Wesley had never been the possessive type. Jealousy was, after all, a feeling, and he was incapable of those. He’d come to America one time before in an effort to win a lover back, it was true, but that had been about sheer convenience. All those wretched romanticemotionswere the provenance of posturing American hotheads and dramatic French poets, not stoic English viscounts.
Even if it was, perhaps, just a bit trying to watch others make a play for one’s lover, who remained mind-bogglingly unaware of his own attractiveness.
Sebastian looked over then, to the arch Wesley was haunting, and even at a distance Wesley could see the slump of his shoulders, a sign of the fatigue that seemed to become more pronounced with each passing day on the ship. But when his gaze fell on Wesley, his handsome face visibly brightened, and what a good thing it was Wesley was incapable of feelings, because the thought of Sebastian being happy to see him came perilously close to causing one.
Sebastian said something else to the flapper—probably extricating himself from their conversion far more politely than necessary—and then he was heading toward Wesley and Mateo.
“Finalmente.” Mateo dropped the cigarette to the pier, grinding it out beneath his foot as Sebastian came out from the terminal and joined them. “What did Miss Robbins say?”
Sebastian frowned. “Jade wasn’t home.”
“Wasn’t home?” Wesley sputtered.
“Neither was Zhang.” Sebastian was still frowning. “Maybe it was a bad time to call.”
“It’s late afternoon, shouldn’t that be fine?” said Mateo. “Did you try their businesses?”
“It’s not like I could ask the operator to put me through to Jade’s illegal speakeasy,” said Sebastian. “I talked to the Dragon House, but the waiter who answered said he hasn’t seen Zhang in a few days.” He held up his left wrist. A sliver of color peeked out from under his cuff, the top of his paranormal tattoo. “Maybe Zhang is here on the astral plane but I’m interfering with his magic.”
“Then let’s get to the hotel and maybe they can find us there,” said Mateo. “Vamanos, I’ll flag a cab.”
They left the pier and terminal for the street, where the traffic was thick in front of the line of high-rises that formed the edge of Manhattan. As Mateo stepped ahead to the curb, Wesley hung back and gave Sebastian his best disapproving look. “So I had to wait with the tourists for nothing.”
“They might have answered their phones—”
“But they didn’t,” Wesley said. “So now I get to be cross.”
Sebastian made a contrite face. “How can I make it up to you?”
The corner of Wesley’s lips curled up. “Come to my room tonight and find out.”
He got to watch Sebastian shiver. Like usual, Sebastian looked stylishly casual, with a flat cap, loosened tie and attached collar. Unlike Wesley’s homburg hat and double-breasted navy suit, his tie tight around his high starched collar—old-fashioned and out-of-style now, he was perfectly aware, but Wesley had never and would never give a damn about trends. Sebastian had no jacket under his unbuttoned overcoat, and Wesley could clearly see the chain of the brooch relic that Sebastian now kept in his waistcoat like a pocket watch.
That fucking brooch. Sebastian didn’t complain, but Wesley wasn’t stupid; he could see for himself that no matter how long Sebastian slept on the ship, he couldn’t seem to shake the fatigue. Up close, Wesley could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way he didn’t stand quite as straight as he normally did. The brooch kept interfering with Sebastian’s own magic, and every time he lost control of his enervation, it hit the auras of all the non-paranormals in the vicinity and they, in turn, hit the ground.
Must have been another large wave, Wesley had scrambled to tell the other passengers on the ship, after they’d all been knocked down yet again. He was willing to get down on his knees for the right man, but Sebastian did have a way of making everything just a little more interesting.
Wesley jerked his head toward the river. “Last chance to toss your new jewelry into the Hudson before we go.”
“I can’t just get rid of the relic where someone else could steal it,” Sebastian said, like he’d said every time Wesley had suggested getting rid of it.
“They’d have to steal it during a murder to make it work for them,” Wesley pointed out. “What are the chances of a murder occurring at the same time—” He paused. “I suppose wearein New York. Maybe it’s not as improbable as it sounds. How close does the murder need to be?”
“Obviously we don’t want to find out,” Sebastian said.
“Except we do,” Wesley said. “I’m not advocating a hands-on demonstration, but we want answers. Miss Robbins asked to speak with us—don’t you think she and Mr. Zhang are going to want to help us figure out what to do with this brooch in return? Hell, you lot keep telling me that Arthur’s surly little antiquarian can see history; let’s ask him to take a peek at its past.”
“But scrying relics is difficult,” Sebastian protested. “I couldn’t ask Rory to do that.”
“I could,” Wesley said unapologetically, as he took a slow drag from his cigarette.
Sebastian huffed, although he had a tiny smile. “I’m not asking you to take that one for me either.”
“You didn’t ask,” Wesley pointed out. “Christ, let me do something for you once in a while. I’m clearly not accomplishing anything for myself; I can’t even quit smoking.”
“You go entire days without cigarettes now,” Sebastian said. “Lots of people don’t bother to try, but you do, and when you stumble, you pick yourself up and try again. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Don’t be so hard on myself.” Wesley exhaled smoke. “Tell me, when you were on the phone just now, trying to get in touch with Miss Robbins, did you happen to call her dear friend Arthur?”
