Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 16
Mal’s cock slipped free. Owen found himself almost face-down, on his elbows and knees, head bowed and his heart thudding in his chest. He felt raw, all the trappings of life scraped away, leaving behind only the core of himself exposed like a nerve.
Mal’s touch turned tender. “Come here,” he coaxed, and slid his arms around Owen. “That’s it.” A soft kiss pressed against Owen’s temple. “Such a good boy, aren’t you? So good.”
Owen curled into him, content to breathe Mal’s scent. He felt as though he drifted on a warm cloud, protected and cherished, every worry gone. Lassitude gripped his limbs, and he wasn’t entirely certain he’d be able to move for the rest of the night.
After a while, Mal dropped a kiss on his shoulder. “I’m going to get a cloth to clean us up. Just stay here.”
Owen nodded. A few minutes later, Mal returned. The washcloth was warm, and Mal’s touch gentle.
“There.” Mal lifted the blankets. “Now, let’s get you tucked in.”
“Stay with me,” Owen said.
It was a terrible idea, of course. Sex was one thing, but sleeping together, when Mal had his own, perfectly good bed…
It should have felt too intimate. But instead it only felt right.
As soon as he was beneath the covers, Mal slipped in as well. “All right,” he said, his arms going around Owen. “I’ll stay.”
The next afternoon, Owen took a step back from the device and eyed it critically. It had taken on the shape of a sort of box when viewed from the outside, its inner workings exposed or hidden by the lever and the turning of the crank.
“Finished,” he said.
“Well done!” Mal sat perched on another stool, where he’d been helping Owen off and on. And asking questions throughout—intelligent ones, Owen had to admit. His fox was clever, even if uneducated.
What hexes they might have made together, if only they could stay. With his expertise and Mal’s magic, they might have revolutionized forensic hexology.
“Are we going to test it?” Mal asked.
“That might not be wise,” Owen admitted, though in truth he badly wanted to do so. “Remember what I said about it possibly being dangerous to the familiar used to charge it? And besides, some of the hex signs are obscure, their meaning lost. It might not be entirely safe to test them.”
“We’ll be careful,” Mal said. “And we’ll take it someplace away from any buildings. If we’re out in the middle of a field, at least we won’t have to worry about anything exploding, right?”
Owen laughed at Mal’s eagerness. “I doubt any of the hexes cause explosions. Although some of them…”
“What?” Mal prompted.
“I’m not sure,” Owen confessed. “Some of the symbols seem related to the sky, the wind. Combined with another hex, I wonder if they could be used to create weather magic?”
“That’s illegal, ain’t it?” Mal asked.
“Highly. And for good reason—causing rain in one place can easily result in a drought elsewhere. Some of the earliest laws against certain types of hexes were enacted in Ancient Egypt, to keep anyone from trying to disturb the yearly flooding of the Nile.”
“So no explosions, and we avoid the weather magic.” Mal winked at him. “What do we have to worry about?”
“You, silly fox.” Owen leaned over and kissed Mal’s forehead. The gesture seemed natural, even though he knew it was foolish to risk such a habit. “I’m worried about you.”
They’d waked this morning in each other’s arms, bodies tangled together in the sheets. They hadn’t made love—had sex, that is—again, but there had been tender kisses and soft touches aplenty. Owen wasn’t entirely certain what had changed, but Mal seemed less guarded, somehow.
He cleared his throat, telling himself to concentrate. “It might be safe, if I was careful not to draw too much magic from you. But I’d want Halloran and some familiars about, just to make sure nothing went wrong.”
“Smart,” Mal said with a nod. “You’re a genius, to have put this back together. I’m proud of you.”
Owen flushed with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. “It was nothing. I just rebuilt something someone else made. All my contributions have been small. Perhaps if I’d been able to invent the poison-identifying hex…”
“You talk like you’re an old man.” Mal put his hand on Owen’s. “You’re just getting started. Some day—”
There came a sharp knock on the door. Mal snatched his hand away, as if Owen’s skin had become red hot.
“Come in,” Owen called.
The door opened, and Kirk Vandersee stuck his head inside. “Kirk?” Owen said blankly. “Is something wrong?”
Kirk shook his head as he came inside. “Everyone is healthy and safe,” he said, which was an odd way of answering. He gave Mal a nod, then turned his attention fully on Owen. “I need to talk to you.”
“You’ve never been here before this week, and now you visit twice?” Owen asked. “Is this about the Jacobs murder? If I knew anything further about the investigation that I could share, I assure you I would have told you last night.”
Kirk cast another glance at Mal. “It isn’t that. May I speak with you privately?”
Mal shrugged and hopped off the stool. “I’ll just go see what Bertie is up to, then,” he said.
Kirk flinched—then nodded. “Yes. You should do that.”
Once Mal was gone, Owen folded his arms over his chest. “That was very rude,” he told Kirk. “If this is a personal matter, you should have waited to call on me at home. And if it isn’t—”
“I’m sorry,” Kirk interrupted. He ran his hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to offend Mr. Malachi. But I’ve come because…well. There’s no easy way to say this. The Star of Winter has been stolen.”
“I…what?” Owen asked. His head spun—the Star of Winter alone was nearly priceless. Along with the diamonds and silver setting, the loss was astronomical. “How could such a thing happen?”
Kirk slumped into one of the chairs. No wonder he looked so harried. “We don’t know yet,” he said. “We wouldn’t even know it was missing, except the woman putting the final touches on Edith’s wedding dress had an appointment this morning. Edith offered to show it to her, so she could match some bows to the blue sapphire. The box was empty.”
Owen let his arms fall to his sides. “I assume you’ve questioned the servants?”
“Obviously. We’ve started within the household, but if that doesn’t turn up anything, the investigation will move to your parents’ house. Edith never looked at the box again after receiving it last night, so it’s possible the necklace was stolen during dinner.” Kirk hesitated visibly. “Owen…we’ve been friends for a long time, so please don’t take this the wrong way. But I follow the papers, and I talk to your family. I know how you and Malachi first met.”
Owen’s heart stumbled. Could what Kirk insinuated possibly be true?
Mal was a thief, and had been most of his life, according to his own words.
Was a thief. Was, but no more. He’d promised Owen he would reform.
“You’re wrong, Kirk,” Owen said. “Mal had nothing to do with this.”
Kirk hastily held up his hands. “I’m certain you’re right, old boy. I didn’t mean to cause offense. Just…suggest you check his possessions. To make sure.”
Owen’s fingers clenched. Mal had given Owen his word. After everything else, after everything they’d shared, going through his room would be an insult of the deepest order. It would imply Owen didn’t trust Mal. That he thought Mal didn’t actually care about him.
Mal had held him with such tenderness last night. It would take a hard heart indeed to go from stealing from Owen’s family, his bride-to-be, to those gentle kisses this morning.
Wouldn’t it?
“I trust Malachi,” he told Kirk, struggling to keep his emotions from his face. “As his witch, I will personally vouch for him. Does that satisfy you?”
“Of course it does.” Kirk rose to his feet. “Say no more. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you not repeat this to anyone. Including your familiar.”
Owen nodded. “Very well.”
“Thank you.” Kirk put his hat back on. “And now, if you will excuse me, I should return home and assist Father and the police.”
“So what did your friend Kirk want?” Mal asked. He’d eaten lunch with Bertie, Isaac, and the wolverine Greta in their small office. Bertie had fetched sandwiches for them all from the nearby deli—fish for himself, chicken for Mal, and roast beef for Isaac and Greta. They’d loitered a bit, gossiping about the other familiars. Life in the barracks sounded far different from life in a feral colony. Here, the familiars were all united by their job with the MWP. Until they met their witches, they lived, slept, and worked together.
Some members of the colony had been close. But Mal had already had a family with Sophie and Madam Galpern, and he’d come to the colony more for the protection Nick offered than from any fellow feeling. For the first time, he wondered if he shouldn’t have spent more time getting to know the other ferals.
When he returned to the lab after lunch, it was to find Owen looking as though he’d received some unpleasant news.
“Nothing important,” Owen replied when Mal asked him about it. “Just a detail concerning the wedding. I don’t know why he didn’t just send a note, honestly.”
“Oh.” Mal nodded. Maybe Owen was in a bad mood after being reminded of the wedding. He’d certainly been…well, not loving, that would be absurd. Friendly this morning. Maybe he didn’t want to think about his upcoming nuptials, when he’d have to give up all they’d done last night.
Although there might be a way around that. Did Owen know they made devices for women to wear? Edith might like to try it that way.
“Edith seemed nice,” he said, uncertain if he ought to bring her up or not. “I liked her.”
A little to his surprise, Owen seemed grateful for the topic. “She is. I don’t claim to know her well, but I’ve never heard anyone speak a bad word about her. Certainly she has always been unfailingly kind to me. As unlike her own mother as it’s possible to be, or so they say.”
Mal cocked his head. This sounded like a story he ought to know, if he was to be living with them. “Tell me about Mrs. Vandersee.”
“Edith and I were quite young when all this happened,” Owen cautioned him. “But the story is something of a legend in society. Rose Vandersee clawed her way into high society by force of will alone. Well, that and a great deal of money to enforce her will, naturally.”
“Aye, I imagine that would help,” Mal agreed. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “So how did she do it?”
“The Vandersee family were swells—rich, but they didn’t meet the criteria for admission into the Four Hundred. The fortune was made by Adam Vandersee’s father, you see, who invented a hex back in Holland and then sold it in New York. It could ensure sanitation of canning lines in factories. He took the initial investment and built the company to greatness. But the money was too new—to be worthy of entering into society, one must be at least three generations removed from the source of the fortune.”
Mal shook his head. “I swear, the things you worry about when you’ve got the money, eh?”
“Quite.” Owen wiped down the work area around the device. “Mrs. Vandersee was determined not to let that stop her. She threw an enormous costume ball. Rumor has it the final cost was over $250,000.”
“Holy Familiar of Christ,” Mal breathed. That was more money than most people could hope to earn in several lifetimes. “One party cost that much?”
“It did.” Owen smiled ruefully. “Of course the newspapers were beside each other when the scope of it was discovered. Invitations flooded out from the Vandersees’ newly built chateau, which was rumored to rival the wealth and glory of Versailles itself. Who could resist the chance to see it for themselves?” His smile turned sly. “But there was one society lady who hadn’t received an invitation. My mother.”
“Oh, I’m betting she didn’t like that,” Mal cackled. “I’m surprised her hair didn’t catch fire.”
“Ah, but you see, by the rules of etiquette Mother herself adhered to, Mrs. Vandersee couldn’t send an invitation. Mother had never invited her to call, so surely an invitation from an inferior wouldn’t be welcome. Mother tried to stick it out, but when she realized literally everyone was going except for her, she gave in and had Mrs. Vandersee over for tea. Her invitation to the ball arrived the next day. The affair was an immense success, and the Vandersees were ensured their place among the Four Hundred.”
Mal shook his head. “She’s seems like quite the woman.”
“She was, I’m sure.” Owen’s expression sobered. “She didn’t get to enjoy her triumph for long. Almost immediately after the ball, her youngest son died. He was only ten months younger than Kirk; the two of them were as close as twins, I’m told. Once the period of mourning ended, Mrs. Vandersee returned to society, but people reported a new hardness about her. A bitterness, even. She passed just a few years later.”
Owen pushed his stool back from the work table, but his gaze remained distant, fixed on something Mal couldn’t see. “Kirk once told me she died from guilt over his brother’s death. Which made no sense—Robert was lost in a boating accident, his body never found. The only member of the family on board at the time was Mr. Vandersee.”
“That must have been hard on Kirk. On all of them,” Mal said.
“Yes. It was. Kirk was the elder, and so had always felt himself responsible for his little brother, or so I suspect. And Edith as well, of course, but she was several years younger, and she and Kirk were never as close.” Owen seemed to return from his thoughts, and glanced at Mal. “There’s something I’d like to show you tonight.”
“It’s Thanksgiving, ain’t it?” he asked. “I thought we’d go to dinner at the restaurant in The Folly.” He waggled his brows. “Or are you offering to show me something else tonight, eh?”
Owen laughed. “Not that. Well, perhaps later.” He glanced at the clock. “We can get dinner at the restaurant after, though. Will you come?”
“All right,” Mal said puzzled. “You know me. I’m game for anything.”
They met Bertie on their way out of the Coven. To Mal’s surprise, the bear insisted on accompanying them.
“Just a feeling,” he said, as they stepped out onto the marble steps. He tipped his head back and sniffed the cold air. Snow flurries had left a dusting of white on the roofs and a thin layer of slush in the streets. “Besides, it’s Thanksgiving, which means they’re serving turkey in the barracks tonight. And I hate turkey.” At Mal’s skeptical look, he shrugged. “Honestly? My family threw me out at Thanksgiving, so I’d rather work than sit around and brood.”
Mal winced. “That’s hard. I’m sorry.”
Bertie shrugged. “It was a long time ago. But I’m not much for celebrating.”
“Understandable,” said Owen. “Then come along, and safeguard us both.”
Sometime later, a cab let them out in front of what probably passed as a modest house to people like Owen. Trees lined the street; bare now in the winter, but in the summer it would be a beautiful, shady thoroughfare.
“So whose place is this?” Mal asked, looking up at the stately townhouse.
“The family owns it, actually.” Owen turned to the cab. “Wait here, if you will, driver. Bertie, would you like to come inside?”
Bertie waved a hand. “I’ll stay here with the driver,” he said. “Though maybe you could send something out to warm the blood?”
Owen smiled. “Gladly.”
A man in somber clothing opened the door. No livery here, Mal noted. Was this some sort of secret hideaway, and the Yateses didn’t want anyone to know they owned it? Maybe they installed mistresses here.
“Dr. Yates,” the footman said, stepping smartly aside. “Let me take your coats, and then I’ll summon Mrs. Lewis.”
“Thank you,” Owen said. They entered a small foyer and waited, while the footman vanished with their coats. Though less lavish than the Yates mansion, or even The Folly, the room showed off the wealth of its owners in the form of gilded mirrors, a marble floor inlaid with a hex meant to promote the health and luck of those inside, and a statue of a half-man, half-goat, like a familiar caught halfway into transformation.
“This belonged to my maternal grandmother, before her marriage, then again after her husband’s death,” Owen said, looking about. “She lived here with her familiar for many years. Of course, most of the rooms are closed off now. The staff is too small to keep it up, otherwise.”
This was getting stranger and stranger. “Does someone live here?” Mal asked.
“Yes.” Owen’s shoulders slumped. “My brother, Peter.”
Before Mal could reply, a cheerful, plump woman dressed like a nurse bustled into the foyer. “Dr. Yates! Oh, it’s so good to see you again. Mr. Yates will be just thrilled you could join us for Thanksgiving.”
“How is Peter doing?” Owen asked.
“Today’s been a good day,” she said, beckoning them to follow her. “He’s in the library right now—he likes to watch the birds in the trees through the window, don’t you know. And of course I read to him, when he seems bored.”
She led them into a room lined with books. Though smaller than the library at the Jacobs manor, it felt far more lived in. The air smelled of old paper and wood polish, and the gaslights gleamed from the golden titles stamped on the books’ spines. A single chair occupied the room, its upholstery worn. A basket of yarn sat beside it, which no doubt belonged to Mrs. Lewis.
A wheelchair sat in front of one of the large windows, through which Mal could see the electric lights of the street outside beginning to come to life. The figure in the wheelchair made no motion to indicate he knew they were there.
Mrs. Lewis bustled over to him. “You’ve visitors, Mr. Yates! Your brother has come to see you for Thanksgiving, just as I mentioned earlier. And there’s another gentleman with him.” Well, that was the first time anyone had ever called Mal a gentleman. She turned to Owen. “I’ll leave you to visit, but if you need anything, just ring the bell and I’ll be right here.”
