Chapter 30
30
T wo weeks later, Sam sat in the passenger seat of Wanda’s roadster, as Alistair drove him to a meeting with Sullivan.
The gunshot wound still hurt, but it was healing well. According to the doctors, he’d been extremely lucky, the bullet barely missing his kidney. The muscles were still healing, so he moved cautiously and used a cane, but he was alive.
Unlike Mom.
He’d called his family as soon as he was able to be wheeled to a phone. Dad had answered.
Mom died the same afternoon he and Vic finished the hex. It had been too late to save her by the time he’d arrived at the abandoned hotel.
It had always been too late.
“We all knew you were full of hot air,” Dad told him bitterly. “Once a failure, always a failure.”
The words played over and over again in his mind, during the long stretches of time between visitors when he lay recuperating on the ward.
He hadn’t told Alistair that part, just that Mom had died before he even had the chance to save her. Alistair held him while he cried, whispering soothing words of love and comfort. He’d left Sam’s side only when the nurses chased him out, growing even thinner over the week as though he couldn’t remember to eat for his worry.
After Sam was released from the hospital, they barely had any time to enjoy being home again, before the phone rang and Turner told Sam to come to the flower shop for a meeting with Sullivan. Though politely phrased, it hadn’t been a request.
“I don’t like this,” Alistair said as he pulled up to the curb in front of the shop. Post Mother’s Day, the windows were filled with wedding bouquets meant to tempt June brides.
Sam cast him a fond smile. “What? You don’t like something? Unheard of.”
Alistair glowered at him. “You know what I mean. Why does Sullivan want to talk to you?”
“I guess we’ll find out when we go inside.”
Alistair looked as though he wanted to say more, but instead climbed out of the car and came around to help Sam out. The rubber foot of his cane tapped softly on the sidewalk, then the wooden floor inside.
Sullivan wasn’t downstairs, but before Sam could ask the new shop boy for him, Turner appeared from the back. “Good to see you on your feet, Mr. Cunningham.”
“It’s good to be on my feet,” he replied.
“Come on up. Mr. Sullivan is waiting. Do you need help with the stairs?”
Alistair caught Sam’s elbow. “I’m all the help he needs.”
Sam fought not to roll his eyes; Turner looked amused. Together they went up the stairs, more slowly than usual. Sam winced once or twice; he’d have to take a pain hex once they were home.
When they reached the door to Sullivan’s office, Turner put a hand in front of Alistair. “Mr. Sullivan would like a private word.”
“Mr. Sullivan can?—”
“It’s fine,” Sam said quickly. “Just stay out here. I won’t be long.”
Alistair didn’t look at all happy, but he gave Sam a quick nod. Rather than sit down with the men of Sullivan’s gang who were lounging around, he folded his arms and leaned against the wall, glaring at nothing in particular.
Alistair had always been protective, and he’d been through a scare. It made sense…but Sam was ready to stand on his own two feet.
Sullivan sat on the other side of his desk, going through some papers. When Sam came in, he stood up and came over to him, settling a hand on each of Sam’s arms. “Mr. Cunningham, it’s so good to see you up and about. You had quite the close call.”
“You could say that,” Sam agreed.
Turner shut the door behind them as Sullivan ushered Sam solicitously to a chair. “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Coffee? Water? A pain hex?”
“No; I’m fine, thank you.”
Even though it was before noon, Sullivan went to his sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, before settling back in his chair. “You’re doing well, then?”
“Yes.” Sam swallowed—he knew he shouldn’t be too bold, ask too many questions of a gang boss…but he’d almost died thanks to Vic. “Did you know Vic killed Bobby?”
“Before the night you were shot, I take it.” Sullivan took a sip of his whiskey and sat back. “If I say no, will you believe me?”
Sam considered a moment. “Yes. Because if you’d known, you wouldn’t have let Bobby’s body go to the funeral home and cause a fuss.”
“I knew you were smart.” Sullivan studied him carefully. “I should ask you the same question, but if you were in on it with Vic, you would have used the hex to save yourself, instead of relying on surgeons.”
A weight fell across Sam’s shoulders. “I still don’t know how I worked beside him all that time and never guessed.”
“He fooled us both. And I don’t consider myself a man easily fooled.” Sullivan took another drink, then locked eyes with Sam. “Can the hex be recreated?”
For his son. Unlike Sam, Sullivan wouldn’t balk at killing someone in exchange for the life of someone he loved.
If the hex had existed and was widely known, would Sam’s parents have sacrificed him in exchange for saving Jake?
Sam pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter now.
Sullivan killed as a matter of business; of course he’d do it to save his own flesh and blood. The problem was what would come after. Vic had been wrong about a lot of things, but the possibility of making money from it, even if it meant killing someone for every rich client who approached, looking for either health or immortality…
Thankfully, Sam didn’t have to either lie or find out what Sullivan would do with such power and opportunity. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Vic made sure of it. He was always careful to keep me from understanding the whole of what we were doing, then burned the lab so no one else could piece it together, either. He never wanted it to slip out of his control, I think.”
Because control was what Vic really wanted, in the end. So much tragedy had happened to him, things he hadn’t been able to stop or change. Death and loss were so very capricious; who wouldn’t be tempted to put their hand on the scale of fate, given the chance?
“I had my men comb the ashes…but he was too thorough.” Sullivan looked away, lost in his thoughts. Alistair said he’d promised to make his son well; the stark realization he had to break that promise must be crushing.
Sullivan was too much the hardened gangster to let such feelings show, however. Instead, he tossed back the rest of his whiskey and moved on. “I have something for you, to thank you and Gatti for your part in stopping Victor.”
He reached into his papers and pulled something out, passing it to Sam. Sam frowned to see his own name on it…then his eyes widened. “Wait—is this the deed to Eldon’s house?”
“No—it’s your house now. I convinced your aunt and uncle to sell it to me at a bargain price.”
What tactics he’d used to do that convincing, Sam didn’t know. A month ago, he might have asked. Now, he only said, “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”
Sullivan waved his hand, as if it were nothing. “You need somewhere comfortable to recuperate. And, lest you think my motives are pure, I want you healthy so you can continue to work for me.”
Sam wasn’t surprised. “Of course.”
“Don’t agree too quickly.” Sullivan flashed him a wry smile. “The hexworks will be back in business in a few days. I already have a new place set up. Once everything is ready, I’d like you to take Vic’s place as the head of operations.”
For the first time since the conversation began, Sam found himself wrong-footed. “You…want me to be in charge?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” he blurted out. “I mean, why me?”
“Your talent. Your skill.” Sullivan put aside his empty tumbler and lit a cigar. “Vic told me you have a special gift, and I agree. I want that talent working for me. You’ll have Glenda Walker and Luke Gallo reporting directly to you, just as they did with Vic. And you will report only to me.” The cigar smoke curled into an abstract shape, before drifting away. “What do you say, Mr. Cunningham? Will you do it?”
It would mean getting drawn even deeper into Sullivan’s world. Into the gang. It wouldn’t be prudent.
“Once a failure, always a failure.”
Sam met his eyes directly. “Yes.”
The drive home was quiet. Alistair concentrated on the road, while trying to decide how he felt about Sam’s new job.
A part of him was furious at Sullivan for dragging Sam even further into the world of the Chicago gangs. Another, different part, was…proud.
Sam was brilliant. To have risen so far so fast…well, it might not be safe, but it was damned impressive.
Once they returned home, Alistair helped Sam inside, trying not to hover. He could tell Sam was tired even after such a short trip, and so guided them both to the couch and sat down.
Sam let out a grateful sigh as he settled back into the cushions. “I’m so tired of being exhausted all the time.”
“It will pass. You’re still healing.” Alistair gazed at the face of his beloved, noting the fragile shadows still clinging around his eyes. The constellation of freckles across his nose. The smudged glasses, and auburn curls, and the love that swelled in his own heart nearly stole his breath away.
He was so, so lucky he hadn’t lost Sam. So damned grateful to still have him.
“I’m proud of you,” he added, because he hadn’t said it aloud yet.
Sam’s eyes widened slightly, and he smiled tentatively. “For what?”
“Everything you’ve accomplished. Your new promotion.”
“I thought you’d be upset.”
“Well…I wish you were in a safer line of work. But that’s for you to choose…and, after what happened to me in jail, I’d be the pot calling the kettle black.” He hesitated, asking himself if the timing was right, if he should wait…
No. He’d waited long enough.
His shifted his body on the couch so he was facing Sam, and took one of his hands. Sam looked at him quizzically.
“I’ve been afraid of a lot of things,” he said. “Afraid of you getting hurt, then afraid you were leaving me for Nagorski, and then terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you in time. I was cursing us both that night for not having bonded so I could find you.” He drew a deep breath and let it out. “But fear is the worst reason to make a lifelong commitment. It’s a tainted foundation to try and build on.”
“Okay…” Sam said slowly. “I’m not disagreeing with you so far.”
“Good. Because I want you to know, I’m not asking out of fear. I’m asking because I love you more than anything in this world. Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He met Sam’s gaze. “Will you bond with me and be my witch?”
Sam’s lips parted in shock—then he blinked rapidly as tears formed in his eyes. “Yes. Yes!”
Alistair laughed with sheer joy, and they embraced. “All right. Okay. We, uh, we need a hex.”
Sam was smiling so wide he could barely speak. “Bring me my hexmaking kit and a glass of water.”
Alistair hurried to comply, though Sam set the glass of water aside rather than drink from it. His short fingers flew over the paper, inscribing a hex with a couple of different inks. “All right; it’s done.”
Alistair reached out and tenderly framed Sam’s face with his hands, then pressed his lips tenderly to Sam’s forehead. “Let me in, Sam,” he breathed, and kissed him again.
The magic in him surged forward, hungrily. It felt as though some soft membrane gave way before it, and the taste of blood filled Alistair’s mouth briefly.
Sam made a startled sound. Alistair drew back, already feeling the first seed of warmth behind his heart. “Now close your eyes and look through my own.”
He slid into cheetah form. And for the first time in years, he felt another presence with him. Warm, loving; everything he’d ever wanted and more.
“Wow,” Sam breathed. Then, “I thought there would be more color. Do I, uh, charge the hex now?”
Still in cheetah form, Alistair nodded. Sam looked at the hex, and then…
It was like water flowing out from an opened dam, through the bright spark now lodged behind Alistair’s heart. Sam’s entire face lit up at the feeling, and he laughed aloud. Placing the hex against the water glass, he said, “Sparkle for me!”
A fountain of sparks burst from the water, like a miniature fireworks display. It was one of the hexes they used at The Pride, the sort people would pay extra for just for the wonder and dazzle of it all.
Sam laughed again and opened his arms, beaming with joy. Alistair scrambled up onto the couch, leaning his body against Sam’s as Sam hugged him tight. He breathed deep of Sam’s scent, an involuntarily purr rumbling up his throat.
He wished the moment would never end.
It did, of course. “I love you,” Sam whispered, scratching Alistair’s head behind his ear. “I wish we could celebrate properly. Maybe after a nap…”
Alistair head-butted him gently. Then he settled down on the couch, head in Sam’s lap, and purred until they both fell asleep.