Chapter 17
Instead of either going home or copying more hexes, Sam spent the evening poring over every symbol on the disc.
Doc had thought it all superstition—the parts of the soul, the possibility of reuniting them with the body. But he hadn’t seen what Vic did to Bobby Watts.
Something had revived Bobby’s decaying corpse. An intelligence that looked at Sam through desperate, pained eyes, even as his ruined body died again.
Vic believed he was reuniting the spirit with the body, both purified though a series of hexes. Then he meant to boil the result in mercury and distill a panacea that would cure any wound, any illness, perhaps even old age itself.
He might have been wrong—he never got the chance to test the panacea. All the notes he’d made, all the original material from the medieval lab, he destroyed to keep anyone else from replicating what he’d done.
But Sam had a good memory for hexes. He hadn’t seen all the ones Vic pieced together, and he would never be able to really replicate the ones he’d worked on, as complicated as they’d been.
As he studied the signs on the Aten Disc, though, he began to make out similarities. Familiar patterns, augmented by the symbols no longer in use. Could it be possible that Neferneferuaten had uncovered the means to return the dead to true life?
Perhaps no one else wanted Akhenaten back. The priests of the old gods would want their power returned, and maybe the common folk, the ones who would never have the pharaoh’s ear, would prefer to petition the gods directly as they always had before.
Had Neferneferuaten been hurried along to her own tomb before she had the chance to bring back her heretical husband?
His mind was still running in circles as he locked up and left for the night. Paladino drove him home, but as they pulled up in front of the house, Sam spotted a figure sitting on the front steps. In the shadows, he could only make out a plain dress and suitcase on the ground beside her.
“You expecting anyone?” Paladino asked, reaching for his holstered gun as he did so.
The woman looked up at the sound of the car’s engine. The streetlight illuminated part of her face: round despite her thinness, brown eyes, a curl of auburn hair escaping from under her hat.
Shock poured through Sam; for a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming, because there was no way she would be here in Chicago. “I-it’s okay,” he managed to say to Paladino. “She’s my sister.”
* * *
“Leonard Turner wants a word,” Teresa said from the door to the office.
Alistair exchanged a glance with Wanda. Neither of them were surprised; it was inevitable that Sullivan would send him, given everything.
It didn’t mean they had to be happy about it, though.
He followed Wanda out into The Pride proper. Holly’s voice cut through the haze of cigarette and reefer smoke, singing about an abandoned lover still pining over the easy rider who’d done her wrong.
Turner sat at a table flanked by silk potted plants for privacy, a drink already in front of him. He didn’t seem surprised to see both of them instead of only Wanda, simply gestured to the chairs filling out the round table. As though he owned the place, and they were the guests.
Alistair bristled, but kept it to himself. This wasn’t the time to mouth off.
Teresa appeared unprompted, with a gin and tonic for Wanda and a Corpse Reviver for Alistair. “Can I get anything from the kitchen?” she asked. “We have a delicious chicken a la king tonight, Mr. Turner.”
“Thanks, but I already ate.”
She slipped away, though Alistair knew she’d be keeping a close eye on their table. Wanda took a measured sip of her drink, then said, “I was sorry to hear about the flower shop.”
“It will be paid back, don’t worry.” Dark circles showed under Turner’s eyes; he hadn’t gotten much sleep lately. “But that is why I’m here.”
Of course it was. Alistair remained silent with some effort.
“Fabiano’s already tried to take you out via Mr. Gallo,” Turner went on. “That didn’t work, but she won’t stop there. It’s in our mutual interests to work together.”
“I can’t disagree.” Wanda leaned back in her chair. “But we’re not soldiers. Alistair here was a doughboy, sure, but we like things peaceful.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Peace is better for business.” Turner took out a cigar and lit it. “I heard the bird on the stage was a Hello Girl. Ran messages through enemy fire to the front.”
Wanda’s nostrils flared slightly, but otherwise she didn’t react. “She’s not a part of this.”
“I’m not asking your people to be on the front lines,” Turner said.
Alistair mentally supplied the word yet.
“But certain places will be short on guards. Places Fabiano might decide to target. In the name of friendship, Mr. Sullivan is asking you to lend a hand. Nothing onerous: just stand around and keep anyone unauthorized from going where they don’t need to be. ”
“Or fight off anyone trying to bomb the place,” Alistair supplied, unable to hold back any more.
“Exactly. You get it, Mr. Gatti.” Turner tapped the ashes from the end of his cigar into a glass tray. “The hexworks is a prime target. I’m sure you’d like it to keep standing, wouldn’t you?”
A growl threatened to crawl up Alistair’s throat. Turner wasn’t wrong—if Fabiano could burn it to the ground, it would give her the upper hand in the magical side of the war. “I’ll guard it.”
Wanda shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. He’d played right into Turner’s hands—but what else was he to do? If something happened to Sam…
Just the thought made his throat close up. He’d barely survived Forrest’s death. If Sam got killed in this stupid gang war…
“Since Mr. Sullivan is asking in the name of our friendship, how can we refuse?” Wanda said magnanimously. “Of course, I’m sure he wouldn’t want The Pride to be undefended, so Philip and I will remain here. That gives you Doris, Teresa, and of course Alistair.”
They should have talked this over with everyone. Neither Doris nor Teresa would be happy about being handed over to Sullivan. Maybe Wanda didn’t think Turner—or Sullivan—had the patience to wait until tomorrow.
“Speaking for Mr. Sullivan, I’m sure he appreciates your generosity.” Turner smiled and gestured at them with his drink, before finishing it off. “Tell them to report to the hexworks tomorrow. Mr. Gatti, a car will be coming for Mr. Cunningham, so you can ride in together.”
“How convenient,” Alistair said.
“Isn’t it though?” Turner chuckled. “As pleasant as our conversation has been, I have a few more errands to run this evening, so I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Once he was safely out the door, Alistair turned to Wanda. “This is exactly what we feared.”
“I know.” She pushed back from the table. “And now I have to tell Doris and Teresa that I volunteered them to work for Sullivan.”
“They’re going to skin you alive,” Alistair warned.
Wanda sighed. “At least if they kill me I won’t have to deal with this mess.”