by Allie Therin
When had it happened? In the last hour? The last century? If there was even a chance it had just happened, he should tell the police, but what could he even say? Excuse me, I see visions, and I might be a witness to a homicide—unless, of course, it happened before all of us were born—
He made a choked-off sob and drew himself into a tighter ball. Of course he couldn’t go to the police. But there was still the very real possibility a man had just died a horrible death on the dock and he had no one to tell, no one to help him, no lifelines—
Ace.
Rory scrambled to his feet, fumbling for his glasses in their spot on the nightstand, and dug frantically for the business card he’d shoved in his pocket when he’d stormed out of the shop. Clutching it tight in his bleeding fingers, he bolted to the first-floor common level and the party telephone on a small table in the hall.
By the fifth ring Rory had slumped to the floor in despair, back to the wall and knees curled to his chest, the white-knuckled hand holding the receiver trembling—
“This is Ace.” The words were thick with sleep and unmasked annoyance. “And so help me, at this hour, this better be the Queen.”
“Arthur.”
Ace’s voice snapped to wakefulness. “Rory?”
“I—I saw—” Rory’s voice broke. He couldn’t banish the scene from his mind, the death playing out like a twisted moving picture. “I saw a murder.”
On the other side of the phone, Arthur sucked in a breath.
“There was a woman—” Rory tried to explain “—and a man drew a knife—” He made another choked sob. “I can’t go to the police, they’ll think I’m mad, I’ll be locked up again—”
“No,” Arthur said immediately. “No, you won’t be, I won’t let that happen—”
Rory screwed his eyes shut and let Arthur’s reassurances wash over him. He didn’t hear the words themselves, just the deep voice that drove away the monsters in his mind and the promises that calmed his racing heart.
“—so they’d have to get through me first, and I am an excellent fortress,” Arthur was saying. “Where are you?”
Rory ran a hand over his face, letting out a shaky breath. He could answer that. He knew exactly where he was, and when he was, and who he was talking to. “My boarding house.”
“Good. Stay there.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m coming.”
Rory’s eyes flew open. God yes, please come, please, I’m so tired of being alone—
“No,” he said quickly. “No, I shouldn’t have bothered you—I don’t even know what time it is—”
“Four thirty.” Four thirty? “But I don’t care about that, Rory, I—”
“Sorry I woke you,” Rory blurted. “Don’t come, go back to bed, it’s fine, everything’s fine.”
“You shouldn’t be alone—”
“I’ll see you around.” Rory shoved the phone up into its cradle on the table. He put his head between his knees, suddenly aware he was in thin pajamas on the cold floor, that his fingers stung and his skin was like ice. Suddenly feeling so alone.
The shrill ring of the phone split the air. He grabbed the receiver and dropped it straight back down on the cradle.
A moment later, it rang again, and again Rory lifted it and hung it right back up.
He waited, tensed.
But all was silent.
Chapter Fifteen
Rory rinsed off his bloody hands in the communal bathroom before returning to his room for clothes and his coat. He was out the door just minutes later. It was black as night outside, the late winter sun at least two hours from rising yet, and the streets were creepily still. He walked along the icy sidewalks with his head down, hands jammed deep in his pockets, fingers smarting in his clenched fists. It was cold enough to freeze bone, but humiliation was keeping Rory hot.
Had he really just woken Arthur Kenzie in the middle of the night for a bad dream?
It was six short blocks to Brodigan’s and his face stung from cold and burned from shame by the time he unlocked the front door and slipped inside. His footsteps echoed on the floor of the empty shop, nearly as cold as outside. It would have been nice to hear familiar voices, or see a friendly face, but they wouldn’t open until eight.
At least there was more to distract him here than in his claustrophobic room, and Mrs. Brodigan kept a first-aid kit in the desk. He tossed his coat on the armchair and took the metal kit to the counter with the cash register.
He’d just pulled the chain on the small light when the front door’s bell jangled loudly. He looked up in alarm.
It was nothing like the first night he’d seen Arthur.
Oh, the frantic expression was the same, but that first night, Arthur had been impeccably styled right down to the fine coat and hat. Now, Arthur’s fine coat was thrown over flannel pajamas, his uncovered hair was tousled from sleep, and black stubble roughened his cheeks and jaw. He was at least ten times more handsome, and time might have momentarily stopped, or maybe that was just Rory’s heart.
“What part of I’m coming is difficult to understand?” Arthur’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright like the summer sky as he crossed the shop and gripped Rory’s shoulders. “I told you to stay where you were—do I need to speak Italian to make you listen? I will learn.”
His hands were strong, not painful, on Rory’s shoulders, and warm even through Rory’s shirt. “How did you find me?” Rory managed to ask.
“Where else do you have to go but here?”
He looked away. “I shouldn’t have called you—”
“You shouldn’t have hung up on me—”
“—and I shouldn’t have bothered you for a stupid dream—”
“I gave you my number and explicitly wrote on it call anytime,” said Arthur. “Why would I be cross because you did just that?”
“But it was stupid,” Rory said heatedly. “I’m a grown man, I don’t need a hand to hold.”
“Of course not,” Arthur said, with heavy sarcasm. “It’s only a murder, a real man would just brush off seeing that—”
“It’s not like it’s my first time,” Rory snapped, then flinched. He hadn’t meant to admit that.
Arthur’s anger seemed to leave him in a rush. The hands on Rory’s shoulders squeezed. “Why do you have a first-aid kit out?”
Rory bit his lip, but it wasn’t like he could hide his hands forever. Wincing, feeling as stupid as Arthur must have thought he was, he lifted his hands so Arthur could see the broken nails.
Arthur’s eyes went soft and troubled. “Of course.” He took Rory’s hands in his own and Rory caught his breath. Arthur’s big hands were warm against frozen skin and achingly gentle as he examined the injury. “This is why you put more locks on your door.”
It wasn’t a question. Secret already out, Rory nodded. “I, uh—I wander sometimes, when I lose control of my scrying. Like a sleepwalker. But I wasn’t scrying tonight, I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”
“You pick up magical auras and your mind wants to take your body to the magic’s source.” Arthur glanced up. “It’s an extraordinary ability that you can better learn to control. There is nothing wrong with you.”
Rory’s throat was suddenly tight. He stared at his bloody fingers so he wouldn’t have to look Arthur in the face.
“Come on,” Arthur said. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
* * *
In the bathroom in the building’s lobby, Arthur cleansed the wounds much more thoroughly than Rory had. “This won’t be pleasant.”
“Ouch!” Rory tried to jerk away, but Arthur seemed to have expected it and held him firmly at the sink. “You dick, that fucking hurts.”
“It’s iodine, of course it hurts.”
“Do you even know what the hell you’re doing—” Rory abruptly cut
it off. “You were a solider.”
“For a time.” Arthur was moving quickly; at least he wasn’t prolonging the torture. “I was in college when America entered the war. The Versailles treaty was signed barely two years after I enlisted.”
Rory did some quick math because something wasn’t adding up. “Hold on,” he said suspiciously. “You patronize me like you’re about a hundred years old, but if you were in college when we went to war, then you can’t be that much older than me.”
“I am so much older than you. I’m ancient.”
“Tell it to Sweeney,” said Rory, “because I won’t believe you’re a day past thirty.”
Arthur huffed. “Fine. Twenty-eight. So still old enough, wise enough, and a solider long enough to learn what to do with cuts and broken nails.” There was a quick movement, and another sharp sting that made Rory hiss. “There. The worst is over now.”
Back in the shop’s office, Arthur had Rory sit in the armchair while he took the ottoman. He set the first-aid kit on the ottoman too and corralled Rory between his knees as he took Rory’s hands in his own again. Rory tried very hard not to squirm at their closeness as Arthur worked to spread salve and bandage fingers.
“So you came straight from bed,” he said peevishly, because if he didn’t keep his distance he was going to throw himself at Arthur and sob his thanks all over him. “Didn’t even bother brushing your hair.”
“Do you ever?”
Jerk. The most annoying part was how well the straight-out-of-bed look suited Arthur. What a sight he had to be in an actual bed, black stubble on his jaw and muscles for days. “I could have handled myself.”
“Forgive me for needing to see with my own eyes that you were in the right year.” Arthur didn’t sound sorry in the least. “Although...” His gaze darted up to Rory’s eyes, then back to their hands. “I doubt you went into the past tonight. From what I know of psychometry—which, granted, could fill a thimble with space to spare—you need to touch an object to see its history. It’s more likely you were seeing the present because someone had a relic close enough for you to sense.”
Like how that Pavel fella had seen Rory opening the ring box. He swallowed hard. “I saw a sailor get stabbed,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He didn’t want to go to the cops. He had a fake name, a fake aunt, a fake shop—he didn’t need to be drawing attention, but what choice did he have? “They kicked his body into the water. We got to tell someone—”
“It won’t help.” Arthur squeezed his hands, cutting through Rory’s rising panic. “The body will be at the bottom of the harbor by now and the perpetrators long gone. And frankly, I don’t want to send unprepared law enforcement after magic criminals. We’ll investigate ourselves.”
Rory bit his lip. “Stjärnfall.” At Arthur’s blank look, he said, “I don’t know how to say it, but I could write it. The murder was on a dock and that was the ship.” He hesitated, then added, “Zhang said the ship transporting the relic was Swedish.”
“Indeed.” Arthur tilted his head. “I’ll ask Zhang to—”
“It’s an amulet.” Arthur’s head snapped up in surprise. Rory tried not to squirm under the intense blue of his eyes. “Copper, I think. There were some mobsters and a doll there, she was maybe your age.” His hand was so warm where it still cradled Rory’s. “She had eyes that were almost yellow. Said the amulet was it but she was real careful not to touch it.” He chewed his lip. “What else do you want to know?”
Arthur’s face fell. “I didn’t come here for information,” he said quietly. “I didn’t come here to use you or buy you, to take advantage or hurt you in any way. I didn’t even come here to say I told you so and try and convince you to go to Hyde Park. I know you think I’m trying to leash you, but Rory, you don’t owe me anything. You didn’t have to tell me.”
Rory shrugged awkwardly, feeling grubby and rude next to this beautiful, classy man. “I didn’t have to tell you to go to hell either.”
“Well.” The corner of Arthur’s lips curled in that knee-weakening sly smile. “I’ve heard worse.” He turned Rory’s hand over, but he didn’t let it go and he didn’t move away. “How’s that feel?”
His broad chest was only inches away and his knees still boxed Rory snugly into the space between them. He was warm and close and he smelled like soap and fresh snow. Rory felt safe. He flexed his fingers in Arthur’s gentle grip. “’S all right, I guess. For surgery by a sadist.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “And what would Dr. Rory recommend?”
“You could kiss it better,” Rory said, before he could stop himself.
The air between them crackled electrically as Arthur’s hand suddenly tightened on Rory’s palm and his thighs flexed to trap Rory between them. Rory’s heart pounded in his chest and for a split second, he thought he was about to be kissed—
Then a loud thump split the air, the sound that might be made by an excitable eight-year-old girl flinging herself off a couch like a daredevil. “Lizbeth!” came Mrs. Meyers’s muffled shout above their heads, as the Meyerses started their morning.
The ottoman’s legs squealed against the floor as Arthur shoved backward, and just like that there was three endless feet of space between him and Rory. “You know,” he said, his voice very casual, “there are men who might have thought you meant that, just now.” He ran a hand over his face. “Especially when they’re hungover and sleep-deprived and too close to your pretty eyes.”
Rory swallowed and drew his knees tight to his chest. “Right.”
Geez, he had to get a grip on this craving for Arthur before he gave himself away.
“I should probably say thanks—” for coming before dawn, for not leaving me alone, for being someone I want to kiss “—for the doctoring.”
“Don’t you dare.” Arthur got to his feet with a sudden push. “When will Mrs. Brodigan get here?”
Rory’s skin slowly chilled as the cold stole into the spot where Arthur’s warmth had been. “Maybe an hour, around seven. But I’m good.”
Arthur glanced at him, uncertain. “I can stay until then—”
“Nah.” Rory held his bandaged hands to his chest, where his heart was aching. I never met anyone like you, Ace, like a lighthouse in a storm, take me with you—“Go back to bed.”
Arthur’s shoulders dropped. “I suppose that would be best.”
Rory followed him back out into the shop. He leaned back against the cash register counter and watched as Arthur crossed to the front door, somehow making a coat and pajamas look stylish. His hair still looked like someone had spent a night running fingers through it, because Arthur had come straight from bed, because Rory had called, because Rory needed him—
“Ace.”
Arthur glanced back over his shoulder.
Rory bit his lip. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”
Arthur broke into a smile, not sly or charming, but soft and uncertain, and it stole Rory’s breath. “Call anytime.”
Rory’s gaze lingered until Arthur had disappeared to the street.
Oh, he’d be calling all right.
Chapter Sixteen
A brilliant winter sun was pouring in through the east windows of Arthur’s flat as he arrived home from Brodigan’s. Despite having been drinking too late and then woken too early, he was wide awake and jittery as hell.
When he’d stormed Hell’s Kitchen, he’d been afraid he’d find Rory wandering the streets, lost to his visions. It had hardly been a comfort to find him alone in the freezing antiques shop, planning to slap a Band-Aid on the nails he’d torn when his psychometry had made him claw his own door bloody.
You could kiss it better.
Arthur almost had.
He ran a frustrated hand through already disheveled hair. Rory very well might have been flirting with him—but in the quiet of dawn, when their bodies were close, and R
ory still shaken from visions of murder.
Rory barely has a civil word for you, but when he was alone and scared, he called you, he reminded himself. You will not take advantage of a hurt and vulnerable twenty-year-old when he asks for your help. You will not abuse his fragile trust. You will be the lifeline he needs and you will keep your hands to yourself.
Coffee would have been welcome, but his parents’ housekeeper, Mrs. Polkowski, only came by his flat twice a week and he’d never gotten the knack for making his own. He swallowed two aspirin with tap water and checked the breadbox, only to find it empty. He’d have to go back out for coffee and something to eat, but not without a shower, and, more importantly, a shave.
Arthur was dressing when the front door opened and Jade’s heels echoed on the hardwoods. He met her in the study, still tying his tie, finding her sorting through the large stack of envelopes on his desk. “When was the last time you opened your mail?”
He shrugged. “The people I do real business with don’t send letters. The mail’s nothing but solicitations and invitations.”
“Exactly. Invitations.” She held up a fancy envelope. “Luther Mansfield is throwing a gala for the new mayor on Saturday and you’re invited.”
Arthur groaned. “And I have to go,” he said in disgust. “He has no idea I know anything about magic and thinks I’m a useless dewdropper chasing skirts on my parents’ dime. He hates my father’s politics and invited me as revenge and I’m going to have to go to his bloody party because he’s the damn buyer behind the relic and it’s here.”
He laid out everything he’d learned from Rory about the relic and Gwen. Jade paced as he talked. “An amulet.” She grimaced. “A ring that gates the power to control the wind is bad enough. New York doesn’t need another relic, whatever it does, and Rory’s in more danger than ever.” She looked terribly serious as she said, “We failed Gwen. We can’t fail Rory too. Any chance he’ll leave the city?”
“There’s more chance of Prohibition ending tomorrow,” Arthur said ruefully. “I’m beginning to think kidnapping isn’t the worst option. I’ll make a conspirator of Mrs. Brodigan. If she knows I plan to stash him somewhere safe, she’ll probably knock him over the head herself.”
