He shook Sam’s head, his grip tight enough to bring tears to Sam’s eyes. “Y-Yes,” Sam stammered.
“Good.” A final shake, then the man let go. “And don’t think about running to Sullivan for protection. He can’t protect you any more than he did your cousin.” He turned away. “Be seeing you real soon.”
Sam huddled on the couch the rest of the night. He’d already had the bed Eldon died in hauled away, and his bed on the porch felt too exposed.
Not that he got much sleep, other than in brief snatches. He jerked awake at every sound, certain that the man had come back for this supposed hex.
He’d never been threatened before, not like this. Never been struck or hit. He hated how he was still scared and shaking hours later, hated feeling a coward.
By the time the sun rose, he didn’t feel like doing much of anything except making coffee. When a sharp knock came at the door, he nearly dropped his mug.
Alistair waited on the stoop. When he glimpsed Sam’s face, he instantly frowned. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Stop lying and tell me what’s wrong,” Alistair snapped. “Let’s go inside. Have you had any breakfast?”
“No, I didn’t feel like eating.” Sam trailed after Alistair into the kitchen, just as he had the morning after Eldon’s murder.
Alistair pointed at the table. “Sit down. I’m making eggs and toast, and you’re telling me why you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
What if his cooking was as bad as his coffee? “You don’t have to. That is, I’ll make us something, if you want.”
“I know I don’t have to. Now sit and talk.”
Unsure what else to do, Sam sat awkwardly at the table and watched as Alistair took over his kitchen. As he stumbled through last night’s harrowing experience, Alistair’s expression grew more and more stormy.
“I spent the rest of the night cowering on the couch,” Sam concluded, directing his gaze at his hands rather than at Alistair. “I’m pathetic. You probably think I’m a coward, and you’re right.”
“Don’t tell me what I think,” Alistair shot back. He came to the table and put a plate in front of Sam. The toast was blackened, but maybe he could drown it in enough jam and butter to cover the taste.
He couldn’t. “You fought in the war,” he said, after he’d choked down a bite. “I’m falling apart over a punch and some threats.”
“And you think I was never afraid?” Alistair flung himself into the chair across from Sam, stretching out his long legs under the table. Apparently he didn’t intend to inflict his cooking on himself.
“Maybe? But you did it anyway.” Sam scooped up some egg with his fork. It at least looked edible. “You’re, you know, a hero.”
“A hero.” Alistair’s amber eyes were hot and a little wild, his mouth twisted into a bitter curl beneath the aquiline nose. “What I am is lucky. I managed not to get shot, and my only scars are from shrapnel that didn’t come close to hitting anything vital. That’s just blind chance. And better men than me succumbed to shell-shock, so that’s nothing to be proud of either.”
“Oh.” Sam wasn’t certain how to respond. Like so many other towns, Gatesville had a parade to welcome home its soldiers. Not a long parade, the place wasn’t big enough for that, but a few blocks. Men in uniform, marching in step, while a band played and the mayor gave a speech about their heroism. Dad gave them free sodas for the next few months as a way of thanking them for what they’d done.
Then sometime around 1922, Tommy Dodge hung himself in his barn. Well, the papers said it was an accidental fall to spare the family, but the truth spread through Gatesville via whispers over the back fence and games of checkers at the general store. No one seemed to know why he’d done it, only that he’d gone over one man and come back another. “Changed,” people murmured of him, and shook their heads, never saying exactly what was different, at least not in Sam’s hearing.
Maybe Alistair had come back changed, too.
Alistair seemed lost in his own thoughts. When Sam got up to put the dishes in the sink, though, he said, “Do you think there’s any chance your cousin was working with another gang behind Sullivan’s back?”
“I didn’t even know he was working directly for Sullivan,” Sam said unhappily. Eldon had kept him in the dark about so many things. Treated him like a child, or an ignorant country bumpkin who didn’t need to know anything. “The man who attacked me said something about a debt.”
“Was he much of a gambler?”
“I don’t know!” Sam flung up his hands. “In the three weeks I was here, he went out alone once or twice, but for the most part we were together. He let me read some of his introductory books on hexwork and had me copy some basic hexes. Taught me about how it all worked together. He said I was good at it, but for all I know that was just another lie.”
“Right.” Alistair scrubbed at his face. “We should get going. We don’t want to keep Sullivan waiting.”
“It really is a flower shop,” Sam said, as though he’d figured Alistair was pulling his leg.
“I said so, didn’t I?” Alistair said, though in truth the place was a bit on the unlikely side. Some gang leaders worked out of gambling dens or brothels—or combinations of the two—but Sullivan fancied himself more refined than his rivals.
Or maybe he just really liked flowers.
The windows were filled with colorful displays, bright blooms bursting with life. When they stepped inside, the sweet scent of roses, lilies, and lilacs perfumed the cool air. Arrangements for weddings, funerals, and everything in between were on display, and tubs of loose flowers crowded the shop. Near the center, Sullivan himself stood at a worktable, apron tied neatly over his suit as he carefully bound an enormous bouquet in streams of silk ribbon.
“Ah, Mr. Cunningham,” he said with a smile when he caught sight of them. “And Mr. Gatti is with you.”
The implied question hung uncomfortably in the air. Alistair had tried to avoid thinking about the very thing all night and morning.
He didn’t owe Sam anything, after all. Their magic fit together, but that didn’t mean he had some kind of obligation to the witch.
It would have been easier to wash his hands of the whole affair if Sam hadn’t been so painfully nice. He was like a little naïve bunny surrounded by wolves, only slowly recognizing the danger.
Alistair wasn’t a hero, and he’d told Sam as much. He was an asshole who’d happened to survive a trip through the meatgrinder. But letting Sam sink or swim on his own, without even trying to help, didn’t sit right with him.
It didn’t help that Sam was so fucking cute. Thank god Alistair wasn’t looking for a relationship, because he had a bad feeling he’d have a hard time saying no to that face.
“Sam had a run-in last night you need to hear about,” Alistair said, and if Sullivan assumed that was why he was here, so much the better.
Sullivan’s look sharpened. “Did he now?” He turned to the back of the shop, where a young man was trimming the stems of a pile of white roses. “Bobby, watch the place for a bit. I’ve got some business to attend to.”