by Allie Therin
Rory side-eyed him. “You following me?”
“I thought you were going to stay with us,” Zhang said impatiently. “We don’t know what’s going on. You want to go to Ace’s, fine, but go there. You can sniff Little Italy some other time.”
Rory gave Zhang’s projection a dirty look.
“Geez, buddy, what’d that sidewalk do to you?” said a passing man.
Rory folded his arms, eyes narrowing. Zhang raised his hands innocently. “I’ll leave you alone once you’re on the train.”
“Ohi, compare, vieni qua!” The interruption was from a man with a mustache, who beckoned Rory to the next cart. “Vongole fresche!”
Fresh clams. It’d been years since Rory’d had better Italian food than the Italian-style spaghetti that came in a can. He held up a finger. “Clams on the shell; couple things for Ace’s empty kitchen. I’ll be quick.”
Zhang huffed. “Fine. Hurry up.”
* * *
The puttering of the Cadillac’s engine was loud in the awkward silence. Wesley was looking out the window, at the streets of Midtown.
Arthur cleared his throat. “I can go by Times Square, if you want.”
“This isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m not a tourist. Why waste that time?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur said lightly. “Sometimes people like to see one-of-a-kind sights. Silly me. Forget I asked.”
The car was silent again. Was he really playing chauffer when there were disturbances in the astral plane, unsettling tracks on Coney Island’s beach? He tried to push his frustration away. Wesley knew nothing of magic. It wasn’t his fault.
A few more blocks, and Arthur became aware that Wesley was studying him instead of the passing buildings. “What?” he said snappishly.
Wesley made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just nice to see you haven’t let yourself go.”
“It’s only been six months since you’ve seen me,” Arthur said dryly. “Give it a year, I’m sure I’ll be suitably trollish by then.”
Wesley snorted, sounding unimpressed rather than amused. “Take the compliment, Arthur.”
Compliment.
Rory’s rough voice flitted through Arthur’s mind. No other fella in New York’s half as fine as you in a suit. But you could wear a potato sack and still look like you stepped outta my best dream.
Rory could teach Wesley a thing or two about compliments. “So why did you come all the way to America for a wedding?”
“The bride’s family and mine are acquainted. I thought I might as well. Is your whole litter going to be there? Please tell me you don’t expect me to keep your siblings straight.”
Arthur frankly didn’t expect it of anyone but his parents, but it hadn’t stopped Rory from trying. But of course, Rory wasn’t invited to the governor’s son’s wedding.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” Arthur said flatly. “Not even civility.”
“Christ, I’ve been in America twenty minutes and you’re already ruffled.”
Arthur blew out a breath. “About one hundred and fifty years ago, my ancestors were so ruffled by your ancestors they told them to fuck off back to England.”
“At least England doesn’t have Prohibition,” Wesley went on, completely missing Arthur’s not-exactly-subtle hint. “What exactly am I supposed to do in America? What do you do? You practically drank me out of scotch, how can you stand it?”
Arthur had drunk too much in England, upset about losing Gwen, plagued by dreams of war, miserable and lonely before Jade had come back and told him she’d dug up rumors of another relic in Spain. “You can have my stash,” Arthur said, and meant it. He’d rather get an ice cream soda with his grouchy paranormal than the finest whiskey with an aristocrat who didn’t even like him.
“Am I staying with you? I thought you had only a one-bedroom flat—”
“I do,” Arthur said firmly. “And you’re not.”
“Hmph. What, you couldn’t get a proper house? What is your obsession with living like a pauper?”
“A pauper.” Arthur’s flat was the nicest home of anyone he spent time with. He had to bribe Rory with sex to get him to sleep somewhere without rats. “Sure, Wesley.”
* * *
An hour, a train, and a taxi ride later, Rory was carrying a big paper bag of groceries up Central Park West toward Arthur’s building. The sun had set while he’d been working his way uptown, and it was wickedly cold outside, but at least Zhang was mollified that Rory was going to Arthur’s place and his projection had disappeared.
Arthur’s brother was having dreams. Arthur was having dreams. There was more going on than anyone was telling him. Rory hitched his grocery bag higher. Jade seemed to think Arthur needed to be the one to tell him, and Arthur’s secrets were his own, but Rory was still getting sick of being kept in the dark.
He looked at the curved windows and peaked roofs of Arthur’s building as he crossed 72nd. Arthur wasn’t here yet; when Rory reached for the link, he could feel Arthur a little to the southeast, in Midtown. Not done at Lord Fine’s hotel, then.
But Arthur had to come home at some point. It wasn’t like he was going to spend the night somewhere else.
It wasn’t.
The door swung open as Rory approached, revealing a doorman he’d never seen before. He stood in the doorway, body blocking the entrance, as his bland expression raked over Rory. “Deliveries go to the back.”
Rory hunched his shoulders, pulling the groceries tighter against his chest. If he said he was here to deliver groceries, they’d take his bag and tell him to leave. He tried to think of something else that wouldn’t put any kind of suspicion on Arthur.
“Um.” Rory wet his lips. “I have an appointment with Mr. Kenzie.”
“I see.” The doorman’s expression was perfectly blank. “I don’t recall seeing any appointments for Mr. Kenzie on the guest ledger. Is he expecting you?”
The wind was picking up. Rory tried not to shiver. “He’s not gonna be surprised I’m here,” he hedged.
The doorman’s gaze went to the long loaf of bread sticking out of the top of the paper bag. It had more than a few bites taken out of it, because Rory had ridden the train with the bag on his lap and fresh bread right under his nose, and he was only human.
“Mr. Kenzie isn’t in at the moment.”
Rory knew that already. He shifted his grip, supporting the heavy cans of tomatoes at the bottom of the bag. Asking this gorilla to let him into Arthur’s pad anyway would be nothing but an invitation to call the cops. He didn’t want anyone getting ideas about him and Arthur, but it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was evening, and he hadn’t done anything more suspicious than walk up to the door. “But I can wait for him in the lobby, right?”
The doorman’s bland expression didn’t change as he looked at the stains on Rory’s coat, the rip still visible on the side. “Maybe it would be best if I just tell him you stopped by.”
Rory swallowed hard. Fine. Sure. I’ll scram.
The words were on Rory’s tongue, but he didn’t say them. If there was bad magic in Arthur’s apartment, Rory was going to find it, and some doorman wasn’t gonna stop him. “Then let me call him.”
The doorman’s eyebrows flew up. “That would be highly irregular—”
“You got a phone, right? If he’s not in, I can call him. I know where he is, he’s running late at the Waldorf.” Rory shifted his groceries again and said pointedly, “Unless you want me to tell him you wouldn’t even let me call?”
The doorman hesitated, but Rory could see his knowledge and boldness had wedged itself in the other man’s doubt. Could see him weighing whether he wanted to chance being the sap who turned away one of the weirdos the congressman’s spawn brought around.
After a long moment, the doorman moved out of the way and held the door wider. “One call.”
Rory straightened, clutching his bag tighter as he entered the lobby.
Chapter Twenty
Arthur pulled up in front of the covered 33rd Street entrance to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on the corner of Fifth Avenue. The lofty stories stretched up into the sky, graceful arches around many of the windows and green turrets on the corners of the roof.
He would have liked to have unsubtly pushed Wesley out of the car and driven off, but he could practically hear his mother’s blood pressure rising if he were ever so rude as to turn a family guest out on the curb in public. So instead he climbed out, waiting on the curb as Wesley joined him. “Well, I got you here,” Arthur started. “Now I really must—”
“Excuse me.” Chester, Wesley’s valet, had joined them a polite distance away. Along the curb, more cars were waiting to drop off the rest of Wesley’s party.
Chester held up a briefcase. “I kept this out of the other bags, my lord. It’s got an, um, import that I snuck on the ship.” He glanced at Arthur. “If you catch my meaning.”
Arthur forced another smile. Christ, what had he brought? Wine? Whiskey? “I’m fairly certain the police three blocks away caught your meaning.”
But Wesley looked pleased. “Well done, Chester,” he said. “Aren’t you resourceful? Bring it up to my rooms. I’m sure it’s been a while since Arthur’s had a decent drink.”
Not quite twenty-four hours, at my count. “Actually—”
“Right away, sir.” Chester dipped his head and headed into the hotel.
Wesley snapped his fingers. “That fellow was a good hire.”
“I don’t remember you having a valet,” Arthur said. “Rather old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never been to America before,” said Wesley. “Chester approached me to offer his services the day I bought the ticket. He’s very experienced, had impeccable references, and his former employer had just died and freed him up. Excellent arrangement for all.”
“Perhaps not for the dead former employer,” Arthur said dryly.
Wesley waved it off. “You’re coming up as well, yes?”
“I—”
“It’s miserable weather and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with myself. What kind of inconsiderate lout has a New York wedding in February instead of June?”
Arthur kept his disappointment off his face. He should already be at the Zhangs’ teahouse with the others. Someone—something—was out there, making tracks in the Coney Island sand. He should be with Rory.
But if anyone found out Arthur had bailed on the governor’s guests—and everyone would find out, because he could perfectly picture how loud Wesley would complain at the wedding that Arthur had cut and run. He didn’t imagine the governor would take it well either.
Arthur buried a sigh and kept his company smile pasted on. “Guess I’m staying.”
* * *
The lobby of Arthur’s building seemed even more cavernous than usual, the furniture fancier and everything spotless and glinting with gold. A phonograph played a record in the corner, something pretty with violins.
The doorman motioned for Rory to follow him over to the side of the lobby, where a white man with brown hair and a mustache stood behind a high marble counter. Behind him was a cabinet with a combination lock.
“He’s trying to reach Mr. Kenzie,” the doorman said to the man behind the counter. “He gets one call.”
Rory snorted. “What, is this the big house now?”
The doorman’s lips thinned. “Johnson here will assist.”
Rory rolled his eyes at the man’s back as he set his grocery bag on the counter, trying unsuccessfully to push the loaf of bread deep enough into the bag that the bite marks weren’t obvious. “Can you get me the Waldorf Astoria?”
Johnson raised an eyebrow but picked up the phone and spoke into it. “Good evening, we’re looking for Mr. Arthur Kenzie. There’s someone who’d like to speak with him, a Mr.—” He looked at Rory expectantly.
“Brodigan.”
Johnson’s gaze flicked over Rory’s eyes and olive skin, but all he said was, “And what’s your business?”
“I’m his—antiques dealer. Ace’ll know me,” Rory said, trying to sound confident.
Johnson relayed the information and waited several moments before he suddenly passed the phone to Rory. “He’s in a suite upstairs. He agreed to your call and they’re transferring you now.”
Rory nearly dropped the receiver. “Upstairs—?”
A familiar voice came from the earpiece. “Rory?”
Rory jammed the phone to his ear and only just managed to keep his volume in check as he said in shock, “What are you doing in a suite—?”
“Sharing a single bottle of wine with six Englishmen.” Arthur dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m glad you called.”
The words were heartfelt, touched with longing, and Rory could hear several male voices in the background. Rory’s face flushed hot with shame. You jerk, he chastised himself. You gonna trust him or not?
He softened his voice. “You holding up all right?”
“Not really.” Arthur sounded uncharacteristically grouchy. “I thought I’d be done by now.” In the whisper, he said again, “Are you calling from the teahouse?”
Rory coughed. “Where else would I be calling from?”
Arthur sighed. It sounded strained and tired. “That’s good. I’m sorry, I’m just—worried.”
“Hey, you don’t gotta worry about me,” Rory said. “You just worry about your big brother.”
“Oh, I’m worried about him too. You’ll find I can worry about several people at once. It’s a talent of mine.”
That put a small smile on Rory’s lips. “I’m fine—”
He cut the words off as footsteps headed toward the counter. He glanced up from the phone, watching as the doorman came over and spoke to Johnson in a harried whisper. He caught the words didn’t get his newspaper and demanding something be done.
A moment later, the two of them crossed the lobby with hurried steps, leaving Rory alone at the counter with the big cabinet behind it.
Rory eyed the unguarded cabinet. He’d been in a few boardinghouses in his time, and he’d bet a fancy place like this still kept its maintenance keys locked behind the counter in easy reach.
“You do whatever you gotta do, Ace.” The cabinet had a combination lock. Perfect. “I can take care of myself.”
* * *
“You’re very friendly with your antiques dealer.”
Arthur startled, missing the cradle with the phone receiver. Christ, he’d been so moping he hadn’t even noticed Wesley leaning against the wall, watching him.
He hung up the phone, correctly this time. “Mr. Brodigan is a man of many talents.”
“Is he.” Wesley had a wine-stained glass in his hand, empty now. He raised it sardonically. “To talented men, then.”
Talented, stubborn men he’d rather be with. Arthur tried to keep his tone polite. “If I could impose and make another call?”
“Of course, why should you talk to any of us?” Wesley said, with an edge. “We’ve only come all the way from England today.”
“One more call,” Arthur promised.
“One.”
Arthur gave him a flat look, because Wesley deciding how many phone calls he made was surely more than Arthur owed John. Wesley ignored his look and turned away to head back to his friends. Arthur barely managed to not roll his eyes as he rang up the Magnolia and got Jade on the line.
“Still with Lord Fine, then.”
It wasn’t a question. She wasn’t surprised. “My evening isn’t going according to plan,” Arthur muttered.
“Hmm.” Jade must have covered the phone then, because all he heard were whispers, perhaps Benson’s muffled voice.
Wesley po
ked his head around the doorframe again. Arthur smiled politely and turned toward the wall.
Jade was suddenly back. “Put Fine on.”
Arthur’s eyebrows flew up. “I thought you didn’t like him.”
“I didn’t like him with you because he made you unhappy,” she said bluntly. “But I have no objection to the man himself now that you’ve split. Let me talk to him.”
Arthur shrugged and turned to where Wesley was unsubtly leaning against the wall. He held out the phone. “For you.”
Wesley’s eyebrows went up, but he took the phone. “This is Lord Fine, who is—oh, Miss Robbins!”
No question he remembered Jade, but then, people tended to. Arthur was never sure if that was because of her genuine warmth and friendliness or because even those ignorant of magic somehow instinctively knew she could kill them with her mind.
Wesley paused for a moment, listening. “Well, that sounds very exciting. But what about the risks—he does?” Wesley looked over at Arthur. “One of your litter of siblings is a barrister? A good one, who can get anyone out of the dock?”
“Yes,” Arthur said slowly, drawing the word out. What on earth was Jade up to?
“I’ll rally the troops, then,” Wesley said into the phone, before passing it back to Arthur. He clapped his hands together. “Gents, get your hats—we’re going out.”
“Oh Christ.” Arthur put the phone to his lips. “You didn’t.”
“I absolutely did,” said Jade. “Bring them to the Magnolia. Give them the whole cloak-and-dagger experience—blindfold them, make them say the password, swear them to a secrecy they won’t keep, hence the blindfolds. They’ll eat it up.”
“But—”
“You have six bored Englishmen with deep pockets and no plans. I have a speakeasy with Canadian gin and Stella. Everyone wins.” She lowered her voice. “We’ll take good care of them, Ace. And you’ll be free to go.”
* * *
Jade was right; the men loved it, all of them cramming into Arthur’s Cadillac like excited schoolboys. Jade and Benson took the lot of them into the speakeasy, Jade promising once again that she’d take care of everyone.