Blood and Sand (The Pride #3)

Chapter 1

Alistair stared down at the dead bootlegger and wished he’d stayed home.

The man—Charlie O’Keefe—sprawled on his back on the deck of his yacht, which was currently tied up at a little marina not too far from Towertown.

A single gunshot marked the center of his forehead.

Fortunately, the back of his head was against the deck, hiding at least some of the carnage of the much larger exit wound.

Not an unfamiliar sight, Alistair having served on the front lines in France. Though in the war, few casualties were shot at such close range, at least judging from the powder burns on O’Keefe’s skin.

“Must’ve got the jump on him,” Doris observed from where she stood a few feet behind him on the deck.

Philip didn’t say anything; he’d taken on snow leopard form and leapt to the bridge’s roof to better survey the area.

“There’s no sign of a struggle. He still had a drink in his hand when he went down. ”

Indeed, a battered flask lay in O’Keefe’s fingers, liquor pooling beneath it. His assassin had walked right up and shot him in the face. Someone he knew, then.

Whoever had done it, it was bad news for them. O’Keefe was meant to be their new source for booze, since their last bootlegger died in a fiery airplane crash.

So much for that.

“Check below,” Alistair said. “See if the cargo is still intact.”

“Aye-aye, captain.” Doris saluted him; he returned it with his middle finger.

She went below in tiger shape, ready in case of an ambush.

Alistair didn’t think she’d find any trouble, though; aside from the gentle slap of waves against the hull, the marina was utterly silent.

Autumnal chill had set in, the wind over the lake promising winter, and the best days for pleasure sailing were behind.

He went into cheetah shape to take advantage of his nose. The world took on new dimensions around him, smelling of blood and brains, oil and fuel, salt and algae, snow leopard and tiger, and…

A human, probably a man. And…ink? Did the assassin have a leaky fountain pen?

Either way, it wasn’t going to help him figure out who had put O’Keefe on ice. A rival? A personal grudge? A gang boss who didn’t want the competition?

He hoped it wasn’t the latter, because the only gang in the area was headed by Mickey Sullivan. Who Alistair’s lover—and witch—worked for.

Sullivan wasn’t usually so aggressive when it came to small-time rumrunners. But between the death of his only child and an ongoing war with Isabella Fabiano and her gang, maybe his patience had run short.

“Booze is still here,” Doris called.

Alistair shifted form so he could talk. “Grab the hooch, then we get out of here before anyone else shows up.”

Philip sprang down to the deck and took on human shape. “Just steal it?”

“Not like he’s going to miss it.” Alistair turned his back on O’Keefe’s body, its eyes fixed lifelessly on the clouds above.

Philip shrugged. “We should check to see if it’s tainted.”

“We’ll do it back at The Pride. I don’t want to spend any more time than we have to here. The killer might have friends who are on their way to pick up the liquor right now.”

Philip swore, but it got him moving. The living space below had been converted to a cargo hold filled with crates of illicit liquor.

They hauled the crates out, Doris lifting them easily by herself, Philip and Alistair panting and cursing to move them together.

As soon as the truck was full, they shut the hatch behind them, leaving what remained.

As they crammed back into the truck, Philip said, “This load won’t get us through the end of the month, Alistair. With O’Keefe bumped off, we need to find a new supplier fast.”

Alistair ground his teeth in frustration.

Running a speakeasy in Chicago was good business, but not exactly the most stable way to make a living.

They were getting squeezed left and right, and pretty soon their only choice was going to be between serving whatever panther piss Sullivan sold them or packing it all in.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said as Doris steered the truck away from the dock, its lights off so as not to attract attention. “We’ll come up with something. We always do.”

* * *

Sam took off his hat and held it tightly in his hands as he walked through the front door of The Silvervine. He’d been in some equally fancy joints since he came to Chicago, but that fact didn’t seem to be helping his nerves tonight.

The cabaret was in full swing, a constant flow of men and women in fashionable clothes coming in, and a smaller stream departing. Just inside the door, two hosts guided diners to their tables. Sam cleared his throat when his turn came. “I’m here to meet Mr. Sullivan? Sam Cunningham.”

The man didn’t bat an eye at the mention of Sullivan—but then, according to Alistair, the gangster owned the place, even though his name wasn’t on the paperwork. “Of course, Mr. Cunningham. Right this way.”

Sam followed him, trying not to gawk. He’d been in Chicago for a little over six months now, but its nightlife still had the power to dazzle him.

Back in Gatesville, where he’d spent most of his life, the town would have already rolled up the sidewalks for the night.

Most folk would be in bed by now, or else listening to the radio if they couldn’t sleep.

Here, the evening was just getting started.

The Silvervine was decorated in rose and gold, with red velvet covering the walls.

Tables surrounded a dance floor where customers did the Charleston to the accompaniment of an eight-piece orchestra.

More diners watched from a second-floor balcony.

Waiters threaded their way through the tables, carrying drinks—none filled more than halfway to allow for illicit alcohol to be added—and plates of spaghetti, linguini, and steak.

After pausing at the coat check, the host led him through the dining room to an arch on the far side. A velvet curtain hung in the arch to shield the occupants in the room beyond from curious eyes.

It was another dining room, this one much smaller than the main hall, with fewer tables and only a four-piece orchestra.

The dance floor was mainly unoccupied, though a pair of women drunkenly swayed together, laughing hysterically at their own lack of coordination.

Sam followed the host up a set of stairs to the balcony above.

Sullivan sat at one of the three tables, his right-hand man Leonard Turner at his elbow.

The other tables were occupied by men and women Sam recognized as members of Sullivan’s gang whom he’d met over the summer.

Several of them called greetings when he entered, and a few leaned back in their seats to shake his hand as he passed.

Heat crept up his neck at the attention, even as he tried to smile and return all the greetings. He barely knew them, but apparently that didn’t matter. The important thing was he was Sullivan’s, just like they were.

“Glad you could make it, kid,” Sullivan said, pulling back the empty chair at his table. “Have a seat; have a seat.” To the host, he added, “Get the man a Canada Dry, would you? Fill it to the top. And another scotch and soda for Lenny here.”

“Thanks.” Sam’s palms sweated as he sat down, and he wiped them on his knees beneath the table. He wasn’t used to any of this—when he took the job as Sullivan’s hexmaster, he’d assumed he’d be spending his days working in the lab and his nights at home with Alistair or at The Pride.

And for the most part, he did. But his promotion had unexpectedly put him in the upper echelons of the gang, which meant the other members wanted to get to know him.

Most of the time he was able to politely dodge invitations to dinner or drinks, but when Sullivan summoned him, he had no choice but to attend.

“How are you doing?” Sullivan asked him. “All healed up?”

The man who’d formerly held Sam’s job, Vic Nagorski, had shot him in a misguided attempt to force Sam to help him with a hex, one that could heal any wound—but only at the cost of someone else’s life.

Fortunately, ordinary doctors and hexes had been able to save him, though he was only now really able to move without pain again.

They hadn’t saved his mother, though.

“Once a failure, always a failure,” whispered his father’s voice in his head.

“Good as new,” he told Sullivan. “How is Mrs. Sullivan?”

A look of sorrow flitted across Sullivan’s face, there and gone in an instant. He’d aged since his only child’s death, his hair grown out so darker roots showed, more lines around his eyes. “She’s visiting her mother in New York for a bit. I’ll pass along your greetings.”

A waiter came with their drinks, then took their orders. Sam got the steak, since he’d never mastered the knack of twirling spaghetti on a fork, and didn’t want to look like a fool in front of his employer. Once the server was gone again, Sullivan said, “How are things going at the hexworks?”

Sam wasn’t sure why he’d been invited to this dinner, when Sullivan could have summoned him to his office at any time. But being asked to talk about hexes put him on surer footing, and he sat up straighter.

“Good! We’re fully up and running now—one of the scriptoriums wasn’t working out, it was too dark, but we figured out how to amplify the hexlights without needing more magic to run them, so that’s taken care of.”

Vic had burned the old hexworks to the ground, which meant the entire operation had to move to a new location. Sullivan acquired a building that once housed a Lithuanian-language newspaper, now out of business, and Sam had been helping to convert it to a hexworks ever since.

“Excellent, excellent.” Sullivan took a sip of his drink, which looked like a gin and tonic. While working at The Pride, Sam had learned more than he ever wanted to know about cocktails. “And you’ve figured out the counter to that look-away hex, I believe.”

“We have.” Sam had to restrain himself from going into details; most folks didn’t particularly care about how hexes worked, so long as they did. “It’s ready to be copied now.”

Sullivan beamed at him. “Well done. You’ve earned a bonus.”

Turner slipped a hand inside his suit coat and came out with a thick envelope, which he passed over to Sam. Sam’s throat constricted—he wanted to protest, say it hadn’t been anything, really. He was already being paid more than he’d ever dreamed and certainly didn’t need a bonus.

But it wasn’t just him now. Luke and Glenda, his teammates in the lab, deserved acknowledgement for their hard work.

Silently pledging to split the entire sum between the two, he accepted the envelope and put it in his own coat, beside his hexmaking kit. “Thanks, Mr. Sullivan. That’s very generous of you.”

Sullivan smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “I take care of my people.” His eyes went past Sam, and he sat back. “And here’s that dinner.”

Talk turned to inconsequential things while they ate.

Turner regaled them with a story about an excursion to Milwaukee in which he’d encountered a pair of contortionists, and soon had Sullivan and Sam both choking on their laughter.

When they’d first met, Sam had thought Turner severe—and he could be, especially when carrying out Sullivan’s orders.

But he had a lighter side to him, always ready with a preposterous anecdote or amusing joke.

After dessert—chocolate ice cream with shavings of chocolate sprinkled on top—a steady stream of the other gang members came by for a quick word with their boss. Sullivan and Turner lit cigars; Sam demurred, to Turner’s amusement.

“Maybe we should call you Choirboy,” he said with a wink. “You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you’re going steady with that cat when you could be working your way through Bughouse Square—you’ve got to have some vice.”

Sam’s face heated, but Sullivan only laughed. “A smart man keeps his vices under wraps,” he said, pointing his cigar at Turner.

“Still waters run deep, I guess.” Turner clapped Sam on the shoulder.

The teasing wasn’t mean-spirited, which was a change from Sam’s former life back in Gatesville. There, it was meant to set him apart; here, it was a signal he belonged. “Deep as a puddle,” he replied, and got a chuckle out of Turner.

Sullivan checked his watch, then rose to his feet. Turner and Sam did the same, as did another of the gang, Eddie Bellinowski. “Bring around the car, would you?” Sullivan asked Bellinowski, who nodded and hurried away down the stairs.

Assuming Sullivan’s departure meant he was free to go as well, Sam trailed along after him and Turner.

At the coat check, Sullivan retrieved a fur coat that looked too hot for the fallish weather but probably had a hex on it to keep its wearer comfortable.

He made quite a sight as they strolled toward the glass doors at the front of the cabaret: fur coat, diamond tie pin, tailored suit, and shining shoes.

At the door, Sullivan paused and turned toward Sam. “Always a pleasure to—”

The front of the building exploded inward in a shower of fire and glass.