Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Then he wrapped his lips around Tom’s cock and slid his mouth all the way down its length.

  Tom turned his shout into a choked sound. Cicero’s tongue and lips worked him, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. By all the saints, this was nothing like the touch of a rough hand in the dark. This was everything but impersonal, and Tom slid his fingers into Cicero’s hair, unable to help himself.

  Cicero’s hands drifted up Tom’s thighs, and he felt a sudden, agonized pang of regret that his trousers kept that touch from his skin. The other man’s hands cupped his arse, urging him forward, and Tom let his hips move tentatively. Cicero pulled back, his tongue curling around the flared head in a way that made Tom’s knees weak.

  “You can fuck my mouth, if you’d like,” he said.

  Then he dove back down, and Holy Familiar of Christ, had he really offered what Tom thought? His hands were tight on Tom’s buttocks, head bobbing determinedly, and Tom thrust forward to meet him. Cicero moaned encouragement, although how he could even breathe with Tom’s prick shoved down his throat, Tom surely didn’t know.

  His fingers curled involuntarily in Cicero’s hair, and his hips moved in a rougher version of Cicero’s undulating dance. Cicero looked up at him, his peridot eyes hot and sinful, while Tom’s prick slid wetly over his red lips. And oh God, he was doing something with his throat, some vibration that felt like a purr, and Tom’s balls tightened.

  “Going to come,” he managed to say, and tried to push Cicero away. But Cicero would have none of it, his mouth hot and wet and insistent. Tom barely suppressed a cry, shooting hard, and Cicero swallowed it all down, throat working a second spasm from Tom’s prick.

  Cicero sat back on his heels. His plump lips were red and slick, and parted just a bit. Still dazed, Tom reached out and ran tender fingers over his cheek.

  Cicero jerked away. He stood up quickly and turned to the mirror. “You’d best get back to work, before Kearney notices you’re gone.”

  “I…” Had Tom done something wrong? How had the man gone from sucking his cock to ordering him away so quickly? “Thank you.” It sounded stupid, but he didn’t know what else to say. “That was…”

  “Incredible, yes.” Cicero flicked a dismissive hand in his direction. “Now go. I’ve work of my own to do, remember?”

  He might sound indifferent, but the rigid outline of his cock told another story. “What should I do?” Tom asked, feeling utterly off balance. It wasn’t a question he’d ever had to ask before. A friend gave you a hand in the dark, and you did the same.

  But the way Cicero had looked at him, so hungry. Wanting him, it felt like, though what a fellow like Cicero would want with Tom, he couldn’t imagine.

  “Go back to the bar.” Cicero picked up the whiskey and downed it in a single gulp. “Horrid,” he said with a shudder. “Take this back to Ho and tell him thanks from me. Keep an eye on the crowd.”

  “I…aye.” Tom knew when he was being dismissed—and rightfully so. They weren’t here for pleasure, after all.

  But even so, he couldn’t help but feel a bit lost as he walked alone back to the front of the building.

  Cicero stood very still, listening to Tom’s retreating footsteps. His cock ached, and he wanted…

  Nothing sane. Fur and feathers, that had been downright stupid. Things were complicated enough without adding sex to the equation. But he’d been caught off guard at the sight of Tom in something other than his police uniform. He wore no coat, his sleeves rolled up to reveal pale, freckled forearms, corded with muscle. He’d even done something different with his hair, making it look less a disaster. The fit of his vest showed off his barrel chest, and without a coat to conceal them, his muscular thighs were a temptation Cicero could have done without.

  And the way Tom had looked at him, like Cicero were a steak dinner and Tom a starving man…

  He could still taste Tom in his mouth, despite the bad whiskey.

  He’d half-expected a blow, or at least a rough shove, once Tom came in his throat. Cicero had sucked enough cocks in his time to be resigned to the fact that some men felt the need to prove their masculinity with their fists. Instead, Tom had run his fingers over his cheek, so tender, like the caress of a lover.

  Which they weren’t. And wouldn’t be. This had been a terrible mistake, and it certainly wouldn’t happen again.

  Bloody hell, he’d completely forgotten to tell Tom about his misgivings concerning Sloane and Kearney, let alone the hex aimed at him earlier. What was wrong with him, acting like a youth so distracted by sex he couldn’t think of anything else? If Rook found out, he’d never let Cicero hear the end of it.

  So. Time to stop thinking about Tom Bloody Halloran, and start thinking about what they’d come here to do in the first place.

  Cicero slipped out of the dressing room and into the hall. It was deserted, but still he waited a moment, listening intently. The muted sound of the badly tuned piano drifted from the front room, accompanied by the rhythmic creaking of beds overhead.

  He shifted to the balls of his bare feet and padded silently down the hall to the closed door at the end. It swung open at his touch and he slipped through. Beyond was a small, unlit room cluttered with what appeared to be props used in the stage acts: couches, swings, a hobby horse, and other assorted paraphernalia. Two closed doors let out from the room, one directly across from him, the other to his left. The first probably led to the short hallway connecting the side door, cellar stair, and front room. The other must lead to an interior chamber. Light showed from beneath it.

  Cicero closed the door soundlessly behind him and shifted into cat form.

  Instantly, the room brightened; he could make out every detail of the worn fabric, the flaking paint on the hobby horse, the silk flowers twined around the swings. The smell of mice tantalized, mingled with the scents of the various people who had traipsed through. Sloane, Kearney, others he didn’t recognize.

  He spared a moment to give his shoulder a quick lick, smoothing down the fur. Satisfied, he slunk across the room to the door on the left. A dry, dusty scent clung around it, and he opened his mouth to better sift through the smells. A reptile had been here—Sloane?

  The creak of a chair alerted him someone was inside. He froze, every sense straining. The chair squealed again, this time followed by footsteps approaching the door.

  Cicero darted across the floor and beneath a couch. The cushions reeked of sex and sweat, and of the mice that had used the stuffing for their nest. Cicero went to his belly, eyes narrowed to slits so no reflection would betray him.

  Sloane stepped out of the room, then shut and locked the door. Placing his hand on the latch, he said, “Werner’s alarms: so you can put your mind at ease.”

  Cicero’s ears pricked up. It was clearly the activation phrase for an alarm hex. He remained beneath the couch as Sloane passed by. The door to the outer hall opened and shut.

  Once he was certain Sloane wasn’t coming back, Cicero eeled out from under the couch. He paused to clean the dust from his whiskers, pondering as he did so.

  An alarm hex might not be out of place in a pawn shop or a pricy saloon like Hoffman House, where swells drank themselves senseless. But in a tawdry resort like the Rooster?

  There was something in that room Sloane didn’t want anyone else to see.

  Which meant they needed to find a way inside.

  Tom’s nerves were in a right twist by the time he reached the Coven the next afternoon.

  He’d slept late, having been up most of the night. In part that had been because of the hours he put in at the Rooster, and in part because he’d lain awake in bed after returning to his apartment. His mind circled back again and again to the feeling of Cicero’s lips, the expression in his eyes, as he’d sucked on Tom’s cock. When he had finally waked, it had been to find himself almost painfully hard. He’d tried to keep his mind clear when he stroked himself, but then the image of Cicero’s mouth on him had returned, and he spent in an instant.


  Tom found Cicero quickly enough, at Kopecky and Rook’s desk. As Tom approached, Rook spotted him. The dark skinned man grinned broadly and give Cicero a nudge.

  The devil? Cicero wouldn’t have said anything to Rook, would he?

  Cicero glanced up, and a small frown creased his forehead, quickly gone. He turned back to Kopecky as if Tom were barely an acquaintance, let alone a man whose spend he’d swallowed only the night before. Then again, what had Tom expected?

  A smile at least. That would have been nice.

  “Good morning, Halloran,” Rook said. He was smiling, at any rate.

  Kopecky looked up from the hex he was busy drawing. “Oh, hello, Halloran,” he said, sounding a bit distracted.

  “It’s Tom,” Tom said. Maybe he was only working with the MWP temporarily, but these were Cicero’s friends. Even if Cicero didn’t seem too friendly this morning.

  “Dominic,” Kopecky replied, and went back to his drawing.

  “Rook,” Rook said with a wink. Cicero huffed softly.

  Was Cicero angry at him for some reason? He tried to catch the familiar’s eye, but Cicero remained fixed on whatever hex Dominic was creating. “So, er, what…?” Tom asked, gesturing to the paper.

  “A locking hex,” Rook said.

  “Oh. And we need one because…?”

  Cicero heaved an irritated sigh. “Because I did a bit of poking around last night. There’s a room in the back—Sloane’s office, I’d guess—with an alarm hex on it. I’d like to find out what he’s hiding that’s so important. But I’d also prefer he not realize anyone has been inside, which means we need a hex not only to unlock the door, but to relock it once we’re done.” He shifted uncomfortably. “And there’s something I didn’t tell you yesterday.”

  He related the information about Sloane and Kearney—and that they’d hexed Cicero to make sure he wasn’t bonded. “What?” Tom exclaimed. “Why didn’t you mention this last night?”

  A faint flush spread over Cicero’s cheeks. “I was distracted.”

  Huh. So maybe he wasn’t as indifferent to what they’d done as he pretended.

  Dominic let out a long-suffering sigh. Rook leveled a knowing look at Cicero. “It’s a good thing Ferguson insisted on someone else going with you, then, isn’t it?”

  “I can take care of myself,” Cicero snapped back.

  “You are the most stubborn—”

  Dominic cleared his throat loudly. “I’m done,” he said, thrusting the paper at Cicero.

  Cicero snatched it from Dominic’s hand. “Come on,” he shot at Tom, and stalked past him.

  Tom glanced at the two detectives, hoping for some enlightenment. Rook only shook his head, an annoyed expression on his face. Dominic offered Tom a commiserating smile. “Some familiars take more…work…than others,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”

  Rook let out an outraged squawk. Deciding that was his cue to leave, Tom hastened to catch up with Cicero.

  They traversed a maze of narrow corridors, threading deeper into the heart of the vast building. Eventually Cicero threw open a small door, revealing an incredibly cramped office with two desks and two chairs jammed inside. A pale woman sat at one of the desks, staring dejectedly at the pile of paper in front of her.

  “Are you any good at figures, Ro?” she asked.

  “Don’t call me that, Greta,” he said. “And I’m a dancer, not a mathematician. Go ask Dominic for help.”

  She peered up at Tom. “And who the devil are you?”

  He blinked. “Um. Tom? Halloran?”

  Cicero waved at Greta. “Don’t mind her. Wolverine, don’t you know. Now why don’t you clear out, Greta darling? I need to talk to Tom alone.”

  Greta bared her teeth at Cicero. “Cats. Always think they’re better than the rest of us.”

  “I’d noticed,” Tom said without thinking.

  Greta laughed. “I like you,” she said, sliding out of her chair. The top of her head barely came to his chest. “Whatever business you’ve got with Ro, don’t let him push you around. And if he tries to pull the I’m-an-aloof-cat act, snap his suspenders.”

  “Oi!” Cicero glared fiercely at her. Greta laughed again and departed, closing the door behind her.

  “Fur and feathers,” Cicero muttered, dropping into the chair opposite the one Greta had vacated. “I swear, I’m counting the seconds until she finds her witch and leaves me alone.”

  “Or you find yours,” Tom said.

  The look Cicero gave him could have flayed skin. “Shall we discuss our case?”

  “In a minute.” Tom hesitated, wondering if he should take Greta’s chair. Or maybe standing would be better for this. “What did I do to make you so angry?”

  Cicero’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything. A look Tom couldn’t interpret flashed over his face…then he seemed to deflate slightly. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t say that, when it’s clear you’re mad.” Tom felt as though he groped in the dark. Was Cicero angry because he hadn’t reciprocated in the dressing room? “Is it…about last night? What happened? You all but shoved me out the door, otherwise—”

  “Last night?” Cicero asked. “What on earth do you mean?”

  Tom felt the blood creeping into his face. “You know.”

  “What, when I sucked your cock?” Cicero spoke the words like they meant nothing. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. “Of course not. I haven’t given it a moment’s thought.”

  Sickness settled in Tom’s belly. He’d thought Cicero wanted a connection, when their eyes had met last night. But maybe it had all been just an act.

  “I have.” The words scraped coming out, but Tom wouldn’t lie. Not about this. “I ain’t in the habit of…that sort of thing.”

  Cicero shrugged, a graceful ripple that distantly recalled the dance he’d performed. “You were in a strange place, exposed to new experiences,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s only natural to react otherwise than one ordinarily would. Nothing to worry about. It doesn’t mean a thing. Tonight will be entirely different.”

  Tom wanted to argue. Instead, he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. “I see.”

  “Now,” Cicero said, turning his attention to the paper piled on what was presumably his desk, “I spoke to some of the other entertainers at the Rooster last night. Apparently Isaac had some regulars. I haven’t gotten any names yet—I didn’t want to seem too suspicious on the first night. And, as I said, I want to get a look at Sloane’s office.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “The problem is how we’re to get past the alarm hex. I heard Sloane use the activation phrase, but we need to be able to deactivate it to get inside. If the company has an office in Manhattan, we might be able to talk them into giving over the more common phrases used, and hope Sloane didn’t have his customized.”

  Tom hesitated. Cicero’s cool demeanor didn’t invite confidences, but what choice did he have? If Sloane wasn’t involved with whatever had happened to Barshtein and Whistler, it seemed likely he was tangled up in something nasty. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Cicero’s expression instantly grew wary. “When I need to. Why?”

  “Because I have something to tell you, and you can’t share it with anyone else.” Tom swallowed against a throat gone suddenly dry. “Promise me.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “I have a way to get us past the alarm hex.”

  “All right,” Cicero said, though he didn’t sound at all happy about it. “What is it?”

  It was as close to a promise as Tom was going to get. “I’m a hexbreaker.”

  It shouldn’t have been so simple to say it aloud after all this time. But there it was. Hanging in the air.

  Cicero gaped at him. “A…that’s incredibly rare. Why wasn’t it in your file?”

  “Because it’s a secret.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Why do you think I asked you not to tell anyone?”

  “A secret? Why?” Cicero looked at him as though he’d lost
his mind. “I’d think the police would kill to have a hexbreaker employed. You could be earning twice your salary, easily! Or forget them and come work for the MWP. Whatever your old precinct is paying you, I’m sure Ferguson would double it.”

  How could he explain it wasn’t a gift, but a bloody curse? If he hadn’t been a hexbreaker, the Muskrats would have had no use for an alliance with his family’s gang. Da would never have known about the hexes in the psalter. Tom’s parents would still be alive, and Danny, and all the rest.

  But he couldn’t say any of that. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone else.”

  “All right, all right.” Cicero looked uneasy, but let the issue go. “It certainly simplifies matters for us, at any rate. I’ll see you tonight—let’s say between my second and third performance?”

  “Aye. I’ll be there.”

  “Well, if there’s nothing else, I have a report to write for Ferguson.” Cicero began to shuffle the papers on his desk.

  Knowing himself dismissed, Tom turned away without speaking further and let himself back out into the corridor. Once the door shut behind him, he paused, leaning against the wall.

  As if he didn’t have enough potential problems with Phelps, now someone else knew he was a hexbreaker. Knew something that could tie him back to Liam O’Connell.

  And it was a man who sucked his cock, then acted like he hated him.

  Surely though, if Cicero meant what he said, if he’d truly been unaffected by what they’d done, he wouldn’t have been so angry. Wouldn’t have avoided Tom’s eyes there in the office, when he said it was just a mistake.

  No, Tom’s first instinct had been right. There had been more to last night than just a quick act, without meaning.

  If only he could get Cicero to admit to it. And for that…well. Tom had a few ideas of his own.

  The cooler air of the dressing room was a welcome relief against Cicero’s heated skin. His style of dance might not be as obviously strenuous as something like the can-can, but it was enough to set him to sweating, even without the crowd of bodies adding to the heat.