Starcrossed (Magic in Manhattan)

by Allie Therin

  A warm hand touched his arm. “Arthur?”

  Arthur hesitated.

  Rory gazed at him through half-lidded eyes. “Dove vai?” He tugged gently. “Resta qui, tesoro, c’mere. Come back.”

  Arthur melted. He let himself be drawn down to the bed, back beneath the warmth of the covers. Rory burrowed closer, shifting until he was half on top of Arthur, a leg over his hip, arm stretched out over Arthur’s heart, covering the scars on his chest.

  Rory tilted his face up and pressed his lips to Arthur’s jaw in a long, soft kiss. “Luce dei miei occhi,” he murmured. “You can sleep, I got you.”

  Got me from what?

  Arthur wanted to ask what that meant, what had happened. But Rory was a warm, comforting weight, draped over him like another blanket, and miraculously, Arthur’s eyelids were growing heavy.

  He fell asleep before he could say anything more.

  * * *

  Arthur didn’t wake again until the faint light of dawn was coming through his bedroom windows and Rory was wriggling out from under his arm. He made an unhappy noise. “It’s early.”

  “And some of us gotta get up early to get back to our jobs in Hell’s Kitchen.” The bed dipped as Rory climbed out, then hesitated at the side of the bed. “Could I first—if you don’t mind—could I use your—”

  “I really hope you’re about to say body.”

  Rory snorted, his small smile appearing for a heart-stopping moment. “Shower. Hot water’s better than magic.”

  Magic. Arthur reached out and gently caught Rory’s wrist. “What happened last night?”

  “What d’you mean?” Rory looked genuinely puzzled. Did he not remember?

  “I woke you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rory said, still looking blank. “Did I say something nuts in my sleep? You gotta ignore it, Ace. I’m a scryer, half of what comes outta my mouth is bunk.”

  Arthur hesitated.

  “Or was it something else?” Rory’s expression turned concerned. “Did you have a nightmare?”

  Arthur almost had. Unease began to creep over him. To have his own nightmares, so close to John’s—but no, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. “I didn’t get to tell you about my brother last night,” he said. “John is having strange dreams that I think may be magic. It may have unsettled me, stirred up bad memories.”

  Rory’s warm brown eyes stayed on him. “You want to talk about it?”

  What exactly was Arthur planning to do, tell an innocent twenty-year-old about his old war hallucinations? Traumatize Rory with the horrible story behind Arthur’s scars? He shouldn’t be putting any of this on Rory’s shoulders, not now, not when Rory had to get to work and Arthur hadn’t even asked Jade or Zhang if it was possible for his dream to be related to John’s.

  “Thank you, but I’m all right.” He let go of Rory’s wrist. “Shower’s all yours.”

  He closed his eyes and let himself linger in bed, soaking in the sound of Rory moving around his normally silent flat: footsteps on the wooden floors, running water, opening and closing doors. He sat up when Rory returned to the bedroom, dressed in fresh clothes with his wet curls in loose ringlets, humming to himself as he packed up his messenger bag.

  Arthur raised an eyebrow as he recognized the tune. “‘The Man I Love’?”

  Rory went slightly pink. “Jade’s sister was singing it last night, remember?” he said, a little too fast. “She sings everything good.”

  “She does.” Arthur gestured at the bedroom door. “I have all of Stella’s records.”

  Rory’s eyes lit. “You do?” He scampered off down the hall.

  A couple of minutes later, Stella’s voice drifted out of the phonograph through the flat, and Arthur had to smile. He reluctantly climbed out from under the covers and got a dressing gown, deep navy velvet with a quilted silk collar and cuffs. He followed the music to the study, fastening his robe while he walked, and found Rory standing by the table, paging through The Mark of Zorro.

  “I didn’t know you had this.” Rory sounded excited.

  Stella’s music and Rory buried in his novels. Arthur could wake up to this more often. “I liked the film,” he confessed. “Have you seen it?”

  Rory shook his head. “The church didn’t let us see movies.” His eyes were still on the page. “I started it as The Curse of Capistrano but I never got to read the last two parts. The orphans were passing the magazines around, then my dad found out and banned it.”

  “He did, did he.” Not for the first time, Arthur was tempted to pay an unfriendly visit to Theodore Westbrook, Senior. “I’d forgotten I picked up the book. Where did you find it?”

  “In there, with Stella’s records.” Rory jerked his head at a trunk. “You know you got a medal buried in there too?”

  Arthur’s heart stopped. “You didn’t—”

  “What? Oh, no!” Rory’s eyes widened. “No, Ace, I know we were playing last night, but I wouldn’t ever scry something without permission.” He squirmed, then added, “Scry something like that, I mean.”

  Arthur’s heart slowly began to beat again. Rory was forced to watch too much suffering in history already. Even if he wouldn’t have seen the scene from the dream, Arthur still didn’t want to inflict any of this violence on him.

  Rory’s shoulders hunched. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop—”

  “You weren’t snooping.” Arthur wanted to hit himself for putting that guilt on Rory’s face. He offered Rory a rueful, apologetic smile. “I invited you to play the records. The medal was misplaced.”

  “It did look awfully important to be buried in a trunk.” Rory hesitated. “They don’t just hand those things out to everyone. You must’ve done something special.”

  Arthur made himself shrug. “Only if being born a congressman’s son counts. I was practically guaranteed a commission. Just an officer on the sidelines.”

  Rory looked dubious. “You put yourself between me and the street when we walk down the sidewalk.”

  “A quirk of manners, nothing more,” Arthur protested. “Although New York does have the most appalling drivers, and if one were to swerve—”

  “See? You’re not the stay-safe-on-the-sidelines type—”

  The whistle of a kettle cut through the flat.

  “Whoops, sorry,” said Rory, scrambling in the direction of the kitchen.

  Before Arthur could follow, the telephone rang, and he answered to find Jade on the other end. “Shall I assume you told Rory about Lord Fine?”

  “Christ.” Arthur rubbed his face. “How bad was the aftermath? I’m sorry I didn’t stay to help, I thought I should just get Rory away as quickly as I could.”

  “It was a hit,” she said wryly. “Patrons were delighted, decided it was part of the show.”

  Arthur quirked a smile. “Still, bill me for all of the damage, just put all of it on my account.”

  “I’d rather bill Fine himself,” she muttered. “He’s still upsetting your life from across the ocean. Upsetting Rory, I assume, based on the indoor windstorm.”

  Rory, who was only steps away in the kitchen. Arthur lowered his voice. “Rory wasn’t happy to hear about Wes, no. But we got the ring off last night.”

  She sighed with relief. “Wonderful. I’m glad something’s gone right, because I’m afraid none of the other news is good.” She lowered her voice as well. “Jianwei searched the plane last night. Edgar Barnes did eventually reappear in Grand Central and then went home, but we still don’t know where he went while he was missing.”

  Very odd. “I’ll try Edgar this morning. He’s got to go to work, after all. Did Zhang find Miss Shelley? Or something in John’s office?”

  “No to both. But there was something wrong at Coney Island.”

  Arthur furrowed his brow. “What does wrong mean when we’re talking about the as
tral plane?”

  “Another distortion on the plane, like in Grand Central when he was following Mr. Barnes, but not in tunnels this time, on the open beach. Jianwei described it like radio interference,” Jade said. “We’re going to Coney Island this morning to investigate.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Arthur said firmly.

  “Don’t you have to pick up Lord Fine?”

  He did. But Arthur had been no help to his friends for days, and now things had become personal. The specter of his near-nightmare teased at his mind, sharp teeth, red eyes, the cracking of bone as the man’s countenance warped—

  Very personal.

  Arthur shook his head to clear it. “His ship isn’t expected until this afternoon. I have time. Rory is going to his shop, but I’ll drive the three of us out to Brooklyn before I get him.”

  “Get who?” said Rory, coming into the room.

  “Is that Rory?” said Jade, thankfully before Arthur had to answer. “Put him on, will you?”

  Arthur held out the phone. Rory furrowed his brow but took it. “Hello?” He went almost immediately pink. “Aw geez, I’m so sorry, I—” He went quiet, then said, “You can’t let me off the hook, it is my fault, I shouldn’t’ve—”

  He paused again. “Yeah, I know magic’s a pain in the ass, but I—well—I guess.” His shoulders relaxed. “Thanks, Jade,” he said, soft and heartfelt. “But tell your brother and pretty sister I said sorry too, all right?”

  Arthur twitched. He shoved the sudden emotion away. You’ve never been jealous a day in your life. There is no need to start now.

  Rory handed Arthur back the phone. “Coffee’s in the kitchen,” he said, as he clutched the lapels of Arthur’s dressing gown and went up on his toes. “Wish I didn’t have to go; you look so good in this thing.”

  Arthur’s heart did one of its flips. “Did you say you made—”

  The words were cut off as Rory dropped a quick kiss on his lips. “Ciao, bello.”

  Arthur stared after him as Rory disappeared across the parlor. “Get cab fare from the box on the foyer table,” he finally remembered to call.

  “I don’t need your money!”

  The front door closed with a decided slam. Arthur sighed, exasperated and infatuated in equal parts.

  “Coffee and ciao bello?” Jade repeated in his ear. “There’s something I don’t remember Lord Fine ever saying, even in English.”

  Arthur touched his lips. Wish I didn’t have to go. Arthur wished the same. “Not Wesley’s style, no.”

  “I like Rory’s style better.” She hesitated. “Were you planning to introduce them?”

  “No,” Arthur said immediately. “No, no, I don’t think that would go well at all.” He frowned. “I haven’t really found a way to introduce Rory to anything,” he admitted. “I had the thought that maybe I’d get to spoil him a bit, introduce him to the fun side of New York, but at the moment I’m just grateful we stole any hours together at all.”

  “There’s been rather a lot keeping us all busy,” Jade said, with both wry humor and sympathy.

  “Perhaps,” he said dubiously, “but I’ve made his life harder.” Rory couldn’t even visit without having to pass himself off as someone else, lest anyone look too closely and make trouble for Arthur’s family. “And he brushes off any attempt I make to ease things for him. He doesn’t plan to let me help him get out of that tenement he lives in. He won’t let me buy him a coat. He won’t even let me give him cab fare.”

  “He’s from an immigrant family. Zhang is the same way; he’ll give you the shirt off his back without blinking but good luck getting him to accept something for himself,” she said, with the same blend of exasperation and infatuation he’d felt himself a moment ago. “Rory has had to rely on himself and his work for years. Even now, his magic is what keeps Brodigan’s Appraisals afloat.”

  And Rory had worked for his dad’s church before that, and his mother’s restaurant before that. Arthur’s chest hurt, thinking of Rory working as a child when he should have been playing tag and stickball with his friends. Arthur had probably been riding horses or lounging on the family yacht while Rory had been bussing tables and washing dishes so his family could eat. “All the more reason I wish he would lean on me now.”

  “He linked his magic to you,” she pointed out. “Take it from another paranormal, you can’t lean any harder than that,” which made Arthur smile.

  “And speaking of Rory’s dangerous magic that we don’t understand,” she added dryly, “bring the ring with you to Coney Island, won’t you? We can give it to the Zhangs.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The morning was icy cold, Rory’s breaths frozen puffs in front of him the whole walk to the antiques shop. Lizbeth Meyers was coming down the stairs into the building’s lobby as Rory walked in, an envelope clutched in her small hand. She waved when she saw him and he waved back.

  “Whatcha got there, Lizzy?”

  “I wrote a letter back to Victoria!” She headed toward the row of metal mailboxes. “Did you know she’s never been to Hell’s Kitchen?” She stood on her toes and pushed the envelope into the outgoing mail slot. “I told her all about it and my secret to winning jacks.”

  “You got a secret?”

  “It’s why I always beat you.” Lizbeth glanced up from under her thick brown bangs. “My mom says Mrs. B’s got a friend too. A fella.”

  Rory raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

  “He dropped by this morning.”

  Interesting.

  Rory checked the side door of the antiques shop and found it unlocked. The shop inside was already warming. Mrs. Brodigan was behind the counter, her kettle on the hotplate she’d stuck next to the cash register. She smiled when she saw him. “There you are.” She set their two mugs on the counter, eying him. “You look a bit colder than usual.”

  Rory shrugged. “Cold outside.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And your friend Arthur didn’t have something to say about you walking a long way in the cold?”

  He gave her a flat look. “I’m not gonna make Ace pay for everything.”

  “Dear, his clothes cost more than this shop. He can afford your cab.”

  “It’s not about that,” said Rory, as the kettle whistled. “You can’t rely on other people for money, Mrs. B. Not even someone as rich and nice as Ace.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Brodigan poured the water over the pouches of tea, a new kind he didn’t recognize. “And what if you were the one rattling alone in a lovely Central Park flat with money to burn and Arthur was sleeping with rats?”

  Rory took a sharp breath. The thought of Arthur cramped on the dirty sheets in Rory’s room, pillow over his head to muffle the scurrying in the walls—“Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Who was joking?”

  “I’d never let Ace sleep in a dump like mine,” he said, with feeling, as he picked up one of the mugs. “You got new tea.”

  “It was a gift. And don’t change the subject.”

  “A gift, huh?” Despite the drink’s heat, Rory couldn’t resist taking a sip. “From who?”

  “We were talking about you.”

  “Yeah, but someone got you good tea.”

  “It was a very thoughtful gift.” Mrs. Brodigan did look pleased. “You know, I’ve never asked you where a nice Italian boy picked up a taste for Irish tea.”

  English, originally. Rory stared into his cup, memories surfacing. His dad had been proud of his English roots and drank several cups of tea a day, never coffee like his mom and uncle had preferred. Every now and then, his dad would send for Rory to come to his tiny office at the church, and he’d always had a mug of tea for Rory too.

  In hindsight, it’d probably been his dad’s way of being just nice enough to keep Rory from getting angry and telling everyone the truth. But Rory’d been so
lonely, he’d been grateful for whatever scraps of attention he was given and kept his mouth shut. No one ever noticed their resemblance. He’d been told to use only his mother’s name, even though he wasn’t allowed to speak Italian at the church. It didn’t matter that Rory had his dad’s hair color and his nose and slim build; his skin was a shade darker and his name said immigrant and that’s what people saw.

  Those visits had always ended with a new chore list for Rory to earn his keep and the unsubtle reminder that it was only his dad’s generosity that kept him off the streets. Rory probably shouldn’t like the taste of tea, but he did.

  “You like spaghetti, don’t you?” he said, instead of explaining. “Good food’s good food.” He raised his mug. “You never said who gave you the fancy tea.”

  She smiled, small and private. “Mr. McIntyre.”

  It took Rory a second, and then he finally placed the name. The fella who’d brought in a counterfeit watch, who’d taught Mrs. Brodigan to drive. “He’s still hanging around?”

  “Don’t get any ideas.” But she was humming happily as she took her mug back into the office.

  Rory lingered at the counter. Far as he knew, this was the first fella she’d given the time of day to since Mr. Brodigan died. If this Mr. McIntyre was decent and she liked him, he’d be glad for her. After all, he’d never thought he’d find anyone half as special as Arthur.

  What if Arthur was the one sleeping with rats?

  Rory swallowed. Without meaning to, he closed his eyes, and reached for his magic. Not for the past of the mug in his hands, but for the link to Arthur’s aura, a quick reassurance it was still there.

  Irritated, he opened his eyes. I don’t need to already be missing him. I’ve got work and he’s got stuff to do.

  Like see Lord Fine.

  Rory’s jaw tightened. His eyes went, unbidden, to his bare finger. At least there wasn’t going to be any wind in the antiques shop. Let it go, he told himself. He’s got family responsibilities and a wedding to deal with and he doesn’t need you slobbering over him.