Page 120 of No Charm Done

Elias finished counting a stack of twenties and banded them with a paper wrapper. Set them aside. Reached for the next pile.

Did the explosion destroy CastR like we planned? Or did I just blow up a building and accomplish nothing? Is magic safe? And, coming around again on the merry-go-round of misery that was his brain: Does she still hate me?

The worst part was, he couldn’t even blame her if she did hate him. He’d earned it.

Was that it? Is this my punishment? Luna’s revenge? Or maybe I didn’t survive that explosion at all. Maybe I died at that data center, and this is Hell.

Certainly smells like it.

He grabbed another stack of bills. Started sorting. Ones. Fives. Tens.

The other guard, whose name he’d never learned, walked over and reached into Elias’s jacket pockets. This happened every hour, with the regularity of a railroad schedule. Checking for stolen bills, though Elias had never been stupid enough to try it. Not because he was above stealing from Capone—morally speaking, he’d done far worse—but because there was literally nowhere to run. Burke’s people were still looking for him. That was the bitch of it, really.

“You done?”

Little Tuna’s voice made him jump. The last stack was finished, neatly banded and labeled. “Yeah,” he said. “All accounted for.”

Tuna grunted and gestured toward the stairs. “Go get some air. Be back in an hour.”

Elias stood, his knees protesting. He’d been sitting for six hours straight.

“Don’t try anything cute,” the other guard added, which was hilarious because what exactly was he going to try? To run? Where?

He climbed the stairs, pushed through the door at the top, and stepped out into the alley behind the speakeasy.

The Chicago afternoon air hit him like a brick wall: noise and smoke and jazz music drifting from an open door down the block. The shouts of a pushcart vendor. Two women in cloche hats walked past, laughing at some private joke. Elias leaned against the brick wall and closed his eyes. Three months, and everything still felt wrong.

Before Luna, he’d been fine with this life. Fine with grifting and running cons, surviving in the spaces between legal and illegal. Before Luna, the 1920s had been home. Chaotic and dangerous, sure, but his.

Now he was like a ghost wearing the wrong body.

He opened his eyes and stared at the narrow strip of sky visible between the buildings.

Is she okay?

Did I at least manage to save her, even if she hates me for how I did it?

He walked another block, then another, letting his feet carry him on autopilot while his mind spun in useless circles. Eventually Elias found himself ended outside Lou Mitchell’s, a diner he’d been to a few times. Vivi’s favorite spot, actually. She liked the coffee and the way the owner didn’t ask questions.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Vivi appeared on the far side of the street. She was beautiful in that specific Roaring Twenties way: sharp bob, perfect makeup, clothes that cost more than Shaw made in a month of counting money. She crossed the street to kiss his cheek. “Good afternoon, partner,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He forced a smile. “Here I am.”

“Come on. I’m buying you lunch.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I insist.” Vivi linked her arm through his and steered him into the diner. “You look like death warmed over, sugar. When’s the last time you ate?”

Elias couldn’t remember.

They settled into a booth in the back, and Vivi ordered for both of them with the easy confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether she belonged anywhere.

“So.” She leaned forward with her chin on her hands. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Elias.” Her voice sharpened. “You’ve been like this for months. Ever since you showed up in that ridiculous outfit with no explanation.”