Two Souls & a Pocket Watch, page 6
If Armando had thought the huge man’s voice had been a rumble before, it was a thunderous crash now as he loomed over Jack’s men and said, “Do I look dead to you?”
The man gulped and quietly said, “No, sir.”
“If I catch any of you bothering him again, I’ll tear off your arms and feed them to the Lion.”
Armando stilled. Did he mean that Lion? If he was so familiar with a guild assassin that he’d offer Jack Wish’s men as if they were food, did that make a difference? Surely, Armando shouldn’t consider such a man? Or perhaps such a man was a dream come true. Even Jack Wish would not dare cross the Lion.
Armando was still batting the idea back and forth when the large man turned away. He hadn’t even noticed the others leaving. He had moments to make a decision. Did the man expect him to follow?
Without another thought, he reached for the large man who called himself Abaddon.
11
A Pretty Flower
Abaddon had not been successful in his quest to find some ample flesh to sink into, though there was plenty of it about. Instead, he was deeply sunk into a regretful malaise. Some days were like that. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in a dark and dingy club for the best part of two hours, packed as it was with mollies and pretty boys; he hadn’t even been looking for a boy. He wasn’t even sure why he was still in London.
The so-called corpses now terrorising the streets at night were no more than men in rags, smothered in river mud and clumps of mashed hay. He’d caught one himself, and the poor wretch was not likely to take that chance again any time soon. The harrowing corpses of the Thames dead were long gone.
Abaddon had been well-placed to keep an ear to the ground though. Few recognised him anymore. He’d grown bigger and bitterer, and he had more scars these days. Bel and Uriel wanted him to find out what he could about Jack Wish’s presumed motivation for raising his brother from the dead, if indeed Wish was responsible for the resurrection. Both archangels thought the entire spectacle was a distraction, and Abaddon was inclined to agree, but the remains of Dickie Wish were now exactly where Abaddon had left them—beneath the sharp and shifty eyes of Whip Holborn.
So, what had been the point? What was Jack Wish’s ultimate plan?
Wish was feared among his peers, let alone his underlings, but Abaddon hadn’t set eyes on him yet. Part of the reason he’d come to this particular club was that he knew there was no chance Wish would show up; everyone knew it. And because everyone knew it, Abaddon suspected folk might speak more freely here.
He had learned everything he was going to in the first ten minutes. It was no more than he already knew: that Wish didn’t avoid many places, but the blood clubs that were home to London’s vampires were not his sort of place. Most men pretended the clubs were out of bounds rather than admit they were scared of being sucked dry.
From his position in the dark shadows at the back of the club, Abaddon saw plenty of vampires being sucked dry themselves. If he were honest with himself, that was why he was still here, mesmerised by the erotic games, where blood and semen were the only stakes. His eyes strayed from the half-naked boys on their knees to the newcomer—an elegant fawn wandering among a pack of voracious wolves.
Abaddon wasn’t the only one watching.
The young man tucked what appeared to be a blonde wig into an upturned hat on the bar, then shook out his dark curls. He licked his pale lips then rubbed them against the back of his hand. He turned to the bar with a smile. The barkeep, a miserable man of advanced age, smiled back while they talked. So, the boy was charming. The barkeep placed a glass on the bar and waved away the young man’s money.
When he scanned the room, glass to his lips, his eyes widened at the sight of the boys on their knees, merrily slurping on vampire cock. Was that why the young man was here? To procure a boy? When the fawn lowered his glass, Abaddon gasped. His pale lips had morphed into those worthy of Botticelli, cherry ripe like they had just been sucked into being. He watched the young man’s tongue slide along his lips. Abaddon was waking in places that had thus far slept numbly on all week.
Who was this boy? He was an angel; that much was clear.
Abaddon watched the pretty angel deftly avoid one vampire after another. He chuckled into his drink when the young man deliberately elbowed one in the face and pretended it was an accident. Then the angel became so distracted by a boy climbing onto the lap of one of the older-looking vampires—for who could really tell?—that he didn’t notice the pack closing in. Four men. And the delicate young angel had only two elbows. He might survive if he added his knees to the melee.
They were inching him towards the door now. Still, he smiled, like he was unconcerned, like he had control of the situation. He did not. But why should Abaddon care? The angel had probably led them on—angels were devilishly deceptive.
One angel, Abaddon reminded himself.
Before he could give it further thought, Abaddon was on his feet, striding the length of the room to stand behind the threatening men. The angel was even more beautiful close up: eyes the colour of the Baltic Sea; a faint, rosy blush on his cheeks; those heavenly lips the colour of cherries; and hair that must surely feel like the finest silk. Abaddon ached to bury his hands in those curls.
“In trouble again, flower?” He hoped the angel was quick to catch on that this was a rescue. The men turned all at once, panicked stares tracking him from his knees to his eyes. Then they looked everywhere but his face. Only the angel kept his bewitching eyes on the scars that stretched from beneath Abaddon’s left eye to his neck. The boy looked apologetically at his shoes. “What am I to do with you? Excuse us, gentlemen.”
One of them found his tongue. “The boss wants a word with him.”
“And the boss is?”
“Jack Wish, sir.”
He laughed. “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”
The angel’s head shot up to look at him. For a moment, he could have sworn he’d detected hope in their depths. Then the boy looked away again, his eyes falling to Abaddon’s hand, which clenched involuntarily.
“He insisted,” the man said.
Abaddon glared down at him. “I do not care.”
“Who should I say don’t care?” This man’s tongue was a rogue. Every time he spoke, his face reddened with mortification, like he had no idea what would come out of his mouth next. The other three tongues were cowards.
“Kilgarrah Abaddon.”
One of the older men spoke then. “Abaddon is dead.”
Abaddon leant forward and lowered his voice menacingly. “Do I look dead to you?”
“No, sir,” the man muttered.
“If I catch any of you bothering him again, I’ll tear off your arms and feed them to the Lion.”
Even the pretty flower stiffened at that. So, that name still meant something. That was useful to know. The four men did at least know when they were beaten. They left quickly, and only once they were out of sight did Abaddon turn away from the beautiful angel.
However, he didn’t manage a step before a slender hand encircled his wrist.
12
How Dare the Monster Not Want Me?
Armando instantly regretted reaching for the man’s arm. His skin was so warm that his fingers had wrapped around the man’s wrist without his brain’s permission. Mortified, he dropped it like a hot rock. What on earth had he been thinking?
The man turned. His dark eyes bore into Armando’s, and he couldn’t tell if he was floating or sinking. Didn’t the man know how terrifying he was, staring at Armando like he wanted to strip him out of his skin? The man—Abaddon—waited for Armando to speak.
“Should I follow you?” Armando asked, failing to hide the quiver in his voice.
Abaddon blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Armando doubted the man had genuinely begged for anyone’s pardon in his life. Obviously, the man required bluntness, and if that was what he required, that was what he would get. “What do you want in return for rescuing me?”
Abaddon folded his arms. “Why should I want anything in return?”
“You always do,” said Armando. Abaddon raised a dark eyebrow, and Armando went on. “Vampires. Forever counting favours.”
“Not me,” said Abaddon. “I do not care for the balance of my soul, and if I did, what a pity it would be, for the bad would always outweigh the good.”
“So, you don’t want me to…”
“What?” he snapped.
Armando’s gaze drifted to the boys on their knees, a thrill racing through him at the thought of kneeling between Abaddon’s legs, his hands gripping those powerful thighs, his mouth—
Abaddon snorted. “No, thank you.”
Armando’s cheeks burned. This man—this monster—did not want him. How dare he? Armando was twice as pretty as any boy here. If he’d had half the pride he would’ve said so. He was quite sure his mouth was working against his will, that it was trying to spit out something, anything. Still, he remained resolutely silent, gasping like a netted fish.
How dare the man not want him? He was a monster, a veritable monster. The nerve.
“What is your name, boy?”
Something darkly embarrassing happened in his drawers when he heard the growled “boy” fall from the monster’s twisted lips. Except they weren’t twisted, were they? They were pink and pretty and perfectly shaped. Perfectly shaped for what? Sucking blood and growling? He snorted to himself, then covered his nose because he was almost certain he’d made an audible sound. He also hadn’t answered the question.
“Rose,” he squeaked, quickly shifting so his huge overcoat covered his burgeoning erection. “Armando Rose.”
“So, you are a flower after all.”
“I’m not a flower,” he said.
“Perhaps, you should let your rosy cheeks know you’re not a flower.”
Armando froze when a giant hand tipped up his chin. A rough finger grazed his throat, stirring goose bumps onto his skin as it swept over his bobbing Adam’s apple. He’d never been so aware of his breathing, his nostrils working themselves like Diamond Jubilee’s after he ran the Derby. A coarse thumb dragged along Armando’s bottom lip, and a flurry of sparks swept down his neck, charging towards his abdomen.
Abaddon licked his lips. “And these soft petals, petal.”
Why was he just standing there? “I’m not—”
“Why are you here today?” Abaddon dropped his hand. “Are you looking for a boy?”
Armando gasped. “No.”
“No? Because you’ve been staring at those boys since you arrived.”
Finally, Armando’s brain whirred to life. He jutted out his chin. “You would only know that if you’d been staring at me since I arrived.”
Abaddon laughed. “Why are you here today, boy?”
Armando whimpered. “I was…”
The huge man leaned closer. “Yes?”
“I was just leaving.”
Armando darted between bodies on his way out, knowing Abaddon wasn’t small or nimble enough to follow. He left so quickly, clearing the door before he realised he’d forgotten his hat and wig. He was barely five yards from the club’s door when he crashed into a solid body wearing an angry scowl on its face.
13
Armando & Uriel Have Words
Cecilia and Bram had been banished to the other room, and Bel had gone out as usual, possibly to unmask another living corpse. Armando sat on his hands so he wouldn’t start wringing them.
Uriel paced. “You do realise I invited you here for your own safety?”
“You didn’t invite me here at all,” Armando muttered.
Uriel stopped right in front of him. His shoes were the colour of fresh blood. Armando stared at them, wondering where they came from. Where did you buy blood-red shoes in London? They must have come from the continent.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you? Do you really?” Armando jumped to his feet. “You didn’t invite us, you ordered us to pack. I don’t remember having any choice in the matter. Never any choice at all.”
Armando sat abruptly, the wind knocked out of his sails. It was true. He’d never had a choice in anything. He’d had no choice but to accept his father’s decision not to acknowledge him. He wasn’t even permitted to say the angel’s name out loud. He’d had no choice but to accept Uriel’s help time after time, because… well, because he was thoroughly useless. He’d had no choice but to take Cecilia home with him when her mother died, not that he regretted a moment spent with her. Mr Brown was quite right about that. But what sort of chance did the girl have in life with a clumsy, pointless nephilim as a father figure? He loved her, but was that enough?
“Are you even listening to me?”
Armando stood. “Sorry, what?”
“Stand up, sit down. You’re like a dog with fleas.”
“We’re leaving.”
“You can’t leave, Armando. There are creatures out there who will come for your souls in the night.”
Armando huffed. “You believe that no more than I do. The greatest threat to me right now is Jack Wish.”
“Is he not threat enough? He is twice as brutal as his brother, and, unlike his brother, he has a preference for beautiful boys.”
“I don’t intend for us to stay in London.”
“You don’t?” Uriel whispered.
Armando shook his head. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Uriel, but if I have any hope of raising Cecilia on the straight and narrow, I need to get her away from here, and Bram could definitely do with a change of scenery.”
“He was fine when we were at the zoo, you know.”
“That doesn’t mean he wants to bump into his mother and horrible aunt on Bond Street.”
“No, I suppose not. But really, Armando—”
“My mind is quite made up.”
“But how will you survive? You have no money.”
“I have a little, and Bram has… some.” In truth, Bram did not have much money, but he had some jewellery to sell if they ever got desperate.
“I could give you some money.”
“No.”
“A loan?”
“No.”
“You’ll need to stop Cecilia from opening the windows. She’ll end up sick.”
“I know. I have tried.”
“Not hard enough.” Uriel plucked a peach from the bowl on the table and bit into it, chewing angrily before swallowing. “And who will you turn to the next time you burn the house down?”
“Once. That happened once, and you know very well it was Cecilia and not I.”
“Are you going to discuss it with them before you make decisions on their behalf?”
“Perhaps you should inspect your own backside for burn marks before you accuse me of riding roughshod over other people. I am not you, Uriel.”
“If you were me, you would have given up by now.”
“If that is how you feel…”
Armando let everything unsaid trail behind him as he left the room to collect Bram and Cecilia.
An hour later, they were back in the garret scraping pigeon shit off the floor.
14
Overheard from Inside the Cupboard
Abaddon had only come to the rooms on Nightingale Lane as a courtesy to Bel, to inform him he would be leaving London first thing in the morning. He’d even sent for his coach and horses, so he didn’t have to bring his misery upon other passengers on the train. And what misery it was, thoroughly self-inflicted because he’d been too proud to chase a pretty boy.
Bel wasn’t even home, so Uriel was entertaining him instead. He had been offered coffee so strong, his tongue hadn’t yet climbed down from the roof of his mouth, and a chair so spindly, he thought he might break it.
All of Bel and Uriel’s furniture was made of dark, Solomonic columns: twisted and inconveniently fragile. The settee he noted when he arrived the week before was now legless and propped sideways against the wall, bolts of silk in three different and hideous shades wrapped around it.
Uriel had paused mid-sentence at the sound of two pairs of footsteps on the stairs, then hastily explained his landlady must be bringing a client up. Abaddon had no idea what sort of clients the angel had, or for what purpose they employed his services. Now, here he was being shoved unceremoniously into a cupboard by the showy tart.
“Nobody can know you are here,” Uriel hissed, just as his landlady knocked on the door.
Always lurking in the dark, that was Abaddon. Not that he had ever wanted credit for the work he did. He was still atoning for a multitude of sins. If it were not for Bel, his whole body would have been ravaged by an angel’s malevolent rage.
Now, he was back to thinking about the other angel. God, but the boy was beautiful. He put a hand over his mouth to stifle the chuckle brought on by his reminiscence of the boy running off his mouth just before Abaddon came to his rescue.
“Visitor for you, sir,” said the woman at the door.
Abaddon couldn’t help it. He was exceedingly nosy for someone who hated people prying into his own business. He kept his ear to the knot-hole in the cupboard.
“So I see, Mrs Merrington,” said Uriel. “I suppose you’d better come in, then.”
That was a frostier reception than Abaddon himself had received, and Uriel had been far from happy to see him. His breath caught at the sound of the melodic voice that finally spoke.
It was, without doubt, the voice of Armando Rose. “I came to tell you I’m leaving the city.”
“I recall you already told me that,” Uriel said stiffly.
Abaddon’s eye was to the hole now. Uriel and Armando stood by the fireplace, affording Abaddon the perfect view. Was it deliberate on Uriel’s part, or had he simply forgotten the man in the cupboard?
