Chapter 4
Ordinarily, Alistair slept in as long as possible.
But after last night, he wasn’t about to let Sam go traipsing around Chicago without someone—preferably himself—to watch his back.
So he hauled himself out of bed when it came time to visit the optician, scooped the newspaper up off their porch, and tried to stay awake on the train ride into the Loop.
The optician’s store was far more upscale than their usual haunts, but Alistair had expected as much from Sullivan.
Not to mention, they could afford it now, thanks to Sam’s absurd salary.
Neither of them were given to ostentation, so they’d been putting most of it away in the bank, but Alistair figured a good pair of cheaters was worth their weight in gold, given how bad Sam’s eyesight was without them.
While Sam went back to the examination room, Alistair sat on the stoop outside, smoking a cigarette. He unfolded the newspaper; the main headline was about the Navy dirigible Shenandoah crossing the Rockies, but the assassination attempt on Sullivan made it onto the front page, below the fold.
BOMB WRECKS LOOP CABARET
Five Hurt by Blast at The Silvervine
Five men were injured, with one killed and one hospitalized, when a bomb exploded in front of The Silvervine. The explosion shattered the windows of nearby businesses, and severely damaged the front of the cabaret, which remains closed for the immediate future.
The police believe the incident to be related to a beer war. Pictures on back page.
He turned the newspaper over, then immediately wished he hadn’t. The first photo was of the shattered entrance of the cabaret, the doors a twisted ruin, fire-scorched debris covering the floor. Dark spots on the carpet might have been blood.
Bands tightened around his chest, making it hard to catch his breath. Sam had been right there, in the middle of that destruction. Just a few steps closer to the entrance and he would have been killed.
Alistair’s hands started to shake, so he lowered the newspaper. Seeing the picture brought home the immensity of the danger, the narrowness of the escape. He might have been planning Sam’s funeral this morning, the warmth of their bond replaced by a gaping abyss of pain.
“My glasses will be ready this afternoon, and…Alistair?”
Startled, he dropped the paper; a gust of wind caught it and sent it skidding down the road, pages going everywhere. How long had he been sitting here, frozen in the depth of his horror?
Long enough for Sam to be finished, it seemed. Sam peered myopically down at him, a line of concern forming between his brows. “Are you all right?”
Alistair started to deny it, then caught himself. “Not really. I saw a picture of the damage to the cabaret. You could have been killed, and for no better reason than you were just standing beside Sullivan!”
Sam sat down beside him. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be meeting him at any cabarets or restaurants soon,” he said ruefully. “But I’m all right.”
“I almost lost you last summer, when that maniac Nagorski shot you.” Alistair met his gaze unhappily. “Working for Sullivan like this…it’s not going to come to a good end, Sam.”
Sam sighed and leaned his shoulder against Alistair’s. “I love you. But this is the best opportunity we have, money-wise.”
Alistair stood up. “I don’t care about that.”
“I do, though.” Sam scrambled up as well. “I have to make my own way in the world.”
Alistair hunched his shoulders against the wind and started walking back toward the elevated train. “And keep sending checks to your worthless family?”
Sam hurried to keep up with his longer stride. “I didn’t think you knew about that.”
Sam was many things—unfailingly kind, brilliant, loving—but he’d never make it as a spy.
Alistair felt a little guilty bringing the matter up now, but forged ahead anyway.
“You left the register out on your desk at home. I was putting it away and noticed your dad’s name on an entry.
I wasn’t trying to pry,” he added quickly.
Sam didn’t say anything for a long moment, head down, the wind ruffling his auburn curls. “I knew you wouldn’t want me sending money to my family,” he said at last.
He wasn’t wrong. As far as Alistair was concerned, the Cunninghams could all drown in Lake Michigan and the world would be a better place.
He’d had the misfortune to meet them once: a pack of bitter shrews whose favorite sport was bullying Sam.
First they’d blamed him for his older brother’s death, despite the fact Sam had just been a child himself at the time.
Now they blamed him for his mother’s death, after she was shot by an armed robber.
In their twisted logic, Sam should have been the one behind the counter at the family pharmacy that day.
The implication being, he should have been the one dying in the hospital instead.
And when the medieval hex Sam had hoped to use to save her proved instead to be a thing of pure evil, that had only given them more ammunition to use against him.
Hell, it gave more ammunition for Sam to use against himself, since he believed the poisonous words they’d poured into his ears for so long.
“You know what I think about them,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m sorry I made you feel as though you have to hide your relationship with them from me. I didn’t mean to.”
“But you don’t approve.”
“It’s your money, sweetheart.” Alistair bumped his shoulder against Sam’s gently. “You can spend it on them if you want.” He didn’t like saying it, but… “We can even go visit them, if you’d like. I’ll keep my mouth shut the whole time we’re there.”
Sam arched a skeptical brow at him. “You?”
“For your sake, I’d try.”
Sam snorted. “True love.”
“You know it.”
Sam linked his arm through Alistair’s. “I meant to ask you, how did your meeting go last night?”
Worrying about Sam had briefly blotted out the other things he needed to be concerned about. “He was dead when we got there.”
“What?” Sam came to an abrupt halt, forcing Alistair to do so as well. A disgruntled man nearly walked into them, muttering angrily as he maneuvered around.
“We’re blocking the sidewalk.” Alistair tugged him back into motion. “At least we got some booze out of it.”
“Oh.” They walked past a woman selling sunflowers on the corner. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Find another bootlegger.” And hope like hell they could afford whatever rates they charged. “It’s not like we have any other choice.”
“Yeah.” Sam sighed. “I guess you don’t.”
* * *
Sam sat in a quiet corner of The Pride, sipping on a mock champagne and doodling.
All around him, the Friday-night crowd bustled: men and women freed from work and ready to sleep off the booze tomorrow morning.
Those lucky enough to have a five-day work week, at least, which was more and more common since the war.
Despite the noise, smoke, and bustle, The Pride was the first place Sam had felt at home in Chicago. Well, maybe in ever, if he was to be completely honest with himself.
Alistair didn’t understand why he was sending money to his family when he didn’t need to. But then, Alistair lost his own parents when he was young, and then lost his adoptive family when he turned out to be a cheetah familiar. Maybe he was more used to moving on from severed ties.
But it wasn’t so easy for Sam. Guilt hung heavy on him, and not for the reasons Alistair probably assumed.
After Mom was shot, Sam had the chance to save her.
All he had to do was go along with Vic Nagorski’s plan.
And yes, it would have meant bonding with Vic and going on the run.
Worse: it would have meant killing Bobby Watts a second time and using the magical distillate from his body to create the panacea to save her.
And also yes, she’d already been dead when he’d been offered the choice. But he hadn’t known that. He’d truly believed he had the chance to save her…and he’d refused.
At the moment, it had seemed so clear. The panacea hex had been a terrible thing, requiring a life in exchange for a life. In the wrong hands, it could do incalculable damage.
But now, when he lay awake late at night, he could only remember the sight of Mom lying in her hospital bed. Shot because she was working at the pharmacy, when it should have been him there behind the register.
Dad thought Sam had just failed like he always had. He didn’t realize his only surviving son had chosen not to save his own mother. The fact it would have been too late anyway didn’t matter.
Several people exclaimed loudly as a robin streaked through the air, barely missing their heads. She flew up to Sam’s table and turned into a slender woman with light brown skin and sleek bobbed hair, wearing a blue silk dress with matching bandeau.
The sight of her brought a smile to Sam’s lips. “Holly! Are you singing tonight?”
“I’m taking the night off.” She signaled to Philip behind the bar and yelled, “A Twelve Mile Limit, pal!”
Philip gave her a nod to indicate he’d heard, then went back to mixing drinks for the crowd in front of him. Holly turned back to Sam. “How are the hands?”
Hexed gauze still wrapped Sam’s palms, but already the pain had faded. “Not too bad. I should have the bandages off in a few days.”
“Good. Cute cheaters, by the way.”
He self-consciously touched the tortoiseshell frame of his new glasses. Tiny hexes were inscribed along them to prevent breakage or scratching. He’d never had hexed glasses before; his family didn’t approve of magic, unless it was to their immediate benefit. “Thanks.”
Holly seemed distracted, her head turning in birdlike movements as if to keep the rest of the room under surveillance. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Wait until I’ve got my drink.”
Soon enough, Teresa brought the Twelve Mile Limit. The orange-red concoction seemed to glow from within—Philip had used a hex on it for that extra dash of class. Holly took a generous sip and seemed to relax slightly.
“Can I tell you something in confidence, Sam?” she asked.
He sat up straighter. “Sure, anything.”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
Was something wrong? Something must be wrong. “Not a soul, I swear.”
She took another generous swig of her drink.
“You know I love Wanda, but the Gattis are all up in each other’s business, and talking to one of them is like talking to all.
Which is the cat’s pajamas when you need them, don’t get me wrong, but right now I’d like someone… less involved…to lend me an ear.”
Maybe Holly and Wanda were having relationship problems. “I’m happy to listen.”
She glanced around, confirming Teresa was well out of earshot.
“So there’s this friend of mine, Essie Wakefield, we met in the Signal Corps.
We flew messages to the front together, but in her down time, she got her hands on one of the movie cameras.
Had a real knack for filming, though it all had to be censored, of course. ”
Sam nodded, unsure where all of this was going. “Right.”
“Anyway, she’s in the process of setting up her own film studio in Los Angeles.” Holly bit her full lower lip. “She wants me to come out and star in one of her productions.”
“That’s—that’s great!” Sam couldn’t count the number of times he’d pored over the glamorous images of movie stars in the magazines back home. Valentino, Gloria Swanson, Douglas Fairbanks…maybe he’d see Holly on the cover of Screenland one day.
Except… “You haven’t told Wanda yet,” he guessed.
Her shoulders slumped. “No. I’d have to leave Chicago, move to LA, and her life is here. And I love her, I want to stay with her, but…”
“You want to go to LA as well,” he prompted.
She finished off her drink and twirled the glass by the stem.
“Well, yes. And I want to get out of Chicago, to be perfectly honest. Teresa’s been shot, you’ve been shot, every day the newspapers report on some new explosion or murder or something.
And sure, there’s crime everywhere, but not like this. ”
“Yeah.” Sam stared down at the half-finished sketch he’d made of the piano player on the stage.
It wasn’t his best; his hands stung a little, but he wanted to keep his fingers flexible for his hexwork.
“I can’t say I’ve enjoyed being shot and almost blown up.
But I need a job, and I’m not sure I could quit if I wanted to, not and stay in Chicago. ”
“And Alistair isn’t going to leave the others behind.” Holly took out a silver cigarette case and lighter. Sam politely took the lighter and lit her cigarette for her. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You understand. And I know you won’t blab to anyone.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I love Wanda. But I also love not being gunned down on the street. I think I could do well for myself in the movies, and the music scene is a lot less crowded out there than it is here, if I have to fall back on singing.” She took a long drag from her cigarette. “It’s a pickle.”
“Yeah.” Sam understood what she meant. He loved things about Chicago—hell, he loved his job. The work itself, anyway, apart from the criminal aspects of it. But the moment of the explosion, followed by the assassin in the smoke, kept replaying itself over and over in his mind.
Well, in his case, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to leave Alistair; just the thought made his heart hurt. “I wouldn’t blame you for leaving,” he said wryly. “Or think you’re a fool to stay for Wanda’s sake.”
She let out a long stream of smoke from her nostrils. “The one thing I know right now, is this—” she gestured at the room around them “—can’t last forever. Running a speakeasy isn’t a long-term game, no matter how badly the Gattis want it to be.”
A man approached their table, still wearing his hat and overcoat. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Sam couldn’t place him. “Mr. Cunningham? Mr. Sullivan sent me.”
That’s right—he’d been at the cabaret last night, sitting with some of the other gang members. “Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yeah. He wants you to come with me right now.”