I sneak back into Gunn’s office just as the double doors to the show space burst open. I close his office door, throw myself into my chair on the near side of the desk, my nerves on fire. But there’s something else burning underneath my skin. Excitement. A desire to make thing right, to make Gunn hurt, to take from him like he’s taken from me, an anticipation that has my thoughts racing together—
Will the troupe come through, if Gunn catches on can I destroy him, run as fast as I can as the Feds close in, will we have a chance to start over together—
After what feels like an eternity sitting there, stewing in my own fears and worst-case scenarios, the doorknob twists open.
Gunn stands at the threshold. I study him, in an odd detached moment, like he’s somebody I don’t know. Somebody I’m never going to see again. He looks tall and lean in his three-piece suit, a thin gray pinstripe number that matches his hat. In another life, it might have been easy to fall for a man like Gunn, hard looks, hard-edged, a man of power and persuasion.
But in this one, I want to watch the life slowly leak out from his eyes. I want to watch his long, thin fingers grasp for relief that never comes.
“Turns out I need you once more tonight,” he says curtly. “Win must have missed one of the bottles, and now Colletto’s excited to see you cast the caging spell again.” He offers his hand. “If you do this, and you train the rest of the troupe in that dark magic, you and I will be square.” He pauses, no longer meets my eyes. “I’ll even be generous and give you some cash to help you and your family get home.”
Bullshit. Gunn murdered Alex. Gunn will probably end up murdering me after this deal. But I don’t speak, I don’t nod. Because I’m going to take his cash, all of it. And because Gunn’s going to die long before I do.
He takes my hand, pulls me out of my seat, and through his door. As we turn down the hall, Gunn’s eyes flit over to the empty chair where Win sat guard outside his office, but he doesn’t comment. I choose to believe that this means Grace and the troupe covered for me on this as well. I’m so nervous my entire body is shaking.
We cross the show space, where the clock hanging above the double doors reads ten to eight. If the Feds are still planning to bust the deal, I’ve got ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get this done—assuming I can pull it off—and walk away before we all go to jail. Before Ruby and Ben are waiting for a sister and a cousin who never meets them under that train departure sign.
The sorcerers stand outside the lounge door, lined up like a true cast of servants. Gunn barely glances at them as he roughly ushers me into the lounge, though before I cross the threshold I find Grace’s eyes and mouth to her, “Go.” But I can’t catch her reaction, because Gunn’s already closed the door behind me.
The lounge has been rearranged from a few moments ago, all the chairs and sofas now pushed into one large ring around a card table, which I assume is meant to serve as my stage. Every seat is taken—Colletto in the large armchair directly opposite the door, three of his minions on his left side occupying the long sofa, and two more standing behind them. Dawson and some of the Shaw underbosses—Kerrigan, O’Donnell, Sullivan—that I recognize from around the Den are on his right in armchairs and folding chairs, not to mention that scum-sucking shiner, Howie, who gives me this fat, shit-eating grin. Gunn’s surveying the room, same as me, and with a dissatisfied huff, he leans over Dawson. I hear him ask, “Why isn’t Win back yet?”
Dawson mumbles back, “Not sure, sir.”
“Ah, the beautiful Joan Kendrick,” Colletto says from his chair. “I was wondering when you were going to grace us with your presence.”
This is the man who ruined Alex’s family, the man who kept Alex cloaked in hate and nightmares, the man who arranged for his murder. Colletto will go down, same as the rest of them.
“Nice to see you, sir,” I say, and add a small curtsy as a flourish.
“I don’t think we should wait any longer.” Gunn nods toward the door. “Dawson, why don’t you bring the last quart forward?”
Dawson stands up, turns, and picks up a glass quart of red shine from the corner of the room. He sets it on the card table in front of me. The cap, naturally, has been busted. Thank you, troupe.
“Joan, if you please,” Gunn says through gritted teeth, “show these gentlemen once more how we elevate something magic . . . into something even more extraordinary.”
Colletto clasps his hands together and laughs. “I have dealers up and down the coast already signed on,” he says. “Can’t wait to see it again.”
And as he continues to smack his hands, I take out my switchblade, hold it right against my forearm above the glass bottle, feign like I’m about to begin the caging spell. But instead of pressing it into my flesh, I close my eyes.
After a moment, a minute, I hear Colletto laugh uncomfortably. “What’s she doing?”
“Joan,” Gunn says carefully.
“Gunn, what’s going on?” Colletto demands.