That’s right—he’d been at the cabaret last night, sitting with some of the other gang members. “Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yeah. He wants you to come with me right now.”
5
Sam peered out the window of the Dodge Series 116, feeling small as he sat alone in the back seat. The man who Sullivan had sent to fetch him, Mr. Todarello, drove in silence.
Alistair had wanted to come, of course, but Todarello flatly denied him. So instead, he’d taken on cheetah form back at The Pride, and now watched through Sam’s eyes.
“It looks like he’s taking you west,” Alistair said. “Fulton Market District. There’s no legitimate reason anyone should be hanging around there at this time of night.”
Sam swallowed against the ball of nerves threatening to choke him. “Is it much farther?”
Todarello didn’t bother to glance back, but his tone was respectful. “Not far, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Why is he being so deferential?” Alistair wondered, because he’d take any excuse to be suspicious.
His question stung more than Sam expected. “Maybe he thinks I deserve respect?”
“You do, I just…sorry.” Alistair subsided.
They turned onto a side street, then pulled up in front of a warehouse, a rail line running just feet outside of its doors. The neighborhood was dark and silent, with only a few watchmen patrolling outside the various industrial buildings. Even so, Sam would’ve bet good money that a speakeasy was operating somewhere nearby, and probably more than one.
Todarello got out and opened Sam’s door before he could reach for the handle. “Just so you know,” he said, “The Familiar Silence hex you cooked up last summer is in use.”
“What’s that mean?” Alistair demanded.
“It means we won’t be able to talk while I’m inside. So don’t panic.”
Sam was proud of the Familiar Silence hex. Sullivan had wanted a way to keep familiars from eavesdropping on their witches, or vice versa. Probably to evade any prohees who wanted to take him down, or at least so Sam assumed. He, Glenda, and Luke had worked to develop it for most of the summer.
He followed Todarello around to a small side door, which opened onto a short, nondescript hallway. The hall let out into the main body of the warehouse, the vast space packed tight with crates labeled “Canned Meats.” In a far corner of the warehouse, hidden behind a wall of unmarked boxes, waited a small group of Sullivan’s men. One, a wolf familiar, was still in animal form. Her ears perked up when she saw Sam, and she swished her tail lazily back and forth in greeting.
The tang of blood hung in the air, so thick even Sam’s merely human nose could smell it. A dark stain showed on the floor where someone had tried to clean up. A jumble of wooden crates, all of them pried open and rummaged through, seemed the focus of everyone’s attention. Straw packing lay scattered about, along with bales of cheap cotton cloth.
Why was he here, where someone had clearly been badly injured just a short time ago?
Upon seeing Sam, a man named McIntyre walked over and held out his hand for a shake. He was one of Sullivan’s sub-lieutenants and was married to the wolf familiar.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Cunningham,” he said, as though Sam had any real choice in the matter. “We found something Mr. Sullivan wanted you to take a look at.”
In the middle of the night? But then, when else would it be, given they were in a warehouse that was clearly in operation during the day.
Sam moved toward the crates, his eye catching on the glint of gold. No one seemed to care if he took a closer look, and a gasp escaped him when he saw what was inside.
The crate was half-empty—no doubt the cloth bales had been used to hide the contents in case any customs inspectors got curious enough to open it. Inside was what appeared to be a disassembled chair, its golden surface inlaid with semi-precious stones and enamel. The arms were shaped like winged cobras, and the back was carved to depict a woman flanked by two other women, these with wings on their arms.
The style was unmistakably that of Ancient Egypt—like everyone else, Sam had breathlessly examined the images from the newly discovered tomb of King Tutankhamun a couple of years back.
“Nice, eh?” McIntyre asked. “The missus here wants four of the same for the parlor.”
Mrs. McIntyre growled playfully at him.
“What is it doing here?” Sam asked; a meatpacking warehouse seemed an unlikely place for an artifact.
“Fabiano had it smuggled in. No idea why, but now it’s ours.”
That explained the large bloodstain. Sam felt a bit queasy; someone, maybe several someones, had been murdered right here not long ago.
