“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur said lightly. “Sometimes people like to see one-of-a-kind sights. Silly me. Forget I asked.”
The car was silent again. Was he really playing chauffer when there were disturbances in the astral plane, unsettling tracks on Coney Island’s beach? He tried to push his frustration away. Wesley knew nothing of magic. It wasn’t his fault.
A few more blocks, and Arthur became aware that Wesley was studying him instead of the passing buildings. “What?” he said snappishly.
Wesley made a dismissive gesture. “It’s just nice to see you haven’t let yourself go.”
“It’s only been six months since you’ve seen me,” Arthur said dryly. “Give it a year, I’m sure I’ll be suitably trollish by then.”
Wesley snorted, sounding unimpressed rather than amused. “Take the compliment, Arthur.”
Compliment.
Rory’s rough voice flitted through Arthur’s mind.No other fella in New York’s half as fine as you in a suit. But you could wear a potato sack and still look like you stepped outta my best dream.
Rory could teach Wesley a thing or two about compliments. “So why did you come all the way to America for a wedding?”
“The bride’s family and mine are acquainted. I thought I might as well. Is your whole litter going to be there? Please tell me you don’t expect me to keep your siblings straight.”
Arthur frankly didn’t expect it of anyone but his parents, but it hadn’t stopped Rory from trying. But of course, Rory wasn’t invited to the governor’s son’s wedding.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” Arthur said flatly. “Not even civility.”
“Christ, I’ve been in America twenty minutes and you’re already ruffled.”
Arthur blew out a breath. “About one hundred and fifty years ago, my ancestors were soruffledby your ancestors they told them to fuck off back to England.”
“At least England doesn’t haveProhibition,” Wesley went on, completely missing Arthur’s not-exactly-subtle hint. “What exactly am I supposed to do in America? What doyoudo? You practically drank me out of scotch, how can you stand it?”
Arthur had drunk too much in England, upset about losing Gwen, plagued by dreams of war, miserable and lonely before Jade had come back and told him she’d dug up rumors of another relic in Spain. “You can have my stash,” Arthur said, and meant it. He’d rather get an ice cream soda with his grouchy paranormal than the finest whiskey with an aristocrat who didn’t even like him.
“Am I staying with you? I thought you had only a one-bedroom flat—”
“I do,” Arthur said firmly. “And you’re not.”
“Hmph. What, you couldn’t get a proper house? What is your obsession with living like a pauper?”
“A pauper.” Arthur’s flat was the nicest home of anyone he spent time with. He had to bribe Rory with sex to get him to sleep somewhere without rats. “Sure, Wesley.”
An hour, a train, and a taxi ride later, Rory was carrying a big paper bag of groceries up Central Park West toward Arthur’s building. The sun had set while he’d been working his way uptown, and it was wickedly cold outside, but at least Zhang was mollified that Rory was going to Arthur’s place and his projection had disappeared.
Arthur’s brother was having dreams. Arthur was having dreams. There was more going on than anyone was telling him. Rory hitched his grocery bag higher. Jade seemed to think Arthur needed to be the one to tell him, and Arthur’s secrets were his own, but Rory was still getting sick of being kept in the dark.
He looked at the curved windows and peaked roofs of Arthur’s building as he crossed 72nd. Arthur wasn’t here yet; when Rory reached for the link, he could feel Arthur a little to the southeast, in Midtown. Not done at Lord Fine’s hotel, then.
But Arthur had to come home at some point. It wasn’t like he was going to spend the night somewhere else.
It wasn’t.
The door swung open as Rory approached, revealing a doorman he’d never seen before. He stood in the doorway, body blocking the entrance, as his bland expression raked over Rory. “Deliveries go to the back.”
Rory hunched his shoulders, pulling the groceries tighter against his chest. If he said he was here to deliver groceries, they’d take his bag and tell him to leave. He tried to think of something else that wouldn’t put any kind of suspicion on Arthur.
“Um.” Rory wet his lips. “I have an appointment with Mr. Kenzie.”
“I see.” The doorman’s expression was perfectly blank. “I don’t recall seeing any appointments for Mr. Kenzie on the guest ledger. Is he expecting you?”
The wind was picking up. Rory tried not to shiver. “He’s not gonna be surprised I’m here,” he hedged.
