It was all just a little too quiet and he itched to turn around and go back to the warm luxury of Harry’s mansion. He made himself keep going. He wasn’t planning to use the ring, just scry it, but things could always go sideways. If the wind came and went knocking trees over when he was lost in a vision, he’d end up squashed.
Or worse, the wind might blow too hard on Harry’s house. Rory wasn’t ever gonna let that happen—he was gonna find an open space as far away from Harry’s house as he could get. You’re not gonna open up that box anywhere near the kids, he promised himself. You gotta scry it for Pavel, but you’re gonna get far away, far enough that Ellie, Ev, and little Bobby are safe.
But it didn’t look like there were open spaces in the woods along the Hudson. Rory made it all the way down the hill, to the edge of the river, without seeing so much as a decent clearing. He paused, squinting behind his glasses as he took in the Hudson River. It was a lot more impressive up close: blocks wide, and frozen all the way across like a huge version of the Central Park Lake.
Arthur had said it was a half mile to the other side, and that the river was frozen solid enough the ice dealers were still driving across. It looked plenty solid now. But Arthur’d also said there wasn’t anything across the river but more trees.
In fact, the only open space around looked like out on the frozen Hudson itself.
Rory pursed his lips. It didn’t seem like a great idea, wandering out onto the ice by himself. But there weren’t any other patches without trees and he wasn’t stupid enough to think he might not blow everything around him down while scrying.
The lead-lined ring box was dragging his pocket down, pulling at his suspenders. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the magic link in him that would lead him out of any vision and to Arthur. He didn’t need the ring.
Pavel did.
Gingerly, Rory took one step out onto the frozen river. His foot slipped a bit, but the ice was solid as sidewalk under his sneaker and held him easily. He looked across the expanse of the river again, took a breath, and then carefully began to make his way out onto the ice.
Chapter Five
So you were there too? At the gala? The night Luther Mansfield was murdered?
For an instant, the memory of the moment of Mansfield’s death assaulted Arthur’s mind, the bright red of his blood, the gurgling noise he’d made as the paralysis began, the shock of his killer.
Arthur shoved the memory back into the corner of his mind, to the vault where he compartmentalized all the deaths and horrors he’d seen. He let numbness ice out any feelings and kept his face carefully neutral because in the here and now, he had to consider John’s reputation. Mansfield’s politics had been in direct opposition to the Kenzies’, and Arthur should not have shown his face in Mansfield’s home. He wouldn’t have, if the fate of Manhattan hadn’t literally been in the balance.
“I dropped by to see if the old man was going to break out any of that pre-Prohibition liquor,” he said, in his most bored party voice. “He didn’t, so I left. Terrible tragedy, most shocking. Were you two close?”
Edgar glanced around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I was his lawyer.”
Arthur straightened. “You must be busy administrating the estate, then,” he said, keeping his voice casual.
“Yes. A highly confidential job,” Edgar said primly. “I’m afraid I can’t share gossip.”
Arthur managed not to roll his eyes. “I simply heard he was quite the collector,” he pressed.
Edgar’s expression twitched. “Museum-worthy,” he admitted, and wet his lips. “I used to think his taste was just—eccentric. But. Well.” He stopped speaking, his gaze darting around the room instead, twitchy as a mouse in an open field.
“I always suspected he didn’t keep his most valuable things in the house itself,” Arthur said. “Was he hiding anything interesting under the bed? Locked away in a safe-deposit box, perhaps?”
Edgar shuddered. He moved even closer, close enough that Arthur could see his hair was limp because Edgar was sweating. “You have a reputation, you know,” he suddenly said, instead of giving an answer. “Everyone says you’re well traveled. Morocco, Constantinople, Barcelona.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I’m not certain what my itineraries have to do with Luther Mansfield’s penchant for art.”
“You’re said to be a man who likes to see the world. And I wonder—” Edgar hesitated. “Have you ever—seen something you can’t explain? Or—someone?”
Arthur’s gut twisted. “Christ, who can explain anything after a night in Amsterdam?” he said carelessly.
“I’m not talking about that sort of thing,” Edgar hissed. “I mean things that shouldn’t be possible. People who aren’t safe, who ought to be locked away from the rest of us.”
He couldn’t mean—Edgar Barnes couldn’t possibly know about magic, could he? “Barnes old fellow, have you managed to find something to drink? Don’t hold out on me,” Arthur said, with a veneer of pleasantry, like his hackles weren’t up at the idea that Barnes could be talking about Jade or Rory.
Edgar made an ugly face. “I’m not drunk,” he spat. “Never mind, forget I said anything. Clearly I should have kept the conversation to football and suits.” He tacked a sneer on the end of the sentence that was just enough of a smile to make the jab defendable as a joke, then turned in the direction of the punch.
Arthur took a step after Edgar, then hesitated. He glanced across the room, where John had his arm amiably slung over the shorter Harry’s shoulders. Arthur had wanted to find someone who knew about the estate, not the supernatural. If there was a line Arthur would not cross, it was involving his non-magic family in the dangers of the magic world.
Edgar was a well-connected partner in an established Manhattan law firm; Arthur could find him again easily enough in the city. For the moment, he let Edgar go, and instead set his half-empty glass on the closest table and went in search of a phone.
* * *
It was so much colder out on the ice.
Rory was shivering outright by the time he made it about a third of the way across the frozen Hudson. Behind him, Harry’s mansion had disappeared somewhere into the trees. If he squinted across the river, he could see a couple of big houses or churches on cleared areas in the forest. There was no one in eyesight, and out on the ice there was no birdsong, just the whistling of the wind. So far from the hustle and bustle of the cities Rory’d always lived in.
It was strange, being so utterly alone. It put prickles on Rory’s skin that had nothing to do with the cold.