Alistair tried to remember if he’d felt like this with Forrest, and guilt stabbed through him when he realized the memories were faded to the point he wasn’t sure anymore. His life had been broken into two pieces: before the war, and after. He’d been a different person, so much so it often felt as though the good times with Forrest were something he’d dreamed.
To his horror, tears pricked at his eyes. How could he accept the comfort Sam offered, after what happened to Forrest? After he’d…
Sam must have heard a change in his breathing, because he tugged Alistair closer. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Alistair shoved everything else aside in favor of concentrating on the moment. On Sam’s warmth and the softness of the bed. “I’m fine.”
21
Sam wandered into the kitchen in search of coffee and was surprised to be greeted with the smell of frying bacon and the sizzle of eggs. Holly stood at the stove, wearing a silk robe embroidered with peacock feathers and slippers with a matching head wrap.
He froze, unsure if he should withdraw. But she spotted him and greeted him with a cheerful: “Good morning! There’s coffee if you want it, and I’ll throw on some extra bacon and eggs if you like.”
Apparently it was all right for him to see her in her morning wear. “If it’s not too much trouble?”
“None at all.” She threw a glance over her shoulder as he went to the coffee pot. “Did you sleep well?”
Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Sam that everyone would now know he and Alistair were sleeping in the same bed, not for lack of options, but because they were…well, together. Having sex. His cheeks grew hot enough to cook the eggs, and he mumbled, “Yes.”
Holly laughed. “Why Sam, is that a blush? Have you been naughty?”
Oh God. He wanted to sink through the floor and never be seen again. At the same time, her teasing conjured memories of last night, with Alistair above him, warm and—
No. This was definitely not the time for that.
She laughed again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tease.” She piled the bacon onto a plate, then drained the grease into a jar. “You’ve been good for Alistair, you know? It’s nice to see him actually enjoy things. I didn’t think he had it in him.”
Sam glanced in the direction of the back hall. The sound of distant water came from the bathroom—Alistair must have drawn himself a bath. “You met him during the war, right?” he asked, pitching his voice low even though he doubted Alistair could hear him.
“That’s right. I flew messages back and forth from the front to headquarters. The first time I saw him, he was covered head to toe in mud and other people’s blood, and hadn’t slept for two days straight. They were running out of medical hexes for the wounded.” She fell silent, her eyes darkening at some memory.
Sam mentally kicked himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Holly seemed to come back to herself and gave him a smile. “Well, pal, it taught me a valuable lesson. Seize life today and don’t worry about tomorrow, because it might not come.” She went to one of the refrigerators and took out a bottle of champagne. “For instance, I’m in the mood for some champagne with breakfast, so I’m not about to deny myself the pleasure. Want some?”
“No, thanks.”
She shrugged and tucked the bottle under her arm. “Grab the eggs, would you?”
He did as she asked, then followed her out into the main room. Wanda sat at one of the tables, smoking a cigarette and dressed in elegant silk pajamas. A newspaper was spread before her, a slight frown of concentration on her face.
“Breakfast is served!” Holly chirped. She put down the champagne and grabbed a flute from behind the bar. “Want some?”
“Not right now, songbird,” Wanda said. “Good morning, Sam. Sleep well?”
At least this time he managed not to blush. “Yes. Thanks for letting me stay here.”
“Let’s just try to avoid having Alistair and Philip fighting over you, hmm?”
So much for not blushing. “It’s not like that!”
She eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup. “It’s absolutely like that. Word of advice, Philip does go through lovers rather quickly.”
“I’m not going to sleep with Philip!”
“What are you talking about?” Alistair exclaimed as he entered the room.
Oh God. “Wanda was giving me some very unnecessary advice,” he said through gritted teeth. Wanda merely sipped her coffee.
“Champagne, Alistair?” Holly asked, waving the bottle.
“No.”
She pouted. “You’re going to make me drink this whole bottle by myself?”
“Apparently.”
They settled into breakfast. Alistair shifted his chair so his leg pressed against Sam’s. It felt a bit surreal, to be so…domestic…in front of other people. “Anything in the papers?” Alistair asked Wanda.
“I’m afraid so.” She shuffled back a few pages. “Apparently there was a small clash between some of Ursino and Sullivan’s men last night. No one was killed, but one man is hospitalized.”
“It’s starting, then,” Alistair said grimly.
Sam put down his fork, his stomach twisting with anxiety. “What does that mean for us?”
The ringing of the phone sounded from the back. Holly hopped up. “I’ll get it, and you keep talking.”
“What it means depends on how far this goes.” Wanda put out her cigarette in an ashtray of amber glass. “Sullivan can’t afford to look weak, but a few minor skirmishes might be enough to settle the matter. If the situation escalates…well. Sullivan is content to let us remain a more-or-less independent operator in his territory for two reasons. One, he doesn’t want to spill the blood it would take to push us out. Two—most importantly—he wants us in his debt so he can call us in for muscle if things ever go bad for him. Ursino, on the other hand…let’s just say his ego doesn’t tolerate independents, and he’s too arrogant to think we’d be useful.”
“In other words, if there is a gang war, we’ll be swept up in it,” Alistair said. “So let’s hope things quiet down soon.”
“They aren’t going to,” Holly said from the doorway to the back. Her face had paled, and she put one hand on the doorframe as if to steady herself. “The call was from Turner, Sullivan’s underboss. Sullivan wants to speak to Wanda, right away.”
Nervousness soured Sam’s stomach. “Did he say why?”
“Yeah. Ursino’s witch, Lena Olmo, is dead. According to the coroner, she was murdered by some kind of big cat.”
Sullivan waited for them in his office.
Alistair and Wanda had come together, leaving Holly and Sam to notify the others. Alistair’s palms were clammy as he climbed the stairs of the florist shop behind Wanda. She’d put on a striking red suit and black oxfords, with a matching hat. It gave him a little clue to her mood; she always chose red when she wanted to boost her confidence. Which meant she was as worried as he was.