*
We take our time freshening up as the other sorcerers slowly wake up around us. The sky outside the warehouse’s windows rises to a pink hue, then settles into the glaring white of morning. We hear screeches from the other side of the door, the sound of wood scraping concrete. The door creaks open, and Gunn steps inside with an associate in tow.
“Showtime,” Grace whispers. A rush of nerves, adrenaline, fear—it all shoots right up my spine.
“Gentlemen, ladies.” Gunn crosses the large space to greet us. Everyone scrambles to stand, eager to greet the man who holds the golden key to some of our futures.
“Today, our experiment begins.” Gunn looks more polished than he did last night: three-piece suit without a wrinkle, new hat, cold-blue eyes without a bruise of a sleepless night underneath them. “You each stand among the most talented sorcerers this country has to offer, so look around.” He waits for a minute as we all size one another up.
“This country thinks it’s seen all that sorcery can achieve, thinks that Prohibition has already funneled all of America’s magic into the underworld.” Gunn pauses. “But I know better. I know that some of the most gifted sorcerers—you, your families—have kept your particular magic to yourselves.” He surveys our crowd. “Each of you was smart enough to recognize this opportunity I’m giving you, and come out of hiding for it. The magic I believe we can make together will be unprecedented, will truly change the face of sorcery as this country knows it.” Gunn paces in front of us as his young companion, Dawson, from what Grace had said, stands like a statue behind him.
“These next few weeks will be hard. Grueling. Sorcering all day in the clearing out back, and close quarters at night. I’m not going to pretend that you won’t be pushed to the very brink, that some of you won’t be swallowed whole by the pressure.” Grace steals a look at me, but I keep my eyes straight ahead. “But for the troupe of sorcerers that emerges victorious at the end of this trial, the ones who show me that they’ve got the magic we all want to experience, to taste, to live in—it will all be worth it. There’ll be more money in it than you could ever dream. Than you can even count.”
A few of the sorcerers give hearty, hungry laughs around me, and Gunn smiles.
He gestures to Dawson. “My associate, Dawson, has food outside—there’s water, fruit, and bread. Help yourselves to a quick breakfast. There’s a clearing about a quarter mile deeper into the woods. We’ll begin out there once you’ve eaten.”
The sorcerers start moving as a herd toward the door, a jostle of rough elbows and shoulders. Stock passes by and flicks me and Grace off with his middle finger. Grace just ignores him, but I give it right back.
We step outside, and the morning light sears my eyes. A pickup truck is now parked in the lot, stocked with crates of glass bottles, long, crisp baguettes peeking out of sleeves of paper, oranges and apples and stacks of bananas piled high. It looks like the spoils of a market raid.
Grace and I each grab a water bottle, some bread, and a piece of fruit. We settle down next to each other on a fallen tree trunk a few feet from the truck and watch the thirteen other sorcerers mosey around, divide into their small groups and factions.
My mind’s itching to relax and just enjoy this—this small sliver of calm before the day’s impending storm. But Grace’s words from earlier—It’s what Gunn wants, seven sorcerers is the key to stronger magic, letting the sorcerers choose—they’re starting to buzz around and bite, like a swarm of unanswered questions. Whatever we’re here for, whatever this experiment is, and the end game that Gunn’s calling “unprecedented” magic, it’s obviously something new, rare, big. Something, my guess is, that Gunn’s been planning for a long time.
My eyes settle on the man as I dig into my breakfast. He stands at the passenger side of the truck, sleeves rolled up, brow creased in concentration as he gives his orders to Dawson. He looks hard, sharp, but also, under the bright white of morning, even younger than I took him for last night. “You know a lot about this Gunn fella?”
Grace shrugs as she peels her banana. “I know his name from the papers. He’s a Shaw man, practically raised by the gang from what I understand—his pop Danny Gunn even ran it once upon a time. Now he’s Boss McEvoy’s youngest underboss.”
McEvoy. The name Gunn gave me last night. Boss McEvoy is everyone’s boss.
“Gunn manages one of the shining rooms McEvoy owns, oversees this place in town called the Red Den, has for years. But from what I was able to gather from the car, Gunn plans to make the Den . . . bigger. More impressive than a handful of solo performances and a shot of sorcerer’s shine. He talked about the place becoming jaw-dropping, and blowing away all the city’s competition.”