I spent two nights sleeping in Grace’s room after it happened, ’cause I couldn’t stand the idea of being alone. But that didn’t stop the nightmares from finding me, my usual ones about Mama giving way to fresher ones—of hot white light, Stock’s sizzling, crimson body in the aisle—images that sent me shooting up and gasping in the night. Even more unsettling, I’ve got a sickening feeling that there’s a weird connection between the two dreams, a link I can’t quite wrap my mind around, but one that’s managed to chain itself around me just the same.
Gunn’s given the rest of the troupe a few days off, since the Den is closed. My guess is they’re all spending their days wandering around the city, or numbing their minds with motion picture films at the M Street theater, or catching up on a full sleep that none of us usually get to enjoy. I wouldn’t know, because I’m still working, day in, day out in Gunn’s office, the pause in our performances just clearing the way for more time to discuss Mama’s caging spell, more time to figure out a way around its limits. Gunn and I can lock shine in a bottle forever, but we still can’t find a way for a potential buyer to get it out. And I’ve tried every angle, all my morals and hesitations falling by the wayside as pure panic over not delivering has slowly but surely taken center stage. I’ve already run Mama’s spell at least ten different ways, looking for a loophole. I’ve sat with Gunn and some of his contacts from the Bahamas, listening to how obi dealers trap ghosts inside their bottles, hoping there’s some death-magic technique we could borrow to unlock the spell. Even got Gunn to grant me a rare field trip to the local library, where I feverishly scoured old magic texts as a buttoned-up librarian hawk-eyed me from the checkout desk. But none of it’s helped. And Gunn isn’t going to let me rest until I get him an answer.
It’s Saturday, four days after Stock’s death, and Gunn and I are in his office now, running through the caging blood-spell yet again. I should be focusing, brainstorming until I fashion a key to unlock the solution for Gunn, but I still can’t stop thinking about the accident. I whisper, “With purpose and a stalwart heart, a sacrifice. Less of me, an offering to cage for eternity . . .”
But my voice catches on the words, and it tears. I’m exhausted, mixed-up, my nerves burned out. My heart, anything but stalwart.
“That’s enough.”
I look up guiltily. “I’m sorry—my heart, it’s not in the right place, sir.”
“Well, it needs to be,” Gunn cuts. “I told you there’s a window in which we need to accomplish this. And that window is now. You promised me you’d give me everything you have, that you wouldn’t hold back.” He leans forward. “And what I’m trying to achieve? There is no partial success story here, Joan. If you don’t make this work, there won’t be a happy ending for either of us, you understand?” He lets go of a deep exhale, shakes his head, looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “It’s too late to turn back. The only way we get out of this, the only way we win, is unlocking that bottle.”
Gunn’s words are quick and damning, wind their way around my throat. Too late. No way out. We.
We we we.
My fate is tied to this man’s fate.
The fate of this sadistic, scheming enigma of a gangster.
I try to answer, but all that comes out is a gasp, and tears begin to fall.
“Christ.” For a sliver of a second, Gunn looks lost, or remorseful, something I’ve never seen in his face before—and then he opens his top drawer and pulls out a handkerchief. “Here.”
“Sorry, sir, I don’t know what’s come over me, I swear I’m fine.” Collect yourself, Joan. Jesus, stop crying—
“I know I’ve been working you hard,” he starts slowly. “Because you can handle it. I know the way you work, because it’s the same way I do. You keep pushing, fighting, and eventually you’ll get past the wall. And we’re so close, I can feel it.” Then he adds, tentatively, like a secret he’s almost unwilling to share, “I believe in you.” He leans back in his chair, assessing me, his eyes still never leaving mine. “Take tonight off, understand? Be ready to work tomorrow, to approach our problem with a clear head.”
But a strange mix of shame, remorse, maybe even pride, all starts to churn inside. “No, sir, I don’t need a break, I can do this. I know I promised I could do this—”
“Joan,” he interrupts, placing his hands in prayer position on his desk. “I mean it. No catch. Take the night.”
I look down at my lap.
Take the night.
I can’t remember the last time I had a night off. I don’t even know what to do with myself. “Thank you, Mr. Gunn,” I manage. “I’ll be back here in your office bright and early tomorrow morning—”
“Be ready for rehearsal tomorrow, actually.” He turns to his notes. “We’re reopening in two nights’ time.”
Rehearsal? Does that mean we’re going to persist with six sorcerers, despite the lack of the extra strength of seven? What happens to our magic if the troupe isn’t complete? Does our magic fade? Will we feel it? “Sir, we only have six—”
“I’ve already found Stock’s replacement.”