Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Read online

  “He’s a cat,” Athene said succinctly. There came a puff of smoke, and she returned to her perch.

  Ferguson sat back in his chair. “I know we don’t do things the way you’re used to,” he said, which was a hell of an understatement. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day and think it over? Decide if you want to pursue this.” He stared broodily at the doorway through which Cicero had vanished. “And believe me, no one here would blame you if you didn’t.”

  Cicero stepped through the door of Techne and took a deep breath. The familiar mélange of absinthe, cigarettes, and coffee filled his lungs and eased the bands that seemed to have constricted his chest ever since he’d stepped into Ferguson’s office.

  Not to say the café’s air was a peaceful one. Customers crowded around tables beneath a painting of the Seven Arts: proclaiming poetry, expounding on philosophy, and arguing politics. Languid young men lounged in chairs sipping absinthe, while artists whose shabby coats bore flecks of paint sketched the faces around them. A group of women worked feverishly on a poster advocating free love and the abolition of marriage.

  Thinkers and poets and dancers. His people. And all of them as far away from some Irish ogre with a crooked nose as was humanly possible.

  God. Just thinking about the man—Halloran—brought the sting of bile to the back of Cicero’s throat. Isaac was out there somewhere, lost in the teeming city, and this was the help Ferguson gave? Someone who would use his fists before his brains, assuming he even had any?

  Who might use his fists against Cicero, given enough drink. Just like his father and too many of the men who’d followed in his wake. Before the MWP; before Isaac’s gentle patience convinced him he didn’t have to jump at every shadow.

  “Cicero!” called Leona. As usual, she was dressed in a man’s suit, her hair tucked up beneath a trilby hat. “Come help us with our signs. We’re taking them to the consolidation celebration with us.”

  On January 1st, New York, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, and the East Bronx would merge into a single, behemoth Greater New York City. Needless to say the New Year’s Eve celebration at city hall had been the only topic of conversation for weeks. Cicero found himself unable to summon up any enthusiasm, given the circumstances.

  He flicked a hand in Leona’s direction. “Not today, darling,” he said, keeping his tone light. “My head can’t take the arguments at the moment.”

  “Looking for a bit of hair of the dog, then?” she teased.

  He hissed theatrically, although the term made him think of Isaac’s mastiff form. Cicero dropped into a chair at the last empty table and waved at Noah, Techne’s owner. “Coffee, extra cream, darling,” he called.

  The coffee appeared with alacrity, just the shade of near-ivory he liked. “I’m glad to see you,” Noah said, brushing his hand lightly across the back of Cicero’s neck. “I’m busy with this crowd now, but if you’d like to come back after closing…?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be in the mood,” Cicero admitted. At Noah’s questioning look, he said, “Trouble with the MWP. You know how it goes.”

  Noah didn’t, of course, at least not directly. He had witch potential, but—like most of the bohemian crowd—talked endlessly about how magic was an art and shouldn’t be degraded by capitalism, and definitely shouldn’t be used in service of the police.

  Easy for him to say, when he didn’t have to worry about being kidnapped off the street and forced to bond.

  Still, he was sympathetic, at least. “You deserve better,” he told Cicero, squeezing his shoulder. “Just as Isaac did.”

  Isaac. Cicero couldn’t go a minute without being reminded of his failure today, it seemed.

  Noah gave him a last pat on the arm and went to attend to the other customers. Relieved to be left alone, Cicero took a sip of his coffee and closed his eyes. He breathed in the scent of hot cream and let the murmur of conversation wash over him like a breeze on a hot day.

  “I don’t see why you bother having Noah put any coffee in it at all.”

  Cicero’s eyes snapped open, and he glared at the man who had rather presumptuously taken the seat across from him. Of course, Rook was never anything but presumptuous. “I don’t criticize how you take your coffee, crow.”

  “Yes, you do.” Rook settled back in the chair as if he meant to stay there all day.

  Cicero tried not to argue with the truth, unless it was convenient for him to do so, so instead he asked, “Where’s Dominic?” Rook and Dominic had been inseparable since bonding two years ago; it was almost strange to see one without the other.

  Noah brought Rook a steaming cup of coffee and left again. Rook pushed it to one side and leaned over the table, his black eyes fixed intently on Cicero. “You’ve been frantic over Isaac, but the moment Ferguson gives you official permission to investigate, you take off like your tail is on fire. I was worried, so I told Dominic to wait at the Coven and flew after you. What’s going on?”

  Cicero tried to ignore the twist of dread in his stomach. He couldn’t do this—couldn’t say it out loud. Saying things out loud made them true. “Keep your beak out of it.”

  “The hell I will.” Rook frowned. “Talk to me, Cicero. I know you. Something’s wrong, and I mean besides Isaac’s disappearance.”

  Maybe he could put Rook off with some of the truth. “It’s the ‘help’—and I use the term loosely—Ferguson chose for me.” Cicero prodded the file he’d dropped on the table. “Thomas Halloran.” He tried to spit out the name, but it flowed a little too well on his tongue.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Rook asked.

  “What isn’t?” Cicero ticked off the points on his fingers. “He’s a patrolman—no experience in investigation at all. He’s…he’s rough. Uncultured. Says ‘ain’t.’ His file claims he’s as normal as they come, no witch potential at all.”

  Rook’s black brows swooped low over his eyes. “So? Who cares?”

  “I do.” Cicero swallowed hard, but there was nothing for it. Rook would keep at him until he confessed. “Whatever bloody tests they use in Dublin scored him completely wrong.”

  “They aren’t always accurate.” Rook folded his hands in front of him. “So how do you know they’re wrong in this case?”

  “Because he’s my…my witch.”

  “Your…oh.” Rook trailed off uncertainly. “That’s…that’s good though, isn’t it? I know Ferguson was badgering you to choose, so he must be happy about it.”

  “I didn’t tell him!” Cicero exclaimed. “And you can’t either. This is a disaster!”

  Rook reached across the table and put his hand on Cicero’s. “Calm down and explain why.”

  Rook’s fingers were warm and firm, his touch kind. Cicero’s eyes ached, and he blinked rapidly. “This isn’t what I want,” he said past a constriction in his throat. “I always thought my witch would be…you know.” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings with his free hand. “Artistic. Clever. Bohemian. We’d sip coffee and quote poetry. Argue about art and beauty. Instead he’s…” Cicero let his hand fall. “Not like that at all.”

  God only knew what the ogre had thought of Cicero’s clothes, his kohl-lined eyes. Not that Cicero couldn’t guess easily enough. Back before the MWP, he’d met up with plenty of men who thought a fist in the face was the only way deal with a fairy. His mother had certainly favored the type, after papà died. A string of big, rough brutes who proved their manhood with crude insults and quick blows.

  He wasn’t going to bond with that sort. No matter what his stupid magic thought about the matter.

  Rook let go of Cicero’s hand and pulled the file to his side of the table. “At least give Halloran a chance before you decide there’s no hope.” He studied the papers inside. “Look—he has two medals for saving people from drowning in the East River!”

  “Oh good, a witch who can swim,” Cicero muttered. “Just what every cat familiar dreams of.”

  “There aren’t any complaints against him,” Rook went o
n.

  “Probably the people on his beat are too frightened to speak out.”

  “His address isn’t very good,” Rook said. “Not terrible, but you’d expect a copper working that part of town to do better for himself. There must be plenty of opportunity for bribes.” His dark eyes flicked up from the file. “Maybe he’s honest?”

  Cicero crossed his legs and arms. “Why are you determined to find something good about him?”

  “I’m just trying to get you to think instead of react.” Rook sat back. “Yes, you have to pick a witch soon. But no one is going to force you to bond with Halloran if you don’t want to. If Ferguson tried, every familiar in the MWP, including our new friends from Brooklyn, would riot. So there’s no reason for you not to at least talk to Halloran about it.”

  Cicero shot upright. “Fur and feathers, no!”

  Rook gaped at him. “What? You were the one who thought I was an idiot for not telling Dominic he was my witch the moment I met him!”

  “Well, you were,” Cicero replied with a sniff. “But that was different.” He let his hands fall to his lap. “Besides, look how well my advice worked out for Isaac.”

  Rook winced. “You aren’t to blame.”

  “Aren’t I?” Cicero shook his head, feeling suddenly tired. Most afternoons, he’d be curled up in the sun right now, napping with the other MWP cats. “You and Dominic were so happy. I thought…well. I was like a stupid child, believing in fairytales. What could go wrong?”

  Just everything. Isaac hadn’t been entirely certain, but Cicero had pushed him. Told him to be honest. Made him think he’d end up like Rook and Dominic, that he’d find not just a witch but the love of his life.

  Isaac had believed him. Gone to his witch. And come back bleeding and bruised, sobbing out his story while Cicero listened in horror. His witch had beaten him, all the while screaming he wouldn’t bond with a cocksucking Yid…

  He was supposed to have been safe in the MWP’s walls. They were all supposed to be safe.

  Halloran was built like a brick wall, with fists to match. And he worked for the non-magical police, who everyone knew were just a bunch of corrupt thugs. Cicero didn’t want to end up in the hospital like Isaac had.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” Cicero said, leaning across the table and seizing Rook’s wrist. “Not even Dominic. Promise me!”

  Rook’s full lips tightened, but he nodded. “All right. But in turn, you promise you’ll at least talk to Halloran?”

  It wouldn’t change Cicero’s mind, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter. “An easy promise to keep, since Ferguson won’t let me investigate otherwise,” he said, draining his coffee.

  His feelings were beside the point. Isaac had been his best friend all the years they were at the MWP together. As Rook had inadvertently reminded him, it was his fault Isaac had gone feral. His fault Isaac had spent the last year working in questionable resorts and dive bars, instead of safe in the MWP barracks.

  Cicero could work with Halloran for a few days, if it meant justice for poor Gerald. If it meant some chance to save Isaac. He’d grit his teeth, get through it, then let Halloran go his separate way. With any luck, he’d never set eyes on the man again.

  Tom sat in the corner of the saloon across the street from his apartment, sipping a five cent beer. Men crowded the long bar, and the clack of billiards sounded from the pool tables near the back. Children rushing the growler for their parents entered with empty pails and left with them full of beer. A few women drifted through, chatting and laughing with the regulars.

  He knew them all. This wasn’t just his beat, it was his neighborhood. Even after he took the uniform off at the end of the day, they were still his responsibility.

  “Look out for those as need you.”

  Family, Da had meant when he said that. And family included the rest of the gang, even if they weren’t blood.

  “But what about me?” Tom wanted to shout back through the years. He couldn’t afford to get any further involved in Barshtein’s death. If there was a connection to that night eight years ago, then the deeper he delved, the more likely he was to find his own secrets exposed. What good would spending the rest of his life in prison do anyone?

  Besides, there was probably no link beyond his own paranoia. How could there be? He’d burned the filthy hexes to make sure what happened on Cherry Street could never happen again.

  It had been the least he could do, given it was his cursed hexbreaking that had gotten them into the situation to begin with. Some fancy collector from Fifth Avenue had hired the Muskrat gang to steal an old book from some other rich fellow. But the vault it was kept in was sealed with magic as well as locks, and for that they needed a hexbreaker. The Muskrats knew about Tom’s—then Liam’s—talent, so they’d approached Da, looking for an alliance.

  The job had gone perfectly. The hex had been the strongest Tom had ever broken, but he’d managed it. Da had been so proud.

  And so greedy.

  They should have just handed the book over. Let the Muskrats give it to the collector, taken their share of the profits, and walked away.

  But Tom had touched the book, and with his hexbreaker talent sensed the hexes hidden inside the binding. Da had reasoned they must be valuable to be concealed like that.

  So he’d looked out for those as needed him, by betraying the Muskrats and stealing the book. Molly had learned some Latin from her time in the convent, and claimed it was some kind of medieval psalter. The hexes were hidden beneath the ancient leather of the cover, the symbols on them drawn in rusty brown ink and looking like nothing modern. Molly thought maybe the monk who’d copied the psalter in the first place had been the one to hide them, because there was a note with the hexes whose writing looked the same as that in the rest of the book. She’d parsed it as best she could—something about being the most terrifying warriors the world had ever known.

  Which had sounded damned good to Da. Why not use the hexes to rule the waterfront and reap the profits?

  He’d paid for his ambition with his life. And Danny’s, and Ma’s, and Molly’s. And the lives of a tenement full of folk who’d had nothing to do with any of it.

  Liam died that night, too, in a way. Family gone, home gone, death and blood on his hands. He’d been nothing but a ghost. Until the night Saint Mary led him to a cold alley not far from Castle Garden and gave Tom Halloran a second chance at life.

  The absinthe hex Barshtein took was nothing like the ones they’d found in the book. Those had been made with sharp-edged runes and the images of tangled beasts, knotted together in combat. No one could confuse the two. So, no matter how similar the symptoms, there couldn’t be any direct link.

  There was no reason for him to go back to the MWP tomorrow. It would be madness to do so. If anyone found out he’d once been Liam O’Connell, he’d spend the rest of his life doing hard time at Sing Sing.

  The familiar—Cicero—would probably refuse to work with him anyway. What the man had against Tom, he’d no idea. Was it because Tom was Irish? Cicero looked Italian, but his accent was English, and Saint Mary knew there was no love lost between them and the Irish. Still, thanks to Tammany Hall, anyone who worked on either police force would be surrounded by Irishmen. And women, given what he’d seen in the MWP.

  Cicero might try to investigate on his own, despite Ferguson’s objections. Tom snorted at the idea of the fop trying to question a witness, or chase down a suspect. Pity the witch detective who got stuck with a useless creature like him, too flighty even to read the newspapers.

  Of course, if Cicero did try to pursue the case alone, he might attract the wrong kind of attention, what with his pretty face and perfect hair, and eyes that glowed like peridots. Ferguson had been right to insist he have some sort of protection. The fellow would probably faint dead away the first time someone raised their voice to him.

  Most likely he’d get discouraged and quit within a day. But if he didn’t?

  “Tom?” />
  Tom blinked, half surprised to find himself still seated in the saloon, with an empty mug at his elbow. Bill Quigley, wearing his blue uniform, slipped onto the bench across from him.

  “Better look out, Bill,” Tom said with a nod. “If the roundsman catches you in here, it’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Ah, hang the bastard,” Bill said. His nose was red from the cold, and he stripped off his gloves to blow on his fingers. “It’s too cold to walk these streets without something to warm the belly, eh?”

  “If you say so,” Tom said, amused despite himself.

  “Oh, aye, I forgot who I was talking to. Saint Tom himself.” Bill winked. “And here having a drink with the rest of us mortals.”

  “Shut your hole,” Tom said, but he grinned when he said it. Bill was an all right sort. The closest thing Tom could claim to a friend, really.

  The barkeep brought Bill a whiskey. He downed it, made a face, and handed back the glass. “In fact, it’s your fault I’m in here,” Bill said when the barkeep left. “I figured you hadn’t yet heard the news about Barshtein.”

  “Did he recover his senses?” Tom asked. Maybe the doctors on Blackwell’s had been able to help after all.

  “Nay.” Bill’s expression sobered. “He’s dead, Tom. His heart gave out, they say.”

  Tom sat back. “Oh.”

  “Saves the expense of a trial, anyway.” Bill rose to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m off before the roundsman comes by—and if I get in any trouble, I’m blaming it on you. Have a drink for me, eh?”

  “Sure thing, Bill,” Tom murmured.

  Dead. Just like Da and Danny. Just like the people screaming as they burned in the tenement fire.

  Barshtein had always had a friendly word for Tom, the offer of a cold drink in the summer and a hot one in the winter, whenever Tom had the day beat. And now he was dead. Branded a murderer by the world.

  If there was truly a thread binding Barshtein’s death with that night on Cherry Street, Barshtein and his wife wouldn’t be the last victims. They’d only be the first.