Hexmaker hexworld book 2, p.13
Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 13
They took the Sixth Avenue El to the Tenderloin district, the train jerking and clattering its way along the track. Quigley and Mal had found seats next to one another, and were soon arguing over the relative merits of various baseball players. Owen watched them converse, unable to hear most of what was said over the sounds of the train, and tried to ignore Nick’s looming presence beside him.
What had birthed Nick’s hostility toward witches and police, Owen couldn’t imagine. Certainly Rook had never shown any such tendencies. Rook’s witch Dominic was an excellent hexman, and Owen had relied on Dominic’s expertise many times. Rook had never been anything other than pleasant. A bit frivolous and silly at times, joking at inappropriate moments—though going by Malachi, perhaps that was simply a trait of familiars in general.
He couldn’t imagine Nick cracking a smile, let alone a joke. The feral towered over him even seated, smelling of sweat and grime, as though he hadn’t bathed in days. Then again, Mal had smelled much the same, their first night together.
As though he’d heard Owen’s thought, Nick said, “You’d best be treating Malachi right.”
Owen drew himself up, offended. Who the devil was this fellow, to suggest he’d mistreat a lover?
No. He couldn’t think of Mal as a lover. But even if they hadn’t been friends, had been barely civil, it was still beyond the pale to suggest Owen would renege on his responsibility to his own familiar.
“Mal seems quite content, thank you,” Owen replied frostily.
Nick was clearly unmoved by Owen’s warning tone. “I’ve heard how you rich bastards are. Forcing your familiars to stay in animal shape, except in front of the servants. At least you let him keep his name.”
A deaf man could hardly miss the heavy note of sarcasm in Nick’s last sentence. Owen narrowed his eyes and tried not to recall his mother’s words of the night before. Her shock he would tolerate a familiar with an Irish name and Irish beliefs, and what Mal might have wanted never crossing her mind.
He couldn’t speak of such private matters to Nick, of course, so he only said, “Mal made his choice, and he chose me. How we conduct our business is none of yours.”
To his surprise, Nick let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, yes, his choice.”
“And what the devil do you mean by that?”
Dark eyes fixed on him. “Are you really that stupid?” Nick wondered. “Fine, witch. Let me lay it out for you. The MWP wasn’t going to protect Mal if he didn’t bond with you, were they? So his choice was being turned over to the regular police, and either rotting in jail or possibly having a confession to the murder beaten out of him. Or if that didn’t happen, he could take his chances on the street, and hope the killer was caught before he succeeded in murdering Mal.” Nick shook his head, long hair rustling over his shoulders. “Jail or death. Some choice.”
Owen’s chest tightened; he couldn’t seem to get enough breath. “We all do things we would prefer not to,” he said. Certainly he didn’t wish to marry Edith—nor she him, if last night had been anything to go by. Duty to their families compelled them; they were without real choice in the matter.
Although, to be fair, neither of them were facing jail or death if they refused that duty.
Nick snorted, a harsh explosion of air, like an irritated horse. Fortunately, the train reached their stop before he could go on. They descended from the El, and went west on 28th Street. The streets were choked with all manner of humanity: laborers, peddlers, pushcart vendors, beggars, newsboys, rag pickers, and more. Grocers shouted at one another in Russian, only to be abused in Italian by a drunk woman passing by. Lines of washing hung between and in front of buildings, the cloth flapping in the brisk breeze. Music halls rubbed shoulders with what could only be brothels, judging by the women on the stoop or watching out the windows.
Owen had read the newspaper stories declaring the district a cesspool of vice, with more gambling halls and bordellos than anywhere else in the nation, let alone the city. It was the first time he’d actually walked the streets, though. Strange to think they were only a few blocks from the mansion where he’d grown up. It almost seemed a different world.
Nick stopped outside a building, the lowest floor of which was a saloon. A placard in the window proclaimed FAMILIARS ONLY. Caballus was stenciled in faded letters on the glass, and a sign featuring a rearing horse hung above the door. Broken chains flew from the horse’s forelegs.
“Subtle,” Owen remarked.
Nick ignored him. “All right. I’ve some rules for you lot. I’ll lead, you follow. When I need your fancy badges, I’ll let you know.”
“Now see here,” Quigley started.
“Sure thing, Nick,” Mal said. “But will you at least tell me who it was as sold me out?”
Nick’s lips tightened. “Ulysses.”
Mal let out a sigh. “At least it wasn’t one of my fucking roommates,” he muttered.
Here was a chance for Owen to show Nick that he wasn’t mistreating Mal. “You knew him?” he asked, putting a sympathetic hand to Mal’s shoulder.
Mal shrugged. “A bit. Know most of the ferals in this part of town a bit, though, don’t I? Owl. Drank with him once or twice. Didn’t seem like a bad sort.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mal cast him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
Nick sighed loudly. “Let’s just have this done with.”
They followed Nick as he clomped up the narrow stair. Owen had been in a tenement before, in a different part of town, when they’d had to visit Tom Halloran and Cicero on the sly. The interior had looked nothing like this building, however. That tenement had been clearly made with human use in mind, whereas someone—Nick, or the inhabitants themselves—had altered this one for the convenience of animals. The windows on the landings opening onto the central airshaft had platforms outside, where bird familiars could land and safely transform before opening the window and climbing inside. Perches jutted out of the walls at regular intervals, some of them occupied by sleeping owls or ravens, who stirred and glared when they passed underneath. Many of the doors had smaller flaps cut into them; Owen glimpsed a rat going through one, and wondered if it was a familiar or just an ordinary animal taking advantage.
There had once been wallpaper on the walls, but it was now peeling and stained. Broken windows were either boarded over or stuffed with rags. The air of the hall was frigid, unwarmed even by the light of the sun. A man lay unconscious on one of the landings, clutching an empty whiskey bottle to his chest. From the smell, he’d soiled himself, but Nick, Mal, and Quigley just stepped over him as though the scene were perfectly ordinary.
Dear God. Mal had lived here? In this cold and filth?
Nick finally came to a halt in front of one of the doors. “This is Ulysses’s apartment. I don’t know if he’s here, but you can take a look around and wait for him if he’s not,” he said, pulling a key from his pocket.
Quigley stepped to the door and drew out his nightstick. “Police!” he called, pounding on the door with his fist. “Open up!”
There came the sound of a window scraping shut, barely muted by the thin wood of the door. Nick’s eyes widened. “The fire escape!”
Quigley swore and struck the door with his shoulder. It shuddered in the frame, but failed to give.
Nick thrust the key into the lock. “Locking hex—it won’t open!”
“Out of the way!” Owen ordered. He stepped up to the door, removing the wallet with his hexman’s tools from the inside of his coat. “Let me try a counter-hex.”
“Counter-hex?” Quigley asked.
Owen sketched rapidly on the door. “It’s of my own devising.”
“Hurry, then—he’s getting away!”
“I’m quite aware of that,” Owen replied tightly. When he was done, he slapped his palm onto the hex. Magic rushed into him from Mal, a hot flood pouring through the bond, through Owen, and into the hex. “Undo the locking hex,” he said.
The door swung open, and the smell of blood rolled out to greet them.
Quigley rushed in past Owen, then stumbled to a halt. “Saint Mary, preserve us!”
The room was tiny, smaller than Owen’s ante room at The Folly. Every inch was packed with belongings: a stove, a bed made from a plank laid across two barrels, a rickety table, old crates packed with clothes or rags, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and two more makeshift beds on the floor.
Blood painted the walls, ceiling, and stove. A man lay motionless on the plank bed, his throat torn out.
Nick charged across to the window opening onto the fire escape. He grabbed it, then swore. “The killer jammed it!”
Quigley joined him, and together they forced it open. Quigley climbed out the escape; his footsteps rang on the iron ladder as he hastened down, accompanied by the shrill blowing of his police whistle to summon help.
The color had drained from Mal’s face. He took a step toward the bloody bed, then stopped. “Ulysses was a bastard for giving me over, but he didn’t deserve to die. Who could’ve done something like this?”
Owen bent to examine the body, trying not to breathe too deeply. “Not the same man as the one who killed Jacobs and tried to kill you.”
Nick came back from the window. “How do you know?”
“Jacobs’s murderer could take a form small enough to use the electrical wires for his escape. A squirrel, most likely.” Owen took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. “Ulysses was killed with a single blow, powerful enough to remove most of his throat. That suggests a tiger, or a lion—something far too large. We should look for hairs.”
Mal shook his head. “That wouldn’t do us any good. This ain’t a Fifth Avenue mansion with just one housewitch and familiar wandering about. Most of us here sleep in animal form, because it takes less room than a bed.” He nodded at Ulysses. “Unless you’re one of those who hate being an owl, or whatever. Neighbors visit each other in all sorts of shapes, and who knows how many familiars have rented this flat before Ulysses moved in. There’s probably hairs in here from every type of animal you can name and then some.”
“Better hope Quigley has luck chasing him down,” Nick said. He glanced at Ulysses’s body, then shook his head. “Bad way to go. I’ll leave you to your investigation.”
“What should we do?” Mal asked, once Nick had left.
Owen settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose. “Look around the room for anything that might give us some clue.”
There wasn’t much to see. They picked through the clothes, and Mal peered under the bed, which turned out to be where Ulysses stored his shoes. A newspaper lay on the only rickety table. Owen moved it aside, then stopped.
Beneath the newspaper was a thin, cheaply printed pamphlet. A lurid illustration showed a gleefully evil man looming over a cowering dog. WITCHES—OR VAMPIRES? screamed the title. And at the bottom, in smaller print: Only theriarchy can keep witches from draining our lives.
“Theriarchy,” Owen said numbly. “Dear God, not these lunatics again.”
Mal sat in the chair in Owen’s lab, his feet propped on the desk. They’d spent the last several hours giving their report to Ferguson. Bill Quigley hadn’t caught the fleeing murderer, though one or two witnesses offered vague descriptions of a dark haired man running from the building.
Ulysses’s body had gone to the coroner, in the hopes of narrowing down the type of animal that had killed him. “Though, since the coroner is drunk half the time, he’s as likely to say Ulysses was trampled by an elephant,” Owen had said glumly.
Now Owen sat at his table again, slowly assembling the pieces of the device, while Mal thumbed through the pamphlet they’d found in Ulysses’s apartment. “So you’ve tangled with these fellows before?” he asked. “Theriarchists, I mean.”
“Unfortunately.” Owen peered at the plates he was currently mounting to the connecting rod. “You recall the attack on the consolidation ceremony on New Year’s?”
“Who could forget!” Mal exclaimed. “Anarchists, wasn’t it? I spent the night getting drunk at Caballus, but the papers were full of nothing else for the next month.”
“I was in the midst of it,” Owen said with a wry twitch of his lips. “It was…terrifying.”
“I imagine it was.” From what the papers had said, Owen was damned lucky to have escaped unharmed. And thank Saint Mary he had. “So what are you saying? That these theriarchists had something to do with it?”
“The case wasn’t mine, but I was tangentially involved.” Owen carefully placed another plate onto the device. “The anarchists were partially guilty, but my understanding is they were being used the entire time. The theriarchists masterminded and carried out the attack. Some of them were killed in the mayhem, but there were hints they were only part of a much larger conspiracy. If they’re involved, we could be in for a great deal of trouble.”
“Just because Ulysses has a pamphlet don’t mean there’s a connection with his death,” Mal pointed out.
“No. But it’s worrisome.” Owen peered at the device through a magnifying glass, then set it aside. “I’ve seen what the theriarchists are capable of. How far they’re willing to go.” He paused, considering. “One of the MWP familiars, Isaac, was held captive by them for a time. We might ask him for insight.”
Mal went through the pamphlet again, more slowly this time. The writer hadn’t held back their opinion, that was for certain. The text, accompanied by lurid illustrations of witches abusing familiars, claimed draining magic for hexes was no different than a vampire draining the blood of its victims. Familiars, it said, had more to offer society than their magic—but their magic was the only thing society cared about, and so suppressed their other natural talents. The pamphlet concluded by calling for an end to all bonding and the destruction of all hexes.
It sounded like just the sort of thing Nick would love, to be honest. Ulysses having one pamphlet was less surprising than the whole tenement not being awash with them.
Not that he thought Nick had anything to do with Ulysses’s murder, or any of the rest of it. Nick had a bit of a temper, true, but killing a fellow feral? Not a chance.
Owen’s stool creaked as he sat back. “Oh.”
“Oh what?” Mal asked, tossing the pamphlet onto Owen’s desk. “Have you found something?”
“Yes.” Owen’s silver eyes gleamed with excitement behind the lenses of his spectacles, and a smile of genuine delight curved his mouth. “I want to consult with Dominic before I say anything, but…I think I know what the device does.”
Owen stood behind the table the partially constructed device sat on, surveying his small audience. Mal perched on the edge of the desk, while Dominic, Rook, Chief Ferguson, Quigley, and Athene all crowded in front of the table. The unbonded familiar, Isaac, had also joined them, though he stood well away from everyone else. Mal hadn’t met him before—not that he could claim to know most of the MWP familiars by any stretch. Overlong brown hair tumbled into his face, hiding his eyes. Thin fingers plucked nervously at the silver charm he wore around his neck, as if the habit in some way soothed him. Quigley cast him a concerned look or two, but Isaac never raised his head to see it.
“All right,” Ferguson said, drawing Mal’s attention back to the device. “What does this thing do that has the two of you so worked up?”
Owen exchanged a glance with Dominic. But Dominic gestured to him. “Go ahead. It’s your case.”
Owen straightened and clasped his hands behind him, as if preparing to deliver a lecture. The sight brought a grin to Mal’s face. “The device is a remarkable feat of hexology and engineering,” Owen said. “Today, we’ve uncovered one of the lost secrets of the ancient world.”
Athene shot him an impatient look. “Get to the point, Dr. Yates.”
“Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “One of the first things I noticed when examining the plates is that they’re inscribed with what you might call the building blocks the ancient Greeks used to create their hexes. It seemed an odd choice, as most of them don’t work as complete hexes themselves. However…”
He moved a small lever near the base of the device, then began to turn the crank. The gears rotated, swinging some plates out of the way while bringing others into alignment. “These plates now form a single, complete hex.” He shifted the lever a second time, then turned the handle again. “And now we have a different one.”
“It’s very clever,” Dominic interjected. “Though the potential hexes are limited due to the materials involved, you could use this device to create and use a wide number of different hexes without a hexman. A sleeping hex, for example, could be created once, then the device altered, recharged, and used to cast a locking hex instead.
Mal arched a brow. “Not very portable, though, is it? I mean, compared to a scrap of papyrus or whatever they used back then.”
“It probably wasn’t used for day to day sorts of hexes,” Owen said. “But it doesn’t just allow one to have access to hexes without a hexman. There are two other advantages. The first is that it seems built to cast hexes over a large area. So if I used it to create an unlocking hex, I might be able to unlock every door in the Coven at once.” Owen glanced at Dominic. “This second part is a bit more speculative, but Dominic agrees the potential is there.”
Ferguson crossed his arms. “Don’t keep us in suspense, Dr. Yates.”
“Yes, of course.” Owen cleared his throat again. “We ordinarily use hexes separately from one another. That is, if I cut myself, I might take a pain hex and use bandages hexed to prevent infection, but the two have no effect on one another. Even in the case of the chained hexes, one is activated, then the other at some later time. But this device allows one to create multiple hexes simultaneously.”
He moved the lever to another position and turned the handle again. The plates swung and shifted, creating a far more complicated pattern. “Here we have the two previous hexes, both displayed at the same time. More, some of the idiosyncrasies of the hex signs used suggest they may be linked together in some sophisticated fashion. I’m not certain how it would affect the outcome of the hexes—once I finish putting the device entirely back together, I’ll have a better idea.”
