Chapter 16
16
A listair tried to ring up The Pride, but no one answered. Cursing Wanda for a lay-about, he called to Sam, who was busy cleaning the kitchen, “I need to talk to Wanda and Holly, and they aren’t answering. I’m heading over to The Pride to see if they’re home.”
“I’ll go with you.” Sam put aside the cloth he’d scrubbed the counter with and took off his apron.
They linked arms as they stepped out into the spring sunshine. It would be a beautiful day to go to the lake, and Alistair silently cursed Johnston for complicating their lives. If the damn prohee had left them alone, found someone else to do his work for him…
Towertown came awake as they walked; even though it was after noon, the artists, performers, jazz musicians, and other bohemians who made up the district were frequently up until dawn. Everyone drinking and dancing, trying to make the pain go away until the oblivion of sleep finally overcame whatever ghosts they carried, for a few hours at least. The sound of a jazz record seeped from the open windows of an apartment, mingling with the smell of hashish. Bright sunlight revealed cracks in the sidewalk, glittered off the beads of a lost scarf. Above all towered the skyscrapers, stabbing triumphantly upward as if to defy gravity and God alike.
Sam leaned his head against Alistair’s shoulder, sending warmth through him. Fur and feathers, he was lucky. Sam had been so patient with him, so forgiving when he made mistakes.
And he’d been so fucking scared when he heard the news of the shootout at the brewery. Not knowing, not being able to talk to him…
If they bonded, Alistair would be able to speak to Sam through the bond whenever he took cheetah form, even when they were apart. He could have helped Sam, told him to hide, or at least known he was still alive. Let Sam know he wasn’t going to die alone.
It hadn’t gone that way with Forrest…but that had been Forrest’s choice.
As much as anyone as broken as Forrest could be said to choose. They’d been so in love when the war began, and by the end of it Forrest had barely been able to look at him.
And not because of anything Alistair had done, though whether that was better or worse he couldn’t decide. He’d been too much of a reminder to Forrest. They’d done so many terrible things during the war: charged lethal hexes, used their bond to communicate enemy positions so they could more effectively kill men who probably didn’t want to be there fighting any more than they did. Whatever propaganda had drawn them all to the bloody fields of France was exposed as lies as soon as they reached the battlefield.
So Forrest curled into himself, unable to stand any reminders of their time in the American Expeditionary Forces. It wasn’t his fault. And Alistair was starting to accept that it wasn’t his fault, either, hard as that was to do.
He needed to let go of the past, and focus on the here and now. Which was Sam. Bonding with Sam would be safer, give Sam the chance to channel magic into hexes instead of just drawing them. It would mean he wasn’t helpless in the middle of a lab full of hexes that might have been able to save him otherwise.
Damn it.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
Alistair realized he’d been grimacing, and hastily rearranged his face into a smile. “Just lost in thought, sweetheart.” But that was too flippant. “Actually, I wanted to ask you?—”
Tires squealed as a sedan pulled up to the curb beside them. Alistair spun, shoving Sam behind him, instinctively ready to fight.
But no gun-toting thugs emerged from the vehicle. Instead, the passenger window rolled down, and Zywarski stuck his head out.
“Get in,” he said shortly. “Miss Fabiano wants to talk to you about that favor.”
Sam froze for a moment as the stranger’s words penetrated his shock. Alistair’s body stiffened in front of him, hands curling into fists before releasing.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, coming this far into Sullivan’s territory after what you did yesterday,” Alistair said to the man.
“No kidding. So get in the fucking car.”
Alistair was silent a moment, no doubt calculating the odds. Then he said, “Sam, go to?—”
The man drew a pistol, though he didn’t point it at either of them. “Both of you, in the car, now.”
“He doesn’t have anything to do with?—”
“I don’t fucking care,” the man growled, turning the gun on Alistair. “In.”
Sam wasn’t about to stand by while Alistair got shot. “Okay,” he said, hands up. “Alistair, come on! He has a gun.”
Alistair let out a low growl, but swung open the door and got inside, followed by Sam. He’d barely had time to shut the door before the driver peeled away from the curb with another squeal of tires.
“What’s this about, Zywarski?” Alistair asked.
Zywarski—wasn’t that the man who had been seen drinking with Bobby? The one Alistair had followed to Cicero?
“That’s for the boss to say,” Zywarski said. “She just told me to fetch you, to talk about that favor you owe her.”
Silence fell after that. Sam’s mouth was dry, and his hands trembled, nerves drawing tighter the farther they drove. The majestic skyscrapers fell behind, giving away to residential areas, before becoming a small downtown of two- and three-story buildings. All too soon, they pulled up in front of a two-story structure incongruously topped by a round tower at one end and a square at the other. Signs in the windows advised passers-by of dancing and cabaret, and that “amateur night” took place every Friday.
Zywarski hopped out and opened the door. Sam climbed out, followed by Alistair. “You know the way,” Zywarski told Alistair.
Alistair’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Stay close to me,” he told Sam, then went inside.
Much like The Pride, the cabaret operated as if the eighteenth amendment never passed, with men and women openly drinking beer and other alcohol as they crowded around pool tables. Unlike The Pride, it was right out on the street, clearly operating without even the slightest concern about either the police or the federal government.
Upstairs, a mix of witches and familiars watched them pass by. The skin on Sam’s back crawled with the feeling of eyes boring into him. Alistair led the way to a lavishly appointed office at the end of a hall. Behind the desk sat an olive-skinned woman, smoking a cigarette as she reviewed a stack of papers in front of her. A Great Blue Heron—no doubt her familiar—stood watchfully behind her shoulder. When it turned its head to look at Sam, a brass sheath on its wicked bill glinted in the sunlight coming in through the window.
The woman—Fabiano, he assumed—looked up at their entrance. “Mr. Gatti. Who is your friend?”
“Jimmy Katz,” Alistair said without hesitation, naming Zola’s cousin who’d taken over busboy duties from Sam. “He washes dishes at The Pride. I told Zywarski he doesn’t know anything about anything, but your man wouldn’t listen to me.”
Her dark eyes fixed on Sam’s face, and he did his best to look innocent. “Is he good at keeping his mouth shut?” she asked, sending a chill up his spine.
“He does what I tell him,” Alistair said, turning to Sam. “Isn’t that right, Jimmy?”
Sam swallowed hard. “Y-Yes, Mr. Gatti.”
She seemed to weigh Sam’s presence for a long, anxious moment…then shrugged. “I guess just about anyone knows better than to cross your lot,” she said, relaxing and turning her attention to Alistair. “Especially when you can kill them with a swipe of the claw, and they’d never see it coming.”
Alistair tilted his head toward her in acknowledgement, but made no response otherwise.
Fabiano went to an oak sideboard and poured two tumblers of scotch, handing one to Alistair as she went back to her desk. Sam—or rather “Jimmy”—didn’t rate the good stuff, he assumed. Which was fine by him; the less attention Fabiano paid him the better.
“Bobby was looking into Sullivan’s hexmaking operation for me,” she told Alistair, who nodded. “I spoke to Agent Johnston—he seems quite sure Sullivan killed Bobby because he learned too much.”
Sam fought to keep his face neutral while his heart raced. Fabiano must have ordered the attack hoping to find whatever Bobby had been killed over. If she realized he wasn’t Zola’s cousin Jimmy, but rather one of Sullivan’s hexmakers…
He wasn’t certain exactly what she’d do, only that he wouldn’t be walking back out the door anytime soon. No wonder Alistair had lied about his identity.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Alistair said.
“That isn’t what Johnston tells me. He says you know a wise head who works there.” She took a long drag off her cigarette.
“So? Cunningham doesn’t tell me anything about it.” Alistair looked faintly irritated, as if she was asking him irrelevant questions. “What do I know about making hexes? I just use them when they’re done. Not that Sullivan’s sharing.”
The heron turned to stare at Alistair, as if trying to judge his truthfulness. Sam’s throat had gone so dry it clicked when he swallowed. If either of them realized Alistair was lying, that Sam was standing right there…
It wouldn’t end well.
“What’s this about?” Alistair said, not giving Fabiano a chance to continue that line of questioning. “That favor of yours?”
Fabiano took her time answering, stubbing out her cigarette and having a leisurely sip of her drink. “I heard you’ve been invited to a party at Sullivan’s house tomorrow night.”
Ice settled into Sam’s belly. It sounded as though Bobby hadn’t been her only spy within Sullivan’s syndicate.
Was it someone he knew? Glenda? Luke? One of Sullivan’s trusted men?
“It seems you’re well informed,” Alistair replied tightly.
“Mr. Sullivan has a recent acquisition,” she went on, ignoring him, “in the form of a tablet made from solid emerald, inscribed with Greek writing. He keeps it in a safe in his study, along with some other valuable pieces. I’ll provide you with a hex to open the safe without triggering any alarms. You bring the tablet to me, keep anything else you want for yourself, and your debt to me is repaid.”
Sam’s heart beat faster. He’d wondered where the Emerald Tablet was, assumed it was in a vault somewhere. Apparently Sullivan wanted to keep it close to hand for some reason.
Alistair’s jaw tightened and his brows drew down. He didn’t want to agree to her request, clearly. Then his eyes darted to Sam’s face, just the briefest meeting of gazes, before looking back at Fabiano.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“I know what the Emerald Tablet is,” Sam blurted as soon as Fabiano’s goons dropped them off just outside of Cicero and sped away.
Alistair’s jaw ached from clenching it. Thank heavens Sam had followed his lead for once, kept his mouth shut, and faded into the background while Alistair dealt with Fabiano.
His instinct had been to push back against her, to argue she was asking too much. Even if the hex she’d given him worked—something he couldn’t be sure of until the time actually came to use it—Sullivan would kill him if he learned Alistair was behind the theft. There would be no negotiating, no threats, just a hail of bullets from a car window one day while he walked home.
But then she might have had Sam hurt or killed to demonstrate why he needed to obey her and repay the blasted favor. There had been no other choice than to go along with what she asked.
“Not here,” he said. “Let’s go to The Pride. I need another drink.”
In no mood to walk, he hailed a cab. Once it dropped them off, he led the way down the stairs to the speakeasy and used his key to unlock the heavy steel door. As soon as it was secure behind them, he went straight to the bar and helped himself to the whiskey.
Sam followed him. “The Emerald Tablet,” he repeated. “It came from the laboratory underneath Paris; it must have. Vic has a charcoal rubbing of its surface in the private lab.”
Was this good news for once? “What does it say?”
Sam winced. “I don’t know. It’s written in Greek.”
“Damn it.” So much for getting ahead of Fabiano.
“A lot of it is symbolic, apparently,” Sam added quickly. “A literal translation might not help.”
Alistair downed his whiskey in a single swallow. “What the hell has Nagorski got you working on, Sam? Because whatever it is, Fabiano wants it too.”
Sam pulled a chair out from the nearest table and sat down heavily. “It’s about changing substances—about purifying them, magically speaking.”
“To what end?” Alistair demanded.
Sam hesitated. “I…preservation, I think.”
“Preservation of what?”
“I don’t know!” He gripped his auburn curls in frustration. “It would have to be something Sullivan’s interested in, like liquor.” He dropped his hands. “Maybe he’s trying to create something that would purify liquor when added to it?”
“What the hell would be the point of that?” Alistair downed his second drink. “Yack yack bourbon has fucking iodine in it, and people still pay money to drink it. Sullivan needs some of the good stuff to hand out to politicians or sell to the truly rich—and for his own stash, no doubt. But that’s only a small fraction of his business.”
Uncertainty crossed Sam’s face. “I know, but we sell the real thing. I mean, you do. I mean?—”
Alistair waved his hand to cut him off. “Yeah, and it costs us. Do you have any idea how much easier it would be to serve drinks mixed with gasoline, or embalming fluid, or whatever else the bootleggers have cut it with?”
Sam shrank back a bit. “Not-not really.”
Damn it—he’d gotten too loud, too worked-up. Alistair dropped into the seat beside Sam and took his hand. “We’d make a lot more money,” he said. “And have an easier time finding suppliers. But Wanda wouldn’t stand for it, and I…I’ve seen enough death. I don’t want to poison innocent men and women looking to forget their troubles.”
Sam squeezed his hand. “Right. I’ll see if I can get Vic to finally tell me. Or at least, maybe I can get a hint.”
“Don’t push too hard. People have already died over this. You can’t be next.” He met Sam’s gaze. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of course I will.”
The kitchen doors swung open, and Wanda emerged from the back, dressed in a peacock-blue suit. “Why are you out here raising your voice, brother mine?”
“Because it was time for your sorry ass to get out of bed,” he shot back. When her golden eyes fixed him with an admonishing look, he sighed. “Fabiano called in her favor. I’m going to try and steal something from Sullivan’s private study tomorrow—and hope I don’t get killed in the process.”