Finally, they reached Mrs. Brodigan’s church on 42nd Street, its tall red brick facade and arched windows cleaner than anything else on the block. Rory eyed the cross at the top. Church wascomplicated, all right.
He followed Mrs. Brodigan up the concrete steps, automatically pulling off his cap as they passed under the arch and through double doors into the open sanctuary. Under a soaring ceiling, the last of the day’s light filtered in through stained-glass windows and rows of wooden pews framed the path to the white altar.
His steps faltered. The last time he’d been in a church, he’d picked a snuffer up from the altar and lost three weeks of his life—
At his side, Mrs. Brodigan quietly cleared her throat. “You’ve walked me here, so run along now, dear.”
He hesitated. “I oughta—”
“I’ve been coming here since long before you joined me in Hell’s Kitchen. I’ll be just fine.” Mrs. Brodigan was warm but firm. “Go pack your own things and we’ll catch a late train together.”
As if he had anything worth packing to take up to a ritzy mansion upstate. He bit his lip. There was nothing dangerous-looking in the church. No Gwen, no hired hands, just a dozen or so people praying quietly in the pews.
And hell, if hedidsee trouble, what was he gonna do anyway? Scry their weapons? Tell them how old their guns were?
“There’s Eileen now.” Mrs. Brodigan pointed to the petite gray-haired woman coming their way, and nudged Rory with a sly smile. “If you keep dawdling, she’ll be delighted to meet you. Her granddaughter is exactly your age.”
Rory’s stomach did a guilty flip as his mind instantly brought up a picture of Arthur at the top of that skyscraper. “But I’m—”
He bit down hard on his lip. It was stupid to feel like he’d be straying if he got set up with a girl. He wasn’t taken. He wasn’t anything but hopeless.
Still, he found himself retreating back out to the freezing afternoon. He paused on the church’s steps and ran a jerky hand over his hair before jamming his cap back on.
Mrs. Brodigan needed real protection, like Zhang, who could see Gwen from the astral plane, or Jade, who’d take a knife straight out of a mobster’s hand from across the church. Rory’s magic was useless, and he wasn’t even brave like Arthur.
He looked around the neighborhood. He could run all over the block, try begging a shop to use their phone…or he could take a cab and be up in Arthur’s part of town in under ten minutes.
With one last look back at the church, he darted to the curb.
Minutes later, he was scrambling out of the cab onto the sidewalk along the park side of Central Park West, across the street from Arthur’s building.
He fidgeted as he stood on the curb and waited for a break in the cars to cross west over the busy street. “Come on, come on—”
“—I wouldn’t open that box if I were you, Mr. Mansfield.”
“I don’t have a choice. The buyers will be at the gala tomorrow to retrieve their package and I haven’t even seen it myself.” Luther Mansfield, a thick-set white man with a blond goatee and ruddy skin, holds open the lead-lined lid of the amulet’s box. On the wall behind Mansfield is an open safe, set into the wall past a marble bust, above a fireplace half as tall as a man.
Gwen doesn’t look away from where she’s perusing a bursting bookcase. A headscarf tops her long curls again, her coat replaced with a floor-length dress. Her demeanor is calm, almost bored, but when her hand grips a book’s spine, her fingers clench too tight. “The amulet’s magic is strong. It will be a beacon to any subordinate paranormal in this city.”
Behind Mansfield, the fireplace’s dancing flames illuminate the clean-cut white man from the docks in his hunting cap and double-breasted coat. He has his jeweled knife in hand, toying with it openly with his eyes fixed on Gwen.
Mansfield doesn’t even seem to notice the man with the knife. His icy eyes are irritated as he looks up from the amulet. “I thought you told me you’re the only one.”
“I told you the old woman who runs the Hell’s Kitchen antiques shop is not a paranormal of any kind,” Gwen says with an edge. “Hardly the same thing as saying I therefore must be the only subordinate paranormal in Manhattan.”
Something shoved Rory hard. “Watch it, bum—get off the drink—”
Rory staggered, seeing double: a clean-shaven angry young man with a fedora and a fancy cane; the icy-eyed man with the blond goatee. He blinked hard. Something was pulling him, something to the east, across the park.
He took a step backward. “Sorry, I—”
But the vision knocked him over again, like an ocean wave too strong to fight.
“Shame the old bird wasn’t magic. Imagine if I had someone to see the past. That’s even more useful than you.” Mansfield runs a greedy finger over the bright blue jewel set in the amulet. “Copper is an odd metal for a jewel like this. We could make a fortune just selling the sapphire.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Gwen approaches the relic, almost as if she can’t help herself. “I see a value beyond money.”
Mansfield’s face turns greedy. “Yes, what do you see?”
