by Allie Therin
But as Rory took his first step away from the office, he heard the side door. He drew a breath. “Who’s there—?”
His words were cut off as the side door slammed shut and a handsome white man strode into the shop like he owned the place.
“You. Boy.” He pointed at Rory. “Where’s Mr. Brodigan?”
The fella was tall as Arthur, clean-shaven, with brown hair and gray-blue eyes. Nice suit. Stuck-up expression. English accent. Rory reached for the cover story Mrs. Brodigan’s sister had created the night he’d run from the asylum. “Uncle Seamus died four years ago.”
“What?” The man looked like he thought Rory was stupid. “He’s not dead.”
“Yeah he is,” Rory said defensively. “Spanish flu got a lotta people. You don’t need to go rubbing it in.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Is there a Mr. Brodigan at this shop who isn’t dead?”
Oh. “Um...” Rory fidgeted. “Well. There’s me.”
The man stared at Rory. “You.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re an antiquarian?”
“I mean, I work here, so...sure. I guess.”
The man swept his gaze over Rory, taking in the glasses and shaggy curls, then the patched clothes, stained coat, and secondhand tennis shoes. “You must be joking,” he said, like a man who’d just discovered his priceless watch was counterfeit. “You can’t possibly be Arthur’s Mr. Brodigan.”
Rory’s hackles went up. “Look, fella, I don’t know who you are but—aw hell.” Because Rory was suddenly sure he did know exactly who this English prick was. “You’re Ace’s former flame.”
Lord Fine’s eyebrows flew up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, sorry, Lord Former Flame.” Lord Fine’s nostrils flared with anger, but Rory ignored it as he took a step forward. “You got some nerve showing your face in my shop after putting your lips on Ace.”
Lord Fine’s expression darkened. “How dare you—”
“How dare you kiss him!” And yeah, Rory needed to run, and yeah, starting a fight with an ex-soldier Arthur’s size was a bad idea, but Rory had some things to say to this asshole. “He’s not yours to kiss. Not anymore.”
Lord Fine snorted. “You imagine he’s yours?”
“I imagine I’m his, long as he wants me.” Rory pointed up at him. “So keep your hands off him.”
Lord Fine stared down his nose at Rory for a moment, then shook his head disbelievingly. “This is ridiculous.”
“You bet letting someone like Ace go’s ridiculous.”
“No, you are ridiculous,” Lord Fine said impatiently, eying Rory like he was a nasty stain. “A delusional child. You’re not remotely suitable for him.”
Rory narrowed his eyes. “At least I know what he’s worth.”
“I’m sure you do,” Lord Fine said derisively, “right down to the last penny.”
Fresh anger spiked in Rory. “You think I care about his cash?”
“You must. You can’t like living here.” Lord Fine clapped his hands together. “Look, I know it might be difficult for someone like you to comprehend, but it is possible to be civilized about this. If it’s money you’re after, I’ll give you some, yes? Enough for a new start in a new city?”
Rory’s outrage hit a new high. “You want to pay me to leave Ace?”
“It’s quite generous of me to offer you anything for this sham.” Lord Fine pushed past Rory, into the office, leaving Rory to scramble after him. “Have you a telephone in here? I’ll have a telegram sent and be done with it.”
If Rory’d had his ring on, he would’ve blown this dick right out the shop window. And he’d be grateful he wasn’t wearing it. Eventually. “I’m not leaving Ace,” he said darkly. “Not for all the cash in your stupid bank account.”
Lord Fine scoffed, turning to face Rory in the small office. “Christ, you don’t actually have feelings for him, do you?” He scoffed again, more meanly, straightening so he loomed over Rory by several inches. “And I thought you couldn’t possibly be more pathetic.”
Rory’s throat tightened, but he lifted his chin. “I never said I was good enough for him,” he said, through clenched teeth, “but Ace didn’t tell me to fuck off the last time I kissed him.”
Lord Fine’s lips went very thin. “I came all the way to this dump of a city to bring him back. Now you’re trying to steal him from the life he can have with me.” He took a menacing step forward, crowding Rory’s space. “Who do you think you are, that you can come along and spellbind him?”
Rory held his ground, refusing to be backed against the wall. “I’m the fella who’s gonna try to make him happy. Can you buy him that?”
Lord Fine’s lip curled in a sneer. “You are so out of your depth with me.” He leaned down, so their faces were close. “And you’re a fraud; you’re no more Irish than I am. Are you a con man? Or just a liar as well as a mooch?” He lowered his voice to a threatening whisper. “What would happen, I wonder, if I told the police about you?”
Rory stomach rolled in fear, but he glared up at Lord Fine. “Listen, stronzo—”
Lord Fine suddenly straightened. “Did you hear that?”
Something in Lord Fine’s face had Rory snapping his mouth shut. They were silent for a moment, and then Rory heard it too.
A scraping sound against the window of the antiques shop.
Like claws on glass.
Rory’s heart leapt into his throat. “Get down,” he hissed, launching himself at Lord Fine’s stomach hard enough to send them both to the floor of the office.
Fury darkened Lord Fine’s face. “Excuse me—”
Rory slapped a hand over Lord Fine’s mouth. “Shut up,” he ordered under his breath. “They’re here.”
The drag of claws came again, and worse, then jingling of the shop’s bell as the chain it hung on rattled.
They were testing the door.
Beneath his hand, Lord Fine’s lips started to move. This stupid dick, who didn’t know about magic—he’d be so fucked and Arthur’d liked him once—
Rory jammed his hand down harder over Lord Fine’s mouth. “Enemies,” he whispered, hoping the word would sink into the part of Lord Fine’s brain that had gone to war. “They’re here for me. Stay. Down.”
Lord Fine’s blue eyes widened. Then he started shaking his head.
Rory winced. Lord Fine had been a soldier like Arthur. He was an asshole, but Rory’d bet all his dollars he wasn’t a coward, and he wasn’t gonna stay down unless he knew why he had to.
There was a metallic snap, like someone had broken the chain that locked the front door.
Rory ducked his head to whisper into Lord Fine’s ear. “There’s an eight-year-old girl upstairs.”
Lord Fine stilled.
“Her name is Lizbeth.” Rory’s heart was pounding as the front door squeaked open, the bell jingling with perverse cheerfulness. He lowered his voice to the barest whisper. “She’s in danger. So’s Ace. You gotta keep them safe.”
“Mr. Brodigan?” A menacing voice, deeper than Arthur’s, with an accent just like Lord Fine’s boomed through the antiques shop. “Or should I say, Signor Giovacchini?”
Lord Fine’s wide eyes darted to the wall of the office, then back at Rory.
Please, Rory mouthed at him, with silent desperation. He got to his feet, putting his hands together like he was praying, holding Lord Fine’s gaze. Please.
Lord Fine stared at him but didn’t move or speak.
Rory swallowed, then put his hands up and stepped out of the office.
Hyde stood in the middle of the antiques shop, taller and broader than even Arthur, with close-cropped white-blond hair and anemically pale skin. He had giant shoulders and a soldier’s ramrod straight posture, his hands behind his back in a parade rest as ice-blue eyes tracked Rory’s every move
. Behind Hyde was Shelley, from the vision, with her short blond bob and red lipstick, the wide collar of her dress open at the neck to show off her choker.
The third member of their group was a good-looking stranger taller than Rory but not Arthur’s size, with short brown hair, light brown eyes, and olive skin like Rory’s. Rory swallowed and kept his hands up, carefully not looking back into the office. Please, let that English asshole stay put. “I’ll come quiet. I’ll cooperate.”
Hyde’s lip curled, revealing a flash of too-sharp teeth. “Look at that. We have a hero.”
“He matches the description the mobster gave us.” The stranger had a soft accent Rory didn’t recognize. “Of the boy from Coney Island.”
Shelley smiled, touching the gray stone at her throat and almost caressing it with her fingers. “The other subordinate paranormal.”
Hyde was still looking at Rory like he was the prize in a Cracker Jack box. “If you’re a subordinate paranormal, you saw us with the relic this morning.”
“I told you to wait for me,” Sebastian said.
Hyde sneered, showing teeth. “I will not be chained to anyone.”
“Then you’re going to be found,” Sebastian said flatly.
“It served us this time.” Hyde ran his tongue over sharp teeth. “Giovacchini would have seen me take care of those two at the library. He’s being so cooperative because he knows what will happen to everyone in this building if he’s not.”
Rory swallowed hard.
“Enough,” Shelley snapped at Hyde. “The baron sent us here on a job, not to fool around. You wasted enough time on those two idiots this morning. Sebastian, take care of the boy and let’s go.”
Sebastian raised one hand, and where the sleeve of his coat pulled up, the swirling edges of a tattoo were visible on the inside of his wrist, over his pulse point. The air seemed to crackle, like someone was tuning a radio, trying to get the signal.
Then Sebastian frowned.
“What?” Shelley asked.
He quickly shook his head and stepped back.
Hyde’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s wrong with your magic?”
“The boy is more powerful than he expected.” Shelley clapped her hands. “Isn’t that a delightful surprise?”
Hyde’s expression became more calculating. “What kind of power—”
“Cuff him already, Hyde,” Shelley snapped. “Stop wasting everyone’s time. It’s not as if you’re smart enough to understand anyway.”
There was a flash of anger in Hyde’s eyes, something wild and animal. It was subdued almost instantly, but Rory could still see it, lurking like a hungry beast. “If you insist.”
With one gloved hand, Hyde pulled a set of handcuffs out of his coat pocket, duller than normal, like the lead ones Ellis had once put on Jade. He held them up at Rory. “One wrong twitch from you and I happily slaughter everyone you’ve ever cared about and a few strangers for kicks. Now move. We’re on a schedule.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wesley missed the entire wedding ceremony.
Arthur faked a smile as the happy couple came down the aisle, but under the smile he was tense enough to snap. He’d show his face at the reception for exactly ten minutes and then he’d be gone. How mad could John get if Arthur went looking for the English lord he was supposed to escort?
The wedding reception was happening at the Ritz-Carlton, five blocks south of the cathedral on Fifth Avenue. There was a line of cars to ferry guests, but Arthur tucked Rory’s hatbox once again under his arm and walked, the stiff formal oxfords obnoxiously slippery on the sidewalk.
“Zhang,” he said under his breath, without much hope. “If you’re around anywhere on the plane, call me when I get to the hotel, won’t you? I’m going mad.”
But as he climbed the steps up to the Ritz, a taxi screeched to a stop in the middle of the street. Arthur turned in surprise just as Wesley scrambled out of the cab, heading straight for Arthur.
Oh Christ. Well, at least the bastard wasn’t hurt, although he hadn’t yet put on his tuxedo and was likely to scandalize half the wedding.
“Wesley.” Arthur started down the stairs. “Where have you been?”
But Wesley didn’t break his stride going up the stairs, grabbing Arthur by the bicep, and yanking him toward the hotel doors. “Come on.”
Arthur dug in his heels. He was the stronger of the two of them and Wesley cursed as he was jerked to a stop. “Why would I go anywhere with you?”
Wesley yanked on his arm. “Because it’s about your precious antiques dealer.”
Arthur sucked in a breath. He snagged the closest bellhop. “Get my car, have it waiting,” he said, pushing his ignition key into the man’s hand, and then followed Wesley into the Ritz.
* * *
There was an empty dining room off a quiet hall on the second floor, small enough for private dinners. Arthur shut the door behind him and opened his mouth, but Wesley spoke first.
“What the hell is going on, Arthur?”
Arthur threw up his hands. “You tell me.”
“Why does an antiques dealer have enemies?” Arthur’s eyes widened, but Wesley kept talking. “Why is an Italian pretending to be Irish—if he even is an actual Italian—”
“Enough,” Arthur snapped, biting enough that even Wesley shut his mouth. “Did you actually track down my lover?”
“He was hardly difficult to find,” said Wesley. “There’s only one antiques shop in New York run by a Brodigan. The concierge found it straightaway in the phone book.”
“You had no right to look! You are so incredibly out of line—” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“Were you rude?”
“He was rude! Half my age and barely up to my chin with a mouth like a guttersnipe.” Wesley’s expression was sour. “He’s belligerent, ill-mattered, and gallingly, irritatingly adorable, Ace, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to smack him or screw him.”
“You better not have done either!” Arthur stepped closer. “Did you lay a finger on him? So help me, Wes, if you hurt him—”
“That’s what I’ve come to tell you. I didn’t hurt him. But I don’t know about the others.”
Arthur went cold and silent.
“I went to the antiques shop,” Wesley started. “And yes, I was arguing with Brodigan—Giovacchini—with that fellow, whatever his name is. We were in the back office. And then we heard this horrible scratching, like claws on the window—”
Arthur paled.
“—then someone snapped the lock on the front door, I’ve no idea how. I heard them talk; there were three of them. They called Brodigan a subordinate paranormal—does that mean anything to you?”
Arthur nearly choked. “A code word, perhaps,” he lied. “Did you see them?” he quickly added, before Wesley could ask anything further.
Wesley swallowed and shook his head. “I—I didn’t—he convinced me not to interfere.” He uncharacteristically stumbled over the words. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a man who’d made a hard choice and still wasn’t sure he’d done right. “He told me to stay out of sight. He said there was an eight-year-old girl upstairs, in danger. He said you could be in danger. The way he said it—I believed him.”
Arthur’s heart was pounding. “He was telling the truth,” he said tightly. A truth perfectly calculated to keep Wesley safe while Rory sacrificed himself, and Arthur was both grateful and furious.
“There was an Englishman and two others, an American woman and another man, Spanish perhaps, if I had to guess from their voices. I didn’t see their faces. They took Brodigan with them.” Wesley ran a hand over his face, looking ill. “I found the little girl upstairs after, she’s safe. But I let them take Brodigan, and Arthur, I swear, if he hadn’t told
me about the girl, I wouldn’t have—”
“I know.” Wesley had many faults, but he also had a medal of his own from the battlefield. He wouldn’t have given up Rory out of cowardice, or even out of spite, no matter how angry he’d been.
“But I don’t understand,” Wesley said. “He’s just an antiques dealer, and he didn’t look like he had two pennies to rub together. Is he in bad with mobsters? But if that’s the case, he should have taken my money—”
Arthur stared. “You offered to pay him? To, what—leave me?”
“I assumed money was all he wanted!” Wesley winced at Arthur’s expression, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And as offended as you look, he was twice as outraged, so fine. You star-crossed fools deserve each other.” He pursed his lips. “Was he kidnapped to get to you?”
Arthur shook his head. “He’s the prize,” he said, as he reached for the door.
“Wait—” Wesley grabbed Arthur’s arm. “Are we going to the police?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Do not call the police. This can’t involve innocent law enforcement. I need bigger guns.”
Wesley furrowed his brow. “Who’s bigger than the police?”
Jade. Zhang. He clapped Wesley on the shoulder. “There’s something else I need you to do for me.”
Wesley folded his arms, but he was listening for once.
Arthur pointed to the door. “Go into that reception and make my excuses. I don’t care what or how. Lie for me, tell anyone who asks that I’m around somewhere. And talk up John; whatever you need to say to make the governor think highly of my brother.”
Wesley frowned, but said, “All right, very well. But where do you suppose they were taking Brodigan—?” He threw up his hands as Arthur pushed past him for the door. “At least tell me where you’re going.”
“To the Lower East Side.” Arthur pulled open the door. “For people bigger than the police.”
