Chapter 11
11
S am loved Alistair. Sometimes, he lovingly wanted to strangle him.
Alistair thought nothing of putting himself at risk, but the moment he thought Sam might possibly be in some danger, he lost his mind.
Sam knew why, of course. The story of Alistair’s life was of people leaving and never coming back. It was natural for him to fear the same thing would happen with Sam.
Maybe if they’d met back in Gatesville things would be different. But Sam had left the only home he’d ever known, struck out on his own, and made a place for himself in Chicago. Learned hexwork, faced down a gang boss who could turn into a grizzly bear, and rubbed elbows with Mickey Sullivan. He was finding a new place for himself among Vic and the others.
He wanted Alistair to be happy for him, not afraid.
Alistair looked so fragile in the light of the lamp beside their bed. Not physically, though his lanky form was far less imposing than Doris’s muscles or Philip’s solidity. But there was something about the lines around his mouth, the look in his eyes, that gave him away.
That was all right. Sam could be strong for them both.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Alistair paused as he undid the buttons of his shirt. His olive skin glowed warmly against the white fabric. God, he was gorgeous, with his elegant fingers and sharp nose, the cloud of soft black hair loose around his face.
“Will you touch me?” he asked.
Sam cupped his cheek. “Of course.”
They both undressed, and Alistair lay on his stomach, arms folded beneath his head. Paler scars pock-marked his back, where shrapnel had torn through his skin and into muscle. He’d once referred to himself as lucky for having escaped any worse injury.
Despite everything the newspapers had claimed during the war, Sam had come to believe that no one who had set foot in France could be considered lucky.
He straddled Alistair’s buttocks, hardening at the feel of his skin, and ran his hands down the tight muscles of his shoulders and back. Alistair sighed happily, then let out a little whimper when Sam kissed across the breadth of his shoulders, down his spine. He shifted his hips under Sam and asked, “Will you fuck me?”
Lust tightened Sam’s throat. “Y-Yes. Of course.”
He plucked the Vaseline from where it was tucked away in the dresser, slicking himself generously. When he turned back, Alistair had gone onto his hands and knees, watching him over one shoulder, eyes dark with desire.
“I want you,” he said, sending another rush of lust through Sam.
Once again, Sam wondered how he’d managed to end up in bed with such a beautiful man, who could have had his pick of anyone in Chicago. Alistair might not be lucky, but he certainly was.
Alistair groaned when he entered him. “Yes, more. Please.”
Sam was happy to oblige. Alistair’s body was hot around him, slick from the Vaseline, and they moved together as one. He gripped Alistair’s hip with one hand, reaching around with the other to stroke his cock.
It was ecstasy and bliss, primal and sublime. Alistair moaned encouragement, sweat sliding down the trough of his spine, until he finally let out a shout. Wet heat spurted over Sam’s hand, and Alistair’s body clenched around him. He gave up control, closed his eyes and thrust hard until he came with a ragged cry.
Alistair let himself collapse on to the bed with a contented sigh. “Thank you,” he mumbled into the pillows.
Sam kissed his shoulder, then lay down, tugging Alistair into his arms. “Do you feel any better?” he asked.
“Mmm.” Alistair snuggled back against him. “Just keep holding me.”
Sam buried his face in black hair, inhaling the scent of clean fur. “Always.”
“Welcome to my lab,” Vic said, stepping back and gesturing grandly to the space behind him.
When Sam arrived, Glenda and Luke were hard at work, apparently having already been informed about his new position. Glenda congratulated him heartily; Luke tried to follow her example, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Luke was older and more experienced, and Sam couldn’t help but feel he was taking something away from the other man, something he didn’t really deserve himself. He wanted to make Luke like him again, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it.
But for the moment, at least, his worries dissolved at the sight of Vic’s private space. It was about half the size of the lab downstairs, but absolutely crammed with supply cabinets, tables, bookcases, and more. The air held a chemical smell he couldn’t identify, overlying the scent of paper and dust. Bizarrely, a stuffed crocodile hung from the ceiling.
Vic caught the direction of his gaze. “Ah yes, this fellow. I call him Ralph. Sullivan bought the entire contents of the secret laboratory in Paris, including Ralph, and had it all shipped here. He had obviously been hung from the ceiling before, so I put him up as a bit of whimsy.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “According to historical records, the Europeans thought they were dragons, because they’d never seen a crocodile. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s fun to imagine the ancient hexmaker in her lab, showing off her ‘dragon’ to gullible clients.”
“But why?” Sam asked. “That is, why would she?”
“Hexmaking had a more mystical air about it back then,” Vic said, “even if the hexmaker wasn’t a witch herself. Though it didn’t hurt to be both. Have you ever heard of Perenelle and her familiar, Nicolas?” Sam shook his head. “They were renowned hexmakers who lived in Paris in the late medieval period. They became learned in the art upon buying an even older text containing the secrets of the ancients—including some sort of ‘elixir of life,’ if the stories can be believed.”
“Can they?”
Vic chuckled as he took out his quarter, rubbing it idly between his fingers. “The claim, even if it were false, would certainly have boosted their reputations. Either way, hexes weren’t seen as suitable for the masses—not to mention the fact there was a great deal of rivalry between different hexmakers. So the medieval hexmakers shrouded their formulae in symbolism and hid them within paintings and illustrations, which led to the knowledge being ultimately lost to everyone.”
It seemed strange, in this day and age, when Sam passed a hundred hexed advertisements just to get to work. “That’s a shame.”
“Indeed. But I believe we can reclaim at least some of it.” Vic beckoned him further inside. “These shelves are from the lab beneath Paris, as are all the books on them. This,” he pointed to a pot with a spout like a bird’s beak, which connected to a second vessel, “is an alembic—a primitive still. Over here I have the quills and inks, now dried up of course, found in the laboratory. The inks have already been analyzed and recreated—one of them used blood, which is outlawed in modern hexwork.”
Sam looked around, feeling rather overwhelmed. “What, ah, what do you want me to do?”
Vic gestured to a piece of paper pinned to the wall. On closer inspection, it looked like a rubbing taken from an engraving, covered in dense text in an alphabet he didn’t recognize. “I don’t suppose you speak Greek?”
“I don’t,” Sam said, feeling vaguely ashamed, though of course it was absurd to do so. His family wasn’t rich; where would he have learned a language none of his neighbors spoke?
“Don’t worry, I do. This is a copy of something known as the Emerald Tablet, which is the key to our work. I’ll translate the relevant passages as we go along.”
“All right.”
Vic went to one of the modern bookshelves and pulled down a book. “For now, this volume in English will give you some of the basics behind the symbolism.” Vic pressed it into Sam’s hands. The binding was worn; clearly it had been consulted many times over the years. “As for the work itself…” He trailed off and looked pensive for a moment. “You can’t talk about this to anybody, not even Glenda and Luke. You get that, right?”
Sam nodded; he’d assumed as much. Vic was obviously working on something for Sullivan, something the gang boss didn’t want the word getting out about. Much the way Eldon had been, at least until he’d involved himself with Ursino and put a target on his back.
“I understand,” he said. “I can keep a secret.”
“I suspected as much.” Vic looked at his quarter, then tucked it back into his pocket. “You strike me as a man used to keeping his thoughts to himself.”
Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. He’d spent most of his life keeping quiet about anything his family would disapprove of: his dreams of magic, his desire for a different life, even his hatred of the dry, gray man who stood in the pulpit every Sunday and preached that love meant damnation and joy eternal torment. He’d walled it all away, pushed it down, and never let on.
“I suppose,” he said at last.
Vic nodded. “I’m working on a multi-part process, one that uses different, linked hexes at each step. There are four in total, I know that much, and I figured out the first one. As for the second, I’ve made a good start, but I’m missing a piece. The hex won’t even hold magic right now.”
“What does it do?”
Vic hesitated, then smiled ruefully. “It’s a sort of…hmm. A sort of purification hex. As I said, it’s coded and hidden in symbols, but together I think we can crack it.” His smile turned hopeful. “What do you say?”
Sam considered for a moment, then returned Vic’s smile. “Honestly? It sounds like the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”