“Did you eat?”Not that question!
“Cookies.” Rory waved his glass. “Up all night, late breakfast. Missed dinner. Lost, for all those hours…” He trailed off from whatever that drunken haiku was, and Arthur realized the hand holding the glass was trembling. “You’re not going to open that ring up, are you?”
Arthur blinked at the non sequitur. “Certainly not.” He wasn’t about to give poor Pavel Ivanov on the Lower East Side an unwanted vision. Hell, if Mrs. Brodigan was what Arthur thought she was, she’d pick up on it too, and who knew if there were others hiding in Manhattan? No, an unbound relic was no good to any subordinate paranormal, and Arthur would be keeping the ring box firmly shut.
The waiter popped by, a fourth brandy in his hand, but Arthur shook his head irritably. “We need some food,” he said. “Canapés, sandwiches, whatever you’ve got.” Hoping that feeding Rory would assuage his annoying soft spot, he leaned forward as the waiter scurried away and tried to get the interrogation back on track. “So when customers learn their antique is counterfeit, they get out of sorts with Mrs. Brodigan?”
Rory nodded, eyes still lost to some emotion Arthur couldn’t place. “She handles it. Never makes me deal with them.”
Why would she?Arthur cleared his throat. “So how does Mrs. Brodigan know an antique is really old?”
But Rory didn’t seem to hear him. “I can’t walk back to Hell’s Kitchen,” he muttered, like he was talking to himself.
“Walk?” Arthur scoffed. “I invited you here, I’m buying your drinks, and I’ll see you home safe and sound. I wasn’t planning to let you walk anywhere tonight.”
“Oh, good.” Rory licked a stray drop of crème de cacao. “’Cause Harlem spins.”
The words yanked Arthur away from where he’d been unthinkingly following Rory’s tongue as it traced the rim of his glass. His stomach did a sharp, unpleasant twist, the kind that said something had gone very wrong but Arthur’s brain hadn’t yet figured out what. “Spins?”
“Like a twister.” Rory made whirly motions with his free hand. “Can you make it stop?”
On closer look, Rory’s cheeks might have beentooflushed and the rest of his face was mottled with gray. A weight settled uncomfortably in Arthur’s stomach. “Were you always a lightweight?”
“Dunno. I never drank before.”
Arthur went still. The weight sank his stomach to his shoes. “You said you had.”
“I did say that,” Rory said, with an emphatic nod, and Arthur almost felt better until he added, “But I lied.” Arthur’s eyes widened, but Rory went on, “Like when I said I was—” He squinted behind his glasses. “Twenty-six? Also lie.” He held up two fingers and waved them around. “Twenty.”
Twenty.And only fifteen when Prohibition started.
Of all the blasted fibbers—Arthur took a breath, trying to keep his temper. “Why on earth would you lie about that?”
“’Cause I’m a counterfake too.” Rory held up the glass, turning it back and forth as he stared at it intently. “Been lying for years.”
“About Mrs. Brodigan?”
“About me.”
Arthur went very still.
A lightweight.
Up all night. Lost, for all those hours.
You’re not going to open that ring up, are you?
And Arthur’s brain finally caught up with his stomach. “Rory,” he said hoarsely. “Put the drink down.”
“Did y’know this was made in a factory?” Behind the spectacles, Rory’s overly glossy eyes glittered like onyx. “It buzzes, like a bee, like a big machine—”
“Put the drink downnow.” Arthur’s body was ahead of him again and he was already on his feet, physically taking the glass out of Rory’s hand. He’d had it allwrong—
Rory’s other hand closed over Arthur’s wrist and the sleeve of his jacket, the touch unexpected, his hand warm even through fabric. “But this was handmade.” His eyelashes fluttered and he listed to the side. “A tailor, here, New York, careful stitches at night while the couple in the apartment above shout—”
Too far sideways, and Rory tumbled from his chair. Arthur lunged, fast as he could move, catching Rory just before he hit the floor.
“Rory.” He held the back of Rory’s head in one hand. “Look at me.” The broken glasses were askew on his face, the newsboy cap on the ground and Rory’s unruly waves unexpectedly soft in Arthur’s fingers. “Rory.”
