Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 14
“So why did someone just leave this in a tomb?” Mal asked, cocking his head. “I mean, I suppose the owner was some ancient nob, burying gold and Mary knows what in the ground with him. But this seems, I don’t know, useful. You’d think his heirs would’ve kept it.”
Owen bit his lip uncertainly. “I’m only speculating here,” he stressed. “But do you see these clamps on the front? I imagine they were used to hold an object to lend even more power to the hexes cast by the device, by absorbing more magic. As I said before, the effects of the hex could be spread out over a larger area than usual. But doing so would be dangerous to the familiar whose magic was being used. It would certainly strip them. It might even kill them.”
Isaac flinched and looked away.
Quigley picked up the pamphlet they’d found at the apartment. “And the theriarchists might be involved.” His voice was tight, flat with anger.
“Any insights, Isaac?” Ferguson asked.
Isaac’s arms were folded tight around him. Rook moved to stand by him. Not touching, but within the periphery of Isaac’s vision.
“It’s the sort of thing they would use,” Isaac said with a shrug. His eyes remained fixed on the floor.
Mal frowned. “Even if it killed familiars?”
Isaac let out a rough laugh, which held no humor. “I’m sure there are those willing to give their lives to the glorious cause. But more likely, they would have used a ‘traitor’ like me. Some poor feral who didn’t believe wholesale murder was the way to achieve anything.”
“Thank Mary we have it instead, then,” Quigley said fervently.
“I think you’re forgetting who kept it out of their hands in the first place,” Mal pointed out.
Quigley shot him an annoyed look…then shrugged. “Aye, fine. Thank goodness you picked that night of all nights to climb in through Jacobs’s window. I have a question, though.”
“Which is?” Owen asked.
“How did the theriarchists even know it was there to steal it? Let alone that it would be something they’d want to steal.” Quigley spread his hands apart. “We didn’t find any mention of it in the list of items Jacobs had bought at auction. And when we questioned Mrs. Jacobs, she said she hadn’t even seen the thing. It must have still been in a crate, or newly unboxed. Only the auction house had a complete listing.”
“The theriarchists must be keeping an eye on auctions of antiquities,” Owen said. “Or have someone on staff in their employ, I suppose.”
“First Vikings, and now ancient Greeks,” Rook said with a shake of his head. “The theriarchists do love their history, don’t they?”
“That’s actually not a bad point.” Dominic glanced from Rook to Ferguson. “If there really is theriarchist involvement, it suggests Owen isn’t the only person in New York interested in recovering the lost secrets of ancient hexwork. And that they’re better positioned to find such treasures.”
“A collector?” Owen hazarded.
Ferguson’s frown deepened. “Which would mean money, and lots of it. So let’s all hope you’re wrong.” He let his arms fall. “Finish the device, Dr. Yates. Quigley, if your captain is amenable, I’d like you to take a look at the auction house.”
“Aye,” Quigley said. Within a few minutes, everyone else had herded out the door, leaving Mal alone with Owen.
“Good work,” he said softly.
A startled smile passed over Owen’s face. “Thank you. It’s been…enjoyable. I’m glad I was able to finish it before the end of the week.” The smile faded, and he picked up one of the remaining plates. “Speaking of which, I’d best get to work. We have only a few hours before we have to leave to get ready for dinner.”
Owen walked into the apartment parlor, unbuttoning his vest. Mal slumped in one of the chairs, his red hair fiery against the green upholstery. The last light of the setting sun reflected from the low clouds, illuminating the park beyond and outlining Mal in soft gold.
He looked different, in repose. Mal was movement: quick and fast, his voice lilting with a ready joke, his mouth stretched into a crafty grin. But now his lips were pensive, his eyes fixed on something distant only he could see. The sudden urge to kiss away the brooding expression seized Owen, so strong he could barely breathe through it.
But he couldn’t. Put a hand to Mal’s shoulder, perhaps, but to show that level of affection outside the bedroom would be to set a dangerous precedent. Bad enough they’d kissed in the park like a pair of fools. He couldn’t fall into such a habit of intimacy, not with the wedding less than three days from now.
It didn’t stop him from wanting to, though.
“Mal?” he called softly. “It’s time to get changed for dinner.”
Mal’s expression shifted, moodiness vanishing behind a swift smile. “I don’t see any reason to. I’ll just be in fox form the whole time, won’t I?” The lightness of his tone didn’t quite reach his eyes. “In fact, maybe I should strip naked.”
The memory of the conversation with Nick came back forcefully. And perhaps Owen had been right, and everyone did things they would rather not, for all sorts of reasons. But that didn’t mean life had to be needlessly unpleasant, not when something could be done to make it less so.
Mother and Father would be disappointed. But Owen had a duty to Mal as well, too. Even if they couldn’t be lovers, Mal was a part of his family now.
“You aren’t going in fox form, unless you’d prefer it,” he said. “You’re my partner in magic, my…friend. Not my pet.”
The cheeky smile fell away from Mal’s face. “But I thought…won’t that make your parents angry? And your bride-to-be as well?”
“They will simply have to adapt.” Owen met Mal’s amber gaze squarely. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you like some lesser being, just because you can turn into an animal.”
Mal’s gaping mouth shut slowly. “Then…then aye. I’ll change.” He bit his lip, an uncertain flash of white teeth against pale pink. Then the uncertainty slipped away, replaced by the vulpine grin that never failed to send a rush of blood into Owen’s groin. “But we need to get you ready first. Go to your bedroom.”
Owen’s breath caught. “We can’t. We’ll be late.”
“Backtalk?” Mal rose to his feet and gave Owen a swat on the bottom. “Do as you’re told, boyo.”
Owen’s breath caught and his heart stuttered. He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Owen hurried to the bedroom. Mal sauntered behind at a more leisurely pace, disappearing into his bedroom and returning with the oil…and one of the dilators he’d used on Owen last night.
They didn’t have time…Owen would face enough censure tonight without being late…yet he couldn’t bring himself to argue.
Mal cocked a brow at him. “Still dressed? Take off your trousers and drawers. Now.”
Owen’s cock sprang free when he pulled off his clothing. Mal caught it, gave a slow tug that drew a whimper from Owen. “Ready, ain’t you? Too bad you’re just going to have to wait. Hands on the footboard and legs spread.”
He hurried to obey. Mal unbuttoned his own trousers and pulled his hard prick out. “Look,” he said, holding the dilator beside his cock. “See how it’s a bit thinner than me? That way you’ll still be nice and tight when I fuck you tonight.”
A whimper escaped Owen. His heart pounded, and his head swam.
Mal moved behind Owen, and a moment later, fingers slick with oil pushed into him. He gasped, closed his eyes, then opened them again. “But first,” Mal went on, “I’m going to make sure you spend the whole evening thinking about what’s…coming.”
The head of the dilator pressed insistently in. Mal worked it slowly, patiently, until resistance gave way suddenly and it slipped inside. Owen’s hands tightened on the headboard until his knuckles were white; he felt opened, helpless, out of control. His prick ached, liquid dripping from the tip and onto the carpet.
Mal leaned in, cock pressed against Owen’s hip, to growl directly into his ear. “Now you’re going to dress for the evening. And every time you so much as move all night, you’ll remember what I’m going to do to you when we get home.”
Oh God. “I can’t,” Owen said, the words a humiliating plea. “I can’t sit there at dinner, in front of everyone, like—like this!”
“Like what?” Mal teased. He pressed his fingers against the flared base of the dilator, rocking it just a bit. “Opened and ready for me? Seems like your prick don’t mind the idea.” He stepped back, giving Owen a stinging slap on the buttock. “Now, get dressed. We wouldn’t want to be late, after all.”
Trepidation tightened Mal’s stomach as the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the enormous mansion. A footman in green livery stepped to the curb and opened the door, his expression impassive.
“Ready?” Owen asked.
Mal had never been one for fancy clothes, but he had to admit, Owen looked practically edible in his white tie and tails. Mal wasn’t dressed quite as well, not having had time to be fitted for something so nice, though his suit would have put to shame anything seen in his old neighborhood.
He wouldn’t have been wearing even that, if Owen hadn’t decided to say to hell with tradition. Mal had the feeling it wasn’t easy for a fellow who ordinarily followed the rules to the letter, but Owen was doing it anyway. For Mal.
And Mal was about to pay him back with betrayal.
“I ain’t sure I’ll ever be ready,” Mal replied, as lightly as he could. “But we’re late enough as it is.”
“And whose fault is that?” Owen asked, shifting to climb out of the carriage. A light flush stained his cheeks, and Mal grinned.
“Just remember to walk normally.”
Owen shot him an exasperated look, but he couldn’t very well say anything in front of the footman. They climbed out onto the sidewalk, then up the stairs to the Italianate mansion, where another liveried footman opened the door for them.
Mal caught his breath at the sight that greeted them. The entrance hall was brightly lit by a huge chandelier blazing with hexlights. Two enormous stairwells descended from the second floor; on the wall in between them hung a life-sized portrait of a young woman. Diamonds dripped from her hair, arms, and dress, and around her neck was a diamond necklace set with a twelve-pointed star sapphire that had to be the Star of Winter.
The current version of the woman in the portrait awaited them in front of it: considerably older and thicker, though no less encrusted with jewelry. She wore a gown of royal purple, a tiara sparkling with diamonds, and a collar dripping with pearls. A stomacher of diamonds competed with the dozens of diamonds and pearls pinned to her bodice. She looked like someone had upended a jewelry case onto her. To her right was a gray-haired man who looked strikingly like Owen. They were talking to another older man, two younger men, and a woman, all of them just as ostentatiously dressed.
Servants quietly took Owen and Mal’s overcoats. Another servant, dressed in a green velvet coat, white knee breeches, and black stockings offered a silver tray laden with canapés. “Just take one,” Owen murmured to Mal.
Mal nodded and hastily stuffed it in his mouth. The glimpses he’d had of the Jacobs mansion had left him breathless, but this?
And Owen had grown up here?
“Owen,” said a frigid voice.
If Mal had been in fox form, his tail would have bristled. As it was, he tried to keep his pulse under control as he turned to face the woman beneath the portrait. The one who had to be Owen’s mother. “You’re late,” she said. “You should have been here to greet our guests.”
“Even I managed that,” said one of the younger men with a wink. “Does that mean I’m the favorite now?”
Mal suppressed a laugh. “You must be Nathan.”
Nathan put a hand to his chest dramatically. “I see my reputation precedes me. Whatever you’ve heard, it’s all true, I assure you.”
Owen’s mother didn’t seem amused.
“Forgive me.” Owen swallowed, but his voice remained calmly polite. “Mother, Father, Nathan, may I introduce my familiar, Malachi.”
Oh hell—was he supposed to shake hands with them? Bow? Kiss Mrs. Yates’s hand? Mal settled on a shaky smile. “Hello.”
“Malachi, this is my mother, Mrs. Josephine Yates, my father, Mr. Seymour Yates, and my brother, Mr. Nathan Yates.” He turned to the others. “And it seems I also have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Adam Vandersee, his son Mr. Kirk Vandersee, and Miss Edith Vandersee.”
Mal’s heart sank. This was the woman meant to be Owen’s wife. The one who would take his place in Owen’s bed in just a few short nights. She and her brother were cut from the same cloth, both plain and dark haired. They seemed vaguely familiar, especially Kirk—probably from the society pages, since Mal certainly wouldn’t have run into rich folk like them anywhere else.
A bright smile illuminated Edith’s face, turning her from ordinary to more than a little pretty. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Malachi,” she said, extending her hand.
Taken aback by her warmth, Mal bowed over it. She smelled of honeysuckle perfume: a delicate, gentle scent that seemed to suit her. “Thank you, Miss Vandersee,” he managed. “It’s a real treat to meet you, too.”
And hell, it would even have been true, if she hadn’t been engaged to Owen. Other than Nathan, she was the only one with the balls and grace to actually say hello to him, while the rest just stood around looking like they thought Mal might piss on the floor.
With any luck, maybe they’d even get along. Not that it made Mal any happier about Owen marrying.
A servant dressed all in black livery approached Mrs. Yates carrying a box. “Madam? The jewelry you asked for.”
The sense of relief at the distraction was palpable. Mrs. Yates took the box and opened it. “I thought you might like to wear this at your wedding, Edith dear,” she said.
And took out the Star of Winter.
An involuntary gasp escaped Mal. Sure, he had the copy hidden deeply in his pocket even now. But the real thing felt different. Not the glittering diamonds or the silver setting, but the sapphire itself. It seemed charged, almost, a thing of astonishing power.
No one else seemed moved by it, though. Maybe they were just used to it. Or maybe it was the sort of thing only a familiar could sense, the potential in it crying out to be filled with magic.
Edith’s expression grew fixed. Probably she’d already picked out her own jewelry, this close to the wedding. “Thank you, Mrs. Yates.”
Mrs. Yates smiled and closed the box. “Jane, give this to Miss Vandersee’s girl, to put with her other things,” she instructed as she handed it to a maidservant. The maidservant whisked it away silently.
Mal watched her go. Damn it, if only he knew the layout of the house. This was his chance—possibly his only chance—to get the Star for Madam Galpern.
And here it was, just lying in a box, instead of behind layers of security hexes. Just waiting for him to take it.
Another man dressed in livery appeared in one of the doorways, followed by a second man and a familiar in the shape of a spaniel. The housewitch, Mal guessed.
“Shall I ring the gong for dinner, madam?” the first man asked.
“Yes, do.” Mrs. Yates glanced at Owen, avoiding even looking at Mal. “James will see to your familiar.”
Owen opened his mouth to protest. “Thanks,” Mal said, cutting him off. Owen cast a quizzical glance, but Mal gave him a small shrug. “I ain’t sure I’m up to a dinner that means using more than one fork, not in front of your parents,” he whispered.
Disappointment flashed over Owen’s face, but he nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you soon, then.”
As it turned out, the housewitch and his familiar lived and dined apart from the rest of the Yates servants. Which was just fine with Mal; it would be far easier to sneak away from two people than ten.
They ate in the housewitch’s small garret room. The place was utilitarian compared to the rest of the mansion, but a sight better than Mal’s old apartment. Not as fancy as his bedroom in The Folly, but at least it was warm.
Would Owen put Mal somewhere like this? Or would he get better treatment, since he was Owen’s familiar, not just a hired servant? Maybe he’d have a little room off of Owen’s, like a valet or some such. Maybe on nights when Owen wasn’t visiting his wife, they could…
No. Owen had already put paid to such a notion. His blasted sense of honor wouldn’t let him.
Just as it hadn’t let him treat Mal like a pet instead of a person.
Once safely in the servant’s area, the spaniel—Betsy—had shifted into her human form. She spoke little, but spent dinner glaring daggers at Mal. Her witch, James, clearly didn’t think much of him either.
“If you would care for some pointers as to how things are done in a proper house, I would be pleased to give them,” was James’s opening volley. Without waiting for assent, he immediately launched into a droning lecture concerning deportment, when to assume human form, and a dozen other rules.
“And no tail wagging,” he added severely. “I’m not certain if that’s something foxes do, but if so, don’t. It conveys the impression of frivolity.”
“Oh aye, we wouldn’t be wanting anyone to think we’re having fun,” Mal muttered. No wonder Betsy was so sour-faced.
“Additionally,” James added, eyeing Mal as he enthusiastically tore apart a bite of chicken with his fingers, “your manners aren’t fit even for the servants’ table. Now…”
Mal ignored him, save to make certain his table manners became even more offensive. By the time dinner was over, it was clear neither James nor Betsy wanted to spend another moment in his company.
“We have other duties to attend to,” James said, rising to his feet. “Wait here, and someone will fetch you when Dr. Yates is ready to leave. Please do not touch anything.”
