“I need to know what happened to everyone who was with my friend here,” Wesley said, nodding toward Arthur. “Are we going to have a civilized conversation about it, or will I have to start digging in your pockets for other weapons that might be put to interesting uses?”
“I don’t know who else is here,” the man blurted. “But there’s a warehouse, all the way down by the river on the other side of the tracks. Used to store hats and other shit before they were shipped out. It’s in worse shape than the factory, but Alasdair made himself an office in there.”
“Keep going,” Wesley said lightly.
“We weren’t allowed inside until last week, when he paid Mick and me to carry in crates of army rations. Just like the ones you two got.” The man swallowed. “It’s on the second floor, at the back.”
“Thank you,” Wesley said, and cracked him over the head with the pistol.
They stuck the unconscious guard in the barracks and hurried down the gravel drive, the gun still in Wesley’s hand, not raised but ready. It was fully dark outside, which meant Wesley had been unconscious for some hours.
The masquerade had probably started.
They headed toward the river as quickly as they dared, sticking to the trees and listening for others. “I forgot how well you bluff,” Arthur murmured, as they paused to scan for a patrol. “No wonder I’ve never beaten you at poker. I think he actually believed you’re capable of that.”
“Bluffing.” Wesley let out a quiet breath. God, he missed Sebastian. “Of course.”
They moved forward, paused again.
“You said you rode here with Major Langford,” said Arthur. “How far are we from town?”
“Not too far,” Wesley said. “If we can get our hands on a car, I can find the way back.”
“And if you can get us to Tarrytown, I know where Walter lives.” Arthur gestured in front of them, where the skeleton of the run-down main building rose above the trees. “Is that the factory?”
Wesley nodded. “Hat factory, according to Langford. It’s still full of crates that sayMansfield Textile Wholesalers.”
“Mansfield?” Arthur repeated.
Wesley glanced at him. “You know the name?”
“Textile moguls, make my parents look like paupers,” Arthur said. “One of them, Luther Mansfield, used to trade in magical artifacts—well, until he was killed by one.”
“Magical artifacts.” That would be one hell of a coincidence, and Wesley hadn’t believed in coincidence even before he’d known about magic. “Alasdair mentioned a business partner, said they used to work together to find magical artifacts.”
“Was that Luther, then?” Arthur said. “I’d almost feel sorry for Alasdair if it was. Luther was a nasty piece of work; if he’d found a paranormal who could hear magic so loudly he was struggling to think, he would have taken full advantage, probably made Alasdair’s condition even worse.”
“Alasdair seems aware of how dangerous he’s become. He’s fully committed to whatever scheme they think they have to supposedly destroy magic,” Wesley said. “Back in Manhattan, he said he’d be supplying the masquerade with liquor, and that he was familiar with Walter’s property.” He shook his head. “I’ve no idea what he’s planning.”
“I’m not exactly going to stand by idly and watch him come after Rory and the others,” Arthur said, dark and angry.
“Nor I,” Wesley said, in a matching tone.
Arthur glanced at him. “You know, you used to mock me for being a mother bear, not get growly and overprotective right along with me.”
“Ah.” Wesley quickly pointed forward. “I think I hear something, up there.”
They’d reached the end of the drive, the run-down factory up ahead. Wesley could hear others now, shouts and grunts. There were lights in some of the ground-floor windows.
“Bootleggers?” Arthur guessed.
Wesley pointed to the drive, where two rough-looking white men were carrying boxes out from the factory to stack them in the back of a truck. “Bootleggers driving a delivery truck.”
They watched for a moment as the men bickered with each other and loaded the boxes. Finally, a bigger man came out of the factory, and Wesley recognized him as the second bouncer—Mick, apparently. He snapped at the pair of bootleggers, and then they all turned and went back into the factory.
“Come on,” said Arthur. “To the river.”
They stuck to the shadows, staying out of the bootleggers’ sight as they crossed behind the main building. The warehouse could be seen up ahead, a windowless structure with a squat appearance from being wider than it was tall.
