Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 6
“Oh.” It wasn’t what Owen had expected. He’d assumed Mal’s first thought would be for his own skin. The man was a criminal, after all.
A thief, but not a killer. At least there was that. How Owen would tell his family, he couldn’t imagine. But that was a worry for another day.
“All right,” Owen said heavily. “Get dressed.”
Mal’s expression turned wary again. “Where are we going?”
“The Coven, of course.” Owen finished off his own coffee and rose to his feet. “If we’re to keep you safe from this killer, you’ll have to talk to the MWP, at least.”
“Lovely,” Mal said, making a face. “Saint Mary, I hope none of my friends find out about this.”
Mal shifted back into human shape as soon as they passed inside the doors of the Coven. A couple of blocks away, Owen had warned him to take on fox form, so the reporters camped on the Coven’s steps wouldn’t recognize Mal as the missing witness.
“Your coat’s very bright,” Owen said, once Mal put on his fur. He sounded as though he wasn’t certain he liked it or not.
Well, that was one thing they had in common at the moment. Not uncertainty about Mal’s coat—he was a very handsome fox, thank you very much, and so what if he stood out on the drab winter streets? More about, well, everything.
Last night had been like some sort of fantasy—and that was even apart from the sex. Not to suggest that hadn’t been an unexpected delight. Bossing around a rich nob was satisfying in and of itself, but the way Owen responded, with such yearning to please…that was the sort of thing a fellow could get used to, no two ways about it.
After, he’d slept in Owen’s guest room, all alone in a big bed with a soft mattress and warm sheets. He could sprawl all he liked, even in human form, and not have to worry about rolling off onto the floor. The room even had a private bathroom, complete with a huge, claw-footed tub and all the hot water he could wish for. Actually bathing, without a lot of hauling and heating of buckets, able to submerse himself entirely beneath the surface if he wanted…
It was like something from a dream. But Owen…well, it was clear he didn’t have much of an opinion of Mal. Rich nob like him, he just looked at Mal and saw some unwashed thief, not even high enough in society to scrub the toilets at a place like The Folly.
Not to mention, Owen was tighter than an over-wound watch. Last night, he’d seemed to relax for a few moments, when he’d been on his knees in front of Mal and following every order. But that fellow had disappeared the second he’d come, and he’d been right back to tight-lipped disapproval this morning.
Well, it wasn’t as if they had to like each other, right? Mal had something Owen wanted—his magic. He’d give Owen what he wanted, and get what he needed in return. Namely, some sort of protection to keep him from dying in an alley.
Mal peered around the inside of the Coven warily. He’d been hauled into a few precinct houses over the years, but never in MWP custody. Now he was completely surrounded by witches and coppers. It made the skin between his shoulders itch.
The witch sitting at the desk near the door stared curiously. Owen ignored him, instead beckoning Mal after him as he set off into the building. “We’ll need to speak to Chief Ferguson,” he said, a singular lack of enthusiasm in his voice.
Mal nodded, trying to keep his nervousness from his face. He was used to being surrounded by familiars at Caballus and the tenement rooms above, but it was different here. A hedgehog perched alertly on her witch’s shoulder, ducking instinctively when an owl swooped past. A babble of voices intermingled with barks, meows, and hoots. The silver familiar’s badge flashed from the vests of those who were in human form. And of course, there were the witches. So many witches; his nerves drew tight.
At least if he bonded with Owen, he wouldn’t have to worry about any other witches grabbing him. The next time he felt the sting of a hex on the street, meant to check whether or not he was bonded, he’d be able to ignore it instead of running for his very life. Not that Owen had said he wanted to bond, exactly. But he hadn’t rejected the possibility outright, either.
“This is the detectives’ area,” Owen said as they emerged into an enormous room crammed with desks.
“You said you ain’t a detective,” Mal replied.
“I’m not. I have my own laboratory downstairs.”
The room was crowded with witches and familiars, all of them milling about before settling in to work. The scent of coffee spiked the air, and newspapers rustled as detectives frowned at the morning headlines.
Then the crowd parted, and Mal glimpsed a figure he recognized.
“Nick?” he exclaimed. “What the devil? Nick!”
Nick loomed up beside one of the desks, hands on his hips, glaring down at someone. On hearing Mal’s voice, he turned sharply. His scowl softened, but only by a degree. “Well, at least you’re alive.”
“See?” said a familiar who was a shorter, slimmer version of Nick. This must be the brother, Rook. “He’s fine.”
Nick ignored him, stomping over to Mal instead. “What the devil happened? Your roommates came home to find blood on the floor and you missing.” He shifted his glare to Owen. “And who the fuck are you?”
Owen’s silvery eyes turned frosty. “Dr. Owen Yates.”
Nick snorted. “Of course you are.” Turning his back on Owen, he said, “Malachi? You all right?”
“I’m fine.” Mal said. “It was the killer from the other night. Somehow he knew where I lived.”
Their conversation attracted the attention of others around them. A familiar whose yellow-green eyes were outlined in kohl sashayed over. “I can’t imagine how that could possibly have happened with Nicholas here looking out after you.”
“Shut it, Cicero.” Nick’s brows drew down sharply. “I do my best, which is more than you lot can say.”
“If you’d told the truth yesterday, when I asked if you knew the feral, he wouldn’t have been in danger,” Rook said exasperatedly.
“You shut it, too.” Nick folded his thickly muscled arms over his chest. “Like I’d ever tell someone who works with witches the whereabouts of a feral.”
“Well, someone obviously did.” Rook mimicked his brother’s posture, and they both glared at each other.
“And I’m going to find out who,” Nick said ominously.
“Do bring them in to us in one piece, darling,” Cicero drawled. “Since chances are they know who wants to kill poor Malachi here.” His peridot eyes found Mal again. “And you went to dear Owen for help? That is interesting.”
“And none of your business,” Nick snapped. “Come on, Mal. You can stay in my apartment until we get to the bottom of this.”
Mal ran a hand down the lapel of the overcoat he’d borrowed from Owen, since his own had been ruined by blood. The wool outer layer had hexes worked into it to repel both stains and damp—expensive, since they were part of the weave itself, and thus had to be worked by hand. The inner liner was of emerald silk, the buttons silver. It was probably worth more than every scrap of clothing he’d ever owned put together.
The idea of going back to the tenement, the rooms so small he slept in fox form so as not to need a bed, didn’t seem particularly appealing after last night. Owen might not have the best opinion of him, but he’d done right by Mal so far. Might as well stick with it and see how far he could go.
“I almost got killed yesterday,” he said aloud. “I’m sorry, Nick, but I’m leaving the colony. I’m going to stay here.” He glanced at Owen. It seemed the right time to find out how Owen felt about the situation. “With my witch.”
There came a moment of stunned silence. Then Cicero threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, darling,” he said. “Ferguson is going to love this!”
“The witness every member of the regular police is looking for,” Chief Ferguson said slowly. “The second-story man who broke into Jacobs’s mansion.” He looked from Owen to Mal and back again. “Is your familiar?”
Mal held himself still and tried to look as respectable as possible. The chief of the MWP didn’t strike him as the sort to be easily charmed, and the enormous owl familiar on her perch was eyeing Mal like she might just add some fox to her dinner.
“That’s right,” Owen said. He didn’t exactly sound thrilled about the situation, but he met Ferguson’s gaze calmly.
Ferguson rubbed at his face. “Listen, Yates. This is your last week with us.”
Mal perked up. It was? Owen hadn’t bothered to mention this tidbit to him. So his witch wouldn’t be a copper much longer. That had to be good news.
“If you don’t want to go through with bonding, I’ll support you,” Ferguson went on.
“The devil?” Mal exclaimed. “I thought you lot couldn’t wait to get your hands on familiars.”
“We have standards, here at the MWP,” Ferguson said, glaring at him. “A lot more relaxed than the regular police, especially when it comes to familiars, I’ll grant you. But you’re a thief and a liar, and Yates is a good man. I’d not see him bound to the likes of you.”
Mal’s throat tightened, and he felt as if he’d been slapped. Of course Owen, with his luxury apartment and fine manners and breakfast table laden with more food than Mal had ever seen, could find a familiar with more class. But he couldn’t find one with better magic. “There’s no one whose magic is more compatible.”
Owen placed a light hand on Mal’s shoulder. “Chief Ferguson, I think you’re selling Mal short,” he said. “He risked his own life to see if Mr. Jacobs was still able to be helped.”
The owl clacked her beak loudly. “So he says,” Ferguson said.
Mal’s cheeks grew hot, and his hands clenched. “I do say it.” How could he convince the chief to let him go with Owen, and not just toss him in a jail cell?
“Mal is reformed,” Owen said. “Or going to reform. No more thieving.” He glanced at Mal for confirmation.
Mal nodded rapidly. “Aye. I swear on my mother’s grave.” As far as he knew, she was still alive and well, but surely it was the thought that counted.
“It’s your choice, Yates,” Ferguson said at last, though his tone made it clear he thought Owen had lost his senses. “There is one thing, though. Mr. Malachi is a valuable witness to a highly publicized murder, who’s had one attempt made on his life already. I trust your apartment building is secure against ordinary intrusion, and that you’ll make it even more so. But if he sets foot anywhere else outside of the Coven, I’d prefer to have someone to keep an eye on him. One of the unbonded familiars, I think.”
Mal stiffened. Curse Ferguson. He needed to talk to Sophie, let her know he was still alive—and warn her. The killer had learned where Mal lived; what else might he have discovered? Sophie might be in danger, if the killer thought she knew where he was hiding.
But he couldn’t risk bringing her to the attention of the coppers. “If you think I’m going to run off again, I ain’t,” he said. “Be right stupid of me. Besides, once we bond, Owen will be able to find me again easy enough.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, boyo.” Ferguson fixed him with hard eyes. “I know your type. You think you’re damned clever. For the next five days, though, you’re going to do as I say. After that, you’re Yates’s problem.”
Owen’s hand tightened on Mal’s shoulder. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure there won’t be any trouble.”
Ferguson snorted. “Well,” he said, waving them in the direction of the door, “that makes one of us.”
“And here is the lab,” Owen said, pushing open the door gratefully. “At last.”
Mal slipped past him, eyes darting here and there, absorbing the sight of tables loaded with the tools of Owen’s chosen trade. Draftsman equipment for the creation of hexes cluttered a desk: rulers, protractors, and bottles of inks made from exotic compounds. A long table held the alchemical necessities that went into formulating new inks and testing new hexes: distillers, beakers, burners, and more. A second table held the pieces of the device.
While Mal inspected the room, Owen shut the door. “Don’t mind Chief Ferguson,” he said. “Or the other witches and familiars, for that matter.” Word had clearly spread while they were in Ferguson’s office, and a host of eyes both curious and hostile had followed them out.
Mal shrugged, as though it didn’t matter. “Not like I expected otherwise. Can’t ask a bunch of coppers to be happy they’ve got a thief among them, after all.”
“Former thief,” Owen said. And hoped it was true.
“Aye.” Mal paused. “Are you sure about this, witch?”
Was he? Owen hesitated. Having magic to charge hexes would be useful—more than useful. And Mal was his familiar, like it or not. It meant Owen had a certain responsibility to him, a duty, just as he did to his family.
If he refused the bond, Mal would go straight to jail on whatever charges were needed to hold him until Jacobs’s killer was found and put on trial. A wild thing like Mal surely wouldn’t do well in a cage. That his bright grin might lose its spark felt unendurable.
Owen straightened his shoulders. This week seemed all about doing his duty, no matter how personally distasteful. “I’m sure. You’ll have to give your statement about the attempt on your life yesterday, but you can do that here. We’ll send it over to the regular police. There’s no reason to subject a bonded MWP familiar to their questioning.”
“Well, that’s surely a relief.” Mal hesitated, then nodded to himself, once. “Guess we’d best get about the bonding, then.”
A little flutter went through Owen’s gut. Bonding was an irrevocable step. Once done, he’d be tied to this man for life.
In theory, at least. In practice, Cicero’s witch, Tom Halloran, was a hexbreaker. He could destroy almost any magic, including the bond between witch and familiar. The two of them had spent the last ten months on special assignment, investigating cases of alleged forced bonding, freeing the victims and sending the perpetrators to jail when possible. It wasn’t something widely spoken of, but surely word had spread through the feral colonies. Owen was under the impression Nick had quietly sent several cases their way, despite his usual disdain for the police.
“If you’re ready,” he said. “I believe I know what is required.”
Mal ended his circuit of the room in front of Owen. “Do you now?” he asked with a sly smile.
The smile sent Owen’s pulse to racing. “Y-Yes.”
Mal pointed casually to the stool sitting in front of the worktable. “Then sit down.”
Owen knew the request—the order—was simply because he was too tall for Mal to reach him otherwise. But his mouth went uncomfortably dry. At least Mal hadn’t told him to get on his knees.
Once he was settled, Mal pressed in—too close, their thighs threading together. The heat of Mal’s body radiated through the cloth of their trousers. Mal’s pupils widened, narrowing his irises to amber rings, and his hungry grin revealed very white, very sharp, teeth. “Close your eyes.”
Part of the bonding process. That was all. Still, Owen trembled as he obeyed.
For a long moment, nothing happened, and Owen’s nerves drew even tighter. Then Mal’s fingers brushed his jaw, making him jump. They slid down further, caressing the vulnerable skin of his throat. He tipped his head back, a little moan escaping him.
Mal’s lips feathered across the back of his left eyelid, then the right. “Let me in, Owen,” he breathed.
This was old, old magic, evidenced by the taste of blood in Owen’s mouth. Mal’s lips slid down from his eyes, and the familiar gave him a rough, punishing kiss.
That wasn’t part of the ritual. He ought to object, ought to pull away, tell Mal to stay to the script…
“Now keep your eyes shut,” Mal growled when he was done plundering Owen’s mouth.
Owen obeyed—but light bloomed behind his eyelids anyway. He found himself staring up from a position low to the floor. The lab looked strange from this angle, the colors washed away. Through Mal’s eyes, he stared at his own face: teeth white against his lower lip, cheeks flushed darker, fists balled on his thighs.
“Handsome lad,” said a voice in his head. Mal’s voice.
“We can’t do this,” Owen thought. His blood thundered in his ears.
Mal backed away, leaving him with the disorienting view of his own body receding. Owen opened his eyes, blinking wildly.
Mal shifted to human form, crouching on the floor. “You don’t want to bond?”
Owen couldn’t read his tone. Whether it was fearful, or hopeful, or something else. “Not that. This.” He swallowed. “Whatever this is between us. I’m to be married.”
“That’s why you’re leaving the MWP, ain’t it?” Mal cocked his head. “I’m guessing it’s not a love match.”
“No.” Owen let out a long breath. “But Edith is a good woman. And even if she wasn’t, I couldn’t break my wedding vows and bear to look at myself in the mirror each morning.”
There came a soft rustle of cloth as Mal rose to his feet. “Why not do as you wish, and let her do the same?”
“Because a vow is a vow,” Owen snapped. “If a gentleman goes back on his word, then what does he have?”
“A fucking lot of money?” Mal hazarded. “Everyone knows what Mr. Astor was doing on his yacht, and it wasn’t his wife.”
“Another man’s dishonorable conduct is no excuse for my own.” Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, Mal. I will be your witch, but I cannot be your lover.”
Mal’s lips pressed into a thin line. Owen had the wild desire to say something, anything, to bring back his smile. “And me? Am I supposed to live like a monk, then?”
“Of course not.” Owen tried not to imagine his future, duty bound to provide Edith whatever she required in bed, with nothing to ease the ache deep inside his own soul. Tried not to picture Mal ordering some other man to his knees, then bringing him off with such savage pleasure. “I wouldn’t expect you to abide by such restrictions.”
