“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.” Sloane lifted his glass. “A time of contemplation. Of family.” He swirled the glass thoughtfully. “Will you be attending mass?”
“Aye,” Tom said automatically. Then he wondered if it was the answer he should have given. Didn’t anarchists seek the downfall of the church as well as the government?
Sloane only nodded. “And where will you be receiving the Eucharist?”
Sweat crept down Tom’s back. Why the devil was Sloane asking him these things? “The Cathedral of the Holy Familiar.”
“Like a good Irish lad,” Kearney remarked. His hands were folded in front of him, as if to display his hexed gloves.
Sloane watched him with flat, cold eyes. A reptile familiar, Cicero had said, and Tom could well believe it. “What did you say you did before you came to work at our fine establishment?”
“Tended bar here and there. Mostly over on 11th Street.” Given the sheer number of saloons operating there, it had seemed the safest answer when he and Rook invented a back story for him.
It didn’t feel safe now. Nothing did.
“I see.” Sloane replenished his whiskey. He didn’t offer any more to Tom. “You’ve been spending time with our newest sensation.”
Tom’s mouth went dry. “Sir?”
“Cicero.” Sloane savored his drink. “You’ve visited his dressing room.”
“Mr. Ho asked me to take him a whiskey, sir.” Ordinarily he wouldn’t have informed on another man, but if it meant diverting Sloane’s suspicion, he’d do it happily.
“I see.” Sloane leaned back in his chair. “Just remember, I hired you to serve drinks. Not to stick it to some wop whore.”
Tom’s hands curled beneath the table. He imagined himself punching Sloane’s sneering mouth, then shaking him until the bastard apologized.
But if he did, he’d only find himself on the receiving end of a beating. And maybe worse, if Sloane suspected more was going on than a bit of cock sucking. Cicero certainly wouldn’t thank him for wrecking their investigation.
“Aye, sir,” he said steadily.
“I’m glad we had this little chat.” Sloane waved him off. “Back to the bar.”
Tom nodded and rose to his feet. He took a step away, when Sloane called, “Oh, and Halloran?”
Tom stopped. “Aye?”
Sloane’s grin showed too many teeth. “Merry Christmas.”
Cicero huddled on a doorstep in cat form, hoping his fur would prove better at keeping the wind out. The sky had spit out a mixture of rain and snow earlier in the evening, and the sidewalk was unpleasantly damp under his paws. He’d been watching the side door of the Rooster for half an hour since leaving, waiting for Tom to appear.
Just as he’d waited in the dressing room earlier. When Tom hadn’t joined him, he’d started to worry. Did Sloane suspect? Or had Tom, in some fit of misguided chivalry, decided to go into the tunnels alone?
But when he’d gone out to dance, there Tom had been, in his ordinary post behind the bar. Unlike most nights, though, he hadn’t so much as glanced at Cicero the entire time.
Something had gone wrong.
It was four in the morning, and the last of the customers booted out the door. Most of the other staff had already left, as had the other entertainers. So where was Tom?
The side door swung open, and a bulky shape appeared. Cicero’s tail perked up with relief. Tom walked along quickly, hands stuffed in his pockets, head down against the wind. Cicero fell in behind him, trotting along until they were out of sight of the Rooster. As soon as he could, he ducked into an alley and took human form again.
“And where the bloody hell have you been?” he demanded.
Tom jumped, both hands coming up in a fighting stance. Then he spotted Cicero and lowered them. “Good Lord, don’t do that! You’ll give a man apoplexy.” He hurried over to the alley.
“Give you apoplexy? What about me?” Cicero folded his arms over his chest. “I waited half the night for you. Do you know how worried I was when you didn’t come? I saw you when I danced, but you didn’t even look at me. So I waited on the street for you, freezing my whiskers off, and it took you for bloody ever to leave. And the sidewalk is wet, Thomas. Wet.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said. He reached out and took Cicero’s hand in his own, rubbing it for warmth. “Sloane talked to me. Someone—probably Ho—noticed I spend a little too much time with you after performances.” Tom’s mouth flattened. “Sloane said…he called you…”
Cicero could well guess. “At least tell me you pretended to agree with him.”
Tom didn’t look at all happy. “I didn’t punch him in the face as he deserved.”
“At least you had more sense than to try to defend my honor. Not that I have any to defend.”
“That ain’t true.” Tom’s hands tightened on his, tugging him closer. “Don’t say things like that.”
“I…” But Cicero didn’t know what to say, for once. He’d heard enough cruel things in his life that repeating them had become a kind of joke. Because somehow it was less painful if he said the words first, instead of hoping they wouldn’t be said at all, and then being disappointed.
Tom pulled him closer, in the stinking darkness of the alley, so their legs pressed together. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful. Now they’ll be watching us both.”
“We both should have been more careful,” Cicero admitted. He sighed and leaned against Tom, felt those warm arms slide around him. “The good news is, if Sloane hasn’t fired you, he probably doesn’t think you’re doing anything more than trying to get…well, what you actually got.”
Tom’s chest rippled with a laugh under his cheek. Cicero breathed deep, smelling cigarette smoke and sweat from the Rooster, underlain by wet wool. What would Tom’s skin smell like with nothing at all between them? “I hope you’re right.”
“I am.” Cicero leaned back slightly to look up at Tom’s face. “Sloane has absolutely no motive to keep you on otherwise. Unlike me, of course, who has made him a tidy pile of money.”
Tom nodded. It was hard to read his expression in the darkness—Cicero’s human eyes were a little better than ordinary, but nothing compared to his cat ones. But Tom seemed pensive, so Cicero went up on tiptoe and kissed him.
Tom’s mouth was shockingly warm after the cold air. His arms shifted, and Cicero murmured encouragement when he cupped a hand around Cicero’s arse, urging him closer.
Cicero wanted…he didn’t know what. Or rather, he knew exactly what. He could beg Tom to fuck him right here, up against the wall. But what had Tom said, about things he hadn’t done before?
Their lips parted, and Cicero took a reluctant step back. “We’ll work something out,” he said, his voice trembling just slightly. “The Rooster will be closed for the next two days. Do you think we might have a chance of sneaking in?”
“Possibly.” Tom shoved his hands in his pockets. “At least Sloane doesn’t seem to live there, far as I can tell. We’d have to be careful of any guards, or make sure he wasn’t in the office for some reason, but it could work.”
“Especially since you can get us past the alarm hexes,” Cicero added. “All right, then. Shall we try tomorrow?”
Tom shook his head. “Lots of people work a half day on Christmas Eve. Sloane might decide to be one of them, even if the resort is closed to customers. Safer to go on Christmas, I’d say.”
Cicero didn’t want to put it off…but he knew Tom was right. “All right. I’ll see you Christmas, then.”
Tom nodded…then stepped forward and gave Cicero a quick kiss. “Merry Christmas, Cicero.”
“Ciao, darling.” Cicero watched him walk away, hands in his pockets. When Tom was out of sight, he slipped back into cat form and scurried through the alleys and over the roofs, making for the familiar barracks at the MWP.
But he had the feeling that, tired as he was, it would be a long time before sleep found him.
Christmas Eve, and Tom sat
alone in his apartment, wondering if he ought to venture out to find dinner. The rain and snow had moved off, but the cold had deepened, making him reluctant to stray too far from the stove. The smells of cooking food permeated the tenement, a blend of boiled cabbage, pork, and potatoes. The faint sound of carolers drifted from the street outside, and for the first time in years he found himself humming along.
What was Cicero doing today? Did the familiars celebrate Christmas—or perhaps some of them did, and the rest went elsewhere, or joined in for the food? What was life in the familiar barracks like anyway? From what Cicero had hinted, it was preferable to what he’d left behind to join the MWP.
Tom hadn’t thought to miss the familiar as much as he did. They’d only been apart for a few hours, and yet their meeting tomorrow night seemed achingly far away.
There came a knock on his door. Tom frowned—he wasn’t expecting any visitors. Was one of his neighbors having some sort of trouble?
He opened the door to reveal Cicero on the other side. The familiar’s olive skin was flushed from the cold, and he wore his absurd scarlet overcoat and a thick black scarf. In one arm he cradled a bottle of wine, and in the other a covered basket from which the smell of hot garlic drifted, strong enough to make Tom’s eyes water. “Ciao, bello.”
“Cicero?” he asked, like a fool.
Cicero flashed him a grin. “In the fur, darling. Mind if I come in?”
Tom stepped back hastily. “Sorry—come in.” He shut the door after Cicero swanned past. “I was just thinking about you, actually.”
Cicero put down his burdens on Tom’s small table and slipped his coat from his shoulders. As always, he was perfectly poised and dressed, his hair oiled and his suit coat and vest immaculate. A spring of mistletoe stuck jauntily from his buttonhole. “Thinking about little old me?” He glanced coyly over his shoulder. “And what were you thinking? Was it naughty?”
“Wondering what you were doing, actually.” Tom crossed the room. “I figured you’d be spending the day with the other familiars, not bringing me dinner. And how did you know where I live?”
“As to why I’m here, it’s because I find you far more interesting.” Cicero removed a number of paper packages from the basket. “As for how, I found your address in your file.” He paused, eyes suddenly vulnerable. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course I don’t.” Tom crossed the room and touched Cicero’s cheek lightly. It felt smooth beneath his fingers; Cicero must have shaved before coming over. Cicero leaned into the touch, rubbing his cheek against Tom’s palm. “I’m always glad to see you.”
“Naturally.” Cicero looked around the apartment curiously. “Very orderly. Not much in the way of art or ornamentation. You and Dominic ought to get on like a house on fire.”
Tom had never stopped to consider what his apartment would look like to someone else. He’d never had anyone else here, which was a depressing enough thought on its own. The two rooms had the requisite furniture, enough to meet his needs, store his clothing, and little else. No photographs of loved ones, or postcards pinned to the wall to give it a bit of color. No personality, because some part of him had always thought of this life—this identity—as temporary.
Funny how he’d never realized that before.
Cicero nodded at the paper containers. “I hope you like Chinese food.”
“Well enough.” He’d eaten plenty when he’d been younger and closer to Chinatown. “Though it smells a bit more spicy than I’m used to.”
“Mmmm, I love a bit of spice.” Somehow, Cicero managed to make the simple statement sound utterly filthy. He opened the packages to reveal a buffet of noodles, chopped vegetables, and pork. “Now, pour us some wine, won’t you?”
They ate slowly, Tom because Cicero insisted on teaching him how to use chopsticks, and Cicero because he fussed over each dish, plucking out whatever interested him and leaving the rest. “I don’t know how anyone uses these things,” Tom groused as the noodles slid off the bamboo sticks yet again. His fingers felt even more thick and clumsy than usual.
Cicero fished out one of the little hot peppers—Tom had tried a tiny bite and nearly found his tongue on fire—and popped it whole into his mouth. “Practice,” he said. “As much as I like to pretend I do everything perfectly on the first try, I’ll admit—this once—it took me a while to get right.”
Tom grinned. “What, you ain’t infallible? Let me mark today on my calendar.”
“Very funny.” Cicero took a sip of his wine.
“Who taught you?” Tom asked. “And for that matter, where’d you learn the hoochie coochie? London?”
“One of the Chinese familiars taught me how to eat in a civilized fashion, instead of stabbing everything like a barbarian.” Cicero rolled his eyes. “I tried to remind her I’m a cat. Claws and teeth. Stabbing things is what I do.”
Tom snorted. “Aye. A murderous soul lurks behind your—”
“Don’t say cute.” Cicero pointed at him threateningly with the chopsticks. “In my cat form, I am elegant, graceful, beautiful, and enigmatic.”
“Your human form, too.”
Cicero’s lips curled into a smile, and he batted his lashes. “My, my, Thomas. You do talk sweet.”
Tom flushed. “And you talk nonsense.”
The familiar flung his head back and laughed. “I do, don’t I? To answer your question, I picked up Oryantal Dans from a lovely Turkish lad here in New York city. Men who dance are referred to as zenne. I kept up with it after we parted ways, because I enjoy it. And I assumed it would be a good way to get extra cash, should I ever need to.”
Cicero spoke so easily of “getting extra cash.” And his friend Isaac hadn’t only been performing on the stage at the Rooster. Had Cicero done such things himself, before joining the MWP? Bedded men for the promise of money, or a hot meal?
“It’s a good thing you did,” Tom said, forcing his mind away from such thoughts. It was none of his business.
“Quite.” Cicero sucked on one of the chopsticks, but in a distracted manner. Even so, the gesture sent a rush of blood south to Tom’s groin. “Do you miss your family?”
The unexpected question took Tom aback. “Aye,” he said, because it was true. “My brother especially.”
He was on dangerous ground now…but he wanted to give Cicero the truth. Or at least, as much of it as he safely could. “Danny was a good bit older than me, but none of the babies between us survived more than a couple of months. Maybe he felt he needed to look out for me especially after that, I don’t know.”
And Tom had repaid Danny by killing him.
Maybe it had been a mercy. Danny’s bloody eyes staring into his had held no sanity, and ragged chunks of flesh were caught in his teeth. “Break the hex,” Molly screamed in his memory. “Break it, Liam!”
So he did. And Danny had dropped dead at his feet, like a puppet with its strings cut.
The warmth of Cicero’s hand on his brought Tom back to the present. “What happened to him?” Cicero asked gently.
“He died.” Tom fixed his gaze on the chopsticks dangling loosely in his fingers. “It was an accident.” Because the lie was the best he could do right now, with Cicero regarding him with such tender concern.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Tom turned his hand over, palm up, and twined his fingers with Cicero’s. “I’m glad you came by today.”
Cicero smiled. “Me too. You won’t believe how insufferably boring Christmas is in the barracks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Cicero did, his commentary giving events a color they no doubt lacked on their own. Tom laughed at the right places, and soon enough his gloom slipped away.
They finished the wine, and Tom retrieved some relatively decent whiskey from his cabinet. He sat with his chin propped on his hand, listening to Cicero talk—and watching him, since his gestures and expressions were as much a part of the conversation as his words. He was so different from anyone Tom had
met before. So…bright? But that wasn’t the right word. Colorful, maybe. But that didn’t quite fit either.
He’d known, somehow, that Tom would be alone today. Just as Tom had been every Christmas since the Cherry Street Riots. Oh, he worked hard to get to know the people on his beat, the ones living in his tenement, because this was his home now.
But none of them knew him. They couldn’t, especially not at first, when memory of the so-called riots was fresh. He went out of his way to be friendly, cheerful, the sort of fellow who would buy you a round at the saloon, ask about your children, and lend a sympathetic shoulder when called upon. But whenever anyone tried to ask about his life, he gave the most superficial answer and directed the conversation back to them.
And it worked, mainly because people generally found themselves to be the most fascinating topic around. And after the first few terrifying months, the certainty that he’d be recognized, or say something incriminating, faded. His life became routine. Safe, in a way.
Before becoming Tom Halloran, he’d had neither safety nor routine. The change had been unexpectedly welcome, a relief of sorts, not to have to wonder whether there would be money for a roof over his head, or whether he’d be shot by police or angry waterfront guards, or beaten bloody by another tunnel gang. Except that respite had come at the cost of his entire family and everyone else he’d ever cared about. So he tried not to think too hard, just focused on surviving from one day to the next.
That’s what his life had become—not living, just surviving. Going through the motions, one day to the next, marking off the steps between cradle and grave in meaningless repetition.
Cicero didn’t live that way. Cicero was alive, gloriously so. And he made Tom feel alive, too.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Cicero asked.
“They ain’t worth that much,” Tom said ruefully. “Just listening to you, mostly.”
Cicero laughed. “I do ramble, don’t I? Thank goodness I’m so very fascinating.”
“Exactly what I was going to say.”
“Mmhmm,” Cicero murmured skeptically. He put his hand on Tom’s again, thumb lightly swiping across the backs of Tom’s fingers. “Perhaps we can find something else to do besides talk for a while.”
Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Page 12
