Starcrossed

by Allie Therin

  He strode hurriedly over, catching Edgar just as he was scurrying away from the buffet. “Mr. Barnes, how are you?”

  Edgar hunched as he glanced Arthur’s way. “Kenzie.” His thin lips curled in a sneer as he didn’t offer his hand. “Good to see you.” It sounded like a lie.

  “And you, though I’m surprised to see you so far north of the city,” Arthur said easily. “What brings you up?”

  Edgar’s eyes darted to John, who had already moved on from Stevens and was now charming a widow Arthur knew had even more money than his parents. “I go where my clients need me,” he said, his lip curling again on the word client. He couldn’t mean John; none of the Kenzies were clients of Edgar’s.

  Before Arthur could ask, Edgar added, “Josephine’s been talking about you.” His gaze darted across the width of Arthur’s shoulders and briefly down his body. “You and your suits.”

  Arthur barely managed not to roll his eyes. Jealous husbands were everywhere at these things, most of them happy to letch after their secretaries but unable to tolerate the same from their wives. “And how is your lovely wife?” he said innocently. “I haven’t seen her since everyone was celebrating the mayor’s inauguration.”

  Edgar blanched like he’d seen a ghost. “Were you there too?” He wet his lips, then stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that just barely cut over the crowd. “At the gala? The night Luther Mansfield was murdered?”

  * * *

  The ring box was heavy in Rory’s pocket as he picked his way down the steep, tree-covered hill. It was colder than he’d expected as the wind cut over the Hudson River, carrying specks of ice through the air and right through the holes in his coat. The trees were taller and grown in thicker than they looked from the estate, their bare branches shadowing what little light was left in the day.

  Rory took a careful step over a rock only to put his foot down on a root. He bit back a yelp as his foot slipped, grabbing the tree’s trunk. He reflexively reached for the small box in his pants pocket to make sure it hadn’t slipped out and then yanked his hand away just before he made contact. He didn’t need icy fingers stinging from lead too.

  He steadied himself, holding on to trees with his bare hands as he maneuvered downhill around patches of ice and frozen mud under white powder. It wasn’t anything like Central Park, where he could always hear the city when he listened. Here, the forest was muffled like he had blankets over his head. There were no leaves to rustle in the wind, nothing to hear but the soft crunch of snow beneath his sneakers and bickering cardinals high in the trees.

  It was all just a little too quiet and he itched to turn around and go back to the warm luxury of Harry’s mansion. He made himself keep going. He wasn’t planning to use the ring, just scry it, but things could always go sideways. If the wind came and went knocking trees over when he was lost in a vision, he’d end up squashed.

  Or worse, the wind might blow too hard on Harry’s house. Rory wasn’t ever gonna let that happen—he was gonna find an open space as far away from Harry’s house as he could get. You’re not gonna open up that box anywhere near the kids, he promised himself. You gotta scry it for Pavel, but you’re gonna get far away, far enough that Ellie, Ev, and little Bobby are safe.

  But it didn’t look like there were open spaces in the woods along the Hudson. Rory made it all the way down the hill, to the edge of the river, without seeing so much as a decent clearing. He paused, squinting behind his glasses as he took in the Hudson River. It was a lot more impressive up close: blocks wide, and frozen all the way across like a huge version of the Central Park Lake.

  Arthur had said it was a half mile to the other side, and that the river was frozen solid enough the ice dealers were still driving across. It looked plenty solid now. But Arthur’d also said there wasn’t anything across the river but more trees.

  In fact, the only open space around looked like out on the frozen Hudson itself.

  Rory pursed his lips. It didn’t seem like a great idea, wandering out onto the ice by himself. But there weren’t any other patches without trees and he wasn’t stupid enough to think he might not blow everything around him down while scrying.

  The lead-lined ring box was dragging his pocket down, pulling at his suspenders. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the magic link in him that would lead him out of any vision and to Arthur. He didn’t need the ring.

  Pavel did.

  Gingerly, Rory took one step out onto the frozen river. His foot slipped a bit, but the ice was solid as sidewalk under his sneaker and held him easily. He looked across the expanse of the river again, took a breath, and then carefully began to make his way out onto the ice.

  Chapter Five

  So you were there too? At the gala? The night Luther Mansfield was murdered?

  For an instant, the memory of the moment of Mansfield’s death assaulted Arthur’s mind, the bright red of his blood, the gurgling noise he’d made as the paralysis began, the shock of his killer.

  Arthur shoved the memory back into the corner of his mind, to the vault where he compartmentalized all the deaths and horrors he’d seen. He let numbness ice out any feelings and kept his face carefully neutral because in the here and now, he had to consider John’s reputation. Mansfield’s politics had been in direct opposition to the Kenzies’, and Arthur should not have shown his face in Mansfield’s home. He wouldn’t have, if the fate of Manhattan hadn’t literally been in the balance.

  “I dropped by to see if the old man was going to break out any of that pre-Prohibition liquor,” he said, in his most bored party voice. “He didn’t, so I left. Terrible tragedy, most shocking. Were you two close?”

  Edgar glanced around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I was his lawyer.”

  Arthur straightened. “You must be busy administrating the estate, then,” he said, keeping his voice casual.

  “Yes. A highly confidential job,” Edgar said primly. “I’m afraid I can’t share gossip.”

  Arthur managed not to roll his eyes. “I simply heard he was quite the collector,” he pressed.

  Edgar’s expression twitched. “Museum-worthy,” he admitted, and wet his lips. “I used to think his taste was just—eccentric. But. Well.” He stopped speaking, his gaze darting around the room instead, twitchy as a mouse in an open field.

  “I always suspected he didn’t keep his most valuable things in the house itself,” Arthur said. “Was he hiding anything interesting under the bed? Locked away in a safe-deposit box, perhaps?”

  Edgar shuddered. He moved even closer, close enough that Arthur could see his hair was limp because Edgar was sweating. “You have a reputation, you know,” he suddenly said, instead of giving an answer. “Everyone says you’re well traveled. Morocco, Constantinople, Barcelona.”

  Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I’m not certain what my itineraries have to do with Luther Mansfield’s penchant for art.”

  “You’re said to be a man who likes to see the world. And I wonder—” Edgar hesitated. “Have you ever—seen something you can’t explain? Or—someone?”

  Arthur’s gut twisted. “Christ, who can explain anything after a night in Amsterdam?” he said carelessly.

  “I’m not talking about that sort of thing,” Edgar hissed. “I mean things that shouldn’t be possible. People who aren’t safe, who ought to be locked away from the rest of us.”

  He couldn’t mean—Edgar Barnes couldn’t possibly know about magic, could he? “Barnes old fellow, have you managed to find something to drink? Don’t hold out on me,” Arthur said, with a veneer of pleasantry, like his hackles weren’t up at the idea that Barnes could be talking about Jade or Rory.

  Edgar made an ugly face. “I’m not drunk,” he spat. “Never mind, forget I said anything. Clearly I should have kept the conversation to football and suits.” He tacked a sneer on the end of the sentence that was just enough of a
smile to make the jab defendable as a joke, then turned in the direction of the punch.

  Arthur took a step after Edgar, then hesitated. He glanced across the room, where John had his arm amiably slung over the shorter Harry’s shoulders. Arthur had wanted to find someone who knew about the estate, not the supernatural. If there was a line Arthur would not cross, it was involving his non-magic family in the dangers of the magic world.

  Edgar was a well-connected partner in an established Manhattan law firm; Arthur could find him again easily enough in the city. For the moment, he let Edgar go, and instead set his half-empty glass on the closest table and went in search of a phone.

  * * *

  It was so much colder out on the ice.

  Rory was shivering outright by the time he made it about a third of the way across the frozen Hudson. Behind him, Harry’s mansion had disappeared somewhere into the trees. If he squinted across the river, he could see a couple of big houses or churches on cleared areas in the forest. There was no one in eyesight, and out on the ice there was no birdsong, just the whistling of the wind. So far from the hustle and bustle of the cities Rory’d always lived in.

  It was strange, being so utterly alone. It put prickles on Rory’s skin that had nothing to do with the cold.

  But this might be his only chance to help Pavel, and alone was exactly what he needed to be. He carefully knelt on the thick ice and reached into his pocket. The lead stung like hell, but with a wince, he pulled out the ring box and quickly set it on the ice in front of him. He shook out his hand with a curse, eyes on the box, jet-black against the ice.

  He closed his eyes and reached inside for the link to Arthur. This far away, he couldn’t place Arthur’s exact location, but the link was there, like a trail that led out of the woods, or looking on the horizon and seeing the lighthouse in the distance.

  He’d be okay. With the link, he could find his way back from any vision.

  Without letting himself think any further, he gritted his teeth against the needles on his fingers and opened the box with a quick jerk.

  The ring glinted in the gray light, a gold band inlaid with a white stone and other jewels probably worth more than Rory’s whole block in Hell’s Kitchen. But that crushing sensation he’d felt the first time he’d opened the box was absent. It just looked like a ring.

  And now, somehow, it was his ring.

  Taking a breath, he picked up the ring in his hand. He held it in his fingers, but he was fine. No visions, no sudden scrying. He was in control. With a surprised, happy huff, he slid it onto his fourth finger on his left hand. Was it magic that it fit perfectly?

  Rory got to his feet, the knees of his trousers damp from the ice. He held his hands in front of him. With his eyes on the glint of gold on that fourth finger, he reached for his link again and there it was, a tether to the present even with the ring on. A lifeline that let him scry deep as he wanted into history and come back again. Back to Arthur.

  Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he closed his eyes.

  Show me how to give it to another paranormal. Show me how to bind it to Pavel instead.

  He reached back through the ring’s history.

  The pale man is surrounded by armored men with swords and maces. His hands are bound in front of him, his fingers bare.

  A large man in knight’s armor steps forward. His helm is topped with a giant feather and he has one gauntlet off, a black ring box in his palm. He lifts his visor, revealing a thick mustache and beard, and sneers at the pale man. “Did you truly think Inquisitor de León would not find you? He’ll find you all. Your trinkets too.”

  “Trinket.” The pale man laughs. “Your greed betrays you. You want the ring’s power. You’d betray your precious Inquisitor for the first gust of wind.”

  The knight’s nostrils flare. “You’re mad,” he says, though his voice isn’t as sure.

  “And you lust in vain.” The pale man’s lip curls. “The ring will never work for you. Not while I live.”

  The knight narrows his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing you can die.”

  “My death will not bring you what you crave. You cannot master the ring without its secrets.” The pale man bares his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “And I will take those secrets to the grave.”

  The bearded knight clenches his jaw. “Diablo,” he spits out. “Devil. Witch.” He pulls the ring box tight to his chest. “Mátalo,” he says to one of the other knights. “Kill him.”

  The knight raises his mace...

  * * *

  Rory gasped, yanking himself back to the present. “No, no, no,” he said, teeth clenched. “There must be a way. There has to be a way to give it to Pavel besides killing me, come on.”

  Frustration rose inside him, hot in his chest, and he clenched his fists. “Come on,” he snapped out, more loudly, both fists coming down through the air—

  And that was when he heard the distant, high-pitched whistle.

  * * *

  The phone Arthur had found was in a small office next to the upstairs lavatories. He held the phone receiver even more tightly against his ear to hear Jade’s voice over the din of the party down the hall as she said, “You think Mansfield’s lawyer was implying something about magic?”

  “I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “But we know what kind of collection Luther Mansfield really had.”

  “And we know there’s a missing lodestone that may have been in Bowery Bank,” said Jade. “If it was special enough to keep in a safe-deposit box, maybe it was special enough for special instructions.”

  “Instructions like, on the event of my death, get the lodestone immediately?” Arthur pursed his lips. “Well, Edgar was certainly on edge.”

  “I suppose he could be on edge simply because his client was murdered in cold blood. That’s reason enough for most.”

  “I suppose,” he said slowly. “Unless something else has unsettled him. Or someone.”

  “We can’t forget Baron Zeppler,” said Jade. “Zeppler and three of his operatives were supposed to come to America for an amulet. He’s likely not thrilled he had to give that up to avoid Gwen. Perhaps he’s come calling to make another purchase.”

  Arthur’s stomach lurched. “I’m coming back to the city tomorrow,” he said firmly. “I’ll do some investi—wait.” He stopped himself, remembering his other party conversation. He tried to not huff with frustration. “I beg your pardon. I’ll come back, do my single promised meeting with John, then help investigate.”

  “More family obligations?” Jade’s tone was sympathetic, perhaps wryly amused.

  “There are a lot of expectations in America,” he said ruefully.

  John’s question, however, had been completely unexpected.

  Do you still dream of the war?

  For a split second, the dream tried to surge, the room, the eyes, the teeth. Arthur viciously buried it, shaking his head to clear it as he forced himself to concentrate on Jade’s words.

  “It’s all right, Ace, your family needs you too,” she was saying, with understanding. “I’m sure Rory will help us.”

  Arthur’s spine stiffened. “If there’s any chance whatsoever of Zeppler’s hand in this, it would be dangerous for Rory to stay with us,” he said, because as much as he’d been looking forward to having Rory alone in his flat again, he wanted Rory safe most of all. “Perhaps we should see if Rory will bunker down in Montreal for a bit?”

  She snorted delicately. “Good luck suggesting that. Rory will put you in your place faster than you can ask where’s that breeze coming from?”

  Despite everything, Arthur grinned. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “Rory needs the ring to call the wind, and we’ve left that in Manhattan, locked tight in my safe.”

  * * *

  Rory stared north in horror as the high-pitched whistle echoed off the hills. “No,” he said out l
oud. “No no no—”

  On the hills on either side of the Hudson River, the bare trees lining the hills were already swaying and creaking. The temperature was dropping so fast Rory could feel it.

  There were houses on the hilltops, people everywhere, kids everywhere—

  The whistling became louder as the wind approached like rushing water from a broken dam. Rory had accidentally called his hounds and someone was gonna get hurt—

  “Down,” he yelped, in desperation, throwing his hands out and down, toward the ice.

  The wind obeyed.

  It rammed into the ice at Rory’s feet with the force of a giant’s hammer striking an anvil. The frozen river vibrated like a tuning fork, knocking his legs out from under him. His head smacked against the solid river, and he swore, clutching at his head as his eyes watered with the wind and pain.

  Then he heard the crack.

  Choking panic shot up his throat. He rolled to his stomach and staggered to his feet just in time to see cracks arcing across the surface of the ice like a glass window hit with a rock.

  “Oh shit,” he whispered, just as the ice at his feet split apart.

  Rory turned and sprinted for the bank on Harry’s side of the river, his sneakers slipping and sliding on the ice. But the ice split right in front of him. He yelped in fear and scrambled to turn around, staggering toward the opposite bank.

  Don’t look back, don’t look back.

  He ran as hard as he could as the ice around him broke with heart-stopping snaps.

  He was gasping for air as the opposite bank came into view. There was a louder snap, too close. Pulse pounding in his throat, arms flailing, he prayed for the snow-covered ground and leapt, just as the ice beneath his feet split.