Page 2

Rory was crossing the street, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. His hounds-tooth newsboy cap was pulled low over blond curls and he was eying their building suspiciously from behind round black glasses.

Yes, he was short and young, and that was how he physically appeared.

It had been all Wesley had seen, when they first met.

But Rory had been aged emotionally by a hard life and his volatile magic.

His psychometry let him see the past of objects—and he’d become stuck in those pasts more than once, Wesley had learned from Arthur, Wesley’s ex-lover-turned-friend and Rory’s current beau.

It wasn’t fair or nice for Wesley to harp on his youth, especially considering Rory had once saved Wesley’s life. But then, Wesley had never claimed to be a fair or nice man.

Sebastian ducked out from under their shelter, waving tentatively.

He was getting more confident of his new status as friend, but he’d once kidnapped Rory.

It never seemed to matter that Sebastian had been under the control of blood magic at the time and that everyone else had forgiven him; he still struggled to let go and forgive himself.

But Rory genuinely brightened. “Hey Seb,” he called to Sebastian, waving back, which made Sebastian break into a real smile.

And yes, Wesley was going to call Rory an infant, likely forever, but at the end of the day he’d also do anything for someone who could make Sebastian smile like that. Maybe friendship was complicated; Wesley was, admittedly, still fairly new to the concept.

A moment later, Rory had joined them, squeezing into their tiny shelter under the roof. “Look at you, out of Arthur’s sight,” Wesley said. “How is he coping? Should we telegram and assure him that you haven’t been mugged or, I don’t know, unacceptably jostled by passersby?”

Rory gave him a disgruntled look, which seemed to be his default expression around Wesley. “I can handle myself.”

“I’m well aware,” Wesley said. “Arthur is the one who needs constant reminding. I can’t believe he’s letting you bootleg unsupervised; it seems very out of character for him.”

“Well,” Rory said grudgingly, “he didn’t want to. But that’s why you two are here. I told him to stop worrying and stick with his brother; John needs his help and the three of us are gonna be fine.”

“Yes, we are,” Sebastian said. “Rory, you can call in an actual tornado if there’s trouble. We will be—what is that word you say?—copacetic.”

“Thank you, Seb,” Rory said, looking a lot less disgruntled. “Bootleggers still aren’t here, then?”

“No.” Wesley pursed his lips. “But then, I don’t supposed criminals put much stake in punctuality.”

“Depends on the criminal,” Sebastian said, and it wasn’t light but it also wasn’t as heavy as it could have been. Was Sebastian finally getting to a point where he wasn’t blaming himself constantly for everything he’d done under blood magic? Wesley was, frankly, going to be damn proud of him.

“I can wait as long as the bulls don’t show.” Rory blew into his hands to warm them. “Did Jade say what kind of hooch we’re grabbing?”

He had one ring on his right hand, around his fourth finger.

Not the so-called Tempest Ring, the fifteenth-century relic which let Rory control the wind, but a plain gold band, like a wedding ring.

Wesley hadn’t commented on it, but he could guess who’d put it there and what it meant.

And obviously it didn’t do anything as ridiculous as warm his heart to see evidence that sometimes, against all odds, good people did find each other and the love they deserved.

No, Wesley was just happy that Arthur and Rory were occupied with each other and out of his hair.

“We’re picking up rum,” Wesley said. “It’s Latin night at the Magnolia.”

“It is?” Sebastian perked up. “How did you already know that?”

“Miss Robbins mentioned it yesterday, when I picked up the record for your brother.” Wesley added, for Rory, “Mateo’s last letter mentioned they’ve already had snow at Oberlin.

” He gestured at Sebastian. “I already know how this Caribbean boy feels about cold weather; one assumes the other Caribbean boy will also appreciate listening to a tango to warm an Ohio winter.”

Sebastian brushed his fingers against Wesley’s, like he sometimes did when he thought Wesley was being sweet.

An absurd thought, of course; Wesley appreciated corresponding with Sebastian’s younger brother because Mateo was a man of exceptional intellect and refreshing cynicism.

It had nothing to do with Wesley missing his own brother, who’d been lost in the war.

“Is Mateo’s magic still controlled?” Rory asked. “After—Well. The masquerade and everything.”

Rory would understand, and empathize deeply, with Sebastian’s brother, who was telegnostic and had been overwhelmed by his own ability to see the future of magic.

Or had been overwhelmed, before Sebastian had bound his magic.

Credit to Rory now, for trying to be sensitive, and not bluntly asking did the binding on Mateo’s magic survive when you lost your magic the night of the masquerade?

“Seems to be,” Wesley answered. “He mentioned he has the occasional odd dream, but he spent more of his letter grouching that he wasn’t in Havana with Miss de Leon and Miss Finnegan.”

“We could also have some of Stella’s records shipped to Spain, for when Isabel and Molly come home,” Sebastian said. “And what about to England?”

“Already sent,” Wesley said. “Ostensibly for myself, but I’m fairly certain my footman and my cook’s daughter will wear them out before I make it back.”

That made Sebastian smile. “What about your family?”

“Well,” Wesley said, “the cable from Lady Tabitha three days ago informed me she’d once again met the perfect potential Viscountess Fine, while yesterday’s cable from Geoffrey was checking whether I was returning to England for the Christmas social season or if I was dead and the title was his now.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I prefer to correspond with your family. ”

Rory glanced unsubtly at Sebastian. “Viscountess Fine, huh.”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “I think I see them,” he said, pointing to the Hudson River.

A boat was coming downriver from the north, turning in and making its way toward the dock.

“Here we go,” Rory muttered, as the three of them stepped back out into the rain.

Wesley led the way across a paved lot, in the shadow of the run-down building with its boarded windows rising up on their left.

At the edge of the lot, they stepped through mud and onto the long dock extending into the wide Hudson River.

The wind was colder and stronger on the dock, enough to make the waves choppy, and the river was a dark slate gray, the shallows at the shoreline quickly giving way to deep waters that could accommodate industrial shipping.

The wood was rickety and hollow-sounding under Wesley’s feet as they moved farther out into the river, to where the boat was puttering closer.

It was more of a skiff, really, not even big enough to have a proper deck, but the front of the boat was enclosed by some cheap wood and tarp.

Nothing was visible to the naked eye, but there would have been room for a stash hidden from sight.

Two men in dark overcoats and fedoras stood in the body of the boat. One of them was moving around, pulling up the rope into his hands as the boat approached the pier. Wesley caught the outline of a gun through the overcoat.

“They’re armed,” he said under his breath, for Sebastian’s and Rory’s ears alone.

“Good to know,” Rory muttered, his hand stealing into his pocket.

Sebastian’s face had shuttered, impossible to read. He stepped forward, as if to go ahead of Wesley and Rory.

Wesley’s hand darted out and snagged his coat sleeve. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, under his breath, pulling Sebastian back toward his side.

“I’m talking to them,” Sebastian said back, shooting Wesley a frown. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping you from taking on two armed men when you don’t have a weapon yourself,” Wesley snapped, and then bit his tongue so hard he almost broke skin.

Up until three weeks ago, Sebastian’s weapon had been his magic—a literal part of him. And now Wesley couldn’t even match Rory’s level of tact; Sebastian had given up that magic to save Wesley’s life, apparently so Wesley could be here to throw it right back in his face.

Sure enough, a flash of hurt crossed Sebastian’s face, unmistakable even if he buried it so fast Wesley could have imagined it. “I’m only going to talk to them, Wesley,” Sebastian said lightly. “I think even I can handle that, yes?”

He didn’t wait for Wesley to respond before stepping out in front again.

Probably for the best, because what was Wesley supposed to say to that?

Perhaps you can handle that, but apparently your lover can’t ?

Because he’s a giant fucking hypocrite who mocked Arthur for not seeing that Brodigan can take care of himself only to do exactly the same to you ?

Wesley swallowed a sigh and followed.

* * *

It’s fine. Wesley is still getting used to you not having magic and he also needs time to adjust , Sebastian told himself. He doesn’t actually think you’re incapable of talking to people.

Hopefully.

One of the men had leapt out of the boat onto the dock and was tying the skiff up to the pier. And Wesley was right; there was the unmistakable outline of a firearm beneath the overcoat.

Sebastian kept his eyes on the men. “Nice weather we’re having,” he called.

The day was gray and cold, the clouds thick with the rain that fell on Sebastian’s cap and shoulders. The man on the dock straightened up. “Blue skies all around,” he replied, completing the code phrase.

“Marvelous,” Wesley said flatly. “Can we get a fucking move on, then?”

He was, of course, dressed with his usual disdain for current trends and preference for clothes two to three decades out of style, and had an unmistakable accent. The two bootleggers exchanged a look.

“Miss Robbins didn’t tell us we were expecting a Spaniard and the crown prince,” one of them said.

“You getting paid to make wisecracks or you got something to sell?” Rory said, with an edge. He was the youngest and shortest of everyone on the dock, but Sebastian caught a new flash of gold on his left hand. He’d put on the ring relic, arming himself with the power of the wind.

The bootleggers exchanged another look. But then the man in the boat pushed the tarp aside and reached under the covered bow.

A moment later, he was straightened, holding a medium-sized, round glass bottle with a narrow spout.

“The name’s Lenny. That’s Tommy on the dock.

And this here is the finest rum Nova Scotia has to offer,” he said, holding it out over the edge of the boat.

“This one’s free, as a show of goodwill. Go on and have a sample.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Wesley said, reaching out for the bottle that Lenny was holding out. “After Mr. Brodigan has a first look, of course.”

“You’re having the kid test the rum?” said Tommy, like that was funny. “I thought Miss Robbins was a professional. Why’d she send you clowns?”

“Our young gentleman friend here is a prodigy,” Wesley said, his tone icy, as he handed the rum to Rory. “And I would suggest the two of you more carefully consider your choice of words.”

Rory had closed his eyes, turning the bottle around in his hands. Sebastian bent to put his head close to Rory’s and caught faint muttering. “Bought from a bartender, bottled in a factory.”

Rory abruptly opened his eyes, glancing up at Sebastian. “This one’s the real McCoy, but they bought it by itself, in a bar,” he said under his breath. “I need to check the ones they’re trying to sell. Fine can drink this if he wants, though.”

Sebastian took the bottle and straightened up. “We need to see the rest of the product.”

Lenny gestured to the boat with a showman’s air. “Climb aboard.”

Sebastian heard Rory swallow, the deep brown eyes behind his glasses going to the choppy river.

The Hudson was probably forty feet deep at this point, their pier far enough into the river to accommodate the old factory’s industrial ships.

He can’t swim , Sebastian remembered, from stories Rory and Arthur had told. And he’s had some bad luck on boats.

Sebastian handed the rum to Wesley and stepped forward. “We’ll both go.”

Wesley opened his mouth. Sebastian shot him a look, and Wesley put the bottle to his lips instead of speaking—grudgingly, Sebastian was pretty sure.

Sebastian stepped into the boat first. It wasn’t a big boat, and it rocked under his weight, but the Hudson River would never have waves like the ocean Sebastian had grown up with.

He found his balance, then angled himself to put his shoulder where Rory could easily reach it if he needed to steady himself.

Rory’s lips tightened but he didn’t protest, and his spine was very straight as he stepped into the boat. It rocked again, and Rory’s hand shot out to grip Sebastian’s shoulder.

“You afraid of a little water, kid?” Tommy said from the dock, with an obvious jeer.

“I’m sorry, did you have something to say outside of our business?” Wesley took a step toward the man. “Perhaps you’d care to say it to me?”

Apparently Wesley could give Rory a hard time, but that didn’t meant strangers could. At over six feet, he was the tallest man in the group, and while he didn’t have Arthur’s breadth he had his own dangerous air. Sebastian could see Tommy reassessing him.

“If anyone is gonna tell these two to go chase themselves, it oughta be me.” Rory was gingerly moving forward in the boat. Lenny pulled back the corner of the tarp, revealing four crates.

Rory knelt by the closest crate and put both hands on it.

Lenny was eying him with a look Sebastian didn’t like. “What’s he doing?”

Sebastian stepped between Rory and Lenny. “Whatever he needs to do,” Sebastian said coolly. He could hear faint muttering, mostly lost to the wind, as Rory scried the crates.

And then Rory suddenly yanked his hands off the crate. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Oh shit. “Rory,” Sebastian said, but Rory was already on his feet.

“You think you’re gonna scam Jade?” Rory was pointing at the bootlegger. “Not on our watch, buddy.”

“Hard to watch anything from the bottom of the Hudson.” And Lenny shoved Rory off the boat and into the river.