Starcrossed (Magic in Manhattan)

by Allie Therin

  “But the pomander relic is ownerless, as far as we know,” said Jade. “And maybe enchanted with violation magic?”

  “Violation magic? In a relic?” Arthur had gone very pale. “We have to destroy it.”

  “Wait,” Rory said. “We can’t destroy it. We gotta give it to Pavel.”

  Another silence fell at the table, loaded and uncomfortable.

  Rory looked around at the others. “The Ivanovs are coming back from Hyde Park today, aren’t they? So we get that relic and we give it to Pavel.” He frowned as no one nodded. “Right?”

  “Rory,” Jade began gently. “Do you understand what this relic might be able to do? If the original paranormal had, say, Baron Zeppler’s power of telepathy, the relic would now give the holder the power to read the minds of an entire audience. Think of what a despot could do with that kind of power. Think what could happen if it fell into the wrong hands.”

  “Yeah, but what about Pav? We might be able to use it to get his magic under control, like we did for Gwen. If I scried it, I could see how to unlock it...”

  Rory trailed off, because the faces around the table were grim. Bile rose in his throat, and on the ceiling, the ring began to clink again. “Ace,” he said, a little desperately. “C’mon.”

  Arthur’s mouth was set in a thin line. “We can’t. Not a relic full of violation magic.”

  “Jade—Zhang—”

  But they were shaking their heads too. Rory jumped to his feet. “You don’t understand,” he said, volume rising as the ring’s insistent clinking came faster and louder. “None of you have been trapped in your magic, you don’t know what it’s like—”

  “You don’t understand.” Arthur had gotten to his feet too. “Because you’ve never seen war.”

  Rory blanched. “That’s not—Pavel’s not some power-hungry dictator, he’s a sweet fella who needs our help—”

  “We all want to help Pavel,” Zhang said sympathetically. “But the pomander put you in a vision and Arthur was knocked unconscious. Whatever magic is in there, it’s dangerous.”

  Rory flinched. “But maybe I can see a way to make it safe—”

  “Or see a way to give Pavel the power to start another war,” said Arthur.

  “He’s trapped in his magic because he was tortured!” Rory snapped. “He was taken during war and stuck in a prison cell and tortured until he was forced to do magic to escape. Maybe you were just some fancy officer, Ace, but can’t you find some sympathy for that?”

  Arthur’s expression went instantly, unnaturally still. Jade and Zhang exchanged a look. “Rory,” Zhang started.

  “I need to get back to the wedding.” Arthur was moving for the door.

  Rory’s stomach dropped. Arthur’s expression was still blank, his body tense, like Rory’s words had cut him deep. “You just got here—”

  “I have to get my tux. I have to—I’m sorry. I have to go.” Arthur yanked open the door and fled the library.

  Rory cursed in Italian. “Ace, come back.” He started after Arthur.

  “Rory, wait.”

  The fear in Jade’s voice stopped him in his tracks. Rory turned, and saw Jade with her hands out, expression strained, and Zhang staring up in horror.

  He covered his mouth. “Oh no.”

  The ring had cracked the ceiling.

  “I’m holding it back as much as I can.” Jade had to bite the words out. “But I can’t move. If I let go, it’s going to go right up into the restaurant.”

  The restaurant now full of the lunch crowd. The ring pushed up a little harder, and the ceiling cracks traveled farther, to the base of the chandelier. Rory’s stomach plummeted, his mind seeing the arcing splits in ice before it shattered.

  He looked around desperately, and spotted something up high on the bookshelf closest to Jade. “Pavel’s knockout potion,” he said hoarsely. “Use it on me.”

  “I tried to tell you earlier, it won’t work.” Zhang gestured at the ceiling. “You have so much magic now that a chained tempest is responding to your emotions. You’ll shrug off a knockout potion like it’s nothing.” He moved toward the door. “Let me get Arthur—”

  “No!” Rory’s shout stopped Zhang in his short. “I don’t want Ace anywhere near this magic. I don’t want him hurt. I gotta go, put some distance between me and the ring.”

  “No,” Jade bit out. Her eyes never left the sphere as it pushed at the ceiling. Her hands were trembling.

  “We don’t know where Hyde and the other paranormals are,” said Zhang. “If they have the pomander relic, they absolutely cannot have you too.”

  “They don’t even know I exist!” Rory started for the door. “They’re not gonna come looking for me. You got a whole restaurant full of people above the ring, I need to go until I calm down—wait, Zhang, what’re you doing?”

  Zhang was climbing up on the table. “Maybe Jade and I together are enough. If I can just get it down, get it in something lead—” He reached for the sphere.

  Rory’s stomach turned over. What if the ring unleashed the wind right on his friend? “No, don’t touch it—”

  As panic seized Rory, the brass sphere whipped across the room, away from Zhang’s outstretched fingers. The gust was enough to send Jade’s hat flying and make Rory’s clothes flap.

  It zipped across the room—and smashed straight into the bookshelf closest to Jade, right through the shelf holding the vials of Pavel’s potions.

  The shelf collapsed, the glass vials falling to the polished wood floor and shattering. Blue smoke rushed out of the vials like a searching fog, heading for both Jade and Zhang like snakes made of clouds.

  “Oh no,” said Rory, covering his mouth as Zhang crumpled to the ground. “Jade—”

  But Jade’s eyelashes were fluttering too, as the blue fog curled around her. She was going to faint, and then there would be nothing to hold back the ring.

  “I’m so sorry.” Rory stumbled for the door, through the fog, which hovered close but never touched him. “I’m putting everyone in danger. I can’t be close to the ring.”

  Jade held out her hand, but he could see her eyes closing. “Wait, Rory—”

  Rory couldn’t.

  Arthur was nowhere to be seen as Rory sprinted up the stairs. He skipped the restaurant, cutting through the building’s small lobby and out to the curb. “Taxi!”

  He jumped in the cab that pulled up. “Hell’s Kitchen,” he said, curling up in a ball on the seat, unable to stop himself from reaching for his link to ground himself—only to find it still too faint, and growing fainter as the taxi sped off and Arthur got farther away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Arthur’s tailor, Mr. Dannenburg, had his haberdashery not far from Chinatown. Arthur dressed at his shop, where the assistants could fuss over the lines of the white vest and shirt, could pick out their preferred pair of white gloves.

  Gwen’s relic amulet was missing. Hyde was somewhere in New York, with more blood on his hands, and with allies and a pomander relic full of violation magic. He’d left Jade, Zhang, and Rory to deal with the mess so he could be fitted in a tuxedo so he could perform like a well-socialized monkey, because John’s Senate dreams could be shattered if Arthur stood up a titled Englishman at the governor’s son’s wedding.

  He thought he might go mad.

  As Arthur stood on the platform as an assistant tied his white bow tie, he watched Mr. Dannenburg over at the small display of hats. Mr. Dannenburg was selecting a top hat for Arthur, but Arthur’s gaze was drawn to the lone casual cap. It was a beautiful brown houndstooth that would match Rory’s eyes, in the newsboy style that was absurdly cute on top of Rory’s curls.

  It looked like something Rory would like.

  Mr. Dannenburg, a kind-faced older gentleman whose English was softened by his German accent, noticed Arthur’s hesitation.
“Something else, Mr. Kenzie?”

  Was he really hat shopping? Now? But in his mess of emotions was guilt. He shouldn’t have left Rory like he had. Rory would never have thrown the barb he had if he’d had any idea how sharp it really was. He wouldn’t have known why his words had cut so deep, and he’d only lashed out because Arthur had hurt him first, because Arthur had said Rory couldn’t understand war when Rory understood Arthur better than anyone else ever had.

  He glanced at the cap again.

  Oh, hell. It wasn’t like Rory had to keep it if he didn’t want it.

  * * *

  Rory bit his nails the entire ride to Hell’s Kitchen, his stomach churning. He hadn’t known where else to go but home. He’d come too close to hurting a restaurant full of people and then gone and knocked out two of the people who might actually be able to find Hyde and Shelley. Could he find them on his own? They didn’t know about him; maybe they wouldn’t see him coming. But how was he gonna find them when he couldn’t see them with magic? And what was he gonna do if he did?

  His fears were mixed up with anger too, because what did Arthur, Jade, and Zhang know about getting trapped in magic? Maybe they’d seen war, but so had Pavel, and he deserved better than to be stuck finding alchemy in everything he touched.

  But Arthur’s expression haunted Rory, the unnatural rigidity, like Rory had struck a terrible blow with his words.

  He was taken during war and stuck in a prison cell and tortured until he was forced to do magic to escape. Maybe you were just some fancy officer, Ace, but can’t you find some sympathy for that?

  Rory gritted his teeth and looked out the window. Arthur had that medal hidden in a trunk; maybe the war had been worse for him than he let on. That would be about right, Arthur thinking he had to shelter Rory from all the hard truths the world had.

  But he wasn’t sure how long he could really stay mad when Arthur had done it because he wanted to protect Rory from the bad stuff he’d been through.

  The taxi let Rory out on the gray, snow-spotted sidewalk in front of his building, a five-story, soot-stained row house with clotheslines strung between the neighboring house’s fire escape. A shifty-eyed white man was smoking on the front steps of the house next door, his gaze following Rory for an uncomfortably long moment before he snorted and looked away, likely because Rory rightly didn’t look like a fella with a nickel in his pocket to steal.

  Rory started up the steps to his own building. He’d get into his room and calm down, figure out what the hell he could do without Arthur, Jade, or Zhang.

  Somewhere on the upper floors, a couple was fighting. Rory hesitated, but he only heard shouting, not blows or kids crying, so he let it alone and trudged up the rest of the way, pausing only to shake the shoulder of the large white man snoring against the rail. “Frankie, go inside. It’s freezing and you reek of gin. Bulls are gonna catch you.”

  Frank only grunted. “Scram.” He turned his shoulder and huddled into his coat.

  Rory sighed and went inside. There was a small crowd in the cramped front room, playing cards around the one unbalanced table. Rory slunk past them, but not before Miss O’Connell saw him.

  “Hey! Rory!” She managed the building for some prick on Fifth Avenue, and like Mrs. Brodigan, her gray hair still had its original red mixed in. Unlike Mrs. Brodigan, she had a perpetual sour frown. “Rent’s almost due.”

  Rory ducked his head. “I’m gonna have it, Miss O.”

  “It’s extra this month.”

  Rory stopped in his tracks. “What? Why?”

  “You know there’re no visitors.”

  “What visitors?” he demanded.

  “The man with the accent and nice coat. I saw him coming out your room not an hour ago.”

  Ace? Rory’s anger was gone as he pushed past the last of the crowd and tore up the stairs as fast as he could, cresting the third-floor landing with almost a jump. Did Ace come to see me, did he come to make up—?

  But he froze in the hall, his brain finally catching up to his heart. How could Arthur have beaten him here? He knew Arthur wasn’t here: if he reached for him now, he could feel Arthur to the southeast of Hell’s Kitchen, Midtown maybe.

  His heart began to pound.

  Who the hell had been in his room?

  He approached the door on silent feet. He’d never replaced the flimsy lock Arthur had picked those weeks ago. It wasn’t much security, but Rory didn’t have much to steal.

  The door looked as it always had. But instead of reaching for the knob and going inside, Rory put his palm flat on the door and let his magic get there first.

  The hall of Rory’s boardinghouse is empty. Frankie is in his room, singing loud and off-key, probably zozzled on the cheap bathtub gin Abe is making on the fourth floor.

  The hall looks as it always has: narrow, dark, the floor scuffed and the walls dirty.

  Then—it flickers, like a moving picture where the film comes off the reel.

  It flickers again.

  And then, just as with Grand Central Station, there’s nothing to see.

  Rory pulled himself out of the vision and stumbled backward, away from the door.

  The paranormals had been here. They’d been at his door, in his room, and he couldn’t see what they’d done because his magic couldn’t see those minutes of history.

  Rory didn’t wait to see if he could learn more, or if anyone was coming back. Because if the paranormals knew enough to come here, they might know enough to keep on looking for Rory.

  And they might know to look for Rory at the antiques shop, where Lizbeth Meyers would be home from school on Saturday and hoping to find Rory for jacks.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The organ had started by the time Arthur was hurrying inside the stunning, cavernous St. Patrick’s Cathedral at 50th and Fifth Avenue, the new cap for Rory in a hatbox tucked under his arm. He gave the cap and his own overcoat and top hat to the coat check, and ducked his head as he walked quickly up the right aisle, gaze on the rows of graceful white arches and careful not to meet any of his family’s eyes as he slid into pew twenty.

  Where he had more space than anticipated.

  As the music rung off the soaring ceiling and stained glass, Arthur glanced down the dark wooden pew. Five red-eyed English gentlemen, shaking off the last of a night at the Magnolia and the shocking murder of one of their party’s valet; three English ladies, perfectly coifed, and if they’d gotten up to anything illegal the night before, they were hiding it better than the gents.

  But no Wesley.

  Arthur’s stomach turned.

  Soft cooing came from the seated crowd as two adorable children came down the aisle in wedding clothes. The little girl was perhaps four, like Harry’s twin girls, gleefully tossing huge, haphazard clumps of flower petals every few feet with no care for aesthetics. Rory would have been smiling.

  Wesley would have rolled his eyes at her lack of decorum, if he’d even bothered to notice her. If he’d been here at all.

  As the children passed, Arthur sat back in his pew with a frown. What was he doing here? He should have been with Jade, Zhang, and Rory, tracking relics and paranormals, not wasting his time here where no one was glad to see him, just angry if he didn’t show up.

  The organ increased in volume, more of the wedding party walking down the aisle. Arthur stared blankly forward, not letting his turmoil show on his face. It was possible that Wesley had simply been loath to show his face after kissing Arthur at the Waldorf, but Wesley finding a shred of shame would be a first. So why was he missing?

  He wanted to storm from the church; to apologize to Rory for running off like a coward, to find Hyde, to figure out where Wesley had gone. But the governor was unlikely to be impressed if Arthur pushed his way out of a crowded church in the middle of his son’s wedding procession. The guests wouldn’t be impressed e
ither, and Arthur’s family would have to bear the brunt of his rudeness.

  Could Wesley have decided to investigate the death of his valet a little more closely and gotten in trouble? Arthur’s frown deepened, but his gut told him no. He was certain Wesley knew nothing of magic: the man laced every other sentence with backhanded insults without bothering to hide it; secretive and duplicitous he was not. Maybe he’d decided he just didn’t feel like attending the wedding; a lord could do what he liked and people would make his excuses. Maybe he was angry at Arthur and sulking in his hotel room. Maybe Arthur should just be glad he didn’t have to face Wesley fresh from a fight with Rory.

  Arthur closed his eyes, trying to find an inch of private mental space in the packed church. How were he and Rory ever going to make it work if they couldn’t disagree without ending up on different sides of Manhattan? How much longer did he have to perform for society before he could try to save that same society from magic they didn’t even know about?

  And hang it all, where was Wesley?

  * * *

  Rory’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with the lock on the side door of the antiques shop. The front door was still shut tight, the lights off, and he was praying it was as deserted as it looked.

  Let the shop be empty. Let Mrs. B be enjoying her day off. Let Lizbeth be upstairs, safe with her mom.

  He inched the side door open, hearing nothing from within the shop. “Hello?” He stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. “Lizzy? Mrs. B?”

  The shop was still, the dim light of a winter afternoon slanting through the window to hit the antiques on the shelves, causing them to cast strange shadows. Upstairs, footsteps moved around the Meyerses’ apartment.

  Rory’s sneakers were nearly silent on the wooden floor as he walked to the back of the shop and poked his head around the pocket door to find the office empty too.

  He let out a quiet breath of relief. And now he’d catch the first train outta town. If Hyde and Shelley and whoever was making his magic wonky knew about him, they’d follow, and stay far away from Lizbeth and Mrs. Brodigan, far away from Arthur and Jade and Zhang and Rory’s stupid mistakes.