Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 12
There was a note with it, too, telling him where to meet Sophie once he had the necklace. That he burned in the fireplace, all the while trying not to think too hard about what he was planning to do. Of course, Owen would be furious if he found out…but he wouldn’t. No one would learn what had happened for years to come.
Everything would be fine. He’d give Madam Galpern what she wanted, and she’d give him what he needed. He was trying to save his own life and bring a killer to justice. There was no reason to feel guilty.
No reason at all.
At last, the sound of the door opening and shutting echoed through the apartment. The walls were thick, so Mal had left the door to his bedroom open in order to hear Owen’s return. He finished his tea, giving Owen a few minutes to settle in, before padding out to find him.
Owen stood before one of the windows in the parlor, staring out over the dark bulk of Central Park. He’d taken off his coat, but otherwise remained dressed. In one hand he held a violin, its wooden body gleaming golden-red in the soft light. The bow dangled loosely from the fingers of his other hand, but he made no motion to set it to the strings.
“I didn’t know you played,” Mal said.
Owen started and glanced guiltily over his shoulder. “I ought to give it up. It’s silly, really.”
Mal cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“There isn’t much point to it.” Owen lifted the bow sadly. “It isn’t a very practical use of my time.”
Fur and feathers, no wonder Owen so seldom smiled. Someone had filled his head with nonsense, and after their conversation earlier, Mal suspected the blame lay at the feet of Owen’s parents. “Well, I ain’t saying a fellow like you is going to be busking on Broadway,” he said. “But not everything needs a point, does it? Not past making you happy. Ain’t that enough of a reason by itself?”
Owen smiled a little, but it was tinged with sadness. “That would be selfish.”
“Nay, it wouldn’t. Not if it don’t hurt anyone else.” Mal resisted the urge to yank at his own hair. Or march over to Fifth Avenue and tell the Yates family just what he thought of them. “And if that ain’t enough for you, then what about making me happy?” He gestured at the violin. “Play for me.”
“It’s after ten o’clock,” Owen said. “I’ve lived here for years without a single complaint from the neighbors. I don’t want to start now.”
Mal’s gaze went past Owen, to the darkness beyond. “Then put your coat back on, and let me find my shoes.”
“You’re completely mad!” Owen exclaimed. The bitter cold stung his cheeks and nibbled at the tips of his ears. His gloved hands cradled his violin case, which Mal had insisted he bring with them.
Mal went ahead of him, the lantern in his hand one of the few spots of light within the vastness of Central Park. His red hair matched the color of the flames, and when he cast a crafty smile over his shoulder, Owen could almost believe he was being led astray by some pixie.
“It’s freezing cold,” Owen went on. “And dark. What if there are squatters in the park? There used to be an entire shantytown, before the police cleared them out. This is absurd.”
“Aye, that it is,” Mal agreed cheerfully.
“Not to mention we shouldn’t be wandering around when there are dangerous people looking for you.”
“Which is why we slipped out the servants’ entrance,” Mal replied with a wink. “Who would expect a Yates to use anything but the front door?”
Owen wasn’t entirely convinced, but several minutes of waiting in the dark and cold a short distance from The Folly hadn’t revealed any pursuers. Likely Mal was right, assuming the killer and his cohorts hadn’t fled New York altogether by now.
They penetrated farther into the heart of the park. The world lay silent and still around them, the sounds of the city cut off by trees and rises. Clouds hid both stars and moon, threatening either rain or snow. A brisk wind shook the branches of the trees, and they groaned like something alive as they rubbed together.
“Ah, here we are.” Mal strolled onto the plaza in front of Bethesda Terrace. The fountain lay silent, its water turned off for the winter. A few gaslights illuminated the carved balustrades and the hexwork mosaic laid out around the fountain.
Mal put the lantern on the fountain, pausing just a moment to look up into the face of the bronze angel. “All right, then,” he said, turning to Owen. “There’s no one here to complain about the noise. So play.”
Owen looked around at the deserted park. “It’s freezing,” he repeated. “The violin is hexed to keep it in tune, but my fingers are numb.”
Mal snorted. “It’s a good thing you ain’t performing at Madison Square Garden, then.” He leaned against the side of the fountain. “I ain’t expecting the singing of angels, Owen. I just want to hear you play.”
Owen shook his head, but placed the violin case on one of the terrace steps and opened it. “I must be insane to be agreeing to this,” he muttered as he took out the instrument.
Hexes worked into the wood kept it in tune, but he ran through a set of exercises to warm up his fingers. “What would you like to hear?” he asked.
Mal shrugged. “Whatever you feel like playing.”
Owen paused, searching through his memory. Mal’s red hair was the brightest thing in the winter park, and the hazy recollection of a jig he’d played only in private came back to him. No doubt he’d miss some of the notes, but Mal seemed willing to forgive any failings.
His tutor never had, of course. Or his parents. He might have been the second son, but perfection was still the only option. Early on, it had become clear he would never be a master, so there was no point in wasting time on lessons that would lead nowhere. It had become a furtive exercise, something to be done only when no one else could hear.
But Mal wanted to hear. Mal didn’t expect perfection. He expected…joy.
Owen brought the bow down across the strings.
A look of delight lit up Mal’s face, and he tossed his head back with a whoop. Flinging his arms out, he started to dance.
God, he was graceful. And fast; every movement quick and certain. His amber eyes glowed, and his grin showed off sharp, white teeth. Mal’s whoops and hollers urged Owen on, and he found himself improvising the notes he couldn’t remember.
He led Mal, or perhaps Mal led him, as though the music was a dance shared between them. Owen swayed, then bent, letting the stiffness fall from his shoulders. The violin responded, its sound richer somehow; wilder.
Mal laughed, skipping and jumping, clicking his heels together before spinning like a madman. He circled around Owen, flashing in and out of animal form: one moment a gleeful young man, the next a prancing fox, both with the same red hair and amber eyes, both utterly unselfconscious. Splashes of joy washed through the bond, infecting Owen’s own nerves, and he found his feet moving in response.
Time ceased to have meaning. The cold faded away; the city might as well not have existed. There was nothing but the two of them, locked together by the music, by a flashing bow and flashing feet, and an expanding bubble of delight.
When it ended, Owen found himself panting, winded as if they’d fucked. Mal ran to him, face pink with cold and exertion, and they embraced. Both of them were laughing like a pair of fools, but there was no one to see them but the trees and the wind, and the silent bronze angel.
Mal drew back a little and ran his gloved fingers over Owen’s jaw. “See? Ain’t you glad I dragged you out here?”
Owen’s cheeks ached from his grin, as though the muscles weren’t used to such exertion. “Yes, you maniac,” he laughed. “I am.”
“Good.” Mal kissed him. “And you’re going to be even gladder when I drag you into bed next.”
They stumbled into the apartment, laughing and wild. The guard at the entrance must have thought them both drunk, leaning on one another, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold. The sight of Owen’s smile made Mal’s heart soar; it transformed his face, wiping away care. It reminded him of the look Owen got in bed, when he let go of everything and allowed himself to have a good time.
And a good time was exactly what Mal was going to show him.
Owen left the violin case on the table in the ante room, and let Mal drag him down the hall to the bedrooms. Mal swatted him on the arse. “Get in there and take off your clothes. I’ve got a surprise I need to bring from my room.”
“A surprise?”
“Aye. Did a bit of shopping earlier.” Mal smacked his arse again, harder. “Now, do as you’re told. No backtalk.”
“Yes, sir,” Owen said. He was already stripping off his vest when Mal turned away.
Mal retrieved the packages from the pharmacy and hardware. When he returned it was to find Owen waiting naked by his bed, prick stiff from excitement. “Good boy,” Mal said, putting the packages aside. He ran a hand down Owen’s bare torso, from the base of his throat to his cock. Owen let out a little gasp, lips parting with desire.
“How are your wrists?” Mal asked. He reached past Owen and pulled out the rope he’d bought. “Feeling up to this?”
Owen nodded eagerly. “Yes, please. They’re fine—no pain at all.”
“Then get on the bed. Hands and knees. I want access to your mouth and your arse.”
A moan of longing escaped Owen, and he hurried to obey. Mal secured the ropes to the bedposts, then bound Owen’s wrists together in front of him. It forced Owen to rest on his elbows, rump nicely in the air and legs spread.
“Now I’ve got you right where I want you.” Mal began to strip off his own clothes—he should have had Owen do it for him. Next time, he would. When he was naked, he ran his hand down Owen’s spine—then gave him a sharp smack on the bottom. Owen let out a little cry of surprise, body jerking.
“Such a lovely arse.” Mal dropped his hand lower, gave Owen’s balls a squeeze. “I’m going to fuck you soon, don’t you worry. But tonight, I think I’d rather have you stuffed fore and aft.”
Owen gave him a puzzled look. Mal winked and fetched the box from the dresser. “They sell these dilators for ‘medical purposes,’” he said, opening it and showing the contents to Owen. There were four inside, in different sizes. Made from hard rubber, each had a flared base at one end and what looked unmistakably like the head of a cock at the other. “But I’m guessing you can figure out what most people use them for.”
Owen’s lips parted, his eyes going wide. “What are you going to do?” he asked hoarsely.
“What do you think?” Mal selected one of the medium sizes. “I’m going to stuff your arse with this, then fuck your mouth.”
A shiver of desire ran visibly through Owen. Mal snagged the jar of oil he’d bought along with the dilators. He coated his fingers, then reached for Owen.
“Ask me to do it,” he ordered, slipping one finger in.
Owen lowered his head to the comforter, a groan escaping him. “Please do it.”
“Do what?” Mal added another finger. “What do you want me to do?”
“P-Put that in my ass and fuck my mouth.”
Mal nipped Owen’s buttock with his teeth, making him jump. “Good.”
Owen groaned again when Mal worked the dilator in. His body shook, goose flesh pebbling his skin, though from excitement rather than cold. “There you go,” Mal said, sitting back to admire the view. “You like that, don’t you? Like having something nice and thick in you.”
“Y-Yes.”
Mal gave Owen’s hard prick a stroke, dragging a sound of startled pleasure out of him. Then he moved to the head of the bed and grasped Owen’s hair, pulling his head back far enough for easy access. “Now take it,” he said, and shoved his cock into Owen’s eagerly open mouth.
Owen moaned, his eyes closed. And Saint Mary, did he look a sight: arse in the air, lips around Mal’s prick, eyes screwed closed, his skin rosy with arousal. The ropes creaked as he pulled on them, as if he needed to reinforce his own sense of helplessness. Surrender.
“Look at me,” Mal ordered breathlessly.
Owen’s eyes flew open, the argentine irises mere rings around pupils black with lust. Mal met his gaze and held it, even as he tightened his grip on Owen’s ashen hair. “Watch me watching you,” Mal said. “You should see yourself, tied down, helpless, while I do whatever filthy thing I want to you.”
Owen made a muffled, wanton noise around Mal’s prick. Begging, needing, pared down to nothing but sensation. Mal’s balls drew tight, and he let out a short, barking noise as he spent into Owen’s mouth.
“Saint Mary,” he swore as his softening cock slipped free from Owen’s swollen lips. Then he slid down the bed, took hold of Owen’s cock, and tugged.
It didn’t take long. Owen shuddered when he came, then collapsed onto the bed, face-down. Mal flung a leg over him and cuddled in, kissing Owen’s shoulder. “Good?”
“God, yes.” Owen lifted his head slightly. “Could you remove…?”
Mal did so, then untied him. He leaned back in the bed, floating in a contented haze, while Owen stumbled into the bathroom.
Owen glanced at the clock when he returned. “It’s later than I thought,” he said, sounding surprised.
Mal peeled open eyes that wanted to slip shut. “Worth staying up for?”
Owen sat beside him, a tender smile curving his lips. “Yes. All of it. Thank you, Mal. For going to the park with me.”
Mal grinned. “A shame the pond ain’t frozen yet. We could’ve gone skating.”
“I’ll take you skating later in the season,” Owen promised.
Later. Except later wouldn’t—couldn’t—be like this.
“I imagine you’ll want to take your wife, instead,” Mal said.
The closeness they’d shared seemed to evaporate. “We’ll still be friends,” Owen said, but he sounded as though he meant to reassure himself as much as Mal. “We’ll make it an outing. All of us together, as a family.”
“Aye,” said Mal, but the words tasted like ash in his mouth. He slipped out of the bed and made for the door. “Get some sleep. Like you said, it’s late, and tomorrow’s coming whether we want it to or not.”
Mal trailed after Owen into the Coven the next morning, desperate for another cup of coffee. Of course, he had no one to blame for his exhaustion but himself.
But it had all been worth it, just to see Owen happy.
Saint Mary, he hoped this Edith would be good for Owen. Mal liked women in bed just as much as men, but he didn’t think Owen felt the same. But even if they weren’t compatible beyond what it took to get a few children, maybe she’d at least be Owen’s friend.
Let him take her skating, maybe.
Right. While Mal trotted behind them in fox shape, a silent presence.
“Malachi?” the witch on duty at the desk called as they passed by. “A feral by the name of Nick is here, looking for you. He’s up in the detectives’ area now.”
Owen and Mal exchanged a look. “Maybe he has some information,” Mal said.
“Let’s hope so,” Owen replied, lips tightening. He’d told Mal of his failure to get anything useful out of dear old mum over breakfast. Mal hadn’t been too surprised to hear it, though. Of course the nobs closed ranks, refused to believe any of them could be involved, and got angry when anyone suggested otherwise.
Owen wasn’t like that, though. Which begged the question of why he spent so much damned time trying to keep them happy, no matter the cost to himself.
They found Nick standing at Rook and Dominic’s desk, muscular arms folded over his chest, feet set apart in a belligerent stance.
“A name, Nick,” Rook squawked, flinging his arms up in exasperation. “Give us a name, if you’ve got one.”
“Oh no. I agreed not to take matters into my own hands, and bring the problem to you.” Nick glared down at his much smaller brother. “But I’m not letting your lot run roughshod in my colony. Not among my people.”
Mal perked up. “You know who sold me out?”
Nick glanced at Mal, then at Owen. His expression turned sour, as though he’d smelled something foul. “I did. Another familiar, who was at the bar the night you came in. Must’ve overheard our conversation—damned owls, they have the best hearing even in human form.”
Owen frowned. “Then give us his name.”
“Not until we’re back at the tenement.” Nick turned his stubborn gaze on Owen. “As I told my fool brother, I’m not letting a bunch of witches and their tame familiars into the colony without me there to supervise. So be patient and come with me, or throw me in jail for refusing to cooperate. Choice is yours.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Nick.” Rook rolled his eyes. “No one is talking about throwing you in jail, or beating the name out of you, or anything like it. Do you have to be so overly dramatic all the time?”
Mal glanced at Owen. He could only communicate directly through the bond while in animal form, but he hoped Owen understood the question in his gaze all the same. He must have, because Owen nodded ever so slightly.
“We’ll go with you,” Mal said soothingly. “Owen and I.”
Nick’s dark gaze shifted from him to Owen, then back again. “This is your case?”
“Saint Mary, I ain’t a copper!” Mal exclaimed, offended. “But, aye, Owen is working on it.”
“We should send word to Patrolman Quigley,” Owen put in. “He’ll want to be a part of this.”
Nick’s lower lip jutted out. “He’s regular police then? Witch potential?”
Owen blinked. “I’m certain I’ve no idea what his potential might be.”
“Damned witches.” Nick stomped one foot in frustrated anger. “It’s a dark day I have to turn on another familiar.”
“Your cooperation may help put a murderer behind bars,” Owen said.
“If this fellow hadn’t betrayed Malachi, I wouldn’t care,” Nick replied bluntly. “The rich bastards can damned well look after themselves, and the witches too. But Mal was under my protection, and if I turn a blind eye to ferals betraying each other, then we’ve got nothing left. So send your note to your fucking policeman, and let’s get this over with.”
