by SJ Himes
“Angel! Speed up your efforts, mo ghra!” Simeon shouted at him, grunting, his feet scraping over the road as a blow sent him past Angel where he knelt on the ground.
Angel found the rune that held the demon in thrall, and next to it was the marker, in a Latin-based jargon, of his name. There was a pile of ash inside the rune, and Angel caught a hint of burnt hair as he leaned down. There was an anchoring rune poorly drawn underneath the ashes.
Someone used his hair. Summoned a demon and sent it after him. Regardless of where he lived and the time of day, someone wanted him dead and cared not for collateral, didn’t care at all that he lived in a busy section of Beacon Hill and that there were three families in his building with small children—someone wanted him dead, and were willing to do anything to make it happen. The anchoring rune meant that once Angel was dead, or the rune destroyed, the demon would depart, helped along by the emerging light of dawn.
Rage filled him, and Angel opened the veil and pulled. Power came pouring through the dimensional wall and into his body, his mind and spirit. Simeon screamed, just as Angel lifted his hand, standing tall, the power spindling around him.
He would destroy the diagram and rune anchoring the demon here, and with dawn arriving, the demon would have no choice but to retreat back to its home dimension, purpose unfulfilled. It could be summoned again, and the geas placed on it by the original summoner would kick back in, but Angel would be prepared.
“Angel!” Simeon cried, but Angel was centered on this one thing, destroying the summoning circle and runes, and he had to hope Simeon would last until he was done.
The demon tossed Simeon, the vampire limp with limbs flailing as he crashed into the iron-wrought fence that wrapped around the rear of the statehouse. Angel saw the first rays of dawn bloom above the city, and released the power downward, blasting the circle.
This was going to hurt.
And it did.
Detective Grant Collins was Irish to the core, dark haired, late thirties, looked fantastic in a dove gray designer suit that clung to every slim, lean line of his toned body, and he hated Angel with every ounce of his considerable intellect.
“Let me get this straight,” Detective Collins drawled, waving a slim hand in the direction of what was once an intersection in one of the busiest parts of Beacon Hill and was now a crater that exposed parts of the sewer system and the power lines, “A demon crashed into your place, tries to kill you, and then you run out here and blow up the street and banish it back to Hell?”
“Not Hell, actually. No such place.” Angel corrected, leaning back on the front stoop of his apartment building, blinking his eyes to clear them from the glare put off by the countless cop cars and firetrucks filling all sides of the intersection. “It was a native sentient species of another dimension that got warped and manipulated by crossing the boundaries, and there was a geas placed on it by whoever summoned it, making it attack when it otherwise would have gone into hiding, seeing as how it was in a hostile dimension and foreign environment. Western magical practitioners incorrectly call such a creature a demon, when I would describe it as a kidnapped inter-dimensional alien.”
Detective Collins opened and closed his mouth a few times, hand raised, finger pointed right at Angel. He sighed, and sent his eyes over the block, trying to see where Simeon went. He was vague on explaining exactly who he was with when the demon attacked, and he was worried about the elder vamp. He hadn’t seen Simeon when he woke up at the bottom of the crater, soaking wet from a ruptured water line. It was dawn, the street lit by the golden glow reflecting off the heavy morning dew that descended over the street, everything wet and glistening. It was a beautiful morning, but the smell of ozone, car exhaust, and rotting flesh was overwhelming, and all Angel wanted was to shower, something to eat, and his bed. Not necessarily in that order, either.
“I should have you arrested for destruction of public property!” Collins found his voice, winding up for what looked like an impressive diatribe. Angel had no doubt he might end up in jail for his misadventure that morning, but he was too tired to care. He might actually get some sleep in jail.
Angel tuned out Collins as he went on and on, spouting some of his anti-Salvatore rhetoric and his opinion of Angel, which wasn’t very high. Angel knew why to some degree Collins didn’t like him, but Angel barely saw the man more than a couple times a year, so this animosity was exasperating as much as it was annoying. Angel would occasionally consult with Boston PD when it came to magical matters their own specialists weren’t equipped to handle. He didn’t make a practice of it, though, since Angel preferred to keep to himself and getting involved in police matters was a fast way to get the wrong kind of attention.
Not to mention that the Collins clan hated his guts with an animosity that was legendary.
Angel was a teacher. Not in public schools—he lacked the patience—but one on one with gifted students, who were looking for higher level instruction in the art of practicing magic. That meant newly advanced sorcery-level students, who had the potential ability, but not the skillset, and they came to Angel for what they couldn’t get from their private schools or families. Angel was the only necromancer in the state, Angel wasn’t the only sorcerer, but because of what happened ten years ago in the Blood Wars, he was the most well-known, the most notorious, and the youngsters started appearing on his doorstep a couple of years after the Wars ended. Which ended, coincidentally enough, with another leveled street, quite similar to this one.
He was no master burdened with an apprentice though, he avoided such dependency in his students. A sorcerer needed to learn how to survive on their own, as they were the only ones who could summon and control veil-drawn magical energy, and too many people tried to cozen their way into a sorcerer’s good graces and take advantage. Self-reliance was a big deal to Angel, and he tried to impart that sentiment in his students. Some listened and took his advice to heart, and others didn’t.
He was thankful none of his students were here at the moment, since he didn’t want a frightened twenty-something blowing up more things than necessary in fear and overreaction at the sight of a demon. He snorted, amused at himself. There really was no way to overreact to the sight of a demon. Angel smirked at that thought, looking at the ruin of the street and the leaking water lines creating a pond, not twenty feet from where he sat.
Angel scooted over on the step, letting a few uniformed cops and crime scene techs exit his apartment building. They were presumably upstairs in his place, and he hoped they didn’t make more of a mess than there already was—at this rate he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. He needed a new front door, not to mention a bedroom door. And his bed was a pile of kindling and exposed box springs, too. Rubbing his hands through his short hair, Angel heaved a deep breath and stood, startling Detective Collins mid-tirade.
“Am I being arrested, or not?” Angel asked, his list of things to do and people to track down growing by the minute. He had to find Isaac and make sure he was alive, find Simeon and make sure he wasn’t a pile of dust somewhere, and his place was a mess, and for that matter so was he.
For fuck’s sake, I’m in nothing but my pajama pants…. still.
“No, you’re not,” said a rough voice, one scourged by years of whiskey and cigarettes. Angel smiled at Detective Collins’ partner, a heavy-set man who wore a rumpled suit and a permanent scowl. Detective James O’Malley was a throwback to the old days of cops and robbers and was always one bad case away from retirement.
Detective Collins made to protest, but O’Malley cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand and a deep frown. “He’s not responsible for what happened. Security cameras across the way on top the state building caught the whole thing. Some pissant rolled up in a limo an hour before dawn and burns up the street, but it’s clear enough to see the crazy ass summon a demon. Can’t see much on the footage after that as whatever he did messed with the recording, but it wasn’t Salvatore, Collins, so shove it.”
“He blew up the street!” Collins yelled, flinging an arm out at the destruction. “There’s a fucking crater ten feet deep in the intersection!”
“In self-defense!” Angel yelled back, thoroughly fed up. “Next time I outta just let the damn demon rampage through Beacon Hill then, since it’s so fucking important to ya that no one blows up the fucking street!”
He wasn’t going to mention that the spell might have lifted with the dawn, but it was a minuscule chance, and he was certain his course of action was the only one he could have taken. Simeon wouldn’t have lasted much longer. Seeing Simeon die was on the long list of things Angel never wanted to see, ever.
For a second, Angel was certain Collins was going to hit him. He stood on the front steps, panting with exertion from his outburst, thinking he was about to get his ass kicked and then thrown in jail. Collins took a step in his direction, a murderous expression on his face, and Angel found himself pushed back up the steps away from the irate detective. O’Malley dropped his arm and then got between him and Collins.
“We got plates and a clear picture of the man’s face, Angel. I’ll get an officer by here later with the picture, see if you recognize the man. If we’re lucky, we can get him on felony charges of illegal casting, public endangerment, and attempted murder. You might wanna think about laying low, seeing as how someone just sent a demon after you,” O’Malley said, and Angel snorted back a laugh. “Think about people who’d wanna see you turned into demon food.”
“There’s more than a few who’ve probably thought about it,” Collins sneered, and Angel, at the end of his tether, flipped off the detective with both hands.
Collins lunged for him, but O’Malley was there again, holding back his partner as he started to swear at Angel in a rough, slang-riddled version of Latin. Broken spells from a second rate caster and Angel brushed them off with a bare twinge of effort, sneering at Collins. “Angel, how about you go back to your place? I’ll send a uniform around later with that pic,” O’Malley said, impressively calm for a man physically restraining his enraged partner who was still trying to toss spells Angel’s way.
Angel left, not taking any chances on O’Malley restraining Collins. The enraged detective may suck at casting, but he still could throw a punch. He took the stairs, his whole body complaining at the effort, and he could still hear O’Malley and Collins shouting at each other down on the street. Angel closed what was left of his front door, and headed for his bathroom.
He paused in the center of his living room and ignored the sounds coming from the street. He breathed in, centered himself, and sent out a small tendril of awareness. His inner vision bloomed, and Angel spent a few minutes reassuring himself that Simeon was not in his apartment or the building, as either a pile of dust or a sunburned vamp. Wherever Simeon was, it wasn’t here. He pulled his awareness back in, and wavered, dizzy and exhausted.
Shower first, then sleep. He was of no use to anyone exhausted and dead on his feet. Cracking a rough smile at that thought, Angel stumbled to the bathroom, glad he could shut out the sounds of Collins and O’Malley still going at each other on the street.
Putting Collins out of his mind took a few minutes, and he wondered at the man’s increasing hostility. It wasn’t like Angel had sent an army of vampiric assassins after his family at the pinnacle of a multi-clan magical war that spanned generations, killing almost everyone he loved.
Angel turned on the shower, and got in, not bothering to wait for the water to run hot. He yanked off his dirty pajama bottoms and threw the soggy clothing into the trash-bin by the toilet.
Angel stood under the spray, thinking about the past, wishing the water would wash away the memories just like the dirt.
Ten years ago, at the height of the Blood Wars, an alliance of three clans combined their collective abilities and coerced vampires into attacking the Salvatore Clan. Angel’s entire family, with the exception of himself and the then thirteen-year-old Isaac, died in the attack.
One of those clans was the Macavoy family, and Detective Grant Collins was a distant cousin of the founding family. If anyone should hate anyone, it should be Angel hating Collins. He didn’t though—all he wanted was to live what was left of his life in peace, and forget the past.
And leave the dead buried with it, too.
Chapter Four
Family of Choice
Whoever’s cell is ringing is gonna get hexed…. oh, wait.
Angel smacked his cell on the coffee table, prying one eye open to see who was calling him. He groaned, and clumsily accepted the call, hitting the speaker button.
“What?” Angel whined, feeling wretched and not at all rested. He eyed the clock on his wall, and the damn thing had to be lying. It didn’t feel like eight hours had passed.
“Are you fucking insane?” Screeched his partner, and Angel flinched. Dame Mildred Fontaine was a beautiful, gracious, and refined lady of unmentionable years who had a long tradition of decorum and exquisite manners—right up until someone pissed her off.
“Milly…”
“Don’t ‘Milly’ me, young man! I had to hear it from that rude cunt of a detective that you were attacked by a demon!!! A demon! Instead of my teaching partner and dearest friend telling me he was attacked and God forbid he tells me that he’s okay! And then I had to sit there and answer questions about what exactly we teach here at the studio, as if teaching youngsters how to responsibly wield their gifts is a crime—and he has the audacity to imply that you had something to do with summoning it! Explain yourself, now.”
“Rude cunt…. Oh, you mean Collins,” Angel said, yawning and slowly sitting up. His brain was catching up to Milly’s questions, but it would go a lot swifter if he was actually awake and not aching all over. He wasn’t as drained as he was before, but he was by no means recovered. Sleeping on his couch stopped being comfortable after the first hour, and he was feeling it now. “What was he doing there again?”
‘There’ being their studio on the fourth floor above the University Bookstore, a small collection of rooms that were heavily shielded and warded, and a short walk away that was greatly appreciated at the end of a long day teaching stubborn teenagers and know-it-all twenty-somethings.
Was it even the same day? He pulled back and checked the date on his cell, and it was indeed still the same day, well evening now, of the demon’s pre-breakfast attack.
“Are you listening to me, Angelus Salvatore?” Milly was near panting, sounding as if she was speed-walking down the sidewalk. Which she probably was…. time to get up.
“Nope,” Angel replied, standing and stretching, muscles complaining and joints popping. He walked to the windows overlooking the street, and peered down Hancock. In the street lamps he could just make out Milly’s diminutive silhouette marching down the sidewalk. He was in trouble.
“I’ll have tea on,” Angel said, tapping the cell and ending the call before Milly could tear into him again.
He went to the bathroom and then got dressed, tossing on a pair of clean jeans and a dark blue polo that clung enough to show he had some muscle mass, and walked barefoot into the kitchen just as the sound of high heels on the hardwood flooring of the hall met his ears. He set a kettle to boil on the stove and went to his fridge, pulling out a partially cut cheesecake. It was plain, with a thick graham cracker layer, and just the right kind of sweet to temper a certain sorceress’s ire.
Dame Mildred Fontaine swept into his kitchen, tossing down her Luis Vuitton purse and scarf onto the kitchen island in a flurry of fabric and swirling coat. She was older than he, anywhere from her early forties to sixties, but Angel had yet to narrow it down and lacked the balls to inquire as to her actual age. Her porcelain skin and upswept dark gray hair and unlined face, couple with a trim and tiny physique, all lent to the lady-like and immaculate image she portrayed to the world.
Right up until….
“Your lily-fresh ass is mine unless you tell me what exactly…” Milly stormed up to him, and somehow managed t
o invade his space in her tiny heels that put her at maybe five-foot-four, and held a finger up, long wicked nail under his nose, “You tell me what the fuck is going on!”
Angel resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and gave her instead a charming grin and a look from what she usually called his ‘evil puppy eyes’. She glared back at him, narrowing her eyes, and she flicked the tip of his nose with her finger.
“Ow!” He winced, rubbing his nose. “I made you tea.”
“And cheesecake, so I see,” she said, making a disapproving harrumph before spinning on one very expensive high heel and heading for the now whistling kettle on the stove.
“Is it true?” She asked, her back to him as she turned off the burner and lifted the kettle, bringing it to the island. She kept herself in profile, but he could see the worry underneath the anger. He sighed, and walked around the small island, setting up the tea cups and bags.
“Well, since I don’t know what the …what did you call him? The ‘rude cunt’?” She made a very unladylike snort at that, and he continued, “Since I don’t know what Collins told you, I’ll just start at the beginning.”
Angel recounted the whole night, from getting back to his apartment the night before after work, to going to bed, then being awakened by the Master’s slaves and taken to vamp HQ. She sipped her tea and nibbled on her cheesecake, her clear, almost colorless blue eyes locked on his face the whole time, observing and withholding her opinion until he was done.
“So to recap,” Milly began, putting down her fork and delicately wiping her mouth with a napkin, “Gregory Doyle was compelled to break into the Master’s clan house yet do nothing once inside. You were then summoned to deal with him once his identity was revealed, due to your very ingeniously wrought oath from a clan elder that he cannot be harmed. After releasing him from the spell, you pass out in a room full of vampires—I’ll yell at you for that bit of foolishness later—and then you wake to a demon crashing in your front door. At which point the supernatural man you were sleeping with—another topic for discussion later—fought off the demon until you could destroy the summoning circle and send the partially bound demon back to its home realm. Did I miss anything?”
