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  “I assure you, Councilman, she is most adept, despite such shortcomings,” Canterbury replied smoothly. “Come; let us retire to my office. Perhaps you can elaborate on exactly what it is you’re looking for? That will help me when I crunch the numbers for your quote.” He then led Cowpen up the ramp that led to the second floor, which served as both his office and living space. When they came back down, a half hour later, I could tell by the way their tails were twitching that they’d struck a deal.

  “Not to worry, Councilman,” Canterbury assured him. “Your new carriage will be everything you desire, and more!” Upon closing the shop doors, the centaur sneezed violently, sending a shudder from the nape of his neck to his flanks. “Blood of Nessus! As much money as that huldu has, you’d think he could afford better cologne!”

  “At least he was willing to overlook your hiring practices,” I said sarcastically, pushing back the visor of my welding helmet.

  “Don’t take what I said about your ‘shortcomings’ seriously, my dear. And don’t let what he said bother you. Bjorn Cowpen may be able to buy and sell me five times over, but he’s far from the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  “Oh, he’s a tool all right,” I agreed.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, he was more put off by you being a woman than a human. I’m afraid he doesn’t see much use for females of any kind outside of his clubs.”

  “Great. He’s a bigot and a sexist.”

  “When I first started out, I ran into a great deal of bigotry, as you might expect,” Canterbury said, favoring me with a sad, wise smile. “After all, I am most certainly not Kymeran, but neither am I a true centaur. The herd tolerates me, but they’ve never fully trusted me. I was bullied a great deal as a colt. Although my father was never able to publicly acknowledge me, he did take responsibility for training me in the magical arts. ‘Master your craft, and the fools will beat a path to your door,’ he used to tell me. In time, the quality of my work made the ones who used to look down on me forget their prejudices—or at least rein them in while in my presence. You needn’t worry about the likes of Bjorn, my dear,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder. “Your talent will make them honor you, whether they like it or not.”

  * * *

  It was past six in the evening by the time I finally punched out. I waved farewell to Canterbury, who wished me a good night and made sure to remind me, as always, that he expected me in bright and early the very next day.

  Although Horsecart Street was largely the domain of the centaurs and their cousins, the horse-legged ipotanes, virtually every major paranormal ethnic group can be found hurrying in and out of its various storefronts. A pair of leprechauns, dressed in green designer clothes, stood on the street corner, handing out fliers for Seamus O’Fae’s political campaign.

  Seamus, leader of the Wee Folk Anti-Defamation League, had recently announced his candidacy for mayor of Golgotham. It was the first time in the pocket city-state’s history that anyone besides a Kymeran had dared throw their hat into the ring. The incumbent, Mayor Lash, had every reason to sweat. His opponent was a well-spoken, politically savvy lawyer who, despite his diminutive size—or, perhaps, because of it—was as tenacious as a terrier.

  “Best of the evenin’ to ye, Miss Eresby,” one of the leprechauns said as he slipped a leaflet into my hand.

  “Same to you, Tullamore. How long before you finish probation?” I asked, motioning to the tiny monitoring bracelet strapped to his right ankle.

  “I got another t’ree months to go,” he replied solemnly. “Then I’m as free as a bird! I’m thankful for Mr. O’Fae pleadin’ me charges down from Felony Enchantment to Mischief-Makin’ and keepin’ me out of lock-up. The Tombs is a miserable place for us Wee Folk.”

  “Well, Seamus has my support, for what it’s worth,” I said. “And try not to turn anyone into a pig again, no matter how much they might deserve it!”

  “That I will, ma’am.”

  As I crossed to the other side of the street, I was suddenly aware that I was being watched. This, in and of itself, was not a new or unexpected sensation for me. As the human consort of the Heir Apparent, I was routinely gawked and glared at whenever I went out in public. But what I was feeling was decidedly more predatory than usual. The last time the hair on the back of my neck stood up like that, I found a demon staring in my window.

  I abruptly spun on my heels, hoping to surprise whoever it was tailing me, and saw a Kymeran woman with slate blue hair dart into a doorway. When she didn’t reemerge, I shrugged and continued my walk home. I let the incident go and quickly put the woman out of my mind. After all, if I fixated on everything odd in Golgotham, I’d never get anything done.

  Chapter 2

  I arrived home that evening to find fellow artist, human, and recent citizen of Golgotham “Bartho” Bartholomew conferring with Hexe. They were drinking spiced chai and staring at a collection of cameras, both digital and old-school 35mm, which were sitting on the middle of the kitchen table like a paparazzi centerpiece.

  “Where have you been keeping yourself?” I grinned as the photographer rose to hug me. “I haven’t seen you since the morning after the riot!”

  “Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been on the road with Talisman. I’m their official photographer, now,” he explained.

  “Well, I’m glad to see your eye no longer looks like an eggplant.”

  “You and me both!” he said with a humorless laugh. “I’m bringing a police brutality suit against the city, by the way. I’m not going to let those pigs get away with smashing my camera and trying to blind me! Seamus O’Fae is representing me, along with anyone else who got roughed up that night.”

  “Seamus is going up against City Hall?” I gave a low whistle of admiration. “Now that is going to be one hell of a courtroom battle! But what’s with the cameras?”

  “I think someone’s put a curse on them,” Bartho sighed. “The last couple of weeks I’ve been getting these crazy double exposures, even when I’m using the digital cameras. They were blurry at first, but now they’re becoming more and more distinct.”

  “Who would want to curse your cameras?” I frowned.

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone jealous of the attention I’m getting? Or maybe the asshole cop I’m suing? That’s usually who pays to have curses put on people, isn’t it, Hexe—jealous bastards and assholes?”

  “That has certainly been my experience,” Hexe admitted as he turned one of the cameras over in his hands. “But, to be honest, I’m not so sure that’s what is going on here. Usually curses have some sort of occult signature, if you know where to look—kind of like a poker player’s tell. But I’m not seeing anything like that. Are you sure it isn’t a manufacturing defect of some kind?”

  “I’ve taken them to two certified repair shops—one here, and the other in London, when I was on the road. Each swears up and down there’s nothing wrong with them. Besides, how could a manufacturing defect replicate itself identically in cameras made by three completely different companies?”

  “You’re right; that doesn’t sound natural,” Hexe conceded, his brow knitting even further. “Perhaps an individual component was cursed, instead of the entire mechanism? That would make it a lot harder to detect,” he mused aloud. “I’ll run a series of scrying stones over these so I can get a better idea of what I’m dealing with. I should be able to ascertain what’s up within the next day or so.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Hexe.” Bartho grinned. “Holy crap—is that the time? Sorry I can’t hang around and chat, Tate, but I’ve got to go over depositions with Seamus.”

  As Hexe escorted Bartho to the front door, I headed upstairs to change out of my work clothes and take a shower. Twenty minutes later I returned to find Hexe sitting at the desk in his study, balancing the checkbook. I bent over and nuzzled his neck, savoring his unique scent of citrus, moss, and leather as I did so.

  “So how was your day at work?” he asked, reaching up with one hand t
o stroke my hair.

  “I made a dragon leg,” I replied. “You know—same-old-same-old.”

  “Is that so?” He chuckled as I sat down in his lap.

  “And how was your day?” I asked between kisses.

  “Fairly.” Smooch. “Uneventful.” Smack. “I lifted a minor curse off a client.” Smooch. “Someone afflicted him with crossed eyes.” Double smooch.

  I glanced down at the open checkbook and the stack of bills that sat beside it. “So—how are we doing?”

  Hexe heaved a sigh, prodding the calculator as if it were a poisonous toad. “Well, between your day job, the rent from the boarders, and what I bring in from my steadier clients, we’re making ends meet. But just barely.”

  “Why can’t we use witchfire to light the house like they do at the Rookery?” I asked as I scowled at the most recent ConEd bill.

  “Witchfire might not be metered, but it’s not free,” he replied. “Sorcerers can drain themselves pretty quickly, if they’re not careful. The braziers at the Rookery are communal fires—each Kymeran who rents a booth there contributes a flame to the kitty. That’s why they burn as brightly as they do. The GoBOO allowed gas lines and electricity into Golgotham because it frees up occult energy that normally would go toward ‘public utilities.’ Of course, there are those who claim that dependence on human inventions weakens us far more than lighting our homes with witchfire.”

  “So much for snapping your fingers and magically making the rent and keeping the lights on,” I sighed.

  “Hey, I’m just a wizard, not a miracle worker,” Hexe said with a wry smile. “ConEd has no more qualms about shutting off a past-due warlock than they do a plumber in Queens.”

  “Is this a good time to talk, or would you guys rather be alone right now?”

  I looked up to see our housemate and friend, Lukas, standing in the doorway of the study. The young shape-shifter had been living at the boardinghouse ever since he ended up in the backyard after escaping from Boss Marz’s fighting pit, months ago. Despite the fact he was a boarder, I was actually surprised to see him, as he now spent most of his time working at Dr. Mao’s apothecary and acupuncture parlor. Of course, the fact Lukas’ girlfriend, Meikei, was also the boss’s daughter might have had something to do with that.

  “You’re not interrupting anything—yet,” Hexe replied. “What’s on your mind, Lukas?”

  The young were-cat frowned and lowered his gaze to his scuffed Vans. “I owe you guys everything,” he said uneasily as he scratched at his sandy hair. “I mean, if it weren’t for you, I’d either be pit-fighting or dead right now. You know I consider you guys more my family than the one I was born to. . . .”

  Hexe quietly motioned for me to get out of his lap. “Lukas—what are you trying to say?” He frowned.

  The young bastet’s cheeks turned even redder. “I—I’m moving out.”

  “What?” I yelped. “You’re not going back home, are you—?”

  Lukas shook his head. “Of course not!” he said emphatically. “I’m not going back to the Preserve. It’s just that—well, Dr. Mao has offered to make me his apprentice, and that means moving into the spare store room at the apothecary.”

  “Sounds to me like the old tiger wants to keep an eye on you and Meikei.” Hexe chuckled, sending Lukas’ blush all the way into his hairline.

  “You don’t hate me for leaving, do you?” The youth asked nervously.

  “Oh, Lukas, you silly kitty cat!” I exclaimed as I threw my arms around him. “Of course not! You’ll always be the little brother who shape-shifts into a cougar that I never had!”

  “So you’re not mad at me?” Lukas raised his shaggy unibrow in surprise. “You understand why I have to move out?”

  “Of course we understand,” Hexe said. “I wish you luck on your apprenticeship, my friend. That old were-tiger can be tough at times, but if you serve your master well, you’ll learn more about herbs and acupuncture from him than you ever thought possible. Besides, it’s not like you signed a lease with me.”

  “I’m moving out tomorrow, if that’s okay with you,” Lukas said excitedly. “It’s been great living here. I’ll miss you both—and Beanie, too.”

  “What about Scratch?” Hexe asked archly.

  “Yeahhhh, him, too, I guess,” Lukas replied. “Just don’t tell him I said that, though.”

  As Lukas headed upstairs to pack his few belongings, Hexe let out a sigh and allowed the smile to drop from his face. “Well, that knocks next month’s budget for a loop,” he said sourly. He picked up the checkbook and studied it as if it were one of his grimoires. “I’ll have to advertise for another lodger. It’s time-consuming, but there’s no getting around it. As long as Mr. Manto doesn’t drop dead on us anytime soon, we’ll squeak by.”

  I slipped my arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Don’t look so stressed, sweetie. We’ll manage to muddle through, just like we always do.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he replied, returning my embrace. “But we’re going to have to tighten our belts even further.”

  “I propose we loosen our belts,” I smiled saucily.

  “I don’t know if that will help with the bills,” he said, as his hands slipped under my blouse. “But it will definitely take our minds off them.”

  As we headed hand in hand up the stairs to our room, the opening bars of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put A Spell On You” suddenly came out of nowhere. Hexe fished his cell phone out of his pocket and grimaced at the caller ID. “It’s a text from Captain Horn—I mean, my father.”

  There’s an old saying about closing doors and opening windows. Four months ago my parents disinherited me. At the same time, Hexe finally learned the true identity of his biological father. I liked Hexe’s dad, and Beanie positively adored him—every time Captain Horn came to visit, Beanie would bring him one of his favorite plush toys, so they could play tug-of-war. Hexe, on the other hand, seemed to be somewhat ambivalent about the whole thing.

  “The Captain wants us to meet him at the Calf for dinner—his treat. I wonder what’s up.”

  “Why does there have to be a reason for him to invite us to dinner?” I replied with a shrug. “He’s not just ‘The Captain’—he’s your dad. That’s reason enough to take you out to dinner for most people.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed grudgingly. “Besides, it might be some time before we can afford going out to eat again.”

  * * *

  The Two-Headed Calf, Golgotham’s oldest tavern, was busy as usual when we arrived. Upon entering the downstairs pub room, we were greeted by Bruno, the new bouncer. He was heavyset and stood seven feet tall, his unibrow marking him as a shape-shifter—in his case one of the berskir.

  Ever since the Calf found itself with a four-star listing on Yelp, more and more humans continued to make their way into Golgotham to sample its “authentic atmosphere” alongside the locals. It was this lucrative, potentially volatile mix of clientele that resulted in the now-famous Golgotham Race Riot. In the months since the initial conflict, the Calf’s proprietor, Lafo, had hired the were-grizzly as a means of nipping another such clash in the bud. So far it seemed to be working.

  “Good evening, Serenity,” Bruno growled in welcome, running a pawlike hand through his unruly brown hair. “Good evening, Miss Eresby.”

  Chorea, the Calf’s hostess, stepped forward to greet us. Although she had set aside her leopard skin and chiton in favor of AA and saving her marriage, she still wore the garland of ivy that marked her as a maenad. “Welcome, Serenity.” She smiled. “Captain Horn is waiting for you in the dining room.”

  “Thanks, Chory,” he said. “You needn’t bother escorting us.”

  As we made our way across the crowded pub, I spotted the Calf’s owner, head chef, and chief bottle washer balancing a serving platter loaded with bowls of flash-fried crickets and battered dragonflies. The towering restaurateur was almost as tall as his bouncer, with long, ketchup-red hair and a matching b
eard. He was dressed in a pair of bib overalls and a loud Hawaiian shirt nearly as colorful as the tattoos covering his forearms. Like all Kymerans, he exuded a unique scent that was part body odor and personal signifier, in his case a combination of corn dogs and bananas Foster.

  “Welcome back, Serenity! Have you checked out our new merchandise yet?” Lafo nodded toward the small booth under the staircase that was stocked with T-shirts and beer mugs emblazoned with the Calf’s double-headed logo. “Would you believe we’re selling as many T-shirts as we are drinks now? A couple of my old regulars got their noses out of joint over it, but you gotta make hay while the sun shines! Those renovations after the riot set me back quite a bit, even with the insurance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to replenish the snack bowls at the bar.”

  I followed Hexe up the stairs, past the framed lithographs of his great-great-grandfather and the Founding Fathers signing the Treaty of Golgotham, to the dining area, with its dark wood floors and coffered ceiling. While I was no longer the only human to be seen in the dining room, the vast majority of the customers were still Kymeran. Despite the token addition of cheeseburgers to the menu, most of Lafo’s newly acquired human clientele no doubt found it far easier to catch a buzz than enjoy a meal at the Calf.

  Captain Horn rose from his seat as we approached. Although he had removed his hat to reveal his maroon crew cut, he was still wearing his PTU dress uniform. As he smiled down at me in welcome, I glimpsed a hint of his son’s mouth and jawline.

  “You’re as lovely as ever, Tate,” Horn said as he hugged me. I found myself enveloped by the sturdy and reassuring scent of oak leaves and musk. “Please, sit down. Feel free to order whatever you like—dinner and drinks courtesy of the Paranormal Threat Unit.”

  As we took our seats at the table, a waiter with mango-colored hair came forward and handed us menus. Hexe laughed and handed them back without looking. “That won’t be necessary—I’ll have the pork brains in gravy, and the lady would like the filet of herring.”