Left Hand Magic (30 page)
Authors: Nancy A. Collins
It’s funny how not having enough money makes you keenly aware of things you never noticed before. Like the price of dog food, for example. The last time I’d bought Beanie his puppy kibble at Baskerville’s, I didn’t really notice how much it cost, and I especially didn’t notice the price on the large, twenty-pound bags. I just threw it in the cart, along with an armload of cute squeak toys, and took it to the checkout counter. There was no thinking about it; I just
did
it.
did
it.
Now I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time staring at the price tag, then glancing at the slightly cheaper brands. On the one hand, I wanted to provide the best nutrition possible for Beanie, without detrimental by-products, so he would grow up to be healthy and strong; on the other hand, he’s just a dog—how would he know the difference? Hell, he licks his own ’nads. But in the end I did the right thing and loaded the huge bag of expensive kibble into the cart. It made sense that keeping him healthy was a good investment, if it meant not having to make a lot of trips to the vet down the line. And if he got tired of this stuff—tough shit. He could buy something else with his dog dollars.
As I headed to the checkout counter, I glimpsed a familiar figure in the cat food section. It was none other than my downstairs neighbor—and fellow human—Aloysius Manto. He was standing in the middle of the aisle, studying the ingredients of a can of gourmet cat food, his thick reading glasses perched perilously close to the end of his long nose.
Mr. Manto was an oracle who, along with his brace of house cats, lived in the basement apartment of the boardinghouse, amid a jumble of books and magazines that would put most libraries to shame. But instead of being a bibliophile, Mr. Manto practiced a form of divination known as bibliomancy, which involved his taking pages from random books, tearing them into progressively smaller quarters, mixing them together, and then piecing them into prophecy, all while high as a kite. That’s how he predicted my using my animated sculptures as an impromptu army in order to free Lukas from Boss Marz’s fighting pit.
“Mr. Manto—what are you doing here?”
Instead of pushing his glasses into place, the oracle simply tilted his head farther back so that he could see who had addressed him. He was dressed, as always, in a pair of baggy men’s trousers held up by leather suspenders, a frayed cable-knit cardigan, and a dress shirt with a tie so skinny it was anorexic. A dark gray fedora sat atop his head, hiding his balding scalp, so that all that was visible was the fringe of gray-white hair about his ears.
“Hello, my dear—good to see you again,” he said in a sepulchral, Midwestern monotone. “As to what I am doing here, I frequent this establishment once a month to buy provisions for my krewe of feline confederates.” He turned and dropped the can he had been studying into the shopping cart beside him, where it joined at least a dozen others. “They can be quite insistent when it comes to being fed.” He smiled and gestured to the wolf-sized bag of kibble in my own basket. “I am pleased you’ve been reunited with the errant Beanie.”
“How did you know—?” I rolled my eyes and gave my forehead a slap. “Duh.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t divine that particular bit of information,” he said with a chuckle. “I know your puppy ran away because Scratch came knocking at my door in search of him. By the by, I was curious as to whether the rest of the prophecy has come to pass.”
“What do you mean ‘the rest of it’?” I frowned. “I thought it had already come true. You know, the part about the woman-forged army freeing the beasts.”
“You mean ‘
rise shall a fire-born army forged of woman to the bestiarii free
,’” the oracle said aloud in a stentorian monotone loud enough to make other shoppers look in our direction. “That was but a portion of what I divined. The rest goes as such: ‘
Drown will the streets the usurped in blood no mercy for his flesh show. From two will be one turned three. The hand is in the mind
.’” As he recited the remainder of the prophecy, our fellow pet owners began casting sidelong glances at us as if we’d escaped from a loony bin.
rise shall a fire-born army forged of woman to the bestiarii free
,’” the oracle said aloud in a stentorian monotone loud enough to make other shoppers look in our direction. “That was but a portion of what I divined. The rest goes as such: ‘
Drown will the streets the usurped in blood no mercy for his flesh show. From two will be one turned three. The hand is in the mind
.’” As he recited the remainder of the prophecy, our fellow pet owners began casting sidelong glances at us as if we’d escaped from a loony bin.
“I don’t know if it’s come true or not,” I replied with a shrug. “But I’m pretty sure I’d remember streets full of blood, so I’m going to say it hasn’t. But to tell you the truth, I haven’t really given it much thought.”
“It is the nature of prophecies that one often does not remember or understand them until it is almost too late. That is because Fate resents attempts by mortals to pierce its veil, and is always trying to snatch back its mysteries by clouding the minds of man. But when the time comes, Apollo willing, the words of the prophecy will come to you, and you shall understand their meaning.”
As I turned to go, leaving the old oracle to his shopping, a thought suddenly crossed my mind. “Mr. Manto . . . how can you tell the difference between a dream and a vision?”
“That’s a good question,” he said, tapping his upper lip with a bony forefinger. “In my experience, dreams come from within, and are triggered by something you have experienced or are concerned about. They are the result of your subconscious speaking to you, using symbols that hold special meaning for you, and the outcome of which you control on a certain level. A vision, however, comes from without, and you have no power over when it begins or ends, or the symbolism it uses to communicate its meaning. Dreams are often a rehash of things that have gone before, while visions give insights as to things yet to come, or attempt to reveal knowledge otherwise hidden from you.”
“Does it mean anything if I see dead people in these dreams or visions?”
The oracle raised an eyebrow. “Have you lost anyone recently? A family member or close friend, perhaps?”
“I know three people who have died in the last week or so, actually. One of them quite horribly. I barely knew two of them—but, yes, I would call them friends.” I then described what I had seen in both of my dreams. When I’d finished, the oracle nodded sagely.
“It makes sense that your friends were capable of talking directly to you the first time, but incapable of speaking in the second,” he said. “The longer the dead are departed from the material world, the harder it is for them to speak directly to the living. When they try to do so, it usually comes out garbled. That’s why most people have to use a spirit medium to communicate with those who have been deceased for more than a couple of days. Tell me—were you prone to such dreams before you moved to Golgotham?”
“No, never.”
“Very interesting. When we first met, I thought perhaps you had a touch of the uncanny in you. Many artistic types do, you know. That’s why people like Picasso, Mozart, and Fellini were fascinated by Kymeran culture—it resonated with them. It’s also why humans with abilities such as mine—oracles, mediums, dowsers, and the like—have made our homes here. Being surrounded by magic strengthens our gifts. My powers are far stronger here than anywhere else I ever lived, including New Orleans. And that’s saying something.”
“That’s all very interesting, Mr. Manto—but what does it mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious, my dear?” the oracle replied, blinking his rheumy eyes in surprise. “You’re being warned that whoever murdered your friends is trying to kill you, too.”
Chapter 25
“A
re you
sure
he wasn’t tripping when he told you that?” Hexe said with a frown. He was seated at the desk in his office, poring over an old manuscript for hints on banishing demons.
re you
sure
he wasn’t tripping when he told you that?” Hexe said with a frown. He was seated at the desk in his office, poring over an old manuscript for hints on banishing demons.
“No. But would it make any difference if he was? You know him better than I do.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “Aloysius comes from a long line of oracles, and is exceptionally gifted. That’s why my grandfather allowed him to move into the basement, fifty years ago. He said all Witch Kings need an oracle, and there wasn’t one better than Mr. Manto. I know my mother still consults with him now and again, as well. If Aloysius says Quid, Gus, and Bayard were murdered, and all by the same person, then it must be true.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” I protested, as I flopped down in the chair opposite his desk. “We
know
who killed Quid. Those Sons of Adam assholes beat him to death on YouTube for the whole world to see. But those knuckle-draggers don’t seem to have the smarts to do something as subtle as arranging for Bayard’s hot shot. And ever since the riot, most Golgothamites have become a lot more sensitive to humans hanging around, so I can’t imagine these bozos being able to get close enough to Gus to throw him into the river, no matter
how
drunk he might have been. Plus, why would they go out of their way to take credit for attacking Jarl and Quid, but make Bayard and Gus’s deaths look like accidents? It doesn’t seem to be their style.”
know
who killed Quid. Those Sons of Adam assholes beat him to death on YouTube for the whole world to see. But those knuckle-draggers don’t seem to have the smarts to do something as subtle as arranging for Bayard’s hot shot. And ever since the riot, most Golgothamites have become a lot more sensitive to humans hanging around, so I can’t imagine these bozos being able to get close enough to Gus to throw him into the river, no matter
how
drunk he might have been. Plus, why would they go out of their way to take credit for attacking Jarl and Quid, but make Bayard and Gus’s deaths look like accidents? It doesn’t seem to be their style.”
“I agree,” Hexe said thoughtfully. “And what do they have to do with the demon? We’d originally assumed it was sent as retaliation for you being a spy. Dori’s claims that she sold the binding amulet that the demon dropped to a Kymeran with a KUP pin seem to confirm that suspicion. But if what Mr. Manto says is true . . . I just can’t see this Cain fellow paying to have a sorcerer summon something as dangerous—and pricey—as a Knight of the Infernal Court. And even if he
did
do all that, why would he sic it on a fellow human? Last time I checked, the SOA was in the Kymeran-hating business.”
did
do all that, why would he sic it on a fellow human? Last time I checked, the SOA was in the Kymeran-hating business.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted with a sigh. “Maybe Cain knows me—or thinks he does, anyway. I told you that I had a funny feeling I’d seen his face before. Maybe he’s someone I went to school with. Or he works for my family in some capacity. But one thing I am certain of—all this has something to do with the favor I paid back to Quid. I never would have met Bayard and Gus otherwise. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. But it still doesn’t explain Jarl. I’d never spoken to him while he was alive, and the only time I’d seen him in the flesh, his face was pounded to hamburger. So how would I have known what he looked like in my dream if it wasn’t a vision?”
“But Jarl
was
attacked by the same people who killed Quid,” Hexe pointed out. “That’s the only connection we have. What was Jarl doing in your vision?”
was
attacked by the same people who killed Quid,” Hexe pointed out. “That’s the only connection we have. What was Jarl doing in your vision?”
“Well, some of it was kind of weird, like a regular dream. Like him feeding eggs to a dragon, for example.”
Instead of laughing, Hexe sat up straighter in his seat.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Does that mean anything?”
“I hope not,” he said grimly. “Dragons are the symbol of the royal family. We should visit Jarl’s widow, Ruby, and ask her a few questions to find out if there was a connection of any sort between her husband and Quid outside of their being attacked by the same men. We’ll need to bring a token of our respect for the departed.”
“You mean flowers or a wreath? It’s too late in the year for something from the garden, I’m afraid,” I pointed out. “But we can stop by a florist’s on the way.”
“Kymerans don’t use flowers to honor the dead,” Hexe said, stepping out into the backyard. I watched, perplexed, as he knelt down and dug about in one of the plant beds until he found a walnut-sized piece of rock. “Flowers die. Stone, however, lasts for eternity.”
According to the latest edition of the
Golgotham Pages
, a comprehensive listing of the various sorcerers, witches, and other practitioners who offered their skills for sale, Jarl had operated out of his home on Pearl Street, located between Dover and Ferry Streets, near Pickman’s Slip. The neighborhood was composed largely of Kymerans and leprechauns, who lived in tightly packed tenement buildings within easy walking distance of the Rookery.
Golgotham Pages
, a comprehensive listing of the various sorcerers, witches, and other practitioners who offered their skills for sale, Jarl had operated out of his home on Pearl Street, located between Dover and Ferry Streets, near Pickman’s Slip. The neighborhood was composed largely of Kymerans and leprechauns, who lived in tightly packed tenement buildings within easy walking distance of the Rookery.
It was already dark by the time we arrived at Jarl’s apartment. Hexe pressed the smudged button on one of the call boxes outside the building, and was rewarded a few seconds later by a corresponding buzz from the front door. He swung it open, ushering me ahead of him.
The foyer of the tenement was cramped, with scuffed tile floors and an ornate pressed-tin ceiling that dated back to when whalebone stays were all the rage. Since Jarl’s widow lived on the third floor, and there was no elevator, we had to climb the unlighted staircase that penetrated the middle of the building. The steps were clad in marble, which had been worn down in the middle by generations of passing feet.
Each narrow landing had four doors opening onto it, and from behind them could be heard a jumbled mix of muted voices, loud music, and rattling pipes. The smell of Kymeran cooking was so thick you could literally see it coiling about in the uncirculated air like a phantom octopus. As we reached the second floor, we had to squeeze to one side to allow a nymph dressed in a Hooters uniform to hurry down the stairs.
The dead alchemist’s apartment was one that looked out onto the street, and was easily identified by the black crepe wreath hung just below the transom. Hexe knocked on the door and a few seconds later we heard the dead bolts being unlocked. The door opened a few inches and I glimpsed Jarl’s widow, Ruby, peering out anxiously at us. She looked even sadder than the last time I’d seen her. Her violet-colored eyes widened at the sight of Hexe standing in the hall. She gasped and quickly shut the door again. There was the sound of more unlocking, and then the door swung open.
“You honor our home, Serenity,” Ruby said.
The first thing I noticed as I entered the apartment was the bathtub in the kitchen. Wedged between an ancient Kelvinator and an antique woodstove, it was made of cast iron and had claw feet, like the ones in the boardinghouse. A large wooden lid covered the tub, converting it into a tabletop, across which was scattered a collection of beakers, crucibles, mortars, and pestles. The walls of the kitchen were lined with shelves on which stood numerous glass jars containing everything from arsenic to zinc. Just beyond the stove was a pair of pocket doors that sealed the rest of the living space off from the combination kitchen and alchemist’s laboratory.
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