by Allie Therin
“Maybe.” Rory closed his eyes. “Dancers? The ones in floaty skirts, not ones with the tassels.”
“Ballet, not burlesque.” Arthur pointed to an ornately framed painting between shelves. “Was it the Degas?”
Rory squinted at the painting of the women in pink, then shook his head. “Close, though.”
He scanned the room, his eyes lighting in recognition as he found the painting on the wall over the fireplace.
“That one.” He pointed at the painting of five ballerinas, their tutus pink and blue, hands clasped as they twirled in a single circle on a dark stage.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. “That one’s a mimic of Degas’s style but clearly not an authentic work,” he said as Rory approached the painting. “The brush strokes are all wrong, the viewpoint pedestrian.”
Rory’s gaze stayed on the painting. The dancers were so lively, almost as if they were actually moving.
“In fact, it’s really the odd piece out.” Arthur’s voice was growing fainter. “Every other piece of art in this room is authentic with a capital A—”
Rory cocked his head, gaze drawn into the dark center of the dancers’ circle like the swirling vortex of a whirlpool.
“—from the sculptures to the Fabergé egg.” Arthur sounded very far away as Rory reached out to touch the center of the painting. “But Mansfield must have chosen that work for a reason—”
And the dancers began to twirl...
He’s on the dark wooden stage, ringed by the ballerinas, their faces nearly featureless, their skirts billowing gracefully, their arms linked to keep Rory in the center. Time slows, or maybe stops, or maybe stops mattering as they turn, around and around and around—
“—ory?”
There’s music, nimble and quick, and he doesn’t know the instruments but he doesn’t need to—it spins around him too as the dancers twirl faster—
“Christ. Rory!”
The dancers’ arms are linked, their movements blurring as they pick up speed in a circle from which there’s no escape—
“Teddy.” Arthur sounded distressed and miles away. “The painting’s a trap, get out—”
“Rory, shake it off!” Zhang’s voice layered over Arthur’s, intense and urgent. “They’re coming, Mansfield and his security. Ace needs you, do you understand? He can’t hear me. Mansfield is coming and he doesn’t know—”
Ace.
He has to leave the circle, has to find Arthur. But the ring of dancers is too tight—
There was a pounding on the door. Muffled voices, angry and shouting.
There was a sharp burst of Chinese. “Rory,” said Zhang, “get your head on and get out of that painting—”
“Theodore, please—”
The dancers’ circle closes in, tight as a manacle, spinning faster—
Arthur’s lips pressed against Rory’s.
Rory gasped, yanked out of the dancers’ menace so fast his head still spun. Only now he was seeing blue eyes, not blue sashes, and a familiar face frantic with worry.
“Arthur—” Rory grabbed for Arthur’s face. “Ace—”
There was a loud pounding on the door. “Who the hell is in here? This is my house, I’ll call the police—”
There was swearing from Zhang, but Rory had eyes only for Arthur, who was holding him so hard he might have left fingerprints on Rory’s skin. “Where are you?”
“New York,” Rory scrambled to say. “New York, 1925.”
“Oh thank Christ.” Arthur half lifted Rory off his feet as he pulled Rory across the library to the giant window framing the street lights and dark Central Park beyond.
“Open this door!” The pounding increased, like a jackhammer on a sidewalk, then a loud slam, like a body ramming the barricaded door. “You’ll be under arrest, if I leave enough of you for the police to scrape up and take to jail!”
Rory’s heart leapt to his throat. “Mansfield,” he said hoarsely. “He’s gonna know I’m magic. He’s gonna know you know about magic, Ace, what’s he gonna do to you?”
“I don’t care.” Arthur’s voice was sharp, a battlefield tone no one would have argued with. “Stay in the present. Eyes on me, not the door, not the painting, on me, no matter what I do.” He snapped the window’s lock free. “Zhang, it’s Plan B. Go.”
“But—” Zhang started to say.
“If you’re trying to argue, it’s pointless, I can’t hear you.” Arthur pushed open the window, a blast of cold air shrieking through the room. “You must tell Jade or it will never work. Go!”
Zhang wrung his hands, face distressed, but he faded from view. Arthur was rapidly unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket.
“Filthy thieves—jail’s going to sound like paradise compared to what else I can do!” Mansfield shouted.
Arthur yanked his tuxedo jacket off and launched it out the window just as the crack of splintering wood filled the air. The chair blockading the door had snapped. Rory froze. “Arthur—”
He grabbed Rory’s face in his hands, eyes frantically searching his. “You’re here? In the present?”
Rory managed to nod. “What are we going to do?”
“Get you out.” He put his hands on Rory’s shoulders and shoved, sending him plummeting out the mansion’s third-story window.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arthur had barely slammed the window shut when the door burst open. He froze, hands behind his back, as people poured into the room: Mansfield and four mobsters in suits, all as big as Arthur.
He held very still except his hands, which carefully found the window’s lock behind him. “Luther,” he said, sweaty fingers slipping on the metal, “I have such a good explanation for this—”
“Shut up.” Mansfield pointed. “Grab him.”
Arthur barely slid the lock back into place as two of the men grabbed him by the arms. They dragged Arthur forward and shoved him down to his knees in front of Mansfield. “Hands on your head,” snapped one of the mobsters.
Arthur held up his hands in surrender, slowly moving them to the back of his head.
Mansfield glared down. “You trying to rob me, Kenzie?”
“Scoping for a clandestine rendezvous, actually—”
There was a click, and Arthur was looking into the barrel of a cocked pistol.
“There are no girls in here.” Mansfield held the gun steady. “And you were trying to escape out the window. Where the hell would you have gone? It’s a sheer three-story drop to the sidewalk below.”
Arthur held his face as steady as he could, like his heart wasn’t pounding in his throat. “Hope springs eternal,” he said lightly.
He still had Pavel’s potions hidden in his coat. If he could just cause a distraction, set one off—he’d been fast enough to outrun a German platoon once, he could outrun Mansfield and a bunch of gangsters. They could regroup, come up with a new plan—
“Have you asked how he liked your paranormal painting?”
Gwen. The familiar London accent had come from the open door and now Gwen made her way into the library. She was as pretty as she had been two years ago in Paris, her long ringlets under a scarf, a simple dress and flat shoes. But her hazel eyes were unnaturally pale, still the near-yellow they’d become after she’d tangled with a relic and Baron Zeppler.
“Paranormal?” Arthur scoffed theatrically, betraying nothing of his inner turmoil. “What, like ghosts and other nonsense?”
She smiled. “You can drop the act. We’re done playing, Ace.”
“Ace?” Mansfield looked at Gwen in confusion. “You know a Kenzie?”
“Of course,” said Gwen. “We’re friends.”
“Are we?” Arthur said dryly, with pointed tugs of his trapped arms.
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” She tilted her head as she came toward Arthur. “The painting
is a treat, isn’t it? A Spanish artist, an interesting paranormal with an interesting artistic talent. Useful too, since you never know who might be trying to get into a safe.”
The two mobsters held Arthur tight enough to bruise as she approached. “Fine. No acts.” He lifted his chin. “Your plan was to hide the paranormal painting in your art shipment from London.”
“I have many plans.” Gwen raised a hand and traced Arthur’s outline. “Then again, my plans didn’t include your special paranormal.”
Arthur’s stomach flooded with ice.
Mansfield looked between them. “You know Kenzie,” he said slowly, “and Kenzie here knows about magic?”
Arthur ignored Mansfield. “There are no special paranormals in my life,” he said, keeping his voice steady, holding his body perfectly still. “In fact, there’s no one special in my life at all. If you check the society pages, you’ll find me lambasted for my eternal single state—”
“Please.” Gwen drew a circle in the air over Arthur’s heart. “I see it here, clear as you see faces—powerful magic.”
Beneath her hand, Arthur’s heart began to pound. “I don’t have magic.”
“It’s not yours.” She crouched to eye-level with Arthur. “But it’s here nonetheless, because a paranormal has woven his magic straight into your aura.”
What?
“You didn’t know?” She touched the air above his heart again, her pupils jet-black pools rimmed by yellow. “Such rare magic is special, Ace, and it tells me that you’re special too. He’s made sure he could find you anywhere. You must be priceless to him.”
Arthur stared.
Mansfield’s anger had been subsumed by avarice. “Powerful, rare magic means another subordinate paranormal, maybe one who could do something with relics.” His nasty smile slowly turned to a frown. “How do you know it’s a he?”
Her pupils abruptly constricted. Still kneeling in front of Arthur, Gwen turned her gaze up to Mansfield, and her lips curled in a small smile that sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. “Because he saw Ellis.”
Ellis?
Mansfield made a sudden, horrible gasp. Arthur tore his eyes from Gwen as bright red blood bloomed in a horizontal line across Mansfield’s throat. The air around Mansfield seemed to shimmer, and then a once-familiar figure materialized in a three-piece suit, blade in hand.
“Gwen.” Ellis clucked his tongue, and in his unchanged North Carolina drawl said, “You spoiled the surprise.”
Gwen spread her hands with a smile and a shrug, not looking sorry in the least. Arthur stared helplessly as puzzle pieces fell into place: the henchman Rory had seen but the sailor hadn’t, that Mansfield hadn’t, that Arthur hadn’t. The man who stood up straight like a soldier. Ellis, invisible, but not to a paranormal like Rory.
“Ellis,” he said hoarsely, “what have you done?”
“Nice to see you too.” Ellis watched dispassionately as Mansfield gurgled and lifted one hand toward his throat. The other hand raised the pistol at Ellis—then spasmed and froze in midair.
Ellis plucked the gun from Mansfield’s now-motionless hand. “It’s no use trying to move,” he said, uncocking it calmly and handing it to one of the mobsters. “Tell him, Ace.”
The knife. “The Venom Dagger.”
Ellis lifted the blade up, admiring it in the light. “And isn’t she a beauty?” He held the blade in front of Mansfield, who was still frozen like a statue. “I have a relic too, see,” he said, turning it back and forth in front of Mansfield’s terrified eyes. “The Venom Dagger, they call it, ’cause one cut enchants the blood like poison and leaves the victim paralyzed.” Ellis tilted his head. “You threatened Gwen when you thought she was alone. You would’ve sent her to death or worse and not looked back. Not so tough now, are you?”
“Ellis, stop—” Arthur lunged forward, but the two mobsters grabbed his arms again and yanked him back. “Are you mad?” he snarled up at them. “He’s going to murder your boss—”
“We’re in charge now,” Gwen said calmly.
“I put on a similar show with a sailor.” Ellis pointed at Mansfield with the knife. “Turns out, given a choice between a bigoted asshole like Mansfield or an invisible man with a magic knife, these fine gentlemen were happy to fall in line.”
Arthur pulled uselessly at the mobsters holding him. “What happened to Philippe?”
“Baron Zeppler had the relic, but he didn’t know how to unlock it. He put Philippe and me in a cell, tossed the Venom Dagger in, and told us to fight it out to see what would happen.”
Arthur snorted in disgust. “So it was you or Philippe, and you chose yourself.”
“I chose Gwen,” Ellis said harshly. “I never wanted to hurt Philippe. I would’ve walked through his fire to save his ass if I could’ve. But only one of us was walking out of that cell, and Gwen didn’t need Philippe, she needed me.” His eyes narrowed. “You weren’t there, Ace. You didn’t see what Baron Zeppler did to us, how he corrupted our magic with this relic. You don’t get to judge.”
“But you knew it was wrong,” Arthur said harshly. “You faked your own death so Jade and I wouldn’t find out.”
Arthur had questioned the Le Havre harbormaster himself. In hindsight, how easy it would have been for Ellis to wear Philippe’s clothes, to set fire to a boat, and then, invisible himself, jump into the harbor and swim to safety.
“Philippe should’ve had better friends. I threw my soldier tags in some ashes and y’all were more than happy to believe he burned me up and then himself.” He held up the blade again. “When I stabbed Philippe, his magic went crazy. Lit everything, everyone, the entire place was on fire. The baron ran. I barely got out myself. But the power in this dagger had somehow unlocked. This relic chose me to work its magic and it made me whole again.”
Mansfield made another choked, gurgling sound. Arthur set his jaw. “Let me get a doctor, please—”
“He’ll bleed out any minute, stop clutching your pearls.” Ellis gave Mansfield an uncaring shove, and the man toppled to the ground like an overturned statue. “You saw plenty of death on the battlefield.”
“Doesn’t mean I ever liked it,” Arthur said, through gritted teeth.
“Mr. Mansfield is not an innocent,” Gwen said. “He was going to do a terrible thing with that relic.”
“Sell it to Baron Zeppler, you mean.”
“You know about that?” Gwen’s expression turned from surprise to understanding. “Ah, of course you do. Your paranormal is a subordinate. He’s been listening.”
“Yes, let’s talk about him.” Ellis bent down, the dagger still in hand. “The little waiter, with the curls and the glasses. We know he’s a paranormal, Ace, he could see me. And we know he’s yours, because he sure didn’t like me looking at you.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Arthur said evenly.
“Arthur, this guise is pointless,” said Gwen. “I see his magic in your aura.”
“Can you see what his power is?” said Ellis said to her.
“Traces.” Her fingers moved in the air over Arthur’s heart again. “Not enough for me to see what it does, but I can see his magic is strong.” She leaned forward. “The relic known as the Argonaut Amulet is locked in Mansfield’s safe behind my painting. He wouldn’t give me the combination, of course, but it was easy for invisible Ellis to watch him lock it.” She looked up from Arthur’s heart, her eyes not quite on his face. “We’re leaving here and taking the amulet with us. But first, we must find out what your subordinate paranormal can tell us about the relic.”
Arthur stared at her without flinching and didn’t respond.
“Ellis has unlocked the secrets of the Venom Dagger,” she said, as calmly as if they were chatting over coffee at a sidewalk cafe in Paris. “He will paralyze you, kill you agonizingly slow.” She cocked her head. “And you rememb
er I can cause far more pain than a simple cut.”
Arthur held her gaze and stayed silent.
Ellis spun the dagger in his hand. “How about it, Ace?”
Arthur met Ellis’s eyes and spoke without emotion. “My name is Arthur James Kenzie, Second Lieutenant, 05 898 346.”
Ellis’s expression turned to stone.
Gwen looked between them. “Is he implying what I think he is, Ellis?”
Ellis’s gaze dropped to Arthur’s chest, where Arthur’s shirt and tuxedo vest hid the faded scars. Then he huffed, short and angry, and spun away. “Forget it, Gwen. He’ll die before he gives someone up.”
Gwen sighed. “Most men do talk under torture—”
“Ace isn’t most men.” Ellis jammed the dagger in its holster. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t need him to talk.”
“It would be nice if he did,” Gwen said, with an endless sort of patience.
“He’s got a paranormal’s magic in his aura.” Ellis winked at her. “How long before that paranormal wants him back?”
No.
“Bait.” Gwen straightened. “With a link like this, he could find Ace on the moon.”
Ellis bent at the waist to meet Arthur’s eyes. “We have you,” he said, “so we’ll have your sweetheart too.”
Arthur yanked at his captor’s arms. “Over my dead body.”
“Possibly.” Ellis nodded at the guards. “Search him.”
Arthur redoubled his efforts, but all four men were on him now, holding him immobile as they pawed through his pockets. He tightened his jaw, eyes fixed forward. Maybe, just maybe, Ellis would ignore—
“Wait.” Ellis pointed. “Is that a cigarette case?”
Arthur’s heart plummeted. “I picked up the habit.”
“The hell you did.” Ellis turned back to the mobster cleaning out Arthur’s jacket. “Give it to me.”
The mobster shrugged and held the silver cigarette case out. Ellis reached for it—then drew his hand away with a hiss, exactly as Rory had an hour earlier.
“Lead.” His eyes narrowed. “Why does the ex-quarterback who hasn’t smoked a day in his life have a cigarette case made with lead?”