Jamie’s shift was almost over when the call came in to pick up another body in Central Park.

The sun rose over the city as he drove the wagon into the park. A few early risers from the riding academies on West 54th and Central Park West took advantage of the cool morning to exercise the horses and themselves. Bird watchers clustered near the Pond, peering through their binoculars. Away from the wide drives and bridle paths, park-goers rode bicycles or strolled briskly through the drifts of falling leaves. At least until they reached Bow Bridge, just west of Bethesda Fountain, where police turned them aside.

Trepidation drew Jamie’s nerves tight as the wagon approached the cast iron bridge. The almost delicate span leapt across the Lake, its reflection shimmering in the water below. The design of interlocked circles and hexes that formed its railings added to the impression of grace, like the drawn bow of an archer.

The thought caused him to lift his hand to his chest. He’d taken to wearing Wyatt’s necklace, hidden beneath his clothing. It was just a coincidence, of course; the name of the bridge had nothing to do with Diana. But it left him uneasy nonetheless.

Jamie climbed down from the cart and approached the scene slowly. As the smell of blood grew stronger, he had to force his legs to keep moving. The awfulness of Wyatt’s corpse came back, thickening his blood and making it hard to breathe.

Jamie pushed himself forward. If he lost his ability to view murder scenes, he’d have no choice but to leave the MWP. Being a copper had structured his entire adult life, save for his brief stint as a solider. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

He looked at the face first, even though he didn’t want to. Relief rushed over him: the woman wasn’t anyone he knew.

Shame followed hard on the heels of the thought. Whoever she’d been, she had people who loved her, who would grieve her death.

As with Wyatt, her body was surrounded by a hex drawn in her own blood. She wore clothes that looked to have been washed a thousand times, sleeves thin at the elbow, skirts ragged at the hem. Her half-open eyes showed irises of ruddy amber, like a fox’s.

Another familiar, then. Just like Wyatt.

Dominic and Rook stood off to one side, along with the liaison, Quigley. Detective Tom Halloran crouched beside the hex. His familiar, Cicero, observed closely as Tom laid his hand carefully on the bloody marks.

After a long moment, Tom shook his head. “I can’t sense anything but the Great Hex.” He rose to his feet, and Cicero handed him a handkerchief to wipe any traces of blood from his hand.

Dominic sighed. “Thank you, Tom. So. It looks as though we have some maniac killing familiars.” He glanced at Quigley. “Will the regular police help us with the investigation?”

Quigley looked grim. “I wish I could say, ‘Aye, of course!’ I’ll push for it—you know I will. But right from the start, they’ve said the hexes make it the MWP’s problem.”

“They probably don’t want to investigate because the first victim was just a feral,” Cicero said. “Judging by the state of her clothes, this one likely was, too.”

“Do you think so?” Jamie asked. “I mean, that they don’t care because Wyatt was a feral?”

Cicero cast him a pitying look. Despite the early hour, his yellow-green eyes were perfectly outlined with kohl. “It’s how the world works, James.”

“Not to mention, Wyatt was violating the Pemberton Act,” Tom added. “They ain’t likely to spend much time worrying about a dead criminal.”

Jamie hadn’t even thought of the Pemberton Act in relation to Wyatt, though of course eagles were on the list. At least if Uncle Hurley had caught him, he’d still be alive.

Though not for long, given he would likely have ended up shot for desertion.

Jamie’s throat tightened. Damn it. None of this should have happened.

“It’s a cursed shame.” Quigley looked sadly down at the woman’s body. “I hope you can at least find out who she was.”

“I’m sure Rook knows someone who could identify her,” Cicero drawled.

Rook’s full lips tightened. “Unfortunately.” He turned to Jamie. “It’s our unlucky day, MacDougal. We’re going to have to stop by my brother’s saloon.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a hand with that?” asked the man delivering the beer. He squinted at Nick from under a thatch of dirty blond hair, as though even the light of early morning was too much for his eyes.

Nick bit back his irritation. The same brewery had supplied Caballus for years, and the old man who had driven the keg-filled cart before understood the rules. But he’d retired, and this new one couldn’t seem to get it through his head that Nick didn’t let just anyone into Caballus, no matter their business.

Instead, he heaved one keg easily onto his shoulder and tucked another beneath his arm. “Just wait here.”

“It would be faster if you…” The man’s voice faded as Nick walked away.

He hauled the kegs into the front room; he’d transfer them to the cellar once he had them all unloaded. Kyle arrived halfway through, and Nick put him to work making space in the cellar while he continued to haul kegs. As he pulled the final one off the cart and waved at the driver to continue on, another wagon pulled up.

This one had the MWP’s shield blazoned on the side, and was driven by the witch with the particolored eyes. His witch.

Those eyes traveled over Nick’s chest to his arm—which, yes, was probably bulging impressively under the weight of the keg he balanced on his shoulder. Nick had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and he knew from experience his muscles showed to good effect. Jamie wasn’t the first to look, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

But the tiny swipe of a tongue-tip over Jamie’s lower lip sent a shock of heat straight to Nick’s groin.

Fur and feathers, no. Bad enough his magic was stupid over the man; his body didn’t need to join the act.

He tore his gaze from Jamie and focused on Rook, who crowded between Jamie and Dominic on the narrow driver’s seat. “I didn’t think I’d see you around again so soon. What do you want?”

Rook jumped down from the wagon seat. “We need you to look at a body.”

Oh hell. “A feral?”

“A familiar, anyway.” Rook swung open the back of the wagon.

Nick put down the keg. He glanced at the saloon, saw Kyle watching through the window with a worried frown. Nick shook his head—no sense exposing Kyle to the coppers without need.

Nick’s legs felt like lead, reluctant to move. He forced them to anyway, and joined Rook at the rear of the wagon. Rook flipped back the edge of a blood-soaked sheet.

Nick’s heart sank. “Pia,” he said, careful to keep his voice steady. “She rents—rented—a room in the tenement upstairs.”

“When did you last see her?” Rook asked.

Nick rubbed at his face. “A couple of days ago. She was behind on rent, so I stopped by her apartment. What happened?”

“The same thing as happened to Wyatt,” Jamie said. “She was killed in Central Park.”

Nick stilled. He’d worried the killer had murdered Wyatt because of his work with the fugitive ferals. But Pia had nothing to do with that. She’d just been an ordinary woman, laboring as a seamstress in a sweatshop on Second Avenue. Trying to get by, and yes, she was late coming up with the money to pay him, but the same could be said for plenty of the ferals he rented to.

She’d moved here to be safe, after one too many close calls. She’d been under his protection.

And now she was dead. Murdered.

“I don’t think we should give out too many details to the public,” Rook said, before Jamie could offer anything more.

A light blush pinked Jamie’s cheeks. Nick couldn’t help but wonder how far it spread over the skin hidden by the uniform. Then cursed himself for doing it.

“Sorry, sir,” Jamie said, ducking his head. Sir? To a familiar?

“So now I’m a member of the public?” Nick asked, to distract himself.

“That’s exactly what you are.” Rook put his hands on his hips and stared up at Nick. “Now if you were part of the MWP, that would be a horse of a different color.”

“Rook,” Nick said threateningly. Dominic sighed from the driver’s seat.

Rook failed to look abashed. “Any idea who might have seen Pia last?”

“She has two roommates. I could ask—”

“No, you can’t,” Rook interrupted. “This is a police investigation, Nick. Stay out of it. We’ll ask the questions.”

Dominic pulled out his pocket watch. “Not today, though. Owen is expecting us to help sort through the latest batch of seized hexes.”

The devil? “So now contraband hexes are more important than murdered ferals?”

“Of course not.” But Rook didn’t meet his eyes as he said it. “But you read the papers, don’t you? The reformers have the Police Board in an uproar over the illegal hex trade.”

“The Heirs of Adam.” The words scalded Nick’s mouth. “Bunch of tight-assed, limp-pricked moralizers. They hate any magic, but they’ve got you jumping to their tune?”

None of the coppers looked happy about it, which cheered Nick slightly. Rook scowled at him. “The Police Board hasn’t been pleased with us since that idiot Cavanaugh tried to poison Roosevelt.”

“It’s your fault for catching him,” Nick said.

“It is not!” Rook squawked, flapping his arms indignantly. “The man murdered a bunch of people, and tried to have us killed, too!”

“One of our own trying to kill New York’s richest last November only made things worse,” Dominic said. “If the Police Board tells Ferguson to throw all his resources into finding illegal hexes, he has no choice but to follow orders. There’s already been talk of replacing him with a non-witch. We’re doing everything we can, but we can’t risk ending up with someone like Reverend Ingram running the MWP.”

“True enough,” Nick said, though he hated to find himself in agreement with a witch.

“I’ll talk to Ferguson,” Dominic added. “As soon as we return to the Coven. I’ll ask him to argue the case with the Police Board.”

Nick stamped a foot. “Will that do any good?”

Dominic looked mildly surprised that Nick had addressed him directly. Well, he shouldn’t get used to it, that was for sure. “I’m…not hopeful,” he admitted. “People die all the time in this city. If not for the blood hex drawn around the bodies, it wouldn’t even be remarkable.”

Of course not. If ferals could expect justice, they wouldn’t need a place like Caballus. Like the colony Nick ran in the tenement above.

“It ain’t right,” Jamie said. Nick glanced at him in surprise, but his attention was focused on Dominic. “If some maniac is killing familiars, it ought to be top priority. Not an afterthought, to get around to as we can.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” Dominic said. “But unless you can conjure up another witch-familiar pair for Ferguson to assign the case to, it’s the way things are.”

Nick’s heart kicked against his ribs, and his mouth went dry. Because of course, he could provide exactly that.

No. The very thought was absurd. Witches had killed his parents, stolen his dreams, and seduced his brother.

Rook gently laid the sheet back over Pia’s face and shut the back of the wagon. His gaze went to Nick, but he flashed into crow form without saying anything. Dominic held out an arm, and Rook landed on his wrist. Dominic stroked Rook’s beak tenderly with his free hand, and the crow leaned into the touch, seeking comfort.

Wyatt had been doing his best to help ferals targeted by the Pemberton Act. And Pia…

She’d just been trying to survive. Nick was supposed to have kept her safe. That was his duty and his promise to every feral in his colony. But somewhere along the line, he’d failed her.

He knew witches. He also knew that, when it came to Jamie, nothing would ever make Nick consider a permanent bond. He was safe, or at least as safe as any familiar could be. Surely he owed it to Pia, to Wyatt, to make use of the situation.

Jamie lifted the reins. Before he could think too hard about it, Nick said, “MacDougal.”

Jamie paused. Nick took a deep breath.

“Come back to Caballus this afternoon. Three o’clock. That’ll give us time before the evening rush.”

“Time for what?” Jamie asked blankly.

“Nothing I want to talk about in front of other ears,” he said. And headed back inside, before he could change his mind.

Nick poured another shot and asked himself what the hell he was thinking.

He’d spent the entire day on edge, going back and forth as to what course of action he should take.

Yes, Jamie MacDougal didn’t seem like a bad sort—for a witch. But Nick didn’t really know anything about the fellow, despite the conversation with Rook. They’d exchanged a few words, nothing more.

The fact Jamie was his witch meant nothing. Just look at what had happened to Cicero’s friend Isaac. His witch had turned out to be an utter asshole who couldn’t stand the thought of a fey Jewish familiar, and responded to Isaac’s declaration with his fists. For once the MWP had done the right thing and thrown the bastard out, but that didn’t mend Isaac’s broken bones, nor his trust. If he’d just come to Nick…but no, Isaac left the MWP, determined to stand on his own two feet, and ended up force bonded to a madman who only wanted to strip him for power.

At least Nick didn’t have to worry about Jamie delivering a beating. Not that Jamie couldn’t probably hold his own against most men, but even in human form Nick had a good seven inches and sixty pounds on him.

Nick didn’t want any part of the MWP. Didn’t want to put even the smallest amount of trust in a witch. If he went through with this, it would mean trusting multiple witches not to stab him in the back. Jamie, the hexbreaker, hell, maybe even Kopecky.

But the hard truth was, ferals were dying. Even if no more murders occurred, he owed it to the living ferals to try and solve the first two. But what if it turned out to be like the ax murders in Texas, and the killings continued? An entire police force determined to stop the Midnight Assassin had failed. No one was going to put in that level of effort for a few ferals in New York.

No one but him.

“It ain’t fair,” Jamie had said. And he’d wanted to know about Wyatt, that day in front of the Coven. Yes, like any witch, he’d probably viewed Wyatt more like a pet than a person. But at least he cared a little.

Nick snorted and shook his head. A damned low bar to set, and chances were Jamie still wouldn’t clear it.

But this wasn’t about Jamie MacDougal. It definitely wasn’t about Nick’s stupid magic, which seemed to think bonding with Jamie a fine idea. It was about Nick looking in the mirror every morning to shave. He didn’t want to be ashamed of the man looking back.

The bell over the door chimed, just as the clock struck three. He looked up, past the few drinkers who had gathered in the saloon at this hour, and saw Jamie standing nervously in the doorway.

No uniform…and dressed nicely, like a man who hoped to make an impression. Neat coat, trousers, even his shoes shined to a gloss.

Of course, he’d look better with nothing on at all.

Nick shoved the thought aside. He didn’t fuck witches, and he wasn’t about to start now. No matter how appealing the thought might be.

“I need to step out a bit, Kyle,” Nick said. Kyle nodded, and Nick made for the door.

The tenement entrance was only a few feet down. “Follow me,” Nick told Jamie, and led the way up the stairs and inside. Nick’s apartment was on the first floor—one of the few luxuries he granted himself, along with no roommates to share the space. The apartment doubled as his office, and a desk took up much of the front room, its surface piled with ledgers. Bookshelves held older ledgers, crowded against the novels Nick enjoyed in his spare time.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing at one of the chairs near the desk. “Would you like a drink?”

“Nay, thank you though.” Jamie sat down. He rubbed his hands over his thighs, and Nick found himself following the movement. “So…you asked me here, because…?”

There it was. Time to make a decision.

Nick drew a deep breath. Before he could think on it too long, he said, “I want you to bond with me.”