Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk

by Jordan L. Hawk

  He smirked at his reflection as he checked the mirror, adding a bit of rouge to his cheeks. It hadn’t taken long for word of his previous performance to spread. The Rooster was absolutely packed tonight, with hundreds of bodies jammed into the main room, and most of them there to see him. After his first performance of the evening, he’d received over a dozen offers to take him into one of the rooms or alcoves. After the second, there had been more, and this time some of the sums named had been far in excess of what he earned in a week at the MWP.

  When this had started, he hadn’t intended to actually take any of the offers up. Now he wasn’t so certain. The money was good, and it wasn’t as though it hurt anyone, or interfered in the actual investigation. And maybe it would get his mind off Tom.

  Had Tom watched him again, as keenly as last night? Had he been aroused? He was due any moment, assuming he could get away…

  No. Last night had been a mistake, and he’d already told Tom as much. Tonight, Cicero would be on his best behavior.

  As if summoned by his thought, Tom stepped inside. Cicero stayed focused on his reflection as Tom shut the door behind him. “They’re wild for you out there.” Tom set a whiskey aside. “I told Ho how much you appreciated the drink last night, so he couldn’t wait to send me back with another.”

  Cicero set aside the rouge. “How cruel of you, darling, getting his hopes up like that.”

  “It ain’t just his hopes that are up,” Tom said dryly. He moved closer, the floor creaking beneath his weight. In the mirror, Cicero could see he had his sleeves rolled up again, the flex of muscle as he moved. What would he look like without a shirt at all? Given the golden hair furring his forearms, he’d probably have a nice thatch on his chest. What would it feel like to run his fingers through it?

  Cicero’s traitorous cock swelled against the thin fabric of his pants. Blast it, he had to stop thinking about Tom like this. Nothing more was going to happen between them. It couldn’t.

  Rook swore that sex between a familiar and his witch was like nothing else in the world, even if they weren’t bonded yet. But Rook said a lot of things just to hear himself talk.

  Tom was very close to him now. “It looks like he’s not the only one,” he murmured in a low, husky voice. Did he refer to the bulge in Cicero’s pants, or his own?

  Cicero had to say something. To stop this. “I’m not getting on my knees for you again.” But his voice shook with lust, betraying him.

  “Wasn’t going to ask you to,” Tom murmured, his breath hot on the back of Cicero’s neck. He slid a strong arm around Cicero’s waist, pulling him against his solid body. His other hand cupped Cicero through his pants, fingers curling around the outline of his cock, tugging gently.

  An unwilling gasp escaped Cicero. He straightened, meaning to pull away, but the hand on his prick was palming him more firmly now, and he couldn’t help but press into it. Tom’s other hand drifted from around Cicero’s waist, trailing a line of fire over the bare skin of his belly. Tom pushed the costume’s small vest aside, exposing Cicero’s nipples. His fingers explored one of the rings, then tugged gently.

  A bolt of pleasure shot from nipple to groin. Cicero gasped again, more loudly this time, his back arching into Tom’s broad chest. Tom’s lips brushed Cicero’s ear, and he whispered, “What are the hexes for?”

  “They enhance—ah!” Another tug all but undid him, combined with the teasing pressure of Tom’s hand through the gauzy cloth of his pants. “Pl-pleasure.”

  “Good,” Tom whispered. Then he shoved down the front of Cicero’s trousers, exposing his cock to the air.

  Tom might not have done it in French fashion before, but he obviously was no newcomer to working with his hands. His callused fingers stroked Cicero’s cock like an expert. Cicero swallowed a moan as Tom tugged on him, gathering the liquid at the tip and using it to slick his palm as he slid it back down to the base.

  “F-fuck,” Cicero stammered. Tom’s fingers curled around him, a firm tunnel, and Cicero thrust into it helplessly. Tom’s own erection pressed against his arse like an iron bar, and he ground back against it. Tom grunted, stroking Cicero more rapidly now, and pinched one nipple around the ring.

  “Show me you like this,” he growled in Cicero’s ear. “I want you to. I want to make you come.”

  Sparks flared behind Cicero’s eyes, and he couldn’t suppress a mewling cry as he shot. Tom let go of his nipple and wrapped an arm around Cicero’s waist again, keeping him on his feet. His other hand kept moving, milking Cicero’s cock, until he made a small noise when it became too sensitive.

  Fur and feathers. So much for not doing this again.

  There was a long moment of silence, penetrated only by the sound of music from the front, and of sex from above. Cicero sagged bonelessly against Tom’s solid bulk, striving to catch his breath.

  Tom lifted his fingers, coated with Cicero’s spunk, and licked them. “Cats ain’t the only ones who like cream,” he teased. “You were right about one thing, though. Tonight was different.”

  Cicero wasn’t sure if he wanted to curse Tom or himself. He’d expected…well. Not this, obviously. Mainly that Tom would be more interested in his own pleasure, one of those men who liked to have his cock sucked but had no interest in returning the favor in any form.

  “Don’t sound so smug,” Cicero said, but the involuntary grin on his mouth gave the lie to the words.

  Tom smiled back. “Going to have to earn it with you, ain’t I? That’s all right. I’m willing to put in the work.” He released Cicero and stepped away. “But for now, we’ve got a different sort of work to do. So put yourself to rights, and let’s get to it.”

  Tom couldn’t help but feel rather pleased with himself as he followed Cicero down the hall. Cicero might have knocked him off balance last night and earlier today, but Tom figured he’d paid him back in full just now. He’d stripped away Cicero’s usual quick tongue, reducing him to stammering and gasping, and the sound he’d made when he came…

  Tom’s prick stiffened again, and he struggled to force his thoughts away from the feel of the slender body in his arms. He could still smell Cicero’s sweat on his skin and taste his spunk on his lips.

  He’d never done that before, despite his bold words to Cicero. Tugging another fellow’s prick in the darkened barracks was one thing, but licking up the spend would have gotten him a beating. He’d wanted to, though. And now that he had, he wondered what it would be like to get it direct from the source, so to speak.

  Cicero opened the door at the end of the hall and slipped through. Tom did his best to follow, but he was bulkier and had to open it wider. It was utterly dark on the other side, so he left the door cracked. The thin finger of light revealed stored furniture and other props for the stage. Moving silent as a ghost, Cicero crossed to one of the doors and took out the hexes Dominic had prepared. “How long will it take you to break the alarm hex?” he whispered.

  Tom joined him at the door. As soon as he touched the latch, he felt the telltale vibration of magic, like a tiny, quivering heartbeat. One brush of power, and it stopped. “Done.”

  Cicero arched a brow. “Impressive,” he murmured. He placed the unlocking hex against the door. “Oh for…”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Cicero sighed. “Rook thinks he’s funny. Next time, I’m going to the general hexmen instead of Dominic.” Clearing his throat, he read the activation phrase. “‘Rook is always right, and I should listen to his advice.’”

  The lock clicked open.

  “Right about what?” Tom asked as Cicero opened the door.

  “Never mind,” Cicero replied sharply. “We have more important things to worry about at the moment.”

  Sloane’s office was surprisingly tidy. A desk took up much of the space, and a liquor cabinet a good bit of what was left over. Shelves lined the walls, and a safe squatted near the door. A calendar hung on the wall facing the desk.

  “Look,” Tom said, pointing at the cale
ndar. “New Year’s Eve is circled in red.”

  “Maybe Sloane is expecting it to be a busy day?” Cicero suggested with a shrug. “Come on—let’s go through his papers. And put everything back exactly as you found it.”

  There wasn’t a great deal to see…but what there was sent a chill up Tom’s back. A set of bloodletting tools, which had no business outside of a doctor’s toolkit. A stack of unused hexes meant to determine whether a familiar was bonded.

  Absinthe hexes, which looked precisely like the ones Barshtein and Gerald had used.

  “Bloody hell,” Cicero whispered. “Take one of each—you have more places to hide them at the moment.” The corner of his mouth curled up, and he gave his hips a little shake, so the gauzy pants swirled around his ankles. “One thing this outfit lacks is pockets.”

  While Tom did so, Cicero snatched a ledger off Sloane’s desk. “What have we here?” he murmured. “Look. Sloane has made several large payouts to ‘the benefit of mankind.’”

  Tom peered over Cicero’s shoulder. “How very generous of him.”

  “Uncharacteristically so, I’d say,” Cicero agreed. “I—”

  The sound of one of the doors opening in the other room cut off his words.

  Tom exchanged a look of horror with Cicero. “I’ll get the funds from my safe,” Sloane said, his voice muffled by the door.

  Tom cast about frantically. The office was tiny—Cicero might be able to hide in cat form, but Tom?

  “Under the desk,” Cicero hissed. “I’ll set the alarm! Go!”

  He didn’t have much choice. Tom pushed the chair back as silently as he could and crammed himself into the small area beneath the desk. His knees jabbed into his chin, and the chair could only be pulled in so far. If Sloane came anywhere near this side of the room, he’d be spotted in an instant.

  “Your support is appreciated,” said an unfamiliar voice with a strong Polish accent. Cicero murmured something unintelligible nearby—the activation phrase for the alarm, no doubt.

  Keys jingled. “Anything for the cause,” Sloane said from just outside the door.

  Tom shut his eyes and strained his ears as the door opened. Footsteps entered the room, and Tom waited for the inevitable cry of outrage.

  If they were caught in here…getting fired would be the least of their worries. Given the presence of the absinthe hexes, it seemed likely Sloane was involved in something that had already sent at least three people to their deaths. He surely wouldn’t hesitate to add two more to the list.

  Or one. Sloane and Kearney knew Cicero was unbonded. Would they kill him, or give him to a witch for force bonding?

  Could that be what had happened to the missing Isaac?

  There came a muffled thump, then a low series of clicks. Understanding dawned when there came the groan of hinges—Sloane must have unlocked the safe near the door.

  A muscle in Tom’s awkwardly bent legs threatened to cramp.

  He held his breath, silently willing the pain to go away. Instead it continued to build. But he couldn’t shift his position to relieve it, not without giving himself away.

  If the worst happened, he’d fight, hard as he could. With any luck, he could create enough mayhem that Cicero at least could get away. He wouldn’t let the cat end up practically enslaved to some witch, not if it was in his power to prevent it.

  There came a rustling noise from the direction of the safe. Then the door thunked shut, followed by the sound of Sloane setting the lock. The whisper of clothing followed, and Tom imagined Sloane rising to his feet.

  Saint Mary Magdalene, Holy Family of Christ, keep him from looking in the direction of the desk…

  Footsteps retreated toward the door. “Here it is,” Sloane said, and the office door shut behind him, muffling the last words.

  Tom rolled out from under the desk, straightening his leg. The cramping muscle eased, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  He stood up, in time to see Cicero crawl out from under the liquor cabinet in cat form. The cat was solid black and shining, not a single white hair anywhere Tom could see, and his eyes were the same yellow-green of his human form.

  At the moment, he was also covered in dust and cobwebs. He let out three short sneezes, a tiny delicate sound that made Tom’s heart melt. He’d never heard kitty sneezes before.

  Cicero shifted back into human form and glared at Tom. “Don’t you dare say I’m cute,” he warned, apparently having interpreted Tom’s expression correctly. “Look here.”

  He reached beneath the cabinet and pulled out a necklace with a broken chain. On it was a silver charm in the shape of a hand. “This belonged to Isaac.”

  Cold settled in Tom’s gut. “Could he have simply lost it?” he asked without much hope.

  “No. His mother gave it to him when he joined the MWP.” Cicero shook his head. “He would have torn this place apart to find it the moment he knew it was gone.”

  “Damn it.”

  “I want to follow Sloane and this other fellow.” Cicero stepped toward the door. “Doing it as a cat will be easiest.”

  Tom grabbed his arm. “I’m going with you.”

  Cicero hissed. “You can’t! Your big feet make too much noise. I can follow them on my own.”

  “And if they catch you?” Tom tightened his grip, unwilling to let Cicero go. “Sloane was behind Isaac’s disappearance. I won’t let the same thing happen to you.”

  Cicero’s lips parted. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then his jaw firmed, as if he’d come to a decision.

  “You have witch potential,” Cicero said, the words all but blurring together, as if he wanted to get them out as quickly as possible. “I know the tests said otherwise, but they were wrong.”

  The cold spread from Tom’s gut to encompass his spine. How the devil could Cicero know that? Maybe familiars could sense it somehow? But if so, then why the tests?

  “That means I can—can do something to let you see through my eyes,” Cicero went on. “You wouldn’t be with me physically, but you’d know if I got into trouble and needed rescue. Would that be enough?”

  “Some sort of hex?” Tom asked, confused.

  “No. It doesn’t matter now—there’s no time.” Cicero tugged against his hold. “Decide.”

  “Aye. What you suggested—let’s do it.”

  Cicero took a deep breath. “Then go down on your knees and close your eyes.”

  Tom obeyed. He heard Cicero’s slow exhale—then felt the softness of lips against the fragile skin of his right eyelid.

  Cicero’s hand caressed the side of his face. “Let me in, Thomas,” he whispered, then kissed the other eyelid.

  The fine hairs on Tom’s skin stood straight up, as if he’d been exposed to a lightning strike. Sparks flashed in the darkness behind his closed eyes. Strangely, the taste of blood filled his mouth, then was gone again.

  Tom’s heart raced, and he felt Cicero, bending over him. Breath on Tom’s cheek. And he couldn’t keep himself from tipping his head back and finding Cicero’s lips with his own.

  For a moment, Cicero didn’t respond, his mouth still against Tom’s. Then suddenly he was kissing back, tongue darting against Tom’s lips. Tom parted them tentatively, and Cicero slipped in, exploring his mouth, then daring Tom to do the same in return.

  Kissing was something else that never happened in the darkness of the barracks. Bill would have punched him in the mouth if he’d ever thought to try—which he hadn’t. But this…Tom felt drunk on it, desperately hard and wanting more. He wanted to shove Cicero down on the carpet under him, keep kissing while they tugged on each other, sucking tongues like cocks.

  Cicero tore free, breathing harshly. “Sloane,” he said.

  Shame killed Tom’s desire as surely as being dunked in icy water. They were meant to be working. Instead, here they were, acting like a pair of fools with no brain between the two of them.

  Cicero pressed the locking hex into Tom’s hand. “Put things to right, go back out to the
bar, and try to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary.”

  “But how do I see out of your eyes?” Tom asked. Something had happened when Cicero kissed his eyelids, but he still wasn’t sure what.

  “As soon as I’m in cat form, you’ll be able to.” Cicero eased the door open. “Just close your eyes, and you’ll be with me.”

  Then the man was gone, and a sleek shape darted out the door and vanished into the shadows.

  Cicero ran fast and low to the ground, pausing every few feet to look and listen. He could feel Tom with him, as though the witch peered over his shoulder, and the sensation was decidedly unsettling.

  Fur and feathers, what had he done?

  There were two steps to bonding. The second was for the witch to draw magic from the familiar, but that was only possible after the witch had first looked out of the familiar’s eyes.

  It didn’t mean anything. No need to panic. Yes, he’d taken the first step toward bonding with Tom, but it was hardly an irrevocable one. And the circumstances had demanded it.

  Tom’s refusal to let him go with no protection should have raised his hackles, but after finding Isaac’s broken necklace—not to mention the absinthe and familiar hexes—he’d been grateful for it. Cicero wanted to save Isaac; he had no desire at all to join him. Wherever Isaac was at the moment, Cicero couldn’t believe it would be pleasant.

  Fortunately, Sloane or his companion had left the door open to the outer hall, indicating the direction they’d gone in. If they’d lost him because Cicero wasted time kissing Tom…

  That had been unexpected. He hadn’t imagined Tom as the kissing type, were he to be entirely truthful. But then Tom had tipped his head back, lips tentative at first, then firming, the connection Cicero’s magic had forged burning in their blood all the while.

  God, what a mess this was turning into.

  Cicero padded to the hall and peered out carefully. It was deserted, but voices came from the direction of the cellar. He slunk down the corridor, belly almost on the floor, ears pricked forward and every whisker quivering. The voices became clearer, and his muscles tightened. Slow now. Slow and careful, because if he was caught…