Bram looked at the bubbling swamp they’d stopped beside. “Oliver, that is not a puddle.”
“Just… hold your breath.” Oliver shuffled them closer to the edge and wrapped his arms around Bram. “Trust me?”
Bram nodded, took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes to shut out everything else. He buried his face in Oliver’s chest. Bands of ice tightened and released around him, like he was being born, shivering along his body until, with a squelch, he was free. Soaking wet and covered in gloopy debris, but free.
He inhaled deeply, swallowing up the air as if it would run out. He shuddered and fell against Oliver, warmth engulfing him now, setting off shivers and prickles that turned his skin to gooseflesh.
“I’ve had a warm bath prepared for you, love,” Oliver murmured.
“But Oliver—”
“The bathroom is empty, and once you’re dressed, there will be warm drinks for you. I’ll be back.”
Bram looked down at his soggy shoes. “Why are we standing in a fountain?”
“Because I need water to travel. Remember?”
Bram nodded. “Where are we?”
“London. The library of Heaven’s Fury.”
“But that is… Uriel is on the wall.”
Oliver chuckled. “With his archangel brothers.” Oliver kissed him softly. “Bathe, love. We’ll be back with Armando soon.”
Bram stepped out of the fountain, but when he turned back to Oliver, he was gone.
He really wanted to examine the portraits, but he was shivering like a newborn lamb, so he headed to the room opposite, where steam billowed from beyond the open door. He half expected the water to scorch his skin as he slowly sank into the bath, but it didn’t, and instead of growing cooler as he lay there, the water grew warmer until his bones no longer ached with cold. He ducked his head under, smiling to himself as his tension unravelled in the blissful heat.
He ran a hand over his belly, where it was just starting to curve. He would need to tell Oliver soon. The water was soapy, but remained clear despite the swamp he’d been dragged through, so he washed himself thoroughly, dressing in the clothes left out for him, and made his way back to the circular room where the portraits were kept.
He had no idea Uriel had so many brothers. He had met Bel, of course. One of these men was Armando’s father. It didn’t take long to make his guess. Gabriel’s eyes were a lighter blue than Armando’s, and there was an arrogance about him that Armando likely couldn’t pull off even under duress, but the resemblance was remarkable. Bram had been holding out a secret hope that Armando’s father was Lucifer himself, but Armando looked nothing like him. He was a little disappointed, but more angry that Gabriel had refused to acknowledge his friend. After all, Armando was a fine man. Lord, he hoped his friend was all right.
A steaming cup of tea sat on a small table, as if it had arrived there of its own accord. He was certain it had not been there when he emerged from the bathroom. He took a sip, sighing into the cup as the hot tea burned a path down his throat, warming his belly and soothing his raw nerves.
He eyed the portrait of Gabriel again. “This is all your fault,” he muttered.
19
A Wish & a Wife
Oliver rose from the glistening puddle into a glowing cave, the handkerchief spotted with Cecilia’s blood stowed safely in his pocket. He held up a silver coin, which flashed red and green in the light from the stained glass window behind him. “Make a wish, Jack.”
Jack Wish had been making a run for it, heading for the gateway behind Oliver, which would take him to Edinburgh. Jack wasn’t going anywhere. He staggered to a stop.
“Who the hell are you?” he bellowed, stumbling back and glancing over his shoulder.
“My name is Oliver Feltham, and I’m just another person whose life was destroyed by your poisonous brother. He killed my sister and my brother, using my family’s magic against them. He used this coin to save himself, in fact. But there is no saving him now, Jack. And there is no saving you.”
“Out of the way,” Jack demanded.
Oliver glared at the awful man in his ridiculous top hat and too-long tails, but he didn’t bother answering. Instead, he called, “Barrow?”
Criminal low-life and all-round offensive well-demon, Clifton Barrow, rose from the puddle wearing an equally ridiculous hat. “Good evening, Feltham.”
At least he had manners enough to show proper respect.
“Is your patron interested in this hell-born lobcock?” he asked Barrow.
Jack gasped. “I hope you don’t think to address me thus?”
Oliver almost laughed at the man’s sudden desire to sound more cultured than the swine he was. Instead, he glared down his nose at the man. “I was talking about you, not to you.” He turned to the other water jinn. “What do you say, Barrow?”
“My patron has heard Jack Wish’s confession,” Barrow said.
“What confession?” Jack’s panicked voice echoed around the walls. “I made no confession.”
Barrow looked drugged, his pupils blown in wild eyes. “We heard you confess to killing some boys. My patron was upset.” Barrow however did not sound upset. “How many?”
“Five,” Jack said, as if he were bloody proud of himself. “Have you all forgotten I have your friend locked away?”
“Bram,” Armando whispered, his stricken face tugging at Oliver’s heart.
“You’ll never find him,” Jack told him gleefully. “His skin will rot from his bones. Unless—”
“Save your breath, Wish,” said Oliver. “Bram is safe.”
