Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 10
The words sounded hollow, even to him. Mal’s lips parted, but before he could say anything, Owen added, “You’ll meet them tomorrow night. If you’d like, that is. Mother is having a small dinner party. I thought it would be a good opportunity to introduce you.”
A look of surprise flickered over Mal’s face, but he nodded cautiously. “All right. I’ll go.”
There came a sharp rap on the door. Bertie stuck his head inside. “I’ve got all the paperwork turned in,” he said. “Mal, are you ready to take a look at the rogues gallery?”
Mal nodded. “Aye.” He started for the door, then paused and glanced back at Owen. “I can’t say I was exactly thrilled to find out my witch was a copper,” he said quietly. “Or that I want to stay with the MWP. But it seems a shame for you to give up something that makes you so happy.”
Then he crossed to the door and shut it behind him.
“Nothing,” Mal said a few hours later, stepping back in disgust. The MWP’s rogues gallery was divided into familiars and non-familiars; the familiars section had photos of both human and animal form. And not a damned one of them matched either of the men who had followed him from the saloon yesterday.
Bertie frowned. “Are you certain about the breed? We can look at the canid shifters again.” He put one hand to the wooden frame.
“Of course I’m sure,” Mal snapped. “Don’t you think I know a bloody foxhound when I see one?”
Bertie held up both hands. “Sorry; didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just in the heat of the moment, sometimes things get confused. But you’re right.”
Mal winced. Bertie was just doing his job, after all. “I shouldn’t have barked at you. Things are just getting to me, I guess.”
“Understandable.” Bertie paused, then glanced around. The rogues gallery was held in a smaller room a floor above the detective’s area. The room used to photograph suspects was adjacent to it, as was the dark room to develop the film. At the moment, they were the only two people present. “Are things going well with Dr. Yates?”
Now wasn’t that a knot to untangle. “Well enough,” he said neutrally.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Bertie said hastily. “It’s just that I’ve heard things. That in high society, familiars aren’t supposed to be out of animal form except in the servants’ quarters. Is that true?”
“Not so far,” Mal replied cautiously. “Not with just the two of us in the apartment, anyway.”
“Ah.” Bertie nodded. “I expect things will change after the wedding, when you move into one of the big houses on Fifth Avenue. Though I suppose it’s a small price to pay to live in a mansion, eh?”
Was it? He’d be warm and well fed, if nothing else. Exiled from Owen’s bed and spending most of his day as a fox, but so what? Some familiars preferred animal form anyway.
Nick wouldn’t agree with the exchange. But Nick was a stubborn fool whose pride would have him starve in the streets before taking anything from a witch.
Voices drifted through the open door, coming their way. “…good to see you again,” said one. Tom Halloran, that was the witch’s name. The hexbreaker. “We ought to get drinks one night. Cicero will complain about going to an ordinary, working man’s saloon, but he’ll survive.”
“Aye, I’d like that,” replied a voice Mal would have preferred never to hear again. The two men stepped inside, Patrolman Bill Quigley dressed in his blue uniform just as he had been the night of the Jacobs murder.
Mal took a hasty step back, in case Quigley decided to take out the handcuffs. “What’s he doing here?”
Quigley glared at him. “If it were up to me, I’d be here to arrest you for burglary. But as the charge has conveniently gone away, I’m here to liaise with the MWP. The ordinary police needed someone to coordinate the investigation into the Jacobs murder, and I volunteered. Which unfortunately means talking to you.”
Mal put a hand to his chest. “Patrolman, you wound me. I’m a reformed man, I am.”
Quigley snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Now, Bill, don’t be so hard on the fellow,” Halloran interjected. He was a big man, with a thatch of blond hair and an easy smile. “You stood by me, when everyone else thought they ought to lock me up in Sing Sing and throw away the key.”
“Aye, but I knew you for years beforehand,” Quigley objected. When Halloran arched a brow, he sighed. “Fine, have it your way. Malachi, you have your chance to prove you’re a reformed character.”
“How very generous of you,” Mal said, giving Quigley his toothiest grin.
“Any luck with the gallery?” Halloran asked, nodding at the photos.
Mal shook his head. “Nay. Not a foxhound in the bunch.”
“Of course. That would make things too easy,” Quigley said. “All right, let’s go see your witch, so I don’t have to repeat myself.”
“Cicero and I have a case of our own,” Halloran said. He clapped Quigley on the shoulder. “But it was good to see you. Don’t forget that drink.” He glanced at Mal. “And don’t let them be too hard on you, just because of your past. I believe you’re going to make the most of your new opportunity.”
Mal blinked. “I…thank you?”
Halloran left, and Quigley gestured to Mal. “Lead the way then.”
“So what did Halloran do, that they would have thrown him in Sing Sing?” he asked as they walked.
“That’s his business, not yours,” Quigley replied. “If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”
“All right, all right, just making small talk,” Mal said, lifting his hands quickly. Owen would probably know, anyway.
Owen looked up from the device when they stepped into the lab. He’d made progress while Mal was staring at photographs. The device was starting to look like something more than just a pile of parts. “Patrolman Quigley,” Owen said, straightening his spectacles. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Can we,” Mal corrected, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.
Owen nodded. “Of course. Can we be of assistance?”
“The regular police sent me to liaise with the MWP,” Quigley explained. He eyed the device curiously. “Any idea what this thing does, then? Your report said it ain’t a clock.”
“It isn’t, and not yet.” Owen frowned at the device as though it had personally offended him. “I’ll know more once I’m further along in restoring it.”
Mal perched on his stool near Owen. “So, regular police out of leads, eh?” he asked with a grin. “Come to see if we can solve the case for you?”
Quigley glowered. “None of the usual informants have anything useful,” he admitted. “We’ve chased down every clue, but come up with nothing. And of course the blasted newspapers can’t wait to make us look bad, and everyone from the mayor on down is demanding the murder be solved yesterday.” He nodded at Mal. “You’d best be glad you’ve got Dr. Yates’s protection, that’s all I can say.”
A shiver ran up Mal’s spine. If Owen hadn’t been his witch, he’d either be dead or sitting in the Tombs right now. Or in an interrogation room at police headquarters, while the coppers beat a confession out of him.
Owen touched his hand beneath the table. Startled, Mal glanced at him, and got a reassuring smile. “A good thing he’s safe with me, then,” Owen said.
Unexpected tightness gripped Mal’s throat. Which was stupid, really. Owen was just doing what he felt to be his duty, that was all. No sense in getting choked up about it.
Quigley folded his arms over his chest. “So, Mr. Malachi, I’ve got to ask. You’re a second-story man—reformed, of course. You sorts know each other, and if you didn’t recognize the murderer, there’s surely someone who would. Is there anyone we ought to be talking to?”
Mal hesitated. He couldn’t lead the coppers back to his friends. Back to Sophie, who’d always stood by him, or Madam Galpern, who had saved him from the orphanage and taught him the skills to get by. Madam Galpern might not have known who else was working the Jacobs mansion when he’d talked to her before, but surely she’d made it her business to find out by now. And she did work with the police from time to time—mostly by the way of bribes to captains and judges, of course. She might be willing to help him, especially if it meant removing some of the competition.
“I might,” he said carefully. “But we have to do this my way. On my terms. So listen up.”
“You shouldn’t have come with me,” Mal complained an hour later. “If someone sees me with a copper, it’ll ruin my reputation.”
Owen snorted. They’d taken the El to Grand Street, then set off on foot. As usual, the sidewalks were crowded with pushcart vendors, the street choked with pedestrians, carts, and the occasional cab. “You’re mad if you think I’m going to let you out of my sight after yesterday.”
“And I ain’t forgotten the chewing the captain gave my arse after you pulled your vanishing act the night of the murder,” Quigley growled. “You’re lucky I don’t handcuff you to my wrist.”
Mal rolled his eyes. “Although I appreciate your concern,” he said, aiming the words at Owen, “it ain’t possible. My friend don’t know either of you. She ain’t going to talk openly with you there.” He halted in front of a saloon halfway down the block from the haberdashery. “Wait here. I promise I’ll call for you through the bond if there’s even the slightest bit of trouble. Then you and the patrolman can break down the door and come dashing to my rescue.”
Owen looked uncertain. Quigley scanned the street, and his mouth pursed beneath his mustache. “Going to see Madam Galpern, are you?”
Mal blinked. “Nay, of course not. She makes women’s hats. I’ve got no need for one of those.”
Quigley snorted. “Aye, a hat maker. A hat maker whose got enough officials in her pocket to avoid the inside of the cell where she belongs.” He sighed and glanced at the saloon. “Go on with you, then. Dr. Yates and I will have a drink, and you’d best be back before we’re done. Or we’ll come get you.”
Mal wanted to argue, but one look at the determination in Owen’s eyes told him he wouldn’t get far. “Fine. Drink slowly, though.”
He set off through the crowd, not glancing back at Owen or Quigley. In truth, it was probably a good thing they were there. Someone knew his haunts, well enough to have men looking for him at the saloon where he regularly met Sophie. They’d surely have someone watching for him outside the haberdashery. The thought made the skin between his shoulders itch, and he hastened his steps.
The bell rang cheerily over the door as he stepped inside. Madam Galpern stood at one end of the shop, supervising a hexwoman marking the inside brim of a hat. She glanced up—and the welcoming smile on her face drained away.
Mal held up his hands. “I know you asked me to stay away, but I need help, and lots of it.”
Madam Galpern considered him a moment, then nodded. “Of course, dear. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”
He gratefully followed her to the second floor. Taking off his hat, he held it in his hands, while she poured a measure of brandy into a single tumbler. Seating herself on a brocaded divan, she looked up at him coolly. “Now, tell me, how can I be of assistance?”
No sense in beating around the bush. “I need to find out who murdered Mr. Jacobs,” he said. “The fellow tried to kill me himself two days ago. Yesterday, two others followed me. One was a familiar—a foxhound, which I don’t think was a coincidence.” He swallowed. “Fellow was a thief, wasn’t he? Part of a gang, it seems like. You know every pickpocket and second-story man in this city, or at least know someone who does. Ordinarily I wouldn’t ask you to turn anyone over to the coppers, but this is my life we’re talking about. It’s him or me.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” She sat forward, full lips pursed sympathetically. “Of course I’ll help you.”
Relief flooded through him. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”
“Naturally, I’ll expect some help from you in return.”
The relief drained away. “Maybe you didn’t hear the news,” he said hesitantly. “But I’m bonded to a witch now. A copper, in fact. I ain’t told him nothing about you—I wouldn’t do that,” he added hastily. “But I can’t be doing any second-story work again.”
Madam Galpern’s smile sent a little chill through him. “Oh, Sophie came by and told me all about your unexpected rise in society. You haven’t just bonded with a witch policeman, but with Owen Yates. I have it on good authority that the Yates family isn’t as wealthy as they used to be, but their fortunes are going to reverse very soon.”
Mal’s heart beat against his ribs. “With the wedding. Aye.”
Her smile grew wider. “Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune. As it happens, it’s my good fortune as well.” She leaned back against the brocade pillows. “Mrs. Yates—of course I mean your witch’s mother, not his future wife—is the owner of a necklace set with a spectacular gem. A twelve-pointed star sapphire called the Star of Winter. She doesn’t wear it often now, but when she was young and at the height of her beauty, she was never seen without it around her neck.”
Mal’s mouth went dry. “And?” he asked, though he could guess well enough.
“I have a buyer who is very motivated to acquire the gem, and soon.” Her smile showed teeth now. “I propose a deal. I give you the name of the murderer, and in exchange, you give me the necklace.”
Fur and feathers, this was turning into a disaster. “I can’t!” he objected. “Owen knows I’m—I mean, I was—a thief. They’ll suspect me in an instant!”
“Then I suggest you fabricate an excellent alibi,” she replied. “But you’re in luck. This has been planned for some time. My buyer already commissioned a replica to be left in its place. All we lacked was access to swap it with the original. As I said, Mrs. Yates no longer wears the jewel often. With luck, no one will discover the loss for years to come.”
Mal’s fingers had gone cold. If he did this, and Owen found out…what would happen? Would he have Mal thrown in jail? Have Halloran sever their bond and find another familiar?
That seemed likely. Even if Owen didn’t want to cause a scandal, he’d probably toss Mal right back to the gutter. Find another familiar eager for the good life, and pretend they’d been bonded all along.
But if Mal didn’t agree to the deal, he’d have to rely on the police to find the murderer before he became the next victim. And given what Quigley said, that didn’t sound like a bet he wanted to make.
Owen wouldn’t find out. Mal would be careful.
“All right,” he said aloud. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Though Owen had been grateful Mal returned from the haberdashery unharmed, his familiar was unusually quiet all the way back to the Coven.
“She’ll help me,” was all Mal had said. “It’ll take her some time to find who’s responsible. Once she does, she’ll let me know right quick. A murder like Jacobs’s is bad for her business, after all. The sooner the killer gets put away, the sooner things will get back to normal.”
Quigley seemed less than pleased to be working with the criminal element. But he appeared to recognize they had little other choice; certainly the regular police force had made no headway in the murder. “I’d best go report in to my captain, then,” he said heavily when they reached the steps leading up to the Coven. He scanned the steps and door briefly, as if looking for someone, then sighed. “Send word if you come across anything new, and I’ll do the same.”
“Bye!” Mal called cheerily after him. When Quigley was gone, he shook his bright head. “I’ll never get used to working with coppers. At least it’s only temporary.”
The reminder sat heavily in Owen’s belly, and its weight only increased when he found a note waiting in the lab for him. “Mother requests my presence for a small dinner,” he said sourly. “Nathan must have told her about you.”
Mal cocked his head. “You don’t sound pleased.”
“We’re already to see her tomorrow night. And…I’d hoped to spend the evening with you,” Owen said. Heat crept up his cheeks as he realized what he’d said. “That is…”
“You don’t want to waste the time we’ve got?” Mal stepped closer and ran a hand down Owen’s side, across his thigh.
Owen’s mouth went dry, and his cock swelled in response. “Something like that.”
Mal gave his prick a firm squeeze, drawing an involuntary gasp from him. “I’ll wait up for you.”
“Th-thank you.” Owen swallowed hard. Mal let go of him and moved away; Owen wasn’t certain if he was glad for the distance or not. “Really, I don’t mean to sound selfish. About the invitation, that is. It’s only that family can be…complicated.”
“Aye,” Mal said ruefully.
Owen flushed again. “I’m sorry. It must sound like a bunch of whining to you. How old were you when you went to the orphanage?”
“Eight or nine.” Mal shrugged. “I don’t rightly know how old I am, to be honest.”
The bronze gears of the device gleamed as Owen settled himself back at the table. “Were either of your parents familiars? It runs in families, they say, the same as witch blood.”
“Not as far as I know.” Mal straddled the stool beside him. His amber eyes had gone distant. “Though I don’t know much, truth be told. I was too young to have even been certain I was a familiar, when they threw me out.”
Owen’s hand froze, half-way to one of the gears. “They threw you out?” He’d assumed Mal’s family had been carried off by some plague or tragedy.
“Aye.” Mal hunched his shoulders. “They had too many mouths to feed already. Had to earn my keep, didn’t I?”
“At nine years old?”
“Old enough to sell newspapers.” Mal shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. “The last day, I’d managed to scrape almost five dollars together, if you can believe it. Five dollars! Ended up robbed by some older boys, though. When I showed up with nothing in my pockets that evening, Ma told me to get out. I’d never amount to nothing. I tried to tell her what happened, but Da wanted results, not excuses. He fetched me a good one across the face and threw me into the hall. I spent a few nights sleeping wherever I could find a spot, then made my way to the orphanage.”
