Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Page 2

  Tom bit his lip. If he asked anything more, it might seem suspicious. Donohue obviously considered the case closed. “I was just wondering if the maid said anything had set him off. Like if Barshtein took a hex, for instance.”

  Donohue frowned. “There was something about an absinthe hex.”

  “An absinthe hex?” Tom asked blankly.

  “Some sort of frippery those bohemian types enjoy,” Donohue said with a dismissive wave of his cigar. “They take it with the drink. Makes them hallucinate or some such.”

  Tom’s spirits lifted slightly. Hallucinations sounded bad, but not the same sort of bad as the Cherry Street Riots. “So the hex made him hallucinate, and that’s why he attacked his wife?”

  But Donohue was shaking his head. “Nothing like that. The absinthe hexes inspire bad poetry, maybe, but that’s about it. The MWP sent a hexman around to take a look, and he said there was nothing wrong with it.” Donohue frowned. “Why? Barshtein say anything to you before you knocked him out?”

  “Nay. Nothing.” But he couldn’t stop seeing those bloody eyes. Barshtein’s face had haunted Tom’s dreams, turning alternately into the faces of his brother and father. Accompanied by the shrieks of those in the burning tenement, the thumps as the desperate leapt to their deaths.

  “It’s just…I have a feeling,” Tom said. “Call it copper’s instinct. Something ain’t right. My gut says there’s more to this than just a man losing his wits for no reason.”

  Donohue stubbed out his cigar and fixed Tom with a speculative look. “You think the MWP’s hexman made a mistake?”

  Did he? “I don’t know. But the way Barshtein acted…I’ve been a patrolman for eight years. I’ve seen men so drunk they didn’t remember their own names, and I’ve hauled many a man to Blackwell’s Island. But none of them behaved the way he did. The way he didn’t cry out when I broke his arm with the nightstick. It weren’t natural.”

  Donohue folded his hands across his belly and regarded Tom for a long moment. Tom tried to return his stare, hoping the captain didn’t perceive all the things he’d left out. All the things he hid.

  “I wouldn’t mind taking those MWP bastards down another notch,” Donohue mused. “The lot of them should have been thrown in jail after their former chief tried to kill Commissioner Roosevelt, if you ask me. Bunch of prancing fops.” He contemplated Tom for a long moment. “That’s it, then. Go down there and light a fire under them.”

  Donohue surely didn’t mean to send him to the Coven, did he? “Sir?”

  “What’s your duty assignment today, Halloran?”

  “I’m on reserve.”

  “Well, tonight you get to sleep in your own bed. Tell the sergeant I’m reassigning you to the day shift. Take yourself over to the Coven and make them listen.”

  Tom felt as though the floor had tilted, leaving him off kilter. Why hadn’t he anticipated this? “MWP Headquarters? Now?”

  “Have you got mud in your ears? Yes, patrolman, now!”

  Tom scurried out. The sergeant only grunted when Tom informed him of the altered duty assignment. Within minutes, Tom found himself mounting the steps to the Second Avenue El platform.

  It was all happening too fast. Since becoming Tom Halloran, he hadn’t set foot south of 42nd Street. Too much risk of someone from the old days recognizing him.

  And now he was not only returning to lower Manhattan, but marching straight to MWP headquarters, where a photo of his younger self lay buried in their rogues gallery.

  It had been eight years. After eight years, surely no one would recognize him, assuming anyone who might was even still alive, or still in Manhattan. No one would have any cause to connect twenty-six year old Tom Halloran, veteran patrolman, with seventeen-year-old Liam O’Connell, East River tunnel rat.

  The train pulled up with a clatter, and Tom stepped on. Noting his uniform, the conductor didn’t ask for payment. Tom took a seat and stared out over the city as the train jerked back into motion. Smoke streamed from chimneys in the cold air, forming a haze against the otherwise clear sky. Advertisements flashed on distant buildings, taking advantage of the new hexes which allowed the words to change depending on who was looking at them.

  He’d go to the Coven, give his report, and leave. That would satisfy the captain. Donohue didn’t really think Tom would get results. He just wanted to irritate the MWP and remind them they weren’t the only police in the city, and sending his least-favorite patrolman was the easiest way to do it.

  Tom wouldn’t spend any more time there than he had to. Unless there really was some link between that long-ago night and Barshtein’s sudden homicidal madness…

  Probably Tom was overreacting about the whole thing. There was no need to get all riled up. The past would stay where it belonged, quiet as the bones of the dead. He’d go back to pretending he was a good man, a good copper, and not a criminal who should have ended up swinging from the gallows.

  “Listen,” Rook said, “I know you’re upset Gerald is dead. So am I. But people get into fights. They drink too much, do stupid things, and that’s just how it is.”

  “Gerald Whistler fainted at the sight of blood,” Cicero shot back. “And you expect me to believe he bit off his roommate’s ear before going for the throat? That’s featherbrained even for you, crow.”

  They strode through the halls of the Coven—or rather, Cicero strode, and Rook tagged along behind him. Flapping and squawking as usual, even if he was in human form.

  The halls of the Metropolitan Witch Police’s headquarters were seldom quiet, but with the upcoming merger of the New York and Brooklyn forces, today they bordered on bedlam. Some idiot—probably the ones on the Police Board—had decided the Brooklyn headquarters would be shuttered, and everyone moved into the Coven, no matter the place barely had enough space to begin with. Cicero dodged between two witches carrying boxes, wove through a group of unbonded familiars snarling at each other, and ducked as an owl passed overhead. Being a crow instead of a cat, Rook had more trouble getting through tight spaces, and Cicero had almost a minute of blessed silence before Rook caught back up with him.

  “Someone murdered him,” Cicero said, before Rook could start up again. “Using magic.”

  “Would you hold up?” Rook grabbed him by the shoulder. A lock of dark hair flopped over one eye. In a city of Irish, Germans, Italians, Indians, Turks, blacks, Chinese, and Jews, it was impossible to say exactly what blend had given rise to Rook’s creamy brown skin and shining dark hair. Rook claimed not to know himself. “There’s no evidence magic was involved. None!”

  “The hex—”

  “Dominic looked over the absinthe hex,” Rook interrupted. “It was an unfamiliar brand, but nothing was wrong with it. Not to mention everyone else at the party used the same hex, and none of them became violent.”

  “And Isaac? He missed our meeting, he’s not in any of his usual haunts, and none of the other ferals have seen him since Saturday.”

  That took the wind out of Rook, at least. “I talked to the roommate myself. Isaac never showed up at the party.”

  “And you’re not worried?”

  “Of course I am!” Rook’s fingers tightened on Cicero’s shoulder. “It’s never good when an unbonded familiar suddenly vanishes off the face of the earth. Maybe he was on his way to the party and saw Gerald fall. It spooked him, and he ran.”

  “Ran where? Besides, he was already late to meet me. He wouldn’t have been just arriving at the party when Gerald died.”

  “Then maybe it’s a coincidence.” Rook shook his head. “Magic wasn’t involved, Cicero. Which means it’s a case for the regular police. Ferguson already told Dominic and I to go back to the investigations we were working on before. I know you feel responsible for Isaac, but—”

  Cicero jerked away. “You don’t know anything.” Twitching his coat back into place, he turned his back on Rook. Curse the crow for not listening to him. For not believing.

  For reminding Cicero that, after everyt
hing Isaac had done for him, it was his fault Isaac hadn’t been safely within the walls of the MWP.

  “Well, Ferguson must have changed his mind,” he shot back over his shoulder. “Otherwise, why would he call me to his office to meet about it?”

  Rook didn’t reply and didn’t try to follow. Cicero slithered around a final group of detectives and found himself outside Chief Ferguson’s door.

  He paused, hand half-lifted to open it. Was his coat in place? Hair perfect?

  Pushing open the door, Cicero turned his most charming smile on the room. “Ciao, darlings,” he drawled. “I…”

  His voice caught in his throat. Ferguson was there, as expected, and Athene perched in owl form beside his desk. But there was someone else, not expected.

  He found himself blinking at a human wall of blue uniform, the fabric strained tight around the chest at eye level. He took a step back and looked up.

  Judging by his freckles and milky skin, the newcomer was Irish. An old break, no doubt the souvenir from some sordid fight, had left a slight crook in the man’s nose. His dark blond hair appeared to have been cut by a blind drunken barber. The heavy boots on his large feet needed polishing, and dirt showed underneath ragged fingernails.

  And the world stilled, settled around a single point. A deep instinct set into Cicero’s bones, something stupid and blind that didn’t care about anything but the flow of magic. That didn’t give a damn about the fear suddenly choking his throat.

  Because this man—this ogre—was his witch.

  Tom didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help it. Of course, he’d been staring nonstop since he’d entered the Coven and asked to speak to someone about a dead man and a bad hex. The witch detectives, the familiars popping in and out of animal form, the cacophony of human voices, barks, meows, and caws, was enough to make his head spin.

  Not to mention the women. Unlike the regular police force, the Witch Police took anyone with magic and a familiar. He vaguely recalled it had been a point of contention between them and the Police Board headed by Roosevelt, with the commissioner determined to impose requirements of height and strength that would have removed most of the females immediately. The MWP must have won that particular battle—maybe the board had been afraid they’d resort to attempted murder again.

  But this newcomer made Tom stare for a different reason altogether. He had olive skin and black hair, carefully oiled and brushed until not a single strand was out of place. Kohl outlined yellow-green eyes, making their brilliant color even more startling. His lips were plump and red, as if asking to be kissed, and the thought sent a curl of desire through Tom’s groin.

  Judging by the somewhat feminine cut of his coat, wide at the shoulders and tight at the waist, the fellow might not even mind Tom thinking about him that way. His nails were neat, and Tom couldn’t help but note how clean and orderly he was, like he’d just stepped out of a bath. The idea of that flawless skin glistening with a sheen of water turned that faint ember of desire into a flame.

  The man stared back at Tom for a long moment, eyes going wide, lips parting slightly. Then, without warning, his expression closed, like shutters thrown across a window.

  “No,” he said. Though he looked Italian, his accent sounded mainly English to Tom’s untrained ear. Turning his back to Tom, he folded his arms across his chest and stared resolutely at the wall. “No. Absolutely not. I refuse.”

  Ferguson sighed and rubbed at his temples. The Witch Police Chief seemed harried—and no wonder, with all the people turning into animals and magic and whatnot going on around him. “Cicero…”

  “No!” The man—Cicero—shot a quick glance at Tom over his shoulder, then turned immediately back to the wall. “You can’t make me.”

  “Make you what?” Tom asked. Was everyone here barmy?

  Cicero didn’t reply, merely stared loftily at the wall, as though the rest of them were beneath his notice. If Tom offered that sort of attitude to his captain, let alone the regular police chief, he’d get a sore lip and a quick discharge for his trouble. But Ferguson only appeared vexed.

  “Cicero here is an unbonded familiar,” he said. “A cat, in case you couldn’t guess from the attitude.”

  “Oi!”

  “He feels a man who went insane and tried to kill his roommate was driven by magic rather than madness,” Ferguson went on, ignoring the familiar’s outraged objection. “Even though there’s no evidence. But the event occurred after the fellow ingested an absinthe hex, and his eyes were bloody.”

  Saint Mary preserve him. “Just like Mr. Barshtein,” Tom said.

  Cicero half turned. “Wait…who?”

  “The man who murdered his wife the other night,” Tom said, and waited for comprehension to dawn in Cicero’s eyes. It didn’t. “You know…the crime on the front page of all the papers two days running?”

  “I don’t read the newspapers,” Cicero said with a sniff. “Terrible for the skin. Wrinkles, darling.”

  “I…” Tom couldn’t think how to respond, so he turned his attention to Ferguson instead. “Good. Then I’ll just have someone send over a report and let you, er, gentlemen, get to work.” The MWP would figure things out without his help, surely. He could keep his head down and go back to his life, and the past would stay where it belonged.

  “Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple.” Ferguson folded his hands on his desk, gaze going from Tom to Cicero. “We’ve delved thoroughly into the case. Gerald Whistler went mad at a party, where everyone else took the exact same hex as he did. None of them suffered anything beyond the usual effects of too much alcohol. Our own hexmen thoroughly studied Whistler’s hex to make certain it hadn’t been altered. It wasn’t. There’s no evidence of magical interference, so technically there’s no reason for the MWP to become involved. And since it seems obvious the roommate acted in self defense, our counterparts at the regular police have decided the death is exactly what it seems—the result of too much drink.”

  Cicero stiffened. “Isaac—”

  “However,” Ferguson overrode Cicero’s protest, “a second, similar case in a different precinct gives me a bit of leeway. Not enough to launch a full investigation with a team of detectives, particularly since the upcoming merger with the Brooklyn Witch Police has the place in shambles. But enough to poke around a bit. So, assuming I can secure your captain’s permission, Halloran, I’d take it as a favor if you and Cicero could collaborate. See what, if anything, you can turn up.”

  Cicero’s hiss was eclipsed by Tom’s own indrawn breath. He’d only come here so his conscience could rest easy. He needed to stay as far away from any investigation as possible—not end up involved in it himself. Certainly not with an MWP familiar looking over his shoulder.

  But he couldn’t say any of that, so he spit out the first objection that sprang to mind. “I ain’t a witch.”

  Ferguson tapped one of the piles of paper on his desk. “True. I had your precinct run over your file, while you were waiting outside. Your scores were abysmal.”

  No wonder he’d had Tom cool his heels in the hall so long, if he’d sent someone to fetch Tom’s file. The scores in it were fake, of course—or rather, they’d belonged to another man, who’d died in an alley not long after stepping off the boat from Dublin. In truth, Tom had never been officially tested by anyone.

  But Da always said the O’Connells were known for their witchery, and his own brother had been one. Maybe he would have been too, if life had gone differently.

  “That’s not possible.” Cicero marched to the desk and snatched up the file. Tom held his breath, expecting Ferguson to explode at the impertinence, but the chief only looked mildly amused. Cicero frowned at what he read, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Isaac’s life is at stake.”

  “Who is Isaac?” Tom asked, even more bewildered than before.

  Cicero ignored him. “I need someone with subtlety, with…elegance. Someone who thinks before he acts. Not a patrolman who will just beat a con
fession out of the first idiot we come across!”

  “Hey now.” What the devil was wrong with the fellow? Tom might not be the smartest man in New York, but he certainly didn’t appreciate being called stupid by a painted-up nancy he’d barely exchanged words with. “I ain’t never beat a confession out of anyone in my life, boyo.”

  Everyone ignored him. Ferguson scowled at Cicero. “Either work with Halloran, or let it go.”

  “I can do it myself,” Cicero shot back.

  The owl on the perch behind Ferguson’s desk abruptly launched itself into the air. Tom started, but it only glided to the floor—and, in a puff of smoke, turned into a woman dressed in a sensible shirtwaist and divided skirts. She was as golden as the owl, her hair tawny and her eyes a pale brown that bordered on yellow.

  “Stop being an idiot, Cicero,” she snapped. “You’re a familiar of the MWP. We aren’t letting you wander off alone to get killed.”

  Cicero drew himself up, his eyes going to green ice. “Oh, but it’s all right if other familiars get killed? Is that it, Athene?”

  “Isaac knew the risks when he walked away,” Athene said, at the same time Ferguson snapped, “Damn it, Cicero.” They exchanged a glance, and Athene went on. “There’s no reason to think magic was involved in Whistler’s death, and even less to think his sudden attack of mania had anything to do with Isaac at all. Even with what Halloran brought, we’ll be on thin ice with the Police Board by sanctioning you to look further into things. So either take our offer or leave it. Either way, we’re done here.”

  Cicero seemed to hesitate for a long moment. He still held Tom’s file in his hands, and his long, clean fingers crushed the edges of the paper. “I have to think,” he said, shooting a glare at Tom now. “And I can’t do it with him looming at me.”

  “What did I do to you?” Tom exclaimed. Cicero ignored him, sweeping past and out the door.

  Silence settled briefly over the office, punctured by a series of loud barks from elsewhere in the building. Ferguson sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Well. My apologies, Halloran. Honestly, I thought Cicero would be eager to help. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”