Hexmaker hexworld book 2, p.7
Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 7
“Oh right. Because I ain’t a nob like you.” Malachi rose to his feet and snatched up a piece of paper. “Draw a hex and finish the damned bond.”
Everything was going wrong, and Owen wasn’t certain how to make it right again. “Mal…”
The familiar turned away from him. “Do it, Yates.”
He wanted to take back the last few minutes, although what he would have done differently, he didn’t know. He had a duty to Edith; couldn’t Mal see that? He and Mal had sex once, nothing more. Mal certainly had no reasonable claim to be upset by Owen’s choices.
“Very well,” he said. He turned to his drafting tools. In the back of his mind, he’d imagined drawing up some beautiful, elaborate hex, something to honor the bond between himself and his familiar. Something special.
As it was, he sketched the first that came to mind. A simple fire hex.
Mal drifted near to watch over his shoulder. “You’re good,” he said grudgingly. “Steady hand.”
“Thank you.” Owen laid the hex carefully in front of him. “I suppose this is it, then.”
“Suppose it is.”
Owen waited, but Mal made no further objection. Taking a deep breath, he laid his palm on the hex.
And the magic flowed.
There came a soft knock on the laboratory door. Yates had retreated to the table with the device and turned all his concentration on it. Mal perched on the desk, the new bond like a warm coal nestled in his chest, just behind his heart. If he closed his eyes, he could sense Owen’s presence, the same way a blind man could feel the direction of the sun from its heat on his face.
Owen. His witch.
Owen, who acted like what they’d done last night was wrong. Like he was ashamed he’d let himself be tossed off by a thief.
Mal’s throat tightened. Which was stupid—he didn’t have any claim on Yates. Owen had saved his life, probably, with that clever bit of hexwork back at Jacobs’s mansion, and given him shelter last night. And sure, they’d had a little fun in the bedroom, but it was only the one time. It would’ve been nice to do more, but if Owen wanted to act all morally superior, that was his problem.
He didn’t have to make Mal feel like a whore about it, though. Like he was some lowlife who couldn’t be held to a standard.
Not that Mal wanted to be held to a stupid standard like that one. But still.
At least their stay at the MWP was only temporary—and that was something Owen could’ve seen fit to mention over breakfast, if he hadn’t been so busy interrogating Mal. Maybe he didn’t feel like he needed to explain anything to Mal, just expected him to accept whatever came his way.
“Like a pet,” Nick would say.
So he was almost glad when the knock sounded, and a man stuck his head in the door. He looked to be a few years older than Owen and Mal, with soft brown hair and eyes whose deep, chocolate color made them seem hollow next to his pale skin. “Dr. Yates,” he said, then nodded to Mal. “Mr. Malachi.”
“Yes…er, Bertie?” Owen asked, clearly uncertain of the name.
The fellow nodded, so he must’ve gotten it right. He pushed the door open, his large frame filling most of the doorway. “Letter for you, sir,” he said to Owen. “And Chief Ferguson said one of us unbondeds was needed to play bodyguard for the fox, so I thought I might as well volunteer.”
Curse it—Ferguson hadn’t wasted any time, had he?
Mal gave Bertie a broad smile and stuck out his hand. “I’m certainly glad to have a big, strong fellow like you looking out for me,” he said.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Owen’s head come up sharply. A little flash of jealousy, maybe?
Bertie only looked confused. “I’m a bear,” he explained, as if he thought Mal might have been joking.
“Excellent.” Owen folded the letter and rose to his feet. “I just received a note to meet my sis—brother,” he corrected quickly, “for dinner. I haven’t seen him in a while, so I may be gone for a few hours. I’ll return once we’re finished, however. Bertie, if you could look after Mal while I’m gone? Find him some food?”
Mal ground his teeth together. He wasn’t a child, or a pet, and he didn’t appreciate Owen treating him like one.
But he swallowed it back for now. He couldn’t raise suspicion with an argument, not if he was to warn Sophie. At least the timing of the letter was in his favor. Would Owen tell his brother about Mal—and if so, what would he say?
Once Owen was gone, an uncomfortable silence descended over the lab. Bertie watched Mal with a speculative look on his face. Probably waiting for Mal to steal something.
“You don’t have to actually stand there and watch me,” Mal said. “Ought to be safe enough here in the Coven, oughtn’t I?”
“I’d expect so,” Bertie agreed. Still, he kept looking at Mal. Maybe he did think Mal was going to start stuffing things in his pockets. “What about dinner, then? We could step out and get a sandwich. I know a good place not far from here—quiet.”
Mal patted his belly. “No need. Had one for lunch, and that was after eating myself silly at breakfast. You wouldn’t believe the spread Yates put out. Eggs, biscuits, bacon, and jam.”
“Quite the feast,” Bertie said. Mal couldn’t tell if he meant it or not. “Suit yourself, then. I’m going back to my office. But if you want to leave the Coven, come find me first. You’re not to wander the streets alone.”
“Of course not.” Mal smiled sunnily at him. Bertie let out a soft huff, but turned and left.
Finally.
Mal waited for several minutes, giving the bear plenty of time to lumber back to his office. Then he slipped off the desk and out the door.
A half hour later, Mal strode down Broome Street, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Sophie ought to be at their usual saloon this time of day; the barkeep was one of Madam Galpern’s, and fenced pocket watches and smaller items. Mal had mostly left behind pickpocketing except when he had to, but Sophie liked to work the morning and noon crowds on the El, when everyone was packed in tight, and the men too distracted by the feel of her breasts to notice the touch of her hand relieving them of their valuables.
He’d barely stepped through the saloon door, before Sophie let out a squeal and ran to him.
“Mal! Saint Mary, we thought you was dead!”
Her thin arms wrapped around him in a tight hug. Then her hold loosened, and she stepped back, frowning up at him. “What’s this, then? I was worried half to death after Nick came stampeding through here looking for you. And now you show up, barely a speck of dirt on you, dressed in a fancy coat, and smelling like you rolled around in a bunch of flowers?”
“Aye.” He glanced around. It was too early for the factories to have let off work, so there weren’t many other faces in the saloon at the moment. “Let me buy you a drink, and I’ll explain everything.”
She cocked one sandy brow at him. “I’m still mad at you for scaring me, but I ain’t going to say no to a drink. Come on, then.”
They ordered drinks and sandwiches—actual sandwiches, not the sad excuse of dry bread and wilted lettuce some saloons kept on hand, passed from customer to customer with no one taking a bite, to satisfy the technicalities of the liquor laws. Careful to keep his voice low, Mal told her everything that had happened over the last day.
“Saint Mary,” she breathed, when he was done. “You found your witch?”
“Aye,” he said cautiously.
It wasn’t something they’d spoken of often. He and Sophie had met at the orphanage, when both of them were but wee slips of things. They’d come up together through Madam Galpern’s “school,” and formed a good team. Sophie would distract the mark, while Mal picked his pockets clean. And when he graduated to doing second-story work, it was only natural she came along as his lookout, to distract the coppers or sound the warning as needed.
They’d shared a lot over the years. Money and booze; laughter and tears. Slept together even, the one time, then agreed after they didn’t suit that way. Far better off as friends than lovers.
But talking about his witch, or the possibility of finding his witch…that was hard even with other familiars. As much as he cared about Sophie, she’d never quite understood the mix of hope and terror the prospect carried with it.
Now she leaned across the table, her eyes going round and her voice dropping into a hoarse whisper. “And he’s a Yates? One of them as lives on Fifth Avenue?”
Mal grinned, absurdly pleased by her surprise. “Aye. And set to marry one of the Vandersees, he is.”
“Holy Familiar of Christ!” Her eyes shone. “You going to be living with them, then? In some mansion?”
“I guess.” The notion didn’t sit well with him, somehow. It was the usual arrangement, of course, witches and familiars moving in together. Hopefully the wife-to-be—Edith, that was her name—wouldn’t hate Mal on sight.
Or demand he stay in fox shape all the damned time. Nick had said rich folk did that, but what did he know? Between the bribes to the police and taking care of half the ferals in the city, Nick didn’t have two pennies to rub together.
Sophie nodded slowly, but the excitement ebbed from her face. “That’s good, then. I’m real glad for you, Mal.”
“So am I.” He shifted awkwardly. “You got to be careful, though. One of the reasons I came looking for you was to warn you. If the man who killed Jacobs knows where I lived, he might also know we’re friends. Come around asking where I am.”
“I won’t tell him,” she said loyally.
“Nay, you don’t understand.” He leaned over and gripped her arm. “I’ve got protection, now. My own bodyguard—well, I slipped away so as to talk to you without the coppers, but from now on.”
She drew back. “I can’t…”
“You ain’t turning on me,” he said. “Just tell them I’m Yates’s familiar now, and let us worry about it. I want to know you’re safe.”
Her expression shifted, lips parting with realization. “Right. I guess this is it, then. I won’t be seeing you again.”
He’d been so focused on surviving the next few days, few weeks, he hadn’t even thought that far into the future. He’d agreed when Owen said he was reformed, but he’d never thought about what that really meant.
“Nay,” he said. “I can’t…I mean, I ain’t going to forget about you. We’ll…”
“What? Have lunch?” she asked. “Drinks of an evening?”
“I don’t belong with those rich nobs,” he said. That was one thing he knew, for sure. “I need you, Sophie. You’re my only friend. Maybe we can’t work jobs together any more, but…”
“But I still got a living to make.” She sat back, and he could feel her slipping away, the distance forming between them like a wall. “Don’t suppose you’ll have to worry about that again.”
“Take this.” He pulled out a handful of the bills Owen had given him that morning. “For all I know, Owen might toss me out on my ear, or the new wife send me packing. We’ve been together too long, you and me. I’ll see you again soon, all right?”
She took the money with alacrity. “Thanks, Mal. You’re one of the good ones, you know?”
“Aye.” He didn’t feel like one, though. Abandoning her so he could go live in the sumptuous apartment on the west side…it felt like a betrayal.
She saluted him with her drink. “See you, Mal.”
He left the saloon with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his head bowed. What else was he supposed to do? He’d gone to Owen to save his own skin, not thinking a moment about Sophie or anyone else.
Nick wouldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t have traded his freedom for anything. Not even his life. Certainly not for a soft bed and big breakfast.
Well, that was Nick’s problem, wasn’t it? Besides, Nick was a horse, and a damned big one at that. The sort knights rode into battle back in the day, seventeen hands high and solid muscle. Maybe when he was a colt he would have been vulnerable, but now no one was going to be forcing him to do anything.
It was different when you were a fox, or a cat, or a bird; something small that could be held in a cage and starved until you broke.
Mal shook his head. What was done was done. He’d made his choice. Even if the rumors were true, that the MWP had a means of breaking the bond, he still needed their protection.
One of the new hexed advertisements caught his attention in a shop window. A soap advertisement, meant to appeal to the viewer’s sexual preferences, but it couldn’t decide whether to show him a man or a woman in the tub. Mal smirked at it and started to glance away…but the reflection of two men behind him caught his attention.
They’d both been in the saloon.
Which meant nothing. He was getting paranoid.
Still, Mal increased his pace. When he reached the next window clean enough to show a reflection, the men were still with him, having sped up as well.
Fur and feathers.
Mal broke into a run.
“I apologize for the surroundings,” Owen said, as he settled across from his brother. The twenty-four hour restaurant was a far cry from Delmonico’s or the Metropolitan Club. The tables were jammed close together, their checked tablecloths stained from a hundred previous diners. “It’s convenient to the Coven and police headquarters, both. Roosevelt used to eat here often.”
“You don’t have to invoke Roosevelt’s name to me,” Nathan said, leaning back in his chair and casting a curious eye around the place. Corned beef and cabbage scented the air, and police in blue uniforms sat next to lawyers, tradesmen, and criminals alike. “I’m not our parents, Owen. You don’t have to justify doing what makes you happy.”
A server appeared with a carafe of coffee. Owen ordered a sandwich, and Nathan the brisket. Once the server left, Owen asked, “How was France?”
“Quite different from here.” Nathan grinned and stretched his arms to either side, deliberately pulling his shirt and vest tight across his chest. No trace of feminine curves remained. His collar tugged down slightly, revealing the edge of one of the hexes now tattooed at strategic places on his body. “But look. You’d never know anything was there.”
“The surgeons did fine work,” Owen agreed. Nathan’s smile had been absent for so much of their childhood; it was good to see it returned.
“And as soon as I healed, I let the tailors work their own magic.” Nathan admired the sleeve of his handsome suit. “I wish you’d come with me. You would have loved Paris.”
Their food arrived. “Too much work here,” Owen said regretfully as he picked up his sandwich.
Nathan snorted. “There will always be too much work and never enough time. When was the last time you did anything just for yourself? Just for the joy of it?”
Owen suppressed a sigh. Nathan simply didn’t understand. Peter had been the apple of their parents’ eye, the heir on which they’d placed all their hopes for the future. Owen had been a distant second, and Nathan an afterthought. But when Peter had his accident, everything had changed for Owen. His duty was no longer to be the best in his class at university, then the best hexman in the MWP. His duty was to be the Yates heir, and everything that entailed.
“I have news,” Owen said, before his courage could fail him. “I’m bonded. To a familiar.”
He could feel the bond as a sort of warmth in his chest, curled up behind his heart. The sensation was disconcerting, and he did his best to ignore it.
Nathan’s eyes widened. “When did this happen?”
“Earlier today, actually.”
“What? Today?” Nathan put down his fork. “And you didn’t bring him? Her?”
“Him,” Owen admitted. “Malachi. A fox. And no, because…he’s not exactly…”
Nathan leaned forward. “Malachi. He’s Irish, then?”
“Yes.” Owen plucked at his napkin, all of his appetite gone. “But there’s more. He’s…well. A thief.”
“Dear heavens!” Nathan sat back again. “I don’t know whether to laugh or offer my sympathies.”
“Sympathies. But I had no real choice. He was a witness to the Jacobs murder, and in danger, and…well.”
“You couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be the best witch possible, even if the fellow is entirely unsuitable?” Nathan guessed.
Owen forced himself to take another small bite of his sandwich. “I have responsibilities.”
“Hmm.” Nathan stirred more sugar into his coffee, but didn’t drink any. “And what did Mother and Father have to say?”
“They don’t know yet. No one does outside of the MWP, except for you.” Owen gave up on the sandwich and set it aside. “I’ll have to tell them before the wedding.”
They would be horrified, of course. Even if he hadn’t been the heir, the very idea of a Yates associating with someone of Mal’s lowly class would appall them.
“Then I have the perfect opportunity,” Nathan said. “Mother wanted me to…invite is the wrong word. Command you to appear at a dinner party Wednesday night.”
“Wednesday?” Owen frowned. “Not Thanksgiving?”
Nathan heaved a sigh. “Thanksgiving is dinner at Delmonico’s, as usual. But as I’m…well, no longer entirely respectable, shall we say, I won’t be attending.”
Nathan made it sound so simple. As though there hadn’t been shouts and recriminations, and bitter arguments. For a while, Owen had feared their parents would disown him altogether.
“Wednesday night is intended as a compromise,” Nathan went on. “Only Mother’s closest friends and their families are invited. I suppose she hopes that, if there must be gossip concerning my transformation, she can at least keep it to a minimum.”
“I’ll be there,” Owen said. “But you’ve reminded me of another reason I was glad you asked me to dinner today. Will you stand as my best man at the wedding?”
Nathan arched a brow. “You’ve missed the part where I’m no longer respectable, have you?”
