“Alistair?” Wanda asked. She’d walked in without his even noticing, still dressed in the suit she wore for work, though she carried her coat over her arm. The lavender shirt complimented her dark brown skin, and the heeled boots she wore gave her a bit more height than came naturally.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said quickly.
Wanda tossed her coat over the back of a chair. “Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”
Alistair cursed mentally. She knew him better than anyone else in the world, was the one—the only—person who’d stayed with him through thick and thin. For a moment, he considered telling her to fuck off and mind her own business, but she’d never let him get away with it.
He looked around the room. Almost everyone here was the closest thing to a family he’d ever have again. They were mostly familiars. They’d understand.
He went to the bar, retrieved a bottle of good Canadian whiskey, and poured out a measure. “Eldon Cunningham was in here tonight. He brought his cousin with him.”
“Sammy, wasn’t it?” Zola asked.
“He seemed nice,” Teresa said. “A little overwhelmed, I think. Or maybe he’s just shy; he kept to himself, anyway.”
Alistair tossed back the shot in a single gulp. “He’s my witch.”
All of the familiars fell silent. Zola, however, looked confused. “I don’t get it. Didn’t your witch die?”
Alistair flinched. Five years ago, as soon as they’d demobbed, he’d last set eyes on the man he once thought he’d be with forever. He’d only known Forrest died because their bond broke in 1921, a horrible pain that ended any last, lingering hope his love might come back for him.
He should have known better. Should have remembered that no one ever stayed, not for him.
Teresa leaned over and put a hand on Zola’s. “It’s confusing, I know, especially if you haven’t spent a lot of time with familiars,” she said kindly. “We can bond to any witch, and that bond can’t be severed except by death or a hexbreaker—and there aren’t many born with that skill. But not all witches are equally talented, or equally compatible with a given familiar’s magic. Assuming we’re still unbonded, when we meet the witch whose magic is most compatible with ours, we recognize them on an instinctive level. That’s what Alistair is talking about.”
“Oh.” Zola considered. “So, Wanda, when you saw Joel you knew he was your witch?”
Wanda’s golden eyes remained fixed on Alistair, but she said, “Right. I told him, said it was a job interview, and if I didn’t like him I wasn’t going to bond with him. But as it turned out, we ended up friends, and here we are.”
Zola nodded. “And Teresa, the same with you and Reinhold?”
Teresa laughed and shook her head. “Fur and feathers, no! I wasn’t about to wait around for my magic to pick a witch for me. A girl’s got to know her own mind. No, Reinhold swept me off my feet, and since he’s a witch I figured we’d make things nice and simple.”
She and Reinhold exchanged a loving look. Doris made exaggerated gagging noises, and was thumped on the arm for her trouble.
Alistair poured himself another drink. “Forrest and I met before the war. We fell in love, and as with Teresa, I knew there would never be anyone else for me. Our magic might not have been perfectly compatible, but we were.” At least until the war ground them up and spat them back out. “So we bonded.”
“Oh,” Zola said. “But then he died, and now you’ve met your witch?”
“Apparently.”
Wanda crossed the room to him. “Are you going to tell him?”
Up close, Alistair had discovered Sam’s eyes were a warm brown on the other side of those thick lenses. He had a spray of freckles on his nose and cheeks, and a smile that did things to Alistair’s insides. Under other circumstances, he might have attempted to flirt. Given Sam a fun time to remember long after he went back to whatever backwater town he’d wandered in from.
Because Sam wasn’t the type to stay in Chicago. Alistair could tell. He’d taken a break from his boring life in the countryside to be delightfully shocked by the goings on in the big city, but he wasn’t a natural when it came to vice. No doubt he’d go back home soon enough, marry a girl from the same small town he’d grown up in, and have a passel of children.
“There’s no point,” Alistair said, pushing away from the bar. “He won’t be staying long. Chances are, I’ll never have to lay eyes on him again.”
Sam woke up huddled under several layers of blankets to keep out the morning chill. Though he was grateful Eldon had given him free room and board, it would be nice to sleep indoors instead of on the sleeping porch.
Then again, come summer he’d be glad of his bed’s location. So long as he found his own place to stay before next winter, he’d be fine.
Right now, winter seemed a thousand years away. A distant country, where anything could happen. Would he be used to rubbing elbows with witches and familiars by then? Going to speakeasies?
The memory of the bartender’s beautiful eyes returned. Alistair.
He’d been so rude…but then, he’d also called Eldon an asshole for insisting Sam have an alcoholic drink. Stared at Sam, which was a little creepy, sure, but…well, it had been nice to feel noticed.
It wasn’t a sensation he was used to. Sam didn’t stand out in a crowd, to say the least. He didn’t have any particular talents, unless it was for constantly making mistakes. He was just…ordinary. Boring.
“I wish you’d died instead of Jake.”
He needed a shave and a wash after last night. Plus a bath would probably warm him up. Wrapping one of the blankets around him, he shuffled inside.
And instantly froze at the chaos that awaited him.
The sleeping porch opened directly onto the living room. Books lay piled on the floor, cushions had been dragged off the couch and chair, and the desk Eldon used for hexwork was thoroughly ransacked. Paper had been pulled from every cubby on the desk, then left scattered carelessly, as though someone had been searching for something very specific and not cared about the rest.
The fine hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stood up. Had they managed to sleep through a burglary?
What if the burglar was still here?
“Eldon?” he called uncertainly.
No answer.
Sam swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. The door to Eldon’s bedroom was cracked open, the room beyond dark. Gathering the blanket more tightly around him, he forced his heavy feet to cross the room, stepping carefully around the scattered paper and books.
“Eldon?” he called again, when he reached the door. “Are you awake?”
Again, only silence answered.
Sam’s heart banged against his ribs as he pushed open the door. It swung open with a low creak—the hinges needed oiling, some detached part of his mind noted.
The curtains were shut, the room still dark, so the first thing Sam noticed was the smell. Like rusted nails or tarnished pennies, thick and cloying.
His hand shook so badly it took him three tries to turn on the lights. Even so, even guessing what he was about to see, it shocked him so badly he stumbled backward, out of the room.