by Lisa Oliver
“Yes, and yes,” Baltoc huffed as though insulted. “You can try and take him but he’s not going to appreciate being kept away from me. He and I have covered a lot of miles together and from the murky state of his soul, he won’t be seeing any pearly gates in his future.”
“He’s young. He has time to change his life around. How about you put them both aside for a minute, so you and I can talk?”
“We’ve got nothing to discuss, Necromancer.” Baltoc’s mocking laugh bounced around the room. “Three hundred years I’ve been waiting for this day. Twenty years ago, I saw my chance and I’ve schemed and skulked in the shadows, building my powers, waiting, waiting, until now. Everything I’ve done has led to this moment. The day I can take you down.”
A shiver ran down Sy’s spine. He crossed his arms, and in the most bored voice he could muster he said, “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but can you tell me what I did to incite such fanatical devotion to my demise? I wasn’t even born three hundred years ago, and my father was the Pedace Necromancer twenty years ago.”
“You’re paying for the sins of your grandfather,” Baltoc’s eyes were almost closed, as though lost in his memories. Sy didn’t let his guard down. The demon’s grip on the two humans hadn’t wavered. “The old man was an evil bastard. He faded far too quickly for me to get my revenge and as for your father, he wasn’t worth spitting on. He was a weak-kneed, selfish, and greedy cur. But then you came into your powers and made your first visit to the other side of the veil. That attracted my attention.”
“What did my grandfather do?” Sy racked his memory trying desperately to think of anything his relative might of done. It’s not as though he’d ever met him and the only story his father told about his grandfather related to Brock’s creation. “Brock, is this to do with you?” He whispered.
“Your grandfather foresaw a great evil that would arise well into his future, threatening the whole city, nay, the whole country with its influence.” Brock’s calm voice over his shoulder, as though discussing what they’d be having for dinner, helped soothe Sy’s confusion. “That vision was the reason I was created. My sole purpose was to protect first your father and when he retired, I took care of you. Maybe the demon is jealous he wasn’t consulted or even invited to donate to your grandfather’s cause. Baltoc is related to the blood in my veins. I could sense it the first time we met.”
“He created you by taking the life force from others,” Baltoc shouted, his face contorted in anger; his hands shaking as Lloyd and Robert dangled helplessly, their feet unable to touch the floor. “The demon part of the blood cocktail running through your veins came directly from my brother, Petrov. I would’ve stopped him if I’d have known about the Necromancer’s experiments, but by the time I learned what happened, it was too late. The deed was done. My brother never recovered. For three hundred years he’s spent his existence tormented by trolls, ghouls and evil spirits too weak to fight off even the most insignificant of demon. He’s trapped. He can’t die and my pleas to the lord of the underworld go unanswered. Your grandfather broke every law on every realm the day your golem started to breathe.”
“No.” Sy shook his head, his teachings of a lifetime pounding through his brain. “It’s not possible to take the life force from one being to power another. Grandfather knew that. It’s a core part of our teachings. Your brother donated two pints of blood for the spell. I remember my father telling me. Four magical beings; eight pints of blood. All four beings donated in exchange for a gift and left this house in the same state they arrived.”
“Then how do you explain what happened to my brother?” Baltoc’s lips curled back, and Sy smelled the singe of burned flesh as Robert’s leg swung over the lines of the pentagram. “He told me it was your ancestor.”
“Your brother lied, and you can’t tell me that’s not possible.” Sy’s confidence lifted at Baltoc’s grimace. “My grandfather was the one who faded giving Brock life. He gave his power levels to Brock; a transition only possible because he went beyond the veil and tore away a piece of his soul, mixing it with the mud of the golem. That was the only reason his power could be channeled into and used in Brock’s body and endures to this day. My grandfather sacrificed his life gladly, because of the threat to his future generations, and absolutely no one else was harmed because of it. The spell wouldn’t have worked if harm had been done to anyone else.”
“Your grandfather caused the threat to his future generations! He took the essence of my brother’s life leaving him a shell of his former self.” Spittle flew from Baltoc’s mouth. “For centuries I’ve watched my brother’s feeble attempts at living. I buried his wife. I raised his kids while he does nothing but hide in the shadows too weak and disfigured to show his face.”
Sy’s confidence wavered in the sheer conviction of Baltoc’s arguments. He turned around, needing to see Brock’s face. “Is it possible any of this is true?”
“No sir.” Sy let out a long breath at the firm conviction in Brock’s voice and the honesty in his dark eyes. “Admittedly, I never met or knew the beings who gave up their blood for me, but one of the first things your grandfather did when I came into existence, was explain the magic that allows me to live. No one was harmed by this except your grandfather. Trust in your teachings. The power drain this demon claims, isn’t possible under any law of magic.”
“You lie, and now you’ll die.” Baltoc’s voice sounded a lot closer. Sy whirled around just in time to see the demon step on Robert’s body that had been used to create a bridge from inside the pentagram. Tears streamed down Connor’s face and suddenly the hole in Robert’s chest and the blood smears around Baltoc’s mouth made horrific sense. Swallowing down his nausea, Sy looked around for Peterson who was cowering in the opposite corner of the room, his arms covering his head.
“I was really looking forward to the sixth heart you deprived me of.” Baltoc grinned showing blood stained teeth. “Roger was no innocent, but his would do at a pinch. All along, you’ve thought you had the answers. There was so much you got wrong; playing about with your little number schemes trying to work out my plan. Immortality was never my plan; rendering your soul non-existent was closer to the truth. But you were right about the number six. It really was significant. The antithesis of balance is chaos and it begins with your death.”
Faster than the eye could track Baltoc raised his hands and Sy was thrown back against the wall, the impact hard enough to rattle his teeth. As Sy struggled to rise, he saw Brock caught in mid leap. His convulsing body was suspended in mid-air; his hands clawed, reaching for Baltoc. “Blood calls to blood, golem.” Baltoc laughed. “I’ll drain yours and give it back to my brother.” A black chalice appeared in his hand. “Let’s see how well you can protect your Necromancer when you’re nothing more than a dust heap on the floor.”
“Let him go!” Pushing himself to his feet, Sy called on his power; pulling on everything he was and everything he could ever be. The lure of the veil tugged at his veins, threatening to pull him under, but Sy fought to stay in the here and now. Brock was in danger. His only friend. The closest thing to family he cared about. Nothing else penetrated his thoughts. Holding his arms out in front of him, Sy flung his power through his shaking fingers tips; shards of light rivaling the lightening that flashed outside.
His aim was true. The light struck Baltoc right through the heart. Baltoc jolted and then continued to jerk as though hit by an electric current. Sy didn’t stop, not even as his knees failed him. Baltoc stumbled and Brock crashed to the floor as the demon’s power over him failed, knocking over a dozen candles in the process. But Baltoc wasn’t done. Throwing his head back he started chanting to the ceiling and Sy’s spine almost cracked under the feeling of dread that filled the room. Baltoc was calling the underworld. All hell was about to let loose, quite literally, in his basement.
“You need your mate,” Brock groaned as he crawled towards him. “You can’t fight this alone. You’ll fade.”
&nbs
p; “Keep my mate safe.” Reaching deep down into his soul, Sy tore open a hole in the veil. It was the one thing his father told him never to do. The power behind the veil was more enticing than a siren to sailors at sea and harder to break free from. But with dark ghouls seeping through the basement blocks and the power he was pouring into Baltoc fading fast, he had no choice. If he lost, Baltoc would send his ghouls into the city and Pedace would become a sub-station of hell. He was the Necromancer. He had a duty to uphold. Hated and feared, misunderstood and reviled by most, it was still up to him to save the town and everyone in it.
Blocking his ears to Baltoc’s chants, Sy called upon the spirits; tapping into the well of energy that existed beyond the veil. As the added power poured through him, Sy screamed. Every cell in his body was overwhelmed at the sudden surge of power. His heart was beating incredibly fast and his lungs caught; he could barely breathe. He was dimly aware of Brock’s hand on his ankle, lending him his support and trying to soften the blow the added energies were having on his body.
Arms trembling, Sy gave a final push, filling the room with all that he was, pushing the darkness and dread aside. Thick glops of sludge dropped from the ceiling as the ghouls dissipated. Baltoc was writhing on the floor; his earthen red skin peppered with black cracks that were spreading across his features. It’s working. He’s going. He’s going. I’ve just got to hang on two minutes more…. Reaching inwards down to the tips of his toes, Sy pushed one more time. Black spots hampered his vision. He couldn’t hear anything for the roar of his blood in his ears. The light emanating from his fingers started to stutter and Sy flicked his hands in frustration. One last push, just one last push, just one more….
And then, like the clouds under the heat of the sun after a storm, all the tension and strain in Sy’s body disappeared. He blinked away the black spots in front of his eyes; his heart and lungs returned to their familiar rhythm. He was still a conduit for the veil, the connection was still open, but the stuttered magic he was suffering from before got a renewed lease of life. Plucked from the floor, Sy felt the heat at his back as he was encased in familiar strong arms.
“You can do this,” Dakar whispered in his ear.
“One last push should do it, sir,” Brock wavered against his side, his hand a welcome comfort on his shoulder.
Looking down Sy saw Baltoc was clawing at the concrete floor. Skin was peeling off his face as though burned and yet his eyes still carried the flames of hatred. “You haven’t won yet,” Baltoc groaned as Sy sent the lethal blast, scattering Baltoc’s body into miniscule dust particles nothing could come back from. There was a loud clang as the portal Baltoc opened to the underworld slammed shut and all that was left was the black sludge from the dissipated ghouls dripping from the walls and Robert’s poor dead body.
And the sound of angry clapping. Sy looked over to where Connor had been saved by his own magic circle. The familiar hadn’t been touched but he was furiously clapping his hands and then pointing to his mouth. “Did you gag the familiar, sir?” Sy noticed Brock was leaning on Dakar heavily and marveled at the strength the wolf shifter had to support them both.
“Yes, and Peterson,” Sy couldn’t see the man anywhere among the wreckage. “What happened to Peterson?”
“It appears Mr. Peterson caught a lucky break, sir.” Brock said slowly. “One can imagine with the demon’s demise, his contract with the beast for his soul is now null and void. I assume he’s been returned to his home or wherever Baltoc picked him up from. One would hope he hasn’t been permanently traumatized by the incident.”
“It might make him think twice about dabbling in magic again.” Sy slumped against Dakar’s chest. He was surprised the detective hadn’t said anything, but maybe he was traumatized, too? Maybe Dakar was just lending his body strength to him and Brock out of common courtesy, or maybe it’s a police officer’s job.
If this is the last time he holds me, I’ll enjoy it while I can. Surely the fates will give me that much. In the meantime, Connor is one mess I do know how to cope with. Addressing the weeping familiar, Sy put as much strength into his voice as he could and said, “I’m going to remove your gag. You will not yell at me. I only wish to confirm you are well now you are not bonded to anyone else. Agreed?”
Lip’s pursed in what was probably an attractive fashion, although Sy would never be sure, Connor nodded his head madly. With a thought the gag was gone. “What can be done for my brother?” Connor asked quietly.
This was the part of the job Sy hated the most. Some people had unrealistic expectations when it came to Necromancy. He could bring someone back from the dead, but the spell never lasted more than half an hour at most, and once a person had passed through the veil, they were never the same. “Nothing,” he said shaking his head. “Dead is dead, at least for Robert’s kind. Brock and I both require rest and something substantial to eat. After that….”
“I’ll take care of it, Sir,” Brock wobbled as he leaned away from Dakar, but with an effort he straightened his spine and tried to smooth the wrinkles and crud from his jacket.
“You will not,” Dakar said, his voice quiet but firm. “If you can loan me something to wear, Connor and I will take care of this mess, his brother’s body and anything else that needs doing. All you need to do, Brock, is make sure your master gets to his room safely and find me a pair of sweat pants.”
Sy wanted to protest. He wasn’t sure where he even stood with Dakar anymore. He also had the nagging sensation he’d forgotten something, but his mind was too foggy to focus. Dakar’s arms tightened around him momentarily, and he felt the slightest brush of lips in his hair, but then Brock was there, sliding his arm around his waist, his jaw tight as he forced his spine to cooperate. Sy decided he’d done enough. Anything he’d forgotten could wait until morning.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“The Necromancer has more power than I’ve ever seen in my limited lifetime, and I spent two months in the underworld,” Connor said quietly as he and Dakar respectfully wrapped Robert’s body in clean linens and stowed his body on a table Brock provided before attempting to clean the mess of sludge, candles, bowls, and chalk dust strewn about the basement floor. Dakar wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. He was too busy processing all he’d been through, which admittedly wasn’t much in comparison to Connor. But seeing Sy at what had to have been the height of his power, was both awe inspiring and terrifying. How could I ever compete? Yet he recognized Connor’s tactics for what they were. The boy was scared. He likely watched his brother die and thanks to the gag, was unable to do anything about it.
“Were you close to your brother?” Dakar used a shovel he’d found in a hall cupboard to scoop black tar-like substances into the bucket Connor was holding.
“Yes and no. He was my half-brother.” Connor blinked rapidly and rubbed a dirty finger under his eye. “Our parents weren’t the best. Dad whored my mother out in the hopes of magical offspring he could make use of. They were both human. Life got better for me when I identified as a familiar, but Robert was nothing in their eyes.”
“Is that how you became bonded with the Captain? Because you were a familiar?”
“It was illegal for the demon to bond with me.” Connor screwed his nose up at the now full bucket. Setting it down by the door, he reached for another one and Dakar kept his head down, scooping more goop. “Familiars are like catnip to demons. Dad tried finding me a witch to bond with, but Dad wanted money for the deal. There was this one guy, just after I turned eighteen,” Connor sighed. “His name was Kirk. I think he really liked me, but he was an honorable witch. Familiars and witches bond on trust, you know, or at least they are supposed to.”
Dakar stayed silent but nodded encouragingly. What he knew about familiars would fit on the head of a pin. Connor was the first one he’d met.
“When Kirk wouldn’t pay the money dad wanted, Dad was furious; ranting and raving about how we were eating him out of house and home and he’d never get a decent return
on what he called his investment. The very next day the demon knocked at the door and Dad handed me over. Robert was thrown in as a bonus.”
Dakar looked up to see Connor biting his lip, tears pouring down his face. “Robert just wanted to be loved,” Connor said, dropping his bucket, covering his face with his hands. “I told him there was no point in giving your heart to a demon, and now he has, permanently.”
Shit. Comforting others wasn’t something that came easily to Dakar, but he set down his shovel and hugged Connor close, letting the young man vent his tears. When Connor finally reached the hiccupping stage and wiped his face with his hands, Dakar took that as the hint it was and backed away, giving the familiar his space. He stacked the buckets filled with muck by the door. He’d ask Brock what to do with them when the butler had rested.
“Is it true, you’ve claimed the Necromancer?” Connor asked. He was looking anywhere rather than at Dakar. He picked up a mop from the floor, sloshed it in a bucket of hot water before starting to splash water all over the dusty flagstones. “It can’t be easy for an alpha wolf to be physically bigger but know that your mate will always be stronger than you.”
“One of the things you will have to learn if you want to attract a decent witch,” Dakar said sharply, “is that not everything is your business. Prince York and I are only newly mated. We barely had time to exchange marks before the shit hit the fan. I’ve fucked up with him twice already and I’m finally starting to realize why I think that is.”
“Why?” Dakar wasn’t sure if Connor was genuinely curious or simply wanted to hear the sound of someone’s voice. But now Dakar was thinking about it, the words just spewed out of him.
“Because I’m in fucking awe of him. Because when I look at him I see my future and I still can’t believe the fates ever believed someone like me could be worthy of someone so…so…fuck, I can’t even think of the right word because my brain turns to mush and that’s what just thinking about him does to me. When he’s here, or in the same room as me, I seem to revert to pup behavior. I can’t think straight; my mouth doesn’t work. It’s like my brain is so busy thinking just how fucking awesome my mate is, I lose track of what’s going on around me and when I do work out what’s going on, by then I’ve usually fucked things up.”