Gunn doesn’t answer, not for a long while, so long that I start to wonder if he knows that I’m playing him. But when I finally work up the nerve to steal a glance his way, I catch him smirking. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
There’s a point at which your body just gets too exhausted from fear to be scared anymore, and before I realize it, I’m swimming in a shallow swamp of sleep. By the time I come to, the scenery’s changed. Our two-lane road has transformed into a moonlit bridge, and then a four-lane bustling avenue. The horizon becomes crowded—short towers of man-made stars light up the sky, and row homes now line the road, pressed tight to one another like little kids heading into their lessons.
I rub my eyes and sit upright as Gunn pops a cigarette into his mouth and lights it. He rolls his window down a sliver, and a steady stream of horns, engines, and screeching wheels overwhelms the car. He rubs his temples with his thumb and middle finger, gives a wide stretch of his mouth, and a yawn escapes him.
I venture, “How long you been seeking out sorcerers?”
He glances at me, looks like he’s debating whether to share. “Far too long.”
Encouraged, I push, “You said you’re rounding us all up for an experiment?”
Gunn doesn’t respond, so I look at my hands and add, “I never see the paper unless we go into Drummond, and even then, we don’t have a penny to throw away on news about other folks, but my cousin’s friends have told us about Washington. About these big-city shining rooms where you can drink magic all night, and get a fancy sorcerer’s performance to boot. Is that . . . is that what this is all about?”
Gunn takes a right, and now we’re smack in what looks to be the middle of town. Stretches of chalk-white pavement start running next to the street like thin ribbons. Dames in big brimmed hats and cloches, short skirts and long dresses, spill out onto the bleached walkways, huddle around the outside of buildings sharing smokes. Men lean out of wide-open windows, shouting and laughing into the September night.
“This is about far more than that,” Gunn answers quietly. “I have theories about magic, theories I’m quite keen to prove, theories that could turn this world upside-down. But like you, I’m a big believer in waiting for the right time.” Then he looks at me. “There’s something else you should know about me, Ms. Kendrick. I’m far fonder of solutions than questions. You understand me?”
A strange mix of fear and shame writhes through me. “I do, sir.”
And then it’s quiet. We cruise down a narrow cobblestone street, Gunn’s car stumbling over the bumpy stones, and then we make another turn and pull into a small parking lot pockmarked with a couple of cars. The place looks like it’s been closed for days. No lights, no music, no signs of life from the large storefront window that faces out to the corner lot.
Gunn cuts the engine. “I need to make a quick stop.”
I look at the dark corner lot and say slowly, “Sir, I don’t think anybody’s home.”
“The place is spellbound. It’s just a magic manipulation.” He opens his car door and steps outside. “Don’t move. I’ll only be a minute.”
Gunn slams his door behind him, sidestepping around an old Model T. But before he can get to the door of the place, an older man just appears, out of thin air, like he materialized from the darkness to stroll over and greet Gunn.
Spellbound, Gunn called it. There must be some kind of large-scale force field protecting the entire property from the eyes of the law. I wonder if Jed could pull off something like this. Then again, the only magic he’s cared about for a long while is the kind that’s transferred into a bottle.
My nerves return again, that panicky, gut-wrenching feeling of being in way over my head. Despite the secret magic that Mama and the women in her family might have conjured in our neck of the woods, sorcerers in Washington clearly have their own tricks. Big, bold, awing sort of tricks. Makes me wonder what special magic Gunn’s other sorcerers might have up their sleeves.
The older man who just appeared out of nowhere is at least twice Gunn’s age, around fifty if I had to guess, with thick silver hair as shiny as a polished nickel and a suit on that manages to put Gunn’s to shame.
Gunn’s window’s still rolled down a couple inches, so I angle closer to his driver’s seat, strain to catch anything of what they’re saying—maybe what the heck is going on, what’s in store for me—
But I only catch bits that I can’t make sense of or string together—shutting down the Red Den for a while to switch things up, sir . . . Understood, just making my rounds. You’re doing your part. Danny would have been proud of you, son. . . . Any leads for the street? . . . Just some dame . . .
At that, the older man looks into Gunn’s car, searches till he finds me inside it, then laughs and slaps Gunn on the back before turning around and sliding into a car on the other side of the lot.