The familiar blinked in surprise, completely taken aback. “Did—did you just throw a shoe at me?” he asked indignantly.
“Scratch! Stand down!”
Hexe was awake and sitting up in the bed, fixing his familiar with a disapproving scowl. Although he looked to be in a lot of pain, he seemed in full control of himself.
Scratch lowered his head, literally shrinking before my eyes as he reassumed his domestic form. “Forgive me, boss,” he said contritely. “I kinda lost it for a moment; you know how I get.”
“Yes, I do—but I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Hexe said sternly.
Scratch hopped back onto the foot of the mattress, staring down at his paws as he kneaded the bedclothes like a baker making biscuits. “Tate? I’m, uh, you know, uh, I’m, uh . . .”
“Sorry?” I suggested helpfully.
“Yeah! That’s the word,” he said, relieved that he hadn’t been forced to actually utter the phrase. “We good?”
“Yeah, we good,” I sighed, holding out my fist. The familiar bumped his forehead against it, his purr as loud as an idling tractor.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” Scratch said, turning to look at his master, “are you going to tell me who got medieval on your hand? It was Marz, wasn’t it? He’s the only cack-hander in this town, now that Esau’s out of the picture, crazy enough to use Witchfinder implements. Just say the word, boss, and I’ll get rid of that thug and his fancy-dress baboon once and for all!”
“Absolutely not,” Hexe replied firmly.
“Look, I know you don’t believe in offensive strikes, but you can’t let Marz get away with this!”
“Even if I was prone to revenge, I still wouldn’t permit it,” Hexe said wearily. “I need you here, Scratch. You’re the only defense I have left. I know you’re powerful, but Marz has more than just his familiar backing him up. What if you attacked and lost?”
“Phfft!” Scratch snorted in derision. “Who? Me? Lose to that overgrown organ-grinder’s monkey? Don’t be ridiculous!”
“But what if you did lose, Scratch? What if you were slain? Not merely disincorporated—genuinely killed. Who would protect me then?”
“Your mother is no slouch in that arena,” Scratch replied. “And your dad has an entire police force at his disposal. . . .”
“And Marz has promised to kill everyone we know if we go to them for help—he went so far as to threaten Beanie.”
“Even he wouldn’t do something like that—would he?” Scratch gasped, his eyes widening in alarm at the thought of “his” pet being harmed.
“Now that you understand the position I’m in, please, stop tempting me with revenge.”
“But . . . but . . .” the familiar sputtered.
Hexe propped himself up a little straighter, fixing Scratch with a hard stare. “By whose blood are you bound?” he asked solemnly.
“Yours, my master,” Scratch replied, lowering his gaze.
“Whose will is your will?”
“Yours, my master,” the familiar said, bowing his head in ritual deference.
Hexe smiled and automatically reached out with his right hand to stroke the winged cat’s back, only to grimace in pain.
“Are you okay?” I asked nervously as I readjusted his pillows.
“I’ll be okay.” He smiled wanly. “I’m just . . . tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”
“Would you like some herbal tea?”
“Yes,” he replied, the strength that had been in his voice mere moments before fading like breath on a windowpane. “That would be nice.”
“Scratch, stay here with him, please.”
“It’ll take an exorcist to make me leave,” the familiar said, his eyes glowing like stoplights.
I made my way downstairs, Beanie scampering along behind me as if his tail was on fire. Upon reaching the kitchen, I was surprised to find our reclusive housemate, Mr. Manto, dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas and an old bathrobe, pouring hot water from the tea kettle into the steeping pot sitting on the table. I knew all too well that the aged clairvoyant rarely left his cavernous basement apartment save for buying cat food, as he preferred the company of his crew of feline friends and his vast collection of books to dealing with people who lived in the here and now.
“Mr. Manto! What are you doing topside?” I exclaimed as I opened the back door to let out Beanie, who sped out into the garden as if propelled from a crossbow.
The old oracle looked up from his task, peering at me over the tops of his bifocals. “I am here because I saw that I must be here,” he replied. “I am also making tea.” He placed his wrinkled, liver-spotted hand on my elbow, steering me gently to one of the kitchen chairs. “Please sit down, my dear, for a few moments.”
“But I need to bring Hexe his tea . . .” I protested feebly. I didn’t realize how tired I was until Mr. Manto made me sit down. The moment I did I was overcome by a bout of light-headedness identical to the one I’d experienced at Doc Mao’s. Up until that moment I had been propelled by nothing more than nervous energy and the fear that if I didn’t keep in constant motion, I would grind to a halt like an unwound clockwork.
“And that you shall,” Mr. Manto said gently. “But first you must take care of yourself. You will do no one any good by fainting while carrying a loaded tray upstairs—especially your child.”
“So, you know about me being pregnant, too,” I sighed. “The way things are going, half of Golgotham is going to know about it before Hexe does.”
“I know about a great deal more than the child you carry,” the oracle replied. “Earlier this evening I decided to celebrate the Jubilee in my own way by imbibing a certain hallucinogen, which resulted in a vision. In it I saw Boss Marz maim Hexe with a witch-hammer. I assure you, had I known what the Maladanti planned prior to that, I would have warned him—but you, more than anyone, know that my prophecies are not the easiest to decipher, once spoken. I also saw Boss Marz threaten your loved ones, should you go for help—and I am honored to find myself amongst those endangered.”
“You said you’re here because you ‘must’ be here. What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“It is difficult to explain,” Mr. Manto replied as he poured a cup of tea from the steeping pot and pressed it into my hand. “Drink this—it will help steady you.”
“What’s difficult to explain?” I asked, giving him a speculative look over the rim of the teacup.
“The means by which I see the future. Sometimes it points straight as an arrow, but more often than not, the future is more like a spider’s web. Some threads are stronger than others, while others are weaker than most. They all shine, in their way, but those threads that are the strongest shine the brightest, marking destiny’s trail. But when all threads shine equally—that indicates a Crossroads where all futures are valid. No soothsayer can see beyond a Crossroads until the fated one makes their decision. You stand now, my dear, at one such Crossroads. Only your will, and no other, shall decide which thread will be cut, and which will be followed.”
“But how will I know what decision is the right one to make?”
“Do you recall the final portion of the prophecy I spoke to you?” he inquired offhandedly, as if he was asking whether I had remembered to pick up a carton of milk on the way home from work.
“You know I can’t remember any of that stuff until it’s damn near too late.”
“It is true that the Fates do not surrender their mysteries gladly,” he admitted as he placed the teapot on the serving tray. “When you stand on the Crossroads, the prophecy will come to you and you will know what must be done. Just as I know that the Fates have led me to this time and place, to ensure you safely reach your destination.”