The door shut behind her, leaving them in the silent library. Owen walked around the front of the wheelchair, then crouched down to look its occupant in the eye. “Good evening, Peter,” he said. “I’ve brought someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Mal approached hesitantly. The man in the wheelchair resembled Mrs. Yates in coloring, though he had the same silvery eyes as Owen. His head was oddly misshapen, as though parts of the skull no longer fit as they once had. Withered hands lay on the blanket in his lap, and his clothing looked as though it had been made for a more robust frame. His mouth was parted, the breath raspy, but his eyes tracked Owen’s face, and his features twitched into something like a smile.

  Owen took one limp hand. “I’m sorry it’s been a few weeks since my last visit,” he said. “Things have been busy at work. But I wanted to make certain to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Peter made a sound that might have been an attempt at speech in reply. Poor devil.

  But Mal wouldn’t have wanted someone pitying him, were their places reversed. So he put the thought aside, as best he could.

  “I have some news,” Owen continued. “This is my familiar, Malachi. Mal, this is my older brother, Peter Yates.”

  Mal bobbed his head. “Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Peter made a small sound, and one hand jerked in Mal’s direction. Mal wasn’t sure if he should take it, so he held his own hand out uncertainly. Peter’s fingers tapped his, then fell to his lap again.

  “Mal, why don’t you ring the footman to bring in another chair, so we can all sit?” Owen suggested. It seemed like it would have been easier to move Peter, since his chair had wheels, but maybe Owen didn’t want to disturb his view.

  “Did Nathan come to see you?” Owen asked, once they were all settled. “He’s to be my best man at the wedding, you know.”

  They sat together, while Owen had a mostly one-sided conversation with his brother. He told Peter about the case, what the families they knew were up to, and the general news of the world. He responded to Peter’s jerky movement and sounds with the ease of old practice.

  It was almost peaceful. Until in the midst of a story about some business deal of their father’s, Peter’s eyes suddenly widened.

  His whole body jerked, and for a moment, Mal thought he might be having some sort of fit. But Peter’s eyes remained locked on the window as he flailed and moaned.

  “Peter!” Owen went to his knees by the chair, grasping Peter’s arms to hold them still. “It’s all right! It’s all right.”

  Peter struggled against his grasp, groaning frantically. His eyes flicked from Owen to the window, again and again.

  “He sees something outside,” Mal said, and peered out.

  Full night had fallen, and there was little to see except for the occasional flakes of snow and the pools of light cast by the street lamps. Bertie had climbed out of the cab and stood by it, talking idly with the driver. Otherwise, the street appeared deserted.

  Mal frowned. “Nothing,” he said with a shrug.

  Owen sighed. “Ring for Mrs. Lewis, if you please.”

  She came as quickly as she’d promised. “I’m afraid he’s grown agitated,” Owen said helplessly.

  “There, there, that’s all right,” she said. “Likely it’s just frustration. Still, the doctor said not to do anything to agitate him, and to make sure we keep on a regular schedule.”

  “Of course,” Owen said. “We’ll just be on our way. Peter, I’ll be back after the wedding. Before we leave for Europe, even if I have to stop in on the way to the docks.”

  Soon enough, they were back on the street. Owen tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and his shoulders hunched. “What say we go home?” Mal suggested.

  Bertie overheard. “Do you need me to keep an eye on your backs?”

  Mal considered, but they’d be in a cab. No one could exactly accost them on the street that way. And so long as they were let off within the safety of The Folly’s courtyard, everything should be fine. “Not needed, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Should we take you anywhere first, Bertie?” Owen asked.

  Bertie shook his head. “No, don’t worry about me. I’d rather walk for a bit, clear my head. Some of the theaters on Broadway are open tonight, despite the holiday. Maybe I’ll take advantage and watch a show.”

  Once they were safely ensconced in the cab, Mal took Owen’s hand in his. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For introducing me to your brother.”

  The light of a passing street lamp reflected from Owen’s glasses. “I worshipped the ground Peter walked on,” he said. “He set the example for us all. First in everything—sport, school, whatever he turned his hand to. He would have gone into business and found some way to save the family fortune.”

  “Or be the one marrying Edith,” Mal guessed.

  “Yes. He would have done it without an instant of complaint.” Owen swallowed. “May I tell you something? Something which must never go beyond the confines of this cab?”

  Mal nodded. “Of course. You can tell me anything.”

  “Peter wasn’t injured cleaning a gun. He shot himself deliberately.”

  “Oh hell.” Poor bastard. “I’m sorry, Owen.”

  “Peter always had his moods, of course.” Owen stared out the window, thin lipped. “But I always thought him happy enough. I was already at the MWP when it happened. In fact, I was supposed to meet him for lunch, but I grew involved in my work and missed the appointment. And that night, Peter shot himself. I can’t help but think, if I’d met him as intended, I would have seen the signs. Or he might have confessed his plans to me, or…”

  Saint Mary, no wonder Owen acted the way he did. He felt he had to sacrifice himself to take the place of the brother he’d adored.

  “Or nothing,” Mal said. He squeezed Owen’s fingers, hard. “If he’d never told you he was—was sad, or hopeless, or whatever he was feeling—before, why would he then? You can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault. Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say,” Owen replied.

  “It’s just the truth.” Mal brought Owen’s hand to his mouth, pressed it against his lips. “You didn’t cause this to happen. You have to stop feeling as though—”

  He stopped. There was something large and dark, coming fast from a cross-street. A pair of horns gleamed in the street lamps, an instant before a heavy weight slammed into the side of the cab.

  The cab tipped violently up onto two wheels. Owen fell heavily against Mal, and they both smashed into the door on Mal’s side.

  The shift in weight was enough; with a groan, the whole cab crashed down onto its side. The top of Mal’s head clipped Owen’s chin, and the taste of blood filled Owen’s mouth.

  “What the hell happened?” Mal exclaimed. Outside, the driver was yelling, the horse shrieking in fear and pain.

  “I don’t know,” Owen said. “Are you all right?“

  A huge pair of bull horns ripped through the cab’s thin roof, barely missing Mal’s face.

  “Sweet Mary!” Mal shouted. Owen yanked him back, farther from the horns.

  The horns tore free—then an instant later smashed back in, in a slightly different spot. Looking for them.

  “It’s a familiar!” Owen exclaimed. “Trying to kill us.”

  “I’ve noticed! Now help me.” Mal shoved at the door now over their heads. “Damn it! The bloody bull twisted it half off its hinges. It won’t open all the way.”

  The bull let out a bellow that turned Owen’s knees to jelly. “Break the window! You can squeeze out through it in fox shape.”

  Mal didn’t argue. He smashed his elbow into the glass, turning his face aside as it rained down. Shifting into his fox form, he scrambled out.

  And let out a startled bark as a human hand grabbed him by the scruff and hoisted him away.

  “Mal!” Owen shouted.

  “Owen! It’s him!”

  Owen flung himself against the door, as hard as he could. It remained stuck.

  He had to get out of here; had to get to Mal. Fear washed through the bond, his own and Mal’s intermingling.

  He shut his eyes, and got a confused glimpse of the world through Mal’s. Mal was struggling, twisting and trying to bite. But the man kept an iron grip on his scruff, carrying him away from the cab.

  There came the crack of a gun. The man jerked, and his hold loosened by a tiny bit.

  It was enough. Mal went into a frenzy: snarling and flailing, until he was dropped. He raced back toward the cab. The driver stood beside the struggling horse, gun in hand.

  The bull let out an ominous snort.

  Owen opened his eyes and tore his hexman’s wallet from his pocket. Inks and pens went flying everywhere, and he sorted through them frantically. An unlocking hex wouldn’t work—the door was jammed, not locked. He knew a dozen hexes to strengthen the parts of the carriage, but he needed it to fall to pieces.

  If he could reverse one of them…

  Not giving himself time to doubt, he snatched up a stick of red chalk and began to sketch a hex around the door’s hinges. Omitting certain symbols, adding others, and oh God let this work…

  He slapped his palm onto the jury-rigged hex, and the magic flowed. “Let me out!”

  The hinges fell into pieces, pins shooting half-way across the wrecked cab. The hardware of the latch came apart as well, brass fittings pelting his head. With a cry of triumph, Owen shoved the door aside and scrambled out of the carriage.

  Just in time to hear a shriek of agony. The driver crashed into one of the trees where he’d been tossed, and the bull backed up, blood blackening its horns.

  Then it turned on Mal.

  “No!” Owen shouted, and leapt from the cab onto the bull’s back.

  A tremendous bellow of rage echoed down the street. Before Owen could even attempt to get a grip on the bull’s broad back, it bucked. For a moment, he was airborne, the world spinning madly around him.

  Then he thumped onto the street. All the wind was knocked from his lungs, and pain shot up his spine.

  “Owen!”

  The bull turned and lowered its head.

  “Stop!” Bertie shouted, and charged the bull from the side. He slashed at it with a knife from his belt. “I’m warning you!”

  The bull seemed unimpressed. It turned to him, lowering its head.

  Bertie shifted; where there had been a relatively large man, now towered an enormous grizzly bear. He reared back on his hind legs, and his roar shook the windows around them.

  That was enough for the bull. It transformed into a man and took off running down the street. The man who had attacked Mal followed on his heels.

  Owen took a great, gasping breath and managed to roll to his side. “I’m fine!” he called to Mal, who dashed toward him. “Don’t let them get away!”

  Mal shifted and dropped to his knees by Owen. “Fuck them,” he said, grabbing Owen by the shoulders. “You’re more important. Christ, Owen, I thought—”

  There came the sound of screams from the intersection with Broadway, two blocks down. Owen and Mal exchanged startled looks. Bertie swore and jogged past them.

  Bertie. Thank heavens he’d decided to take the most direct route to Broadway. Without his presence, the bull would likely have finished them both off.

  Mal helped Owen to his feet. Owen ached, but he limped alongside Mal as they made their slow way to the intersection. A cable car sat unmoving, and a crowd had gathered around it.

  As they approached, Bertie turned to them. “The bull familiar got away,” he said. “But the other didn’t quite make it.”

  The dead man lay sprawled half beneath the car, his mouth open as if in surprise. Red hair the same shade as Mal’s curled around his face, and Owen realized they were of the same height and build. From a distance, they might have been mistaken for one another.

  “It’s him,” Mal said.

  “Who?” Bertie asked.

  “The man we’re looking for. The one who killed Mr. Jacobs.”

  “Good work, you two.” Ferguson leaned back in his chair, looking far more pleased than Mal had ever seen him. “You’ve solved a very important case, made the MWP look good, and saved the cost of a trial.” His grin widened. “Plus, this whole thing has left the regular police looking like buffoons, so even better.”

  Mal glanced uncertainly up at Owen. To his relief, his witch seemed equally confused. It had been a long night. After summoning help for the cab driver—the doctors believed the man would survive, thank heavens—they’d spent hours answering the questions of the regular police plus other witch police detectives, and helping Bertie fill out the paperwork. After, Mal had drawn a hot bath for Owen to soak away his aching muscles in. He moved stiffly, but the hexes tattooed on his skin had already taken care of most of the bruises. Too tired to even make love, they’d curled up together in Owen’s bed and fallen asleep until the alarm clock woke them.

  The good news was, they finally had a name for the killer. One of the regular police had recognized his body, having arrested him for burglary and theft a few years previously. Gilbert, a feral who turned into a red squirrel, just as Owen had suspected.

  Owen removed his spectacles and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “Sir,” he said carefully. “We should have had Gilbert’s image in our rogues gallery, as he was a familiar with a criminal record. Why wasn’t he in there?”

  Ferguson snorted. “He was always booked by the regular police. They probably didn’t bother sending over the photographs they took. I think I’ll mention that, just in passing, to the Police Board when I meet with them this afternoon.”

  “I suppose.” Owen put his spectacles back on. “But, though he murdered Jacobs, he wasn’t the one who killed Ulysses.”

  Athene glided from her perch, shifting so her boots thumped lightly on the floor. “He hired a larger, more powerful familiar to do his dirty work, just as he did with the bull.”

  “But he killed Jacobs by himself, and tried to kill Mal,” Owen protested.

  Ferguson sighed and rubbed his eyes. “What are you saying, Yates?”

  “That Gilbert wasn’t working alone!” Mal exclaimed, unable to restrain himself any longer. “Someone hired him to steal the device.” And if Mal had given the Star of Winter to Madam Galpern, they might even know who. He shoved the thought aside. “Gilbert tried to kill me, but then I was followed by two others from the saloon the next day.”

  “If they’re all in a criminal gang together, it makes sense,” Ferguson pointed out.

  “A gang of ferals, watching each other’s backs,” Mal said slowly. It was possible.

  “Like Molly’s gang,” Owen said.

  “Molly?”

  “One of the theriarchists.” Owen locked eyes with Ferguson. “She’s dead, but someone else might have taken her place easily enough. What if they wanted the device for some…some new scheme?”

  “Then it failed.” Ferguson sat back. “I appreciate your fire, Yates, but this is no longer your concern. Today is your last day with the MWP, remember?”

  Owen stilled, and the expression drained away from his face. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Then take the victory. Your name is all over the newspapers as the man who brought Jacobs’s killer to justice. Your fiancée will have reporters knocking on her door from noon to night, wanting to know how she feels about marrying a hero.”

  Owen flushed. “That isn’t how it was,” he said. “And you know it.”

  “Then just smile and pretend to be humble when the reporters talk to you,” Ferguson said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other cases that need my attention.”

  Dismissed, they retreated back through the detectives’ area. Mal remained silent until they reached Owen’s lab. “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Owen said, automatically.

  Mal shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Fur and feathers, he’d been counting the days until they were out of the Coven and away from the coppers. But Owen loved this. And Mal…

  Loved Owen.

  “Don’t lie,” he said quietly. “Not to me.”

  Owen stopped, just outside the door to the laboratory. Their eyes met, and something softened in Owen’s gaze, the sleet gray darkening to pewter. “I should have bargained to stay on to the end of the year. I wish…” A sigh escaped him. “Well. If wishes were horses, as they say.” He hesitated, then touched Mal’s face tenderly. “I’m glad you’ll be with me, after today. Is that terribly selfish of me?”

  “I’m glad, too,” Mal said. Even though they wouldn’t be together the same way. “You’ll keep playing the violin, won’t you? You don’t mean to give that up?”

  Owen laughed. “No. I don’t. I’ll play for you again, as often as you’d like.”

  Turning from Mal, he reached for the door. It swung open at his touch.

  “That’s odd,” Owen said. “I’m certain I locked it last night.”

  “Perhaps someone came in to clean?” Mal suggested.

  Owen stepped inside. “No. Oh no.”

  He ran across the room, as if physical proximity to the work table would make it less empty. Mal stayed at the doorway, feeling all the blood drain from his extremities.

  The device was gone.

  “I can’t believe this,” Owen said, clutching at his hair. “Gone. Stolen.”

  All of his hard work, lost. His notes, burned to ash over his own Bunsen burner.

  Gone. And the device was in the hands of the very people who had murdered Jacobs and tried to kill Mal and him.

  He’d done their work for them, by rebuilding the device. He should have left it in pieces.

  “Stolen right in the middle of the MWP,” Mal agreed.

  The Coven had been in an uproar since the theft was discovered. Ferguson had shouted himself hoarse at the witches, and Athene had personally interrogated every familiar on the premises. A bloodhound familiar had even come to the lab, trying to catch some faded scent, but found only those expected.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22