“Your brother,” Wesley said. “Sebastian saved my life that night.”
Mateo frowned.
“What?” When Mateo shook his head, Wesley said, “Just spit it out, already. Sebastian trusts me.”
Mateo scoffed openly. “That only makes me trust you less. The last time Sebastian thought he could trust someone, we lost him for three years. He’s too sweet.”
“Heistoo sweet,” Wesley agreed. “Meanwhile you’re suspicious—that’s very good.”
“I’m a seer, no one likes me anyway.”
Mateo was turning out to be snappish, cynical and protective of Sebastian. Ugh, he was almost tolerable.
Wesley leaned forward. “I don’t wish harm on your brother,” he said again. “I would, in fact, like to prevent any more harm from ever coming to Sebastian, because I believe he’s suffered more than his share.”
Mateo eyed him. He had grown paler, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, like he was once again fighting the magic trying to send his mind into the future.
“Maybe you saw me in the future, but I heard you in the car,” Wesley went on. “You said you saw Sebastian’s future. I thought that wasn’t supposed to be possible with his tattoo.”
Mateo gritted his teeth. “I know what I saw.”
“I believe you.” When Mateo looked at him, Wesley said, “I’ve only known about magic for a handful of days. What do I know about possible and impossible now? The rules of my life have been completely subverted, so why shouldn’t your magic rules have gone off the deep end too?”
Mateo bit his lip, and Wesley realized he already recognized the gesture from when Sebastian did it.
“You said you saw your brother surrounded by flames,” Wesley prompted.
“There were voices,” Mateo said hoarsely. “Laughter. Revelry. People in danger under the white clock.”
Whatever that fortune-telling madness meant. Wesley leaned even closer. “I won’t let that happen to him.”
Mateo swallowed. His eyelids were dropping again, his head lolling heavy against the window.
“Mr. de Leon,” Wesley said quietly. “Please tell me what to do so that future you saw never comes true.”
Mateo’s eyes had fully closed. “Isabel.”
“Your cousin, the painter and tattoo artist? What can she do?”
But Mateo had gone quiet again.
They changed trains at King’s Cross, and then again at London Victoria for the last boat train to Dover. There wasn’t much privacy to be had on the ferry to Calais, but they did their best, securing a quiet spot near a railing. It was outside, but they had a long bench to themselves along the covered walkway, and Sebastian overheard Wesley throwing his title around so the ferryman would keep others away. They let Mateo lie down, and Wesley sat with Sebastian at the other end.
It was dark and cold on the ocean, and the salty wet air peppered Sebastian’s face. Another September rain had started, pouring down on the water as their boat crossed the Channel and giving the white-crested waves a speckled, textured appearance in the ferry lights. Sebastian huddled deeply into his coat and scarf as Wesley touched his pocket.
“What a perfect moment for a cigarette.” He glanced at Sebastian out of the corner of his eye. “You do remember our bargain, don’t you? You’re supposed to stop me.”
Sebastian made a quiet huff that he hoped wasn’t as broken as he felt. “I don’t have enough magic left to stop you.”
Wesley raised his eyebrow. “You can’t knock me on my arse right now?”
Sebastian shook his head. “The tattoo still works.” At least, he hoped it did. “But my own magic is too exhausted.”
And all of his magic hadn’t been enough to bring Mateo’s mind all the way back. Sebastian swallowed down his despair.
Wesley sighed with a dramatic edge. “What is the point of being a viscount if one still has to do everything oneself?” he said wryly, as he pushed the cigarette pack back into his pocket. “And what’s the point of having a paranormal lover if he doesn’t have enough magic to pin you to the bed?”
Sebastian bit back a smile even as a pleasant shiver ran down his spine. Wesley had good ideas. “Are you saying you only want me for my magic?”
