22
Alistair sagged against the wall near the hospital bed where Teresa lay. Though the smell of the ward couldn’t compete with the overwhelming stench of a field hospital, it still twisted his stomach and made his hands shake. Despite his best efforts, his mind kept returning to his own stay in one, lying on his belly while a nurse checked the shrapnel wounds in his back, breathing in the miasma of piss and terror and pain. The doughboy to his right had his jaw blown completely off, his head misshapen under the bandages. The one to his left had breathed in gas, and now lay limp and struggling to draw enough air into his ruined lungs. Somewhere else on the ward, a man screamed no matter how many pain hexes he was given, the wounds to his mind unable to be soothed. Thank God Alistair’s stay there had been short.
This ward was much quieter. Teresa lay sleeping in the bed, her face pale against the pillow, the bandages swathing her shoulder darkened slightly by blood. The bullet had passed through the muscle joining neck and shoulder, missing any major blood vessels. With luck, she’d be back home in just a few days, though it would be a while before she regained the full use of her arm.
Doris sat silently at the bedside, her expression grim. Wanda was talking quietly to one of the doctors, and Philip sat across from Doris, his expression troubled.
Sam hovered near the end of the bed. “Reinhold saved my life,” Sam said, twisting his cap in his hands. “If he hadn’t shoved me behind the parked car, I would have been shot, too.”
“Was he hit?” Doris asked.
“I don’t think so. I didn’t see any blood, but it all happened so fast.”
“Ursino’s behind this,” Philip said in a low voice. “Has to be. He thinks we killed his witch, and now he’s coming not just for us, but for anyone close to us.”
Which meant Sam was in serious danger, and would be so long as he stayed in Chicago.
Fur and feathers. He should have convinced Sam to leave town back when all this began, after Eldon was first murdered. Should have taken a loan from Wanda, shoved the money in Sam’s hands, and told him to go somewhere, anywhere, else. Somewhere far from Chicago, far from Sullivan and Ursino. Far from the Gatti family.
But he hadn’t. He’d been selfish, he saw that now. Just as he’d been with Forrest, putting his own feelings above what was right.
“Why do you think they kidnapped Reinhold?” Sam asked uncertainly. “Are they going to ransom him, or…?”
“Torture him for information?” Alistair supplied. “Kill him as an example? Use him as bait? All of the above?”
Sam blanched. “T-torture?”
“Fur and feathers, I hope not,” Philip said. “How is that the first place your mind goes, Alistair?”
Alistair shrugged. He hoped he was wrong, that they’d get a ransom note, something that would get Reinhold back safely with them. But there was no guarantee it would happen.
Wanda returned. “The doctor thinks Teresa can leave in a day or two, so long as nothing unexpected happens.”
“Thank goodness,” Sam said fervently.
“Until this is over, we’re all staying at The Pride,” Wanda said. “No one goes anywhere alone.”
There came a general nodding of heads. Sam fell in beside Alistair as they made their way to the ward’s double doors. “I’m glad Teresa is going to be okay,” he said.
“So am I,” Alistair replied. “I’m glad you’re all right, too.”
“Thanks to Reinhold.”
“Yeah.” Thanks to Reinhold, not Alistair, who had done nothing but keep Sam in danger.
He’d lost Forrest to death. If Sam died too…
He couldn’t go through this again. It would break him.
His time with Sam had always been limited, but he’d thought they’d have longer together. Just a few more weeks, before Sam bonded with Philip, or moved away for work, or decided he was tired of dating a hermit.
There was never enough time, though. Not with his parents, or Forrest. And now, not with Sam.
The Pride didn’t open for business that evening—would be closed for the foreseeable future, until the danger was past. When they returned from the hospital, Sam collapsed into bed. Alistair didn’t join him; for all Sam knew, he didn’t even sleep that night.
Sam tossed and turned alone, reliving the sound of gunfire, the hot gush of Teresa’s blood over his hands. His palms stung where he’d scraped them on the sidewalk, and both knees were bruised—reminders of how close the brush with death had actually been.
He’d been scared when Ursino’s man drew the gun on Alistair and him that night, but the situation had been different. Sam had been able to act. But what could he do against a tommy gun fired from a car? He’d been helpless to do anything but cower and hope not to die.
Now Reinhold was in Ursino’s hands, and God only knew what the gangster was doing to him. He might even be dead by now.
No—Teresa would know if he’d died, because their bond would have broken. So the fact there hadn’t been a frantic telephone call from the hospital had to mean Reinhold was still alive.
The next morning, he joined Wanda, Philip, Alistair, and Doris for a somber breakfast. Wanda spread the newspaper in front of her. “BEER WAR KIDNAPPING” trumpeted the headline, followed by “Bullets Fired on Street at Sullivan Aides, One Wounded.”
“Teresa won’t appreciate being referred to as Sullivan’s aide,” Philip remarked. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and Sam suspected Philip hadn’t slept any better than he.
“The press misunderstanding our arrangement is the least of our concerns.” Wanda still wore her pajamas, covered by a robe that matched the cloth wrapped over her hair.
Alistair picked at a piece of toast. He looked haggard, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. Every movement was slow, like that of a man battling sickness. Sam’s heart ached just to look at him, and he longed to reach for Alistair’s hand except, for once, they weren’t sitting next to each other.
“Sullivan has to respond,” Alistair said. “Just as no doubt Ursino felt he had to respond to the death of Olmo. It’s all-out war, until one of them backs down.”
“Or is killed.” Wanda drained her coffee cup and stood up. “I’d call Sullivan, but given these headlines, I’m sure the prohees have his phone tapped if they didn’t already. So after I’m dressed, I’ll pay him a visit.”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Alistair objected.
“I’ll go with you,” Philip said to Wanda.
“We’ll pay Teresa a visit while we’re out.” Wanda stood up. “I’ll get changed, then we’ll head out. The rest of you, stay here.”
Uncertain what else to do, Sam settled for cleaning up and washing the dishes. By the time he was done, Wanda and Philip had left, and Doris gone to Wanda’s room for a nap on her couch. Alistair sat in the office, staring at something intently, so Sam left him to it and gathered his hexwork supplies from their room. He might as well sketch out a few hexes that could come in handy; maybe they could get Joel to charge them.
He found a table with suitable lighting, unfolded the tool case that had belonged to Eldon, and sorted among the nibs and inks before setting to work. Soon he had a small stack of hexes for a variety of effects: spark fire, suppress pain, unlock doors.