I scramble away from Gunn’s seat before he gets back. He plunks down next to me, settles in, and starts the engine again.
And I know Gunn’s warning about too many questions, but I can’t help but ask, “Who was that, sir?”
Gunn grips the steering wheel tighter as he navigates out of the lot. “The Boss,” he concedes.
“Your boss?”
He gives another little smirk but doesn’t meet my gaze. “Boss McEvoy is everyone’s boss. You’ll find that out soon enough.”
We take a wide turn out of the lot, down a back alley, and through a quieter part of town. Whatever way we’re heading—north or south, east or west—the city soon falls away and then we’re over the same bridge, back on a lonely two-lane road, surrounded by a forest so thick and dark it swallows the moon and eats the stars. The suspense, the nerves, it all keeps rising, up my throat and through my lips, forcing me to speak.
“Mr. Gunn, you said you were taking me to DC.”
Gunn doesn’t answer.
“And we were in DC.”
Again, nothing.
“So where . . .” I take a deep breath. “Where are we going?”
The car gives a little stutter of exhaust and then keeps chugging forward on the long stretch of forested road. All he offers: “This little theory of mine, it needs privacy, room to be tested. It’s an experiment that needs to develop on its own.”
Gunn throws on his turning light and drops the car into a lower gear, and we take a slow turn into the trees. In all directions, there’re only twisty dark branches and black-emerald leaves. It’s beyond spooky, and I keep having to remind myself to breathe.
A block of cold cement takes shape amid the forest. It looks like a prison, maybe a warehouse, with a narrow stitch of windows running like a border around the top. There’s a little gravel lot surrounding the place—a small white island shining under the hazy moon—but no cars besides Gunn’s.
“We’re here.” Gunn nods to the backseat. “Grab your things.”
We crunch across the gravel lot and approach the warehouse entrance. Gunn takes off a block of wood that’s barricading the door on our side, props it against the concrete wall. Then he opens the door and offers me his hand. I just think Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ben, Ben, Ben, and I force myself to grasp it, to allow this gangster to lead me by the hand into a locked warehouse in the middle of nowhere.
It’s too black inside to see anything, and so I step carefully, the scuff of my work boots against the concrete floor the only sound through the dark lofted space. It takes a near minute for my eyes to adjust, and when they do, I see the floor is littered with at least a dozen occupied cots.
“Who are they?” I whisper.
“The other sorcerers,” Gunn answers. “Fifteen of you in total, though only seven will be staying beyond my experiment.” Seven. I look around at the smattering of satchels littered around each cot, each sorcerer thrown over a thin mattress like a twisted bag of flour. Old, young, men, women, from what I can make out. I wonder where they’re from. I wonder what they can do. I wonder if they’ll all perform circles around me in whatever “experiment” awaits us tomorrow.
Stop. You will succeed. You must succeed.
Gunn clutches his keys in his palm, and the sudden jangle prompts a few of the sleeping sorcerers to grunt and roll over. “I need to go. It’s late, and we’re starting nice and early tomorrow.”
“Wait—” But the word hangs there alone. There’s too many other ones to choose from—where are you going you gonna leave me here where the heck are we—that I can’t figure out where to start.
“That one’s yours.” Gunn points to the one empty sunken mattress in the corner. He tips his white fedora, a cotton ghost floating in a haunted warehouse, and turns on his heel. “Get some rest.”
“Mr. Gunn—” I whisper, but he’s already back out the door. He closes it and gives a faint grunt as he slides the block of wood over the door to lock it on the other side.
Nerves on fire, I force myself to tiptoe around the minefield of sleeping sorcerers and lie down as quietly as possible on the empty cot. The thing’s all coils and sharp edges, but I just close my eyes, wrap myself around my knapsack, and pray for a sleep as deep and dark as sleep can get.
Long ago there was a sorcerer who walked to hell for her family, and in the pits of fire, the devil saw her remorse and let her walk back—
But I can’t fall asleep. I’m too wound up. One of the men a few feet away shifts with a squeak in his cot, and I give a gasp before I can help it. Another wheezes—whispers?—while a nearby cough nearly sends me jumping off my mattress.
I turn over, close my eyes, pinch out the warehouse. I need to calm down. I need to cut my fear out, bottle it, and put it on a shelf.