The Necromancer's Dilemma (The Beacon Hill Sorcerer Book 2)

by SJ Himes

  Batiste bared his fangs back at him and said nothing. The fucker was pouting, which only told Angel that Batiste knew he fucked up. Anger unlike anything he’d felt in years simmered and pulsed beneath the surface, and Angel breathed in and out, doing his best not to let it overcome his control. Red hovered on the edges of his vision, and his muscles shook with adrenaline. Batiste’s perfection was rumpled, and it made Angel sneer.

  He had an anger problem. He knew it, hell, everyone knew it—but he wasn’t a murderer. Or he wasn’t trying to be one again. Angel clenched his fists harder, so hard his knuckles went white and his fingertips numb. He let go of a shaky breath, and tried to calm himself. Batiste took his chance, and fanged out, his marble perfection warping into the features of an ancient and powerful predator bred for killing.

  The Master broke one bond, then another, and Angel reacted instinctively. Unless Batiste wanted to kill him and Simeon, he doubted the Master would do more than escape, but old reactions never died. Angel reached for the veil, preparing a shield, but the death magic from his mate bond answered first, a smooth current of endless magical energy filling his body and mind.

  Batiste twisted, and slipped free, falling to the pavement, but Angel flicked a finger, and stopped the ancient vamp in mid-fall. Instead of green hellfire shackles, dark, shiny black smoke materialized in tentacles that wrapped and coiled around the master, stifling his screams and curses in an old dead language from across the cold sea. Angel’s anger drained from him as the death magic flowed into his core, silken and seductive and gentle, the magic so receptive to his will he had no time to finish a thought before it culminated in reality.

  There was no struggle. No overwhelming river of power that threatened to sweep aside his mind and shut him down. This was peace, and calm. An ouroboros that sang as it coiled within him, the song carrying hints of chocolate and mint, sapphire swirls and silver veins. It mingled with his hellfire and green death magic, and the golden cord underneath the foundation. His inner sight reverberated with the kaleidoscope of the infinity he saw within, and he swayed, at last understanding.

  There was nothing of which to be afraid. Meant to be, inescapable and whole. There was only trust and love, and Simeon at the center of it all. He smiled, a tiny quirk of his lips, and he was gladdened when the last remnants of his anger faded away.

  He was so tired of being angry.

  “Angel?” Simeon breathed out, and he tried to give Simeon a reassuring smile.

  “I won’t kill him,” Angel promised and he walked forward, and the smoke tentacles brought Batiste forward, forcing the old vampire to his knees in front of Angel.

  “What spell is this, necromancer?” Batiste hissed past his revealed fangs, the sharp incisors long enough to drop below his bottom lip. Power, old and with overtones of crisp apple cider that made his senses sing pushed out from Batiste. Angel sighed, and pushed back with the death magic at his command. “Simeon, rein your mate in, he’s gone mad!”

  “I will not, my master,” Simeon replied evenly, standing nearby, hands clasped calmly in front of him as he watched. “Be the man of honor I know you to be, and listen to Angelus.”

  Batiste growled, but his fangs retreated, his cerulean eyes glinting with anger, and to Angel’s amusement, perhaps even chagrin.

  “I called you here for help. Simeon was stabbed, and…I thought he was going to die. I called you for help. You said you would come, and thank you for that. I admit that by the time you got here I didn’t need you anymore, but it doesn’t change the fact you came. You love Simeon. I do, too. So thank you.”

  Batiste was listening, and Angel took a step closer, so close he had to look almost straight down to meet Batiste’s eyes. Black smoke cavorted about his ankles, rubbing against him like a cat, reminding him of Eroch. “But, and this is the part you really fucked up—when you saw your chance, you charmed my brother. You’re an absolute heavyweight in the charm department, asshole. You know it. You slithered your way into his mind, and while I have no issue with Isaac kissing anyone he wants—it has to be what he wants. For real.”

  Batiste’s beautiful face stilled, statuesque and perfect, even smudged by road salt and black death magic. Angel put his hands in his pockets, shivering in the cold. He hadn’t the time to put on the gear Isaac brought, and his ass was cold. He wanted to go home, and take Simeon with him. Check on Isaac, cuddle with Eroch, and maybe call Milly, and tease Daniel a bit about his good showing at the police station.

  “A short while ago you put your hands on me. It was a test, at least that’s what you called it, to divine the truth behind my feelings for Simeon. You touched me, against my wishes and without invitation. Tonight, you had no problem charming Isaac into letting you make a move on him. He really dislikes vampires, so his reaction to you doing that uncharmed would have been scorching, and not in any way good for you. I have no doubt of Isaac’s ability to fend off unwanted advances from you or anyone else—but he has to have free will.”

  Angel leaned down a bit, and whispered, “You’ve been charming your way through the centuries, haven’t you? Simeon loves you, so there has to be a decent person under that arrogant facade. So instead of killing you, I’m going to let you go. I won’t hurt you, but you won’t be unmarked.”

  Horror spread across Batiste’s handsome features, and Angel smirked. “I’ll apologize to the fledgling. You need not worry about me charming him again,” Batiste swore, and he sounded sincere. “It is habit. I always release my gift before approaching a possibly hostile situation. I knew not what caused Simeon to come to harm, and took no chances. I then saw Isaac, and Simeon unharmed, and your brother distracted me. Isaac is tempting, and I didn’t think.”

  Batiste offered more of an explanation that Angel expected, but that didn’t excuse his actions.

  “You will apologize, that’s true. To Isaac, in person, and only if he wants to see you. But you’re a crafty old supernat, and any promise you make me regarding Isaac will have a loophole. What you seek to gain from my bond with Simeon has lead you to look to Isaac. He will not be used to gain more power for yourself or your clan.”

  “No! Whatever you mean to do to me won’t last forever! No magic lasts long on a city master!” Batiste tried to struggle, pushing his own considerable power against Angel’s. He breathed out, and the black smoke stamped Batiste’s efforts into nothing.

  “Constantine Batiste,” Angel said, voice falling into a soft cadence, his heart beating with each syllable, every dip and rise. Hexing came as easily to him as his anger, and only self-control taught to him by his mentor and father kept him from handing them out indiscriminately over the years. Yet this one time, he didn’t think August or Raine Salvatore would argue his decision. Angel would hex the world to safeguard his brother. “Constantine, your charm is your weapon, your armor. Yet no purchase will it find in Isaac, no means to sway or deceive his mind or heart. He shall be forever impervious to that gift. No lies between you, be they charm or magic.”

  Angel lifted his hand, and a rune burned the air an inch above his palm, green and bright, and the glow reflected off the walls around them, Batiste’s face, Angel’s shirt and hand. Bright, searing, and full of purpose. Angel cast it off, and it shot forward, a narrow streak of green fire, and it stabbed through the black smoke, landing right over the quiet place where the undead man’s heart lay.

  Batiste screamed, flesh sizzling, the rune burning its presence into Batiste’s chest. He would be marked, forever, until Angel saw fit to remove it. To keep Isaac safe, he might leave it there until he died of old age.

  The burning stopped, and Batiste went limp. Angel let him go, the smoke receding as if it never was, and Simeon stepped around him. Simeon knelt beside his master, and gently loosened his tie and shirt, exposing the blackened skin burnt in the shape of the hex. “What does it mean, a ghra? And is he well, aside from a few bruises?”

  “The exterior
rune means ‘truth’, and it’s woven around a design I made years ago that represents Isaac,” Angel answered, walking a few steps away, kneeling down next to the dead man while Simeon tended to Batiste. “He’ll heal himself just fine, and wake up his normal self. He’ll just never be able to charm Isaac. Never again.”

  “His charm keeps our people safe, it’s one of his greatest gifts. Can he still use it?” Simeon asked as he straightened out his unconscious master. Angel paused in his examination of the dead human to watch Simeon brush back Batiste’s blond hair. There was affection there, and a distance Angel couldn’t understand. Perhaps it was a vampire thing, to love and yet remain remote.

  “His gift is intact. It just won’t work on Isaac, and only Isaac. I could have done more, gone further, but leaving him handicapped to such a degree would be a death sentence. Eventually he would need it, and not have it. Though, if he tries shit with Isaac again, and Isaac rebuffs him, Batiste deserves to be lit on fire.”

  “Thank you for your temperance, my love,” Simeon said quietly, and his battered and bloody mate sat next to Batiste’s shoulder, staring down at his master. “His power has always been great, and it overshadows his good sense. He was a good man, once. Many years ago now, but I still recall his kind heart. Perhaps getting his wings clipped will teach him again that we all have limits, and none of us are gods.”

  Isaac sniffled, wiping at his cheeks, ashamed to be crying. He didn’t even know why he was crying, not really. Hardly the first time he’d been kissed. The last time was months ago, right before an undead monster ripped Greg apart right in front of him.

  Isaac sighed heavily, and sat up, dislodging Eroch. The sleepy dragon opened one yellow eye and blinked at him before wiggling down into the spot he was just in. Isaac gave a short, wet chuckle before sliding from bed, legs weak and trembling. He thought about putting his shoes back on and returning to the crash site, but the mere possibility of seeing Batiste again stopped that thought really quick.

  He hoped Angel didn’t kill him.

  Isaac made his way haltingly out of his room, and looked into the open door across the hall. Daniel’s room was dark, the bed still made. Daniel had come home with Angel, and it was late. His brother’s apprentice usually went to bed early, except when Angel was still up and at home. Daniel liked being near Angel when they were home, as if the only safe place was in Angel’s orbit. Isaac got it, kind of, as Angel was a badass motherfucker. He was also an asshole, but Isaac saw the merit of keeping Angel between oneself and danger. Angel laughed at danger, literally, and then owned it for breakfast.

  Simeon had been attacked, his limo ambushed, and his driver murdered. Danger was coming for them again. Isaac knew the signs. He might have been very young during the last years of the Blood Wars, but he recalled enough long nights of waiting for loved ones to return from fighting their enemies to know what impending bad shit felt like.

  Isaac made it into the kitchen, and went for the fridge, ignoring the stack of red apples on the island in a crystal bowl. The apples reminded him of the Master’s kiss, fresh and clean and intoxicating. He shivered, and opened the fridge door, but a paper taped to the fridge caught his eye. It was a note. He frowned, unable to read it in the dark. He yanked it off and walked to the stove, the overhead light left on at night.

  I need Angel. Hurry.

  --Daniel

  “Eroch!” Isaac yelled, reading the address at the bottom of the hastily scratched note. The dragon screeched and Isaac heard him flying down the hall. He flicked on the lights, and saw Daniel’s smartphone left on the island next to the apples. He hadn’t taken it with him. The screen was cracked and the case broken.

  Isaac hadn’t raised the wards when he left after Angel. Daniel had been in his room changing, and presumably Daniel didn’t know Isaac and Angel left. Had someone gotten in?

  He looked back down at the address, and swallowed nervously.

  Macavoy Court, Cambridge. Daniel went home regularly, but this time Isaac suspected it wasn’t willingly.

  Chapter Ten

  Worth

  Daniel huddled in a corner of the chaise lounge, eyes on the floor. The study smelled of damp, rotten paper, dust, and sweat. The curtains were drawn, blocking out what little light made it in from the courtyard torches. Iron shackles sat nearby on the decrepit coffee table, his wrists sore and chafed from the hard metal that had kept his magic stifled on the way back home.

  Shuffling came from nearby, and he got a glimpse of a frayed hem and a scuffed slipper, the red hues faded and washed out. Pale, scrawny ankles and thin legs vanished from his view, and he hoped his father wouldn’t get closer. Leicester no longer bathed, personal hygiene lost somewhere in the depths of his depression and mania. His father stank to high hell, and no amount of incense burnt by the handful of retainers remaining at Macavoy Court made a dent in the stench.

  “No child of mine,” Leicester whispered, and Daniel risked a quick glance up. His father paused in his rambling shuffle, twisting his fingers and talking to the air, seemingly oblivious to Daniel’s presence. If he tried to leave, or move, his father would see him, fast as a snake, and he didn’t know if he could survive his father’s displeasure this time. Leicester tilted his head back like a bird, neck twisting as he tracked dusts motes through the air visible in the orange rays of light casting their sinister glow over the gothic furniture and dirty surfaces. He whispered, words too soft to hear reliably. “No child of mine.”

  Daniel gulped, and shivered, hoping to hear the sound of Angel’s voice soon. He tried texting, but Brutus, his father’s butler-cum-manservant had dashed his smartphone to the floor, cracking the screen. Begging for a moment to turn off the kettle in the kitchen before leaving, Daniel had scratched out the note and left it for someone, anyone to find.

  I’m not coming back. Ever.

  He was regretting that message he left on his father’s voicemail now. Brutus wouldn’t have come for him, surprising him and letting the bigger man get his hands on him. Iron shackles snuffed out his magic, and he wasn’t canny enough like Angel to burn through them with pure personal power. If he just hadn’t responded, kept his silence, he would be on the couch learning how to help Angel catch a serial killer. He tried to find some humor in that thought, but his father’s proximity sucked all joy from the room.

  Leicester went back to pacing, slapping at his head and yanking on the scraggly strands that grew haphazardly from his pale scalp. Once blond and thick as Daniel’s, Leicester’s poor diet and illness stripped from him his vitality and looks. His sanity eroded in the last ten years, Daniel mourned the loss of his parent, and feared the shadow of the man before him.

  “No child of mine. Shame, such shame. Can’t have it, won’t have it. Needs to die.”

  He wanted to go home, and Macavoy Court was no longer home, not for him. Not since Deimos came and Leicester handed Daniel over without protest. He didn’t know what was said between his father and the old master vamp, but Leicester had sent Daniel off with the vampire, bidding him with a scowl to obey the Elder and salvage their family name. Months of pain and humiliation followed, until a Salvatore, of all people, swept in like the angel he was named for and saved his life.

  “Angel, please,” Daniel prayed, whispering. “Please, hurry.”

  Daniel risked another glance at the ruin of his father, and the vacant eyes that stared back at him made a whimper escape despite his best efforts. Leicester shuffled over, standing too close for comfort, and leaned down, precarious and vibrating with tension. “Won’t live with the shame. We won’t.” Rancid breath wafted over his face, and Daniel gagged, pushing back into the chaise as far as he could go.

  Slap.

  His cheek flamed, and he had no doubt a perfect red imprint of his father’s thin hand was left behind. A thin line burned across the top of his cheek right under his eye, and Daniel wiped at it, blood on his fingertips. The Macavoy
family signet ring sat heavily on his father’s finger, the knob of one thin knuckle keeping it from falling off and getting lost in the debris that cluttered the floor.

  “Brutus!” screamed Leicester, and Daniel jumped, shaking. This wasn’t good at all, by any stretch.

  “My lord?” the hulking manservant asked from the doorway, obscured by shadow. Ever-present and annoying, Brutus has seen years of Leicester’s disintegration and his cruel treatment of Daniel—and done nothing.

  “Did you leave the gate open? Mustn’t make our guests late,” Leicester shuffled closer to the doorway, words thin and reedy, almost child-like.

  “The gates are unlocked, my lord,” Brutus replied, monotone.

  “Good, good. Hate to share our shame, but it must be done. Must be done,” he finished with a whisper, scratching at his scalp again, fingers rooting through the long, thin strands that somehow managed to survive his habit.

  The shadow that was Brutus gave a short bow and disappeared, and Daniel curled up into the couch, shaking.

  “Fa-ather?” Daniel dared to ask, stuttering. “You…you wanted me home?”

  Leicester spun, almost falling over, eyes wide, a sheen behind the dull layer for a moment. “My son…Daniel…my sweet boy…”

  “Yes, Father,” Daniel whispered, “I’m home. You sent Brutus for me?”

  “Brutus, loyal Brutus,” his father whispered, fingers randomly pointing into space, eyes tracking nothing, or perhaps more dust. “Brutus is loyal, always loyal to the Macavoys. Unlike my son. Daniel…where is Daniel?”

  “You sent Brutus for me? I’m home now. Can you tell me why you sent for me?”

  “Daniel!” Leicester’s eyes narrowed, zeroing in on him again, his father’s regard as inconstant as a compass in a shaky hand. Leicester’s mouth thinned, lips tight, cheeks splotchy. “Don’t interrupt me! Always interrupting me…” His voice trailed off, his father losing his train of thought before finding it again, or perhaps another altogether. “Foolish boy, useless boy. Always so useless.”