Chapter 5
Alistair had wanted to come, of course, but Todarello flatly denied him. So instead, he’d taken on cheetah form back at The Pride, and now watched through Sam’s eyes.
“It looks like he’s taking you west,” Alistair said. “Fulton Market District. There’s no legitimate reason anyone should be hanging around there at this time of night.”
Sam swallowed against the ball of nerves threatening to choke him. “Is it much farther?”
Todarello didn’t bother to glance back, but his tone was respectful. “Not far, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Why is he being so deferential?” Alistair wondered, because he’d take any excuse to be suspicious.
His question stung more than Sam expected. “Maybe he thinks I deserve respect?”
“You do, I just…sorry.” Alistair subsided.
They turned onto a side street, then pulled up in front of a warehouse, a rail line running just feet outside of its doors.
The neighborhood was dark and silent, with only a few watchmen patrolling outside the various industrial buildings.
Even so, Sam would’ve bet good money that a speakeasy was operating somewhere nearby, and probably more than one.
Todarello got out and opened Sam’s door before he could reach for the handle. “Just so you know,” he said, “The Familiar Silence hex you cooked up last summer is in use.”
“What’s that mean?” Alistair demanded.
“It means we won’t be able to talk while I’m inside. So don’t panic.”
Sam was proud of the Familiar Silence hex. Sullivan had wanted a way to keep familiars from eavesdropping on their witches, or vice versa. Probably to evade any prohees who wanted to take him down, or at least so Sam assumed. He, Glenda, and Luke had worked to develop it for most of the summer.
He followed Todarello around to a small side door, which opened onto a short, nondescript hallway.
The hall let out into the main body of the warehouse, the vast space packed tight with crates labeled “Canned Meats.” In a far corner of the warehouse, hidden behind a wall of unmarked boxes, waited a small group of Sullivan’s men.
One, a wolf familiar, was still in animal form.
Her ears perked up when she saw Sam, and she swished her tail lazily back and forth in greeting.
The tang of blood hung in the air, so thick even Sam’s merely human nose could smell it.
A dark stain showed on the floor where someone had tried to clean up.
A jumble of wooden crates, all of them pried open and rummaged through, seemed the focus of everyone’s attention.
Straw packing lay scattered about, along with bales of cheap cotton cloth.
Why was he here, where someone had clearly been badly injured just a short time ago?
Upon seeing Sam, a man named McIntyre walked over and held out his hand for a shake. He was one of Sullivan’s sub-lieutenants and was married to the wolf familiar.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Cunningham,” he said, as though Sam had any real choice in the matter. “We found something Mr. Sullivan wanted you to take a look at.”
In the middle of the night? But then, when else would it be, given they were in a warehouse that was clearly in operation during the day.
Sam moved toward the crates, his eye catching on the glint of gold. No one seemed to care if he took a closer look, and a gasp escaped him when he saw what was inside.
The crate was half-empty—no doubt the cloth bales had been used to hide the contents in case any customs inspectors got curious enough to open it.
Inside was what appeared to be a disassembled chair, its golden surface inlaid with semi-precious stones and enamel.
The arms were shaped like winged cobras, and the back was carved to depict a woman flanked by two other women, these with wings on their arms.
The style was unmistakably that of Ancient Egypt—like everyone else, Sam had breathlessly examined the images from the newly discovered tomb of King Tutankhamun a couple of years back.
“Nice, eh?” McIntyre asked. “The missus here wants four of the same for the parlor.”
Mrs. McIntyre growled playfully at him.
“What is it doing here?” Sam asked; a meatpacking warehouse seemed an unlikely place for an artifact.
“Fabiano had it smuggled in. No idea why, but now it’s ours.”
That explained the large bloodstain. Sam felt a bit queasy; someone, maybe several someones, had been murdered right here not long ago.
“But that ain’t what Mr. Sullivan wants you to see,” he went on, “unless you’re secretly an Egyptologist.”
“Er, no.” Sam stepped back from the chair. “Definitely not.”
“That’s what I figured.” McIntyre beckoned him over to one of the other crates.
“This loot belonged to Fabiano. Gold chairs are nice, but not something you can sell without raising too many questions. Maybe she wanted it for her house, who knows. But this…Mr. Sullivan figures this is the real prize.”
Inside the crate, surrounded by packing straw, was a second, smaller box that had already been opened.
This one was also stuffed with straw, then layers of silk, which someone had pulled away.
Nestled at the heart of the cushioning materials was what looked like a disc of solid gold, with what were clearly hex signs cast in a spiral arrangement.
They’d been filled with various enamels—or maybe paste made from semi-precious stones?
—in bright blues, red, greens, and blacks.
Sam’s interest sharpened, as it always did when it came to hexes, and he started to reach for it before catching himself. “May I?”
“That’s why the boss wanted you here.”
He carefully lifted the heavy disc out of its box.
The electric lights in the warehouse gleamed off ancient gold that had lain in darkness for untold centuries.
Thousands of years ago, a hexmaker like Sam had created this pattern, perhaps overseen its casting, then inlaid the symbols with practiced hands.
Most of the symbols were familiar, and others looked to be variations on the modern ones he knew.
A few, though, were nothing like he’d ever seen before.
He could probably figure them out with some trial and error: hexes were ultimately nothing more than containers for magic, which shaped the form it took.
He turned it over and discovered the other side was also covered in a spiral of hexes. “I’ve never seen hexes written down like this,” he admitted. “But I don’t know anything about Ancient Egypt. Or modern Egypt, to be fair.”
“So you can’t guess what it does?”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“I see.” McIntyre watched as he replaced the disc with the same care as he’d removed it. “I’ll let the boss know. I’d suggest you plan on coming in to work early tomorrow. I have a feeling he’s going to want answers about what Fabiano meant to do with this stuff, and sooner rather than later.”
Sam’s bandaged hands itched to start copying the hex symbols and figuring out how they fit together. This was exactly the sort of challenge that had drawn him to hexwork in the first place. “I can’t wait.”
* * *
BOOTLEGGER FOUND DEAD IN NEAR NORTHSIDE
Police say new phase in beer war begun.
Chicago - Daniel Queen, 42, was shot dead in the midst of a crowd on Wabash Ave.
According to witnesses, he suddenly collapsed at the same moment a gunshot was heard.
Though no one witnessed the gunman, police say the killing bullet was delivered at close range.
How the assassin then slipped away unseen seems to have law enforcement puzzled.
Queen had been arrested twice on violation of the Volstead Act, but released both times before going to trial. According to a waiter at a nearby restaurant, who refused to give his name, Queen was known to supply several speakeasies in the area.
“Did you see this?” Alistair asked Wanda as they sat in the back office of The Pride.
It was still too early for the joint to be open.
Alistair had tried to work earlier during the day, so he could spend more time in the evenings with Sam.
After years of staying up all night and sleeping half the day, it was proving to be an adjustment.
Fortunately, Wanda kept the kitchen well stocked with coffee.
“Yes, I know the Senators beat the Giants in twelve innings,” she replied absently. “I could hardly miss the headline.”
“Not that.”
“I thought the baseball scores were the only reason you read the paper.”
“It’s not the only one,” he shot back, though she wasn’t far wrong.
The war taught him you couldn’t believe everything you read.
Half of it was propaganda, as far as he was concerned, and the rest written at such a slant it might as well be.
“Another bootlegger is dead. Gunned down in the middle of a crowd, only no one saw who did it.”
Wanda frowned and swiveled her chair to face him. “Sniper?”
“Close range, or that’s what the cops say.”
“The police lie all the time,” she said dismissively. “Or just get things wrong. Or report what whoever is holding the purse strings tells them to. Still, I don’t like another bootlegger dying so soon after O’Keefe and Camille.”
“Neither do I.” He pulled a bottle out of his desk drawer and took a healthy swig. Wanda extended the tumbler that was usually on her desk, and he poured her a measure. “Do you think someone is taking out the competition?”
“Fur and feathers, I hope not.” She downed her drink and held the glass out again. “Because if so, it’s got to be Sullivan. Which means he’s tired of independent operators in his territory.”
Independent operators like them. They’d scared off Sullivan’s thugs shortly after they’d opened—it was useful to be able to turn into big cats sometimes—and settled into an amiable truce.
Sullivan had been up-and-coming in 1920, just one more ambitious gangster in a city full of them. Now, though…
Ursino was dead, along with Torrio, Capone, and their ilk.
Smaller syndicates had either given up altogether or merged with the big fish like Sullivan and Fabiano.
Oh, there were still some down in the South Side, all of them keeping a wary eye on Sullivan and Fabiano, like a herd of gazelle watching two lions fight.
Whoever won, they were going to lose, unless the two predators managed to take each other out in the process.
So Sullivan’s position was a lot stronger than it had been four years ago, even with the ongoing war with Fabiano. If he’d decided it was time to consolidate his territory, they were in trouble.
And complicating matters, Sam was now high up in Sullivan’s damned syndicate. Higher than Sam had let on—though to be fair, he probably didn’t think of himself as that important.
Maybe they could use that. Ask Sam to put in a good word with Sullivan. Or as a favor, in return for saving the gang leader’s life.
“This is bad.” Alistair took another swig of whiskey.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Wanda sighed and reluctantly put her empty tumbler away. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it through this somehow. We always do.”
“Everyone does,” he replied. “Right up until they don’t.”