Chapter 23
23
A listair didn’t think it would take long for Johnston to return to The Pride. He was proved right when the agent appeared the very next night.
Along with his siblings, he’d come up with a plan. As soon as Johnston appeared, Doris escorted him to the back office, while Teresa took her position at the door. A few moments later, Doris stuck her head into the office. “The prohee is here to see you.”
Johnston stepped past her, his face dark with anger. Doris remained in the hall, eyes sharp; if he started any trouble, she’d be in tiger form in an instant.
Alistair’s nerves thrummed as he turned his chair to face Johnston. Wanda leaned back in her own chair, seemingly casual. She didn’t offer Johnston a seat.
“What’re you playing at?” Johnston asked without preamble, pointing in Alistair’s direction. “Fabiano expects you to follow through when dealing with her, and I expect the same with me. You double-cross her, I have to ask myself if you’re going to do the same with me.”
“Fabiano can go to hell,” Alistair said. “And you can join her.”
Wanda cleared her throat. “Let me handle this,” she said, then turned her attention back to Johnston. “I’m truly sorry that Bobby died in this establishment, but we didn’t kill him. We’ve attempted to cooperate with you, but as you’re clearly unsatisfied with the results, I suggest we part ways.”
Johnston’s face flushed dark with anger. “Remember who I work for. One phone call, and this joint will be closed down, the booze will be destroyed, and you’ll be in jail.”
Wanda’s expression remained unruffled. “As a matter of fact, Agent Johnston, I do remember who you work for. I imagine your superiors wouldn’t be happy to learn who killed William Stein.”
His skin went from ruddy to pale in an instant. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” She took a cigarette from her case and lit it as she spoke. “He was a restaurant owner, was he not? You tried to get him to pay a hefty bribe—the number was five-thousand dollars, I believe—to look the other way while he sold liquor. He refused, an argument broke out, and soon Mr. Stein was dead on the floor of his dining room. They can match bullets to guns these days—I wonder what would happen if the one dug out of his body was compared to your service weapon?”
Johnston’s expression went stony. “Who told you this?”
“A witness. There was someone else there you didn’t see,” Wanda lied with aplomb. In fact Viola had told them, after Johnston bragged about it to her in bed. A potential witness would feel more threatening, though, especially since it would leave Johnston paranoid and guessing as to who it could be.
“Who? I want a name,” Johnston demanded, as if there was some possibility they’d tell him in any event.
Wanda smiled politely, which was all the answer to that he was going to get. “Now, I know your bosses probably look the other way when it comes to corruption, so long as you pass some of the profits their way. Bribery is an old law enforcement tradition, after all; no reason it should be different in this modern age. But murder? That’s messy. It draws unnecessary attention. In short, it’s bad for business.”
Johnston’s teeth clenched. “You fucking animal. I ought to…”
Alistair slid from his chair and into cheetah form in a single, easy motion. Behind Johnston, Doris shifted into her tiger shape.
Alistair’s lips drew back from his teeth, and a growl rumbled deep in his throat. He let all the animosity he felt toward Johnston out at last, and the fear in the agent’s eyes brought a certain satisfaction after all they’d been put through.
“You’re going to leave now,” Wanda said, taking a long pull from her cigarette. “You aren’t coming back, and neither are any of your friends, either in the government or in Fabiano’s gang. Do we have an understanding, Agent Johnston?”
He swallowed thickly. “I can’t control Fabiano.”
“Try.” She leaned over and flicked ash into the ashtray. “I wish you luck finding the culprit who murdered Bobby. Doris will see you out.”
Over the next few days, Sam worked feverishly alongside Vic during the day, then stumbled home to place a call to the hospital to check on his mother. Her condition was slowly deteriorating, the brief periods of consciousness gone, a fever set in that the hexes had so far managed to keep to a minimum.
Sooner or later, her broken body would give out. She’d die.
And it would be all his fault.
He knew Alistair wouldn’t agree, so he kept the thought to himself. But the guilt drove him out of bed early in the morning and kept him in the lab until late at night.
The few minutes they saw one another, Alistair was unfailingly kind, understanding perhaps why Sam couldn’t spare any time for him at the moment. He took over the chores that Sam usually did, which unfortunately included the cooking. Sam ate the brisket reduced to charcoal and sipped the acidic coffee without complaint, warmed by the gesture if not the food.
Once he was at the lab, though, he could forget his guilt and fear for a few hours. The work was progressing rapidly as he and Vic pored through ancient tomes and scoured every item from the medieval lab for clues.
The ashes that formed the basis of the medicine changed from white to gold. There were only two more steps remaining, according to Vic.
They searched the old hexmaker’s belongings for some clue as to the next. While Vic read through tomes they’d already looked at time and time again, Sam stepped back and tried to take in the lab as a whole.
The old hexmaker had been cautious, not wanting the uninitiated to find her secrets. Where might she have tucked something away? Where hadn’t they already looked?
Ralph, the ancient stuffed crocodile, seemed to grin toothily down from the ceiling.
Sam grabbed a chair and dragged it over beneath the hanging taxidermy. “Sam?” Vic started in puzzlement, then let out a soft sound of understanding. “Here, let me—I’m taller.”
Sam steadied him while Vic climbed on top of the chair and unhooked Ralph. He passed the small crocodile down to Sam as he hopped back down.
Ralph had been opened up and sewn back together along his underside, the ancient stitches frayed but still intact. Sam grabbed a pen knife and carefully slit them open. Sawdust spilled out, as the skin split apart.
“Just shake it out,” Vic said.
Hands trembling, Sam emptied the sawdust onto the floor. A folded piece of parchment fluttered to the ground amidst it.
Vic snatched it up, went to the desk, and began to carefully unfold it. The parchment broke along the folds, but the picture it made when flattened out was clear.
An element of a hex, and one that Sam instantly recognized. “Look—this is for incorporating one substance into another. If we place it here…”
Taking up a pen, he went to the hex they’d been working on and added the element.
There. It was whole—he was sure of it, could feel it all the way down in the marrow of his bones.
Vic’s eyes lit up. “Sam…you’ve done it,” he said in a hushed, almost reverent, voice. “You found the last key.” Beaming, he put his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “This changes everything. You have no idea how important this is.”
A surge of triumph—pride, even—ran through Sam. He’d done it.
He was going to save Mom. He was going to show Opal and Dad, and everyone else, that he could be relied on after all.
They’d finally see him, and not just Jake’s shadow.
“Is that it?” he asked. “We cast this on the gold ashes and the result can cure my mom?”
“Not quite. There is a final step—but I’m well aware of it takes. Ironically, I began with the end of the process and had to puzzle out the beginning.”
“Will it take long?”
“No. Not at all.”
Vic seemed to pause, then looked straight at him. Dark fire burned in his black eyes, and Sam was taken back by his sudden intensity. “Do you trust me?”
Did he? Vic had never given him any reason not to, but…that look…
Now wasn’t the time for hesitation. “Y-Yes,” Sam said, then more firmly, “Yes.”
“Good man.” Vic smiled and dropped his hands from Sam’s shoulders. “We can’t complete the final step here, where Sullivan can get his hands on the hex. He’ll waste its potential. Corrupt it.”
Alarm bells sounded in Sam’s mind. Sullivan wouldn’t look kindly on any attempt to keep his prize away from him. “You mean he’ll try to make money off it?” he asked uncertainly.
“Among other things.” Vic gestured at the lab around them. “The hexmakers of old went to great lengths to conceal their knowledge, and for good reason. They sought to use magic to purify, to uplift. To discover the knowledge of the gods, and use it for the benefit of humankind. Mickey Sullivan is exactly the sort of person they wanted to guard against.”
Vic wasn’t wrong, but… “We’ll use it to cure his son, right?”
“Of course. And your mother.” Vic stepped back. “I have one last thing to arrange. Everything should be in place by tomorrow morning at the latest. Don’t come to work; instead, meet me in Jackson Park. From there, we’ll go to a private location.” He paused, meeting Sam’s eyes again. “We’ll need to bond in order to charge the final hex. I don’t trust it in anyone else’s hands.”
Sam’s heart plummeted. Seeing his expression, Vic gently said, “We’ll be good together, Sam. You’ll see. Creating a true panacea, a hex that can heal any illness or injury, will only be the beginning.”
Alistair would be furious. Or worse, heartbroken.
But Mom would live.
Alistair would just have to understand. “All right,” Sam said. “I’ll meet you there.”