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

by SJ Himes

  Many of the runes and the structure of the spells he could see were very old and he only recognized a few of the runes. It would not prevent him from conventionally gaining control of the lich, but it would not make it easy. He would have to feel his way through the process and translate the meanings of the runes he could not decipher and match them to their functions as he went. There was one thing he should do before anything else, and it would take a tremendous amount of power to pull it off. Thankfully, he had the mate bond to pull power from, he would need it.

  Angel breathed in and out, settling himself, enforcing peace within his mind as best he could before he cast. Creating a shield not originating from himself or not cast around himself took more effort and time to construct. When he cast a shield to protect himself or anyone standing close to him, it was nearly immediate, fast as thought, and cast instinctively. The shield he would need to encapsulate the lich and the hellhound and make it strong enough the lich could not break through would take more concentration. He focused and opened the mate bond wide between himself and Simeon. The bond was always open between them, but it had settled into a natural state where it no longer flooded Angel as it had when it was still new. He was able to consciously widen the bond between him and Simeon and hold it at that point. Energy and power poured into Angel from Simeon, it came from a source beneath the elder’s own personal strengths and gifts. It was the primordial death magic that animated the sentient undead and bound every vampire on the planet together back to one single source. It was death magic that was as ancient as the planet itself. And it was unending.

  Angel gasped as the power filled him to overflowing. Before his mind shut down in defense, as it had once before, Angel constructed the shield spell and tossed it mentally across the space between himself and the two undead combatants. He opened his eyes just as the spell flashed. Angel’s magic always presented itself as hellfire green; fire made of green flame. His shield work always had the same hue to it, translucent light green glass and wavering, as if heated oil were poured over it.

  A dome about twenty feet tall and thirty feet across coalesced from a point in the air above the lich and fell in an ever widening sheet down to the ground and several feet past the surface of the earth. If the lich attempted to dig its way out, all Angel had to do was expand the shield into a full sphere.

  “Simeon, call Scáth out of the shield. He can let it go.” Angel said, carefully getting to his feet. The mate bond was still wide open, and Angel could sense Simeon’s emotions. Pride, affection, worry, concern. Love.

  “Are you sure, mo ghra?”

  “As sure as I can be. I can’t take this thing down with Scáth in there, not without damaging his magics too.”

  Simeon walked up to stand at his shoulder, and the vampire whistled to his pet. Scáth immediately let go, the lich roaring and scrambling to its feet. It tried to attack the hellhound but its blows did nothing, and the hellhound was able to slip through the shield without issue. The lich chased after Scáth, but it slammed head first into the shield and tumbled backward. The shield shook, energies wavering over its surface, but it held. The lich was enraged, and it charged at them, only to bounce off the inside of the shield again and again. The shield rang like metal, the rhythm discordant.

  “Will it hold?” Simeon asked, petting Scáth for a job well done. The hellhound wagged his tail and scampered around Simeon’s legs.

  “It will hold for several hours, but I can’t stay here in the park forever, so I need to get this thing under control sooner rather than later.” Angel stretched, stiff from sitting on the cold path.

  “Will we need Scáth again? He has been locked onto that creature for over an hour. It was a most arduous a task, and I’d like him to rest.” Angel thought it was sweet and grinned at Simeon. The hellhound literally did not need to eat or sleep or rest—he would never grow fatigued or injured or be killed. Simeon treated him like he would any other dog though one with more intelligence than the average hound.

  “You can retire him if you want. He’s manifesting faster each time you blow the whistle, so if we need him again, it shouldn’t be a hindrance to call him back.”

  Simeon nodded and with a claw, stabbed one of his palms, blood welling up. Scáth sniffed the blood then licked the payment for his presence on their plane. Simeon gently fondled his droopy ears and murmured to him in an old dialect of Irish Gaelic. The hound yipped, tail wagging, then he faded from sight, a puff of green smoke on the breeze.

  Simeon pulled out a handkerchief from this pocket and wiped his palm clean then tucked it away. Angel smirked at his mate. “Always so prepared.”

  “A gentleman is always prepared.” Simeon gave him a teasing glance.

  Angel sucked in a deep breath, and Simeon put a hand on his shoulder. “Doing structured casting is so draining. On my patience, at least. I do best with instinctive magic, combat magic. I could take this thing down with enough blunt force and time, but we’re out in the open, in public, things can go wrong and people are stupid. So, structured and careful wins the best plan of action, and I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.”

  “You are one of the most accomplished practitioners I have ever met in my long life,” Simeon’s words were soft and earnest. “I have every faith you will succeed. Do not borrow trouble. This may be easier than you think.”

  “I can hope.”

  “Hope is more than enough, sometimes.”

  Angel smiled. He nudged Simeon with his shoulder. “You sound like my father just now. He would have liked you.”

  Simeon squeezed Angel’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I believe I would have liked Raine, too, mo ghra.”

  The lich howled its rage again, and Angel shrugged to his mate. “Time to get to work.”

  Something sweet and airy filled each breath, and Daniel smiled. He snuggled into the soft mattress, pulling the pillow that smelled of flowers close, burying his nose in it.

  A tiny snout sniffed at his cheeks and eyes, and Daniel grumbled. “Eroch, c’mon. I’m tired. You can let yourself out.”

  A warm chuckle pulled him from slumber. “Is that his name, then? It is fitting. An old name in many tongues. My people would translate Eroch as ‘trouble.’”

  “That fits.” Daniel yawned as he opened his eyes, and he sat up quickly, Eroch chirping as Daniel dislodged him.

  He was on a low chaise in front of an iron brazier, in the middle of what must be either a greenhouse or a conservatory. It was nighttime, the stars were out and visible through the glass. The brazier was open near the top, the embers casting a gentle glow on potted trees, raised box beds of flowers and bushes, and a small fountain and pond along the wall. Daniel could see paths winding through the foliage, and the walls of the building went on into the shadows, out of sight.

  “Where am I?” He asked the man sitting on the other side of the brazier on a low padded leather bench. A sword, sheathed in a leather scabbard, the hilt a curved and ornate affair in a golden brassy metal, was propped up to one side, a belt hanging off it. It was the kind meant to be belted about the waist, worn low beneath the hip, and even to Daniel’s limited knowledge, it was an expensive and old blade, lovingly tended.

  The man moved, slow and easy, laying a short log on the embers of the brazier. Green hair glimmered in the firelight, whispering over bare skin, a long fall of it that Daniel could see draped past the man’s shoulders. His naked chest was toned and defined but leaning toward lithe rather than bulky. The light danced off a long, pale scar over the left side of his chest, where his heart would be, and the man smiled at him, amber eyes catching the firelight.

  The scar and hair identified the man for Daniel, and the gentle smile was enough to soothe his nerves. “You’re Ruairí Brennan, aren’t you?”

  Ruairí tilted his head, as if to bow, hair slipping over his shoulder. The fae touched the fingers of his left hand to his chest then motioned outward, a casual gesture of greeting. “I am, young sorcerer. I know the dragon,
so I can surmise you are the apprentice of my savior. Daniel, I believe?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Daniel Macavoy.” He chuckled. “Don’t call Angel your savior. He’s got an ego already.” Ruairí chuckled with him, a melodic sound making Daniel sigh quietly. It was lovely. The man, the fae, was lovely, and beautiful enough to draw and keep the eye of anyone. “Where am I?”

  “Safe, before you worry. You are at Salvatore mansion. I believe the modern word for this structure is a greenhouse? A wonderful building, far more inviting than the stone monument and its ghosts beyond the gardens.”

  Daniel nodded, watching as Eroch jumped to the brazier, immune to the heat, snapping at the ashes as they crackled and shot into the air, the log engulfed. “A lot of people died here. I don’t know how much you know about the Blood Wars, being asleep for so long.”

  “I slept for over two hundred and forty years. I fell in the year 1776 AD of the Christian calendar, a few miles from where we sit now. I did not dream while I slept, so my awakening was…unsettling.”

  “I bet it was,” Daniel murmured, sympathetic. He looked around then down at Eroch, who was now hanging upside down from the brazier, tracking a centipede than inched across the stone floor. “The last thing I remember was something impossible.”

  “Your master’s familiar drew on his power, which must truly be immense to enable such a transformation. He carried you here, I assume to safety. I do not know what danger you faced, but the welt you had upon one wrist spoke of iron shackles.”

  Daniel raised his arms, but his wrists were unblemished. He looked at the fae who lifted his own hands, the long, slender digits framed in firelight. “I healed you. A gift of my people. I am born of the earth, of living things, that which is green and vital. Fate was laughing the day she struck me down, for if it had been my brother who fell, I would have been able to save him. Alas, my brother was born not of the earth, but of stone and wind, a child of icy mountain realms and storms,” Ruairí lamented, and Daniel only understood some of that. Fae were not humans or practitioners, and their magic was not the same as those of mortals. It functioned in an entirely different manner, with its own rules and methodology. Ruairí gave Daniel a wry smile. “Cian can no more heal than he can feel empathy.”

  “He’s a psychopath. A sociopath.” Daniel said, surprising himself with how harsh his words came out. He flushed. “I’m sorry. You’re not your brother. You aren’t to blame for what he did while you slept. Thank you for healing me, for helping us.”

  “A small thing, and one I was happy to do,” Ruairí replied. “Can you tell me who is hunting you? So I may defend you better?”

  Daniel couldn’t help the blush that rose to his cheeks. He’d heard fae were gallant and noble, but he’d always thought there would be a layer of arrogance to it, snobby immortals looking down upon lesser folk. Ruairí was charming and kind, and there was no arrogance in him. Nothing he could see, but then, he’d only known the man for a few minutes. “Do you know the High Council of Sorcery?”

  Ruairí frowned, eyes hard. “I do. A pox upon them all. They are a blight, strangling the world for power and coin. Are they the ones who seek you?”

  Daniel nodded. “They’re after me. Angel thinks they’re trying to get to me so they can control him.”

  “Then honor demands I guard you until you are reunited with your master,” Ruairí declared, and Daniel ducked his head. “Though I will safeguard you for more than honor’s sake, young Daniel. You are worth defending.”

  “Thank you,” Daniel said quietly, looking back up. “I should be able to defend myself, but thank you for helping me.”

  “We are, all of us, similar and yet unique, and not one of us alike enough to judge the other. I have my strengths, you have yours. A water elementalist is a mighty opponent. Do not despair, for you’ll find your own path one day. Until then, I shall be a shield between you and your foes.”

  Ruairí stood, and he was as tall as Simeon, but not as wide across the shoulders, and his hair was longer than Daniel first thought. The fae was gorgeous, and Daniel grew hot, palms damp, breath hitching in his chest before he gained control of himself. Ruairi grabbed his sword and belted it about his waist, a practiced move that drew the eye. It was enough to distract him from the fae’s words, but he jumped to his feet when they finally registered. “A…water elementalist?”

  Hope surged in his heart. He did not yet know his affinity, and it left him feeling inadequate and embarrassed, despite Angel’s reassurances most practitioners learned their affinities around their twentieth year and Daniel was squarely in the average age bracket. Angel and Isaac grew into their affinities at very young ages, and Daniel tried hard not to compare himself to the Salvatores.

  “Yes.” Ruairí confirmed. He paused in adjusting his sword belt and gave Daniel a quick glance from head to toe, realization dawning. “I am deeply sorry, young one. Have you not yet learned your affinity? I can see it beneath your skin, like a blue flower a mere day from blooming, waiting. Your power is coming, and soon. I did not think you might not have known yet.”

  “I didn’t but thank you.” Daniel grinned wide, tears prickling the corner of his eyes. “Thank you, Ruairí.”

  Ruairí gazed at him, a tender expression on his face, his amber eyes warm. Daniel blushed again, cursing his pale cheeks. He jumped when Eroch screeched and let out a small torrent of flame, roasting the centipede before dropping on it with happy chirps. The dragon ate the bug in two bites, flapping happily.

  “I am glad to be of service, Daniel. And a name I once went by is Rory. You may call me that if you wish.”

  “I will,” Daniel breathed out. He felt like he could fly, he was the one with wings this time. “Rory.”

  Angel reached out with his mind and tugged on a broken bit of spellwork, ripping away the failed portions, and hurriedly replaced the missing bit with spellwork crafted on the fly, hoping it would replicate the wrecked piece. It was obvious, the longer he messed with the lich, it had lost its master in one swift blow and was imprisoned almost immediately after. Its master in the distant past had probably been killed, and the lich locked away in the reliquary instead of bound to a new master or destroyed, probably for the same reasons Angel wished he had another reliquary.

  This was not easy.

  He lost track of how long he worked, the hours of the night blurring together. The cool air chilled his sweat from mental exertions, the power from Simeon was a waterfall of magics, singing to him, threatening his focus. Learning the old magics as he went was harder than he remembered from his youth, recalling lessons from August, his mentor, on deciphering old spellwork. Many spells, like wards for properties, lasted generations, and learning and understanding the old forms of magic was a necessity for maintenance and repairs. Spells and structured magical workings evolved through the years just as languages evolved.

  Simeon patrolled the area, swooping back to speak to the police and update them on Angel’s progress. Angel didn’t know what Simeon could sense from his end of the bond, but Simeon was telling them something, since no one was trying to get any closer. A part of him worried the Council might try and get to him while he worked, but the soldiers from the Bloodclan were stationed around him, inside the police barricade and would alert Simeon and Angel if the magister or the enforcers showed up. If they did, Angel had to hope the Council had enough sense not to stop him—an unbound lich was a danger to everyone. If Angel failed, it would rampage across the city, killing indiscriminately.

  He sank deeply into the magics of the lich, and it acted as if oblivious. It probably was; it was not meant to be a thinking beast, with sentience, but a dangerous weapon that could execute orders and eliminate targets when bound to a master. The spells he learned from their functions, reengineering how they were structured when first cast. Once he understood a spell, he moved on to the next, keeping a running mental tally of everything he learned. It was complicated and tiring.

  Simeon appeared behind him, but remaine
d quiet, watchful, his mate merely checking on him. He watched for a moment though there was nothing to be seen to the eye. The lich paced within the shield, and Angel stood just outside the barrier, hands raised out to his sides, palms out toward the lich, eyes closed.

  He could sense dawn a few hours away, so he had time. Things would get more stressful when the vampires had to retreat from the sun and the police were left. He needed to finish before then.

  His senses were blown wide open, and while his focus was narrowed to the lich and the spells he was working through one by one, he could sense in the vaguest way the vampires out in the woods, their death magics illuminating them like tiny sparks of light. The ambient magic in the wooded area between the campus and the nearby park was light and sparse, which made sense, considering the magical school within the college. Students would drain the magic as soon as it gathered.

  A flicker of something just past his range distracted him, pulling his focus from his work. He tilted his head, frowning.

  “Mo ghra?” Simeon asked softly. “What is it?”

  Angel twisted one hand, pointing in the direction of the disturbance. It was faint but approaching from the direction of the park. “Something…there. Coming here,” he murmured between measured breaths, mind still in a deep place of concentration, unable to withdraw too far lest he lose his place in the spells.

  “Keep working. I will see what it is.”

  He sank back down into his work. He could sense Simeon as he left, heading in the direction he’d indicated. More time passed, his awareness of it minimal.

  He’d just repaired the last of the broken spells when a loud howl came from the lich. Angel withdrew, aggravated at the interruption, when the lich roared in frustration. He opened his eyes, blinking to clear them, and dropped his arms.