“I’m done listening!” Sam pulled on his coat, every movement rough and angry. “I love you, I just want to make you happy, but you won’t let me.”
“I love you, too—that’s why I’m worried!” Alistair tried to put a hand on his arm, but Sam evaded his touch. “I’m sorry we’re fighting. Can we just sit down and discuss this rationally?”
“I’m being rational.” Sam jammed his hat on his head. “I’ll be home by noon tomorrow. Then you’ll see there was nothing to worry about.”
“Sam, please?—”
The door slammed shut behind him.
28
Sam fumed as he rode in the back of a taxi toward the Gold Coast and Sullivan’s mansion.
For a while, he’d thought Alistair had been right all along, that he never should have gotten involved with Sullivan. But if he’d found some other job, or left the city, or whatever it was Alistair wanted from him, he would never have unlocked the resurrection hex. Never had the chance to make his family truly happy, once and for all.
And damn it, he was going to fix things for Alistair, too, whether he wanted him to or not. They’d rebuild The Pride, and the next time the ritual was performed, he’d make sure Alistair’s parents and Forrest were included among the dead to be restored.
It would be performed again, naturally. Sullivan wasn’t one to let the power of life and death go to waste.
No, he’d use it to secure his own empire. If he kept it tightly in his control, he’d be able to do whatever he wanted. The most rich, the most powerful, people in the world would come to him hat in hand, begging him to bring back lost children, spouses, parents, lovers. Or even looking for assurance he’d restore them to life, once their time came.
Maybe he’d do some charity cases as well. Forget free milk; he could offer free resurrection.
It wouldn’t be equal, of course. The powerful would be the ones to benefit, just like always. And of course, Sam and Alistair would be bound to the gangster forever, because Sam knew how to make the hex, and that wasn’t knowledge Sullivan would risk getting out.
Sam pushed aside his unease. He would pay whatever price Sullivan required, if only he could set things to right, make up for his mistakes.
Two wrongs didn’t make a right.
But this wasn’t a case of two wrongs. It was one wrong, and one right to correct it.
Once a failure, always a failure.
He couldn’t lose his nerve now. Opal was depending on him. Dad was. The Gattis were. Even Alistair was, whether he’d admit it or not. Worrying had never gotten Sam anywhere; now was time for action.
Night had fallen by the time the taxi let him out in front of Sullivan’s estate. The men on guard recognized him immediately, and he was escorted up the drive to the house.
Inside, a party was in full swing. The sound of music blared from a record player, accompanied by laughs and joyful shouts. Mrs. McIntyre stumbled into the hall as he passed by, her face flushed and a martini in her hand.
“Choirboy!” she shouted, all propriety forgotten. “Have you come to celebrate? The war is over! We won!” She turned before he could reply and yelled, “Someone get this man a drink!”
“No, thank you,” he said, trying to disengage.
“Aw, come on.” She grabbed his arm drunkenly. “Do you play billiards?”
“Choirboy isn’t here to party.” Turner came up from behind them, cane tapping lightly as he no longer needed to lean on it except when he was tired. Then he cocked a brow. “Are you?”
“No,” Sam said.
“You two aren’t any fun,” Mrs. McIntyre said. She started to take a drink, then realized most of her martini had splashed out while she waved it around. “I should get a refill.”
“You do that.” Turner watched as she staggered away in search of more booze. “Your friends are upstairs. Where’s your familiar?”
“He’s not coming.” Sam tried not to let his bitterness show, but judging by the look Turner gave him, he’d failed.
“Oh well. It’s not like his physical presence is necessary for you to use his magic.” Turner gestured toward the stairs. “This way.”
When they reached the second floor, Turner let them into a small drawing room that held an air of disuse. Maybe it had been part of Mrs. Sullivan’s domain, neglected while she was away, grieving the loss of her child.
