Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk

by Jordan L. Hawk

  The sun had gone down, and the already cold air turned even icier. Despite the chill and the holiday, people still roamed the street, in groups or alone. Looking for drink, or company, or entertainment, no doubt. Cabs clattered past, the horses blowing great plumes of steam from their nostrils.

  Cicero surprised Tom by hailing a cab to take them back to the apartment. “Leona had some interesting things to say,” he said once the cab started off.

  Tom glanced at him hopefully, but Cicero stared resolutely out his window. At least he was talking, even if it was just about the case.

  “What?” Tom asked.

  Cicero told him. “And now I don’t know what to do,” he finished. “Tonight is probably our best chance to break into the tunnels beneath the Rooster. But it might equally be our best chance to do the same at this hideaway of Janowski’s.”

  Tom tried to ignore the ache of worry and concentrate on the task at hand. “Aye. But the tunnels…I know a thing or two about tunnel gangs, and they’re likely just a thoroughfare from one place to another, so the gang can move out of sight of the police or anyone else. This address she gave you is close enough to the Rooster that it might even be where the tunnels lead.”

  Cicero perked up slightly. “Do you think so?”

  “I can’t know for sure, but it’s one possibility. Not to say that the tunnels don’t lead anywhere else as well, of course. But if it were up to me, I’d go to this warehouse instead.”

  “Could they be holding Isaac there?” Cicero asked, not like he thought Tom had the answer, but more as if he hoped it could be true.

  “Don’t see why not,” Tom said anyway.

  “Then that’s where we’ll go.”

  The cab came to a halt. Cicero paid, and they climbed the stairs to Tom’s apartment. “I’m sorry,” Tom said when they were safely inside. “I know tonight didn’t turn out the way you would have liked.”

  Cicero shrugged. He pulled off his gloves and coat, tossing them carelessly onto Tom’s table. “I don’t know what you mean. This is the best information we’ve gathered so far.”

  “I meant the party and Noah,” Tom said, exasperated. “And you damned well know it.”

  Cicero didn’t answer immediately. Instead he walked to the room’s sole window and stared out. “Don’t apologize. Tell me, before you butted heads with Noah, did you at least enjoy the party?”

  Maybe he ought to lie. Something was obviously bothering Cicero a great deal. “Nay,” Tom said heavily. “I’m sorry.”

  “I said don’t apologize.” Cicero breathed on the cold glass, then drew an abstract pattern with his finger in the resulting steam. “Perhaps I’m the one who ought to apologize. I took you there because I hoped you’d enjoy it. Because I hoped you’d become friends with my friends.”

  When was the last time anyone had worried about Tom’s opinion? Wanted him to like something because it was important to them, and they hoped to share it with him?

  Never, that he could recall.

  He swallowed against the unexpected tightness of his throat. “I don’t mean the people were a bad lot.” Except for Noah, but that went without saying. “It’s just…I ain’t fancy like them. I don’t have much in the way of book learning. I don’t know anything about philosophy, or art, or what have you. But I’m glad you had a good time…up until the last bit, anyway.”

  Cicero’s shoulders tightened beneath his suit coat. “Yes, the last bit. What did Noah say about me?”

  Tom didn’t want to repeat it…but he could hardly refuse. “He warned me off. Said he’d done things with you, and took the trouble to point out the pillows where it happened.”

  “How crude of him, to kiss and tell,” Cicero said lightly. “It’s true, you know. We fucked.”

  Tom hadn’t doubted it, but that still didn’t make it a pleasant thing to hear. “And are you going to again?” he asked, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

  Cicero didn’t speak for a long moment. When he did, his tone was oddly muted. “What if I said yes?”

  It was for the best, really. Tom had no business getting entangled with Cicero. He’d been stupid to let it get as far as it had. He should just lie, laugh it off, and let them both get on with their lives.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking of Cicero in his arms last night. Not just when they’d had sex, but after, when Cicero had drifted off to sleep. He’d looked so beautiful, his head on Tom’s shoulder, his arm draped loosely over Tom’s chest. And so vulnerable, somehow, with his features relaxed and soft. Open.

  He didn’t want to give that up. No matter how terrible an idea it was. “That depends,” Tom said carefully. “What is this between us? Is this like with me and Bill? We toss each other off in the dark and never acknowledge it in the light of day? Or is it something else?”

  Cicero glanced back at him. “Like what?”

  “Like…I don’t know how to say it.” Noah would have known, no doubt. Probably any of Cicero’s friends at the party would have had the right words. The pretty words. “Like the sort of thing where you break my heart.”

  Cicero’s lips parted, as if in shock. As if he’d never considered the possibility. “I don’t want to break your heart.”

  “Then tell me what you do want.” Tom moved closer. “One or the other. If it’s just two friends seeing to a need, then there’s no obligation. Carry on as you like, and I’ll do the same. If it’s something else…then I ain’t sure my heart can take knowing you’re in someone else’s bed.”

  There. It was out, as honest as he could make it.

  “I don’t want to sleep with Noah anymore,” Cicero said, his voice so low Tom had to strain to hear it.

  His heart did a little leap in his chest. “Can’t see why you did in the first place,” he agreed. “What about other people?”

  “Or other people. I want to give this…us…a chance.”

  The relief flooding Tom’s veins startled him with its intensity. And it shouldn’t have. This was stupid, foolish, insane. He’d spent years avoiding any entanglements, and for damned good reason.

  Nothing had changed. Except for Cicero’s presence in his life, like a brightly colored bird against a drab winter sky.

  There was one other question he had to ask, though. “About Noah…is it true, then? He’s your witch?”

  Cicero laughed softly, but there was a slightly wild edge to it. “No, tesoro. You are.”

  Tom froze.

  He’d misheard. Or Cicero was toying with him, playing some silly prank to lighten the mood.

  Cicero turned to face him. “Not the reaction I was expecting,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Cicero glanced down at the uneven floorboards. “I knew, from the moment I saw you.”

  Tom’s head reeled. He’d never considered something like this might happen. Was it possible? “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “Oi! You try walking up to a complete stranger and saying ‘you’re my witch.’” He glared up at Tom. “I didn’t know if we’d get along, or if you’d punch me in the face for the way I dress, or what.”

  “Like Isaac’s witch did,” Tom said slowly. He felt as though he looked back over the last few days through a new lens, one that brought everything into focus. “No wonder you were so angry at me.”

  Cicero’s glare faltered. “You’re not supposed to be so bloody understanding.”

  Tom arched a brow. “I’m so sorry,” he said dryly. “What should I be doing?”

  “I don’t know.” Cicero shrugged awkwardly. “Demanding I bond with you immediately.”

  “You’re confusing me with Noah.”

  “Then shouting dramatically and waving your hands.”

  “Now you’re confusing me with yourself.”

  Cicero burst out laughing. “You arse!”

  Tom knew what he should do—what he had to do. If he’d really been Tom Halloran, it would be
one thing. But he wasn’t. And if rough-around-the-edges Tom Halloran was a poor match for someone like Cicero, a tunnel rat like Liam O’Connell was even worse.

  “Let me make sure I understand,” Tom said. “What you mean is our magic is extra compatible, right? If we bond, it would be stronger than if you bonded with someone else.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you could bond with someone else.”

  “Yes.” Cicero swallowed. “If I wanted to.”

  This shouldn’t be so hard. “And what do you want?”

  “I thought I knew.” Cicero’s mouth twitched into a rueful smile. “But I’m not so sure anymore.”

  He shouldn’t ask. But he did anyway. “So you ain’t decided against me?”

  “No.” Cicero glanced up and met his gaze. “Not in the least.”

  “Then maybe…I should think about it too?” Tom asked, because he was apparently a fool who’d lost what little sense he’d had to start with.

  Cicero’s eyes widened. “Think about it? What’s there to think about?”

  “The rest of my life, same as you?” Tom said, confused. “What, did you think I’d just drop everything and leap at the chance to become your witch?”

  The offended look on Cicero’s face told Tom he had, in fact, thought exactly that. Tom burst into laughter. “You did, didn’t you!”

  “Well, of course!” Cicero’s lower lip protruded slightly. Tom had to restrain the urge to kiss it. “Why on earth wouldn’t you want to be my witch?”

  “I never even thought about working for the MWP, for one thing.”

  Cicero didn’t look at all mollified. “So? I told you the tests were wrong, that you have witch potential. Why didn’t you start thinking about it then?”

  Tom couldn’t help but laugh again. “Because not everyone wants to be a witch, or work for the MWP? Maybe I’m content being an unmagical patrolman. Did you consider that, even for a moment?”

  “No,” Cicero muttered. “Then you don’t want to bond with me.”

  This was it. His chance to agree and refuse the bond. Break Cicero’s heart in the process most likely, but that was a small price to pay.

  Because he’d never considered doing anything that would lead to the truth coming out. Becoming a detective with the MWP left him too exposed. It was harder to fade into the background, to be unexceptional.

  And Cicero was anything but unexceptional. There would be no hiding with him.

  But Cicero looked so alone, his face turned to the side, his arms folded tight over his chest. Alone and rejected, and maybe the latter was the fault of his own ego, but what did Tom expect from a cat?

  “I never said that.” Tom closed the remaining distance between them. When he set his fingers lightly under the other man’s chin, Cicero allowed him to gently tip his head back, so Tom could look into his face. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth. I said I had to think about it, and I do. This is a big thing—the rest of my life, and yours, we’re talking about. Would you want a witch who wouldn’t even take a little while to think over a decision like that?”

  “I suppose not,” Cicero said grudgingly, although it was clear his pride still stung.

  Tom leaned in, not near enough to kiss, but close enough their breath mingled, and Cicero had no choice but to meet his gaze. “There’s no other familiar I’d even think about bonding with.” He ran his thumb tenderly along Cicero’s jaw, feeling the light scratch of stubble. “Understand?”

  Cicero’s expression relaxed fractionally, and his arms unfolded to slip around Tom’s waist. “I suppose.”

  “So we take a few days. Keep on as we have. Consider our options. Then we’ll talk again.”

  Cicero nodded. “All right.” A reluctant smile stole over his features. “You do insist on surprising me, Thomas Halloran. You’d think by now I would have learned not to make any assumptions when it comes to you, tesoro.”

  “You’d think,” Tom agreed. “You’ve called me ‘tesoro’ three times now. What’s it mean?”

  Cicero slid his arms up to drape around Tom’s neck. He eased forward, so their thighs pressed together. “It means I like you a great deal. Probably more than is wise.”

  Tom’s ribs felt too restrictive around his heart. “Oh.” But he couldn’t just leave it at that. “So if we can’t be wise, then at least we’re fools together.”

  Cicero laughed. “Quite, darling.” He kissed Tom. “It’s still too early for our intended skullduggery. What say we spend the time practicing our French?”

  Cicero huddled deep within his coat, wishing in vain for a warmer hat. The night had grown colder as the hours plodded on, and the air taken on a crystalline sharpness. At least the temperature blunted the scents of the docks: river water slick with filth, slime-encrusted pilings, and dead fish.

  “That it?” Tom asked, nodding to one of the dilapidated buildings lining this particular stretch of wharf.

  Cicero glanced up at him, but Tom was nothing but a black shape against the starlit sky. He held a lantern in one hand, but kept it shuttered for the moment, so as not to give them away to any guards.

  A little worm of doubt chewed at the edge of Cicero’s heart, one that had never been there before. What if he decided he wanted Tom as his witch…and Tom refused him?

  Noah certainly hadn’t rejected him. He’d been so possessive, as if their bond were already a done thing. Had he given Noah the wrong impression somehow? Made him think Cicero had agreed to bond after New Year’s, instead of just making a decision then?

  Well, the display had certainly made his decision easier, hadn’t it? He certainly wasn’t going to bond with Noah now.

  “That’s the address Leona gave me,” Cicero said, forcing his mind onto the task at hand. “It looks deserted.”

  “Aye, but is it? That’s the question.” Tom started forward. “And not one we’re going to answer from this distance. Time to get up close.”

  Cicero padded after him, every sense straining for any sign they might not be the only ones in the immediate vicinity. The creak of rope from the ships tied up at dock was accompanied by the whisper of river water against the pilings. The sound of carols came from one of the vessels, the men on board celebrating the holiday together. Otherwise, all was silent.

  The building Leona had directed him to had seen better days, probably around the same time George Washington had lived on Cherry Street. A century later, affluence had swept north, leaving behind slums and buildings that looked like a good wind would knock them down. Tom shook his head in disapproval. “They’ve let the fire hex fade,” he murmured. “One spark and the whole dockside will be ablaze.”

  “You can write them a citation later,” Cicero whispered back. “Right now, we need to find some way inside.”

  They avoided the large doors meant to accept cargo from the wharf and found a smaller door around the side. Tom carefully placed his hand on the latch.

  “Hexes,” he confirmed. “More than one, I’m thinking.”

  “What kind?”

  He closed his eyes in concentration. “An alarm hex. And one to keep unlocking hexes from working on the latch.”

  “Impressive,” Cicero said. “How on earth did you learn to tell them apart?”

  A wary look crossed Tom’s face, there and gone so fast Cicero wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it in the dimness. “You pick up these things,” he said vaguely. “There. Hexes are broken.”

  Cicero took out one of the unlocking hexes he’d brought from the MWP, in anticipation of going into the tunnels tonight. Had this hideout been the destination of those traveling unseen to and from the Rooster?

  Was Isaac inside even now?

  “Unlock,” he whispered, and the latch clicked softly open.

  Tom drew his revolver from inside his coat. “Ready?”

  Cicero nodded, his guts tight with anticipation. Tom eased the door open, wincing when the hinges squealed from rust. They both froze, but there was nothing beyond but silence
. Cicero slipped into cat form and around Tom’s ankles, into the building.

  The door opened onto the main room—a cavernous space once used to store cargo. Now it was dominated by a printing press. Great rolls of paper awaited printing, but the damp had started to warp the fibers. Stacks of completed newspapers waited in bundles, but they too appeared to have been sitting neglected for a long time.

  Tom eased up the shutter of his lantern, casting a narrow beam of light. He joined Cicero near the stacked papers. “November 15,” he read. “That must be when Janowski decided he had better things to do than be a newspaper man. I wonder what changed his mind?”

  Cicero hopped down and padded toward the back of the room. Two doors opened off the warehouse. He went to the leftmost one and sniffed at the crack. Mice, of course, but there was another, more disturbing scent.

  He shifted back to human form. “Blood,” he whispered as Tom joined him. “It’s faint, but I smell blood.”

  Tom’s jaw firmed. “I’ll go first.”

  The door was unlocked and unhexed. Tom stepped in, revolver at the ready. The light from his lantern spilled across a row of tables, surrounded by chairs. Broken nibs scattered across the floor, and squares of blank paper waited on one of the tables. Empty bottles sat near the blank paper, each with a layer of brownish residue on the inside.

  “So the anarchists are making hexes for Sloane,” Tom said.

  “Let’s hope he made sure to find good hexmen.” Cicero went to the bottles. “A misdrawn hex can have ugly consequences.” He picked up one of the bottles and sniffed. “Blood.”

  Tom paled. “Blood?”

  Cicero picked up one of the broken nibs from the floor. The tip was discolored and stank of blood as well.

  Which didn’t make any sense. Hexes were drawn with ink. And yes, the ink was often specialized in some fashion—made from ground gemstones, or a specific dye or the like. But blood? Cicero had never heard of it being used in hexing.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” he murmured. “Let’s see what’s in the other room.”