s no point in dwelling on that. What’s done is done, and I wouldn’t change what happened, even if it were within my power to do so. My dreams of breaking onto the New York art scene might be delayed, but for the first time in my life I truly felt like I was where I belonged—although there are those who would argue that point.

There is no denying that my decision to move to Golgotham had repercussions. Many consider me responsible for establishing a beachhead for the recent influx of human artists and hipsters who have made the neighborhood the newest hot spot in the city. But then, Golgotham has changed me, as well—as evidenced by my recently acquired ability to bring the things I build to life. I don’t know whether my relocating to Golgotham awakened a latent power within me, but there’s no denying that I’ve got magic now. Who’s to say where it came from? For all I know I caught it from a toilet seat.

My daily walk to work was just long enough to qualify as exercise, and helped me clear my mind and organize my thoughts for the day ahead. However, as I strolled past the local newsstand, I made the mistake of glancing at the headline of that morning’s Golgotham Gazette : MACHEN ARMS SOLD TO CHECKMATE PROPERTIES.

Great. Just freaking wonderful. Things had finally calmed down after the race riots and the Sons of Adam panic, and now this . Golgothamites were worried enough about gentrification without Ronald Chess, the most rapacious real estate developer in the Triboroughs, snapping up an apartment building. This was exactly the kind of thing Hexe’s race-baiting uncle, with his Kymeran Unification Party separatist group, used to whip up fear and resentment against humans.