Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk

by Jordan L. Hawk

“Why shouldn’t I?” Tom asked, bewildered.

  “To begin with you’re…” Cicero considered him a moment. “Steady. Not easily upset. Whereas they’re artists, which means everything must be terribly dramatic at all times.”

  Tom snorted, breath puffing steam in the cold. “I don’t see why you’d worry about that. After all, I like you well enough, don’t I?”

  “I’m wounded to the quick.” Cicero fluttered his eyes and put a hand to his chest in mock affront. “Oh, look, here we are.”

  The café was dark, its curtains drawn, but Cicero led the way down an alley and around the back. “Cicero!” called a woman from the fire escape above.

  Tom did his best not to gape. The woman was dressed in a man’s suit and tie, though the first few buttons of the collar were undone, and the tie hung loosely around her shoulders. Her hair was cut shockingly short, and she held a cigar in one hand and a glass of absinthe in the other.

  “Leona!” Cicero called back enthusiastically. He climbed the escape, and Tom followed, even though it seemed a strange way to arrive at a party. “How are you, darling?”

  “Drunk,” she replied, holding up her glass. She hugged Cicero clumsily, eying Tom over his shoulder. “You brought a new friend?”

  “This is Thomas,” Cicero replied. “He tends bar at The Spitting Rooster.”

  “Erm, hello,” Tom said uncertainly.

  Leona looked him up and down. “He certainly is large.”

  “You haven’t seen the half of it,” Cicero told her with a wink. Tom felt his cheeks heat as Leona let out a whoop of laughter.

  “Any idea what sort of surprise Noah has in store for us later?” she asked Cicero.

  “None at all.” Cicero blew a kiss at her, then grabbed Tom’s hand and dragged him into the apartment through the window, which stood open despite the cold. Tom quickly realized why—the room on the other side was packed with people, enough that the heat of their bodies turned the atmosphere to stifling only a few feet from the window.

  And what people they were. Tom wasn’t sure where to look. Someone had scattered piles of pillows around the floor; two men reclined on one pile, smoking hashish from a hookah and arguing loudly in German. Women wearing men’s coats, some with trousers, stood around a piano, where a man played with more enthusiasm than talent. Another woman lounged nearly nude, while her companion sketched her form furiously. The air smelled of alcohol, sweat, and hashish.

  Cicero slipped through the crowd with the grace of a cat twining through a forest of legs. Everywhere he went, people called out to him. Clearly he was well-known in the group. Tom received a few curious looks as he hurried along in Cicero’s wake.

  The man at the piano stopped playing. “Cicero! Have you brought a new friend?”

  Tom’s blood surged as every eye turned to him. He’d spent the last eight years trying to blend in, and being stared at by so many was disconcerting to say the least.

  “This is Thomas,” Cicero replied. “He tends bar at the Rooster and is very sweet. So play nice.”

  Sweet? Cicero thought he was sweet?

  “Aw,” one of the women pouted. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  The remark drew a round of laughter. As they crossed the room, the door leading to another room opened and a tall man with sleek black hair stepped in. “Cicero!” exclaimed the newcomer. “My muse has returned to my side!”

  Then he pulled Cicero close and kissed him, to the cheers and catcalls of their friends.

  Tom’s limbs seemed to go numb. Who was this man? And why the devil hadn’t Cicero mentioned him before?

  A sort of creeping dread settled in his belly. He’d never asked if Cicero had other commitments. He’d assumed a man with a lover wouldn’t suck someone else’s cock in the back room of a questionable resort, let alone spend the night in his bed. But what had Cicero said, when he spoke of the anarchists he knew, some of whom were probably in this very room? About their beliefs in free love?

  Saint Mary, he’d been a fool.

  Cicero pushed the other man away. “Noah, I told you before I’d come to your party.”

  “I know, but I’ve missed you terribly.” Noah all but pouted. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”

  Cicero twined his arm through Tom’s. “I’ve been busy,” he purred, glancing up at Tom through thick lashes. “Have you had absinthe before, Thomas?”

  At least Cicero had pushed the other man—Noah—away and laid claim to Tom’s arm. Maybe Tom had read things wrong, and they weren’t lovers after all. Maybe Noah just wanted to be. Or maybe it was just the way these people acted amongst themselves, away from the public eye.

  “Nay,” he said, resisting the urge to grab Cicero and make for the door. Or the window, whichever got them out of here the quickest. Things had been so much simpler back at the apartment, when they were alone together.

  “Then let’s introduce you to the green fairy,” Cicero replied with a wicked grin. He led Thomas to the table where a number of bottles of absinthe waited, along with an absinthe fountain filled with ice water, slotted spoons, a bowl of sugar cubes, and several stacks of hexes.

  Cicero released Tom’s arm to prepare their drinks. He placed a slotted spoon on each glass, then added a sugar cube. The fountain dripped the cold water over the sugar into the absinthe; when it hit the spirits in the glass, the liquor went from poisonous green to a sort of cloudy mint.

  “Hex, darling?” Cicero indicated the cheap paper hexes. “They amplify the hallucinogenic affects of the drink. It can be very entertaining.”

  Tom shook his head quickly. One of the other partygoers tutted loudly. “Your friend needs to relax,” he told Cicero.

  Cicero gave him an unfriendly look. “And who are you?”

  Apparently Tom wasn’t the only newcomer in the bunch. “Augustine Van Wyck,” he replied, not bothering to hold out his hand to shake. “Our new mayor is my cousin.”

  “Several times removed, isn’t that right, Auggie?” asked Leona, strolling up to refill her drink.

  Auggie scowled. “Yes,” he muttered.

  “I’m abstaining from hexes myself tonight,” Cicero said. He handed Tom one of the prepared drinks. “Mazel tov.”

  The stuff tasted like licorice and was utterly vile. Tom nearly spat his back into the glass, only choking it down with an effort. “Mmm,” Cicero said, sipping his. “Good, isn’t it?”

  The evening only went downhill from there. The crowd ebbed and flowed, and soon Cicero had been swallowed into it, drawn into an argument about poetry by some of his friends. Tom wandered for a bit, making an effort to smile and nod whenever someone caught his eye.

  He hadn’t felt so out of place since his first days on the police force. At least then he’d had some chance of successfully pretending to be something he wasn’t. His chances of convincing anyone here that he was a bohemian were about as good as convincing them he was a chair.

  All around him, people argued vociferously over styles of painting, or which composer was a true master and which an unqualified hack. Others smoked or ate hashish, while downing large quantities of hexed absinthe. Artists sketched, poets recited, and a knot of naked people were doing things on one of the piles of cushions that caused Tom to look away hastily. Even his experiences on the force and at the Rooster hadn’t prepared him for this.

  Did Cicero ever join in such…orgies? Would he expect Tom to do the same?

  Eventually he managed to find a slightly quieter corner, where he could pretend to sip on his absinthe and simply watch the other party goers. He didn’t see either Cicero or Leona. Maybe they’d gone back onto the fire escape.

  “So tell me…Thomas, was it?…you met my Cicero at the Rooster?” Noah asked.

  Tom started—he hadn’t noticed the other man’s approach over the noise of the party. How had he let himself get so distracted?

  He glanced at Noah, who was only a few inches shorter than him. Did Cicero prefer taller men? Certainly they weren’t much
alike otherwise. Noah was slender and dark-haired, his suit far more fashionable than anything Tom had ever owned in his life.

  And the way he’d grabbed Cicero and kissed him, as though he had the right…

  “I tend the bar,” Tom replied stiffly. He wanted to add “and he ain’t ‘your’ Cicero,” but managed to restrain his tongue. Cicero wouldn’t thank him for starting a fight.

  Noah arched a perfect brow. “Oh? I thought that duty fell to Mr. Ho.”

  “Visited before, have you?” Tom asked. “Mr. Ho mixes most of the cocktails. I crank the ice crusher, bring up things from the basement, and pour the beer.” Surely that would be enough to satisfy whatever curiosity Noah had about him.

  “Hmm.” Noah didn’t seem impressed. “Tell me, Thomas, do you have witch potential?”

  What the hell? Tom looked around, but no one else was paying the slightest attention. They were all captivated by their own dramas, laughing and singing and arguing. Why the devil hadn’t Cicero warned Tom about Noah? Told him they were going to a party thrown by…whatever Noah was to Cicero. An ex-lover, or semi-ex-lover, or a not-at-all-ex-lover. Did Cicero mean to carry on with both of them?

  Or had Tom just been a distraction? Cicero’s version of slumming? A bit of rough in between more sophisticated lovers, brought to the party to entertain the rest and maybe provoke jealousy in Noah?

  “Aye,” he said, leveling a cool gaze on Noah. “Cicero says I do.”

  Noah’s hands shot out, seizing Tom’s lapels. “Don’t get any ideas,” Noah said in a low voice. “Cicero is my familiar. We’re going to bond after the new year. I assume he told you?”

  It shouldn’t have mattered. It really, truly, shouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference. It wasn’t as though Tom had ever considered bonding with a familiar, not with all of the secrets he had no choice but to keep. But it hurt, somehow, that in all the times they’d spoken of witches and familiars, Cicero hadn’t shared this bit of information.

  Tom had been a damned fool, thinking there was a connection between them that went beyond the physical. That they were friends, at least.

  “Ain’t none of my business,” Tom grated out. “Now, let go of my coat.”

  Instead of releasing Tom, Noah twisted the lapels, trying to drag Tom down to his level. Tom set his spine, even though the collar cut into the back of his neck. “I know what you’re thinking,” Noah said, the words nearly a snarl. “You think you’re going to use Cicero to get a better job. Become a witch and make money, instead of working in some dive the rest of your life. But he belongs to me.”

  Tom’s hands curled into fists. “Cicero belongs to himself,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice level. “Now. Let. Go. Of. My. Coat.”

  “I fucked him.” Noah’s glittering eyes took on a sly expression. “Right over there, on those pillows. Over and over. You’re just an unwelcome—”

  Tom shoved him. Noah’s grip came loose, and he fell back into the wall. His outflung hand struck a picture, and it tumbled to the floor with a crash of shattered glass and broken wood.

  The party was going wonderfully. Cicero relaxed amidst his friends, replying to their banter, lapping up their attention. Not to say he hadn’t gotten plenty of attention over at the Rooster, but that was different. Work, whereas this was purely fun. He flirted outrageously and without consequence with the ladies at the piano, none of them meaning a word of it. The absinthe warmed his belly, and a tension he hadn’t even been aware of slid away like water from his coat.

  Leona climbed back out the window. It seemed as good a time as any, so Cicero slipped out after her. “Cigarette?” she asked upon spotting him.

  He hunched into his coat, silently cursing the biting wind. “Please.”

  She gave him one from her case, then lit it for him. The tobacco was laced with hashish, and the edges of the world took on a pleasant softness as they smoked together.

  Cicero held up his drink for a toast. “To Gerald,” he said.

  Sorrow flashed across her face, and she clinked her glass against his. “Gerald. I do miss that boy. When I heard what he’d done…I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Neither could I.” Cicero took another drag from his cigarette. “His roommate mentioned a friend, and I wondered if you knew each other. Karol Janowski?”

  Leona’s eyes widened slightly. “Gerald was friends with Janowski?”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Unfortunately.” Leona leaned against the rail, her mouth an angry slash. “He’s just the sort of anarchist that gives the whole movement a bad name. Always going on about ‘propaganda of the deed,’ as though murder is going to solve anything. His kind adds fuel to the fire, so when agents provocateur start something like the Haymarket affair, the police and politicians can use his words to condemn us all.” She shook her head savagely. “Nonviolent resistance, Cicero. That’s what will change the world. Show the people that the real threat to their safety comes from a corrupt government enslaved to the whims of rich men who would work the rest of us to death for their profits.”

  “Of course, darling. But Gerald didn’t seem the violent type.”

  “No.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “I didn’t believe he could do what he did. But if he was in with Janowski…maybe he’d changed.”

  Perhaps. Or maybe Gerald hadn’t agreed with Janowski’s methods. If he’d spoken of his fears to Isaac, that would have been important enough for Isaac to turn to the MWP. Even if he hadn’t been able to convince Gerald to come with him, Isaac surely meant to keep his meeting with Cicero and tell him whatever he knew.

  Someone must have found out. Isaac had been abducted, and Gerald hexed. Not that they had any proof yet a hex had been responsible, but something had happened to him and to Barshtein both.

  Had Barshtein known Janowski as well? Killed, as Gerald had been, for getting too deeply involved, then wanting back out?

  But involved in what? Did Janowski and his violent anarchists have some plot afoot?

  “So Janowski is up to no good?” Cicero had to tread carefully—though it seemed unlikely Leona had anything to do with what was going on, he didn’t want to seem too suspicious.

  “Probably,” she said darkly. “We had a few mutual friends, before I realized just what sort of anarchy he was advocating.”

  “He’s open about his feelings, I take it?”

  “Open? He ran a small newspaper out of a falling-down warehouse off Clarkson, near the docks. But it shut down suddenly a while ago. Maybe he couldn’t afford the printers ink anymore.” She shrugged.

  Cicero’s heart beat faster. “Do you recall the address?”

  Leona frowned slightly. “Why?”

  “I just wanted to talk to him about Gerald.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie. “What Gerald did was such a shock…I’m trying to understand.”

  “Of course.” Leona’s expression softened. “Though I don’t know if he’s still there.”

  She gave him the address. He needed to talk to Tom, urgently, so they could decide what to do with this new information. Cicero took a step toward the window, just as the sound of breaking glass cut through the chatter of the party.

  Cicero slid back into the now-silent apartment and froze at the tableau before him. Noah lay on the floor, the painting in ruins around him, his hands held up to protect himself.

  And over him loomed Tom. Fists clenched. Mouth tight. Nostrils flared. Just like all the big, angry men who had loomed over Cicero, before he fled to the MWP.

  “Help!” Noah cried.

  Old fear tightened Cicero’s chest instinctively, but he thrust it aside and shoved his way through the crowd. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

  Tom’s fists uncurled, and he looked up. “Cicero—”

  “He hit me!” Noah exclaimed.

  “I didn’t!” Tom extended his hand to help Noah up, but Noah scrambled back away from him. Tom let it fall to his side. “I asked you to let go of my coat. You wouldn’t, so I
pushed you away. I didn’t hit you, and I didn’t shove you hard enough to bring down the painting. You pulled it down yourself.”

  He sounded…not exactly calm, but not in a rage. Not like a man who’d just turned violent. Cicero grabbed Noah’s arm and pulled him to his feet. At least Noah didn’t seem hurt.

  “Why would I do that?” Noah demanded.

  Tom’s blue eyes were arctic. “Maybe the same reason you said the things you did about Cicero.”

  Wonderful. Just wonderful. Cicero could practically feel the attention of everyone in the room, avidly fixed on them in the hopes of a bit of drama. “Talking about me, Noah?” he asked as lightly as he could. “I hope it was at least the really good gossip.”

  Someone snickered. Tom didn’t, and neither did Noah. Instead they glared at each other like a pair of stage villains about to pull out daggers. After a moment, though, Tom shifted his gaze to Cicero. The anger had drained away from his expression, leaving behind an unexpected pool of misery. “I ought to go.”

  “I think you should,” Noah replied. “And don’t come back, you bog-trotting mick.”

  Tom’s jaw clenched. He turned his back on Noah and strode toward the door. Cicero swore and started after him.

  Noah’s hand closed around Cicero’s wrist. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going with Tom,” Cicero replied, tugging against Noah’s hold. “I don’t feel like partying any more.”

  Noah’s fingers tightened. “I barely spoke to you tonight. And you haven’t seen my surprise yet. You can’t leave.”

  What the devil was wrong with Noah lately? “I don’t care about your bloody ‘surprise,’ and I can leave if I please.”

  “You’re my familiar!”

  Cicero felt as though he’d accidentally touched a live wire, an unpleasant sort of shock racing through him. “I never agreed to bond with you,” Cicero said coldly. He jerked free. “I’m not your familiar, and I’m bloody well not your pet.”

  He turned his back on Noah and made for the door and Tom. Leona gestured for his attention, but Cicero ignored her.

  “Come along, Thomas,” he said, and strode out the door Tom opened for him. It closed behind them with a decisive thump.