Spellbound Page 10

  Jade shook her head slightly, as if clearing it. “Ah, Ace—did you want to come?”

  Finally remembered I’m standing right here, did you.

  Arthur wouldn’t saddle them with a third wheel. “I have my own errands. Banks and paranormals to visit, you know how it is.” He tried to find a smile for them, then gave up. “You two have fun. Together. Being together. The two of you.”

  He turned and walked away, the one of him.

  * * *

  Arthur walked from Chinatown to Hester Street and the blue-and-white striped awning of Taussig’s Chemists. The Ivanovs were down in the shop. Sasha was washing the windows, her soft brown hair held back by its usual blue kerchief. Arthur’s heart lightened to see Pavel behind the soda counter, dutifully holding boxes as Levi Taussig unloaded supplies.

  “Ace!” Sasha put down her rag and came close. “Everything is ready?” she said quietly, so the customers wouldn’t hear.

  He nodded once, and followed as she led him to the back and the small stockroom. “My second-oldest brother, Harry, is expecting you at his Hyde Park estate,” he said, once the door was closed and they could talk in private.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “But how did you explain us?”

  “I said you’re friends of mine and refugees and you need temporary work to pay for Pavel’s medical condition. All true.” He coughed. “More or less. He’s just happy for the extra hands. He manages three of our family’s businesses, he’s just been elected to the Board of Regents at his alma mater, and he has five children under the age of ten.”

  “Five?” Sasha broke into a smile. “A lucky man.”

  “He is.” Arthur adored all of his nieces and nephews, however sodding many there were of them.

  “Are you ready to leave? Is Pavel on board with the plan?” Please, let me do right by one single paranormal in this blasted city—

  The storeroom door squeaked as it opened, revealing Pavel in the doorway. His gaze was on Arthur, his thick eyebrows furrowed on his flushed face. Sasha went to him immediately, taking his hands in her own. She spoke in rapid Russian Arthur couldn’t hope to follow, since his own Russian vocabulary consisted of da, nyet, a handful of battlefield terms, and three ways to ask someone to go to bed. Arthur’s brain could be a bit selective in what it retained from foreign languages.

  After a long moment, Pavel looked back at Arthur. And then he nodded.

  Arthur’s heart leapt. “You’ll go?”

  “Yes,” said Sasha. “We will come back to the Taussigs when the magic is gone.”

  Arthur exhaled, leaning heavily against the storeroom wall between stacks of crates. It would be so much easier to hunt down the newest relic if he wasn’t worrying about Pavel getting trapped in his alchemy.

  There was a tug on his sleeve. Arthur opened his eyes to find Pavel in front of him. Pavel looked at Sasha intently, then back at Arthur.

  “He has made new potions,” said Sasha. “He wants you to have them.”

  Arthur drew a breath. “Oh no, I couldn’t—”

  “Yes, Arthur.” She held up her hand, cutting off his further protests. “We would not bring Pavel’s potions near children. And you would use them to capture the magic so we can come back to the Taussigs, yes?”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Then you must have them.” Sasha crossed the small storeroom to the freestanding safe, an oversized, solid affair that must have weighed at least 700 pounds. With a small grunt, she lifted it herself.

  Arthur’s eyes widened. “I will never get used to seeing you do things like that,” he said fervently, watching the slim girl with paranormal super-strength move the safe to the side.

  “The safe is a good decoy.” She crouched and pried up the loose floorboard that had been hidden beneath the safe, then lifted out the small metal box hiding in the space. She opened the box, revealing three small glass vials, full of brightly colored liquids and corked shut.

  “My word.” Arthur bent for a better look. “What do they do?”

  “Ah.” Sasha exchanged a helpless glance with Pavel. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “Pavel doesn’t say what they do. He just makes them, like art.” She shrugged apologetically.

  The small vials glinted at Arthur from their box, blue, purple, and orange, no clues to their powers. Well, he already had a ring that controlled the wind locked in a safe in his study. Why shouldn’t his day grow weirder?

  “Then I will take good care of his art.” Arthur carefully wrapped the slim vials in his handkerchief, which he then tucked safely away in his jacket. “Can you come with me now?”

  Sasha nodded. “We are packed and ready.”

  “Grand Central, then,” said Arthur. “I’ll get the cab.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Brodigan hummed all afternoon, more relaxed than Rory had ever seen her, to the point where he was almost considering revising his opinion on Arthur Kenzie. Maybe he was bad news only for Rory. Arthur had made Mrs. Brodigan happy and that melted something inside him, just a little.

  You haven’t given him a chance to try to make you happy too—

  Rory stamped down on the thought. “You should go out,” he told Mrs. Brodigan. “Celebrate having the debt gone. I’ll watch the shop.”

  “Now that’s a lovely idea,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s already four. We could close early, celebrate together?”

  He shook his head rapidly. “I’m lousy at celebrating. I’d just bring you down.”

  “You would never, lovey.” She watched him for a moment, then sighed in resignation. “I suppose Mr. McIntyre did offer another driving lesson.”

  Rory’s eyebrows flew up. “Is he sweet on you?”

  “You don’t have to sound like that’s the most shocking thing you’ve ever heard,” she said dryly. “I’m old, not dead. Besides, one of us ought to have a date now and then.”

  “Ha ha,” he said flatly. “Go on. I got the shop.”

  She left a few minutes later, leaving Rory alone in the quiet shop. He stood behind the cash register and drummed his fingers on the counter. Maybe they could get a phonograph. Maybe that pretty singer from the club had a record Rory could play. She was Jade’s sister—Jade would know.

  He shook his head irritably. He needed to forget all about Jade, because he had to forget about Arthur Kenzie—

  The shop bell jingled as the door swung open, revealing a surly man in a courier’s uniform, face bright red from the cold. “You Brodigan?” The courier held out a thick envelope. “You got a delivery.”

  Weird. Mrs. Brodigan hadn’t told Rory to expect anything. Then again, maybe it had just slipped her mind. With a shrug, Rory signed the courier’s record and then took the envelope. As the courier walked out the shop door, Rory turned the envelope over in his hands. No clue to its contents, no return address—but it was sealed with red wax, imprinted with the letter K and a bear on its hind legs. He only knew one person fancy enough for a seal like that. Lips pressed together, he broke the wax.

  The envelope was jammed full of cash.

  His eyes widened. That was more rubes than he’d ever seen at once before. Enough to buy spare glasses. Maybe even enough to find a new room in a boarding house with fewer roaches. What in the hell—

  His eyes caught a white business card tucked in with the cash and he snatched it up. Arthur’s name, his phone number, and two words inked in flawless penmanship on the back:

  Call anytime.

  Rory’s eyes narrowed.

  Oh, he’d be calling all right.

  * * *

  Arthur sat in the club chair in his sitting room, the phone receiver held half-heartedly to his ear.

  “—and Zhang will be at the Magnolia tonight, in person,” Jade was saying through the line, bright as sunshine. “I mean, he comes by sometimes on
the astral plane, but then he can only talk to me, and Zhang said Stella doesn’t sound right through the plane—”

  Stella’s beautiful voice was, in fact, drifting out of Arthur’s phonograph, her soulful version of “I’m Nobody’s Baby” because Arthur apparently was a masochist. “How nice.”

  “—and Mack promised to do us up something virgin but special tonight,” Jade went on. “He’s doing mint juleps for the rest of you lawbreakers. Zhang found us some amazing fresh mint—”

  Arthur glanced into his own glass of scotch on the rocks, gone warm and watery. “Sounds lovely.”

  “—and the new bassist is a treat. You should come.”

  Or Arthur could stay home, because if he was going to end up drinking alone, he could do it without watching the rest of the world pair off. “I’m afraid I’m booked tonight. Harry’s got a thing.”

  “I thought Harry was in Hyde Park.”

  “John, then. Or maybe it was Alice—you know I have too many siblings to keep track.”

  “I know that’s your favorite excuse.” Jade sighed. “You’re feeling particularly protective about this one.”

  It wasn’t a question, and Arthur had drunk enough of the scotch not to bother with denial. “He was drunk and lost to magic in my arms, Jade. It’s a bit difficult to detach after that.”

  “You don’t have to detach, but you should stop self-flagellating. Rory will come around.”

  “Rory shouldn’t have to. He never should have met me.”

  “If he hadn’t met you, he’d have no idea what a relic was or that another one was coming to New York. He’ll at least be better prepared, thanks to you.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe, thanks to me, he’ll lock himself in his roach-infested prison when he might have been willing to shelter in Hyde Park with the Ivanovs if I’d just handled everything better from the start—if I hadn’t manipulated a twenty-year-old subordinate paranormal into drinking with me—”

  “You overprotective beast. Twenty is a man, not a child, you had no idea he was psychometric, and drinks with you isn’t punishment, it’s half of Manhattan’s idea of a brag-worthy score.” She sounded both exasperated and fond. “Rory will come around,” she said again. “He’s scared right now but he’s braver than he thinks. Stop fretting, Ace. You haven’t lost him. He’ll come back to you, I promise.”

  Arthur stayed in the chair for some minutes after they hung up, undrunk scotch dangling from his hand, staring into space without really seeing anything. Stella’s song ended, the record scratching and then spinning softly in the otherwise silent flat.

  He eyed the bottle of scotch. Drinking illegally and alone in a pity party for one. This is becoming a habit.

  He set down the scotch and made to stand, and then the phone rang. He furrowed his brow and picked it up. “This is Ace.”

  “I told you to screw off!”

  Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hello, Rory.”

  “What the hell is that package for?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “Triple pay. The balance I owed for the ring.”

  Rory sucked in a breath. “I don’t deserve that.”

  Arthur flinched. “I realize that no amount of money can make up for endangering you—”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “—but the deal was triple pay for scrying the ring and you scried it.” Arthur infused his words with finality. “End of discussion.”

  “No,” Rory said, surprising Arthur with the steel of his spine. “I’m not fancy like you, but it doesn’t make me a thief. I don’t deserve it ’cause I didn’t earn it and I’m sending it back.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Arthur flopped back in the club chair. “I’m a paying customer and we had a deal. If you don’t want it, give it to Mrs. Brodigan.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re gonna talk about Mrs. B. too,” Rory said darkly, which was terribly ominous. “You paid her debt.”

  “I said I would.”

  “You said you would if I came to that meeting. You didn’t say bunk about it being already paid!”

  Oh. Bollocks. “You found out.”

  “Yeah, I did, and you can stop wasting your dough. Maybe you think ’cause you hold her debt now that you got a hold on me—”

  “I don’t hold the debt, the debt is gone,” Arthur snapped. “It was the least I could do, because believe it or not, giving twenty-year-old paranormals dangerous magic and brandy isn’t my usual style. Leaving innocents to suffer isn’t my style either, so the Hyde Park offer is still on the table. Name the time and I’ll pick you up and drive you there myself.”

  “What a crock of bullshit,” Rory said, bitter and biting. “You’ll say or pay anything to get me on your leash.”

  Anger surged in Arthur’s blood. “It’s not a leash, it’s a lifeline. I’m throwing a drowning man a life preserver. And maybe I can’t make you take it but you can’t make me take it back. If you need it, my lifeline is there, and the only leash on you is the one you’re using to choke yourself.”

  Rory went deathly silent.

  Arthur winced. Too far. “Theodore—”

  “Go to hell.”

  And the line went dead in Arthur’s ear.

  Damnation. He immediately redialed the appraisal shop’s party line. It rang and rang until finally, a woman with a pleasant voice picked up. “Bethany Meyers, may I help you?”

  Poor woman must have been another building tenant, stuck hearing the antiques shop’s ring on their shared line with no one picking up. Arthur tried anyway. “May I speak to Rory Brodigan, please?”

  “I’m afraid Rory’s just left,” she said apologetically. “Unless someone else downstairs slammed the door of the antiques shop on their way out. May I take a message?”

  Arthur sighed. “No, thank you.” He put the phone back on the cradle. “Stop fretting, Ace,” he muttered, in his best impression of Jade. “Rory will come around, Ace. He’ll come back to you, you haven’t lost him, I promise.”

  In the dark quiet of his flat, he was very alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Yes. This is it.”

  A small group is huddled together in the dark on a dock, the smells of salt and diesel thick in the frigid air. Waves black as the night sky lap at the sides of a cargo ship with proud letters on the hull: Stjärnfall.

  The ship towers over the group of five: a sailor with a wool cap on his head and tattoos on his pale neck; two large mobsters in suits and fedoras; a clean-cut white man in a navy double-breasted coat and hunting cap; and a slim young woman with long, curly hair under a headscarf. Her hazel eyes pop against her light brown skin, eyes so pale they’re nearly yellow.

  “’Course it is.” The sailor spits on the ground, turns his beady glare on the woman with the pale hazel eyes. “Lot of fuss for some jewelry. You owe us.”

  She’s bent over a wooden crate, staring inside. The crate’s top has been jimmied with a crowbar, and nestled within the stuffing is a jewelry box. The box is open and the faint dock lights glint on copper. Short in length, a choker—no, an amulet, set with a giant blue stone. She doesn’t touch it, doesn’t run a finger along the copper that flashes in the light. But her gaze never leaves the amulet.

  “It’s strong,” she says, as if to herself.

  “You’re sure it’s what the boss wants?” the bigger of the mobsters says to the woman.

  “I can see its power, can feel it against my skin. I’m certain.” Her eyes slowly float to the mobster. She studies him for a moment, gaze flitting over his outline. “You’re a man whose loyalty can be bought by fear. Does Mansfield know, I wonder?”

  The mobster pales, but the sailor hisses. “Screwy bitch.” He takes a menacing step in the woman’s direction. “What’s she running the show for? I’m getting rid of her—”

  They’re his last words as the man in th
e double-breasted coat turns and plunges a dagger into the sailor’s chest.

  The mobsters gasp and swear. The sailor flails, hands reaching for the jeweled hilt of the blade in his heart when he freezes, arms in midair like rigor mortis has already set in.

  The mobsters draw guns, and the big one starts to speak. “Where the hell—”

  “Lower your weapons,” the woman says calmly.

  “But he just—”

  “You’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

  The mobsters exchange looks and muttered curses, but they don’t shoot. The man in the double-breasted coat yanks the dagger out of the sailor and kicks him with a heavy boot, sending the unmoving man toppling like a stone statue off the dock and into the ocean next to the cargo ship. The man in the coat inclines his head toward the woman, who’s watched the murder without a flinch.

  “Let me close the beauty up first,” she says to him. “We don’t want to risk any ears.”

  He nods and folds his arms, the bloody dagger still in one hand. The mobsters exchange another look and clutch their guns.

  “Now that we’ve had a brief demonstration,” she says, as she reaches for the lid of the box, “let’s have a chat about loyalty.”

  * * *

  Rory’s eyes flew open. Heart pounding, hands stinging, he took deep gulps of air as he frantically tried to orient himself: blurry city lights through a narrow space, the floor bare and cold beneath him, snores coming through the thin wall next door—

  His boarding house room. His breath left him in a violent rush as he turned on his side and stared blankly at the legs of his bed. He’d tried to get out, then; had clawed at the door, he discovered, as he clenched his throbbing fingers into fists and found them slick with blood. Two of his stinging nails felt broken to the quick, but his mind was stuck on what he’d seen.

  A murder.

  He drew his knees tight to his chest, body shaking. He could still see the knife glinting in the sailor’s chest—