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

by SJ Himes

  Angel used the wall to climb back to his feet, grimacing at the mess the puddles and mud left of his once clean clothing. His satchel and athame were missing which gave him some concern until he recalled Milly swiped his stuff before the enforcers took him away. Next time, he wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get free from the iron shackles—and there likely would be a next time, considering his life choices—he had underestimated the amount of damage his new power levels could do to iron if he tried to overload the metal. He rubbed his wrists, thankful for his mate and their bond. He didn’t even think about going into shock from the burns, a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

  Simeon punched the wall, stone shattering, and his mate grabbed a chunk of stone the size of his hand and threw it up the curving stairs, the rock bouncing off the walls like a squash ball and disappearing up the stairs until it found a target. A shocked yelp made Simeon chuckle, and the hellhound wagged his tail. Angel went to his mate, each step becoming easier, his strength returning as he progressed, until he stood beside his lover on steady legs. Simeon smiled down at him. “I see the blood has done its job, mo ghra. Feeling better?”

  “Loads. Thank you,” Angel said with a smile. He waved a hand at the mess on the stairs. “Need some backup?”

  “Sunset is still many hours away—I wanted to be away with you quickly but getting into the dungeon took too much time. Getting back to the limo is unlikely at this moment. Any assistance you can bring to the table would be much appreciated, good sir,” Simeon teased. Spells were still being flung around the stairs, sorcerers scampering back whenever they got too close to Scáth, the hellhound snapping at legs and feet. The degree of the curve made it difficult for anyone to see anything unless they got in range of the hellhound who stood tall enough his head was level with the fifth step.

  Angel neatly sidestepped a spell that was flung at them, and he wrinkled his nose at the noxious smell that arose from the impact spot on the floor. He raised a shield on the bubbling spot, compressed it, and smothered the magical chemical reaction before dismissing the shield. “They’re trying to knock us out. Not too smart. Only one of us needs to breathe.”

  They leaned on the side of the wall that was nestled in close to the far side of the stairs, out of view and range. Scáth scampered about, tail flagging, jaws wide as he waited for another leg to come in range.

  “Plans?” Angel mused. Simeon leaned down, sniffed at his neck and along his jaw, and Angel tipped his head to give his lover better access. A fang rubbed along his skin, the flat smooth front of one of Simeon’s longer cuspids, and he shivered. A curse came bounding down the stairs, rolled past their feet, and Scáth sniffed at it before letting loose a booming bark back up the stairs, as if mocking the attempt.

  “I’m having Blood War déjà vu.” Angel grimaced, and Simeon nibbled on his neck, helping him relax again. “The stairs are the only way in and out of the dungeons. We have a knocked-out wizard—is she our prisoner? Person we rescued?—and we have a necromancer, a vampire, and a hellhound.”

  Simeon murmured in agreement, still fascinated by Angel’s scent behind his ear. He smiled, despite the danger. His body was thrumming with desire, Simeon’s blood reviving him, powering his needs, making him more in tune with his lover. Simeon missed him, he could tell.

  “We are outnumbered,” Simeon stated the obvious. “Do we kill them or wait for Batiste?”

  Angel frowned. He really didn’t want to owe the city master anything and getting rescued by the bloodclan would be a big debt he didn’t want hand over to Batiste. He frowned at the stairs, the looked back down the passageway. “Lemme go check something.”

  Angel slowly left Simeon’s side, the vampire’s warming hands releasing him just as reluctantly. He could feel Simeon’s touch on his skin even after they stopped touching.

  Angel went back down the way he came, stepping around Giselle Hardwick. He spared her a quick glance, but she was still out and there was nothing he could do for her but get them out of there. The end of the passage was a flat stone wall, a lamp hanging from a metal chain from the ceiling the only thing back there. He ran his hand over the stone, the surface rough, damp, and smelling of rotten things. He grimaced but kept searching. The stone wall was a solid piece of rock without seams.

  His inner vision pressed forward, and he gave into his subconscious, recognizing there was something more present. He frowned and opened himself wider. The stone wall was several feet deep, and the block ended underneath the access alleyway behind the townhouse that served as the consulate. There were several tons of earth, stone, gravel, and pavement between where Angel stood and freedom. He doubted he could punch his way free without bringing down the entire backside of the building. The house on one side was warded, meaning it was occupied and he’d be wasting time trying to blast through rock then wards to escape, not to mention he might hurt whoever was living there. His senses sang again, and Angel paused, withdrawing his attention from the street behind the consulate.

  “Why go out the back when you can visit the neighbors, lad?” A gravely, deep voice asked, and Angel breathed in cautiously. They weren’t as alone as he originally thought. That’s what he got for not double-checking his immediate surroundings.

  He looked to his left and saw the ghost who had spoken. The ghost smiled, floating nonchalantly a foot or so above the ground, protruding from the wall. Dressed in rags that appeared to be made of rough hewn cotton and linen, the man was, at one point, an employee for a shipping company back in the peak of Boston’s sea-trading days. The patch sewn on his left shoulder indicated he was a Morgan, a small clan of practitioners who once allied themselves with the Salvatores back in the late 1800s and guarded the supply ships from Italy and Spain laden with trade goods for the Salvatores. Much of the Salvatore wealth during the height of the Blood Wars came from trade with Europe.

  The Melbournes wiped most of the Morgans out not long before two of Angel’s ancestors, Ignacio Salvatore and his mother, Astoria, destroyed the Melbournes in retaliation. The late 1800s were some of the bloodiest and darkest years of the Wars.

  “Greetings,” Angel said, turning fully to the ghost and bowing briefly at the waist. It had responded to his affinity and the death magic he passively exuded—it happened on occasion. “My name is Angelus Salvatore, good sir.”

  He could be anywhere in this city, if an active ghost with sentience were around, they tended to follow him or make an overture if he used his magic. Death magic stirred them into awareness and gave them more power, so most sought him out for more. Not many among the living could speak to the dead, and the dead rarely turned down the chance to talk to someone. Angel usually sent them on to the Other Side if he encountered a ghost with enough sentience to make the choice. Those spirits who were tortured and unaware of their state, he released as best he could, regardless.

  “Ulysses Morgan, at your service.” The spirit gave him a jaunty salute with two fingers. His accent was Irish but rougher than Simeon’s and with a twang to it that implied long visits ashore in multiple different countries. “Pegged ya for a Salvatore the second they dragged ya down here. Look like Lady Astoria, ya do.”

  “Mo ghra?” Simeon called, and Angel spared a glance over his shoulder. The enforcers were regrouping, and Simeon was petting his hellhound, both relaxed as they could be despite the urgent nature of their situation. “Who are you talking to?” Simeon might not be able to see the ghost—it depended on the strength of the spirit itself.

  “A departed fellow prisoner has made himself known,” Angel called back. “No need to worry. How are you doing?”

  Simeon appeared wary but nodded. It was the first time a ghost approached Angel with Simeon around, but Simeon had his hands full, so worry would have to wait. “Well enough. Our hosts are discussing their options. None seem viable, so you have some time.”

  Angel waved in acknowledgment and looked back to Ulysses. “Apologies. You said I looked like Lady Astoria?”

  “Aye, lad. Sam
e eyes, and her mark is in ye bearing and stature. She was a wee spitfire, and here ye are, a mite of a man with a bite.” Ulysses smirked. “Never seen a person more confident with her place in the world than Lady Astoria. There’s death magic in you, laddie. I ken that’s how you woke me. I’ve been asleep some time.”

  “Asleep is one way to put it,” Angel said quietly, and Ulysses smiled, gaunt face twisting with morbid humor. Yellowed teeth and a shriveled tongue were visible through the lips pulled back in a twisted grin. “You died in the Council consulate dungeon. What was your crime?”

  Ulysses laughed, clutching his skeletal sides, rags shaking. “Crime of existing, boy. The wrong friends at the wrong time was what earned me my death here. I would not renounce my allegiance, so I was tossed away like garbage. They left me to starve in the cell where they dropped you. Been many long years since another living soul has ventured down here. The dark fiend who broke the bars helped free me the last wee bit.”

  “You were jailed by the High Council for being allied with the Salvatores?” Angel was horrified, but not surprised. The Council had publicly maintained a neutral stance in the Wars, but behind the scenes, they were anything but neutral—many people died because of the Council’s hidden machinations. They had the power to stop the Wars, but they chose instead to profit and good people died. When they left twenty years before, the death count in the Wars dropped. At least, until the Massacre eleven years ago.

  “Jailed and left to die,” Ulysses agreed, spinning out from the wall and around Angel, rags trailing on the stone, bare feet reduced to bone and taut skin that stepped with jerky motions. “Don’t look at me so, lad. I reconciled myself to death a long time ago.”

  Angel quirked a disbelieving brow, since Ulysses was still here on this plane—if he were truly accepting of his passing, he would have moved on to the Other Side. “Why remain?”

  “Other Side is full of people I couldn’t stand in this life,” Ulysses cackled. “Why go on?”

  Angel shook his head but arguing with the dead was often pointless. Nothing was more stubborn than an unbound ghost. “You said why bother going through to the street when I could visit the neighbors?”

  Ulysses grinned, revealing gaps in his teeth and cracked lips. “Thought you forgot about that.”

  “Nope. Who lives on either side of the consulate?”

  Ulysses jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Crazy old witch lives in the house next door. Tons of cats. Think she was old when I was a lad.” Angel smiled. Ulysses pointed past Angel, his finger thin and knobby. “That way lies nothing but empty rooms and dust.”

  Ulysses zipped about the passageway, heading down to where Simeon and the hellhound stood. Scáth sniffed at the ghost, his tail wagging. Simeon must have sensed something, as he narrowed his eyes and stared at where Ulysses floated, trying to make him out. The ghost cooed at the hellhound, scratching the hound behind his ear. Angel took a second look when he realized Ulysses could touch the hellhound, a tangible connection. Scáth licked the ghost’s fingers and wagged his tail again. “Fierce beastie.”

  “You’re touching him.” Angel said, smacking himself mentally for stating the obvious. “Are you getting stronger, or is it because the hellhound is both spirit and flesh, and not mortal?”

  Ulysses floated back to Angel. “I’ve always been strong, lad. And you’re pouring out enough energy to wake the dead.” The ghost cackled at his joke, spinning, and Angel rolled his eyes.

  Angel moved back a few steps, perusing the wall. The end of the hall stopped on a solid rock, but the sides of the passageway were rough-hewn blocks roughly a square foot each and set with cracking mortar. He sent out his senses, and the ghost that hovered at his side flared with milky green death magics and a small flicker of sentience. Rare to find a ghost so tangible and coherent. He looked past the ghost and into the townhouse next door. The townhouses on this street all shared common walls, nary a breadth between them in this section of Back Bay. He dismissed the occupied house and turned his mind to the other house. It was empty, but the walls were load bearing. Blowing them apart would be a disaster for everyone.

  Trouble was the sheer amount of material between where Angel stood and the means to escape. Blowing his way out wasn’t going to work at all. Even the walls between the townhouses were structural, and he’d likely kill them all if he tried blasting their way out. Anyone on the street would be in danger, and the houses on either side of the consulate might collapse along with this building. He shook his head. Ghosts weren’t all that concerned with life-threatening consequences—after all, they’d got the hard part of dying out of the way already.

  Angel withdrew and hummed quietly to himself, thinking. Blasting their way out ran the risk of bringing the townhouses down on top of them all and exposing Simeon to sunlight. They had Giselle as well, who was still unconscious.

  “Simeon, you okay up there?” Angel called.

  Simeon’s chuckle echoed from the far end of the hall. “Aye, love. My sweet pup has them confounded.”

  “Ok, we might have some options. I’ll let you know.”

  Ulysses hovered, the ghost floating in a nonexistent breeze, coasting along the wall idly. He now appeared to be bored, but willing to stick around. Angel smirked and called forth his inner vision again. He looked past the top layers of wards and runes and ambient magic, the null zones made by the bars appearing as blank spots to his senses.

  The walls, ceiling, the floor, even the solid pieces of bedrock glowed with an old, deep layer of death magic. Which was not surprising, considering the number of people likely imprisoned in this place over the years, and how many must have died down here like Ulysses. Angel kept his inner vision up and called to Simeon. “Simeon, call O’Malley. See if the police are on the consulate’s side or ours.”

  He vaguely registered Simeon’s response. The dead were just out of reach—Ulysses came when the binding spells on the cell were destroyed by Simeon warping the bars. Proximity did the rest. To call the incorporeal undead—ghosts—was merely another step in the same direction. They could sense him, sense his death magic, and when he reached with his affinity, he could sense them in return.

  Angel breathed slowly, evenly, and closed his eyes, and reached again. This time he turned to the ancient death magic his mate bond fed into him; it came with a roar. He turned the power outward and guided it as it found the depressions in the spiritual world that were dormant spirits. The ground shivered. One of the depressions sank deeper, grew deeper, and it pulled on his magic. Scáth barked, sensing what Angel roused from its deathly slumber. Simeon called to Angel. “Mo ghra?”

  “Did you get ahold of O’Malley?” Angel asked. There was something here besides Ulysses, some dormant spirits, and the living. He fed more power to the creature of the dark who slumbered beneath them, its death having left an indelible mark upon the land. It was far beneath the bricks and gravel from the earliest of settlements on this marshy shore along the cold sea, and Angel shivered when the dead being answered his call, turning its awakening consciousness to Angel, unwavering in its regard.

  “O’Malley says they’re not here to enforce any Council warrant, but his superiors are receiving pressure to cooperate. My master is also wielding his considerable influence. The police are not here for anything except to keep the peace. And Milly is just outside the police line. She texted while we were occupied with the stairs.”

  Angel smirked. “Text Milly, get her to the limo. And tell O’Malley I’m sorry for what is about to happen.”

  Angel lifted a hand, following the tugging on his magic. Ulysses cackled next to him, and Angel opened his eyes, exaltation rising in his belly to match the gleeful ghost spinning in the damp passage. “You’ve done it now, necromancer. Much better than knocking down some walls!” Ulysses bowed to Angel then continued to laugh and dance, rags spinning. Ulysses was siphoning off the death magic Angel was unleashing, and he had a feeling anyone would be able to see the specter now. Simeon con
firmed this when he hissed in surprise, the ghost laughing to have startled the vampire.

  “Rise, rise and obey.” Angel chanted softly, eyes on the stones beneath his feet. He didn’t need the words, but the being responded to them easier. “Death doesn’t hold your chains anymore,” Angel whispered, letting his magic spindle out into the world around him.

  The ground was still trembling, and Angel closed his hand into a fist, tugging on the chains he forged as the spell unleashed from his mind. Hellfire links burned and snapped and disappeared beneath their feet. Simeon cursed, and Scáth snarled and barked. “Simeon! Grab Giselle!” His lover darted forward and scooped up the wizard, tossing her carefully over his shoulder, leaving one arm free.

  “What magic have you crafted, mo ghra?” Simeon never feared Angel’s magic, but he could be cautious, and now was no exception.

  “I found something buried beneath the consulate. Idiots didn’t check before they settled here,” Angel muttered, referring to the foolish colonists that greedily planted themselves in this area of the coastline, in what would eventually become Boston. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Angel yanked on the chains, the ends whipping through the air and wrapping around his wrist. He hissed, the creature at the end of the chains fighting him even as it climbed through the earth. He fed it more power, and a thin gray hand with long, spindly fingers and yellow claws burst from the stone. Debris scattered across the hall, dust and dirt clouding the damp air. A crack widened in the stones, the earth shattering, the ground shaking. A lean, wiry arm, gray skinned with random patches of black hair and oozing suppurations, became a gaunt shoulder and torso, the head lifting as another arm clawed for purchase on damp stone. The dead being climbed free of its earthly tomb, wide yellow teeth in an elongated snout gaping wide, a long blood-red tongue dripping ichor. The stench of rotting corpses filled the passageway, and Angel spit out the foul odor and grave dust, though the taste remained. Gray skin pocked with lesions and rotted flesh peeking through long, sparse black hairs covered a warped torso, ribs shuddering, the supernatural predator took a long, deep breath, a growl rising from its chest as it scented them.