Chapter 18
18
A listair’s senses sharpened as he entered the mansion in search of Sullivan. It was the same clarity he’d felt at times in France, when they knew the enemy was somewhere ahead, hidden in darkness or rain.
So many times, it had been his job to go ahead in cheetah form, belly low to the ground, every moment slow and stealthy so as not to attract attention. Machine guns nested in half-hidden pillboxes on the steep slopes of the Argonne Forest, and he slunk as close as he could, sometimes over the span of hours. Any man who left its safety to take a piss, or investigate a suspicious noise, found himself suffocating in the mud with Alistair’s teeth clamped around his throat.
He could still feel their spasms, their frantic attempts to scream past the jaws closing off their breath, the slow moment when the body went slack. He’d pick off as many as he could, given the opportunity, or else flee at full speed back to his company if someone managed to raise the alarm.
Few did.
This was another mission behind enemy lines, that was all. At least here, he didn’t have to worry about artillery shells.
Finding Sullivan was easy enough; he had only to catch the eye of the first man who looked like he was standing guard instead of partying. The man seemed to recognize him, because he only said, “Mr. Sullivan is in the library. Down the hall, to the left.”
A short line of supplicants and well-wishers was already there. Alistair took his place, waiting impatiently as they were beckoned inside the heavy oak doors one or two at a time, then exited a few minutes later. When it was his turn, he entered to find Sullivan sitting in a comfortable chair, a scattering of other chairs around him. High stacks filled with neat rows of books formed an impressive backdrop; had Sullivan actually read a fraction of them, or were they a prop meant to give him the air of an educated man?
“Good evening, Mr. Gatti,” Sullivan said. His man Turner sat in another chair, just to Sullivan’s right, while Bellinowski lurked near the door.
“Thank you for the invitation to your party, Mr. Sullivan.” Alistair inclined his head respectfully, careful to keep his face neutral. “I won’t take much of your time; I just wanted to convey my respects and those of my sister.”
He held out a small package, which Turner took. Inside was a money clip studded with a few small diamonds. Not even a trinket to Sullivan, but it was the gesture here that counted.
“I appreciate it, Mr. Gatti,” Sullivan said. “How is Miss Gatti?”
“Wanda’s doing well.” It was the most neutral possible answer, and Sullivan surely knew it.
“That’s good to hear.” Sullivan paused, then added, “So, you have a new supplier from Canada?”
This was dangerous ground; if only Wanda were here instead of him. “For now.”
Sullivan smiled. “Eloquent as always. I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Gatti. Enjoy the party.”
Alistair nodded and slipped out, heart pounding. What had Sullivan meant by bringing up Malone?
It could be a veiled threat. Sullivan tolerated them operating in his territory only because they’d made a small show of force when he first came around. His men had limped back to him, lightly mauled by teeth and claws, and carrying an offer of truce from Wanda.
But Sullivan was only biding his time, and they were fools to think otherwise. If he won his war with Fabiano, he might decide to consolidate his hold until he was the sole power in Chicago. The Pride would either be subsumed or put out of business.
But he couldn’t think about that now. It was time to focus on his other job.
All the habits from slipping behind enemy lines returned, as if they’d just been waiting for him to pick them back up. Eyes scanning for hidden hexes that might trip an alarm, as well as for any place to hide should he need it. Ears attuned for the tiniest whisper of cloth or shuffling step that might be a guard.
He moved like a liquid shadow through the mansion. According to Fabiano, the Emerald Tablet would be in a safe within Sullivan’s private study. Which meant it would likely be in the most protected part of the house, away from any outside doors.
It almost worked. After patiently waiting for a couple of guards to pass by and successfully judging the gap between, he gained access to the second floor. This was the family’s private space, away from the presence of armed men. Open doors afforded him glimpses of a feminine drawing room and a child’s playroom filled with toys.
Right—he vaguely recalled Sullivan had a young son, though he didn’t know anything about the kid. That was one thing about the syndicates; they’d kill each other’s members in a heartbeat, but uninvolved family members were strictly off-limits. They claimed because of honor, but Alistair doubted it. The truth was, gunning down innocent wives and children looked bad to the public. The police would be forced to get involved, the feds to crack down.
In other words, it would be bad for business. And losing money was the only true crime as far as men like Sullivan were concerned.
Finally, at the end of a long corridor lined with family photographs, he spotted a door at the very end. It was heavier than the others, and Sullivan’s initials were carved into it surrounded by a fancy shield design. American heraldry.
Unfortunately, the corridor offered few places to hide. Even more unfortunately, he heard footsteps and the low murmur of Sullivan’s voice.
Hesitation had meant death on the battlefield, and it meant death here. He opened the first door he came to, slipped through the crack, and closed it behind him.
The room clearly belonged to Sullivan’s son; the light spilling in through the open curtains revealed a child-sized bed, surrounded by opulent curtains, a small chest of drawers, a well-worn toy horse on wheels, and a teddy bear propped amidst the fluffy pillows on the bed.
No hesitation. He shifted into cheetah shape, flattened himself on the ground, and slid underneath the bed.
The door to the room swung open. A pair of shoes polished to a glossy black shine appeared in the narrow gap between bed skirt and rug, accompanied by a much smaller pair of socks. “Into bed with you,” Sullivan said fondly.
Alistair didn’t dare so much as twitch a whisker. If he was caught here, hiding under the bed of Sullivan’s only child, he wouldn’t leave the house alive.
The mattress sighed as the little boy climbed up, but the sound was quickly drowned by a wracking cough. Sullivan immediately came to the side of the bed and sat down; by the soft thumps he was patting his son on the back. “Easy, easy. Let me get your medicine.”
There came the pop of a cork being pulled, the clink of metal against glass. “Here you go, champ.”
The coughs had given way to raspy breathing. “I’m tired of being sick,” the boy said, with such a tone of misery that Alistair’s heart ached. “I’m tired of being stuck inside the house all day.”
“I know.” The bed creaked as Sullivan shifted his weight. “It won’t be much longer.”
“Because of the green tablet thing?”
“The Emerald Tablet, and yes. I’ve got my smartest guys working it out.”
Alistair’s ears twitched. Was he hearing this correctly? Were Sam and Nagorski deciphering an old healing hex of some kind?
“I wish they’d hurry.”
“These sorts of things take time, kiddo.” Sullivan slid off the edge of the bed. “I have to get back to your mom’s party. You go to sleep, all right?”
Cloth rustled as Sullivan presumably tucked the boy in, followed by a soft kiss. “I love you,” Sullivan murmured. “More than anything.”
Alistair barely dared to breathe as Sullivan left. As he waited for the wheezing breath above him to even out, his new knowledge consumed his thoughts.
Something was wrong with Sullivan’s kid—something modern medicine couldn’t treat. Given how much money Sullivan had to throw at doctors and hexmakers, it probably wasn’t a simple infection. Maybe the kid was born with it, some defect of the lungs without a known cure.
Something so bad Sullivan was willing to have a whole laboratory shipped from France on the desperate gamble it held the secret to curing his son. And this Emerald Tablet—which Fabiano wanted to get her hands on—sounded like a key part of it.
They had a rubbing at the lab; Sam said so. They wouldn’t lose the knowledge just because he stole the tablet.
Unless the rubbing was imperfect, or some detail needed to be checked that could only be seen on the original. What if he took the tablet and they needed it to finish the hex?
What if the kid died as a result?
Fuck.
Sam scanned the party as he wandered from terrace to ballroom and back. Tension tightened his shoulders; Alistair had been gone for quite a while now. Was he all right, or had he been caught? Were armed thugs about to find Sam and drag him off for interrogation?
A gong rang outside on the terrace, and most of the partygoers—those who weren’t too drunk or hexed-up to notice, anyway—drifted in that direction. He let himself be carried along by the crowd onto the terrace, to find someone had set up a small stage at one end. Sullivan stood there, his arm around the shoulders of a painfully thin woman with a feather boa wrapped around her shoulders. She wore a long evening dress, its delicate pink fabric decorated with swirls of silver beads, with a lace hem. An elaborate multi-tiered cake, festooned with sparklers, towered over them both.
“Thank you all for coming to celebrate my lovely wife’s birthday!” Sullivan said, his voice magically amplified to boom out over the crowd. A ragged cheer went up, glasses lifted high. Sullivan took a champagne glass from a waiter and held it aloft. “A toast to the best woman I’ve ever known, Gladys Sullivan!”
On that cue, dozens of fireworks went off from within the garden, streaking into the sky with shrill whistles. Fiery shades of green, blue, pink, and lilac burst against the night sky. They writhed together to form the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GLADYS in huge letters, framed by more fireworks that exploded into the likeness of roses, daisies, and tulips.
As the fireworks painted the night, servers threaded through the crowd, passing out silver-wrapped boxes to the women and gold-wrapped to the men. “Just a little thank-you for joining us,” Sullivan said.
Cries of delight competed with the fireworks as guests ripped open their packages. The silver boxes turned out to hold diamond pins in the shape of gladiolas; the gold held pocket-watches studded with small diamonds. Sam couldn’t imagine what it had all cost—hundreds of thousands of dollars, certainly.
He opened his box and stared at the watch, its diamond studs catching the light. A hex on the opposite side insured it would remain wound, though of course the hex would need to be recharged periodically. It was the most expensive thing Sam had ever touched, the sort of thing he would never have dreamed of owning.
And Sullivan handed out a hundred of them as party favors without a second thought.
“Not bad,” Alistair said.
Sam jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me!” he scolded, even though what he felt was mostly relief. Alistair’s face was grim; he wanted to ask how the mission had gone, but he couldn’t in the midst of the crowd where anyone might overhear.
“Sorry. Old habits.” Alistair glanced at the sky. “Let’s get out of here. I hate fireworks.”