Ferguson sighed heavily. “Until after the new Police Board is sworn in on the first, yes.”
“So no one’s gone to question Sloane?” Tom asked.
“That’s right,” Ferguson said, meeting Tom’s gaze squarely.
Tom nodded thoughtfully. “And Sloane and the anarchists got no way of knowing the explosion at the warehouse was anything but an accident? The two men hauled in ain’t been allowed contact with the outside world?”
“Precisely.”
“So in theory, they don’t know what happened. Why did the place go up? Is anyone onto them? They don’t have answers. A smart fellow like Sloane ain’t going to just run, not unless he’s sure the police are on their way. When no official force shows up knocking on his door, he’s going to relax.”
“So?” Cicero demanded. “What does that matter, if we’re not allowed to investigate?”
Tom shrugged. “I ain’t MWP. The Police Board might have yelled at Chief Ferguson here, but my captain ain’t told me to go back to the beat.”
A small smile touched Athene’s lips. “I said he was smart.”
“I’m afraid informing your captain seems to have slipped my mind,” Ferguson said. “And will probably continue to do so for the foreseeable future.”
Maybe there was some hope of salvaging this, then. “So Thomas and I go back to the Rooster, and…what? Try to find evidence even the bloody Police Board can’t ignore?”
Ferguson sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, Cicero, you are MWP. Halloran is going to have to finish this alone.”
The world seemed to narrow in, his vision tightening to focus on Ferguson’s face. “Like hell he is,” Cicero snarled. “If we had any doubts at all as to how dangerous these people are, last night put paid to them. I’m not letting Thomas walk in there with no one at his back!”
“I’ll be fine,” Tom said, because of course he did. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Talk to your friends among the ferals, Cicero,” Athene suggested. “I’m sure there’s someone—”
“Who can what? Take my place somehow?” Cicero’s nails bit into his palms. “Get a job at a moment’s notice, play at being a detective? I’m the only choice, and you bloody well know it.”
She snapped her teeth together angrily, like the clack of an owl’s beak. “There is no choice.”
The world seemed to settle around him, much as it had when he’d first laid eyes on Tom in this very office. Old fear made his hands shake, because he remembered what life had been like before the MWP. When he’d been on his own.
But he’d almost let old fears cost him the chance to get to know Tom. And he wasn’t alone any more.
“You’re right. There isn’t.” He tore off his familiar’s badge and flung it on Ferguson’s desk. “I quit.”
“Are you going to be all right?” Tom asked uncertainly.
Cicero sat by the window of Tom’s apartment, slumped over the boxes and bags that represented all that he owned in the world. Clothing, mostly, from what little Tom had seen. He hadn’t been allowed in the familiar barracks while Cicero packed; that territory was apparently off limits to anyone but the familiars themselves.
“Of course,” Cicero said with a careless shrug. “Cats always land on their feet.”
Tom couldn’t even imagine what Cicero must be feeling now. As for himself, he was damned angry the Police Board couldn’t see past their desire to punish the MWP whenever the chance arose. Cavanaugh was serving his time in Sing Sing, wasn’t he? What more did they want?
And of course it was people like Cicero who paid the price for their vindictiveness. They ought to be pinning a medal on Cicero, not forcing him to choose between his safety and everyone else’s.
At least Tom could help with that. “You can stay here as long as you like,” he said. “I won’t…you know…expect anything in return.”
It drew a shadow of a smile from Cicero. “Now that is disappointing, tesoro.”
“Didn’t say I’d turn anything down if you offered,” Tom pointed out with a return grin. “But I mean it. I can sleep out here, and you can have the bed, if you want.”
“I don’t.” Cicero rose to his feet and stepped closer. He ran his hands down Tom’s chest, not seductively, but more as if he just craved the touch. “You don’t seem worried about your neighbors gossiping, I must say. A fairy staying with big, strong Thomas Halloran. What will they think?”
Tom shrugged awkwardly. “I look after my neighborhood as best I can. But I don’t owe them my entire life. If they want to talk about me, let them. And if it turns nasty…well. I been through worse.”
Might still be through worse, if Phelps decided to move against him. Having Cicero here complicated the situation, to say the least. But what other choice did Tom have? He couldn’t throw Cicero out on the street, tell him to find someone else to stay with. Not and look himself in the eye ever again.
Besides, the idea of having Cicero around all the time, even temporarily, had a certain appeal. And not just because they’d fall asleep and wake up in the same bed.
Cicero’s smile was sad. “So have I,” he said, as if reminding himself as well as Tom.
“It was brave, what you did,” Tom said, taking Cicero’s hands in his. “I mean that. Walking away from the MWP, knowing they won’t protect you any more than they protected Isaac…that took real courage.”
Cicero’s peridot eyes widened in surprise, but he seemed at a loss for words. So Tom just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m proud to know you, cat,” he whispered. “Now, we’d best get ready to go to the Rooster for the evening shift.”
“You’re right.” Cicero dabbed at his eyes, careful not to disturb the kohl around them. “The tunnels, do you think?”
“Aye. We’ve only seen bits and pieces so far—Sloane’s office, the warehouse. What we ain’t found is what ties them together and makes sense of all the parts.” Tom stripped off his coat and exchanged it for the one he habitually wore to the Rooster. “Every instinct I have says we’ll find the answer down in the tunnels that link the two.”
Cicero took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Agreed. It’s all up to us now, and to hell with the MWP. We’re getting Isaac back and sending Sloane to prison no matter what.”
Unfortunately, their plan to sneak into the tunnels was once again scuttled, this time almost as soon as they arrived.
Stepping into the Rooster felt different than it had before. Tension curled beneath Cicero’s skin, and it was an effort to wave at the other performers, to smile and nod at Sloane.
At Kearney, who’d hit him with the hex that first day, testing to see if he was truly unbonded.
Then, he’d had the certainty that the MWP would come in force if anyone tried to restrain him. And yes, it had still been dangerous, but it wasn’t the same. Because now the only thing he had left to rely on was himself.
And Tom.
If there was anything good about this disaster of a day, it was Tom’s absurd attempt at chivalry. He hadn’t even suggested bringing in a cat-sized bed, just offered his own, as if there was anywhere else in the apartment he could fit lying down. Other than the floor, presumably, which no doubt he would have taken without complaint if Cicero had agreed to such nonsense.
Probably Tom would have done the same for anyone. But that didn’t make it—him—any less special.
Cicero went to the back and readied himself for his first performance. He kept a closer ear out than before, starting at every footstep. Fur and feathers, if Sloane or Kearney saw him so jumpy, they’d start wondering why. He changed into his hoochie coochie outfit, fixed the kohl around his eyes, then applied rouge to his cheeks and lips.
Enough. He had to calm down. Perhaps a drink at the bar would do it. Not to mention it would give him an excuse to talk to Tom, without raising Sloane’s ire.
The main room was still empty of customers, and Ho mercifully absent from behind the bar. Not that Cicero disliked the man
, but he’d insist on serving Cicero himself.
“Glass of wine, if you please, Thomas,” he said, leaning on his elbow on the bar. “And dear God, don’t water it. I had to spend Christmas with the relatives, don’t you know.”
“Horrible,” Tom said dryly, with a glance at the fellow pushing a broom around the room. He poured the wine, then pushed it across the bar, lowering his voice as he did so. “I’ve bad news. Kearney has a guard on the cellar.”
“Blast.” Cicero took a sip of the wine and glanced around the room. Neither Kearney nor Sloane were anywhere to be seen. “Any idea as to why?”
“I asked Ho what that was about, and he said Kearney claimed some booze was stolen.”
“All right, change of plan. We’ll just have to fall back on an earlier idea.” Cicero didn’t like making the suggestion, but he didn’t see they had any choice. “I’ve talked to the other performers, and I have a list of Isaac’s regulars. It’s possible one of them is with the anarchists, or knows something about his disappearance.”
Tom wiped down the bar with a rag, pausing to polish the brass rail. “Possible, but how likely?”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
Tom’s mouth tightened. “Not really.”
Cicero took a deep breath. “I’m going to start seeing customers. Drinks at the tables only, if I can get away with it. But if one of the regulars seems to know something, I might have to go behind the curtain.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cicero saw the movement of the rag hitch. Then it resumed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t unless I have to.”
“I understand.” Tom didn’t sound happy about it, but then Cicero hadn’t expected him to be. Cicero wasn’t exactly thrilled himself. “Will you be all right?”
The question was simple, but its unexpectedness brought a lump to Cicero’s throat. He’d expected jealousy or posturing, and once again Tom turned everything on its head.
Life with him certainly wouldn’t be boring.
Cicero swallowed his wine and set the glass carelessly on the bar. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Wish me luck, darling.”
“Luck,” Tom murmured as Cicero sauntered away.
By the end of the night, Cicero was acutely grateful that the bar heavily watered the drinks served to the entertainers, or else he’d have been flat on the floor. He talked with any number of men, some of them Isaac’s regulars and some not, between performances. They bought him drinks, and he pretended to be deeply interested in everything they had to say, occasionally slipping in a bit of flattery when it seemed needed. He received one or two invitations to go behind the curtain, but begged off, saying he had to get ready for his next performance. Naturally he dangled the possibility that he might say yes another night.
Most of them wanted to talk more than fuck, though. They went on about their problems, their jobs, their lives. Cicero batted his eyes and listened intently, occasionally steering the conversation in a direction that seemed like it might be profitable. But this wasn’t Techne—no one came here to talk politics or rant against the state of the world. They came here to relax, to see pretty people do scandalous things, and to feel like there was somewhere in the vastness of the city where they belonged.
Although Cicero could sympathize, it wasn’t remotely helpful. When they left that night, he couldn’t help but feel time was running out. Perhaps the Police Board was right, and Janowski and Sloane’s plans had been completely disrupted by the destruction of the explosives. But the anarchists hadn’t given up printing newspapers to draw hexes for no reason.
Then on Tuesday, Karol Janowski came in.
Cicero recognized Janowski from his police photo. He sat at a table midway back in the room, his eyes hooded, his gaze fixed on Cicero. No doubt he’d been there throughout the performance, but the lights of the stage had blinded Cicero to the darkened room.
He swallowed against a sudden lump of fear and forced his hips to sway as he went into the crowd. Sweat still clung to his skin, and he felt all the eyes fixed on him, tracing the slow slide of a bead of perspiration down his belly.
Janowski signaled him to come over.
Was this luck? Or disaster?
Perhaps he could get Janowski talking. This might be exactly the opportunity they most needed.
Cicero sashayed to Janowski’s table. Janowski watched his approach, and Cicero read hunger in his gaze. But something else, too. Or maybe the lack of something, as though Cicero was nothing but a stage prop, or a doll, existing only for Janowski to play with.
He’d seen that look plenty of times. Sometimes it was something he could use to his advantage. And sometimes it was a warning to run.
“Hello, handsome,” he said as he slid into the seat beside Janowski’s. Because “ciao, bello” belonged to Tom now, and he couldn’t bear to say it even lightly to this man. “I haven’t seen you here before.” He fanned himself. “Dancing certainly works up a thirst.”
Janowski snapped his fingers at one of the servers. “Two whiskeys,” he said, without asking what Cicero wanted.
The drinks appeared with alacrity. Cicero sipped on his watered one and leaned closer to Janowski. “So what brings you to the Rooster, love?” he purred. “First time here?”
“No.” Janowski’s hand slid onto Cicero’s knee. Then to his thigh. Cicero gritted his teeth and managed not to pull away. “I’m meeting a friend, later. But in the meantime, I wanted to watch you dance.”
This was good, wasn’t it? A chance to learn something. He just needed to keep that in mind, despite every instinct screaming at him to pull away. “You came for little old me?”
Janowski’s grin showed too many teeth. “I’ve heard so many interesting things about you.” His hand slid higher still.
Fur and feathers. “All true,” Cicero said with a flirtatious smile. “But aren’t we going to wait for your friend?”
“He has other business to attend to, first.” Janowski leaned in. His breath reeked of onions. “Which gives us plenty of time to get better acquainted somewhere more private.”
Cicero hesitated. He didn’t want to take Janowski up on his offer, but what choice did he have? Maybe with a few more drinks and a quick tug, Janowski would become more talkative about this friend he was meeting. And whether they had any plans for New Year’s Eve. “Over there?” Cicero suggested, nodding at one of the alcoves whose curtain was drawn back to show it was empty. “Five dollars, but I assure you, I’m worth it.”
Janowski’s hand tightened on Cicero’s thigh, the pressure bordering on pain. “Upstairs.”
Cazzo.
New plan. Janowski made his tail bristle. Nothing on this earth would convince him to let the man fuck him. He had the unpleasant feeling Janowski was the sort who liked pain. Inflicting it, anyway.
But maybe he could still get something useful out of this. “Sure thing, handsome,” he said, wriggling provocatively against Janowski’s side. “Let’s go.”
They made for the stairs, Janowski’s hand gripping Cicero’s arse the whole way. As they passed the bar, Cicero caught Tom’s eye. Tom, of course, was staring, although at least he’d managed to keep any look of alarm or jealousy off his face.
“Five minutes,” he mouthed at Tom.
Thank God, Tom nodded to indicate he’d gotten the message. What excuse he’d come up with to justify interrupting a customer in one of the upstairs rooms, Cicero frankly didn’t care at this point.
The upstairs hallway mirrored the one on the first floor with the dressing rooms, except that here doors opened off either side. Ten in all, just enough to satisfy the arcane requirements of the liquor laws and allow the Rooster to serve alcohol on Sundays. Several doors stood open, and Cicero selected the closest to the stairs.
How could he keep Janowski talking, just long enough to learn something useful? “So what business is it you do, darling?” Cicero asked as they entered the room. There was—naturally—a bed, accompanied by a low table with a jar of
oil waiting on top. A washstand and mirror were the only other furniture. “I’ll bet it’s important. I can tell just by looking at you.”
Janowski closed the door firmly. There were no locks, to prevent drunken customers from locking themselves in and refusing to come out. He reached inside his coat, felt around, and took out two hexes.
“Lock,” he said, slapping one on the door, followed quickly by the second. “Silence.”
Then he turned to face Cicero, an ugly grin on his face. “Now. Let’s have some fun, you wop whore.”
Five minutes.
Tom checked his pocket watch, then checked it again. Not much could happen in five minutes, could it? Besides, Cicero meant to keep the fellow talking, not actually get physical with him, or else he wouldn’t have asked Tom to intervene.
He needed some reason to interrupt. A cry for help? Or maybe pretend someone had sent down for a bottle of wine, and he got the wrong room?
Oh hell. How was he to find the right room?
There was a connection between him and Cicero. Maybe he could use that somehow? Let it tell him which door was the one concealing his familiar?
Well, not his familiar; no one had agreed to that. But the man who could be his familiar.
Time was up. He’d just have to improvise.
He turned to Ho, intending to say he’d just gotten an order for a bottle upstairs, and would take it up real quick. But before he could, Kearney appeared, leaning on the bar.
“Halloran,” he said. “Sloane wants a bottle of the scotch. Run down to the cellar and get it, would you?”
Shit. Of all the damned timing. He bit back a curse and forced himself to nod. “Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”
He hurried to the cellar door, past the guard. “Scotch for the boss,” he said as he passed. The fellow just nodded, thank heavens. Tom needed to have this over with as fast as possible so he could get upstairs to Cicero.
Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk Page 17
