As they entered the park, the wind picked up, and a damp gust flung leaves at them. Jamie hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat. His fingers encountered a glass bottle; he’d forgotten to take out the oil from the other day.

He’d been wrong about what Nick wanted from him that day in specific. But not in general. At least, he didn’t think so, considering the looks Nick had given him since.

He’d been alone for a year, mourning. But Wyatt had only been dead for days. A part of him cringed when he flirted, and another part yearned, and still a third part clung to sorrow, until he didn’t know what he wanted any more. Or ought to want; or was permitted to want.

“You cannot tell anyone about this,” Nick said.

“What is it I ain’t telling, exactly?” Jamie asked.

“There are a handful of ferals living wild in the park.” Nick’s reluctance was clear in every line of his body. “Since that’s illegal, they stay away from non-ferals most of the time.”

“But you still know them,” Jamie said. He shook his head in admiration. “Rook was right. You really do know every feral in the city.”

Nick’s brown cheeks flushed darker. “They know they can trust me. Which is why you can’t tell anyone. Thank God you didn’t wear your uniform today, or we’d never even get near them.”

Jamie glanced up at him. “Is that why you haven’t told anyone you’re working with the MWP?”

He’d hoped he was wrong, but Nick’s expression told him otherwise. “The MWP doesn’t care about ferals,” Nick said after a long moment. “At least, not until after they’re dead, and then only if magic or hexes were involved. The regular police are even worse. We’re on our own. So it’s up to us to look out for each other.”

“I see,” Jamie said. He wanted to argue, but wasn’t sure he could. If Nick was wrong, then why had only the two newest, most inexperienced MWP detectives been assigned the feral murders? When the millionaire Jacobs had been bashed over the head, no amount of effort to solve the case had been too great.

“Some of the ferals we meet might be…a little odd,” Nick said. The troubled note in his voice caught Jamie’s attention. “Most of them make sure to take human form on a regular schedule, at least for a few hours, but it’s not always enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“To remember they’re familiars.” Nick’s breath turned to steam in the cold air. “We aren’t meant to stay in one shape for too long at a stretch. If a familiar remains in animal shape for an excessive amount of time, they start to forget their human side. Become more and more an animal, until in the end, no memory of their human self is left.”

“Oh.” Jamie shivered. “And if they stay human overlong?”

Nick’s eyes widened. “Well. Not a question most non-familiars would think to ask. It’s just as bad. We forget our animal selves. Become more and more human, until we can’t remember being anything else.” Nick shuddered, like a horse flicking flies from its hide.

Jamie took the time to think through his words before responding. The image of Nick strolling up Fifth Avenue returned to him forcefully. The way he’d tossed his head, nostrils slightly flared. An arch to his neck just as proud and strong as the horse he could become. Like he didn’t give a damn about all the wealth and power surrounding them.

Like he’d spit in the devil’s eye, if he had half the chance.

“It’s just as bad, because you’re losing you either way, right?” Jamie asked.

Nick’s gait stuttered. “I…yes. I’m not a horse, or a human. I’m a familiar. Whichever shape I happen to be in at the moment doesn’t change that.”

Jamie nodded. “Seems like this is the sort of thing they ought to teach…I was going to say when we join the MWP, but by then it’s too late.”

Nick shrugged. “I’m not disagreeing, witch. But right now, we’ve got more pressing matters.”

Nick led the way to the trees near the old reservoir, not far from Cleopatra’s Needle. “Bess likes to hunt this part of the park,” he said, scanning the branches over their heads. “So she spends a lot of time perching near—there.”

A Red-tailed Hawk sat on a low-hanging limb, one foot drawn up and her feathers slightly fluffed. But though her pose was casual, Jamie felt certain she watched them closely.

Nick glanced around, as if making sure no one else was nearby. Then he called up: “Bess! I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

She put her other foot down and sleeked her feathers, but made no move to join them.

“He’s with me,” Nick said, with a nod at Jamie. Jamie noted he didn’t add anything along the lines of “You can trust him.”

Apparently Nick’s presence served as enough reassurance, because the hawk glided down. Before her talons touched the ground, she transformed into a middle-aged woman wearing a simple dress and nothing more.

When she spoke, her voice was rusty. The words came slow, as though she struggled a bit to remember them. Was she one of those who had spent too much time in her animal form, and started to forget her familiar self?

“What do you want?” She directed the question at Nick, but never took her eyes off Jamie. They were a deep, dark brown like her hawk form’s, and watched him with the same intensity.

“We’re looking into the feral murders here in the park,” Nick said. “Do you know anything about them?”

A shiver ran through Bess, and she folded her arms over her chest. “They happened at night. I was asleep. I didn’t see anything.”

“That ain’t what Nick asked,” Jamie pointed out. She knew something, he was sure of it.

As she spoke and moved, Bess seemed to grow more comfortable in her skin. As though using the human half of herself was like stretching a stiff muscle, easier to move the more it was worked.

“I don’t pay attention to humans,” she said scornfully. “I hunt, sleep, and live as a hawk. What do I care about some wraith?” It sounded as though she was trying to convince herself as much as them.

“Wraith?” Nick asked.

She sighed. “Go ask the owl north of here. He likes to sleep in a hole in a tree in the Ramble, not far past Bow Bridge.”

“Where the second body was found,” Jamie said.

Bess looked at him as though he were an idiot. “Yes. Now leave me alone. Some of us still haven’t eaten today.”

Bess shifted into hawk form and took off, quickly disappearing from view. “Friendly sort,” Jamie said dryly. “Do many ferals live in the park, then?”

“Not many.” Nick started off. “And don’t ask for details, because you aren’t getting them.” There were too many ways this could go wrong. “And don’t tell any other witches, or your friends at the MWP. If I find out witches are hunting the park for familiars…” He let the implied threat linger in the air.

Jamie’s dark brows drew together. How the man still managed to look handsome with a scowl on his face, Nick didn’t know. “I ain’t going to tell anyone. Far as I can see, they ain’t hurting anything if they want to live here in animal form.”

“Some would say it’s a waste of magic,” Nick challenged. Jamie had taken him by surprise earlier, when he’d instantly understood Nick’s point about familiars being neither human nor animal. “They could be making money for some witch. Instead they’re just moochers living off the bounty of the park.”

Jamie’s scowl eased into a troubled frown. “I suppose. I mean, I can see how people might say that.”

Of course he did. Just like any witch.

“But it ain’t doing any harm,” Jamie went on. “So why shouldn’t they stay?”

Did Jamie believe that, or was he just saying it to keep Nick happy? He didn’t seem like the deceptive sort. Nick had already trusted him too much by letting him know ferals lived in the park to begin with. Today, Jamie’s uncle was rounding up so-called dangerous familiars. Tomorrow, it might be any unbonded familiars at all.

Golden leaves tumbled from the trees as they strolled in silence. The clouds thickened as they walked, and the scent of rain touched the air. They crossed Bow Bridge, entering the Ramble. The little woodland seemed to cut them off from the rest of the park, even more than the North Woods had done. Hills rose and dived more sharply, interspersed by stretches of gray bedrock.

A short distance north of the bridge, they came across the owl’s tree. Rather than a rich red or blazing yellow, its leaves had turned brown, mottled with spots of black. Many had already fallen to create an ugly carpet around its roots, and the limbs seemed to be slowly breaking and crumbling away. The bark hung off in sheets, revealing rot beneath.

Anywhere else, it wouldn’t have been odd. Trees got sick and died, just like everything else. But here…

“Huh,” Jamie said, coming to a halt. Rain began to patter down around them, and he pulled up the collar of his coat. “I thought the Great Hex was supposed to keep everything in the park, you know, healthy. Or healthful. Both.”

“It’s probably just an old tree,” Nick said, as if he knew a damn thing about horticulture. “Nothing a hex can do about that.”

“Maybe,” Jamie said dubiously. “Do you think this is the right tree, then?”

Nick cupped his hands around his mouth and called. “Owl! Bess sent me to you. I’m Nick.”

Several moments of silence followed, his call echoing weirdly through the Ramble. Then a piece of bark seemed to peel off a nearby oak. Nick registered the fragment as a Screech Owl only an instant before it landed and shifted into a thin, brown skinned man.

Unlike Bess, his clothing was in tatters, and far too short in both leg and arm for him. He held his yellow eyes nearly closed, and remained almost motionless once he landed, as if he still had feathers to camouflage him.

Scared, then. Of them, or something else?

“Nick.” His voice was hoarse, more like an owl’s angry hiss than anything human. “I’ve heard your name. From the other ferals.”

A chill ran down Nick’s spine. He never wanted to become like this—barely clinging to the memory of being a familiar. Still, he forced his face to remain neutral as he nodded. “I need your help. Do you know about the murders in the park?”

The owl went even stiller, if that were possible. His eyes closed altogether. Not quite playing dead, but almost. “There. On the bridge.”

“That was one of them. Another feral was murdered before her.” Nick paused. “Did you see the killer?”

For a moment, Nick didn’t think the owl would answer. He stood absolutely motionless, and fear seemed to roll off him in waves. “Nothing human,” the owl answered at last. “Nothing alive.”

Nick exchanged a baffled glance with Jamie. “What do you mean, nothing alive?” Nick asked. “Ghosts don’t use knives.”

Memories of his familiar nature must have been rising in the owl, because he shook his head. A human gesture. “It was made from black mist, streaming around it in the wind. There were horns. Bones. Teeth. When it looked up—there was nothing beneath the hood. The woman had a gun. She shot it, but it kept coming. Like it couldn’t be killed, because it wasn’t alive to start with.” His eyes snapped open, wide and bulging. “It was a wraith. And we’re all cursed now.”

Then he changed into owl form and was gone.

The rain chose that moment to turn into a downpour. Within seconds, every inch of Jamie’s exposed skin was soaked. Water streamed from the brim of his hat.

“Is there somewhere we can take shelter?” he asked over the rush.

“The Cave isn’t far from here,” Nick said, and started off, forcing Jamie to follow.

The Cave was well hidden, accessible from the Lake by boat, and down a flight of stone steps by foot. Foliage and artfully placed boulders hid the entrance until they were practically on it.

Nick ducked inside first. “Empty,” he grunted. “Good.”

The Cave was both narrow and shallow—but it was dry, which was what mattered. Jamie took his hat off and shook the water onto the floor. “Do people take shelter in here often, then?”

“You could say that.” Nick leaned against the wall, his long black hair dripping water. “It’s easily accessible if you know it’s here. Hidden from prying eyes…let’s just say more than a few men and women have found it a convenient spot for either work or pleasure.”

“Oh.” Jamie’s face flamed at the thought they might have interrupted a couple in the midst of…things. “That’s good. That it was empty, I mean.”

Nick didn’t bother to reply, only stared at the rain, as though it had done him a personal slight.

Jamie groped for something to fill the silence between them. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“The Wraith.” The brief soaking had been just enough to set a chill in Jamie’s bones, and he wrapped his arms around himself to still his shivers. “Do you think…I mean, the owl said it wasn’t human.”

Nick pulled off his scarf and wrung the moisture from it. “I think his imagination ran away with him. There aren’t any such things as wraiths, or ghosts, or specters.” He glanced at Jamie. “You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you?”

“I…” Jamie trailed off, uncertain how to answer. Of course he believed in ghosts—who didn’t? Everyone he knew had a story, if not of their own encounters, then those of a friend. Or a friend of a friend.

“Never mind.” Nick’s mouth thinned with displeasure. “No ghost killed Pia. Or your Wyatt.”

Of that, Jamie felt more sure. “Nay. And he wasn’t my Wyatt.” Not anymore, anyway. If he ever had been. The thought hurt.

“Eddie’s Wyatt, then.”

“Why do you have to be such an arse?” Jamie snapped. He was wet, and cold, and trapped in a cave with a man who seemed determined to push him away at every turn. “I ain’t your enemy.”

“What do you want from me, witch?” Nick shoved himself off the stone wall and stalked across the Cave to where Jamie stood. In the dimness, it was hard to make out his expression. “Stop playing games and just tell me.”

Jamie’s throat constricted. He could think of all sorts of things he wanted from Nick. Nick’s scent, of sweat and sweetness, seemed to go straight from his brain to his prick. He took a step back, fetched up against the rough rock wall. “What do you mean?” he managed to ask.

Nick crowded even closer, forcing Jamie to crane his head back to look up at him. Trapped between the much larger man and the cave wall, his mouth went dry with lust.

“Witches always want something.” Nick’s voice was low, an intimate growl. “Usually it’s obvious. Magic. Money. Power. But you…I can’t figure you out. You haven’t used my magic without asking. You brought me breakfast. You defer to my judgment. You flirt. I’m not falling for your tricks. Just tell me what the hell it is you want from me.”

Grief and desire warred in Jamie’s blood. “I want to find out who killed Wyatt,” he said. “That’s it. If you feel like you got to be a fucking bastard about it, fine. But don’t you go accusing me of trying to trick you somehow. I don’t know why you’re so damned angry all the time, but I ain’t done anything but try to be nice to you.”

Nick’s lip curled. “I don’t want you to be nice to me.”

“Then let’s turn the question around. What do you want?”

Nick’s eyes widened slightly. He looked like a man struggling to come up with an answer…or struggling against the answer that had sprung to mind.

Then Nick’s mouth was on Jamie’s—hard, almost angry, but desperate too. Jamie could feel Nick’s teeth through the press of their lips, and he returned the kiss with desperation of his own. He thrust his fingers into Nick’s hair, clutching at the soft strands as if to keep him from pulling away. Nick’s hand slid around the back of Jamie’s neck, gripping the exposed skin between collar and hair. Jamie found himself pressed between the hard stone of the wall, and the hard muscle of the man. And oh God, the sensation did things to him, dragged a moan up from the depths of body or soul, or both.

Nick broke off the kiss to stare at Jamie. His eyes were wild, lips parted, breath rasping as if he’d been put through a race. “I don’t fuck witches.”

Well, that was damned unconvincing. “But do you let witches fuck you?” Jamie asked. “Because I have oil in my pocket right now.” He shrugged at Nick’s incredulous look. “When you ordered me to meet you the other afternoon, I thought you had something different in mind.” He’d tried not to think too hard about why he hadn’t bothered to take the oil out of his pocket. “So what do you say?”

“Go to hell,” Nick growled, before slamming his mouth down on Jamie’s again.

They wrestled Jamie’s overcoat off—or maybe they wrestled each other, or both. A tangle and shove of limbs, and Jamie barely had time to rescue the oil from the pocket before the coat fell on the cave floor. Nick grabbed him roughly, tried to spin him to face the wall, and nearly sent him to the ground.

“Watch it—the leg—”

Nick steadied him, then pushed Jamie’s shoulders forward, so his arms braced against the wall, hips canted back. There was something delicious about the surety of Nick’s big hands on him, pushing his suit coat up, unbuttoning bracers, then gliding around to start on the buttons of his trousers.

The chilly air was a shock against heated skin. Nick plucked the bottle from Jamie’s hand. Jamie wanted to turn around and take a look, but before he could, Nick’s arm snaked around his waist. The length of Nick’s cock pressed against one buttock, leaving behind the slickness of precome.

Then Nick’s fingers pushed into him, and Jamie closed his eyes, struggling to relax, to breathe. He moaned something incoherent, his face resting against his arms, the rugged wall of the cave inches away. “Nick…”

Nick shifted position. The broad head of his prick pressed against Jamie’s opening. “This what you want, witch?” and it was more a challenge than a question.

“Aye, damn it,” Jamie said.

“Take it then.”