He parked far enough away so as to not make them nervous, then climbed out and approached on foot. “Who are you?” one of the men demanded. Young guy, suit a little too big for him—junior in the organization, Alistair figured.
He glanced at the other faces, but didn’t recognize any of them. “Alistair Gatti. My witch, Sam Cunningham, is inside. I’ve come to join him.”
One of the guards turned to a tree just inside the gate. “You hear that, Charlie? Let somebody know about this guy.”
An owl took off from the tree, flying toward the house on silent wings. Alistair started to cross his arms over his chest, but a bolt of pain from his shoulder reminded him he was injured. Instead, he lit a cigarette one-handed, puffing on it impatiently while waiting for the owl to come back and let him in.
Eventually, a figure approached the closed gates—but it wasn’t the owl. The twin hexlights set to either side of the drive fell across Turner’s face. “What do you need, Mr. Gatti?” he asked. “I was told you wouldn’t be joining us.”
“I have to talk to Sam as soon as possible.”
Turner shook his head. “He’s resting right now. Said you two had a fight, and he needs his beauty sleep.”
Damn it. Turner didn’t trust him, that was obvious. “He’s my witch.”
“I tell you what,” Turner said after eyeing him for a long moment, “you come in, find a place to bunk down, and you can see him before we—and I mean all of us, including you—head out in the morning. Deal?”
“Deal,” Alistair said, since it was the only one he was going to get. It wouldn’t give him time to spirit Sam away, but that had been a slim possibility to begin with.
Turner nodded to the guards, and they unlocked and opened the gates. “Any trouble from you, and you’ll regret it. I mean it—you’ll be on your best behavior, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, trying to sound sincere instead of sarcastic.
Turner didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he nodded. “Choirboy will be glad to see you,” he admitted. “Come on in.”
Sam felt as though he’d barely managed to fall asleep when someone shook him awake again. He blinked blearily to see one of Sullivan’s men stepping back.
“It’s time,” he said. “The boss wants us to all meet in the driveway out front by four-thirty.”
The clock on the wall currently proclaimed it to be four in the morning. Sam’s thoughts felt mired in fog as he got up and dressed. Voices came from down the hall, accompanied by the scent of coffee, so he followed them to a large sitting room set aside for guests staying in the wing.
Though night still pressed against the windows, men and women crowded along a table set with light breakfast items: sliced fruit, toast, jam, muffins, and the like. Coffee and tea waited in samovars, with neat stacks of cups beside them. But as Sam made for one of the cups, Alistair stepped in front of him.
Startled, he blinked dumbly for a moment. Alistair didn’t look like he’d slept, with heavy bags beneath his amber eyes, his silky black hair uncombed. “What are you doing here? I thought?—”
“I know what I said.” Alistair took his hands. “But we’re in this together. If you’re determined to go through with this, then I’ll be with you when you do it.”
Sam wanted to throw his arms around Alistair and kiss him. But not in front of the gangsters milling about. He squeezed Alistair’s thin fingers instead and smiled up at him. “Thanks. It means everything to me.”
With Alistair beside him, he could get through the ritual and whatever came after. By tonight, everything would be set right again: Mom and Jake would be alive and on their way home to Gatesville. The money to rebuild The Pride would have changed hands. All of his mistakes would be washed away; everyone would be happy again. Even Alistair, once he realized it was truly possible to have Forrest and his parents back.
What would happen after, what Sullivan might do with the hex later, he couldn’t let himself think about. Not now.
Alistair looked as though he wanted to say more, hesitated, then nodded to the samovars. “Let’s get you some coffee and something to eat.”
Sam’s stomach curled into a knot, and he glanced at a gilded clock sitting on the mantelpiece. Just under two hours, and they’d be using the hex. If he’d made some sort of mistake…
No. He’d gotten everything right. For once, he was certain of it.
“I don’t think I can eat,” he admitted. “But I’ll take some of that coffee.”
Wanda, Joel, Teresa, and Reinhold all came in shortly after. Wanda’s eyes, bloodshot from the night before, widened when she saw Alistair. “I can’t believe it—you came to your senses?”
Alistair shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Good morning, Sam,” Joel said. He seemed in better shape than Wanda, but weariness clung to him like a coat. “Wanda says you’re the one who figured out this hex we’re going to be powering?”
He wanted to object, say he’d had help from Doc. But Doc never wanted to be a part of this…and even if he had, the responsibility was Sam’s. “Yes.”
