by SJ Himes
Simeon backed away, arranging himself on Angel’s right and a step back. Simeon would have a front row seat to Angel’s spell, and he would also be out of line of sight. Simeon was accustomed to magic users. Smart fucker.
Greg was watching Angel, sweat still running from the top of his head and down his face. His hands were shaking, and he was gripping the edge of the table as if the room was spinning. The compulsion riding Greg was set sloppily, and it was unraveling fast. Whoever hired Greg to break into the vampires’ restaurant-cum-apartment building was either really impatient, incompetent, or was willing to risk a man’s life and sanity for monetary gain—Angel was betting the latter. He didn’t know for sure what the Master had cooking around in vamp HQ, but seeing as how the Master was rumored to be over a thousand years old and was a near recluse, Angel wouldn’t be surprised if the oldest vamp in Boston had some things worth stealing in the building.
Angel leaned back in his chair, cheroot in his right hand, holding it like he was waiting for a light.
“So, Greg, think you can work your way around that compulsion buried in your brain, or is this gonna get dirty?” Angel asked, conversational and relaxed.
Greg blinked at Angel in confusion, and he was guessing the answer was no. Greg probably wasn’t even aware he’d been compelled to stay silent. Most humans weren’t capable, lacking in mental willpower and fortitude to work themselves free from a compulsion, but it was known to happen. Angel was certain Greg was not amongst the able. Most addicts have their willpower eroded by their habits.
Magic came in many forms. Elemental magic was the province of witches, each witch with his or her own particular affinity, be it fire or air or any of the other elements. All magic users are born to it, like witches and wizards. A wizard is a beefed up witch, male or female, and can access power beyond the elements. That was the point where magical energy begins to gather, and it pushed at the veil between worlds, bleeding over the barrier to the other side. Wizards were able to access the more powerful pockets of magical energy, before it left this plane. As soon as magical energy was over there, on the other side, it joined a deep well of power that was usually beyond access by mortals. Unless the magic user was a sorcerer. Or sorceress. Once the magic bled through the veil, it was usually out of bounds. The different rankings of magic user were really dependent on the level of power a person had access to, and their ability to manipulate it.
Angel was ranked as a sorcerer. The unfathomable infinite maelstrom of magic that gathered beyond this world in a brilliant sea of light and shadows, swirling and singing… Angel could use it. He was able reach out, through the veil, and touch the infinite. And even within the three tiers of magic users, witch, wizard, and sorcerer, there were rankings. All based on the personal strength of their individual abilities, and their affinities.
Angel’s affinity was for death, and he was a necromancer.
Not just death in its literal meaning; but all that lead to death and dying, and everything touched by mortality. Spirits, ghosts, poltergeists, all kinds of undead, the dying, illness, disease, poisons, and mortal injuries, and a whole mess of really nasty creatures and conditions. Anything on the other side of the veil and anything rushing towards death was within Angel’s affinity, in reach of his talents. Angel got along great with demons and vampires, when they weren’t trying to kill him. Nothing makes a vamp more nervous than a necromancer. The smart ones, at least.
Greg had a serious case of the shakes, and Angel figured the idiot was close enough to have his brain melted and his nerves fried that the technique he had in mind would work. He leaned to the side, and hooked one leg over an arm of the chair, kicking off his sandal, which plopped to the floor. Angel took his eyes off Greg, and held up the cheroot, staring at it. Just at the end, breathing in and out all the while, soothing his temper and thoughts.
It was never wise to perform delicate spells when mad. Horrible things tended to happen.
“Need a light?” Simeon asked softly, voice heavy with a dry irony that made the other vamps chuckle and the slaves twitter.
Angel quirked a brow at the handsome vamp without taking his eyes off the slim cigar, and let his vision blur at the periphery, focusing on the tip, and called soundlessly for fire. A tiny red ember flared to life at the end of the cheroot, and a thin wisp of smoke rose. A soft, wordless sigh echo through the room, and the atmosphere shifted. It was as if the roof was gone and they were all under the open night sky, hemmed in by close walls, cocooned and safe. Nothing but a sensory illusion, but was powerfully present. Magic—it moved Angel in strange ways. He let his eyes close, and tipped his head back as he took that first sweet drag of freshly lit tobacco, potent and burning, hot as it slid over his tongue and into his lungs.
Angel sensed the power in the room, heard the whispers of it as it pooled and eddied around him, gray and cool and fluid. His eyes were still shut, but that was no matter. Angel could see the magic as no one else in this room was able, tangible and real and malleable. He held his breath, the smoke deep in his lungs, and called. It answered, rising from the floor and peeling off the walls, racing from the dim glow of the humans in the room. It came to him, time slowing, the magic winding about itself, roping and writhing like snakes made from liquid light and smoke. Angel held the tumbling cloud of magic in front of him, with the merest shift of his thoughts and opened his eyes. Angel dropped his chin, and looked to Greg. Angel held his breath, reality around him slow and heavy.
Angel let the smoke out of his lungs, blowing it to where the cloud of magic hovered unseen. If Angel called more magic, anyone could see it, but there was no need. He had enough. Angel was not raising the dead, merely manipulating the approaching death of the compelled man, so what he gathered was sufficient. The smoke from his lungs arced through the invisible magic cloud, and thickened, becoming more substantial. It grew, and moved with the magic gathered over the table. Angel heard Simeon shift on his feet, and the other vamps stiffened. The humans all inhaled sharply, and stared. They don’t often see magic performed, going by their reactions. Greg was so far gone he was barely conscious.
Time to play.
Angel gave the smoke and magic cloud a gentle mental nudge, and a thin thread of it peeled off from the mass and snaked out towards Greg. He saw it coming, and jerked, trying to escape the chair. It was the compulsion working, trying to get the compelled out of the way of the spell.
The smoke was on him before Greg even finished lifting in his seat. A thin thread ran into his gaping mouth, as if inhaled. The magic pulled the writhing mass from the air into his body. Eventually all the smoke was absorbed, and Greg stopped breathing. He slumped in his chair, hands falling from the table, and he fell over, forehead smacking the hard wood surface.
“Mors nos tangit omnes,” Angel whispered, releasing all tension from his muscles, relaxing fully in the chair.
Death touches us all.
He pulled in a breath, and collected his thoughts, taking his time. Though not too much time, a man was dying across the table from him.
“Life reduced to cold corpse, enslaved flame to ash. Ash to smoke, death made spirit. All is mine by first and last breath. Potest quidem mortuum meum,” Angel recited softly, each word pushing the smoke and magic through Greg’s body.
What is dead is mine.
The tobacco was the corpse, the spark Angel called the enslaved flame, the ashes to smoke, and so on. Magic was an English major’s wet dream of symbolism. Angel used the bare bones version of a greatly complicated spell, not needing the full incantation. He was not aiming to create a zombie, just get some answers and free an idiot from another magic user’s influence. Technically Greg was dying right that second. Body starved of oxygen, his brain suffering under the rapidly eroding compulsion that was killing him just as fast as Angel’s spell.
Until Angel stopped it.
Vision blurred again, melding the invisible with the visible. Angel watched the smoke running through Greg, filling every crevasse of
his body, every artery and vein. It raced through his nerves, his muscles, and battled its way up the compelled man’s spinal cord. Angel saw when the gray smoke hit Greg’s brain stem, and that is where the sparks happened. Angel was able to see the compulsion, and set the smoke on it like a hound to a coon. The smoke flashed hot, and burnt away the spell buried in Greg’s brain. The remnants disappeared fast, as swiftly as small embers thrown from a bonfire.
Now he is mine.
“Hear me, Gregory Doyle. Hear me, and obey. Breathe, and speak.”
Angel took a new drag on the cheroot, and the tip glowed as he breathed in, and Greg’s chest rose with his. Greg sucked in air and began to cough. He sat up slowly, coughing and hacking, tears running from his eyes. The scent of fire and smoke was immediately present in the room, as if they were all about to be consumed by flames. His red-shot eyes locked on Angel’s, and for the first time in an hour, he saw true recognition in them.
“Angie? What the hell?” Greg mumbled, clearly not understanding what was happening. He probably didn’t remember anything since he agreed to rob Boston’s Master. Angel narrowed his eyes at the annoying nickname, but decided not to waste time on it.
“Seems you were an idiot, Greg. Someone hired you to rob the Master, break into his place, and steal something here. Care to share?” Angel said, a hint of impatience leaking past his control. His magic stayed steady, Greg’s life ticking away by the second.
Greg blinked, lost and dazed, but Angel was expecting that. Angel sent the smoke through Greg’s mind, inhaling another deep drag of tobacco rich air. Angel could almost see the individual memories flash in Greg’s eyes as he burnt away the fatigue and stress, the injuries to the other man’s brain left behind by the compulsion as it controlled him.
“Answer me, now.”
Greg spoke so fast he startled himself. “It was some dude down at Sexy Femme in Fall River. Never seen him before. Said he would pay cold hard cash for a quick job.”
“What was his name? What did he look like?” Simeon asked at his shoulder, and he spoke to Greg directly. Angel tipped his head once, and Greg breathed in time as he inhaled more smoke. The cheroot was a long one, but this was taking some time, and Angel needed to hurry this up. Only a couple of deep drags and the slim cheroot was half way gone to ash. Angel would rather not explain to Isaac why he turned his best friend into a living zombie, or a ‘wraith’, as the community called them.
Greg looked at Simeon, and furrowed his brow.
“I…. he called himself Deuce. Tallish kid, dirty blond hair, pale, with really dark eyes. Kinda thin. Had a leather jacket, and five thousand dollars.”
“Deuce? Gawd that’s horrible.” Angel couldn’t restrain himself, and one of the blood slaves giggled. He sent the walking blood bag a wink, and Simeon glared at him before returning his attention to Greg.
“What did he hire you to steal?” Simeon asked, his accent stronger, and Angel heard the anger in his voice. Angel didn’t blame him for being upset. Someone invaded his home, and tried to steal from him and his master. Angel would have been pissed in his place, and the thief would have been turned to ash or minion in seconds. Simeon, thinking about it now, had a lot more restraint that Angel gave him credit for—or maybe that was the Master.
“I don’t know. He gave me the money, and told me where to go….” Greg’s face developed a seriously confused expression, and Angel took another drag, a smaller one, trying to conserve what was left of the cheroot. Angel was unable to sense any hesitation on Greg’s part. There was nothing left of the compulsion. Simeon growled, and took a small step, as if he wanted to rip the answers from Greg’s body.
“Simeon.” The Celt turned his head to Angel, eyes vivid and striking. Angel gave him a small frown, and shook his head once. “He doesn’t know. I don’t think he was really sent here to steal anything; he would recall what it was. He is incapable of hiding anything from me right now.”
“Explain.”
“I’m thinking the compulsion was placed as soon as Greg saw the money. His greed gave that Deuce guy a mental foothold on him. Whoever this Deuce is never told Greg what he was stealing, merely that he was going to steal something here. Where to go, and what to say once he was caught.” It made sense in a limited fashion, but then Angel was just a necromancer. He didn’t hire people to do his dirty work, he saved that for himself. “I’m thinking this Deuce guy was either expecting your fanged brethren to tear him apart, or even me for that matter. Maybe he was just fucking around? Doubtful, but even idiots can be born gifted.”
“Interesting.” Simeon looked thoughtful. Well, as thoughtful as he could when he looks like he wanted to sink his teeth into Greg and rip out his throat.
“Yeah…. He got compelled. Only thing he’s really guilty of is being an idiot.” Angel dropped his leg from the armrest, put both elbows on the table, and stared at the end of the cheroot. It was about to go out. The smoke cloud inside of Greg was wriggling faster, settling in deep, seeking out every cell and molecule. “I gotta end this now before it’s too late.”
“Damnation,” Simeon cursed, and Angel smirked. He would never tell Simeon, but that sounded almost British. He knew better though, and refrained.
Angel grabbed the small silver dish, and dropped the column of ash into it. He then added the end too, and lit it on fire with a flicker of thought, burning it to ash as well. Angel dug in his bag, and his hand found the lone glass vial of holy water near the bottom. He pulled it out and popped the cork, pouring the blessed water into the silver dish, the ash turning to a floating dark gray mess that suddenly stunk to high hell. Greg was shaking his head, hands clutching and releasing at the edge of the table, and his eyes were growing dull, the smoke coiling just behind his corneas. If Angel had the desire, he could let this go on until completion, and give himself a living wraith, a pseudo zombie, for a pet. A wraith was able to follow simple directions and perform tasks, and if this was a hundred years ago and Greg wasn’t his brother’s best friend slash lover, he just might let the spell come to its natural conclusion.
Angel had a couple minutes before it really was too late, and swirled the mixture fast with one finger as he leaned over the table, glaring at Greg. “Where is Isaac?”
“Left him…. passed out at his place,” Greg gasped, and it looked like he was about to pass out himself. Angel lifted his free hand, and slapped Greg across the cheek. Greg shook his head again, and blinked at him, the smoke retreating a little in his eyes.
“He wasn’t with you at the bar in Fall River?” Angel demanded, making sure. If this Deuce guy got to Greg, he might have taken Isaac too. Greg shook his head no, whipping it fast side to side. Angel exhaled hard in relief, and picked up the dish, handing it to Greg. “Drink this, all of it, now.”
Greg took the dish from his hands and stared at the gray sodden mess, wrinkling his nose at the odor. Angel sympathized, as the smell was enough to make anyone say no to the concoction. Yet he must drink it, or he was dead in truth.
Angel called on the smoke inside Greg, and he lifted the silver dish to his mouth. Greg swallowed it fast, damn near chugging it like a coed at Boston College.
Angel moved away from the table, grabbing his bag and stepping swiftly to the side. Just in time too, as Greg vomited violently across the table top, spewing a vile flood of smoke, dirty holy water, and ash. Simeon swore and ducked out of the way, his vamp reflexes saving him from getting soaked.
The holy water mixed with the ash, which was the genesis for the smoke, and the two ingredients ingested neutralized the spell running through Greg’s body. Angel could have summoned it out of him, but then he would have had an incomplete spell messing with his power balance. It was better to abort the spell completely than trying to pull the power back and dismantling it piece by piece. Greg gagged and coughed up the last of it, moaning and crying. Smoke rose from the table, looking like steam and smelling like ass. Angel sensed the spell evaporate back out into the world, falling apart completely,
the power seeping away from his second sight.
“Well, this was fun.” Angel yawned, his jaw creaking as he snapped his mouth shut and rubbed at his face. He was suddenly exhausted, and swayed on his feet, thinking longingly of his nice warm bed and soft pillow.
“You need to rest, Angel.” Simeon was at his side, one cool hand under Angel’s elbow. He stared at Simeon’s hand, the smooth cool fingers oddly pleasant on his skin, and shrugged.
“Yeah, I know. What are you going to do with him?” Angel pointed his chin at Greg and tried not to sway anymore.
“He was not responsible for his actions. We will hold him for further questioning, and most likely let him go tomorrow,” Simeon paused, and Angel turned his head to see a wry smile curve the sexy pout of the vampire’s lips. It was easily the third smile he’d seen that night on Simeon’s chiseled sexy face, and it was just as stunning as the first one. “It would not do to kill a helpless human.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you. Good—I won’t have to tell my brother I let vamps kill his best friend.”
Chapter Two
Tastes Like Chocolate
He was so tired Angel missed Greg’s removal from the room, Simeon’s hand propping him up. The vampire’s fingers were hard and unyielding, covered in smooth skin that wore the illusion of being soft. A vamp’s body temp was far lower than a human’s, warmed only by the blood they drank and the mysterious death magic they had that animated them. Angel barely managed to throw the strap of his bag over his head, the band across his chest. Angel made sure to bend over and pick up the sopping wet silver tray. He almost spilled out flat to the floor but for Simeon’s unbreakable grip on his elbow, his head spinning, and Simeon took the silver dish from Angel with his free hand. Angel’s eyes were blurry now from strain and fatigue, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
