Hexmaker hexworld book 2, p.3
Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 3
“I need your help.” Mal licked his lips. “I’m in bad trouble, Nick.”
Nick set the rag aside and filled the glass. Depositing it in front of Mal, he said, “Calm down. Is there a witch after you?”
Some of the tension between Mal’s shoulders loosened. Nick kept a cudgel and a shotgun behind the bar, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use either if a witch should come around, looking to force bond one of the ferals under his protection.
“Not exactly.” Mal swallowed down the whiskey. It burned his throat like kerosene, but loosened the tight muscles at the back of his neck.
There were only a few people Mal would trust with the truth of what had happened, and Nick was near the top of the list. Even though his brother was an MWP detective, Nick had no patience with the law, or witches, or anything but the ferals no one else cared enough to look out for.
When Mal finished, Nick tossed his head, sending his long black hair flying like a mane. “I won’t have you bringing trouble down on the rest of the colony, Mal. If the coppers are after you—”
“They know I’m innocent,” Mal protested. “I mean, aye, they had me on the snuffbox, but they know I didn’t kill anybody. I ain’t looking to bring trouble down, Nick, I swear. It’s just that…”
He could see those pewter eyes again, so clearly. Soft lips that parted in surprise. The pink flush staining high cheekbones, tinting otherwise ivory skin that looked to seldom see the sun.
“One of the MWP men there—Dr. Yates.” Mal swallowed. “You ever heard of him?”
“What the devil do I care about some witch?” Nick asked. “Let alone one with the MWP.”
“Come on, Nick. He was dressed like a nob. Said he was a forensic hexman. Your brother ain’t said anything to you about him?”
Nick sighed. “Yeah, I suppose. He’s one of those Yates. The ones who live on Millionaires’ Row in their fancy mansion, with another mansion up in Newport or some such. Dr. Yates is the middle son, bunks over in one of those fancy apartment buildings by Central Park. The Folly, I think it’s called. He’s slumming with the MWP, though why I’ve no idea. Fucking useless parasite, even for a witch. What do you care?”
This was getting worse and worse. “He’s…Dr. Yates…he’s my witch.”
Mal had never spent a great deal of time thinking about what he’d do if he encountered the witch whose ability to channel a familiar’s magic was most compatible with his. And even if he had, he surely wouldn’t have imagined some rich nob who blushed so prettily when Mal winked at him.
Nick snorted and stamped a foot. “Please say you didn’t tell him.”
“Of course not!” Mal shoved his empty glass away, leaving a wet streak across the rough plank of the bar. “He’s a copper. A rich copper.” And Mal was just a thief.
“He’s a witch.” Nick refilled the whiskey without being asked. “Fur and feathers, what more reason do you need? The MWP would love to get their filthy paws on you. On any of us.”
Mal chewed his lip. “Your brother…”
“Don’t bring my idiot brother into this.” Nick scowled ferociously. “Rook couldn’t wait to hand over his freedom in exchange for a full belly. He’s some witch’s tame crow, fat and happy. And to hell with the rest of us who want to live our own lives, without some witch telling us what to do.”
“Aye,” Mal said, subdued. “This one—Yates—has got money, though.” Handsome, too, though Mal didn’t say that part aloud.
Nick snorted again. “Rich nobs are worse than coppers, when it comes to treating their familiars like possessions. I hear they don’t even let them take human form, except in front of the servants. You don’t want to get involved with that sort, Mal. Trust me.”
Nick was right. Still, Yates hadn’t just jumped to conclusions like everyone else. Hadn’t just assumed Mal was guilty.
If he hadn’t been there, Mal would be sitting in the Tombs right now. Eventually gone to the electric chair for Jacobs’s murder, if no one else thought to try the new hexes on the evidence.
Nick clapped him on the shoulder with a big hand. “Go upstairs to your bed, Mal,” he said. “Get some rest. Everything will seem better in the morning.”
Mal downed the second shot. “Aye,” he said, subdued. “I’m sure you’re right, Nick.” He just had to lay low and forget about Yates. Forget about his silver-eyed witch.
With any luck, their paths would never cross again.
Owen’s morning was not going well.
He’d slept restlessly, and upon arising, found every newspaper in New York vying for the most lurid headline concerning the murder. THE MILLIONAIRE MURDER blared one, while another shrieked MILLIONAIRE SLAIN IN OWN HOME—IS ANYONE SAFE?
Breakfast had been interrupted no less than five times. His neighbors at The Folly Apartments knew he worked for the MWP, and Jacobs’s murder frightened them in a way an ordinary violent death wouldn’t have. Murder was viewed as something that occurred amongst the lower classes. For a man of Jacobs’s wealth and status to be struck down in his own mansion, amidst all his hexes and servants and diamond crusted snuffboxes, hit rather too close to home.
Money made no man invincible. His older brother Peter had certainly proved that. But most of Owen’s neighbors had escaped the brutal reality of such a lesson. Now, they flocked to his door like frightened chicks looking for a hen to protect them.
Giving up on breakfast, he took one of the elevators down from the seventh floor. It provided no escape.
“No, Mrs. Singer,” he said as he exited into the lobby. “There is no truth to the rumor that a madman is going about killing the elite of this or any other city.”
The middle aged woman clutched at his arm. The plumes of her hat bobbed into his face, and he resisted the urge to knock them away. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get to work.”
Her eyes widened. “On a Sunday morning?”
He smiled thinly. “Alas, those in my line of work must often break the Sabbath.”
It wasn’t strictly true—the business of the police went on seven days a week, but his efforts in the lab didn’t have the same urgency as arresting criminals. Still, given the short duration of his remaining employment, it seemed a waste not to go in today.
Besides, if he went to church with his family, he’d be swarmed by terrified society matrons certain they were about to be murdered in their beds. A quiet morning in the lab seemed far preferable.
Soon, he was lost amidst the anonymous crowds on the Ninth Avenue El. As the train rattled and jerked along the track, he stared out alternately over the city and into the second floor apartments passing by.
Malachi was out there, somewhere.
Owen took a deep breath. He was just angry the familiar had made a fool of him and Quigley, that was all. That was the only reason he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the slender red-haired man, with the amber eyes and sly, vulpine grin.
Why had none of the men he’d been with looked like that? Clever and insolent. Not at all overawed by Owen. Mal would order Owen to his knees, snap the handcuffs around Owen’s wrists for a change, and…
Owen shook himself sharply. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t indulge this weakness, not even in fantasies. Not even when the subject of such a fantasy was a thief, a mere criminal whom Owen would never see again.
Reporters crowded the steps leading up to the Metropolitan Witch Police Headquarters—more casually known as the Coven. “Dr. Yates!” one shouted upon spotting him. “Do you have any comment to make on the murder of Mr. Jacobs?”
“Er, no.” Why hadn’t he realized reporters would be thronging every police building this morning, hungry for any scrap of news? “Please, let me through.”
“Dr. Yates, is it true you were attending a party nearby, at your parents’ mansion?”
“Dr. Yates, you were the MWP officer responding to the call—was Mr. Jacobs a personal friend?”
“Is it true you were brought to the scene to avoid word of a scandal getting out?”
“I have nothing to say!” he exclaimed. “Please, let me through!”
A large, imposing shape loomed up suddenly at Owen’s side. “That’s enough, you lot,” said Tom Halloran, aiming a glare at the reporters. The black cat draped around his shoulders cracked open one eye, then shut it again. “Get back. Back, I said, if you value your toes.”
Thankfully, the reporters gave way to Tom’s imposing presence. Owen adjusted his spectacles as they stepped through the doors and into the Coven proper, leaving the newspapermen rushing away to file whatever reports they could fabricate from the brief exchange.
“Thank you, Tom,” he said, brushing a flake of ash from his jacket. “Bunch of jackals.”
The black cat leapt gracefully from Tom’s shoulders, shifting on the way down. “What an awful racket,” Cicero complained. “I hope they’ve cleared off by nap time.”
“It’s always nap time to you, cat,” Tom retorted affectionately.
Owen looked away. He wasn’t envious, precisely. Certainly not over a silly creature like Cicero. And of course, even if he found his familiar, they couldn’t have the sort of relationship Cicero and Tom had. No one expected a simple policeman like Tom to marry out of duty. No one cared what he did in his spare time; no one expected him to always represent the height of propriety, even when alone.
It was churlish to envy that freedom. Owen’s position in society gave him all the advantages of wealth; marriage to Edith was simply the price he was required to pay. Most people would envy his life, not Tom’s.
“Dr. Yates?” called the witch at the front desk. “Chief Ferguson left word for you. You’re to report straight to his office.”
“Chief Ferguson is in today?” Owen asked in surprise.
“Uh oh,” Cicero said with a smirk. “It sounds like someone’s going to get a spanking.”
Owen’s mind flashed involuntarily to the redheaded feral, and his cheeks heated. “Don’t be crude,” he snapped.
Cicero arched a brow. “My, darling, you did wake up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Owen,” Tom said. “Ferguson probably wants to talk to you about last night, that’s all.”
Owen considered detouring to his laboratory long enough to take off his overcoat and hat. But Ferguson didn’t ordinarily spend much time at the Coven on Sunday, which meant Tom was likely right, and it had something to do with Jacobs’s murder. He squared his shoulders and set off through the maze of the Coven’s halls.
The chief’s office lay on the other side of a huge room filled with the desks of the witch and familiar detective teams. A crow drifted past, narrowly avoiding Owen’s hat. Several cats milled about, and a frog shifted into a young man in the midst of a hop. Unbonded familiars wove through the crowd, gathering and delivering paperwork, and generally making themselves useful.
He rapped on the chief’s door and received a muffled grunt in reply, which he took as permission to enter. As usual, Ferguson sat at his desk. His familiar Athene stood beside him, arms folded over her chest, her golden eyes unblinking.
“You wanted to see me?” Owen said warily. Athene preferred to spend time in owl form on her perch; he didn’t know if the fact she greeted him in human shape was a bad sign.
Ferguson fixed him with a ferocious glower. He’d never been particularly awed or impressed by Owen’s family ties. Owen had thought that a good thing, but now he wasn’t so certain. “Want to see you? What I want, Yates, is to send you out the door with my boot in your arse.”
Owen’s throat tightened, threatening to cut off his air. “Sir?” he managed through the constriction.
“Why the devil didn’t you leave well enough alone last night?” Ferguson ground his teeth together. “MacDougal and the patrolman, Quigley, had the matter in hand. You’re a hexman—why did you find the need to go sticking your nose into a crime scene?”
Owen’s shoulders hunched. “I-I thought I could be of help. The familiar—Malachi—he wasn’t responsible.”
Ferguson leaned forward. “Which you didn’t know until after you’d already intruded.”
Owen fixed his gaze on the inkwell sitting on Ferguson’s desk. “No, but I still kept an innocent man from being charged with a crime he didn’t commit. Without my new hexes, Mal would be heading to the electric chair, and the real killer walking free.”
“Mal, is it?” Ferguson shifted back, arms crossed. “You know this feral, Yates?”
“No!” Owen struggled to keep his cheeks from heating. “I never met him before last night. With all due respect, sir, I don’t know why you’re upset. I did nothing wrong.”
“Tell that to the Police Board,” Athene said, her teeth clacking as though she bit off every word. “You and the patrolmen lost the only witness to the murder of a prominent man. In fact, looking at the reports, it appears that your desire to play detective is what distracted the regular police long enough for him to escape.”
“Quigley was destined for a promotion,” Ferguson added. “After last night, I imagine he’ll never get off the beat.”
Owen winced. Quigley had struck him as a good man. “I’m sorry. If it would help, I could speak to his captain—”
“It wouldn’t.” Ferguson shook his head. “Thanks to you, I spent an hour in front of the Police Board this morning, while they took turns biting chunks out of my arse. They wanted to know why a hexman was involved at all, when it was a matter of murder and theft.”
“What was the murderer trying to steal?” Owen asked. “Malachi mentioned some sort of clock, but the pieces looked far too old.”
“Interesting that you should bring it up.” Ferguson leaned back and regarded Owen. “The ordinary police took the pieces in as evidence, but they’ve already sent it over to us. Looks like it might have some sort of hexwork on it. I had them leave the box of parts in your office—take a look at it, see what it’s meant to be.”
Owen frowned. “Surely Mrs. Jacobs or another family member could tell you.”
“It seems Mrs. Jacobs wasn’t much interested in her husband’s mania for collecting,” Ferguson said. “She did allow the police to take a listing of everything he acquired at the last auction. Take a look and see if you can figure out why a thief would take this clock, or whatever it is, instead of the gold and gems that would be a lot easier to sell.”
Owen clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “Yes, sir.” At least he’d have a chance to redeem himself for letting Mal slip away. “I’ll get right to it.”
“And Yates?” Ferguson called after him. “You only have six days left here. Up until now, you’ve been a credit to the MWP. Quiet, hardworking, and—most importantly—you haven’t caused me any trouble. Let’s keep it that way the rest of your time with us, shall we?”
Mal made his way to Madam Galpern’s haberdashery on Clinton Street, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he wove through the Sunday morning crowds. The wind chilled his ears, but the day itself was warm and sunny, and families thronged the streets. He slipped between them, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes, his hat pulled low over his red hair.
Weariness made his bones ache. It had taken forever to fall asleep, curled up in fox shape since the apartment wasn’t large enough for beds. When he had, his dreams had been filled with the witch from last night. His witch.
He couldn’t stop thinking about how intense Yates had seemed, intelligent gaze raking the room for clues. How he hadn’t just dismissed Mal’s protests of innocence, but used hexes of his own devising to separate the innocent from the guilty. Like he actually cared about justice, even if Mal was just a thief.
And that blush, staining his cheeks…
Mal shifted uncomfortably, his prick swelling at the memory. Fur and feathers, he had to stop thinking about the man. Yates was a rich nob as well as a copper. Not the sort of man who would bond with a lowlife thief like Mal, even if it would make for stronger hexes. Probably he’d have Mal arrested on principal, if Mal dared tell him.
The haberdashery was closed on Sunday, which meant he had to use the back entrance. Madam Galpern was inside, serenely applying feathers to one of her hats. She looked up when Mal entered. Her elegantly cut yellow dress contrasted with her brown skin, and she wore one of her own hats pinned to her elaborate curls.
“Mal, darling,” she exclaimed at the sight of him. “Come in; come in. Are you all right? You look dreadful.”
“Didn’t sleep well,” he admitted. “I suppose you heard about last night?” Not that she could have avoided it, with newsboys shouting about Jacobs’s death from every damned corner.
“Not here, dear,” she said, patting his arm. “Let’s go upstairs to the parlor, shall we?”
Mal followed her up to the second floor. Neither the shabby exterior of the building, nor the shop downstairs, gave any hint of the wealth which transformed the upper two floors. All courtesy of Madam Galpern’s second, more lucrative business as the biggest fence in New York state, if not the entire east coast. Draperies stolen from Fifth Avenue mansions covered the parlor windows, and the walls displayed a number of oil paintings currently being sought by Scotland Yard, the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and the Metropolitan Police. All gifts from grateful friends and former students, along with the lavish furnishings and crystal decanters of expensive liquors.
The secret to her success was that she did more than just pass stolen goods from one set of hands to another. Her true talent lay in organizing. She introduced those working on the shadow side of the law to each other, set up jobs, and even ran an informal school in the art of pickpocketing, which Mal had graduated from with the highest of marks.
“Mal!” Sophie rose from her seat on a velvet covered couch. Before he could answer, she was on him, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. “I’ve been so worried! I thought the coppers might have caught up with you.”
“Nay.” He patted her shoulder, and she drew back to study him with big blue eyes that had beguiled many a mark. “Well, aye, but I slipped away when they weren’t looking.”
