Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 19
The gunshot set Mal’s ears to ringing. She dropped the pistol, her lips parted in what might have been a cry of pain. Without hesitation, he swung again, this time directly into her beautiful face.
Blood gushed from her broken nose, and she fell heavily to the floor. He flung the shattered violin at her and ran for the door.
It burst open before he could touch it. The foxhound familiar stood on the other side in his human form.
Owen sat in the carriage taking him to the cathedral, staring out the window. Thank God only Nathan rode with him; he couldn’t have stood any more company. As it was, at least he had a little while to collect himself.
Not that it would do much good. Nathan hadn’t said anything, but he’d winced at Owen’s appearance. Owen had done his best to look presentable, of course, but it was difficult to counteract a sleepless night peppered with bouts of drinking and crying.
He’d trusted Mal. Against all logic, against everyone warning him not to, he’d opened himself up to a thief. Allowed himself to be exposed, vulnerable, because he stupidly thought Mal was a decent man despite his history. And the whole time, Mal had just been cynically manipulating him. Pretended Owen’s weakness made no difference; pretended to still respect Owen, while Owen panted and begged.
Owen closed his eyes against a wave of nausea.
“Are you all right?” Nathan asked. “I’m sure I could find some paper for you to draw an anti-hangover hex once we reach the cathedral, if you need it.”
Owen opened his eyes and shook his head. “Not necessary.” Out of habit, he’d tucked his hexman’s wallet into his pocket. At the reminder, he half wished to throw it out of the moving carriage.
He didn’t want to look at anything related to hexing ever again. Never wanted to think about magic, or familiars. About the moments of connection, something in Mal recognizing something in him. The splashes of joy through the bond, the night in the park.
Nathan frowned, not bothering to disguise his worry. “I thought Mal would be with you. Is he joining us later?”
It was a story he’d no doubt have to tell again and again for the next few weeks, but Owen had hoped to put it off for just a little bit longer. Until after the wedding breakfast, at least.
But as in so much else, he wasn’t going to get his wish.
“Mal is gone,” he said, and tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “It turns out he stole the Star of Winter.”
Everyone would want to know why he’d thrown Mal out instead of turning him over to the police. And in all honestly, Owen himself didn’t have a good answer. The thought of sitting through a trial, looking at the face of the man he’d loved…
Oh God.
Nathan’s eyes widened. “Dear heavens! Are you certain? Did he sneak over to the Vandersee house after you fell asleep that night? How on earth did he get in?”
Owen frowned. “No, of course not. He took it while we were all at dinner, before it even had the chance to leave our house.”
“I don’t see how that could be,” Nathan said with a frown of his own. “I visited with Edith yesterday, and she told me the last time she saw it was just before she turned in to bed. She gave it to the butler to put into the safe, but couldn’t help showing it off first to the maid who dresses her hair, with whom she’s on friendly terms. It was definitely stolen from the Vandersee mansion—from the safe, no less, so naturally the police are focusing on the butler. But if you’re saying Malachi somehow snuck in during the early hours…”
Except Mal couldn’t have. He’d stayed in Owen’s bed for the first time that night, slept with him until it was time to rise and go to the Coven. “No.” Owen’s head swam. “Kirk must have been mistaken when he said…never mind. It wouldn’t have been possible for Mal to sneak away without my knowing.”
“Then it seems to me your familiar has been unjustly accused.” Nathan put a hand to his arm. “Did you give him over to the police? Do I need to send someone to free him?”
“No. I let him go, because…” Owen took a deep ragged breath. “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”
“Can’t you find him somehow? Through the bond? That is how it works, isn’t it?”
If Mal was still in the city…
But he wouldn’t be for long. The expression on his face, when Owen had thrown him out, came back forcefully. Crushed. Broken. Tears gleaming in his wild eyes, hands clutching the violin.
“I can explain.”
But Owen hadn’t wanted an explanation. He’d been too hurt and betrayed to even listen. So he’d thrown Mal away. Just as Mal’s parents had.
Mal must surely hate him now.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the cathedral steps. In a short hour or so, he’d say his wedding vows to bind himself forever to a woman he didn’t love.
Maybe it was for the best. At least he wouldn’t have to see Mal every day and be tempted to break the oaths he made before God. And Mal could surely find a better witch than Owen. Mal deserved someone free to love him.
“No,” Owen said quietly. “It’s too late now.”
Mal hurled himself violently to the side. A gun fired, and his abused ears protested at the sound. Dropping to the floor, he rolled behind the couch. Instinct screamed at him to hide, and he transformed into fox shape and squirmed his way beneath a china cabinet with a low skirt.
The smell of blood came to his fox senses, accompanied by labored, wet breathing. Had the foxhound shot Madam Galpern?
The floorboards creaked beneath the feet of the gunman. “Come out, come out,” he called in a singsong voice. “I can smell you even in this shape, vermin.”
His shoes appeared beyond the cabinet’s skirt. Mal scrambled back, pressing himself against the wall, his ears pinned to the sides of his head and his tail tucked against him. He was cornered—any minute now, the man would lean down, point the gun beneath the cabinet, and pull the trigger.
There came yet another shot. Mal jumped, his narrow skull impacting with the underside of the cabinet.
The gun struck the floor, gouging a strip of varnish from the wood. A moment later, the man followed, body limp as a sack of flour. His head ended up turned to the side, sightless eyes seeming to stare directly at Mal, while blood trickled from the gaping hole in his forehead.
Mal scrabbled out from under the cabinet, his nails scoring the wood flooring. Madam Galpern leaned heavily against her favorite chair, her own gun in her hand. Her fashionable shirt and jacket were soaked in blood, and her breath rasped loudly. Their eyes met…and she slowly slumped to the floor.
Mal took back his human form and ran to crouch beside her. Her brown skin had gone gray, and the blood on her shirt was bright red—a lung had been hit, if not worse.
He snatched a pillow from the couch and pressed it against the hole in her shirt. “Who was he?” Mal asked urgently. “He was working with them, wasn’t he? The folks who killed Jacobs and stole the device?”
Her eyelids fluttered, and she made a sound of pain that ripped at his heart, despite everything. “Tell me. Please,” he said. “At least a name, something I can use to bring them down.”
She drew in a deep breath, but it rattled in her lungs. He leaned close to her bloodied lips.
“Didn’t know him,” she rasped. “But there was another. Bertie.”
Then the rattle in her chest ceased, and she slowly went limp beneath his hands.
Mal released the pillow and sat back on his heels. The place reeked of blood and piss, and the expensive carpet was wrecked. He felt lightheaded, as though the entire world had slipped to one side.
Bertie. Did she mean Bertie from the MWP?
But that wasn’t possible. Bertie had watched over Mal from the start. He’d saved Owen on Thanksgiving. Kept the bull familiar from goring them to death.
In his mind’s eye, Mal saw again the library, and Peter looking out the window. Frantically gesturing, wild with distress. And they’d put it down to some kind of fit, because there was nothing out there but good old Bertie.
That didn’t make any sense, though. What could Peter, who had been an invalid for years, know about a MWP familiar that would disturb him so?
Mal hesitated. He could take fox form and speak to Owen through their bond. Warn him…
Except Owen already thought him a liar. He wouldn’t believe a word Mal said. He’d probably just think Mal was trying to smear Bertie’s reputation, especially since Mal had no proof Madam Galpern had even been referring to him. There had to be a hundred Berties in lower Manhattan alone.
The clock chimed softly from the mantle. Owen had probably reached the church by now. For all Mal knew, he was in the midst of speaking his vows to his new bride.
Fur and feathers.
Mal rose to his feet. His trousers and vest were soaked in blood, but Madam Galpern had always kept spares on hand in case one of her thieves returned with incriminatingly stained clothing. He’d change as fast as possible, just to keep any coppers from looking twice.
Then it was time to pay Peter a visit, and pray the staff let him in.
Owen looked out over the crowd gathering for the wedding. He’d spent the last hour by the door, woodenly accepting the congratulations of guest after guest after guest. Governor-elect Roosevelt, Mayor Van Wyck, senators and congressmen, railroad tycoons and steel magnates: in short, everyone of any importance in the entire state of New York was now packed into the cathedral to watch the nuptials.
Even poor Davis Creswell had come, with his family. Owen had a dire moment when he’d blinked out of his fog to find Creswell standing before him, red-eyed and unhappy.
Would Edith’s eyes be red from tears as well? God knew Owen’s probably were. Not that anyone would notice, or care. They were doing what was expected, what was best for both families. Ensuring their place in society. It was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that had ever mattered.
At least no one from the MWP was there. None of them were rich enough to have made the guest list his mother had compiled. At first he’d been disappointed, but now he was glad. It meant he didn’t have to explain Mal’s absence.
The door to the cathedral’s great tower opened, and Kirk slipped out of the tower and into the side aisle. Owen frowned slightly—what business could Kirk possibly have had there? Perhaps he’d been making certain the bell ringers were ready to signal the end of the wedding, though that hardly seemed a job for the bride’s brother.
It didn’t matter. Perhaps Kirk had wished a few moments of privacy before the wedding. No one else had noticed; it would be an ill way to start his new life by pointlessly questioning his brother-in-law over his movements. Owen turned his attention back to greeting the guests.
At least the flood of arrivals had slowed to a trickle. Soon even that dwindled, as the hour approached noon.
Nathan touched Owen’s elbow. “It’s time to take our places,” he murmured.
Owen glanced out the open doors. A procession of carriages which must contain Edith, her father, and her bridesmaids made its way through the crowds gathered outside. The sky had darkened, and snow was beginning to fall.
He walked up the center of the nave, feeling as though he were in a nightmare. He could sense every eye fixed on him, and concentrated on keeping his back straight. On representing the Yates family as best he knew how. Organ music filled the air, the lowest notes thrumming in his empty stomach, and he thought he might be ill.
The bishop and various priests emerged from the vestry. Owen took his place on the steps, Nathan at his side. Within minutes, the first bridesmaids proceeded into the church, escorted by a string of groomsmen Owen barely knew. In the front pew, his father beamed proudly, while his mother dabbed at her eyes.
She had outdone herself with the church. Ordinarily, Mrs. Vandersee would have planned the wedding, but as Adam Vandersee had never remarried, he’d been quite happy to let Mother handle the details while he paid the bill. An army of florists had transformed the stone and wood into a fairyland of pink chrysanthemums and white roses. Massive garlands hung from the dome, and ropes of flowers entwined the stone columns. Trellises of chrysanthemums and lily of the valley hid the chancel rail and lined the side aisles. Even more flowers dripped from every candelabrum.
Beyond the stained glass windows, the sky had darkened even more. The light which had streamed through them when he’d arrived at the church was utterly gone, as if night had fallen. The gloom seemed more fitting, somehow.
At last Mr. Vandersee entered, with Edith on his arm. A fifteen-foot train trailed after her, flecked with snow. The doors of the cathedral boomed shut, sealing away the worsening weather.
Adam led Edith down the aisle. When they reached the steps, he gently lifted the veil from her face, kissed her cheek, and went to sit beside Kirk. Edith handed her enormous bouquet to her maid of honor and turned to Owen.
Her face was utterly white, but composed. Had she seen Creswell in the audience? Or had she been so fixed on the waiting altar that she’d missed him?
Owen tried to give her an encouraging smile. She’d been so kind to Mal, the night of the dinner…
God. Mal. Why hadn’t he let Mal explain? If only he had listened.
Then what? Mal would be in the audience, and he’d still be standing here. Nothing would truly have changed.
If only they’d parted on better terms, then. That at least Owen could have been done. But he’d been angry, humiliated…the idea he might have misjudged something so important, made such a mistake, had been too much to bear. So he’d acted to save himself any further pain, and in doing so wrecked everything.
The bishop began the sermon, but his voice faded to a background drone in Owen’s ears. A storm must have set in; the wind howled outside, loudly enough to be heard in between rounds of organ music. Thousands of candles lit the cathedral, though, bathing it in golden light. The multitude of flowers perfumed the air, alongside the beeswax candles, and it almost seemed as if they stood amidst a spring time garden.
If only this had been the joyous new beginning the setting promised.
“Edith Alva Vandersee,” the bishop said, “will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”
Tears gathered on Edith’s lashes, and she visibly struggled to hold them back. “I do,” she said.
Owen’s heart knocked against his ribs. She was marrying him for the same reason he was marrying her: duty. They had a duty to their families. The Yates name would bring her family, including any children she bore, far more prestige than Creswell’s could ever have done. It would open doors to all her relatives, including Adam and Kirk, which would have remained otherwise closed.
And with the Vandersee fortune available through regular payments to Edith, his own family’s status would be assured. They wouldn’t have to sell the Newport mansion, or Father’s yacht. They could continue to live on Millionaires’ Row; Peter could be maintained in a separate, discreet house. Everything could go on as it had; parties and fashion and the setting of taste.
The bishop turned to him. “Owen Reynard Yates, will you have this woman to be your wife; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”
He took a deep breath. “No,” he said. “I will not.”
Mal stumbled onto the stoop of Peter’s house, his lashes crusted with snow, his teeth chattering. Taking a deep breath of icy air, he hung on the bell and prayed they would let him in without Owen’s presence.
Clouds had already gathered to the northeast when he left Madam Galpern’s, but they’d thickened rapidly into a dark line advancing over the city. In stark contrast to the blue of the clear sky, the clouds had been a horrible black-green, like a ripening bruise. Wind spread out before them, slamming the canvas awnings up and down, flinging discarded newspapers through the air, and tearing off hats.
The storm front reached him as he rode the cable car up Broadway. The air smelled of snow and something else, like ozone, maybe, even though he didn’t see any lightning. Another passenger gave a startled cry, and Mal looked out the window just in time to see a wall of snow heading for them. It struck the car with shuddering force—the temperature plunged, and snow fell so thickly past the windows he couldn’t even make out the sidewalk.
“This ain’t natural,” one of the other passengers cried, clutching at a rosary. “Holy Familiar of Christ, preserve us.”
Still, the car strained on, into the blizzard. Mal tried to peer out the window, which was rapidly covered with ice and snow. By the time he climbed from the cable car at his stop, the snow had already accumulated to his ankles, and was coming down ever faster. Thank Mary he’d at least had the presence of mind to steal an overcoat from Madam Galpern’s.
Even so, he was shivering hard on the stoop. The door swung open, and he found himself face to face with the footman from Thanksgiving. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Mr. Malachi? We weren’t expecting you. Did Dr. Yates send you?”
Well, Owen thought him a liar anyway. Might as well put it to use. “Aye. I need to speak with Mrs. Lewis right away.”
The man stepped back. “She’s in the library with Mr. Yates.”
“Wonderful—this concerns him as well.”
The footman frowned, but led the way. Mrs. Lewis looked up in surprise when Mal stepped into the library. “Dear heavens, Mr. Malachi! You must be chilled to the bone. Come in front of the fire—I’ll make some hot chocolate up for you right away.”
Saint Mary, that sounded heavenly. Unfortunately, there was no time for the niceties. “Mrs. Lewis, I need your help. Yours and Mr. Yates’s.”
Peter sat in his chair in front of the window. The trees outside bore a thick coat of snow, and the street rapidly disappeared under a white blanket.
