by Allie Therin
Arthur broke into a smile. “Thanks, Wes.”
Wesley waved it off. “I did owe you for—well, whatever happened to you both last night. I mean, Christ, are you actually wearing a bellhop uniform without the jacket? It’s not even close to your size.”
Arthur shrugged. “It was the biggest one they had.”
“You’re about to tear right through the seams. You look a fright.” Wesley paused, and then added reluctantly, “And you look like a man who’s found himself a diamond mine.”
“Do I?” Arthur said, his smile turning surprised.
“It’s why I don’t dislike your new fellow. Frankly, I’m a little jealous.”
“Of him?”
“Of you,” said Wesley. “He makes you happy. I can see the difference in you now.” He looked around, discreetly confirming no one was listening, and lowered his voice. “I want one.”
“You what?”
“I told you, he’s cute, and if you’re an example of his taste in men, well, I’ve got everything you do and then some—”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a joke, Ace.” Wesley glanced back at the car where Rory was waiting. “Mostly.” He looked unfairly entertained by Arthur’s twitch. “So,” he added pointedly, “this is the part where you explain to me why three dangerous people showed up to kidnap your scruffy lover and why they called him a paranormal.”
“Ah.” Arthur put on his blankest expression. “Bootleggers. They must have been speaking in code. Very popular among that set.”
“Bootleggers speaking in code,” Wesley repeated doubtfully.
“You wouldn’t think it, but Rory’s particular antiquarian skills transfer very well to rum-running,” Arthur said innocently. “One might even say he’s magical at it. He’s rather in demand from people who don’t like hearing no.”
Wesley raised his eyebrows. Arthur stared placidly back. From another pier farther downriver, two long blasts of a ship’s horn echoed around the edge of Manhattan.
“All right,” Wesley finally said, shaking his head. “Bootlegging. Just get me back to England where we don’t have Prohibition.”
They walked the last steps to the bottom of the boarding ramp. Wesley showed his ticket to the porter, then turned back to Arthur. “I do hope I see you again,” he said, in the sincerest voice Arthur had ever heard him use. “As a friend.”
“You will,” Arthur promised. “As a friend.”
* * *
As Arthur came off the pier, Rory was leaning on the side of the Cadillac, hands in his pockets, back against the passenger door as he watched the ocean liners. Unlike Arthur’s, his uniform was the right size, and there was an easiness to his pose that called attention to the wiry strength he usually hid by hunching. His face was tilted to catch the sun, which gave a soft glow to his olive skin and the curls visible under the cap.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Ciao, bello.”
Rory startled, turning his way and lighting up like Arthur was the one who’d brought the sun. “Hey.”
He joined Rory by the passenger door, leaning against the car at his side, leaving a respectable distance between them that wouldn’t draw second glances from any passersby.
Rory gestured at Wesley’s ship. “I’ve seen more of these things in the last day than I have in my whole life.”
Arthur looked back at the ship as well. “You didn’t have a very good introduction to overseas travel, I’m afraid.”
Rory snorted. “You can say that again.”
There were ships that would take them across the ocean, to places where Arthur didn’t have the demands of his family and where he didn’t have to hide himself so deep. He could feel the truth of what he wanted in his gut—or maybe in his aura, which had mourned Rory’s magic when it was lost and was delighted to have it back. He wanted a future that had Rory in it.
But they’d known each other such a short time; how could Arthur ask Rory to run away with him already?
“Believe it or not, sometimes people take ships not because they’re dragged aboard or the world is in danger, but because they want to go somewhere new,” he said carefully, searching for a way to ask his heart’s question without putting pressure on Rory. “Could you...could you ever see yourself doing something like that? Could you see yourself leaving New York?”
Rory watched the ship for a quiet moment. “A month ago, I would’ve said no.”
He looked up at Arthur from under the new cap, which brought out the dark brown of his long-lashed eyes behind the temporary glasses. “But...a lot’s changed since I met you. I’ve changed.”
Then he shrugged. “No point daydreaming, though, right? I’ve still got work here.”
“Right,” Arthur said, as if his heart hadn’t kicked up a beat, because no point daydreaming wasn’t the same as no point, never happening. “Work.”
Rory’s gaze darted over Arthur, from his stubble to the tight hotel uniform shirt that didn’t fit his shoulders at all. His tongue darted out and ran over his bottom lip. “But I don’t work on Sundays. In fact, I’m free all day.”
The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked up. There was still so much to worry about—keeping their relationship secret, if the lodestone would help Pavel, how they would destroy the pomander relic, Baron Zeppler knowing about Rory’s existence.
But their friends were alive and whole. And in spite of all the things that had tried to tear them apart, he and Rory were alive and together, with Rory’s magic in Arthur’s aura again, where Arthur wanted it to stay.
“My flat’s only about twenty minutes away,” Arthur pointed out. He pitched his voice lower. “And I could make you work.”
Rory grinned.
* * *
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Acknowledgments
I am so grateful for the help of so many wonderful people:
To C, who supports me and inspires me; who perseveres to make the world a better place—I am always and forever lucky to have you;
To my ever-brilliant sister, who listens and encourages;
To my friends and family, who mean the world to me;
To Victoria, for giving her thoughts and lending her ears;
To my translator, Cristina Massaccesi, for sharing her exceptional skills, and going above and beyond to help me;
To my agent, Laura Zats, for her keen insights and her steadiness; and to Dawn Frederick at Red Sofa Literary, for her support;
To my editor, Mackenzie Walton, who is part angel, part magic, and 100 percent amazing;
To everyone at Carina Press who makes our books shine: Kerri, Stephanie, and the art, editing, marketing, and production teams;
To Angela James, who opened the door for Rory, Arthur, and a brand-new author;
And to T, the light of my life, who shows me how to create from joy and be brave enough to share it.
About the Author
Allie Therin is a writer and avid reader of sci-fi, fantasy, and romance. She also is, or has been, a bookseller, an attorney, a parks & rec assistant, a boom operator, and a barista for one (embarrassing) day. Allie grew up in a tiny Pacific Northwest town with more bears than people, although the bears sadly would not practice Spanish with her.
Allie loves to hear from readers! Find all the ways to connect with her at her website, allietherin.com.
Now Available from Carina Press and Allie Therin:
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sp; To save Manhattan, they’ll have to save each other first...
Read on for an excerpt from Spellbound.
The antique watch was a fraud. Not crafted by some eighteenth-century Swiss fella on a mountain but by a surly doll in a dank room, swilling gin and tap water.
Rory reached deeper into the watch’s past.
The flapper with the cloche hat and black bob sets the gin on the rickety table and bends close to the gooseneck lamp. There’s a folded newspaper on her table, beneath an ashtray, a gold-plated bronze chain, and a fake crystal watch face. She clamps her cigarette between her teeth, lipstick staining the paper, and pinches a speck of cheap quartz in her tweezers as the passing train shakes the paneled walls—
“Any luck?”
Rory’s eyes popped open. For a moment, he saw double: the counterfeiter with her black bob and red lips overlaid on Mrs. Brodigan’s gray bun and green eyes.
Then he blinked, and the vision of the pocket watch’s creation cleared, leaving only familiar Mrs. Brodigan and the homey back office of the antiques appraisal shop. “That watch was handmade, all right.” He tossed it on the side table that flanked his ratty armchair. “Handmade in 1924 right here in New York.”
“Blast.” Mrs. Brodigan sat at the rolltop desk. “You didn’t see the Swiss watchmaker honing his craft in a mountain hamlet?”
“Saw a girl honing her forgery skills in a dingy room on the J Line.” He sank into the chair, mouth dry and body stiff from scrying the watch too long. His glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back into place, still not used to the feel of the round, all-black frames. “Date was on the counterfeiter’s newspaper. That watch is six months old, tops. It belonged to some fancy British captain fighting the French about as much as it belonged to King Tut.”
Mrs. Brodigan clucked her tongue. “Mr. McIntyre isn’t going to be happy to hear it. But people come to us for truth, and truth they shall have.” She broke into a kind smile, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkling. “What we give them of the truth, at any rate.”
Rory, whose fingers still tingled from the aftermath of scrying, snorted. Brodigan’s Appraisals looked like the Real McCoy, a Hell’s Kitchen hole-in-the-wall with shelves of antiques and some microscopes, loupes, and calipers for show. No one needed to know their appraisal actually came from a scrawny blond fella in glasses who hid in the back and scried antiques’ histories with his mind.
Mrs. Brodigan clasped her hands. “Well, I have something else for you, if you’re up for it.”
“Yeah?” He picked up his canteen from the side table and took a long sip. “Whatcha got? New job?”
But Mrs. Brodigan hesitated. “Why don’t I show you?” She got to her feet. “It’s a bit unusual.”
Oh no. Rory didn’t do unusual. “Not interested!” he called after her, as she disappeared through the open pocket doors of the office.
“Perhaps not, but the last time I decided that for you, you sulked for three days.”
Rory gave her retreating figure a dirty look from under the brim of his newsboy cap. Then, with a huff, he peeled himself out of his armchair. He clutched his canteen as he wove his way around Mrs. Brodigan’s rolltop desk and into the main shop. Twilight had fallen, and outside the shop’s large window, the lamppost illuminated the dirty snow piled on the sidewalks and the passersby as they huddled into their coats. Every now and then a head would turn toward the shop, glancing at the faded letters of its name in the window and Mrs. Brodigan’s handwritten sign taped below: Select antiques for sale. No weapon appraisals.
Mrs. Brodigan was at the counter with the ancient cash register, retrieving a small archival box. He pointed. “That the job? What’s weird about a box?”
She frowned. “I really do hesitate to tell you. Considering the hour, and the hours you’ve already put in this week, and with you still so young—”
“I’m twenty,” he muttered as he took another sip.
“—but as you keep telling me, you’re old enough to make your own decisions, especially when the patron’s willing to pay double.”
Rory sloshed the canteen, spilling water over his chin and hand. His desperately needed new glasses had cost him everything he’d saved, and rent was due on the fifth. “What’s the catch?” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“Mr. Kenzie’s in a terrible rush and wants any forgeries found by breakfast.” She made a face. “And it’s rather a lot of letters.”
“I can do it,” Rory said.
“Yes, dear, because you’re as magical as the sídhe, but Mr. Kenzie doesn’t know that, does he? It’s a very difficult request.”
“That’s why he’s paying double,” said Rory. “Couldn’t you use the dough too?” He tried to keep the question soft and casual. He suspected her late husband’s medical bills were still around, but he was the last person who’d want to make the wound of that death hurt fresh.
“I wouldn’t risk you to pay any debt,” she said firmly. “Mr. Kenzie is under the impression I have a laboratory. It wouldn’t do for him to start poking around, asking how we worked so fast.”
Rory might’ve caved at that, but what if he lost his room? Even once he’d scrounged up the cash for a new pad, he’d have to start over, find another place secure enough. Buy new locks. “He’s not gonna ask. Rich jerks think they deserve the impossible. Never ask or care ’bout the person at the bottom who’s gotta do the work.”
“Now that’s a bit of unfair. Mr. Kenzie was terribly apologetic—”
“But he is some rich high hat, right?”
She sighed. “A congressman’s son,” she admitted. “So perhaps he is used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.” Her eyes were on Rory, a little sad. “And I suppose he’s unlikely to discover you. You try so hard to stay unnoticed.”
Rory wrapped his arms tight around himself. “That’s how it’s gotta be. And since no one knows ’bout me, I can do a job like this for him.”
“Your house locks the doors at ten—”
“If I can’t scry the letters by then, I’ll go home,” he lied. The shop would be cold, but there were worse places to sleep than the armchair. She still looked reluctant, so he added, “I’m really not a boy anymore.”
“Spoken exactly like a little boy.” But her shoulders relaxed and her smile crinkled her crow’s feet again. “All right, lad, I promised I wouldn’t coddle you anymore. I told you about the job so you could make the call and I’ll let you make it.”
Yes. “I call it good.” Rory set the canteen next to the cash register and took the box from her. It was a beautiful piece and pleasantly heavy, solid mahogany he’d bet, with intricate vines carved along all the edges and a fierce bear in the center of the lid. “The box too?”
She shook her head. “Just the letters inside.”
He traced the bear’s carved fur, feeling the ridges beneath his finger, then opened the box. “All of them?” He stared at the stack, which reached the top of the box. “By breakfast?”
“If it’s too much—”
“Everything’s Jake.” Because yes, it was enough letters to fill a whole night in the shop, but he’d be spending all his nights here if he couldn’t make rent. He closed the box with a snap. “See you in the morning.”
But Mrs. Brodigan still looked troubled. “It’s a lot, dear, and work doesn’t need to become another excuse for you to always be alone.”
Rory huffed. “Better than blowing all my scratch going out when no one wants a short guy in glasses anyway.”
“Nonsense—”
“Nonsense is exactly what comes outta my mouth half the time and I don’t need anyone else to hear it.” He folded his arms. “Scryers aren’t good company, Mrs. B.”
She sighed. “I like you just fine, dear, even when you’re a storm cloud.” She smiled at Rory’s scowl. “I’ll close up,” she s
aid, and with a pat on his arm left him to it.
Rory pulled the office’s pocket door shut behind him, muffling the sound of Mrs. Brodigan’s familiar steps as she puttered around the shop. He set his newsboy cap on the side table, freeing his shaggy curls before he tucked his legs up under him in the armchair and considered the box.
Ritzy. But then, this was some political big-timer paying double for a rush job, so he was gonna be ritzy too. Rory ought to scry the box and see what all he could learn about terribly apologetic Mr. Kenzie—
Except they’d only been asked to appraise the letters and it wouldn’t be fair play. So with a last admiring glance at the bear, he opened the box again.
Geez, there had to be two dozen letters. No envelopes either, just ancient pieces of folded paper, yellowed with age and spotted where the ink had run. He picked up the top one and unfolded it. Signed by a Frederick Douglass and dated April 1856, it looked authentic enough—but then, Rory had seen some good forgeries come through the antiques shop in the last four years.
He set the box on his ancient footstool that once must have been a very nice match for a completely different chair. He settled into his seat and carefully set the pads of his fingers on top of the letter’s handwriting.
Scrying was like turning a radio dial, searching for just the right notch until suddenly the signal came in clear, static transformed to music. It was always so easy to welcome the music in—
Not always so easy to turn the radio back off. Rory tried not to think about that as he closed his eyes and let the magic sweep him into the letter’s past.
The man in the bowler hat sits at a desk in a room that smells like fish. A phonograph lazily spins in the corner, scratching out Margaret Young’s “Hard-Hearted Hannah.” The man sticks his tongue between his teeth as he dips his fountain pen in the inkwell. Carefully, he puts the nib to a piece of yellowed paper and scratches out an “1856” in the top right corner.
