Noah wouldn’t be a bad witch. His paintings might not be the most inspired, but he appreciated the arts and the finer things in life. They had a great deal in common, and if the idea of bonding with Noah didn’t set his heart to racing…well, wasn’t it time to abandon that dream for good anyway, now that his stupid magic had decided a rough Irishman was its match?
And if it felt like settling, obviously that was the best he could expect from life. He couldn’t fall back on the excuse of waiting for his witch any more. Time to take a hard look at his options and make a choice.
Time to grow up and stop believing in fairytales.
If he chose Noah, he’d have to leave the MWP. Noah would never agree to work for the police. And since he was the witch in the relationship, his opinion would be respected. No one would presume to pressure him to work at the MWP just because they’d invested in Cicero.
Cicero didn’t want to leave. Not really. His life with them wasn’t perfect, but they’d given him shelter when he most needed it. And, the assassination attempt against Roosevelt notwithstanding, they did try to do some good in the world.
“Not this moment, of course,” Noah said hastily, perhaps reading something in Cicero’s expression. “There are some other things I need to attend to first. I’d want to do something to mark the occasion, after all. Just say yes, and I’ll start planning right away.”
At least the case gave him an excuse to put off the inevitable a little while longer. “I need time to think,” Cicero said truthfully. “I’m sorry, Noah.”
“Of course,” Noah soothed. “You’ve had a terrible shock. Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re ready. At least say you’ll stay with me in the meantime.”
His kindness threatened to bring more tears to Cicero’s eyes. Which was stupid. “I have a friend to stay with—another feral—for a little while at least,” he lied. “But I need a job. You were so kind to Isaac, I thought you might be able to help me as well?”
“Of course.” Noah stroked the side of Cicero’s face. “Anything for you. The way you dance, you’ll be working at the Rooster by tomorrow night.”
“You’re hired.”
Cicero kept a smile of triumph from his face as he stepped down off the stage of The Spitting Rooster. The main room was underground, just below street level, and accessed by a narrow stair from the front. At one end was the stage, complete with faded velvet curtain. A piano stood by the stage, and a bar ran the length of the nearest wall. Curtained alcoves occupied the opposite wall, and a stair in the back led up to the ground floor. No doubt the private rooms were up there.
Tables filled most of the remaining space. A few men moved among them, sweeping the floor and straightening up for the evening. They’d all stopped to watch Cicero’s audition.
“Thank you,” Cicero said, crossing to where the Rooster’s owner sat at the bar. Sloane was a big man, his hair worn long and an enormous mustache concealing most of his mouth. His small, flat eyes stayed on Cicero, and a little shiver ran down his spine. Sloane was a familiar all right. Some sort of predatory reptile, most likely.
“I’ll find someone who can play the right music—the piano isn’t going to work.” Sloane settled back in his chair. “You start tonight. By tomorrow, we’ll have every chair in the house filled.”
“Of course we will, darling,” Cicero replied. “I have some thoughts on that. A tease with a slow build up.”
A smile cracked the part of Sloane’s mouth visible under the mustache. “I like the way you think. You were wasted at the MWP.”
“Oh, Noah mentioned that?” Cicero made sure to look shame-faced. “I never wanted…but they paid, and…”
“We all do what we have to do,” Sloane said grandly. “But play your cards right, and you can make better pay here.”
So long as he didn’t mind fucking for money. Considering he’d joined the MWP to get away from that life, Cicero doubted he would have remained here even if his defection had been real.
“I’d rather work for another familiar any day,” he said. “I’ve never met one who owned his own business before.”
And that was when he felt it.
A little prick, like a hypodermic needle, slipping under the skin of his chest. There and gone so fast it would be unnoticeable to most. But Cicero recognized the hex meant to reveal whether a familiar was bonded or not.
He’d felt it before, in those dark days before he’d gone to the MWP. It had sent him running down an alley, heart racing, terror icing his veins as footsteps pounded after him. And he’d felt it a few times since…but on those occasions, he’d simply parted his coat to display his MWP badge, and the caster had slunk away.
Now he fought to keep the fear off his face. Probably one of Sloane’s men had used the hex, just to make sure of his story. After all, the MWP always worked in bonded teams; this would be the easiest way for Sloane to make sure he wasn’t lying about having left the force.
Maybe it was a good thing Ferguson had refused to put a detective team onto the investigation.
Sloane’s smile widened, but it was a cold, slow thing that showed too many teeth. “Indeed. Most of our kind take on a more…subservient role. It’s unfortunate.”
Steps sounded on the wooden floor, and Cicero turned quickly. The newcomer was a large man, almost as big as Tom. He wore a heavy coat and a tall hat. Cauliflower ears protruded from beneath the brim, and he looked as though his nose had been broken more than once. “This is Joe Kearney,” Sloane said. “My witch.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Cicero lied, holding out his hand. He was almost positive Kearney had been the one to use the hex a moment ago.
Kearney seemed less than pleased to meet Cicero. The hand he extended was covered with a fingerless glove, hex signs burned into the leather. “I’m in charge of security,” he said.
Meaning the hexed gloves probably let him punch with more than human force. Cicero fluttered his eyelashes playfully. “I feel safer already.”
Kearney shot him a look of disgust and tromped away. An odd attitude for a fellow who worked at a resort like this. Not to mention that his own familiar apparently employed him.
Everything about the situation put Cicero’s hackles up. From the hex, to Kearney, to Sloane’s reptilian smile.
Fur and feathers, what if Tom didn’t manage to get hired? Because the idea of working here alone, with no one at his back, made Cicero’s skin crawl with fear. For the first time, he was grateful Tom was large and intimidating.
“Ignore him,” Sloane said. “You’ll be dealing with me.” He held out his hand, his skin cool against Cicero’s “Welcome to the Rooster.”
Of course The Spitting Rooster had hired a replacement bartender already—Tom had thought the idea insanely far-fetched, but clung to the hope that this type of resort was somehow different than a regular saloon full of thirsty customers.
What they lacked, however, was someone with a strong arm to turn the crank on the ice crushing machine and bring up the heaviest crates of booze from the basement. The new bartender was a thin wisp of a fellow by the name of Ludolf Ho: half Dutch, half Chinese, and pure New Yorker going by the fast way he talked.
“You’ll sweep up when it’s needed,” Ho explained as they set up for the night. “I make the cocktails, but you can pull the beer. And if someone gets rowdy at the bar, you can stop the trouble without Mr. Kearney having to leave his post at the door.”
Kearney had taken a shine to Tom right away. “Just what we need,” he’d said, clapping Tom on the shoulder. “Another good Irish lad to keep the place running.”
By ten o’clock, the tables at The Spitting Rooster were half full, which didn’t strike Tom as bad for the Tuesday before Christmas. So far, the most exciting thing that had happened was Ho sending him into the cellar for another crate of whiskey. The Rooster’s entertainment consisted of men in makeup and dresses, singing or dancing on the stage. When not performing, they circulated among the customers, sitting at tables s
o they could be bought drinks at outrageous prices, or else disappearing into the curtained alcoves. Or up the stairs, in a few cases.
The latest act bustled off the stage and the curtain fell. There came some desultory clapping, but only about half the customers, if that, seemed to pay attention at any given time. The rest either chatted amongst themselves, or with the rouged men sitting at their tables. The piano player slid off his bench and came to the bar. A small, dark man carrying a flute of some kind took his place near the stage. Sloane stepped in front of the curtain and the murmur of talk died down. Not the usual way of doing things, then.
“We’ve something very special for you tonight, gents,” Sloane said, rubbing his hands together. “You’ve all heard of Little Egypt, that wonderful lass who brought the hoochie coochie to our fair shores.” He gave an exaggerated wink. “And who apparently dances in at least ten dives a night here in New York alone, plus another dozen in Chicago.”
There came a ripple of laughter. Sloane grinned. “Given her busy schedule, as gentlemen we couldn’t ask her to visit us here at the Rooster. No, we have something better for you lads. Forget Little Egypt, as I present to you…Cicero.”
He stepped aside, and the curtain pulled back.
Cicero stood alone on the stage, his arms held above his head, bent at the elbows. His black hair gleamed in the lights, and his eyes, more heavily lined than usual, were incandescent. A thin veil hid the lower part of his face. Diaphanous pants rode dangerously low on his hips and brushed the tops of his bare feet. Above, he wore only a tiny beaded vest, too small to close in the front. It left the skin of his flat belly exposed, along with his lower back and most of his chest. All of which had been shaved completely free of hair and oiled until he gleamed.
The audience fell silent, including the other entertainers. A few moans came from behind the curtains, but otherwise everyone was fixated on the sight.
Including Tom. His throat tightened, and his prick stirred. Had he thought Cicero pretty before? The man was ungodly handsome, all dusky skin and black hair, and those eyes like peridots that burned with an inner light all their own.
Then the music started, and Cicero began to dance.
He moved with all the effortless grace of a cat, a ripple of motion flowing from his hands, down his arms, undulating across his belly and hips. His feet barely adjusted to match, tiny steps, even as his upper body arched and swayed. The vest pulled back as his arms shifted, revealing the flash of exposed gold where a slender ring pierced each nipple.
Tom needed to look away, to watch the crowd. They were here on police work, no matter the pretense. But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the spectacle.
At the same time, he didn’t know quite where to rest his gaze—the smooth expanse of Cicero’s flat belly, or his rolling hips, or his sinful eyes. Cicero turned his back on the crowd, his rear shaking and twitching in the most indecent display Tom had ever beheld. And he shouldn’t be staring at Cicero like that, they were working together for heaven’s sake, but he was as hard as he’d ever been in his life.
The music came to an end. Cicero stood poised for a long moment, his body perfectly still, allowing the room one last look at him. Then the curtain fell.
The crowd went wild—clapping and stomping, shouting for an encore. A number of the other performers leapt to their feet and made for the backstage. One or two of the customers seemed likely to try to join them, but Kearney had taken up position in front of the stage and glared them down.
Tom felt stupefied as he tore his eyes away from the curtain. Ho blinked dazedly, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, as if he’d forgotten what he was doing with it. Aware of Tom’s gaze, Ho grinned and poured a drink. “Care to run this back to him? My compliments.”
Tom nodded. “Um. Aye. Right,” he managed past the tightness in his throat. He needed to calm down, to remember where he was and why. But it wasn’t easy, when all he could see was Cicero’s lithe body, moving in a way that promised things Tom had barely even let himself imagine before.
“Make sure he knows it’s from me,” Ho stressed as he handed over the glass. “Tell him he can drink free, if he wants to come to the bar.”
“I will,” Tom said, taking the whiskey. He ought to be grateful for the chance to talk to Cicero without raising suspicion, but he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of…what?
Not jealousy; that would be insane.
The area backstage consisted of a short hall with a series of dressing rooms off it. When Tom stepped into the hall, he found it crowded by the other workers. Sloane’s voice cut through their excited babble. “Back to work. Take advantage of the state the crowd is in, eh?”
There came a general muttering. “But you will show us, won’t you, Cicero?” one entertainer called in a falsetto voice as they began to troop back to the main room.
“Of course, darling. We’ll do an act,” Cicero replied from inside the dressing room.
Sloane lingered in the hall. “I’ve got five offers—three for the alcoves, two for upstairs,” he said to Cicero.
Cold water dripped into Tom’s chest, battling with the heat there. They were here to investigate Whistler and Barshtein’s sudden madness and Isaac’s disappearance—Cicero wouldn’t actually do anything more than dance, would he? Certainly he wouldn’t go upstairs with some man, let him peel off those gauzy pants, run hands over that muscular torso, and explore the rings set in flat, brown nipples…
Cicero laughed. “A few nights from now and you’ll have triple that—and triple the price.”
Sloane grinned. “Indeed. I’ll give them your regrets.”
Tom stepped into one of the empty dressing rooms and waited behind the door while Sloane passed. He wasn’t entirely certain whether his mission from Ho would meet with the proprietor’s approval, and there seemed no reason to risk the chance to speak to Cicero.
Once Sloane was gone, Tom slipped back out and went to the dressing room Cicero shared. The small space was crowded with wigs and dresses. Cicero leaned over a table, touching up the kohl around his eyes in a mirror. The thin fabric of the pants draped over his backside in a way that didn’t leave much to the imagination, and Tom felt himself getting hard again. Not that he’d fully deflated since the moment Cicero had stepped out on that damned stage.
“Oh, there you are,” Cicero said as Tom shut the door behind him. “Any luck yet?”
“Nay.” He knew he should say something else, anything, but he couldn’t stop staring. “Ho—the bartender—sent this for you.”
Cicero snorted. “An admirer. Leave it on the table.”
Tom put down the whiskey. He ought to ask Cicero about his plans for the investigation, now that they’d managed to find a way into the inner workings of the Rooster. But his brain seemed stuck in molasses, unable to move forward from the sight of Cicero’s undulating hips, his petit backside both concealed and revealed by his costume. The flash of those nipple rings against olive skin.
Their eyes met in the mirror. Surprise flickered across Cicero’s face, then shifted into something else. Something heated.
He put the kohl down and slowly, deliberately straightened and turned to face Tom. The gaslight gleamed off the little rings in his nipples, each set with a tiny hex charm. Cicero very deliberately ran his gaze down Tom’s form, and Tom felt it like the touch of a hand. To his shock, he could see the growing outline of Cicero’s cock against the thin fabric of his hoochie coochie pants.
This wasn’t real. Was it?
Things happened, in the precinct barracks. On reserve nights, the men were expected to sleep there, in case of a riot. The cots were close together, and they were all men, and men had needs. He and Bill had tossed each other off on the nights they both ended up on reserve. But that wasn’t…like this, whatever this was. That was in the dark, an impersonal touch, and not to be spoken of ever.
“What did you think of my performance, Thomas?” Cicero asked, sauntering slowly closer.
“It was…” Obsc
ene? Scandalous?
“What?” Cicero was close now, too close, almost touching. Tom needed to only lift his hand by a few inches to cup Cicero’s hip. “Cat got your tongue?”
Tom tried to laugh, but it came out more of a groan. Cicero’s smile sizzled with heat, and he leaned in, his lips a hair’s breadth from Tom’s ear. “Ever had it French?”
Tom’s prick twitched against the confines of his pants. A hand was one thing, but a mouth? He knew whores charged double for that, but he’d never been able to bring himself to pay for sex. “N-Nay,” he managed to say.
Cicero’s hands found the buttons of Tom’s trousers. His fingers skated lightly over the bulge of Tom’s prick, teasing through the fabric. “Do you want it?” he whispered as he popped each button free.
Maybe Cicero was a fairy of the other sort, the kind Ma had told endless stories about. Because Tom surely felt as though he were under a spell. “Aye.” Be polite, that was how one treated with the Folk. “Please.”
Cicero’s plump lips curled in a hungry smile that held an edge of wildness. “Now there’s a word I haven’t heard often.” His hand slid beneath Tom’s unbuttoned trousers, clever fingers wrapping around Tom’s painfully hard cock and pulling him free. For a moment, the touch was so intense, Tom thought he might be just as happy pumping into Cicero’s hand.
Then Cicero went to his knees.
Tom opened his mouth to say…he didn’t even know what. Tell him to stop. Beg him to continue. But his brain seemed to have seized up, like an engine with no oil, and nothing came out.
Cicero shot him a smoldering look. He held Tom’s prick in one hand, at the level of his face. It was filthy and tantalizing, and the most arousing thing Tom had ever seen.
Until Cicero leaned forward and ran a long, slow lick along the underside.
His hips jerked, and he barely managed to keep in a cry. Cicero grinned, clearly enjoying having this power over Tom. He licked again, lingering on the tip this time, lapping precome from the slit. “Mmm,” he purred. “So close already. Let’s see how you like this.”
Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Page 7