Starcrossed

by Allie Therin

  As if in response, the compass needle twitched.

  A spark leapt through Arthur. Of course. The compass was tracking Rory—because Rory was alive to track. And if he wasn’t in the river, then—

  “Christ,” Arthur whispered. “Is he on the other side?”

  The closest bridge a car could cross was forty miles south. Harry’s boats were at the marina for winter and none of the charter boats would be running, not with the ice freshly shattered, not this time of night. He could attempt the half-mile swim through ice water at night, or run north and hope to find a crossing point where the ice was still intact, but both were a gamble, and Rory might not have that time.

  But he did have a Hail Mary.

  Snow dotted his coat as he pulled the vial out of his pocket and out of its handkerchief. It glowed brilliantly orange under the flashlight, the exact same shade as the potion that had teleported Gwen and Ellis away from Coney Island.

  It was almost certainly that potion.

  Probably that potion, at least.

  Arthur tightened his jaw. He agreed with Sasha; it wouldn’t hurt him or Pavel wouldn’t have given it to him, of that much he was certain. But if it was a teleportation potion, could it get him to the opposite bank? Or what if it took him much farther, like Manhattan? Or Jersey, or Christ, Pennsylvania? Pavel wouldn’t have given it to him if it was going to send him to Pennsylvania, would he?

  Pavel had tapped his own temple when he’d given the potion to Arthur, like he’d been telling Arthur to concentrate. Pocketing the compass in the giant coat, Arthur tucked the flashlight under his armpit. His hand found the cork stoppering the vial. With the Hudson River on his right, he squeezed his eyes shut, and, holding the image of the opposite bank in his mind as steady as he could, he yanked the stopper out.

  A bright scent hit his nose, fresh citrus, and then the ground beneath his feet fell away like an elevator that had dropped. He was weightless, spinning like a barrel roll with a flyboy—

  Then the ground rematerialized so abruptly he stumbled. He barely caught his feet beneath him before he fell, opening his eyes to find himself on solid ground, the Hudson River lapping at the bank on his left.

  “Ugh.” He bent at the waist, breathing icy air through his nose as an unnatural nausea rolled through him. “I don’t need to do that again.”

  When the urge to vomit finally eased, he straightened and held up the compass beneath the flashlight’s beam.

  It was still pointing west—which was now away from the Hudson.

  He’s not in the river. Arthur sent up a deep shout of thanks to the universe as giddy relief swept him. Wherever the blazes he’s gotten to, he’s not in the river.

  Not that it meant Rory was safe. He could be injured, attacked by a wild animal, or worse. But at least they were on the same side of the Hudson.

  He followed the compass point up the hill into the dark, thick trees, mind scrambling to remember what was across from Harry’s mansion besides woods. The hamlet of West Park? The occasional estate? The main road was Route 10 now and came quite close to the river in places, close enough you could see the Hudson from the car. If Rory had made his way to the road, would he know where he was? Would he know to follow it, to hope for a passing car or a home with a phone—

  “Arthur...”

  The voice was distant but unmistakable. “Teddy!” Arthur scrambled forward, snapping branches in his path. “Teddy, where are you?”

  “Over here—Ace—”

  Arthur shoved through a grouping of trees, flashlight beam swiping back and forth—

  And there was Rory, his right foot off the ground, holding himself heavily upright with his arms around a tree trunk. His face was lit with joy. “Arthur.”

  Arthur grabbed for Rory, catching him just as Rory pushed off the tree and crashed into his chest. Arthur pulled him into his arms, the flashlight still clenched in his fist, its bright beam lighting a streak through the woods behind Rory’s back. “Thank heavens. How did you know to call for me?”

  “Felt you getting closer through the link.” Rory’s words muffled against Arthur’s fur coat as he burrowed into his chest. “Best thing I ever felt.” He clung to Arthur tightly. “How’d you find me? How’d you get across the river? It was like a flutter in the link, then you were here.”

  “An enchanted compass and an extra trick from our resident miracle-maker, Pavel. But a one-way trip, I’m afraid,” Arthur admitted. “We can’t get back that way.”

  “And you came for me anyway?” It came out small, and Rory was shaking against him, from cold or emotion or both.

  Arthur tightened his arms around him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I didn’t think you’d notice in the first place,” Rory said guilelessly, and Arthur felt a pulse of guilt. “You got better things to do than wonder where I went—”

  “I really don’t,” Arthur said, with feeling, pulling him even closer. “What the devil happened?”

  “Came down wrong on my ankle when I hit the bank.”

  “But how did you end up on the west side of the Hudson?”

  Rory mumbled something into Arthur’s chest.

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  Still hiding his face against Arthur’s chest, Rory very slowly raised his left hand up, in front of Arthur’s eyes.

  It took Arthur a moment to realize what the flash of gold was.

  “You brought the ring?”

  Rory winced.

  “How?” Arthur demanded. “You said no one should be King of the Wind, you wanted it put away where you couldn’t use it so we locked that ring back into the safe and I changed the combina—oh, you didn’t.”

  Rory glanced up, eyes big behind his glasses, lower lip caught in his teeth. “I’m not saying you don’t have a reason to kill me, but if you’re gonna do it, can I kiss you before I die?”

  “You utter shit,” Arthur said, even as he pulled Rory up for a kiss.

  It’d been too many days since they’d kissed. Rory’s lips were soft but ice cold, the hands grabbing for Arthur’s face as chilled as snow. “I’m so stupid, Ace,” he said, between breaths. “I’m so stupid, but you came for me anyway.”

  Arthur would have kissed him forever, except Rory was still shivering in his arms. Arthur broke the kiss long enough to pull off Harry’s stolen hunting cap and tug it down over Rory’s curls. “You lost your cap,” he said, carefully arranging the fur-lined flaps over Rory’s ears.

  “Somewhere on the river.” Rory’s eyelashes fluttered. “Least I kept my glasses—geez, that’s nice.”

  Arthur tucked the flashlight under his arm. “But why did you bring the ring?” he asked, as he bit the middle finger of his right glove.

  “I kept having these dreams about that tidal wave and the wind and the thought of leaving it behind was making my skin crawl—what’re you doing? I’m not taking your gloves—”

  “You really thought I wouldn’t understand bad dreams after something like Coney Island? You thought you couldn’t tell me? And the hell you’re not taking these gloves. You’re a lot closer to frostbite than I am.”

  “I was gonna tell you but I didn’t get a chance. And you’re making an elephant out of a fly, I never wear gloves and you’ll be cold now—”

  “How about you pretend I’m an ex-soldier who knows my own limits?” Arthur bit out. “One who’s seen what exposure can do to a man and will do whatever necessary to spare you that fate?”

  It came out raw, bad memories and anxiety making the words too honest.

  But Rory didn’t throw it back. “Oh.” He worried his lip with his teeth again, then offered Arthur a rueful smile that was sweeter than it had any right to be. “King of the Wind shoulda been King of Idiots, huh? Maybe I oughta let you make all the calls tonight.”

  Arthur let out a breath. “Maybe I ought
to have a record of you saying that,” he muttered. “I’ll play it every time you argue.” He passed the gloves to Rory, who pulled them on quickly enough that Arthur knew his hands were hurting. He shed his coat next and draped it around Rory’s before the other man could form an argument. “I will take the coat back when I have to.” Bent so their eyes were level, he added, “But wear it until you’ve warmed up. Per favore, Teddy, please. For me.”

  “Aw geez.” Rory pulled the too-big coat tighter around him, his voice gruff. “You know I’d hang another moon in the sky for you.”

  Arthur broke into a smile. “Thank you. Now hold the flashlight while I look at that ankle.”

  Rory’s sneakers were soaked, the laces wet and the ragged knots pulled too tight. But Arthur knelt on the snowy dirt and worked at them until he had Rory’s wet shoe off. The flashlight on the ankle, revealing angry red skin and swelling around the bone. He ran his finger over the area as lightly as he could, but Rory still hissed through his teeth.

  “Can you move your toes? Your foot?” When Rory was able to do so, Arthur asked, “How much weight can you put on it?”

  “A little. Hurts like hell, but I’ve been trying to walk. I figured I’d find the road sooner or later and then maybe a town with a phone.”

  “A fine plan, except for the part where it would take you all night to limp to Highland or Esopus.” Arthur pulled off his scarf. “Well, I think it’s sprained, not broken, which is one thing we have going for us. I’d say ice it, but under the circumstances, you practically have. It’s certainly not as swollen as it could be.”

  He wound the scarf around Rory’s toes and ankle. Rory hunched a bit. “That’s a real nice scarf to put on a foot—”

  “I know you’re not about to argue when you just promised me another moon,” Arthur said, without pausing his wrapping.

  “All right already,” Rory grouched. “I’m shutting up.”

  It wasn’t a great ankle wrap, but at least Rory’s shoe was off and his toes were still covered. Arthur stood and took the flashlight back. The beam caught Rory for a moment, in the hunting cap and giant raccoon coat, and despite his ornery words his expression was vulnerable, a blend of uncertain and grateful. Arthur was sharply reminded of when he’d bandaged Rory’s fingers at the antiques shop, the same look of lost surprise that someone had given enough of a damn to show up when he was in need.

  Arthur couldn’t help it; he leaned down and kissed him, drawing a startled but happy noise. “Incredibly unsporting of you,” he murmured against Rory’s lips, “to be this cute after you made me use magic to find you in a frozen forest.”

  Their noses bumped together. “Cute enough you’re not gonna stay mad at me?” Rory said hopefully.

  “Oh, now you want miracles.” Arthur straightened. “How about you keep groveling by not fighting what’s coming next?”

  Rory wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Arthur said, “but it’s fastest to get out of here if I carry you.”

  Chapter Eight

  It didn’t matter how sexy Arthur’s muscles were; Rory had never daydreamed about being soldier-carried over his shoulders.

  “Did you pick me up like this just ’cause I’m shorter?” he accused.

  “I’ve carried men my own size in this manner. I didn’t think I was carrying you because I was taller; I thought I was carrying you because you decided to crack my safe behind my back and got into a heap of trouble.”

  Arthur’s tone was pointed. Rory tried not to squirm with guilt. “You’re lucky I’m not the bigger one,” he muttered, instead of acknowledging that yeah, that was exactly what he’d done. “I’d pick you up all the time.”

  He heard Arthur snort. “As if I wouldn’t let you do what you like with me,” he said, sending Rory’s mind scattering as a million tempting ideas flooded his brain at once. “But flattering as it is that you seem to believe I could sweep you into my arms and bridal-carry you for miles, this is far easier.”

  Rory shook his head slightly, trying to remember why he was grouching. “It’s humiliating—”

  “Sweetheart, there’s no one around until we find the road. That’s rather our problem. We should hope someone finds us—and hope they are, in fact, a someone, and not someone’s dogs.”

  Rory sighed. But Arthur was right; they were alone in the trees, the Hudson River behind them, the only light coming from the flashlight in Rory’s hand. The snow was still falling with no signs of stopping and Arthur’d given up his giant fur thing for Rory, probably adding twenty pounds of weight to carry uphill and freezing himself in the process. The sooner they got to the road and a phone, the better.

  The coat sure was warm, though.

  “How about you distract yourself by telling me exactly what happened today?” Arthur said. “I leave for one pesky fundraiser lunch and come back to find the Hudson River flowing with you stranded and hurt on the other side.”

  Rory made a face. “I scried the ring.”

  Arthur made a strangled sound. “You scried it—”

  “Back at Coney Island, before the tidal wave, that amulet got Gwen’s magic under control,” Rory said quietly. “And I thought maybe, somewhere in the ring’s past, I’d find the secret of giving it to another paranormal.”

  “Oh.” Arthur’s voice had gone much softer. “Pavel.”

  “Yeah.” Rory stared at the snowflakes, bright white as he caught them with the flashlight’s beam. “Turns out the ring’s mine, ’til death do us part.”

  “And you, what, thought you’d get a bit close for comfort?”

  “That was an accident. I got mad and it triggered the wind.” Rory squeezed his eyes shut. “When I heard it coming, I remembered how I wrecked Coney Island and all I could think about was the kids, Ace, your little nieces and nephew—” He swallowed. “I couldn’t let the wind hit a house, so I panicked and sent it into the ice. I’m so stupid—I coulda destroyed your brother’s house, coulda sent someone else through the ice if anyone’d been out—”

  “And you could have died,” Arthur cut in tersely. “Christ. Fair warning, no amount of cute will change how apocalyptically cross I’m going to be once we’re safe.”

  Rory sighed into Arthur’s shoulder. “How far’s it to a town?”

  “Assuming we’re more or less across from Harry’s place, it’s several miles to Highland. But unless it’s my imagination, the trees are thinning out.”

  Rory squinted ahead. There was a break in the trees coming up. Nerves and hope twisted his stomach. “There are more pads like Harry’s on this side of the Hudson, right? Are we—are we gonna trespass across some millionaire’s lot?”

  “Not millionaires, no.” Arthur came to a stop at the edge of the tree line. “But I might know where we are now.”

  He carefully set Rory on the ground, an arm around his waist to steady him. Beyond the trees, an expansive, snow-covered lawn stretched out in front of them, and up on the hill was a four-story redbrick building with peaked roofs and arches facing the river.

  “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this,” Arthur said awkwardly. “But I know they’ll let us in. And if they have a phone, they’ll let us use it.”

  Rory squinted up at Arthur suspiciously. “They?”

  Arthur pointed across the lawn to the building. “The monks.”

  As Arthur helped him up the hill and then around the side of the monastery, Rory’s stomach was roiling enough to distract him from the ache in his ankle. “I dunno if I should be here, Ace. I got a complicated record with church.”

  Arthur paused. “I told you once I would never let you be locked up again, and I meant it,” he said, quiet and comforting. “And I won’t let you out of my sight here.” He hesitated. “But I also won’t force you. If you truly don’t want
to ask St. Francis for shelter, we’ll keep walking.”

  In the flashlight’s edge, Arthur’s eyes were sincere, like he’d march carrying Rory for miles in the cold so Rory wouldn’t have to face a fear.

  Rory took a breath. “Nah, we can try. But I’m gonna let you do the talking.”

  A short set of stairs led to the front door, sheltered under a small peaked roof that matched the larger peaks at the ends of building. Rory balanced on one foot, leaning hard against the wall as Arthur reached for the knocker. The echo of brass on wood sent shivers down Rory’s spine, and he huddled deeper into Arthur’s coat. He took a deep breath, catching the faint scent of Arthur’s lingering cologne.

  The door opened, revealing a man in long robes, his head bare and a large cross on a chain around his neck.

  Rory balled his fists in Arthur’s gloves.

  “I beg your pardon,” Arthur said, his accent at its poshest and most polished. “But do you have a phone?”

  * * *

  Rory chewed his lower lip as he watched Arthur on the phone.

  “I said, we’re at the St. Francis priory.” Arthur, the phone’s receiver held to his ear, glanced over and gave Rory a reassuring smile before turning away toward the wall and lowering his voice. “I can say it a third time if that makes it easier to believe, Harry.”

  Aw geez. Arthur’d called his brother to bail them out.

  The monastery’s phone was in the guesthouse, in a small office with dark wood floors and redbrick walls. Arthur stood at the desk while Rory sat on the edge of a rickety wooden chair and tried to pretend he wasn’t about to bolt.

  Not that he was going anywhere on this ankle. He curled his hand into a loose fist, the ring hidden under Arthur’s glove, and let Arthur’s quiet, deep voice fade into the background as he sat back in the chair, resting his head against the bricks of the wall with a sigh.

  “That was a troubled sound,” said one of the monks, as he appeared in the doorway with another wooden chair.