Chapter 2
2
“ W hat the hell?” Alistair demanded. “Are you all right, Sam?”
He’d arrived back at The Pride after stashing the bourbon in a nearby warehouse, only to be ushered directly into the back by Zola, who wore a false smile the entire time she led him through the crowded public area. Once he stepped into the office he shared with Wanda, it was to find Sam pale and shaking, Wanda pacing like a lion in a cage, and a dead body on the floor.
Sam shook his head. “I’m fine.”
He slid his arm around Sam, felt him trembling. Alistair put his face to Sam’s curly hair and kissed him. “Take a deep breath, sweetheart.”
“I, uh, would rather not,” Sam said.
The body already reeked of death, as if he’d been decaying for days instead of hours. Alistair made a face. “Yeah, good point. What happened?”
“A nightmare,” Wanda snarled. “One of Sullivan’s boys comes in here and drops dead. At least we managed to make it look like he’d just had too much, so none of the customers realized what was going on.”
“Who is he?” Sam asked. “I think I’ve seen him before…?”
“Bobby…I don’t know his last name, actually. He works in Sullivan’s flower shop.”
Mickey Sullivan was the biggest gang boss in Towertown—the biggest in the North Side, period, since taking over Ursino’s territory in the Loop. He ran his gang out of a florist shop, where he personally did much of the flower arranging, with Bobby as his assistant.
“He comes by for a drink every once in a while,” Doris said. She leaned against the wall, arms folded and eyes wary.
“Yes, but why did he have to die here?” Wanda snapped.
“Why did you let him in?” Doris countered.
“I thought he’d had a couple, but I didn’t realize how splifficated he was until he was already inside.” Wanda stubbed out her cigarette in a blue glass ashtray. “I certainly didn’t expect him to fall down dead.”
“There was something wrong with him,” Sam said in a shaky voice.
Alistair snorted. “No kidding.”
“That isn’t what I mean.” Sam looked up. “He said he’d been poisoned.”
“Obviously.” Alistair nudged the body with his toe. “Yack yack bourbon will do that to you.”
Sam shook his head. “He…the way he phrased it, it sounded deliberate? Maybe?”
They all fell silent at the sound of the door to the back rooms swinging open. A moment later, Teresa stuck her head in. “Mr. Turner is here.”
Leonard Turner, Sullivan’s right-hand man, stepped inside, accompanied by a couple of tough guys Alistair didn’t recognize. Both of them looked nervous, no doubt because they didn’t have a chance in hell of beating up a group of people who could turn into large predatory cats.
“Mr. Turner,” Wanda said. “Sorry to call you out at this time of night. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Not yet,” Turner said. Teresa nodded and slipped out.
Turner walked toward the body, studying it closely. “What happened here?”
“He knocked on the door,” Wanda said. “I recognized him as one of Mr. Sullivan’s associates, so I let him in. I saw right away he’d been drinking before he got here. Then he keeled over dead.”
One of the goons pulled out a handkerchief to hold over his face. “Why does he smell so bad already?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“He said he’d been poisoned,” Sam offered.
“Mr. Cunningham.” Turner put his hands in his pockets and eyed Sam in a way that put Alistair’s hackles up. “Why is it every time I see you, there’s a dead body nearby?”
“Bad luck,” Alistair said flatly.
Turner chuckled. “I’d say so. Don’t bet on any horses, Mr. Cunningham.” His gaze became sharper. “Bobby didn’t have anything to drink here?”
Wanda held his gaze. “He didn’t even have time to make it to the bar before he died.”
“I, uh, I saw him the whole time,” Sam volunteered uncertainly. “It wasn’t even a minute between the time he stepped inside and, uh…” His skin paled so the freckles across his nose stood out like flecks of dried blood. “I can draw up a truth hex? If you want?”
Turner gave him a long look; it was everything Alistair could do not to bristle. Tuner was a shark—a smaller shark than Sullivan, but still not one he wanted around Sam.
Turner shook his head. “No need. I believe you, kid. But the question remains: What happened to Bobby? Why did he come here to die?”
“If you want my guess,” Wanda said, “he must have drunk some panther piss somewhere else to start off the night, then started this way to continue the party. By the time he got here, it was catching up with him, and he knew he didn’t have much time left. Probably eating through his stomach from the second he downed it.”
“Probably,” Turner agreed with a nod. “I’ll leave you the name of a funeral home. They’ll take poor Bobby off your hands. A shame what happened, but the kid took his chances.”
Sam shifted uneasily beside Alistair. His brown eyes were creased with worry, and he wrung his hands together. “I…I’m not sure it was that simple?”
Everyone fell silent. Alistair cursed mentally. When would Sam learn to keep his mouth shut around Sullivan’s people?
“He said he was poisoned.” Sam glanced at the body, then hurriedly away. “And why does he smell so bad?”
Now Turner frowned. “What are you saying?”
“He was poisoned, Sam, but not on purpose,” Alistair said. “The hooch some of these places sell, you never know what might be in it. Gasoline, kerosene, hell, I’ve heard of it being cut with embalming fluid. Grisly to be sure, but not uncommon. Just take a look at the newspaper; some poor fool drops dead every day from it, and twice on Sundays.”
“I guess?” Sam said doubtfully.
Sam had seen death before, but not on the scale Alistair had. Never seen the bodies covered with mustard burns, or the agonized faces of men who’d succumbed to chlorine gas. “Some deaths are uglier than others,” he said. “And I’d wager poison is one of the nastier ones.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Turner agreed. “I’d rather go out from a bullet any day.” Moving to the door, he added, “The matter seems straightforward enough. Here’s the card for the funeral home.”
He handed it to Wanda, then turned to Sam. “Oh, and Mr. Cunningham? Mr. Sullivan wants to talk to you about that hexman’s job. Meet him at nine a.m. the day after tomorrow at his shop. We’ll take those drinks now.”
“Philip’s at the bar; tell him they’re on the house,” Wanda said.
Turner nodded and left, goons trailing behind him. The door to the kitchen shut behind them.
“Well fuck,” Alistair said.
Sam’s hands still shook a little as he unlocked the door to Eldon’s house. Or his aunt and uncle’s house, technically.
Bobby’s death had been sickening. Horrifying. But Wanda seemed to view it more as an inconvenience, and Alistair didn’t seem particularly moved by it at all.
Then again, he’d probably seen worse things in the war.
Sam hoped he never grew that hard shell everyone else in Chicago seemed to wear, protecting themselves from the careless cruelty of a world where drinking at the wrong speakeasy could mean death.
Alistair shut the door behind them and locked it. “What an awful way to end the day. I’m sorry you had to see that, Sam.”
“I’m sorry Bobby had to go through it.” He hesitated—should he speak up, or let things slide? “We were supposed to go apartment hunting this afternoon.”
“Was that today?” Alistair hung up his hat and coat and turned to Sam. He was beautiful: long and lanky as his cheetah form, with silky black hair and amber eyes. The olive tint to his skin hinted at a Mediterranean heritage somewhere in the recent branches of his family tree. “I forgot, what with having to meet up with the new supplier.”
Sam sighed and sat down on the couch. They’d finally moved the bed out of the living room and into the actual bedroom, so there was a bit more space now. “I can’t stay here much longer. We can’t. And I’m not living in a windowless underground room at The Pride.”
Alistair flopped bonelessly down beside him. “I know, I know. I’ve just been busy. The power has shifted in this town, what with Ursino gone. Word on the street is that he’d just taken out Torrio and that thug of his, Capone, so Sullivan’s scooped up their old territory as well as Ursino’s. We had to find a new supplier fast, before Sullivan forced his booze on us.”
Sam remembered Bobby’s rictus grin with a shudder. “Is the stuff he sells that bad?”
“Depends on the joint.” Alistair’s mouth tightened. “He makes sure the rich bastards get the good stuff, but I wouldn’t trust the rest.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
Alistair gave him a pitying look, one that made him feel naive and foolish. “Everyone else is doing it, Sam. Why wouldn’t he?”
It wasn’t the most convincing argument, but he could tell Alistair had made his mind up. “Well, since I’m going to be working for him, maybe I’ll hear for sure one way or the other.”
Alistair went from lazing to alert in an instant. He sat up straight, amber eyes wide. “You can’t be serious.”
Here it came. “You heard what Turner said—and it isn’t the first time Sullivan has brought up the possibility of working for him. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and, well, why not?”
“There are other jobs,” Alistair protested. “Ones that don’t involve cozying up with a powerful gangster.”
Sam ground his teeth together. He loved Alistair, he really did. Alistair could be a bit of a grumpy jerk at times, but underneath he tempered fierce loyalty with a sweetness that made Sam’s heart sing.
Alistair had lost a lot in his life: parents and adoptive parents to begin with. Then the war had come and taken away the man who had been his first witch, his first love.
The loss had left him afraid: to love, to open himself up to more loss, to bond with another witch—with Sam. They were working through all of it, slowly.
But that didn’t give Alistair the right to tell Sam what to do.
“What would you like me to do?” he asked. “Keep working at The Pride, busing tables for the rest of my life? Apply for a job at a pharmacy, stocking shelves and sweeping the floor?”
“Either of those would be safer.”
“But they don’t pay as well.” Sam folded his arms over his chest. “I’m good at hexes, okay? I have a real talent for them. And you’re asking me to just…what, pretend I don’t?”
“No!” Alistair flung up his hands. “But Sullivan is dangerous!”
“I know that! I’m not a child!”
“You’re also not careful enough. Sullivan will eat you alive.”
Sam let out a long, calming breath. “I spent my whole life in Gatesville doing what other people wanted for me. I didn’t come to Chicago just to do the same thing all over again.”
His words must have hit home, because Alistair’s amber eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t mean…I…you’re right. I’m sorry.” He ran a hand over his face. “I just worry about you.”
“I know you do.” Sam gave him a crooked smile. “It would be a shock if you didn’t. And I know you’re scared. But you already tried to make my decisions for me when you sent me away.”
Alistair’s wince said he’d struck a nerve. “You’re right.”
“And how did that turn out for you?” Sam prodded.
“You had to come back and save my useless hide.”
It had been the scariest moment of Sam’s life. But he wasn’t above using it to win this argument if he had to. “Exactly. So maybe you should stop underestimating me.”
“Fuck.” Alistair reached for him. Settling his hands on Sam’s hips, he drew him closer. “When you’re right, you’re right.”
“Keep that in mind.” Sam wrapped his own arms around Alistair’s skinny waist. “Look, I know you’re scared. But I faced down an infuriated gang leader who could turn into a giant grizzly bear. Sullivan’s not a familiar—not even a witch like me.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s safe.”
“I know that. But trust me.” He met Alistair’s gaze. “I can handle this.”
Something seemed to go out of Alistair, and he slumped against Sam. “I do trust you. I just…I love you.”
Sam smiled; the words still sent a thrill of happiness through him every time Alistair spoke them. “I know. I love you, too.” He tipped his head back, found Alistair’s lips with his own. “Let’s go to bed.”
Alistair followed Sam into the bedroom, their hands linked. He loved how Sam’s confidence had grown over their time together, both in bed and out of it. As soon as they reached the bed, Sam turned to him and they kissed again, a leisurely exploration that quickly deepened. He pulled Sam closer, pressing his stiffening length into the softness of the shorter man’s round belly.
When they broke apart, he carefully plucked Sam’s thick cheaters from his face and set them on top of the dresser. The absence of the glass made Sam’s chocolate brown eyes look even wider, the pupils dilated with lust. Alistair kissed him on the nose, then on one freckled cheek.
“Tease,” Sam accused with a smile.
“But of course.” Alistair trailed his lips down Sam’s throat, the light scratch of stubble against his lips. Sam’s hands wandered over his back, gave his ass a squeeze.
They undressed each other, at first slowly then with more haste. Alistair tossed back the bedding, then dropped in on his back, arms outstretched in invitation. Sam joined him, his weight pressing Alistair back into the mattress, his cock hard and leaking with desire against Alistair’s thigh.
Fur and feathers. Alistair arched under him, moaning with abandon. Sam could unravel him so easily. When they finally bonded, it would be…
He pushed the thought aside, not wanting to be distracted from the moment. He rolled, pinning Sam under him with a wicked grin. Sam’s pale skin flushed rosy across his cheeks and chest, his auburn curls sticking out in all directions. Wanton and wonderful.
“Stay just like that,” Alistair said, and kissed him again.
He made his way down, peppering Sam’s chest and belly with little kisses, following the auburn trail from his navel to the soft thatch of hair around his cock. He took his time, lavishing Sam’s cock with long licks of his tongue, listening to his whimpers and sighs of encouragement. One of Sam’s hands tangled in Alistair’s hair, not directing him but simply holding on, as if Sam needed to anchor himself amidst the pleasure.
He cried out when Alistair swallowed him to the root. Alistair pulled off just long enough to say, “Don’t hold back,” before sliding down again.
Sam tasted of salt and musk, with a bitter edge that Alistair loved. He used all the tricks he knew of tongue and lips, until Sam tensed beneath him, letting out a helpless groan as he came. Alistair sucked him past the edge, to the point of sensitivity, before letting go.
His own cock ached for release, so he straddled Sam’s thighs. “Watch,” he said hoarsely, and wrapped his hand around his erection. Sam’s eyes, hazy with pleasure, fixed avidly on him.
It didn’t take long before release washed over him like a wave, an involuntary cry wrung from his throat as he spent over Sam’s stomach and chest. Then the slow curl of satisfaction, lassitude spreading through his limbs.
He leaned over Sam and kissed him. “Let me clean that up.”
Sam mumbled something incoherent and sleepy. Alistair padded to the bathroom, grabbed a washcloth, and returned. Once he was done, he tossed it into a corner and curled up against his lover.
“You’re so warm,” he said, snuggling in tight.
“I’m just a hot water bottle to you,” Sam said with a yawn. He wrapped his arms around Alistair’s waist and was soon asleep.
Alistair tried to join him in sleep, but the thought that had intruded on their lovemaking returned. Things would be different when they bonded, maybe even better. He remembered how it had been with his first witch, Forrest, their bond like a live coal behind his heart.
It had stayed that way, through the gray mud of France. Even after Forrest had walked away, too broken by what they’d been through to see Alistair as anything but a terrible reminder. That warmth, reassuring him Forrest was still out there somewhere, keeping alive the ember of hope that he’d come back some day.
Until it vanished.
Sam wasn’t Forrest. He wasn’t going to go off to die alone somewhere far away. He’d proved he’d come back for Alistair, no matter what.
Alistair shifted into cheetah shape, pressing his spine against Sam’s chest. His magic tugged softly, aching to be complete. To bond.
Soon. He just had to find the right time, that was all. Not yet.
But soon.