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

by SJ Himes

  Angel nodded, and asked his apprentice, “What ritual requires the hearts of so many sacrifices?”

  “Oh…wow. Umm there’s several, across a wide spectrum of species. Most practitioners don’t use blood magic, as the effects on human magic-users are very easy to see. Humans look like meth addicts, strung out and jonesing for a hit. A human would have people noticing his or her condition and most of us know the symptoms of blood magic addiction. Someone would say something. Right?” Daniel looked unsure, but his eyes were lit up and he was talking fast, excited. Angel nodded and gestured for him to keep going. “Umm…most of the fae species have old magic, earth magic that uses the hearts of sacrifices in their rituals, typically around major fae holidays and events, but such practices have gone out of use in the last hundred years or so. An expert in fae history and religion could tell us more.”

  Angel smiled, proud and more than pleased. “Good job, Daniel.”

  “I…I was right?” Daniel wrung his hands, shifting on his feet. “What part?”

  “All of it, actually.” Angel glanced down at the detective, who was chewing on an unlit cigarette and wearing a grumpy expression. “Don’t look so sad, Jimmy. You should have called me sooner.”

  “Think we can keep the wunderkind? I promise to feed him, take him for walks, make sure he gets some playtime,” O’Malley retorted, heavy on sarcasm and self-recrimination. Angel laughed, and gave Daniel a wink. His apprentice blushed, but smiled back at him, pleased.

  “I may loan him out, but this one’s mine for the next few years. Paws off.”

  “So we need one of them experts, huh? Would that be you?” O’Malley asked, tossing the now chewed and mangled cigarette butt at a nearby trashcan.

  “That is not me, actually. If you need someone put down like a rabid dog I’m your sorcerer, but for this situation you’ll actually need Dame Fontaine.”

  “Your teaching partner, huh? She the one with the troll for an ex?” O’Malley stood, grabbing his jacket and shrugging back into it. “Saw the restraining order come through after the break in at her place.”

  “Indeed she is,” Angel agreed, and went to the files of each murder victim, stacking them up after collecting the loose pieces. Angel lifted the gathered files and went to Daniel, who took them with a surprised oomph and a frown. “I’ll get your bag. You carry those.”

  “And where are we going?” Daniel asked, hurrying after Angel and O’Malley, Angel carrying Daniel’s backpack. Eroch woke from his nap, poking his head out from under Angel’s scarf with a cranky chirp when they stepped out into the larger room. Eroch stretched out, and crawled out of Angel’s sweater and perched on his shoulder, flapping his leathery wings before pulling them back along his ribs. Several detectives stared, and Angel sighed in exasperation as he dodged around a few interested onlookers.

  “We’re going home! Hurry up,” Angel called over his shoulder, Daniel all but jogging to catch up. “Everyone stop staring! Fuck! Have none of you seen a dragon before?”

  Chapter Seven

  Unanswered

  Simeon paced away from the windows, the midnight horizon illuminated by the light of downtown and the reflection off the water in the harbor. Angel was out there, and in typical style, attracted trouble. All his love said was that he ‘took the case, going back home’.

  Simeon pocketed his cell, and returned to the table where his Master and Bridgerton sat. Blood donors stood waiting along the tall windowed walls, and Simeon took his seat back, but waved off the donor that stepped forward. Their silhouettes stood out in stark relief in silent rows down the western wall, and the city glowed from between their shadows.

  “You’ll not partake, my child?” Batiste asked, tone casual. He heard the tension behind it, and shook his head once. This was an argument he didn’t want to start.

  “No need, my master.”

  “Have you been eating enough? The donors haven’t needed to service you as often,” Batiste stared hard at him, and Simeon schooled his features. Batiste’s cerulean gaze was sharp as shards of ice, and he seemed to see deeper than Simeon would like. He made no response, so Batiste tried another tactic to get to what he wanted to know. Batiste smiled, a small, crooked twist of lush lips that was at odds with the chilly exterior of the city master. “How is your Leannán?”

  “Angel is well, thank you for inquiring, Master.”

  “Enjoying yourself in domestic bliss, Simeon? Surrounded by all that supple flesh, and not a stretch of skin to bite. How are you handling cohabitating with living poison?” Bridgerton grinned, fangs down, and sipped from his crystal goblet. Mulled wine spiced with fresh blood, a particular favorite of the new Elder. Simeon leaned back in his chair, and tilted his head, curious.

  Living poison was what vampires called humans who were magical in nature—like Angel and his family. The term was usually used as an in-species insult, and Simeon didn’t appreciate the attempted slur against his love.

  “So blunt. Heavy-handed. My Angelus does it far better, Bridgerton—do keep practicing.” Simeon gave Bridgerton a slim smile when his jab hit its mark, the other Elder lifting a lip and snarling quietly.

  Bridgerton was jealous of Simeon’s Leannán, and Simeon was determined to keep his relationship private. It was getting harder, though—Batiste wanted Angel attached to the bloodclan, irrevocably so, and the best way to do it was through the bond. Simeon had never looked past Batiste’s initial graceful endorsement of Simeon’s courtship of Angel, and if he had, he would have seen what Angel saw straightaway—Batiste coveted Angel’s power and his bounty of expertise and resources. Resources that now included two sorcerous fledglings—young Daniel Macavoy, and the other remaining Salvatore scion, Isaac. By asking after Angel, Batiste was really asking if Simeon had completed the bond between them, and brought Angel into the clan…and his two young charges with him.

  Angel had no intention of letting Batiste or Bridgerton near Isaac or Daniel—Simeon believed his mate to be right in his assumptions that the city master and the new Elder would seek their own mates from the tempting younglings. Their kind did not make Leannán bonds unless love flourished at the center of the relationship, but they could create sexual relationships and foster unhealthy attachments. Even marriages—though unless love was in the center, no mate bond could grow, and a bond was ideal in romancing a mortal.

  “If the nature of this meeting is to merely hound me for intimate details of my Leannán and his family, I will beg your leave and return home,” Simeon said, and made to stand. “My mate is off limits, as any of yours would be if you are ever so lucky to be blessed with one.”

  “Peace, my child,” Batiste replied, reaching out and resting his hand on Simeon’s wrist. “I am concerned for you. I worry. Our clan, and myself, will be lessened if your union with the necromancer fails to complete. Forgive my intrusiveness, I cannot bear to see you injured.”

  Injured was an understatement—if Angel cast him aside, or ancient gods forbid, died—Simeon would be beyond saving. There was no healing to be done for a shattered soul. He would cease to be as he was now, and would greet the dawn to save his master the pain of killing him. Vampires that were left incomplete and destroyed by a broken bond became the croíbhriste.

  Croíbhriste—the brokenhearted. And they were dangerous if left too long after a broken bond.

  Angel would laugh and say something insulting and shocking, claiming bullshit. Simeon would too, if not for the fine tremor in the heavy weight of his master’s hand. Batiste was so strong, so much bigger than the reality in which he existed. Simeon knew him better than anyone, sans Angel. And while Batiste played the coy overlord and fooled Bridgerton into thinking he was naught but a cold heart and sardonic exterior, Simeon knew intimately the passion and fire that burned in his master’s heart.

  It was why he believed Batiste’s permission to court Angel had been naught but a gracious gift, and he was
now only seeing the hidden agenda behind it. Hurt and betrayal would have been his response as a fledgling to such a cunning deception, but as he was no longer a child by any measure, he only felt caution and a vague sense of anger. Batiste meant it because he cared—but he also wanted the benefits of Simeon mated to Angel.

  They may be undead, but they still lived, and Simeon had lived beside Batiste for two hundred years. Master and Elder, clanmates, and long ago, bedmates. He loved the undead lord he called master, but not like he loved Angel. And for that love, he relented. A small nod, and Simeon relaxed. Batiste’s hand rested on his arm for a moment more, then slipped away.

  Bridgerton glared back at Simeon, only a slim narrowing of his eyes but enough to let Simeon know that the tiny hints of byplay between Batiste and Simeon were noticed. Let Bridgerton think what he would. Simeon was secure in his position as First Elder of their bloodclan. Bridgerton could plot and plan to his heart’s content—Simeon did not fear him.

  “I would like to know why Simeon is allowed to live outside the clan, and still enjoy the rank and privilege of Elder. He reaps all the benefits, and does none of the duties,” Bridgerton finally said, growling out each word, attacking the air with his jealousy.

  Batiste leaned back in his chair, and looked every inch the feudal lord he once was. Bastard son of an ancient king, Constantine Batiste wore the impenetrable icy expression he perfected through hundreds of years’ practice.

  “My favored child needs not explain himself to you, Elder,” Batiste reprimanded, and Simeon smiled before he could school his features. Bridgerton flinched, and dropped his eyes as Batiste continued. “And I approve heartily of his courtship of the necromancer. The why of it is not your concern.”

  “Forgive me, Master Batiste,” Bridgerton murmured, contrite. He bowed in his seat, and Batiste let him stay that way for one long, uncomfortable moment before waving a hand. Bridgerton sat up, and sent Simeon a sharp glance, heated with anger and embarrassment.

  “I called you both here for another reason,” Batiste declared, and Simeon waited patiently. “There was an attempt on one of clanmates earlier tonight, just after sunset. It was at one of the clan’s clubs, and he was assaulted as he was walking to the parking structure nearby. He was able to escape, but the situation is troubling.”

  “Assaulted? Who was it, and did he not hear his attacker coming?” Bridgerton was trying to hide his disdain that a vampire was almost ambushed. Their senses were exceedingly sharp, and it took a great deal of stealth or magic to sneak up on one of their kind.

  “Who was it? And was he able to identify the assailant?” Simeon asked.

  “One of our soldiers taking the cash deposit from the club to the treasury,” Batiste dismissed, flicking his fingers. “He said he had no warning before he was struck from behind on the head. Only a passing delivery truck turning down the back alley allowed him to break away. All he could ascertain was that it was a being of immense physical strength, and his charming ability had no effect.”

  “Humans with anti-vampire prejudice, maybe? Or a thief after the cash?” Simeon conjectured, thinking. Depending on the club, the amount of money on the soldier could be substantial, and in the dark, a vampire could look all too human to the uneducated. “Few supernaturals in the area would dare attack our clan, and that is not hubris. We are hard to kill, and while we have our limits, they are few. Supernats know better, surely. Our alliance with Angel is also well known, and his reputation is a serious deterrent.”

  “Perhaps any of that. Regardless, I want the security around our properties increased. If this was an attempted robbery, I don’t want it to happen again.”

  “As you wish, master,” Simeon said. “All soldiers involved in cash drops will be doubled, and guards will be increased at all entrances. The clan’s wealth is well-known; this may deter any future thievery against the clan if we appear less vulnerable.”

  “Agreed.” Batiste stood, and Simeon and Bridgerton followed suit. “I need the room, please. Send for more donors.”

  Simeon nodded, and walked away, texting the communications hub in the Tower for more blood donors to be sent to the Master’s penthouse. He arranged for the added security features and notified the soldier ranks of the double precautions. Their clanmates were efficient and well-trained, and would see to his orders.

  Bridgerton moved with reluctance, his desire to stay with Batiste while their master fed written across his tense frame and swarthy features. Simeon paused at the doors to the suite, making it clear he was waiting on the other Elder. Batiste rarely invited other vampires to be present while he fed—it was a privilege, and one Bridgerton had yet to earn.

  Bridgerton passed by him at a low simmer, and Simeon shut the door behind them. They walked to the elevator, and Simeon waited calmly for the elevator while Bridgerton worked himself up into a snit. The other Elder may be as old as Simeon, but the differences in their behavior was immense. Bridgerton was spoiled, entitled, easy to anger, and was the worst of sycophants—the kind who thought their ingratiating behavior subtle. Batiste welcomed the former unranked master from Atlanta because he had a few dozen members to his own household and numerous fledglings, and his wealth was substantial. Adding Bridgerton’s resources to the clan was practical—though it seemed that welcome went to Bridgerton’s head.

  The elevator arrived and Simeon stepped inside, Bridgerton next to him. The guard inside backed away with a nod of respect, and Simeon placed his palm on the reader and hit the button for the garage level. Bridgerton impatiently waited his turn, and slapped his hand on the palm reader and stabbed the button for the casino level. Simeon arched a brow at the other vampire’s theatrics, and pulled out his cell as the elevator descended.

  Taking a car home. Meeting over. Are you home yet? –S

  The speed at which Angel answered cheered him, and he read his love’s text.

  Just got back. Meeting with Milly tomorrow over case files. Be careful—something is happening in this city and it’s not good. Love you. –AS

  Love you, my Leannán. Be home soon. –S

  Bridgerton snorted, and Simeon gave him a slow, cold glance. Bridgerton scowled and moved back, having been reading over Simeon’s shoulder. Unashamed of his love for Angel, Simeon blacked out the smartphone screen and put it away in his suit jacket. He kept eye contact with Bridgerton the whole time, all but daring him to make a comment and voice the envious anger Simeon could see swirling in the old pirate’s eyes.

  The elevator came to a smooth stop at the ground level and Simeon held his place, eyes locked to Bridgerton’s. The other Elder narrowed his eyes and growled, lips twitching like he wanted to flash a fang. Simeon remained still, immobile as marble. Disrespect toward his mate and their bond would not be tolerated. Bridgerton growled louder, finally lifting a lip and hissing through his dropped fangs. The elevator guard blurred as he ran from the lift, and the guards stationed outside the doors backed away as well. The elevator chimed, the doors open too long, and the sound seemed to knock some sense back into Bridgerton.

  Bridgerton broke first, dropping his eyes to the side and his fingers flexing, claws having grown as tempers rose. Bridgerton snarled out a wordless burst of frustration and released a cloud of sour pheromones as he left the elevator, walking around Simeon and making an effort not to brush shoulders. Simeon watched him go, and it wasn’t until Bridgerton disappeared into the casino’s main doors across the lobby that the elevator guard returned. Simeon gave the guard a short, approving nod, and the guard returned to his station inside.

  The doors slid shut, and the elevator went down, heading for the garage.

  The limo cut through evening traffic with ease as Simeon was driven home. The late night hour meant nothing in the close streets of downtown, the heart of Boston perhaps not as densely packed as larger metropolitan centers down the East Coast, but the city was lively and the streets full of humans.

>   The limo pulled out of downtown and headed toward Beacon Hill, the traffic thinning as they entered the more residential area of the city. Cobblestones and red brick homes filled his view, and Simeon smiled, thinking back through the long years to when he first came to the United States. Boston was always a bustling port city, filled with a multitude of fishermen, merchants, traders, and people from all points across the world. Beacon Hill was one of the oldest neighborhoods of the city, and it showed in the remaining buildings and architecture. Some were the same, maintained through the centuries, lovingly preserved and treasured by their inhabitants. Though even a city as keen on preserving history as Boston evolved through the years, and not even the humans who studied history in great depth could even be aware of just how different their beloved city was from the day Simeon first set foot on this continent.

  They were but a few spare blocks from Angel’s apartment when the limo swerved, tires squealing, the driver swearing as he lost control. Simeon gripped his seat, and held himself in place as the limo slammed into the wall of a building, dust and dirt flying up and covering the windshield, the front plane of glass cracking down the center. Simeon let go of the seat and climbed forward, looking for the driver. Simeon reached the open partition, and the human man who had been driving him home groaned in pain, blood spoor filling the confines of the cab.

  “Don’t move, I’ll call for help,” Simeon said, trying to see the extent of the man’s injuries through the opened privacy partition. He did not know if the human was a blood donor for his clan or one of their regular employees, and if he wasn’t, then he was perhaps more injured than he appeared.