Spellbound Read online

  Jade cleared her throat. “He calls Benson and Stella too.”

  “You three run an illegal speakeasy in a prejudiced country!” said Arthur. “There’s a lot to worry about.”

  Rory huffed. “You always been a bossy dick?”

  “Yes.” Arthur looked up at the ceiling. “But the war made it worse.”

  Rory went quiet.

  “What Ace is trying to say,” Jade said gently, patting Arthur’s arm as she addressed Rory, “is he doesn’t think you’re a child or useless. If you want to be part of this, you can.” She shrugged delicately. “Or if you want to tell us to screw off, you can do that too.”

  Rory snorted. There was a wariness about him still, but at least the hurt expression had eased. “The two paintings are the real McCoy,” he said, apparently choosing not to storm away, at least for the moment. “Painter’s in Paris, a fella about Ace’s age. He sent them to a gallery in London where your lady friend bought them.”

  “But only two paintings have turned up,” Jade said. “Gwen brought three with her from London.”

  Rory side-eyed Arthur. “This is the part where you tell me who Gwen is.”

  He did owe Rory that. “A subordinate paranormal who sees auras—and magic. She can see exactly what your paranormal powers are and can cause agony with nothing more than her bare hands.” He jerked his head at Jade. “Then again, this one doesn’t even need hands. I have no idea why I keep meeting dangerous women.”

  “Flatterer,” Jade said dryly.

  “Was she your Sheba?”

  Arthur nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just asking.” Rory sounded defensive. “I never heard about anything but romance in Paris.”

  “Gwen was in love with a different friend of ours,” Jade cut in, blessedly coming to Arthur’s rescue. “There were several paranormals who found each other in Paris after the war, and Ace was our friend because he’s braver than you’d ever guess from a man in a gorgeous bespoke suit.”

  Rory’s gaze darted over Arthur then, from his homburg hat down his three-piece navy suit to his two-toned oxfords, eyes returning to linger on his shoulders and chest. Arthur had been less blatantly eyed up by men sharing his bed. He added a tally to the column for Rory likes men, he just doesn’t like you.

  “Was Paris where you learned about magic?” asked Rory.

  “No.” Arthur was not making Rory hear those details, not now, not ever. He quickly reached for a new topic. “Did you scry the sculpture already too?”

  But Rory looked away, the hurt on his face again. “Fine, don’t tell me your stories. Why should you? Not like you pieced most of my life together already and threw it in my face.”

  Damnation. “I had a mate in my platoon,” Arthur said reluctantly. “We were in enemy territory and he got himself caught in a—fight.”

  “Like a bar fight?” Rory asked.

  Not at all. “Something like that.” Arthur could feel Jade’s eyes on him, but he wasn’t elaborating. Maybe he was sheltering Rory from the truth again, but he hadn’t gone to war to share the horrors with innocents and Rory had enough nightmares. “Anyway, as I charged in to help, he vanished before my eyes.”

  Rory’s eyebrows went up. “An astral walker like Zhang?”

  Arthur shook his head. “Ellis could turn himself invisible. And after leaving his brother-in-arms at the mercy of five large and angry Germans, I suppose he thought he owed me an explanation.” He forced a smile. “Invisibility does work like astral walking, in that paranormals can still see an invisible man but the mundane like me can’t. That turned out to be very useful against a cadre of mundane German officers when Ellis and a French soldier, Philippe, came to my rescue. Between Ellis’s invisibility and Philippe’s ability to control fire, the magic cat was well out of the magic bag.”

  “I miss them both, Ellis and Philippe,” Jade said wistfully. “Like an American and French pea in the same pod. They barely spoke each other’s languages, but they looked and fought like brothers.”

  Rory was chewing on his lip, his gaze across the crowded anteroom, to a pedestal displaying a small and unremarkable sculpture of a young girl holding flowers. “This Philippe fella still in Paris?”

  “No.” Another story Arthur didn’t want to burden Rory with. “No, he and Ellis both—passed away—a few years back. Why?”

  “’Cause Gwen’s sculpture’s got a burn mark.”

  “Burn mark?” Arthur said, as the three of them crowded around the small sculpture. “Did you see a fire in its past?”

  “I didn’t see jack,” said Rory, “’cause it’s made of lead.” He pointed to the girl’s dress, where a portion within the sculpted fabric folds had been melted away. His finger stopped an inch short of actually making contact with the lead. “But I’ve seen some fire damage in Brodigan’s, and it’s not usually this neat. This looks like someone held a candle or a soldering iron to it.” He looked up. “But if you lost your friend, then it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Right,” Arthur said slowly, and exchanged a look with Jade. With their luck, it was never a coincidence.

  * * *

  As Arthur and Jade hovered over the lead statue, Rory snuck out from the curtain. He’d told Arthur about his vision of the relic and he’d covered up knowing Gwen, and if Rory was going to stay mad he had to leave before he went all soft thinking about him fighting the war.

  There were two bright paintings prominently displayed at front of the shop, riots of color and motion. They were flanked by a plaque: Italian Futurism.

  Rory hesitated. Ritzy gallery like this, they were probably genuine.

  He moved closer and glanced at the desk. The art gallery proprietor was deep in conversation on the phone, paying him no attention. His gaze went back to the paintings and lingered on the plaque.

  He shouldn’t do it. A week ago, he wouldn’t have dared to even think it. But Jade and Zhang used their magic without constant fear and Arthur was only a few feet away, and before Rory could think about why that made him brave he closed his eyes and ran a finger over one of the frames.

  * * *

  Cars honking, people rushing. A man’s got his art for sale along the sidewalk, panhandling to the passersby as a woman calls out, “Taxi!” A nearby newsie shouts his headlines to the street, all in English—

  * * *

  “May I help you?”

  Rory yanked his hand away from the painting to find the proprietor coming his way, heels clicking on the hardwoods.

  Her lipsticked mouth was pinched in a thin line. “You shouldn’t touch anything in here without asking.”

  Rory narrowed his eyes, the disappointment in his chest raw as a skinned knee. “Not even the fakes?” he said, extra sharp.

  “Fakes?” she scoffed. “That is a genuine Boccioni. It’s been authenticated.”

  “By who, the traveling circus?”

  Her expression chilled. Her gaze swept over him, lingering on his patched hat and coat. “I’m sorry, what establishment did you say you’re with?”

  “We got a shop in Hell’s Kitchen.” Rory folded his arms. “Where we don’t sell counterfeits. You’re either conning your customers or you got fleeced yourself.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Outrageous,” she said scornfully. “I’m hardly going to listen to you.”

  Rory opened his mouth, but a deep voice beat him to it. “Then you’ve made two regretful business decisions,” Arthur said, his expression as chilly as the proprietor’s. Behind him, Jade looked equally unimpressed.

  “Mr. Kenzie,” the proprietor sputtered, instantly straightening. “I was just—”

  “We were just leaving.” Arthur opened the front door and held it. He didn’t look happy.

  Rory hunched and went through the doorway after Jade. Yesterday the winter sun had lit snow-covered Central Park in bright whit
es, blues, and yellows. Today the world was gray, the sky overcast and the wind cold enough to sting his face.

  As soon as the door shut behind Arthur, he was turning on Rory. “Were you intent on broadcasting your talents to all of Chelsea?”

  “I just wanted a look at the painting!” Rory gritted his teeth. “I know it was stupid, all right? You can lay off.”

  “But why on earth would you risk discovery for—” understanding blossomed on Arthur’s face “—for a look at a work of Italian futurism.”

  Rory crammed bandaged hands in his coat pockets and kept his mouth shut. Jade looked between them, then cleared her throat. “I’ll just make myself scarce, shall I?”

  “Enjoy your dim sum,” Arthur said dryly, eyes on Rory as she walked toward a waiting cab. They stood in tense silence for a moment, until Arthur sighed and said, with quiet sympathy, “It’s not stupid to want to see where your blood’s from.”

  The knot in Rory’s chest loosened. “My mom missed it like crazy. Don’t get me wrong,” he added hastily, “she was real grateful to be here. Even when people were mean to us, she’d say it was better than starving.”

  “We’re allowed to have complicated feelings,” Arthur said softly. “You can be grateful for what you now have and still mourn a loss.”

  The knot eased just a bit further. “She promised to take me to see it someday.” Rory swallowed hard. “’Course, now all I’ve got are her stories.”

  Arthur reached out, then glanced at the windows of the art gallery, his hand falling to his side without contact. “You have nothing of hers?”

  Rory shook his head. “Dad sold it all. He, uh, he said I was gonna cost the church too much.”

  Arthur’s face hardened. “Why didn’t your mother’s family take you in? They had to be better than that lout.”

  Rory shrugged awkwardly. “Mom ran away when she got pregnant and Dad wouldn’t marry her. Zio Damiano took us in, but he died the year before she did. Don’t know if anyone else ever knew about me. They’d think I was dead now anyway.”

  “They would want to meet you—”

  “And have my visions on their doorstep? Or the cops?” Rory shook his head again rapidly. “Family’s for normal people, Ace.”

  Arthur’s eyes went sad, but he said lightly, “Mrs. Brodigan seems like a lovely and perfectly normal aunt to me. I’d take ten of her.”

  That made Rory almost smile through the tightness in his throat. “I left Mrs. B. to do everything herself. I got to get back to work.”

  “Then I’ll get your cab,” Arthur said firmly, stepping to the curb.

  Rory huffed. “I could’ve walked,” he muttered, but without bite. The wind was picking up, whipping through a new hole in his coat and chilling his skin. He watched Arthur hail a taxi, jet-black hair and bright eyes as colorful as the futurist painting against the drab day.

  “So where you going now? You got some Fifth Avenue princess to visit?”

  Arthur’s smile slipped. “Ah—no. Business. It’s always business.”

  “But a big-timer like you, you got a doll somewhere, right?” Rory said, trying to sound casual, like he didn’t care if there was someone special in Arthur’s life.

  Arthur’s smile hadn’t come back. “There’s no one,” he said, not looking at Rory as he waved for a cab. “Apparently it’s endless bachelorhood for me.”

  Something about the way he said it made Rory’s chest hurt. “Sounds like more bunk. Bet you just haven’t met someone good enough for you yet.”

  “Of course.” The words were unexpectedly bitter. “I must come across as impossible to please—”

  “Not like that,” Rory blurted. “You’re not stuck up about your coffee and you’re not stuck up about your people either. You’re one of a kind, Ace. How could anyone be good enough for you?”

  Arthur paused, expression uncertain, but before he spoke, the cab was at the curb. Rory got in the back seat as Arthur leaned in the passenger window, and Rory saw him hand the driver a bill.

  “Hey,” he protested, as Arthur straightened up, “I can pay my own—”

  “Arrivederci, Rory.”

  Prick. Rory flopped back against the seat with a huff, but his gaze was on Arthur as the cab pulled away from the curb.

  * * *

  Mrs. Brodigan was behind the register when he arrived at the shop. “Look at you,” she said as he came in. “You’re not scowling.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Job for Jade and Kenzie wasn’t bad. Sorry I was gone so long.”

  “Did you bring more apology scones?” she said hopefully.

  “We were in Chelsea.”

  “And Chelsea doesn’t have scones?”

  “Next time,” he promised.

  “Oh,” she said delicately. “So you’re planning to dodge work again because you’re with Mr. Kenzie?”

  Rory gave her a flat look as he leaned against the cash register counter. Ever since his temper had cooled, something about Arthur had been needling him. “You gotta talk loud to snap me outta scrying, right?”

  “I practically have to shout in your ear,” said Mrs. Brodigan. “Why?”

  “’Cause I was scrying, but I knew when Ace showed up.” He furrowed his brow, then shrugged. “He’s big. Maybe he’s got big feet and loud steps.”

  “Perhaps.” She was looking Rory over. “Whatever Mr. Kenzie is, he’s good for you. You’re not scowling and you don’t look frozen to the bone. Did your handsome man make you take a cab?”

  “He’s not mine.” Sure be nice if he was. “He thinks you gotta take cabs everywhere. Bet he goes out a lot—did I tell you he’s got a whole big kitchen to himself but all he’s got are empty cabinets?”

  As he said it, Rory frowned. Arthur had braved the freezing dark before dawn to care for Rory’s fingers. Why didn’t he care for himself enough to keep food in the kitchen? Why didn’t someone else care that his kitchen was empty?

  “Bachelors.” Mrs. Brodigan clucked her tongue. “But then, it is a shame such a thoughtful man has no one thinking of him.” The bell jingled as the shop door opened then, and she winked at Rory. “Back to business, duck.”

  Business, Arthur had said, smile gone, shoulders heavy. It’s always business.

  Except Rory was thinking of Arthur, and he wasn’t thinking about business.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On Friday, Arthur was in a cab making its way south on Broadway. His fingers were clasped beneath his chin and his leg was bouncing with nerves.

  He was going to Mansfield’s home tomorrow for the mayor’s gala. But they still didn’t know why Gwen and Mansfield were working together to get the relic. They still didn’t know how to steal it. And Rory was still in Manhattan where the relic’s magic could reach him, or Gwen or Mansfield could find him, and yesterday Rory had found that lead sculpture with a burn mark—

  But no. Several people had seen a man matching Philippe’s description on a ship that set sail from the Port of Le Havre, and a crowd had seen the ship go up in flames in the harbor. Arthur had questioned the harbormaster himself.

  Plenty of things could have burned the statue. Philippe was gone.

  Arthur let his head fall against the back seat with a sigh.

  The cab passed City Hall and the Woolworth Building to pull up several blocks south at Bowling Green and 26 Broadway, where the previous sixteen stories of the Standard Oil Building were now topped with a new steel frame stretching to thirty-one stories high. The second remodel had been underway since 1921 and the press had endless questions about the progress for Arthur’s eldest brother, John, president of the New York City Board of Aldermen. Arthur had offered to go round for a site check and report back.

  Earl Humphries was in charge of the construction crew, a bald white man with an easy smile and a long history of helping Kenzie politicians navigate city deve
lopments. When he saw Arthur, he broke into a big smile. “Ace! I’d recognize you anywhere. Can you still throw a football to Jersey?”

  Arthur held up a pack of chewing gum. “You still chewing this to stay off the smokes?”

  Humphries’s smile became a grin. “Good lad.” He took the gum and clapped Arthur on the biceps. “Guns like these, you coulda won the war yourself. Come on, let’s send you up.”

  Ten minutes later, the crew was breaking for lunch on the ground and Arthur was 300 feet in the air, alone with the beams and the birds and the whistling wind. He’d gone up with the flyboys twice during the war and he was still amazed by the world from a height. Tiny people, milling far below; Bowling Green and Battery Park, stamp-sized patches of green grass and persistent white snow; the ocean and the Statue of Liberty in the distance.

  It was terribly romantic, and so naturally he was up here alone.

  He pushed the thought away. He’d thrown enough pity parties with booze and silent nights in his empty flat. He would deal with the relic in New York and then he’d go abroad, Paris again or maybe the Netherlands, somewhere he could at least get a date without a risk to his family.

  Of course, Paris and the Netherlands wouldn’t have Rory.

  You don’t have Rory now, he chastised himself. There is no point in pining. He may or may not like men, but he’s made it clear he doesn’t particularly like you. Rory would likely be glad to see you go.

  A shrill alarm briefly split the air, followed by the creak and squeak of a second construction lift making the long journey up the building’s side. Odd, the crew should have at least twenty more minutes for lunch. Arthur liked Humphries; he didn’t want to have to report that the crew was being rushed, perhaps overworked—

  But it wasn’t the crew.

  “Are you screwy?” It was Rory, in his coat and cap with a messenger bag slung across his body. He clung to the lift, his whole arms wrapped around the railing like a cat on a tree branch, and behind the glasses his eyes were huge. He looked down and then jerked his head back up, face green. “Christ, Ace, we’re high as the clouds.”