“Amid the twenty-one forgeries done with different inks and different aging methods. I don’t believe for one second she has the resources to test that many in one night with science, which means it’s almost certainly magic.” He took a sip of his drink, savoring the quality. This was definitely the Canadian gin. “And she was angry she’d been up all night, which tells me she didn’t snag a letter at random and get lucky. I think she might actually scry that ring for us. You know she didn’t even flinch when she touched the box?”
“What a lucky break,” Jade mused, “to find a psychometric with such control over her ability.”
Arthur swirled his drink. They might be needing Mrs. Brodigan’s control and abilities even more than he’d realized. “Zhang asked me to come see him this morning.”
Jade’s expression sobered. “Yes. I told him where to find you.”
“So you spoke with him too.” On the stage, a handful of staff had begun setup for the night’s performances. The liquid in Arthur’s cup caught the edge of a spotlight check. “He told you the rumor?”
“Another relic, on a ship bound for New York.” She sat back in her chair. “Could be a good thing, if we can get our hands on it.”
“Certainly.” Arthur tossed back the rest of the drink and set the glass down on the table, too hard. “Or this could be the one that ends civilization, if we don’t.”
Chapter Four
Snow began to fall again that afternoon. Brodigan’shad done steady business since noon, but as the snow piled higher, the customer count went lower, and by four o’clock Rory was alone in the empty shop.
Alone except for the mysterious briefcase.
He set his glasses next to the cash register and propped his elbows on the counter, scrubbing at his tired face and eyes with the palms of his hands. So Kenzie had brought them a briefcase with a ring. So what? On Rory’s list of weird, that didn’t even rate.
But a rush job to test twenty-one forged letters hiding a genuine antique—thathadbeen weird. And Rory most adamantly didn’t like weird, and so he didn’t trust the prick.
He buried his face farther in his hands and his fingers met his hair, the messy waves overgrown even by his standards. A barber wasn’t in his budget, but Mrs. Brodigan kept scissors in the shop, and maybe he shouldn’t try to cut his own hair on less than three hours’ sleep but it wasn’t like he had anyone to impress. He shoved his glasses back on his face and crouched down to see if the scissors were in their usual home on the shelf under the counter.
Oh, there were the scissors, all right. Right next to the blasted briefcase Rory was already reaching for.
He yanked his hand away with a curse. Pushing away from the counter, he strode to the office where Mrs. Brodigan kept her immaculate records in a fireproof metal filing cabinet with the key taped under her desk. He unlocked the filing cabinet and rifled through theKs until he found the folder he wanted:Arthur J. Kenzie.
But when he laid the file out on the desk and paged through it, there unfortunately wasn’t much to learn. Kenzie had a Central Park West address, aprivatetelephone number, and had settled his bill along with—Rory’s eyes widened at the figure written on the page.
Thatwas the tip for the rush?
He pursed his lips. Fine. Kenzie was still a prick. He just wasn’t acheapprick.
Rory closed the folder. He could hear Mrs. Brodigan’s warm brogue in his head.You’re never obligated to do something just because someone offers you a lot of money to do it. She was right, of course. But deep down, Rory couldn’t pretend his reluctance was born only from anger. He didn’t understand what was going on—and it scared him.
He could still say no. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d refused to scry something out of fear, and maybe that made him weak, but he’d long ago reconciled to himself that if he had to pick between being brave or being sane, he’d be a yellow-bellied coward.
Still, this wasn’t a gun, or a knife, or one of those horrible medieval torture devices someone had once tried to sneak into the shop—thank goodness for Mrs. Brodigan’s sharp eyes for any kind of violent object. No, Kenzie wasn’t asking for a weapon, he was asking for jewelry. What reason did Rory have to fear a ring?
The shop was still empty as he returned to the counter. Moving too fast to have second thoughts, he crouched again and snatched up the briefcase, then set it on the counter next to the register.
He ran a finger over one of the gold locks. Two locks, three dials of numbers each. It’d take ages to guess the right pattern with trial and error.
Then again, a fella who could see history didn’t need trial and error to crack a combination lock.
Rory glanced out the window and glass-paneled door, but the snow was still falling and the street beyond was empty. The sun had set behind the buildings, the white snowflakes illuminating the night and softening the world outside. He’d keep the shop open until five, but it was unlikely anyone was going to brave the snow and dark to visit Brodigan’s in the next thirty minutes.
He set his fingers on the locks, closed his eyes, and reached back for the locks’ creation—and the factory settings.
Two minutes later, Rory had the briefcase open on the counter.
The case was padded with a small square cut in the center, and tucked tightly inside was a ring box. He reached for it—and then jerked his hand away with a curse, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
Lead. That sensation of needles pricking his fingers couldn’t be anything else. But why was thereleadin a ring box?
Quickly, Rory forced himself to grab the ring box and yank it out of the case, dropping it on the counter a second later. The box rested there, a solid black cube with no markings. Harmless and unremarkable—except, of course, that it weighed too much because someone thought a ring needed to be kept in a lead-lined box.
