Chapter 30
Alistair didn’t like this—but then, he hadn’t expected to.
All around them, men and women were exiting from their cars and streaming through the gate into the construction zone, which one of Sullivan’s gangsters had unlocked with a hex.
Some of them he recognized as Fabiano’s former minions, their expressions ranging from resigned to concerned, and surrounded by a cadre of Sullivan’s men.
Within a few minutes, hexlights appeared high overhead, amidst the exposed beams at the very top of the tower.
At least one elevator must be in place to lift the construction workers to the building’s unfinished crown.
“Of course,” Sam said. “It’s taller than any other skyscraper nearby, and not far from the lake. The sunrise will be completely unobstructed from the top.”
“Exactly.” Sullivan clasped his hands together, clearly pleased with himself. Judging by the shadows under his eyes, he probably hadn’t slept at all since the interrupted funeral yesterday.
Funny—Alistair hadn’t heard a word about resurrecting Bellinowski, a man who’d died in Sullivan’s service. And maybe he did intend to bring his chief soldier back—but if so, why put him in the ground in the first place?
Unless that was part of the ritual. Nagorski had to jump through a lot of hoops to call Bobby Watts back into his corpse; maybe Bellinowski had to go through something similar?
Or maybe he’d been nearing the end of his usefulness, and Sullivan didn’t need him anymore.
Wanda, Joel, Teresa, and Reinhold were escorted up to them. “There you are,” Sullivan said, pleased. “The ancient Egyptians venerated all familiars, but especially cats. I want you in the first circle, near me.”
Alistair didn’t know what that meant, but he’d take having his siblings close at hand any day. If Holly came through…
She would. He had to believe that.
Almost all of the witches and familiars had disappeared through the fence. Sullivan walked inside, and they followed him. Beyond the fence waited the base of the tower, its steel beams already clad in limestone. A grand entrance beckoned them onward, the doors propped wide.
“Stay here and keep watch,” Sullivan instructed Turner.
Alistair’s heart sank. He’d tried to talk to Turner during their walk together from the gate to the mansion’s entrance last night. Not that he thought Turner had listened, but he’d hoped maybe he’d planted a seed of doubt.
Turner looked shocked. “Why? I thought—that is, you don’t want me with you?”
Sullivan clapped a hand to his underling’s shoulder. “This isn’t a punishment, Lenny. There might still be some saps out there loyal to Fabiano, looking to avenge her death. I need somebody I can trust to watch my back. And there’s no one I trust more than you.”
Turner hesitated, but in the end he had to obey. “Sure thing.”
He stepped aside, and the rest of them went through the open doors.
Though clearly still under construction, the interior was already impressive, from the pierced stone tracery above the doors to the elaborate carvings around the slender Neo-gothic windows.
The tower was a massive cathedral dedicated not to the divine, but to the workings of the press.
A chandelier hung above, hexlights already installed and activated.
A line snaked toward the elevator—presumably there would eventually be more lifts, but for the moment only one seemed to be in operation. They went to the head of the line and crowded into the car: Sullivan, two of his armed gangsters, Sam, Wanda, Joel, Teresa, Reinhold, and himself.
The elevator started upward with a groan.
Its interior was unfinished, just blank metal that could endure the rigors of hauling construction workers to and fro, then be covered over later with wood and carpet.
The thing moved fast, leaving his stomach somewhere around ground level as it whisked them up to whatever would come next.
Sam let out an audible gasp when the doors finally opened onto an unobstructed view of the city below.
The tower’s crown was still being set in place; for the moment, it was a thing of massive steel girders that would eventually form buttresses, walls, and a promenade. Flights of steel stairs led up past the buttresses to the skeletal structure of the uppermost reaches of the tower.
Wind howled between the naked beams, as if to drive home just how little stood between them and a long, long fall.
From this height, the streetlights were mere glints, tracing the lines of street and avenue, joined here and there by a brightly lit sign advertising pain hexes, or shoes magicked to never give the wearer blisters, or perhaps the newest brand of coffee—it was impossible to tell from so very far up.
Most of the witches and familiars—now all in animal form—stood in a circle on the promenade, waiting for the signal to direct their magic into the hex. A few armed gunmen loitered near the stairs, holding their weapons in their hands. No one would be allowed to back out.
Fear slithered along Alistair’s nerves, but he quelled it ruthlessly. This might not be a forest in France, but the same training that had steeled him then would serve him now.
“I’m afraid we have to walk the rest of the way up,” Sullivan said, sounding almost jovial.
Sam clung to the stair railing, and Alistair put a hand to the small of his back to steady him as they climbed.
He didn’t have problems with heights normally, but the lack of walls between them and the gulf of night gave him a queasy feeling.
Away from the city, Lake Michigan was a sheet of blackness, broken only by the blinking lights on the water cribs and the occasional lantern on a boat.
Wind whipped Alistair’s hair in a black cloud around his face as they reached the uppermost level.
When completed, it would be a flat roof clad in limestone and surrounded by pinnacles, but for now it was a net of steel, only the very center floored so workers had a place to put their equipment.
Another ring of witches and familiars waited here, though this one was much smaller.
Sullivan’s most trusted followers, Alistair guessed.
Or else the ones he wanted to exert his control over directly, as with Wanda.
Doc stood near the center of the gathering, his face pale and his hands clenched. The only gunman on the roof was at his side; it seemed he hadn’t come here willingly.
When he spotted Sam, he took a step forward, only to be halted by the guard beside him. “Sam! I opened the coffin—you can’t go through with this!”
Sam’s step hitched. Sullivan, however, glared at Doc. “If I have any questions, I’ll ask them,” he growled. “Until then, shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
Damn it—whatever Doc needed to warn them about, whatever he meant about opening the coffin, it was clear Sullivan didn’t want to hear about it. Nothing was going to keep him away from his son, not with the promise of resurrection so close.
The circle of witches and familiars wasn’t complete; no one stood on the easternmost side of the building, giving a clear view of the horizon. The sky was still black, but first light had to be coming soon.
The easternmost side was occupied, however.
Three long objects lay there. Boxes of some kind, with hexed cloths draped over whatever was inside, the cloth held down by rocks to keep from blowing away.
Gold fittings gleamed on the smallest box, but the other two were plainer and encrusted with something that might have been mold or earth.
Then a gust of wind brought with it the smell of putrefaction and damp soil, and everything clicked into place. They were coffins. Open coffins, with bodies inside.
Alistair’s heart plummeted as he realized what Opal had been calling about yesterday.
Sullivan turned to Sam and gestured to the two plainer caskets.
“See?” he asked, with the air of a parent at Christmas unveiling the gift his child had been begging for.
“I told you I’d take care of everything.
My boys had to rush to get to Gatesville, dig them up, and return, but here they are: your mother and brother. Ready for your loving embrace.”
* * *
Sam felt as though the wind had swept him off the tower and left him hanging above the gulf of air, ready to drop.
This was what he’d asked for. What he’d sacrificed for. And yet the reality still came as a shock.
The smell coming from the caskets was foul beyond words. Not Jake’s—there couldn’t be much left to rot after all these years—but Mom had only been in the ground for a few months. Acid burned his throat, the coffee trying to return the way it had come, and he was glad he’d skipped breakfast.
Alistair touched his arm, and he suddenly wished his lover had stayed away after all. Not seen this, as though it were something shameful.
“Familiars into animal form, please,” Sullivan said pleasantly. “But don’t distract your witches. This will require the utmost concentration from us all.”
“Mr. Sullivan, please listen!” Doc burst out. He wrung his hands together frantically, eyes darting to the caskets and back again. “You have to stop!”
He’d opened the coffin—what had he seen? Before Sam could suggest they listen, the gunman beside Doc punched him in the jaw. “Mr. Sullivan told you to shut it!”
“You are here to make certain we recreate the ritual perfectly, nothing more,” Sullivan told him coldly. “Is the positioning correct?”
“Y-yes. Yes, sir. I marked the place for you to stand.” He pointed at a chalk X on the floor.
“If it isn’t correct, you’ll be returning to ground level much more quickly than the rest of us.”
Sam wanted to speak up, to say they ought to wait and hear what Doc had found…but if he did, he’d be the one thrown off the building.
Sullivan took out a piece of paper that Sam recognized as the translation Doc had written down back at the lab. He ran his eyes down it, squinting a bit in the dim light, then nodded. “Places everyone. Sam, come stand beside me, close to your dead. Your familiar can stay back.”
Sam glanced at Alistair, who’d taken on cheetah form. “It’s okay, Sam,” he said through the bond. “I’m here with you.”
Surely, with Alistair behind him, he could do anything. This last step might be difficult—but it was worth it.
Less than an hour from now, everything would be fine. The Pride saved, Mom and Jake restored, the slate wiped clean.
Except Doc didn’t think so.
Too late now. He moved to his place at Sullivan’s side.
Someone had retrieved the Aten Disc from the hexworks, as Sullivan took it from a deep pocket in his coat and handed it to Sam.
“Hold it up,” he instructed, then raised his voice.
“Witches! Focus all magic on this disc and the hexes it connects to, and fill them to the brim!”
Sam lifted the disc. In the east, the first blush of dawn touched the horizon over the lake, and Sullivan began to speak the words of the ritual.