Magic and Loss

Chapter 13

It was not surprising Moot worked out of Pickman’s Slip. Golgotham’s riverfront neighborhood was notorious for its rows of ancient warehouses, flops, and taverns that catered to longshoremen, and had long been considered the kind of place where dirty deeds could be done dirt cheap.

Save for the tacky, over-the-top splendor of Lorelei’s tiki restaurant, Pickman’s Slip can be best described as low-rent, although “depressing” and “unsafe” also come to mind. The neighborhood’s general gloominess is due to its close proximity to the Ferry Street Terminus, which houses the elaborate barques that transport Golgotham’s dead to their final resting place on Scylla Point. As for the Slip’s reputation for being dangerous, that was largely due to the troll community that dwelt beneath the nearby Brooklyn Bridge.

Dr. Moot’s place of business was located in the basement below a dilapidated meat pie shop, next door to a hookah bar. The so-called “surgery” was one huge room that smelled of rising damp, with thick, square-cut posts supporting the ceiling, which was so low it was impossible to wear a hat indoors. There was an antique surgery table, the type raised and lowered by a huge, wheellike crank, in the middle of the room, above which dangled a mechanic’s lamp suspended by a bright orange extension cord. One corner was sectioned off with old blankets strung from clothesline, behind which was what passed for Moot’s living quarters.

“Roll up your sleeve and make yourself comfortable, Serenity,” Moot said, patting the surgical table’s stainless-steel top.

“Hexe, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whispered as he hopped up onto the table. “I mean, look at this place! It couldn’t pass inspection as a tattoo parlor! I wouldn’t let this guy neuter Beanie, much less try to fix your hand!”

“Tate, I know you’re concerned,” he replied wearily. “But, please, I beg of you, stop trying to talk me out of this.”

“I know, I know,” I sighed. “It’s a Kymeran thing; I wouldn’t understand.”

Dr. Moot opened a cupboard and removed a dark green bottle without a label. He poured a finger of thick, bright yellow liquid into a greasy-looking shot glass and handed it to Hexe.

“What is that?” I asked, intercepting the glass and giving it a suspicious sniff.

“Safflower oil, if you must know,” Dr. Moot replied sharply, snatching it back from my hand. “It’s for his safety. Psychic surgery itself is relatively painless, but I can’t have him wriggling around while I’m working, can I?”

“I’ll be okay, Tate,” Hexe said as he accepted the shot glass, “just as long as you promise to hold my left hand.”

“Believe me, I’m not going anywhere,” I assured him.

Hexe knocked back the safflower oil like it was a shot of tequila and stretched out on the surgical table. I stood next to him, holding his left hand in both of my own. Within seconds his facial muscles began to relax and his golden eyes rolled back in his head.

Moot slipped on a headband that resembled an antique doctor’s reflector, save that it was fashioned from a flat scrying stone and set on a swivel, so that it could be rotated in front of his eyes. After removing the splint from Hexe’s right hand, he turned to Madam Erys, who was holding what looked like a clamshell jewelry case. She flipped open the lid, revealing the Gauntlet of Nydd. Even in the miserable light of Moot’s dingy surgery, the artifact glittered and gleamed like frost at sunrise.

“Heavens and hells!” Moot exclaimed hoarsely, shaking his head in admiration. “Such exquisite workmanship! It makes Esau’s prosthetic arms look like clockwork toys!” Once he removed the gauntlet, Erys closed the case with a snap that would have done a crocodile proud.

Dr. Moot removed the splint on Hexe’s wounded hand and carefully slipped the gauntlet onto Hexe’s hand. As he did so, I was finally able to get my first unobstructed view of the damage inflicted by the witch-hammer since the night of the attack. Although I was relieved to see the swelling and bruising had been greatly reduced, I was shocked to discover that Hexe’s fingers looked as if they were trying to avoid one another.

Once the gauntlet was secured in place, Moot strode over to a nearby table and plunged his hands into a jar of that blue stuff barbers keep their combs in. Flicking the excess disinfectant from his hands, he took a deep breath and flipped the scrying stone attached to his headband into place over his right eye and began to gently stroke Hexe’s wrist and forearm with his long, delicate fingers.

At first I could not tell what he was doing. Then I saw the psychic surgeon’s fingertips dip past the gauntlet covering Hexe’s mangled hand. Moot’s spidery digits moved like those of a skilled lace maker as he spliced nerve endings, grafted muscle, and shaved away bone without shedding a drop of blood. After an hour, he stepped away from the table and swung the scrying stone back into place, his face drawn and covered in sweat.

“The bonding is completed,” he said, his voice shaking ever so slightly. He walked back over to the prep table and took a swig from the jar of blue stuff. “There. That’s better.”

“How long before he wakes up?” I asked anxiously, staring at Hexe’s silver-clad hand.

“He should come out of it in five minutes or so,” Dr. Moot said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are some matters that require discussion with Madam Erys.” With that, he and the glover retired behind the curtains at the back of the surgery.

I looked down at my own hands, which were still clasping Hexe’s motionless left one. His breathing was that of a man in a deep sleep, and I could tell that his eyeballs were twitching behind their lids, keeping track of whatever was gamboling through his drug-fueled dreams. It was the most peaceful I’d seen him since the Jubilee.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” I murmured aloud, more for my benefit than his, as I brushed the purple hair away from his face.

Suddenly Dr. Moot’s voice announced heatedly from behind the curtain: “I’ve done what you asked of me! Whatever debt I owed is now paid in full! Never contact me again—is that understood? I can’t bear the sight of you. Wasn’t it enough that you lured her away? Must you torment me in such a ghastly manner as well?”

“She was not ‘lured,’” Erys replied dryly. “She chose of her own free will. When will you get that through that liquor-soaked sponge you call your brain? But I am more than happy to agree to your conditions. Far be it from me to prevent you from continuing to wallow in self-pity and whatever intoxicant might be closest to hand.”

Before I could wonder what the two could be possibly squabbling about, Hexe’s eyelids fluttered and he began to stir.

“He’s coming around!” I shouted.

The arguing voices fell silent. Dr. Moot threw back the blankets that served as his privacy curtain and returned to the table. He took Hexe’s pulse and inspected his pupils. “How do you feel, Serenity?” he asked.

“Did it work?” Hexe rasped in reply.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Moot said as he helped his patient sit up. As Hexe swung his legs over the side of the table, the psychic surgeon picked up the shot glass he had used to serve the sedative and tossed it at him. “Catch!”

Hexe snatched the flying glass in midair with his right hand without a moment’s hesitation. He then stared in amazement at his appendage, now encased from wrist to fingertips in shimmering silver and white gold.

“Is there any pain?” Moot asked.

“There’s no pain,” Hexe replied with a shake of his head. “I can tell that the glass I’m holding has weight and is hard and smooth, but the sensations themselves are . . . distant, like I’m picking something up while wearing a silk glove.”

“That disconnected feeling should fade, in time,” Moot assured him. “Eventually the gauntlet will completely merge with the sensory receptors in your brain, and it’ll be just like the hand you were born with.”

“I owe you my life, Dr. Moot,” Hexe said solemnly.

Moot flinched and dropped his gaze. “You owe me nothing, Serenity. This was done to discharge a debt, not out of any desire to curry favor.”

“Regardless of the reason, you have still done me a great service I will not soon forget.”

“You are too kind, Serenity,” the psychic surgeon muttered, his cheeks flushing red.

“Can I take him home now?” I asked, not bothering to hide my eagerness to get the hell away from Moot and Madam Erys.

“Of course,” Moot replied, quickly regathering himself. “There may be the occasional ‘hiccup’ over the next few days as his nervous system becomes accustomed to the gauntlet, but otherwise, he’s good to go.”

“I thank you for the loan of the gauntlet, Madam Erys,” Hexe said as he put his jacket back on, this time without my help.

“The honor is all mine, Serenity,” the glover replied, her pale gray eyes shining like pieces of polished tin. “May you wear it in good health.”

As we exited Dr. Moot’s surgery, we were greeted by a wall of fog from the nearby river, which turned the surrounding buildings into smeared outlines and hid us from any nosy neighbors. Although the streets seemed deserted, Hexe kept his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, just to be on the safe side.

As we headed back to the boardinghouse, I noticed that his shoulders were no longer stooped and that he now walked with a far more confident stride. I wasn’t sure how much of it was directly due to the gauntlet, or simply a placebo effect, but I was glad to see him more like his old self.

Upon our return to the boardinghouse Beanie came scampering out of the kitchen. He was so eager to tell us “hello,” he leapt up in the air like a two-tone springbok.

“I’m glad to see you, too!” Hexe laughed, reaching out to pet Beanie, only to have the dog suddenly yelp in alarm.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Hexe frowned as Beanie dropped his ears and drew away, shivering as if he was freezing.

“He’s freaked out because your hand doesn’t have the same scent as the rest of you,” Scratch explained as he entered the front parlor.

Hexe lifted the gauntlet to his nose and gave it a sniff. “I hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that you mention it, it does smell like Erys. I guess that’s to be expected—it was in her possession for some time. No doubt it’ll eventually acquire my scent once I’ve worn it for a while.”

“A little heavy on the bling, don’t you think?” Scratch asked, eyeing his master’s silver-clad hand.

“It can glow in the dark, for all I care, just as long as it enables me to use my right hand.”

Later, as we prepared for bed, I found myself watching Hexe as he undressed, marveling at how the silver filigree mesh of the gauntlet gleamed like crushed ice on a hot summer day. Hexe caught me staring and halted his disrobing.

“Does the sight of it bother you?” he asked.

“No, I think it’s quite beautiful,” I replied truthfully. “But I’m uneasy about Madam Erys’ motivation for giving it to you. I don’t like that woman, Hexe, and I don’t trust her. Whenever she looks in my direction, I can feel hatred oozing out of her.”

“Granted, Madam Erys is a misanthrope,” Hexe agreed. “But there’s no reason to suspect her of anything more than calculated self-interest. It’s fairly common for tradesmen to curry favor from the Royal Family by presenting us with elaborate gifts in hopes of winning a royal warrant. Why do you think Lafo and Lorelei are always so glad to see me at their establishments? It’s not just because they’re my friends. Being able to claim a member of the Royal Family as a regular client still means something in Golgotham, even in this day and age. Sometimes it’s good to be the Witch King—or at least the Heir Apparent. And tonight was one of those times.”

“Does it feel like your hand?” I asked.

“Why don’t you tell me?” he smiled, sliding it along my naked body until it finally came to rest on my hip.

The silver chain mail was so tightly woven it was more like the skin of a snake than something forged from metal. Although his right hand felt slightly cool and distant against my flesh, it didn’t keep me from noticing how warm and close the rest of him was.

A couple of hours later, after thoroughly testing how his gauntleted hand held up under pressure (which turned out to be “pretty well”), I woke up from a sound sleep. I lay in the bed for a long moment, my thoughts still muzzy, trying to figure out what had jettisoned me back into the waking world. Did I have to pee? Was I thirsty? Was I tangled up in the bedclothes? Was Beanie snoring? Was Scratch kicking me in his sleep again?

As I ran down the checklist, answering “no” to each question, I became aware of a rhythmic tapping sound. I rose up on one elbow and looked down at Hexe, who was asleep on his back, his left arm carelessly thrown across his forehead and his right hand resting on his naked chest. The tapping noise—which I now realized was what had awakened me—was that of the fingers of his gauntleted hand drumming against his sternum, as if patiently biding their time.