Left Hand Magic by Nancy A. Collins Page B

have a chance to finish dinner, and were in dire need of a few stiff drinks after our ordeal, Hexe and I hailed a centaur and decided to go to the Two-Headed Calf. During the ride, Hexe didn’t have much to say, and seemed lost in thought. From what I had gleaned from the conversation between him and his mother, there was considerably more family drama going on than I previously realized. Hexe had never mentioned his dad before, and I had assumed that Lady Syra was either a divorcée or a widow. Now it was becoming clear that things were far more complicated than just a messy divorce. Still, despite my curiosity, I refrained from asking any further questions concerning his father. I decided it would be best if he told me the story on his terms, instead of having it pried out of him piece by piece.
    The Two-Headed Calf was situated a couple blocks down and over from the boardinghouse, and had been in business continuously since before the Revolutionary War. Above the entrance was suspended an old-fashioned wooden pub sign depicting its namesake: the left head goggle-eyed, tongue-lolling drunk, while the right head contentedly munched on a daisy. As Hexe opened the door for me, a cloud of cigarette smoke wafted out to greet us.
    One of the more unpleasant aspects of Golgotham that I had been forced to get used to was the fact that damn near every Kymeran smokes like a clogged chimney, especially in public. Whether by sorcerous design or genetic fluke, they are not susceptible to cancer, so their attitude toward tobacco and other carcinogens is considerably different than that of human society. I counted myself lucky that Hexe didn’t indulge in the habit, but I still had to deal with secondhand smoke whenever we went out on the town.
    The Calf was jumping when we arrived, the bar elbow to elbow as a live band played in the back to a raucously appreciative audience—a good number of which appeared to be human.
    “Who are they?” I asked, pointing to the musicians playing an earsplitting cross of punk and traditional Kymeran folk tunes on electrically amplified violin, hurdy-gurdy, and accordion.
    “They’re called Talisman,” Hexe explained, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the music. “I went to grammar school with the lead singer, Polk. They’re getting some interest from a major label. It’s about time there was a real crossover Kymeran rock act. Bowie doesn’t count.”
    A handful of college students sat in one of the booths, talking animatedly among themselves as they nursed tankards of barley wine and took pictures of their surroundings with their cell phones.
    Lafo, the Calf’s head bartender, chief cook, and bottle washer, left his place behind the horseshoe-shaped bar and came out to greet us. He was close to seven feet tall, and with his long, flowing, ketchup red beard and the elaborate tattoos swarming his forearms, he looked more like a pirate than a respected restaurateur. As he welcomed us, my hand was briefly engulfed by his.
    “Good to see you two, as always,” he said with a grin.
    “Seems you’ve acquired a new clientele.” Hexe nodded at the looky-loos and chuckled.
    “There’s a write-up somewhere online listing the Calf as ‘The Weirdest Place to Get a Drink in New York City,’ or some bullshit like that,” Lafo explained with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “They’ve been pouring in like water all week. I appreciate the business, but by the sunken spires, what a load of whiny chuffers! They’re always going on about the cigarette smoke and asking for nachos and light beer. Where do they think they are? Applebee’s? Plus, now the regulars are pissed at me because I won’t kick ’em out!”
    As he spoke, the door to the Calf opened and another knot of young humans arrived, gaping at the bar’s interior with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. As they entered, a couple of the regular patrons exited, roughly jostling the looky-loos on their way out.
    “See what I