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

by SJ Himes

  “Where the First Elder is involved, there is no doubt the Master is not far away,” Lord Dumond drawled, smoothing down his partially unbuttoned shirt, tipping his head to Simeon. “Mind your tongue, or things will grow worse for you.”

  Stellan flipped hair off his face, grumbling, but he saw Simeon and Bridgerton in the doorway. He went pale beneath his golden tan, and Simeon saw a flare of panic. Ariella attempted a degree of righteous indignation. “Elders? Is there something I can help you with? Such measures are unnecessary, surely?”

  “Take him to our master,” Simeon said, not replying to Ariella. Miguel and another guard dragged Ariella from the room, ignoring the increased frantic and angry curses from the human. He spoke to Dumond, the crafty old vampire watching the entire ruckus with an indifference Simeon could only admire. “Dumond, our master requires Ariella’s presence.”

  “Should I be worried?” Dumond asked, re-buttoning his shirt.

  “Attend to our master if he summons you, otherwise, enjoy your evening, Lord Dumond,” Simeon answered, and he got a sharp, rueful smile from the unranked master. Dumond nodded, and without a glance, exited through one of the bloodclan-only doors in the rear of the room.

  “What is going on?” Bridgerton snarled quietly, stepping into Simeon’s personal space. Angel moved, his mate watchful, eyes wary and his hands open, palms out at his side, instinctively prepared to cast should Bridgerton make an aggressive move. “Why does the master wish to see Stellan?”

  “Come along then if you wish to know,” Simeon retorted. “This matter is not for others to hear.” He tipped his head out at the main floor where many a set of supernatural senses could hear every word and see every move from within the cardroom. Bridgerton glowered, falling behind Simeon as he left the room. Angel fell in at his side, the necromancer tense in the narrow set of his shoulders and his brown-green eyes wary. Simeon did not appreciate having Bridgerton behind his mate and put a hand on Angel’s shoulder. Angel gave him a wry glance but said nothing, leaning slightly into his touch.

  7

  One Less Monster

  Daniel refused to leave the room, and Batiste made the odd and somewhat compassionate decision to speak to Daniel face to face before dealing with Stellan Ariella. Angel hovered in the corner of the room, making sure Daniel could see him, and Batiste sat in a chair next to the bed. Daniel sat on the bed, Eroch on his lap.

  Vampiric senses were extremely acute, and while they did not need to breathe, vampires still had the bodies of humans, which meant drawing in air for scenting and speaking. Daniel spoke quietly, stroking Eroch’s wings, explaining in more detail what Ariella had done to him at Deimos’ behest.

  “Stellan held me down every time Deimos…Etienne wanted me. Deimos could have done it alone, but Stellan liked it, and Deimos enjoyed that too. Stellan would use a scalpel to cut my shoulders and neck then Deimos would spit on me, on the cuts, so I smelled like he was feeding on me. His spit closed the cuts, like it would for bites, so I don’t have the marks,” Daniel said, one hand lifting unconsciously to touch his shoulder, as if to shield long-gone injuries.

  Batiste breathed in, scenting the truth of Daniel’s words, hearing his heartbeat. Vampires were the supernatural world’s lie detectors—far more accurate than any machine crafted by humankind. Angel knew Daniel spoke the truth, for he’d seen into the boy’s mind, held him when he had nightmares, seen Daniel’s tears and the way he refused to leave the protection of Angel’s mastery.

  “Deimos raped you with Stellan Ariella’s assistance, and Ariella assaulted you with a blade,” Batiste said, not a question, merely reaffirming Daniel’s statement. Daniel gave a jerky nod and breathed out a faint yes, but Batiste heard it easily. Batiste was motionless, a snake before a strike, coiled with anger and deadly purpose, but none of it was directed at Daniel. The master then leaned forward, and with just the tips of his fingers, touched Daniel on his knee, making the apprentice look up at him from under dark-blond lashes. “I believe you, young Macavoy. I cannot express the depth of my sorrow you experienced such horrific treatment under my roof. Justice and vengeance are yours. Ariella is in custody and awaiting judgment. You can decide his fate.”

  Daniel sat up straighter, surprised. Angel waited quietly by the door and gave Daniel a short nod in support when his apprentice looked his way, questions in his dark eyes. “This is your choice, kiddo.”

  “Does that mean you’ll kill him if it’s what I decide?” Daniel asked Batiste hesitantly.

  “Death is an option, yes,” Batiste nodded. “I consider rape to be a monstrous act, vile and horrible. He may not have raped you, but he participated and hurt you in other ways. I will kill him if it is your wish.”

  “I don’t want someone to die on my word,” Daniel whispered, wiping at his face. Batiste leaned back, dropping his fingers from Daniel’s knee.

  “Shall I give him to the humans? Though imperfect, the human justice system does provide results on occasion.”

  “If Stellan is turned over to the police, does that mean I need to go on record about what happened?”

  “Yes,” Angel answered, regret coloring his words.

  “That means anyone can find out what happened to me? They’ll know about…about…” Daniel had to stop and suck in more air. “I can’t handle it if people know that about me.”

  “Then they shall not, youngling,” Batiste said firmly, and Daniel breathed out in relief. Batiste paused, tilting his blond head, blue eyes catching the lamp light from the nightstand. “There is another option.”

  “What?”

  Batiste appeared to be gathering his thoughts, choosing what to say. He interlaced his fingers, the picture of casual relaxation. “When we raise fledglings from their first death, they can be wild, dangerous, their humanity stripped by the process of becoming one of the undead. Once they are bound to their sires, or to me, we can exert control over them and tame their wildness until they learn control. Occasionally, this fails and the fledgling must be restrained until the bond can be forged or the fledgling destroyed.”

  “Oh-okay?” Daniel seemed a bit lost, but Angel saw where Batiste was going. He didn’t approve, but it was a compromise between the human justice system and death.

  “In the bowels of the Tower, we have cells built to hold newly born vampires,” Batiste said, emotionless. “And the cells can hold even masters for those who commit infractions not warranting death. Stellan Ariella is nearing the end of his donor contract with the blood clan. Eighty years of service in return for immortality upon the completion of his service. His covenant with the Bloodclan is revoked. Stellan Ariella will not receive immortality, and instead, will be imprisoned for the remainder of his contract with the bloodclan. That equates to fifteen years.”

  Daniel was silent for a long time. Angel stayed still, leaving it entirely to Daniel’s discretion. Batiste waited, as patient as only an immortal could be. Finally, Daniel gently set Eroch aside on the bed, and he stood, rubbing his hands down his thighs. Batiste stood as well and blinked in surprise when Daniel held out his hand for the master to shake. Batiste took it, and they shook twice before Daniel pulled away. “Imprisonment in the Tower dungeons for fifteen years.”

  “It shall be done.”

  Simeon waited in the living room of his suite. He could see Angel at the end of the hall, standing in the doorway of the bedroom Daniel was using. He listened to his master and the young fledgling speak, and he knew Bridgerton listened as well when the other Elder growled quietly, glowering in the direction of the bedroom.

  “What’s going on?” Stellan demanded, and Simeon shoved him to his knees, clamping a hand on his shoulder, claws pricking through the fabric of his shirt.

  “Silence,” Simeon ordered, indifferent to the glare Stellan gave him. The human minded his tongue, crossing his arms and grumbling under his breath.

  “The Master prizes your mate’s fledgling to offer such a thing,” Bridgerton growled, the big vampire indignant.

>   “Rarely have I need to criticize Master Batiste,” Simeon said, reproach in his tone. “This is not one of those times.”

  “A faithful servant of the clan disposed of for the wounded dignity of a second-rate sorcerer? Perhaps our master seeks the boy’s favor. His training is lacking, but he is pretty. A shame Deimos got there first.”

  Simeon turned his attention to Bridgerton. Ariella froze beneath his hand, not even daring to breathe, and Simeon’s senses narrowed to the Elder who stood foolishly within reach. “Once our master has finished here, I’ll ask him to stand as witness to my challenge.”

  Bridgerton tore his gaze from the hall, surprised. “What challenge?”

  “Why, my challenge to you for disparaging my mate’s fledgling. Don’t worry, I’ll make your death quick. I have no desire to waste time on you when there are more important matters to resolve,” Simeon answered, serene. Bridgerton’s face went slack, eyes wide, unbelieving at first. His mouth gaped for a moment before he found his words.

  “You’d challenge me to the death over a few words about a damaged mortal practitioner? Are you daft?”

  “I should change before the challenge, I am fond of this suit,” Simeon mused aloud, running his free hand down his chest. “Daniel Macavoy is loved and treasured. Your inability to comprehend the fact is no excuse for cruelty or disrespect. You can apologize, or I will rip you apart.”

  Stellan whimpered, and Bridgerton stilled, mouth agape. Simeon waited, sensing the approach of Angel and his master. Batiste glided silently to where Simeon stood, and he gave his master a slow, respectful nod without taking his eyes off the other elder. “Simeon will be quick. He is my champion after all. Apologize or die, Bridgerton. I’ll not have an elder of this clan disrespect anyone under my protection. That includes second-rate, damaged fledgling sorcerers.”

  Bridgerton flinched, a whole-body involuntary movement that spoke volumes. Swarthy cheeks pallid, Bridgerton sucked in a sharp breath. “I apologize for my words and any offense I’ve given.” Bridgerton, obviously reluctant but just as invested in avoiding his final death, bowed low and held it. Simeon let him hold it until the tension grew to a snapping point then he waved his hand, idly accepting and dismissing the other elder.

  “You may leave,” Batiste said, and Bridgerton wasted no time in blurring from the suite, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving a stench of anxiousness and anger in his wake. Batiste spoke to Stellan next, looming over the mortal. “Look at me.”

  The master had an incredible gift, one of many setting him apart from even the oldest of the clan—his charm, the ability of vampires to subsume the will of the living and command their minds and actions, was a juggernaut, leaps and bounds beyond any other Simeon had ever met, and in this moment, Batiste unleashed it all on Stellan. “Tell me what Deimos, the one you knew as Etienne, and yourself did to the young sorcerer Daniel Macavoy.”

  Stellan swayed on his knees, eyes dark, irises blown wide, mouth slack. “Deimos forced himself on the boy and I liked it. Etienne let me cut the boy, hold him down while he fucked the brat. Beat him into submission, took his tight ass, and Etienne forced him to do magic, things I didn’t understand and didn’t care about.”

  Simeon’s claws extended more, slipping through skin into muscle. Blood trickled down Stellan’s shoulder, soaking his shirt. Stellan didn’t react at all, eyes locked on Batiste still. The master nodded and gestured to Simeon. He yanked Stellan to his feet as the master’s power receded. Stellan blinked, his mind returning to itself, and dawning realization and horror replaced his previous blank expression.

  “You are hereby sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment here in the Tower. Your contract with this bloodclan is rescinded due to your crimes.” Batiste ignored Stellan’s gasped denials, and Simeon gladly dragged the struggling human from the suite. Stellan shouted and screamed, begging and swearing, and he flailed and kicked at Simeon, who ignored it all.

  Angel watched quietly, hands in his pockets, before turning and disappearing back down the hallway to his apprentice.

  8

  Ghost Hunting

  Evening came quickly, darkening the city. Spring might be on its way, but winter still lashed the northeast, refusing to loosen its grip. Angel exited the clan limo, Simeon at his side. Wind cut down the sidewalk in front of Nightshade Apothecary, the street lamps in a losing battle with the damp gloom. The front door was shut, the sign flipped to closed, but there were lights on inside the shop. Angel climbed the short stoop where Lord Kensington died a few months back, went to the door, and knocked on the frame, hearing footsteps approaching as he waited.

  “Is Lady Kensington expecting us?” Simeon asked, eyeing the street. The atmosphere was stifling, the wind oppressive, and the sky churned with dark clouds bathed in a sickly orange hue of reflected city lights.

  “I told her I’d be by this evening, but the issue with Ariella pushed us a bit later than I wanted,” Angel murmured, seeing a shadow of someone through the glass storefront. Daniel was at the Tower, curled up in bed in the spare bedroom of Simeon’s suite, Eroch standing guard over the young apprentice. Simeon had placed human and vampire guards outside the suite, and the human guard named Miguel was firmly ensconced in the living room, armed and perfectly capable of killing at Simeon’s order. Batiste had retreated to his penthouse, the master subdued, none of his usual arrogance on display.

  The locks flipped in the door, it opened, and a wary, sweetly androgynous face blinked at them around the edge of the door. “Hello?”

  “Angel Salvatore and Elder Simeon to see Lady Kensington, please,” Angel said, and the wariness dropped away from the being’s striking face. Angel was uncertain of what pronouns to apply, so ‘they’ seemed best to use mentally until he could learn what they preferred.

  “Oh! Her Ladyship said you were coming! You’re shorter than I was expecting.” Wide brown eyes blinked at him, taking in his scuffed brown leather boots, dark jeans, and the thick fisherman’s sweater he wore all the time. “You’re not scary at all.” They then looked at Simeon and a gasp was heard over the wind. “You’re pretty!”

  Simeon chuckled behind him. Angel smiled, quirking an eyebrow. “Thanks? I think. Can we come in? It’s cold out here.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m so sorry. I got distracted,” they replied, waving them in, stepping back as the door opened wider. “Lady Heather is in the office. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Angel and Simeon entered the store, and Angel nodded in greeting. “Forgive me for my forwardness, but may I inquire as to what pronouns you prefer?”

  A wide, happy smile lit up the short being’s face. “I am Sloan, and I prefer they and them, please. Thank you for asking. Many mortals do not.”

  “You’re welcome, Sloan.”

  They dropped a tiny bit, a charming combination of bow and curtsy, before zipping away with inhuman speed.

  Simeon shut the door and locked it again, the sign flapping as it settled against the glass. Nightshade Apothecary had been open for nearly ten years, the Kensingtons buying out the previous owner and rebranding the business. Four-foot-tall shelves arranged in neat rows spread out from the entrance area, metal baskets and drying racks hanging in ordered bundles at neat intervals along the back wall, bookshelves and stacks breaking up the monotony. Angel rarely shopped here, preferring to order his supplies from private vendors and purveyors, but he’d been in there a few times over the years when he was short on essentials and didn’t want to wait on the mail. Most of the practitioner population in Beacon Hill shopped there, so the Kensingtons saw a steady income stream. It had an old-world charm to it, despite the computers for browsing the stock in the corners and the high-tech checkout cash register near the front on a long, shiny wooden counter. Polished brass lanterns glowed with supernatural charms, and the floor was made of dark gray marble polished to a high sheen.

  Simeon prowled silently into the shop, bright copper highlights in his hair brought out by the glowing lamps overhead.
His suit was a new one, the one he was wearing a few hours earlier changed out for this one. Ariella had strenuously objected to being tossed into a cell at the depths of the Tower, and Simeon’s suit paid the price. This one was a light gray, a pale blue tie and egg white shirt offsetting the light jacket. Angel appreciated the sexy sight, thinking his mate wouldn’t look amiss on a catwalk during Fashion Week in Paris. Wide shoulders, auburn hair hanging in a thick wave off his forehead and falling to his collar, a hint of tattoos peeking out on his neck, with a lean, tapered waist, muscled thighs, and an ass that would make old Grecian statues break in envy, Simeon was irresistible. Angel unabashedly checked out his lover, blood heating. He really wished they were home.

  “You tempt me, mo ghra,” Simeon rumbled, casting a teasing grin over his shoulder. “See something that interests you?”

  Angel heaved out a long sigh. “I’m gonna need to check out this new look of yours in greater detail when we get home.”

  “The gray suit has your approval, then?”

  Angel hummed, licking his lips. “Yup.”

  Simeon laughed, eyes bright, smile wide. “Is breá liom tú.”

  “Oh! Irish Gaelic! Are you bonded?” Sloan reappeared, smiling wide, all but bouncing on their feet as they looked up at Simeon, head tilted. A shock of white-blond hair fell over large, guileless eyes, and a tiny hand darted up to swipe it back, strands flying every which way. Not a sign of nerves but habit. And definitely not human. No human was ever that eager and sanguine about being so close to a vampire they didn’t know. “You said you love him.”

  Simeon nodded, eyeing shorter being with interest. “Angel is my Leannán anam. You understand my language?”

  “I do! You speak a very old dialect though. I haven’t heard it spoken in about three hundred years! I also speak Scots, Welsh, a couple old dialects of old Briton, French, Italian, Castilian Spanish, and…”