Boss Marz stood in the intersection of two wide aisles near the center of the loggia and smirked at the sea of fearful faces staring at him. His voice boomed out, echoing through the now-silent Fly Market like thunder from an approaching storm.
“It has come to my attention that many of you, over these last few months, have failed to pay your tribute to the Maladanti! In case you are suffering from the delusion that because I and my associates, here, have been detained elsewhere, that you are no longer under any obligation to provide us with a percentage of your profits in order to continue to do business in the Fly Market—please allow me to disabuse you of such wrong thinking!”
The crime lord pointed his left hand at a nearby magic candle booth, tended by an elderly Kymeran man with receding mint-green hair. “In Arum’s name—please, no!” the candlemaker begged, lifting his hands in supplication.
But there was no point in pleading for mercy from Boss Marz—and none at all to be found from his familiar. With a squeal of delight, Bonzo leapt from his master’s shoulder and scampered along his outstretched arm, jumping from Marz’s hand like a swimmer off a diving board.
The moment the squirrel monkey hit the floor it took on its demonic aspect, transforming into what looked like the misbegotten result of a threesome between a mandrill baboon, a hyena, and a stegosaurus, while still dressed like an organ-grinder’s monkey. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the familiar bounded over the counter and snatched up the hapless vendor, disappearing with his captive in a cloud of smoke that reeked of brimstone and monkey house.
A moment later, Bonzo, once more reduced in size, reappeared on his master’s shoulder, licking his lips and picking at his teeth. Boss Marz chuckled and rewarded his familiar with a pistachio nut, which it greedily grabbed and devoured.
“I trust I have made myself perfectly clear,” he said to his horror-struck audience. “Come the next tribute day, I expect each and every one of you to make good on all you owe me. Good day, citizens.”
A gasp of horror rippled throughout the Fly Market, followed by a chorus of fearful murmurs as the merchants began frantically talking among themselves. As the lord of the Maladanti turned to leave, he looked about the Fly Market a final time. I desperately wanted to somehow duck out of sight, but I found myself rooted to the spot, too terrified to move. As his gaze fell on me, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and he raised his right hand to his brow, in a mock salute, accompanied by an unpleasant little smile.
The moment Marz turned his back on me, the fear that had kept me glued to the spot instantly dissolved. I snatched up the bundle I had been sent to retrieve and hurried in the opposite direction as fast as I could go.
Chapter 4
When I arrived at work, I told Canterbury what I’d seen at the Fly Market. He was visibly shocked and immediately told me to take the rest of the day off.
“But what about the exhibit for the museum?” I asked, pointing to the bits and pieces of clockwork dragon scattered about the workshop.
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied. “You’d be of no use to me, and a danger to yourself, if you tried to work right now. The last thing I need is for you to fire up a welding torch with shaky hands and a wandering mind. Just be here all the earlier tomorrow. And don’t worry—I’m not going to dock you for the day.”
“Thanks, Master,” I said with a wan smile.
“No problem. Now beat it before I kick myself for my generosity.”
Upon returning home, I heard voices conversing in the study. I peeked in and saw Hexe sitting at his desk, with Beanie cradled in his lap and Scratch perched atop the back of his chair while he talked to Bartho.
“What do you mean my cameras aren’t jinxed?” The photographer frowned.
“I went over each of them several times with my finest scrying stones,” Hexe replied, gesturing to the cameras arrayed before him. “They are definitely not cursed. However, I did discover that they have been exposed to magical energy.”
“Can you tell who’s responsible? Because I really want to put a boot up the ass of whoever did this.”
“Then you better bend over. Because, according to my divinations, you’re the source of the magic.”
Bartho’s jaw dropped open like a drawbridge. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, how is that possible?”
“Because you’re manifesting through your art form, just like I have,” I interjected.
Hexe raised an eyebrow in surprise. “What are you doing home this time of day?”
“Canterbury gave me the day off,” I said, brushing aside the question. “I’m more interested in hearing how Bartho got himself all magical.”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure what’s happening, but it’s a well-known fact that the human psychics who live in Golgotham have considerably stronger abilities than those who live elsewhere,” Hexe explained. “Perhaps artistic humans are affected in much the same way? I mean, artists routinely create something from nothing using only their craft and force of will—it’s essentially the same thing a witch or warlock does when we work magic.”
“If that’s true, then why hasn’t this phenomenon been documented before now?” Bartho asked, a dubious look on his face.
“For the simple reason that, despite a long history of artists being drawn to my people, up until recently ‘normal’ humans such as you and Tate have steered clear of Golgotham and similar enclaves,” Hexe sighed. “Of course, Goya and Dali don’t count, as they were Kymeran themselves. And then there was Toulouse-Lautrec, who was a member of the dwarven community. And while Picasso may have kept a Kymeran mistress, he did not live with her in the heart of the Pigalle, surrounded by her family. No, it has only been recently that the old prejudices against my people have finally begun to fade and humans like you and Tate have become brave enough to dwell amongst us.”
The photographer scratched his head. “You mean any human who hangs out in Golgotham is going to end up with a case of the magics?”
“No, I suspect it will only affect artistic types, and only those that live here for several months. But, in any case, this is a very interesting development.”
“But how does it explain why my mojo, or whatever you call it, is generating double exposures?”
“Oh, those aren’t double exposures,” Hexe replied matter-of-factly. “They’re ghosts.”
Bartho’s eyes widened until it looked like they would launch themselves out of his skull. “You mean I see dead people?”
“No, you only take pictures of them,” Hexe explained. “You’ve become a spirit photographer, just like the original Ouija. As your talent matures, and you learn to control it, the images will become more and more distinct and you’ll be able to see them in the camera’s viewfinder. In time, you may even learn to communicate with your subjects.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?” Bartho yelped.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Hexe said reassuringly. “The vast majority of ghosts are perfectly nice people. They just happen to be dead, that’s all. However, should you see any with red eyes, run away as fast as you can.”
“That doesn’t sounds scary at all,” Bartho groaned. “So what do I do about these ghosts popping up in my pictures?”
“Well, you can always Photoshop them out. . . .”
After a bewildered Bartho left with his collection of cameras, Hexe and I retired to the kitchen. “So why did Canterbury give you the day off?” he asked. “Was there an accident at work?”