by SJ Himes
“She’s an evil criminal mastermind who stole a ghost.”
Milly snorted inelegantly as the cab stopped outside their destination. Angel swiped his credit card and added a hefty tip then followed Milly out of the cab.
“Surely, you’re not thinking a respected teacher is running a grave-robbing scheme,” Milly said, aghast. Milly had been a teacher for many years, likely longer than Angel had been alive, but he was never, ever, going to ask her age. She had an ageless quality to face and form, diminutive and fierce, elegant and timeless. Her nude kitten heels were six-inch-tall weapons, her perfect manicured nails were blood red and pristine, and her gorgeous thick mane of gray hair was swept up in an elegant coif at the back of her head. The light blue dress she wore hugged curves that held no sign of age, but her eyes held a depthless wisdom no young person could possibly contain.
Milly was either a stunning early forties or a devastating ninety-year-old. He loved his cock where it was, so he’d never guesstimate aloud.
Determining age with practitioners was difficult; the higher ranks, especially sorcerers, tended to live longer with the magic they lived in and used daily; it added years to middle age and staved off the geriatric decades. Most practitioners lived the majority of their lives appearing as if they were a well-preserved forty years old. One of Angel’s own ancestors lived well over one hundred-fifty years before dying in the early years of the Blood Wars. The more power a practitioner had at their command, the longer they lived…unless they were killed.
Milly frowned at him, reminding him of the stern, terrifying instructor he’d met in his youth. He smiled and held open the door to the magic history department building at Boston College. “That glare hasn’t scared me since I first saw it,” Angel murmured, and Milly slapped his bicep with a dainty hand.
“You reprobate,” she muttered, winking. “But seriously, my dear. Professor Hardwick has a long established, respectable career. Her lectures on ancient artifacts are always sold out and sought after. Getting into her graduate program is fiercely competitive.”
“I’m not knocking her career. I’m sure she’s every bit a formidable professional. Much like someone else I know.” Milly smirked, and Angel followed her into the stone and hardwood foyer. Placards with etched names lined the walls, arrows pointing down the halls that led to offices for the tenured academics. “I just think she’s running a criminal enterprise in between classes and doctoral theses. The police never caught the rest of the grave robbing crew, the two I caught at the cemetery never ratted out their friends, but someone was pulling their strings. Then I get a visit from a wealthy widow who happens to have a friend adept enough to summon the deceased husband’s ghost, and once things have settled down and the widow grows lax, the cane and ghost are stolen? I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Angel found the professor’s name and went down the hall indicated. Milly sighed and hiked her shoulder bag higher on her arm. “Tell me you won’t lead with that. You’ve got no proof.”
“Not the police. Don’t need evidence fit for the courts. The worst that’ll happen…”
“.. is that you’ll set her on fire and end a brilliant career.” Milly interrupted, finishing his sentence. She checked doors as they passed, looking at the names.
“What? No. I’m not that bad.” Angel protested, eyes wide. Milly snorted at him and kept checking names as they walked. “Am I?”
Angel stopped in the middle of the hall, and Milly stopped with him. “Am I?” he asked again. She peered at him as if surprised then a look of contemplation softened the sharp angles of her face. She was a lovely woman and dear to him. His best friend and surrogate mother in one.
“Your penchant for solving problems with finality is both a blessing and a curse, my dear,” Milly began. She hesitated but continued as if delivering a bad grade to a favorite student. “In situations when the police should be called, many times the coroner is needed instead.”
Angel sighed but didn’t dispute her assessment. “I spared the serial killer fae, Cian.”
“You spared him because he loved his brother, and for brotherly love, you would forgive anything,” Milly stated, and Angel’s brows went up in surprise. “You raised Isaac when you were both orphaned. That insane and gorgeous man loved his twin and killed to save him. The whole issue could have been avoided if he just did even a little bit of gossiping in this town instead of gallivanting around the globe. You would have helped him without qualm.”
Angel nodded. He’d said the same to Cian Brennan before the vampires handed him over to the humans for justice. Angel was not the necromancers of ages long turned to ash, evil men and women who raised armies of the undead for mayhem and destruction. Cian Brennan let the past and his own strict and off-putting rules of behavior keep him from the simplest and easiest of solutions.
The fae lord sat to this day in a warded cell, waiving his right to a trial after admitting his guilt. He was to serve a life sentence for every being, supernatural and human, he killed attempting to resurrect Ruairí. A fae’s life was eternal, so the state intervened and adjusted each sentence to the average lifespan of each being killed. The humans made the averages lower, and since the vampire he killed was resurrected by Batiste, Cian was spared an eternity behind bars. If the state of Massachusetts existed long enough to match the sentence, Cian Brennan would be out in about a thousand years, give or take a few centuries for good behavior. Angel couldn’t wrap his mind around living that long, much less in a prison cell.
“Fine,” Angel declared. “I won’t set her on fire if she doesn’t make me.” Milly quirked a brow and sighed, shaking her head. “That’s the best I can do right now. So far, the graverobbers haven’t killed anyone, just stolen from dead people and their surviving families. Despicable, but not worthy of death. And I wasn’t planning on killing them, anyway.”
“I can say I’m not surprised the Council has issue with your past methods of problem-solving,” Milly sighed.
“The Council isn’t here to slap my wrists for vigilantism. Most of the things they took issue with in their letter were done under the auspices of the bloodclan’s endorsement. They want something from me. They abandoned this city and its people when they left during the Blood Wars. And they never cared even when they were here.”
Angel turned and headed down the hall and Milly tapped along behind him, her heels loud on the stone floors. He found the door at the very end of the hall, at the far side of the building from the main entrance. It was open, and Angel knocked on the frame. “Hello?”
The office appeared empty but felt occupied and was far larger than he was expecting. It was more suite than single room; a door off to the right led to what looked like a kitchenette and a bathroom, and the room was wider than it was deep, with tables laden in books and artifacts, stacks of papers, and every wall covered in bookshelves. A large desk took up the left side of the room, a deep mahogany monstrosity that held a lamp, a leather blotter in the center in front of the tall wingback chair, and a small stained-glass lamp. It was the cleanest space in the room. It wasn’t a dirty office, but well-lived in and clearly bore the personality of its occupant. Sunlight streamed in from the windows on two walls, the office large enough it took up the corner space of the building. Thin white lace curtains fluttered in the breeze from the windows, each cracked a couple inches.
“Anyone here?” Angel called out again, and Milly peeked around his shoulder into the room.
“Come in and have a seat. I’ll be but a moment, Mr. Salvatore,” a disembodied voice called from the direction of the kitchenette. Angel quirked a brow at Milly, who shrugged back. They entered, and Milly went for the desk area, sitting in front of the desk in one of the two chairs available. She slung her bag on the arm of the chair and sat, crossing one knee over the other and her hands in her lap, every inch the lady.
A murmur of voices drew his attention. The higher tone of a woman whispering, and the lower register of a male responding. Volume was too low for An
gel to discern words, but he gathered they didn’t want Angel to hear them. A second later, Giselle Hardwick exited the side room, looking very much like she had in the old picture of Lady Kensington’s. Blond hair swept up in a tight bun, dressed in casual light-colored clothing, she swept across the room, nodding once to Angel with a professional smile. No attempt at a handshake which he was thankful for—some practitioners who had daily contact with mundane humans adopted the casual touching habits between strangers. You shook hands only if you knew someone and were comfortable learning something potentially private from the physical contact. “Mr. Salvatore, my friend Heather told me you were coming. I understand you have some questions about a favor I provided her a few months back?”
Giselle sat at her desk, then noticed Milly. “Dame Fontaine! A pleasure! What brings you along today?”
“Angel and I are partners. We own a private tutoring studio for advanced young sorcerers in Beacon Hill,” Milly replied with a wide smile. “We’re going out for lunch after we leave here. New place just opened down on Tremont.”
Angel resisted the urge to roll his eyes, meandering over to stand in front of the desk, but a couple steps behind the chairs. Something told him to not get too close. Part of his attention was on the door at his back where he knew someone else was staying hidden. Kind of rude not to come out, but he figured the person in the kitchenette was someone involved in the grave robbing crew. Why else stay in a small room when they could leave and come back later?
“Ah, so some company on a fine spring day?” Giselle answered. She opened a drawer to her right and pulled out a small silk bag, untying the strings. “Sounds like a wonderful way to spend the day. I’m here inside, tending to term papers and overworked graduate students.”
“Why did you give Lady Heather the cane with Greyson’s ghost if you were only going to steal it later?” Angel interrupted. Giselle blinked at him, and Milly sighed, putting a hand to her forehead and shaking her head. Angel stared at Giselle, focused on her hands and eyes, waiting to see if she would attack or attempt to bluff her way out. He heard a faint curse from behind him from the kitchenette and stifled a smile. His instincts were spot on.
Giselle finally snapped out of her shock then opened the silk bag, pulling out a tarot deck. She shuffled it expertly, letting it sit on the desk in a neat stack. It was an illuminated deck—painted and ornate on thick card stock and with edges that spoke of frequent use. She laid her hand on the deck, palm down, hand flat, eyes intent. “What makes you say that, Mr. Salvatore?”
Bluffing, then. He could play along. “I know you summoned Greyson Kensington’s ghost and attached it to his cane. You then taught your friend Lady Heather how to power the spell keeping Greyson here on this plane. You knew she had it. You know her well enough to know where she would keep it once Greyson settled back into the shop and the apartment above. You waited long enough to cast doubt on your involvement then you took it.”
“Sounds sensational,” she replied and took a card of the top of the deck, laying it face up. The Knight of Swords, illustrated in beautiful craftsmanship, glimmering in the sunlight from the window at Giselle’s back. A knight, resplendent in armor, sword drawn, flowers and birds decorating the horse’s tackle, the charger running toward battle, bodies on the field. An instrument of change, a general on the field, fueled by powerful intellect and unmoving intent. Angel eyed the card then flicked his gaze to Giselle’s studiously bland expression.
“Not really. I’m kind of upset about this. Less than thirty-six hours and I’ve solved the case,” Angel quipped. “I suspected before I even went to the shop last night, but I had to be sure.”
“And are you sure?” Another card flipped, and Angel realized Giselle was laying out the cards for a reading. This one was Death, a grim reaper upon a barren field, scythe in hand, robed and hooded in black with green hellfire eyes, lined in silver. Change and power, and the more obvious answer; necromancy. Sometimes the cards gave the most topical of answers, with no need to dig deeper for hidden truths that weren’t relevant.
“I am.” Angel waited, his anger rising with each card. She could either be checking the cards as they appeared old and well-used, doing a reading for herself to see what the outcome may be of this meeting, or she was reading one of them. Likely not Milly, as his partner was sitting in shock, eyeing the cards, flummoxed by the absolute rude behavior she was seeing from an erstwhile professional. The likely person was himself, which put Angel on edge. Her effrontery was astounding though he needed more cards to determine if she were reading him or herself dealing with Angel.
“I could call security and have you escorted from the building. Heather told me you were going to be helping her, not harassing her friends.”
“I’m more concerned about the trapped souls your goons are toting about town, using them to rip off grieving loved ones. No one messes with the dead in this town.”
“Goons?” A lift of a thin blond eyebrow and a third card landed on the leather blotter. He could see the illustration, this time of The Magician, a man who gathered resources from varied places and strengths and used his powerful will to wield tools to take on any challenge. Milly shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. It was clear Giselle was violating all rules of common decency. The cards were meant to be treated with more respect than this farce. “You believe I have goons?”
“Ruffians? Criminals? Bag guys? Black Hats?” Angel shrugged. “Call them what you want. Doesn’t change what they are, or what they’re doing. They do the messy, hard work, you fence the things they find in the grave and tombs. Easy enough, as you specialize in antiquities and magical artifacts. You know the spells to recall the dead, and you use them. You can’t handle more than a couple at a time, since your affinity is for air, so you’ve maintained a relatively low profile, even after your two compatriots were arrested a couple months ago. Slow and steady usually wins the criminal a pass from getting caught, but you got stupid and stole your rich bestie’s dead husband’s ghost.”
“Do you have proof?” A fourth card landed on the blotter. The Tower. Tearing down of the old, building the new, improvements, or a forced destruction of the world as it is to make way for a new order. It could also be literal, much like the Death card, and Angel worried for the loved ones he left behind in that edifice of power. His brows rose, and his hands twitched when another card came down, and it was appropriate for how Angel was feeling at the moment; Judgment. This one with the Archangel Gabriel, flaming sword in hand, dressed in red and white robes, calling to the dead. They rose from their earthly graves to face their final judgment. An angel raising the dead. A battle for judgment, who would be judged, who would be deemed innocent or guilty. His jaw clenched, and his teeth ached.
Milly turned in her seat, mouth agape. Giselle was reaching for another card. Milly’s shock was palpable; Angel shook his head, and in all his long years of facing off with assholes, this woman was the pinnacle of Asshole Mountain. The card she drew next cinched it for Angel; he was moving the second he recognized the Six of Wands. Victory in battle and acclaim from whom the victor cares about.
He walked forward between the chairs, and Milly gasped; Giselle sat back swiftly when he slapped his hand on the deck and stopped her from drawing a seventh. “I did not give you permission do a reading for me! What the hell are you thinking?”
To do a tarot reading for someone without their consent was the height of rudeness—it was a violation. Like reading someone’s personal aura without their consent. Angel refused to let even medical professionals read his aura, and he had similar rules for tarot—never. Both methods were too revealing, and Angel had plenty to protect by keeping his secrets. He had no use for his future told through artifacts and tools; he shaped his future and guarded his privacy zealously.
“I…” Giselle stammered as she sat back. Angel growled through clenched teeth, and she blanched, holding her hands up, palms out, surrendering.
Milly darted in, gathering the cards in her lap. �
��Angel, she pulled the Knight of Swords, Death, The Tower, Judgement, The Magician, and the Six of Wands. These cards are all you. She was reading you.” Milly was strident and deeply insulted, and Angel trembled with rage.
“This is interesting.”
Angel spun to the door, one hand pausing as he reached instinctively for his athame.
Magister Malis stood in the doorway, enforcers at her back.
11
Jailbait
Milly slipped the tarot deck into her purse, stood, and went to Angel’s side, grabbing the hand that had been reaching for his weapon. “Don’t. Don’t do anything.”
“I come looking for my prize defendant, and I find instead a crime being committed before my eyes,” Malis purred as she entered the room. “What a wonderful way to start the day.”
She was dressed differently than their first meeting; in dark silks and a black leather, thick jacket that was likely spelled and sewn to deflect knives and claws. Hair pulled back and out of her eyes, Malis wore a satisfied expression, a smirk tugging at her lips. Enforcers entered the room around her, breaking like waves of black, and Angel counted at least six of them; there were probably more in the hall. The emblem of the High Council sat proudly on her chest above her left breast, and the enforcers, nameless men and women, wore similar badges on their expensive dark clothing, dressed much like their leader.
“Giselle Hardwick?” Malis asked, and with a flick of her hand, two enforcers went for Giselle, ripping her from her seat. She didn’t even give Giselle a chance to speak. Iron shackles came out and clasped over her wrists, sparks flying as they were set in place. Giselle cried out as her magic was dampened, and the two enforcers grabbed her by her arms and began dragging her to the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” Angel demanded, but Malis ignored him, though her smile grew into a malicious grin, showing her pristine white teeth. Milly dug in her fingers, silently pleading with him to stay quiet.
