by SJ Himes
The enforcers inched closer, but Angel shook a finger at them. “I’m going to leave. I’ll be taking my mate’s pup with me. And there’s two ways I can leave.” They shared a glance before looking down at their boss, who was still squashed under Scáth. “What are the options?” The one on the left asked.
Angel pointed at the wendigo. “The horrible way is I let him go, point him in your direction, and let the bodies pile up. The really good way is no one gives me trouble, Scáth comes out once I’m outside, and I don’t leave Mr. Fugly here to play.”
The wendigo snarled at Angel, looming over him. The enforcer who spoke gulped audibly and said, “Take him with you, please.”
“Certainly!” Angel gripped the chains, waved jovially, and headed for the doors.
The cops outside were shouting, and Milly was dragging O’Malley out of range, and Angel poured power into his shields, both front and back, tightening the sphere until it was in a short radius of about an arm’s length. It was nearly solid—anything larger than a speck of dust would not be able to penetrate. He didn’t feel like getting shot.
“What is that?”
“Shoot it!”
The shouting got even more frantic when Angel took the chains in both hands, turned, and dragged the wendigo into the open air. It screamed, the sunlight searing its undead flesh, the light eating away at its very nature. Wendigos were not among the sentient undead, like vampires or revenants, not in life. This one was a lich, or nearly so—a malevolent undead that was voracious, insatiable, and lethal. Unchained, it would attack anything living. And keep attacking until it was destroyed or bound to a master. It was not yet a lich—for it to be so, Angel would need to complete the spell by letting it kill someone and eat their essence. Right now, it was merely animated by his will and affinity.
“Stay back!” Angel shouted and yanked on the chains again. The wendigo tried to fight him, but it could not. Angel would not let it kill and feed, and the wendigo was an evil being, even before its death. In life, they were warped, twisted, and unredeemable humans who became serial killers and cannibals. Black magic converted them into the wendigo form, becoming more depraved with each kill. They were, according to indigenous legends and history, notoriously difficult to kill, and it required shamanic magic to kill a living wendigo, as evidenced by the spear lodged in this one’s chest.
He pulled until he reached the middle of the sidewalk, and the wendigo flailed, screaming and howling, long arms waving, shredding the canopy and knocking over the metal support bars, red fabric tangling around its feet. The sun was not inimical to the wendigo like it was for the sentient undead—the sunlight was fueling the spear and the spells were still intact after centuries.
A few shots rang out and hit the wendigo, little puffs of green smoke escaping from the holes in its hide, but the wendigo took no notice of them. The sun was destroying it faster than a barrage of bullets. One bullet ricocheted off his shields and Angel glared over his shoulder, one cop guilty ducking behind the limo with a yelped apology.
“Hold fire!” Angel waved a thank you to O’Malley, the detective glaring at the uniformed officers with their guns drawn.
Angel knelt and called hellfire to his hands, locking the chains to the cement of the sidewalk. The cement bubbled then set again, the spectral chains fused in place. He backed away and ducked when a long, foul-smelling arm flew past where his head had been. Angel kept going until he was out of range, then stood.
Sunlight ate away at the wendigo, and Angel cut off the flow of death magic from himself into the creature. Sunlight and the removal of his power forced the beast to its knees, howling. Claws tore furrows into the cement, and cops and enforcers alike sprinted for cover as it flailed.
The wendigo fell flat, still howling, sections along its side and back smoking, flesh peeling back, the spear tip in its chest still glowing. Angel could not even begin to understand how shamanic magic worked, but the spells in the spear, weakened after centuries of being buried in the earth, seemed to gain strength in the sun, and sought the destruction of the wendigo and its second death. He couldn’t help it, his magic so vastly unlike the spells in the spear, but he could eradicate the undead. The wendigo was taking its time dying again, and the spear spells would take too long. He didn’t feel like spending the next hour watching it fall to pieces.
He would not cast the mourning fire spell—Simeon was too close, and he would not risk his mate. The wendigo was not one of the sentient undead, so he doubted the spell would work anyway. He would do this the brutal and most effective way.
Death magic of its own clung to the wendigo—a great deal of it, compiled over its lifetime of murder and depravity, and it infused the animated corpse, every cell, atom, and molecule, bone to hair to blood vessel to fangs.
Angel could see it, a cloud of greens and foul yellows, and he called. It misted about the wendigo in his inner vision, and it shifted in response to his call. It came, forming into strands, and he pulled it inside himself, setting his inner reserves aflame in hellfire, burning out the impurities from the wendigo. The spectral chains holding the beast burst, disappearing, green amidst the golden spring day light.
The wendigo’s inherent death magic came, all of it, in a great rush, and Angel took a step back, breathing through the sensation. He could not do to the sentient undead what he just did to the wendigo—the soul that inhabited the sentient undead was an anchor for their death magics and prevented Angel from taking the death magic animating them. It was easiest to do on the undead or risen dead Angel controlled himself, and he had to work through spells of another’s creation before doing the same to another risen dead or non-sentient undead.
The street was quiet. Wind rustled the budding branches on the white maples planted along the street, a plastic cup skipping down the street in the breeze. The silence rang loud in his ears, his own heartbeat echoing in his head.
He opened his eyes, having closed them at some point. The corpse of the wendigo lay in the sun, a collection of dried hide, sparse black hair, and a glowing spear head.
Angel shook out his hands, fingers tingling, and went to the corpse, nose wrinkling at the stench. It smelled like rotten paper, old bones, and dirt.
The body was utterly devoid of death magic now as empty as a stone cross on an altar in the center of a church. The spear glittered, golden lines of light skipping over the surface of the stone, and Angel reached down, pulling the foot-long spear head from the corpse.
Stone grated on dry bone and dust fell as the wendigo continued to disintegrate in the sun. The spear came free, and Angel kicked the corpse, collapsing it even further into a pile of dust and rapidly eroding bones. The wind came again, the spear warm in his hand, and the wendigo was gone, the light eating away the last of it, the breeze sending all traces of it away.
Angel turned to the limo and stopped.
A dozen or so shocked faces stared back at him, Milly gaping. Angel moved the hand holding the spear head behind his back and smiled. O’Malley looked like he was going to fall over, the older cop not at all equipped to handle having a giant undead being fall to literal pieces right at his feet.
“All’s well now. Are we free to leave?”
O’Malley nodded, still in shock. Angel went to the limo, carefully opened the door and scooted inside once he saw he had room. “Milly!”
It took a second, but Milly found herself and came around the rear of the limo, climbing over him, his athame still in her hand, her purse banging his knees. “Ouch! Watch it.”
She glared hard and he shut up.
He was just about to shut the door when Simeon whistled. A bark came from the consulate, and Scáth ran out the door and across the sidewalk, leaping into the limo. Angel pulled the door shut, hit the locks, and spoke to the driver who was staring back at him through the opened privacy panel. “The Tower, please.”
The driver turned around, and without saying a word, drove them out past the cops and the few enforcers on the street
, no one trying to stop them.
Getting himself into a shower took longer than he wanted. Eroch chirped and fluttered, and all but ambushed Angel the second he entered Simeon’s suite at the Tower. Juggling a dragon and a long-dead shaman’s spear head, Angel ignored everyone who piled into the suite behind him and went right to Simeon’s bedroom and into the bathroom. He dropped the spear in the sink, the dragon on the counter, and stripped as he went for the shower. He was dirty, tired, frustrated, and just needed a moment to gather himself and remember why he was doing anything, much less breathing.
Angel caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused for a second. Familiar features, so like his father’s. He was smaller than his father had ever been, Raine had been tall and slim, built more like Isaac. Apparently, Angel took after a long-distant ancestress in stature. He should be exhausted, and he was, but he didn’t look it. Angel leaned in closer to the mirror, frowning, and the crow’s feet around his eyes, the damn things that showed up after his twenty-ninth birthday, were gone. He squinted, and the same thing happened. Nothing.
Either he was going ‘round the bend, hallucinating, or something else entirely.
Angel laid a hand over his wrist, then the other, thinking. A thought came to him, Simeon’s blood and the mate bond was enough to repair recent surface damage, like small, recently acquired wrinkles. Despite his aches and pains, Angel smiled, and sure enough, the tiny lines were gone, and he chuckled. A small bit of good in an otherwise hectic day, taking a shower was more pressing at the moment than the disappearance of some tiny wrinkles. Eroch churred at him, the tiny dragon tilting his head, and Angel shrugged and got in the shower.
The water was hot, the rain shower heads above dropping the water on his aching muscles. Vampire blood did a lot for injuries but couldn’t do much for aches made by persistent tension. He just needed to catch his breath and relax for a minute or three.
Dirt ran down the drain and his hair was in his eyes as he leaned into the stone wall. It smelled of Simeon, though it was faint, not as strong as the first time he took a shower in here. Simeon lived with him now at his apartment and came home most mornings after his duties were over for the night.
Angel stood under the spray until the roar of the water started to make his head hurt, echoing in the shower stall. He shut off the water, his hand pushing the hair out of his face, blinking away the water. The shower door was fogged over, and he opened it. First thing he saw was Eroch sleeping in the sink, curled around the spear, and the second was his mate.
Simeon greeted him with a warm, fluffy towel and a tender smile. He reached for it, but Simeon wrapped the towel around him, enveloping Angel in soft, fluffy warmth and patting him dry. “I can dry myself.”
“I know, mo ghra.” Simeon leaned down and pressed a kiss to Angel’s shoulder. “I enjoy tending to you. Let me.”
“Okay.” Angel wasn’t going to say no to that.
Simeon dried him from head to toes then spent a few minutes drying Angel’s hair. “It’s too long again. I should cut it.”
“If you want, love, but I enjoy the longer length. It suits you.”
“It does?” Angel asked, and Simeon nodded, running his hands through Angel’s hair. “Oh. I guess I’ll leave it be.”
Simeon chuckled. He’d found time to change and was wearing a pair of silk pajama pants and a thin tee, the soft fabric hugging his broad shoulders, tight abs, and powerful thighs. Angel leaned forward and plastered his naked body to Simeon, resting his cheek on Simeon’s chest. The muscles beneath his cheek were stone hard, cool, and the skin smooth. His tattoos were dark enough to show through the thin tee, dark blue-greens beneath the white that looked like bruises. Angel sighed, hugging Simeon about the waist, and leaned all his weight into his lover. Simeon didn’t even budge, immovable and strong. His skin warmed beneath Angel’s cheek, the vampire absorbing and reflecting Angel’s body heat. There was no heartbeat beneath his ear, but that stopped being strange ages ago. It was now a comfort—Simeon would not be taken from him as easily as a mortal lover could.
“Is it wrong I want to stay like this all day?” Angel asked after a long, peaceful moment.
Simeon hummed quietly, the sound more a sensation than anything, full of sympathy and concern. “No, love. Not wrong at all. The world is clamoring to get to you, but I’ve locked them out. They can stay out there for as long as you need.”
“Giselle still alive?”
“Aye, and awake. She’s being tended to by Dame Fontaine. I am under the impression it was a spell that kept her unconscious. Dame Fontaine is quite incensed.”
“Huh. The enforcers must have a knockout spell for people they take into custody. Assholes.”
“Indeed.”
Angel hugged Simeon tighter, burying his nose in his mate’s shirt, breathing in the subtle, sexy scent unique to Simeon. “Surprised Milly didn’t knock her back out. Giselle read my aura with her tarot deck. Pissed me off.”
“Ah, yes. The deck in question is in Dame Fontaine’s possession, and she has already refused to return it to Professor Hardwick. There was a very short, pointless debate, and Professor Hardwick is now sulking.”
“Any blowback from the Council in regard to this morning’s misadventures?” Angel really hoped the answer was a no even if that was unrealistic. He just wanted to stay right here and enjoy being in Simeon’s arms, safe from everything.
“My master is currently downstairs, dealing with the mayor, the police commissioner, and the magister. There are rumbles the Council is sending someone, or several someones, here to Boston to help Malis handle the situation. I’ll know more when my master returns.”
“I don’t care who they send. I’m not standing trial. The Council can’t abandon this city and its people for decades then suddenly return when the power dynamics change and expect to come out on top. They aren’t here to uphold the law—they’re here for something else. Someone else. Or maybe something they think someone has or knows.”
Angel pulled back just enough to look up at Simeon. His mate caressed his face, long cool fingers tracing over his eyebrows, down his nose, across his lips, before cupping his jaw. “The spell you used all those years back?”
Angel shrugged, turning his face into Simeon’s palm. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because of us.”
Simeon frowned, eyes searching Angel’s face, as if to memorize every surface, every angle and dip. “Us?”
“I’ve never heard of a practitioner and vampire bonding before. If I’ve never heard of it, then it must be rare. I know it’s known to the bloodclans, but the clans hold secrets closer than any other species out there except the fae. I think a pairing between a necromancer and a vampire is rare enough to stir the Council into acting after years of indifference.”
“The bond,” Simeon said.
Angel nodded. “The Council has to know a practitioner and a vampire gain from each other in a Leannán bond. It’s the High Council. There’s no way they don’t know about the results of such a bonding. The shared powers, the protections, the healing and immunity to magic poisoning. And don’t think I haven’t noticed I’ve stopped aging. I even lost that one gray hair I had. The tiny lines around my eyes are smoothing out. I look great for a thirty-year-old retired twink. I now look younger, despite being a year older and stressed out to hell and back.” Simeon had the grace to look slightly abashed, and Angel snorted softly. “Yeah. We’re gonna talk about that side effect there when things calm down. But I really think the Council is after us because of my affinity. Maybe, just maybe, they know a necromancer gains even more from a bond with a vampire than the average practitioner.”
“What do you mean?”
Angel sighed and pulled back from Simeon, but took one of his hands in his and led him from the bathroom. The bedroom was slightly chilly on his naked flesh, and Angel went to the bed and crawled in. He held the covers for Simeon and moved over, Simeon cradling him close. He didn’t care it was in the middle of the day and people were
waiting on him out in the main room. He was taking a nap with his mate. The world could wait.
“Angel?” Simeon reminded him.
Angel cracked a yawn and snuggled into Simeon’s arms. “Yeah. Sorry. I can access the primordial death magic animating the sentient undead—vampires. The magic that makes you who you are, makes all vampires who they are, I can touch it, use it, and it pours into me uncalled. I’m a battery that’s plugged in and constantly charging.”
Simeon went stiff, arms tightening to a scary degree before relaxing. He rolled Angel under underneath him, cradling him in shadow and the soft mattress below. “They want you. If they have you in their control, then they have me. They have us both, and then they gain leverage over you through Daniel—they control your magics.”
Angel roped his arms around Simeon’s neck and sighed. “Yup.” Angel lifted his head and nipped on Simeon’s full lower lip. Simeon growled softly, his fangs dropping. Angel smiled. “Not a bad plan on their end, really. They threaten Daniel with imprisonment or stripping of his magic, or you with staking or sunlight, and there isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do to keep you both safe. The world would burn. And they know it.”
“I would let myself go into the sun before anyone abused you so,” Simeon swore, and Angel shook his head.
“No, Simeon. Don’t say that. Never say that. If you died, I would follow.”
“It is the vampire that is destroyed by a broken Leannán bond, my love. You could survive such a loss.”
Angel took Simeon’s face in his hands and stared deep into his mate’s emerald eyes. “No, Simeon. If you die, I die. I’ve been there in the dark place before, those I love gone on without me, a wasteland of grief and death and nothingness. I don’t have the strength or the will to survive it again. I set death on fire to end the pain, and I would not hesitate to do it all again. I love you, which means I want a long, long life with you.”
