Edgar glanced around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I was his lawyer.”
Arthur straightened. “You must be busy administrating the estate, then,” he said, keeping his voice casual.
“Yes. A highlyconfidentialjob,” Edgar said primly. “I’m afraid I can’t share gossip.”
Arthur managed not to roll his eyes. “I simply heard he was quite the collector,” he pressed.
Edgar’s expression twitched. “Museum-worthy,” he admitted, and wet his lips. “I used to think his taste was just—eccentric. But. Well.” He stopped speaking, his gaze darting around the room instead, twitchy as a mouse in an open field.
“I always suspected he didn’t keep his most valuable things in the house itself,” Arthur said. “Was he hiding anything interesting under the bed? Locked away in a safe-deposit box, perhaps?”
Edgar shuddered. He moved even closer, close enough that Arthur could see his hair was limp because Edgar was sweating. “You have a reputation, you know,” he suddenly said, instead of giving an answer. “Everyone says you’re well traveled. Morocco, Constantinople, Barcelona.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I’m not certain what my itineraries have to do with Luther Mansfield’s penchant for art.”
“You’re said to be a man who likes to see the world. And I wonder—” Edgar hesitated. “Have you ever—seen something you can’t explain? Or—someone?”
Arthur’s gut twisted. “Christ, who can explain anything after a night in Amsterdam?” he said carelessly.
“I’m not talking about that sort of thing,” Edgar hissed. “I mean things that shouldn’t be possible. People who aren’t safe, who ought to be locked away from the rest of us.”
He couldn’t mean—Edgar Barnes couldn’t possibly know about magic, could he? “Barnes old fellow, have you managed to find something to drink? Don’t hold out on me,” Arthur said, with a veneer of pleasantry, like his hackles weren’t up at the idea that Barnes could be talking about Jade or Rory.
Edgar made an ugly face. “I’m not drunk,” he spat. “Never mind, forget I said anything. Clearly I should have kept the conversation to football and suits.” He tacked a sneer on the end of the sentence that was just enough of a smile to make the jab defendable as a joke, then turned in the direction of the punch.
Arthur took a step after Edgar, then hesitated. He glanced across the room, where John had his arm amiably slung over the shorter Harry’s shoulders. Arthur had wanted to find someone who knew about the estate, not the supernatural. If there was a line Arthur would not cross, it was involving his non-magic family in the dangers of the magic world.
Edgar was a well-connected partner in an established Manhattan law firm; Arthur could find him again easily enough in the city. For the moment, he let Edgar go, and instead set his half-empty glass on the closest table and went in search of a phone.
It was so much colder out on the ice.
Rory was shivering outright by the time he made it about a third of the way across the frozen Hudson. Behind him, Harry’s mansion had disappeared somewhere into the trees. If he squinted across the river, he could see a couple of big houses or churches on cleared areas in the forest. There was no one in eyesight, and out on the ice there was no birdsong, just the whistling of the wind. So far from the hustle and bustle of the cities Rory’d always lived in.
It was strange, being so utterly alone. It put prickles on Rory’s skin that had nothing to do with the cold.
But this might be his only chance to help Pavel, and alone was exactly what he needed to be. He carefully knelt on the thick ice and reached into his pocket. The lead stung like hell, but with a wince, he pulled out the ring box and quickly set it on the ice in front of him. He shook out his hand with a curse, eyes on the box, jet-black against the ice.
He closed his eyes and reached inside for the link to Arthur. This far away, he couldn’t place Arthur’s exact location, but the link was there, like a trail that led out of the woods, or looking on the horizon and seeing the lighthouse in the distance.
He’d be okay. With the link, he could find his way back from any vision.
Without letting himself think any further, he gritted his teeth against the needles on his fingers and opened the box with a quick jerk.
The ring glinted in the gray light, a gold band inlaid with a white stone and other jewels probably worth more than Rory’s whole block in Hell’s Kitchen. But that crushing sensation he’d felt the first time he’d opened the box was absent. It just looked like a ring.
And now, somehow, it was his ring.
Taking a breath, he picked up the ring in his hand. He held it in his fingers, but he was fine. No visions, no sudden scrying. He was in control. With a surprised, happy huff, he slid it onto his fourth finger on his left hand. Was it magic that it fit perfectly?
Rory got to his feet, the knees of his trousers damp from the ice. He held his hands in front of him. With his eyes on the glint of gold on that fourth finger, he reached for his link again and there it was, a tether to the present even with the ring on. A lifeline that let him scry deep as he wanted into history and come back again. Back to Arthur.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he closed his eyes.
Show me how to give it to another paranormal. Show me how to bind it to Pavel instead.
He reached back through the ring’s history.
The pale man is surrounded by armored men with swords and maces. His hands are bound in front of him, his fingers bare.
