Eight Feet of Magic

Adventures and Velvet Coats

A long time ago, during the darkest of the midwinter nights when the wind was howling like the ravenous wolves chasing the sun, the Wild Hunt began.

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Hank Goodenough pinchedthe bridge of his nose and wished he was somewhere else—anywhere else. "Dad..." How the fuck should he put this to not make the situation worse?His gaze landed on the old Yule Goat he’d placed on the mantelpiece yesterday. It had been his mother’s, and it was the only Christmas ornament he had...or rather Yule ornament. She had believed in the old gods, had held on to her beliefs despite the sickness tearing her apart. Hank had wanted to yell at her—couldn’t she see there was no higher power there to ease her pain?

He sighed and focused on his dad again. "I don't think—"

"No, but you never do." The sentence ended in a coughing fit, and Hank hurried to get him a glass of water. This was the worst idea his father had ever had...probably. To be honest, Hank didn’t know what his worst idea was; there had been so many throughout the years. His shoulders slumped. They couldn’t do this now; he didn’t have the energy. He had to stop it somehow.

One option after the other swirled around in his scrambled brain, but not one of them would stop Demetrius Brownsmith—theDemetrius Brownsmith. It didn’t matter that he was his son, Hank had never figured out a way to prevent him from doing something he’d set his mind to, but then again, Hank was a useless bastard.

Pain flared from behind his right ear where the brass funnel came out of his skull. Like lightning, it shot through his brain to a spot behind his left eye. He didn’t want to think about the mess the surgery had caused in there.

The doctors claimed they’d fixed him, but Hank didn’t feel fixed. Sure, he hadn’t woken up shaking on the floor with froth running down his chin in years, but fixed... Hank couldn’t be fixed. The operating doctor, an inventor friend of Demetrius, claimed the seizures came due to a lack of oxygen in Hank’s brain so he’d created a hole and a funnel as some sort of valve. Why it couldn’t be something small, a little air vent of some kind, he didn’t understand. Maybe if Demetrius had taken him to a real hospital and not searched for the cheapest solution...there was no use in thinking about it now.

If only Polly were here. He’d promised he could take care of Dad for a month—one lousy month. It shouldn’t be too hard to do, should it? But Hank was nothing if not useless.

"Stop fussing!" Demetrius pushed his hands away when he tried to help him sit further up.

"But Dad, you're an old man—"

"What did I tell you?" Demetrius got to his feet, and pain blossomed behind Hank’s left eye when he tried to follow the motion.

“But Dad... We can’t afford it. I can’t afford it.” He swallowed down the ashes in his throat. “I-I there’s no more work to be had...for me.”

“Of course not!” Demetrius whirled around. His long leather trench coat flew around him, the coppery buckles jingling like festive bells, and his grey hair stood like a halo around his head. Hank guessed they looked alike, they had the same a-little-too-big nose, the same wide brown eyes, and neither of them could go more than a few hours before a bristly stubble covered their chins. Demetrius’s hair had already lost all colour when he’d been Hank’s age, but Hank’s was still a dark brown, perhaps the only physical trait he’d inherited from his mother.

“Why they hired you in the first place is beyond me.”

Hank swallowed again. Nice. Evidently, Polly wasn’t the only one who thought he was an idiot. “Thanks, Dad, that means a lot—”

“Oh stop being such a baby. You’re not meant for working. You’re meant for adventure!”

Adventure?Hank was as far from being meant for adventure as anyone could be.

Demetrius dug out an old leather suitcase from beneath the bed—it was more of a cot, really—and tossed it to Hank.

Something didn’t add up. Hank bit his lip as he took in the frantic motions. “How did you know I’d be home now?”

“I live here too...for now.” He went over to a chest of drawers that had been Mother’s. For a few seconds, he trailed his fingers over the surface before yanking open one of the oblique drawers and tossing a pair of long johns at Hank. “Here, pack these. It’ll get a little chilly.”

Chilly?Hank didn’t do chilly...or chillier than he had to. Living in this ramshackle building made it impossible to avoid the chill this time of year, but if there was one thing he was capable of doing it was making sure they never ran low on coal.