“That’s good.” Joel seemed relieved, as if the fact Sam was involved meant it was all going to be okay. The thought made Sam’s guts squirm.
Soon—too soon—people started to make for the driveway. Sam fell in with the gangsters, Alistair beside him, the other Gattis and their witches at his back. If only he’d had a chance to talk privately with his boyfriend…but maybe it was better this way. He didn’t need an argument to distract him.
A long line of cars filled the driveway. Sullivan and Turner stood beside one; Sullivan lifted his hand when he spotted them. “Sam! You’re in the next car, behind ours. Mr. Gatti can ride with you.”
Sam nodded and made for the Rolls-Royce parked behind Sullivan’s. McIntyre was driving, his wife sitting by him in the front seat looking bleary-eyed.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her. It couldn’t be too well given the state she’d been in last night. Too bad sober-up hexes didn’t do much—though maybe that could be the next thing he worked on for Sullivan.
“Paying for my sins,” she said wryly, then swiveled around to see Alistair, who was sitting behind her. “Good work at the funeral yesterday, Gatti. How’s the shoulder?”
“I slapped a couple of pain hexes on it this morning, so it’ll do.”
Damn it—Sam had been so caught up in his own thoughts, he’d forgotten to ask Alistair about his injury. Before he could apologize, McIntyre started the Rolls, its engine growling to life. Sullivan and Turner got in their car in front of them, though not at the head of the procession. That honor probably belonged to some heavily armed soldiers, just in case there was trouble.
They rolled slowly forward, down the drive and out the gates. “Where are we going?” Alistair asked.
“I don’t know,” McIntyre replied. “They said to follow Mr. Sullivan’s car, so that’s what I’m doing.”
In the darkness of the backseat, Sam took Alistair’s hand in his. His fingers were cool, but held Sam’s in a firm grip, as if afraid of being pulled away. Sam guessed he wasn’t nearly as sanguine about the upcoming ritual as he was pretending.
But he’d come anyway. The thought warmed Sam as much as the coffee had.
The streets were almost deserted at this time of night. Most revelers had gone home by now, and the only people heading to work so early were bakers and newspaper boys. The few who were on the sidewalks paused to watch the long line of sleek cars roll past.
“It won’t take long for reporters to get wind of this,” Alistair remarked, nodding toward an old woman who stood and gawped at the procession.
McIntyre shrugged. “Mr. Sullivan didn’t order us to use look-away hexes on the cars, so I guess he isn’t worried about it.”
The mention of the look-away hexes made Sam’s gut tighten even further. “Like your look-away hex worked?” Alistair had demanded. “You didn’t think through what it might be used for, and you’re doing the same damn thing now!”
Maybe Alistair was right. Maybe…
But he’d come to join them, so he must have changed his mind at some point during the night.
Right?
The car came to a stop, breaking Sam out of his thoughts. The nearest street sign he could see out the window said they were on the corner of Michigan and Illinois, just south of Towertown. The area to the east was blocked off with a fence bearing a sign that read: CONSTRUCTION AREA—KEEP OUT.
McIntyre shut off the motor and climbed out. Sam followed suit, looking around in confusion. It was so dark, it was hard to see anything beyond the streetlights.
Sullivan got out of the car in front of them. “What do you think about my choice of place for the ritual?”
“Where is it? I mean, exactly?”
Sullivan grinned and pointed to the building looming beyond the construction fence. Sam followed the skyscraper’s walls upward, but couldn’t make out much against the starry sky. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s the new Tribune Tower,” Alistair said, coming up from behind him.
“That it is, Mr. Gatti.” Sullivan’s smile showed all his teeth. “And we’re going all the way to the top.”
30
Alistair didn’t like this—but then, he hadn’t expected to. All around them, men and women were exiting from their cars and streaming through the gate into the construction zone, which one of Sullivan’s gangsters had unlocked with a hex. Some of them he recognized as Fabiano’s former minions, their expressions ranging from resigned to concerned, and surrounded by a cadre of Sullivan’s men. Within a few minutes, hexlights appeared high overhead, amidst the exposed beams at the very top of the tower. At least one elevator must be in place to lift the construction workers to the building’s unfinished crown.
“Of course,” Sam said. “It’s taller than any other skyscraper nearby, and not far from the lake. The sunrise will be completely unobstructed from the top.”
“Exactly.” Sullivan clasped his hands together, clearly pleased with himself. Judging by the shadows under his eyes, he probably hadn’t slept at all since the interrupted funeral yesterday.
