Bram flailed in the water, panicking as he ducked under.
Oliver reached for his shoulders, holding him steady. “Breathe, Bram. You need never feel as if you are drowning again.”
Bram sobbed against his shoulder, clinging to him. “Oliver.”
“What do you need, love?”
“I don’t know.” Bram pressed against him, kissing him wantonly. “Whatever you’ll give me.”
“I want to taste you as you did me. Will you allow me that?”
“Yes.”
Bram’s gasp was the last thing Oliver heard as he ducked underwater to bury his face between Bram’s thighs, which clamped around his head. Oliver reached for Bram’s buttocks, pulling them closer as he feasted. Bram’s moans filtered into his head, louder as he approached his orgasm. When his finger pressed against the puckered skin of Bram’s arse, Bram bucked into his face, trembling, desperate fingers tugging at Oliver’s hair.
Oliver emerged from the water, his own forgotten erection pulsing between their bodies. Reaching for Bram’s nape, he pulled him in for a kiss, arching his back when a hand wrapped around his length. Bram worked him quickly, sucking on his tongue before pulling away. The darkness in his eyes was mesmerising as Bram continued to stroke him, his other hand sliding over Oliver’s buttocks to press against his hole as Oliver had done to him. Oliver threw his head back with a final groan, coming into Bram’s hand, his hole gasping around the tip of Bram’s finger.
Bram’s smile was a little sad. “I told you once before that there was no world for me, but it was nice to dream… if only for a little while.” All too soon, he was drifting away. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
Another goodbye.
Oliver should be used to them by now, and at least Bram told him this time instead of just disappearing from the garden. He should leave before things got any worse. Before his host recognised the horror plaguing him for what it was—too many years of loss.
Everyone assumed Oliver was older than he was, not because he looked older, but because his life had dealt him a wicked hand that haunted his eyes. While it was true that water jinns aged more slowly than humans, they did age, and eventually, they died. Oliver was young, younger than he looked, but nobody would ever know it.
Water jinn power was a strange thing, and Oliver had it in abundance for one reason and one reason only: he was the last of a slaughtered line. The foolish murderers of his family sought to use water jinn powers themselves, to their own nefarious ends, but their actions only made Oliver more powerful. More difficult to kill.
He realised he was rather old-fashioned in his outlook. Water jinns used to be summoned for their supposed magic. They were considered harmless, romantic souls. Then a few bad apples spoiled it. John Campbell, Augustus Maybank, Henry Woodman, Clifton Barrow. That was when they became known as well-demons, which sounded much more menacing, and ruined their reputation as friends of humans. It was rare for them to be called upon anymore, though the whimsical function of wishing wells still remained among children and the superstitious.
He had lived alone for so long, staying away from humans until Bram had called to him with his own loneliness. He had been slow to fall in love, not realising what was happening at all until it was too late. If he had known, he would have taken Bram away sooner.
Then he would never have met Armando Rose who, after a brutal attack that left Oliver weak, but not dead as his attackers supposed, took him in and nursed him back to health. The man had been his dear friend since, and Oliver had given him a special coin to wear around his neck. A coin he could use to call upon him whenever he was in trouble.
Already feeling lonelier than ever, Oliver tossed a coin into the dried up well in the courtyard behind the kitchen for the family’s protection.
“If you are ever scared,” he told Cecilia, “if anyone ever comes after you, you must hide in the well, pick up the silver coin, and call for me. Any time, day or night. Tell me you need me, and I will come running, all right?”
“All right,” Cecilia agreed, her eyes a little red where she’d been crying. “But why are you leaving?”
He smiled at the girl, but it felt hollow even as his mouth shaped it. “Because I have a home to go to.”
And he did. An empty, loveless home full of ghosts.
16
Gifts for Lord Hallam
Hallam was settled at his desk when Vernon arrived, closing the study door behind him.
“This had better be good news, Hallam.”
Vernon had already paid some of Hallam’s debts as a gesture of good faith, as a means to make a claim on the girl. He felt cheated.
Hallam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is no good news. First came the patch of her dress, which was rather too clean if you ask me. Clearly a ruse.”
Vernon snorted. “Where would she have heard of Dickie Wish’s crimes? That’s what I don’t understand. It’s not something that ladies speak of.”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps she heard of it from Mr Rose.” Vernon narrowed his eyes. “He was always lingering like a bad smell.”
Hallam waved his hand. “That boy was far too young to remember such a thing. It is far more likely to be Wish’s brother resurrecting his brother’s vile methods.”
“Jack Wish is rumoured to be twice as brutal as his brother,” Vernon reminded him.
“If that is the case, then she is already dead.”
Vernon shook his head. “What sort of father are you?”
“A broke one.” Hallam arched his eyebrow. “As I was trying to tell you, another gift has arrived. And after the debacle at Cockfosters, I’m not sure what to think.” He tossed a box onto the desk. “Tell me what I should think, Vernon. I hadn’t thought she would have the resources to pull off such a ploy, or even to have successfully run away.”
Vernon examined the contents of the box. “This could be anyone’s hair.”
“Precisely what I thought before I spoke to my wife.”
“If you are convinced otherwise now, then why not go to the police?”
