Read Online Left Hand Magic by Nancy A. Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy A. Collins
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mean?” Lafo grunted. “Some of my best customers have accused me of selling out. Ha! You’ll know I’ve sold out the day you see cheeseburgers on the menu!”
“We were planning to stay for a drink and some dinner, but it looks like you’re full up,” Hexe said as he scanned the crowded room.
“I can fix that,” Lafo assured him. The tavern owner walked over to a nearby table occupied by a couple of young college kids. “Hey, you!” he barked. “Go stand at the bar!”
“But we’re sitting here!” the braver of the two protested.
“And I own where you’re sitting. So you can either stand at the bar and finish your drinks, or you can show me some ID. Which is it gonna be, kiddos?” The students grumbled under their breath, but they still got up and took their drinks to the bar. “There ya go—best seats in the house!” Lafo said with a lavish flourish of his catcher’s mitt–sized hand. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll send Chorea over to take your order.”
“Oh—are she and Faro back from their honeymoon?” I asked.
“Well, she’s back,” Lafo replied. “I’m not too sure about Faro’s whereabouts.”
A few seconds later Chorea, one of the Calf’s barmaids, appeared at our table, order pad in hand and a ballpoint pen tucked inside the wreath of ivy and grapevine that adorned her raven black hair. The looky-loos in the booth opposite from us snickered as they blatantly ogled the maenad’s voluptuous body through her gossamer-sheer chiton. My cheeks burned with shame, not for Chorea but out of embarrassment for the behavior of my fellow humans.
“Congratulations on your marriage.” Hexe smiled. “Faro is a lucky man.”
“Not if I get my hands on him!” Chorea replied sharply. “Did you know that bastard ran off and left me on our honeymoon?”
“Oh, Chory, I’m so sorry,” I gasped. “That’s horrible!”
“He ditched me in Crete, two days after we were married.” The maenad gave Hexe a suspicious look. “You wouldn’t have happened to have seen him lurking about?”
“No, I haven’t,” Hexe replied. “But if I run into him, I’ll make sure he knows you’re looking for him.”
“Fair enough,” Chorea sighed, mollified by his response. “So—what’ll it be? The usual?”
Within moments of our nodding yes, the barmaid had a pint of Old Hurdy-Gurdy and a glass of the house red sitting before us. As I lifted my glass to my lips, the person at the table next to us—a Kymeran man with long pumpkin-colored dreadlocks—lit up an elaborately carved meerschaum pipe, adding further aromatic billows to the already smoky room.
A young human woman wearing a beret and a disgusted look on her face leaned out of a nearby booth and tapped the orange-haired Kymeran on the shoulder. “Excuse me—sir? Sir?”
The dreadlocked Kymeran turned in his seat to scowl at her, but did not take the pipe out of his mouth. “What is it, nump?” he growled.
“Sir, do you mind not doing that?” the woman asked in a tone that made it clear she was making a demand, not asking a question.
“Doing what ?” the Kymeran replied, continuing to puff on his pipe.
“Smoking!” she replied in a voice just short of a shout.
The entire room fell dead silent as every eye in the bar turned to stare at the defiant human. Asking a Kymeran to extinguish his cigarette or pipe on his home turf was right up there with burning a flag, in terms of cultural insult. The dreadlocked wizard took the meerschaum out of his mouth and studied it for a moment, then shook his head.
“I do mind, thank you very much.”
The woman in the beret blinked, taken aback by the Kymeran’s lackadaisical response. “Smoking isn’t allowed in bars and restaurants in New York City,” she said with overstated politeness. “What you’re doing is against the law!”
“Who’s gonna arrest me?” The warlock chuckled as he blew a lungful of Borkum Riff in her face. “You and your nump pals there? This
“We were planning to stay for a drink and some dinner, but it looks like you’re full up,” Hexe said as he scanned the crowded room.
“I can fix that,” Lafo assured him. The tavern owner walked over to a nearby table occupied by a couple of young college kids. “Hey, you!” he barked. “Go stand at the bar!”
“But we’re sitting here!” the braver of the two protested.
“And I own where you’re sitting. So you can either stand at the bar and finish your drinks, or you can show me some ID. Which is it gonna be, kiddos?” The students grumbled under their breath, but they still got up and took their drinks to the bar. “There ya go—best seats in the house!” Lafo said with a lavish flourish of his catcher’s mitt–sized hand. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll send Chorea over to take your order.”
“Oh—are she and Faro back from their honeymoon?” I asked.
“Well, she’s back,” Lafo replied. “I’m not too sure about Faro’s whereabouts.”
A few seconds later Chorea, one of the Calf’s barmaids, appeared at our table, order pad in hand and a ballpoint pen tucked inside the wreath of ivy and grapevine that adorned her raven black hair. The looky-loos in the booth opposite from us snickered as they blatantly ogled the maenad’s voluptuous body through her gossamer-sheer chiton. My cheeks burned with shame, not for Chorea but out of embarrassment for the behavior of my fellow humans.
“Congratulations on your marriage.” Hexe smiled. “Faro is a lucky man.”
“Not if I get my hands on him!” Chorea replied sharply. “Did you know that bastard ran off and left me on our honeymoon?”
“Oh, Chory, I’m so sorry,” I gasped. “That’s horrible!”
“He ditched me in Crete, two days after we were married.” The maenad gave Hexe a suspicious look. “You wouldn’t have happened to have seen him lurking about?”
“No, I haven’t,” Hexe replied. “But if I run into him, I’ll make sure he knows you’re looking for him.”
“Fair enough,” Chorea sighed, mollified by his response. “So—what’ll it be? The usual?”
Within moments of our nodding yes, the barmaid had a pint of Old Hurdy-Gurdy and a glass of the house red sitting before us. As I lifted my glass to my lips, the person at the table next to us—a Kymeran man with long pumpkin-colored dreadlocks—lit up an elaborately carved meerschaum pipe, adding further aromatic billows to the already smoky room.
A young human woman wearing a beret and a disgusted look on her face leaned out of a nearby booth and tapped the orange-haired Kymeran on the shoulder. “Excuse me—sir? Sir?”
The dreadlocked Kymeran turned in his seat to scowl at her, but did not take the pipe out of his mouth. “What is it, nump?” he growled.
“Sir, do you mind not doing that?” the woman asked in a tone that made it clear she was making a demand, not asking a question.
“Doing what ?” the Kymeran replied, continuing to puff on his pipe.
“Smoking!” she replied in a voice just short of a shout.
The entire room fell dead silent as every eye in the bar turned to stare at the defiant human. Asking a Kymeran to extinguish his cigarette or pipe on his home turf was right up there with burning a flag, in terms of cultural insult. The dreadlocked wizard took the meerschaum out of his mouth and studied it for a moment, then shook his head.
“I do mind, thank you very much.”
The woman in the beret blinked, taken aback by the Kymeran’s lackadaisical response. “Smoking isn’t allowed in bars and restaurants in New York City,” she said with overstated politeness. “What you’re doing is against the law!”
“Who’s gonna arrest me?” The warlock chuckled as he blew a lungful of Borkum Riff in her face. “You and your nump pals there? This
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