Left Hand Magic (29 page)

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Authors: Nancy A. Collins

BOOK: Left Hand Magic
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“That’s because I’m not going anywhere,” I replied, taking Hexe’s hand. “As I told you yesterday, I’m staying in Golgotham.”
Her scowl deepened even further. “Why would you want to live in such a backward place? The streets are full of horse-and-buggies and there are still gaslights on the corner!”
“You consider it ‘backward’—I find it charming, and not simply because it’s filled with witches and warlocks,” I replied.
“Greenport is ‘charming.’ New Orleans is ‘charming.’ Golgotham is a festering sewer filled with the dregs of society.”
“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing,” Scratch wisecracked.
My mother spun on her heel and headed toward the front door. “That’s it! I’ve had enough of this insanity! I refuse to stand here and be insulted by a naked cat!”
“I can go get dressed, if that would make you feel better.”
“Scratch! Please be quiet!” Hexe barked in exasperation. “You’re
not
helping!”
“I wasn’t
trying
to. But since you insist—I will retire from the conversation. Good
day
, madam,” the familiar sniffed as he unfurled his wings and flapped away.
“Now that all the talking animals have left the room,” my mother said with a sigh of relief, “perhaps we can discuss things in a calm and adult manner.”
“How so?” I countered. “There’s nothing to discuss, Mother. I’m not leaving Hexe, nor am I moving out of Golgotham.”
“Of all the selfish—! Your father and I didn’t put you through the finest schools on the East Coast simply for you to throw your future away on some Kymie curse-monger!”
“What
did
you send me to school for, Mother?” I replied hotly. “Oh, that’s right—a degree in fine arts! Are you saying you’d rather I be an artist than be in love with a Kymeran? Oh, and for your information: Hexe doesn’t deal in curses!”
My mother held up a hand, rolling her eyes in disgust. “
Please!
That’s like saying a bank only opens checking accounts and never handles foreclosures!”
“Despite what you might believe, not every Kymeran practices Left Hand magic, Mrs. Eresby,” Hexe said, using the long-suffering tone of voice he usually reserved for his more difficult clients. “I do not inflict curses or engage in what is commonly known as ‘black magic,’ as that would weaken my ability as a healer and worker of white magic.”
“Save it for someone who’ll believe you, Merlin,” my mother sneered. “You talk a good game—I’ll grant you that. You clearly have my daughter snowed. But if you think you’re going to worm your way into the Eresby family fortune, you’re sadly mistaken! And as for
you
, young lady,” she said, jabbing a finger at me, “if you want to play haunted house with your boy toy here, you’re going to find out just how much fun living together
isn’t
when you have to support yourself
and
him on whatever paycheck you can scrounge with that blessed fine arts degree of yours. Because, as of right now, you’re cut off
completely
from your trust fund. No more quarterly payments. Nada. Zip. Zilch.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Eresby, I can understand why you would be dubious as to my intentions concerning your daughter,” Hexe said earnestly. “But I want to assure you I have no interest in her money. I fell in love with Tate long before I learned who she ‘really’ was. She could be as poor as the lowliest beggar, and I would still feel the same way about her. I love her for
who
she is, not
what
she has.”
“Oh, please—don’t hand me that ‘true love’ bullshit,” she snorted. “That mother of yours is behind all this!”
“My mother—?” Hexe frowned in bafflement. “What does
she
have to do with any of this?”
“As if you don’t know,” she replied sourly. “Look, can’t you go spin straw into gold, or whatever the hell it is you people do? I would like to be able to speak to my daughter alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Honey, why don’t you show Daddy the garden?” I suggested helpfully. “I’m sure he’ll find it interesting.”
“You’ve got a backyard?” my father asked, his eyebrows arching in surprise. “In
this
neighborhood?”
“Appearances can be deceiving in Golgotham, Mr. Eresby,” Hexe replied as he led my father to the back door.
“So why did you want Hexe out of the room?” I asked. “Believe me, there’s nothing you can say in private that will change my mind.” As I turned back to face my mother, I saw her take what looked like a truncated blowpipe from her Hermès handbag. Before I could ask her what she was doing, she put one end to her mouth and suddenly I was enveloped in a thick cloud of white powder.
“What the hell—?!?” I coughed as the fine, chalky substance shot up my nose and filled my mouth. My eyes instantly started to burn and well with tears. Despite being momentarily blinded, I was still able to find my way to the half-bath under the staircase. “What are you chuffin’ doing, Mom?” I snapped, splashing water on my face.
“It’s okay, Timmy—it’s just a love potion counter-agent,” my mother said reassuringly. “There’s nothing to be worried about—you’re free now! Quick, run upstairs and get your things before he comes back! Your father and I will make sure you get out of here safely!”
“Holy crap, what is
wrong
with you?” I spat as I wiped the reversing powder from my swollen eyes. “I’m
not
under a spell! Hexe didn’t slip me a love potion or cast a come-hither over me! I’m
really
in love with the guy! And it’s because he’s a
good
man who understands me and accepts me for who I am!”
Instead of looking contrite, my mother merely sighed and shook her head in disappointment. “I should have known this stuff wouldn’t work. That’s what I get for buying off the Internet. Well, spells4less1965 can kiss their four-star seller recommendation good-bye after I get through with them!”
“Damn it, Mom! Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
“Of
course
I did, Timmy.” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I might’ve believed you, if I didn’t know his mother.”
“Yeah,
about
that . . .” I said, fixing her with a suspicious stare. “Exactly how
do
you know Lady Syra?”
She gave a short, humorless bark of a laugh. “ ‘Lady’? Is
that
what she calls herself now?”
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “Mom, where have you been? She’s the best-known Kymeran in the country. She has rock stars and billionaires as clients. She’s the official astrologer for the president, for crying out loud!”
“I realize your generation is plugged in to the ‘information superhighway’ like a toaster, but you know I don’t read anything outside the society pages.”
“For crying out loud! What did you do—buy a love potion from her?”
Instead of making her usual catty remark, my mother abruptly fell silent and dropped her gaze to the floor. While I have seen my mother a good many things in my lifetime, this was the first time I’d ever seen her chagrined.
“Oh. My. God.”
Just then my father hurried back into the room, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Millie! You simply
have
to see the backyard! It’s
amazing
! It’s at least an acre lot—in
downtown
!”
“I don’t care if he’s got the gardens of Versailles back there!” she snapped, quickly regaining her composure. “I’m ready to go home, Timothy. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
My father glanced at me, an uneasy look on his face. “Are you certain about that, Millicent?”
“She says she’s made her mind up,” my mother replied, tucking her purse firmly under her arm. “I think she’s old enough to live with the consequences of her decisions. Don’t you?”
My father shrugged and walked to the front door, patiently holding it open for my mother, as he had for as long as I could remember. She paused to cast a final look at me over her shoulder.
“Everyone likes to say ‘All you need is love.’ But the man who wrote that song was also a multimillionaire. See if you still feel the same way a year or two from now.”
I stood on the front stoop and watched my parents hurry back to their waiting cab—my mother walking with a quick, measured stride that indicated she was in no mood to talk to anyone, especially my father. She held her head high, doing her best not to look at the other pedestrians crowding the streets, but there was no disguising her distaste, especially in regard to the centaurs and other half-beasts. Funny, I had never realized she harbored such an abhorrence for farm animals before now. No doubt Clarence would be burning another bundle of designer clothes this evening in the penthouse incinerator.
All my life, my parents had held the family fortune over my head like a golden sword of Damocles. They weren’t unique in that, though. All the families in my peer group used money to control their children. And it worked, too. Most of the kids I grew up with viewed Upper-Middle Class as no different than Working Poor—and would do whatever was necessary to keep the trust funds flowing.
Still, I had grown up being told that Not Being Rich was the worst thing that could happen—with the Apocalypse a close second. As the realization that I was on my own without a safety net began to really sink in, I experienced a quick stab of panic, as if someone had slipped a stiletto between my ribs. For the briefest moment I was tempted to chase after my parents and beg their forgiveness like a frightened five-year-old. But then Hexe joined me on the stoop, sliding his arm about my waist, and my self-doubt disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived.
“Are you all right?” he asked gently.
“I’m as okay as I’m ever going to be,” I said.
“I kind of like your dad. Your mom, on the other hand, is . . . something else,” he said diplomatically. “Now I understand why you’ve been so tolerant of
my
family.”
“Every heaven help us next Thanksgiving,” I groaned.
“So—how does it feel to be poor?”
“To tell you the truth, it’s a little bit scary—but it’s also kind of liberating.” The Worst Thing That Could Ever Happen had finally occurred, and the ground hadn’t swallowed me whole, the sun hadn’t fallen out of the sky, and I was pretty sure the oceans hadn’t dried up. My parents were determined to teach me a lesson, but I was just as determined to prove that I was capable of making it on my own, whether my bank account had six zeroes or just one.
“Well, you know what they say”—I grinned as I took Hexe by the hand and led him back into the house—“bed is the poor man’s opera.”
Chapter 24
 
L
ater that afternoon, after Hexe and I had staged our own private version of
Salome
, I sat down and studied my checkbook in the cold light of newly acquired penury. The knowledge that once I paid my outstanding bills there would be no further income for the foreseeable future put a damper on my previous high spirits.
There was no way around it—I was going to have to economize. And, as bad luck would have it, Beanie had run out of puppy food. That meant a trek outside of Golgotham to the only pet store I could easily walk to: a trendy, overpriced shop in Tribeca called Baskerville’s.
I took the shopping cart out of the hallway closet, threw on my coat, and headed out the door. As I made my way toward Broadway, pulling the cart along behind me on its large back wheels, I found myself thinking about my mother and how she’d reacted when I joked about Lady Syra and the love potion. Now the joke had backfired on me, and it wasn’t funny at all.
Nobody
wants to imagine their parents “doing it.” That’s one of those things we all privately agree to ignore—like the amount of insect droppings allowed by law in our food—if we want to enjoy our lives as relatively functional individuals. We have hard evidence that our parents have had sex, since we ourselves exist, but no one wants to give too much contemplation as to exactly
how
that came about. Granted, the unexamined life is not worth living, but there
is
such a thing as Too Much Information.
Yet, despite this willful lacuna, we all want to believe that we were conceived in love. To think that we came into being as the result of a drunken fumble in a backseat and a torn rubber, or a sexual assault, or a calculated power play, diminishes us, as it rewrites our personal mythology from the ground up.
I will admit that I have often wondered why my parents were still together, given that most of their friends were on at least a second spouse, if not in the process of swapping out their third. I had always assumed there had been a time when they were truly in love with one another. But the thought that the only reason I existed was because my mother had sneaked a potion into my father’s martini while he wasn’t looking was a depressing one.
As I walked past the Emerald Spa, I glimpsed a special afternoon edition of the
Golgotham Gazette
on the newsstand. The headline read: SOA WITCH-BASHING VICTIM DIES OF INJURIES. Accompanying it was a photo of the slain alchemist, Jarl, taken in happier times. A cold finger traced its way between my shoulder blades as I recognized his face as that of the man with the apricot hair I’d seen in my dream earlier that morning, just before the demon tried to get inside the house.

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