Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 2
There was so little time left.
“I won’t be needing your services after all,” he told the carriage driver. Clutching his top hat to keep it from falling off, he jogged down the street to the Jacobs residence.
“Don’t know if this is anything for your lot or not,” the patrolman in the blue uniform was saying when Owen arrived. “There were hexes involved for sure, but it might just be a straightforward case of robbery gone wrong.”
“What’s the trouble?” Owen asked. “Dr. Owen Yates, MWP. I might—oh.” To his surprise, he recognized the patrolman. “Bill Quigley, isn’t it?”
Quigley looked equally startled, but nodded. “Aye, Dr. Yates. Wasn’t expecting them to send a hexman over along with MacDougal here.”
Ah, yes; MacDougal had returned from the recent war with Spain. Owen vaguely remembered hearing the news. “Oh, no; I was at a party.” Owen waved at the Yates mansion. “At my parents’ house. I saw the commotion and thought I might be of assistance.”
MacDougal and Quigley exchanged a glance. MacDougal shrugged. “I’m just here for the body, sir.”
“The body?” Owen asked.
“Aye.” Quigley nodded. “Mr. Jacobs was murdered by an intruder less than an hour ago. The good news is, we already have the killer in custody.”
God. Mr. Jacobs. Owen had known the man only socially, which meant he’d seen the fellow five or six times a year, then been expected to pretend that was enough to forge a lasting connection. He felt no particular sense of loss, but still…
The man was a millionaire. Not only a millionaire, but one with the requisite three generations separation from the original maker of the fortune, a distinction necessary to achieve real social status among the elite of New York. Men like Jacobs didn’t get murdered in their homes.
There would be a panic. A scandal. The fate of the accused would be decided long before any trial.
“I see,” Owen said. “May I view the scene?”
“So,” Quigley said as he led the way up the grand staircase to the second floor. Bits of plaster lay scattered across the marble foyer, and the chandelier appeared crooked, as if some weight had warped it. “That familiar we rescued New Year’s Eve. Isaac.”
“Yes?” Owen asked. He felt in his overcoat, patting the hexman’s wallet inside. Carrying his tools with him so he could work on any idea which might come unexpectedly had become a bit of a habit.
“He’s all right, then?” Quigley asked. “Doing well, I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” Owen said absently. “Quite recovered. Physically, that is. He’s back with the MWP.”
“Oh.” Quigley frowned. “They’re treating him right, though?”
“As far as I know.” Owen shrugged. “You know how familiars are.”
“Not really, sir.”
The door to the library stood open. Just inside, two policemen loomed to either side of a handcuffed man seated in a chair. He was dressed in dark clothing, which made his absurdly bright red hair stand out even more. As Owen stepped inside, the man looked up.
Amber eyes fixed on Owen, piercing him to the core. He’d never seen a shade like that on anyone, at least not to his recollection. Combined with his brilliant red hair, a straight nose, and a mouth that seemed made to kiss…
All the air seemed to have drained from the room. His mouth went dry, and his cock swelled in reaction.
“This is the suspect,” Quigley said. Mortified, Owen dragged his gaze away from the redhead in the chair.
“The suspect?” he repeated, like an idiot.
“Yes, sir. That’s why he has the cuffs on.”
“Oh. Quite.” Owen glanced at the rest of the room and found his attention caught again, although this time for a far less pleasant reason.
Mr. Jacobs lay sprawled beside a pile of opened crates. The library reeked of blood, and Jacob’s head was badly misshapen. An alabaster vase lay discarded on the floor beside the body. Blood and hair clung to its pale surface; clearly this had been the murder weapon.
Quigley cleared his throat. “Caught fleeing the scene, with this snuffbox in his pocket.” He produced a silver snuffbox set with diamonds. Tiffany Company? Owen’s mother would know. “It seems to be a simple case of theft gone wrong.”
“Theft!” exclaimed the redhead in a broad Irish accent. “I ain’t never heard such slander in my life! I want to talk to my lawyer.”
“Shut it, you. You’ll talk to your lawyer, assuming he even exists, once we’ve got you under lock and key.” Quigley turned back to Owen. “His shoes are hexed to keep his steps quiet—old second-story man’s trick, that. We figure Mr. Jacobs surprised him, so he grabbed the nearest weapon and walloped Jacobs over the head.”
“It ain’t true!” the redhead protested. “Maybe I was here for, ah, reasons of my own, but I ain’t never hurt anyone. I don’t hold with violence.”
Owen wanted to believe the man. Which was foolish—just because he was good looking hardly meant he wasn’t guilty. “What’s your name?”
“Malachi,” said the man—then looked surprised, as if he hadn’t meant to answer. “I’m a familiar, so no last name to give.” He hesitated, then cocked his head and flashed Owen a bright grin. “But you can call me Mal.”
“Well then, Mal,” Quigley began.
“It’s Mr. Malachi to you,” the familiar shot back.
Quigley heaved a sigh. “Mr. Malachi. If you didn’t kill Mr. Jacobs, then who did?”
Owen turned his back on them both and bent down to inspect the body. Jacobs must have been standing with his back to his assailant—no defensive wounds.
“There was another man here.” Mal sounded subdued. “Tall fellow. Redhead like me. I knocked that clock or whatever it was out of his hands.”
“Clock?” Owen asked.
Quigley shrugged and gestured to a pile of gears, rods, and more esoteric pieces on one of the tables. All looked old, the bronze lightly pitted with age, and some were flecked with blood. “I had the men gather the pieces up, in case it’s something valuable. I’d ask Mrs. Jacobs, but she ain’t here. Servants don’t seem quite sure where she is, other than she ain’t expected back before morning.”
A lover, most likely. Owen had heard no gossip about her at the party earlier. She must have been exceptionally discreet.
“I thought he was going to bash me over the head with it—murder me like Jacobs,” Mal offered. “Fellow seemed pretty angry when I broke it, so I pulled foot. Can’t blame me for that, can you?”
“You mean you killed Mr. Jacobs, then ran to save your own skin when you set the alarm hex off,” Quigley said. Turning to Owen, he added, “We’ve got him dead to rights, sir. Take a look at this.”
Quigley picked up the alabaster vase—Egyptian, it looked like, probably the bottom portion of a canopic jar. “That’s Jacobs’s hair.” He pointed to the gray strands stuck to the jar with blood. “And this belongs to Mr. Malachi.”
A single red hair clung to the jar, damningly out of place amidst the gray.
“I’m telling you, the murderer was a redhead, too!” Malachi exclaimed, rattling his handcuffs. “Ain’t you listening?”
Owen frowned. Turning to Quigley, he said, “Are you certain Mr. Malachi—”
“Mal,” the familiar piped up.
“Mal,” Owen said, shooting an annoyed look at him. Mal offered him a cheeky grin in response. “Are you certain of his guilt?”
“Listen to the handsome detective,” Mal said to Quigley. “He knows what he’s about.”
Handsome? Owen had been described as a great many things—scrawny, bookish, pompous—but this was the first time he recalled anyone ever calling him handsome.
And of course the man was a thief, who had most certainly not been in the Jacobs mansion for any innocent reason. Possibly he was an accomplice, even if he wasn’t the actual murderer.
“I’m, ah, not a detective.” Owen took off his spectacles and polished them; it gave his hands something to do, his gaze somewhere to rest besides the redheaded familiar who looked like he might snap Owen up whole, like a fox with a mouse. “I’m a forensic hexman with the MWP.”
Quigley looked skeptical. “With all due respect, sir, it’s the simplest answer. He’s a thief—the snuffbox is proof of that. There’s no evidence of any other intruder.” He cast an unfriendly look at Mal. “Trust me, I deal with his type all the time. They’d lie to the Holy Familiar’s face, and not think twice about it.”
Owen shifted uncomfortably. He’d worked on the police force long enough to have become somewhat accustomed to the Irish Heresy, but he’d never entirely grow used to hearing it spoken so casually. “I’m sure you know your business,” he agreed. “I can settle the matter now, if you wish.”
Now both of them were looking at him skeptically. As were the two policemen standing watch over the prisoner. “That would be helpful,” Quigley said cautiously. “How would that work, then?”
“I assume the housewitch is somewhere about? Good; have one of your men fetch her.” Owen went to a table and spread out his wallet of hexman’s tools. Selecting three squares of blank paper, he quickly drew up three hexes. Once the ink was dry, he beckoned Quigley over.
“It’s quite simple,” he said. “Perhaps you recall the unusual nature of the hexes used to disrupt the consolidation celebration on New Year’s? They were chained together—the activation of one hex would change the effect of the second connected to it.”
“Er,” Quigley said. “If you say so, sir.” The remaining patrolman looked equally blank. The familiar watched Owen with interest, however. His amber eyes gleamed in the hexlight, drawing Owen’s gaze more firmly than the golden jewelry and glittering gemstones around them.
Owen brandished the hexes. Two of them were identical, both linked to the third. “We take the hair belonging to the presumed murderer and place it on one hex. A hair from Mr. Malachi—Mal—goes on the second. After we activate them both, we then activate the third hex. If the hairs are from the same person, the hex will turn black. If from different people, it will turn green.”
Quigley looked impressed. “That is handy.”
“And you created it yourself?” Mal asked.
“Yes,” Owen said smugly.
“Well. I guess I’d better hope you know what you’re doing.”
Owen scowled. “I’m the MWP’s first—and so far only—forensic hexman. I assure you, I achieved the position on my own merits.” And not by buying his way to it, despite what some thought.
The other patrolman returned with the housewitch; a severe-looking older woman, her iron gray hair pulled up in a bun, the corners of her mouth turned down in disapproval. Her familiar, a small owl, rode on her shoulder.
At the sight of the corpse, she lost her disapproving look and turned a distinct shade of green. Still, she managed to say: “You s-sent for me, sir?”
“I simply need the hexes charged,” Owen said, holding them out to her.
Focusing on the hexes rather than the body, she placed her hand on them one after the next. “If that’s all…”
“It is. Thank you.” Owen watched as she all but fled down the corridor. Her owl twisted its head about and stared back, though, until they were both gone.
Owen turned to the police. “Quigley, if you’d fetch a strand of the prisoner’s hair.”
It really was lovely hair: an intense, fiery orange-red that seemed brighter than anything else in the room. Combined with Mal’s amber eyes, it made him look like something wild, the sort of being found beneath a fairy mound or in the depth of some untouched wood.
Owen shook his head at himself. What a bunch of nonsense. He needed to focus on the task at hand, not the familiar who inspired such absurd flights of fancy.
Quigley plucked a strand of hair free. “Ow!” Mal exclaimed. “That hurt. No need to be so rough, copper. I’ve got my rights.”
The patrolman rolled his eyes. “You’ll live.” He handed the hair to Owen.
Owen carefully laid out the three hexes on the convenient surface of a display table. Placing Mal’s hair on one of the hexes, he whispered the activation phrase. He took the hair from the alabaster jar and repeated the action with the second hex.
He hesitated, his gaze falling on the third hex, the one linked to both of the others. He shouldn’t desire one outcome over another. If the hex turned black, it meant only that the charming familiar was a murderer as well as a thief. He shouldn’t care one way or another about a man he’d met only a few minutes ago.
And yet, he couldn’t help but hope…
“Reveal to me the truth,” he said.
Green bloomed from the center of the hex.
Owen’s shoulders sagged with unexpected relief. “Mr. Malachi is, if not precisely innocent, at least telling the truth. The hair belongs to someone else.”
“I told you!” Mal held out his cuffed hands. “I’ll thank you to be taking these off, then.”
“I don’t think so, thief,” Quigley replied. Turning to Owen, he said, “So if there was another man here, where is he now? The staff didn’t see anyone but Mr. Malachi, and with the whole house up in arms, it would have been hard for anyone else to sneak out. Where did he go?”
Owen slowly scanned the room. Other than the single door, the only ingress or egress seemed to be the windows. “Were any of the windows opened?”
Quigley shook his head. “The alarm hexes were still set on all of them.”
“Which don’t mean anything,” Mal piped up, “if he had the phrases to disarm and set them.”
“No one asked you,” Quigley growled.
“Just trying to be helpful, patrolman.” He grinned guilelessly at Quigley—then shot Owen a conspiratorial wink when Quigley turned his back in disgust.
Owen’s face heated. Dear lord, the fellow was a menace. He looked away hurriedly. “The windows, then—is there any way to reach them from the outside? A convenient downspout or the like?”
“I’ve got the disarming phrase from the butler—hold up a minute,” Quigley said. He went from window to window, speaking the phrase. Owen came after him and threw one open, leaning out. The room faced Fifth Avenue, and he could make out the familiar façade of the Yates mansion from here. It looked as though the last of the dinner party guests had left, and the lights were mostly out.
The street looked peaceful. Safe. No one in the surrounding mansions had the slightest idea that murder had come to Millionaires’ Row, let alone that it had struck down one of their own.
“There are too many windows in this place,” Quigley grumbled. “You two—give us a hand. Take the upper level.”
The other two policemen left Mal handcuffed in the chair and hurried to the spiral stair leading to the library’s second story. Owen went from the first window to the next, peering out, searching for any clue…
“Here,” Quigley said abruptly. “See what you think of this, Dr. Yates.”
He pointed to the carved sill outside the window. Something dark had recently stained the limestone. Owen leaned over and sniffed. “Blood. The killer must have gotten some on him, and brushed against the sill while opening the window.”
Quigley scowled out. “Then where did he go from here? There’s no downspout, and not enough carvings to climb down.”
“No, but there are electrical wires.” Owen pointed to the dark lines barely visible against the night. “A squirrel familiar, or something similar, could easily have jumped down to the wire and used it as a road.”
“Blast.” Quigley turned away from the window. “All right, Mr. Malachi, if you have any…”
The words trailed off. The chair where Mal had been seated was empty save for a pair of open handcuffs.
“For Christ’s sake, I knew I should’ve taken the hexed shoes,” Quigley groaned. “My captain’s going to kill me for this.”
Mal almost sobbed in relief when the saloon came into view. He’d run all the way from the Jacobs mansion, first in fox shape, then in human. His lungs burned, both from exertion and the cold air, and his heart thundered in his chest.
Except that no matter how far he ran, he kept seeing a lean form and silvery eyes surrounded by gold-rimmed glasses.
This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening.
Thank heavens it was only a few blocks from Fifth Avenue to the heart of the Tenderloin. Even at this late hour, there were people out and about on the streets, every block packed with saloons, gambling rooms, coffee dives, and houses of assignation. A man and woman argued in Russian at the top of their lungs in the middle of the street as a night cart rattled past, trailing a foul stench behind.
The saloon occupied the first floor of the building where Mal rented an apartment. Caballus was painted on the window, the sign flaking and badly in need of repair. Beneath the saloon’s name, a small hand-written placard declared: FAMILIARS ONLY. The sign served as both a warning and a challenge to any witches who might happen by.
Light showed from between the saloon’s drawn curtains. Shaking with exhaustion and gratitude, Mal stumbled through the door.
Caballus was shabby but cleaner than the average dive. At least, in this neighborhood; probably the silver-eyed man—Dr. Yates—did his drinking in some fancy joint like Hoffman House, with crystal glasses and velvet seats.
Fur and feathers, Mal had to stop thinking about him. Had to.
The bar was nothing more than a long board at one end of the room, balanced on barrels. A few men and women sat slumped around the scattering of mismatched tables. Most of them seemed to be asleep, which the owner Nick usually allowed for the price of a five-cent beer. The air smelled like vile whiskey and sweat, combined with the faint animal musk that accompanied ferals living together.
Thank Mary, Nick himself was behind the bar. Mal made his way through the tables and sprawled bodies, grabbed a chair, and planted his elbows on the bar. “Nick—thank the Good Lord you’re here.”
Nick continued his task of wiping down empty glasses with a mostly clean rag. He was a big man, brown skinned and black haired, with full lips and a broad nose. “What do you want, Mal?”
