“Eldon!” A slim white woman practically bounced up to them, flung her arms around Eldon’s neck, and peered up at him with a delighted smile. “Where have you been hiding?”
“I’ve been showing my cousin the ropes of the hex trade,” Eldon replied, his hands resting on her waist. “Zola, meet Sammy.”
“Sam,” Sam mumbled, but it was drowned out by her delighted squeal. She left one arm around Eldon and draped the other over Sam’s shoulder. Her lily-of-the-valley perfume tickled his nose, and it was all he could do not to sneeze.
“Another hexman?” she asked, sounding pleased.
“N-Not yet.” Maybe not ever—Sam had agreed to Eldon’s suggestion mainly because it gave him something to do with himself. And, if he was perfectly honest, because it was the sort of thing Jake would never have done. The rest of the family had already disowned Eldon for working in the magic trade; if they got wind Sam was here in Chicago with him, he’d be next.
Of course, as far as they knew, Sam was dead. Drowned.
“I wish you’d died instead of Jake.”
No, they wouldn’t be looking for him.
“So, do you want a table?” Zola asked Eldon. When he nodded, she grinned and led them across the room, navigating around the dancers, to one of the tables on the far side of the room. “I’ll send Teresa by to check on you boys as soon as she has a minute. Are you going to order drinks here or head to the bar?”
“I’m sure Teresa’s run off her feet with this crowd,” Eldon said. “We’ll just go to the bar.”
“Look out, then,” Zola said with a wink. “Philip has the night off, so Alistair is behind the bar tonight.”
“And there are still customers?” Eldon asked with a laugh.
Sam paused in the act of unwinding his scarf and looked toward the bar to see who they were talking about.
And met a pair of wild, amber eyes staring back.
Sam couldn’t move, pinned by the intensity of those feral eyes. He blinked, trying to take in the face around them, the body they belonged to.
The man behind the bar—Alistair—was tall and lanky. He wore a vest and rolled-up shirtsleeves, white against his tan skin. His features were stark, as though a sculptor had whittled away everything but the patrician nose and razor sharp cheekbones. Unlike most of the men in the room, his hair was unoiled, and the black strands seemed almost to float about his head. The effect was even more noticeable since he wore it longer than any man Sam had ever seen, the ends almost brushing his shoulders.
Alistair’s thin mouth tightened, as though he’d smelled something bad. Then he looked away, returning his gaze to a man who was practically waving cash in his face in an attempt to get his attention.
“Who—who is that?” Sam asked, feeling oddly breathless. “I mean, that’s Alistair?”
Eldon looked surprised at Sam’s interest. “Yes. Alistair Gatti.”
Sam tried to recall what little he knew about familiars. “Isn’t he a familiar, with those eyes? I thought they didn’t keep their last names.”
Eldon laughed. “Oh right, I forgot that Gatesville is stuck in the 1800s. It’s a modern world, Sam—they let women and familiars vote now, don’t you know. Flappers smoke and drink, and familiars can have surnames. Though of course, he wasn’t born a Gatti. None of them were.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll tell you everything, but not until we get our drinks.”
It took some time to make their way to the bar. A drunken flapper tripped while dancing and fell onto Sam’s shoulder, spilling champagne onto his sweater. “Well, fuck,” she slurred to his shock, then stumbled off, leaving him to wipe ineffectually at the spill.
The bar itself was crowded, probably due in part to the slowness of the bartender. They reached the polished wood and stood there, waiting for Alistair to notice. For a while, Sam wondered if he was deliberately not looking their way, but eventually he planted himself in front of them with a forbidding expression on his face. “Eldon.” His deep amber eyes shifted to Sam. “And you are?”
“Sammy,” he said automatically, then cursed himself. Sammy was a kid’s name, like he was twelve years old or something. “S-Sam. Sam,” he added more firmly.
Alistair arched a brow. “Well, SammySamSam, what do you want to drink?”
Sam’s face burned with embarrassment. Flustered, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Can I have a Bevo?”
“A Bevo?” Eldon exclaimed, his tone somewhere between horror and amusement. “You come to a blind tiger and order a near beer? Don’t be such a bluenose!” He turned to Alistair. “Pour my cousin something to put a little hair on his chest!”
If Sam’s face got any hotter, he’d have flames shooting out of his pores. “I’ve got plenty of hair!”
Alistair didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “I’ll take care of him. What do you want, Eldon?”
“A Corpse Reviver #2.”
Alistair nodded in the direction of their table. “It seems Norman Rose is looking for you. SammySamSam here can bring your drinks to the table.”
“Right you are.” Eldon left, vanishing into the crowd in seconds.
“Asshole,” Alistair remarked in the direction of Eldon’s retreating back.
Sam gasped. Cocking his head, Alistair said, “Anyone who tries to force someone else to drink isn’t a good person to be around. Cousin or no.”
Was the bartender actually…standing up for him? “It’s all right,” Sam said, as Alistair grabbed two glasses and a shaker, and set about making whatever a Corpse Reviver #2 was. “I don’t mind.”
“I do.” Alistair took a small ring binder from under the bar, thumbed through it quickly, then set about making a second drink. He cracked an egg, dropped the yolk into the ice-filled shaker, and followed it up with lemon, lime, and orange juice. “This is called a Pussyfoot, but don’t tell Eldon that. Just remember it if you want to order something dry.”
Sam had the feeling he’d given the wrong impression. “It’s not that I’m against alcohol,” he said. “I’m not. I just don’t drink, myself.” Which was an understatement, after what had happened to Jake.
Alistair looked at him as he poured the concoction into a glass. His eyes all but glowed, and Sam had the unsettling feeling that the bartender actually saw him, or was trying to. It made Sam want to curl up with acute embarrassment. “What do you say we make it a little fancy?”
“All right?”
Alistair pulled a hex from behind the bar and held the slip of paper above the drink. “The color of royalty for a royal drink,” he intoned.
Sparks shot out of the top, and the whole thing turned a vivid shade of glowing purple. Sam realized he was gaping and shut his mouth quickly. “I…thanks?”
“Don’t worry, it’s on Eldon’s tab,” Alistair said. “Enjoy yourself, SammySamSam.”
Before Sam could think what to say, the bartender had moved on. Still confused, he scooped up the drinks and went back to the table.