Jackdaw

If you stop running, you fall.

Jonah Pastern is a magician, a liar, a windwalker, a professional thief…and for six months, he was the love of police constable Ben Spenser’s life. Until his betrayal left Ben jailed, ruined, alone, and looking for revenge.

Ben is determined to make Jonah pay. But he can’t seem to forget what they once shared, and Jonah refuses to let him. Soon Ben is entangled in Jonah’s chaotic existence all over again, and they’re running together—from the police, the justiciary, and some dangerous people with a lethal grudge against them.

Threatened on all sides by betrayals, secrets, and the laws of the land, can they find a way to live and love before the past catches up with them?

This story is set in the world of the Charm of Magpies series.

Warning: Contains a policeman who should know better, a thief who may never learn, Victorian morals, heated encounters, and a very annoyed Stephen Day.

Jackdaw

KJ Charles

Dedication

For Ted and Graham

with all my love

Chapter One

Ben hated London.

He hated the shouting, the crowded streets, the smell. He hated the pinch-faced beggars, the flower girls with their paltry, wilted offerings, and the frock-coated men who strode busily by. He hated Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a pleasant garden square ringed with trees in the heart of the greatest city in the world. He hated the early blossom on those trees, hated it with a savage, glowering passion, as though it had done him a personal injury. He hated, more than anything else, the bitter misery that hung around him in a cloud that blotted out the springtime sun.

If he had smiled in the last few months, he could not remember the occasion. He didn’t suppose he was likely to smile again soon even if he achieved his aim here, but by God, he would wipe the smile off another face, and perhaps then the poisonous knot in his chest would loosen at last. Perhaps.

His destination was on the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Sardinia Street, an unimpressive red-brick building that gave no hint of its purpose in its appearance. The large wooden doors were locked. Ben knocked, a bit too loudly. The doorman who answered was sturdy, keen-eyed and unwelcoming.

“Yes?”

“Constable Marshall, Hertfordshire constabulary. I have an appointment with Mr. Peter Janossi.”

“Can you prove that?” asked the doorman.

Ben pulled out the letter from Janossi, a brief note simply setting their meeting time and this address. The paper was not of notable quality and bore a rather undistinguished crest, with no other heading.

“Wait here.” The doorman took it and retreated into the building, shutting the door. Ben waited. He had no other options.

It was a good five minutes standing on the step before the doors were opened again. Their guardian beckoned him in.

“All right, Constable, you can go through. Mr. Waterford, show him to Mr. Janossi, would you?”

The words were addressed to a pudgy young man with possibly the most badly broken nose Ben had ever seen, and as a once-keen rugby player, he had seen a lot of them. Waterford looked like he’d been kicked in the face by a mule. He gave the doorman a resentful glance and slouched off through the hallway, Ben following.

The hall was large and high-ceilinged, a little grander than the outside of the building suggested. It was hung with heavy, gilt-framed oil paintings, radiating wealth and history and privilege that made Ben bristle with instant dislike. These people were privileged all right, privileged in a way that was so unfair and unquestionable that his fists clenched.

His guide paused at a grand set of mahogany doors, firmly shut, to exchange a low word with a harried-looking man who waited outside, holding a large leather bag at arm’s length. It reeked of spice. Ben waited, staring at an engraving on the wall. It showed some vicious-looking aristocratic swine with a face that begged to have the sneer knocked off it, seated at a desk with a magpie in front of him.

Ben did not want to be here. Not in this building, not with these people, nowhere near. But it was far too late to run now, so instead he wished that the mannerless oaf would stop wasting his damned time and let him get on. He wished that he didn’t need to do this, that he had help, that he wasn’t alone.

Waterford was still talking. Ben waited politely for a few moments, then abandoned that to stare openly at the man. It had no effect. At last Waterford finished his conversation and jerked his head at Ben. “Well, come on. Mustn’t keep the
justiciary
waiting.” He loaded the word with dislike. The harried man rolled his eyes.

Ben followed as Waterford led him to a back corridor lined with much less impressive doors, and threw one open without knocking. “Hertfordshire police,” he snapped, turned on his heel and stalked off. Ben glanced after him, then looked into the room. A young man sat at the desk, glaring in the direction Waterford had taken.

“Peter Janossi?” Ben asked.

“Oh. Yes. And you’re the man from Hertfordshire, Constable, uh.” He waved his hand to indicate that his visitor’s name was on the tip of his tongue, and in no way forgotten. Ben didn’t help him. “Come in. Sit. That is…”

There was no seat. Every available surface was covered with piles of paper, dockets, files, and…
things
, bits of wood and metal, tiny bottles, what looked like a fur stole, and something like a broken umbrella made of leather. Janossi hauled himself to his feet with a grunt, picked this up with two fingertips and turfed it into a corner, onto a teetering stack of books and papers, revealing a chair.

“Sit,” he repeated, with some satisfaction, returning to his own chair. “Good morning.”

Ben sat, assessing the man. Janossi was a well-built, square-jawed fellow in his midtwenties, a little shorter than his own five foot ten, with light brown hair and vivid green eyes. He looked tired and somewhat beleaguered. He didn’t look special, or gifted, or strange, or magical.

“Right, Constable, uh…Constable. You got here, then. Sorry about Waterford.” Janossi made a face to indicate his opinion of Ben’s guide, and began to scrabble through one of the piles of paper on his desk. “So, you wrote me a letter, which, uh…letter, letter…” He plucked out a paper and scanned it quickly. “Right, yes of course, Constable Marshall. You’ve come about Jonah Pastern.” He frowned. “You’re from the Hertfordshire constabulary. The police force. Not the justiciary?”

“No. I worked with the justiciary on his case.” The word came out so easily now, considering how shocking it had been to learn it just a few months ago. The justiciary. Secret policemen, bringing law to secret people.

“Right, yes, yes. Hertfordshire. You were the people who let him go.”

Ben’s jaw tightened. “He escaped.”

“Yes, well, he does that.” Janossi’s frown deepened. He put the paper down. “Constable, are you working with the Metropolitan Police on this?”

“No,” Ben admitted, with reluctance. This was one of the sticking points he’d feared. If the London justiciary simply directed him to the Met, this whole thing would be a waste of time. As if his time could be wasted. “I’m here on behalf of Hertfordshire. We lost him, we’d like to find him.”

Janossi blinked. “You’re trying to pick Pastern up because he escaped from custody?”

“Yes.” Obviously. As he’d written.

“Because he escaped
last October
?”

“Yes, last October. He’s still missing and we still want him back.”

Janossi’s face had settled into what looked like a habitual scowl. “Do you even know what happened this winter?”

Ben gritted his teeth. “If there’s something I should know, Mr. Janossi, please tell me.”

“Pastern? The Met? Dead policemen? You don’t know, do you? For God’s sake.” Janossi sounded utterly exasperated. “I’d have thought it might have occurred to
somebody
to put the word out.”

Ben bit back the urge to shout at him. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”

“Oh Lord.” Janossi sat back, shoulders dropping. “We had a problem here, Constable. A criminal gang, made up of practitioners. You know what that means?”

“Magicians.” He’d seen it, seen them at work, but the word still sounded extraordinary. “People who can do…
things
.”

“We have certain powers, yes.” Janossi looked rather uncomfortable. “Anyway there were four of them. Jonah Pastern was one.”

“Pastern in a gang,” Ben repeated. “Of thieves?”

“Oh, thieves would have been marvellous.” Janossi made a face. “No. They had…complicated aims.” He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter now. It’s been dealt with. But on the way, they killed—murdered—four police officers. Two retired, two serving.”

Ben swallowed, trying to keep the movement unobtrusive, but his throat had tightened to the point that it felt difficult to breathe. “Four officers.”

“One of them was the officer who liaised with the justiciary. Inspector Rickaby, he was called. They ripped him in half, tore his head open. We couldn’t let his wife and children see the body.”

Ben stared at the man. “
How?
”

“Practitioners can do things like that. That’s why we have the justiciary, to try and stop them.” Janossi grimaced at Ben’s expression. “It was an appalling business, and the Met are—well,
angry
doesn’t begin to describe it. Four murdered coppers, and nobody even arrested for it, let alone convicted.”

“The gang got away?” Ben asked. He was distantly surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.

“Pastern got away. The other three died, which was the best thing for it, but the Met weren’t happy. They want a culprit, someone to stand trial for murder. That’s Pastern or no one, now.”

Murder. Jonah Pastern, a murderer.

“Why haven’t you got him then?” Ben asked. “Four police officers—why’s he still at large?” He welcomed the anger that rose through him. “Why hasn’t he been caught yet? Why aren’t you going after him?”

“Yes, well, it’s not quite that easy. For one thing, we don’t know where he is, and for another—do you know what he can do?”

“He walks on the air,” Ben said. “I saw him do it.”

“Saw him, and lost him. You’ll know as well as we do how hard it is to keep hold of the swine. We’ve a windwalker of our own on the justiciary, which should give us a chance of catching him if we find him, but we can’t just keep her hanging around on rooftops, when for all anyone knows Pastern’s in Glasgow or Dover or Constantinople.” Janossi shrugged. “We’re under pressure here, Constable. Not enough experienced justiciars, one of our most senior people off active duty and another retiring next month. We don’t have the manpower to go hunting Pastern, and that’s all there is to it. If you want to assist the Met, or look for him at your own risk, be my guest. If you find him, let me know, and we’ll come and get him for you. But I’ll tell you now, if we do that, we’ll give him to the Met, not back to Herts. Dead policemen outweigh an escape from custody.”

“Good. He can go to the Met, and the gallows. He deserves it.” Ben’s voice didn’t sound quite like his own, but there was no doubt in his heart. There was nothing in his heart but dull, scouring disgust. Nothing at all.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid,” Janossi said. “I didn’t work on the case myself, but as I recall— Oh, just a minute, there’s Mrs. Gold. She’ll know. Mrs. Gold! Do you have a moment?”

Ben twisted round at Janossi’s cry. He was sure he’d shut the door behind him, and it was indeed closed. There was no aperture or window in the door to see through, but as he looked, it opened, and a dark-haired woman in an advanced state of pregnancy plodded in, heavy-footed. Ben leapt up with automatic courtesy. The woman didn’t seem to notice him.

“You called, Joss?”

“Can I have a minute? It’s about Jonah Pastern.”

Mrs. Gold made a face of loathing and took the chair, seating herself with heavy care. Ben hovered awkwardly.

“This is Constable, um, from Hertfordshire,” Janossi said. “He worked with Miss Nodder’s justiciary up there, on Pastern.”

Mrs. Gold cocked her head to look up. “Oh, yes. You were the people who lost him in that farcical manner. Thank you so much. We had the obnoxious little gadfly making bad worse all through December because of that. I hope you’re here to redeem your force’s blunder.”

Ben hadn’t had a woman speak to him like that since he’d left dame school. He had no idea what to say to that chilly voice, but apparently his spine knew exactly how to react, because he found he was standing very straight, head up and staring ahead.

She didn’t seem to expect a reply, turning back to Janossi. “What about Pastern?”

“Well, I haven’t really looked into the case. I did know the constable was coming, but the files are somewhere in Mr. Day’s office, probably, and—”

“Say no more,” Mrs. Gold told him. “When we bid farewell to Steph, I’m going to throw a lighted match in there and seal the door. I might not even wait for him to leave. What do you need to know?”

“Where to start looking for him,” Ben said.

“How dangerous he is,” Janossi added. “And what his role was in that business. It wasn’t him who killed the policemen, was it?”

Mrs. Gold glanced between the two men, considering. “In reverse order. Pastern was a minor part of a major conspiracy. He committed a series of thefts and deliberately implicated an innocent woman, and he was accessory to murder. How dangerous he is…I don’t know. He seems to be quite without morals, and I shouldn’t wish to see an innocent standing between him and something he wanted. Are you all right, Constable?”

Her dark eyes were locked on Ben’s, her nose flaring slightly in concentration. He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. Go on.”

“Where to look. Well, if I knew that, I’d go and get him myself. Not
myself
, Joss,” she added impatiently, as Janossi’s mouth opened. “I would tell
you
to do it, because I’m only allowed to waddle the corridors like an overstuffed goose, poking my beak into things.”

“Three more months,” Janossi murmured, voice soothing.

Ben blinked at that—the woman looked huge to his inexpert eye. He didn’t think he’d done anything but blink, but she glanced up at him, and said, “Twins. Anyway. We have no idea if Pastern’s still in London, but if he is, where I would look, if I was allowed to do anything and if we weren’t overstretched to the point of madness, and if I felt he wouldn’t simply flee on sight, is places like Holywell Street, Piccadilly, Cleveland Street. The men’s meeting places.”

Ben was no expert on London, but he knew what that litany of names meant, and he could feel the colour heating his face. Janossi had also gone red. Mrs. Gold looked between them, unembarrassed. “Well, that’s one thing we know about Pastern for certain, he’s that way. Enthusiastically, I’m told. Isn’t that how he got away from your lot, Constable? Seduced the arresting officer?”

Janossi gave a crack of laughter. Ben managed a stiff nod.

“So I’d start in those places, for lack of anywhere else. But as I said, I can’t guarantee he’s still in London at all, and if he is, he’s lying low. If you do find him, Constable, don’t try to take him in yourself. He’s reckless, reasonably powerful, and very slippery. I’d give you someone to work with, but we don’t have anyone to spare.”