Chapter 29
Alistair took on cheetah form and tried to reach Sam, but hit only the same gray fog that had come down between them that night at the warehouse, when Sam first encountered the damned Aten Disc.
Of course—Sullivan would have put protections up during the war, especially after his flower shop was bombed and he had to do business out of his home instead. No use interrogating a prisoner if their familiar can see and hear everything through their eyes.
Well, he’d been planning to go to Sullivan’s mansion anyway. He’d just have to arrive unannounced.
It was going on three o’clock by the time he drove The Pride’s truck to the gates of Sullivan’s palatial home. Most of the lights were off by now, but a few still burned. The gates were shut and guards stood watch outside.
He parked far enough away so as to not make them nervous, then climbed out and approached on foot. “Who are you?” one of the men demanded. Young guy, suit a little too big for him—junior in the organization, Alistair figured.
He glanced at the other faces, but didn’t recognize any of them. “Alistair Gatti. My witch, Sam Cunningham, is inside. I’ve come to join him.”
One of the guards turned to a tree just inside the gate. “You hear that, Charlie? Let somebody know about this guy.”
An owl took off from the tree, flying toward the house on silent wings.
Alistair started to cross his arms over his chest, but a bolt of pain from his shoulder reminded him he was injured.
Instead, he lit a cigarette one-handed, puffing on it impatiently while waiting for the owl to come back and let him in.
Eventually, a figure approached the closed gates—but it wasn’t the owl. The twin hexlights set to either side of the drive fell across Turner’s face. “What do you need, Mr. Gatti?” he asked. “I was told you wouldn’t be joining us.”
“I have to talk to Sam as soon as possible.”
Turner shook his head. “He’s resting right now. Said you two had a fight, and he needs his beauty sleep.”
Damn it. Turner didn’t trust him, that was obvious. “He’s my witch.”
“I tell you what,” Turner said after eyeing him for a long moment, “you come in, find a place to bunk down, and you can see him before we—and I mean all of us, including you—head out in the morning. Deal?”
“Deal,” Alistair said, since it was the only one he was going to get. It wouldn’t give him time to spirit Sam away, but that had been a slim possibility to begin with.
Turner nodded to the guards, and they unlocked and opened the gates. “Any trouble from you, and you’ll regret it. I mean it—you’ll be on your best behavior, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, trying to sound sincere instead of sarcastic.
Turner didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he nodded. “Choirboy will be glad to see you,” he admitted. “Come on in.”
* * *
Sam felt as though he’d barely managed to fall asleep when someone shook him awake again. He blinked blearily to see one of Sullivan’s men stepping back.
“It’s time,” he said. “The boss wants us to all meet in the driveway out front by four-thirty.”
The clock on the wall currently proclaimed it to be four in the morning. Sam’s thoughts felt mired in fog as he got up and dressed. Voices came from down the hall, accompanied by the scent of coffee, so he followed them to a large sitting room set aside for guests staying in the wing.
Though night still pressed against the windows, men and women crowded along a table set with light breakfast items: sliced fruit, toast, jam, muffins, and the like.
Coffee and tea waited in samovars, with neat stacks of cups beside them.
But as Sam made for one of the cups, Alistair stepped in front of him.
Startled, he blinked dumbly for a moment. Alistair didn’t look like he’d slept, with heavy bags beneath his amber eyes, his silky black hair uncombed. “What are you doing here? I thought—”
“I know what I said.” Alistair took his hands. “But we’re in this together. If you’re determined to go through with this, then I’ll be with you when you do it.”
Sam wanted to throw his arms around Alistair and kiss him. But not in front of the gangsters milling about. He squeezed Alistair’s thin fingers instead and smiled up at him. “Thanks. It means everything to me.”
With Alistair beside him, he could get through the ritual and whatever came after.
By tonight, everything would be set right again: Mom and Jake would be alive and on their way home to Gatesville.
The money to rebuild The Pride would have changed hands.
All of his mistakes would be washed away; everyone would be happy again.
Even Alistair, once he realized it was truly possible to have Forrest and his parents back.
What would happen after, what Sullivan might do with the hex later, he couldn’t let himself think about. Not now.
Alistair looked as though he wanted to say more, hesitated, then nodded to the samovars. “Let’s get you some coffee and something to eat.”
Sam’s stomach curled into a knot, and he glanced at a gilded clock sitting on the mantelpiece. Just under two hours, and they’d be using the hex. If he’d made some sort of mistake…
No. He’d gotten everything right. For once, he was certain of it.
“I don’t think I can eat,” he admitted. “But I’ll take some of that coffee.”
Wanda, Joel, Teresa, and Reinhold all came in shortly after. Wanda’s eyes, bloodshot from the night before, widened when she saw Alistair. “I can’t believe it—you came to your senses?”
Alistair shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Good morning, Sam,” Joel said. He seemed in better shape than Wanda, but weariness clung to him like a coat. “Wanda says you’re the one who figured out this hex we’re going to be powering?”
He wanted to object, say he’d had help from Doc. But Doc never wanted to be a part of this…and even if he had, the responsibility was Sam’s. “Yes.”
“That’s good.” Joel seemed relieved, as if the fact Sam was involved meant it was all going to be okay. The thought made Sam’s guts squirm.
Soon—too soon—people started to make for the driveway. Sam fell in with the gangsters, Alistair beside him, the other Gattis and their witches at his back. If only he’d had a chance to talk privately with his boyfriend…but maybe it was better this way. He didn’t need an argument to distract him.
A long line of cars filled the driveway. Sullivan and Turner stood beside one; Sullivan lifted his hand when he spotted them. “Sam! You’re in the next car, behind ours. Mr. Gatti can ride with you.”
Sam nodded and made for the Rolls-Royce parked behind Sullivan’s. McIntyre was driving, his wife sitting by him in the front seat looking bleary-eyed.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her. It couldn’t be too well given the state she’d been in last night. Too bad sober-up hexes didn’t do much—though maybe that could be the next thing he worked on for Sullivan.
“Paying for my sins,” she said wryly, then swiveled around to see Alistair, who was sitting behind her. “Good work at the funeral yesterday, Gatti. How’s the shoulder?”
“I slapped a couple of pain hexes on it this morning, so it’ll do.”
Damn it—Sam had been so caught up in his own thoughts, he’d forgotten to ask Alistair about his injury.
Before he could apologize, McIntyre started the Rolls, its engine growling to life.
Sullivan and Turner got in their car in front of them, though not at the head of the procession.
That honor probably belonged to some heavily armed soldiers, just in case there was trouble.
They rolled slowly forward, down the drive and out the gates. “Where are we going?” Alistair asked.
“I don’t know,” McIntyre replied. “They said to follow Mr. Sullivan’s car, so that’s what I’m doing.”
In the darkness of the backseat, Sam took Alistair’s hand in his. His fingers were cool, but held Sam’s in a firm grip, as if afraid of being pulled away. Sam guessed he wasn’t nearly as sanguine about the upcoming ritual as he was pretending.
But he’d come anyway. The thought warmed Sam as much as the coffee had.
The streets were almost deserted at this time of night. Most revelers had gone home by now, and the only people heading to work so early were bakers and newspaper boys. The few who were on the sidewalks paused to watch the long line of sleek cars roll past.
“It won’t take long for reporters to get wind of this,” Alistair remarked, nodding toward an old woman who stood and gawped at the procession.
McIntyre shrugged. “Mr. Sullivan didn’t order us to use look-away hexes on the cars, so I guess he isn’t worried about it.”
The mention of the look-away hexes made Sam’s gut tighten even further. “Like your look-away hex worked?” Alistair had demanded. “You didn’t think through what it might be used for, and you’re doing the same damn thing now!”
Maybe Alistair was right. Maybe…
But he’d come to join them, so he must have changed his mind at some point during the night.
Right?
The car came to a stop, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. The nearest street sign he could see out the window said they were on the corner of Michigan and Illinois, just south of Towertown. The area to the east was blocked off with a fence bearing a sign that read: CONSTRUCTION AREA—KEEP OUT.
McIntyre shut off the motor and climbed out. Sam followed suit, looking around in confusion. It was so dark, it was hard to see anything beyond the streetlights.
Sullivan got out of the car in front of them. “What do you think about my choice of place for the ritual?”
“Where is it? I mean, exactly?”
Sullivan grinned and pointed to the building looming beyond the construction fence. Sam followed the skyscraper’s walls upward, but couldn’t make out much against the starry sky. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s the new Tribune Tower,” Alistair said, coming up from behind him.
“That it is, Mr. Gatti.” Sullivan’s smile showed all his teeth. “And we’re going all the way to the top.”