Spellbound Read online

  Mrs. Brodigan shook her head. “But I did get the sense that it was—important.” When he furrowed his eyebrows, she put a gentle hand on his arm. “We haven’t promised anything, dear. We don’t have to appraise it.”

  Rory bit his lip. “It’s a ring, not a weapon. How could we turn it down?”

  “Because you’re never obligated to do something just because someone offers you a lot of money to do it.” She squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Nothing to be done at the moment anyway. Mr. Kenzie isn’t going to open the case until we’ve talked and that has to wait for tomorrow, because this afternoon is my lesson with Mr. McIntyre.”

  The reminder drove his unease away, replacing it with the burn of envy. “I can’t believe you’re gonna drive.”

  She frowned. “I’ve been telling you to take the lesson. You earned it.”

  He shook his head rapidly. “Imagine if I started scrying the steering wheel while the car’s moving.”

  “You haven’t lost control in ages—”

  “I’m not good for it. Besides, he’d wanna know how I’d helped you and I don’t wanna answer that question.” He wrapped his arms around himself. Driving a car, meeting the customers—he couldn’t let himself be tempted into it. “You do it, you earned it much as me. You handle everything but the actual scrying.” He jerked his head at the mysterious briefcase again.

  Her smile was a little sad, but she didn’t push. “You try to have a nice afternoon in the shop. Put the job out of your mind for now.”

  Easier said than done. But aloud he said, “I’ll try.”

  Her smile grew fond. “That’s what you said four years ago, and I’m grateful for it every day.”

  He rolled his eyes at her sentiment, but he couldn’t stop his own grudging smile in return.

  “And the sun comes out from behind the cloud!” she said. “You know, you’d snap up a young lady in a heartbeat if you’d smile more often—while you’re also going out more often—”

  “Mrs. B.”

  “And the storm clouds are back, just like that.” She patted his arm. “I’m off to meet Mr. McIntyre and I’ll see you in the morning. Try not to get into trouble on your own.”

  “Of course I won’t,” he said indignantly. He never caused trouble.

  But his gaze returned, unbidden, to the briefcase on the counter.

  * * *

  Zhang’s news had not been good.

  Arthur took a long cab from Chinatown to Harlem, and now the previous night’s snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way down 135th. The sun was warm on the back of his neck, a short delight to savor before it disappeared into clouds or winter’s early dark.

  If asked where he was going, he would have patiently explained that he was on that particular street corner to patronize the small, green-awninged deli for a pastrami on rye. Of course he wasn’t here to visit the abandoned tobacco shop in the basement below; one could clearly see the shop was out of business, the sidewalk-level windows obscured by velvet curtains, and certainly if the tobacco shop was actually the infamous jazz club and speakeasy known as the Magnolia, well, Arthur was sure he didn’t know anything about that.

  He picked up several sandwiches from the deli, then went back out to the cold and down the half-flight of stairs to an iron-barred door. The door’s peeling letters still spelled out Tobacconist, despite the hand-lettered Out Of Business sign taped above.

  Benson was the one to open it, a tall man who was wildly handsome and happily married, not that Arthur would have risked his friendship with Jade to neck with her brother in any case. At the sight of Arthur waiting patiently on the step, his yawn became a smile.

  “Ace! Come in, come in.” He twisted his burly shoulders out of the way to let Arthur inside. “Jade said she was expecting you.” Benson led Arthur through the empty shop, which still smelled of hand-rolled cigarettes and cheap cigars. At the back, Benson opened another heavy door, and then they were in the Magnolia, a spacious dark-paneled room of round tables packed tight around a small stage. “She’s with Stella by the bar.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Not indulging, surely?”

  Benson snorted. “Only if mineral water has gotten more interesting.”

  The Magnolia wasn’t officially open for business for the night yet, but even at barely two o’clock, a handful of the tables were occupied and cigarette smoke hung hazy in the air. Arthur had no trouble spotting the sisters as he gave the bartender his order. Stella favored dresses over Jade’s trousers, but they had the same captivating brown eyes and perfect smile as Benson.

  Arthur joined them, setting his paper bag on the table next to a folded copy of the Times. “A man could drown in this much beauty.”

  It earned him a smile from Stella and a long-suffering look from Jade, who said, “You know we’re immune to your charm.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Stella took his hand with a squeeze, not a handshake. “What brings your handsome face around?”

  He gestured to the paper bag. “News for your sister, sandwiches for the staff and the band.”

  “There’s a reason you’re so popular here.” Stella tapped the Times on the table. “Is this your news?”

  Arthur glanced at the headline beneath her finger. Congressman Kenzie Faces Fresh Criticism on Immigration Act. “What now?”

  “Another interview with Luther Mansfield.” Jade looked unimpressed. “He doesn’t like your father’s politics.”

  “That’s not news,” Arthur said. “News would be us telling the Times that business mogul and prominent lobbyist Luther Mansfield secretly trades in dangerous magical artifacts straight out of his Fifth Avenue mansion.”

  “Fair enough.” Jade sighed. “I suppose we could be grateful he’s not an actual paranormal.”

  “He’s worse, thinking he’s entitled to a hidden stockpile of magic to sell to the highest bidder. He has some nerve to turn around and call Father a threat. We’d be doing a public service if we stole everything enchanted straight out of Mansfield’s home.”

  Jade made a considering face. “Not a bad idea, actually. I’m sure the Zhangs would help.”

  Stella huffed with amusement and got to her feet. “As much fun as Fifth Avenue grand larceny sounds, I should take the food to the band.” She waved off Arthur’s protest that they weren’t trying to drive her off. “I’m on tonight. Benson’s got us a new bassist and we want to run some extra sets. You two try not to bring down the government while I’m gone.”

  “You wound me,” said Arthur, as a waiter approached. “I am the very model of a law-abiding citizen.”

  The waiter set the drink down with a flourish. “Your gin rickey, sir.”

  The sisters exchanged smirks. “Oh, shut up,” said Arthur. “Half this country’s laws are travesties and Prohibition’s not even the worst. I should be drinking this with a naked—” His gaze darted to the retreating waiter’s back. “Someone naked, at any rate.”

  Stella lifted her cocktail from the table and raised it. “I’ll drink to that.” She and Arthur clinked glasses, then she disappeared in the direction of the stage and the dressing rooms.

  “Where’s the ring?” Jade asked, as Arthur took Stella’s seat.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “Ace, you didn’t—we don’t even know what it does—”

  “Mrs. Brodigan was going to leave, I had to give her collateral,” he said. “She passed my test.”

  Jade’s eyes widened. “She found the genuine letter?”

  “Amid the twenty-one forgeries done with different inks and different aging methods. I don’t believe for one second she has the resources to test that many in one night with science, which means it’s almost certainly magic.” He took a sip of his drink, savoring the quality. This was definitely the Canadian gin. “And she was angry she’d been up all night, which tells me she didn’t sn
ag a letter at random and get lucky. I think she might actually scry that ring for us. You know she didn’t even flinch when she touched the box?”

  “What a lucky break,” Jade mused, “to find a psychometric with such control over her ability.”

  Arthur swirled his drink. They might be needing Mrs. Brodigan’s control and abilities even more than he’d realized. “Zhang asked me to come see him this morning.”

  Jade’s expression sobered. “Yes. I told him where to find you.”

  “So you spoke with him too.” On the stage, a handful of staff had begun setup for the night’s performances. The liquid in Arthur’s cup caught the edge of a spotlight check. “He told you the rumor?”

  “Another relic, on a ship bound for New York.” She sat back in her chair. “Could be a good thing, if we can get our hands on it.”

  “Certainly.” Arthur tossed back the rest of the drink and set the glass down on the table, too hard. “Or this could be the one that ends civilization, if we don’t.”

  Chapter Four

  Snow began to fall again that afternoon. Brodigan’s had done steady business since noon, but as the snow piled higher, the customer count went lower, and by four o’clock Rory was alone in the empty shop.

  Alone except for the mysterious briefcase.

  He set his glasses next to the cash register and propped his elbows on the counter, scrubbing at his tired face and eyes with the palms of his hands. So Kenzie had brought them a briefcase with a ring. So what? On Rory’s list of weird, that didn’t even rate.

  But a rush job to test twenty-one forged letters hiding a genuine antique—that had been weird. And Rory most adamantly didn’t like weird, and so he didn’t trust the prick.

  He buried his face farther in his hands and his fingers met his hair, the messy waves overgrown even by his standards. A barber wasn’t in his budget, but Mrs. Brodigan kept scissors in the shop, and maybe he shouldn’t try to cut his own hair on less than three hours’ sleep but it wasn’t like he had anyone to impress. He shoved his glasses back on his face and crouched down to see if the scissors were in their usual home on the shelf under the counter.

  Oh, there were the scissors, all right. Right next to the blasted briefcase Rory was already reaching for.

  He yanked his hand away with a curse. Pushing away from the counter, he strode to the office where Mrs. Brodigan kept her immaculate records in a fireproof metal filing cabinet with the key taped under her desk. He unlocked the filing cabinet and rifled through the Ks until he found the folder he wanted: Arthur J. Kenzie.

  But when he laid the file out on the desk and paged through it, there unfortunately wasn’t much to learn. Kenzie had a Central Park West address, a private telephone number, and had settled his bill along with—Rory’s eyes widened at the figure written on the page.

  That was the tip for the rush?

  He pursed his lips. Fine. Kenzie was still a prick. He just wasn’t a cheap prick.

  Rory closed the folder. He could hear Mrs. Brodigan’s warm brogue in his head. You’re never obligated to do something just because someone offers you a lot of money to do it. She was right, of course. But deep down, Rory couldn’t pretend his reluctance was born only from anger. He didn’t understand what was going on—and it scared him.

  He could still say no. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d refused to scry something out of fear, and maybe that made him weak, but he’d long ago reconciled to himself that if he had to pick between being brave or being sane, he’d be a yellow-bellied coward.

  Still, this wasn’t a gun, or a knife, or one of those horrible medieval torture devices someone had once tried to sneak into the shop—thank goodness for Mrs. Brodigan’s sharp eyes for any kind of violent object. No, Kenzie wasn’t asking for a weapon, he was asking for jewelry. What reason did Rory have to fear a ring?

  The shop was still empty as he returned to the counter. Moving too fast to have second thoughts, he crouched again and snatched up the briefcase, then set it on the counter next to the register.

  He ran a finger over one of the gold locks. Two locks, three dials of numbers each. It’d take ages to guess the right pattern with trial and error.

  Then again, a fella who could see history didn’t need trial and error to crack a combination lock.

  Rory glanced out the window and glass-paneled door, but the snow was still falling and the street beyond was empty. The sun had set behind the buildings, the white snowflakes illuminating the night and softening the world outside. He’d keep the shop open until five, but it was unlikely anyone was going to brave the snow and dark to visit Brodigan’s in the next thirty minutes.

  He set his fingers on the locks, closed his eyes, and reached back for the locks’ creation—and the factory settings.

  Two minutes later, Rory had the briefcase open on the counter.

  The case was padded with a small square cut in the center, and tucked tightly inside was a ring box. He reached for it—and then jerked his hand away with a curse, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

  Lead. That sensation of needles pricking his fingers couldn’t be anything else. But why was there lead in a ring box?

  Quickly, Rory forced himself to grab the ring box and yank it out of the case, dropping it on the counter a second later. The box rested there, a solid black cube with no markings. Harmless and unremarkable—except, of course, that it weighed too much because someone thought a ring needed to be kept in a lead-lined box.

  Rory narrowed his eyes. Things had gotten weirder and he didn’t like it one bit. Maybe Kenzie didn’t want the ring opened until they’d had a chance to talk, but Rory wasn’t real keen on listening to anything Kenzie wanted. Rory could scry the ring now and they’d know what it was before they even saw Kenzie again, and Rory could be the one with the upper hand for a change.

  Without letting himself think one second more, he reached for the ring box and cracked the top.

  It hit like an ocean wave, or a gust of wind—an invisible force full of power barreling out of the opened box. Rory saw a flash of gold and glinting jewels as his legs gave out. He smacked his face against the counter as he fell, catching the corner of his glasses and knocking them off. He flailed and his hand struck the box, sending it flying off the counter, and as he tumbled down he heard the high-pitched clink of metal striking wood.

  No—shit—

  Down on the floor, Rory clutched at his head. He’d opened a music box and gotten blasted by a symphony. He ground his teeth against the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t think for the pressure in his skull, couldn’t see without his glasses—

  He had to close that ring back in its box.

  The shop was nothing but a blur of color as Rory dragged himself from behind the counter on hands and knees. He felt along the floor in sweeping motions until his hands landed on his glasses. His heart plummeted; the temple had come loose. They were brand new. But there was no time for regret, not with the unbearable force in the shop, so he balanced the broken frames on his face as best he could.

  The box was just beyond him, on the floor, and Rory swore out loud as he saw it open and empty and the ring nowhere nearby. But as the pressure mounted, he grimly realized that he wasn’t going to have trouble finding it—he could just follow the crushing sensation to its source.

  He picked up the box in his hand. Easy to ignore the prickle of lead on his skin when his whole head was buzzing like a swarm of bees.

  “Come on, come on,” he said aloud as he crawled on toward the bookshelves. He thought he could just—there! A glint of gold where the ring had rolled just under the lip of the bottom shelf.

  He set the box as close as he could, but he was going to have to pick up the ring to get it back in the box, and he couldn’t bear to wait another second for a better plan.

  He shoved his hand under the bookshelf and closed his fing
ers around the ring.

  * * *

  A pale man stands on the bow of a ship. He’s dressed in a long blue coat with gold trim, a white cravat, his white-blond hair tied back. There are sounds of human misery below him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or, he doesn’t care.

  He lifts his hand and on his finger, the ring catches the brilliant sun, the white stone glinting. A gust of wind sweeps down the deck and the ship’s sail billows with a clap.

  Two sailors are bringing a man in chains forward. They shove him down to the wooden planks of the ship’s deck, at the feet of the pale man.

  The pale man traces a finger over the ring, a cruel smile on his lips. “You tried to incite the other prisoners to riot.”

  The man swallows hard but doesn’t speak.

  The pale man’s smile grows. “The ship moves at my command,” he said softly. “And in exchange, the captain lets me do as I please with the cargo.” He traces the jewel on the ring again. The words are chilling but the day is hot, the sky stretching endlessly on all sides in flawless, cloudless blue—

  It should be snowing.

  * * *

  Rory gasped, the breath torn from his lungs as he was thrown back into consciousness. With a rush of adrenaline, he seized his moment of clarity, and shoved the ring into the lead-lined box before slamming the lid shut.

  The pressure vanished.

  The vision was gone.

  He toppled flat on his back on the floor of the shop. Black dots threatened the edges of his sight as he tried to focus on the ceiling, on the yellowish light of the bulbs far above. His heart pounded in his ears as he took huge gulps of air, too fast, fists balled against his mouth. If he didn’t slow his breathing he might pass out, might get himself sucked right back into a vision—

  “Focus, focus.” His voice was loud in the silent shop. Good. He kept talking, anything to keep himself conscious, to anchor him to the here and now. “The past is over. This is real. The floor, the wood, the lights. You’re Rory Brodigan now and this is real.”