Club Grimalkin turned out to be fancier but less bohemian than The Pride. Chandeliers sparkled with hexlights that gradually shifted through the spectrum of colors. The dance floor was twice as large, a jazz band playing to the packed crowd. Each table had a bright white cloth, so clean the place must be using hexes to get the stains out instead of regular old borax. The bar was enormous and sported no less than three bartenders.
Sam’s nerves started to pull tight as he looked around the nightclub. “How are we supposed to find Vit in the middle of all this?”
“My friend told me he has a usual section where he prefers to sit,” Holly replied, having to lean close to be heard over the band. “We’ll start there.”
Holly made her way across the room, followed closely by Alistair, and more slowly by Sam. He was starting to feel seriously out of his depth.
No. Eldon had trained him, and maybe it hadn’t been that long, but this was one thing Sam could do well. Maybe the only thing, but it was what they needed. He wasn’t going to let the others down.
Holly slowed as she reached a cluster of tables, and her tread became more unsteady. A stout man with his black hair parted in the middle and a small moustache over a thin upper lip sat alone at one of the tables, his attention on one of the scantily clad waitresses. As Holly passed by, she pretended to trip, almost landing in his lap.
“Guess I had a little too much!” she exclaimed brightly into his face. He looked surprised, but not displeased, to suddenly have a gorgeous woman in his lap. “Thanks for catching me—you’re swell.”
“There you are, Holly,” Alistair called, as though he’d been looking for her. “Sorry, sir, she’s splifficated.”
“No need to apologize.” The man, presumably Vit, grinned lecherously at Holly’s bosom, since she didn’t seem inclined to stand up again. Then he glanced worriedly at Alistair. “She with you?”
“We work together,” Alistair said as Sam caught up. To his surprise, Alistair put a familiar arm around his waist.
Sam’s heart instantly sped up, his pulse pounding in the base of his throat and heat rushing into his face. Was Alistair actually trying to convince Vit that they were…together?
Vit’s expression relaxed, and he turned his attention back to Holly. “Why don’t you join me? Keep the party going?”
“Oh, that would be just grand!” Holly half-shouted, as though she was both drunk and excited. “Alistair, do say we can stay! We can get more champagne!”
Alistair gave her a smile of fond exasperation. “Sounds fun.”
Holly let out a squeal. “Thanks, Al! You’re the cat’s whiskers.”
Alistair knew he could play his part without having any inconvenient feelings about it. It would be easy; he just had to fix in his mind that they were here to steal the hex, while offering Sam just enough attention to keep up the act.
He hadn’t planned on pretending to be with Sam. But he’d needed to come up with something quick, to reassure Vit that he wasn’t about to face an angry boyfriend if he kept staring at Holly’s breasts. Alistair would have said it was the first thing to spring to mind, but he hadn’t actually thought about it, just acted.
So now he and Sam were sitting with their chairs pulled close. Sweat beaded Sam’s forehead, and his cheeks were bright red, but hopefully if Vit noticed he’d put it down to too much booze. Not that he was likely to notice anything; Holly had him thoroughly charmed.
A bit too charmed, actually. Holly had probably picked his pocket while still in his lap, but she needed his eyes off her for a moment if she was to get Vit’s wallet into Sam’s possession.
Well, perhaps Alistair could help with that. He reached for his glass of champagne and casually knocked it over onto Sam’s lap.
The crash of falling glassware and splash of a nearly full flute of champagne caught Vit’s attention all right. Sam leapt to his feet with a startled “Oh no!”
“I’m so sorry, darling!” Alistair exclaimed. Sam’s face had gone bright red with mortification over his wet lap, and a group of flappers the next table over burst out laughing.
“Here, let me,” Holly said, grabbing her scarf in one hand and Sam’s hip in the other, before dabbing ineffectually at his crotch with the scarf.
“Er, no!” Sam pulled away—then looked surprised, probably feeling the new weight of Vit’s wallet in his own pocket.
“You’d better go to the men’s room and clean that up,” Alistair said. With luck, Sam could shut himself in a stall and copy the hex, though the conditions would be less than ideal. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.” Sam swallowed. “You stay here.”
He hurried off. Alistair splashed more champagne into everyone’s glasses, finishing out the bottle. “Another round on me?”
Naturally Vit had no objection. Holly kept up a continuous flow of banter and topped off Vit’s glass any time it got near half-empty. Alistair’s mind kept wandering to Sam, wondering how things were going with him. Would he be able to copy the hex accurately and quickly? It seemed to be taking a long time, but likely that was down more to Alistair’s own nerves than anything else.
His mind drifted to the feel of Sam’s body when Alistair had put his arm around his waist. His warmth, the way his flesh curved, his scent. It would have been nice if he hadn’t been lying, if…
No. This line of thought wasn’t going to help anything on the not-having-feelings front.
Determined to distract himself, Alistair looked around and was surprised to see a face he hadn’t laid eyes on in years.
Adamo Vescovi looked very different from the last time Alistair had seen him. In 1922, he’d been strutting around Chicago at Ursino’s side. The two were more than business partners and lovers—they were witch and familiar, and their magic fueled Ursino’s rise to power.
The underworld was shocked when Ursino let his witch take the fall for illegally selling alcohol. Vescovi was dragged off to the big house, and Ursino paid a large sum of money to bring in a hexbreaker from California to sever their bond.
Now, it seemed, Vescovi had returned, and was partying in Sullivan’s territory next to his ex-familiar’s. Unlike the perfectly tailored suits and diamond rings of his time with Ursino, Vescovi now wore a too-large worsted suit, his fingers bare and his cufflinks plain silver instead of studded with emeralds.
If it turned out Ursino had killed Eldon, Vescovi might be an ace in the hole. If he could be persuaded to turn on his former lover and partner in crime, that is. Surely he’d have to be bitter after being thrown aside by Ursino.
The way Alistair had been thrown aside by Forrest.
No, that wasn’t the same, not at all. Forrest had suffered shell-shock, and it had turned him into a different man than the one Alistair had fallen in love with. Ursino’s motives, whatever they might have been, were of his own making.
Alistair raised a hand and waved. “Mr. Vescovi!”
Vescovi stared at him in puzzlement, then crossed to their table. “You’re one of the Gattis.”
“Alistair Gatti,” he confirmed. “This is Holly Savine and…I’m sorry, I’ve quite forgotten your name.”