“But—” Zhang started to say.
“If you’re trying to argue, it’s pointless, I can’t hear you.” Arthur pushed open the window, a blast of cold air shrieking through the room. “You must tell Jade or it will never work.Go!”
Zhang wrung his hands, face distressed, but he faded from view. Arthur was rapidly unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket.
“Filthy thieves—jail’s going to sound like paradise compared to what else I can do!” Mansfield shouted.
Arthur yanked his tuxedo jacket off and launched it out the window just as the crack of splintering wood filled the air. The chair blockading the door had snapped. Rory froze. “Arthur—”
He grabbed Rory’s face in his hands, eyes frantically searching his. “You’re here? In the present?”
Rory managed to nod. “What are we going to do?”
“Get you out.” He put his hands on Rory’s shoulders and shoved, sending him plummeting out the mansion’s third-story window.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arthur had barely slammed the window shut when the door burst open. He froze, hands behind his back, as people poured into the room: Mansfield and four mobsters in suits, all as big as Arthur.
He held very still except his hands, which carefully found the window’s lock behind him. “Luther,” he said, sweaty fingers slipping on the metal, “I have such a good explanation for this—”
“Shut up.” Mansfield pointed. “Grab him.”
Arthur barely slid the lock back into place as two of the men grabbed him by the arms. They dragged Arthur forward and shoved him down to his knees in front of Mansfield. “Hands on your head,” snapped one of the mobsters.
Arthur held up his hands in surrender, slowly moving them to the back of his head.
Mansfield glared down. “You trying to rob me, Kenzie?”
“Scoping for a clandestine rendezvous, actually—”
There was a click, and Arthur was looking into the barrel of a cocked pistol.
“There are no girls in here.” Mansfield held the gun steady. “And you were trying to escape out the window. Where the hell would you have gone? It’s a sheer three-story drop to the sidewalk below.”
Arthur held his face as steady as he could, like his heart wasn’t pounding in his throat. “Hope springs eternal,” he said lightly.
He still had Pavel’s potions hidden in his coat. If he could just cause a distraction, set one off—he’d been fast enough to outrun a German platoon once, he could outrun Mansfield and a bunch of gangsters. They could regroup, come up with a new plan—
“Have you asked how he liked your paranormal painting?”
Gwen. The familiar London accent had come from the open door and now Gwen made her way into the library. She was as pretty as she had been two years ago in Paris, her long ringlets under a scarf, a simple dress and flat shoes. But her hazel eyes were unnaturally pale, still the near-yellow they’d become after she’d tangled with a relic and Baron Zeppler.
“Paranormal?” Arthur scoffed theatrically, betraying nothing of his inner turmoil. “What, like ghosts and other nonsense?”
She smiled. “You can drop the act. We’re done playing, Ace.”
“Ace?” Mansfield looked at Gwen in confusion. “You know a Kenzie?”
“Of course,” said Gwen. “We’re friends.”
“Are we?” Arthur said dryly, with pointed tugs of his trapped arms.
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” She tilted her head as she came toward Arthur. “The painting is a treat, isn’t it? A Spanish artist, an interesting paranormal with an interesting artistic talent. Useful too, since you never know who might be trying to get into a safe.”
The two mobsters held Arthur tight enough to bruise as she approached. “Fine. No acts.” He lifted his chin. “Your plan was to hide the paranormal painting in your art shipment from London.”
“I have many plans.” Gwen raised a hand and traced Arthur’s outline. “Then again, my plans didn’t include your special paranormal.”
