He’d never known anyone like Cicero, not in his whole life. And he didn’t want to go back to that, to not knowing, even if every ounce of common sense said he ought to.
Thank all the saints Cicero had only checked back three years in the MWP rogues gallery. The O’Connells had been witch-blooded, and between him and Danny, they’d ended up being pursued by the magical police rather than the ordinary.
Then again, for all Tom knew, the photos of the O’Connell gang might have been removed after the Cherry Street Riots. Most of them were dead, and with any luck Liam O’Connell was considered among the casualties, even if no body had ever been found. Maybe his picture was in a box somewhere, gathering dust.
Well, at least they were going to the regular police now, who kept their own rogues gallery. Because God forbid the two forces work together instead of bickering like a pair of dogs, each jealously guarding their own yard. At least it worked in Tom’s favor this time.
Today Cicero wore a heavy wool coat against the cold, but left it unbuttoned to display a red tie and striped vest. He seemed to flow along the sidewalk, sliding between knots of pedestrians, his hips sinuous. Beside him, Tom felt like a clumsy ogre, stomping along in his boots, his feet and shoulders too big and bulky.
Still, he doubted any officer at headquarters would jump to do the bidding of someone who looked and dressed like Cicero. “Let me do the talking,” Tom said as they approached.
Cicero glanced up at him with a sly smile. “Worried about the rivalry between the witch police and the regular police, darling?”
“Something like that.”
Cicero snorted. “All right. I’ll let you big men with your big sticks have at it. You don’t mind if I watch?”
Tom found himself torn between laughter and shock. “Could you have said that without making it sound utterly filthy?”
“Me?” Cicero replied. One of the uniformed men they passed on the steps outside stared at them. His expression changed to outrage when Cicero winked at him.
“Stop that!” Tom said, grabbing Cicero’s arm and hastening him to the door. “You’re going to end up with a nightstick somewhere you don’t want it. And I know how that sounded, so there’s no need for you to add anything.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Cicero said innocently. “You do have the most dirty mind, Thomas.”
Thank heavens, Cicero settled down once they were inside. True to his word, he remained in the background while Tom explained what they wanted, coming forward only to show his badge to the officer on duty.
It took far less time than Tom expected to find their quarry. “Karol Janowski,” Cicero said as they poured over the photo in the rogues gallery. “A known anarchist, arrested for assaulting the owner of a factory where he worked.”
“Aye.” Tom stared at the picture, committing it to memory. “So why is Sloane, a businessman if I’ve ever seen one, working with anarchists?”
Cicero turned away, his expression troubled. “I don’t know. But I have the feeling if we can find the answer, we’ll find Isaac.”
Cicero came to a halt just inside the doors of police headquarters. An ugly mix of snow and rain had started to spit from the sky outside. “On second thought, perhaps we should stay here.”
Tom caught his arm and guided him out. “In or out. You can’t just stand in the open door, letting the cold in.”
“Beast.” Cicero pulled his arm free and hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible. Puddles of slush were already collecting on the sidewalk, and he wove back and forth to avoid them.
“Anarchists,” Tom mused. “Do you think your friend Whistler was mixed up with them? Is that what Isaac wanted him to talk to you about?”
“Possibly.” Cicero flinched as a particularly large snowflake struck him in the face. “I don’t know.”
“No offense, but no one at the Rooster seems like the type to be throwing bombs and shooting people. Not the dancers, anyway—Kearney and Sloane are another matter.”
“It isn’t all bomb throwing,” Cicero replied testily. “Not everyone in the movement is violent, you know.”
Tom’s gait stuttered. “You’re a sympathizer, then?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Cicero shrugged. “I know some people with anarchist leanings from Techne.”
“Techne?”
“A bohemian café. One I spend my free time in, if you must know.” Cicero wasn’t certain why he felt he needed to defend his choices. “You should come some time. You might enjoy it.”
Tom appeared dubious, but didn’t comment. “What do you know about the anarchists, then?”
A man dressed in a black woolen coat and top hat stood on a busy corner, a mite box in his hands and a sign for the Charity Organization Society beside him. “A donation for the poor this holiday season?” he called to passers-by.
“The anarchists want to put an end to poverty,” Cicero said with a nod in the man’s direction. “Most of them are good people—and I don’t mean just the bohemian set, but the working men and women. They want fair wages, job security, so no man who works his fingers to the bone has to worry about whether his family will have enough coal to keep from freezing. But more—they want equality for everyone: women, blacks, Poles, familiars. Some of them believe in free love, including the right to marry or not for anyone, whether they’re of different races or the same sex. Votes for women and familiars.”
Tom nodded slowly. “I see the appeal.”
“Of course, it will never happen.” Cicero glowered at a Christmas display in a window. A tin Santa waved monotonously, though whether driven by magic or winding, he couldn’t tell at this distance. “They’re all living in a dream world. But Gerald always was a dreamer. Isaac, too.”
“Why did Isaac leave the MWP?” Tom asked, quietly enough Cicero could have pretended not to hear him over the cabs clattering past.
“He met his witch,” Cicero said, and hoped Tom would leave it at that. Jump to some mistaken conclusion, perhaps.
Tom frowned. “I don’t understand. Did the fellow—woman?—not want to work for the MWP?”
Damn it. But perhaps it would be better if Tom knew. If he understood how badly wrong everything could go. “Oh no, he did want to work for the MWP. He’d tested very high for witch potential, so he came by looking for a job. He was a big, tough fellow—a real man’s man, as they say.” Cicero was careful not to look at Tom. “He seemed friendly, outgoing. Good record. A good man. Isaac was smitten.”
Traffic had momentarily cleared, so he ran across the street, avoiding the deepest puddles. Snow fell more thickly now, clinging to his coat and trousers. And his shoes were a disaster, despite the care he’d taken.
He slowed on the other side, letting Tom catch up. “Why do I get the feeling things didn’t go as planned?” Tom asked.
“Isaac wasn’t certain how to approach him. How to tell him.” Cicero swallowed against the guilt tightening his throat. “Rook hadn’t been sure either, with Dominic. Rook and I shared an office back then, so I told him to stop being a feather brain and just tell Dominic. Of course Rook had to make everything far more complicated than it needed to be, and almost got the three of us killed in the process. But it all worked out in the end, so I…I pushed Isaac when I shouldn’t have. I thought I was doing him a favor.”
The cold air stung his nose as he drew a deep breath. “Isaac got his witch alone and told him. The next time I saw Isaac…he ended up in the hospital for three days. The stronzo couldn’t stand the idea of bonding with a Jewish fairy, so he beat Isaac bloody.”
Tom swore under his breath. “I hope he got what was coming to him.”
Cicero shrugged. “Ferguson threw him out. Blacklisted him, for all the good it might do.” He tipped his head back and stared at the uncaring gray sky. “We were supposed to be safe. That was what the MWP promised us. What Isaac believed. What we all believed. He couldn’t come back, after that. Not to the very halls where he’d almost died,
thinking nothing bad could happen to him inside the Coven’s walls. It broke something inside him, and I…I couldn’t help. Well of course I couldn’t; it was all my fault to start with.”
“To blazes with that,” Tom said shortly. “It was the fault of the bastard who thought he needed to hurt someone else to feel better about himself.”
Cicero glanced up in surprise, saw Tom’s brows drawn together in a glower. Tom caught his look, then shrugged. “I’ve met the type, plenty of times. The biggest braggers at the bar, usually, who can’t wait to talk about how many men they’ve licked in a fight. Glad to let their fists fly—at least, against anyone smaller. Cowards the lot of them.”
“Yes,” Cicero agreed, and tried not to sound as surprised as he felt. Maybe taking Tom to meet the crowd at Techne wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
The Coven lay before them. Cicero darted up the marble steps. “Thank God,” he exclaimed as they entered the building. He shook himself hard, flinging as much water from his coat and trousers as possible, then pulled off his hat and waved it at arm’s length. “I’m not leaving again until it’s as dry out there as it is in here.”
“We have to go to the Rooster tonight,” Tom reminded him.
“Isaac had better appreciate this,” Cicero muttered. He led the way back to his office. “The real question is, why is Sloane involved with anarchists? I think we can assume those mysterious payments ‘for the benefit of mankind’ were going to Janowski.”
Tom ducked as an owl glided unconcernedly down the hall. “He seems too practical to be caught up in dreams of revolution, I’ll give you that. What do these anarchists think about saloons open on Sunday and reforms and the like?”
“They’re all for letting a man drink or fornicate as he wants.” Cicero smiled wryly. “I see your point, though. The reformers have probably already gotten wind Sloane has a man performing the hoochie coochie on his stage. I imagine they’re waiting to shut the Rooster down until after New Year’s, so the new consolidated government can take the credit and make a statement against depravity.”
“New Year’s.” Tom met his gaze. “New Year’s Eve was circled on Sloane’s calendar. And he said he needed hexes ‘a couple of days before.’ Before New Year’s, maybe?”
“We’re missing something.” Cicero paused outside his office. “Some piece of information that will make sense of all this. We need to get into those tunnels.”
“Agreed.” Tom leaned against the wall. “We’ll do it tonight. Be sure to slip into something more than your hoochie coochie outfit first.”
Cicero grinned. “But if we do come across violent anarchists, how else am I to distract them while you knock them over the head?”
Tom snorted. “I’m sure they’d be distracted, all right. I’d best go change out of my uniform. Tonight?”
Cicero nodded and held out his hand. Tom’s palm was warm against his as they shook, and Cicero gave his fingers a little extra squeeze before letting go. “Tonight.”
“Cicero!” Noah called from behind the counter at Techne. “Come in; come in!”
“Ciao, darling,” Cicero called back, his gaze quickly passing over the café. He’d hoped to find Leona here, but there was no sign of her amidst the customers scattered around the tables. Of everyone Cicero knew, she was most likely to have an idea as to any anarchist leanings Gerald might have had. Leona openly subscribed to anarchist newspapers, had attended more than one lecture by Emma Goldman, and never hesitated to debate politics with any and all comers. Personally, Cicero found her exhausting, but at the moment he would have happily debated anything she liked if it might give him some insight.
Noah waved him over, so Cicero allowed himself to be diverted. “Have you seen Leona?”
“Not in the last day or two,” Noah said with a small frown. “Why?”
Could Leona possibly be involved with any of this? Cicero didn’t want to believe it…but she had known both Gerald and Isaac. If she knew Janowski as well…
“I thought of something clever for one of her protest signs,” Cicero replied lightly. “Ah well. Her loss.”
Noah glanced around to see if any customers needed him. “Come into the back with me for a moment.”
As soon as they were alone, Noah caught Cicero’s hands in both of his. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
Noah’s hands were as soft as his own. When they’d fucked in the past, there had been no rough calluses to pull on tender skin. And after, Noah had read poetry while Cicero lounged in a borrowed silk robe, drinking absinthe and whiling away the afternoon in a soft haze.
It all felt like a soft haze, suddenly—his life before Gerald’s death and Isaac’s disappearance. After the mess he’d made of Isaac’s life, it was easier to wrap himself in a cocoon of music and banal poetry, the sort that challenged just enough to seem daring without actually making him think or feel. Until Isaac vanished, and he realized he’d managed to let down his friend a second time.
And then he walked into a room with Tom Halloran in it, and everything changed again.
“I’m fine,” he said, squeezing Noah’s hands before gently pulling away. “Truly.”
The worried line between Noah’s brow eased slightly. “I hear you’re quite the hit over at the Rooster.” A sultry smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe I’ll come and see you.” He ran a finger along the line of Cicero’s jaw. “I hear they have rooms upstairs. Not that we couldn’t just fuck here, but wouldn’t it feel naughty?”
“Terribly,” Cicero lied, even as he shifted back from Noah’s touch. “I’m afraid I can’t stay.”
Noah frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No, of course not. Just tired.” Cicero managed a wan smile.
Noah moved closer, reclaiming the space Cicero had put between them. “You’ve been working too hard. I know you said you needed time, but surely you’ve come to realize displaying yourself for the vulgar masses is no life for an artist like yourself. Move in with me now, so I can take care of you. I’ll make the arrangements, and we’ll bond in a few days.”
It shouldn’t have come as a shock—they’d discussed it, hadn’t they? Fur and feathers, Cicero had even given the thought serious consideration. So why did it feel so wrong now?
“I can’t,” Cicero said. “Not—not yet. I’m sorry, Noah. It’s nothing to do with you.”
Noah folded his arms over his chest. “I know you said you needed time, but—”
“And I meant it.” Cicero stepped decisively back. “Just give me until after New Year’s, all right?” Surely he would have come to his senses by then, and either agree to the bond with Noah, or find a suitable witch at the MWP.
Except the very thought made him feel as though something withered and died deep inside.
Noah’s scowl vanished instantly. “I was going to suggest after New Year’s—a new city, a new year, and a new life for us. See—we think just alike.” He put his hands on Cicero’s shoulders. “I understand if you want to wait to move in. But do say you’ll come to the Christmas party I’m going to have upstairs.” His smile turned conspiratorial. “I have a surprise present in store. Everyone will be there.”
Everyone probably included Leona. Cicero managed a smile. “Of course, darling. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Tom spent the evening on edge. The Rooster was once again crowded with customers, and Ho had kept him working the ice crank. The bartender seemed put out with him—was it because Tom had taken so long coming back from delivering Cicero’s drink last night? Maybe Ho suspected what they’d been up to—at least, the part that involved Tom’s hand shoved down the front of Cicero’s pants.
So long as no one suspected the rest. Sloane must have believed the movement he’d glimpsed last night had been nothing more than a rat, because Cicero had already danced twice without giving Tom any subtle signals to indicate anything had gone wrong. Which meant they still had a chance at getting into the tunnels tonight, if they timed things carefully.
/> If Ho thought Tom had been gone for too long last night, he’d be furious tonight. There was an unpleasantly high chance that he’d go to Sloane or Kearney once Tom disappeared on him. And if they went into the basement, they’d see the crates had been moved to expose the tunnel door.
Which meant Tom and Cicero had exactly one chance to do this. And that they’d best find another exit.
Of the latter, Tom was confident. He’d grown up in the tunnels near the waterfront, first watching Da and Danny disappear into them, then joining in on their raids on the docks. He might not know this set of tunnels, but he felt confident he could navigate them with less trouble than most.
In the best case, they’d go down, find the place deserted but full of evidence they could take back to Ferguson, and slip out through a basement or manhole.
If the crowd hadn’t peaked yet, it surely would soon. Cicero didn’t have another performance for an hour. Now was the time.
Tom took a deep breath and stepped away from the ice machine.
“Halloran!” Kearney called.
Tom froze. “Aye, boss?” he asked, hoping he sounded casual.
Kearney jerked his head toward a shadowed corner of the room. “Sloane wants to talk to you.”
Tom’s heart thudded against his ribs. Did Sloane suspect after all?
He tried to keep his gait slow and his stance easy as he walked across the room, threading in between tables. Men in sack suits and frock coats rubbed shoulders, as did a few women wearing trousers themselves. He caught some appreciative looks, which he ignored.
Sloane sat alone at the farthest table, sipping whiskey and playing solitaire. Tom slid into the seat across from him, surreptitiously wiping his palms against his trousers. Kearney took up position behind Sloane, glowering at Tom. “Evening, Mr. Sloane,” Tom said with all the politeness he could muster.
“Drink?” Sloane asked, picking up the half-filled whiskey bottle. Tom nodded, and Sloane poured them each a measure of amber liquid.
Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Page 11
