Starcrossed

by Allie Therin

  So when Wesley was occupied at the bar, Arthur passed on getting his own glass of anything and slipped out the alley door instead. Perhaps Mr. Come On, Daddy, Buy Me a Drink would be at the Magnolia again tonight. Wesley would have more fun with him.

  As he started his car, he glanced at his watch and sighed. He wasn’t going to bang on the door of Zhang’s teahouse at this hour, which meant he wasn’t going to see Rory tonight.

  And he really, desperately wanted to see Rory.

  About twenty minutes later, Arthur pulled up to his building and gave his keys to the valet. The main door opened as Arthur approached.

  “Evening, Mr. Kenzie.” The doorman stood smartly upright. “A man came by earlier, claiming to have an appointment with you.” He snorted. “Said he was your antiques dealer.”

  Arthur’s heart leapt. “Blond curls, brown eyes, about this big?” He held a hand to his chin, and then, in fairness, lowered it an inch.

  “That’s the fellow, yes. Not to worry, though; he’s long gone.”

  Arthur’s stomach plummeted. “Gone?”

  “Yes, sir,” the doorman said proudly. “I don’t know why he thought we’d fall for a story like—oh.” The doorman had noticed Arthur’s narrowed eyes. He hesitated, and his satisfied expression wavered. “Was he actually an antiques dealer?”

  “You didn’t believe him?” Arthur said flatly.

  “Well—”

  “And you didn’t even let him stay to wait?”

  “I let him use the phone!” The doorman wrung his hands. “But he left on his own after that.”

  Arthur blew out a breath. “With a welcome like that, who could blame him?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The doorman looked positively miserable. “Reporters and scam artists try all sorts of things to get in here. And he didn’t look like an antiques dealer.”

  “Appearance isn’t everything,” Arthur said, trying to keep a hold on his temper, already frayed from an evening with Wesley. The doorman had only been trying to do his job, it was true, but he didn’t have to do it with bias. “That gentleman is, in fact, almost certainly the best antiques appraiser of this century.”

  So Rory had been here and left. Of course he’d left; the doorman had been rude and Arthur was at the Waldorf Astoria with his ex-boyfriend; it didn’t take magic to know what that looked like.

  And where was Rory now? Had he gone back to the teahouse? His tenement? With malevolent magic somewhere in New York—

  The valet had already left, driving Arthur’s car to the garage. Arthur hurried to the elevator and up to four.

  “Of course I’m at the Dragon House, Ace,” Arthur muttered, as the elevator rose. “Where else would I be, Ace?”

  He had to find Rory. He’d call Jade again, ask her if she could reach Zhang and check if Rory was at the Dragon House. And if he wasn’t, then Arthur could be in Hell’s Kitchen in minutes. He’d find Rory.

  He strode down the hall and unlocked his door, prepared for the cold, dark silence he always came home to.

  He pushed the door open and froze.

  The lights were on, the flat was warm, and the foyer smelled good enough to eat the walls. Stella’s version of “It Had to Be You” came from within, and Arthur followed her voice into the saloon just as Rory’s head popped up over the back of the settee.

  “Hey, bello.”

  “You’re here,” Arthur said stupidly.

  “Course I’m here. You didn’t think I was gonna leave you on your own tonight, did you?”

  “But—”

  “I scried all your doors and windows, the table, the foyer.” Rory looked frustrated. “No one’s been in here since we left for Hyde Park, not even your housekeeper. I don’t think anyone’s planted a spell bag to give you nightmares.”

  Arthur blinked. “You know about my dream?”

  “Jade wouldn’t give me the details, but I can guess you had a bad one, right after your brother, and you didn’t tell me,” Rory said testily, and held up The Mark of Zorro. “So yeah, I came and scried, and you don’t get to be mad about it, and you don’t get to be mad that I borrowed your book. Or your couch.” He pointed at Arthur. “Or your kitchen.”

  “I assure you, I am not angry.” Arthur came closer. “How—why—what smells so good?” he said, his brain picking what it apparently thought was the most important of his many questions. He smelled the air again, picking up fresh seafood and something spicy. “And is there any left?”

  Rory’s expression softened. “Lots,” he admitted, with an embarrassed sort of shrug. “I kinda bought too much in Little Italy, but you got a refrigerator in your own pad and you should have food in it.”

  He’d bought groceries for Arthur? Trekked them all the way here from Little Italy? Arthur felt warm all over, the relief of seeing Rory mixed with affection and gratitude. “But the doorman wouldn’t even let you wait. How did you get in?”

  Rory picked something small off the side table and held it up.

  Arthur stared. “Is that—?”

  “They keep their maintenance keys where just anyone can get ’em.” Rory paused. “Well, anyone who can see the history of a combination lock.” He paused again. “That might just be me.”

  “You stole a maintenance key.” Arthur blinked. “You stole a key and broke into my flat?”

  “Ah.” Rory bit his lip. “When you put it like, it sounds kinda bad.”

  Arthur crossed the last of the distance between them and darted in, taking Rory’s face in his hands as he kissed him over the back of the couch.

  Rory made a needy sound deep in his throat. Despite his grouching, Rory’s kiss was sweet, his skin warmed from the blanket he’d been reading beneath, his lips parting willingly under Arthur’s.

  Arthur pulled back, just an inch. “Bad isn’t the word I was thinking,” he promised quietly. “Christ, I didn’t know where you were. You could have told me the doorman was being an ass, I would have done something about it.”

  “I don’t need to be calling more attention to you.” Rory’s long eyelashes fluttered as Arthur ran his thumb gently over Rory’s chapped lower lip. “And I was trying to leave you alone.”

  “What? Why?” Arthur went in for another, deeper kiss, one he hoped would chase that terrible thought right out of Rory’s head. Rory made that desperate sound again and leaned in for more, but Arthur pulled back. “When did I ever say oh Teddy, won’t you fuck off and leave me alone?”

  “You were with your ex—”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “And I trust you, so I wasn’t gonna give you a hard time.” This time, Rory pulled back. “I was letting you do what you gotta do for your family, but I wasn’t gonna let some doorman keep me away either.” He looked seriously into Arthur’s eyes. “I’m in your aura, luce dei miei occhi. I’m never gonna really leave you alone.”

  Arthur stared back, a bit breathless. “I was worried,” he finally said, which wasn’t really a response. “And I missed you.”

  He hadn’t realized he was going to say that. From the way Rory’s eyes widened, then softened, Rory hadn’t expected him to say it either.

  Arthur smiled, a little awkward, and then admitted, “But you are one hell of a delight to come home to.”

  Rory broke into a smile, and then they were both closing the inches to kiss again. The couch between them was green velvet with gilded trim and with a high, carved back, something else his parents’ designer had picked for the apartment. It dug uncomfortably into Arthur’s ribs as he leaned over it, but he ignored it in favor of deepening the kiss.

  “I’m sorry I made you wait,” he managed to say against Rory’s lips.

  “It’s okay—”

  “No. It’s not.” Arthur pulled away long enough to straighten and slid his coat and suit jacket off together, letting them fall to the floor as he scram
bled around the side of the settee, dodging the side table.

  Rory started to get to his feet, but Arthur stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Stay right there,” he said, pushing gently but insistently until Rory was sitting again on the couch.

  Rory’s tongue darted out and wet his lips. His cheeks were flushed, and behind his now-crooked glasses, his eyes were nearly black and glittering like gems. “You really think this couch can hold both of us? You’re pretty big.”

  Arthur was tempted to find out, and more tempted to pull Rory down to the floor on top of him and try all the things they hadn’t yet. But he’d already taken so many of Rory’s firsts; did he have the right to take them all?

  Not tonight. Until he knew what Rory’s choice was, he’d stay with things he knew Rory wanted. He put his hands on the back of the settee and his knee between Rory’s knees, forcing them apart. “I think we’ll find out. Eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  He nudged his face against Rory’s cheek, bumping his glasses. He left them alone so Rory could see. “First, I think you should let me apologize for taking so long tonight.”

  Rory shivered. “But you already said sorry.”

  Arthur pressed a kiss to his neck, under his ear, then another one lower on his throat. He wore no tie and the top of his shirt was unbuttoned, letting Arthur trail kisses over his neck and collarbone as his fingers found the waistband of Rory’s trousers. “I can do better than words.”

  “Oh.” Rory’s breath hitched and he arched off the settee, wordlessly begging. “You don’t have to—”

  “No one said anything about have.” Arthur slid his hand inside his trousers, drawing one of those lovely groans. “This is all about want. As in, I’ve wanted to do this all day. I’ve wanted to be here all evening. I want you, Teddy.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “—still say we should wait, but if you absolutely must, here it—”

  The English accent is interrupted by a choked retch and a much more American, “What the hell is that smell?”

  The two white men in suits and hats stand by a stone railing, on a wide landing a few steps up a graceful staircase that spans half the block. A light snow is falling on the lounging stone lion looming behind them. More stairs lead to up to giant columns and a roof with carved figures, the building glowing ghostly white under a night sky. The stars are shining oddly bright—and then abruptly dim to darkness.

  The thin American, blond hair just visible beneath his hat, is bent at the waist and still gagging. A briefcase is at his feet.

  The Englishman, a brunette perhaps in his mid-thirties, huffs impatiently. He’s holding a small open box, and nestled in the silk is an orb about the size of an orange, made of bright gold-and-silver filigreed like lace. At the top of the orb, a delicate linked chain leads to a ring. “It’s four-hundred-year-old musk, Mr. Barnes. Of course it’s wretched.”

  “A pomander.” The American, Barnes, groans. “Why hasn’t it been cleaned?”

  “Would you like to be the one to faff about with a fifteenth-century supernatural totem?”

  “I would like to be the one who turns the clock back two weeks and forgets this blasted supernatural garbage exists.” Barnes straightens up, still looking green under the lamplight.

  “Hmph.” The Englishman eyes him. “You said you were Luther Mansfield’s lawyer? Rumor was he was orchestrating a sale of his own, but he’s dead and gone. Why are you suddenly in the market?”

  “I have my reasons.” Barnes sounds haunted. “How do I know this is what you claim it is, Mr. Chester?”

  “Does that smell counterfeit?” Chester snaps. “Do you think I’d cross an entire ocean pretending to be the valet of an idiot lord for a fake?” He shrugs dramatically. “But if you don’t want it, I can find another buyer—”

  “No!” The terror in Barnes’s voice is real. “I must have it. I need it.” He snatches up the briefcase. “Here’s your money. You can seal up that foul-smelling—did you hear that?”

  Heavy footsteps echo on stone. A new voice, also English, far deeper than either Barnes’ or Chester’s, says, “Well done, Barnes. You’ve got us a relic after all.”

  The man steps into the faint light. He’s broad and tall and dwarfs the other two, with close-cropped, white-blond hair, small eyes, and a heavy coat dotted with snowflakes. A woman is just a step behind him, a cloche hat over her neat blond bob and a cool smirk on her lips. She has a choker around her neck, and the stone at her throat catches the light; small, gray, and far more attention-catching than such an unremarkable stone should be.

  “And quite the relic, I’d wager.” The woman inhales the rotting musk like she’s scenting perfume. “Can you taste that, Mr. Hyde? That’s no ordinary power.”

  Chester takes a step back as Barnes draws in a sharp breath. “You’re wearing the lodestone,” Barnes says to the woman, then turns to the giant man. “Why wasn’t that enough?” he demands. “It’s clearly got some sort of power if Miss Shelley is wearing it. Why put me through this?”

  “Because Baron Zeppler paid for a relic, not a trinket.” Hyde’s expression darkens. “And failing the baron is not an option.”

  Shelley touches the stone at her neck with reverence. “You should close the relic up. There could be other subordinate paranormals in the city. They must be drowning in magic.”

  Chester looks between Barnes and Hyde. “Are you the actual buyers?” he says brusquely. “Because we can cut Barnes here out of the deal completely.”

  Barnes holds up both his hands. “The less I’m involved, the better,” he starts to say.

  “Don’t move.” Hyde’s eyes are on Chester as he holds out a hand covered in a black leather glove. “The relic.”

  But Chester pulls the open relic box to his chest. “Sounds to me like the price of this relic just increased.”

  “Mr. Chester, no.” Barnes has gone pale. “They’re not human.”

  “Of course we’re human.” Shelley is still playing with the stone at her neck, a smirk on her lips. “We’re just special.”

  Hyde holds up one gloved hand. “Very special,” he says dryly, as he pulls off the glove to reveal fingers tipped with curved claws instead of nails, tips sharp as knifepoints.

  “Oh Christ.” Barnes looks like he’s going to be sick. “Just give it to him, Chester.”

  “The hell I will.” Chester holds the relic to his chest with his left hand, and suddenly there’s a pistol in his right. “I’m done waiting on lords. This thing is my ticket to riches. I don’t care what magic you have; a paranormal can be killed by a bullet, same as anyone else.”

  A slow, twisted smile crosses Hyde’s face. “Then we’ll see who’s faster, won’t we?”

  Chester’s eyes widen and he raises the gun.

  But Hyde snarls, a sickening crunch of bone cracking as his face transforms into something monstrous and misshapen, teeth to fangs, jaw big enough to close on a man’s throat—

  The pistol fires, the bullet going wide and lost to the night. Chester’s scream echoes off the stone as the orb-shaped pomander relic tumbles to the ground and rolls down the stairs. It comes to a stop on the stately wide sidewalk just as Barnes’s scream joins Chester’s.

  “Insubordinates.” Shelley is shaking her head as she comes down the stairs toward the relic, Chester’s now blood-splattered box in her hand. She kneels down and picks the pomander up, setting it carefully back into the silk. “No appreciation for the possibility of an audience...”

  * * *

  Rory gasped, the image of Shelley closing the relic in its box banished like smoke in the wind by the world surrounding him: the soft bed and blankets, the subtle scents of clean sheets and cologne. Arthur’s world.

  He lunged for the big body next to him, and wrapped his own shaking body around Arthur. “Ace, wake up,” he whispered into the dark, his
terror mixing with trembling relief to find himself a universe away from waking alone on the icy floor of his boardinghouse. “We got a problem.”

  Arthur didn’t move.

  Rory furrowed his brow. Arthur should have already been awake; he slept light as a feather, stirring any time Rory did, and Rory’d probably been babbling nonsense the entire vision just inches from his ear. But now he was still as a rock.

  Rory nudged Arthur’s torso, expecting a muscular arm to automatically wrap around him. “Ace?”

  Nothing happened.

  Unease began to thread its way through Rory. Arthur’s skin was clammy and too cool. Rory pushed harder and spoke at normal volume. “Bello, come on.” He tugged at Arthur’s arm. “Wake up.”

  No response.

  Rory fumbled for his glasses on Arthur’s nightstand, the metal slippery in his sweaty fingers. He shoved them on his face and pulled the chain on the light.

  Arthur lay on his back, eyes closed. His bare chest rose and fell with slow breaths, but he was otherwise still as a corpse.

  “Arthur!” Rory’s heart began to pound. He grabbed Arthur’s shoulders. “Wake up, c’mon, open your eyes—”

  The glow of Zhang’s astral projection came to life on the other side of the room, cutting through Rory’s panic like a beacon. “What’s going on?”

  “How did you—”

  “Your ring in my shop. The brass sphere is bouncing and rattling in its trunk like a trapped bee. It woke Ling, who woke me.” There was alarm on Zhang’s face as he looked at Arthur’s unmoving body. “What happened to Ace?”

  “I don’t know!” Rory’s chest was too tight, his breath too fast. “I saw a new relic. Some other paranormals. And—” His voice broke. He gritted his teeth and made himself speak steadily. “And a murder.”

  Zhang’s expression turned horrified. “Are you all right—”

  “I’m fine—or at least, I’m out. But Ace won’t wake up, I don’t understand—”