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Evie would have no idea what had happened to him. Knowing Evie, she’d be pretty sore about it, too. That thought brought on just the slightest bit of a smile, but then he remembered the night before he’d been kidnapped, everything they’d shared, the soft feel of her body, and he sobered. What if she thought he’d abandoned her, like a real heel? Had the Shadow Men gone after her and the rest of his friends? Were they here now somewhere—wherever this place was? He tried to slip his hand out of the restraints, but it was useless.
Sam’s stomach growled. How long had it been since he’d eaten? For the first time, he noticed a silver tray that sat on the nightstand, within reach. Sam was just able to lift the dish’s domed cover. They’d left him a sandwich. A ham sandwich. Bastards. There was a rattle at the room’s steel door. Quickly, Sam lay down, pretending to sleep but keeping his eyelids open a sliver. Through the soft fuzz of his eyelashes, Sam saw the two Shadow Men enter. The skinny one was named Jefferson, Sam remembered; Adams was the taller brute who didn’t talk much. Sam wished he could leap off the bed and punch them both. If he could get them to come close enough, he could use his Diviner power to daze them. While they were under his spell, he would find the key, unlock the cuffs, and make a run for it.
Jefferson glanced down at the tray and noticed that its lid was off. “It’s no good pretending, you know.” He had a voice that sounded as if he’d spent years screaming and was now left with a subdued rasp. “I can assure you that, just as we were able to drug you to sleep, we can do the same to wake you up. The effects are rather unpleasant, I hear.”
Resigned, Sam opened his eyes and sat up. “Where the hell am I?”
Mr. Jefferson took a seat while his partner stood watch. “Hello, Sam. Or do you prefer Sergei?”
“I’d prefer that you let me out of here.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that just yet.”
“Okay. How long do you need? I could wait five minutes.”
“Cute.” From his pocket, the Shadow Man brought out a paper bag of pistachios, picking through them methodically until he found one he liked. “We need your help, Sergei.”
“Why the hell should I help you? And the name is Sam, pal.”
“That’s not what your mother calls you, though, is it?”
Sam’s pulse quickened. He tried to play it cool. “My mother doesn’t call me anything. She’s dead.”
“You help us, we help you.” With his thumbs, the Shadow Man split open the pistachio and popped the tiny green nut into his mouth, grinding it between his back teeth while he fixed Sam with a stare.
It was the arrogance of the stare that got to Sam. He summoned up all his anger and called on his power. “Don’t see m—aahhh!” Sam yelped in pain as his wrists burned beneath the shackles.
Mr. Jefferson smirked. “Did you think I’d trust you?”
“Wh-what did you do to me?”
The Shadow Man clucked and shook his head like a headmaster. “Be a good boy, Sergei, or no dessert.”
“I’ll kill you. I swear I will,” Sam grunted, still in pain.
“I don’t think so.” Jefferson jerked his head toward the door. Adams opened it and stepped outside. Sam could make out a clank, like a long chain dragging across a floor. The Shadow Man stepped back into the room with a shackled guest, and Sam was suddenly grateful for the bed holding his weight. It had been ten years since he’d last seen her. Ten years since she’d kissed him good-bye and gone to work on Project Buffalo. She seemed smaller to him now that he was older. Gray streaked her black hair. But it was unmistakably Miriam Lubovitch, his mother.
“Mama?” Sam said.
“Sergei!” Miriam tried to move toward her son but her ankles were in irons. Tears shone in her eyes. There were more words, all in their native Russian: Are you hurt? Nyet. I love you. I love you, too, Mama. And: You got so big! Which made Sam laugh despite the circumstances, because mothers were mothers no matter what. He hadn’t been wrong. She was alive. All this time, alive. And these were the sons-of-bitches who’d d
estroyed their family, who’d kept them apart and lied about it, telling Sam’s father that Miriam had died of influenza back in 1918.
“Take her outta those chains,” Sam growled.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Thanks to her exposure to Project Buffalo during the war, your mother’s Diviner gifts are… substantial. A little iron helps contain them, we’ve found. A lot of iron makes her docile as a kitten.” Jefferson nodded at the shackles around Sam’s blistered wrists. “Seems to work like a charm on you, too.”
Sam had never felt such blinding rage. He’d always wondered what would happen if he came face-to-face with the men who’d taken his mother. Wondered if he was capable of murder. Now he knew that he was.
“Sorry there’s no time for a touching reunion, but Mr. Marlowe requests the pleasure of your company.”
With that, Mr. Adams crossed the room, where he unhooked the restraints from the bedpost and used them to bind Sam’s hands together in front of him. He yanked Sam to his feet.
“Easy, chump,” Sam snarled.
Adams glared at Sam. “Who are you calling a chump?”
“Did I say chump? I meant champ. I get my vowels mixed up.”
