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

bows at the sky. Hildy pulled her war-hammer from its holster on the side of the trike and held it on high as well, giving voice to the famous call of the Valkyries. Her sister Choosers of The Slain answered in kind, raising their spears while gunning their motors, until it sounded like Wagner at Sturgis: loud, proud, and fucking awesome.
    The last float in the Procession was a flatbed pulled by a brace of Teamsters, on which a dozen hulders, fauns, and nymphs, wearing nothing but red-white-and-blue G-strings, star-shaped pasties, and tricorn hats writhed against stripper poles bolted to the floor of the trailer. Banners draped along either side of the float proudly proclaimed DUIVEL STREET WELCOMES YOU TO THE JUBILEE !
    Bjorn Cowpen, dressed in a pair of form-fitting red velveteen bell-bottom pants and a bright blue silk shirt open to his navel, with a white cravat knotted about his throat, stood surrounded by his patriotically garbed, gyrating employees as he tossed out sealed star-spangled condoms and sampler packets of flavored personal lubrication. The parents in the crowd recoiled in horror, yanking their children away from the sight of near-naked exotic dancers hanging upside down by their thighs from mobile stripper poles, while the rest of the onlookers hooted and cheered.
    “This’ll come in handy later,” Adrian quipped as he caught an All-American rubber.
    “Better let
me
keep track of it,” Vanessa said with a wink, plucking the patriotic prophylactic from his hand and sliding it into her cleavage.
    Bringing up the Procession was the Paranormal Threat Unit, led by Captain Horn, who rode atop a police wagon pulled by a brawny centaur in PTU riot gear. Marching on foot alongside the wagon was his second-in-command, Lieutenant Viva, her long, copper-penny tresses tucked up under her helmet.
    At first I thought they were merely participants in the parade until a drunken spectator, inflamed by lust and stupidity, clambered onto the Duivel Street float. Captain Horn pointed his right hand at the rowdy and an ectoplasmic cocoon instantly formed about the inebriated man, binding his arms to his side. Lieutenant Viva and another PTU officer quickly hurried forward and grabbed the subdued unruly, who now resembled a giant wad of cotton candy, and quickly tossed him in the back of the paddy wagon.
    Now that the Procession had finally passed by, the crowds on either side of the street moved to fill the empty void, scavenging the gutters for missed throws and other treasures before experiencing the games of chance, carnival rides, and souvenir booths that lined the cross streets. Many of the local restaurants and pubs set up temporary stalls on the sidewalks as well, to take advantage of the festival-goers.
    Blarney’s booth, easily identifiable by its bright green awning, was already doing a brisk business selling corned beef sandwiches and baked potatoes to those eager to cash in their doubloons for free beer. I spotted Lafo, dressed in painstakingly accurate Colonial Era dress, right down to the powdered wig, manning a stall that flew the familiar two-headed calf logo.
    “Jubilation to you and yours, Serenity!” the restaurateur said jovially, handing Hexe an enormous plastic novelty glass shaped like a revolutionary musket. “What can I get you and your friends?”
    “What do you think I should try?” Vanessa whispered, eyeing the menu board warily.
    “This is probably the closest you’re going to get to ‘typical’ carnival food. Most of the other vendors are far more, uh,
ethnic
than this,” I explained, pointing to another booth across the street advertising python kabobs and caramel apples dipped in deep-fried mealworms.
    Vanessa and Adrian quickly agreed that I had a point, and decided to go with the roasted goat tamale and chili-cheese funnel cake, which they washed down with souvenir muskets of prickly pear margaritas.
    Food in hand, we wandered deeper and deeper into Golgotham, past booths selling