Chapter 13
13
A few days passed before Sam found himself alone in the private lab.
During that time, his head swam with new information. Eldon had taught him the principles of hexmaking, but what Vic offered went far beyond the basics. Just as adding lines to paper could build up a sketch, he felt as though more and more of the inner workings of magic were coalescing before his eyes.
“You’re a natural, Sam,” Vic said more than once, delight in his voice. Every time he did, Sam’s chest glowed with a feeling it took a while to identify as pride.
He’d seldom had reason to feel proud of anything he did. Against the impossible measuring stick of his dead brother, nothing he could do would satisfy his parents. Jake wouldn’t have ever made a single mistake; would never have spoken out of turn; would have worked tirelessly to make their lives a paradise.
But as of late—ever since meeting Alistair, really—he’d started to wonder if that was actually true. After all, Jake had been the one who talked Sam into stealing some of the medicinal whiskey while their father was distracted. If he’d been a bit of a rogue then, if death hadn’t interrupted the course of his life…
Maybe he would have continued to be a rogue. Maybe he would have been the one to suffer under their parents’ opprobrium.
Maybe he wouldn’t have been as good at some things as Sam.
It was a daring thought, but every day it felt more as though it might hold some truth.
In other circumstances, he would have felt he’d finally found his place in the world. Two things prevented that; one was the secret Vic was keeping, and the other was Sam’s own secondary motives for being there.
“This is very hush-hush,” Vic reiterated when Sam questioned what they were working on yet again. “I can show you parts of it, but not the whole. Not yet.” He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I know I’m hamstringing you here, but it’s Mr. Sullivan’s orders. He’s a cautious man; he has to be.”
Nevertheless, Sam was able to glean certain things simply by the direction of the work they were doing. It was a process, as Vic had originally mentioned, but the hexmaker had scattered the steps between a dozen different handwritten books, forcing them to piece it all together slowly.
“The Emerald Tablet is the key,” Vic said, standing before the charcoal rubbing. Sam wondered where the tablet itself was. If it was actually made out of emerald, likely in a vault where no one would be tempted to make off with it. “See these symbols inscribed above the actual text? The skull, the moon, Venus, Mars, and at last the sun.”
“What does it all mean?” Sam asked.
“It indicates to us the order of the hexes.” He went to a shelf and carefully removed a clear glass jar filled with what looked to be black ash. “This is the result of the first step, indicated by the skull. Putrefaction.” He laughed at Sam’s grimace. “Disgusting, I know, but don’t take these things too literally. Everything symbolizes something else here.” He put the jar back in its place. “The moon indicates purification.”
“Which is the step we’re working on now, right?”
“Exactly.”
Between Vic’s explanations and the books he’d lent Sam, the next hex in the chain began to take shape under their hands, its elements hidden throughout the long-dead hexmaker’s belongings. A great deal of it seemed nonsensical, or at least fanciful, but if Sullivan wanted to pay them to recreate these strange hexes that was his business.
At least it ended in a visible result. Once they had the hex assembled, Vic poured out the black ashes into a ceramic bowl. Sam took the hex downstairs for one of the witches on the payroll to charge, then returned.
Vic laid the hex atop the ashes. “Separate thou the earth from the fire, the subtle from the gross,” he said softly.
With a flash like fire, the ashes transformed from black to white. Was this the purification they needed?
Vic certainly thought so. “We did it, Sam! We did it!”
With a laugh of triumph, he pulled Sam into an embrace. Startled, Sam hugged him back.
He expected Vic to let go of him quickly, but the embrace lingered. Vic took a deep breath, his chest pressing against Sam’s. Then he stepped back, hands lingering on Sam’s arms. A little line appeared between his brows, and he parted his lips as if to speak.
The chatter of gunfire shattered the air.
Sam froze at the sound of breaking glass and shouts from below. Vic’s eyes widened, as more Tommy guns rattled off rapid streams of bullets, accompanied by barks and growls from more than one familiar. Vic swore.
“We’re under attack,” he said. “Not the police—they wouldn’t come in guns first. You stay here.”
Sam’s mouth was dry, but he managed to say, “What about you?”
“I’m going to make sure the others are safe.” Vic met his gaze. “Stay here. I need to know you’re safe.”
“A-all right.”
Vic gave him a quick nod, then hurried off toward the stairs. The door shut firmly behind him.
Sam stood for a long moment, listening to the sound of gunfire, the cries of angry men. His heart slammed against his ribs—was it another gang attacking? It must be; Vic said it wasn’t the police. Would they just exchange fire, or slaughter everyone in the building?
Alistair had been right. What did he think he was doing here? He wasn’t cut out for this.
He ought to find somewhere to hide. He glanced around…and the realization that he was alone in Vic’s private lab sank in.
This might be his only chance to search it.
Sam wavered, caught between the conflicting urges to hide and to look around. He flinched at every gunshot, every cry, body urging him to curl up in a small ball and hide until it was over.
But this chance might not come again.
Sam stiffened his spine, hands unconsciously curling into fists. He had to take the opportunity while it lasted.
If there was something here he hadn’t seen, something worth Bobby’s life, it wouldn’t be anywhere Sam would casually spot it during the workday. Nor would it be in the drawers containing hex supplies, or anything else they might need in the course of their work.
Sam bit his lip and cast about. The lab was so crowded, the contents of the ancient workshop from Paris dumped in amongst modern equipment, it was impossible to simply scan the room. It seemed unlikely anything would be hidden at this end of the room, where Sam spent most of the workday.
He threaded his way between bookcases and cabinets filled with gemstones, minerals, and all the other raw ingredients for their inks. If he wanted to hide something from casual view, but close enough to access easily, where would he put it?
There were too many possible answers. Behind an innocuous row of books, within the pages of a specific tome, in a hidden compartment in one of the cabinets, inside the stuffed crocodile…
The gunshots had become more sporadic, fewer in number. Was the shootout ending?
God, he hoped so, and that their side had won. But it meant he didn’t have much time.
Near the back of the room stood a large stone oven, shaped like a tiered wedding cake. In the initial tour Vic had given, he’d mentioned it was an athanor, used as a source of steady heat for distilling. This one had been brought in a single piece from Paris, even though modern hexmaking had no use for such a thing.
Odd, then, that Vic had it taking up valuable space in the crowded room.
Sam dropped to his knees, peering into the opening to the firebox. The interior was too dark to make anything out, so he thrust his hand inside and prayed no spiders had made a nest within.
He’d expected cobwebs, or at least centuries-old ashes. Instead, his fingers met what felt like a piece of thick paper.
The door to the lab creaked open.
Sam jerked to his feet, stuffing the paper into his pocket as he did so. Heart in this throat, he turned. “Vic, is everything?—”
The words died in his throat. The figure standing in the door wasn’t Vic, but a woman dressed in a suit and hat. She looked at Sam for a long moment with eyes the color of burnished bronze. Then she grinned and slid into the shape of an enormous rattlesnake.
Sam’s heart faltered, fear coursing through his veins. Reaching out blindly, he grabbed a book off the nearest shelf and threw it at her. The throw went wide, coming nowhere near the brown rope gliding steadily toward him.
Damn it.
He took a step back, then another, until his legs fetched up against the athanor. “D-don’t,” he said, but the rattlesnake ignored him. She slid closer and closer, her bronze eyes fixed on him, her black tongue tasting the air.
Tasting his fear.
A blur of gray fur burst from behind the rattlesnake. Her head whipped around, but she was too slow. There was a crunch, the snake’s mouth gaping open, body thrashing wildly as a badger’s jaws closed on her throat.
Sam collapsed to the floor as the snake coiled in her death throes. The badger held on tightly until she at last relaxed, then dropped her bleeding body onto the floor. A moment later, he shifted into human form.
Vic.
“Sam! Sam, are you all right?” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside Sam. “Did she bite you?”
Sam nodded, then shook his head. “I-I’m all right. She didn’t bite me.”
Vic’s expression softened. “Thank God and all the saints.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand.
Sam took it and Vic pulled him up with ease. Blood flecked the corner of his mouth, so Sam fished out his handkerchief. “Here, you’ve got a bit of…”
Vic held still, allowing Sam to wipe it off. As shock wore off, guilt settled in.
He’d stolen something from inside the athanor, from Vic, only to have Vic save his life.
Vic was his friend as well as his boss. And how was he repaying that friendship? By sneaking around, taking things that weren’t his.
Maybe he should come clean. The athanor had been transported in one piece; likely Vic didn’t even know the paper had been in there to start with. Certainly it had nothing to do with Bobby’s death.
Before he could decide, one of the guards appeared in the doorway, gun in hand and dog familiar at his side. At the sight of the dead snake, he grimaced. “Anyone hurt?”
Vic shook his head. “No. I got here in time.”
“Good work.” The guard picked up the snake distastefully by the tail, holding the body away from him as if afraid it might reanimate and bite. “That just leaves the cleanup.”
“What happened?” Sam asked.
The guard scowled. “Those were Fabiano’s people. I recognized a couple of them.”
“She’s making a move on Sullivan,” Vic said, folding his arms over his chest. “But shooting up a building full of people just copying hexes…that’s low.”
“Real low,” the guard agreed. “Don’t you worry, though. We’ll hit her back, twice as hard.”