Opal sounded in distress, but if he went back, it would only make things worse. He was certain of it, for no other reason than that he’d always made things worse for his family. Why would this time be any different?
Still, maybe he could do something for her. Ignoring the voice that told him he wasn’t doing enough, that he was failing yet again, he wrote out a check addressed to her, then a letter of explanation.
Dear Opal,
I’m sorry to hear things are difficult. I need to stay in Chicago for my job, but you deserve all the help I can give you. I’ve included a check so you can hire a housekeeper and not have to work so hard. There should be enough left over for you to buy yourself a nice dress, or whatever you want most. If it isn’t enough, just let me know, and I’ll send more.
He hesitated, pen poised. Should he include anything about his life here in Chicago? Assure her that he was doing well?
But no—there wasn’t much he could say that didn’t include Alistair, hexes, or speakeasies, all of which were anathema to the rest of his family. Magic came from the devil, or so they’d been told every Sunday. Sam didn’t believe that, of course, but he didn’t want to upset Opal any more than she already was.
In the end, he simply signed Love, Sam at the bottom, sealed the letter and check in an envelope, and stamped and addressed it. Even stamps had hexes worked in them now, to prevent counterfeiting; his family must gnash their teeth every time they had to mail something.
He dropped his letter in the box and stood in front of it, hand resting on the cold metal. With a sinking sensation, he realized that if he never heard from Opal or anyone related to him ever again, he’d be fine with that.
He’d never been much of a son or brother—surely this was one more way in which he was defective.
At least this time he was only failing them in his heart.
8
As Sam was getting ready to leave the hexworks for the day, the phone in his office rang.
Very few people had the number, so both Glenda and Luke looked up curiously at the sound. “Go on ahead,” Sam said, waving toward the lab door, while he headed back to the office. Glenda left, but Luke paused to stack some papers on one of the tables, so Sam closed the office door before answering.
“Sam,” Sullivan said warmly. “Glad I caught you before you left. How are things?”
“Good,” he replied. Surely Sullivan wasn’t calling him just to chat. “We could use an Egyptologist, though.”
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I wanted to finalize the invitation I mentioned to Miss Gatti the other night. Come to dinner at my place, tomorrow night. Bring Miss Gatti with you, and your familiar, Alistair.”
Sam doubted they were being invited just to socialize. But he couldn’t just ask for the real reason, so he said, “Thank you—I’ll let them know. What time should we arrive?”
“Let’s say eight. I’ll see you all then.”
Sullivan hung up. Sam lowered the receiver and stared at the telephone for a long moment. Why the hell did Sullivan want to talk to Wanda and Alistair? Or him, for that matter?
The phone didn’t offer any answers, so he left the hexworks and made straight for The Pride. It was still early, but the after-work drinkers were trickling in, and the main room was filled with chatter. The band wouldn’t play for another hour yet, when the dinner crowd showed up, but they were already there drinking whiskey and smoking gage.
He went straight back to the office, where Wanda and Alistair sat, Alistair bent over his books and Wanda on the phone. She hung up just as he entered, and they both looked at him.
“Come to see me?” Alistair asked with a pleased smile.
“Um, sort of,” Sam said with a wince. Alistair’s smile faded. “Mr. Sullivan wants us all to have dinner with him at his house tomorrow night at eight.”
“Fuck,” Wanda said succinctly. “I was hoping he’d forgotten about that.”
Sam twisted his cap in his hands. “I told him yes, I didn’t think I could refuse, unless you have some excuse…?”
Alistair stood up, crossed the room, and gently took the cap from him. “You did the right thing.”
“And there’s no point putting him off with an excuse.” Wanda sighed. “He wants to get his claws in deeper. Probably by supplying us booze.”
“No doubt.” Alistair hung Sam’s hat on the coatrack, then gave him a quick kiss. “Since you’re here, we’ll get dinner together. I’m calling it quits for the day.”
The door from the kitchen swung open, and Doris appeared in the hall outside. Her bronze face set in a grim expression, she said, “We’ve got trouble.”
Fear tingled in Sam’s extremities—if Doris thought something was trouble, it was bad.
