Hexbreaker - Jordan L. Hawk

by Jordan L. Hawk

  “Don’t play the fool, O’Connell,” Dominic snapped. “Your patrolman friend might not know the ways of witches, but Cicero is your familiar. You know exactly where he is.”

  Bill gave him a sharp look. “Tom…”

  “Nay.” Tom held up his hands. “It’s as I told Greta. Cicero was my familiar. He…he ain’t any more.”

  Mary Magdalene, Holy Familiar of Christ, it hurt to say those words. More than he’d ever imagined.

  Rook’s brows snapped together in alarm. “What the devil do you mean?”

  “I broke the bond.” Tom had tried so hard to ignore the hollow ache behind his heart, the cold, lifeless place which had once held the most wonderful thing ever to happen to him. His throat tightened, but he wasn’t going to cry in front of the others.

  Owen Yates looked up from the hex, which he had been examining with a jeweler’s loupe. “Broke the bond?” he repeated. “That isn’t possible.”

  “I’m a hexbreaker.” Tom swallowed. “And I never should have lied. Should’ve gone to prison all those years ago and rotted there. Cicero never deserved getting caught up in all this, so I…set him free.”

  “Admirable,” Dominic said, a bit grudgingly.

  Rook’s scowl only grew deeper, though. “Cicero would have felt it,” he said. “And he’d surely think you’d died.”

  “He knows I’m a hexbreaker—”

  “And we’re taught the only way to sever the bond is death.” Rook glanced at Greta. “You know Cicero—he wouldn’t just calmly say, ‘oh well, time to get on with it.’ He would have come flying back here looking for help.”

  “Not really the taciturn sort, our Cicero,” Greta agreed. “So why didn’t he?”

  The possibilities were terrifying. “Greta said he wouldn’t be welcome here, since he was bonded to me. Where else might he have gone?”

  “Techne,” Rook said immediately.

  Noah. But hell, if Noah had taken care of Cicero, given him a place to stay, Tom would be grateful.

  “That still doesn’t explain why we haven’t heard from him, if he thought Tom died,” Dominic pointed out.

  “Can we go to Techne?” Tom asked desperately. “Just to check. That’s all.”

  Dominic hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Greta said. “Damn cat was a terrible one to share an office with, but I’m worried about him anyway.”

  “Owen, I’d be grateful if you come as well,” Dominic said. “I don’t like any of this, and we may yet need your expertise.”

  “What about this Anselm fellow?” Bill asked. “Don’t you need to warn your captain, or chief, or something?”

  “We will,” Dominic replied firmly. “But if there are more traitors in the ranks…damn. Maybe it’s a good thing the Police Board kept the MWP back from the celebrations tonight.”

  “What do you mean?” Tom asked.

  “Most of the MWP is out guarding the Battery, which will be firing off rounds at midnight to bring in the New Year,” Greta replied. “But most of the celebrations will take place around city hall. The honor of guarding the mayor and delegates, and controlling the crowds, went to the regular police.”

  “Damned politics,” Dominic muttered. “Come along.”

  They stopped at the desk of the officer on duty just long enough for Dominic to bark orders for a winged familiar to be sent to Ferguson to apprise him of the situation. Although Techne wasn’t far, it seemed forever to Tom before they reached the café’s doors.

  Only to find them locked.

  Dominic rapped loudly. When no answer came, he glanced at Rook.

  In an instant, Rook was on the wing, flapping up to the apartment above. He landed on a ledge, cocked an eye to peer through a window—then soared back down to them.

  “We need inside,” he said, the moment his feet touched the ground. “I didn’t see anyone, but it looked like there was a struggle.”

  Terror laid a hand on Tom’s throat, while Dominic wrestled out an unlocking hex and opened the doors. How had he managed to make such a complete mess of things? Even when he’d tried to do right by Cicero by breaking the bond, it had proved a mistake.

  Just let Cicero be all right. That was all he asked.

  He was the first up the stairs once the door was open. As Rook had said, there had clearly been a struggle in the main room of Noah’s apartment. Pillows scattered, a table overturned, a hex discarded near the door…

  “Sleeping hex,” Dominic said grimly as he examined it. “And a powerful one.”

  Rook’s brown skin had paled to a grayish hue. “Surely Noah wasn’t at fault. We…are we even sure Cicero was here?”

  Greta took on her wolverine shape, then shifted back to human. “His scent is everywhere. Fresh. I don’t know this Noah, but other than our group, there’s only traces of one human man.”

  Tom sank down onto the piano bench, his head in his hands. Something terrible had clearly happened to Cicero. Molly and her familiars were planning God-only-knew what tonight. And the Police Board had made certain the MWP, those most capable of stopping Molly and Sloane, were as far as possible from the political targets at the heart of the consolidation celebration.

  Tom couldn’t shake the idea they were still missing some critical piece of information. Everything swirled together in his head: Sloane and Molly, Barshtein and Whistler, Viking hexes and bohemians drinking absinthe. New Year’s Eve circled in red, and Isaac’s broken necklace beneath the cabinet. Anarchists making hexes, and a businessman familiar paying for them.

  And Cicero in the middle of it all, searching for Isaac, looking for justice for Whistler.

  The Viking hexes had taken Tom’s family from him. Was he to lose Cicero to them now?

  “We could look in the tunnels again?” Rook suggested, sounding desperate for any idea, no matter how far-fetched. “Maybe they’re holding Cicero there?”

  Tunnels.

  “I mentioned the anarchists to Molly.” Tom lowered his hands. “And she sneered. As though she felt nothing for them but contempt.”

  “You think they were being used?” Dominic asked.

  “Aye. Molly wouldn’t share all her secrets, not if she looked down on them. If she and those working with her had a secret hideaway, it wasn’t the tunnels beneath the Rooster.” He took a deep breath, knowing that if he was wrong, they might never find Cicero. “I knew her, once. She’d go back to where it all began. The old tunnels beneath Cherry and Water Streets.”

  “Where the Cherry Street Riots happened?” asked Bill.

  “If you’re wrong…” Dominic said.

  “It’s the best I’ve got.” Tom spread his hands. “I know where all the entrances are. If Cicero is there, we’ll find him.”

  Dominic stared back at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Cicero’s ears twitched. He became aware that he was in cat form, lying on something hard and cold. His head ached, and drowsiness tugged at him. He could just slip back into sleep…

  But a familiar smell intruded onto his awareness. A scent he would have known anywhere.

  Isaac.

  Cicero’s eyes snapped open, and he leapt to his feet. Or tried to; the affects of the sleeping hex hadn’t entirely left him, and he stumbled groggily into iron bars.

  He was in a cage.

  Isaac was in the same cage, although it was almost too small for them both. He lay unmoving, except for the heave of his flanks as he breathed. His once beautiful tan coat was matted and filthy, the skin of his paws split and cracked. Ribs protruded against his skin.

  A witch had stripped him, spending his magic with no time to recover. Much more, and Isaac would die.

  “You’re awake,” said Noah.

  Cicero arched his back, tail bristling and ears flat against his head. Noah stood near the cage, an amused look on his face. Hexlights burned bright, illuminating what seemed to be a chamber where several tunnels came together, much like th
e one he and Tom had found not far from the Rooster.

  Tom.

  Noah had killed him. Or, rather, had him killed.

  A wave of grief so intense it left him unable to breathe rolled over Cicero. But he had to focus beyond the pain. He’d failed to save Tom, but Isaac was still alive, even if only barely. There had to be some way to escape and save Isaac.

  Please, God, at least give him that.

  Unlike the tunnel juncture beneath the Rooster, this one was furnished, as though people lived here. There were several tables, a comfortable-looking chair, even a cabinet whose open door revealed shining bottles of liquor and wine. The air smelled faintly of absinthe, cigarettes, and animals. A familiar in wolf form sprawled on a rug, a viper curled up on top of him.

  The murmur of voices came from one of the tunnels, accompanied by footsteps. Molly walked in, followed by Sloane and Kearney. “It’s time to go, Noah,” she said.

  “In a bit,” he replied, not looking away from Cicero. “Right now, I’m having a moment with my future familiar.”

  “Why bother?” Sloane asked. “He’ll end up like the Yid, eventually. No point in getting too attached.”

  Nausea choked Cicero. Noah had force-bonded and then stripped Isaac. Why? To make the Viking hexes, the absinthe hexes? But he’d offered to bond with Cicero before Christmas, hadn’t he?

  What had he said, that day in the back room of Techne? “There are some other things I need to attend to first. I’d want to do something to mark the occasion, after all. Just say yes, and I’ll start planning right away.”

  He’d never intended for Isaac to survive past tonight.

  “You’re wrong, Sloane.” Noah stepped closer. Cicero growled, but Noah ignored the defiance. “Isaac wasn’t much of an artist. And his form…I’ve never been terribly fond of dogs. Cicero, though…we’ll be together for a very long time, I think.”

  Cicero wished he could change form and scream defiance. But the cage was far too small.

  A gray tabby emerged from one of the other tunnels, panting from his run. Cicero’s ears perked up. Anselm? Was the MWP coming after all?

  Molly crouched down in greeting. “What happened? Is something wrong?”

  Oh God. Anselm was one of theirs.

  Anselm shifted to human form. He grabbed Molly’s arm and murmured to her in a voice so low even Cicero’s cat ears couldn’t pick out the words. She listened intently, the look on her face becoming more and more grim.

  “What is it?” Noah asked.

  “Nothing that concerns you, witch,” Molly said. She made the designation sound almost like an insult. “You go on ahead. I need to talk to Sloane for a minute.”

  Noah didn’t seem happy, but he nodded. Apparently, as much as he wished otherwise, he wasn’t the one in charge. “Hurry. We don’t want to be late for the party.”

  Once he disappeared up one of the tunnels, Molly conferred with Sloane, her voice only a faint murmur. Anselm glanced at Cicero and Isaac, gave an almost guilty wince, and shifted back into cat form. Within moments, he’d vanished back the way he’d come.

  Molly and Sloane seemed to reach some agreement, because she departed. Cicero half expected Sloane to come over and torment him, but the other familiar ignored the cage. Instead he settled into a chair not far from the sleeping wolf and began to read a newspaper. Kearney got into the liquor cabinet and poured a whiskey.

  “One for me,” Sloane ordered without looking up. “And don’t drink too much.”

  Once he felt certain they had no interest in him, Cicero turned his attention to Isaac. He nudged Isaac’s enormous muzzle with his head, but there was no response. Clambering onto Isaac’s shoulder, he began to wash the mastiff’s eyelids, but that got no reaction either.

  With nothing else to do, Cicero curled up on top of his friend and tucked his tail over his nose. Isaac might be saved, if Noah took no more magic from him for the next few weeks. But it seemed likely Noah would finish him off this very night.

  And Noah wanted Isaac to die, didn’t he? So he would be free to bond with Cicero.

  Noah wasn’t stupid. He had to know Cicero wouldn’t submit willingly now. But then, Isaac surely hadn’t either. Noah would do whatever it took to break Cicero, force him the way he’d forced Isaac.

  Cicero would die first. It was an empty vow—easy to make and hard to keep—but it was all he could do right now. He’d die before he’d bond with the murderous bastard who’d tortured Isaac and killed Tom.

  Tom.

  Had it hurt? Had it at least been quick?

  Cicero huddled even tighter into himself. Why hadn’t he gone to the Tombs and talked to Tom? Listened his side of the story?

  Why hadn’t he paid attention to what he’d already heard?

  He’d been so angry. Hurt and betrayed, all the way to the bone. But he knew Tom, or the man he’d become.

  Liam O’Connell had been born into the gang. He hadn’t chosen the life, just tried to do right by his family. He’d lived through a horror that would have broken most men. And when he’d had the chance to make his own decision, what had he done?

  No one had forced him to become a copper, even if the opportunity had been all but handed to him. And even if that decision was made in desperation, no one had forced him to spend the next eight years trying his best. Cicero had seen how the people in Tom’s neighborhood treated him as a welcome sight, not a reason to run and hide. He’d seen Tom’s file, the medals for saving two men from drowning, all of it.

  If Tom had been nothing but a manipulative liar, the smart thing to do would have been to thwart any investigation into Barshtein’s death, not dig deeper. What had Tom said when Rook had asked him that very question, why he’d risked everything when he didn’t have to?

  He’d said anyone would have done it. But they wouldn’t have. Tom had, because he was kind. Decent.

  And yes, Tom had lied, and yes, Cicero had every right to be furious and hurt. But the way he’d lashed out, spitting in Tom’s face, screaming at him…

  Tom had died thinking Cicero hated him.

  There came the sound of wings, cutting through the air. “Hey! Who’re you?” Sloane shouted.

  Startled, Cicero looked up. Rook circled the room, diving at Sloane’s face, then Kearney’s. The sound of running steps came from one of the tunnels, and Dominic entered the room. Greta raced past him in wolverine form, her teeth bared and ready to rend.

  And behind them, his jaw set and his eyes like steel, came Tom.

  The sight of Cicero confined to a cage sent a bolt of raw fury boiling through Tom.

  The trip through the tunnels had bordered on surreal. He’d found one of the old entrances with ease, and once he’d stepped into the first tunnel, it had almost been as though he’d never left.

  At any moment, he half expected to hear Da laughing, or Ma singing a hymn while she worked. This tunnel was the one they’d fled through after they’d snatched a crate of guns from a government ship, and that drain led to the tenement where they’d lived until he was ten. Every step seemed to take him further from the present, from Tom Halloran, and deeper into the past.

  Until he stepped into the vault where the O’Connell gang had once met and plotted, and saw Cicero crammed into a cage with an unconscious dog. The only dream of the future Tom had ever allowed himself, imprisoned amidst the remnants of his own bygone life.

  Then the only thing that mattered anymore was what came next.

  “MWP! Surrender!” Dominic shouted.

  “Police! Hands up!” Bill yelled, brandishing his gun.

  Sloane leapt from his chair, sending it flying back. Then, in a swirl of gray smoke, his human form vanished, replaced by that of an enormous crocodile.

  Bill’s eyes went wide at the sight. He fired, but the bullet missed.

  Kearney leapt over Sloane and drove his fist into Bill’s stomach. The hexes carved into the leather flared, and Bill went down hard.

  There came a wild snarl—Greta and the wolf c
losed with each other, biting and tearing ferociously. Dominic crouched by the cage, sketching a hex, while Rook taunted the snake, grabbing its tail, fluttering just out of reach, then swooping back to do the same again.

  Where was Molly?

  Kearney made for Dominic, an ugly look on his face and his gloved hands in fists. He was Sloane’s witch, so he’d be able to recharge the hexes between strikes.

  Tom stepped between them, his own fists up and ready. “Back off, Kearney, and maybe the judge will go easy on you,” he said, hoping he sounded confident.

  Kearney only sneered. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. And you’ll be dead before you find out.”

  Tom swung a fist of his own. Kearney turned his shoulder, catching the brunt of it. Agony exploded in Tom’s side, and he staggered from the amplified force of Kearney’s punch. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and through their haze, he glimpsed a shadow angling for his head.

  He dropped to the floor, and it passed harmlessly above. Before Kearney could swing again, Tom rammed a shoulder into his legs, sending him to the ground.

  Kearney swore, and they both scrambled to their feet. Tom hurled himself at Kearney, grappling with the man, trying to grip his forearms. Sweat ran into his mouth, his and Kearney’s alike. He felt the hexes vibrating, and silenced both with a burst of power.

  Kearney wrenched one hand free and dropped it to the knife sheathed at his waist. Tom let go fast, trying to put distance between them.

  A gunshot rang out, loud in the confines of the room. Kearney went down, blood spreading across the back of his coat. “Got you,” Bill said with satisfaction.

  Sloane roared, a sound of pain and anguish that rattled Tom’s teeth. His tail swept in a great arc, sending friend and foe alike off their feet.

  “Shit!” Bill shouted, and fired again. His shot lodged itself in Sloane’s body, but the familiar didn’t even seem to feel it.

  Bill tried to get out of reach of the snapping jaws, but Sloane followed him, intent on the kill. Praying he wasn’t about to find himself in the crocodile’s teeth, Tom scooped up the knife that had fallen from Kearney’s hand. As Sloane’s head whipped to the left, tracking Bill, Tom flung himself on the scaly shoulders.