Free Magic and Loss: A Novel of Golgotham by Nancy A. Collins Page A

Anti-Defamation League’s float, drawn by a brace of centaur colts, was festooned with campaign banners that read: VOTE THE GREEN PARTY: SEAMUS O’FAE FOR MAYOR . Perched high atop a fake pot of gold at the end of an equally artificial rainbow was none other than Little Big Man himself. The tiny, charismatic lawyer and civic leader seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he waved his shillelagh with one hand and tossed imitation gold doubloons to the crowd with the other.
    While the leprechauns were the most numerous of the faeries that call Golgotham home, they were far from the only Wee Folk on the float. A quartet of foot-tall brownies, flat-faced with huge eyes and tufted ears, their bodies covered in short curly hair, scampered about like a litter of bipedal Pekingese puppies as they supplied necklaces, candy, and toy doubloons to a squadron of dragonfly-winged pixies, who zoomed in and out of the crowd like barnstormers.
    There was a high-pitched buzzing sound and something suddenly swooped toward my head. I instinctively backed away, fearing a wasp or hornet had flown into my face, only to find myself staring at a pixie hovering inches in front of my nose. It was six inches long, with iridescent wings that beat so fast it seemed to hang in midair like a hummingbird. It was androgynous in appearance, with high-turned cheekbones and large eyes and a hairless, pale green body that resembled celadon pottery, clad in a simple, tuniclike garment woven from spider silk. It was carrying a doubloon in its tiny, yet surprisingly strong hands.
    “Vote for Seamus!”
the pixie said with its pennywhistle voice. Upon dropping its cargo in my outstretched hand, it promptly zipped back to the slowly moving float to rejoin its kin.
    I looked down at the doubloon, which, despite its color, was made of anodized aluminum. On one side was stamped O’FAE FOR MAYOR ; and on the other , GOOD FOR ONE FREE BEER @ BLARNEY’S BOOTH . I had to hand it to Seamus—he certainly knew his constituency.
    After the faerie folk passed by there came a triple column of satyrs pulling rickshaws, who wove in and out like Shriners in midget parade cars. In the lead rickshaw was Giles Gruff, leader of the satyr community, monocle in one eye, dressed in a top hat and monogrammed waistcoat, waving his gold-topped walking stick like a drum major. Riding in the other rickshaws were a mixture of comely nymphs and fauns, who smiled and tossed strands of wine-colored beads to the onlookers thronging the street.
    Next came Golgotham’s merfolk contingent, fronted by ten strapping, green-haired mer-men, naked save for their seaweed skirts. Using conch shells to trumpet their arrival, they went into the ritual dance of their people, grimacing and chanting as they slapped their bare chests, thighs and upper arms with their wide, webbed hands. Upon finishing, a couple of juvenile mers sprayed them down with misting wands attached to tanks of salt water, so that they would not dehydrate and start to wither.
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    Given that Golgotham is an automobile-free zone, the throaty rumble of combustion engines, even at low throttle, seemed as out of place as the whinny of centaurs on Broadway. The Iron Maidens Motorcycle Club, composed of two dozen Amazon warriors and Valkyries, rolled their idling hogs down the cobblestone street, dressed in their club colors, longbows and spears slung across their backs.
    At the head of the pack were Hildy and Lyta, the joint leaders of the merged gangs, sitting astride a chopped trike. Hildy, who stood over six feet tall and had long, blond Teutonic braids and a Harley-Davidson patch to hide her missing eye, was in the driver’s seat. Behind her was Lyta, dressed in a leather bustier that proudly displayed her missing right breast. As Hildy gunned the throttle on the trike, Lyta stood upright, lifting her bow over her head, and cut loose with an ululating war cry. The other Amazons instantly did the same, shaking their