Nick clomped down the stairs into the saloon’s cellar. Boxes, barrels, and kegs crowded most of the space. The rest was taken up by various things tenants had left behind over the years: broken chairs, cooking utensils, children’s toys, and small tools. He maneuvered through the stacks, careful not to knock anything over with his broad shoulders, until he reached the cellar wall.

Who had created the hidden door, he didn’t know and didn’t much care. The lower part of Manhattan was riddled with tunnels, especially near the docks. His stretch of West 28th Street wasn’t near the water, but some enterprising smuggler had taken inspiration and put the door in long before Nick had acquired the property.

The memory of Ingram’s implication—that a familiar couldn’t possibly own a business—scalded him a second time. Some days, Nick would stare at the book shelves in his apartment, and his breath would catch in pain over what was gone. Everything his dad had wanted to pass down to him: the anatomy texts, the thick tomes on disease, the books on pharmaceuticals. All sold, gone along with so much else into buying Caballus and the tenement.

Nick pressed on the correct brick and was rewarded when counterweights shifted and part of the wall popped out. He grasped the edge and swung it open, revealing the tiny room where he’d hidden the package meant to be passed on to Wyatt.

Fearful eyes fixed on him—three human, and two in animal form. A tiger stood nearest the door, ready to pounce if need be. When the tiger saw Nick, he shifted back into human shape, as did the bear who had positioned herself to block access to the two youngest ferals.

Last November, a bunch of idiots decided to go on a killing spree at a society wedding. A handful of nobs died as a result—no loss there, really. But the survivors had money, and connections, and political power. The attackers had been ferals, angered over the treatment the law allowed witches to visit on so-called dangerous familiars.

If that had been the end of it, Nick wouldn’t have given a damn. The nobs could look after themselves, as far as he was concerned. But the attack resulted in hysteria, and in politicians falling over themselves to prove they were Doing Something.

What they’d done was pass the Pemberton Act, named after the state senator who wrote most of it, with the back room help of purity groups like the Heirs of Adam. All “dangerous” familiars in New York state now had to either be bonded to a witch, or under a witch’s supervision. That meant working for one of the larger corporations or the MWP—and never mind the ring leader of the attack had been employed by the fucking MWP to start with.

Though that hadn’t been entirely forgotten. The fact an MWP officer planned the massacre resulted in a “compromise” written into the act, giving the authority to enforce it to the non-magical police. Hence the assholes who had just showed up on his doorstep to threaten him.

Familiars who saw the writing on the wall had abandoned the state in droves. If they had the means. But it wasn’t easy for the ferals covered by the act to leave the city without being spotted by some train conductor, or ferry captain, or just the damned coppers keeping watch for anyone trying to run. If they were caught, they’d be hauled off to the Menagerie.

“Where’s Wyatt?” asked the tiger. Conrad, that was his name. “We’ve gathered our things. We’re ready to go.”

Nick rubbed his face. “There’s been a delay.”

Conrad’s yellow eyes sharpened. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Nick glanced over the room, making certain there was enough bedding for everyone. “Wyatt didn’t show up, but the coppers did.”

Conrad paled. “The police.”

“I think it was just a coincidence. Just looking for an excuse to harass ferals, as usual.” Nick stamped a foot and shook his head, hair flying. “I’m going to find out what happened to Wyatt.”

“What are we to do?” asked one of the young ferals. The girl wasn’t more than fourteen, if that. Fear trembled in her voice, but Nick could tell she was trying hard to put up a brave front.

He crouched in front of her, to be more on her level. “You’re going to stay here, where it’s safe,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Anyone wants to hurt you, they’ve got to come through me, first. And I make a pretty good wall.”

He winked, saw her relax marginally. “All right,” she said, giving him a little smile.

Nick rose to his feet. “ If we’re lucky, you lot can move on with Wyatt tomorrow. If we aren’t, it might be a few days.” He took a step back, into the doorway. “No one is going to find you here, even if the coppers come back with a search warrant. You saw yourselves how hidden this door is from the other side, so there’s no reason to be afraid. Do you have enough food for tonight? Enough water? All right, then. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He swung the door shut, making sure it latched. At least they could open it from their side, if he ended up hauled off by the coppers on some trumped up charge.

He had to find Wyatt and get them out of here. Despite his words, too many things could go wrong.

The problem was, he didn’t know where to look for Wyatt. A different familiar brought groups of ferals to Nick. They stayed in the cellar for a day or two, then Wyatt came by and led them to a ferry that would take them out of the city. That was the only time he and the eagle regularly met face-to-face. If they needed to communicate, they hid messages in a rocky crevice inside the Cave in Central Park.

Sure, he’d had a few drinks with Wyatt, talked to him a bit, getting his own feel for the man even though Nick’s contacts said he was safe. Couldn’t be too careful, after all. But a part of being careful was keeping as much personal information from one another as possible, in case one of them was taken by the coppers. Nick had no idea what part of the city Wyatt lived in, or if he had friends, or family, or anything else.

Nick hadn’t had time to check the Cave today. But maybe he should. There might be a note telling him something had gone wrong, and when he could expect Wyatt to show up.

“I’m going out,” he called to Kyle once he emerged back into the main room of the saloon. Kyle only nodded; he knew better than to ask questions.

Nick stepped out onto West 28th Street. It was getting late, the sun long gone. The frosty air nipped at his cheeks. The Seventh Avenue El lay within spitting distance, but no sense spending the money when he could just run.

Nick shifted into horse form and shook himself. A couple of passers-by stared in surprise at the sight of a huge, black horse loitering on the sidewalk. He ignored them and instead trotted down the street, making for Seventh Avenue and the park. With any luck, he’d find Wyatt had left him a message saying there was a minor delay, and the ferals would be out of his basement by tomorrow.

“We’ve had a call, MacDougal.” The witch who manned the switchboard overnight stuck her head out the door leading to the stables, unwilling to step outside into the chilly breeze. “A body in Central Park, near Playmates Arch, with some sort of hex drawn around it. Kopecky and Rook are already on their way.”

Jamie looked up from the notebook where he’d been practicing his hexes. A small stove provided heat, and a hexlight sat on the table for illumination. The air smelled of hay and of the horses in their stalls behind him. “Thanks.”

The other witch—or potential witch, as neither of them had bonded—hesitated a moment, as if debating saying something further. Jamie levered himself up and turned his back on the woman. “Central Park’s a fair ways,” he said, before she could speak. “I’d best get going, so as not to make the detectives wait.”

She took the hint and shut the door. Alone again, Jamie let out a sigh of relief.

She probably thought he was crazy, sitting out here by himself on a cold fall night. Chief Ferguson had even stopped by one evening last winter, to remind Jamie he could pass the time indoors. He’d thanked the chief, but stayed in the stable.

At least no one had asked him why. He wasn’t certain he could explain why spending time with the horses was easier than with his fellow coppers. The horses didn’t ask Jamie to recount the Battle of Las Guasimas, or what it was like to fight beside Roosevelt, or any of the other questions people felt entitled to ask once they knew about his brief stint with the First Volunteer Cavalry.

The wagon wasn’t a fast conveyance, but the streets were largely clear of traffic at this late hour. Not empty—this was New York City, after all. There was always an open saloon, or a twenty-four-hour restaurant, or a pool hall ready to provide a bit of late-night entertainment. Not to mention the brothels and street walkers.

The park itself was quiet, though. This time of night, no carriages clattered along its drives, and no bicycles whizzed merrily down its trails. An owl flushed from a tree, flew low across the drive in front of the wagon, and vanished into the darkness. The hooves of Jamie's horse echoed eerily from trees and rocky outcroppings. Even a short distance in, it was easy to forget the city pressing at the park’s borders, to feel as though he’d been transported to the country. The smells differed as much as the sights: the cidery scent of fallen leaves, the rich tang of soil and stone. Even the air was easier to breathe, though that might be due to the park’s Great Hex.

The architects of Central Park had meant it to be a place where the city’s inhabitants could enjoy healthy air and sights, just like the countryside. Where women and children could get fresh milk from the dairy, and even those outside the park could benefit from clean, pure water from the reservoir. So they’d used the paths and buildings to craft the Great Hex, inscribed across the very landscape of the park. The world felt different, as soon as you crossed the boundary; the city noises falling away, the air lacking the perpetual haze of coal smoke, the plants thriving.

A cluster of hex lights revealed the gathering of police atop Playmates Arch, throwing the shadows of the dark iron railings on the path below. MWP Detective Dominic Kopecky and his familiar Rook stood gazing down at what looked like a hex painted in blood on the paved surface of the arch. Dominic tugged absently at a vest that lay snug over a belly gained from spending most of his time behind a desk. Rook was a slender shadow in the night: brown skin, black hair, and a dark suit.

Bill Quigley, the liaison between the MWP and regular police, surveyed the scene with his arms folded over his broad chest. When Jamie drew up, Quigley glanced at him. “MacDougal. They’ve still got you driving the wagon, have they?”

“Aye.” They’d worked together before, and he knew from experience that Quigley wouldn’t hesitate to help him load the body. Corpses tended to be difficult things to move, either stiff as boards or utterly limp.

As Jamie climbed down from the cart, someone from beyond the illumination of the hexlights called out to Rook. Rook frowned and glanced at Dominic. Some communication seemed to pass between them, even though Rook was in human form. Rook left the group gathered around the body, vanishing altogether into the shadows.

“It’s a bad one,” Quigley warned as Jamie approached.

“I’ve got no choice but to look, if I want to get him in the wagon.”

“Aye.” Quigley winced. “Just…ready yourself.”

The dead man lay sprawled on his back, his head turned to the side. His throat gaped from a slash so deep the bone was visible. The killer had opened his abdomen as well, perhaps seeking more blood to paint the grotesque tangle of hexwork around him.

Open eyes stared sightlessly at Jamie. Pale yellow eyes, like those of his eagle form, set in a face Jamie knew almost as well as his own. A thin golden chain yet hung around his neck, below the slash, a pendant dangling from it.

It couldn’t be him.

Jamie closed his eyes tight. This was it—he’d finally gone round the bend. He was suffering an unexpected attack of soldier’s heart, seeing the face of a dead comrade instead of what was actually in front of him.

“Told you it was a bad one,” Quigley said sympathetically.

“It…it ain’t that.” Though it was. Jamie forced his eyes open, willing himself to see reality this time.

But nothing changed. The face still belonged to Wyatt. The man he’d loved.

Quigley put a hand to his arm, and Jamie realized he’d begun to sway. “MacDougal? Jamie? Your color don’t look so good. Maybe you ought to sit down for a bit?”

“Describe him,” Jamie said hoarsely.

Quigley frowned. “What?”

“Tell me what the victim looks like.” Now Quigley and Dominic both stared at him as though he’d lost his mind.

Quigley decided to humor him. “Um, pale yellow eyes. Dark hair. Has some kind of necklace on. Scar on the chin.”

Nausea rose in Jamie’s belly. He fought it back, but nothing would stop the horror that turned the blood in his veins sluggish. For a moment, the air around him didn’t belong to a fall night in New York. It was hotter, thicker, filled with the scents of the jungle. Despite the breathless air, they crowded against each other in the two man tent, hands on each other’s cocks, while Eddie smoked and sat guard outside. The pendant dangled in front of his eyes, as Wyatt pressed him down into the blankets.

“Wyatt,” he whispered.

“You know this familiar?” Quigley asked in surprise.

“Aye.” This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Better if Jamie was having an attack of soldier’s heart, because then at least this grisly scene wouldn’t be real. “Wyatt. He was in my unit. He and his witch died in Cuba.”

Beyond the ordinary gaslights that illuminated the carriage drives and bridle paths of the park, there shone another set of lights, one that shouldn’t have been there. These lights didn’t flicker, but instead put out the cold, clear radiance of hexlights.

Nick slowed to a walk, then shifted back to human form. A group of people gathered on Playmates Arch. Even as he watched, an MWP wagon rolled up.

Damn it.

It might not have anything to do with him. Wyatt hid the notes in the Cave, farther into the park, within the lightless confines of the Ramble. If Nick had any sense, he’d take back his horse shape and trot along, past something that was likely none of his business.

He drew closer, sticking to the shadows. The hexlights illuminated the road over the arch more clearly than gaslight, and as he drew nearer, he recognized one of the MWP coppers.

Rook. His little brother.

His brother, who had joined the MWP years ago and now lived fat and happy as some witch’s pet. Who had given up his freedom, as though Nick wouldn’t have sacrificed anything—everything—to protect him.

Rook might be tame now, but at least his presence meant Nick wouldn’t be grabbed as the nearest convenient suspect, accused of whatever crime had taken place on the arch, and have a confession beaten out of him.

“Rook!” Nick called.

Rook turned; even if he couldn’t see Nick in the darkness, he’d clearly recognized Nick’s voice. Rook glanced at his witch—asking permission, no doubt—then made his way over.

“What happened?” Nick asked.

“Good to see you, too,” Rook said with false cheer. “I’ve been doing fine, thanks for asking. Dominic is doing well, too. We moved into a better apartment, not that you knew what the one before it was like, since you never come to visit.”

Nick stamped his foot. “Quit your squawking and answer my question.”

Rook rolled his eyes. “A murder.” He paused. “Actually, you might be of some use, for once. You know half the ferals in the city. Do you want to tell me if you recognize this one?”

Nick’s impatience drained away, replaced by dread. As Rook had said, chances were good he knew whatever poor bastard had died here. Even if it wasn’t Wyatt.

Wyatt, who was late, when he’d never been before.

Nick stepped closer to get a look at the face. His gorge rose at the sight—someone had butchered the poor bastard. The face was unmarked, though, and…

Damn it.

Maybe he hadn’t known Wyatt well, but he’d liked what he’d seen of the fellow. A cheerful sort, when it came to dealing with scared fugitives, always laughing and joking while never belittling the danger. But when it was just him and Nick, the mask slipped away.

Haunted, that’s what Wyatt had been, though Nick never asked by what. There was a sadness in his eyes, accompanied by a sort of quiet regret.

Now he was dead, throat cut and body torn apart. Who would have done such a thing, and—more urgently—had they done it because he was part of the smuggling ring moving dangerous ferals out of the city?

“Wyatt,” said one of the coppers. His voice sounded shaky, as though he struggled not to either throw up or cry. “He was in my unit. He and his witch died in Cuba.”

The man who had spoken was one of the MWP witches. Handsome, even though his face had gone the color of milk. Black hair, green eyes, and a plump mouth that looked made for sin. His uniform hung a bit loose on his frame, as though he’d lost weight recently.

The world twisted in on itself. Knowledge settled in Nick’s bones, his blood. In the space against his heart, as though he’d swallowed a thorn.

This man, whoever he was…was Nick’s witch.