Chapter 3
Alistair’s pulse thudded in the base of his throat as Wanda drove her red Playboy Roadster up to the gates in front of Sullivan’s Gold Coast mansion.
The last time he’d been here, it had been for a lavish party thrown in honor of Mrs. Sullivan’s birthday.
Tonight, the enormous house looked much more somber.
Several men and women in dark suits stood in front of the gate, no doubt armed to the teeth. As one of them approached the car, Wanda called, “It’s Wanda and Alistair Gatti. Mr. Sullivan is expecting us.”
One of the men opened the rumble seat and checked inside. Alistair silently applauded their caution—Sam was in that house, and after tonight, he wanted the guards to be inspecting every last vehicle and person who entered.
When the guards were satisfied they weren’t smuggling in another bomb, they were waved through. Wanda parked behind a line of vehicles already there—Sullivan had clearly called in the troops.
She shut off the car and turned to him. “You need to keep your temper in check tonight, brother,” she said, looking him in the eye so he knew she was serious.
“Sullivan is on a hair-trigger, and we don’t need any more trouble than we already have.
We go in, say whatever we need to say, collect Sam, and get the hell out of here. Understand me?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious. If you don’t watch your mouth—”
“I know, okay?” He held up his hands. “I just want to see Sam.”
She gave him a long look, then nodded. They climbed out and went up the stairs, past marble columns and yet more guards, including one at the door who ushered them through.
The grand foyer was as ostentatious as the last time they’d been there, full of Persian carpets, extravagant vases, and Roman busts.
The greenery that had once dominated the décor had been replaced by wreaths of black crepe.
A photograph presided over the room, showing a small boy in knicker-bockers and a cap, smiling broadly as he held a toy pistol.
The gilded frame bore a plaque reading Michael Sullivan, Jr., 1917-1924, and was surrounded with more black crepe.
Alistair’s heart twinged. Poor little mite. He didn’t know what had been wrong with the kid, other than it was beyond the reach of modern medicine, both mechanical and magical.
The panacea hex could have saved the child—but only at the cost of someone else’s life. Though Bobby Watts had already been…not dead exactly, but not alive. Certainly beyond saving.
That had never been a choice, thanks to Vic Nagorski. And if Sullivan had gotten his hands on the panacea hex, how many would have died later to create a cure for those ruthless and rich enough to afford it?
Still, he wished things had been different for Mickey Jr.’s sake.
A woman in a somber black dress emerged into the foyer and indicated they should follow her deeper into the house.
As they walked, Alistair looked around at the sumptuous décor, pretending he hadn’t slipped covertly into these very halls during the birthday party.
A funereal hush hung over the mansion—or was he just projecting onto the ordinary quiet of a nighttime home?
The servant stopped in front of the door to one of the many guest rooms, gestured to it, and departed without speaking once. Pushing aside thoughts of the dead, Alistair opened the door.
Sam sat inside, perched on the edge of the bed while a man in a doctor’s coat secured gauze on his hand.
“I believe all the glass is out, though of course if there is more, remove it immediately with a pair of tweezers and apply an antiseptic hex to the wound,” the doctor was saying.
“The hexes on the bandages should help everything heal up in a few days, but if you notice any sign of infection, or if anything else seems wrong, don’t hesitate to call on me. You have my card?”
“Sam!” Even though he knew through their bond that Sam was all right, the relief at seeing him upright and moving made Alistair weak in the knees. Ignoring the doctor, he hurried to his witch and pulled him close. Sam stank of smoke and dried blood, and his chubby body trembled in Alistair’s arms.
“How is he?” Wanda asked from the doorway.
“Quite all right. Just some glass shards in his palms and face, which I’ve removed and bandaged.” The doctor smiled reassuringly. “He’s a very lucky young man.”
“Doesn’t feel very lucky,” Alistair said.
“No—the doctor’s right.” Sam pulled back. Soot streaked his pale skin and darkened his auburn hair, and his warm brown eyes looked vulnerable without his cheaters. “Another second or two, and we would have been right on top of the bomb.”
Alistair’s stomach plunged. “So it wasn’t just an accidental explosion.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” the doctor said, and slipped out. No doubt he was an old hand at knowing when to leave a room before he overheard too much.
“No.” Sam swallowed convulsively. “I wasn’t sure at first, but then a man came in…he was holding a gun…”
“And Sam here saved my life,” Sullivan said from the hallway.
Alistair swore silently—he’d let his guard down like a fool. Wanda had already moved further into the room, clearing the way for the gang boss to enter.
Sullivan had cleaned up, smelling of Castile soap and bay rum aftershave.
A white plaster with a hex on it covered an injury under one eye, and he moved stiffly, as if more bruises and cuts hid beneath his freshly pressed suit.
But beyond that, he looked older than the last time Alistair had clapped eyes on him, the lines around his eyes and mouth more deeply graven.
Sam turned bright red at Sullivan’s praise. “I just threw a piece of metal,” he started to mumble, but Sullivan cut him off.
“You distracted him long enough for Mr. Bellinowski to arrive. Otherwise, he’d have put a bullet in me.” Sullivan stuck out his hand, and Sam uncertainly extended his own. Alistair bristled, but Sullivan only lightly shook Sam’s fingers, avoiding the bandages over his palm. “I owe you a debt.”
Having a gang boss in Sam’s debt sounded good, so Alistair instantly distrusted it. It was just one more strand in the web Sullivan had spun around them.
“I’m sure you’re very busy tonight, Mr. Sullivan,” Wanda said. “We’ll just take Sam and get out of your hair.”
Sullivan met Sam’s eyes. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight, if you want the extra security.”
Was Sullivan implying Alistair couldn’t take care of his own boyfriend? “We’ll be fine,” he said.
“I’m sure you will.” Sullivan didn’t look at him, just patted Sam on one shoulder. “Take tomorrow off. I’ll send you the name of an optician I know, the best in Chicago. He’ll get you some new cheaters in no time. Go see him in the morning—I’ll let him know to expect you.”
“A-all right?” Sam said, sounding bewildered. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Of course, of course,” he replied magnanimously, as though ordering other people to do his bidding at the drop of a hat was nothing. To him, it probably wasn’t. “Be careful out there, hear me? If you see or hear anything suspicious, call right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man.” Sullivan stepped back and finally looked at Alistair and Wanda. “Good to see you, Miss Gatti, Mr. Gatti. I’m sorry I don’t have more time to socialize—why don’t the two of you come to dinner with Sam one night?”
That wasn’t good—it meant Sullivan wanted something from them. But they couldn’t refuse, so Wanda just smiled. “We’d love to, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Good, good. I’ll see you then. Take care of Sam for me in the meantime.”
Once Sullivan was gone, Wanda let out a long breath. “Well, then. Let’s get you home, Sam, before anything else can go wrong.”
* * *
“Thank God you’re all right,” Alistair said, much later when Wanda had dropped them off at their house and sped away.
Now they were inside, all the doors locked tight, Sam sitting on the closed toilet seat while Alistair wiped away the worst of the soot from his face.
“Take off your clothes, and we’ll salvage what we can. ”
“Not the most romantic way you’ve ever phrased that,” Sam teased. In truth, he was still shaken by the terrifying blast, the gunman hunting Sullivan. But he didn’t want to give Alistair any reason to worry.
“No one ever said you were with me because of my charm,” Alistair replied. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“No.” The hexes on the bandages were good, dulling the pain of his cuts and hopefully speeding along the healing process.
Sam stood up, and Alistair helped him strip off his clothes, now stained with soot and blood. The knees of his trousers were ripped too badly to be good as anything but rags, but the rest of the clothes might be saved. “I guess I lost my hat.”
“Blown off your head,” Alistair said grimly. “Shit, you’re bruised to hell and back. Do you need anything?”
Now that he was safely at home with his lover, the last of the energy that had carried him through the night was fading fast. “No. I think I’m going to lie down.”
“Okay.” Alistair brushed a kiss across his forehead. “I’ll get your clothes soaking in some borax.”
“I can help—”
“Sam.” Alistair cupped his face with one hand. “Let me take care of you.”
Sam’s heart swelled, and tears foolishly pricked his eyes.
He’d always managed on his own, always been the one to take care of everyone else.
Alistair’s offer felt like a gift—no, it was Alistair who was the gift.
Kind behind his prickly exterior, loyal and brave, always ready to do anything for his family and friends…
Sam still didn’t understand why Alistair had chosen someone as uninteresting as himself, but he was grateful for it every day.
“A-all right,” he said, voice trembling.
Alistair kissed him again, this time on the lips. “I’ll be in soon.”
Sam stayed in the bathroom long enough to run a damp washcloth over his skin, clearing away the fear-sweat and grime. When he finally slid beneath the sheets, his mind immediately began to replay the moment of the explosion. The terror, the ringing in his ears, the shouts and screams…
He tossed and turned, trying to blot out the images, but when Alistair came in he was still wide awake. “I thought you’d be out the second your head touched the pillow,” Alistair remarked as he undressed.
Sam flopped onto his back and sighed. “I’m physically exhausted, but my mind keeps going back to the bomb and the gunman.”
Alistair slid into bed and propped himself on his elbow. “Yeah, I should have realized. It took a while for me to learn to fall asleep after an action.”
While Sam’s poor eyesight had exempted him from the Selective Service, Alistair and his first witch had fought in France.
The newspapers had printed a rosy picture of the American Expedition Force’s exploits, but judging by what little he’d gathered from Alistair, the reality had been much darker.
No one had come back the same, and some former soldiers—Sam’s old neighbor Tommy Dodge and Alistair’s first witch Forrest—hadn’t been able to live with the things they’d seen and done.
“It shouldn’t bother me, I wasn’t really hurt,” Sam started, but Alistair gently placed a finger over his lips.
“Well, it scared the hell out of me. I’m sorry you had to go through it. Fucking Sullivan…” he trailed off, grinding his teeth. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about him right now.”
Alistair had never approved of Sam going to work for Sullivan. Tonight wasn’t going to make him any more of a fan. He might have accepted losing the argument, but he hadn’t done so graciously, and Sam didn’t want to fight right now either.
“I’ll be all right,” he said.
Alistair’s eyes were the same warm amber as his cheetah form’s. “I know you will. Maybe you’ll sleep better if I give you a thorough check-over?”
He waggled his eyebrows, and Sam laughed, even as heat rose to his cheeks. “I didn’t undress for the doctor, so there might be some spots he missed.” His own words made him blush even harder, but Alistair only grinned.
“Well, then. I’d better make a careful inspection.”
He kissed Sam, lightly at first, then more deeply. Sam’s body responded eagerly, blood rushing to his cock, skin tingling, everything aching for Alistair’s touch.
Alistair was as good as his word, languidly exploring Sam’s skin starting with a trail of kisses down his neck. He reached to caress Alistair in return, but had his fingers deftly caught.
“Lie still,” Alistair said with a sly grin. “Doctor’s orders.”
Sam whimpered in response. It was delicious torture to remain still while Alistair explored his body, brushing kisses down both arms, then moving on to his chest. He gasped and arched when Alistair’s mouth found one nipple.
“Tsk, tsk,” Alistair said. He drew back just enough to blow cool air over the wet nipple, stiffening it further. “I did say not to move. Maybe I should stop?”
“N-no, please.” Sam wanted to squirm against him, so instead he clenched his hands in the bedsheets.
“That’s what I thought,” Alistair murmured, then went back to work with his wicked mouth.
He slid under the covers, traced a path down Sam’s belly, torturously avoiding his leaking cock.
He licked the inside of his thighs, kissed his knees, then slowly reversed course.
“There seems to be one part I’ve missed so far… ”
It was everything Sam could do not to buck his hips when Alistair took him in his mouth. He gripped the sheets harder, gasping with pleasure as Alistair worked him with lips and tongue, sliding almost to the root, then back up, then down again.
It was too divine to last long. “I’m close,” he whispered, and was rewarded with even more of an effort on Alistair’s part, driving him over the edge. Light blazed behind his eyes and his back arched helplessly as he came.
Alistair sat back, licking his lips, hand wrapping around his own cock. He stroked himself, the light creeping through the drapes outlining his profile, the taut planes of his lean muscles. With a deep groan, he spent himself on Sam’s thighs.
Sam stretched out his arms, and Alistair laid down, head on Sam’s shoulder. “Mmm. You enjoyed that, did you?”
Foolishly, given their circumstances, Sam felt the heat of a blush creep over his face. “Very much.”
“Well, then. We’ll have to try it again soon. Maybe with restraints?”
Oh God. “Th-that sounds fun.”
“Heh.” Alistair kissed the nearest patch of skin. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Sam pressed his face into Alistair’s hair.
Alistair fetched a washcloth and tenderly cleaned off Sam’s thighs, before settling back in.
Within a few moments, his breathing evened out as he slid into sleep.
But despite everything, Sam lay in the dark for a long time, wondering if the danger tonight had been an unfortunate occurrence never to be repeated… or the harbinger of worse to come.