“Not that I know of. Besides, we didn’t find a key.”
“True.” Alistair stared at the ceiling. “Did he do all of his work here?”
“I assume so?” Sam leaned forward, shoulders slumping. “There was so much he didn’t tell me. There wasn’t enough time.”
Alistair didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he said, “I’m sorry. You ought to be able to grieve his loss in peace, instead of…this.”
“It feels strange, because I didn’t really know him.” Sam took off his glasses and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “He was the family black sheep, and we only met three weeks before he was killed. But he offered me a place, and the possibility of a job…”
He trailed off as yet another worry reared its head. “I need to find work. I don’t have any money. But I have to try and find this hex as well, and I know Mr. Sullivan said he’d pay me, but…” He groaned and buried his face in his hands.
There came a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Alistair said.
When he returned, he was accompanied by a Black woman in a stylish blue suit, carrying a walking stick whose head sparkled with what looked like diamonds. The glow of her presence seemed to fill up the room even before she spoke a word.
“So,” she said, “you’re the witch.”
Alistair had seemed so sure, but he had to be wrong. Unless…judging by her stunning gold eyes, the woman must be a familiar. Maybe Sam had some hidden potential familiars could sense?
There were tests for witch potential, but he probably wouldn’t have bothered to take them even if his family would have approved. Magic was exciting and glamorous, whereas he was everything but.
“Maybe?” he settled on at last.
She glanced at Alistair, who didn’t return the look. “Sam Cunningham, this is my sister Wanda Gatti,” he said stiffly, without addressing Sam’s question.
Sam recalled what Eldon had said about the Gatti family not being related by blood. “Pleased to meet you.”
“No need to hide like a little mouse,” Wanda said with a teasing smile. “Stand up and come over here. I want to get a look at you.”
“Wanda,” Alistair warned.
Deeply confused, Sam stood and crossed the room. “Well…here I am.”
She gave him a once-over, and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. His beige sweater and worsted trousers were the farthest thing in the world from her tailored suit and spit-shined oxfords.
“Here you are indeed,” she agreed. Turning to Alistair, she said, “I like him.”
Was that a good thing? It had to be a good thing, right?
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Did you bring the alarm hexes?”
“You’re no fun.” Wanda pulled out a wallet and removed a small stack of paper hexes. Turning back to Sam, she said, “I’m sorry you’re having to put up with this grouch. Philip’s a lot better company—maybe he should help you instead.”
Alistair actually growled at her, which made Sam think the siblings were having an entire conversation of their own that he didn’t understand.
“Can I get you something?” Sam asked desperately. “Coffee? Bevo? Moxie? Something from Eldon’s liquor cabinet?”
“Well aren’t you sweet?” She took out a gold cigarette case. “Coffee, please.”
Sam retreated to the kitchen, glad to have something to do with his hands. He waited for the coffee to brew, then carried a cup out, along with milk and sugar.
“I wasn’t sure how you like it,” he apologized, setting the tray down on the living room table. Wanda sat on the couch smoking, and Alistair had also lit a cigarette.
“I like my coffee like I like my women,” she said. “Sweet and creamy.”
Sam’s face burned. Alistair sighed. “Wanda, quit it.”
“Again, you’re no fun.” She added the sugar and milk to her coffee, then sipped it. “You make much better coffee than Alistair. Though it would be hard to be worse.”
“Oh, his coffee is fine,” Sam lied.
“You drank it and lived? I’m impressed.” She leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, fixing Sam with those golden eyes. “Alistair tells me you need a job. It just so happens The Pride needs a busboy. Do you think you can clear tables and wash dishes? Wipe up spills when necessary, and mop the floor after closing?”
Sam’s heart leapt. It wouldn’t pay much compared to hexwork, but it was infinitely better than nothing. “Yes! Thank you!”
His eagerness seemed to amuse her. “It’s not exactly the most glamorous position.”
“I don’t care.” Maybe if she knew he’d done similar work before? “My family owns a pharmacy. I used to sweep up and restock. I’ll work hard, Miss Gatti.”
“Call me Wanda.” She glanced again at Alistair. “This way, Alistair can do his work without having to worry about you being left alone.”
She’d hired him for Alistair’s sake—of course. It made sense; she didn’t know him. Still, he straightened his shoulders, determined to prove himself. “When should I report for work?”
“Seven o’clock this evening. That will give Reinhold and Teresa time to show you the ropes before the evening rush.” Wanda stood up, cigarette smoke trailing behind her. “Thanks for the coffee, darling.”
8
Alistair showed Wanda to the door, ignoring her smirk. She seemed to have developed the mistaken idea that Alistair actually had some feelings beyond duty toward Sam. No, not duty—she knew how much he hated that word. Basic decency, perhaps.
She was wrong. He’d had one witch, and he wasn’t going to have another. Besides, Sam would soon realize this wasn’t a life he was interested in and either go back home, or else leave for some other small town that offered a quieter existence. The last thing Alistair was going to do was get attached.
When he returned to the living room, Sam had taken over Eldon’s old desk and was drawing on a sheet of paper. “I thought I’d go ahead and sketch the man who attacked me for Mr. Sullivan,” he explained. “So his men will know who to be on the lookout for.”
“Right.” Alistair collapsed onto the sofa. He wanted badly to nap, but there were still things they needed to discuss. “The hex isn’t here, and we don’t know where Eldon would have hidden it. Who were his friends?”
“Norman Rose,” Sam replied. The scratch of pencil on paper filled the air. “He was at The Pride with us that night. I’d never met him before, but he’s the only one of Eldon’s friends I know.”
Alistair searched his memory. “He was at the funeral as well, wasn’t he? He might be a regular; I’m not sure, since I don’t normally work the front. I don’t suppose you know where he lives?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Sam’s shoulders hunched slightly even as he drew, as if he expected Alistair to berate him for it.
He did that a lot, Alistair had noticed. Flinched, or tried to shrink into himself, like he thought Alistair might start shouting. “No reason to be,” Alistair said mildly. “Though if you were omniscient, our task might be a lot easier.”