The car wasn’t much—a Frankensteined box on wheels, pieced together from junkyard dreams and duct-tape prayers. The hood was dented, the panels mismatched, and the paint job… well, calling it a paint job would’ve been generous. Every pothole and crack in the road made the engine cough up a death rattle.
“Classy ride,” I said, running a hand over the dashboard, where faded cigarette burns marked its history. “Where’d you dig this beauty up?”
“We’ve been diversifying,” Al said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His tone was as dry as the ashtray wedged in the cupholder. “Little chop shop action on the side. Figured we shouldn’t bring anything we’d mind losing.”
“Smart,” I said, nodding. “Disposable wheels for disposable plans.”
“What I don’t get is… if the key and the box are supposed to open up some big, magical hoo-ha, why hasn’t Cat used it already?”
“Timing,” I said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Top-tier magic’s all about the details. Certain dates, certain phases. Gotta line it up just right.”
He shot me a sidelong glance, one brow arched. “Since when are you the expert on top-tier magic? Thought you hated that crap.”
“I didn’t make it through life on my good looks alone,” I said, grinning. “I know things.”
Al snorted, the kind of laugh that said he wasn’t buying it. Truth was, I hadn’t known a damn thing about the timing of the lunar cycles and leylines until Frank clued me in, but Al didn’t need to know that.
“Ever seen those old aether channel maps?” I asked, leaning back in my seat. “Leylines?”
He frowned, chewing on the thought. “Yeah, I’ve seen them. Crackpot junk, right? Something healers and new-age types won’t shut up about.”
“Funny how the stuff everyone dismisses as junk is always the first to screw you over when you’re not looking,” I said. “Bart’s place wasn’t just a hit job. It was cleanup. Whoever torched it wasn’t trying to kill him—they were after what he had. Records, maps, convergence points.”
Al’s grip tightened on the wheel. “And you’re saying the casino’s sitting on one of those?”
“Ding, ten points to Al,” I said, giving him a mock cheer. “That’s the magic of the Sapphire Club. It’s not just a den for Cat’s schemes—it’s a damn nexus.”
“And that means… what, exactly?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration.
“It means,” I said, turning to watch the skyline as we got closer, “when the moon hits its peak—midnight to three—those aether channels light up like power lines. And tonight’s special. First of the month. Everything aligns.”
“Shit,” Al muttered under his breath, a low, resigned growl.
“Exactly,” I said, my grin fading. “No more waiting, no more bluffing. Whatever cards we’ve got, it’s time to lay them on the table. This is it.”
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Bit dramatic, aren’t we, Frank said.
Someone’s been pulling strings for a long time, Frank—but tonight? We’re cutting the damn threads.
Up ahead, through the painfully slow ebb and flow of city traffic, the Sapphire Club emerged in the distance, its blue-glass façade catching the last rays of the setting sun, glinting like a jagged shard of fractured sky. Thirty stories of mirrored arrogance, built to dazzle and intimidate in equal measure. To the rubes walking by, it was just another high-end office building. But anyone with half a brain—or enough dirt under their nails—knew the truth. This was Cat’s castle, a fortress wrapped in glitz and guarded by goons who’d shoot first and forget to ask questions later.
By the time we pulled in, the last shards of daylight had just made their exit, leaving the city bathed in artificial brilliance. Neon signs buzzed and flickered, and the towering sapphire building gleamed like a jewel in the dark, its polished surface reflecting the glow of the streets below. Its opulence was absurd. The valet circle was paved with dark marble, reflecting the glimmer of ornate lamps. The doors shimmered in polished silver, engraved with intricate designs of sapphires and crescent moons. A valet in a pristine uniform approached the car and stopped dead, his face twisting in visible disdain as he looked at the beaten-down junker.
He glanced at us like we’d just tracked mud into a museum.
“Be careful not to scratch it,” Al said, tossing the keys casually.
The valet stared at the car, then the keys, then us, blinking like we’d spoken in tongues.
Al popped the trunk and hauled out the duffle bags, slinging one over each shoulder. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, and we headed for the entrance.
Inside, the Sapphire Club was a glittering shrine to excess. The floors were polished marble, veins of deep blue running through white stone, the chandeliers overhead dripping with diamonds and sapphires. The walls shimmered with mirrored panels, reflecting every angle of the room back at itself in dizzying splendor. Jewelry displays lined the halls, guarded by men in suits so sharp they could have cut glass.
We walked past the opulence to the large circular reception desk at the center of the lobby. The desk was a monstrous thing, carved from solid white stone, its edges lined with silver filigree.
A young woman stood behind it, her glasses catching the light, and her towering beehive hairdo rising defiantly, every strand meticulously arranged. Her expression was cool, unbothered, as if she’d seen it all and wasn’t impressed by any of it.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone polite but practiced.
I adjusted the lapels of my jacket, Frank humming faintly against my skin, and smiled.
“Yes,” I said, leaning casually against the desk. “We’re here to see Catigan.”
The woman’s eyes flicked over us, pausing on the bags in Al’s hands. Her mouth twitched, not quite a frown, but close.
“Do you have an appointment?” A name tag pinned to her chest read Barbara, the lettering neat and precise.
She tilted her head slightly, her beehive hairdo wobbling as if testing the limits of its structural integrity.
“I’m afraid not,” I replied with a grin, “but I have a feeling he’ll want to see us.”
Barbara’s smile grew tighter. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Catigan doesn’t take callers without an appointment. If you’d like, I can leave a message.”
Before I could respond, a man approached, his gait hurried but attempting to appear nonchalant. He was tall, with a tie that was just a shade too wide, as if he’d lost a bet with a haberdasher.
“Mr. Callaghan!” His face lit up with genuine warmth, his grin wide and welcoming. He shot out a hand, gripping mine in a handshake that lingered just a moment too long—but not in a way that felt calculated. It was genuine, almost disarmingly so. “What a pleasure to see you again! Been too long, hasn’t it?”