“All right?” Sam said, obviously bewildered. Sullivan departed, his two goons following like twin shadows. When he was gone, Sam turned to Alistair. “Business? What business?” He looked down at the card. “Wait, this says he’s a florist?”
“He is. He probably arranged the flowers for the funeral personally, in fact. As for the meeting…” Alistair trailed off.
He didn’t like this. Doing business with the likes of Sullivan was a given for any number of people in Chicago, but Sam was an innocent who’d inherited the gang boss’s attention when Eldon died. What Sullivan meant to use him for, Alistair didn’t know, but the gangster clearly had something in mind.
“Probably something to do with Eldon,” he decided at last. “Turner mentioned your cousin was working on a project—which means a hex—for Sullivan. It could be that.”
Sam looked panicked. “But I don’t know anything! He taught me some of the basics, but I thought he worked for himself—I didn’t even know he had any connections to-to all this!”
“In that case, I suggest you pack your things and go back home. Convince your relations to take you in.”
Sam’s expression hardened. He straightened a little, shoulders lifting from their slump. “I told you. I’m not going back.”
So the kitten did have some claws after all. “Then go somewhere else. You have a whole country to pick from.”
“With what money?” Sam’s expression edged toward desperate. “The house, Eldon’s tools, his money—none of that belongs to me! He never said anything about a will, and even if he had one, he didn’t have time to put me in it.”
“Maybe his parents won’t want anything to do with the money,” Alistair suggested, even though he knew that was wildly optimistic.
“No, Aunt Flora and Uncle Gabe could use it,” Sam said glumly. “And it isn’t that they don’t deserve it, of course they do. More than me.”
“I strongly disagree with that statement.”
“You don’t understand.” The momentary fire in Sam had flickered and died. “I’ll find out what Mr. Sullivan wants. Maybe I can get a job sweeping floors somewhere.”
This was truly none of Alistair’s business. He didn’t want another witch, full stop. Sam was a stranger who just happened to be related to what amounted to a business associate. Plenty of people came to Chicago with no money and no plan and were just fine. It wasn’t as though any of them—Wanda, Philip, Doris, Teresa, or him—had anything more when they’d walked out of the orphanage all those years ago.
Not monetarily, anyway. But they’d had each other, whereas Sam was alone in the world.
Fur and feathers.
“I’ll go with you,” Alistair muttered.
Sam’s head came up. “Go where?”
“To Sullivan’s flower shop. I’ll say you don’t know anything about how things work, so you asked me to come along.”
Sam’s expression transformed to one of such gratitude that Alistair felt guilty. An offer to go somewhere didn’t seem like enough for such a reaction.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“Yeah, well.” Alistair stood up, suddenly desperate to get away. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
6
It was late by the time Sam walked home, his scarf tucked around his neck against the chill, his hands deep in his pockets. The day had been overwhelming, and all he wanted was to get back home and fall asleep.
There had been so many people at the funeral, so many complete strangers. At first, he’d been afraid Aunt Flora and Uncle Gabe would show up despite everything; when they hadn’t, he’d felt as though he could breathe again.
That’s what his time in Chicago had seemed like up until now. Being able to breathe at last.
All thanks to Eldon. But now Eldon was dead, and Sam had no choice but to stay in the house and pray no one turned up to kick him out before he could find a job. If only he had some skill worth mentioning. He might be able to get hired at one of the Walgreen Drug Stores scattered about the South Side, but it wouldn’t last. His own family had barely put up with him; any other employer would fire him within the week.
What was he going to do? If he couldn’t get a job, he wouldn’t be able to pay any of the bills, or eat once the food in the hexed ice box ran out, or do anything.
Maybe the meeting with Sullivan would point him in the right direction. He didn’t want to work for gangsters—he still didn’t know who had killed poor Eldon, but it could have something to do with his connection with the gangs. Probably did, since a robber would have stolen something, and as far as Sam could tell everything was still there. Sam really didn’t want to end up the next victim.
The meeting with Sullivan had him nervous…but at least Alistair had offered to go. He wouldn’t be alone.
Alistair. Sam didn’t quite know what to make of him. He was rude, and sharp-tongued, and so handsome he made Sam’s pulse race. But he’d come when Sam called the morning of the murder. He’d offered to go with him tomorrow, when Sam would never have dared to ask.
Though he thought Sam was a witch, for some reason. Which was ridiculous; Sam was just…Sam. As unremarkable as a potato.
Lost in thought, Sam didn’t notice the man lurking near the stoop, until a wiry shadow stepped in front of him.
Startled, Sam froze. The man wore a cap pulled low over a face that looked to have lost a few fights, and the hard eyes beneath the brim glared up at Sam in open challenge.
“S-Sorry,” Sam said, stepping to the side.
“You will be, if you don’t hand over the hex,” the man replied in a growl.
Sam’s heart sped and his hands felt numb. “I—what hex?”
The man took a threatening step closer. “Don’t play dumb with me. The hex Cunningham was working on.”
It didn’t make sense, but… “Did Mr. Sullivan send you?”
“Sullivan.” The name was spoken with a sneer. “That palooka’s going to get what’s coming to him. And so will you, if you don’t give me the hex right now.”
Sam glanced about wildly, but the street was quiet. A few blocks away, State Street teemed with life even at this hour, but here there was no one who might help. He could scream, wake up the neighbors…but what if the man had a weapon?
“Eldon’s dead,” he managed to say. “I’m just his cousin. I don’t know anything about a hex, you have to believe me.”
The man contemplated him for a long moment. Then he punched Sam in the gut.
The move was so fast, so violent, that Sam couldn’t wrap his mind around it. One moment he was standing, the next he was doubled over, in pain and gasping for breath. Grimy fingers grabbed his curls, knocked his hat off, and wrenched his head back so he was forced to look in his attacker’s face.
“I know Cunningham is dead, you piece of shit,” the man snarled. “You’re his family, so that means his debt passed to you. He finished the hex and hid it somewhere, so you’d better figure out where before I come back. Understand?”