“Which you and I will figure out,” Gunn interrupts me. “It’s time to take another risk. If I can’t tease them with what’s possible now, I’m going to start losing them.” He holds the bottle up to his face, like the answer to our problem might be in the shine itself. “They’ll be able to see that the shine outlasts magic’s normal one-day shelf life. I’ll tell them it’s cursed. That it can’t be opened until I have their firm support. Should buy us a few days.”
Christ, I wish I knew what Gunn is up to. He better know what the hell he’s doing. Ruby and Ben, our livelihood—hell, from the way he talks, my life—it all hangs on Gunn, just as much as it does on me figuring out this spell. “I’ll make sure to conceal the meeting, sir.”
“And how’s the new boy working out?”
“Just fine.”
“Any wrinkles, issues?”
I shake my head, still feeling the faint buzz of pride over a good day of magic. “He’s a hard worker, fits in, puts his head down.”
“Good,” Gunn breathes out. “Tomorrow night is key, has a lot riding on it for the Red Den, and for you and me as well.”
“The troupe will be ready.”
Like a reflex, Gunn reaches out to pat my shoulder, but just as quickly he pulls back. He strokes his hand over his slick blond hair instead. “All right, get out of here.” He opens the door with the faint trace of a smile. “And keep thinking about that spell, Joan. Your deadline’s coming faster than you think.”
THE SHOW
ALEX
I’ve been in a lot of nerve-racking situations these past few months, but none of what’s come before has triggered the strange, almost surreal blur of emotions I feel walking back to the Red Den right now. Because tonight, in some weird twist of fate, the powers that be—Frain, McEvoy, me—have moved me like a pawn onto a stage. A stage that I’m sharing with Joan. A performance where I play an agent, playing a gangster, playing a sorcerer. For a packed house.
I cut through the busy streets, sidestep the rush of business suits wrapping their thick wool coats around them as they grasp their briefcases with leather gloves. Then I make my way through the throngs of families as they wait patiently, in the blistering cold, for the doors of Saint James on 15th Street to open for nightly mass.
I haven’t been able to connect with McEvoy since I started up at the Den yesterday morning. I’ve barely been home except to sleep, and the one time I managed to sneak out of practice for a “smoke” and run to the nearest pay phone to let him know I’d been officially folded into the troupe, no one answered McEvoy’s line. The past couple of days have been a blur of training next to Joan, learning her tricks, complementing them. In fact, I’ve been trying to enjoy this hour of downtime, of just existing and nothing else—but I can’t seem to do it. If I’m not figuring out the next move that gets my Unit and me closer to our score, I get restless, like I’m just wasting time and standing still.
I walk into the liquor bar that the Shaws use as a storefront cover for their Red Den. I nod at the stagehand already settled in behind the bar, walk through the magic-made wall, down two flights of stairs and into the wide performance space. My “troupe” is already clustered in front of the bar on the left side.
They stop talking once I approach, and I wonder if they’ve been talking about me. Maybe whispering that I’m not ready, that I’ll never fill Stock’s shoes. Or maybe that they suspect something’s afoot, that one of them has a feeling, can delve into my thoughts and mine out the truths I’m desperately trying to keep locked inside.
The troupe fans out from the bar, and Joan steps forward from the center. She gives me a huge smile, and my worries start to slip away. “Don’t you clean up nice.”
I feel a deep hum in my core. Because Joan doesn’t just clean up nice. She looks stunning. Perfect. Her black hair falls in deep, luxurious waves around her shoulders, which are covered in an elaborate, long-sleeved lace dress, with a neckline that gives just enough away, while teasing everything else. I can’t take my eyes off her, and for just a minute, I actually forget what I’m tasked with, why I’m really here.
I force myself to look down at the tuxedo Gunn tossed at me as I headed out the door, maybe an old one from the back of his closet, or an extra from the wardrobe for the troupe. “At least I look the part.”
But it’s Ral who responds. “Joan was right, Alex, you’re talented,” he says. “Don’t doubt yourself. You’re ready.” He and Billy have been just as transformed as Joan, have traded their farm-friendly button-down shirts and beat-up slacks for cummerbunds and black silk vests. Grace and Rose both look dazzling too, with deep-red lips and sequined black dresses. Even Tommy, the dimwitted chap who seems to let his sister do his thinking for him, looks all polished up in a slick tuxedo with tails. He actually shoots me a begrudging smile. “Let’s give them all a show they won’t forget.”