The 13th Hex

  Hexworld 0.5

  Jordan L. Hawk

  The 13th Hex © 2015 Jordan L. Hawk

  ISBN: 978-1-941230-18-3

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art © 2016 Jordan L. Hawk

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Annetta Ribken

  “The 13th Hex” first appeared in Charmed & Dangerous, © 2015 by JCP Books.

  I.

  “Terrible deaths!” a newsboy yelled from the corner as Dominic Kopecky hurried past. “Twelve killed by patent hex! Pharmacy hexman arrested!”

  Dominic hesitated, casting a glance at the crowd eager to read about the latest tragedy to strike New York. He tried to follow as many cases involving the Metropolitan Witch Police as possible. This would make a nice addition to his scrapbook at home, and perhaps the article would contain information on what had gone wrong. Had the hex’s angles been incorrectly calculated, or an improper symbol used? The wrong jewels ground into paste and mixed with ink could cause awful consequences. If the newspaper article mentioned the symptoms, he might be able to determine...

  A quick glance at his pocket watch showed he’d be late to his desk if he stood in line for the paper. Blast—given the interest in such a case, they’d surely be sold out by the evening. Perhaps a second edition would have even more information, though.

  He hastened the last few blocks to the MWP main offices. Reporters thronged the marble steps leading up to the brass doors, shouting questions about the patent hex case at every witch who passed by. Most of the familiars had taken animal form to avoid having to answer, so the morning bustle was unusually full of an assorted variety of animals including, but not limited to, birds, toads, and cats.

  There had been a time when Dominic had dreamed of striding through those brass doors. He’d dared give it voice once, when he was fourteen and considering what he wanted to do with his life. He could still remember his parents’ horrified looks when he spoke up at the dinner table, asking if he might go to city hall and be tested for magical aptitude.

  “There’s no magic in our family!” his mother had exclaimed. She’d lived in America long enough not to make a sign against evil, although her fingers twitched.

  His father had been more diplomatic. “We only want what’s best for you, son. Put aside these foolish notions. You’re good at math, you have a steady hand—perhaps you could study architecture.”

  Not that it had mattered, in the end. He’d taken the tests anyway and failed them, to the relief of his parents. Still, Dominic hadn’t been able to bring himself to forget about magic altogether. It haunted him, just as his longing for men did, a need he couldn’t seem to stamp out no matter how hard he tried. So he’d managed the next best thing.

  Perhaps it was just as well. Most witches couldn’t even calculate a cosine, let alone apply the correct theorem to determine the proper circumference a magical circle required. Hexmen filled a real need. There was no reason to be dissatisfied with his job. And if his relatives didn’t think it entirely respectable, well, it was his life and not theirs in the end.

  Tamping down a sigh, he bypassed the grand entryway in favor of a discreet side door meant for the non-magical employees. After hanging up his coat and hat, he entered the great drafting room of the Metropolitan Witch Police.

  Desk after desk filled the enormous chamber, each one equipped with paper, pens, and a dozen different inks. Reference books of every kind lined the walls, to make calculations easier or to help an uncertain hexman choose the proper ingredients for the requested hex. Enormous windows let in plenty of natural light. Gaslights and candles abounded.

  A few other hexmen—and women—were already at work. Dominic went to his desk near the center of the room. Two small wooden boxes stood atop it, the one on the left already full of requests, the one on the right empty and waiting for his completed hexes.

  Taking his seat, Dominic removed the top request. A poison detector—a routine appeal, given how many suspicious deaths occurred in the city. The MWP and the regular police preferred to keep a stack of them on hand, ready to be infused with magic, then activated by the correct phrase when the need arose.

  The first few hours passed quietly. Dominic worked his way steadily through the pile, calculating circumferences and angles, choosing inks and symbols, and employing a steady hand aided by protractor and ruler to create perfect hex signs. Right now, they were only ink and paper, but in the hands of a witch and familiar they would become so much more.

  Which was why it was so important to get everything just right. Because with magic behind it, a badly drawn hex could turn deadly. Just as the patent ones in the news had.

  “Mr. Kopecky?”

  “Yes, that’s...” Dominic began as he lifted his gaze from the paper. Then his tongue tangled, and he forgot how to speak.

  The man standing in front of his desk was...well, he’d never thought of a man as beautiful before, but it was the only word that came to mind now. The white of his shirt collar contrasted with rich, brown skin. Silky black locks brushed his shoulders, and wide lips shaped into a rather cheeky grin.

  “...You?” the man prompted, when Dominic only stared.

  God! He dropped his eyes quickly, willing his reaction under control. He couldn’t forget himself at work, in full view of everyone. As he glanced down, his eye snagged on the badge pinned to the man’s vest.

  A familiar? Here?

  “Y-Yes,” Dominic said. Forcing his gaze up, he met a pair of eyes so dark he couldn’t tell where pupil began and iris ended. “I’m Dominic Kopecky.”

  “Rook.” The man didn’t offer a last name. Or perhaps that was his last name?

  Dominic swallowed hard. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rook.”

  Rook extended his hand. Dominic shook it in a daze. Rook’s skin was warm against his, the palm soft. How would it feel against...?

  He definitely had to divert his thoughts to business. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Actually, yes. I have need of an expert hexman, and your supervisor tells me you’re the best.”

  “Mr. Buchanan?” As if he didn’t know the name of his own supervisor. Rook must think him an idiot. “That is, of course. I’ll help in whatever way I can.”

  “Excellent.” Rook turned away, then glanced over his shoulder. His thick lashes dipped low over his dark eyes. “Coming?”

  Upstairs? To the MWP offices? What in the world could the familiar want that would require Dominic to accompany him there?

  Dominic scooped up the soft leather wallet that held his tools. “I...yes. Lead the way.”

  II.

  “So, you’re a familiar?” Dominic asked as they traversed the corridors leading to the upper levels of the Coven. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cursed himself. The man would hardly be wearing a familiar’s badge otherwise.

  Rook didn’t seem to think him stupid—or didn’t let on if he did. “Yes,” he replied easily. “A crow, if you didn’t guess.”

  “You can fly? I mean, of course—I’m sorry.” Every sentence out of his mouth was more idiotic than the one before. “It must be wonderful.”

  Rook glanced over his shoulder. “Do you dream of flying, Mr. Kopecky?”

  “Not anymore.” He had once—often, in fact. But it had gone the way of so many of his childhood dreams. “May I ask what you need help with, exactly?”

  Rook’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. “It’s not precisely a case,” he said. “Or, it is, but everyone else considers it solved. I wanted another opinion, however.”

  “I’m not certain I understand,” Dominic confessed. “You want an opinion on a case that’s already solved?”

  They came to a small office deep within the warren of the MWP building. Two desks had been shoved inside, both of them rather battered and scarred. One desk was unoccupied, but a lithe man with kohl-rimmed eyes lounged at the other. The fellow reminded Dominic of some of the dancers at Columbia Hall, and a blush scalded his cheeks at the memory. If anyone knew he visited such a den of vice...

  “Cicero,” Rook said, “can you find somewhere else to be for an hour?”

  Cicero leaned back slightly, regarding Dominic through yellow-green eyes. A cat? He certainly had the haughty look and boneless mannerisms of one.

  “Is this him?” Cicero asked.

  “Yes.” Rook frowned slightly. “So clear out, unless you’re looking for trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Dominic asked. What exactly did Rook want from him?

  Cicero stretched languidly, rising to his feet. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, darling,” he said to Rook. “I’m going to find a nice, warm place to curl up for a while.” He winked at Dominic as he left. “And I’ll see you later.”

  “Out!” Rook squawked.

  Cicero sauntered out. Rook closed the door forcefully behind him. “Ignore him.” He gestured to Cicero’s vacated chair. “Please, sit down. Sorry about the mess.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Dominic said. “But you mentioned trouble?”

  Rook sighed. “It won’t be trouble for you. And hopefully not for me, either. As I said, everyone else thinks the case is solved. If you say they’re right, then that’s the end of it. If you say they aren’t...well.” He grinned slyly. “That ’s where things get interesting.”

  Dominic had the feeling Rook’s definition of “interesting” differed quite a bit from his own. “What case? Who are ‘they?’”

  “They are Hilda Trojak and Bruno. Witch and a bulldog. Not bad detectives, but they tend to see what’s in front of them and nothing more. And when you suggest there might be something more...”

  “They don’t want to hear it?” Dominic suggested.

  “Especially not from an unbonded familiar,” Rook agreed ruefully.

  “You don’t have a witch yet? That is, I’m sorry.”

  Rook arched a black brow. “Are you?”

  Dominic fidgeted in his seat. “Well...they keep you busy doing paperwork, don’t they? Until you choose your witch?”

  “A bit more than that.” Rook shrugged. “But it’s true—a familiar isn’t much good without a witch to channel his magic.”

  “That’s not so, I’m sure.” Dominic objected. “Here, tell me, what is it you wish help with?”

  Rook leaned back in his chair. “If you follow the papers, you’ve probably read about the deaths caused by the patent hexes?”

  Dominic straightened. “Yes. That is, I haven’t read the latest paper, but I heard an arrest was made.”

  “What you haven’t heard—what no one outside of these walls has heard—is there were thirteen victims. One survived, due to prompt magical attention to remove the hex.”

  Dominic frowned. “Why keep it a secret?”

  “Because the thirteenth victim was Commissioner Roosevelt.”

  Dominic felt as though all the air had left the room. “Surely you can’t mean the police commissioner?”

  “Yes.” Rook watched him through thick lashes. “By sheer luck, Captain O’Malley came into his office to deliver a report. O’Malley and his familiar were able to remove the hex before it proved fatal.”

  “Why hasn’t this been made public knowledge?”

  “And make the commissioner seem weak in front of his political opponents?” Rook snorted “Perish the thought. The assumption is he was merely one of a number of victims of a shoddy hex, and that there’s no reason to look any deeper.”

  “But you don’t think so,” Dominic guessed. “You believe he was the intended target.”

  “I see we think alike.” Rook’s grin faded. “Heaven knows, Mr. Roosevelt has made plenty of enemies, from the common citizens no longer allowed to spend their Sundays relaxing at the beer garden, to his fellow commissioners on the police board, to the mayor himself.”

  Rook opened the drawer of his desk and took out four pieces of paper. “These were taken as evidence. I’d like you to just look at them and give me your professional opinion of each.”

  Dominic had the distinct feeling that Rook hadn’t asked for permission before making off with the evidence. If the detectives in charge didn’t like Rook sticking his beak into their investigation, they might make an example out of Dominic. He could lose his job.

  Rook watched him with black eyes, a faint, teasing smile on his mouth. As though daring Dominic to do something naughty.

  Why did he have to be so handsome? As if aware of Dominic’s regard, Rook licked his lips, just a tiny flicker of red tongue against their plumpness.

  Dominic’s cock swelled against his trousers. Swallowing hard, he looked hastily down at the papers, praying Rook didn’t notice the blush heating his cheeks. The paper squares were decorated with brightly colored hex signs. The phrase to activate the magic caught within the lines and sigils was printed across the top, and identical on each: Nothing Soothes the Stomach Like a Wendelson Hex!

  He picked up first one, then the other three. Taking out his jeweler’s loupe, he examined the inks closely. “The paper isn’t of the best quality, but it’s better than what the street hexmen use. The design is twice as elaborate as it needs to be, of course.”

  “Is it?” Rook asked, cocking his head to one side.

  “Oh yes. It’s something one sees often in commercial hexes. People assume the more elaborate the better, so you get all sorts of frivolous loops and swirls that don’t actually do anything.” Dominic sniffed. “All brightly colored to further distract the eye.”

  Rook grinned slyly. “Prefer to keep things simple, do you?”

  “Simple isn’t bad,” Dominic objected. “A clean hex, well-drawn, has a-a power to it, if you will. It focuses the magic poured into it, like a sunbeam through the lens of a magnifying glass.” He gestured to the hexes in front of him. “This is more like a kaleidoscope. Pretty, but weak.”

  “Fascinating.” Rook folded his hands beneath his chin. “So the hexes in front of you were all drawn by the same person?”

  “They certainly appear to have been, at first glance.” For better or worse, the printing press had proved unable to create hexes capable of containing magic. Something about the act of drawing them by hand gave them magical potential, or at least that’s what Dominic’s teachers had speculated. As a result, even the most meticulous hexes tended to have a certain signature betraying the hand that had drawn them. “Allow me to examine them more closely, if you will.”

  Rook propped his shoes on the desk and folded his hands over his vest. “Take all the time you need.”

  III.

  “These have been altered,” Dominic said an hour later.

  Rook leaned across the desks, his look intent. “What do you mean, altered?”

  “It’s difficult to see—those unnecessary flourishes I mentioned earlier confuse the eye. But the measurements don’t lie.” Dominic pointed at the leftmost hex. “See this line? Its angle has been changed just slightly. And here, the symbol has been painted with a different ink. Red spinel instead of ruby, if I know my gemstones.”

  “I’m sure you do. But why do you say altered? Couldn’t the hexman have simply made a mistake? Perhaps he wasn’t entirely sober when he drew that one?”

  “For one thing, both of the incorrect hexes are wrong in precisely the same way. Of course, the man could still be a maniac and have done this deliberately,” Dominic went on. “But look here. It’s very faint, and again, the blasted—pardon me—ornamentation helps to hide it. There is a slight divot in the paper from the pressure of the pen, where the original line and symbol were scraped away.”

  Rook snatched up first one, then the other, peering at them closely. “You’re right. Kopecky, you’re a genius.”

  Dominic looked down hurriedly. “Anyone would have noticed it,” he mumbled.

  “And yet, no one did.” Rook hopped to his feet. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Dominic found himself trailing behind the crow through the labyrinth of corridors, until they came to a more open area. Here were the desks of the MWP detectives, arranged in a large room similar to the one for the hexmen below. Witches and familiars sat at the desks, the shuffle of paper, buzz of speech, hoot of owls, and purring of cats forming a low rumble.

  “Hilda!” Rook called.

  A blond woman glanced up from one of the desks. A bulldog lying beside it lifted his head. At the sight of Rook, the woman scowled.

  “What now?” she asked. “I’ve work to do, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Dominic hung back uncertainly while Rook approached the witch and familiar. “I want to talk to you about the Wendelson case.”

  “Not again.” Hilda’s scowl deepened, and Bruno growled. “We have the murderer, Rook! Let go of this insane theory of yours before you muddy the waters too much. Keep things simple for the jury.”

  “But this isn’t simple.” Rook beckoned Dominic closer. “I had one of our own hexmen examine the hexes. The ones that caused the deaths have been altered.”

  The bulldog surged to his feet, transforming into a short, squat man in a puff of smoke. He wore a bowler hat low over his brows, and a tweed suit that bore evidence of recent meals on the lapels. “That don’t mean nothing!” he barked.

  Hilda touched his arm, quelling him. “What it means is that Wendelson poisoned his customers deliberately, then,” she said. “I’m sure the prosecutor will be glad to hear these new findings. They should make it easier to secure a conviction.”

 

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