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

by SJ Himes

  “You are under arrest for the illegal, non-consensual reading of another person’s aura by means of tarot. As I witnessed the crime occur, I do not need testimony from the victim. Your sentencing will happen tomorrow. Take her out of here.” Malis stepped to the side, and the two enforcers holding Gisele dragged her down the hall, her cries of denial echoing off the walls.

  The Council didn’t have prisons or jails set up like the human world with sentences that matched the crimes. They had dungeons and holes in the ground, and people were very rarely released once sentenced to the dark. People died in Council dungeons.

  “She ends up in chains? No trial?” Angel couldn’t hold his tongue. He thought about calling the police after intimidating Giselle into giving up her crew; he wasn’t going to shackle her in irons and drag her off like a monster without a trial. He might think the BPD was lacking in some ways, but with O’Malley, his liaison on the force, the criminals found themselves on the right side of the bars often enough to satisfy Angel.

  “No need for a trial. I witnessed the crime. Far easier. Trials are reserved for crimes not committed under the direct sight of a magister or enforcer,” Malis finally answered, and she gave a carefree, very European shrug. “But since you are here, and she committed the crime against you, it merely adds to the necessity of taking you into custody.”

  “Angel,” Milly warned, but it was too late. Enforcers routed a man out from the back room; it was the bruiser from the other morning, Lady Heather’s bodyguard. The nails were coming down on the grave robbing crew, but Angel was in no position to gloat or get the cane back with Greyson’s ghost. Iron shackles didn’t make an appearance, the enforcers merely shoved him to his knees, and the big man bit his lip, saying nothing, sweating profusely. Two enforcers moved around the room and now stood behind him and Milly. He squeezed her hand and spoke to Malis. “You said you were looking for me. Here I am. I don’t need to be in custody for you to talk to me.”

  “Yes, here you are,” Malis agreed with a satisfied exhale and smile. Without the need to mind herself in the presence of the city master, Malis was more relaxed, less controlled—Angel sensed a shred of madness under her cold, hardened exterior. It was there in her eyes, shifting in the shadows. He knew madness. “My enforcers told me you were here, and I found myself curious. Why would the highly educated and already grown Angelus Salvatore come to the Magical Arts School at Boston College? Perhaps you’re enrolling a young sorcerer apprentice for classes?”

  She was looking for Daniel, too. Never more thankful that he’d taken Daniel to the Tower, he sneered back at Malis. “Daniel is not here. I will never let you have him.”

  “Pity you refuse to cooperate,” Malis murmured, not at all unhappy Angel wasn’t playing along. “Is the boy here?” She asked the enforcers who search the back room, and they shook their heads in negative. “How unfortunate.” She looked at Milly, who was glaring at Malis, simply radiating indignation and anger. “And you are?”

  “The Council is sorely lacking in skilled employees if you do not know who I am,” Milly retorted sharply. “I am Dame Millicent Mildred Fontaine.”

  The Fontaines were as old a magic family as the Salvatores, and Milly was well-known in academia circles across the globe. Malis’ eyes twitched—she knew who Milly was now that she had a name. “Dame Fontaine, an honor to meet you. Can you tell me why you’re here?”

  “I refuse to believe you don’t know the nature of our relationship,” Milly sniped, and Malis glared. “Angelus is not going to become your pawn. Whatever you want from him, you might as well leave now. You’ll never get it.”

  “Milly, remind me to give you a raise,” Angel said quietly, snickering.

  “Oh shush, you brat,” Milly smacked his arm gently. “You know you don’t pay me a cent anyhow.”

  Milly was devastatingly rich—Angel donated her wages to local charities.

  “How charming.” Malis flicked a hand, and the remaining enforcers moved in. Angel grabbed Milly and tried to move her behind him, but the two enforcers behind them closed in. Heavy hands landed on his shoulders, and Angel stiffened. Hellfire sparked in the air, responding to his temper.

  “Angel, don’t,” Milly reiterated, and Angel growled under his breath.

  “I have no interest in Dame Fontaine,” Malis said, and one of the enforcers tried to pry Milly’s fingers off Angel’s arm. “Come along quietly, and she will be free to go on her way.”

  “Angel, we’re on a campus full of children,” Milly said, locking gazes with him. She wanted him to comply, that was obvious, but he knew it wouldn’t be for long—she would go right to Simeon.

  Hell hath no fury like a vampire Elder deprived of his mate.

  Angel nodded then Milly slipped her free hand to his lower back and under his sweater. A tingle of magic rushed over his skin beneath his shirt and the athame that had once belonged to his father Raine was gone from the scabbard along his spine. It would be safe with Milly—but not with Malis. The Council never returned magical artifacts they confiscated, no matter their provenances. The enforcers separated them. Angel let his satchel fall from his shoulder, and Milly darted down and grabbed it, and Angel tried to shrug the enforcers off, letting the resulting scuffle distract from Milly’s actions. Another small tingle of cool, fresh-feeling magic, and Milly hid his satchel from view. No one noticed but Angel, and only because he knew her magic well.

  Angel gritted his teeth when iron shackles slammed shut over his wrists. The hellfire sparks in the air died as if they never were. His magic sang deep in his heart and soul—the iron could not touch the soulbond he shared with his mate. He would have to overwhelm the nature of the iron itself with his inner power, heating the shackles to liquid metal if he wanted to access the veil, but he wasn’t restricted to a single power source anymore. Only Milly and Simeon knew he could access the primordial death magic animating the sentient undead, and he wanted it to stay that way. He wasn’t as magically crippled as the shackles would imply. Where Giselle was reduced to mundane human levels of power, he was only annoyed.

  He was shoved forward, the two enforcers behind him holding him by his arms, and Malis smiled broadly as he was pushed past her. “I do hope we can come to an understanding, Angel.”

  “That’s Necromancer Salvatore to you,” Angel snarked, and a hard fist punched him in the back of the head. His knees gave out as the floor rushed up to meet his face.

  “Why not simply give the damaged child to the Council? Being in their favor would benefit the bloodclan greatly,” Bridgerton said, a variation of the same idea he had been pushing since their meeting began an hour before. “He’s not especially valuable in his current state, and the necromancer coddles him. His previous experience with vampires makes it unlikely he would bond with anyone in the clan. Give them the boy.”

  Simeon wanted to leap across the table, but Batiste put a hand on his shoulder, and he kept his seat. Batiste spoke to Bridgerton. “Elder, you are out of bounds. The boy is under my protection. He is a part of Simeon’s family. He is not chattel to barter for favor from a Council long past its prime and usefulness.”

  “The Council gives their favor to clans in Europe who hold to the old ways,” Bridgerton snapped back, and Simeon hoped he would keep going. Seeing Bridgerton’s decapitated head rolling along the floor would cheer him immensely. “They gain in wealth and esteem while we languish on this continent.”

  “The European bloodclans are hobbled by their treaties and favors. They earn wealth but lose independence and autonomy. If you wish for such a trade, you may leave this clan and seek admittance in a bloodclan in Europe.”

  Simeon was about to speak, but his phone rang. Batiste dropped his hand away. “Forgive the interruption,” Simeon apologized and pulled out his phone. He stood and went to the far wall.

  It was Dame Fontaine calling. He tensed. She never called him before. He answered. “Dame Fontaine?”

  “Simeon,” she gasped out, distressed. “The Counci
l has Angel.”

  Simeon spun back to Batiste. His master was standing, watching intently, able to hear everything. “Any fatalities?”

  “No. Angel went quietly…or kind of—Angel let his smart mouth get him in trouble. One of the magister’s enforcers knocked him out after they shackled him. I heard them say they were taking him to the consulate in Back Bay.”

  “Thank you, Milly,” Simeon replied.

  “Bring my boy back,” Milly demanded, and she hung up. Simeon put his phone away.

  “I will protect the fledgling and his dragon. Go get your mate, and do not worry about the consequences.” Batiste gave his blessing. Bridgerton snorted but said nothing when Batiste sent him a warning glance.

  Simeon wasted no time and blurred from the penthouse of the Tower.

  The limo stopped outside the consulate, the awning drawn over the sidewalk. It was still midday, spring knocking on the door of winter. Simeon hissed. A shaft of sunlight cut under the meager protection afforded to him by the awning. It would hurt him—that much was certain. If he got to the door quickly enough, he should be fine—and hopefully the door opened.

  “My lord, the sunlight…” his driver worried for him.

  “I will be fine.” Simeon opened the door, girded himself, and blurred for the entrance.

  He reached it faster than a human could blink, and the glass and wood doors opened smoothly under his touch. He was glad—no Invitation needed to enter, which means it wasn’t a mortal’s home. Mortals may live here for the moment, but none called it home. He stepped into the foyer and blinked back in slight mystification as the door shut quietly. The sun was angled high enough in the sky it did not yet reach into the foyer, stopping at the threshold. The sun was indeed shining, but it hadn’t hurt him. No vampire could move faster than sunlight.

  A servant hovered nearby, shocked to see him. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I do not.” Simeon replied, straightened his jacket, and followed his senses to the rear of the house. The servant called after him to no avail. Heartbeats drew his focus. Angel’s scent was strong in the townhouse that served as the consulate for the High Council of Sorcery. It grew faint near the end of the main hall, and there was a door, forged from iron, and sealed shut with runes and warded. Angel was somewhere beyond the door. He tried to touch the door, but he couldn’t even get his hand within six inches of it. A buffer, invisible and powerful, stood between Simeon and opening that door. It was probably the entrance to the dungeons below the consulate.

  His Leannán was beyond the door. If his heart still functioned, it would beat only for Angel. His chest ached at Angel’s absence.

  He took in a breath laden with his mate’s scent and went toward the voices that went with the heartbeats.

  Angel rubbed the knot on the back of his head. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but he had blood on the back of his neck and down his back under his clothes. Simeon was going to flip out.

  He could feel his mate, along the matebond. It sang and shimmered, visible if he closed his eyes or woke his inner vision, but he didn’t need to. Simeon was nearby, he could feel the undead man as if he were within touching distance. Concern and anger, and an odd surge of surprise. Angel was working on accessing that part of their bond—Simeon respected his privacy, though he admitted to experiencing how it felt to have a mortal body by sinking his awareness in Angel’s body as he slept. Somehow it wasn’t creepy at all, at least not to him. It was reassuring—if anything was ever wrong with Angel physically, like an illness or disease, Simeon would know immediately.

  He leaned back on the narrow stone bench, his ass barely fitting on it. From his seat, he could see down the long, damp, and ancient passage beneath the consulate. It was a literal dungeon. The cells were carved from bedrock, the bars wrought iron and bespelled, and water dripped from the walls and ceiling from thin cracks. Partially blocked grates sporadically collected the puddles of water that littered the passage, and Angel’s boots and lower pants legs were soaked.

  Another odd bit—there were no doors. Each cell was barred with a bench, a hole in the corner grated over for the unpleasant necessity of bodily wastes, and the bars running along the front of the cell. There was no sign of a door, and he’d been unconscious when he was placed in here. If he was going to be in here for any length of time, he’d be able to figure it out, but that required time he wasn’t willing to spare.

  Simeon was getting closer.

  Algae and moss grew in the damp and mold made his nose twitch. Angel sneezed and held his aching head. He hadn’t come to until he was thrown into the cell, and the shackles remained in place. He wasn’t ready to admit he could free himself from the shackles with a few moments worth of thought. Even before he was bonded to Simeon, he could burn through iron—it was just easier these days after his soulbond with Simeon. He hadn’t many opportunities to do it in public—his father, Raine, and his mentor, August, had tried it out on Angel at his insistence when he was a teenager. Not many sorcerers had the internal strength to do it, many were injured trying. The Blood Wars still raged back then, and iron was used by their enemies to incapacitate practitioners, making it easier for them to be killed. Angel refused to die unless he was on his feet and fighting.

  Now he was caged and bored. He had little doubt he would be out of here soon. Simeon was coming for him.

  A clang echoed down the long passage. Angel leaned over, trying to see to the end, the twisting stair that coiled out of view. The passage was lit by what appeared to be oil lamps and torches, and their reach wasn’t very far, but he lucked out and had one across from his cell on the wall. Water dripping was the only sound for a bit then another clang rang from the end of the passage.

  Simeon threw the practitioner into the iron door, and the mortal bounced off it with a thud. The man beneath his heel was coughing, blood supply cut off as Simeon restrained him. He had no time to charm them into compliance, and a Council enforcer was likely able to withstand the vampiric ability. Tossing bodies about was quicker. “You’ll open this door, or I’ll crack ye skull open like I’ve done to your friend. Where is the magister?”

  “She went…” the man coughed again, and Simeon eased the pressure, so he could speak. “She went to the local police department. The magister wants the human authorities to uphold her decision to keep him in custody with a warrant until the trial.”

  “She holds the Leannán of a Bloodclan Elder. He is no longer under the authority of the Council. Human laws hold no bearing upon him any longer. Release him!”

  “She locked the door.”

  “Open it.”

  “I can’t!”

  Simeon grabbed the man at his feet and flung him at the door. He bounced off it with a wet splatter and blood smeared the wall. A spell ricocheted off the wall near his head, and he ducked, darting into the room that held the magister’s enforcers. He grabbed the next sorcerer, broke his wrists before he even realized Simeon was in the room, and dragged him to the iron door. He flung the man down at his feet and pointed at the iron door. “Open it or die.”

  “You killed them?” The man wailed, blubbering. He was the last sorcerer who had been in the living room, and he didn’t want to waste time hunting for more.

  “Very likely,” Simeon snarled. Not quite, but the man at his feet didn’t need to know his peers lived. He’d cooperate far better if he thought them dead instead of just unconscious. “Return my mate or you’ll learn if they’re dead or not.”

  This man was smarter than his peers; he looked at the insignia on his jacket, the mark of the enforcer under the auspices of the magister. Simeon lifted the man with one hand and brought the brooch in close enough to sniff.

  Magic. He spat out the foul taste the spells left in his mouth. He reached for it, but his hand stung and skin sizzled. He hissed and released his claws. He ripped the jacket off the man, ignoring his screams as his broken wrists were banged about. Simeon bundled the jacket over the brooch, and held it out to the door, car
efully approaching. He felt resistance but held it to the invisible barrier. A moment passed, then two, then the pressure against his hand fell away. The spell responded to the constant presence of the insignia, keeping the door from accidentally unlocking when enforcers walked past it. Simeon went to the door, grabbed the latch, and wrenched it open.

  It was now naught but old iron, and he warped the door with his hands, the metal groaning in complaint, and twisted it enough it could not close again, and he pressed it to the wall. No mortal could move it but with magic, and even that would take time.

  The darkness beyond stank of stagnant water, salt and stone, and human misery. “Angel?” Simeon called, his voice echoing into the darkness. He listened, but there was no answer. Simeon walked back to the practitioner who was trying to crawl away on broken wrists, grabbed him by his shirt collar, lifted him up, and punched him once, knocking him unconscious. The others were out as well. The servants in the mansion were all hiding and not a threat. The only one likely to cause trouble was the magister, and he needed to get to Angel before she returned. Someone in the building had likely already called her.

  Returning to the dungeon door, Simeon descended into the shadows.

  Angel thought he heard something, but he couldn’t trust his senses down here in the dungeon. Everything echoed, distorting sounds. He leaned a cheek against an iron bar and squinted down the hall. He saw movement, light interrupted as someone entered the long passage.

  “Angel?”

  He shot to his feet and gripped the bars. “Simeon!”

  Before the echo of Simeon’s voice faded from the stones, his mate was standing in front of him. Simeon reached through the bars and cupped Angel’s face. “Mo ghra.”

  “You came for me.” A statement because of course he did.