Page 14 of Hexbound
A small, dangerous smile played over his mouth. "I should like to see them try to assault me. But we'll skirt back around into Crows’ territory the second we get a chance."
His confidence was infectious, even though she knew better. "Assoonas we get the chance," she repeated, then hesitated once again.
Bishop, however, had made up his mind. Verity scurried after him, using her hat to shield her face as she entered the gloom of the alley. It opened up into the next street over, which could have been identical to the one they'd been on if only all of the hairs along her arms hadn't risen.
"Seven gangs," Bishop murmured, offering his arm to her. "How did the Hex form? I don't know a lot about it."
She accepted his arm, pasting her body close to his side. All the better to hide her face. "The founding members of the Hex got together in 1789, barely a decade after the Order of the Dawn Star formed. Some of them were outcasts from the Order; some couldn't conform to the rigid ways the Order expected them to use their power; and some were simply hedge witches and occult tinkerers. Forming the Hex Society protected them as individuals and they took over the Seven Dials, either by forcing other gangs out or assimilating them."
"Hence the use of superstitious symbols as gang flags," he murmured. "One-Eyed Crows, what does that mean?"
"That we see all." A group of children rollicked past them. "The original founder of the Crows was Norse."
The scrimmage of street children ended as one tore loose from the others; casting a nasty hex under his arm as he grabbed the puppy they'd all been chasing. A young lad, barely ten or eleven, whistled under his breath, winking into the shadows of an alleyway.
Verity watched him, suspicion dawning.
"Oh, hells," she blurted, slamming to a halt as a trio of young men slipped out of the alley directly in front of them. They'd been made.
Another slunk off a barrel, cupping his hands around a thin cheroot that he lit with the flame flaring off his finger. There was a splash of black ink tattooed on the back of his hand, and Verity didn't need to look closer to know which gang he ran with.
"Friends of yours?" Bishop asked.
"No," she said emphatically. "They're members of the Black Cats. The Black Cats are curse throwers, con artists, and grave robbers."
"Trouble?"
"Could be. But we're not in their streets," Verity replied, checking to make sure that, yes, they were still on Monmouth and hadn't yet crossed into Clare Avenue. "So they won't start a fight unless they're interested in a turf war, but I'm not sure what they want." At his confusion, she added. "Monmouth Street splits territories in the Dials. This is neutral ground. Nobody wants the Hex to go to war with each other. It's bad for... business." Not to mention hell on walls and buildings, and pretty much anything softer. Like flesh.
"Madame Noir," called the man with the cheroot, tipping his cap back as if to get a better look at her. "Fancy seeing you here, sweet pickles."
"Zachariah." Verity smiled flirtatiously, adding a little swing to her step to hide her nervousness.
"Who's the bit of bread and butter?" Zachariah asked, strolling around Bishop as if sizing him up. Zachariah Morrissey was the main enforcer for Harry "Hex" Perkins, who ran the Black Cats. He liked flashy tweed waistcoats, strangler hexes, and the butcher knife that was no doubt hidden somewhere on his person. He could spit a curse at twenty paces and have it stick like glue, which was his main source of amusement.
"A friend."
"Smells like burnt cinnamon to me," Zachariah said, taking a puff of the cheroot and blowing the smoke in Bishop's face.
Oh, shit.Verity stiffened, but—
"Burnt cinnamon?" Bishop muttered under his breath.
"Sorcery," she whispered. "Zachariah's a Sniffer. Can spot Talent a mile away."
"A new lad, eh?" Zachariah's grin split his face in half. "You want me to introduce him to the rules 'round here?"
"I don't think you want to do that, Zach," she warned, her hands held up to placate him.Come on, stand down, you cocky little shit.Energy swelled within her as she drew in whispers of power. If he pointed a single finger in her direction then she was legging it out of there. Zach's curses tended to be cruel, with an edge of humor—as long as you weren't the intended recipient.
"Hex Perkins and Murphy got an alliance, pretty. That don't mean no stranger on our turf can walk 'round like he owns this here joint. There's a peckin' order here, boss. And you're on the lower rungs of it." Zachariah stopped an inch away from Bishop's face, even if he had to lift onto his toes to meet the sorcerer's eyes.
Please don't, she tried to tell Bishop as those dark eyes glanced her way, then back to Zachariah.
Bishop merely stared the enforcer down. Then brushed at his coat as though some riffraff off Zach's person had landed on him.
Oh, hell.
"If you're hoping to provoke a scuttle," she said, stepping forward hurriedly as Zach's eyes began to narrow, "you're looking in the wrong place. Mr. Bishop is...."—searching, searching for the right way to introduce one of the Sicarii—"He's a client."
