Puddles in the Pavement, page 6
Uriel huffed, watching carefully as Vandelin tried for a losing hazard. “How do you score points for a losing hazard?”
“Those are simply the rules.” Vandelin bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh. “Your turn.”
Uriel leant over the table, then turned back to find Vandelin eyeing his arse. Vandelin went red, and Uriel winked. When he took his shot, the cue ball jumped over the object ball clean off the table.
Uriel gave Vandelin a hopeful look. “That was… impressive, yes?”
“It was a foul.”
Uriel pouted. “I’m not cut out for games.”
“Perhaps you’re playing the wrong kind of games,” Vandelin murmured.
Uriel reminded himself again that Vandelin was likely a murderer, and though the man would have a hard time getting his hands around Uriel’s throat, he wasn’t risking anything for a night of passion. Absolutely not. Even though the man had sobered up considerably, and really was terribly attractive. Besides, he had a fiancée, and Uriel was not keen on playing the part of dirty secret.
“Does your fiancée like games?” Uriel asked.
Vandelin straightened, but his eyes grew hazy. “Yes, Addy loves games, all sorts of games with all sorts of people.” He took his shot, potting both object balls. Again. “I’m glad I came out tonight after all. Tonight, I shall let fate be my mistress.”
Uriel wasn’t sure what he was talking about anymore, but he knew one thing. The man was besotted with his fiancée, so what was he doing in Covent Garden looking for rent boys?
With a great degree of irony, Uriel’s final and only success of the entire game was a winning hazard. After that, his luck ran out entirely when he ripped straight through the baize with his cue.
That’s when he remembered his brother had been hiding in the lavatory for half an hour.
Bel was not in the best mood when they followed Vandelin out of the club, careful to keep enough distance that the man wouldn’t know he was being tailed.
Luck was not on their side. Stormy blue eyes stopped them in their tracks. Still, it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been Gabriel thundering towards them like a hurricane.
13
Another Hazard
“Oh, bollocks!” Uriel exclaimed when he spotted the short redheaded man heading towards them.
Bel wondered if he would be recognised. He was certain he could maintain the ruse for a brief conversation. It might even be entertaining.
The man nodded as if they were all mere acquaintances, causing Uriel’s eyes to roll back in his head. “Uriel,” he said before turning to Bel. “Your gr—” He cut himself off with a hiss and dragged Uriel and Bel away from the door into an alley, where they wouldn’t be overheard. Warwick, as he insisted on being called these days, was surprisingly strong for such a small man. “Father, what are you doing here? And why is Bel wearing Gabriel as a suit?”
Well, that hadn’t lasted long. Warwick was far more astute than Bel had given him credit for.
Uriel narrowed his eyes at his son. “What are you doing here?”
Warwick folded his arms. “Nice try.”
A shadow moved in the dark alley. Several shadows.
Uriel nodded into the darkness. “More to the point, what are they doing here? Or do you think I can’t see your little band of shadows? Don’t tell me you’re trying to start up that Hellfire business again.”
“Why would I tell you that?”
“Can you not do this now?” Bel interjected. “We have somewhere to be.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Warwick, his imperious tone grating on Bel’s nerves.
“I don’t answer impertinent questions,” Bel replied.
Warwick applauded. “Bravo! That was very convincing.”
“You can’t seriously be thinking of starting all that nonsense up again, Warwick,” Uriel said. “Do you know how painful it was pleading with Raguel on your behalf?”
“I never asked you to,” Warwick protested. “There’s nothing he could’ve done about it.”
“He could’ve sued you for libel,” Uriel reminded him.
“We all could have,” Bel put in. “Frankly, you’re lucky Michael never found out about it. He loves nothing more than a good lawsuit.”
“What are you talking about?” Warwick puffed himself up. “Michael is my biggest fan. He thinks the stories are wonderful. He’s turning The Mayfair Affair into a play.”
“I’m sure it will enjoy its three-week run,” Uriel quipped.
“I cannot believe Michael didn’t get huffy,” Bel remarked.
“He laughed his arse out of the chair,” Warwick said. “I don’t know why you’re worrying yourself raw over it. Raguel’s not likely to admit he’s a highhanded archangel just to see my little press shut down.”
He was right. To punish Warwick for his outlandish stories, which were based only loosely on fact, Raguel would have to prove the story was about him, written to ruin his reputation. Raguel would no sooner admit to being the malignant, sour-faced cannibal of Warwick’s amusing pamphlets than he would to any of the other traits that made him a notorious bore. Bel often thought he’d sooner sit down for a meal with the eponymous cannibal, Saint Dragomir, than he would his brother.
Unfortunately, Uriel was also right. Raguel would not punish Warwick to the full extent of the law of the land when he had the might of Heaven’s Fury at his fingertips. Uriel’s son pretended Heaven’s Fury didn’t exist now that he’d left the organisation himself due to Raguel’s excessively tight rein. Despite Raguel’s ban of Warwick’s publication at Heaven’s Fury and three years having passed since the last edition, people still called him Dragomir behind his back.
Bel eyed Vandelin discreetly. He was talking to Knutsford across the street, leaning casually on a lamppost.
Finally, Warwick said, “Despite what Raguel believes, he is not the centre of the universe. If I decide to start up Hellfire again, I’ll ignore the bastard. He’ll like that even less.”
Uriel sighed. “That is sadly true. If you write me again, I’d like to be something less hostile… something without petty claws and a nervous sphincter.”
“We’ll see,” Warwick said.
Vandelin was on the move again. Bel and Uriel turned as one to watch him weave along the road without a care in the world.
Warwick eyed them curiously. “What do you want with Vandelin?”
Before either of them could answer, an arm shot up from the cobbles, though there was no discernible puddle.
“Indespectus,” Uriel squawked.
He and Bel made themselves invisible and translocated to Vandelin, each grabbing an elbow in time to find themselves being sucked into the smallest puddle in London, leaving Warwick behind to raise the alarm.
14
A Boorish Ham
Warwick had two choices: let his father and his uncle stew in their self-inflicted juices, or call upon one of their other brothers for advice. For obvious reasons, Gabriel was right out. And yet who should he see weaving along the road—weaving only because he was holding up an inebriated Lord Cavendish—but his excessively grumpy uncle, the Duke of Rosemont.
As much as Warwick relished the fantasy of making the vein in Gabriel’s neck explode when he found out what his brothers were up to, Warwick found himself backing into the darkness of the alley’s shadows.
He headed along Pall Mall to Trafalgar Square pondering his options, his shadows following behind, but it was a long walk home, so he ducked into a doorway and translocated to his apartment on Bow Road. His shadows arrived a moment later, tucking themselves inside each other.
By the time he arrived home, he had made his decision. Michael was the obvious choice; he thrived on drama.
Warwick brewed himself a cup of tea while he waited for Michael to answer his echo. Then he drank it and brewed another. What was keeping his uncle? He eyed the chessboard by the window where he’d set up a game to play with his Polish neighbour. He was certain he’d win in four moves, maybe three if the man went for the obvious play. He was good for a human. Warwick was used to playing against people who’d had centuries to perfect their game, but he’d yet to meet his match. He’d almost forgotten what he was waiting for when Michael arrived with a thunderous crack.
Michael’s eldest son always said the sound was accompanied by a flash of the bluest light, but Warwick had never seen it. The light Michael brought was brief and colourless to him, but then he was not part of Michael’s family line, and connections between archangels and their clans were strange indeed.
It had been perhaps two years since he’d seen Michael in the flesh, and he worried for the man’s sanity. Tonight, he wore a thick beard, an embroidered slate-blue coat with gold buttons, a white neckerchief above a brown waistcoat, and a tricorne. A parrot, which Warwick hoped was a prop for its own sake, fell off Michael’s shoulder and bounced rigidly on the floorboards.
Two echoes within five minutes of each other was an angel emergency. Who attended an emergency dressed like this?
Warwick shot his uncle a disdainful look. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“I was in rehearsals,” Michael said defensively.
“For what?” He cringed. “Have you and Raphael been playing dress-up again? Ew, it’s not the one where the naval officer has to rescue the feisty cabin boy from the lusty pirate, is it? Because my head is already melting in revolt at the notion.”
“And yet it’s your own head brewing such wildly inaccurate scenarios,” Michael claimed. “I’ve never bedded a cabin boy in my life.”
“Is that because Raphael beats you to it every time?”
“Shut up and tell me why I’m here, Squirrel.”
“I told you not to call me that,” Warwick protested.
“It’s a term of endearment,” Michael alleged.
“You keep saying that like it’s true.”
“But you look like a squirrel when you try to keep your glasses on your ridiculously small nose.”
Warwick threw his hands up. “Ugh. You’re revolting.”
“I wouldn’t have to bother with endearments if you didn’t insist on being called Warwick,” Michael muttered.
“And I wouldn’t have felt compelled to change it if my father hadn’t given me such a stupid fucking name,” Warwick countered with a huff. “Nor would I have called you if I’d been able to call Gabriel instead. He knows how to get things done.”
“And yet, here I am because you called me. What’s going on?”
“Bel and my father were pulled into a puddle… I assume by a well-demon.”
Michael frowned. “This is that puddle nonsense? Don’t tell me it’s true.”
“Where have you been, Michael? It’s been all over the news for weeks.”
“News, you say?” Michael injected as much disdain for the word as he could muster.
Warwick laughed. His uncle had featured in the newspaper so many times for everything from dismal theatre performances to his excessive use of the legal system.
“You’re just sore because the editor doesn’t like you,” Warwick said.
“He called me a boorish ham,” Michael cried.
“He took that back in the very next sentence,” Warwick reminded him.
“Only to say he’d expected better acting from a joint of meat.”
Warwick laughed. “You were awful as Hades.”
“He wished me a smooth journey to the underworld.” Michael pouted. “I make a much better pirate. Just you wait and see. I shall be a triumph.”
“I look forward to it,” Warwick said. “Send me tickets for… the fourth week of the run.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “You’re only saying that because the last three shows were cancelled in their third week.”
“I am your loving nephew, Michael. I would never do such a thing.”
“What do we need to do about Uriel and Bel?”
“A question for the ages. I don’t know where they are, but I know they went voluntarily. They were pursuing Percy Vandelin.”
“Did you echo?” Michael asked.
“Yes. No response from either of them.”
Michael echoed to his brothers, his palm glowing gold as he did so. “Get the kettle on, Squirrel.”
He didn’t bother complaining about the nickname, just lit the flame beneath the kettle and waited. Warwick had just placed Michael’s cup of tea on the small table beside him when Michael said, “The bastards are in Scotland.”
Warwick groaned. “Drink your tea.”
“I thought this was an emergency,” Michael said.
Warwick shrugged. “They can wait.”
“Are you coming with me?” Michael asked.
Warwick’s shadows appeared one by one, dressed as usual from head to toe in black, faces shrouded in darkness.
And because Michael was Michael, he cried out dramatically, “Hellfire!”
15
Just Like Old Times
Bel felt some degree of comfort knowing he’d ruined one of Gabriel’s suits rather than one of his own, but his dusty mouth was full of questions when he blinked into the stale darkness. “Where the hell are we? And what fucker ran off with our shoes?”
“Bel, this is just like old times,” Uriel cried as he surveyed their surroundings. “Chained to a wall, trousers soaked through with someone else’s piss. Smells like our last night in Badajoz.”
“We are not in Badajoz.”
“No. Not with a sky such as that,” Uriel agreed, nodding at the tiny patch of window.
“It’s dark with barely a wash of white to tell us the moon is up,” Bel grumbled. “You cannot possibly know where we are.”
“Further north than Badajoz but not far enough to see the aurora borealis.”
Bel grunted. “Gabriel calls it Odin’s aura.”
“Michael calls it Thor’s soup,” Uriel fired back.
“I’ve been stuck in this hole with murderers and blackmailers all week,” said a voice from the corner. “Somehow, you are the most annoying cellmates yet.”
“Who are you?” the archangels asked.
The man was so dirty, he was barely discernible from the soot creeping up the walls or the soggy hay dampening the edges of the room.
The man ignored their inquiry. “Question is… who are you?” He eyed them suspiciously. “That arsehole in the hat thinks he’s kidnapped the Home Secretary. He even brought the fancy Scottish fuck down here. I didn’t tell them by the way.”
“What would you tell them?” Bel asked in his most Gabriel-like manner, which made him sound like a prick if he were being honest with himself.
“That you’re an impostor.”
“Who are you?” Bel tried again.
“That’s not important. What’s important is you have the power to stop this. They know what you are.” The man turned to Uriel, his expression earnest. “You glowed in your sleep.”
“I… fell asleep?”
“For over an hour. Effects of travelling by puddle when you’re not the intended traveller. They expect you to be out cold for at least four hours.”
“Are you saying I didn’t glow?” Bel asked.
He was tremendously pleased with himself to have tricked their kidnappers, to have beaten his brother at something. The triumph did not last.
“No,” said the dirty man. Bel must not have covered his disappointment well because the man added, “but you weren’t nearly as garish.”
“Garish?” Uriel squawked.
Bel laughed. “Wait, so they think…?”
“They think the new Home Secretary is an angel,” the man confirmed. “And they want you in their pocket. They’re fetching someone to find out what your heritage is.”
“But you already know?”
“I don’t know who your god is, but I know you’re archangels.” He looked from Bel to Uriel, poised for a denial that didn’t come.
“And you didn’t tell them?”
“No.” The man jutted out his chin. “Like I told you, I want this stopped.”
“You don’t believe these men deserve the justice meted out here?” Uriel asked.
“Oh, I know they deserve it. That’s why I’m here. To look into their hearts, to tug on those tendrils of guilt, but sometimes there’s just a blockage, a darkness so deep and pervasive that emotion can’t penetrate it. That’s when I know there’s no heart to save.”
“Why do they lock you in a dungeon if they need your help?” Bel asked, feeling his brother’s eyes on him.
Uriel was far too trusting, and here was a shackled man spewing information without the slightest provocation. All highly suspicious as far as Bel was concerned.
“There’s something down here that’s… dampening my powers. A shield. I can’t get out, but I can send thoughts out there.” He stops abruptly. “You’re looking at me very strangely.”
“What are you?” Bel asked, though he had some idea given what Farringdon had told him.
“I’d rather not say if it’s all the same to you, but my maker is every bit as impressive as I’m sure yours is.”
Uriel nodded. “You were saying you can tell when a heart is not worth saving.”
“Yes. Now, this latest one… the one you came here with—”
“Percy Vandelin,” Uriel provided.
The man nodded. “He’s not guilty. He only thinks he is.”
“What do you mean?” asked Uriel.
The man shrugged. “A game that went wrong, that frightened him away from such play. It happens, but in this case… look, he said the boy was alive when he left, but it was a close thing. Got him spooked.”
“You believe him?”
“The guilt is suffocating him. He thinks he deserves to be here. He walked straight into a puddle on purpose.”
“So, you think someone else went back to finish the boy off?” Uriel asked.
“Yes, and what’s more,” the man said, “I believe the boy was murdered for the purpose of this game.”
