Puddles in the Pavement, page 1
Puddles in the Pavement
TALES FROM THE NOCTUARY
BOOK TWO
INKA YORK
Book Two: Puddles in the Pavement
Tales from the Noctuary series
by Inka York
Paperback edition ISBN: 978-1-915708-11-3
E-book edition ISBN: 978-1-915708-10-6
Published by Inklore Books
v. 20230816
Copyright ©2023 Inka York
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any format whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Inka York asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously or satirically. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Products/brands referred to in this work own their trademarks, and inclusion does not imply endorsement.
Cover design by Jacqueline Sweet Designs
Editing services by Esther Rae
Contents
Author’s Note
Puddles in the Pavement
1. Uriel Has a Lip Fetish
2. Gossip is for Old Ladies
3. Uriel is an Utter Bastard
4. Uriel is Weak for Pudding
5. Bel is Too Free With His Mouth & Elbows
6. Uriel’s Type is Mouths
7. A Walking Slab of Sweating Beef
8. Lord Farringdon Hasn’t Learned Much
9. Bitten by Venomous Teeth
10. Friends in High Places
11. By Any Measure, This is a Terrible Idea
12. Wearing Gabriel as a Suit
13. Another Hazard
14. A Boorish Ham
15. Just Like Old Times
16. Bel’s Tragic Crush
17. Uncompromisingly Bold
18. Wastrels & Wagers
19. Some Kind of Rescue
20. In Search of the Perky Butler
21. The Hunt
22. Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow-Wow
23. A Whole Circus
24. The God-Wolf
25. Magic at Work
26. Mrs Merrington Loses her Entire Rag
27. Peaches
28. A Wolf’s Word
About the Author
Acknowledgments
A Note from the Author
Content Warning
Author’s Note
Please be aware this series is set in England and is written in British English by a British author. That word you want to flag as a typo? That’s just how we spell glamour here.
If you do spot a genuine typo though, please report it through the error report form on my website, where the reporting actually works.
There is a nonbinary character in this book who uses pronouns that weren’t in use in this precise way at the time (they/them). But you know what else wasn’t in use at the time? Foppish queer archangels playing detective. Come for Uriel and Bel’s shenanigans; stay for the terrible singing of the infamous Alexis Bold. Please see A Note from the Author at the back of the book for more information.
The content warning is at the back of the book and is indexed on the Contents page.
For the queer folk, who have always been here.
You can be whatever you want.
“Uriel makes an ostentatious detour around a stubborn puddle. “Don’t trust puddles.””
— Inka York, Legacies Unmasked
Puddles in the Pavement
What horrors lurk in the puddles in the pavement?
Uriel and Bel investigate when a distraught lady’s fiancé falls into a puddle and doesn’t come out. But he’s not the only one.
Foul games are afoot in Victorian London, where a well-demon is turned loose from his underground prison with one mission: to collect victims for the torturous games of an idle, immortal duke.
When a single victim from each hunt is returned to their home, word spreads of a deadly wolf, who speaks with the voice of God, striking a new fear into the heart of London.
Why was Lady Emilia’s fiancé taken when he has nothing in common with the other puddle-snatched men? How can Uriel and Bel get him back? And what does the perky butler have to do with it?
1
Uriel Has a Lip Fetish
“I am sorry, sir,” Mrs Merrington blustered, wiping her fingers on her apron. “The young lady barged right in, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her to hop it.”
“And why would you?” Uriel asked.
The woman pulled in two fat cheeks’ worth of air and said, “Because you told me you didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Uriel and Bel had just finished working on a case involving an acrobat, a vat of pig’s blood, and a murderous lion tamer. Prior to that, they had chased a sea captain around the country for unpaid debts only to find the captain had also been hired, all expenses paid, by another of his creditors—under an alias, of course—to find himself. The archangels were in dire need of a break.
Instead of resting, Uriel found himself writing a much overdue letter to another of his brothers. Raguel was the Chief Justice and de facto leader of the Celestial Council at Heaven’s Fury, an organisation once dedicated to reining in the violent tendencies of celestial and supernatural beings. Though its reputation was still fierce, Raguel’s tight hold on the organisation saw it mired in regulations that made its work difficult. People were leaving in worrying numbers. If Raguel didn’t loosen his grip, Heaven’s Fury would die. Its survival might well depend on the tone of this letter, and Uriel couldn’t afford distractions.
He sighed at the landlady. “I merely meant that I didn’t want you to fluff and dust while I’m trying to work.”
Bel snorted from his chair by the fire, tipping the ashes from his pipe onto the newspaper in his lap. The landlady gave him a sharp look.
“Where is this young lady?” Uriel asked.
“Downstairs, sir, and…” She looked over her shoulder towards the stairs, then lowered her voice. “She’s not alone. She comes with a manservant, sir, and not a lady. He’s a rough looking brute, and her so refined an’ all.”
“The lady is distraught?”
“Wailing about puddles, she was.” The landlady dug a card out of her apron pocket and handed it over. “Making one of her own while she was at it.”
Uriel glanced at the card. Lady Emilia Sauvage. “Send them both up.”
Mrs Merrington nodded. “Of course, sir.”
Uriel watched her hurry away, skirts brushing both sides of the narrow hallway. It wasn’t usual to invite servants upstairs, but Uriel found one could discover much about a person from how they interacted with their servants.
“She’ll be young, then,” said Bel, mirroring Uriel’s own thoughts.
Nothing scandalised a nosey old bag like Mrs Merrington more than a young, presumably unattached woman wandering about in the company of a man who was demonstrably not her brother or husband.
“Oh, bugger,” Uriel muttered the moment he laid eyes on Lady Emilia, the lips of Armando Rose immediately replaced in his agitated mind by this vision before him. She was utterly beautiful… Armando Rose was beautiful. Lord, but Uriel’s head was a tangled mess of lips and other desirable body parts. It was a wonder he functioned at all.
He shook the mental images loose and took in the couple quickly. Dismayed to find his halo brightening, Uriel turned it down before Mrs Merrington could notice the violet haze. It wasn’t usual for humans to notice halos, but Uriel’s had always been brighter than those of his brothers, and sometimes, he got so lost in his musings that his halo took him by surprise. But the truth was, it shouldn’t have been brightening at all.
Lady Emilia Sauvage was a vision, even with a blotchy pink face half covered by a sodden handkerchief. Given her attire—a purplish grey dress beneath a dark cape—Uriel deduced the young lady was coming out of mourning.
“Don’t fuss, Wilbur,” she said to the enormous man behind her, who was still fiddling with the veil now resting at the back of her head.
The brute growled. Unnecessary. Uriel looked away from Lady Emilia to the brute in question, only to find the man already glaring in his direction. Perhaps his growl was warranted after all given the direction of Uriel’s thoughts. He reminded himself this was business, not pleasure.
Lady Emilia held out a gloved hand. “Mr Hazard.”
Uriel shook it lightly. “Lady Emilia. Please come in. This is my colleague, Mr Balthazar.”
Bel grasped her hand. “An honour, my lady.”
Uriel and Bel shared a look. Lady Emilia had taken Bel’s hand without any hesitation or reservation. At the very least, Uriel expected curiosity, though his Chinese brother was often subjected to far worse. Young ladies, despite what they had been told all their lives, did not usually excel at demonstrating good manners.
“Please take a seat. Mrs Merrington will bring us tea presently,” Uriel said, closing the door on the landlady.
Lady Emilia sat on the blue velvet settee, swiping her gloved fingers across the fabric as she took in the room. Several of his brothers would no doubt declare it gaudy, but Uriel loved bright colours, and it wasn’t as if the entire room were painted orange. It was just the curtains on the three tall windows, and
The manservant stood behind the settee, one eye on the windows, the other on Uriel and Bel who had both resettled on their chairs by the fire.
“Tell us, Lady Emilia,” said Uriel. “What is on your mind?”
The handkerchief made one final pass over her nose, then she said, “My fiancé has gone missing.” She stood abruptly and paced the room. “It happened three nights ago. We were on our way home from the theatre, and Wilbur lost control of the horses—”
“I did not lose control of the bloody horses,” Wilbur huffed. “They were spooked.”
Lady Emilia stopped pacing to let out a graceless snort. “Yes, they were spooked, but please don’t start with your theories again.”
“The man had blood on his hands,” Wilbur declared. “I saw it plain as day.”
“It wasn’t plain as day though, was it? It was dark.”
“I have exceptional eyesight. Besides, the night watchman chased the bugger. I tell you; he was up to no good..”
“We were nowhere near Whitechapel,” Lady Emilia argued, her voice rising in volume and pitch.
Wilbur rolled his eyes. “And of course, murders have never been committed outside of Whitechapel.”
Uriel watched them silently. What manner of relationship was this? Coach drivers did not subject their employers to sarcasm, and ladies certainly did not allow it in company. Bel, ever watchful, puffed on his pipe.
“You were telling us what happened to your fiancé, Lady Emilia,” Uriel reminded her.
The lady’s eyes snapped to his, her stance rigid. “My fiancé, Halston, was inside with me when the carriage veered wildly from side to side. I thought it would tip over, but… Hal climbed out to see if Wilbur needed help. Between them they calmed the horses. Then he was calling to me, telling me to open the door so he could swing back inside from the roof.” Her breathing sped up, and she raised her handkerchief to her mouth. “I have seen so many things… so many impossible things.”
Wilbur leant forward and squeezed her shoulder. “Go on, my lady.”
“He fell from the roof… into a puddle.”
Uriel and Bel looked at one another, then back at their guest.
“And then what?” Uriel asked.
Lady Emilia’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “He fell into the puddle… and never came out.”
2
Gossip is for Old Ladies
“Are you quite sure this is beer, Bel, and not the piss of a vagrant with an alarmingly good aim?” Uriel held up his glass, as if he were impressed rather than appalled. “There’s not a drip on the outside.”
Bel’s brother had lived for centuries, yet he was in a constant state of wonder. It should’ve annoyed Bel. From anyone else, Uriel’s stream of random thoughts and gushing euphoria would’ve been anathema, but it was tempered by sarcasm and petty insults of a kind Bel thrived on, but which stewed beneath the pressure of their confined living arrangements.
“That’s just what beer tastes like. You’re the one who insisted we come to yet another pub,” Bel muttered. “I’d much prefer to go through constabulary reports than all this pointless eavesdropping.”
“I much prefer loose tongues to tight lips,” said Uriel, his eyes darting up to the ceiling before a broad smirk settled on his face. “When called for.”
“You disgust me, brother.”
“Tight lips certainly have their uses.”
“I hope you are not still entertaining thoughts of Armando Rose,” said Bel.
Bel couldn’t bear to hear Uriel go on about the boy. Pretty, he might be, but he was a disaster on two legs, clumsier than a newborn gazelle, and talked a mile a minute about nothing of consequence. Several times now, Bel had got the impression that the boy wanted to say something of importance, but it never left those lips that Uriel was so enamoured by. In fact, given his uncanny beauty, Bel suspected he knew what was on Armando Rose’s mind.
Uriel’s cheeks pinkened. “Bel, it pains me, but I believe he is nephilim.”
Bel took a slow sip of his beer, glad his brother had finally reached the same conclusion he had. Still, to be sure, he added, “Perhaps the issue of another god’s angel?”
“I’m beginning to think not.”
“To whom do you think he was born?” Bel had his own ideas, but he wasn’t inclined to pursue them. He simply didn’t care enough.
Uriel splayed his hands. “I have no idea, and I need to stop thinking about it. If he is indeed my nephew… our nephew, I shall go on a year-long purge.”
Bel rolled his eyes. “You always were the prince of pointless and melodramatic gestures.”
“Alas, there is nothing with which I can scrub my polluted mind clean.”
“Have you asked him about his father? Surely, he must know.”
“He’s clueless. Hopeless. He’s like a newborn foal.”
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; you can’t save everyone.”
Uriel scowled.
Bel still wasn’t sure what the point of this excursion was. Why be seen? He and Uriel could manifest invisibly—indespectus—out of sight of those they wished to overhear. Bel could easily imagine Uriel’s response to that: Bel, there is little point looking fabulous if nobody is watching.
He sighed to himself. They had only come out to examine the puddle into which Lady Emilia’s fiancé had fallen, but the streets were too busy, and Uriel had insisted they use the waiting time constructively. His brother’s dictionary must not offer the same definition as his.
In truth, Bel had jumped at the chance to leave those four walls behind. Their rooms were stifling, and there really was no need for them to live in such close quarters. Bel could have taken advantage of Uriel’s absence to read undisturbed, or to sneak out for a rendezvous with someone pretty. Sharing rooms had seemed like a fine idea in the beginning because they both loved company above all things, but Uriel was beginning to cramp his style, and Bel took great pride and comfort in his style.
“I think the best gossip is in that corner there,” Uriel murmured. “Perhaps we should seat ourselves at the other end of the bar.”
“Gossip is for old ladies,” Bel huffed.
He looked down at his tailored suit. They were a pair of idiots wandering into Whitechapel in their fine linen and brocade. They were seconds from a mugging, a fact which wouldn’t usually bother him since he could easily escape, but which became a problem when he kept company with his soft-hearted brother. Uriel was infinitely more likely to give up everything in his pockets and throw in the clothes off his back to whichever criminal was bold enough to test him. They wouldn’t steal if they weren’t desperate, Bel. Uriel’s bleeding heart would see him bankrupt.
Bel followed Uriel to the worn stools at the bar, hoisting himself onto the one next to his brother. He remained alert while Uriel scanned the pub excitedly despite the smoke making his eyes water.
“You look like a bloody tourist,” Bel hissed.
“I am.” Uriel smiled into his glass, grimacing at his next sip even though the glass was half empty, and he ought to be used to the beer’s flavour by now. “We all are.”
Every man in the establishment sported a face that had surely been slammed into a wall at least once. Half of them had faces bruised and bloody enough for Bel to believe they’d suffered this fate within the last few days if not hours. He and Uriel stuck out like butterflies in a box of blue bottles. Surely, where there were this many flies…
