Hexmaker hexworld book 2, p.4
Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 4
“You poor thing,” Madam said. “Sophie, won’t you pour us drinks?”
While Sophie hurried to the sideboard, Mal settled into a chair across from Madam Galpern. She held herself very straight, with a bearing that would put any of the nobs to shame. If she’d been born to a Knickerbocker family, or hell, even one of the nouveau riches, she’d have ruled New York society. As it was, she merely ruled its underworld.
“Now, darling,” she said, accepting a brandy from Sophie, “you must tell me what happened. The papers are full of the most dreadful news, and all of them contradict one another as to the details. Did Mr. Jacobs discover you?”
“Nay!” Mal sat up straight, almost spilling his drink. “I didn’t kill him!”
Madam’s dark eyes watched him coolly. “Malachi, you’re one of my best second-story men. We’ve been together since you stood no higher than my elbow. You can tell me the truth.”
“It wasn’t me, I swear.” Hand shaking, he downed the brandy without savoring it. “I can’t stand violence, you know that. Better to go to Sing Sing for robbery and escape later, than go to the chair for killing a millionaire.” His stomach turned sour at the thought of how close he’d come to that very fate. “Even the coppers think I’m innocent.”
“Speaking of which, my dear.” She sipped her brandy, watching him over the cut glass of her tumbler. “The papers said the police are searching for a witness to the crime. A red-haired man with yellow eyes, five and a half feet tall, slender build. That sounds rather like you.”
“Aye.” He swallowed hard. “I found Jacobs already dead on the floor. Ended up scrapping with the murderer, but he set off an alarm, and I ran for my life. Right into a blasted copper.”
“I see.” She put down her brandy. “Did you recognize the murderer?”
“Nay!” A shudder ran through him. “A redhead like me, about my height. Sod almost got me charged with murder, leaving one of his hairs behind. But one of the coppers used a hex to prove it belonged to someone else.”
“How fortunate,” she murmured. “Less fortunate is that I have no jewelry to pass on to my client.”
“That ain’t Mal’s fault!” Sophie exclaimed. Coming to his defense like always.
“Of course not.” Madam Galpern offered them both a reassuring smile. “Well, then, is there anything else you want to talk about, Mal darling? If not, I should really get back to work. You know I do my best planning while I make my hats.”
Mal clasped his fingers together. “I thought…another job? If you have anything.”
Nick wouldn’t throw him out into the street because rent was due. But Mal might find himself sleeping on the floor of the saloon instead of in one of the rooms above. And Nick’s charity could only go so far; there were too many ferals in too much need. Mal might at least have a roof between him and the weather, but that didn’t mean he’d have food for his belly.
He’d spent too many nights as a child, unable to sleep due to the gnawing in his empty stomach. He didn’t want to go back to that if he could help it.
But Madam Galpern shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. The police are looking for you.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Knowing he’d been dismissed, he rose to his feet. “Thank you for your help.”
He took the back stairs down, Sophie on his heels. “Don’t look so glum,” she said when they reached the alleyway behind the shop. She hooked her arm through his, steering him away from Madam Galpern’s. “She’s disappointed because we didn’t get the jewelry her buyer wanted. Give it a few days.” Sophie squeezed his arm. “Let’s go pickpocket the swells showing off their fancy clothes at the park. That will cheer you up.”
He forced a smile onto his face. “Good idea. Then I’ll buy us both dinner someplace nice.”
Sophie laughed and kissed his cheek. “That’s why I love you. Come on.”
They crossed out of the alley’s shadow and back into the weak sunlight of a late November day. Even so, a chill clung to Mal that owed nothing to the weather.
Because the murderer was still out there…and Mal was the only witness who could identify him.
Owen sat in his lab, frowning at the scattering of parts in front of him. There were precisely sixty gears of all sizes; twenty bronze plates of varying shapes, engraved with parts of ancient hex signs; and forty-two different gemstones, some carved and some not, which fit into slots on the plates. A series of rods, a hand crank, and various levers completed the pile.
And he had no idea what any of it was for.
There came a rap on the door. “Come in,” Owen called. He swiveled about in his chair, expecting to see one of the witch detectives.
“Owen!” exclaimed his future brother-in-law with a grin. “Hard at work, I see.”
“Kirk?” Owen rose to his feet and shook his old friend’s hand. Kirk wore a heavy wool coat against the November chill, and a hat worked with hexes to keep off rain and snow. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“You must know.” Kirk took off his coat and hat, and hung them beside Owen’s. “Everyone is going mad over the Jacobs murder. I suspect there were more earnest prayers uttered in service this morning than on any other day since the cathedral was built. Your mother is practically hysterical, along with every other society lady. And gentleman, for that matter. Well, except Edith, of course.”
Owen sat down at the table where he’d been working and gestured for Kirk to take the other chair. “Oh?”
“You know Edith,” Kirk said wryly. “Sensible to a fault.”
Thank heavens. If Owen did have to marry, at least they would be well matched in that. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“If only everyone took after my sister.” Kirk sighed. “Father is convinced we’ll all be slain in our beds tonight. He’s to spend the afternoon meeting with the mayor and the Police Board, before giving interviews to the Times and the Herald. I understand your mother intends to send outraged letters to every respectable newspaper, demanding something be done about the lawlessness infecting the city.”
Of course they cared about crime now, when it affected them. Owen suppressed a sigh of his own. “And they sent you to question me, because they’re convinced the police aren’t telling them everything.”
“I volunteered, actually.” Kirk sat back in his chair and glanced around the laboratory. “It occurred to me this might be my last chance to get a look at your laboratory.”
Kirk’s casual statement summoned up a sour feeling in Owen’s belly. Most of the time, hard work concentrated his mind, and he could forget this room would soon belong to someone else. He’d spend the rest of his days in an office somewhere, looking over hexes drawn up by other people. A respectable employment for the heir to the Yates fortune.
“I can show you around, if you’d like,” Owen offered. He and Kirk had both studied hexology at university, though of course Kirk had been some years ahead of him. Owen had taken up the study because of personal interest, and Kirk because the founder of the Vandersee fortune had invented a hex still used in factories today to keep canning lines sanitary.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” Kirk gestured to the parts lying on the table. “I am curious as to what that is, though.”
“As am I,” Owen replied dryly. “We think the man who murdered Mr. Jacobs was trying to steal it, when Jacobs interrupted him. It was dropped during a struggle and brought in for evidence.”
Kirk frowned, brows drawing down over his aquiline nose. “You don’t know what it is?”
Owen picked up the file Mrs. Jacobs had surrendered to the police. “It was part of a lot bought at auction. All of it stolen for the collector’s market from a tomb in Egypt, without any sort of official eye or proper archaeology.”
Kirk winced. “A shame.”
“Indeed. Even worse, these pages are supposed to list everything in the lot. But some of them are missing, including the ones describing this device, whatever it is. Shoddy record keeping on the part of the auction house, I suspect.”
“So there’s no way of discovering what it is? What it does?”
“On the contrary.” Owen picked up a plate and passed it to Kirk. “The tomb this came from was from the Ptolemaic period—you can see the hexes are Greek in origin, not Egyptian at all. Or parts of hexes, that is—none of the plates has a complete hex on it.”
Kirk examined the plate closely. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Yet.” Owen accepted the plate back from Kirk. “I’m just going to have to put it back together.”
Eagerness bubbled up in his blood. Yes, it meant setting aside his hopes for the poison detection hex—but this could be an even greater discovery. So much ancient hexwork had been lost to time and destructive hands. If he could reassemble the device in the next few days, he might yet have a chance at making a lasting contribution to hexology and the MWP.
“Something to keep you out of trouble, at least.” Kirk grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “I was going to ask you to dinner, but I can see you’re eager to sink your teeth into the puzzle. I’ll give your regards to Edith, shall I?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Owen started to stand, but Kirk waved him back and let himself out.
Alone again, Owen turned back to the bewildering piles of gears, plates, and gemstones. “Well, then,” he said aloud to the assorted parts. “Let’s see what we can make of you.”
Mal’s feet dragged as he made his way up to his room above Caballus. The weather had remained fair, and he and Sophie had worked the crowds at the park. They’d come back a little richer, at least. Enough to eat for a few days.
Still, it was damned depressing, to be back to picking pockets at this point in his life. He’d worked hard to become Madam Galpern’s best second-story man. He owed her, for seeing that he wasn’t completely worthless, for taking him out of the orphanage and teaching him a skill. Even though there wasn’t anything he could have done differently last night, he couldn’t help but feel he’d let her down.
Mal unlocked the door. With any luck, both roommates would be out, and he could catch a few hours of sleep before heading back out and trying his luck at the gambling tables. Cheating at cards wasn’t the safest way of raising funds, but there was no way to know how long it would be before Madam Galpern had another job for him. Given the headlines about the Jacobs murder, it would be a while before the police lost interest.
He stepped into the room and was struck by a wall of freezing air. The window opposite stood wide open, an icy breeze pouring through, whisper-thin curtains billowing toward him like ghostly hands.
Had one of his roommates left it open? “Stupid bastards,” he muttered, and started across the tiny room to close it.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye was all the warning he got. An arm went around his throat, yanking him back against a hard body.
A lifetime of scrapping, first on the streets, then in the orphanage, had Mal acting even before he was fully aware of the danger. He twisted his head to the side, tucking his chin into the crease of his attacker’s elbow and buying space to breathe. His left hand shot behind him, found the man’s thigh, and went higher to his crotch.
Mal squeezed with all his strength, digging his fingers in behind the man’s balls and twisting as hard as he could.
His attacker yelped, and pain flared across Mal’s right side. The man’s hold loosened. Mal tore free and spun to face him.
And found himself face-to-face with the killer from the night before. He held a knife in his hand, its edge dark with blood.
The pain in Mal’s side seemed to flare. Christ, if he hadn’t grabbed the fellow’s balls at just the right moment, he would have ended up with the knife hilt-deep in his lung instead. Hot blood trickled over his ribs, and his mouth tasted of metal.
“Wait,” he said, holding up his hands, though he didn’t know what good it would do.
The murderer ignored him, instead lunging with his knife. Mal leapt aside, fetching up against the wall beside the open window.
The window.
Not letting himself think, he slithered out the opening. Balancing on the ledge, he slammed the window down behind him, just in time for the knife blade to strike the glass instead of his legs.
It would only buy him seconds. Just long enough for his attacker to open the window and shove him off the ledge.
So he’d just have to get off the ledge on his own terms.
He jumped, shifting into fox form. For a moment, he was falling, and an involuntary bark of terror escaped him.
Then he struck the awning above the saloon below. A man’s weight would have ripped through the cloth, but in fox form, he merely slid down it, then dropped safely onto the sidewalk.
He landed on all four feet. Several pedestrians cried out in surprise, but he ignored them in favor of running for his life.
Mal didn’t slow until he was several blocks away. Stumbling into an alleyway reeking of garbage, he crouched behind a pile of broken pallets. Blood stained his ruddy fur, and his legs trembled, whether from exhaustion or the aftershock of the fight, he didn’t know.
He was supposed to be safe at Caballus, and in the apartments above. That was Nick’s promise to them all.
But Nick couldn’t be everywhere at once, protect every feral. Could Mal go to Madam Galpern for refuge? The coppers were still looking for him, though; she couldn’t risk her whole organization just for him.
Fur and feathers.
He licked gingerly at the wound on his side and was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain. He needed aid. Needed protection.
Would his witch help?
Mal held himself very still. Dr. Yates: copper, nob, lived on the west side according to Nick. Did Mal dare go to him?
Probably he’d just call his fellow coppers and have them haul Mal off to jail. But he hadn’t seemed cruel last night. He’d taken the time to examine the situation, not assumed Mal was guilty. Maybe he’d at least hear Mal out.
And if he wanted to bond?
Nick’s tirade came back to him. “…live our own lives, without some witch telling us what to do.”
Which was all very well, except Nick’s fantasy of freedom wasn’t going to do Mal a damned bit of good if he was dead.
Flicking his tail, Mal trotted down the alley and made for the west side.
Owen descended the stairs from the Ninth Avenue El well after dark that night. His back ached, and he’d developed a crick in his neck from hours bent over the device’s gears and rods, trying to fit them together. He’d regain Ferguson’s confidence, complete the device, and prove himself once and for all.
As he strode along 72nd Street, a dark figure lurched from the shadows. Owen jumped away, hands coming up into fists. “Get back!”
“Hold up!” The man held out his palms. “It’s me.”
Owen blinked. Instead of the drunken beggar or armed robber he’d expected, the electric lamps revealed the fiery hair and handsome features of the thief from last night.
The thief every policeman in New York was searching for.
“Mal?” he asked dumbly. “What are you doing here?”
“Aye.” The smaller man gave him a toothy grin, but it faded into a grimace as he lowered his arms. “I could, ah, use a bit of help.” He turned to display a rent in his clothing, revealing bloodied flesh beneath.
“Dear Lord! You’re injured.”
“Noticed that, I did.” Mal leaned against the lamp post. “Seems like the man who killed Jacobs last night didn’t want any witnesses to testify against him in court.”
“Here—let me help you.” Owen slid an arm around Mal’s shoulders for support. “We’ll go straight to the police.”
“Nay.” Mal’s lips pressed into a tight line.
“Why ever not?”
“I’ll explain everything. Just not here.” Mal shifted slightly and winced. “You have a place nearby, don’t you?”
“I…yes?” Owen started down the street, Mal leaning against him. “How did you know that?”
“A friend told me about you.” Mal glanced up. His face was very close; Owen could make out each individual lash framing those extraordinary amber eyes. He smelled like musk and moss, like something from the deep reaches of a wild forest brought incongruously into the midst of the city.
The security guard emerged from his nook as Owen approached the entrance into the inner courtyard. “Good evening, Mr.—gracious! Is everything all right?”
Owen suppressed a sigh. Dragging a bleeding man—particularly one so obviously from the lower classes—into The Folly was exactly the sort of thing that would result in his lease being prematurely cancelled. True, after the wedding Edith and he would move in with the Vandersees while their mansion—a wedding present from her father—was being built. But even a small scandal so close to the nuptials wouldn’t be looked upon kindly by either family.
Owen thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “Just a friend who had a bit too much to drink,” he said blandly.
The bills vanished quickly into the guard’s pocket. “Yes, sir. Have a good evening.”
At least Mal had the sense to remain silent. Owen hurried him through the courtyard to the lobby in the southeast corner. The elevator attendant also gave them a startled look, but it smoothed away after the application of yet more dollars. “Good evening, sir,” he said, as though Mal didn’t even exist.
Mal let out a startled gasp as the cage began to move. When Owen cast him a questioning look, he shrugged. “Ain’t never been in one of these before.”
“Ah, yes,” Owen said. “I’d forgotten—you prefer to reach the upper floors via window.”
Mal let out a bark of laughter. The elevator operator glanced at them both in alarm.
Thankfully, the door to Owen’s apartment was immediately off the elevator. He urged Mal inside, then locked the door. When he turned back, it was to find Mal staring around at the ante room, mouth open. Not that there was much to see—dark wood, a velvet-covered chair for removing one’s shoes, a table where the servants left his mail, and a hall tree carved with the Yates family crest. The parlor opened directly across from the elevator, and to the right lay the door leading to the hallway running the length of the apartment.
