“Esau was . . . different back then,” Dr. Moot said with a heavy sigh. “He was always possessed of a strong personality, and he was never that fond of humans to begin with, but he didn’t become a devotee of the Left Hand Path and radical misanthrope until after he lost Nina. She was the one who kept his darker nature in check, I guess.”
“What, exactly, happened to her?”
“About thirty-five years ago, Nina got a call from one of her steady clients who lived outside Golgotham. The client had originally been cursed with dropsy, which Nina succeeded in reversing. However, the client later suffered an unexpected relapse, swelling up like a parade balloon. Although she was uncomfortable with leaving Golgotham at that time of night, Nina agreed to personally deliver the necessary potion. On her way back from the client’s apartment, she ran afoul of a group of human street toughs, who, once they realized she was Kymeran, starting chasing her.
“Nina wasn’t a strong spellcaster—like I said, her specialty was potions—and didn’t believe in using offensive magic, even for defensive purposes. She was so desperate to avoid conflict, she ran out into Broadway without looking, and was hit by a Yellow Cab. She was already in a coma when they wheeled her into the ER at Golgotham General. As it happened, I was working the surgery rotation when she came in. I tried my best to revive her, but the trauma was too great. I was forced to declare her brain-dead. Esau never forgave me for not saving her. And neither did I.” Moot fell silent for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, as if watching something far away and long ago, before taking a deep breath and shaking himself free. “Let me see your hand.”
Hexe shifted about uncomfortably, but did as he was asked, presenting his splinted hand for inspection. Dr. Moot pursed his lips and gently probed the damaged appendage, his own hand climbing about it like a spider checking its web. To my horror, the psychic surgeon’s fingertips dipped beneath Hexe’s skin as easily as if they were breaking the surface of a pool of water.
“The injuries to the metacarpals are quite severe,” Moot said with a frown. “But the nerve damage isn’t as bad as I would have thought. I should be able to bond the gauntlet relatively easily.”
“How soon can you do the work?” Hexe asked, excitement starting to seep into his voice.
“I’ve got a surgery set up in Pickman’s Slip,” Moot replied. “I can do it now, if that’s what you want.”
“Are you certain you want to go through with this, Hexe?” I asked worriedly. Everything seemed to be moving way too fast and way too weird, even for Golgotham.
“What I ‘want’ has nothing to do with it,” he replied grimly. “I have no choice in this matter. I have to regain dexterity in my right hand. Without it, I can’t provide for myself, much less our child.”
There was a sudden gasp, and I looked up to find Madam Erys had returned from the bar. She stood there with a snifter of Cynar in one hand, staring at me with a barely concealed looked of disgust and horror. So much for inviting her to the baby shower.
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.