“Whatever you say, Miss Timmy.”
As I entered the bedroom, Hexe strolled out of the bathroom, fresh from his shower. As he toweled his hair dry I realized it was the first time in weeks I’d seen him naked, and was startled to see how thin he had become.
“I went to see an obstetrician today,” I said.
Hexe lowered the towel to stare at me apprehensively. “Is the baby—?”
“He’s perfectly healthy,” I replied. “But we’re going to be parents a little sooner than we thought.”
He laughed joyously as he grabbed me up in his arms, twirling about as if we were on a dance floor. For a few glorious moments everything we’d gone through seemed to disappear, and we were happy again, just like we used to be. We were still laughing as he pulled me down onto the bed.
“When you went away, I was afraid I’d never get the chance to be a father to my child,” he said, placing his hand over my gravid belly. “I know what it’s like, growing up without a father. I don’t want to perpetuate that kind of a family tradition.”
“You’re not being fair to your dad, Hexe. Your mother sent Horn away to keep your grandfather from banishing him.”
“I realize it’s stupid and childish,” he sighed, “but part of me is still mad at him for not being around when I was a kid. There’s so much I needed to learn that only he could teach me—like how to be a father and a husband. This is all new territory for me, and I’m afraid I’m going to fail at it.”
“The fact that you’re worried about being a good dad is a good sign,” I reassured him. “I attended some of the most exclusive private schools in the city and, believe me, truly bad fathers fuck up their kids without giving what they’re doing a single thought.”
Hexe held up his right hand, turning it from side to side as he studied the Gauntlet of Nydd. “The funny thing is, I just wanted to be able to support you and the baby. You would think I, of all people, would know that magic has its price. The gauntlet may have given me back the use of my right hand, but it’s come at the cost of nearly driving away those I care most for in life.”
“Well, it’ll be gone for good in a couple of days,” I said firmly.
“Still, even though it perverts my magic, at least it allows me to use my hand for more wholesome purposes, such as brushing my hair . . . and other things,” he said as he slipped his hands underneath my blouse. The gauntlet’s finely crafted chain mail felt as smooth and organic as snakeskin sliding against my flesh. “It’s been a long time . . .” he whispered.
“Too long,” I agreed, as I pulled his hungry mouth toward mine. We made love for the first time in weeks, fumbling and giggling until we found the best position to accommodate the changes to my anatomy. And once it was done, we drifted off to sleep, with Hexe cradling me in his arms as if I might disappear. The bitter lime smell that clung to him was almost entirely gone, save for a faint, lingering trace.
I am walking up a long, winding staircase of living glass, its colors forever shifting and pulsing. The staircase twines about a towering pillar, and as I climb I look out across a vast cityscape made of living glass, its spires shining and strobing in the sunlight. I raise my eyes to the skies and see massive dragons wheeling far above my head, their long, narrow tails fluttering in the wind like the tails of a kite.
At the top of the staircase is a temple. Although it, too, is made of living glass, its doorway is fashioned from the skull of a massive dragon, its fleshless maw yawning wide to accept the faithful. I enter the temple, the interior of which is one vast room, in the center of which is a huge cauldron filled with multicolored flames. Kneeling before the holy fire is a figure dressed in a hooded robe, its head lowered in prayer. Although I have never seen this place or this person before, I know that I stand in the Temple of Adon and that this is the Dragon Oracle.
The robed figure rises and turns to face me. In one hand he holds a tall staff made from the shin of a battle-dragon. I start with surprise, for the face of the Dragon Oracle is that of Mr. Manto. The only difference is the white sash that binds the blind prophet’s eyes. The Dragon Oracle points to the multicolored fire dancing in the cauldron, causing it to flare and jump even higher. When he speaks, his voice echoes like a struck gong.
“The hand is in the heart.”
As the Dragon Oracle intones the words, I recognize them as the final portion of the prophecy pieced together by Mr. Manto, a world and countless millennia away. But before I can unravel the meaning of his words, I am overwhelmed by the smell of rotting limes. Suddenly a disembodied six-fingered right hand emerges from the sacred fire and strikes with the speed of a cobra, grabbing me by the neck. I try to pry the phantom hand from about my throat, only to have it tighten its grip. I struggle to free myself as the life is throttled from my body. . . .
And I awoke from my dream to find Hexe leaning over me, his eyes rolled back in his head, as his gauntlet-clad hand squeezed my windpipe.
Chapter 25
I tried to call out his name, but all that came out was a strangled groan. I kicked and flailed at him, but he did not let go. Just as my vision started to turn gray around the edges, there was a horrific screeching noise and Scratch launched himself at Hexe, beating his master about the head and shoulders with his batlike wings while raking him with his claws.
Hexe let go of me and jumped off the bed, cursing in Kymeran as he grappled with Scratch. Blood poured down his face and neck and onto his naked chest and arms from the dozens of deep scratches that the familiar had dealt him. His eyes had dropped back down, but were as glassy and unfocused as those of a sleepwalker.
“You dare attack your master, hellspawn!” Hexe shouted indignantly as he tore the madly clawing winged cat off his head and hurled it to the floor.
“I don’t know who you are, buddy,” the familiar hissed, his eyes glowing like live coals, “but you’re not my master!”
As Hexe lifted his left hand, I saw the flicker of hellfire ignite in his palm. Scratch flattened his ears against his skull and growled in preparation of a second attack.
I tried to shout, but the best I could do was a hoarse croak that made me grimace in pain. “Hexe! Don’t do it!” To my relief, his eyes regained their focus and his left hand dropped to his side, extinguishing the flame.
“You did it, Tate!” Scratch said. “You woke him up!”
“What—what happened?” Hexe winced as he touched his face, staring in bafflement at the blood staining his left hand. His eyes jerked in my direction, only to widen at the sight of the bruises that now ringed my neck. He then looked down at his right hand, to find its fingers still moving of their own accord, as if trying to strangle an unseen throat. With a shout of wordless horror, Hexe dashed from the bedroom.
“What’s wrong with him, Scratch?” I rasped.
“The boss is possessed,” the familiar replied. “But not by a demon; I’d recognize the smell if he was. It’s some kind of evil spirit—” Whatever else Scratch had to say after that was abruptly drowned out by the bansheelike screech of a power tool.
“He’s in my studio!” I exclaimed. I leapt from the bed and hurried down the hall without bothering to throw on my housecoat, Scratch following at my heels.
As I entered the room, I saw Hexe standing naked at my workbench, brandishing one of the cordless power saws. He held his right hand away from his body, staring in disgust at its wildly writhing fingers as if they were venomous snakes.