Page 7 of Equalizer (Sharps & Springfield #2)

Chapter 7

Calvin

W inston greeted them at breakfast with a cheery welcome. “Good morning. Time to shake off the remainders of last night.”

Calvin went to the window and looked up and down the platform. “Any sign of trouble?”

Owen looked out the other side. “Nothing here.”

“Haven’t seen anything strange,” Winston confirmed. “Don’t borrow trouble. And eat—we have things to do. We’re meeting Arabella mid-morning. She’s found out more about how the body parts are being managed—and how the transplants are affecting the recipients. And, she’s gotten all three of you tickets to see Dr. Humphries’s lecture.”

“Does Arabella think there’s magic involved in the surgery?” Calvin asked.

“Oh, I’m certain there is,” Winston said. “The question is—what happens when the spell eventually wears off?”

“I’ve been wondering that,” Owen said. “Reattaching a hand or foot ought to involve connecting it, somehow, to the blood supply and nerves. That’s more than surgeons know how to do—at the edge of experimental. Magic could bridge the gap, but if the spell fades or fails, then the part would rot. If that happens, the person dies of sepsis unless magic can fix the infection. It’s a risky procedure.”

“People who lose a limb might be willing to take the risk if it buys them more time, no matter how little a reprieve that is,” Calvin pointed out. “It’s like saying to someone, ‘You can die now or die in a month.’ Most people wouldn’t think twice about opting for more time.”

“I hadn’t thought about it like that, but I can see it that way,” Owen agreed.

“It’ll be interesting to see what Arabella makes of it,” Calvin said. “And find out how dark the magic is that’s involved.”

They met Arabella at the same tea shop. Her dark blue dress flattered her coloring and brought out her eyes.

“Welcome back. Winston says you have more questions,” she greeted as a server brought a pot of tea to one of the back tables where they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“We wanted to find out what you’ve heard from the covens—and we’ve got a few new questions as well,” Owen replied.

They settled into their seats, and Calvin was glad they were far enough away from other tables to speak without being overheard.

“People are nervous,” Arabella replied. “We might be witches, but we recognize there are dark powers that pose a danger, no matter how strong our individual magic is. The Mob families are always jockeying for power, and their witches are a big part of that. The rest of us do our best to stay out of their way and mind our own business. Unfortunately, that’s getting harder of late.”

“How so?” Owen asked.

“Word’s gotten around that there might be a new miracle surgery to reattach a missing body part.” She wrinkled her nose. “Of course, the gossips miss the part about it not being a piece of the same body.”

“What’s the word on the street?” Calvin took a sip of his tea, awaiting her answer.

“Mixed. Some people are curious. Others have religious objections—no surprise there,” she added. “And there are folks who think it’s just a rumor. The stories are all over the place, mostly explaining it badly. If you lost a hand twenty years ago, you’re not going to be able to just sew on a new one.”

Calvin nodded. “But it seems like doctors do miraculous things all the time these days. What about for someone who was just in a railway accident, for example? If they lost a foot and brought it with them to the surgeon?—”

“Maybe in the future, a doctor could fix that, but not now, except for whoever is experimenting,” Arabella said. “You’d not only need a good surgeon but a powerful witch. Even then, unless they’re reattaching their own limb, the match with a donor might not work. It’s dangerous—but desperate people are willing to take risks.”

“And not ask too many questions,” Owen added.

She nodded. “That, too.”

“Suppose someone could cover a burn with a large piece of skin or sew a finger back on. Would they need magic to keep it from rotting?” Calvin asked.

Arabella thought in silence for a moment. “I’m not a doctor. But I’ve been around midwives and nurses. Infection can set in so easily, and it’s usually fatal when it does. Until medicine comes up with something very powerful, it would take magic to forestall rot. Even then, I’m not sure it would last very long.”

“Would a spell like that have other effects?” Owen refilled his cup and dropped a sugar cube into the tawny liquid. “And would it open the recipient to being controlled by the witch who placed the spell?”

“Oooh. Good questions.” Arabella gave a mischievous smile. “Best I can say is maybe. It’s certainly possible for the witch involved to cast a compulsion or at least some sort of control along with the preservation spell. I’m not sure why they’d want to, but it could be done.”

“Would the magic affect the person’s free will?” Calvin swirled the sugar in his cup before refilling his tea.

“Theoretically, a witch could include just about any order with a deep spell like that,” Arabella said. “Tell them to rob a bank or kill their neighbor, I guess. Some people with very strong wills would probably balk and be able to resist. But most mortals are weak-willed. They might consider the crime worth it to regain the use of the body part.”

“What about requiring absolute loyalty?” Owen asked. “Reattach the part but demand an oath. It would be a way to build a strike force or security detail of people who will never betray the witch.”

Arabella frowned. “Doing it the hard way, don’t you think? There are binding spells that can accomplish that without needing to reattach a hand or a foot.”

“True,” Calvin admitted, although something about the idea wouldn’t leave him alone. “What if the witch was a necromancer? The body part was technically dead when it was severed or taken from a corpse. Could a necromancer reanimate it—or somehow blur the boundary between what’s dead and living?”

“I don’t know,” Arabella admitted. “That’s not an area of magic where I have a lot of experience, and necromancers are, not surprisingly, rather secretive. Even among witches, there’s a stigma. I guess it would be possible for that to happen, but no magic lasts forever.”

“Could a person come back for touch-ups?” Owen wondered aloud.

“Touch-ups?” Arabella nearly choked on her tea.

“Would a spell like that be one-and-done, or could a person come back from time to time to renew the magic and keep it working?” Owen explained.

Arabella looked at him with curiosity and amusement. “You’ve clearly given this a lot of thought. I’m guessing here, but again, the answer is…maybe. Regular witches don’t study necromancy. Necromancers don’t like sharing their ways, and most witches are uncomfortable with the whole idea. But assuming the basic elements work like other magics, refreshing the spell should keep it working longer—although not forever.”

“That would be a way to keep absolute loyalty,” Calvin mused. “Toe the line, or the magic fades faster than necessary.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “You think like a mobster. Not sure how I feel about that.”

Calvin repressed a wince. His rough years with gangs were less structured than the Mob but not that far removed.

“There are stories from New Orleans about Voodoo mambos who have bound reanimated servants with their magic,” Owen said. “Surely they can’t be the only ones who could do that. A Mob boss would pay a lot to have even small teams of hitmen or retainers who can’t be bought.”

Arabella shivered. “New Orleans…that magic makes me unsettled. I definitely don’t know Voodoo, and I’m not aware of anyone in Chicago who does. I guess a Mob boss could bring someone with expertise up from there. From what I’ve been told, zombies aren’t really raised from the dead. They’re living people controlled with powerful drugs and magic.”

She looked equally horrified and intrigued at the possibilities. “I’m skeptical about actually bringing someone back to life, no matter what magic is used, even accepting that the…results…would be damaged. But if someone was dying, a necromancer might be able to stretch the time the person has left, and that could include extending the usefulness of any replacement parts.”

Calvin and Owen exchanged a look. “Another type of soldier who can’t rebel without falling over dead,” Owen said. “Perfect for building a small private army.”

“Which brings us back to Jeremiah Humphries,” Calvin reminded them. “Have your people found out anything more about him?”

Arabella nibbled a cookie and had another sip of her drink before she responded. “He’s not a necromancer. That kind of power has a particular vibration. He can do magic, although I’m not sure he’s been trained as a witch. There are reasons we go through study and apprenticeships. Magic is dangerous if it’s not wielded properly—to the witch and everyone around them.”

“Humphries might have a lot of strong natural talent and be self-taught,” Owen recapped. “Plenty of chances for things to go wrong with that.”

“Yes, and for the spells to be unpredictable,” Arabella agreed. “Another reason there are rules that ethical witches follow. Devising complex spells is best left to people with knowledge and experience. Lots of things can go wrong.”

“Could he be controlled by a more powerful witch?” Calvin asked.

“Possible, but unlikely,” Arabella said. “There are plenty of amulets and protective spells that even a novice can do to shield against that sort of thing. More likely that he’s being paid well or blackmailed. If he’s gotten on the wrong side of a more powerful witch, his Mob patron might be protecting him in exchange for services. It would guarantee loyalty.”

“Maybe we’ll get some answers at his lecture,” Calvin said. “Convenient that it’s mid-day and not evening.”

“Professors,” Owen said. “If the audience is made up of other academics, they’re already on campus.”

“I finagled the tickets from someone at the University of Illinois,” Arabella answered. “The event isn’t open to the general public, especially not reporters. Sounded to me like Humphries wants to be appreciated by his peers to gain status but stay out of the limelight.”

“That would make sense if the Mob is bankrolling him,” Calvin replied.

“What’s our cover?” Owen asked.

“Biology professors from Chicago State University,” she replied. “Close enough to make our presence plausible, and I’m banking on with such large schools, the faculty can’t all know each other.”

“I’m curious to see how Humphries stacks up beside Gordon,” Calvin mused. “While he might want professional status, I can’t imagine the same impresario approach would go over well with the scholarly crowd.”

They chatted about the weather and that day’s newspaper headlines as they finished their tea, then took a hired coach to the university for the lecture.

Arabella knew her way around the campus and navigated the large classroom building to find the lecture hall. She handed off the tickets to the man at the door, who barely glanced their way as they entered.

Three seats in the back row gave them a good view and an easy exit. Calvin glanced around at their fellow audience members. To his eye, they looked like professors and researchers.

“No demonstration table.” Owen nudged Calvin in the ribs. “And no generator.”

“Any ghosts?”

Owen paused for a moment, then shook his head. “Not yet. And if there are other witches, they’ve hidden their abilities.” Arabella had warned them that she would be cloaking her power during the lecture just in case representatives from other covens were in attendance.

The crowd quieted, and an unremarkable-looking man strode out onto the stage. He looked to be in his fifties, balding, with a paunch. Gold spectacles perched on his nose, and a pipe peeked from a pocket of his tweed jacket. An assistant followed him, a thin man in dark clothing who immediately stepped toward the rear of the stage, clearly intending to stay in the background.

Humphries’s gaze swept over the crowd, and Calvin got the impression that the man was assessing the size of his audience. He seemed annoyed that the seats weren’t all filled.

Arabella’s eyes widened. “The man with him is a necromancer. I can feel the magic. Makes me want to take a bath,” she whispered and shuddered.

Humphries stepped to the podium and was greeted with polite applause.

“Greetings. Today, I will share the latest research in transplantation principles, as well as insights into where this emerging medical field might take us and what that future could mean.” Humphries spoke like an educator, not a showman, and while his voice was loud and his diction clear, Calvin suspected they were about to be bored to tears.

His prediction was correct. Humphries started with a recap of the thyroid experiments and some work with skin patches for burn victims, most of which Calvin and Owen already knew. Humphries presented the possibility of replacing larger organs someday and the lives that could be saved.

Murmurs stirred when Humphries first brought up the idea of using dead flesh to repair a living body. Two people stalked out in a huff. No one interrupted in righteous anger, but judging from some of the furious expressions Calvin saw in the crowd, the idea did not set well with a number of attendees.

“The crowd seems to be following the ideas so far,” Owen murmured, watching the people around them. “Although they aren’t all excited about the topic.”

Then again, academics are used to sitting through interminable presentations on a regular basis. They’re probably half asleep and only here because they’re required to attend.

Calvin suspected very few people could make practical use of the information Humphries shared. The academic kept his presentation high-level, never admitting that he had attempted to replace any body parts himself, and spoke in purely theoretical terms.

Humphries droned on, but Calvin noted that the man was long on hypotheticals and short of specifics. He never explained how a transplanted body part might be fully reanimated and made no mention of magic despite the shadowy presence of his witch, who stood in the stage’s wings.

“I’ll take questions now,” Humphries said at the conclusion of his talk.

Hands shot up in the air. He pointed to a man in the front row who stood. “Dr. Humphries, what you’ve described is difficult to believe, bordering on miraculous. But could you provide more specifics on how the nerves and blood flow would be reconnected?”

Humphries’s expression looked like he had caught a whiff of an unpleasant odor. “There are many areas still being studied. You’ve named a very complicated aspect that is under research. As I said at the beginning, this specialty is in its very early stages.”

His non-answer satisfied the man, who took his seat without protesting.

“How do you deal with the potential for infection?” another speaker from the audience asked.

“Strong pharmaceuticals administered before and after the procedure should ward off adverse reactions,” Humphries side-stepped.

“What about ethical considerations?” a third questioner asked. “Have religious authorities expressed an opinion?”

Anger colored Humphries’s expression before he carefully brought himself under control. “The Church has a poor track record of support for scientific advancement,” he said, and muted murmurs suggested the audience largely agreed. “That will be a matter of conscience for individual patients and surgeons.”

But the dead don’t get a choice.

“Will you be publishing your research?”

Humphries cleared his throat. “This presentation was intended to share leading-edge concepts. I have no plans to publish until we have a larger body of findings.”

Interesting. Humphries seems desperate for the respect of his peers, but perhaps he’s not keen to have his name publicly connected to the concept. If he’s being bankrolled by the Mob, maybe he can’t stand the scrutiny. An article like that would make national news—and generate quite a bit of reaction, pro and con, Calvin thought.

“Thank you for attending. This concludes our presentation.”

Owen, Arabella, and Calvin moved counter to the crowd, making their way toward the stage and into the wings in search of Humphries.

“Professor Humphries!” Calvin called out.

The witch was farther up the corridor, but Humphries turned toward Calvin and frowned. “You’ll have to see me during office hours. The presentation is over.”

“You never said where the replacement parts come from, all those hands and feet,” Calvin pressed.

For a second, Humphries looked enraged before he regained control. “You don’t deserve an answer, but I’ll give you one. Donors. Once word of successful surgeries spreads, I have no doubt that many willing donors can be recruited.” His icy tone made it clear that he did not care to pursue the topic.

“What if they can’t be?” Owen put in. “Are you willing to see the technique fail to gain widespread use over a lack of donors?”

This time, Humphries didn’t rein in his anger. “You impudent fool! Can’t you see the value? The world can’t afford to allow outdated notions to hold back progress. A way forward will be found. Now stop following me before I call security. And leave me alone—if you know what’s good for you.”

Humphries strode off. The mage, who had been up ahead, conferred quietly with him and shot an assessing look at Calvin, Owen, and Arabella before walking away with Humphries.

“Let’s get out of here.” Owen plucked at the sleeve of Calvin’s jacket. “I think we’ve gotten all the information we’re going to get.”

They didn’t speak until they were in the coach, heading away from the university.

“What did you make of that?” Owen broke the silence.

“I think Humphries is walking a fine line between his need for people to regard him as a genius and the Mob not wanting him to blab their secrets,” Calvin replied in a wry tone.

“I’m not pleased that we attracted the notice of his witch.” Arabella frowned. “I’ll strengthen the wardings, and I recommend treading carefully until we have more information about the necromancer’s ability and how far Humphries’s Mob support goes.”

“Could you read anything else about the witch?” Calvin asked.

Arabella chewed on her lip. “I’m sure he was shielding just like I was. There were some others in the audience that I also think tamped down on their powers in public as well. I’m sure the witch is a necromancer, but I can’t gauge how powerful.”

“I’d like to know whether Humphries hired the necromancer, in which case he’s in charge, or whether his Mob supporter supplied the witch. In that case, the necromancer isn’t automatically his ally. Maybe more of his keeper, with loyalty to the Mob boss.”

Calvin hadn’t considered the possibility that Humphries and his witch might not fully trust one another. “Do you think Humphries is being coerced or blackmailed into the work?”

Owen shook his head. “He didn’t have to do the presentation today—and the Mob would probably prefer he hadn’t. I think he wants to be famous and respected for pioneering a great medical wonder, and he doesn’t care who gets hurt.”

“Quite the physician,” Calvin muttered.

“He isn’t treating patients—he teaches biology,” Arabella pointed out. “That either means he’s an M.D. and doesn’t like dealing with sick people, or he lost his license for infractions. Or he’s a Ph.D. and not a hands-on medical doctor. Either way, the work he’s doing for the Mob is his ticket to fame and reclaiming his reputation.”

Their route took them past one of Chicago’s many slaughterhouses. Owen shuddered and traded a worried look with Arabella as they approached the large facility.

“Did you feel that?” he asked, and she nodded, looking worried.

“What?” Calvin had a creeping sense of dread but had chalked it up to the gruesome topic.

“Dark magic,” Arabella said.

“The necromancer?” Calvin glanced out the window but didn’t see the man they had spotted at the event.

“Look!” Owen pointed in horror at a pile of dead cows awaiting butchering that trembled and shuddered. The corpses staggered to their hooves, and their sightless eyes fixed on the carriage.

“What the hell?” the hired driver screeched as the undead creatures lumbered toward them. He brought the carriage to a rough stop, with the horses restless in their traces.

“We can’t just sit here.” Calvin reached for the handle of the carriage door. “I’m going to drive. You two—stop the cows.”

Calvin crawled out of the cabin and climbed to the driver’s seat, pushing the terrified man aside.

“Do you see those…those…things?” the driver stuttered.

“Better hang on,” Calvin told the man as he seized the reins and snapped them.

“Git up!” The horses took off at a gallop.

As they lurched forward, Owen opened fire from the carriage window, dropping two of the dead cows with shots to the hips, which made them incapable of following.

Arabella’s magic exploded the remaining carcasses, messy but effective.

“What is going on?” the coachman shouted, eyes wide and utterly pale. “Those cows are dead.”

“They certainly are now.” Calvin couldn’t spare the attention to comfort the terrified driver since the frightened horses had bolted and sent them careening down the street.

“We’re clear,” Owen shouted, leaning from the carriage window. “Nothing behind us.”

Calvin struggled to bring the team under control. The carriage slewed and skidded, with Calvin pulling with his full strength on the reins as the hired driver hung on, white-knuckled, with his eyes closed, praying under his breath.

When they finally came to a stop, the slaughterhouse was far behind them. None of the dead cows were in sight, and Calvin doubted that the necromancer had tried to follow.

“You’re insane!” the hired driver shouted, practically jumping from the drover’s seat. “Take the rig and team back yourself. I quit.” He ran off down the street.

Arabella and Owen climbed out. They sat in the middle of the street, but for the moment, neither traffic nor pedestrians posed a concern.

“I’ll calm the horses.” Arabella walked toward the panting team as she murmured a spell under her breath.

Owen remained silent, but his face was upturned, eyes closed, and Calvin guessed that his partner scanned the night around them for magic and malevolent ghosts.

“We’re clear,” Owen said when he finally looked at Calvin. “I’m not picking up on anything except some local spirits who aren’t particularly interested in us.”

Arabella stood next to the horses, lightly stroking the neck of the one closest to her. “They’re better now. And they know the way back to the stable. I put a light compulsion on them to go there when you’re done with them.”

“Thank you both,” Calvin said. “This is going to be hard to explain once we get there.”

Owen shrugged. “We tell them that we were chased by miscreants, and the driver ran away. I imagine they’ll be glad to get the horses and rig back safely. They’ll just have to get a new person to take us back to the train station.”

“Miscreant cows?” Calvin echoed, unable to avoid chuckling despite the situation.

“Clearly from the wrong side of the tracks.” Owen kept a straight face as the others laughed, releasing the tension from their near miss.

“First, let’s get you home.” Calvin turned to Arabella and gestured her to the carriage. “How are you holding up?”

She gave them a smile that was both sad and strong. “I’ll be fine. I’m made of stern stuff. How about both of you?”

“Getting chased by dead cows is a first, but we’re okay,” Owen replied, grateful they were all safe. “Do you need security at your house or a bodyguard?”

“Once I’m inside the wardings, I’ve got powerful magic and a revolver. No need to worry,” she replied confidently.

When they arrived outside Arabella’s house, Calvin repeated the offer, and she turned them down again. “Believe me, the wardings are as deadly as any marksman,” she told them. “I’ll be safe. You’re the ones who need to watch your backs.”

“Thank you for everything,” Owen said. “Be careful. The stakes are big enough that people are likely to play rough if they think someone is trying to shut them down.”

She gave a crafty smile. “Let them try.”

They waited to make sure she got inside safely, then let the horses take them to their stable. Calvin spun a tale of a close call with a robber and a cowardly driver. When the stable master realized that the only recompense they wanted was for someone to drive them home, he agreed immediately and called for a new coachman and fresh horses.

“What did you make of that?” Calvin asked as they headed back to the train station.

“I think we’re narrowing in on the how. What we need now is the who,” Owen replied. “And I’d like a better idea of whether Humphries has magic himself and how powerful his witch is before we go in guns blazing.”

“Agreed. This was going to be dangerous enough when we were just going after a mad scientist,” Calvin said. “The witchy part ups the stakes.”

They kept a lookout for anyone following them, but neither man spotted anything suspicious. Owen generously tipped the driver, and they headed into the Pullman car, where Winston greeted them with a letter in hand and a worried expression.

“I expected you earlier. Did you encounter difficulty?” Winston visually searched them for injuries.

“We’re safe, but we had an unplanned adventure,” Calvin replied. “We promise to tell you all about it. What’s that?” He nodded toward the letter.

“This just arrived by messenger. It’s addressed to Owen.”

Calvin and Owen exchanged a look. “Not many people know we’re here,” Calvin said. “And the handwriting doesn’t look like either Louisa’s or Abby’s.”

Owen’s expression shuttered. “It’s from Steven—my contact at the Wild West show.”

Calvin tried not to react. Owen told me that he and Steven are long in the past. So why does getting a letter bother me?

Owen started to open the envelope, and Calvin turned to leave. “Stay,” Owen said. “There’s nothing he has to say that both of you can’t hear.”

“Dear Owen,” Owen read aloud and winced at the salutation. “I’ve found out more about the situation we discussed. In particular, what made the helper get involved. Heard some other things you’ll want to know as well. Come out to the showgrounds, and the people up front will get me for you. Stay safe, Steven.”

“You should go.” Calvin wrestled with his feelings. Owen had never given him any reason to doubt his loyalty or his love. Calvin rarely felt more than a passing jealousy about a boyfriend’s old flame. And yet, he felt a real stab of anger and possessiveness that made him blush.

“ We are going together, or not at all.” Owen gave him a look that made Calvin wonder if his partner could read his mind. “I have nothing to say to Steven on a personal level, so if this is some sort of ruse for a second chance, it won’t work. And if he does have real information, he can share it with both of us.”

Calvin felt ashamed at the relief that flooded through him at Owen’s response since he didn’t want Owen to think he doubted his faithfulness.

If the situation were reversed and I had run into an old flame, I’d want to reassure Owen that there was nothing going on. I guess I should be glad that I care enough about him to be this jealous.

“It’s too late today,” Owen said. “We can go in the morning. They start early at the show. It’s quite a production.”

“I’m still adjusting to the discovery that you weren’t a cowboy.” Calvin tried to lighten the mood.

“Nope, sorry. Just a soldier. We rounded up crooks, not cows,” Owen replied, although from the look in his eyes, Calvin knew his boyfriend hadn’t forgotten the issue. “And after tonight, I can do without seeing another cow for a long time.”

They went to the parlor and Winston poured a measure of whiskey for each of them, which they accepted gratefully, taking turns telling the story of their dramatic drive back from the seminar.

“I’ll be happy to drive the carriage tomorrow to the Wild West show,” Winston offered. “I don’t have any errands that can’t wait, and that might work out for the best, considering what you encountered today.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Owen said. “I’m reasonably sure we can trust Steven—meaning, this isn’t a trap. But…I think it bears caution. Just in case.”

Calvin felt chagrined that he had been so focused on Owen’s history with Steven that he hadn’t considered the possibility of betrayal. He felt a flush of shame and hoped for Owen’s sake that Steven was trustworthy.

“We can head out after breakfast,” Calvin added. “That leaves plenty of time to follow up on any leads he might have.”

“Thank you.” Owen met his gaze. “And despite everything, I think you might find the show itself entertaining. The performers are talented, and they do breathtaking stunts. But it’s the theatrical version of the West, not the real thing.”

Winston made a hearty beef stew with potatoes, rutabagas, warm bread, and sugar cookies for dessert. Afterward, Owen and Calvin settled in on the couch to read, along with a pot of hot chocolate.

Owen made a point of finding reasons to touch Calvin, brushing hands together when he refilled his partner’s cup or trailing his fingers gently across Calvin’s shoulder when he got up to use the restroom.

“You seem…off,” Calvin observed when Owen returned.

Owen gave a moody shrug. “Off-kilter, I guess, about the letter. Wanting to make sure you understand that Steven is long in the past for me. What you and I have is so much more important.”

Calvin reached out to take his hand and drew Owen to sit close to him. “I do believe you. And I also can’t help feeling a little jealous that he got to know you at a time of your life that I didn’t.”

Owen barked a harsh laugh. “You didn’t miss anything, trust me. I took the job too seriously and the relationships not seriously enough.”

Calvin rubbed his thumb over the back of Owen’s hand. “I wasn’t in a good place back then either. Getting over my wild days. I guess we were lucky to get together at exactly the right time.”

They made an early night of it, turning in not long after Winston let them know he was heading to bed. Calvin pulled Owen into his arms when they slipped beneath the covers and pulled him tight.

“What do you need?” He slid his hand up and down Owen’s back.

“You. Just you.” Owen leaned in to kiss Calvin slow and hungry.

Calvin used his body to let Owen know how much he mattered, pressing kisses down his neck and across his shoulders, tweaking his nipples before slicking his hand and reaching down for Owen’s cock.

“Want you to feel good,” Calvin murmured, loving how Owen leaned into him. His possessive streak surprised him since he had rarely felt that way about a lover. Then again, most of his liaisons had been quick tumbles, not actual relationships. For a long time, he hadn’t considered that such a thing might be possible for someone like him.

Then he had met the two men who owned his favorite Italian restaurant in Boston, Cesare and Angelo. At first, Calvin had assumed they were brothers despite the lack of a strong resemblance. They worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen, sometimes arguing loudly and singing off-key at other times. What shone through was their affection for one another, whether it came out as teasing or quiet praise.

Calvin had been surprised to learn they were just friends, but he noticed that they shared an apartment above the restaurant, and although well into their middle years, neither man had married. No one thing made him suspect their secret; rather, many small details suddenly fell into place for him watching the two men argue in the kitchen like an old married couple, and then accidentally overhearing Cesare’s apology.

They’re together. Really together. And they’re like me.

Calvin’s world had tilted at that revelation. While he had never put much credence in the Church’s or society’s condemnation for liking other men, he had assumed it meant he would be a lifelong bachelor. The realization that he might find someone to love who loved him back shook him to his foundations and gave him hope.

All of which was why Calvin intended to hold onto the best thing that had ever happened to him and fight to keep his forever partner.

“Less thinking, more touching.” Owen flicked his tongue in the hollow beneath Calvin’s ear and made him shiver.

Calvin stroked Owen’s cock, then wrapped his hand around both their shafts and jerked them off slowly, relishing the friction as they rubbed together. Owen gave himself over to the sensation, eyes closed and head thrown back, holding on to Calvin’s shoulders hard enough to leave fingerprints.

They came within seconds of one another. Calvin felt pleased he was responsible for Owen’s flushed skin and blown-wide pupils.

“I love you,” he murmured, using an undershirt to clean them both up. “Never doubt that.”

“I love you too,” Owen replied. “And I don’t doubt you. Please don’t doubt me.”

Calvin did his best to reassure Owen with his kiss. Afterward, when Owen had turned to face away, Calvin snuggled up behind him with one arm draped over Owen’s shoulder. Owen twined their fingers together.

“Try to get some sleep without worrying about tomorrow.” Calvin nuzzled into his neck.

“Can’t promise, but I’ll do my best,” Owen said in a sleepy, fucked-out voice that Calvin loved. Owen fell asleep quickly, but Calvin lay awake for a while, unable to block out thoughts about the case until he finally drifted off after the clock struck midnight.

“Tell me more about this Wild West show,” Calvin said as they headed out after breakfast the next day.

“People back East read all these thrilling tales about the West,” Owen replied. “It’s true that there was danger, wild animals, an unforgiving landscape, harsh weather, and none of the support systems we take for granted. Not to mention that there were people already living on the land who had been there for generations and weren’t keen to have it taken away. Can’t say I blame them.”

Owen paused, and Calvin figured he was gathering his memories. “The newspapers sensationalized things, of course. Sold more copies that way. The truth was it was lonely, dangerous work. The weather could be freezing cold or baking hot, and the wind on the prairie never stopped,” Owen recalled.

“If you were from a settled area, it seemed like a whole lot of nothing out there. No police, no fire departments, none of the things city people take for granted. Sometimes it was hard to find water. Other than some basic supplies, what you could hunt is what you had for dinner. Didn’t catch anything? You went hungry. And that’s on top of days spent on horseback or jostling around in the back of a wagon. If you were lucky, there was a trail, but it was nothing like the roads back East.

“It was the promise of a fresh start that kept everyone going, and that was the romance of the West that the newspaper stories sold. All of the inconveniences and dangers were turned into thrilling adventures. They left out the part where a lot of people died,” Owen said.

He was quiet for a moment and then started to talk again. “A guy named Buffalo Bill Cody is the most famous Wild West showrunner, but there are dozens of other performances, and they travel all over the East,” Owen said. “Real cowboys demonstrate roping and riding and do tricks on horseback. Then there’s sharpshooting, knife throwing, and archery. They pay the native people to do their dances and sing. Sometimes they stage a mock battle or do a big parade. All very exciting.”

Calvin angled his head to look at Owen. Something in the other man’s voice suggested that the excitement of the spectacle was hollow.

“If you didn’t know how it really was, it’s a grand exhibition,” Owen said. “But they only show the good parts. Folks died of all kinds of things that aren’t as common in the settled areas—dysentery, cholera, measles. People got hurt and wounds went bad. There were a few doctors but not many hospitals. Travelers froze to death in blizzards. Most settlers didn’t know what they signed up for until it was too late to turn back.”

Calvin figured that while Owen hadn’t been a cowboy, his time in the Army had given him a front-row seat to the tribulations he described.

“Sometimes the Army had to step in if the settlers got sideways with the native people over land or got themselves in a jam with a flood or a snowstorm,” Owen continued. “Once they did pick a place to settle, they had to build everything from scratch. It was a hard go until they finally had a town and could get crops in the fields and herds onto the range. But that’s not what the Wild West show is about.”

“I get it, I think,” Calvin admitted. “All those things sound exciting until you realize how hard, dangerous, and uncomfortable it must have been. And I’ll be the first to watch a marksman or an archery competition. As for everything else, it’s like going to the theater on a grand scale.”

“With horses.”

“That, too,” Calvin agreed. “How do you think Steven ended up with the show?”

Owen was quiet for a moment. “I imagine he got tired of the Army and wanted something that gave him freedom and still paid the bills. He uses his military background as head of security. Gives him a sense of authority. He gets to move around and see new places without the risk. Not a bad gig if you don’t want to settle down.”

Sounds like what we do, only without the magic and monsters.

When they arrived at the Wild West show, Owen checked in with the guard at the gate, who glanced at a roster and let them through once Owen vouched for Calvin.

Calvin had been curious about Steven, looking for an insight into what sort of man Owen had been attracted to—however briefly—before their relationship. To his surprise, Steven was close to Owen’s height, stocky, with hair a darker shade of blond and green eyes. Nothing at all like Calvin’s dark hair and blue eyes, or his height and build. He wasn’t sure what to make of that or if it meant anything, considering how varied his former partners had been.

“Owen. Thank you for coming out.” Steven greeted him with a handshake that gave no indication of more than a professional relationship.

“Of course. Steven, this is my partner, Calvin Springfield. Calvin, this is Steven Coleridge.”

Calvin picked up a slight hesitation before Steven shook his hand. He felt the man’s gaze rake over him, sizing him up, perhaps with the same questions Calvin had harbored about Owen’s choices.

“Partner?” Steven glanced at Owen as he released Calvin’s hand.

“ Partner. We’re both Secret Service,” Owen confirmed. Calvin noticed that he left off the supernatural part of their agency name. Although if Steven had called about something to do with their case, he must at least have had an inkling that they investigated situations that were out of the ordinary.

Steven nodded and gave Calvin the once-over again. “Nice to meet you. I hope you can help because I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What’s going on?” Owen asked, all business as he and Calvin fell into step beside Steven as they walked.

“You said to contact you if I thought anything strange was happening. I might be wrong, but I think someone is sabotaging the show, maybe even targeting certain performers for injuries,” Steven told them after he glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby.

“Our people are professionals, and they are very careful. They know that cutting corners could cost lives,” he went on. “We don’t have anyone new in jobs that worked closely with the people who had accidents. I hate to say it, but if my suspicions are right, we’ve been sold out by one of our own.”

“Do you have any rival shows that might have sent a saboteur?” Calvin asked. Chicago had plenty of traveling shows of all sorts. While he doubted there was another cowboy-themed event, every form of entertainment technically competed with all the others.

Steven shrugged. “I guess it’s possible but unlikely. Our gate guards patrol all day and night. Mostly fending off horse thieves, but also to keep out daredevils.”

“What’s been going on?” Owen looked tense, and Calvin suspected he worried that there might be friction.

“Bridles cut, saddle straps weakened, some of the wooden jumping barriers tampered with,” Steven replied. “That’s not a prank. Our riders put their lives on the line with their stunts. Having their gear fail will get them badly injured—or dead.”

Calvin respected the man’s concern for the entertainers. “How about the horses? Has anyone bothered them?”

“No, thank heavens. We have stablehands who take turns sleeping in the barns, and horses are hard to sneak up on,” Steven replied.

“No one else has died?” Owen asked.

“No. But if the accidents keep happening, something will go wrong sooner or later.” Steven sounded like he wanted to take on whoever had caused the damage and mete out his own rough justice. Calvin couldn’t blame him.

Despite himself, Calvin liked Steven. He grudgingly admitted that he could see what had initially attracted Owen, even if Steven wasn’t the settling-down type.

“I’m not a secret agent,” Steven joked, “but I can be nosy. I asked around about the worker who stole the body. Sounds like he owed money, and he might have been on the run from the law. Some of the guys thought he was being blackmailed.”

He sighed. “That wouldn’t be the first time someone came to the show for a fresh start or to hide from the police. Not all our folks, but there are a few who like moving around because they have something—or someone—chasing them.”

“We make it clear that whatever baggage a new hire has can’t interfere with the show or threaten the safety of the other performers,” Steven continued. “Most of the time, that works. We’ve turned a blind eye more than once if debt collectors or jealous boyfriends came looking. But the show is serious business. We don’t knowingly hire criminals.”

“No one saw anything unusual when the vandalism occurred?” Owen pressed.

“No. Once the gates close for the night, there shouldn’t be anyone here who isn’t on the payroll,” Steven replied. “For as big as the show seems, our crew is fairly small and pretty tight. Someone sneaking around after hours should be easy to spot.”

Unless they used magic to cloak themselves, Calvin thought. He traded a glance with Owen that let him know his partner had the same thought.

“Do you know who was blackmailing the worker to steal the body?” Calvin asked. “That might give us a new angle to investigate.”

“Someone in the Mob. Not surprising since this is Chicago,” Steven replied.

“Do you know why he was being blackmailed?” Owen asked.

“Does it matter?”

Owen shrugged. “It might. Leads turn up in surprising places.”

Steven frowned. “No one I talked to seemed to know for certain. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t something he’d talked about. But the best guess was that he had been a fence for other thieves. The gossip said that his gang had gotten sideways with the Mob for not paying their dues. Another version says they stole from someone under Mob protection. A bad bargain, either way.”

Calvin remembered Luca Conti, the mobster whose people seemed to know too much about the missing bodies and the strega who had been prominent at their meeting. He felt sure that Owen’s thoughts went in the same direction.

“Why would the body thief stick around Chicago with the show instead of hopping a train out of town?” Owen asked.

“Maybe someone promised him that doing a job for them would put him back in the Mob’s good graces,” Calvin said. “Obviously, they lied.”

“Or there are different players who are at odds with each other,” Owen proposed. “Because if the body thief was already with the show and they wanted to sabotage the acts, he’d be valuable. Why kill him off?”

Calvin’s mind raced as he tried to put the pieces together. “They might have thought he was compromised and didn’t want him getting arrested and spilling what he knew to the cops. Or they might not have planned to cause more deaths when they took advantage of the accident.”

Steven looked from Calvin to Owen, trying to figure out their conversation. “Please tell me you don’t believe the stories about the mad doctor.”

Both Calvin and Owen turned to look at him. “Mad doctor?” Owen asked.

Steven licked his lips and glanced around again to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “It’s just loose talk, the kind that goes around the barracks when men have time on their hands. But there’s a rumor that either a witch or a mad doctor is stealing bodies to bring them back to life.

“We heard a lot of talk like that near New Orleans, about Voodoo and dark magic,” Steven went on. “It really spooked the crew, and I think they were happy to head north after that. But up here, everyone’s chasing the latest new invention and scientific breakthrough. A mad doctor reviving the dead fits right in.”

Their pause made Steven look from Calvin to Owen. “Oh, no. That stuff isn’t real, is it?”

Owen sighed, and Calvin guessed his partner hadn’t wanted to explain too much to Steven, although that now seemed unavoidable.

“Not exactly,” Owen said. “Have you heard about the galvanism displays? The quack who is making sides of beef twitch with electricity?”

“Yes.” Steven paled. “I’m hoping that’s not tied up in this somehow.”

“We believe it is,” Calvin said. “Along with a fair bit of dark magic.”

“I can accept being able to see ghosts, but magic? That’s just in fairy tales.” Steven looked perplexed when he searched their faces and found they were serious.

“Real magic isn’t like in the penny dreadfuls,” Owen replied. “There are a lot of reasons witches keep their abilities hidden. But magic, combined with galvanism, might enable an unscrupulous doctor to use a body part from a fresh corpse and reattach it to a living person—at least for a while.”

Steven reached for a flask in his back pocket and took a swig. “I wish I thought you were kidding.”

“We’re not,” Calvin replied. “We’re actually part of a branch of the Secret Service that deals with the supernatural. That’s what brought us to Chicago. Because if someone is mixing medicine and magic, it’s not the godsend it might appear to be. There are a lot of ways for it to go very wrong. Not to mention being illegal.”

“The witch would likely gain a fair amount of control over the person getting the replacement part in order to sustain the magic. That could be bad in a lot of ways,” Owen picked up. “It’s back-alley stuff, unregulated, no rules. And while it’s awful enough to steal pieces from dead bodies, there’s the potential for someone to ‘custom order’ a part to better match the host body.”

“Rather than taking a chance on a homeless person who might not be healthy, getting a body part from an athlete could be attractive,” Calvin added.

“You’re serious.”

“We came to Chicago to track down rumors, and if there is a mad doctor, we’re here to shut him down,” Owen said.

Calvin could practically see the wheels turning in Steven’s head as he wrestled with the unfamiliar ideas and then had them fall into place.

“Okay. I guess you learn something new every day, huh? I don’t understand everything, but I want to protect my people. What can I do to help?”

A glimmer of pride flickered in Owen’s eyes, and Calvin’s liking of the security chief increased. “Keep your eyes and ears open,” Owen replied. “And contact us if you get a lead. The folks we think are behind this are dangerous—Mob and witches—so don’t try to go up against them on your own. That’s why the feds got sent in—us.”

“What now?” Steven asked. “My job is to keep the people here safe. I don’t want them getting killed to be replacement parts.”

Calvin weighed the options. A public venue like the rodeo was difficult to secure with spells because so many strangers needed to come and go. Protective charms might help, but they were unlikely to hold up against a powerful witch and only worked if the owner of the talisman kept it constantly on their person.

“Stay alert, and let us know if you see anything suspicious,” Owen replied. “We’re working this from a couple of angles. Once we pull the pieces together, we’re here to shut it down.”

“I just want to keep my crew safe,” Steven said. “I’ll help any way that I can. And—thank you for taking me seriously. I can’t tell the show management. They’d think I’d been drinking and laugh me out of their office.”

Skepticism and downright denial about the occult always made the job of protecting civilians more difficult.

“You know how to reach us,” Owen said. “Keep your eyes open and your wits about you, and stay safe.”

“You, too,” Steven said. “Although now that I know the woo-woo is real, I might never sleep well again.”