In a panic, I wonder if I’ve blown my chance—I actually meant what I said, but it sounded almost pompous, and way too hard. Maybe I’ve laid it on too thick, and the door to the Shaws is closing just as soon as I’ve managed to prop it open.
But then Howie whispers, “I think certain people would like to hear that, Danfrey. Powerful people. People who could get your back like I did, and more, if you’d be open to it when we get out of here.” I hear him shift again above me. “Boss McEvoy, my cousin, and the other Shaw underbosses—they’ve been sworn enemies of the D Street Outfit for years, since Colletto took out McEvoy’s cousin, Danny the Gun. You knew that, right?”
“Not sure my father ever mentioned the bad blood,” I say carefully, “and these days, I’m working alone.”
“Well, you ever hear the phrase, ‘If two people have the same enemies, they should team up’?”
I think Howie’s going for “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” but clearly, now’s not the time to correct him. “I take the point; it’s wise advice.”
He clucks above me on his cot. “’Course, the only guy I’ve got a real in with is my cousin, Win—but he’s high up, helps run McEvoy’s smuggling operation. Besides, Win promised me. He said if I took the fall on our last run, denied how I got the dust shipment in from the coast—and let the big boys walk—he’d hook me up when I get out.”
Then Howie goes silent again. And I can sense it: he’s waiting for something. Maybe for me to meet him halfway—some sign that I’m interested, that I need him, just like I did in the mess hall.
“You think they might be looking for other young guns on the smuggling side of things?” I say, trying to keep my voice noncommittal.
“Depends.” Howie looks down at me from his top bunk. There’s a bit of a glimmer in his eye. “You got any other assets, other than being a hothead?”
I give him a smile, an honest one. This feels like the right time. We’re alone in our cell, no guards on rotation, and they’ve already done their nightly room-to-room check. Besides, I’m surprised that I’m near electric over the idea of showing my magic to this chump.
Because this time the magic’s for a reason.
A good reason.
Bringing all these gangsters down.
I turn away from Howie and focus on our cell door. I home in on the steel slats of the jail cell wall—twelve bars, each a few inches apart. Then I focus on the world behind those bars, the empty hallway, the flickering ceiling lamps that hang down above it, the row of other prison cells on the opposite side of the corridor.
I mumble the words of power, “Replicate, protect,” and in seconds, there appears a carbon copy of the jailhouse scene I’ve been staring at, right in front of the real one, an exact two-dimensional replica posing as a facade. My attention to detail is perfect, my father always boasted, so Howie probably doesn’t even realize I’ve created this manipulation. In fact, the only way he’d be able to tell is if he got up and walked into it.
But I’m attempting something even trickier. A stacked trick—a trick layered on top of another trick. I return my focus to my manipulation, the jailhouse scene replica, and I imagine erasing the bars. “One by one, erase.” And then, the bars of the cell disappear, flicker and fade one after another, like they’re long beams of light turning off.
“What the hell,” Howie whispers above me. “Wait, can we”—I hear his gulp from here—“can we actually get out?”
“Afraid not, my friend.” I don’t want Howie’s wheels turning over whether I can try to unlock door after door, defeat dozens of guards, only to stage an escape from a place I’ve worked hard to get in—so I release my manipulation. The fabricated scene I’ve just conjured dissipates like dust in the wind, and then we’re both staring at our locked cell door again. “But I’ve found these types of manipulations come in handy too, from time to time.”
Howie matches my whisper. “So . . . you can sorcer, just like your old man?” His tone is breathless, childlike even, like everyone else when confronted with magic.
“A little bit.” I downplay it. “I’ve got a couple of tricks.”
Howie shifts in his bed above me. “God, I’ve always loved magic. My mother was a sorcerer too. I know how rare the magic touch is and everything, but I’d always hoped that she’d give me the gene.”
“You’re right, it is rare,” I say softly. “Odds are over one in a thousand. And I read somewhere that there’s no rhyme or reason to who inherits the magic touch.” I didn’t read this—I actually heard it, in my Sorcering Basics class at the Unit. Firstborn, last-born, second cousin—it’s a crapshoot—all we know is that sorcery is genetic, and that about three times as many males as females get the recessive trait.
“I heard that too,” Howie says with a sad laugh. “Guess I’ve got to settle for being ordinary.”
“What you did for me in the cafeteria back there? It definitely wasn’t ordinary.”