“Bel,” Nicodemus said urgently, his hand out to draw Bel back before he realized it, although Bel had not made a move in any direction.
“Where it cannot find hunger, it will make it,” Bel responded, and then caught his breath. He loomed over Nicodemus again without appearing to take a single step. “You need to get back to the manor.Now.”
“I am on my way there,” Nicodemus reminded him, or tried to remind him, but the wind grew loud, and with his head tipped back to hold Bel’s gaze and Bel shielding him from the worst of it, he was suddenly reminded of his fever, of the burn beneath his skin and the ache just beginning to form at the base of his spine. He certainly opened his mouth to form the words, and inhaled to have the air for them, only to find what must have been whiskey on his tongue along with what had to be the cologne that Bel used.
He swallowed. “Bel,” he said again, throat parched and mouth dry.
“Now,” Bel answered, anger and something else shaking in his voice, his hand warm at Nicodemus’ side.
Someone screamed.
It was shrill and full of terror and yet Nicodemus had to fight to look away.
He saw nothing, everything. People running in several directions, the force of the wind sending leaves and papers whipping into their faces.
Bel grabbed Nicodemus by his coat and pushed him back toward the side streets and the bar they had just left. He spoke without shouting but was louder than the wind and the renewed screaming. “Go back inside, Nicodemus,” he ordered, eyes bright once more. “Go sit by a fire. Stay warm and fed and in the company of others, and I will find you again.” He shoved, sending Nicodemus back even farther, although this time they had not been touching. Then he turned and was gone, vanished into the dark.
NICODEMUSSTARED at the place where Bel had been, hoping for some sign of the illusion Bel must have worked, because Nicodemus had never heard of anyone deliberately vanishing like that. It was not as if Bel had ducked into a shadow. They were too close to a street lamp for that.
People were still running into the street, most now headingtowardwhatever horrific sight had caused so much screaming. Nicodemus turned to consider the way he ought to go—to warmth and company and food—then stepped into the street, shuddering when a piece of newspaper smacked into him and wrapped around his leg. He peeled it off and glanced around again, looking farther up the street to the start of an alley, where the press of people had gathered. One of them—
“Oh,” he murmured in dismay as someone bent over to be sick. There were others turning away now, ashen or green, their eyes closed.
Someone went running off, perhaps to notify the State Bureau. Nicodemus scanned the area, squinting at the places not lit by lamps, and since traffic had stopped, finally crossed the street. Up ahead, the crowd had not dispersed, although more and more people seemed to regret their choice to peek.
Flayed, Bel had said of the last one. Whoever, whatever, had been placed in that alley was likely a ghastly sight.
Nicodemus took a fortifying breath before continuing in that direction, although he stopped far short of the alley itself. He could run to the bar if he needed to, but he could wait for Bel here in the meantime. He wasn’t in comfort but he wasn’t alone, exactly.
Several of the people gathered at the mouth of the alley glanced to him. Their conversations were only murmurs at this distance, but Nicodemus could imagine what was being said when they looked at him again. He straightened his glasses, which hopefully made him seem harmless, and shifted back a step or two. It wouldn’t do to wind up in custody out of suspicion. Not in general and especially not this week.
Nicodemus waited until some of their attention had returned to the scene in front of them before he took another few steps away. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, stubbornly staying here instead doing as he had been advised to. He couldn’t possibly do Bel any good with this case, and it had been ridiculous for him to believe for a moment that he might. Maybe it was the thought of going into that bar again that had stopped him. Nicodemus had summoned the courage to go in once already tonight and wasn’t sure he could do it again.
He could always walk home. Bel’s warning was serious, but the Realm-dweller who had acted tonight was likely already focused on itsgame. Nicodemus frowned to call it that, even in his own mind, and to think of Bel running after it as some kind of valentine for some sort of horrible creature, but the fact remained that Nicodemus could probably make it home safe and sound now.
It would be a long walk, on streets silent because their residents had more sense than Nicodemus and were in bed or the warmth of some friendly parlor. The wind brushed his coat, tugging it open. It was cold enough that eventually even Nicodemus would be chilled. The manor would be quiet. So very quiet except for the creaks of the stairs and the wind outside.
But Bel might worry if he returned to the bar and didn’t find Nicodemus. He might go to the manor.
Nicodemus put a hand to his throat and closed his eyes. He couldn’t allow that, obviously. Couldn’t have Bel in the house when the affliction might take Nicodemus at any moment. Bel wasn’t like Holt, wouldn’t be kind, not as Holt was. If he were there, he wouldhear. He would know how Nicodemus moaned, and how Nicodemus sometimes fell from the bed onto his hands and knees. Bel would say, “Poor little lamb,” as he helped Nicodemus back onto the mattress but he wouldn’t mean it. His eyes would glitter as they had before, and he would show teeth, and he would say that, say “Poor little lamb,” without any pity and Nicodemus couldn’t stand it, could not be mocked when all he wanted was to be found and settled soft onto his knees on the slippery mess he’d made of his bed and taken greedily. When he wanted itmeant.
His legs wobbled. Nicodemus closed his mouth tight to hold in the sound he might have made and then made it anyway at the hint of a touch along his jaw.
He opened his eyes and turned in confusion to find himself still alone.
The rut must be affecting him. He wet his lips though it would leave them chapped, and did not think of what he had just imagined. He could not. But his first step was weak and clumsy on his shaky legs. He would go home. He was clearly too far gone already. The week would be agony, but he would bear it.
Alone, his mind supplied unhappily.Again.
Nicodemus was so tired of being alone. For this. For everything. Tired of finding solutions by himself when others did not have to. Tired of wishing. He wanted an end to relying on Holt. He wanted to know what people like Alistair got to experience with a lover who desired them. He wanted to be helped onto his bed and then for someone towantto fuck him. He wanted—
The space in front of him seemed to waver.
Nicodemus froze, for that and for thehissby his ear. The sound might have been a word, or the wind, or his feverish imagination. But the wind was cold and what felt like breath at the back of his neck was warm, warm enough to make him shiver at the contrast, and then whisper, “Bel?” like a fool.
Bel had no reason to murmur at the back of his neck. In any case, Bel was not there. No one was there. Nicodemus was alone and wanting.
He should return to the bar. Heart racing, Nicodemus moved in that direction. He would go there, and he would wait, and he would ask Bel later what had happened. Bel might even tell him. He’d already told Nicodemus more than many of the other peculiari would have despite thinking that Nicodemus was a naïve babe-in-arms. Bel might give him what he asked for. Bel was different, vexing and interesting. Bel would play along and maybe even let Nicodemus dare more. Bel was...
