Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 15
Mal waited several minutes after they left. When he was certain they were gone, he slipped to his feet and cracked open the door.
Silence. All the servants were busy with the dinner party, or their own evening duties. Which meant, so long as he could stay away from the dining room, he ought to be able to avoid almost everyone. And if anyone did find him, he’d claim to be looking for a bathroom. That ought to be indelicate enough to give James conniptions.
Even so, he slipped into fox form, which would make it easier to hide if he needed to. Hopefully Owen wouldn’t suddenly take it into his head to try and look through Mal’s eyes.
He skulked down the servants’ hall. His sensitive hearing brought him snippets of conversation from a half-open door, where some of the staff were no doubt having their own meal.
There came a series of loud gasps. “It’s true!” exclaimed a woman. “I swear it on my mother’s grave. Mrs. Jacobs was right there, in the house—I saw her.”
“And her a good thirty years older than Mr. Vandersee!” exclaimed a delightedly scandalized voice. “No wonder they’ve kept it so quiet!”
Judging by the age comment, they must be referring to Kirk Vandersee and not his father. So, old lady Jacobs was having an affair, and with a much younger fellow. No wonder she hadn’t been in the house the night of the murder. Should Mal tell Owen?
Except he’d have to admit how he’d come by such information, which could lead to awkward questions. Ones he couldn’t afford to have asked. At least Mrs. Jacobs had just been sleeping with the wrong fellow—and the man in question was about to become Owen’s brother-in-law. There wasn’t any connection to the murder, and it could cause trouble between Owen and his new bride.
That in itself was tempting…but no. Neither of them deserved that. Bad enough Mal was betraying Owen’s trust by stealing the necklace; there was no need to add spitefulness to his short comings.
It took Mal a good ten minutes to locate the suite where Miss Vandersee’s things had been left for the duration of the visit. Fortunately, all the servants on duty seemed to be focused on the dinner party, and Mal didn’t encounter anyone in the ladies’ wing while he sniffed the doors, searching for traces of honeysuckle perfume.
As soon as he found her scent, he shifted back into human shape and slipped inside the room. Quickly shutting the door behind him, he was glad to see the hexlights had been left on for Miss Vandersee’s convenience. The sitting room was plain by the standards of the mansion—the tables and chairs weren’t even gilded, and there was only one vase laden with hothouse roses.
And on the small writing table, beside a reticule and coat that must belong to Edith, sat the box containing the Star of Winter.
Mal’s heart beat in his throat as he approached. This was it. All he had to do was switch out the real necklace for the fake one. Take it to Sophie. And in turn, she’d give him the name of Jacobs’s murderer.
He would find some way to slip out of the Coven tomorrow and send an anonymous message to Quigley. With any luck the man would be behind bars in days. Mal could stop looking over his shoulder. Stop having to be escorted everywhere. He could leave, when sharing space with Owen and Edith became too painful to bear, and not have to worry about ambush.
The replica felt oddly heavy as he pulled it from his pocket. This would be the biggest heist he’d ever thought to pull off, even if he wouldn’t see any proceeds from the sale. But what did it matter? He looked around the sitting room, at the marble fireplace, the jewel-encrusted clock. The Yateses had money, and the Vandersees had even more. And hell, with any luck, no one would even realize the necklace had been substituted for a fake. They’d never know they’d lost anything.
Mal would know.
He’d sworn to Owen that he’d reformed.
Owen would never find out. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or Mal. This was Mal’s life on the line, after all.
Owen had stood up for Mal tonight. Even before tonight, he’d treated Mal like a person. And last night, in the park, laughing as he played the violin…he’d shown Mal a side of him that Mal didn’t think he’d ever shown anyone else.
The bond burned inside him, a steady warmth tucked right against his heart. If he concentrated, he could sense Owen dimly through it. Sitting at dinner, never thinking for a moment Mal would stab him in the back.
Owen trusted him.
Mal’s hand hovered above the box for a long minute. Then, with a muttered oath, he shoved the fake necklace back into his pocket and left.
Owen sat at the dining table as the courses came and went, and tried not to give into despair.
The food was perfect, naturally. Salmon cutlets, terrapin, ribs of beef, canvasback duck, and partridge with truffles, all flawlessly prepared, all tasting like ashes to him.
He gazed up and down the table. Another small dinner party, this time with only fifty guests invited. A mere fraction of the number who would attend the wedding breakfast on Saturday.
This was what his life was to be from now on. An endless round of dinners, balls, and entertainments, both hosted and attended, so as to retain position in society. A part of him was beginning to understand why Mr. Astor had fled to his yacht and left his wife to do as she wished.
Not that he would—could—do the same. Not and live with himself, at any rate. It wouldn’t be fair to Edith. His gaze found her, seated several chairs away, a blank expression on her face as she listened to an aged senator drone on. She seemed no fonder of entertainments than he.
But they would host them nonetheless, for the sake of whatever children they would have. Of maintaining a place in society for the next generation; and, in Owen’s case, for the previous generation as well.
His mother beamed from her seat at one end of the table. This was what she loved most of all: to be at the center of society, an arbiter of taste and fashion. God and the accountants alone knew how much this dinner must have cost, but the pending influx of Vandersee cash meant she could once again be as extravagant as her heart desired. Or as society demanded.
He shifted slightly—and was immediately once again aware of the dilator’s presence. Thanks to Mal, he’d spent half the night in a state of utterly inappropriate arousal.
Mal. The thought of his familiar lightened his heart and brought a smile to his lips. He’d thought them so unsuited at first, and yet Mal had never failed to make him smile. He could be himself with Mal, as he’d never been able to be with anyone else.
“You seem to be in a good mood,” Kirk remarked.
Owen’s cheeks heated; if Kirk knew what had put him in such a mood… “It’s a lovely party,” he said inanely.
“Our parents seem pleased, at least.” Kirk glanced at the head of the table, then back to Owen. “Nathan is looking well.”
“He’s happy.” Thank heavens. “Mother and Father less so, but they’ll come around.”
Kirk nodded and sipped his wine. “Will we see you at Delmonico’s for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”
Owen hesitated. He knew his parents would prefer it if he joined them, but he was sick of socializing. “I rather thought I’d visit Peter instead.”
A shadow fell over Kirk’s face. He and Peter had been close as boys. Along with Kirk’s younger brother, Robert, they’d spent endless hours together both in town and in Newport. Owen had been too young to join in their games, but he could recall watching them out the window as they clambered about on the rocks above the surf, or frolicked on the grassy lawn.
Then Robert died, and Peter had his accident, and now only Kirk remained.
“Give him my best,” Kirk said, and finished the glass of wine.
“You could come see him, if you wished,” Owen suggested hesitantly. Mother and Father wouldn’t approve of anyone outside the family, the doctors, and the servants seeing Peter in his condition, but surely they’d make an exception for Kirk.
“Perhaps I will,” Kirk said, though Owen wasn’t certain how sincerely he meant it. His gaze drifted to Edith. “I suppose if things had gone differently, Peter would have been the one marrying my sister.”
An unexpected thorn of regret snagged on Owen’s heart. Would Peter have been any happier about it than he was? For that matter, would Edith have been?
Probably not, since it seemed she had feelings for Creswell. But Peter had been handsome and dashing; surely he would have been a better prize than Owen by any measure.
Owen took a deep drink from his own glass. There was no sense in might-have-beens. The past was locked into place, and the future just as immoveable. They all had to accept their lots and soldier on.
But for the first time, he would have given up almost anything to change it.
Sophie awaited Mal on the corner a block west of Fifth Avenue. The temperature had dropped, and snow began to sift down from the low clouds. The wires overhead swayed and hummed in the brisk wind.
“Mal,” she said, hurrying to him. Her breath steamed in the cold air, and her nose was red and chapped. “You did it? You’ve got the Star of Winter?”
Mal let out a long, slow breath. He’d stolen a mackintosh left near the servants’ entrance, which at least kept off the damp snow, but the cold still bit deep. “Nay,” he said heavily. “And I ain’t going to. Madam Galpern will have to find someone else.”
Sophie stared at him for a long moment, lips parted, as though she wasn’t sure she’d heard him aright. “What do you mean? Madam told me you don’t get the murderer’s name if you don’t deliver the goods.”
“I know.” Mal shook his head. “But Owen…he’s been good to me, Sophie. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“You idiot.” Her eyes narrowed into blue slits. “They’re going to kill you. Are you really going to risk your life for some rich nob?”
“There are other ways of finding the murderer.” Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling himself since he’d left the Star of Winter behind. “If Madam Galpern figured out who killed Jacobs, so can the police. It might take them longer, but I’ve got protection until then.”
Sophie took a step back from him. “So that’s it? You think you’re safe, so to hell with the rest of us?”
He reached out, but she avoided him. “Nay, of course not.”
“Madam Galpern is relying on you!” Sophie clenched her fists. “I’m relying on you. I had part of the cut coming to me from this job! You’re warm and have food in your belly, and fancy clothes to wear. You think you can just forget where you came from? Pretend you’re a nob, choose these rich bastards over those who’ve looked out for you your entire life?”
“Saint Mary, that’s not it at all!” Mal protested. “It ain’t like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.” Sophie retreated further, shaking her head in disgust, as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. “But you ain’t one of them. They’ll never see you as anything more than just a thief.”
His throat constricted. “That ain’t true.”
“Remember tonight, Malachi. When the nobs turn on you; when you’re lying there, bleeding out in the gutter somewhere, remember that you spit on the ones as tried to help you.”
“Sophie, please,” he said. But she turned her back on him, and stalked away down the street, until the shadows swallowed her up.
“At last,” Owen said, when the elevator let them out in front of the apartment well after midnight.
He unlocked the door and gestured Mal to enter before him. His familiar had been unusually quiet the entire ride back, though Owen hadn’t wanted to risk the possibility of being overheard by the footmen by asking what was wrong. Following him in, Owen locked the door behind them and shed his overcoat. “Is everything all right?”
Mal had already slipped out of overcoat and suit coat alike. “Aye. Just thinking.”
Owen cocked his head uncertainly. “Thinking…?”
“That I’m glad we met.” Mal’s smile was uncharacteristically wistful. “Glad you’re my witch.”
Owen’s throat tightened. “So am I. Mal…”
Mal shook himself, like a fox flinging water from his coat. “Speaking of thinking,” he said, his tone deliberately lighter, “did you think of me often tonight?”
Heat scalded Owen’s face—just as it had practically every time he moved at dinner, and was reminded of the intrusive object. And of Mal’s plans for him after. “I had little choice otherwise,” he said.
Mal let out a bark of laughter. “Just as I wanted. Get in the bedroom.”
Owen hesitated, but whatever odd mood lay over Mal seemed to have vanished, at least for the moment. So when Mal arched a brow and growled, “Now,” Owen hastened to comply.
As soon as they were in the bedroom, Mal kicked the door shut. “Take off those nice clothes,” he said, and went to wrestle the standing mirror into a new position at the foot of the bed.
Owen’s fingers shook on the buttons. Mal’s gaze seemed to singe every inch of exposed flesh, until he stood naked, helpless, his cock jutting obscenely out in front of him. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited for orders.
“Good boy,” Mal murmured. He held out his arms. “Now, undress me, then get on the bed. Hands and knees.”
Every scrape of cloth against Owen’s erection was exquisite torture. When he finally had Mal naked, he climbed eagerly onto the bed and waited. The feeling of being exposed, vulnerable, sent a thrill through his blood and made his breath come in short, excited gasps.
Mal’s fingers trailed along Owen’s back, then across one buttock, to dip in between his legs and give Owen’s sack a quick, sharp tug. Owen whimpered.
The mattress sagged under Mal’s weight. The familiar remained on his knees, prick stiff in front of him. “Suck me.” His eyes lifted to the mirror he’d repositioned. “I’m going to watch while you do it.”
Owen wrapped his lips around Mal’s cock, tasting the tang of his excitement. He slid down hungrily, taking Mal to the root. Mal kept his hips still for once, letting Owen do all the work.
“Spread your legs wider,” Mal ordered. “Aye, like that. I can see your arse in the mirror, spread open by the dilator. One day I’m going to use the biggest one on you, really open you up. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To suck me off, with that big heavy thing shoved up your arse.”
Owen moaned helplessly around Mal’s prick. Mal made a strangled sound, then pushed Owen away. “St-stop.” He closed his eyes and gripped the base of his cock hard. “I ain’t going to come yet.”
Owen’s own cock ached with need, but he already knew Mal wouldn’t let him touch himself.
Mal reached out and ran a thumb over Owen’s lips. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he growled. “Beg for it. Beg me to fuck you with my big cock.”
Lust tightened Owen’s throat. “Please,” he managed.
“Please what?”
“Please, sir. Please fuck me with your big cock.”
Mal grinned, exposing his sharp teeth. “Turn around. I want you to see your face in the mirror while I bugger you.”
Owen’s arms shook so badly he wasn’t certain he could support himself. His lack of spectacles meant the figures in the mirror were a blur of light and shadow. “I can’t see.”
Mal slid out of bed, plucked up Owen’s spectacles, and gently settled them onto his nose. “There you go.”
The sight of his own face red with lust, lips swollen, sent an odd shiver of humiliation and excitement through him. Mal climbed in behind him, then grabbed the oil and slicked his cock.
Owen whimpered again when Mal pulled out the dilator. For a moment, he felt empty, the sensation of fullness gone and leaving him aching.
Then Mal pressed the head of his cock in.
A cry escaped him as Mal’s thicker prick stretched him open. Mal grabbed his hip with one hand, and the other tangled in Owen’s hair, pulling his head back. “Watch,” he said, and pushed in deeper.
And oh God, there was so much of him, so much longer than the squat dilators. Mal shoved in deeper, and deeper, and Owen’s mouth gaped open, his cheeks scarlet, his prick hard and aching. It had been so long since he’d been fucked, and never like this, with a hand gripping his hair and the other man commanding him.
And Mal said he was glad Owen was his witch? Owen ought to be on his knees, thanking fate or God or the universe itself for bringing Mal to him. His fantasies had by necessity centered around the physical act alone, because he’d never dared imagine the fullness of what they had together. Never believed he’d find someone he could trust so implicitly, could surrender himself to so completely. Mal was everything he’d dreamed of and more: friend, lover, partner in every way.
“Fuck, this is good,” Mal gasped. “Damn, you’re so tight. Feel that, Owen? Feel me in you, all the way to my balls?”
“Y-Yes,” Owen groaned. “Please, Mal, please.”
He wasn’t even sure what he begged for. He saw Mal’s savage smile in the mirror, smelled the wildness of his scent. The warmth of their bond burned in his chest, the connection even deeper than their physical joining.
“I’m going to give you the ride of your life,” Mal promised. He drew out, almost too far, but before Owen could object over the loss, he shoved back in.
Then he was moving, thrusting hard. His hand tugged hard on Owen’s hair, and his fingers dug into Owen’s hip. Pleasure shocked through Owen, Mal’s prick pressing against the spot deep inside. He cried out with every thrust, an unrestrained sound he was powerless to suppress. His skin burned, and his length ached to be touched.
“Please, let me touch myself,” he begged. “Please, I can’t stand it.”
“You’ll stand what I tell you to stand,” Mal said between clenched teeth. “Fur and feathers, I can’t last much longer. Do it, then—stroke yourself off while I come up your arse.”
Owen grasped his prick and tugged frantically. Mal drove into him, again and again, so deep—then froze with a hoarse shout, spilling inside Owen’s body. It shoved Owen over the edge, and he shook as he spent onto the bedding.
