As I retrieved my lunch pail from my locker, a tall, good-looking man with blond hair entered the workshop unannounced. He was dressed in a full-length mink pimp-coat, an open-necked velour shirt, and a pair of extremely tight pants cinched by a thick, buff-colored suede belt. It wasn’t until the belt unknotted itself from about his waist and dropped to the floor, switching back and forth like the tail of a cat, that I recognized the visitor as Bjorn Cowpen, the leader of Golgotham’s huldrefolk, a council member of the GoBOO, and owner of several adult entertainment establishments located on Duivel Street.
“Good afternoon, Councilman,” Canterbury said, bobbing his head in ritual greeting. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’m in the market for a new carriage, Master Canterbury. Something suitably upscale, of course. Chiron tells me you’re the best in Golgotham.”
“Lord Chiron is most kind,” the centaur replied, “but not inaccurate. There is nothing my apprentice and I can not fabricate.”
The huldu turned to look at me as I sat at my workbench eating my lunch. “You have a female apprentice?” he asked, raising a dubious eyebrow. “And human, at that?”
My cheeks flushed as I bit into the sandwich, vigorously chewing in order to keep myself from saying something that might cost Canterbury Customs a sale.
“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.”