Chapter 27
Alistair stood in the midst of the wreckage that just this morning had been The Pride. His home for years. His refuge. The place he and his siblings had built from nothing with their bare hands.
All that remained were scorched concrete walls, charred bits of furniture, and fragments of glass from bottles, dishes, and drinkware.
Water from the firehoses dripped from the ceiling, and the air stank of burned wood, silk, paper, clothing—everything that had been inside when the fucking mouse familiar threw her bottle bomb.
Nothing remained. They’d lost it all.
Tears stung his eyes. He wanted to cry, scream, kick things. Howl at the universe for taking yet another thing away from him.
“It’s just a building,” Doris said from behind him. “Not even that—the fire suppression hexes did their work, and the fire didn’t spread, so the building itself is still sound.”
He knew he ought to be grateful everyone got out alive. And he was. But…
“It was our home,” he said. “Literally for Wanda and me, at least until I moved in with Sam. It was the thing we built as a family, where we could be together, us against the world.”
Glass crunched under her feet as she took a step toward him. “Home isn’t a place.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working. You’re just pissing me off.”
“Right.” She turned and headed for the entrance. “I’ll leave you to brood, then. Wanda didn’t want to hear what I had to say, either.”
Of course not—The Pride was Wanda’s life. Who did Doris think she was, trying to tell them it didn’t matter, that they should just be able to walk away and not care?
Alistair knew he wasn’t being fair to Doris, but at the moment he didn’t give a damn. They’d never wanted to be involved in Sullivan’s war, in Fabiano’s schemes. Now everything was in ruins, because the gangsters couldn’t just leave them the fuck alone.
Tim had confirmed it, before Sullivan’s men hauled him away to who-knew-where.
He’d wanted revenge against them for the death of his witch, and Fabiano offered him the chance to get it.
When it was obvious things weren’t going her way, she’d staked everything on taking Sullivan down at the funeral, while Tim led a group to make sure The Pride wouldn’t retaliate.
Well, mission fucking accomplished. The stupid thing was, they wouldn’t have retaliated anyway, would have tried to work with Fabiano if she won the war and they had no other choice. But Alistair had already defied her twice, and that was two times too many.
Now she was dead, and Tim got his precious revenge, and everything was scorched earth and ashes.
Heartsick, he turned away and walked up the stairs, feeling a million years old. His shoulder hurt like hell, and he wanted nothing more than to go home with Sam, fall asleep, and hope he’d wake up tomorrow to find this was all a bad dream.
When he reached the top of the stairs, though, he saw a sleek black car sitting by the curb. The door opened, and Wanda stepped out onto the sidewalk, her mouth a taut line. Turner remained in the backseat—she’d been talking to him about something.
Alistair hurried to his sister. “What’s going on?”
“Sullivan will rebuild The Pride for us,” she said simply.
He wanted to be relieved, even happy, but… “In exchange for what?”
“One favor.” Her golden gaze avoided meeting his. “Then we’re free.”
Oh, he did not trust this at all. “And you believe him?”
Now she looked at him, eyes narrowed in anger. “This is our last chance—surely you, of all people, understand that!”
He’d just snapped at Doris for not understanding that The Pride was more than a business for him and Wanda. He really, truly wanted to believe Sullivan.
Maybe his trust had been broken too many times. Maybe he was just a contrarian. Probably, he was just an asshole.
“And what is this favor?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain calm.
“He needs witches and bonded familiars. Sam will tell you—I need to talk to Joel. And Teresa and Reinhold.”
Of course Sam was caught up in all this. As Wanda started away down the sidewalk, Sam got out of the front seat of the car, where he’d been sitting by the driver. He, Turner, and Wanda had all been having a cozy little confab, while Alistair was downstairs mourning.
Fur and feathers.
The car pulled away, leaving Sam standing alone on the curb. Alistair joined him. “Wanda said Sullivan’s up to something magic.”
Sam looked down at the sidewalk and nodded. “Yeah.”
Great—both Sam and Wanda were acting cagey. This had to be worse than he feared. “Does it have something to do with that hex you’ve been working on? The one you couldn’t tell me about?”
“It does.”
“Whatever Sullivan is promising—”
“I’m going to fix everything, Alistair.” Sam finally met his gaze, brown eyes dark with something Alistair couldn’t name. Fear? Regret? “I’m sorry The Pride burned. If I hadn’t tried to grab the bottle bomb, it wouldn’t have gone straight into the alcohol.”
This was the first Alistair had heard of it. “So? Philip told me what happened. The mouse familiar was still the one who made and threw the bomb, wasn’t she?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“But nothing! The place was going up one way or another. This was her doing, not yours.” If Alistair ever got his hands on the mouse familiar…he didn’t know, other than it wouldn’t be pretty.
“Either way, I’m going to set things right. We are.”
“What are you talking about? Wanda said—”
“Not here.” Sam looked around, as if someone might overhear. But the excitement of the fire had died down, any crowd dispersed before Alistair even arrived. Doris and Philip had cleared out, along with Wanda, Teresa, and Reinhold.
Still, maybe he could get through to Sam if they were in the comfort of their own home. “All right. We’ll stop at the chop suey place on the way and get something to take back for dinner. But then, you’ll tell me what you and Wanda have gotten yourselves into, all right?”
Sam nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything.”
* * *
It took restraint for Alistair to keep from demanding answers the second they stepped into their house.
But he forced himself to grab plates and a couple of bottles of ginger ale, while Sam spooned out pork chow mein and chicken noodles.
As soon as they were both seated, he said, “So this is about the hex you’ve been working on. The Egyptian one.”
“Yes.” Sam kept his eyes on his plate.
“What the hell does this hex do that Sullivan needs it so bad? That’s worth rebuilding The Pride in exchange?
Because after today, he controls the booze in Chicago.
Sure, the little syndicates are still around, but they’ll either be absorbed or taken down by the end of the year. What more could he possibly want?”
“His son back.”
Alistair froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. He’d imagined some kind of weapon, or something that could control minds. The stuff of fiction, sure, but also the kind of thing Sullivan would be interested in.
This, though…
“You’re holding a seance?” he asked. “This hex lets you talk to ghosts? For real, not just faking?”
“Better than that.” Sam poked at his dinner, then put his food down. “Let me explain.”
He launched into the tale of Amarna, the Heretic King, and Neferneferuaten. It made Alistair’s head spin, and the names were hard to track.
“So a pharaoh decided he wasn’t powerful enough, got rid of all the gods but one, then made himself and his family the only way of reaching the god,” he said, to make sure he understood.
“He died, and his chief wife, who maybe helped him with the whole ‘you have to come to us to get to the divine’ thing, wanted him back. And made a hex for it?”
Sam nodded. “Right. But the hex is obviously very powerful, and it needs a lot of magic. Plus there’s no simple activation phrase—you need a whole ritual, performed at sunrise.”
The chicken noodles had formed a hard lump in his stomach. “And that’s where we come in. Wanda and Joel, Teresa and Reinhold, you and me—Sullivan needs every familiar-witch pair he can get his hands on. So he can raise his son from the dead.”
“Not just his son,” Sam said quickly. “This isn’t only about him. This is about all of us! And I don’t merely mean rebuilding The Pride, though of course that’s why Wanda’s joining us. We aren’t only bringing Sullivan’s son back. He’s going to bring back my mom and brother, too.”
Oh no. “That’s why you’re doing this? Sam, listen to me—”
“No, you listen to me, for once in your life!” Sam brought his hand down on the table with a bang. “I can fix everything, Alistair. We can, together! We can bring back your parents—bring back Forrest!”
Alistair’s heart did a strange twist, halfway between hope and horror. Sam, his current witch, was sitting here offering to bring his former witch back to life.
Along with his parents, whose deaths had ended up with him in the orphanage. They’d gone away for a ferry ride and never come back, just like Forrest had walked away from him at the train station.
And of course it would have been better if they’d come home safe instead of drowning in the lake’s cold waters. If Forrest could have found a way to escape the pain that grew and grew inside him, until he couldn’t contemplate living with it a day longer.
But that was done, in the past. Nothing could undo any of it, could unbreak what was already broken.
Not to mention he didn’t—couldn’t—trust some untried hex from an ancient queen he’d never even heard of before. “This is all too good to be true. If it worked, why wasn’t it used?”
Sam’s pale skin flushed red with anger or frustration, or both. “I told you, she didn’t get a chance!”
“Sure, but what about the guy who came after her?” At least that name he knew. “King Tut. Maybe he didn’t want to resurrect the old pharaoh, whatever his name was—”
“Akhenaten.”
“—but there had to be someone he mourned, someone he’d want to bring back.” Alistair flung up his hands in frustration. “We’re talking about returning the dead to life! That isn’t the sort of thing people just give up on if it works!”
“It will work.” Sam’s expression took on a stubborn cast. “Why can’t you be happy? I’m giving you everything you could possibly want!”
“Not at the cost of your life! If this doesn’t work, Sullivan will kill you—”
“I said it’s going to work!” Sam shouted, rising to his feet.
Alistair stood as well, hands clenched so his nails dug into his palms. “Like your look-away hex worked? You didn’t think through what it might be used for, and you’re doing the same damn thing now!”
Sam rocked back, as if Alistair had slapped him. “I made the mistake of trusting Luke—”
“Trusting Luke wasn’t your mistake! Getting involved with Sullivan in the first place was.”
“You’re a hypocrite.” Sam turned his back on Alistair and made for the coatrack by the front door. “I’m not having this fight with you again.”
Alistair followed him. “Where are you going?”
“To Sullivan’s mansion, to join Wanda and Joel, and hopefully Teresa and Reinhold.”
Right into the snake’s den. “Sam, listen—”
“I’m done listening!” Sam pulled on his coat, every movement rough and angry. “I love you, I just want to make you happy, but you won’t let me.”
“I love you, too—that’s why I’m worried!” Alistair tried to put a hand on his arm, but Sam evaded his touch. “I’m sorry we’re fighting. Can we just sit down and discuss this rationally?”
“I’m being rational.” Sam jammed his hat on his head. “I’ll be home by noon tomorrow. Then you’ll see there was nothing to worry about.”
“Sam, please—”
The door slammed shut behind him.