1 Chapter 1
Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo” played over the record player—a realplayer—as Isaac Ford sat beside a glittering Christmas tree, sipping wine from what had to be old family crystal since there had only been one like it in the cabinet. Not the most seasonally appropriate song choice, but when he found the player, throwing on some Christmas medley hadn’t appealed as much as good old Duke.
It was the day before Christmas Eve, and Isaac was waiting for an old friend.
“Thanks, Candace,” Andrew Wen sighed into his cell phone as he entered the quaint little home, throwing down his messenger bag and turning on the lights. He didn’t yet notice he had a guest or that music was playing. “I’m not sad. I’m angry. Yes, I know it isn’t good to be angry at Christmas. It isn’t good to be working at Christmas either. Take a break for once.
“Yeah, I might still fly down to see my dad, but I don’t think Steve can make it anymore with this prison—” He cut off as he pivoted and finally saw Isaac, who offered him a playful wave.
Andrew was third-generation Chinese American and gorgeous, bright and boyish with a clean-shaven face, dark eyes, and short, black hair that was always the right amount of tousled.
He looked even more gorgeous when his eyes hardened.
“Sorry, Candace. Something’s come up. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The phone dropped at the same time he rushed Isaac, moving so fast, he was practically a blur, but Isaac didn’t fight when Andrew wrenched him from the chair and slammed him back into the fireplace. Thankfully, he’d set the glass down or there may have been an unfortunate crash.
“Ford,” Andrew growled, gripping the lapels of the jacket Isaac had stolen to hide his jumpsuit, “are you out of your mind—”
“I’ll accept your gratitude for this house call,” Isaac interrupted, “in the form of not turning me over to the authorities until you’ve heard me out.”
“Gratitude?” Andrew scoffed.
Isaac didn’t struggle but stared back, unflinching, at the younger man. He wasn’t quite twice Andrew’s age but old enough to miss being in his prime, forty now, though his platinum hair meant the few silvers sneaking in were easily hidden. He liked Andrew’s youth and deceptively thin body that held an impressive strength, like one of those strong men at a Cirque du Soleil show who could lift another’s weight in one hand without trembling.
The trembling one tonight was Isaac, feeling a tingle travel up his spine at the manhandling, just like the last time Andrew had him pressed up against a hard surface.
Although that had been to arrest him.
“Were you paying attention to who broke out tonight?” Isaac asked. “Hardened criminals, like Jareth Boyega, even worse than his brother who skipped town last year.”
“You’re here to warn me? I already know Boyega and the others escaped—with you. That’s not getting you out of going back to prison. Theft, property damage—”
“Yet not a single assault and still no thank you.”
“There were assaults tonightfrom that prison break,” Andrew barked.
“Not from me,” Isaac said seriously.
Andrew crowded closer to his body, staring him down. The fire between them had always been palpable, leaving Isaac wondering what might tip the balance toward a different sort of sparring match, not that he thought he’d ever get the chance to find out since Andrew had a girlfriend, the elusive reporter, Olivia Park, which was so cliché—the detective and his reporter girlfriend—that it churned Isaac’s stomach.
From the novelty, definitely not jealousy.
“I know where they’re holding up,” Isaac spoke over Andrew’s anger before it could escalate. “I had nothing to do with that prison break. Just got dragged along for the ride. I came here for help. I was almost at my release date, Detective, which you should know since you’re the one who put me away. Get me out of this, and I’ll tell you everything.”
The fury stayed on Andrew’s face another moment, but then it crumbled, and he stepped back, slowly uncurling his fingers from Isaac’s jacket. “I’m not a detective anymore.”
“I’m gone eighteen months, and you quit? Must have been boring without me.”
“Well, the papers sure have missed raving about Artifice.”
Back when there were dozens of unsolved thefts throughout the city, Artifice was indeed what they called Isaac, like some infamous supervillain. Not that Andrew had been able to prove he and Artifice were one and the same. He’d cracked Isaac’s code for using the classifieds to contact his buyers—ingenious in the digital age, all coded messages, and only in physical papers—but none of it could be verified. Andrew only caught him by showing up at one of his drop sites.
