1
The rumrunner waited for them behind a burned-out building just north of Chicago.
Philip steered the Model T truck over the bumpy ground, every pothole jarring Alistair’s spine. Doris sat in the wooden bed behind them, the occasional lights reflecting in her eyes. The moon had set with the sun, clouds blotting out the stars. The electric glow of the city tapered out a mile back, the only illumination from the headlights.
They pulled up beside the rumrunner’s truck and climbed out. The rumrunner strode toward them, her hair hidden under a cap and her clothes—and no doubt weapons—mainly concealed by a long overcoat. The nights still held a definite chill in April, and Alistair had to resist the temptation to stick his hands in his pockets. No sense in making anyone think he was reaching for a concealed gun.
“About time you showed up,” she said, shooting a glare at Philip.
“We’re right on schedule, Camille,” Philip replied. He was a big man, solidly built in contrast to Alistair’s own lean ranginess. The headlights washed out his pale, almost colorless hair and gleamed in his yellow-gray eyes. “Do you have the goods?”
One of Camille’s men flung back the tarp covering the crates stacked in the back of their truck. “Straight down from Canada,” she said. “Do you have my scratch?”
Alistair removed a thick envelope from inside his jacket and passed it to her. She looked inside, quickly thumbed the stack of bills, and then vanished it into her own oversized coat. “A pleasure doing business with you. Load ‘em up, boys.”
“Not just yet,” Philip said, holding up his hand.
Camille rolled her eyes. “We’ve always dealt straight with you, Gatti. Do you have to do this every time? It’s a little insulting.”
“Sounds like what someone who’s planning a crooked deal might say,” Alistair observed.
Camille focused on him, her eyes narrowed in anger. Philip merely looked pained. “You aren’t supposed to say that part out loud, Alistair,” he muttered.
This was why Philip was the front man, and Alistair usually stayed in back and counted the money. Ordinarily their busboy, a burly young man by the name of Frank, would come along and help move boxes. But Frank had run off to Mexico with his sweetheart a week ago, so Alistair volunteered to come just this once.
He didn’t regret speaking up, even though he’d obviously pissed off Camille. She might not be slipping them watered down hooch—or worse, booze doctored with rubbing alcohol or gasoline—but she’d thought about it.
Of course she had. You couldn’t trust anyone, certainly not in this business.
Camille took a threatening step forward. Her hand dipped toward her pocket—she was definitely packing heat. “I don’t like your tone,” she said. Her goons shifted, not yet pointing guns, but waiting on the signal.
Apparently, they’d forgotten who they were dealing with.
A warning growl sounded from the darkness near the truck. Nothing showed of Doris: not a hair, not a whisker, not even the gleam of eyes in the night. But she was out there, and she wasn’t happy.
Shotguns were all well and good, but an angry tiger was even better.
The men paled, and the chilly air smelled suddenly of fear. Camille’s eyes darted to the shadows, then to Philip and Alistair. Taking in Philip’s yellow-tinged eyes and Alistair’s deep amber. Remembering, no doubt, why the Gatti family might work with the gangs, but hadn’t been subsumed by them.
Not that the Gattis were related by blood. No one would look at pale, sturdy Philip and think Alistair, with his rangy body and Italian looks, was his literal brother, or brown-skinned Doris his sister. But the bonds between them were no less for it.
Camille stepped back and gestured to the crates. “Work your magic, then.”
“Thank you.” Philip took out a leather wallet, shuffled through its contents, then removed a sheet of paper with an elaborate hex drawn on it. He chose a crate from amidst the pile. One of Camille’s men unloaded it, opened the lid, and stood back.
Philip held the hex over the bottles packed securely in straw. Joel and Wanda had charged it earlier, so he spoke the activation phrase: “Reveal to me the impure.”
Alistair barely kept from rolling his eyes. Eldon, their hexman, had such a flare for the dramatic it was ridiculous.
If any of the booze had been cut or otherwise tampered with, a betraying yellow glow would appear. This time, at least, there was nothing.
“See?” Camille snapped at Alistair. “It’s good.”
“This time,” he replied.
Her scowl deepened. Philip hastily stepped between them. “Thank you for your indulgence, Camille, and I apologize for my brother.”
“Maybe you ought to keep your ‘brother’ on a tighter leash, then.” She folded her arms angrily over her chest. “When we first went into business together, I told you I wouldn’t haul anything but the real McCoy. Now you bring this asshole along to insinuate my word’s no good?”
“Of course I trust you,” Philip replied with his charming smile. “But you get the stuff from somewhere, and it’s them I’m not so certain about.”
Alistair and Philip stood back while Camille’s men went to work. Doris emerged from the shadows in human form, dressed in boots and denim overalls, a cap pulled down over her sleek black hair. Despite the cold, she wore her sleeves rolled up to display muscular arms. Her pale yellow eyes were startling against the brown skin of her face, and one man nearly dropped a box in fear when she drew close to him.
A long time ago, it had bothered Alistair, how frightened people were just because he could turn into a cheetah, or Philip into a snow leopard, or Wanda a lioness. No one wanted to adopt a so-called dangerous breed of familiar; even witches feared them, as though they had less ability to reason than the animals whose forms they took. Seeing the fear on someone’s face had hurt, made Alistair want to do something, anything, to prove that he wasn’t a wild animal ready to lash out.
Then the war happened. And now here they all were, back together again and calling themselves the Gatti family, working in a business where that fear was all to their advantage. Not even the toughest gang leaders wanted to run the risk of waking up to find a tiger in their bedroom.
Thank God, Sullivan wasn’t the toughest gang leader, just the smartest.
When the shipment was transferred, Camille tipped her hat to them. “Safe travel home,” she said. “I’ll see you next time.”
She climbed into her truck, along with her men. Within minutes, the chug of the engine faded away into the darkness.
“Will there be a next time?” Doris asked, leaning idly against the side of their own truck.
“Good question.” Philip turned to Alistair. “You’re such an asshole. This is why I don’t usually bring you along.”
Alistair grinned at him. “I love you, too.”
“Seriously, though,” Doris said. “We still doing business with her?”
They both looked to Alistair, since he was second in command after Wanda. “Camille’s thinking about double-crossing us,” he said. “Maybe she won’t now that she knows we’re suspicious, but the temptation is always going to be there.” He paused. “And once we get back, have Joel charge some more of those hexes. I want every bottle inspected, just in case she hid a bad batch near the back on the truck, where you wouldn’t look.”