“No! Stop! I haven’t done anything wrong!” the man shouted as a swarm of police officers dragged him out the open door of a tenement.

Jamie tugged on the reins to slow his wagon. The coppers wore the blue uniforms of the regular police force, and wouldn’t likely welcome his help, given the rivalry between them and the Metropolitan Witch Police. Even so, he guided the MWP wagon to the curb, beside the police hacks and wagons already partially blocking the street.

The prisoner threw his head back, arms bulging as the police struggled to wrangle him down the steps. “No!” he repeated, frantic. Desperate. “My wife is back in Illinois—she needs the money I’ve been sending her—we have children. I can’t let you take me!”

“Watch out!” one of the coppers yelled. “He’s going to shift.”

“Hold him, boys!” shouted a familiar voice. A moment later, Jamie’s uncle, Inspector Hurley O’Malley, mounted the steps with a piece of paper in his hands. He reached through the knot of fighting men, slapped it against the prisoner’s skin, and said, “Be bound to your human form.”

A look of shock passed over the prisoner’s face. Then the fight seemed to go out of him. He slumped into the arms of the police officers.

Jamie knew of hexes that could force a familiar into their animal shape, but he’d never heard of one to prevent them from taking it. True, he wasn’t as accomplished as a real hexman like Detective Kopecky, but he knew more than most witches. If nothing else, it seemed the sort of thing the MWP would use if they had it.

“Mr. Luther,” Hurley said. “You’re under arrest for violating the Pemberton Public Safety and Security Act.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” Luther protested weakly. “I’d never hurt anyone.”

“You’re an unbonded lion familiar, not under the official supervision of a witch,” Hurley replied. “That’s breaking the law. It’s the Menagerie for you.”

The familiars’ prison. The man’s legs crumpled beneath him, and the coppers had to all but carry him to the wagon. Its doors slammed shut, and it pulled away from the curb.

Jamie shook his head. What was wrong with the fellow? If Mr. Luther had just followed the law, he wouldn’t be in trouble now. The MWP might have offered him a place, or one of the private security forces looking for the muscle a lion could offer. He’d brought this on himself, really.

One of the coppers noticed the MWP emblem on Jamie’s wagon and shot him an unfriendly look. “What’re you gawking at, fairy?”

Jamie’s face flushed, hot with anger. But then Hurley spotted him and called, “Hold your tongue, Captain O’Byrne. That’s my nephew, Jamie MacDougal.”

Damn it. He should have kept driving, or hurried off before he could be spotted. But Hurley was already beckoning him over, and it was too late.

Not that he didn’t love his uncle. He did. That wasn’t the problem.

He climbed down from the cart—slowly, because he had to watch how his wooden left leg came down. He had only a slight limp when he walked, but he felt the curious eyes of the uniformed policemen on him as he approached. They must all be members of the Dangerous Familiars Squad. Certainly they’d been picked for their size, every last one of them much taller and bulkier than either Hurley or Jamie.

“Good to see you, lad,” Hurley said, clapping him on the shoulder. As an inspector, Hurley dressed in a suit rather than a uniform, his badge prominently pinned to the lapel. “What are you doing here?”

“Just left another illegal hex vendor at the Tombs.” Cocking his thumb in the direction of his wagon, he said, “They’re expecting me back at the Coven…”

“Surely you can take a few minutes.” Hurley turned to his men with a big smile, and Jamie’s heart sank. “Boys! Meet my nephew, Jamie MacDougal. The Rough Rider. That’s right—Jamie here fought in Cuba alongside Roosevelt himself.”

Expressions of shock gave way to grins, and hands thrust forward desperate to shake his. Their words of praise washed over him like a wave, its action slowly scouring out a hollow place behind his breast bone.

They expected him to play the hero. To boast about the Spanish he’d killed, to laugh off the misery as though it had been nothing. To mouth platitudes about the men who had died beside him, but to keep a smile on his face as he spoke of them. At times like this, he felt as though a pane of glass cut him off from those around him. From the world.

“Thank you,” he said. “But I really do have to be going.”

Hurley nodded. “I’ll see you Sunday, Jamie. All right, you lot, let’s get back to the station.”

Jamie hauled himself into the driver’s seat, relying on the strength of his arms and the leg that remained whole. An October wind raced down the street with the sunset, chilling his hands as he took up the reins. Saint Mary, he was glad winter was on its way. He’d loved summer once, but Cuba had changed that, as it had changed so much else. After hours lying in the glare of the sun, the fires begun by artillery shells baking his skin and fever roasting him from the inside, he’d lost his taste for heat.

Leaving his gloves in his pocket, he clicked his tongue at the horse and started back to the Coven.

Nick’s shoulders stiffened when he spotted three policemen, led by a man clad in sober black, through the glass window of Caballus.

He didn’t say anything to Kyle behind the bar—didn’t need to say anything, because Kyle knew the routine by now, as they’d had these visits on the regular for the last few months. Nick crossed the room, using his body to block entry even as the door swung open. Thank God he’d inherited the build of his Samoan grandfather, tall and broad enough to make even the meanest drunk think twice about taking a swing.

“Can’t you read the sign?” Nick demanded, before any of the four men on the stoop could speak. “It says Familiars Only. Find somewhere else to do your drinking, coppers.” He turned his gaze onto the man in the black suit, its white collar gleaming in the streetlights. “That goes double for you, Reverend Ingram. I’m sure there’s a dozen dive bars that would love to serve you a glass of swipes.”

Behind Nick, the saloon’s patrons had gone still. One or two would probably try to slip away unseen out the back, whether they had actually done anything to warrant the attention of the police or not. After the passage of the Pemberton Act, no feral could feel safe with a copper in sight.

Ingram wrinkled his nose in distaste. “They’re here to answer a complaint I lodged. It seems to me a foul smell is coming from this building. Like a bunch of animals in a pen.”

Nick kept his hands from curling into fists only with effort. The reverend probably hoped he’d throw a punch. The reform newspapers panted after Ingram and his organization, the Heirs of Adam. Any violence on Nick’s part would end up plastered on the front page as more proof ferals were nothing but out of control animals.

One of the coppers tried to shove past Nick. But he’d chosen his position well, feet secure on the floor, stance wide, and didn’t move so much as an inch. The much smaller man stepped back after a moment, trying to look casual, as if he hadn’t been pushing as hard as he could against Nick’s shoulder.

“Are you the landlord of the tenement above this saloon?” another copper demanded. He spoke with an Irish accent through a thick mustache. A sergeant’s badge gleamed on his lapel.

“Why do you want to know?” Nick countered.

The sergeant fingered the handle of his nightstick. “It’s a feral colony. Got to make sure you ain’t housing dangerous ferals, don’t we now?”

Nick ground his teeth together. “There aren’t any dangerous ferals here.”

“You sure about that?” the sergeant asked. “No felines larger than a house cat? Bobcat, tiger, anything like that?”

Nick forced his face into stony impassivity. “No.”

“No bears? What about wolves? Crocodiles or alligators?”

“No.”

“Don’t forget eagles,” Ingram said.

“Right.” The sergeant nodded. “Any eagles here?”

Nick’s heart kicked against his ribs. It was just a coincidence.

But Wyatt was already an hour late.

“No.” Nick shook his head slowly. “No eagles.”

“So you say.” The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “I think we’ll take a look around. Just see for ourselves.” He glanced at Ingram. “We have to check out the smell complaint, after all.”

Fur and feathers. Did they know something? Or was it just the usual police harassment?

“Show me your warrant,” he said.

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. He looked Nick up and down, taking in not just his size, but his brown skin and the black hair he wore to his shoulders. “Now you listen here, feral. We can do this one of two ways. The first is, you stand aside and let us take a look around. Give us your keys, let us search the apartments and determine whether there’s any criminal element here. The second way—”

“The second way is you come back with a warrant.” Though there was nothing for the coppers to find in the tenement, he’d be damned if he let them into the rooms of his fellow ferals. Even if the coppers didn’t wreck the apartments and steal anything of the slightest value—and they would, no question—it would be a betrayal of the people who depended on Nick to keep them safe.

And that was the one thing he’d never do.

He saw the calculation flash through the sergeant’s eyes. The coppers could probably overpower Nick, even if he took on horse form. But he’d get in a few good hits himself, first, and he silently swore the sergeant would be the one to take them.

After Ingram, anyway.

It ought to be obvious, even from the sidewalk, that there wasn’t much of value either in the saloon or the apartments above. Most of the ferals here were barely hanging on. When the only thing anyone cared about was your magic, it was hard to find work doing anything else.

Apparently, the sergeant decided it wasn’t worth it. He spat casually on Nick’s boot, then stepped back. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Ingram bridled. “What about my complaint?”

“I think an apology is in order to the good reverend, for disturbing his evening, horse. Why don’t you make it in the form of a donation to his fine cause. Say twenty-five dollars.” The sergeant grinned, showing his teeth. “He’ll be taking that now, in cash.”

Every instinct screamed at Nick to drive them off his doorstep, slam the door, and to hell with the consequences. Paying bribes to the police was one thing—that was just part of the cost of owning a saloon. But to give his hard-earned money to an organization that wanted to see familiar-kind in bondage, or gone altogether…

Consequences. There were always consequences. If he didn’t go along, he’d bear some of them, but the innocent souls in his cellar would pay an even higher price.

“Kyle,” he said, without turning around. “Get the money out of the cash box.”

“I wonder how you can afford such a generous donation,” Ingram murmured. “In fact, I question how an animal like you is able to run this establishment at all. It isn’t as though a familiar could do it on their own. Someone else must be instructing you what to do.”

Bands constricted around Nick’s chest, cutting off his breath. Caballus and the tenement had been built on the bones of his dead dreams, and for a wild moment he almost thought the headlines would be worth the opportunity to take out his fury on Ingram’s self-righteous face.

Instead, he swallowed his anger, letting it sour his belly. “Go to hell.” He took the money from Kyle and flung it at Ingram. It scattered across the pavement; two of the police officers immediately fell to the ground and began to snatch it up. Ingram would be lucky if he received half of it from them. “And take your bribe with you.”

“It isn’t I who will be visiting the pit, feral.” Ingram peered past him to the other familiars in the saloon, and raised his voice. “Repent, all of you! For the Serpent was the first familiar, and Eve the first witch, and their sin denied us all Eden. Get on your knees—”

Nick slammed the door in his face. “Only one reason I get on my knees,” he said with forced levity. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t touch his unwashed prick.” A smattering of startled laughter rewarded him. “People wonder why I don’t go to church.”

“Protestants,” said an Irish otter from one of the back tables. “The true pope—the one in Belfast—recognizes the Holy Familiar.”

“Oh no, you papist, I ain’t going to be blamed for the likes of the Heirs of Adam,” protested a raccoon familiar. “Besides, you lot have got—what—six popes, all of whom have excommunicated each other?”

“Seven, but who’s counting?” asked the otter with a wink.

Nick glanced over the saloon. Despite the brave attempts of the otter and the raccoon, the rest of his feral customers exuded fear.

Well, of course they did. They weren’t stupid. They could read the newspapers. Between the Pemberton Act and the reform groups targeting anything that smacked of magic, there was a lot to be afraid of these days.

They were meant to be safe here. Of all the places in New York, Caballus was the one place they ought to rest easy. Now Ingram seemed determined to ruin even that.

But he hadn’t yet, and wouldn’t if Nick had anything to say about it. “Next round is on the house,” he announced. It hurt, since he’d already lost his earnings to Ingram, but he’d make do. “So order the good stuff.”

As the customers let out a ragged cheer, he nodded to the raccoon to get on the piano. Within seconds, the cheerful strains of “My Wild Irish Rose” mingled with the calls for drinks.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Kyle murmured, when Nick stepped behind the plank that served as a bar to help him pour. “Or bankrupted.”

“Probably.” Nick shrugged.

Kyle handed over a beer, then leaned in closer. “Wyatt’s late.” Worry showed in his eyes, as golden as those of his cat form. “And the package he was supposed to pick up is in our cellar.”

“My cellar,” Nick corrected. Because if things went wrong, he’d swear up and down to the police Kyle hadn’t been involved. “I own the building; the goods are my responsibility.” He checked the clock on the wall behind the bar. “As soon as the rush is over, I’ll step down to get some more booze and look in on the package. Wyatt might yet show up.”

“You believe that?” Kyle asked.

Nick hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I really don’t.”