Starcrossed (Magic in Manhattan)

by Allie Therin

  Had something like that happened to Pavel?

  * * *

  Rory’s room was in the basement too, at the other end of the low-ceilinged hall from the kitchen. It was the smallest of the men’s staff rooms but still bigger than his lodgings at the boardinghouse, with a narrow but sturdy wood bed and a window and, best of all, no rats or roaches.

  As he walked through the doorway, he stilled. A small box was sitting in the middle of his bed, like a slightly bigger version of the ring box, and next to it was a sheet of paper.

  He crossed to the bed and picked up the paper. Don’t try to give the compass back, it read, in Mrs. Brodigan’s neat handwriting, staving off his protests just as they started in his head. You earned it, and it was going to be thrown away.

  Rory dropped down to sit on the edge of his bed. He grabbed for the box, opening it up and staring inside. The Italian compass was nestled inside, shining brass, a trip to Italy any time he wanted to make it.

  But gratitude warred with guilt when his gaze caught the edge of his messenger bag where it was peeking out from its spot tucked under his bed.

  Bringing the ring had been a stupid idea. A last-second-thing grab from Arthur’s pad. But Rory hadn’t been able to leave it behind, because if he hadn’t had the ring at Coney Island, that tidal wave would’ve hit Brooklyn. What if they’d needed it again?

  He should’ve told Arthur, but he hadn’t known how to start. Hey, I’m dreaming of storms and oceans and my skin got itchy thinking about leaving the ring behind. Yeah, that was a conversation Rory wasn’t keen on having. With any luck, they’d go back to Manhattan tomorrow without the box ever being opened. And then he’d tell Arthur. If he didn’t chicken out.

  Footsteps echoed on the wood as Sasha’s soft Russian came from down the hall. Rory hurriedly kicked his bag completely under his bed, then set the compass carefully on the mattress and stood up. “You two coming back with us tomorrow?” he called, crossing the hall to stand in the doorway of Pavel’s room.

  There were a couple of other seasonal workers in the basement, all of them men. Sasha was the only woman working as temporary staff. She was supposed to be staying in the guesthouse like Mrs. Brodigan, but snuck into Pavel’s room every night, and now she was perched on the bed she used. She shook her head. “We will stay a couple days more. We are still fortifying the garden walls before spring.” At Rory’s look, she smiled. “They think Pavel does the lifting while I supervise.”

  Rory snorted. No one looking at Sasha ever assumed she was hiding twice the strength of a circus strongman. He watched from the doorway as Pavel opened the dresser’s top drawer and set his orange peels inside. “I’ve gotten stuck in my magic,” Rory admitted quietly. “First time my magic kicked in, I got stuck in a vision of the past for three weeks.” He reached reflexively for the link between his magic and Arthur’s aura, finding Arthur down the road. “It’s like a radio, right? Magic comes in too strong, can’t turn it off? Can’t find your way out?”

  Pavel glanced over his shoulder at Rory, eyes haunted.

  “Yeah.” Rory swallowed. “Yeah, I know what that’s like all right.”

  Sasha stood up. “Could we talk for a moment?”

  Rory followed her out of the room. She paused in the hall, glancing around before whispering, “If you are a subordinate too, have you had any luck taming your magic?”

  “Kinda.” How was he even supposed to start explaining what he had with Arthur? Rory hesitated, then said, “What happened to Pav? I know it’s none of my business, but—did he touch something magic?”

  Sasha’s expression turned sad, deep lines at her eyes that shouldn’t have been there yet. “No,” she said. “He did it to himself.”

  Rory stilled.

  She leaned against the white wall between the dark, varnished wood doors. Her voice was very quiet when she spoke. “When war broke out in Russia, Pavel and I were found by a rogue group led by a paranormal.”

  Rory’s eyes widened.

  “Pavel was making potions, protecting who he could. Word must have gotten out and raised the other paranormal’s suspicions. I went out to build shelters one day and came home to find Pavel gone.”

  “Aw, Sasha.” Rory’s voice cracked.

  “I went after them, but he’d been taken to Moscow, to be convinced to work for the other paranormal. When Pavel refused, they decided to kill him.” She leaned her head back. “His torturers gave him a last meal. Bread. A cigarette. And shot of vodka.”

  Rory’s eyes widened. “Alchemy?”

  “You must understand that Pavel is a gentle soul. He had only ever used his alchemy for small, beautiful magic, until they forced his hand.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I arrived in Moscow to find the prison a smoking crater with Pavel in the center, gone so deep into his magic he did not see me. And whatever magic he found within himself that day has never let him go.”

  Rory’s heart twisted painfully. “If there’s something I can do—Sasha—”

  There was a soft toppling noise from the Pavel’s room.

  Sasha pushed off the wall. “Excuse me.” A moment later, her amused Russian was coming from the other room.

  Rory stood uncertainly in the hall. However bad he’d had it since he got his magic, Pavel had had it worse. Gwen had too; she’d seen nothing but auras for two years.

  But unlocking that relic amulet had gotten her magic under control, let her see Ellis’s face again, not his magic.

  Now Rory had the Tempest Ring. Could it hold the secret to helping Pavel like another relic had helped Gwen?

  Could the answer to that question lie buried in the ring’s past?

  Rory’s heart began to pound. He ducked into his room, shutting the door. He bent to grab his bag, pulling it out from under the bed, and dug through it, pushing clothes aside until he uncovered the small, too-heavy box just big enough for a ring.

  He stared at it, not touching the lead.

  The ring’s magic was bound to his now, the way the amulet was bound to Gwen and the Venom Dagger to Ellis. Rory hadn’t gotten visions when Ellis used his dagger, and no one got stabbed until Ellis used it. So maybe Pavel wouldn’t get visions if Rory opened the ring, and maybe the wind wouldn’t blow until he wanted it to.

  But he hadn’t opened the ring box since Coney Island. He wouldn’t have chanced it in Manhattan around all those people. And he couldn’t possibly open the ring box here in the house, not near the kids, not in a million years.

  But in the city, there was nowhere to go where he’d be alone. Here, they were in the country, on a big estate, where he could walk until he got far away from any people.

  He glanced at the closed door.

  If the ring held answers for Pavel, he needed to scry it today, before they went back to Manhattan. He’d have to walk far, far enough that there was no risk to the house or anyone in it, and that would take a while.

  But Arthur was busy with Harry, Mrs. Brodigan with Mrs. Ivers, the Ivanovs with each other. Harry’s oldest kids wouldn’t be home from school until the afternoon, and he could be back in time to keep his promise to play jacks with Victoria.

  If he stepped out for a few hours, there was no one to even notice.

  Chapter Four

  John’s fundraiser was being hosted by local donors, a lunch in a private hall above the hamlet’s nicest restaurant. The hall was spacious, with carved moldings around the ceiling and around the narrow windows that let in the afternoon’s weak light. The tables were set with white cloths and covered with a selection of appetizers—baked ham, candle salad, salmon mousse cups—and a bar was set up to serve soda pop and punch.

  Arthur grudgingly took a ginger ale from the bartender and stood next to Harry. He recognized most of the faces in the room: friends of his parents, friends of his brothers and sisters. None of his own friends, and no one who might have something u
seful to say about a dead mogul’s estate.

  He could think of only one reason John would have been so insistent that Arthur show up, and that was to ingratiate himself with a predictable kind of guest. “So which of this lot is the football fan I’m supposed to chat up?”

  Harry subtly gestured at a young white man in a well-tailored suit. “My money’s on Walter. He’s the governor’s middle son, the one getting married next Saturday. You’re going, aren’t you?”

  “No, I have a prior commitment.” I’ll be finally enjoying a moment alone with the adorable paranormal I’ve somehow snagged.

  Harry furrowed his brow. “I could have sworn Mother said you were going.”

  Not unless the fate of the world is at stake. Arthur smiled politely at a passing woman. “I’m afraid not. So. Football?”

  “Yale fan, even.”

  “You lot do remember I dropped out of Yale, yes?”

  “To enlist,” Harry said. “We’re proud of that. And finishing school in London just makes you interesting.”

  Arthur sighed into his drink. “I want to be the boring one. If I’m the most interesting person in the conversation, then I’ve chosen the wrong company.”

  Harry inclined his head toward the other end of the hall. “I see Stevens standing over there. His sister went to Vassar and she’s interesting. Well traveled. Single.”

  “Who’s single?” A large white man Arthur vaguely recognized—Richards, that was his name, had gone to Harvard with Will—stepped up next to Harry. “Is it Ace? You’re always single, aren’t you?”

  Arthur kept his expression as bland as the mousse cups. “The world is full of beautiful women. Why tie oneself down?”

  Richards clapped Arthur on the bicep. “Now you’re on the trolley. Mind you, that’s what Thomas always said, and you know the rumors there.” He dropped his voice to a juicy whisper. “He likes the masquerades in Harlem, have you heard of them? Where the men dress like women and the women like men? Shameful what some people get up to.”

  It was far from the first time Arthur had heard judgment like that. It was always galling, but today it landed extra sharp, perhaps because he would so much rather have been at one of those but could never go, lest anyone connect him to his family. “So what if he does?” Arthur said, before he meant to. “Surely we all have bigger concerns than parties?”

  Harry and Richards both stared at him. Damn. He hadn’t meant to take the run-his-mouth page out of Rory’s playbook.

  “You don’t actually condone that sort of thing, do you?” Richards looked uneasy. “You were a soldier, and didn’t you play football?” he added, like those two things meant anything at all.

  “Arthur spends a lot of time abroad,” Harry cut in. “He forgets America is different.”

  If they’re not hurting you or anyone else, why should it matter what someone else wears or who they want to kiss? Arthur bit it back. “Europe, you know. It’s a wonder I didn’t show up raving and naked.”

  Richards laughed, sounding relieved. “You need a wife,” he said heartily, clapping Arthur on the arm again. “Stay stateside, get yourself a nice girl, get your head on straight. What’s your type?”

  Arthur faked a smile. “Vixens,” he said flatly. “With pretty curls and fiery tempers.”

  “Cheers to that.” Richards clinked his glass against Arthur’s and lumbered off.

  Harry’s eyes stayed on Arthur, and as soon as Richards was out of hearing range, he shook his head. “Arthur—”

  “Oh, please,” Arthur snapped. “What does it matter if Thomas enjoys the masquerades, or even the company of men? It’s bad enough our medieval government gets involved; you can’t actually care what a man does in the privacy of his rooms.” He swallowed. “Can you?”

  Harry glanced around them, then pulled Arthur just a little closer to the wall. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What does Father always say about politics?”

  Arthur sighed, feeling five years old again and very much the runt of the family. “Don’t make it personal.”

  “He and John caught enough heat over suffrage and immigration. I know the solider in you wants to charge in and protect everyone, but if you take a loud stance on this, you’ll make their lives even harder.”

  Arthur clenched his teeth. Harry had said it kindly, his hand gentle on Arthur’s shoulder. But what do you think? Arthur wanted to ask. Do you think like Richards? What would you say if you knew how I feel when I look at Rory—?

  He pushed it all down. “I’ll watch my mouth.”

  “John and Father will appreciate it.” Harry squeezed his shoulder. “You know, Stevens’s sister has curly hair—”

  “I’m afraid I forgot to get one of those dreadful mousse cups,” Arthur bit out. “Do excuse me.”

  He passed the table of food without stopping, his practiced society smile on his face for the women as he accepted claps on the back and “good to see you, old boys” from men in suits like his own. He disappeared perfectly into the crowd, but then, being surrounded by men who looked exactly like him only ever made him more aware he was different.

  Cigars and cigarettes had been lit around the room. With the windows tightly shut, the smoke hung in the air and stung his eyes, but Arthur found his way to the window anyway and leaned against it. His eyes stayed on the empty gray street below an empty gray sky as he waited for his temper to cool, letting the hall’s chatter wash meaninglessly over him without bothering to take part. It wasn’t like anyone was particularly excited to see him here anyway.

  Oh, he was wasting time brooding. He should find someone who wanted to gossip about Mansfield, or at least find the governor’s son, Walter. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to talk football with people who actually knew something about the sport. He’d tried to talk about his city league with Rory once and got only a confused but sweet I dunno what a first down is, but I bet you look good doing it.

  Arthur bit back a smile at the memory. Maybe Rory would finally let Arthur do something for him and they’d come back to the country, without all the family and responsibilities. Arthur could rent a private cottage, so they didn’t have to explain themselves to any curious innkeepers. Then again, if they went somewhere like Paris, they wouldn’t have to hide quite as deeply in the first place.

  But as far as Arthur knew, Rory had never left New York. Would he even consider going abroad?

  “Enjoying the view?”

  John’s voice cut through the generic chattering and soft clinks of fine dishes. Arthur looked up. Of all the Kenzie siblings, he and John were the most matched. They had same blue eyes paired with Kenzie black hair, John’s touched with gray at the temples, and were within an inch of each other’s heights with the same muscled build.

  Arthur pushed off the window with a twinge of guilt. He might not want to be here, but he’d agreed to come, and he needed to soldier up and work the crowd for John. “It’s a very quaint street. But I was just thinking I’d find your friend Walter and see if he’s interested in the new National Football League.”

  John gave him a flat smile that said he knew Arthur was full of shit. But to Arthur’s surprise, he didn’t turn and head back to the donors. “When do you return to the city?”

  “Tomorrow.” Where was John going with this? “You?”

  “Tonight, right after this.” John stared out the window. “I can’t really afford to be away. City Hall is absolutely inundated right now, thanks to that Coney Island windstorm.”

  “Oh. That.” Arthur took an awkward sip of ginger ale. “Yes, I suppose that would be a nightmare for the aldermen.”

  “It’s a mess. Did you even know there was a Ladies Society for the Promotion of Boardwalk Welfare? I know all about it now, because their lead girl has been in my office every day for a week.” John was still staring at the street, and then he said, very suddenly, “Do you still dream of the
war?”

  Arthur nearly spit out his drink.

  John had been a new politician when President Wilson requested the declaration of war. Harry had just taken over two of the family businesses. Will had served as an army lawyer in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, although he’d returned to private practice after the treaties had been signed. Arthur had been the only one of the four Kenzie boys to see combat. His service was often praised in family get-togethers, but only in the broadest of terms, sugarcoated and vacuous, as if the war had been nothing more harrowing than another of Arthur’s eccentric jaunts around Europe.

  His family meant well, but when any potential weakness could make one a target for the papers or political adversaries, things like shellshock and nightmares just simply weren’t discussed.

  “Do you still dream of your first election night?” he said lightly. “Everyone revisits certain times in their sleep. Why?”

  “Hmm.” John’s shoulders were oddly stiff. “Come see me tomorrow.”

  “What’s that? Why yes, I am frightfully busy and I do already have plans—”

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “We’re speaking right now,” Arthur said impatiently. “Literally speaking to each other, at this precise moment—”

  “In private.” John glanced at Arthur. “Please.”

  Arthur stilled. The gray afternoon light through the window highlighted John’s face, the unusual pallor to his face, the deep bags beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in days. “Is everything all right?”

  “Come to Trinity when you get in,” John said, naming his private gentlemen’s club instead of answering. “I’ll expect you around four.” He looked past Arthur. “Ah, Stevens! Just the man I was looking for.”

  Arthur frowned at John’s retreating back. John had been an exceptional pugilist, and at thirty-nine could still match Arthur in the ring. It wasn’t like him to neglect his health, no matter how busy he got.

  As John disappeared into a group of suited men, Arthur’s gaze landed on a tensed figure quickly snatching up hors d’oeuvres. Edgar Barnes—Dear Edgar, Arthur tended to think of him, because he was better acquainted with Edgar’s wife, his sister’s sorority sister Josephine. Edgar was a pale, skinny man with limp blond hair and a lawyer, Arthur remembered, one who didn’t often stray from his Fifth Avenue clients. If anyone here might know something about trusts and estates—specifically, one recently deceased mogul’s estate—it could be Edgar.