“But why the fuck—”
“I’ll give you all the answers in a few moments. Christ, Fine, there was a time you trusted me.”
Wesley glanced ahead. A multistory brick building that had seen better days loomed at the end of the road, at the river’s edge. Langford headed up the gravel drive into some kind of industrial complex, with smaller buildings surrounding the main brick building and a few trucks parked in front—unmarked trucks, just like the one that had pulled up in front of the hat shop the previous day.
“Langford—”
“You remember what I said, in Manhattan?” Langford brought the car to a stop just outside the main building, a factory of some kind, perhaps. “That I listened to you when you asked me to, and you need to start fucking listening to me?”
This again. Once upon a time, Langford might have listened to him about two soldiers in their company, but in the present he’d gone and had the War Office snoop on them. Wesley perfectly remembered how Langford’s strategies worked; it was obvious where this conversation was going to go. “Is this the part where you’re about to try some kind of threat against a pair of men who served our country?”
“Do I need to?” Langford said coolly. “I know you had a soft spot for them. You know exactly what kind of threats I can make, and that they’re not empty. We understand each other.” He pointed at the building. “I need to show you something in there. This is not negotiable. People are in danger.”
Shit. What had Langford stumbled into? Alasdair was a paranormal, supposedly in textiles. He supplied the gin at the Hudson Haberdashers—rumored to be made in a hat factory. Was this factory his? Had Langford found magic?
Wesley reluctantly stepped from the car, slamming the door. “Are you armed, at least?”
“Of course I am.” Langford had drawn a revolver already, and gestured with it. “In there. Let me show you what I found.”
They walked through the doors of the factory. It felt asleep, like a museum after hours, the skeletons of frozen machines only weakly lit by the gray light that filtered in through dirty windows. Dozens of empty crates were stacked at the base of the machines, all of them labeledMansfield Textile Wholesalers.
Wesley tensed. “Why are we here, Langford?”
“So we can talk,” a new voice said brightly.
Wesley whirled around to see Alasdair smiling at him. The two bouncers from the speakeasy the night before stood just behind Alasdair. They weren’t smiling.
“My little charm from last night wore off. So you can see me now, can’t you, Wesley?” Alasdair went on. “I can call you Wesley, can’t I?”
“No you may not,” Wesley snapped. “Langford, the gun.” He shot a glance in Langford’s direction, and stilled.
Langford’s gun was out, all right. And it was aimed at Wesley.
“Langford, what are you doing?” Wesley said warningly, gaze darting between Langford and Alasdair. “This man is dangerous.”
“Nowhere near as dangerous as your friend, Mr. de Leon,” Langford said.
“How is dear Sebastian doing, by the way?” Alasdair said, still friendly. “I hope he hasn’t tried anything rash. That tonic water—strong stuff, you know. Packs a kick, sticks around in the system quite a while.”
Wesley tightened his jaw. His gaze darted around the open room in emotionless assessment: Alasdair, a paranormal. Two bouncers, possibly armed. His former commanding officer—definitely armed.
“What do you want?” he said, addressing Langford.
“What Alasdair said.” Langford smiled his humorless smile. “To talk.”
Sebastian was on his third cup of coffee in the eatery adjacent to the Horseman Inn in Tarrytown, and Wesley still hadn’t arrived.
“You all right there?” the waitress asked, as she stopped by to check on him.
“I am, thank you,” Sebastian said politely, trying not to let his worry show.
He drummed his fingers on the table, eying one of the tiny, decorative pumpkins that Wesley had found so irritating.
He’d found the fabric store and gone in, found a young woman who sold sewing machines during the day and delivered drinks at night. She let him upstairs under pretext that he’d left his hat behind and let him look around. He’d left with her exchange in his pocket and no further clues to where the others had gone.
Now, he was back at the Horseman Inn in Tarrytown, still waiting for Wesley. How far away was Walter Hartman’s home, exactly?
“Excuse me?” The woman from the inn’s front desk was approaching his table, a small piece of paper in hand. “Mr. de Leon, wasn’t it? Someone called just a few minutes ago and left a message for you.”
