A Criminal Magic (30 page)

McEvoy digs under his seat hastily. He pulls out a gun, snaps it hard against my left temple, and the car goes skidding out.

“Sir, the road!” We nearly jump the curve, drive right into the park at Iowa Circle, but McEvoy manages to swerve back onto the boulevard with one hand. He presses his pistol harder against my skull.

I close my eyes, try and stay as calm as I can as the boss of the Shaws holds me at gunpoint, on a drugged-up joyride through town.
Don't use magic don't take him down you need to stay in control. Think about the endgame—

“Know what, Alex? I think you're in on this.” McEvoy spits his words at me.

“That's not true, sir.”

“I think it is. I'm thinking
you
orchestrated all of this, that you're the one working me.”

I steal a quick look at him, see the dust practically pumping through his veins, the paranoia that has him in a choke hold.
He's going to kill me if I don't give him something, he's going to shoot, right here right now—

“No, I got a lead last night!” I sputter in a rush.
Get him out of the city, out of your way, give him a new scent to track, one of his loyal underbosses
— “Apparently Murphy has been working on the side with the Bahama Boys smugglers. He's going to try and make some kind of deal at a big voodoo party out on the water. He got word you aren't planning to be there, thinks he can land a score while the big fish is away.” I shoot McEvoy a look and raise my arms higher. “He thinks he'll get away with it, sir.”

“Murphy.”

I gulp, but keep my eyes trained on him. I remind myself that handing Murphy to McEvoy is only speeding up the inevitable. That the Unit will get all these thugs, for one crime or another. Besides, Paul Murphy's no angel. Murphy's smuggled
thousands of gallons of obi—a haunted elixir that's actually scared people insane—into this­ ­country. Murphy's claim to fame is bashing a young smuggler's face in when the kid decided to sample the island brew himself and came up a little short on a delivery. Murphy deserves no mercy—
none
of these thugs deserve mercy.

“That's right. Murphy. Sir, you—you might want to consider being on that boat.”

But McEvoy doesn't lower his gun. Instead he puts it under my chin, snaps my head back. “A monster's coming for you, too, Alex. It's been watching you, waiting for the right time. You think you're safer than me?” He leans over, his day-old breath wrapping its noxious scent around me. “I go down, I'm taking you with me.”

His dust-haunted words pierce right through my skin. “You get on that boat, sir, and you catch the deal as it happens.” I try to sound convincing. “And then you make a public example of Murphy.
He's
the one who arranged for half of Kerrigan's men to stand down in that Baltimore mix-up.
He's
the one who bought the sorcerer off to tell him his real horse forecast at the tracks. I heard it all. I amplified a late-night meeting at the Den.”

McEvoy finally, slowly, lowers his gun. He puts both hands on the wheel, mutters, “Going to rip Murphy's eyes out.”

He pulls over on some random corner in the heart of Hell's Bottom—sagging town houses, smashed windows, shouts from inside broken homes. I must be miles from my own place at this point. I don't know if McEvoy's so high he doesn't realize that we're in one of the most dangerous pockets of the city, or if he doesn't care.

“Get out,” he says flatly. “Apparently, I have a party to attend.”

My heart is stuttering, clawing up my chest, wants to fly. I
barely manage, “Good luck, Boss,” as he screeches away with my car door still half-open, flapping like a doomed bird against the wind.

I breathe, collapse in half, breathe again.

I haven't prayed in a long time, but here and now, on this corner of hell, I pray that McEvoy does get on that boat. And if the monsters out there don't get him, that me and my Unit will.

A NIGHT OF CHANCES

JOAN

In the morning, right before practice, Gunn pulls me into his office and shuts the door. His eyes are so bright, they're practically glowing. “It's happening, Joan,” he says. “I won them over. All of them. And Colletto's ready to initiate a deal for our new shine—all we need to do is show him that the product is real, and everything falls into place.”

Colletto, D Street—I still don't fully understand, but I've never seen Gunn so lit up before. My relief, my nerves, it all comes to a head, compounds the shine-induced high I've been trying to ignore all morning. “When, what's the deal?”

“Colletto wants fifty gallons by next Thursday.”

I gasp before I can help it. Fifty gallons means fifty sacrifices of blood, fifty blood-spells—and that's assuming D Street wants the shine stored in gallons. “Sir, that's a lot, in not a lot of time. I'm going to need to train the troupe to perform the caging spell too, and the double-edged trick, of course, so we can divide and conquer and get this done. There's no guarantee all of them will be able to pull it off, either. Blood-spells require a particular mindset, absolute control—”

“That's why you're doing this entire round,” Gunn says flatly. “I don't want any mistakes. Our entire future rides on this
shipment. The troupe will brew the shine, and you'll bind each container. You'll get relief after this, I promise you.”

I'm doing all the spellbinding
. Fifty spells, fifty sacrifices. If not more. My body shrinks away in response. It's too much.

“McEvoy has poisoned relations between the Shaws and D Street these past few years, so naturally, I understand Colletto's insistence that he see our magic happen in the flesh.” Gunn looks up at me. “So he's bringing his underbosses in for a demonstration tomorrow. I'll have my top men too.”
My
top men. Not McEvoy's, I notice. And yet, that doesn't surprise me, not when I think back to all the little jagged pieces Gunn gave me to the puzzle. Of course this isn't about a huge deal for McEvoy. This is about a huge deal that lets Gunn take everything away from him
—
though how D Street plays into this, and why, I still don't know.
My God, when I think about the risk Gunn took with this deal, the risk I was forced to take just by working with him, what would have happened had either of us failed—

“The deal I offered Colletto is a complete partnership, so we're giving them a demonstration of everything we have to offer,” Gunn cuts through my thoughts. “I want you to put on the immersive performance of your lives, show him the strength of the troupe's shine, and then you'll blood-cage one of the bottles to make it last. His team will take the sample, confirm that it survives magic's shelf life, make sure we're legitimate,” he says. “When they come back to shake hands, our fifty gallons will already be waiting for him. I want this to be flawless. I want us to wow him, just like we've wowed and surprised everyone else. And nothing,
no one
, is standing in my way anymore.”

Gunn really managed to pull this all off.
You
pulled this off.
The deal is real. The deal is happening.

“Perform the caging spell
discreetly
, Joan, so Colletto doesn't get any funny ideas like going off to replicate it on his own.” Gunn puts his hand on his desk, inches from mine. “But if he
tries to claim our magic without paying for it, he knows he's starting another war. I've got almost all the Shaw underbosses backing me, ensuring that this deal gets done.”

But Gunn's scheming, his secrets, how he's managed to turn a failing shining room into a chance to play boss of the Shaws, all of that pales in light of his word choice,
our magic
. The words are simple ones, but they drive home just how far I've come, how much I've given away, how in bed with Gunn I am.
Long ago there was a family magic, a mother's magic, a secret to keep from the world
—

“And our deal, sir, your promise if this all comes to pass?” I scrub my mind clean of what's been done, what can't be changed, force myself to focus only on the future. “You promised me ten percent.”

Gunn crosses his arms over his chest and gives me that faint smile of his, the one that barely manages to break through his smooth, cold facade. “You've become quite the deal maker yourself, haven't you?” he says slowly. “I keep my promises, Joan.” Then he clears his throat, adds in a softer tone, his eyes never leaving mine, “And I'd like to think there would be other promises, if this all works out like I intend.”

Something about his guarded, double-edged words, his tone, that gentler look to his eyes—it all comes together. And with a slap of realization, I know.
Stock was right all along, about Gunn and me—or at least about Gunn
.

I turn away from the man, my chest constricting, like I need air. The walls of my room feel too close, the space suffocating.
How do you say no to a man like Gunn?

Maybe in another life, if I was a different kind of girl, I could fall for a man like Gunn—maybe if I hadn't already met a boy who showed me the freest, truest sort of magic—

You need to stop, just
focus on the next step. Just get through this demonstration.

I give a small nod in acknowledgment to the floor while I compose myself, and then I meet Gunn's watchful gaze. “Should I tell the troupe about the demonstration, sir?”

“Not yet. I don't want a word of this breathed to anyone until Colletto's walking through our doors tomorrow.” He moves to my door. “It's business as usual today. Pick an easy finale, one we've done before, just get the show over with, get us to tomorrow,” he says, like it's a new concept, even though I've been running the troupe and our shows more with each passing day. And even more, we've been doing just fine without Gunn. “And tell them all I want a meeting tomorrow afternoon, to be ready to work at three p.m.”

“Yes, sir.” I can already hear the griping I'm going to get from the team about working tomorrow, on a Sunday.

*    *    *

I'm rattled and distracted during practice. I try to focus, but my thoughts keep mutinying, between worrying about the demonstration tomorrow, the fifty gallons Gunn promised to D Street, and what needs to take place in between to make it all come together. Of course the troupe can tell something's up—I can feel Grace probing me, reaching out with her magic to delve inside my mind, mine my secrets right out of me—but I've become an expert at defending against her advances. Even Billy quips twice that I look completely out of it. But I blame my spaciness on my shine hangover, do what Gunn says, tell them nothing. After all, I've become pretty darn good at keeping things inside.

There's one thing I know I can't do for Gunn, though, and that's stay away from Alex. Unlike the rest of the troupe, Alex doesn't push me on what's wrong, doesn't question me. Instead he just nods when I explain that we're going to run the Magical Dawn performance again, doesn't talk back like the others, who
say the immersion is too stale for a Saturday night crowd. Part of me wonders if what I told him last night, about Mama and my past, might have scared him off. But that all falls away at the end of rehearsal. Because as the rest of the troupe labors upstairs to get ready for our performance, Alex lingers by the double doors.

“I'm not going to ask if you're okay, because it's obvious you're not,” he says quietly, when I approach him.

I just stand there, staring at him, not sure how to answer.

“I'm also not going to ask you what's going on, Joan. If you've got secrets you need to keep, I respect that.”

He walks over to me slowly, and my body actually starts to hum. “But if you need someone to lean on, to help you get through whatever it is you're clearly struggling with, I hope I can be that person for you.” He brushes my hair off my shoulder, studies me intensely with those clear blue eyes. Then he drops his voice to a whisper. “You must know how much I want to be that person.”

I nod slowly. The skin at the nape of my neck, where his fingers gently rest, is needles and sparks, now positively sings.

“Just don't get too lost on your own, Joan.” Then Alex drops his hand and walks out the doors.

*    *    *

Eight p.m. comes on hot and fast. The crowd comes pouring in for our show, the jazz shrieks through the show space, and the stagehands start shaking their mixed drinks in silver shakers. As Alex and I arrange ourselves on either side of our glass stand for our trick, I think,
If tomorrow goes as planned, this might be the last time Alex looks at me this way. This might be the last time we're equals.
And fear, anxiety, sadness—they all tug inside, threatening to unravel me—

“Joan,” Alex calls from the other side of the stage. Through the glass, he smiles. “Remember—
don't get too lost
.”

I mirror his nod as we both approach the glass stand. I can practically feel Alex's concern beat through it. I want to let him in. I want him to be my person too. But every time I think about holding on tight to him, letting him share the load of everything that waits on the other side of tomorrow for me, I think again of Gunn.

We each place one of our hands on the glass, whisper the words of power that divide the glass stand into two parts, and capture each other's replicas. And then we begin our performance.

I study my replica of Alex, want a way to show him how much he's come to mean to me. And then, I remember our conversation from weeks ago, in the hall, when he was still working for McEvoy and I was just starting my secret venture with Gunn. When he conjured that little brass compass in his hand and told me that we all needed one, to keep us going in the right direction, and to prevent us from getting lost.

I touch his replica's forehead, and a gold cursive
N
appears over Alex's skin. I move to the left shoulder of his tux, etch a gold
W
into it, and then move across his broad shoulders and paint the other side with an
E
. I draw a loopy
S
right into the center of his chest, and then a line from the
N
to the
S
, a needle, which wavers from side to side. I take a step back, admire my work, the truth of it pricking my eyes. Alex. Alex has become my compass, right along with Ruby and Ben. In an indulgent flash, I try to imagine what the two of them would think of him. Ruby would be head over heels, that much is certain. Ben might keep Alex at arm's distance at first, but I think he'd fall in love with him too.

Alex interrupts my thoughts by beginning his manipulation on the other side of the glass. The crowd exchanges whispers, nods, leans in to admire his magic. I take a few steps to the left side of the glass stand, watching Alex work, his hand moving
quickly as he sketches over the canvas of my replica. He looks up and finds me. We switch places to judge the other's magic.

Staring back at me on his side of the glass is myself, of course. But over my black lacy dress, there now rests above my left bosom a gold, glistening heart. The four chambers glow and sparkle as the dim lights of the show space reflect off the replica.

Joan Kendrick. With a literal heart of gold.

The way he sees me is as sad as it is empowering.

The audience gives knowing, almost tender sighs. But tonight, our double-sided trick feels less of a performance for them, and more of a conversation between the two of us. We keep running the trick, until the clock hanging above the doors chimes nine. And by the time I settle next to Alex on the right side of the show space, and Grace begins to pinch out the lights for our Magical Dawn finale, I've already made my choice.

“That manipulation I pulled earlier? It was real for me,” I say softly to him. “You are my compass in this place.”

He stops looking at the ceiling and meets my eyes. “It was beautiful, Joan. I remember our conversation so many nights ago, in the hall.” He runs his fingers along my palm. “You've become mine, too.”

I want to be the girl with the heart of gold. I want to be the girl who deserves to be loved as much as she wants to love. I want to hold on to Alex, despite what happens, no matter what Gunn wants or expects.

“This place can be tough, and lonely, Alex, despite how packed it is each night. And it sure as hell was a tough road to get here.” I watch Ral and Billy start to fade the textured darkness, slowly kneading the space above the audience's heads, like they're scrubbing it against a washboard and washing all the color out. “Last night, when I told you what happened back in Parsonage that brought me here?” I look at him. “It felt freeing, Alex. You do that for me. You make me feel light . . . and yet
somehow you still anchor me to the person I want to be.”

Alex takes my hand. “I feel the same way about you, Joan.”

“This place is so tricky. Everyone's out for themselves, no one trusts anyone. I even feel it from the troupe. But I trust you. I want you to trust me.” I give a little laugh. “I don't know what I'd do in this place without you.”

Trust him. Protect him. Give him all of it
. “Gunn wants me to tell you that there's a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.” I drop my voice. “But it's not a rehearsal. There's going to be a demonstration of our finale, along with a new product Gunn's been working on. He doesn't want any of the troupe knowing, thinks it could get out, back to McEvoy or the street.”

“A demonstration?”

“Of a new shine. And it's a game changer, Alex, it's going to light this world on fire.” I look at him. “I'm telling you because I trust you. And because the audience is D Street. And I think you need to know that before you walk in there.” I watch his face become creased with worry, but he keeps his mouth shut. “I couldn't believe it either when I heard from Gunn, but it's true. And I know your complicated past with them, but Gunn doesn't miss a trick. If he thinks you've got a problem with them, he'll take care of it.”
He'll take care of you
. I look away, hoping Alex has become as fluent in the vague threats of this world as I have. “So show Gunn, tomorrow and going forward, that you're completely in this. That you're willing to do whatever it takes. He'll respect that.”