The Necromancer's Smile

by Lisa Oliver

  “Did it leave a scar?” Sy’s white teeth made a fetching contrast with his plump pink bottom lip.

  “I was in wolf form at the time,” Dakar was prepared to take even the tiniest hint of concern. “I was healed by the time I shifted.”

  “Hmm,” Sy frowned. “Wards tattooed onto your skin might work. That would be more effective than an amulet with you shifting. I’ll have to check my books.” He scooted off the bed.

  “Where are you going?” Can’t you see I’m naked and needy here?

  “You need protection – against magic attacks, physical harm, gunshot wounds, knife attacks, fire,” Sy ticked the items off his fingers. “Runes would be most effective, but I have to check my books to see which ones could be etched onto your skin.”

  “Wait!” Somewhere along the line, Dakar had lost control of the conversation. Sy stopped by the door. “Sy, babe, please, come back and sit down.”

  Warily Sy came back and perched on the edge of the bed. “Sweet one, I know this mating pull is new for both of us. But do you remember the stories I read you, the night I came here for dinner.”

  “Yesterday.” Sy nodded.

  My gods, I feel as though I’ve known him a lifetime already. “That’s right, yesterday. Remember me explaining about how protective wolf shifters were about their pack, family and mates; especially mates.”

  Sy nodded again.

  Taking in a long breath, Dakar verbalized his greatest fear. “How do I protect you? Okay, I know I was the one who fucked up by touching you when you were talking to Warren at the crime scene, but this thing today. When you shared what happened at the Peterson’s home, I watched you fall as though punched.”

  “That’s what it felt like.”

  “But I couldn’t see what hit you,” Dakar wasn’t sure he was making sense. “How can I protect you against attacks like that when I don’t even know they’re coming?”

  Sy’s face was blank for a moment, but then it was like watching someone connect the dots. “Your wolf feels the need to protect me, because I’m your mate?”

  “Yes.” Dakar wanted to punch the air. “It’s part of who we are.”

  Sy chewed his bottom lip and Dakar reached over, freeing the abused flesh. The pink on Sy’s cheeks intensified. “I didn’t even see what hit me today,” Sy said at last. “It’s not as though I can die from anything like that. I’d be more in danger from someone seeking to drain my magic, rather than hit me with theirs. And draining isn’t easy,” he added. Dakar probably should have kept his growl to himself. “It a long, extremely difficult and complex process and with someone as powerful as I am, can take days to complete, so there’s not a lot of danger to that. Not even my father is strong enough to do me harm that way.”

  “Is he likely to try?” The more Dakar heard about Sy’s life, the more he understood Brock’s faithful shadow stance.

  “No, he’s more likely to try and marry me off by proxy than take my power. Even if he tried, it wouldn’t do any good.”

  Unable to resist, Dakar asked, “Why? If he drained your power, or even part of it, wouldn’t that make him more powerful magically than you are?”

  Sy covered a yawn and shook his head. “He’d go insane,” he said, surprising Dakar by laying a hand on his bare knee. “None of us can handle more power than we are given. Humans may resent us at times; increased strength, fast reflexes, and super senses, but among paranormals, there are checks and balances. I might have the ability to strip someone of their power, but unless I have a vessel to put it into, the increase in my own magic levels would short out my organs. My body can only handle so much. Likewise, I could raise a dead man, not that there’d be any point, but that individual wouldn’t have any power of his own because his would be lost at the moment of death. A corpse can’t even be a useful vessel for someone else’s power.”

  “Because in accordance with the laws of nature, magic, life, or whatever you want to call it, no one can have more than they’ve naturally been given or develop for themselves.”

  “Exactly.” Sy smiled. “Magic users are usually only drained to fuel an experiment or spell. No person can take the magic from another and use it to make themselves stronger.” He reached up and Dakar felt the brief brush of lips against his cheek. “Brock is lurking outside the door with food. Are you still angry with me? I only ask because one, I am never really sure about these things, and two, Brock is likely to know, and he won’t be happy with you.”

  “I’m not angry with you,” Dakar leaned over and mirrored Sy’s hesitant kiss. “A little scared; more than a bit worried I can’t keep you safe, but I would never be truly angry with you.”

  “We’ll work on these protective aspects,” Sy smiled and the warmth in Dakar’s heart spread. “For now, let’s eat. Are you too disappointed we didn’t get to go out for the meal you promised me?”

  “Tomorrow is another day and we have millions of tomorrows.” It was only the strong smell of roast venison creeping under the door that stopped Dakar taking another kiss.

  Chapter Twelve

  “There are only three people registered in town with magical ability. They are all listed as lone lower level magic users,” Brad said around a mouthful of breakfast croissant. Dakar decided, during their meal the night before, that the key to solving the murders would be in finding who left the magical trap for Sy. Unfortunately, with no ruling coven in the area that wasn’t as clear cut as it sounded. After hearing about Warren’s death, Nancy had taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed. If there had been any visitors to the house, she wasn’t aware of it. Lloyd, still in lockup refused to talk at all. Brock, when hearing Brad was researching specifically to find the person who hurt his employer, insisted the bear shifter be invited to breakfast. He even provided a wide range of different honeys that had Brad drooling as he sat down.

  “The flashback spell is a lower level spell,” Sy said thoughtfully. He’d decided, seeing as Brad was visiting, to have his toast and tea at the kitchen table. Dakar spent the night in his wolf form, guarding his bed and while Sy appreciated the unnecessary gesture, he’d slept better than he ever did, leaving his mind sharp and clear. “However, the wards that kept you out, Brock, are a lot more complicated.”

  “Agreed,” Brock handed over another plate of food to Dakar and poured Brad some coffee. “What concerns me, is that whoever did this, didn’t aim their spells and wards at just any magic user. We, or rather you, sir, were the one who was specifically targeted.”

  “By shutting you out.” Sy nodded. “That in itself is a major clue.”

  “How do you mean?” Dakar pushed his plate to one side and pulled out his notebook. “How is that a clue?”

  Sy looked at Brock, who gave him an imperceptible nod. “Brock is an extremely rare and unusual being,” Sy said slowly. “Every ward is different in its construction. Some, created by someone with lesser magical skills, resemble a concrete wall. They keep everyone out except the person who created it.”

  “But the ward at the Peterson’s house only kept out your hunky butler.” Brad winked, and Brock quickly picked up Dakar’s empty plate and headed for the sink. “How is that relevant?”

  “To create a ward designed specifically for one person, or one type of being is more complex,” Sy explained, amused at the interaction between Brad and Brock. “To keep Brock out, they’d either have to have something personal from him, such as a hair, finger nails, blood or other bodily fluid…”

  “Or,” Dakar prompted and Sy noticed he already had half a page of notes.

  “Or the person knows what I am and that’s not possible.” Brock left the sink, returning to stand behind Sy’s chair, his arms crossed.

  “You smell like our Captain,” Brad inhaled deeply. “Brimstone and…and….”

  “Sulphur,” Dakar added.

  “Your captain is a full demon,” Brock said stiffly. “We are not related.”

  “Brock is unique. To my knowledge he is the only one of his kind,” Sy dippe
d his head, shame flooding his system. As happy as Brock insisted he was in his position, Sy could never forget his grandfather was responsible for Brock’s creation. “He’s a unique blend of dragon, fae, demon, and Necromancer bloods. The formula for his existence was destroyed along with my Grandfather’s grimoire three centuries ago.”

  There are many types of silences. This one ranked under the heading ‘stunned.’ Lifting his head, Sy continued. “Brock was created by my grandfather using a golem as a base. I assume you both know what a golem is?”

  “A being created in mud, usually resembling a humanoid shape, that can be briefly brought to life, usually for nefarious purposes.” Brock’s tone gave nothing away. Sy noticed Dakar and Brad exchanging shocked looks.

  “You’re not real?” Brad seemed disappointed.

  “I am over three hundred years old,” Brock said sharply. Then he reached over Sy’s shoulder and ran a finger down Brad’s cheek. “I’m as real as you are.”

  Brad shivered and even Sy could recognize the lust lurking over the bear’s face. “Brock is right,” he said quickly wanting to forestall any kind of intimacy over the kitchen table. “He’s a living, breathing creation with the same rights as any other paranormal. My grandfather animated a golem, using an infusion of voluntarily donated bloods from the different species I listed before. Then, in a ceremony I was told took three days and two nights, my grandfather infused Brock with a part of his soul and a wisp from the veil between the living and the dead.”

  “No disrespect to you, Brock,” Dakar said, “but didn’t you tell me last night, Sy, that no being could assume the power of another? A golem is as devoid of power as a corpse, surely?”

  “That is what makes Brock truly unique,” Sy smiled at his butler. “Power cannot be taken and then used by another, that is true. But my grandfather, through the course of his spell, willingly agreed to give up part of his very existence by shredding a portion of his soul, in return for giving Brock life.”

  “Your grandfather drained a great deal of his power to give me life,” Brock said. “He only lasted another ten years before his power gave out completely and he faded.”

  “I’m not trying to be insulting here, but gave you life? What does that make you?” Brad spluttered. “His servant, his slave, or his son?”

  “Brock has always been a free and independent man. He could leave me anytime he chooses,” Sy knew his eyes were flashing, but he was pissed. This is what happens when you tried to explain magic to people whose only claim to fame was sprouting fur and fangs. “My grandfather had prophetic visions. He knew his future generations would need protection. Brock can read minds, is impervious to fire, can pick up emotions, and travel through the veil. His strength is unrivaled by any form of shifter and if injured he heals in mere seconds. He is able to recall anything he’s ever read or heard years later, and not only that, but he is my dearest friend. If anything were to happen to him, I would raise every corpse in a hundred-mile area and level this town until no one was left alive.”

  “It is not advisable to verbalize threats against the town in front of two of the town’s finest detectives,” Brock said quietly. “Especially, when one of them is your mate.”

  “I don’t care,” Sy said stubbornly. “Should my mate ever get his head out of his furry ass, then I’d do the same for him and his friends. But look at them,” he waved at Dakar and Brad who both had their mouths open. “They don’t understand. I consider you my father, my family, and my only friend. You bleed, you cry, you’re capable of the same gamut of emotions as any other being. Your heart beats as solidly as mine and I won’t have them or anyone else treat you like a freak of nature.”

  “I rarely cry.”

  “You know what I mean.” Sy got the impression he’d said too much and probably upset his mate and his butler in the process. Yorks did not express intense emotions especially in public. It had to be the mating pull, Sy decided, messing about with his emotions. “What you Detectives need to know for the purposes of your investigation, is that someone must have been aware of Brock’s genetic makeup, otherwise the wards in Warren’s room would not have held him. As part demon, Brock can go anywhere in any realm. Unless, is there a possibility that bodily fluids of yours were shared indiscreetly? If they were, it might help us to narrow down this magic user, provided you can recall where you left said fluids?”

  He arched his eyebrow at Brock, unable to even look at Dakar or Brad. He was sure Brad was ready to have him committed to some insane asylum somewhere, and Dakar was probably regretting the day they met.

  Brock swallowed hard and then reached for a chair, sitting down with none of the grace or precision Sy was used to. “May I see the names of the magic users you claim live in town,” he asked. “It would be helpful if you have photos.”

  “I swiped these from the magic users register,” Brad handed Brock a thin file. “For the record, you’re still the hottest being I’ve ever seen.”

  “I may also prove to be one of the silliest.” Brock opened the file; Sy leaned over his shoulder. He recognized one of the faces.

  “Isn’t that Harmon Gowitch?” He tapped the photo of a middle-aged man, with a bad combover and rounded face.

  “Yes, Sir. He came to see you, claiming his mother’s diamond necklace was missing.”

  “You told me his mother didn’t have a necklace like that. You threw him out of the house, I believe.”

  “You don’t need to waste your time with users and charlatans,” Brock said, flicking through the file. “He stunk of lust and B.O. and his only intention for his appointment was to ask you out.” Brock looked up at him. “He’s one of the ones your father warned you about.”

  Dakar growled, but Sy was more interested in Brock’s face which had gone uncommonly pale. “Who is it? Do you know this one?”

  The man in the photo Brock was staring at in horror, was handsome enough if you liked big hairy men with full beards. The photo looked a lot like Brad, actually. Brock straightened, meeting Sy’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir, it appears my unruly sexual organs have put your life in danger.”

  “You’d better rephrase that in words we all understand,” Dakar growled but Sy had to stay focused on Brock. His inscrutable mask was firmly in place, but his eyes. Brock looks broken, and for some reason, Sy’s heart ached at the very idea.

  “What happened, Brock?”

  “You will recall, when you informed me last week that you intended to spend your social engagement time at the club you went to. You’d heard about it from one of your appointments, am I correct?”

  “Yes. I was there the night Warren’s body was found.”

  “Precisely. When you informed me of your plans, I went and investigated the club for myself. Our agreement is, you spend your social engagement hours alone, to give you the chance to interact with others.”

  “That was the purpose of the contract, yes,” Sy agreed. “But I know you never go far.”

  “Nevertheless, I still ensure that all places you go are…,” Brock paused, “Suitable,” he said at last.

  “No biker bars for me then,” Sy smiled, nodding to encourage Brock to continue.

  “I went out after you’d gone to bed. I was only out for an hour. I visited the club. It seemed convivial enough for the type of establishment it was. I hadn’t desired any sexual relief for some time, but this man,” Brock tapped the photo, “invited me to dance and when I was sufficiently horny, took me to the bathrooms to take care of the problem. I left a deposit of my sperm in his oral cavity.”

  Sy wasn’t sure where to look. The urge to giggle was overwhelming, but that sort of reaction wasn’t considered adult behavior for a Necromancer. “You didn’t think to ensure he swallowed?” He asked, and it was as if a switch had gone off. Brad and Dakar laughed and laughed. Sy let it go on for a while; Dakar in particular had a beautiful laugh. Brock’s back was as straight as a Grecian pillar, staring at something only he could see on the kitchen wall.

  Whe
n Dakar and Brad finally pulled themselves together, Sy said firmly, “Detectives, this is a serious matter. Brock’s body fluids were stolen for the purpose of creating the wards in the Peterson house. Every magic user worth his salt knows who Brock is. This is a crime among our kind.”

  “It’d be a little difficult to prove theft occurred,” Dakar said kindly. “Brock donated his sample willingly, I assume.”

  “I was led to believe he swallowed the fluids provided.”

  “Is that the only time in the last month you can think of where you’ve been with someone intimately?” Sy asked.

  “That was hardly an intimate situation,” Brock replied. “He was willing, I was horny.”

  “But there wasn’t anyone else in the last month that might have had the opportunity to steal a hair perhaps, or a scraping of skin?” The last thing Sy wanted to do was think about Brock naked.

  “No.”

  “Then I think our next steps are clear, don’t you Detectives?” Sy managed to appear to look at Brad and Dakar without catching their eye. “This issue of obtaining fluids to create the ward is a serious matter among magic users. Accordingly, Brock and I will pay this,” Sy peered at the file, “Michael Forth a visit. Until we can determine the man is directly responsible for the wards in the Peterson home, your presence would be seen as unnecessary and heavy handed, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “He could be in cahoots with the killer, Sy. He could even be the killer.” Dakar’s voice held a hint of what? Warning? Concern? Sy wished he knew more about social cues.

  “As the resident Necromancer and in the absence of a formal coven, issues with local magic users come under my purview. It’s the law,” Sy said. “At the very least, an unexpected visit to his premises would mean he won’t have a chance to mask his scent.”

  “How do you know he masked his scent?” Brad asked.