by Allie Therin
He narrowed his eyes, but they had to go. He chased after her.
Out on the street, Gwen went to the car parked just up the block. She slipped gracefully into the back seat and Rory scrambled in behind her. She spoke in rapid French as she threw a wad of bills over the seat.
The driver nodded sharply and then pulled the car in a tight U-turn and took off in the direction Arthur had gone.
“I told him we’re going wherever you tell us,” Gwen said to Rory.
The ring box was heavy in Rory’s pocket. He hesitated, then reached for it.
Gwen raised her eyebrows as he slipped the Tempest Ring on his finger.
“He’s under blood magic,” Rory said quietly. “I need whatever edge I can get.”
“Good idea,” Gwen said, her gaze on the ring.
Rory reached for the link, sending up a prayer of thanks that the Puppeteer’s blood magic hadn’t broken it. “East,” he said. “Keep going.”
* * *
Arthur’s body drove the Delage east out of Paris, until the city lights were gone, and the road was black beyond his headlights. He made several turns, taking smaller and smaller roads until he eventually turned off the pavement altogether, onto a narrow dirt road.
Rocks crunched under his tires and the occasional deeper pothole rocked the car. After a few minutes, he rounded a bend and his headlights illuminated high walls of gray stone. An iron gate stood open.
Iron, like the railing Rory had crashed into after Arthur shoved him across the balcony—
He swallowed.
A country manor loomed just beyond the gate, the white sides and gray roof aglow under the moonlight, small rectangular windows with peaked dormers just visible on the third and highest floor. Arthur’s body drove the car up the gravel path and into the circular driveway, his headlights illuminating the main steps and the covered front door as he came to a stop and pulled the brake.
He was more angry than afraid as his hand reached for the driver’s door and his feet hit the drive. He watched like a passenger in his own body as he left the engine running and strode around the car to the sprawling house. He stopped just short of the house, the steps and front door to his right, the beam of the headlights in his eyes. Their brightness made it impossible to see anything in the darkness beyond, but every nerve in Arthur’s body was aware of being watched.
But as he stood there, there was a shattering of glass to his left. A moment later, a pale green fog began to pour into the air.
“Just a bit more light for our new guest,” came a faintly familiar voice, with mocking politeness.
The fog rose, filling the space around Arthur with an unsettling light and slowly revealing the watchers: several armed men in suits, and, just in front of them, the barber who’d nicked him.
He was no longer hunching deferentially to a customer but standing attentive and straight, and his previously bland expression was now set with unsettling satisfaction.
Arthur’s heartbeat was calm and steady. His blood pressure didn’t rise. He took a breath through his nose and wished he could kill with his eyes.
“Lieutenant Kenzie.” The barber made a mockery of a salute. “My name is Peter Becker. You may speak freely.”
“Oh, you’ll let me speak freely, how magnanimous of you,” Arthur gritted out. “Just the small detail that nothing else will be in my control.”
Becker’s smile grew bigger, crueler. “Not one single thing,” he agreed. “I’m glad you’ve caught on quickly. Explaining myself is tiresome.”
A pulse of disgust curled in Arthur’s stomach. “You’re enjoying this. You’re enjoying controlling another human being.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Becker said, with no remorse. “I’m one of the most dangerous paranormals born this era. No one can match me. A lion doesn’t suppress its urge to kill; why should I fight my nature? Why shouldn’t I embrace the power I wield?”
Arthur could see at least six men with guns behind Becker. None of them moved; they stood like statues, their eyes trained forward.
Were they loyal to Baron Zeppler? Or were any of them under Becker’s blood magic like he was?
Becker walked forward, his hands clasped behind his back like he was on a stroll on a spring day. Except, as he came closer, the headlights revealed a tension in his shoulders that belied his easy gait. As if keeping control of Arthur wasn’t quite as simple as he pretended.
“How did you find me?” Arthur bit out.
Becker looked up, as if he were tracking something in the air. “Mr. Chance? Show yourself.”
There was a pause. And then, very suddenly, the blond man from the docks was there, smiling smugly. The teleporter.
Becker gestured at him. “Mr. Chance is a very resourceful teleporter,” he said, and Chance’s smile broadened up until Becker added, “If a complete failure in every other respect.”
Chance’s smile wavered. “What are you talking about? I found Lieutenant Kenzie in Paris like you wanted.”
Becker leaned in. “But you shouldn’t have lost them in the first place,” he said slowly. “And you’ve also lost the firestarter.”
“He’s a traitor,” Chance said darkly. “I told you what he said, that he called Zeppler a liar, said he wasn’t your match.”
Becker steepled his fingers. “But did you slit his throat for that?”
“I came back,” said Chance. “I’ve proved my loyalty—”
“Enough.” Becker didn’t do anything Arthur could see, but Chance’s mouth snapped shut anyway. The next moment, Chance was obediently stepping away, closer to the guards, as Becker turned back to Arthur.
“I think,” Becker said, his lip curling, “you were explaining why you are unexpectedly difficult to take control of. For a man without magic.”
Arthur kept his mouth shut.
Chance and the guards continued to stand rock still as Becker circled behind Arthur, observing him like a rat in a cage. “What is the magic in your aura, Lieutenant?”
Arthur stayed silent, skin crawling on the inside while his body stayed perfectly steady.
Becker came to face him. From close, there was no mistaking that beneath his calm facade, Becker was straining. “I asked you a question.”
Rory’s magic was still fighting Becker’s. As long as Arthur could feel the lightning against his skin, he wouldn’t give up hope. “You can move my mouth all you want,” he said. “But you can’t force me to tell you anything.”
“Can’t I?” Becker said, the words packed with malice. “Most men talk under torture, and you can’t possibly imagine the kind of torture I can inflict. I can put a knife or a brand in your hand and then pull your strings any way I choose.”
He stepped ever closer. “Wherever he’s run off to, I know Mr. Hyde. I know the history the two of you share. I can make that experience, and the scars he carved into you with his claws, feel like a gentle memory.”
Arthur’s eyes were forced to meet Becker’s. There was no doubt Becker meant every word, but Arthur wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging or fear. “My name is Arthur James Kenzie, Second Lieutenant—”
“Inspiring,” a new voice interrupted. “But pointless.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Footsteps came down the stone steps to Arthur’s right, and then crunched on the gravel drive. Arthur couldn’t look, could only stand perfectly still and face forward as the steps came closer and closer.
Someone finally stepped in front of him, and Arthur’s eyes lowered themselves.
The newcomer was a white man not much taller than Rory and perhaps in his forties, with blond hair, pale skin, and glasses. He had thick eyebrows and thin lips, an unimposing sort of man that Arthur would have had trouble remembering enough to pick out of a group photograph. His expression was curious, like he was listening to music Arthur couldn’t hear and try
ing to make out the lyrics.
“Baron Zeppler,” Arthur said tightly, and then his mouth froze like the rest of him.
“Don’t talk,” Becker hissed. “He doesn’t need the clutter—”
“It’s all right.” Zeppler’s voice was soft, his accent mostly English, with little German left. “After all, I’ve wanted to meet Lieutenant Kenzie for a long time.”
Becker dipped his head, and the magic binding Arthur’s lips relaxed.
Arthur didn’t speak. His eyes were still locked on Zeppler, and he couldn’t look away.
Becker looked questioningly at Zeppler.
“He has another paranormal’s magic in his aura,” Zeppler said, as if answering something unspoken. “Theodore Giovacchini’s, in fact.” His mouth curved in an unnerving smile. “Lucky for our lieutenant.”
He slowly turned his head toward Becker. “And speaking of the psychometric...”
Arthur went cold. “We’re not speaking of him.”
Zeppler’s lip curled. “You don’t need to speak,” he said. “I’m hearing it clear as day. Disgusting, to have those feelings for another man. But useful.”
Arthur’s stomach sank.
“Your guilt is very loud,” Zeppler said to him, then turned to Becker. “The siphon is still in the car. Set it on the front steps before you leave, please.”
Becker nodded, then gestured at Arthur, eyebrows up.
“Leave him here,” Zeppler said, again as if in answer to something Becker had said. “He’s big, he’ll make a decent guard when we’re done tonight.” He spoke carelessly, as if Arthur was nothing more than a piece of furniture to be moved where Zeppler wanted.
Arthur’s hands set themselves behind his back into parade rest. He bit back the curses he wanted to fling.
Zeppler smiled, as if he were amused by Arthur’s unvoiced rage. He looked over at Becker. “And deal with Chance.”
Becker nodded again. He gestured, and Chance came forward out of the guards. His eyes were too wide as he marched past Arthur, past the car, into the darkness beyond. Becker and another guard followed just behind.
Arthur couldn’t move his body, or even his head, to see where Chance had gone. “Deal with him how?”
Zeppler calmly studied Arthur, ignoring the question. “Becker talks to me telepathically.” His eyes never met Arthur’s, focused instead on his forehead. “You should do it too. I dislike voices; thoughts are already so loud.”
But as he spoke, a gunshot cracked, the echo reverberating over the grounds.
Every nerve in Arthur jumped, like sparks trapped in a straitjacket, unable to move his body but only to fizzle in shock inside him. “Did Becker just shoot Chance?”
“Of course not,” Zeppler said, like he was bored. “Becker made him shoot himself.”
Oh, Christ. Arthur swallowed thickly.
“He did, actually, deserve it,” Zeppler said, as if Arthur had spoken aloud. “Why tolerate failure when Becker can just make more soldiers?”
“Soldiers are not disposable,” Arthur bit out.
“To the general, they are.”
In the corner of his eye, Arthur saw one of the henchmen climb behind the wheel of the Delage Arthur had stolen, while Becker got the siphon clock out of the car’s front seat. He carried the clock over to the manor and set it gently on the front steps, the gold muted and strange in the greenish fog that hung unnaturally in the air to light the manor grounds.
Becker got into the front passenger seat as two more henchmen got into the back. The driver started up the engine, and the car made a loop of the circular driveway and disappeared down the gravel path.
Zeppler stepped closer. “It is darker without the headlights,” he said distractedly. “But I hardly need to see you when I can hear you as I do.”
Arthur swallowed again.
Zeppler nodded knowingly. “I do look deceptively harmless. Everyone expects to meet a monster, but appearance has nothing to do with good or evil. Beautiful people are capable of cruel thoughts and actions.” He tilted his head. “You’re wondering how my telepathy works.”
What was Arthur going to do, contradict him?
“I hear your thoughts as if you’re speaking out loud to me,” said Zeppler. “But even for a telepath, I am exceptional. There is a lot more to my magic than hearing thoughts.”
Because Zeppler was a telepath with a relic. Arthur tried not to think it—
Zeppler’s mouth turned up in a dark smile. “Yes, I’ve learned that the psychometric has a relic too. That’s going to make him very useful. But you; you are useful too.”
Zeppler leaned forward. “What happened to my people in America, Lieutenant Kenzie?”
No. No, Ace, think of something else, anything else—
Zeppler’s eyes narrowed. “Really?” he said, drawing it out. “Miss Shelley, murdered by Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde, trapped in the fifteenth century by Mr. Giovacchini. And Mr. de Leon, hiding from Mr. Becker’s magic in London—well. He won’t be hiding for much longer, will he?”
Christ.
“But of course I’m dancing around the most important things right now,” said Zeppler. “The relics. You’ve left the pomander in New York City, and that was very wise of you. No matter; I have contacts there and everywhere.”
He clasped his hands. “And of course, the talented Gwendoline Taylor has a relic now too. She is an unknown, isn’t she? Did you know we’ve been in contact?”
“What?” Arthur whispered, before he could stop himself. No, Gwen would never contact Baron Zeppler on her own, she wouldn’t—
“She would. And she did.” Zeppler’s dark smile was back. “I do hope you weren’t fool enough to trust—oh.” He shook his head pityingly. “You were.”
Arthur’s stomach lurched.
Zeppler lifted one hand and beckoned with his fingers. Three of the men with guns came forward, their weapons on Arthur. Zeppler stepped up, even closer, and then Arthur felt it: new magic creeping up his spine, to the base of his scalp. Not Rory’s dazzling lightning bolts, but magic like cold mercury, coating his skull and seeping inside.
“Now,” said Zeppler. “Let’s really get to know one another.”
* * *
Rory had his eyes closed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The car vibrated under him, tires rumbling along the pavement.
The ring’s magic felt bright on his finger, letting him find the lighthouse of Arthur’s aura. They were getting closer to Arthur. Did that mean he’d stopped driving?
Was that good or bad?
Gwen had been mostly silent, watching out the window. But suddenly, she spoke. “Are you all right?”
Rory looked up and over at Gwen in disbelief.
“I’m sorry, that’s a ridiculous question,” she said ruefully. “It’s just—well. Maybe I shouldn’t say it.”
Rory wasn’t having that. No more secrets. “Say what?” he demanded. “Just tell me.”
“It’s your magic,” Gwen said gently. “It’s an absolute disaster right now, sparking all over you.”
Rory frowned. “It is?”
Gwen nodded. “To be honest, I’m a little afraid of the breeze.”
“We’re in a car, it’s just coming in the windows,” Rory snapped, but his stomach twisted with fear. He looked at the ring on his finger.
“Your ring reacts to your emotions sometimes, does it not?”
Rory bit his lip. It didn’t feel like he was losing control of the ring.
But then, it usually happened without much warning.
“Do you want me to take a look?” Gwen offered. “See if I can see how the magic connects to you? We’ve nothing else to distract us until we reach Arthur.”
“I’m good, thanks,” Rory said flatly.
“Very well. It’s your choice, although admitted
ly, I would rather you didn’t blow our car off the road.” Gwen hesitated, her eyes going back to his ring. “How strong a gale can you call?”
Rory froze. He looked at his finger for a long moment more. He’d accidentally called a gale powerful enough to break the ice on the Hudson River once. The way he was feeling right now, what kind of destruction could he cause?
After a long moment, he sighed. “Yeah, maybe you should take a look.” He pulled off the ring and passed it to her.
She took it, and then closed it in her fist. “Got it.”
“What—” Rory started.
But the driver slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched as Rory went tumbling forward, smacking into the back of the front seat hard enough to hurt.
He swore, loudly. “You see an animal or something?” he snapped at the driver, as he rubbed at the bruise on his arm. “We’re not to Ace yet, get going again.”
But the car wasn’t moving.
Rory looked up and over at Gwen—
Who had a small box in hand, just the right size for a ring, and glittering in its center was the Tempest Ring. “I’m sorry, Rory.”
She snapped it shut, and Rory felt the connection to the ring’s wind magic disappear.
“No!”
But the car’s rear door was opening next to Rory. Someone grabbed him by the back of the shirt and yanked him from the car.
“Let me go! Gwen!” Rory fought, but whoever had him was a lot bigger than he was. His arms were jerked behind him, and a moment later, cuffs snapped, the bite of lead on his wrists.
“Shut up,” said the man who had him. Hard metal jammed into his back.
A gun. They had guns.
The car Arthur had stolen was parked the wrong way, facing theirs. Gwen had gotten out of their car, coming around the front as collected and elegant as if she were walking into a ball. She stood in the beam of the headlights as a white man stepped across from her.
But Gwen lifted her finger. “No closer, if you please, Mr. Becker,” she said calmly. “My blood is my own.”
