31. Let Me Call You Sweetheart
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
Did it work?
Three months after the explosion, Elias Shaw was counting money for Al Capone, still waiting for an answer.
Capone’s basement smelled like mold, syrupy red wine, cigarette smoke . . . and a particular brand of desperation that came from counting other people’s money while two gorillas watched you like you might sprout wings and fly away with it.
Elias sat at a folding table under a single bare bulb, sorting bills into neat stacks by denomination. Ones. Fives. Tens. Twenties. The occasional fifty that made his guards tense up and lean forward, as if a fifty-dollar bill might be the thing that finally inspired Elias to make a break for it.
Three. Months.
His hands moved automatically now—grab, check, sort, stack. Grab, check, sort, stack. The rhythm was hypnotic in the worst possible way.
Luna, did it work?
The question circled his mind like a vulture, constant and patient. He’d been asking himself that same question since the moment he woke up in that alley, dressed like some kind of psychedelic nightmare, with no memory of how he got there.
The last thing he remembered clearly: Burke’s spell screaming toward the rack. Himself, dropping to the floor. The explosion. The feedback wave hitting him like a building collapse. Colors that didn’t have names.
Then Chicago, 1926. Then three months in a basement. And no way to learn what happened on a day that hadn’t happened yet.
One of the guards—Little Tuna, presumably not his Christian name—shifted his weight and cracked his knuckles.
The sound echoed in the basement like a gunshot, but Elias didn’t look up.
He’d learned early on that looking up got interpreted as “planning something,” and planning something got you a visit from Pete’s meaty fists.
Does Luna lie awake at night thinking of me, too? Or does she dream only of how I failed her?
These questions kept him awake at night, staring up at the chipped plaster ceiling in a flophouse. He’d tried to warn the Melroses. Called the inn, tried to tell them about Burke’s wards. But Delilah had recognized his voice and hung up on him.
Which . . . fair enough. He’d stolen from Luna. Betrayed her trust. Gone after Burke because his personal revenge had been more important. More important than the woman he’d loved too late.
Elias finished counting a stack of twenties and banded them with a paper wrapper. Set them aside. Reached for the next pile.
Did the explosion destroy CastR like we planned? Or did I just blow up a building and accomplish nothing? Is magic safe? And, coming around again on the merry-go-round of misery that was his brain: Does she still hate me?
The worst part was, he couldn’t even blame her if she did hate him. He’d earned it.
Was that it? Is this my punishment? Luna’s revenge? Or maybe I didn’t survive that explosion at all. Maybe I died at that data center, and this is Hell.
Certainly smells like it.
He grabbed another stack of bills. Started sorting. Ones. Fives. Tens.
The other guard, whose name he’d never learned, walked over and reached into Elias’s jacket pockets.
This happened every hour, with the regularity of a railroad schedule.
Checking for stolen bills, though Elias had never been stupid enough to try it.
Not because he was above stealing from Capone—morally speaking, he’d done far worse—but because there was literally nowhere to run.
Burke’s people were still looking for him. That was the bitch of it, really.
“You done?”
Little Tuna’s voice made him jump. The last stack was finished, neatly banded and labeled. “Yeah,” he said. “All accounted for.”
Tuna grunted and gestured toward the stairs. “Go get some air. Be back in an hour.”
Elias stood, his knees protesting. He’d been sitting for six hours straight.
“Don’t try anything cute,” the other guard added, which was hilarious because what exactly was he going to try? To run? Where?
He climbed the stairs, pushed through the door at the top, and stepped out into the alley behind the speakeasy.
The Chicago afternoon air hit him like a brick wall: noise and smoke and jazz music drifting from an open door down the block.
The shouts of a pushcart vendor. Two women in cloche hats walked past, laughing at some private joke.
Elias leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes.
Three months, and everything still felt wrong.
Before Luna, he’d been fine with this life. Fine with grifting and running cons, surviving in the spaces between legal and illegal. Before Luna, the 1920s had been home. Chaotic and dangerous, sure, but his.
Now he was like a ghost wearing the wrong body.
He opened his eyes and stared at the narrow strip of sky visible between the buildings.
Is she okay?
Did I at least manage to save her, even if she hates me for how I did it?
He walked another block, then another, letting his feet carry him on autopilot while his mind spun in useless circles.
Eventually Elias found himself ended outside Lou Mitchell’s, a diner he’d been to a few times.
Vivi’s favorite spot, actually. She liked the coffee and the way the owner didn’t ask questions.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Vivi appeared on the far side of the street.
She was beautiful in that specific Roaring Twenties way: sharp bob, perfect makeup, clothes that cost more than Shaw made in a month of counting money.
She crossed the street to kiss his cheek.
“Good afternoon, partner,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. ”
He forced a smile. “Here I am.”
“Come on. I’m buying you lunch.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I insist.” Vivi linked her arm through his and steered him into the diner. “You look like death warmed over, sugar. When’s the last time you ate?”
Elias couldn’t remember.
They settled into a booth in the back, and Vivi ordered for both of them with the easy confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether she belonged anywhere.
“So.” She leaned forward with her chin on her hands. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Elias.” Her voice sharpened. “You’ve been like this for months. Ever since you showed up in that ridiculous outfit with no explanation.”
He looked down at his coffee. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re different. Distant. You used to have drive, ambition. You used to want things.”
“I still want things.”
“Like what? Counting money in a basement until you’re ninety?” Her eyes narrowed. “You think Capone’s gonna promote you if you don’t make moves? Listen, I’ve got a grift running over on Millionaire’s Row. It’s got your name written all over it. Let’s get back to work, you and me.”
“I’m not looking to get back into the game, Vivi.”
“Then what are you looking for?”
He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had an answer, but not one she’d ever understand.
He was looking for absolution. For confirmation that Luna was alive and safe. For some sign that he hadn’t destroyed everything that mattered.
“I took you in when you appeared with no explanation,” Vivi continued, her voice softer now. “Didn’t ask questions when you wouldn’t tell me where you’d been.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Do you?” Vivi reached across the table and gave his hand a friendly squeeze. “Because it doesn’t feel like you appreciate anything anymore. It feels like you’re just . . . going through the motions. Like you’re waiting for something that’s never going to come.”
Elias looked at her and felt a wave of something that might have been guilt or grief or maybe just exhaustion.
Vivi was smart. Ambitious. Practical. She was easily the best grifter on the south side, arguably one of the best in the whole damn city. But she wasn’t Luna.
“I think I need some air.”
Her expression tightened. “We just sat down.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just—” He needed space, needed to think . . . needed to be anywhere but here having this conversation. “I need a minute.”
“Elias—”
“I’ll be right back.” He strode out of the diner before she could stop him, and stepped into the alley behind the building.
The afternoon sun slanted between the buildings, warm on his face. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing a trumpet, badly but with enthusiasm. He leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said to the empty alley.
To the universe. To any god who might be listening.
“I don’t know if she’s alive. I don’t know if I succeeded or failed.
I don’t know if she’s dead or imprisoned or if she just—” His voice cracked.
“If she just hates me too much to come back for me.”
That was it, wasn’t it? That was the real fear, underneath everything else.
Maybe Luna could come back for him. Maybe she had the power, the connections, the magical ability to open a portal to 1926.
Maybe she just didn’t want to. Maybe she’d decided he wasn’t worth the effort.
He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the dirty alley ground, his head in his hands.
“I get it,” he said again, quieter this time. “I earned this. But I don’t know how to— I don’t know if—”
The air rippled.
The alley was changing. No, not changing. Opening. Light fractured across the brick wall, bending in directions that didn’t exist in normal geometry. A sound rose, low and resonant, the kind of hum that came from machinery or magic or both.
Elias scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. A portal was opening. Right here. Right now. His first thought was: Burke found me.
His second thought was: Good. At least it’ll be over at last.
But then—
Luna stepped into the alley like she owned the entire neighborhood. Her clothes were eminently practical: trousers, boots, a jacket that looked modern but not aggressively so. Her hair was pulled back. She had a clipboard in one hand.