“Back at Coney Island, before the tidal wave, that amulet got Gwen’s magic under control,” Rory said quietly. “And I thought maybe, somewhere in the ring’s past, I’d find the secret of giving it to another paranormal.”
“Oh.” Arthur’s voice had gone much softer. “Pavel.”
“Yeah.” Rory stared at the snowflakes, bright white as he caught them with the flashlight’s beam. “Turns out the ring’s mine, ’til death do us part.”
“And you, what, thought you’d get a bit close for comfort?”
“That was an accident. I got mad and it triggered the wind.” Rory squeezed his eyes shut. “When I heard it coming, I remembered how I wrecked Coney Island and all I could think about was the kids, Ace, your little nieces and nephew—” He swallowed. “I couldn’t let the wind hit a house, so I panicked and sent it into the ice. I’m so stupid—I coulda destroyed your brother’s house, coulda sent someone else through the ice if anyone’d been out—”
“And you could have died,” Arthur cut in tersely. “Christ. Fair warning, no amount of cute will change how apocalyptically cross I’m going to be once we’re safe.”
Rory sighed into Arthur’s shoulder. “How far’s it to a town?”
“Assuming we’re more or less across from Harry’s place, it’s several miles to Highland. But unless it’s my imagination, the trees are thinning out.”
Rory squinted ahead. There was a break in the trees coming up. Nerves and hope twisted his stomach. “There are more pads like Harry’s on this side of the Hudson, right? Are we—are we gonna trespass across some millionaire’s lot?”
“Not millionaires, no.” Arthur came to a stop at the edge of the tree line. “But I might know where we are now.”
He carefully set Rory on the ground, an arm around his waist to steady him. Beyond the trees, an expansive, snow-covered lawn stretched out in front of them, and up on the hill was a four-story redbrick building with peaked roofs and arches facing the river.
“Where are we?”
“I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this,” Arthur said awkwardly. “But I know they’ll let us in. And if they have a phone, they’ll let us use it.”
Rory squinted up at Arthur suspiciously. “They?”
Arthur pointed across the lawn to the building. “The monks.”
As Arthur helped him up the hill and then around the side of the monastery, Rory’s stomach was roiling enough to distract him from the ache in his ankle. “I dunno if I should be here, Ace. I got a complicated record with church.”
Arthur paused. “I told you once I would never let you be locked up again, and I meant it,” he said, quiet and comforting. “And I won’t let you out of my sight here.” He hesitated. “But I also won’t force you. If you truly don’t want to ask St. Francis for shelter, we’ll keep walking.”
In the flashlight’s edge, Arthur’s eyes were sincere, like he’d march carrying Rory for miles in the cold so Rory wouldn’t have to face a fear.
Rory took a breath. “Nah, we can try. But I’m gonna let you do the talking.”
A short set of stairs led to the front door, sheltered under a small peaked roof that matched the larger peaks at the ends of building. Rory balanced on one foot, leaning hard against the wall as Arthur reached for the knocker. The echo of brass on wood sent shivers down Rory’s spine, and he huddled deeper into Arthur’s coat. He took a deep breath, catching the faint scent of Arthur’s lingering cologne.
The door opened, revealing a man in long robes, his head bare and a large cross on a chain around his neck.
Rory balled his fists in Arthur’s gloves.
“I beg your pardon,” Arthur said, his accent at its poshest and most polished. “But do you have a phone?”
* * *
Rory chewed his lower lip as he watched Arthur on the phone.
“I said, we’re at the St. Francis priory.” Arthur, the phone’s receiver held to his ear, glanced over and gave Rory a reassuring smile before turning away toward the wall and lowering his voice. “I can say it a third time if that makes it easier to believe, Harry.”
Aw geez. Arthur’d called his brother to bail them out.
The monastery’s phone was in the guesthouse, in a small office with dark wood floors and redbrick walls. Arthur stood at the desk while Rory sat on the edge of a rickety wooden chair and tried to pretend he wasn’t about to bolt.
Not that he was going anywhere on this ankle. He curled his hand into a loose fist, the ring hidden under Arthur’s glove, and let Arthur’s quiet, deep voice fade into the background as he sat back in the chair, resting his head against the bricks of the wall with a sigh.
“That was a troubled sound,” said one of the monks, as he appeared in the doorway with another wooden chair.
Rory gave him a narrow-eyed look, leaving his head where it was.
The monk only gave him a small smile in return as he set the chair across from Rory. “To raise your ankle.”
Rory’s eyes stayed narrowed. But he wanted to walk without trouble again, so he swallowed the pain with a small grunt as he raised his foot and propped it on the other chair.
Arthur pulled the phone away from his mouth. “Brother,” he said to the monk, “a moment?”
Rory shut his eyes as Arthur and the monk conferred in low voices, catching “too much snow” and “shouldn’t risk a driver” and something about the morning.
Then Arthur was suddenly looming over him. “Dozing?”
“Nah.” Rory swallowed. “Too keyed up to sleep.”
“Understandable.” Arthur folded his arms. He was still wearing the fancy suit he’d worn to his other brother’s lunch, spotted wet from the snow but still unreasonably nice in the soft light of the monastery office. “The snow’s coming down harder.”
Rory winced.
“Harry and I talked about looking for a driver, but the roads are a mess. He’s going to arrange for transportation in the morning.”
“Then what’re we gonna do tonight?”
“The monks have spare rooms here in the guesthouse. If we want them,” he added, and Rory knew it was a question.
Rory ran a hand over his face, his heart beating uncomfortably fast as a tight band of fear squeezed his chest. “Church or snow,” he said, voice shaky. “I might pick snow.”
“We’re sharing.” When Rory blinked, Arthur spread his hands innocently. “I couldn’t possibly ask the brothers to make up two rooms. We’re putting them out enough as it is. Besides, you could have hit your head when you came down on that bank and I need to watch you for a concussion. As I told them, I was a soldier and I’m perfectly accustomed to tight quarters.” He lowered his voice. “Not out of my sight. Remember?”