by Lisa Oliver
Meeting place definition: Any place where it can be considered likely that three or more people might congregate for the purposes of sharing ideas, thoughts or common interests, and where conversation is encouraged between all parties.
Brock had added the last part when Sy spent his first month’s worth of social engagements at the local library.
Although it had been years since Sy had attended a crime scene he’d bet a drop of his highly coveted blue blood it would still fit within the terms of their contract. With luck, Sy could cut his social requirement for the following week by half again if he employed the “carry over” clause. He didn’t often get one over on his loyal butler but when he did it was worth celebrating.
Chapter Two
“He’s here,” Brad said, nudging Dakar hard enough to cause the hands around his disposable cup to squash the cardboard and almost causing him to drop his coffee. “Look alert. According to the gossip, this guy doesn’t miss a thing.”
“You’ve never met him before either?” Dakar asked as he took the final swallow from his cup before crumpling it and putting it in his jacket pocket.
“I’ve never had the chance,” Brad chuckled. “I told you, the contract signed by this man’s father is ironclad and costs the Captain a fortune every time he’s called out. When the son took over the area after his father retired, I’d heard the previous captain tried to renegotiate the terms. But this guy must study law or something in his spare time because he ended up with the sweeter end of the deal. With the council watching every cent spent, I’d say the only reason our friendly neighborhood Necromancer is here now is because the council have approved an increase in our budget.”
“He certainly wears the money well,” Dakar muttered, taking in the tall being striding towards him dressed in a suit worth more than a year’s worth of Dakar’s wages. The man carried himself with the air of someone who’d never been denied, never come across a problem he couldn’t solve, and his power nudged at Dakar’s wolf from the moment he stepped over the police tape. He was followed by an adorable twink with a mass of dark curls who was dressed for a night on the town.
Dakar’s eyes narrowed, and he surreptitiously sniffed as the tall man approached. Most magic users in his experience smelled of sage, basil and a hint of hemp. The few more powerful ones charged the air around them with subtle electricity jolts. This guy had no electrical charge and smelled more of fire and brimstone than herbs. In fact, scent-wise he could be related to the Captain although Dakar’s gut told him that wasn’t the case.
Stepping forward, Dakar inclined his head enough to show respect and kept his expression professional. “Necromancer, I apologize for disturbing your evening plans. If your boy toy would care to wait by the car, I can show you what we’ve found at the scene so far.”
The tall man’s spine got even straighter if that was possible and the temperature around them dropped ten degrees. Dakar got the impression he’d caused offence even if he couldn’t work out what he’d said wrong. Then he remembered what he’d said and winced. Shit, what if the boy toy was the Necromancer’s mate, significant other, or whatever the hell a necromancer calls his partner? Opening his mouth to offer yet another apology he was thwarted by cutting tones delivered with a decidedly British accent.
“Far be it for me to offer advice when you’ve not even offered your name and designation,” the haughty tones dripped with ice, “but may I suggest you should never judge a book by its cover. As you pointed out our evening plans have been interrupted so our attire should be excused. But then,” dark eyes reflected the scorn in the man’s tone, “I imagine it’s been some time since you’ve bothered to pick up a book of any kind so perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the cover analogy.”
Dakar bristled under the insult and his wolf growled in his head. “Now look here,” he snapped, “I….”
“Don’t let them bother you, Brock, you know it will only give you heartburn.” The boy toy hurried past the three men, walking straight up to the body before curling his legs so he ended up sitting cross legged on the ground beside the head. To Dakar’s shock the young man caressed the blood splattered hair before closing his eyes.
“What the hell?” Dakar shared a look with his partner before turning to the one called Brock. “Look Necromancer, I get its late and you aren’t the only one who got cock-blocked by this murder but get your pet away from our crime scene. He’s contaminating evidence.”
Dakar admitted, to himself at least, the boy toy was definitely worth spending fifteen minutes with. His mass of curls shone like a sinful halo under the harsh police lights, his slender face crafted by an angel. His lips were dark pink and full enough to stretch delightfully around his hardening cock. The club clothes the boy wore highlighted an ass taut enough to bounce a roll of quarters on and he had a lightly defined torso any twink would be proud to show off. But the boy’s innocent air would have stopped Dakar from approaching him if the circumstances of their meeting had been any different.
“Detective,” Brock’s lips curled, and the brimstone edge of his scent increased. “I would appreciate it if you would stop eying that young man as though he was your last meal. That man you callously insulted suggesting he was both my boy toy and my pet is the Pedace County Necromancer, Prince Sebastian York of the York clan; only heir to the York fortune and the strongest and most able man of his craft in the America’s.”
Just dig my grave and leave me in it. Dakar’s cheeks heated as he stumbled for something to say. “And you are?” He managed when his brain finally hit the right gear.
“I’m Brock, Prince York’s butler,” Brock announced as if he was the President.
“It’s a pleasure meeting you,” Brad intervened as Dakar tried to merge Brock’s imposing presence with his idea of a crusty British butler as portrayed by random television programs he rarely watched. “Forgive me if I’m being impertinent, but what is the Necromancer doing? Doesn’t he know he shouldn’t touch the deceased?”
Brock peered around Dakar’s shoulder and huffed. “I imagine he’s attempting to talk to the young man’s spirit,” he said dismissively. “It’s what a Necromancer does, among other things.” The clipped tone suggested Dakar would find out just how powerful the cute young man was if he didn’t find a way to extract his size fourteen boots from his mouth.
/~/~/~/~/
If Sy had a dime for every time someone confused Brock with the Necromancer position he’d be able to build a tower taller than the Statue of Liberty. Not that he’d craft the tower with dimes, of course. He much preferred the basic metals like silver and gold. It always warmed his heart when Brock jumped to his defense so strongly. Lord knows, no one else did. But after the Detectives’ swift dismissal of him simply because of his looks, Sy just wanted to do his job and get it over and done with. He’d already counted seven officers at the scene, so this would qualify under his social engagement contract which was the only positive of the evening so far. Hopefully, no one will interrupt me.
Keeping his eyes closed, Sy started identifying and then blocking from his mind the elements of the scene unnecessary to him. The first layers – the brightness of the lights, the feel of the wet grass under his butt, the sounds of voices – they were easy to dismiss. Next, he recognized the rustle of the leaves in the tall trees surrounding the park, the wail of a distant siren, and the low thrum of a plane flying overhead. He blocked them too. Deeper and deeper he went, stripping out the trappings of the physical world in his mind until he reached the veil between the living and the dead.
Sliding through the veil, Sy immediately sensed a presence. He wasn’t surprised the spirit hadn’t wandered far considering the callous nature of the young man’s death. Sy was conscious of a white glow, but nothing more. The victim was an innocent in every sense and hadn’t been dead long enough to create the semblance of a physical form. Sy would have to work fast if he was to get any information at all. Chances are, the spirit was only hanging around because he didn’t yet
fully realize he’d passed beyond the veil and if the young man was taken into the hereafter quickly, it would require more than a force of will to contact him.
Where am I?
Good, at least he’s recognized my presence. Sy knew that wasn’t always the case and sometimes he could waste precious minutes yelling to get a spirit’s attention.
“You’re dead,” Sy projected bluntly. There was never any point in sugar coating an obvious truth. “Can you tell me who you are?”
Don’t you know already? Aren’t you an angel? You shine like an angel. I thought they knew everything.
Oh, you poor sweet kid, Sy kept that thought to himself. “I’m not an angel sweetheart, but one will be coming for you very soon. I can wait with you if you like?”
That will be lovely, thank you. This is all very confusing. Someone had taught the kid impeccable manners, not always the case with the younger generation anymore. The white glow got closer. Ew gross…Is that what’s left of me?
Sy realized the innocent spirit was watching the scene going on around the body. Brock and the two detectives were conferring in low voices; the detectives throwing loaded looks his way every few seconds. The garish blood on the body was dried but no less shocking against pale limbs that held a bluish tinge.
“Our body is simply a vessel that allows our spirits to experience different aspects of life,” Sy replied feeling the need to offer some kind of comfort. “If it is meant to be, you will reform in another life but that’s dependent on a number of different factors. Try not to worry about it now. Can you tell me your name?” Instinct told Sy that information was important. At least if he had the victim’s name he could call on him again if he needed to at a later time.
He called me Peter, the young man’s voice was faint and Sy struggled to hear him. But I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last. They are all Peter.
Shit. Sy thought fast. He could feel the layers of life intruding, pushing at the veil. That damned detective probably wanted to conduct an interview or something equally unhelpful. “What name were you given at birth?” He asked. “Do you remember?”
The white glow wavered and Sy held fast to his powers. He was suddenly aware of everything that was going on. Brock was trying to stop the sexy detective from interfering and…what? Clenching his teeth, Sy focused on the light once more. “Your birth name,” he prodded.
Warren. The glow got brighter. Warren Peterson but he said that meant I was a Peter.
“Who said,” Sy projected desperately as angry voices from the real world pierced his ears. “Who said you should be Peter?”
“Stop! Don’t touch him. You sir, are a damn fool,” Sy heard Brock yell in tones far louder than his stoic butler usually employed. A wolf snarled, and a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Sy lost his connection with the innocent spirit. Layers of real life piled in, one on top of the other as his concentration fractured. A familiar darkness curled over the edges of his mind and as Sy succumbed as he knew he must, he saw the white glow joined by another. At least he got his angel escort, Sy thought as he slumped back on the wet grass, barely aware his fingers were still entangled in the ends of the dead man’s hair.
/~/~/~/~/
“Have none of you read the damn manual provided when the Prince’s father entered into the contract with your department? Now look what you’ve done.”
Dakar’s retort died on his tongue as he took in the sight of the pretty young magic user slumped at his feet. All at once he was struck with a feeling of dread as he imagined the Necromancer as the victim. His wolf howled in his mind and growls bubbled up through his chest, spilling from his throat as if he were in his furry form. Ignoring him completely, Brock pushed him aside and in one graceful move plucked the young man from the ground, cradling him in his arms.
“How the… what are we…did he even do anything?” Dakar yelled as Brock brushed past him, heading for the waiting limo. Brock stopped and half-turned, his sneer fully formed.
“The Necromancer was performing his duties. If you’d read the manual provided you would know that when a Necromancer is yanked back through the veil between the living and the dead before he is done, he falls into a deep sleep while his brain reorients itself. On previous occasions, when your predecessors were as ignorant of the process as you’ve proven to be, they were always gracious enough to make an appointment at a more civilized hour to hear what he has to report. I suggest you do the same.”
Dakar was getting more and more frustrated with the constant referrals to a damn manual he didn’t even know existed. His heart was still trying to pound its way out of his chest over the way the Necromancer went down so quickly and the knowledge it was his ignorance that caused it. “This is the fifth victim,” he insisted. “If we don’t move quickly on this, the killer could get away.”
“The killer has already gotten away,” Brock said in his clipped tone. “Otherwise the person who perpetuated this awful crime would still be here, in handcuffs I imagine, being subjected to the wonders known as the justice system. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“How do I make an appointment to hear what the Necromancer has learned?” Dakar was seized with the feeling his best lead was being placed with gentle care into the back of the Limo.
“Read the manual, Detective.” Brock didn’t even bother to acknowledge the others at the scene as he slid into the driver’s seat and the Limo moved down the driveway.
“Looks like you were caught with your pants down, Dakar. I take it, I can remove the body now?” Dr. Barker grinned as he waved at his assistants carrying black body bags towards the corpse.
“You knew who he was, and you let me make a right fool of myself. Thanks a fucking bunch. Do what you have to do. I have a manual to find and read before tomorrow’s meeting.” And he did need to read that manual. That was the only thing Dakar was certain of.
Everything else – the rising body count, the lack of clues and his captain’s ire were all subject to change – but one fact engraved itself on his psyche. He owed the Necromancer an apology and he didn’t want to go into a second meeting unprepared. He only hoped the young man wouldn’t make him eat too much humble pie before he made his report. At this stage, Dakar was prepared to believe in fairy dust and true love if it meant he could get a lead on the killer…and maybe a chance to see the Necromancer smile. He imagined that would be something worth seeing.
Chapter Three
Sy stretched and snuggled further under his feather duvet. The clink of the tea cups, the smell of freshly buttered toast and then a blast of light he could see even with his eyes closed all let him know Brock was in the room and it was time to get up.
“Sir, I know you’re awake. Those detectives will be here within the hour and if you wish to bathe the stench from last night’s activities from your body and hair, you’d better sit up and eat your toast.”
“Tea first, you know the drill.” Sy pushed back the covers and wriggled into a seated position, pillows already waiting to support his back as a cup was handed to him. Chamomile. He was being spoiled this morning. Sy took a grateful sip and managed a smile. “I know you won’t allow me to be late and even if I was, that is no more than those detectives deserve after last night.”
“Sir, you can’t….”
“I know, punctuality is a sign of professionalism and with my curls and youthful exterior I have enough trouble being respected as it is.” Picking up a piece of toast Sy wasn’t surprised to see it was perfectly cooked and smeared with just enough butter to make the inners soft. He winked at the staunch man standing at parade rest by the bed. “I also know, without resorting to magic, that my bath will already be run to a regulation four and a half inches from the rim. It will contain precisely twenty milliliters of bubble bath; likely lavender today as I had a rotten night. My towels will already be heated and waiting for me when I step out and while I am bathing you will lay out my Necromancer garb ready for me to step into. You know, it would be quicker if I took a shower.
”
“Don’t even joke about it.” The horror on Brock’s face was worth another chuckle. Sy knew his butler was never happier unless he controlled everything he could down to the last inch. If he searched the man he’d likely find a thermometer stuffed in some secret pocket; its sole purpose to ensure the bath water was at precisely the right temperature designed to be soothing without burning him.
“Can we forgo the goth garb today, at least?” Sy asked, placing his toast crust on the plate sitting on the bedside table and giving up his cup. “The visitors have already seen me in club gear. Surely a button-down shirt and smart pants would suffice?”
“Absolutely not.” Brock’s eyebrows were at least half an inch higher than normal. “A Necromancer’s position, including the wearing of….”
“I know, I know.” Sy climbed out of bed, unconcerned with his nudity. Brock would have been the one who put him to bed after all. “But honestly, look at me. The long black coat, all black shirt and pants and even the soft leather gloves for goodness sake. They were designed for someone a lot taller and more imposing than me. They make me look like I’m playing dress up in my father’s clothes.”
“You make a very fine Necromancer. You’ve got more power in your little finger than you father has in his whole body,” Brock said firmly. “Now let’s have no more arguments. You have forty-seven minutes left before your appointment.”
“Can I at least make a fiery entrance?” Sy batted his eyelids. “That seems to attract respect.”
Brock sighed and Sy knew he’d do as he asked. “I’ll put them in the smaller dance hall then, sir. That will make more of an impact than if we use the larger hall. The marble floors will be easier to clean the scorch marks from than the wooden one in your office.”
“You are too good to me, thank you.” Sy hurried through to the bathroom to save Brock having to hide his embarrassment. The man had been in service for so long, he’d forgotten how to accept a compliment.