by Allie Therin
He crossed the room to the pair. “What are we up to, gents?” he said, too cheerfully.
“I got a relic, here’s a fella who knows about relics,” Rory said, gesturing at Sebastian. “So now I got questions.”
Rory had none of the hostility from the day before. Arthur felt completely wrong footed, his chest too tight. “I see,” he said uncertainly. “Rory, could I talk to you a moment?”
Rory followed him into the other room, behind the pocket door.
“I, um.” Arthur shook his head slightly. “I thought you didn’t like Sebastian.”
Rory waved it away. “I was being stupid yesterday,” he said earnestly. “You were right, he’s not interested in you, and it isn’t real sporting to dislike a fella just ’cause he’s good looking.”
Arthur blinked, his chest growing tighter. “I didn’t realize you thought he was good looking.”
“Well, yeah,” Rory said, like it was obvious. “I got eyes behind these glasses.”
All right, Rory thought Sebastian was good looking. And Sebastian spoke more Italian phrases than Arthur did. That was fine, Arthur was fine with that, why wouldn’t he be?
“Have fun at the veterans’ thing with your ex,” Rory said, without an ounce of jealousy, and Arthur watched as he went back to Sebastian.
* * *
Six people in a back room was a tight fit for a quiet conversation, and Sebastian was willing to talk in the pub. Even in the alley, the spring air was wet with a misty rain that left a film on Rory’s glasses and made his curls tighter spirals.
Inside the dark pub, they got drinks and squeezed into the same corner wooden booth as the day before. There were carvings and pen marks on the wall of the booth, lovers’ initials and swear words. The window could’ve used a good cleaning, or maybe the day was just a grimy sort of gray.
Rory glanced around, but no one was paying them any attention. Gritting his teeth against the sting, he fished the lead ring box out of his pocket.
“So,” Sebastian started, “what did you—”
Rory slapped the box down on the middle of the table.
Sebastian’s eyes went wide. “Is that—”
“We call it the Tempest Ring,” said Rory.
Sebastian stared at the ring box for a moment, then reached for it. His expression barely twitched as he touched the lead, just like Gwen had trivialized the same sting that still felt like intolerable needles on Rory’s own skin. Rory wasn’t sure he wanted to think about where either of them might have gotten their tolerance for pain.
Sebastian cracked the lid.
Rory took a breath through his nose as an echo of wind rushed in his blood. “You know I’m psychometric,” he said, softly enough no one would overhear. “History’s sorta my thing. I’ve seen the past of three relics now and I know the story I’ve heard is true: they were made by seven nobles during the Spanish Inquisition to hide their magic from a paranormal inquisitor who saw magic like Gwen does.”
He nodded at the box. “Last time I looked at the ring’s history, I saw the paranormal who put his wind magic into it. He mentioned the Inquisitor. Inquisitor de Leon. And I know there’s a whole buncha de Leons in the world and maybe it’s one big coincidence, but you weaken magic, and your cousin paints magic traps, and I’m thinking maybe you’re not the only ones from your family with magic that stops other magic. Because you sure do know an awful lot about the relics.”
Sebastian snapped the lid shut. The sense of the wind vanished. “So you think I’m some kind of witch-hunter’s descendent?”
“What was it you said back at Gwen’s pad?” Rory said pointedly. “Everyone’s got a legacy?”
Sebastian folded his arms on the table. “The Inquisition took innocent lives and so did the inquisitors. If that was my legacy, do you think I would want to talk about it?”
“Maybe not,” Rory acknowledged. “But you know, the paranormal nobles who made the relics killed people too.”
Sebastian seemed to still at that. “You saw that in history?”
Rory nodded once. “The fella who made my ring practiced using the wind on prisoners on a ship. The man who made Gwen’s amulet sent a tidal wave toward a castle. And I don’t wanna talk about the pomander,” he added with a shiver.
Sebastian glanced down at the ring again. “So you think a monster was sent to hunt the monsters?”
“You tell me,” said Rory. “If your family was supposed to keep the relics hidden, are you gonna try to take that ring from me, whether I’m willing or not? Gwen’s amulet too?”
“And cast her back into her aura-sight so she sees nothing but magic?” Sebastian said quietly. “Is that what you think I plan to do to a friend, when her pain was caused by the relics my family lost in the first place?”
Rory hesitated.
“Whatever you think my legacy is,” Sebastian said, still quiet, “I have blood magic in my veins. I wouldn’t trust myself with a relic. I don’t trust myself at all. I’m here to protect Gwen and Ellis, but if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be in Barcelona. I’d be as far away and as alone as I could.”
“I get it.” Rory held up a hand when Sebastian opened his mouth again. “No, I do. Because if there’s one thing I know about better than anyone else, it’s magic screwing with you and making you do things you didn’t choose to do.”
“Because you’re a subordinate paranormal too.” Sebastian’s brown eyes were serious. “You’ve been changed by the lost relics as well. What would happen to you if I took the ring?”
Does it matter? Rory was about to say, but something about Sebastian’s expression suggested that it did. He didn’t know about the link to Arthur, that Rory would be safe because he had another lifeline.
And he didn’t know that Rory also knew all about having to be alone because of magic.
“You should take that ring,” Rory blurted. “I’m such a bad King of the Wind.”
“Wait.” Sebastian stared at him. “I’ve been told about the tidal wave you stopped on Coney Island. Please tell me that was the only time you’ve actually used the fifteenth-century magic in that ring anywhere near all the helpless non-magical people in the world?”
“Um.” Rory snagged the box and gingerly pulled it back across the table, hissing under his breath at the sting of lead. “I’ll just put this back in my pocket, outta reach of the fella under blood magic, yeah?”
“You do that,” Sebastian muttered, rubbing his temples.
Chapter Seventeen
The veterans’ event was in a small, ground-floor ballroom in an attractive hotel. It was well attended and interesting, and Arthur wasn’t enjoying it at all. After doing a poor job at making even idle conversation with a dozen other former soldiers, he needed air.
He stepped out to the veranda. The soft rain had stopped for the moment, leaving gray skies and cool wet air. Arthur stared at the greenery, a weight in his chest.
He should have known he wouldn’t get to keep Rory forever.
Footsteps sounded behind him on the stone. “Arthur, really.” Wesley’s deep voice cut through the empty space. “Hasn’t Rory finally gotten you over your brooding?”
Arthur’s eyes stayed on the foliage as Wesley stepped next to him. “Rory’s currently enjoying the company of someone else.”
Wesley struck a match. “Rubbish.”
“It’s true, I’m afraid,” Arthur said heavily, as Wesley lit a cigar—Cuban and expensive, his society smokes, not the cheap cigarettes he actually preferred. “An obnoxiously handsome someone else.”
“I see.” Wesley took a deep drag. “And this someone else has made some kind of move on your alley cat?”
“Well—no,” Arthur admitted. “But why shouldn’t Rory be interested?”
“Because you’re what interests him? He’s made that so abundantly clear that I’m frankly not sure why we’re
having this conversation.”
“I interested him in the beginning. Who’s to say I should keep that interest?” Arthur gazed into the garden. “He was a recluse, alone. Now he’s coming out of his shell and he’s going to discover the world is full of other people as interesting as he is.”
Wesley blew out the smoke. “You are a six-foot, three-inch coward. Why did I ever want you back?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you know,” Wesley said, breezily talking right over Arthur’s indignation, “that your filthy urchin was ready to fight me for you?”
Arthur blinked.
“Yes, fight, with his skinny arms and tiny fists,” said Wesley. “I must have four stone on him. I’d stormed his antiques shop, tried to bribe him and then threatened to turn him in to the police. But he got up in my face—well, my chin, I suppose—ready for battle, and do you know why?” Wesley leaned in. “Because he wants to be the man who makes you happy.”
Arthur felt a dizzying pulse of affection for Rory. “I—really?”
“Those were his words.” Wesley pointed with the cigar. “So why aren’t you willing to fight for him?”
“I would fight—”
“To protect him, yes. But not to keep him.”
Arthur opened his mouth—and then snapped it shut without saying anything.
“I mean, look at you,” Wesley said. “One tiny obstacle in your way and you’re throwing up the white flag and crying in your tea. For Christ’s sake, pull your head out of your arse. If Rory tells you to fuck off, then yes, fuck off and leave him alone. But don’t run away with your tail between your legs because you imagined some rival and decided you knew what Rory would want better than Rory himself. Honestly, Arthur, give up football and boxing, you’ve clearly taken too many blows to the head.”
Arthur should have been insulted, but his entire body was lightening. “When did you get smart about romance?” he said, with grudging admiration.
“When I made the same mistake.” Wesley took another pull. “I let you go. By the time I’d realized I should have fought to keep you, you’d found someone else. You’re on the same path now, and the only place it leads is waking up alone every morning because you reaped what you sowed. Do you want to be me?”
Arthur’s heart twisted. What was worse, letting Wesley keep believing he’d blown it, or giving him the harsh truth? “It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d fought,” Arthur said quietly, choosing truth, because it’s what he himself would have wanted. “There was nothing you could have said or done to make me stay. I wasn’t in love with you.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
Wesley blew out the smoke in a long, hard stream. “You’re being cruel to be kind,” he murmured, knowingly and tightly. “But I suppose in a way that is a comfort to hear.” He leaned against the rail. “I didn’t love you either. I hoped maybe I could. Most days I don’t believe I’ll ever love anyone in this life besides my mother, God rest her soul.”
Ouch. Arthur should have remembered he had no harsh truths half as sharp as what Wesley hurt himself with.
“So.” Wesley put the cigar between his lips. “Are you in love with Rory?”
Arthur hesitated.
“Oh, Christ, you are,” Wesley said, but he was smiling. “You’re smitten with a twenty-one-year-old hellcat. What’s wrong with you?”
“Apparently that I don’t fight for him,” said Arthur. “I can’t believe you were the one to point that out.”
“By all means, don’t thank me,” Wesley said sardonically. “Just continue to be genuinely shocked that I’m capable of empathy and human emotion, that’s very complimentary.” He glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe you should introduce me to the other fellow, the handsome one.”
Wesley, mixed up in the paranormal world. Not in a million years. “Sorry, Wes. But some things you just aren’t meant to know.”
* * *
When Arthur got back to the art gallery, he found Zhang out on patrol on both foot and the astral plane, apparently, and Jade, Ellis and Gwen in one corner of the back room, deep in a discussion of magical theory that he didn’t understand in the slightest. Sebastian and Rory were sitting together on a couch, buried in a stack of Spanish and Italian books.
“Sebastian,” Arthur said sharply, and they both looked up. “A word.” Rory and Sebastian exchanged a glance and they both started to stand. Arthur held up a hand. “I just want to ask Sebastian a question.”
Rory furrowed his brow but then shrugged guilelessly. “All right.”
Sebastian followed Arthur into the back room, expression wary. Arthur pulled the pocket door shut and turned around to stare down Sebastian. “What are your intentions toward Rory?”
Sebastian’s eyes widened. “Am I that obvious?”
Oh, marvelous. “Yes, you are,” Arthur said sharply. “And if you think I’m—”
“He reminds me of Mateo.”
“—just going to roll over and—” Arthur blinked. “Who?”
“My brother.” Sebastian ran a hand through brown waves, moving toward the window. “Given our history, your caution is understandable, but I have no ill intentions toward Rory. I haven’t seen Mateo since I was ordered to work for Zeppler. He’s about Rory’s age and also a subordinate paranormal.”
“Your brother.” Arthur’s world suddenly made sense. “You’re nice to Rory because he reminds you of your brother.”
Sebastian’s brow furrowed. “That is what you were asking, yes?”
“Of course it was.” Arthur smiled winningly. “Good thing we got that straightened out.”
Sebastian’s brow was still furrowed, but Arthur was spared any awkward questions as the pocket door opened and Gwen stuck her head in. Her gaze darted over Arthur, pupils overly dilated, her expression troubled. “Arthur? May I have a word?”
“I have an errand anyway,” Sebastian said. “I’ll grab Ellis.” He slipped out the door into the alley, gracefully giving them privacy.
Gwen’s gaze darted over Arthur again, and yes, there it was, the distress he’d seen the day before. She noticed him watching her, and quickly turned to slide the pocket door closed, cutting off the sound of the others in the middle room.
“Sebastian’s popped off to find the cart selling meat for the cats, or because Molly at the pub gives him scraps for the dogs,” she said, too lightly. “I don’t know why he thinks he’s subtle; there are twenty strays who haunt our alley.”
“While I appreciate the attempt at innocuous conversation, I think we can agree to skip it, yes?” Arthur folded his arms. “You keep looking at me like something’s terribly wrong. And you didn’t look at me like that back in January, despite the fact that something was, actually, demonstrably wrong because I was chained to the Wonder Wheel and tortured for information on Rory. What’s going on, Gwen?”
To her credit, she didn’t try to deny it. Instead, she leaned against the wall, her gaze darting over him again, lingering not on his face but over his heart. “Have you been around the pomander relic again?”
Arthur’s stomach twisted. He kept his emotions carefully off his face. “Why would you ask that?”
“I’ve seen a lot of magic.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I’ve seen Baron Zeppler’s magic. I’ve seen the magic in the amulet and the ring relics. But the pomander is different. Its magic is some of the strongest—and vilest—I’ve ever seen. No one should ever have created a relic with violation magic.”
She glanced at the closed pocket door. “When we were on the ship, in Philadelphia, Rory’s magic was everywhere, dancing like a lightning storm. It had just rewoven itself into your aura and you were lit up like Piccadilly.”
Her eyes came back to him. “But now, looking at you in this room, I can see it plain as day: the pomander’s magic has torn your aura.”
Arthur sta
red.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still quiet. “But I thought you would want to know.”
Torn his aura—no, that wasn’t possible. “But that can’t be,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I feel fine—”
He cut himself off, putting his hand to his chest.
Did he feel fine? Or had the pain at Niagara Falls, in Boston, been something far worse than he’d imagined?
“You’re not fine,” she said softly. “You’re very, very far from fine.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Arthur, fingers clenching against his chest. “How could I be walking around with a torn aura—”
Except he knew the answer, didn’t he?
“Because of Rory,” Gwen said, voicing his own thought. “Any health you feel is because Rory’s magic is protecting you. I can see it, holding your aura together, like gauze wrapped around wounds.”
Arthur could feel his own heartbeat under his palm. Rory’s magic. He’d felt it more frequently lately, the lightning bolts sizzling against his skin as it moved in his aura—or did far more than move.
He swallowed. “What happens if Rory takes his magic away?”
The bleakness that crossed her face confirmed his terrible suspicion. “Your aura will disintegrate,” she said, biting her lip. “And you’ll die.”
He sucked in a breath. “Don’t tell Rory.”
“You want me to keep this from him?” Gwen looked aghast. “No, Arthur, no, I will not. Rory has a right to know that you’ll die without his magic. And despite what you may believe because of our history, I don’t want you to die.”
“It is too big a burden to ask him to bear,” Arthur said tightly. “It is too much to ask of anyone that they be wholly responsible for your life.”
“Sometimes we don’t get to choose our responsibilities,” Gwen said, just as tightly. “But they are our responsibilities nonetheless, and like it or not, you have become his.”
He gritted his teeth. “What kind of ball and chain do you want me to be? To tell a lover they can never leave you without literally killing you, it’s—it’s unconscionable to trap another person like that.”