Chapter 5
5
A listair’s teeth ground together as Sam unlocked the door to their house. Eldon’s house; his stupid family’s house, whatever.
He’d wanted to shift to cheetah form and pin the prohee to the floor of Wanda’s office until the man pissed himself from fear and swore he’d never, ever come back and bother them. And if that didn’t work…
He’d made plenty of men disappear during the war. What was one more, if it meant protecting Sam, saving The Pride and his siblings?
But the first would only have made the agent their enemy, and the second wouldn’t be copacetic with Wanda. The cold-blooded murder of a government employee would mean getting their paws dirtier than she liked. Not to mention, Sam would be horrified.
“You’re sulking,” Sam said as he hung up his flat cap.
“I’m not sulking,” Alistair corrected. “I’m brooding. It’s much sexier.”
“My mistake.” Sam gave him a kiss on the cheek before going to sit on the couch.
Alistair noticed a plate on the sideboard, cookie crumbs still clinging to it, alongside a half-drunk cup of coffee. “You said a family friend came by?”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. As though he wanted to get up and walk away from something—the conversation, the memory? “Mr. Dodge. He…I think…” His breath caught, and he took a deeper one, steadying himself. “I hurt everyone, Alistair. I didn’t think it would be so bad—but of course it was.” He blinked rapidly against tears and looked away.
Damn it, if only Alistair had been here. He’d have shown Dodge the door—no, he would have chased him all the way out of town. “You aren’t responsible for everyone’s problems,” he said, taking Sam’s hand in his own.
“But I am for these. I’m costing them money, if nothing else.”
Alistair’s mouth thinned. “I’m guessing you weren’t paid for working at the pharmacy?”
“I got room and board at home. That’s like paying.”
“It really isn’t.” Alistair shook his head. “If having to pay a worker his worth is hurting the business, then they aren’t running it right to start with.”
“Maybe.” Sam let out a sigh. “My mother, though…Mr. Dodge said she was beside herself at the funeral. She couldn’t even walk. And they had to pay for a headstone, and the service, even though obviously there was no body. They’d already lost one son, and I made them think they’d lost another.”
“They’re the ones who made you feel like you had no choice but to run away without telling anyone,” Alistair pointed out, struggling to keep his voice calm. He’d bet any amount of money that Sam’s family wasn’t nearly as distraught as they were pretending.
“I’m going to send them money,” Sam said, wiping his hands on his thighs. “I’m sorry—I know you don’t want me to take the job from Sullivan. And I know we’re supposed to be saving up for an apartment. But I can’t let them suffer because of me. I’m going to try and buy the house from my aunt and uncle to start with. After that, I’ll send them whatever I can afford. I…I’m sorry, but that’s how it has to be.”
Alistair sighed. Nothing he said was going to get through to Sam, at least not tonight. Sam had a big heart; it was one of the things Alistair loved best about him. Of course that heart softened when it came to a plea for help, even if that plea was from his terrible family. Maybe because it was them; people weren’t rational when it came to blood relations.
“So you see, I’d have to take the job even if Agent Johnston didn’t want me to,” Sam went on. “I know it’s dangerous, but it’ll pay better than a position at a legal hexworks. I’ll be able to buy the house and send my parents money. And Johnston will get what he needs and leave The Pride alone.” He stared down at his hands. “So don’t bother scolding me.”
Alistair put his arm around Sam and drew him close. Then he leaned back, reclining against the end of the couch, Sam half-lying on top of him. “I won’t.” Alistair kissed his curly hair, and wrapped both arms around Sam.
For his part, some of the tension went out of Sam. He took off his round glasses and burrowed his face into Alistair’s chest. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
A great wave of tenderness washed through Alistair. “There’s nowhere in the universe I’d rather be,” he said, stroking Sam’s hair. “Nowhere at all.”
The next morning, Sam reported to Sullivan’s flower shop for work.
Despite what he’d told Alistair, he was nervous—not about the job itself, but about trying to find out what had actually happened to Bobby.
From the outside, the two-story building looked like any other florists’. Arrangements for births, funerals, and everything in between crowded the windows to bursting. Seasonal lilies competed against hothouse orchids, interrupted by explosions of roses in hues of red, yellow, and white.
The bell over the door chimed gently when Sam came inside. A tub of lilies near the door perfumed the air, blending with the smells of a dozen other flowers, as though spring had burst into being within the building.
A large display showed off pre-made corsages for Mother’s Day, each with a hex on the ribbon to preserve the flowers for an extended period of time. Yet another flash of guilt went through Sam—he’d forgotten the holiday was coming up. He’d send money to his parents as soon as he could, but shouldn’t he get a card for Mom in the meantime? It wouldn’t make up for what he’d done, but maybe it would be a start.
Sullivan himself often worked at a small table near the center of the shop. He was absent today, though, and instead a fresh-faced boy was slowly, carefully trimming the stems of a batch of chrysanthemums. When Sam approached, he looked up with a tentative smile. “Good morning, sir. How can I help you?”
Was this boy Bobby’s replacement? “I have a meeting with Mr. Sullivan about a job,” Sam said.
“Oh! Ah…” The boy looked concerned for a moment, before his face cleared. “Right! Mr. Cunningham?”
“Yes.”
“He said to send you right up.” He pointed out the stairs, though Sam already knew where they were.
Sam took a deep breath as the stairs creaked beneath him with every step. His nerves tried to flare up again, but he steeled himself. He wasn’t here to spy on Sullivan, not exactly. He meant to later on, at the hexworks, but today was just about getting a job. Nothing more than that.
His nerves didn’t believe it.
A couple of men sat at a card table near the top of the stairs, Tommy guns leaned casually near the wall. Both had their eyes trained on him, and though their postures were relaxed, he suspected they could spring into action faster than he could blink. He held up his hands automatically. “Sam Cunningham? Here to see Mr. Sullivan?”
He cursed himself at the squeak in his voice. Then one of the men said, “Yeah, I know you.” He glanced at the other. “The boss is expecting him.”
Bellinowski—that was the man’s name. He’d shown up with Mr. Turner when Eldon died.
“The boss is in a meeting,” the other man said. “You can wait over there.” He nodded to a comfortable-looking couch along one wall.
Almost the moment Sam sat down, the door to the office swung open. A pair of matronly women exited, followed closely by Sullivan. One of the women stopped and turned to the gangster, taking his hand as tears spangled her lashes. “Thank you so much again, Mr. Sullivan,” she said. “I can’t say how much your free milk program has meant to all of us. To the poor mothers and children, who’ve fallen on hard times. Without you…”
He patted her hand warmly. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Szawlowski. Consider it my way of giving back to a city that has given so much to me.”
The women shuffled away, Mrs. Szawlowski dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Sam watched them go, confused. Sullivan had a free milk program?
Hardly the actions of a ruthless poisoner. Unless…no. The man was a gangster, not a maniac.
Sullivan beamed when he spotted Sam waiting. “Good to see you, Mr. Cunningham. Please come in.”
Sam followed him into the office. “I’m sorry about what happened to Bobby.”
“Thanks, kid. I’m going to miss him,” Sullivan said, not sounding particularly guilty or innocent as far as Sam could tell. He pulled a bottle out of a compartment in the sideboard hexed to remain cold. “Canada Dry?”
He’d remembered Sam didn’t drink. “Yes, thank you.”
Sullivan opened the ginger ale, poured a glass, and handed it to him. “Sit down, sit down.”
Sam took one of the comfortable chairs, while Sullivan settled himself behind his desk. “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he said. “I think you’ve got a lot of promise. The way you copied that hex of Ursino’s, to get into the Black Rabbit, was damn impressive. I’m no hexman, but I’m told most joes need a set of instructions so they don’t pick the red ink made out of hematite instead of the one made out of, I don’t, ground bugs or something.”
“You have to look closely, that’s all,” Sam said. “Eldon’s kit—well, I guess it’s mine, now—has a jeweler’s loupe for that.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” Sullivan sat back and studied him. “Eldon may not have been loyal, but he had smarts, and I think you do, too. I’m sending you over to my chief hexman, Vic Nagorski. He’ll decide where to put you.”
He noticed that Sullivan hadn’t asked what he wanted. The conversation was really just a series of orders. “Thank you, sir.”
“Of course, we compensate our people well,” Sullivan added, almost as an afterthought. “How does six hundred a month work for you?”
Sam nearly dropped his glass. “Dollars?”
Sullivan laughed. “Don’t worry, that’s just the starting salary. Do good work, and the sky’s the limit.”
Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They’d be able to buy the house from his aunt and uncle, and send some money to cover the expense of hiring his replacement at the pharmacy.
This couldn’t be an average starting salary for a hexman. Sullivan wasn’t expecting him to be a copyist, but a creator.
What if he couldn’t do it? Would he be demoted? Fired?
Worse, if he got caught spying on his new boss for a prohee?
While Sam’s mind reeled, Sullivan scribbled down an address and passed it to him. “I should get back to my own work,” he said, rising to his feet and extending his hand. “Just remember, Mr. Cunningham—I take very good care of my people.” He met Sam’s gaze. “I think you’re going to go far.”
Sam couldn’t control the trembling of his hand, but if Sullivan noticed he gave no sign. “Thank you? I’ll try my best.”
“Of course you will.” Sullivan smiled like a shark. “I know you don’t want to disappoint me.”