Funny—Alistair hadn’t heard a word about resurrecting Bellinowski, a man who’d died in Sullivan’s service. And maybe he did intend to bring his chief soldier back—but if so, why put him in the ground in the first place?
Unless that was part of the ritual. Nagorski had to jump through a lot of hoops to call Bobby Watts back into his corpse; maybe Bellinowski had to go through something similar?
Or maybe he’d been nearing the end of his usefulness, and Sullivan didn’t need him anymore.
Wanda, Joel, Teresa, and Reinhold were escorted up to them. “There you are,” Sullivan said, pleased. “The ancient Egyptians venerated all familiars, but especially cats. I want you in the first circle, near me.”
Alistair didn’t know what that meant, but he’d take having his siblings close at hand any day. If Holly came through…
She would. He had to believe that.
Almost all of the witches and familiars had disappeared through the fence. Sullivan walked inside, and they followed him. Beyond the fence waited the base of the tower, its steel beams already clad in limestone. A grand entrance beckoned them onward, the doors propped wide.
“Stay here and keep watch,” Sullivan instructed Turner.
Alistair’s heart sank. He’d tried to talk to Turner during their walk together from the gate to the mansion’s entrance last night. Not that he thought Turner had listened, but he’d hoped maybe he’d planted a seed of doubt.
Turner looked shocked. “Why? I thought—that is, you don’t want me with you?”
Sullivan clapped a hand to his underling’s shoulder. “This isn’t a punishment, Lenny. There might still be some saps out there loyal to Fabiano, looking to avenge her death. I need somebody I can trust to watch my back. And there’s no one I trust more than you.”
Turner hesitated, but in the end he had to obey. “Sure thing.”
He stepped aside, and the rest of them went through the open doors. Though clearly still under construction, the interior was already impressive, from the pierced stone tracery above the doors to the elaborate carvings around the slender Neo-gothic windows. The tower was a massive cathedral dedicated not to the divine, but to the workings of the press. A chandelier hung above, hexlights already installed and activated.
A line snaked toward the elevator—presumably there would eventually be more lifts, but for the moment only one seemed to be in operation. They went to the head of the line and crowded into the car: Sullivan, two of his armed gangsters, Sam, Wanda, Joel, Teresa, Reinhold, and himself.
The elevator started upward with a groan. Its interior was unfinished, just blank metal that could endure the rigors of hauling construction workers to and fro, then be covered over later with wood and carpet. The thing moved fast, leaving his stomach somewhere around ground level as it whisked them up to whatever would come next.
Sam let out an audible gasp when the doors finally opened onto an unobstructed view of the city below.
The tower’s crown was still being set in place; for the moment, it was a thing of massive steel girders that would eventually form buttresses, walls, and a promenade. Flights of steel stairs led up past the buttresses to the skeletal structure of the uppermost reaches of the tower.
Wind howled between the naked beams, as if to drive home just how little stood between them and a long, long fall. From this height, the streetlights were mere glints, tracing the lines of street and avenue, joined here and there by a brightly lit sign advertising pain hexes, or shoes magicked to never give the wearer blisters, or perhaps the newest brand of coffee—it was impossible to tell from so very far up.
Most of the witches and familiars—now all in animal form—stood in a circle on the promenade, waiting for the signal to direct their magic into the hex. A few armed gunmen loitered near the stairs, holding their weapons in their hands. No one would be allowed to back out.
Fear slithered along Alistair’s nerves, but he quelled it ruthlessly. This might not be a forest in France, but the same training that had steeled him then would serve him now.
“I’m afraid we have to walk the rest of the way up,” Sullivan said, sounding almost jovial.
Sam clung to the stair railing, and Alistair put a hand to the small of his back to steady him as they climbed. He didn’t have problems with heights normally, but the lack of walls between them and the gulf of night gave him a queasy feeling. Away from the city, Lake Michigan was a sheet of blackness, broken only by the blinking lights on the water cribs and the occasional lantern on a boat.
Wind whipped Alistair’s hair in a black cloud around his face as they reached the uppermost level. When completed, it would be a flat roof clad in limestone and surrounded by pinnacles, but for now it was a net of steel, only the very center floored so workers had a place to put their equipment. Another ring of witches and familiars waited here, though this one was much smaller. Sullivan’s most trusted followers, Alistair guessed. Or else the ones he wanted to exert his control over directly, as with Wanda.
Doc stood near the center of the gathering, his face pale and his hands clenched. The only gunman on the roof was at his side; it seemed he hadn’t come here willingly.
When he spotted Sam, he took a step forward, only to be halted by the guard beside him. “Sam! I opened the coffin—you can’t go through with this!”
Sam’s step hitched. Sullivan, however, glared at Doc. “If I have any questions, I’ll ask them,” he growled. “Until then, shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
Damn it—whatever Doc needed to warn them about, whatever he meant about opening the coffin, it was clear Sullivan didn’t want to hear about it. Nothing was going to keep him away from his son, not with the promise of resurrection so close.
The circle of witches and familiars wasn’t complete; no one stood on the easternmost side of the building, giving a clear view of the horizon. The sky was still black, but first light had to be coming soon.
The easternmost side was occupied, however. Three long objects lay there. Boxes of some kind, with hexed cloths draped over whatever was inside, the cloth held down by rocks to keep from blowing away. Gold fittings gleamed on the smallest box, but the other two were plainer and encrusted with something that might have been mold or earth.
Then a gust of wind brought with it the smell of putrefaction and damp soil, and everything clicked into place. They were coffins. Open coffins, with bodies inside.
