Chapter 19
19
A listair clutched the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went pale. The firework display had reminded him too much of shells: the incoming whistle, the ear-shattering explosions. He’d caught a glimpse of a waiter’s face gone white as death, nostrils flared and eyes wide as he fought to deny the instinct to take shelter, while rich idiots snatched champagne flutes from his shaking tray.
Poor bastard. Hopefully he was being paid well, though Alistair doubted it. Sullivan splashed out on watches and diamond brooches for people he wanted to impress, people who for the most part already had more money than they knew what to do with. The only use for a waiter was to stand there holding a tray, collect empty glasses, and get more booze to hand out. Honest work, which couldn’t be said about any of the guests, himself included.
As he drove, he told Sam about the scene he’d overheard in the bedroom. Sam listened intently, and his eyes grew excited when Alistair mentioned the tablet.
“I thought it might be something like that,” he said. “The second hex was for purification, the next has something to do with spirit…sustaining the spark of life, perhaps?” He shook his head, as if returning to the present. “So did you get it, or…?”
Alistair forced his teeth to unclench. “Of course not. Sullivan’s kid needs this. I’m not going to let a child die just because Fabiano asked.”
“I didn’t mean—I know that.” Sam reached across and put a hand on his tense shoulder. “What do you think she’s—Fabiano’s—going to do when you tell her?”
“I’ll offer her a chance to ask for a different favor.” Traffic slowed to a crawl, and he bit back the desire to use the horn.
“Do you think she’ll let you?” Sam asked worriedly.
“No. I think she’ll try to come after me to prove a point. Which is why I need to act first.”
Sam’s eyes were wide and dark. “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ll talk to Wanda first thing in the morning.” Sam still looked worried, so he changed the subject. “Did you enjoy the party?”
“Not really.” Sam dropped his hand back to his lap. “It all felt very…desperate.”
“Interesting way to put it.”
“Vic thinks excess is an attempt to try and outrun death. Or at least forget it exists.”
Alistair frowned at Nagorski’s name, but said, “He’s not wrong.” Traffic began flowing more rapidly again. “People drink and do hexes and spend money like water so they don’t have to feel. So they can distract themselves from memories of their buddies dying in the mud, or their relatives gasping for breath while their lungs filled up and their skin turned blue.”
“Yeah.” Sam sighed. “Oh, and Vic asked me to bond with him.”
Alistair’s head whipped around. “What the f?—”
“Look out!”
He braked hard, the roadster coming to a halt a hairsbreadth from the bumper of the car that had come to a stop in front of them. This time he did blow the horn. “Get off the damned road if you can’t drive!”
“Alistair,” Sam said reproachfully.
The car in front of them made a turn, and Alistair stepped on the gas, the engine roaring like Wanda as he sped past. His heart pounded and his mouth had gone dry, though it took a moment for him to realize it was from fear.
“But you aren’t considering bonding,” he said through a throat gone tight. “You told him to buzz off, right?”
Sam didn’t answer nearly fast enough for his liking. “He told me to think about it.”
“And you told him you didn’t need to.”
“I love you,” Sam said, which wasn’t a confirmation. “You know I do. I know you aren’t ready to bond, might never be, and that’s all right. It won’t change anything between us.”
Panic closed around Alistair’s throat. It would change things, he knew that from experience. It had with Forrest.
He pulled up in front of the house and shut off the engine, which ticked loudly as it cooled. He licked dry lips and rubbed his palms against his trousers. “Let’s bond. Now. Tonight.”
He held his breath, not daring to look at Sam. A loud exhalation came from Sam’s side of the car.
“No, Alistair,” he said gently. “I’m not going to. Not like this.”
Then he got out of the car and shut the door behind him.
Sam didn’t know whether to curse Alistair for putting him in such a position, or pity him.
Pity won out, as he fumbled for the keys to Eldon’s—their?—house. Alistair was prone to extremes when he was scared, first trying to send Sam away, now trying to clutch him close the only way he knew how. Unable to realize he didn’t need to do either.
The offer hadn’t been real, but desperate. Please don’t leave me rather than I’m finally ready. Offering Sam something he really wanted, but forcing him to turn it down so it wouldn’t sour their relationship.
The phone rang as he entered the house, startling him. Who the hell would be calling this time of night—or morning, technically.
Still, he answered it. “Cunningham residence.”
“Sammy, it’s Ed.”
For a moment, his mind froze, the voice and name so unexpected he almost couldn’t place them. “Ed Dwight?” he croaked.
“Of course,” his brother-in-law said impatiently. “Listen, I’m calling from the hospital. There’s been a…a robbery.”
Sam’s heart plummeted into his shoes. Someone had been hurt in the robbery; it was the only reason Ed would call. “Wh-what happened?”
“Your mother was shot. She’s in bad shape, Sammy.” Ed’s voice trembled, then firmed on his next words. “You need to come home, right now.”
He felt as though he were in a dream, trapped in slow motion. “I’ll be on the first train.”
“See that you are.” The line went dead.
Sam stared at it for a long moment, before carefully replacing the handset in its cradle. Alistair had come in behind him; Sam turned and saw his eyes dark with worry. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”
“My mom.” Sam swallowed, feeling as though a weight pressed down on his shoulders. “I have to go home.”