by Lee Kelly
“Ten minutes.”
“Good. Bring every honest agent you can muster.”
Frain pulls up with a four-car parade minutes later. “Come on”—he waves me toward him—“hop in.”
I hobble around the front and slide into his passenger seat. He studies me out of the corner of his eye as he pulls back onto 17th Street, with the caravan of squad cards trailing behind.
“Jesus, Alex,” Frain says. “You look awful.”
I wince as I stretch out to sit. “I jumped out of a moving car. It could be worse.”
“How many do you think we’re looking at?”
“Gunn will probably have his closest team of five or six, Colletto about the same. Then there are the Den’s six sorcerers, but they’re not going to give you any pushback,” I lie. I pray to God that Joan sticks with our plan, even if Gunn told her I’m gone. I have no choice but to count on it.
So I gear up to give him the story that Joan and I agreed to, the only story that will let her and her family walk away from this unscathed. “The sorcerers in question, they’ve been kept in a cage for days, forced to sorcer for Harrison Gunn. And the heavy hitter—the one with the magic to make the eternal shine? Gunn’s holding her whole family hostage. You need to get her out of there.” I keep my eyes on the road as I spin the tale for Frain, but I can feel him watching me. “I found out that Gunn was using her right before I got pulled into Win’s car—there was no time to tell you. They were driving me away before I could dial it in.”
But if Frain suspects anything, he gives no indication. He gives a little grunt as he pulls a left. “Harrison Gunn.” He shakes his head. “We’ll get him, Alex, and all of those Shaw and D Street bastards. We’re taking them all down.”
We approach from N Street, pull into the alley perpendicular to the Red Den lot, out of sight, and cut the engine. The other agency cars slowly roll in behind us. Frain jumps out to round up his manpower, but I give myself another second in the car and lean my head against the passenger seat headrest.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and then another. This will all be over soon, and then all the lies and betrayals, they’re all going to be done. I’ll get folded back into the Unit’s Domestic Magic division, hopefully still working for Agent Frain. I’ll have a true second start, doing something that I excel in—something I believe in. And Joan and I will be together, away and safe from all of this. After some questioning and a short custody, I can get her and her family set up here with me in DC. Her problems will become my problems. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I need to do. I can’t imagine life without her.
I push the passenger door open and limp back to Frain’s trunk, where Unit men are digging out their weapons and ammunition.
SHOWDOWN
JOAN
I watch from my small bedroom window, as Gunn and Dawson cross the parking lot of the Red Den to greet the three town cars that have just pulled in. The engines cut, one after another. The D Street men get out of their cars, all crisp fedoras, big camel-colored coats, and black gloves. And then from the back of the car nearest to my window emerges their boss, Colletto. Gunn shakes his hand, pulls him into a half embrace, and gestures back to the Den.
They’ll be downstairs in no time, and so I ignore the panic that’s been rising inside me like a steady tide and force myself to focus on the next step in my plan. If the Feds are still coming, like Alex promised, they’ll be here soon. First step: I need to appeal to the rest of the sorcerers. I need a cover for what happened to Win. I also need an excuse for getting inside that lounge. And I have to warn the troupe that the Feds are coming—they all deserve to get out of this unharmed. Despite what they might think of me, I still have nothing but respect for them.
The Shaws and D Street are still outside, closing car doors, sharing smokes, laughing as the night sky hums with possibility. I run down the two flights of stairs and cross the show space to the hall on the other side.
The door to the sorcerers’ new home—the VIP lounge where they’ve been brewing around the clock—is locked, not that it would stop any sorcerer who truly wanted to break out. No, what’s keeping them here is the same thing that kept me tethered to Gunn—a promise of a better future. A constant, unsettling feeling that if we step out too much, fall too far behind, one morning we might not wake up at all.
My hand wraps around the doorknob, and I conjure it open. The five troupe members stop and stare.
“What are you doing here?” Rose cuts in. “Thought you were above us now.”
“Do you have a message from Gunn?” Ral says, as Billy adds eagerly, “Is D Street here? Is this goddamned nightmare over?”
“Alex never came back,” Grace says softly. “Do you know where he is?”
It’s like an attack, all the questions, the cold shoulders, and finally I utter, “Alex is dead.”
The room becomes shocked still. Ral and Billy shift uncomfortably, Tommy starts muttering obscenities to Rose, but Grace just looks at me. “Are you all right?”
And that—the note of kindness, of concern, in her voice, after everything—it’s what causes me to lose it. “No, I’m not.” My eyes start to water.
“Joan, you’re serious.” Grace rushes toward me. “What happened?”
“Gunn had Win and his thugs put a hit on Alex. Drove him out of here and killed him in cold blood for Colletto, as some form of payback for Alex turning his back on D Street.” I stop. “But I’m planning on making Gunn pay, for all of it.”
The room falls silent once more.
“Is this really what you signed up for?” I press, gesturing to the room. “Is this what you want, being under the heel of a man like Gunn, a man who’ll just discard us when his plans for us are done?” I shake my head. “He’s been using all of us.”
“Don’t trust her,” Tommy blurts out. “This must be some weird perverted test for Gunn.”
I look around at my five troupe members, people I was once more than connected to, and finally give them the full story. “Listen, someone’s dialed in the Feds—”
“The Feds?” Billy repeats.
“They’re moving in tonight,” I tell them. “But I’m going to end this before that, take what’s ours, and get away.”
“End this?” Ral asks.
“End Gunn. End all these gangsters. Finish it.”
Ral and Billy exchange a look with each other, and then with Grace.
“I know we haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye recently,” Ral says slowly, “but Joan, that plan is insane—”
“Why?” I push. “If the Feds bust us, we’re all getting locked up for sorcering for a hell of a long time. And if the gangsters manage to take out the Feds, we’re looking at a lifetime of living under their thumbs.” I nod to the room. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m doing this. And you’re either with me or against me.”
No one speaks, no one moves, until Grace shifts uncomfortably and asks, “What exactly do you want from us, Joan?”
“I need a cover. Tell Gunn that Win came in here searching for boxes a couple minutes ago, and that he ran out for supplies. Gunn will be looking for him,” I say. Then I nod to the two hundred shine quarts on the floor. “And tamper with one of the bottles, make it look like an overlooked quart hasn’t been blood-caged. I need a reason to force Gunn into bringing me back into this room. But as soon as I step inside here with Gunn, I want you all to run, and not look back. Get out of here before the Feds come in.” Then I give them the final piece—the idea that’s been circling, buzzing around my mind. An idea that thrills. “But there’s something else, too.”
The room stays quiet, the tension charged, sizzling like a live wire. With shaking hands, I grab a round metal coaster sitting on the edge of a nearby end table. I place my hands on each side of it and recite the charm I learned from Rose so many nights ago in the warehouse clearing: “Divide . . . an
d seek to be completed.”
The coaster sizzles and snaps in half. “I’m taking the next train after nine o’clock to Philly with D Street’s payment for the shine shipment. I plan on starting over up there, in more ways than one.” I hand one half of the metal coaster to Grace and keep the other. “And I hope you’ll consider joining me.”
Grace shakes her head. “What do you mean, joining you?”
“Once upon a time, we were good together. We trusted each other, and we made some of the finest magic this city has ever seen.” As the words come out, I realize how much I still believe in us, how badly I want them to believe in us too. “Gunn turned me around—hell, he turned us all around, kept us afraid, thinking small. But I’d like to think that without his heel above us we can grow, become what we’re meant to be, together,” I say. “We can start our own magic haven up there, and just focus on our performance. We can leave all this behind.”
The sorcerers don’t move, don’t say a word, my offer hanging there full and ripe for picking. Would they ever trust me, want to work with me again? Will they track me down solely for the money? I’m willing to take that chance. I can’t imagine my life now without our magic in it.
Finally Grace tucks the piece of metal inside her blouse, her eyes never leaving mine.
“You know the offer doesn’t last long.” I point to her blouse, reminding her of the short shelf life of the charm. “If you want a cut of Gunn’s loot, the money Colletto’s handing over for our blood, sweat, and tears, if you want a chance to perform again—decide soon. And use that charm to find me in Philadelphia tomorrow morning.” I pause. “They should be down any minute. I need to go.”
As I slip out the door, Grace calls, “Joan!”
I duck my head back in.
She gives me a wary glance. “Be careful.”
I nod, hoping with everything I’ve got that this isn’t good-bye.
I sneak back into Gunn’s office just as the double doors to the show space burst open. I close his office door, throw myself into my chair on the near side of the desk, my nerves on fire. But there’s something else burning underneath my skin. Excitement. A desire to make thing right, to make Gunn hurt, to take from him like he’s taken from me, an anticipation that has my thoughts racing together—
Will the troupe come through, if Gunn catches on can I destroy him, run as fast as I can as the Feds close in, will we have a chance to start over together—
After what feels like an eternity sitting there, stewing in my own fears and worst-case scenarios, the doorknob twists open.
Gunn stands at the threshold. I study him, in an odd detached moment, like he’s somebody I don’t know. Somebody I’m never going to see again. He looks tall and lean in his three-piece suit, a thin gray pinstripe number that matches his hat. In another life, it might have been easy to fall for a man like Gunn, hard looks, hard-edged, a man of power and persuasion.
But in this one, I want to watch the life slowly leak out from his eyes. I want to watch his long, thin fingers grasp for relief that never comes.
“Turns out I need you once more tonight,” he says curtly. “Win must have missed one of the bottles, and now Colletto’s excited to see you cast the caging spell again.” He offers his hand. “If you do this, and you train the rest of the troupe in that dark magic, you and I will be square.” He pauses, no longer meets my eyes. “I’ll even be generous and give you some cash to help you and your family get home.”
Bullshit. Gunn murdered Alex. Gunn will probably end up murdering me after this deal. But I don’t speak, I don’t nod. Because I’m going to take his cash, all of it. And because Gunn’s going to die long before I do.
He takes my hand, pulls me out of my seat, and through his door. As we turn down the hall, Gunn’s eyes flit over to the empty chair where Win sat guard outside his office, but he doesn’t comment. I choose to believe that this means Grace and the troupe covered for me on this as well. I’m so nervous my entire body is shaking.
We cross the show space, where the clock hanging above the double doors reads ten to eight. If the Feds are still planning to bust the deal, I’ve got ten, maybe fifteen minutes to get this done—assuming I can pull it off—and walk away before we all go to jail. Before Ruby and Ben are waiting for a sister and a cousin who never meets them under that train departure sign.
The sorcerers stand outside the lounge door, lined up like a true cast of servants. Gunn barely glances at them as he roughly ushers me into the lounge, though before I cross the threshold I find Grace’s eyes and mouth to her, “Go.” But I can’t catch her reaction, because Gunn’s already closed the door behind me.
The lounge has been rearranged from a few moments ago, all the chairs and sofas now pushed into one large ring around a card table, which I assume is meant to serve as my stage. Every seat is taken—Colletto in the large armchair directly opposite the door, three of his minions on his left side occupying the long sofa, and two more standing behind them. Dawson and some of the Shaw underbosses—Kerrigan, O’Donnell, Sullivan—that I recognize from around the Den are on his right in armchairs and folding chairs, not to mention that scum-sucking shiner, Howie, who gives me this fat, shit-eating grin. Gunn’s surveying the room, same as me, and with a dissatisfied huff, he leans over Dawson. I hear him ask, “Why isn’t Win back yet?”
Dawson mumbles back, “Not sure, sir.”
“Ah, the beautiful Joan Kendrick,” Colletto says from his chair. “I was wondering when you were going to grace us with your presence.”
This is the man who ruined Alex’s family, the man who kept Alex cloaked in hate and nightmares, the man who arranged for his murder. Colletto will go down, same as the rest of them.
“Nice to see you, sir,” I say, and add a small curtsy as a flourish.
“I don’t think we should wait any longer.” Gunn nods toward the door. “Dawson, why don’t you bring the last quart forward?”
Dawson stands up, turns, and picks up a glass quart of red shine from the corner of the room. He sets it on the card table in front of me. The cap, naturally, has been busted. Thank you, troupe.
“Joan, if you please,” Gunn says through gritted teeth, “show these gentlemen once more how we elevate something magic . . . into something even more extraordinary.”
Colletto clasps his hands together and laughs. “I have dealers up and down the coast already signed on,” he says. “Can’t wait to see it again.”
And as he continues to smack his hands, I take out my switchblade, hold it right against my forearm above the glass bottle, feign like I’m about to begin the caging spell. But instead of pressing it into my flesh, I close my eyes.
After a moment, a minute, I hear Colletto laugh uncomfortably. “What’s she doing?”
“Joan,” Gunn says carefully.
“Gunn, what’s going on?” Colletto demands.
And then I open my eyes.
Time has slowed, almost stopped, shows me a world now rich with color, every gesture and glance shaded and textured. Gunn must know my tells by now, senses what I’m about to do, because he reaches for his pistol, a fast, fluid motion. But I thrust my hand forward, and Gunn’s weapon flits from his fingertips like a freed dove, flies into mine, and then I quickly throw up a force field in front of me, a thick, protective, transparent wall. In response, Dawson jumps to his feet, he and Howie whipping out their pistols to fire on me. But I enchant their weapons too.
Dawson’s gun goes off, but its bullet has a mind of its own now, darts across the room in the other direction, lands in the folds of Colletto’s stomach, and he gasps, falls over. Dawson’s gun fires again, shoots Colletto’s minion beside him, as well as the two standing above him. Howie grabs Dawson’s arm, shouting in his ear for him to stop, to stand down.
But it’s too late.
The two remaining D Street thugs leap to their feet in response, pull
out their guns, and fire. They take out Kerrigan, then Sullivan, then O’Donnell left to right. And then they take down Howie, who falls into a pool of crimson. Dawson’s head splatters, a burst of red against the green-striped wallpaper of the far wall. A rogue bullet lodges into Gunn’s leg from the cross fire and sends him crumpling to the ground as he screams, “You bitch!”
The two standing D Street men turn their pistols on Gunn on the ground, but he rolls over and grabs Howie’s fallen gun. With two hot bullets, he takes the pair down. Both bodies slump and collapse like dead weight onto the couch.
I wait a moment, and then another, my heart pounding in my chest, blood surging to my ears.
Gunn still has Howie’s pistol in his hand. He keeps it trained on me as he looks down at his wound. It’s high, a shot right into his thigh, and the blood is thick and black as it seeps through that gray pinstripe suit. He presses his hand into his leg, trying to stop the flow, and gasps from the pain. I almost feel bad for him, until I remember it’s Gunn.
I focus on the pistol half-propped on his leg, loosely held in my direction with his trembling fingers, and whisper, “Fly.” The pistol floats like a cloud above his head and flings itself into the corner, as Gunn gasps again, winces from his pain.
I decide that I’m safe, release my protective wall, and cross the room for the money. Colletto’s near-overflowing bag of cash is lying half-open, discarded on the floor beside his chair, and I grab it and throw it over my shoulder, ignoring how a splash of blood oozes from the strap onto my shirt. Just go. Leave him.
But I turn to face Gunn. He’s now wrapped around his leg, shaking, sweating, those white-blue eyes as haunting as ever.
“You’ll pay for this,” he mutters between heavy breaths, but still manages to look me in the eyes. “I’m going to make you pay—”
I bend down in front of him. “Something tells me that’s not happening.”