“You might as well worry about what would have happened if President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, instead of San Francisco,” I countered. “Or what if Christianity and Islam had gone to war with one another, instead of uniting to fight the Unholy War? What’s the point of brooding about things that never happened? All you get is a bunch of what-ifs that don’t add up to anything real. You can’t change the fact your father wasn’t around when you were a kid. But you can take advantage of the fact he’s around now. Just like you can’t change what happened to Jake, but you can make sure our child will never be treated in such a manner.”
Hexe laughed and pulled me into his arms. “You’re as smart as you are sexy, you know that? Why don’t you put on your cutest new maternity clothes? I might not be able to take you out on a shopping spree at Bergdorf’s, but I think I can swing a night out at the Calf. Hey, maybe if we tell Lafo we’re expecting, he’ll throw in dessert!”
The clientele at the Calf that night was what Hexe called “the new normal”: a sixty-forty mix of Golgothamites and humans, both sides skewing young, as most of the older, more conservative clientele had decamped to far less human-friendly establishments, such as Blarney’s and Steppenwolf’s, or stopped by only for lunch.
As we made our way through the crowded pub toward the dining room, I spotted an all-too-familiar figure with curly, peach-colored hair ahead of us. I instinctively grabbed Hexe’s arm in fear.
“That’s Marz’s croggy, Gaza,” I whispered.
“I recognize him,” he said darkly.
“He’s the one who fireballed the Big Top Club. What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Hexe replied as he watched the Maladanti disappear into the ground-floor kitchen. “But I intend to find out.”
We changed course and made a beeline toward the swinging double doors. Hexe pushed one of them open just enough to peer inside without being noticed. I had expected the kitchen of the Two-Headed Calf to be a large, noisy place full of sizzling flattops, flaming grills, rack ovens, and stainless-steel prep stations, crammed full of loudly cursing sous chefs, cooks, sauciers, and dishwashers. However, to my surprise, the only person in the entire kitchen was Lafo, who stood before a huge antique stove dressed in his cook’s apron, stirring one of a dozen simmering copper vessels shaped like cornucopia arrayed atop the numerous burners. I had always assumed he was joking whenever he called himself chief cook, bartender, and head bottle washer, but apparently he was simply telling the truth.
Outside of the total absence of other cooks, the kitchen seemed otherwise normal, with coils of handmade sausage and hams hanging from racks suspended from the ceiling, and a wheel of cheese large enough to roll a wagon sitting on one of the counters.
Gaza strolled up behind Lafo as if he had every right to be there and announced himself by saying, “I gotta admit, this joint has the best owl soup in Golgotham.”
“What are you doing in my kitchen, Gaza?” Lafo growled, turning away from his pots to glower at the intruder.
“You’re in arrears on your protection money, Lafo,” the Maladanti replied tersely. “Boss Marz told me to come collect what’s due him.”
“Did he also tell you to pull my foot out of your ass?” Lafo snarled. “Because that’s totally happening next if you don’t get out of here! And you can tell Marz I’m not coughing up another cent.”
“I’d watch what I say if I were you, kitchen-witch,” Gaza glowered, raising his left hand in a menacing gesture. “It’d be a real shame if this place suddenly caught fire so soon after being renovated. . . .”
“That’s all I’m taking from you!” Lafo exclaimed, tossing aside his apron. “I’m not going to stand here and be threatened by a jackal in a bad suit!”
Before Lafo could make another move, Gaza made a snapping motion with his hand, freezing the business owner in his tracks. “Oh, but you are going to stand there, kitchen-witch,” Marz’s croggy sneered as he stepped forward. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the Witchfinder finger-cutter and held it up before Lafo’s temporarily paralyzed face, so that he could see it. He then slid it onto the magic finger of his victim’s right hand in a grotesque parody of a wedding vow. “Let’s find out how your customers like eating here once you’re no longer able to charm the pots and pans. . . .”
“Get away from him!” Hexe shouted, pushing open the kitchen doors hard enough to make them bang into the walls.
The fireball was already in Gaza’s left hand as he spun around, hurling the deadly missile like a southpaw pitcher tossing a knuckleball. Instead of moving his right hand in a defensive counterspell, Hexe caught the roiling ball of hellfire and held it in the palm of the gauntlet. He looked down at the mass of supernatural flame then back up at his attacker, and then, with the tiniest of smiles, he closed his mailed hand into a fist, snuffing out the fireball as if it were nothing more than a candlewick.
Hexe gestured again with his right hand and one of the coils of sausage hanging from the kitchen racks over Gaza’s head suddenly wrapped itself around the Maladanti’s throat like a python and yanked him off his feet. I hurried past the struggling goon and snatched the finger-cutter from Lafo’s hand, as the restaurateur was still trapped by Gaza’s paralysis spell.
“I’ve got it!” I exclaimed, holding up the torture instrument so Hexe could see it. But if he heard me, he showed no sign of it; the look on his face was both angry and distant at the same time. He moved his right hand a quarter turn, and the meaty garrote about Gaza’s neck tightened even further. The Maladanti’s eyes started from his head and his tongue protruded from his mouth as he fought to suck air into his constricted windpipe.
I grabbed Hexe by the shoulder and shook him as hard as I could. “Stop it!” I shouted. “You’re killing him!”
The look of horror on Hexe’s face as he emerged from his weird trance was identical to that of a sleepwalker who has awakened to find himself standing on a precipice. The noose about the Maladanti’s neck went slack, dropping him onto the floor. Gaza staggered to his feet, massaging his bruised trachea.
“I’d get out of here if I was you, buddy,” I told the dazed goon, who promptly dashed out the swinging doors, but not before casting a scalding parting glance in Hexe’s direction. Normally, I would have put a call in to the PTU, but fear of Boss Marz making good on his threat against our friends and families kept me from doing so.
A couple of seconds later Lafo snapped back to life, freed from the Maladanti’s spell. The first thing out of the restaurateur’s mouth was a stream of Kymeran which, even to my ignorant ears, was clearly profanity.
“Heavens and hells!” Lafo bellowed angrily, once he finally switched over to English. “That was the most horrible feeling I’ve experienced in my life—being completely conscious of what was going on around me, but utterly unable to move or speak! That chuffer was going to take my magic!” He threw his arms around Hexe, yanking him into a brotherly embrace. “Praise Arum you showed up when you did, Serenity!”