The Necromancer's Reckoning (The Beacon Hill Sorcerer Book 3)

by SJ Himes

  The standoff was tense though Angel had little doubt of the outcome. Malis must have come to the same conclusion as she grimaced then gestured to her people. “Fine. Whether he is here or in my custody it matters not. He is expected to testify at the trial next month, and the repercussions for failing to appear will be mete out.” She switched her glare to Angel, a sharp, greedy expression flashing across her face before the polite mask from earlier chased it away. “The trial will be held in thirty days, Salvatore. You will be there. Not even your new bloodclan will be able to protect you should you fail to appear.”

  “Threatening the Leannán of a Bloodclan Elder is a dangerous move, Magister,” Simeon said, his Irish lilt a smooth, dangerous glide, a hint of growl at the end. “Angelus is protected by our sovereignty.”

  “Angelus Salvatore is a mortal practitioner,” Malis retorted sharply. “His relationship status hasn’t changed that. He falls under the authority of the High Council, along with every other practitioner around the world. He cannot escape the reach of the law.”

  “Your law,” Angel said quietly. Malis tightened her jaw, hands curling to fists. “The High Council hasn’t made such an overt move in the United States in decades. The Council sat out the Blood Wars. What is it now that stirs the Council to interfere in the life of a lone practitioner? Especially a necromancer.”

  “Your death affinity has nothing to do with the Council’s decisions to uphold the law.” Malis snapped.

  “Usually, I would agree, except for the fact the Council has a long, well-established habit of avoiding the affairs of necromancers the world over,” Angel made sure to smile, digging at Malis and the holes in the Council’s motivations. “Madame Pécheur of New Orleans has a zombie army. Marelius Mpiganaji of Tanzania has revenants of slain family members decorating his court. Nicademus Miel collects undead minions and has a bloody menagerie in Romania. And last year, a child in Quebec resurrected her neighbor’s dead poodle and named it Snickerdoodle.”

  Malis sniffed. “Your point?”

  “The Council hasn’t made a single move on any of them. Not a single interested query or hint of condemnation for the myriad proscribed laws they’ve broken. So why now? Why me? Why Boston? What’s so very different about me that has the Council turning its gaze here and now?”

  Her eyes flicked to Simeon, so fast that if Angel hadn’t been paying such close attention, he would have missed it.

  The bloodclan.

  He was the only necromancer bonded to a vampire, and an Elder at that.

  It always came down to power in the end.

  He schooled his features, determined not to let her in on his epiphany. She had to think him unaware of the Council’s real motives.

  “You’ve worn out your welcome, Magister,” Simeon said, still standing in front of Daniel.

  “Is this the stance you want to take?” Malis ignored Simeon, addressing Batiste. The city master inclined his head, his ice-blue eyes giving away nothing. Malis sniffed again and gestured roughly to her enforcers. “I will be at the consulate if any of you develop some sense and wish to cooperate with the Council. If Daniel Macavoy steps off sovereign territory, we will take him into custody.”

  Angel went to retort, but Daniel squeezed his hand tight, and Angel snapped his mouth shut. Malis gathered her minions, and she left, a regrettable air of tension trailing behind her. The doors snapped shut on the magister and her enforcers, all from which Angel sensed nebulous connections to the veil. Her enforcers were sorcerer-level practitioners. Not that he expected any less.

  Daniel sagged, and Simeon caught him under one arm, helping the young man to a nearby couch. Eroch took to the air, flying to the closed doors, trilling, and banked sharply before winging around the wide living room of the penthouse, the tiny dragon agitated and working off adrenaline. Simeon pushed Daniel’s head down between his knees, ordering the young man to take slow and steady breaths. Angel let Simeon tend to Daniel, the Elder more than capable of helping. Simeon was remarkably calm; the second Malis left, his aggression and the signs of his hunting desire faded away as if he’d never been infuriated.

  Angel took the few steps to Batiste, who looked down at him with a none-too-friendly expression. Last time they were in each other’s company for a prolonged period, Angel tossed the city master about like a cat toy, so he could understand the master’s dislike. Plus, the hex Angel magically branded into Batiste’s flesh over his dormant heart likely didn’t help things either.

  “Allying the bloodclan with me against the Council will cause trouble,” Angel stated, and Batiste smiled at him, the curve of his lips mean and a shade wry.

  “Long have vampires and practitioners been at odds,” Batiste said, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “I worry less for what the Council will do and more about what my champion will do if this situation disintegrates further.”

  They both glanced at Simeon, who just arched a dark auburn brow at them and went back to tending Daniel. Angel chuckled then released a long breath, relaxing as best he could after the very tense last few minutes. “Daniel needs to stay here at the Tower.”

  “Your apprentice will be safe here, for however long he resides under my roof.”

  He nodded shortly in thanks, then frowned. He refrained from mentioning Daniel wasn’t safe the last time he was here. “He won’t be safe, not yet. We have a problem to resolve first.”

  Batiste blinked, surprised. Simeon spoke up, addressing his master. “Stellan Ariella helped Deimos abuse Daniel. He is under surveillance.”

  “Explain.” Batiste’s transformation from mildly indifferent master to predatory monster was subtle, but it was enough to make Angel’s skin crawl.

  Daniel rubbed his eyes and sat up, face blotchy and wet from tears. He sniffled but spoke clearly enough. “Deimos had Stellan cut me and hold me down when he was…” Daniel made a rough noise, gritting his teeth. “When they hurt me. Stellan would cut me so I smelled like blood. And…” Daniel refused to look at any of them, eyes locked on the thick rug under his feet.

  Daniel wiped at his face, hands shaking. He shook his head, curling in on himself. “It’s okay, kiddo. I think we get it,” Angel murmured and went to his apprentice. “Simeon and I are going to handle this. Do you want to go to Simeon’s rooms now?”

  Daniel hesitated but gave the only answer he could. “Yes, please.”

  Angel helped Daniel to his feet, Simeon moving to the younger man’s other side so they braced him. Angel glanced at Batiste, and his blood went cold.

  When Simeon’s fury was roused, he was a wild thing, terrible in his beauty, a warrior from ages past, unrestrained in his ferocity.

  Batiste was different. There was no overt, outward sign of the change, but the very air shimmered around the master. His ice-blue eyes were lit from within, his already pale skin leached of all hues, and there was a rising pressure in the room.

  They got to the doors, Angel opening them, when Batiste spoke from behind them. “Simeon.”

  Simeon looked back, holding one of the doors so Angel and Daniel could step through. “Master?”

  “Bring Ariella to me once your fledgling is settled.”

  Simeon dipped his head. “Of course, master.”

  6

  When Justice Yields

  Angel tucked Daniel, the young man already asleep, into the bed he first used when Angel saved him from Deimos. He was almost too late then, but he promised silently to the sleeping youngster he would not be too late now. Daniel’s penchant for keeping things to himself was a habit Angel feared he would need to break Daniel out of—if he had known sooner, perhaps he might have helped Daniel heal faster.

  It was a selfish thing to think, to feel, and Angel knew it. Daniel held horrors in his past, personal trauma and injury that Angel could sympathize with but never understand fully. Angel had his own pain and tragedy, but all people were different, even their wounds, and Daniel was dealing with his own as best he could. No one faced pain the same way, and no on
e recovered the same way either. If there was one thing Angel knew for certain, it was that Daniel would never feel safe here in the Tower, or perhaps anywhere, ever again if Stellan Ariella was left free in the same world. Justice would come for Ariella if Angel turned him over to the police, O’Malley would make sure of it, as would the city master. Yet it would be slow and ponderous and would bring Daniel’s pain to light for the city to see, to pick apart and analyze. Justice would work, eventually, but might do more harm to Daniel. Angel swore an oath to protect Daniel when he claimed him as his apprentice, and justice might fail in keeping him safe.

  Sometimes justice had to yield to vengeance.

  Vengeance was faster, far more certain, and final.

  He carded his fingers through thick, soft blond hair, Daniel’s face slack in slumber, beautiful even with tear tracks and sadness-tinged, blotchy cheeks. Eroch flew into the room, wings soft as they cupped the air, his passage quiet. He landed with extra care on the pillow by Daniel’s head then curled against him, burying his head in Daniel’s hair. A bright yellow eye peeked out from the strands, letting Angel know while the dragon might appear to be sleeping, he was watchful. Angel gave Eroch a thankful smile and moved away from the bed. Eroch could open doors on his own and was more than capable of waking Daniel if he had trouble, but he was likely to be just fine until Daniel awakened on his own.

  He shut the door and turned to face it. Eyes closed, Angel breathed in and out, centering his thoughts, settling his emotions. Creating wards in a place untouched by his own magic was tricky, requiring more effort than intuition and instinct.

  The hall was quiet, the undead man who was his mate standing sentinel at the end. The suites were soundproofed, a necessity in a building full of supernatural beings who could hear a heartbeat blocks away. The air was regulated, clean, and scent free, though Angel fancied he could taste a hint of copper on his tongue as he sucked in a deep breath. The temperature was perfect, maintained and cultivated for the comfort of human donors and employees. His mind cataloged all sensory input and dismissed it layer by layer until there were only his thoughts and the magic that hummed beneath his skin.

  The ward was simple and meant to be temporary. He laid out the runes and lines that comprised the simple ward, a device to wake Daniel within if someone tried to enter. It would fall away if Daniel or Eroch opened the door themselves. Anyone not Angel or Simeon opening the door while Daniel was inside would get a nasty burn and Angel would be alerted. The designs were of his own creation, changed from the standards taught in practitioner schools. It would take a stranger far too long to decipher and undo and would leave them in the position of trying to destroy them outright, which would in turn draw too much attention to them, especially in the Tower.

  Angel gave the wards enough power to last several hours then dropped his mind away. To the outward eye, the door and wall were unchanged, but the wards glowed a vibrant hellfire green to his inner eye. He pulled back on his senses and settled himself before walking away, contenting himself as best he could that Daniel was safe.

  Simeon watched him with fond eyes, the vampire elder composed and elegant in a dark suit. Rarely did Simeon wear anything else unless they were alone at home. Whenever Simeon was at vamp HQ or the Tower, he wore a suit, no exceptions. Dark blue with a pearl colored shirt and a slim, black tie, Simeon was enough to warm Angel through and through, and his lips twitched in a smile despite the coming confrontation. Simeon saw his smile and a cold, smooth hand cupped his face, a thumb brushing over his lips. Angel sighed, leaning into the touch, and closed his eyes. Simeon’s flesh warmed quickly, and a hum of soft emotion floated along the golden cord that joined their souls.

  A kiss touched gently to his forehead, and Angel breathed in the chocolaty-pine scent of his mate.

  “Always, mo ghra,” Simeon whispered, and Angel was wrapped in strong arms. He curled into Simeon’s hard chest, loving the silent, cool body aligned with his own. It no longer felt odd to be pressed to a body that had no heartbeat, no need to breathe, Simeon only drawing in air to scent or speak. Angel slipped his hands to Simeon’s hard, trim waist, and let himself lean.

  “Always?” he murmured, emotions leveling off. Anger was becoming easier and easier to let go of, and Angel gave the credit to Simeon’s stable presence in his heart and soul.

  “I will keep you safe,” Simeon replied. His words were soft, for Angel alone, and lips kissed across his hair. “I will keep your family safe as well. The Council will not succeed in their plans, no matter their actions or motives.”

  “You gonna stop them, love?” Angel said, smiling, squeezing Simeon harder. “Send them packing, tails between their legs?”

  “Yes,” Simeon’s answer was resolute, iron resolve abundant. “They have not come to enforce laws that have languished for decades. They want something from you.”

  Angel opened his eyes but stayed in Simeon’s arms. “Oh, I agree. The Council wants something…or someone.”

  Simeon met Miguel at the elevator as they exited on the casino floor. Angel followed behind him, his mate for once not taking the lead. He smiled to himself despite the horrible situation, wondering how long it would be before Angel took control.

  “Sir, Mr. Ariella and Lord Dumond have retreated to one of the private card rooms,” Miguel informed him, the human security guard keeping pace with him as they crossed the lobby for the casino. “The dining staff have been pulled, and I’ve got two soldiers outside the door. Lord Dumond is aware something is different, but as far as we can ascertain, Mr. Ariella is oblivious.”

  “Good,” Simeon approved. “He is to be brought before Master Batiste.” Two human guards opened the doors for them, their small group passing into the main entrance of the single-level casino that catered to the bloodclan and the upper echelon of Boston’s supernatural elite. It took a great deal of wealth to play in the Tower, and some of the city’s rarer citizens populated the tables. Simeon took in the room, the rustle of cards and silk, the scent of sweat, greed, and a predatory hint of competition filled the air in combating aromas. The dealers were human, the players all varieties of beings, and vampires and blood donors prowled through the glittering crowd. Eyes tracked their progress, some outright staring, others, observing who it was before dropping their gazes and pretending not to see anything.

  Half a dozen private card rooms were arrayed around the main floor, each under guard, and only open by invitation, or by a vampire of sufficient rank and their guests. Lord Dumond was an unranked master, but old, wealthy, and one of the few masters in the bloodclan who made no effort whatsoever to climb higher in power. He wasn’t even a legate or a soldier, and Simeon had known him for over two hundred years. The unranked master was one of the rare vampires who took to his undeath with equanimity, no struggle to reconcile his new nature with human morals. Simeon didn’t know how old he was exactly, but he was perhaps closer to Batiste’s age than Simeon’s.

  Simeon cut across the main floor, the casino guards setting up a subtle perimeter around him as he and Miguel went to the door the human indicated with a nod. A brief shuffle of feet and a ripple of tension caught his attention, and Bridgerton, the only other clan elder, blurred into their small group. Simeon didn’t pause, only gracing the other elder with a slight nod as he continued. Bridgerton growled quietly but keep pace. “What is going on?” Bridgerton hated not knowing what was going on in the bloodclan, but as Batiste’s First Elder and the clan champion, Simeon outranked Bridgerton just enough he didn’t have to tell the old pirate a thing. That was juvenile, and Simeon knew Bridgerton would find out in seconds anyway, as they were almost at the door to the private cardroom where Stellan Ariella and Lord Dumond were entertaining themselves.

  “The Master wishes to see Mr. Ariella,” Simeon informed the elder, not disclosing any other details. Daniel Macavoy’s personal trauma was not public fodder for the bloodclan.

  “What’s happened? Why?” Bridgerton demanded, but Simeon cut a sharp glance in his dir
ection, and the rough-edged vampire swallowed back his inquiries.

  Simeon gestured to the guards who, along with Miguel, entered quickly, stun guns rated to drop a troll in their hands. A startled shriek and some thumps came from the room as Simeon entered, Bridgerton at his shoulder. Angel followed at a distance, staying in the wide space between the nearest tables and the wall, watching. Angel was angry, Simeon could feel it, but it was also tempered, held back. A year ago, Angel would have stormed the casino and burnt Ariella to ash. That he was letting Simeon handle things now, he took with a measure of pride, touched by his mate’s confidence.

  Stellan Ariella was handsome, gilded in gold and what mortals would consider a throwback to the glamour of old Hollywood. Built like a dancer, all lean lines and sleek muscle, Stellan appealed to vampires for his willingness to have sex while feeding, his lack of inhibitions, and his golden beauty. Simeon saw the harsh underpinnings of greed and ambition in the mortal, but such things were of less concern to vampires than to humans, and he’d never personally felt the desire so many of his peers had for the man.

  Stellan Ariella was half naked, silk shirt tossed over a card table, and he must have been sprawled out across Lord Dumond’s lap, the older vampire carefully standing and moving out the way as the human guards flipped Ariella to his stomach, cuffed his hands, and then hauled him to his feet, blond tresses askew.

  “What is this about? Lord Dumond! Are you going to let them treat me this way?” Ariella screeched, trying to dislodge the guards.