Alistair shifted into cheetah form, and the scent of human fear instantly hit his nose. The crowd was starting to panic, the civilians fleeing the approaching wave of gunshots and screams. Reaching through the bond, he said, “Sam! Get to The Pride—Bellinowski’s funeral is under attack and the hexworks might be next.”
“What? Alistair?—”
“Don’t distract me! I love you.”
Then the battle was on them.
25
“Don’t distract me! I love you.”
Sam’s heart hammered so hard his hands shook. He wanted to reach out to Alistair, beg him to be careful. Run to him, protect him…
But he couldn’t. There was no possible way to reach the cemetery in time to change anything.
The only thing he could do was do what Alistair asked. The completed hexes lay in front of him, carefully inscribed on the lengths of linen he’d cut from the bolt waiting for him this morning. Each one like a yawning mouth, desperate to be filled with magic.
They still needed to dry, so he left them out while he hastily locked the Aten Disc back in its safe. Once it was secure, he hurried out of the office and toward the front of the building.
The hexworks was almost completely silent—everyone had been given the day off to attend the funeral, with the exception of a skeleton crew of guards. Because using a funeral to stage an ambush was unthinkable, one of the few rules of decency even the most hardened gangsters adhered to.
Except Fabiano had decided to do it anyway.
“Mr. Paladino!” he shouted as he reached the ground floor.
Paladino and the other guards were sitting around a table playing cards. Upon spotting Sam’s face, Paladino shot to his feet, hand going to his gun. “What’s wrong, boss?”
“Alistair just contacted me—Fabiano is attacking the funeral!”
All the guards stared at him aghast. “No way,” one said. “It can’t be true.”
“If the boss says it’s true, it is.” Paladino’s face was grim. “Should we go there and back Mr. Sullivan up?”
“She might try to hit the hexworks,” Sam said. “I don’t have any more information, I’m sorry—he’s fighting for his life, I can’t distract him. But he wanted me to go to The Pride, where it’s safe.”
“Right.” Paladino turned to his fellows. “You lot stay here and watch the place. Stay on high alert until you hear from me otherwise, got it? I’ll take Mr. Cunningham to The Pride, then head back here.”
While the others scrambled to take up their stations, Paladino led the way out to the car. As soon as they were securely inside, he started the engine and stepped on the gas.
When they reached The Pride, they squealed to a halt, the two right-side tires mounting the curb onto the sidewalk as Paladino parked as close as possible to the stairs leading down. “Let’s get you inside.”
They both clambered out, but as they reached the top of the stairs, Sam’s heart fell.
The steel door stood wide open, and from inside came the sound of shattering glass.
Winged familiars engaged in an aerial battle above Alistair’s head. The falcon, Angie, impacted with a small hawk, leaving behind an explosion of feathers. An eagle dive-bombed one of Sullivan’s men, only to be set upon in turn by three ospreys.
Sullivan and the men surrounding him took cover behind nearby headstones, and Alistair did the same. Return fire rang out—then there was a huge flash of light, and one of the men peering around a headstone cried out as he was blinded.
A light hex, used like a grenade. Even as he thought it, the headstone he crouched behind began to glow as another hex gave away his location.
Tommy guns chattered again, and chips of granite flew as bullets bit into the marker. More tore through Bellinowski’s casket, releasing the smell of embalming fluid. The flower arrangements disintegrated under the onslaught, petals filling the air like multi-colored snow.
“Come out, Mickey!” Fabiano shouted. “Or do you want to die hiding like a coward?”
Alistair risked a peek around the side of the headstone. The crowd had cleared away, leaving behind dropped hats, shawls, prayer-books, and hip flasks. Bodies lay scattered on the cemetery grass, some draped over grave markers, gunned down as they’d fled.
Through the wreckage strode Isabella Fabiano. One eye was swathed in bandages, and the hair on that side of her head looked burned off. A tiger flanked her on the right, a German shepherd on the left, and armed men spread out to either side.
