Thank goodness Paladino had sent Alistair to stand guard around the back, because it meant Sam could slip out the front without having to answer any questions. The last thing he wanted was an argument, or worse, Alistair insisting on coming with him. He loved Alistair, more than anything, but he did have a tendency to say what was on his mind, and this was a situation that required a delicate touch.
Wanda would have been perfect for it. But Sam wasn’t about to drag any of the Gattis deeper into things than they already were.
He grew more and more nervous as they drove. He needed to convince Sullivan—but also warn him the hex might not work, just like any other untested magic. That was going to be a hard line to walk, without going too far over in either direction. By the time they reached the gates to Sullivan’s mansion, his palms were sweaty and his stomach in knots.
The guards allowed them through, and Paladino parked in the drive, at the end of a long line of cars. With the flower shop gone and his wife away, it seemed the mansion had become the hub of Sullivan’s empire.
“I’m going to chat with some friends,” Paladino said as he opened the door for Sam. “You just say the word when you’re ready to leave, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Thanks,” Sam said.
He went to the front door alone, while Paladino headed over to a group of men and women clustered near the cars. No servant greeted him this time, but rather a tough-looking woman with hair so pale it bordered on white and dark brown eyes. A familiar of some sort, he guessed, probably something big and strong.
“Apologies, Mr. Cunningham,” she said, “but I need to take your coat, make sure you aren’t carrying any weapons or hexes. It’s standard protocol for everyone coming into the house right now, no exceptions.”
Considering Sullivan had been betrayed twice by his own hexmen, Sam couldn’t argue with the precaution. “Here’s my wallet with my tools and a few hexes,” he said, handing it over first. “And my coat, of course.”
She took both and put them on a side table that he thought used to have a flower vase on it. “Turn out your pockets, please.”
He did so, then held out his arms while she ran impersonal hands up and down his body to check for weapons. When she didn’t find anything, she stepped back. “Apologies again, Mr. Cunningham. Go on through to the billiards room, and someone will fetch you when Mr. Sullivan has a moment.”
“Thanks. Um, have a good day,” he added, and received a brief smile in return.
He’d walked past the billiards room the night they came for dinner, but never gone inside. Today, the door stood wide, and several people crowded around the two tables, sleeves rolled up while they played. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room, and there was a half-empty decanter of what looked like whiskey on the sideboard.
One of the players looked up when he entered. “Mr. Cunningham,” Mrs. McIntyre said, her wolf eyes bright with mischief. “Have you come to watch me teach these saps how to play?”
“She cheats,” someone else said, but it didn’t sound like a serious accusation, more good-natured ribbing.
“If you call being better than you cheating, then sure.” She grinned back, exposing her white teeth.
“I’m here to see Mr. Sullivan, but I’ll watch,” Sam said. He didn’t know anything about billiards, but from all the grumbling, Mrs. McIntyre continued to win handily. It took his mind off the upcoming meeting, at least a little.
The nerves came rushing back when Turner appeared in the doorway. “Come on, Choirboy. The boss’ll see you now.”
Sam followed him to Sullivan’s study. “Go on in,” Turner said, stopping outside.
Sam swallowed hard and opened the door. Sullivan sat behind his desk, and though his suit was perfectly pressed and his hair neat, something about him looked frayed around the edges. Maybe it was the dark circles beneath his eyes, or the lines bracketing his mouth, or the new strands of gray amidst the blond of his hair.
He was bent over a stack of papers, but looked up when Sam shut the door. “Mr. Cunningham.” No first name, that wasn’t the best sign. “I take it you have a matter of some urgency concerning the hex from the Egyptian tomb?”
His voice was neutral, but Sam knew he was on thin ice. If he was wasting Sullivan’s time…
He wasn’t sure what his punishment would be, honestly. Loss of trust, if nothing else, and that could mean life or death in these circumstances. Not that he thought Sullivan would have him killed for something so small, but it would tip the scales against him, and that might matter someday.
Sam took a seat, perching on the very edge. His palms were sweating again, so he wiped them on his corduroy pants. The photographic print of Sullivan’s dead son regarded him, his sweet smile captured for all eternity.
He forced himself to lower his gaze from the picture and meet Sullivan’s eyes. “What if I told you there was a possibility of bringing your son back to life?”
20
Sullivan didn’t say anything for a long moment, but the blood drained from his face and one hand twitched, as though reaching for something before being pulled back.
“Mr. Cunningham,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, “if you’re fucking with me, you will regret it.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Sam didn’t look away, even though his heart felt as though it might beat out of his chest. “And I can’t make any promises. But Vic—Mr. Nagorski—he brought something back into Bobby Watts’s body, and I don’t have any reason to think it wasn’t Bobby. I never got to see all the hexes or steps, but I did work on the final few, and based on that, I think Neferneferuaten was onto something.”
Something shifted in Sullivan’s eyes, a tiny spark that might have been hope. “Tell me everything.”
