Lady Syra lived on Beke Street in a fifteen story neo-Gothic apartment building. Like my parents, her home was the penthouse, which was crowned by a copper-sheathed observatory that she used in order to draw up astrology charts for her clients. As we entered the ground floor lobby, the elevator doors began to open, prompting Hexe to hide his missing hand in his jacket pocket.
A second later Syra’s fellow tenant, Giles Gruff, accompanied by Mayor Lash, stepped out into the lobby. While Giles was dapper as ever, monocle in place and monogrammed cane in hand, Lash was nervously working the five-foot-long periwinkle blue braided ponytail he wore about his shoulders like a rosary. The two politicians were so heavily engaged in their conversation they did not seem to notice our little contingent.
“But I’ve always been able to count on you delivering the satyr and faun vote in the past, Giles—!” The mayor protested.
“Well, you should have thought about that before you decided to get into bed with Ronald Chess!” Giles replied sharply. “Because of you, my niece was kicked out of her apartment!”
“How else could I afford to campaign against O’Fae?” Lash snapped. “Do you have any idea how many pots of gold that sawed-off shyster has in his war coffer?”
Lady Syra scowled and mock-coughed into her fist. Mayor Lash started at the sound, his face losing all color as he realized who was standing before him. Giles, on the other hand, merely smirked as his companion quickly scurried across the lobby and out the front door.
“Your Majesty,” the satyr said, touching the brim of his top hat with his cane.
The first thing I noticed upon reaching Lady Syra’s penthouse was that there was no minotaur stationed outside the front door.
“What happened to Elmer?” I asked.
“I had to let the poor dear go,” she explained. “He was the proverbial bull in a china shop—always getting his horns caught in the chandeliers. He’s now working as a longshoreman down on the docks. I think he’s much happier there, to tell you the truth.”
As we entered the apartment, we were greeted by Lady Syra’s manservant, Amos, whose welcoming smile quickly dissolved as he caught sight of the beige-colored arm sock that covered the stump of Hexe’s right hand.
“My son’s condition is not to be discussed. Is that understood?” Lady Syra stated firmly.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Amos replied with a bow of his maroon buzz cut.
“Come with me,” Lady Syra said, motioning for us to follow her up the spiral staircase that led to her workshop.
The inside of the observatory reminded me of an inverted copper bowl and was dominated by an antique sixteen-inch refracting telescope measuring twenty feet in length. The gleaming brass eyepiece was positioned six feet off the floor and was accessible only by a wrought-iron gangway. The retractable roof was decorated with murals depicting the zodiac and other astrological signs, and the walls were lined with bookcases, pigeonhole bins full of rolled-up charts, and a glass display case containing a taxidermied crocodile—the hallmark of the Kymeran archmage. Lady Syra made a beeline to a large horseshoe-shaped table at the foot of the telescope.
“Perhaps I could have prevented you losing your hand if I’d cast your chart as a boy,” she said as she rifled through the collection of alchemical equipment, magical ingredients, and astrological charts before her. “But I have learned it isn’t wise to know too much of the future, especially of those you love. The temptation to muck about with that which has yet to be can be very strong, and often quite futile. If Greek tragedy has proven anything, it’s that attempting to evade the inevitable is what brings it about.”
“But didn’t you cast a horoscope for my father?” Hexe countered.
“There are different types of charts,” she replied. “The one I cast for your father was little more than a toy. And I certainly wouldn’t have given it to him as a birthday present if it revealed his death, or that of a loved one. In any case, blaming myself for not foreseeing what has happened does not change the fact it has occurred. This Erys woman, whoever she may be, seems determined to destroy you, and I’m not going to allow her to do any more damage than she already has.” After a few more moments spent rummaging about, she produced a small brass bowl, a large bottle of rosewater, an organic sponge, and a box of henna pens. “Okay—I need you two to strip down.”
“Down to what?” I asked uneasily.
“As far as you’re willing to go,” she replied. “I’ll need access to your entire torso. But first use the sponge to cleanse yourself with the rosewater.”
A few minutes later both Hexe and I were down to our skivvies and smelling like a rose garden.
“Are you ready?” Lady Syra asked.
“Take care of Tate first,” Hexe said firmly. “I can wait.”
His mother nodded her understanding and motioned for me to step forward. “Okay—let’s get started.” She uncapped the first henna pen and started to chant in Kymeran. As the tip of the applicator made contact with my skin, I felt an electric prickling that made the hair on my arms rise. For the next hour Lady Syra drew a series of interlocking symbols and patterns over my breasts, belly, and back, never once halting her sonorous incantation. By the time she was finished I was covered with an elaborate henna tattoo from my shoulder blades to my hips, with specific attention paid to my heart, spine, lungs, and belly.
“That should protect you from the majority of curses for the next thirty days, or when the temporary tattoos wear off, whichever comes first,” Lady Syra said, looking considerably drained from when we’d first started. “Your turn,” she said, motioning for Hexe to take my place.
As I waited for the protective wards inked onto my body to finish drying—it wouldn’t do to have the symbols smudged—I noticed a jumble of old photographs mixed in with the arcana littering Lady Syra’s workbench. The one on the top of the pile showed a five-year-old boy with purple hair and gold eyes, dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt, sitting on the lap of a dignified older Kymeran with dark blue hair, golden eyes, and a closely manicured German goatee. With a start, I realized I was looking at Hexe and his grandfather, Lord Eben.
The next photograph was in black-and-white and showed a much younger Syra seated at a table in a restaurant, enjoying a cocktail and the company of Lou Reed and Andy Warhol. I flipped the picture over and read the notation: Elaine’s. Reed, resplendent in black leather, had one arm about Syra, and the two seemed to be sharing a laugh while Warhol stared directly into the camera, looking far more otherworldly than the teenaged witch seated at his elbow.
The third photograph was also in black-and-white and showed three Kymerans—two men and a woman—gathered about one end of the formal dining table in the boardinghouse. It was strange to see Esau as a young man, as he was almost unrecognizable from the person I had come to know. It was not so much his youth that made the difference, but the fact the Esau in the photograph was . . . happy. Seated opposite him was a young man with a Beatles haircut and pair of tinted Ben Franklin glasses. It wasn’t until I saw his long, elegant fingers that I recognized him as the drug-addled, alcoholic Dr. Moot. However, the real shock came when I looked at the woman, seated between them. Although she was a little younger in the photo, I had no problems identifying her. I flipped the photo over and saw it was dated forty-five years earlier.