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New York

Angels were far more aggravating than devils.

Wesley stood at the curb, arms folded, as he watched Sebastian’s taxi finally make its way down Broadway.

It was raining, the kind that bordered on frozen and fell in freezing, stinging droplets on one’s neck.

Around him, the industrial neighborhood was stained with soot, the pedestrians loud, and it smelled like car exhaust and stale sweat had been layered onto the buildings like another coat of paint.

He waited impatiently as Sebastian paid his fare and finally stepped out of the cab to join him.

“You do realize,” Wesley said, as the taxi pulled back into the thick traffic, “that if someone had told me two months ago that in my own near future, I would willingly traverse the icy pavement in Yonkers to rendezvous with Arthur’s angry infant simply because Miss Robbins had requested it, I would have had them committed. ”

“Hello to you too.” Sebastian was adjusting his thick plaid scarf, which matched his brown coat and wool cap.

The cold November evening was aggressively gray, from the concrete to the clouds to the patch of filthy snow persisting on a square of dead grass.

Sebastian’s warm olive skin, brown waves, and gold-brown eyes shone bright as a new penny in a handful of dingy nickels, and if Wesley was thinking of nickels, then he’d been in America too damn long.

“And Rory is not an infant . He’s twenty-one. ”

“The only person who thinks twenty-one is grown is a twenty-seven-year-old who’s gotten too big for his breeches,” Wesley said, as they fell into step together, heading toward the river. “The actual adults like myself know better than to trust children playing at being grown-ups.”

“You are only thirty-two—”

“Nearly thirty-three—”

“Still thirty-two,” Sebastian interrupted. “And Rory might be twenty-one, but he’s brave and tough and you admire him for it.”

You’re just being an arsehole because you haven’t had a smoke in three days and you’re climbing the walls. Sebastian, of course, was far too kind to say something like that out loud. But Wesley knew who he was.

Even now, his hand wanted to stray toward his jacket, where he still kept a pack of cheap cigarettes in his pocket.

He forced it to stay at his side. “Regardless of what I think of Brodigan’s relative maturity, or lack thereof, the actual issue here is that an English viscount is somehow bootlegging . In Yonkers .”

“Yonkers is nice.” Sebastian gestured around them. “I can hear the river, and see a lady walking a cute dog, and smell a bakery.”

Bloody typical. Where Wesley went looking for thorns, Sebastian gave his attention to the roses. “But we’re not here for bakeries, are we?”

“Rory can see the history of the liquor, but he needs someone to keep watch while he scries,” Sebastian said, as they crossed the street. “Arthur is with his family, and Zhang is with Jade at the hospital with Alasdair.”

Alasdair Findlay, a paranormal who had previously been able to hear magic and had nearly murdered a mansion of New York’s elite at a Halloween masquerade.

October had been an entire mess, discovering Wesley’s own former commanding officer and a baronet he knew from London had been involved in a plot attempting to get rid of magic.

Now Major Langford and Sir Ellery were both dead, and Alasdair had been unconscious in a mental hospital since then.

“Surely the time someone needed to deal with Alasdair was three weeks ago?” Wesley said. “When he helped kidnap all of us and was willing to murder his way through an entire party to unlock the pomander relic.”

“Yes, but we think he might not have any magic anymore,” Sebastian said.

It hung between them for just a hair longer than it should have, because the reason Alasdair no longer had magic was because Sebastian no longer had magic—because Alasdair had been swept along with it when Sebastian had sacrificed every bit of magic he had to destroy the pomander relic that would have killed Wesley.

Sebastian had said many times now that he believed his magic was never coming back.

He had one of the softest hearts Wesley had ever encountered, able to somehow still see roses in a world full of thorns, but he never seemed to have any of that optimism for himself.

The Wesley of a few months ago would have agreed that was a sensible choice, because that Wesley had believed that hope and faith were for the na?ve.

But the Wesley of months ago hadn’t known that magic existed—and, more importantly, hadn’t known that a person like Sebastian existed. And now, it was Wesley’s cynical, jaded heart of stone that couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that Sebastian’s magic was still with them.

But Sebastian didn’t mention himself now, already soldiering on.

“You and Jade both believe that Alasdair and the others did not mastermind a plot to destroy magic by themselves. The mental hospital called this morning and said someone needed to come urgently. Hopefully that means Alasdair is awake; it would be our first chance to question him since the masquerade.”

They did need to question Alasdair. A plot to destroy magic through combining deadly fifteenth-century relics spoke of someone with deep knowledge of the magic world, a true mastermind still out there, possibly licking their wounds and ready to try again.

“I am able to appreciate that questioning needs to happen,” Wesley said. “I’m less able to appreciate that I am not the one doing it. What if Mr. Findlay is still dangerous?”

“That’s why Jade took Sasha with her,” Sebastian said. “Alasdair wouldn’t stand a chance against telekinesis and superstrength. Don’t underestimate Jade and Sasha because they’re women.”

“I’m not underestimating them because they’re women . I’m underestimating them because they’re not me ,” Wesley said, which drew a huffed laugh from Sebastian. “I still don’t understand why I’m here and not there.”

“Because I said please . And you said yes .”

Wesley rolled his eyes, mostly at himself, because that was, in fact, what had happened, and it was exactly why angels were a bigger nuisance than devils. A devil one could simply tell to go to Hell; an angel would smile sweetly and one would scramble to wrap one’s self around their little finger.

Wesley stole another glance at Sebastian.

Hell if it wasn’t fucking worth it, though.

They crossed another street and picked their way over the train tracks, heading for a run-down structure on the edge of the Hudson River that must have been a factory at one time. At present, it was deserted, the windows broken and the door boarded shut.

“We could be at the hotel right now,” Wesley pointed out, both of them picking up the pace as the rain continued to needle them. “I could be watching you strip off most of your clothes.”

“Wesley. Priorities. ”

“What could possibly take priority over that?” Wesley said, without apology, as they reached the dilapidated structure. “Do you have any idea how good you look at twilight, as the glow of city lights starts to dance along your skin?”

Sebastian side-eyed him. “That’s very romantic.”

“Particularly when I finally get your trousers off and your legs over my—”

“What happened to the romance?” Sebastian said, as they ducked beneath the arch that sheltered the building’s front door, tucked away out of sight and away from the rain.

“Please, I’m a fucking poet,” Wesley said. “Miss Robbins should have me on her speakeasy stage at the Magnolia, not acting as errand boy.”

Sebastian grinned. “I could listen to you for hours,” he said, gaze on the empty street.

“And you agreed to run this errand because no matter how grouchy you pretend to be, you’re a very good friend who would do anything for Jade.

It’s a short list of people she trusts to help her with bootlegging. ”

And in the hidden shadows of their shelter, he tilted his head up and brushed his lips against Wesley’s cheek, light and soft.

Wesley stilled. The kiss had been over in an instant.

Subtle enough that it might have been missed even if they’d been standing in a crowded room, innocent enough that Sebastian could have gotten away with telling Americans that he’d absentmindedly slipped into a Spanish cultural habit.

Sebastian had even checked the street for prying eyes before he’d done it.

Wesley had been blown by a stranger in a public park on no less than three occasions, all of which had brought a far greater risk of discovery than that tiny kiss.

They hadn’t been seen and Wesley wasn’t afraid that they had. He was hyperaware of the action for a more aggravating reason.

Sebastian had gone back to watching the street.

Wesley surreptitiously touched his cheek.

The kiss had been subtle, sweet, and innocent.

An affectionate gesture to go with affectionate words, and Sebastian had given it without a second thought.

Meanwhile, Wesley was already giving it third, fourth, possibly infinite thoughts.

Casual affection was, of course, a thing.

He obviously knew that. It was a thing some couples did, and more to the point, a thing Sebastian sometimes did, and a thing Wesley secretly appreciated; he craved Sebastian’s touch the way he craved nicotine and was quite on board with having as much of it as possible.

But if more touch was an option, Wesley also wanted to give it, to get his hands and lips on Sebastian even when they weren’t having sex.

And he didn’t have the first fucking clue what to do with that feeling, or how to go about it.

“Wes, look.” Sebastian pointed. “I think I see Rory.”

Wesley raised his eyes heavenward. Christ, how very Sebastian, to send Wesley spiraling into the insensible world of emotion and not have the decency to even know he’d done it.