“Hmm.” Wanda’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
The jazz music on the radio abruptly stopped, and the announcer came on. “Breaking news,” she said. “We’ve received reports of an explosion at The Silvervine cabaret. It’s unknown at this time how many people are injured or the amount of damage. Be sure to tune in for our complete news coverage tomorrow morning at…”
The announcer’s words turned into a meaningless buzz in Alistair’s ears. His hands went cold and ice filled his stomach. “The Silvervine,” he said in response to Wanda’s questioning look. “That’s where Sam is having dinner.”
Sam found himself blinking at a ceiling he could barely make out, thanks to a combination of missing glasses and rising smoke. His ears rang and the stench of burning filled his nostrils.
He rolled onto his side, coughing. Though blurry, he could make out a floor strewn with blood and shards of glass. The host who had escorted him to the back room lay in a crumpled heap, unmoving.
There’d been some kind of explosion. A gas leak? Was the building going to burst into flames, or fall in on his head?
He forced himself to his elbows and knees, trying to avoid the glass, but it was everywhere. Turner sprawled a foot away, unconscious or dead. Sullivan lay draped over Turner’s legs; even as Sam watched, the gangster tried to lift his head.
They needed to get out. Sam looked in the direction of the twisted metal that was all that remained of the front door. Thick smoke drifted between them and the outside, but he didn’t spot any flames. They might be able to run for it.
The smoke stirred and swirled, as though someone was moving through it, though Sam couldn’t make them out. A cough sounded from that direction, though, lifting his hopes of rescue.
“We’re over here!” he shouted.
More coughing. The smoke outlined a figure, though again Sam couldn’t see them without his glasses. Whoever it was got the coughing under control, but didn’t call back.
Instead, his only answer was a click, like the sound of someone pulling back the hammer on a gun.
Sam acted on instinct. A crumpled length of metal that had once been part of the doors lay inches from his hand. He grabbed it up and flung it as hard as he could toward where he thought the figure stood.
He missed, of course. Sam couldn’t even throw a baseball straight, much to the despair of his father, and that was on a clear day with his glasses. The metal soared through the air—then bounced off the wall behind whoever was in the smoke.
They spun and fired in the direction of the noise. The distraction wouldn’t last long—but it was long enough.
Through the ringing in his ears, Sam made out the squeal of tires outside. The smoke swirled again, followed by more coughing that faded as the assassin fled.
The fire was dying already, contained by the building’s fire suppression hex, but the smoke grated in Sam’s throat like he’d swallowed steel wool. Sullivan sat up and reached out, grabbing Sam’s arm. A moment later, Bellinowski appeared.
“Boss!” he shouted.
Sullivan let the man help him up. “Check on Lenny,” he ordered, then helped Sam get to his feet.
Sirens sounded, and they limped outside, leaning on one another. The other gang members rushed from inside, surrounding them, and they were both bundled into Sullivan’s car, out of sight of the police and the reporters bound to descend on the scene.
“Sam!” Alistair shouted in his head.
Sam started badly. He still wasn’t entirely used to the witch-familiar bond.
Most people thought of the bond in terms of magic. Familiars were the source, but could only use it to shapeshift. After bonding, a witch could draw on their familiar’s well of magic, channeling it into a hex so it could be used.
In other words, familiars were the wellspring, the witch the garden hose, and the hex the bucket that held the magic.
But there was another upside to the bond: when a familiar was in animal shape, they could look out through their witch’s eyes and speak to them mind-to-mind.
Sullivan noticed him jump. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. It’s Alistair,” he said aloud. Then, through the bond that glowed like a warm coal behind his heart, he said, “I’m all right.”
Relief flooded through the bond and into him. “Fur and feathers. Are you still at the cabaret? I’ll be right there.”
“No—I’m with Sullivan. We’re both all right.” Well, mostly. He was becoming aware of aches in his body, the pain of glass shards embedded in skin. “Some cuts and bumps, nothing more.”
“Where is Sullivan taking you?”
