Peculiari did not often seem bothered by things that would upset people like Holt’s parents. Still, Nicodemus would have expected some sort of argument from at least Donovan. That even he had stayed silent said something about Bel’s reputation, or, just as likely, said something about Nicodemus’ appearance.
Nicodemus had admitted, once he was in the house, before a mirror, under gaslights turned up high, that his head and shoulders alone looked a bit scandalous by anyone’s standards. His glasses were smudged. His hair a bird’s nest. His mouth was nearly as reddened as an actor’s in makeup. And his clothing….
He had quickly scrubbed his hands and face and neck, applied the proper salves and ointments, and put on fresh clothing that had not been ripped in several places by claws. His nightshirt—which he wore with trousers for the sake of the other two—had a loose collar he had forgotten about until he had walked back into the kitchen and Donovan and Alistair had both fallen silent.
Nicodemus’ throat was rather…mauled. What had been pleasing to see when alone in the washroom was different in a darkened kitchen with two of his peculiari trying not to stare at it. He looked as if an animal, or a monster, had attempted to feast on his neck and around his collarbone. Nicodemus’ mouth was much the same. His lower lip would probably chap with the way he kept touching it with his tongue.
So, instead of speaking, he made coffee. He didn’t have much in the way of anything else to offer them, anyway, and he didn’t know when they would get to sleep again.Ifthey would sleep again. Perhaps they would continue what he and Bel had interrupted.
They didn’t seem inclined to. They weren’t even sitting near each other.
Donovan had removed his bowler to sit at the table, but not his coat. He had left the coat partially unbuttoned, however, revealing a shirt and suspenders and no vest. The vest might have been back at Alistair’s place. Nicodemus didn’t ask; Donovan did not encourage confidences. Donovan was, as far as Nicodemus knew, an Irish surname, but Nicodemus did not know if Donovan was Irish, part-Irish, had family from somewhere in the Far East but had been raised by someone Irish, or, for that matter, even Donovan’s given name. Donovan spoke English, limited Cantonese, a few words in a language Nicodemus didn’t recognize, and had been learning Spanish from Elisa. He had short black hair, deep golden-brown skin with faint freckles, dark eyes, and, currently, a small reddening spot just beneath one ear that was about the size of a far gentler love bite than the ones Nicodemus sported.
Alistair had taken off his long duster, but was not much more dressed than Donovan. He sat up straight where Donovan lounged, but had rolled up his sleeves to reveal the sort of tattoos one might have expected to see on a sailor, not someone living far from the ocean. Some of the inkings had English writing beneath them. Some were in designs Nicodemus had never seen before and didn’t know the origin of. Alistair spoke with a hint of sharp accent, more easterly and northern than Holt’s, and a lot less patrician. He had darker skin than Bel, but not Percy, and big, rather lovely dark eyes to match, but was less physically imposing than Bel, although likely just as strong.
“Strange night,” Alistair offered into the quiet, while Nicodemus sniffed the milk to see if it was still good, which it wasn’t.
Donovan flinched, then shot Alistair a venomous look.
Nicodemus grabbed several butter cookies that were meant for Bel and brought them each a few, hoping cookies would forestall any arguing. They were fond of arguing, those two, despite being well into adulthood, and Nicodemus was not in the mood. All of his muscles were sore and certain places felt especially raw, and Bel was out there somewhere in danger. Despite how Nicodemus had warned him not to be foolish, Bel had exposed a significant weakness to a creature that exploited weaknesses. Yet Nicodemus was not supposed to be thinking of it lest his worry and want distract Bel in the Realm. It was all aggravating.
“I meant that we are here, now,” Alistair grumbled around a cookie. “With Nicodemus so close to his…that there has been a creature stalking the streets of town and no one told us.” He coughed, probably from eating too fast.
Nicodemus returned to staring at the stove and waiting on the coffee. It was quite hot near the stove, although not the rest of the kitchen yet, hot enough to make him itch and long for a cool bath. But when the coffee was done, he poured himself a cup anyway, trying not to notice his shaking hands.
“We have no milk or cream.” The sugar was still on the table. Nicodemus brought each of them a steaming cup, then got his own and chose a seat about equidistant between them. He forgot himself and sat down carelessly, not entirely suppressing the sound he made as he did.
Alistair’s gaze flew to his. Then he turned his head calmly, as though he’d seen and heard nothing.
Donovan said, “In all my born days,” in the tone of someone about to swear, only to noisily slurp his coffee when Nicodemus glanced at him.
“Forgive us for prying,” Alistair spoke, shooting a hard look in Donovan’s direction, “but—”
“Tell us,” Donovan interrupted Alistair with the ease of practice. “Tellmeif you won’t tellhim. Youareall right, aren’t you, Nicodemus? I mean, Bel is Bel, but I don’t think he’d just leave you if someone…” Donovan lost some of his bluster, abruptly furious instead of merely sniping at Alistair, “attackedyou.”
“Unless he was about to go murder them for it,” Alistair pointed out.
Donovan stopped, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s fair. He would do that.”
“I wasn’t attacked.” Nicodemus regarded them both stiffly. He had failed to consider that interpretation of his injuries. Bel likely had not. Nicodemus wasinnocentonce more and scowled for it. “You have crumbs in your mustache.”
Alistair gave a start, glared at a smirking Donovan, then brushed the broom under his nose. “But youareall right?” He turned to Nicodemus when he was done, serious and soft. “This wasn’t your, um….”
“Oh, just say it.” Donovan heaved a breath. “Uncomfortable physical realities are uncomfortable but still realities. If thisisclose, we will hardly be able to ignore it much longer, will we? Nicodemus has a twice-a-year asterion problem of an…intimate nature.” Donovan pursed his lips. “Sorry.”
“That is not exactly how I would have brought it up.” Alistair didn’t glare, but his expression wasn’t pleased.
“But youweretrying to ask if he had it—was having it—when all this occurred,” Donovan exhaled heavily. “And if that was the case, we should find out if he was fully willing. Not to embarrass you, Nicodemus, but you’ve never had, uh, marks like that before when we’ve returned.”
Donovan had a tendency to be outspoken about issues of injustice, and had a lack of modesty that wouldn’t have mattered if he only spoke and acted for himself. He also tended to get worse about both of those things when Alistair was around.
A part of Nicodemus appreciated, or would someday appreciate, the concern. The tired and worried part of him, however, had him raising his eyebrows.
“This was more my choice than I can possibly explain to you.” He was already sweating and overwarm; the blush did not help. He met each of their stares for a moment, then looked down at his coffee, which he had not so much as sipped. “Thank you for fretting over me, but what I did is as muchyourbusiness as whatever you two were doing ismybusiness.”
Neither of them said anything in response to that. Donovan cleared his throat.
After a while, Alistair had some of his coffee. “I did think your asterion problem was longer lasting than this. Do you need much recovery time? Should we get you anything?”
