“I’m not a fan of excuses.”
I give a little nod and wrap both hands around the glass.
I’m sure brewing shine is a little different for every sorcerer, but this is how it used to go for me: I imagined something mounting inside me—taking all my rage, desire, passion, fear, my magic—and I visualized it flowing through my veins, as tangible and real as blood. And then I pictured slicing my fingers open, letting all that pour out of me and bleed into the water inside the glass. And after it was done, for a while anyway—I actually felt wiped clean.
Sure enough, it begins. The glass starts to warm between my palms, and the water starts to boil. Sharp bursts of trapped lightning start crackling inside the bottle, sending the water crashing and swirling into something glistening, dark and red.
“Give it here,” McEvoy says. He studies my sorcerer’s shine, and then he smiles and hands it to Win. “Let’s have a royal taster for the king.”
Win looks hungrily into the bright sea of liquid rubies inside the glass. “Bottoms up.”
He takes a sip of it, careful not to take more than an ounce. McEvoy and I both shift uncomfortably, waiting for the magic to settle into Win’s veins, for the shine to take hold of him.
A minute later, Win gasps, “Holy . . . shit.” He stumbles to sit on the ground, then flings himself on his back, his arms splayed out, his legs stretched at odd angles. And then, like he’s seven, he starts making snow angels in the gravel as he lets out a childlike laughter. If I wasn’t scared out of my mind, I’d laugh with him. I’ve never seen the man even remotely out of control.
“It’s so bright,” Win whispers as he stares up at the lone streetlamp in the lot.
McEvoy gives me a smirk. “Impressive.” But then he turns away from me, begins to pace, like a restless tiger in a cage. “But there’re a lot of impressive people in this world,” he says. “And while sorcery is rare, I can afford to be choosy.”
He takes a quick step toward me. Thanks to the streetlamp, I can see every detail of his face—the pores dotting his nose, the small capillaries around his eyes, the deep wrinkles etched by time and anger.
“I’ve been in this game a long time, Alex—and that’s what it truly is, a game of power. A game that can transform people, just like magic, a game that can turn them inside out. It can make people do stupid things, dangerous things, especially if power is all they’re after.” Despite his aging face, McEvoy’s eyes are clear, sharp, and wolfish. Like a jackal. The same Jackal who reportedly gunned down ten D Street thugs, execution-style in the street, in revenge for them killing Danny the Gun. Who runs through sorcerers almost as fast as cigarettes. Who wouldn’t hesitate to skin me alive if he knew why I was really here.
“In my time leading the Shaws, I’ve come to understand the rules of this game intimately, Alex. And a man after nothing but power in this world is a man you can’t trust.” McEvoy nods at Win, who’s still lying on the ground, shocked still, looking up at the streetlamp like it’s the bright birth of the world’s first angel. “Take Win over there. Above all else, he’s working for his family.” McEvoy turns his attention back to me. “That’s something I’d bet the farm on. That’s a man you can trust.”
He cocks his head. “But my last sorcerer, the one who lasted all of a few weeks?” A gash of a frown cuts across McEvoy’s face. “I could see right through him. Little prick thought he was smarter, more powerful than me, hid secrets. Thought he was tricky enough that I wouldn’t find out.” He stares at me, those eyes cold and piercing. “You understand what I’m trying to say to you?”
My heart is a hummingbird right now, fluttering in my chest. I swear McEvoy’s so close he must hear it. “Yes, sir,” I manage to say evenly.
“So I need to know, Alex, right now. What else are you after in this game? You obviously had other options, thanks to your father.” He smiles, but it just makes him look even more like a wolf before it lunges. “Why are you and I here tonight?”
He’s so close, I swear he can reach in and grab out what I’m thinking. I stop breathing, try to stand taller, refuse to let him see anything but what I want him to see.
“I want to serve you.” Flattery, a knee-jerk instinct. “I think I can learn a lot from a man like you.”
“Lie,” McEvoy snaps.
“No sir, I want to be near you,” I correct quickly. Christ, I hear the desperation in my own voice. “I want to be safe, to know I’ve got a bright future by your side.”
“I smell bullshit again,” he cuts in, slowly encircling me, sizing me up. My eyes dart to Win, who’s still tripping on my magic. McEvoy could take that gun I see poking out of his holster and put a bullet in my head, right here, right now. And no one would save me. Hell, no one would even know he did it. Maybe I could manipulate the gun, the bullet—maybe I could save myself, take him down instead.