The playfully voiced order drew Nicodemus’ attention from his notebook, and he looked over to the card table positioned by the sitting room windows. The windows faced the side yard. The Ring at the back of the house was visible from there if one stood at the windows and craned their neck in that direction.
From where Nicodemus sat in an armchair by the fire, he could only see the dark night sky and the occasional pelting of rain or ice against the glass, and sometimes a reflection of movement whenever someone got up.
He wondered, with a vague worry he must have picked up from Holt’s parents, if they were supposed to be talking to a child with such language. But it was a house of peculiari, the child included, and language was the least of their concerns.
Nicodemus kept his gaze on the window for another few moments, almost able to hear the howling of the wind on this frozen winter’s night. Outside was a storm enough to make him wonder if it was completely natural, or if it was something that the creature had set in motion all those weeks ago. It may have been. He even wondered if the creature had returned, if itcouldreturn. But the talk in the room, the laughter and the clinking of glasses, drowned out the screaming wind, and even the patter of ice or rain against the windows was muted.
Elisa laughed, her voice low and mellow, and said something in Spanish that Nicodemus didn’t follow.
Nicodemus looked from her, a tiny but strong figure in a brightly colored blouse and skirt, to the person next to her, the one she was laughing at—Donovan, in a brown suit, frowning grumpily at the child, who was no more than twelve, if that, yet flipping the cards in his hands like a true card sharp. Nicodemus smiled as well despite himself, but returned his attention to his notebook, or tried to.
He didn’t know why nearly everyone had decided to spend their evening here at the manor, although it happened on occasion. Sometimes, two or three of them, sometimes everyone who had the evening free. It might have been the weather keeping them inside. They all seemed to anticipate storms in a way Nicodemus has only recently noticed, although he wasn’t sure they did. But those not currently working on cases, or any urgent cases, had stayed in, or come home early, and migrated to the sitting room.
There was a hint of wine and brandy in the air. The fire in the fireplace was roaring and faintly red-purple. The gas lights had been turned all the way up. The child, Holt’s surprising rescue, Béla, or Billy, as he insisted, was devouring candied chestnuts in between his displays with the cards.
He devoured almost anything, but especially sweets. Like most children, according to Rosa. Also according to Rosa, his appetite meant he was growing. Nicodemus thought it had something to do with the boy’s thin frame as well, all ribs and slightly protruding stomach, and had added more money to the food budget.
He regarded Billy and Elisa, both smiling, and then Donovan, frowning but not seriously, and Percy, who was learning to palm cards with ease, before considering Alistair over at another table, trying to read but distracted by the noise, and Rosa, quietly knitting in the other chair by the fire. Burton had briefly appeared two weeks ago, cooked a hearty meal of fish and corn fritters for everyone, recited a new song he’d heard and given Nicodemus a tract he’d picked up somewhere north, shared cigarillos with Donovan and a pipe with Alistair—who only smoked with Burton, and then headed out again after a few days, smiling.
Warmth, light, food, and company, Nicodemus reflected. Things to drive away want. Maybe that was why they were here now, nearly all of his peculiari. Even they could succumb to the lures of the Realm…or Earth, Nicodemus supposed, since despair knew no borders, and sometimes, they needed moments like these to keep themselves strong.
Nicodemus inhaled deeply, feeling almost as he did in the week before his affliction, when he worried over window locks and the heating and the milk order. Some of the peculiari here were older than him. Most of them were far more dangerous in a fight, even without magic. And yet, he wanted them safe, and he wanted them to have more moments like these, if it helped them. To take care of them.
He got up from his armchair, setting his notebook down in his seat, and quietly left the room to make his way to the kitchen. Most of them had drinks already. Some to sip, some to get pleasantly soaked. Donovan had a cigarillo between his teeth, although, after a glance at Nicodemus, seemed content to chew the end rather than light it.
It was a merry evening, and for that, Nicodemus poked around the pantry for cinnamon and cardamom and cider. The cider was his, but for the others, he added some of the whiskey someone had been foolish enough to leave in the kitchen. Then he took the poker he’d left in the stove fire and used it to heat the cider.
After doing that several times, he doled out the cider into whatever cups they had, put the cups on a serving tray, and went back to the sitting room.
He froze in the doorway to see Bel lounging on the sofa that faced the fireplace. Bel was sprawled out in his usual manner, posture careless, one arm resting on the side of the sofa. He had no hat or coat. His shirt was rumpled but more or less spotless. His collar was open. If he had been caught in the rain, or thought the evening was too cold, there was not a sign of it on him.
Nearly a week, Bel had been gone. Working, laying low, traveling through the Realm or whatever it was he did when on the trail of an idea, or a person, or an entity. Which was perfectly acceptable as well as his job, and he enjoyed a good hunt.
Nicodemus had worried and pretended he didn’t out of habit, although he wasn’t sure if he had ever fooled anyone or if most simply had not noticed. It had occurred to him in the midst of his worrying that if he hadn’t left the house that night, among the many other events that would never have taken place, he would never have even known Bel had fought that creature.
Bel might not have been lured in the same way, but he still could have been injured, or died, or allowed himself to be temporarily wooed, and Nicodemus would never have had any idea.
He drank in the sight of Bel now in all his careless dishevelment and felt a cold spot in his chest fill with heat.
Their eyes met.
“Nicodemus!” Elisa was already out of her chair, coming up to him to help with the tray, her shawl, a gift from Rosa, covered her upper arms but did not quite conceal the scars from an incident she never spoke of. Her black hair, braided and bound, left her neck exposed, where similar scars marred her coppery brown skin. “What is this?” She gracefully took the tray from him before Nicodemus could fully drag his gaze from Bel. He blinked down at her, bemused, then remembered himself.
“Cider. Only give him a little,” he warned, knowing that Billy had probably had stronger drinks wherever he had grown up, since liquor was generally cleaner than water in city tenements, but also that Rosa would intervene before anything got out of hand.
“Cider?” Alistair asked as though he’d never heard of such a thing, but got up to get himself a cup. The others all helped themselves once Elisa put down the tray, except for Rosa, who smiled but continued to knit, and Bel, who didn’t move.
Nicodemus, now empty-handed, turned back to Bel. He raised his eyebrows in question.
Bel turned his arms to demonstrate how uninjured he was, and did not quite smile when Nicodemus sighed in relief, although something in his manner suggested he could have. Nicodemus wanted suddenly, strongly, to go over to sit next to him. On top of him would be agreeable, but next to him would be more than fine.
A somewhat scandalous thought in the outside world, the polite world. But peculiari did not view things in such a way, particularly the peculiari in this house.
And yet, not once had Bel, who claimed his vice was excess, ever suggested Nicodemus ought to do such a thing. Since their time together during Nicodemus’ affliction, Bel had not changed his manner, had not stopped calling Nicodemuslambchop, orlamb, or even, still,innocentwhen he felt Nicodemus deserved it. Nicodemus had not stopped inviting Bel to his room, or serving Bel’s coffee—and only Bel’s coffee—exactly how Bel liked it even though Bel did not ask him to. But Bel would not allow Nicodemus to say what was on his mind, not alone or before the others, so Nicodemus hesitated to do anything else.
Bel did not believe him. He blamed the affliction, or Nicodemus’ happy thoughts after he had come, or how Nicodemus was new to having a regular lover. Bel, of course, didn’t say any of that. But Nicodemus had made a list of both what he had said and how Bel had regarded him softly but said nothing, and reached the conclusion on his own.
So he settled down with his notebook again instead of sitting near the monster he had chosen.
