“Hard to tell without seeing his magic, or tasting his shine.” Gunn shrugs. “But your uncle comes highly recommended from an acquaintance who used to come here a while back. If Jed’s even half the sorcerer my source claims he is, I’d say we have a lot to talk about.” Gunn shifts forward in his seat, and the sound of creaking wood fills our silence. “I can say for certain there’ll be more money in it than some crook of a loan officer could ever offer you.”
This feels like a gift, a dream, a chance. There’s no way in hell I can let us lose this chance. “You ain’t pulling my leg?”
“I never joke about business.” He downs his whiskey in one gulp. “Now let me meet the man.”
Panic clamps a rein on my heart, heavies my chest. Should I bring Gunn down to Uncle Jed now, hope that Jed hasn’t started brewing his shine, that Gunn can catch him before he’s shot to the moon? Or am I too late? Should I stall until Jed comes down off the worst of his shine-high?
It’s a crapshoot. But this needs to happen. Jed needs to be in this slick man’s slick car, winding his way up to Washington. He needs to brew the strongest sorcerer’s shine of his life. He needs to look clean enough to do it again, and again.
“He’s . . . he’s in the middle of a show.”
“A show in the middle of Shitsticks, Virginia,” Gunn says. “I’ve got a long drive back, and I guarantee the chance I’m offering your uncle is worth millions of these low-rent backwoods performances. Interrupt him.”
I hurry through the door, down the shadowy flight of stairs into the dark cellar, nearly collide with Ben keeping watch on the bottom step. He stands up, looks at me curiously. I never, ever come down here.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a man here”—I catch my breath—“from Washington to see Jed. It’s about an opportunity.” I drop my voice as I crane my neck around the staircase to steal a glimpse at Jed’s show. “Potentially loads of money.”
Ben shifts uncomfortably. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“What is he, some big-city sorcerer? A gangster?”
“Who cares,” I whisper. “He could save our skins.” I take another step down to the cellar floor, nod into the darkness. “You need to get Jed.”
Ben looks behind him, shakes his head. “He’s already shot to Sunday, Joan.”
My stomach drops, sending my hope plunging with it. But before I can think up a way to salvage this chance, footsteps clamber toward us on the stairs.
Gunn sidesteps me, offers his hand to Ben. “Harrison Gunn,” he says simply, as Ben, shocked, numbly accepts his hand. “I’m here for Jed Kendrick.”
And then Gunn barrels his way into Jed’s shining room.
Helpless, Ben and I trail him into the tight alcove behind the stairs. The alcove is littered with lit candles, giving the scene a hazy, otherworldly glow. The three patrons and Jed sit around on four dirty cots that have been arranged into a circle. William’s twitching, moaning on one in the corner, while his two buddies hug their knees tight into their chests. One empty shot glass sits in front of each of the patrons, a thin, sparkling red film still coating the inside of each glass. And farthest away, there’s Jed.
He sits cross-legged like some magic Buddha, his head pressed into his hands, faint, haunting laughter escaping through his fingertips, his own empty glass in front of him. I don’t think about how much I want to slap him, shake him. Instead I go into damage control, a weird, numb-like state just like I did the night of Mama’s death, where I’m not really processing things as they’re happening, ’cause I’ve already moved on to trying to undo them. Maybe if I start talking, maybe if we can keep Jed quiet—
But then Jed peeks out from his hands. “You’re a lost man,” he declares to Gunn. Then my uncle collapses back onto his thin, ratty mattress, laughs high and long, like some devil from a dream.
Gunn’s face twitches, but he doesn’t say a word.
I force myself to speak to Jed for the first time since that night. Even after all these months, I can still barely train my eyes on him. “Uncle Jed, this man’s from Washington,” I say as calmly as I can, as my mind shrieks, Lord God, Jed, get it the hell together. “He’s impressed with your sorcery. He wants you to sorcer for him up in the big city. Tell him, Mr. Gunn.”
But Gunn says nothing.
“There’s money in it,” I keep rambling, look around the room, to Ben, will him to do something not to blow this chance. “Loads of it. More money than we could ever dream—”
“Money,” Jed mumbles, “funny money, silver money, silver fox . . . precious silver.” He looks at me, for the first time in a long time, and with wide eyes whispers, “She was my silver. . . .”
A strange, cold rush washes over me as Gunn snaps, “He’s a mess. Fucking waste of a six-hour trip.” He barrels out of the alcove as Jed’s three patrons start cackling like hyenas in the corner.
“He can’t leave, we need to fix this,” I tell Ben, but Ben’s already yelling up the staircase, “Sir, wait!” We hurry up the steps after Gunn.
“Mr. Gunn, please, we’re going to lose our home. I swear, if you just give us a couple days. We’ll deny my pop straight, he’ll be better in a week—”