Starcrossed (Magic in Manhattan)

by Allie Therin

  When everything they’ve built is threatened, only their bond remains...

  New York, 1925

  Psychometric Rory Brodigan’s life hasn’t been the same since the day he met Arthur Kenzie. Arthur’s continued quest to contain supernatural relics that pose a threat to the world has captured Rory’s imagination—and his heart. But Arthur’s upper-class upbringing still leaves Rory worried that he’ll never measure up, especially when Arthur’s aristocratic ex arrives in New York.

  For Arthur, there’s only Rory. But keeping the man he’s fallen for safe is another matter altogether. When a group of ruthless paranormals throws the city into chaos, the two men’s strained relationship leaves Rory vulnerable to a monster from Arthur’s past.

  With dark forces determined to tear them apart, Rory and Arthur will have to draw on every last bit of magic up their sleeves. And in the end, it’s the connection they’ve formed without magic that will be tested like never before.

  This book is approximately 85,000 words

  One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

  Also available from Allie Therin

  and Carina Press

  The Magic in Manhattan Series

  Spellbound

  Coming soon from Allie and Carina Press

  Wonderstruck

  Starcrossed

  Allie Therin

  For anyone who’s ever been a lifeline for someone in need. Thank you.

  Author Note

  The Italian phrases in Starcrossed were translated, with many thanks from me, by Cristina Massaccesi. Any errors that may have resulted from the use of her translation work are mine.

  Although the Magic in Manhattan books are works of fiction, real history also runs through these stories. This series would not be possible without the hard work of historians and librarians to make the archives of the past available to the public.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Spellbound by Allie Therin

  Chapter One

  The heirloom compass wasn’t French. Oh, it’d been bought in Marseilles all right, from a shop that sold fancy earrings and old booze. But the shopkeeper hadn’t acquired it from a descendant of a chevalier; he’d won it off a zozzled soldier in a backroom game of cards.

  Rory let himself fall deeper into history, all the way to the compass’s creation.

  The old man with a bushy mustache sits at a wooden table with a little girl with pigtails and his same brown eyes. A carved, three-tiered shelf is attached to the wall behind them, the middle shelf holding a basket of eggplants between stacked dishes above and glass jars of oil-packed chilis below. Under the shelf is a short black stove, surrounded by colorful tile and topped with a wide copper pan that bubbles and steams.

  The old man tightens his grip on the burin and returns to engraving the “N” at north. The little girl folds her arms on the table and rests her chin on her hands. “Nonno,” she says, “quando torna papà dalla guerra—”

  There was an insistent tug on Rory’s sleeve.

  He gasped, grasping for the bookcase to steady himself as the vision of the little girl and her grandfather vanished. In its place was Pavel Ivanov, honey-brown hair still messy from sleep and his pajama shirt riding up his lanky arm. He tilted his head toward the ornate door of Harry Kenzie’s library and the clattering coming from the other side of the first floor.

  The staff was setting up for breakfast.

  Rory exhaled, then pulled his hand out of the glass display case of compasses and carefully lowered the lid.

  “Thanks, Pav,” he said, using the hem of his shirt to wipe his fingerprints off the pristine glass. “I owe you big time.”

  Pavel shook his head.

  “Guess it’s not like you sleep much either.” Sleep rarely came easily to Rory, and since Coney Island things had been worse, dreams too full of the ocean, of waves too big and winds too strong. “But still. You’re a good lookout.”

  Pavel patted his arm and left on silent feet, slipping out through the carved library doors and into the marble-floored reception hall. Rory eyed the gold trim on the library ceiling. Sure was a nice pad. Arthur’d said his parents had it built when his oldest brother was born, as a family summer home, because of course the big mansion they had on Fifth Avenue, and the second home by the Capitol in Washington, DC, and the compound in Maine, and the three other houses that Rory knew of but weren’t the end of it hadn’t been good enough.

  Rory pushed the thoughts away, because if he dwelled on the fact that this marble-and-gold museum was nothing but Arthur’s childhood summer home, he’d be on the first train back to Hell’s Kitchen. He’d just be happy for Harry’s kids, who got to live in it now and grow up in such a nice place.

  He set about removing all traces of his presence, grabbing his newsboy cap off one of the gilded chairs and wiping it off in case his tattered hat had gotten the soft velvet dirty. The library was Harry’s territory and reminded Rory of Arthur’s study, with dark wood bookshelves and a couple landscape paintings on the wall. At five a.m. it was still dark as night outside, the big windows slivers of black through gaps in the heavy curtains, the red nearly gone from the fireplace embers.

  A housemaid would show up any minute to rake the fireplace and light the fire before Harry woke. Rory needed to scram, but he lingered for a moment over the compasses. Harry’d given paid work to him, Mrs. Brodigan, and the Ivanovs. He deserved better than to find out one of his compasses wasn’t what he’d been told. But the compass-maker had been speaking Italian with his granddaughter, and her words had been clear.

  How long will Papa be at war?

  Rory closed his eyes, seeing the vision again: the wooden table buffed to smoothness from use, the sunshine pouring in the small window, the scents of spicy sausage and herbs and olive oil. What passed for a kitchen in the apartment he’d grown up in had been even smaller, but his mom would bring leftovers home from the Italian restaurant and Rory would help heat them back up, standing on a chair at the stove, the whole place smelling like the room in the vision.

  He opened his eyes to the library bigger than their whole place had been, and sighed.

  Mrs. Brodigan would be up soon, and bad news or not, he’d need to tell her what he’d scried. Arthur�
��d be up soon too, but he’d be busy helping Harry, so Rory’d stay out of his hair.

  And what would Arthur say if he knew what you’d brought to his brother’s house?

  Rory swallowed. He jammed the cap over his curls and then headed toward the stairs to see if the cook needed a hand down in the kitchen.

  * * *

  “Yes, I’m alone.” Arthur pushed the receiver of the phone more tightly to his ear. He glanced at the door of Harry’s second-floor study, confirming it was still firmly shut and none of the children had snuck in while the operator had connected him to Jade. He guessed he had about ten spare minutes; Brodigan’s was going to give Harry the compass appraisals this morning and Arthur didn’t want to miss a chance to see Rory. “What’s happening in Boston?”

  On the other end of the line, Jade sighed. “Three amiable German tourists are having a lovely and entirely magic-free holiday.”

  “What?” Arthur pushed the phone closer to his mouth. “How? Baron Zeppler wasn’t on that boat Gwen tried to sink, but his operatives were. They took the train to Boston. You and Zhang followed them.”

  “Yes, we did. And the only questionable thing they’ve done is sneak into a speakeasy, and I’m hardly the person to judge them for that.” Her tone was frustrated. “They’re not paranormals, and they’re not working for Zeppler. I’m certain of it.”

  “So the names Baron Zeppler gave Luther Mansfield—”

  “Were falsified. Except his own.”

  Arthur stared out the study’s window, over the tops of the bare trees down to the frozen Hudson River, where the morning light turned the ice to glowing white. “Could Zeppler still have had operatives aboard the ship, somehow?”

  “If so, they somehow managed to hide from Jianwei on the astral plane.” Jade sounded doubtful.

  Arthur frowned. It was too easy to think the danger hadn’t come across the ocean after all. He tried to piece the story together. “Mansfield promises to sell Zeppler a relic amulet—and promises to tell Zeppler the magic within. Mansfield is too big a fool to realize how rare Gwen’s witch-sight is...”

  “...but Zeppler isn’t,” Jade finished for him. “He could have guessed she was involved and pulled his entire operation after correctly deducing that she was setting a trap. Gwen is the only paranormal I’ve met who could discover a relic’s magic.” She paused. “Well. Until Rory.”

  A blaze of angry fear twisted Arthur’s chest. Zeppler never needed to learn about anyone in Arthur’s life ever again, and he could never learn about Rory. “Zeppler gave Mansfield his own name, but false ones for his operatives. He wanted Gwen to think he was coming. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Jade didn’t sound any happier about the mess than he felt. “All I know is the three Germans we followed to Boston are simply pleasant tourists. We’re coming back to New York today.”

  “I should be there. We’ve still got Rory’s ring and Gwen’s amulet to deal with—”

  “The ring is in your safe. The amulet relic is still locked up tight with Zhang’s family after he found it in the Lower Bay. We’re all right, Ace. Your family needs you in Hyde Park.”

  There was nothing accusing in her tone. Guilt twisted Arthur’s stomach anyway. He’d been roped into a million obligations from the second he set foot on Harry’s estate, but mindless chatter over hors d’oeuvres was hardly more important than dealing with supernatural relics.

  “I could come back today instead of tomorrow. All I have is John’s fundraiser.” His eldest brother, John, was president of the New York City Aldermen but had his sights on the 1928 Senate elections. The luncheon with local donors would be lavish, the company exclusive. Arthur was dreading it. “He told me I must come—was oddly insistent, truth be told—but I’m sure he’d forgive me for skipping out.” He paused. “Probably. Eventually, at least. He has to, right? I’m his brother.”

  “Go to the fundraiser,” she said firmly. “If you’re running with your family’s crowd, there is something you can do. The Zhangs just finished inventorying Luther Mansfield’s supernatural collection.”

  Arthur straightened up. The Zhang family had secured Mansfield’s mansion, removing anything dangerous before it fell into unsuspecting police hands—or other, more alarming hands. “Did they get the counterfeit Degas? It’s not allowed to trap Rory’s mind again. I was thinking I’d buy it off them and then burn it—”

  “We’ve got the painting, yes,” she said patiently. “The Zhangs have it secured where even our psychometric safecracker can’t get it.”

  Arthur made a noise of protest. “Rory wouldn’t crack a safe he shouldn’t.”

  “How quickly you’ve fallen under the spell of those big brown eyes.” She sounded amused. “Lucky one of us recalls how your little darling popped the locks on your off-limits briefcase and helped himself to the Tempest Ring.”

  Arthur made a face, but she had a point. “If you’re finished inventorying, what can I do?”

  “Something’s missing.”

  His eyebrows went up.

  “Mansfield kept records,” she went on. “Everything is accounted for except something listed only as lodestone, with the note Bowery Bank.”

  “A lodestone? What, like the chunk of magnetic rock in an old compass?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But anything he had in safe-deposit box was emptied before the Zhangs could get to it.” There was some chattering in Jade’s background, a man’s baritone that sounded like Zhang himself. “See if you can learn anything about the estate at John’s luncheon. Mansfield’s social circles did overlap yours—well, your family’s,” she amended. “I know it’s not your favorite company to keep.”

  “Oh, but I love these things,” he said, with heavy sarcasm. “An entire room of people who feel entitled to remark on my unmarried state.” He grimaced. “I’d pay an ungodly sum to stay here and actually have a conversation with Rory.”

  He could hear Jade’s smile when she spoke. “How are the paranormals liking the countryside? Is it terribly romantic?”

  “It’s an enchanting pastoral getaway,” Arthur said flatly. “We’ve escaped the city for frozen rivers and snow-covered hills, and for the utter romance of being crammed into a house with my brother, his five children, and an army of staff. I’ve had my every minute scheduled by my family. Clearly this trip was a wonderful decision on my part. I might even have seen Rory for two whole minutes the other day.”

  “At least Rory is getting fresh air,” she pointed out. “You convinced him to leave the city for the first time in years with paid work for your brother. I’m sure he knows that you wish you could be with him and isn’t thinking you’re just too busy for him.”

  Arthur hesitated. He had told Rory that. Hadn’t he?

  “Arthur?”

  Arthur shook his head. “My apologies, I think I was saying you’re right, as you usually are.”

  She huffed a soft laugh. “Tell your innocent safecracker that I say hello.”

  “Tell your handsome restaurateur to save me a pork bun.”

  * * *

  Arthur left the quiet peace of the study and descended the curved stairs to the reception hall. The first floor was its usual riot, the chatter and clank of the staff handling the morning housework. From the hall, glass-paneled doors led to the back terrace, where happy shouts and excited barks could just barely be heard from the back lawn.

  Arthur headed for a quieter corner. “My apologies,” he began, ducking under the frame of the library’s doors. “I hope you started without—Where’s Rory?”

  On the far end of the library, Harry’s antique compass collection was displayed in a modest glass case, and that was where Arthur’s second-oldest brother, Harry, now stood with Mrs. Brodigan—and only Mrs. Brodigan.

  Harry tilted his head in polite puzzlement. All the Kenzie siblings had their father’s black hair and pale ski
n, but Harry was shorter and softer than Arthur, with kind brown eyes behind glasses instead of Arthur’s blue. “Does Mr. Brodigan need to be here? I thought he was an errand boy.”

  “Errand boy?”

  “His words.” Harry held up his hands in innocence. “At least, I think that’s what he mumbled as he was fleeing the sight of me.”

  Arthur looked at Mrs. Brodigan, who looked tidy as always with her neat gray bun. She smiled ruefully. “Don’t look at me, dear. Rory was gone before I got here.” She gave a small, sad shrug. “I generally handle the customers.”

  Arthur had told Harry the truth—well, part of it. Mrs. Brodigan was a widow, doing her best to run her departed husband’s shop, which was secretly the most exceptional antiques appraisal business in Manhattan. Harry had been moved by her story and interested enough to pay for her travel up for three days, and to let her bring the nephew-by-marriage who helped her.

  The downside to the partial truth, of course, was that it hid all of Rory’s hard work, and Rory himself seemed to actively avoid taking any credit or even interacting with Harry. Arthur had yet to see Rory in the same room as either Harry or his wife, Celeste, and he didn’t think it was just Rory being skittish about revealing his psychometry. But he could hardly be angry with his brother; Rory had lied to Arthur’s face the first time they’d met and Arthur had fallen hook, line, and sinker, embarrassingly quick to believe he was nothing more complicated than the ragamuffin nephew who took deliveries and stocked shelves.

  “Well, Mrs. Brodigan kept our appointment, at least.” Harry didn’t look particularly impressed by Rory’s disappearing act but clearly didn’t find him important enough to dwell on. He gave Mrs. Brodigan a warm smile. “I’ve been meaning to have these appraised for an age, but a village like ours hasn’t any local appraisers with this expertise. It was good of you to come up from the city.”

  Mrs. Brodigan smiled back. “Brodigan’s is pleased to be of service. Mr. Kenzie here has been an excellent client.”