Chapter 10
10
“ I t works!” Glenda shouted, flinging her arms around Sam. “You’re a genius!”
His entire face went hot. “I’m not—I mean, we did it together.”
Luke clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ve been staring at the damn thing for two weeks. You’ve been here for three days, and we have a breakthrough.”
They stood in the lab, along with the bemused witch who’d been summoned to charge the elaborate hex they’d crafted based on the broken stone slab. Once charged, Luke carried it over to a small, empty crate they’d brought up for the test, activated it, and…
Sam knew the box was still there; it wasn’t erased from his mind. But even though he’d drawn the hex himself, even though he knew exactly where the crate sat, his eyes seemed to slip away every time he tried to look. Instead, he’d find himself distracted by the light coming through the window, or a crack in the floor—anything but the object concealed by the look-away hex.
“We still need to find a counter for it,” he said, though their praise warmed him.
“That’s the easy part, now that we know how it works,” said Glenda. “Did you say you were single? Because I’d be happy to set you up with my sister.”
His face grew even hotter. “I, uh, have a boyfriend.”
“Lucky bastard,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll just have to find another way to thank you.”
“What’s this all about?” Vic asked, descending the stairs from his private lab. Sam still hadn’t seen inside it; according to the other two, Vic never left the door unlocked or took anyone else up there.
Luke grinned. “Can you find the crate in here, boss?” he asked, gesturing around.
After a long moment of searching, a smile of genuine delight crossed Vic’s face. “You did it!”
“Sam was the one who realized how two different hexes locked together to make one spell,” Luke said. “Once we had that insight, it was simple.”
Sam looked down at his feet as Vic’s gaze turned to him. “It was a team effort,” he told his shoes.
“Everything is.” Vic clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “There’s no such thing as a self-made man. But that doesn’t mean your contribution wasn’t significant.”
“We should celebrate,” Glenda said, draping one arm over Sam’s shoulder and the other over Luke’s. “And by celebrate, I mean go to a bar.”
“Sam doesn’t drink alcohol,” Luke reminded her.
“So? I’ll drink enough for the both of us.”
Vic held up his hands. “I agree with the celebration part, but let’s at least go somewhere we can get a nice steak for dinner. Does that sound good to you, Sam?”
Sam started to beg off, then caught himself. He’d let one of the reasons he was here slip his mind, getting caught up in the excitement of recreating the old hex. He was meant to find out more about Bobby, if that was possible.
Drunk people liked to talk. Which meant his companions might let something slip, assuming they knew anything more than what they’d already told him.
“All right,” he said. “Just let me make a call and tell my boyfriend I’ll be working late. He worries.”
He tried calling The Pride from the brewery phone, but no one answered; likely it was too early for anyone to be around. The rest of the workday went by in a blur, and soon they were all piling into Glenda’s car, which she drove with little attention to the traffic laws. Sam’s heart was pounding from any number of near-misses by the time they pulled up in front of a building proclaiming itself to be The Chicanery Club.
Inside, a ma?tre d’ swept up, beaming at Vic. “Mr. Nagorski, welcome back. Will you be taking in the show tonight, or would you prefer a quieter table?”
“We’re celebrating tonight,” Vic said with an easy smile. “Somewhere we can hear ourselves think would be appreciated.”
“Of course, sir. Right this way.”
The Chicanery Club wasn’t quite as upscale as Ursino’s hidden gambling club, The Black Rabbit, had been. Still, it was one of the fanciest places Sam had ever been in, all of the waiters in white coats and cummerbunds, the diners dressed to be seen, the decor meant to dazzle. The main section was given over to what looked like a legitimate cabaret. As at Adamo’s, none of the glasses of club soda, tonic water, and ginger ale were served filled more than half-way. Customers openly tipped flasks into their drinks.
They passed through a discreet door and down a flight of stairs into a smaller area. A bar filled one wall, and the tables were smaller and spaced farther apart, the lights dimmer. The ma?tre d’ showed them to a table near one corner; the moment he departed, a waiter appeared.
“Champagne,” Vic said. “And a glass of mock champagne, if you will.”
Talk flowed easily between the four of them, from the toast to their success with the hex through the oxtail soup, to the main course of steak with baked potatoes. For a while, Sam forgot about everything else; for once in his life, talking felt simple, camaraderie natural.
These were his friends, he realized with a start. Of course, he had friends at The Pride as well, but they moved in such a different world from him at times.
He could invite his new coworkers to The Pride one night, introduce them to Alistair and Reinhold and the others. Holly and Glenda would fall right in together, laughing and drinking champagne. Luke seemed to be able to talk to anyone, just like Philip. And Vic…
He looked up, to find Vic watching him closely with dark eyes.
It caught him off guard. He looked down quickly, busied himself with his potato for a moment.
“How’s the food?” Vic asked.
Sam looked back up again. “Delicious,” he said truthfully. “I think this is the best steak I’ve ever had.”
“You can’t get a good steak outside of Chicago,” Luke opined.
Sam took a sip of his mock champagne, while Glenda and Luke argued whether or not you could get decent steak in New York. These were his friends, or at least he hoped they were, but he had to remember why he was here.
“Did they ever find Bobby’s body?” he blurted.
It wasn’t the most graceful change of topic. Glenda and Luke both blinked at him in confusion.
Vic paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “No,” he said. “And I doubt they will.”
“He’s at the bottom of Lake Michigan,” Luke said.
“Did you know him well?” Vic asked, and Sam remembered he hadn’t been present for their earlier conversation about Bobby.
“No, but he sort of…died in my arms. I happened to be working at The Pride that night when he came in.”
Vic’s expression instantly became compassionate. “Fur and feathers, I’m so sorry, Sam. That must have been terrible.”
“It was,” he answered honestly. “I just don’t understand why someone would take him from the funeral home.”
Luke pointed at him with his fork. “To make Sullivan look bad, I’m telling you.”
“He hung around the lab a lot, right?” Sam asked. “I heard a rumor he might have been working for another gang…?”
Glenda looked surprised. “Bobby? No way. He had all the personality of a piece of unbuttered toast.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Luke asked Sam with a frown.
Drat, now he had to think up a lie. “I just overheard some people talking when I was at The Pride the other night.”
“Ooh, are you dating one of the Gattis?” Glenda asked, perking up. “Which one?”
Sam’s face grew hot, but before he could answer, Vic cut in. “Leave the poor man alone, Glenda.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “To Bobby, wherever he may be now.”
Talk turned to other things after the toast. After another hour or so, they left the club. Glenda offered to drive them all home, but Vic put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’d like to talk to Sam,” he told her. “You two go ahead, and we’ll share a cab.”
Sam’s stomach clenched around the dinner he’d just eaten. Had he tipped his hand earlier? Had his questions made Vic suspicious? Or had he done something else wrong?
Luke cast them a glance Sam couldn’t decipher, then climbed into the car. Once Glenda had sped away, Vic said, “There’s a cab stand not far from here, and the walk will give us a chance to talk in private.”
They strolled slowly along the sidewalk. Hexed advertisements in a pharmacy window advertised Fanny Mae candies for Mother’s Day, the scent of chocolate magically wafting onto the sidewalk to lure in shoppers. Sam decided he’d come back tomorrow and buy some, to send along with a card and whatever money he could scrape together before his first paycheck. Maybe that would earn some forgiveness.
“You do good work, Sam,” Vic said, startling Sam out of his thoughts. “I’d like to offer you something of a promotion.”
Sam nearly stumbled on the sidewalk out of sheer surprise. “A promotion? But it’s just been a few days…”
“I’m a good judge of character.” Vic took out a quarter—the same as he’d had before?—and rubbed it between his fingers. “I need help in my private lab. I’m working on a very sensitive, very difficult project, and I think you’re just the man for the job.”
Sam was silent for a moment. If Bobby had seen something he shouldn’t have and been killed for it, it was likely something very sensitive. But according to Glenda and Luke, no one was ever allowed inside the lab except Vic.
“Why not Glenda or Luke?” he asked at last. “They’ve been here longer than me. It wouldn’t be fair for me to?—”
Vic held up his hand, and Sam fell silent. “They’re both excellent at their jobs. But I need someone with your unique eye for hex patterns. Not to mention someone who hasn’t been in the business so long that they’ve developed too many unconscious assumptions about hexmaking.” He met Sam’s gaze straight on. “Will you help me, Sam?”
How could he turn down such a sincere request, even if he had wanted to? Which, he found, he didn’t.
“Of course,” he said. “I’d love to.”
“Sam!” Alistair exclaimed when Sam finally came through the door of Eldon’s house. “Where were you? I was starting to worry.”
He’d tried hard not to. Sam was a grown man, after all. But he’d been in danger before, and after his own close call with Fabiano’s people, Alistair’s nerves had been on edge.
“I’m sorry.” Sam took off his hat, but rather than hang it up he worked it in his hands. “I didn’t mean—I called The Pride but no one answered?—”
“I’m not upset, love.” Alistair went to him and gently took the hat, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Sam’s lips. “Today was a hard day, and I worry.”
“I know.” Sam took off his coat and hung it up, before wrapping his arms around Alistair’s waist. Alistair leaned into him, his softness and warmth, and breathed deeply of his scent. “You said you had a hard day—what happened?”
They retreated to the couch, Alistair pausing to raid the last of Eldon’s liquor cabinet on the way. He drank as he related the whole affair, including the fact he now owed a favor to someone poised to become Sullivan’s rival.
Sam clutched at his auburn curls. “You worry about me, but you’re the one getting guns pointed at him!”
“I can handle it.”
Sam let out a sound of sheer frustration and let his hands drop. “I don’t want you to ‘handle it,’ Alistair.”
Alistair tried to shrug it off. “It’s not my favorite thing, either, believe me. So tell me where you’ve been this evening.”
Sam gave him a look, but allowed the change of topic. As he spoke about the work he was doing with the other hexmakers, his eyes sparked and his gestures grew lively. He was in his element, Alistair realized, in a way he’d never been busing tables at The Pride.
Which shouldn’t come as a surprise, yet did, somehow. A tight knot built in his chest while he listened to Sam speak so warmly of the other hexmakers, of Glenda and Luke and this Vic Nagorski—who, it seemed, wanted Sam to become some sort of personal assistant in his private lab.
Just the two of them, all day, talking over hexes and inks and other things Alistair had no clue at all about.
When Sam finally finished, Alistair said, “Just don’t let your guard down around these people. Any of them will stab you in the back at the drop of a hat.”
Sam’s eyes went wide—then his expression darkened, and Alistair wished he could take back the words.
“You don’t even know them,” Sam snapped. “They’re my friends.”
“Don’t forget why you’re there.” Alistair sat back, putting space between them. “A man is dead, and it might have some connection with that lab.”
“Might,” Sam emphasized, eyes narrowing slightly. “And that’s not the only reason. My mom, my family, needs the money. We need the money if we’re going to buy this house.”
And of course, Sullivan had dangled a breath-taking salary in front of Sam, at least for someone just starting out in the business of hexwork. It was how the gangs operated, throwing around cash, flashing diamonds, promising to take good care of you in exchange for taking orders and keeping your mouth shut. The next thing you knew, you were bleeding out in a gutter after a shootout.
A faint sense of panic started to claw at the back of Alistair’s throat. “We’ll find a way to get you out.”
“I don’t want out!” Sam shouted.
Alistair blinked in silent shock. Sam clapped his hands to his mouth, as if startled by his own volume. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Alistair waved the apology off, still trying to absorb what Sam had said. “You want to work for Sullivan.”
Sam opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he hadn’t truly thought about it.
“I want this job,” he said at last. “I like it. I like the people. And the money doesn’t hurt.” He took off his cheaters and rubbed his eyes. “I can take care of my family and help pay for the house. Or a different house, or an apartment, whatever you want.”
What Alistair wanted was for Sam to be safe, but he swallowed the words. “I appreciate that,” he said, picking the words with care for once. “But you don’t have to do any of this for me. I’d live in a tar-paper shack by the stockyards if it meant being with you.”
Sam let out a sigh that seemed torn between fondness and exasperation. “I came to Chicago because I wanted to. I stayed to fight Ursino because I wanted to.”
Even though Alistair had put him on a train to Milwaukee. Thank God Sam was stubborn, because he’d saved all their tails by coming back.
“I just worry,” he said at last. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
The way it happened to Forrest. Alistair had tried his damnedest to keep his first witch, his first love, safe. But how could he save Forrest from the exploding shells, the screaming men, the ever-present reek of death rising from the earth itself? Forrest’s body carried through, but his mind broke, and Alistair had been helpless to prevent it.
“I’ll be careful,” Sam said. “Let me make my own choices, Alistair, please. And stop…stop looking only at what you’ve lost, and try to see me, because I’m right here, right now.”
Sam was right, of course he was, and shame stung Alistair’s throat like a shot of bad whiskey. He was trying to keep Sam close, but not in a good way. In a way that would end up pushing him away.
“You’re right,” he said, yet again. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Sam cupped his face, and Alistair turned his cheek into the gentle touch. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Alistair pressed a kiss into his palm. “Can we go to bed? I…I need to be held for a while.”
“Of course.” Sam leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Anything for you.”