Assuming he was right. And assuming the hex, once assembled, would even work.
“Show me,” he said.
Less than an hour later, Sam stood over the completed hex. Even though the intricate nest of symbols was inscribed on a flat sheet of paper, to his witch’s sense it felt like a deep well begging to be filled with magic.
They’d done it.
“Well?” Doc asked. “Can you tell if it does anything?”
Sam nodded slowly. “Yes. It almost feels…alive.”
“Really?” He seemed nonplussed. “I hadn’t expected that. Is that normal?”
It wasn’t, but that was neither here nor there. “How do we use it? You’ve put the entire ritual together?”
“And translated it to English, yes.” Doc picked up a sheet of paper with neatly printed instructions on it. “The hex should be painted on linen shrouds and placed atop the bodies. And the Aten Disc isn’t just an instruction manual for the hex—it must be the focus of magic, and needs to catch the sun’s rays as it rises.” He hesitated, glancing at Sam. “But this is all just theoretical, right? It couldn’t possibly work.”
Sam should be feeling triumphant, but instead his chest was tight, his breath shallow. The hex felt different than any other he’d worked on. Most were simply inert containers; this one seemed almost as if it wanted to be filled.
He was tired, that was all. “I think it might,” he told Doc, because why not be honest? “I need to go tell Mr. Sullivan. He’ll be at the viewing for Eddie Bellinowski, or maybe at the wake.”
“Oh.” Doc looked around, unsure. “So we’re done here?”
Sam nodded. “You’re free to go.”
“Right.” Still he hesitated. “Listen, I assume Mr. Sullivan will do something with all this stuff, probably melt it down or sell it. I don’t want to contemplate it, frankly. Do you think…can I stay here a bit longer? I want to open Neferneferuaten’s coffin. Just…just see her face, even if I can never actually study her mummy.”
Sam recalled Doc’s expression of longing the day they’d opened the crate holding the pharaoh’s earthly remains. “Of course. I’ll have Mr. Paladino let the guards know.”
“Thanks. And you don’t have to worry about me making off with anything—it would be more than my life’s worth to cross Sullivan like that.”
It hadn’t even occurred to Sam, though it probably should have, especially after Luke’s betrayal. Maybe he really wasn’t cut out for the criminal life.
Too late now. “They’ll probably ask to search you anyway,” he said. “So don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t.” Doc hesitated. “So, I suppose this is goodbye. I won’t be seeing you again.”
“Right.” It was a shame—in other, better circumstances they might have become friends. Sam stuck out his hand. “It was a pleasure working with you.”
Doc shook it. “If I had to do this, I’m glad it was with you. Good luck, Sam. I think you’re going to need it.”
The viewing of Bellinowski’s body was still going on when Paladino pulled the car up. A throng of people were coming and going from the Panek Funeral Home even at almost ten o’clock. Either Bellinowski had a lot of friends, or people were putting in an appearance because they knew Sullivan would be there. Probably a bit of both.
Sam silently cursed when he realized he wasn’t really dressed for such a solemn occasion. He’d been so eager to go straight to Sullivan with the news, he hadn’t even thought to stop by the house first to change.
Well, at least he looked respectable—no ink stains on his shoes, and if he kept his coat buttoned up it would hide the comfortable old sweater he had on underneath. He brushed lint off his cap as they climbed out of the car, then settled it on his curls.
“I’d like to pay my respects,” Paladino said as they walked to the entrance.
“Of course.” Sam hesitated, unsure if he should ask. “Were you close?”
Paladino contemplated for a long moment. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said at last. “But he was a good boss. Never risked a man’s life without need.”
Which was probably about as much as you could hope for when it came to someone in Bellinowski’s line of work. “He seemed like a good man,” Sam lied, and got a nod of what seemed like genuine agreement from Paladino.
The viewing room was just inside the entrance; both it and the hall outside were jammed with people. A man in a dark suit that was just a touch more formal than everyone else’s hovered just inside the door; when they entered, he said, “The Bellinowski viewing? My condolences on your loss.”
“Uh, thanks,” Sam said. “Do you know if Mr. Sullivan is here? I need to speak with him.”
