And no satchel, which he realized only after he’d sat down next to a window to watch the landscape go by. He’d left it on the bridge where he’d set it down. Dad would be furious.
But Sam wouldn’t be there to see his anger.
He’d been in Chicago a week when he came across news of his own death in the Tribune. On a page of brief snippets of Illinois news was a short article.
Gatesville IL: A man is believed to have drowned in the river last Tuesday, after jumping from a bridge. Though ice has hindered attempts to recover the body, a satchel belonging to him was found on the bridge, and he hasn’t been seen or heard from since. His family say he is not the type to leave unexpectedly and have little hope of discovering him alive.
He’d shown the article to Eldon, who laughed as if at a fine joke. “They’ll leave you alone now,” he’d said cheerfully. Then he insisted Sam clip out the article as a keepsake.
And Sam had felt only a little bad about the misunderstanding. Everyone always said it would have been better if he’d died, hadn’t they? Maybe this would finally make Mom and Dad happy.
He hoped it had, at least for a little while, because once they received his letter they’d know the truth. They’d be so angry.
Sam sighed, picked up a pen, and began to write.
Alistair sat at a discreet table at The Pride, watching while the various mourners from Eldon Cunningham’s funeral kicked up their heels and drowned their sorrow in booze. Mickey Sullivan had put on a good send-off for his hexman, complete with funeral procession, mountains of flowers, and now a spirited memorial. That was one thing about Chicago gangsters: they knew how to put on a funeral like no one else.
He spotted Sam through the crowd, and his idiot magic tugged at him, drawn to the witch that could best unleash its potential. Sam wore an ill-fitting suit that looked to have been purchased from a second-hand shop, and the expression on his face was less one of grief than of misery.
Alistair had honestly expected the rest of the family to show up for the funeral, and for Sam to retreat back to wherever he’d come from with them. Neither had happened, at least not yet. So when Sam turned and caught his eye, Alistair kicked the empty chair across from him out in a silent invitation.
Sam joined him with alacrity. He looked exhausted, bags under his eyes, slumped shoulders, a dull expression. “You look like a man who could use a drink,” Alistair said, and signaled Teresa to come over.
“What can I get for you, honey?” she asked.
“A Pussyfoot, please.”
When Teresa left, Alistair leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “How are you holding up, SammySamSam?”
“Please stop calling me that.”
Alistair briefly considered ignoring the request just to be annoying, but the witch looked so miserable he decided against it. “How are you holding up, Sam?”
Sam shrugged with one shoulder. “Fine.”
Teresa returned with the cocktail. “On the house,” she said. “We were sorry to hear about Eldon.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks,” Sam said, but she was already gone to attend to another customer.
Alistair nodded to the rest of the room. “It’s a nice turnout for your cousin.”
“I suppose.” Sam looked around. “I don’t know any of these people, except for Norman.” The man in question was currently dancing with a woman who’d exchanged her black dress for a beaded peach one. “Unless Mr. Turner and Mr. Bellinowski count.”
It was too good an opening to pass up. “I was surprised no other family members attended the funeral.”
“You must not have known Eldon all that well.” Sam took a bigger sip of his drink. “He was disowned when he moved here. No one talks about him except in whispers. They certainly weren’t going to acknowledge his existence after all these years by pretending to be sad he’s gone.”
The bitterness in his voice startled Alistair. “I see,” he said, though he didn’t. “But you were staying with him. Learning hexwork from him, I believe you said.”
“And I’m probably disowned now, too.”
The idea that anyone would disown adorable Sam seemed ridiculous. But people did horrible things all the time. “Why?”
Sam put down his drink. “You don’t hold back with the questions, do you?”
“No.”
Sam looked at him for a long moment, as though expecting some elaboration. When Alistair didn’t offer any, he sighed and finished off his Pussyfoot. “Because Chicago is a pit of sin, magic is the work of Satan, and dancing is the gateway to fornication.”
“Well then, I’ll have to get you on the dance floor,” Alistair said without thinking about it.
Sam’s lips parted, and his entire face went bright red. “I-I, that is, uh.”
Fur and feathers, why did he have to be so adorably flustered? It did things to Alistair’s stomach, not to mention other organs. He wanted to know how far that blush stretched, to know what those lips would look like thoroughly kissed.
He was flirting with a grieving man at a funeral. God, Philip was right, he really was an asshole.
“I know the type,” Alistair said to get the conversation back on a better track. “Did they throw you out when they found out you’re a witch?”
Sam blinked, and the blush faded somewhat. “Oh, no, I’m not. Not a witch, I mean. And they didn’t throw me out; I left.”
Alistair frowned. “What do you mean you’re not a witch?”
“I’ve never been tested, but, well.” Sam gestured disparagingly at himself. “Look at me. I’m not exactly, you know, magic. Just boring old Sam.”
“Trust me, you’re a witch,” Alistair said, before he could think better of it.
Sam stared at him blankly. “How do you know?”
Fuck. He should have kept his stupid mouth shut. Fortunately he was saved from coming up with an answer by the appearance of a man in an impeccably cut black suit, Bellinowski and another goon hovering behind him. His bleached hair was slicked back, and his handsome features set in an appropriately solemn expression. “Mr. Cunningham,” he said, extending his hand to Sam; diamonds glittered on his fingers. “I’m Mickey Sullivan. I wanted to express my condolences to you personally.”
Looking a bit like a rabbit in front of a wolf, Sam shook his hand. “Um, thank you. For everything,” he added.
Sullivan smiled benevolently. “I take good care of my people. Eldon was special—a real genius for inventing new hexes.”
“Was he? I mean, yes. Thank you.”
Interesting. It sounded as though Eldon hadn’t bothered to fill Sam in on the details of his business. Maybe he’d been waiting to see how Sam took to hexwork, or maybe he’d just been looking for a draftsman to copy his designs over and over again. That was the damnable thing about hexes; they couldn’t be printed. The designs didn’t hold magic unless they were drawn by hand, often with special inks.
“We’ll all miss him.” Sullivan took a card from his pocket and passed it to Sam. “Please, come by and see me at my shop tomorrow morning at ten. I have some business I’d like to discuss.”