Hexmaker (Hexworld Book 2), page 9
Owen hastened to obey. Soon he stood completely bare, without even his spectacles, his prick flushed red with desire, his nipples tight from either want or the chill air, or some combination thereof. “Ain’t you a sight,” Mal murmured. “Pinch your nipple.”
A little gasp escaped Owen. “You like that,” Mal said. “Good. Do it again. Harder.”
Fur and feathers, but Owen looked edible. He followed Mal’s commands like he was born for it, like he couldn’t wait for someone to tell him what to do. Mal let the silk robe slide to the floor, so the only thing separating them was air. “Maybe I ought to fuck you,” he mused. “Bend you over the bed right here and have my way with you.”
Owen’s lips parted, his silvery eyes gone dark pewter with lust. He trembled visibly, either from nervousness or anticipation. Mal cast about the room and spotted Owen’s silk handkerchief, fallen out of his pocket onto the floor while he stripped.
Mal picked it up, an idea forming. “Get on the bed. Where are the rest of your handkerchiefs?”
“In the dresser.”
Mal removed several and tied them together, before turning back to the bed. Owen had climbed on it, as ordered, and lay flat, watching him avidly. At the sight of the handkerchiefs, the color rose to his cheeks. “What are you going to do with those?”
Mal grinned. “Whatever I please. Stretch out your arms.”
The bed posts were nice and sturdy. Had Owen chosen his furniture with this in mind? He bound Owen’s wrists to the posts, then stepped back to observe. The muscles in Owen’s arms tensed as he tested the restrictions, and a whimper escaped him. He looked wild, desperate, his prick leaking clear fluid onto his belly.
“All mine,” Mal mused. “What should I do with you, eh?” He climbed onto the bed beside Owen. “I could fuck you.” He let his hand drift across Owen’s chest, pausing to give one nipple a hard pinch. Owen gasped in response and arched half off the bed. “You’re so worked up, I bet you’d come just from having my cock in your arse, wouldn’t you?”
Owen licked his lips. “I…”
“And we can’t have that,” Mal went on. “Can’t have you spending until I tell you to.” He moved down the bed and gave Owen’s prick a very deliberate lick. “So don’t come.”
He slid his mouth down Owen’s cock, all the way to the base. Owen cried out frantically. “Stop, please!”
Mal sat back, grinning. “Good boy.” He gave Owen a few moments to calm down, then repeated the action.
Soon he had Owen thrashing, whimpering, and begging. Each time Owen got too close to the edge, he stopped.
And there was something damned arousing about having this sort of control over someone. About taking Owen right to the verge of coming, then backing off, again and again. The way Owen was struggling against his bonds, he’d have bruises on his wrists in the morning. His teeth showed white against his pink lip as he fought not to come, because Mal had told him not to.
“Well done,” Mal murmured, shifting farther up the bed again. He ran his fingers down Owen’s face, over his lips. Owen sucked on them, and Mal’s prick ached with need. “I think you’re going to suck my cock until I’m almost off. Then I’m going to finish on your face.”
A moan of desire escaped Owen. His eyes were fixed on Mal’s, pleading. Needy.
“Like that, do you?” Mal asked. “Beg me to do it. Say: Please come all over my face, sir.”
The words were almost a whimper. “Pl-please come all over my face, sir.”
“Good boy.” Mal leaned in and gave him a swift kiss. The he slid onto Owen, straddling his chest. Owen’s breathing was harsh, chest heaving under Mal’s thighs, and he licked his lips at the sight of Mal’s cock pointed at his mouth.
Which posed a potential problem, if Owen didn’t like the way things were going. Fortunately, the solution was easy enough. Mal ran a finger along Owen’s face, tracing the line of his jaw. “You feel it, don’t you? The connection between us.”
Owen nodded. “Something in you recognized something in me.”
As poetic a way of putting it as Mal had ever heard. “I ain’t interested in hurting you, understand? So if anything starts feeling wrong, concentrate on the bond. We can’t talk through it while I’m in human form, but this close, I’ll still know. Agreed?”
“Yes.” Owen swallowed. “I mean, yes, sir.”
Mal braced one hand against the headboard, then switched when the cut on his side pulled painfully. With his other hand, he grasped the base of his cock, dragging the head across Owen’s cheek, then down to his lips. Owen opened his mouth eagerly, tongue flicking out and catching the underside of Mal’s prick.
Mal thrust in. The head of his prick hit the back of Owen’s throat, and Owen made a choked sound. His body jerked under Mal, bindings going tight as he struggled. Owen sucked hard, using his tongue, his lips, and whimpered when Mal pulled back, before shoving in again.
“Fuck,” Mal swore. “You look so good, sucking on my cock.”
Owen stared up at him, those gorgeous silver eyes vulnerable without the protective glass lenses. Hungry and wanting, and so very desperate. It was almost enough to make Mal come, so he pulled free, grabbed his shaft, and tugged.
It only took a few strokes. The first jet of spend hit Owen on the corner of his mouth, and the next decorated his cheek. Owen moaned, wriggling beneath Mal.
“Fur and feathers, you look amazing, with my spunk all over your face.” Mal reached behind and grasped Owen’s cock, stroking him. “Come for me. Now.”
Owen shouted, back arching off the bed. Warm spend coated Mal’s hand. He gave Owen a few extra strokes, until he whimpered, then let go and licked it off his palm.
“Mmm.” He untied the silk handkerchiefs from around Owen’s wrists. The red marks beneath would definitely leave traces on Owen’s skin tomorrow. When he’d freed Owen, he flopped beside him. “Good?”
Owen’s breathing had just begun to even out. “I…yes. God, yes.”
“Good.” Mal dropped a kiss onto Owen’s shoulder. “You might want to clean up.”
He watched Owen cross to the bathroom. A moment later, water rattled in the pipes. Mal shook his head, still hardly able to believe it. Water, right there whenever you wanted, cold or hot. No hauling buckets or heating it over the stove.
Sophie would be amazed.
Owen returned, hesitated by the bed for an instant, then slid beneath the covers. Mal snuggled against him, idly tracing patterns over his pale chest. Owen caught his hand, but gently. “How are you feeling?”
Mal grinned lazily. “Pretty damned good.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Owen’s mouth, but it vanished quickly. “I meant your injury. I have some pain hexes if you need them.”
“Nay, I’m fine.”
“Good.” Owen rolled onto his side to face Mal. “Then I shan’t feel guilty about demanding to know what the devil you thought you were doing.”
Mal sat up, the blankets sliding to pool around his waist. Now that his blood had cooled, the chill air raised gooseflesh on his bare skin. “I already told you. I didn’t think anything would happen. I was walking down a crowded street in the daylight. I certainly didn’t think the killer would have accomplices watching for me.”
“That was foolish,” Owen shot back. “You should have been careful and taken Bertie with you.”
“I didn’t think—”
“Obviously.” Owen glared up at him. “You’ve almost been killed twice now—once in your own apartment and again today. Whoever murdered Mr. Jacobs will get the electric chair if he’s caught, no question about it. If he’s part of a larger criminal gang, as seems likely, they’d be looking at life in prison as accessories. Until they’re all in jail, you’re in danger. Why on earth did you take such a risk?”
Mal hunched his shoulders. He hadn’t wanted to tell Owen, but if he didn’t, Owen would think him a fool. “I went to visit a friend of mine, who I didn’t want to bring to the coppers’ attention, all right?”
Owen sat up as well. “Are you saying you went to visit some of your—your criminal colleagues?”
To Mal’s surprise, he sounded more hurt than anything else. “I’m going to reform, like I promised,” he replied defensively. “But I had to see Sophie. She didn’t know if I was dead or alive, or rotting in Sing Sing. I at least had to warn her some dangerous types might be coming around looking for me, didn’t I?”
Owen’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “A friend.”
“Aye, a friend. You have those, don’t you?” Mal returned Owen’s glare without flinching. “Sophie and I’ve been together since we were both guttersnipes.”
Uncertainty flickered in Owen’s argentine eyes. “Together?”
“As friends. And business partners, from time to time.” Mal arched a brow. “And if you’re asking if I’ve got a lover, the answer is nay. I ain’t going behind anyone else’s back by fucking you.”
A light flush crossed Owen’s cheeks. “I wasn’t—that is—good. But my point is—”
“Your point is, I have to give up a friend I’ve known my whole life? Just abandon her, because she ain’t convenient to know anymore? Let her be surprised when a killer turns up looking for me?” Mal shook his head. “Nay. I ain’t doing that.”
Owen sighed. “Very well. You’ve made your point. But the men who followed you clearly knew you’d be there.”
“Not necessarily,” Mal said. “It’s a saloon we go to often enough. They were probably there looking for me, or for Sophie to ask her if she knew where I was.” It was probably sheer luck no one had beset him after leaving Madam Galpern’s yesterday. “And before you ask, Sophie didn’t tell them anything. I’d trust her with my life.”
“Honor among thieves?”
“Fuck you, Yates.” Mal started to slide out of bed, but Owen grabbed his wrist.
“I’m sorry,” Owen said. “That was uncalled for. I just…I don’t understand.”
Mal frowned. “Don’t understand what?”
“Your life. Why you’d choose to be a thief, rather than find honest work.” Owen’s pale brows drew together. “You seem clever enough to have done any number of things.”
“I suppose I could have been a copper,” Mal said. “Oh no, you said honest work.”
“Very funny.” Owen released him. “But not much of an answer.”
Mal sighed. “It seems easy for you, don’t it?” He picked up the silk robe and pulled it on. “I’ll bet you’ve never been locked out in the freezing cold, with no food in your belly and no shoes on your feet.”
Owen’s expression turned uncertain. “I can’t say that I have, no.”
“Didn’t think so.” Mal shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “I ended up in an orphanage. There’s a person, whose name I ain’t going to mention to you, who…well, she has a couple of nuns who look for talented youngsters, one might say. They brought me to her attention, and she taught me a trade.”
“To steal,” Owen said flatly.
“Aye, to steal.” Mal slid from the bed and went to the door. “But you know what? She was the only one who ever looked at me and saw something worthwhile. So maybe the only thing I was ever good for was being a thief, but at least I was good for something.”
The next morning, Owen unlocked the door to the lab and ushered Mal inside. They’d risen early, and had a light breakfast of coffee and biscuits bought from a pushcart on the way to the Coven. Mal then spent a half hour filing a report on the attack yesterday, with Bertie’s assistance.
Needless to say, Bertie hadn’t been pleased. At least Mal had the grace to apologize to the other familiar.
“Someone will come soon and show you the rogues gallery,” Owen said as he shut the door behind them.
Mal stripped off his overcoat and hung it on the coatrack. “Why can’t you go with me now?”
Owen crossed the room to the table where the device lay in its many pieces. He took off his suit coat, placed it over the back of a chair, and unbuttoned his cuffs. He started to roll them up, then realized doing so would expose the bruises on his wrists.
The reminder sent a rush of blood to his cock. God, last night had been good. The feel of the silk around his wrists, of being bound and helpless. Of Mal’s weight on his chest, pressing him into the mattress while he fucked Owen’s mouth…
He’d always heard rumors that sex between witch and familiar could be amazing, thanks to the bond. Certainly his experience seemed to confirm it.
“Because I have other work to do,” he said, endeavoring to focus on something other than his memories.
“Figuring out what the clock that ain’t a clock does,” Mal said.
“Exactly.” Owen seated himself and picked up a magnifying glass. Fitting the gears and cogs together would go quicker if he had some idea of what the device was meant for. Some of the pieces seemed to have various elements of hexes on them, though what good only part of a hex would do, Owen couldn’t guess.
But he had to. If he couldn’t solve this puzzle within the next four days, likely no one could.
Oh, a hexman like Dominic might try to pick up where he left off. But Dominic, as competent as he was, merely studied existing hexes. Known quantities. Owen’s gut told him that reassembling the device would take the instincts of an inventor.
“Those are some fancy degrees,” Mal said. He stood at one end of the lab, staring up at the framed parchments. “Doctorate of Hexology from Harvard, eh?”
“Indeed.” Owen studied the parts of the device, laying them out as they seemed to relate to one another. “I studied the theory of hexology, as well as its history. What remains of it, anyway, after the Inquisition tried to stamp out magic across half the world. Many of the hex principles we use today weren’t developed until the Enlightenment, in an attempt to replace what had been lost.”
“Huh.” Mal drifted over and perched on a stool close to Owen. “And this device has some of those old hexes on it?”
“It does. The Hellenistic methods weren’t entirely lost, fortunately, and the remains provided a foundation for our current system.” He held out one of the bronze plates for Mal to examine. “You can see the components of a hex on this. These don’t do anything on their own, however; they have to be combined with others. Which makes the purpose of the device a bit hard to discern.”
“So how did it all start, anyway?” Mal asked. “Hexing, I mean.”
“No one knows, exactly.” Owen paused, wondering how much Mal actually wanted to know. He seemed genuinely interested, though. “Archaeologists recently discovered depictions of familiars in the Cave of Altamira. And there is evidence of hexed amulets from what seems to be ancient times. Most of those are primitive—they rely on the native power of the object they’re carved on, enhanced only by a few lines carved into them.”
Mal frowned. “Native power?”
Owen cast his mind back to his earliest lessons, trying to recall a simple way to explain it. “In the end, a hex is like…like a pudding mold. It both contains and shapes the magic put into it.”
Mal chuckled, but nodded. “Aye, I understand that much.”
“Some objects—certain gemstones, bones, rocks worn into specific shapes by the action of wind and water—are natural containers for magic. Probably the first hexes were cast using such objects. As time went on, someone realized altering them further made the magic more focused, or changed the nature of the spell.” Owen shrugged. “We’ll never know for sure, of course.”
“You know a lot,” Mal said. “Your family must be proud.”
Owen ducked his head. “I suppose. They would have preferred I study something more practical. Law, perhaps, or finance.” Mal passed him back the plate, and he put it with the others. “Something useful.”
“And this ain’t useful?” Mal asked, looking around. “No offense to your parents, but you saved my life the other night. Seems damned useful to me.”
“Hexology is a respectable enough study for a second son,” Owen said. “So long as I wasn’t the heir. But when Peter…”
Owen caught himself. He hadn’t meant to talk about Peter. Not yet.
“Peter?” Mal asked, cocking his head.
“You don’t follow the society columns, do you?” Owen asked, as lightly as he could. “My older brother. He was the heir, meant to follow in Father’s footsteps and ensure the Yates fortune continued to prosper for another generation.”
And he might yet have, if Owen hadn’t been so selfish. If he’d answered Peter’s invitation to lunch that awful day, everything might have been different. Owen would have realized something was wrong. Peter would have told him his intentions, and Owen would have insisted on watching over him until an alienist could be summoned. Peter would be whole today, strong and healthy and joyful. He wouldn’t require a wheelchair, or a nurse to attend to his every need. He’d be able to talk and laugh, and Owen would know Peter understood when he spoke to him.
Mal’s hand came down on his shoulder, fingers warm through the fabric of Owen’s shirt. “What happened?”
Owen pulled away and returned his attention to the device. He’d start with the rods and try to determine which gears fit them. “There was an accident,” he said. “Peter’s gun discharged when he was cleaning it.”
A lie, of course. But one meant to protect Peter’s reputation.
And the family’s. Always that.
“Ah, hell,” Mal said. “I’m sorry.”
Owen shook his head, though he didn’t know what he denied. “Peter survived, but his injuries were severe. He lives in a small house off Broadway, where he must be cared for at all times.” Owen fit a gear and a rod together and set them aside. “With Peter incapacitated, everything falls to me as the next in line. So far I’ve avoided my responsibilities, but once I wed Edith, it will be time to assume my proper role. Even if my parents approved of me remaining with the MWP, the Vandersees certainly wouldn’t.”
Mal snorted. “Oh right. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking their new son-in-law actually did something useful for a living.”
“That isn’t so,” Owen objected. “I’ll be working with Mr. Vandersee, my father-in-law. Mostly likely I’ll be in charge of approving any newly developed hexes. I won’t be the one creating them, of course, but it will still be useful work.”
