by SJ Himes
Simeon pulled out his phone and speed dialed the Tower communications hub, reaching through the opening and pressing a finger to the human male’s neck, searching for his pulse. “Yes, this is Elder Simeon. Tag my limo’s location and…”
The driver side door ripped outwards with a screech of metal, and the driver was yanked from his seat, the belt holding him in place snapping with tremendous force. The human was gone from his sight, and a large shadow walked down the side of the vehicle towards the backend. Simeon snarled, dropping his phone, and he spun as the rear passenger door buckled under a powerful blow.
The shadow was tall and wide, appearing bipedal and with arms as thick as tree trunks that swung at the limo door. Simeon’s vision went crystalline bright and clear, fangs dropping, and battle-rage filled him. The steel door buckled, about to break, and Simeon roared in challenge. He was no creature’s prey—he was the hunter.
Simeon launched himself forward, breaking through the row of windows that ran down the side of the limo, rolling as he hit the pavement, glass showering down around him. He came to a stop, crouching, spinning to face the tall creature attacking his limo.
The scent of dusty stone and fresh petrichor came to him as he pulled in the creature’s defining air markers. Long years on this world told him instantly what his opponent was, and Simeon snarled in satisfaction.
Coincidences were falsehoods.
Troll.
Ben Stone, recognizable from the police report Simeon accessed on the man who attacked his mate, now stood facing him, and slapped at his chest with both fists in answering challenge and charged at Simeon. The world slowed around him, and Simeon gathered himself, sliding to the side the smallest of distances, but enough for Stone to miss him completely. Simeon raked his claws along Stone’s ribs, slicing through clothing and down to skin. The man was a hybrid, and his flesh parted beneath Simeon’s claws in red ribbons. If he had been full blood Simeon’s claws would never have punctured his hide.
A scream of rage and pain was heavenly to his ears, and Simeon spun with Stone, leaping up and landing a foot dead center of his back, kicking hard. The hybrid outweighed him by over a hundred pounds and towered over him by several inches, but he was lumbering and slow. His great strength may be daunting for a mortal or lesser supernat, but Simeon was old and powerful in his own right. Stone flew forward from Simeon’s kick, and Simeon moved at incredible speed, blurring the street around him as he ran to meet his prey as Stone face-planted the pavement.
Simeon grabbed the man’s beefy arm and flipped him to his back, and slammed his foot down, the leather of his boot dark against Stone’s whitening skin as he pushed so hard he cut off blood flow to the flesh and shut down his jugular arteries.
Stone gasped, dinner-plate sized hands beating at Simeon’s leg, but he withstood the blows that would have broken another. His battle-rage pulled back, and the world settled. Simeon leaned over his defeated foe, Stone’s efforts to free himself weakening as Simeon snuffed the life from him.
“You tried to kill my Leannán,” Simeon whispered, enjoying the sight of Stone’s eyes going wide in fear and desperation. “You harmed my friends and attacked my mate. I think Angel will forgive me for taking justice into my own hands this time.”
He pushed down, the barest of efforts, and Stone gurgled, clawing at Simeon’s lower leg, ripping his trousers in his frenzied and failing efforts to escape. Simeon watched, breathing in the stench of fear and sweat as death crept closer and closer to taking Stone.
Lavender and something earthy, robust like sage came in on the chill winter wind, and Simeon breathed it in, wondering for a short second where he’d smelled such a scent before—then there was warmth at his back, and a slim, leanly muscled arm wrapped around his shoulder as another snuck under his arm.
Cold and agony sliced into his abdomen, and Simeon screeched as a blade buried itself to the hilt in his flesh.
“Forgive me the dishonor, Elder, but I need my servant alive,” a sweet tenor whispered in his ear, and the blade twisted in his guts.
Daniel puttered about the kitchen, and Angel paused at the threshold, wondering. The boy’s smartphone was out, the screen just fading to black as he came in. He didn’t hear it ring, so maybe a text from someone? Voicemail? Daniel looked lost, scared, and whatever joy and pride in himself he’d found at the police station was gone as if it never was.
“Daniel?”
His apprentice looked up from the kettle he was holding, having been staring down at the object that almost made him lose a hand. Daniel put it down on the stove, and gave him a small smile. “Yeah?”
“Is everything alright?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been going back to Macavoy Court a lot the last few weeks. Is your father well?” Angel managed to ask without anything but honest concern showing on his face or in his voice, and was proud of himself.
Saying the Macavoy name no longer made him grimace, but he still got a twinge in his chest. He never blamed Daniel for anything in their shared past, but Leicester, Daniel’s father, he blamed plenty. How the sorcerer managed to avoid prison when his wife and his brothers all ended up there was a mystery to Angel. Growing up in that place had to have been hard for Daniel, from what little he shared. Agoraphobia, depression, and what sounded like bipolar disorder was probably what afflicted the elder Macavoy, and he was convinced Leicester never accepted treatment for any of it.
“Father…Father has been ill. The last few months have taken a toll on him,” Daniel admitted, hugging himself.
“Do you need anything? Can I help?” Angel ventured closer, leaning on the island.
“I may need to go see him more. Don’t think he has long left,” Daniel whispered. His already pale face went whiter.
“If you want, I can go with you? He may not want to see me, but I might be able to help if it’s serious enough?”
“No! Please, don’t,” Daniel gasped out, and Angel was relieved despite his offer. He had no idea how he would handle seeing Leicester in person.
“Ok, I won’t.” Angel smiled, rubbing Daniel’s tense shoulder. “I won’t do anything unless you ask. Go see him tomorrow.”
“Won’t we be working on the case?”
“It’ll keep until you get back. No classes tomorrow, so we can all have a lazy morning. Go see your dad, yeah?”
Daniel bit his lip, chewing on the poor bit of flesh so hard Angel winced. Daniel gave him a searching glance from under thick lashes, and he waited, patient. Waiting with Daniel always worked the best.
“Do, do I have to?” Daniel whispered.
Angel blinked, surprised. “Do you not want to see your father? Go home for a visit? You’re not my slave, kiddo. You can go home anytime you want. It’s just safer for you here with me.”
“I hate it there,” Daniel confessed, tears in his dark eyes and pain in his voice. Angel froze, again hiding his reaction. Daniel needed him to be calm.
“Is he a danger to you?” Angel asked, gently tugging at Daniel until his apprentice huddled against his side. The poor boy curled into him, and despite being taller than Angel, Daniel rested his head on Angel’s shoulder and shuddered out a long, wet breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
“Daniel, is Leicester dangerous? Does he hurt you?” Angel asked again, firmer. Daniel shuddered again, and gave Angel a small, hesitant nod. His guts chilled with a sick fear, and he had to know. Leicester’s life depended on his son’s answer. “Does he hurt you like Deimos did, or does he hurt you some other way?”
Daniel sniffled, but shook his head. “Hits me, uses magic sometimes,” Daniel whispered into his shoulder. Angel’s anger roiled in his belly, chasing away the cold terror, and he took a deep, even breath before he lost control, got in a taxi, and went to Cambridge in the middle of the night to beat the ever-loving fuck out of Leicester Macavoy.
Angel hugged
Daniel to him, and rubbed his back until he calmed. “Thank you for telling me. And no, you need never go back there if you don’t want to. I’ll keep you for as long as you want, probably a bit longer just in case.”
Daniel gasped out a small laugh, and Angel smiled. “Go get changed and washed up, we have some case files to look over.”
“Yes, Sir.” Daniel pulled back, wiping his damp cheeks. There was life in his dark eyes again, and Angel inwardly cheered.
“Don’t call me sir, makes me feel old.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Scamp! Be gone with you!”
Daniel left the kitchen and turned for the hall to the back of the apartment. Angel gripped the edge of the island, hellfire scorching the butcher block top. He breathed, in and out, battling back the anger he thought long released. If it weren’t for Daniel and what he needed right now, he would be taking years of the boy’s suffering out on his father.
Such habits were what started a war that spanned generations and killed hundreds of practitioners, though, so he let go of the island and breathed out the anger, calming himself.
He left the kitchen, heading for the coffee table and the case files.
Angel staggered, falling forward, hands slapping the wall as pain ran through his abdomen.
“Fuck!” he yelled, sliding to the floor, hands going to his stomach, half-convinced he would pull them back and see blood on his palms.
“Angel!” Isaac jumped up from the couch, the old diary thumping as it landed on the floor. Isaac ran to his side, kneeling next to him as Angel shuddered, panting in fear and pain. “What’s wrong, what is it?”
Angel lifted his dry and clean hands, eyes wide, heart racing. Something was wrong, but not with him. The phantom pain receded, and he felt the echo of another’s agony.
Simeon.
Angel jumped up, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he opened his senses and inner vision as wide as he could. He found the golden cord between himself and Simeon, and followed it back to his lover.
“Unholy saints, no,” Angel breathed out, heart seizing in absolute terror. “Simeon!”
Angel pushed off from the wall, and ran for the front door, grabbing his athame from where it hung in its scabbard by the entrance. Angel opened the door and ran down the hall to the stairs, jumping down the steps in hazardous leaps and bounds. Isaac was yelling behind him, but Angel had only one focus, and he followed his inner vision and the compass in his soul that pointed the way to his lover.
Chapter Eight
Love’s Folly
Simeon thrust his head back, his skull connecting with the face of the fae who held him. A shout and a rush of sweetly-scented, warm blood down his neck told him hit his target, and Simeon slammed his elbow up and back, knocking his attacker away from him. The blade buried in his torso slid out and sliced as it went, opening the wound even more, until it gaped and ice cold blood poured down his hip and groin.
Simeon kicked, knocking Stone’s head to the side with a solid thunk, and he hissed at the pain that radiated out from his center. Simeon moved backward, keeping the prone Stone and the newcomer in his line of sight, the wall of the building the limo crashed into at his back.
The fae was tall as he, lean and muscled. Skin the color of dark honey glimmered with soft hints of light, as if the frost of the winter night clung to his skin and reflected back the meager light from the street lamps. Long, sleek hair the shade of moss was pulled back from a high forehead in a long queue, the end of the tail flirting with the wind. Gray leather molded to a defined torso and lean hips showcased a perfection never seen in mortals. Eyes the color of mercury framed by thick, dark green lashes twinkled, and the fae twirled the long silver blade in his hand, Simeon’s blood flying off the edges in arching patterns.
Facing Simeon, the fae smiled despite the dark crimson blood dripping from his broken nose, otherworldly features aglow with an inner light. “Best get that tended to, Elder, lest you leave your Leannán grieving your loss.”
Simeon bared his fangs and crouched, prepared to attack. The fae twirled the blade again, side-stepping, almost dancing across the slick and icy sidewalk, balance pure and grace unhurried. Vampires moved with inhuman grace—the fae moved as if life were a dance, and only they knew the steps.
“That blade won’t save you when I rip out your throat,” Simeon vowed, tracking the lithe creature in front of him.
“No, Elder, I think not,” the fae said, and with a flick of his wrist temperature turned from chilling to sub-zero, the wind screaming loud enough to shake windows along the street. Simeon screamed himself, hands over his ears, and he staggered, falling to a knee as the sound grew in intensity. Pressure rose in his ears, inside his head, and he yelled, trying to force out the magic threatening to crush his skull.
The male fae walked leisurely to Stone, and even through his pain Simeon was left astonished when the fae leaned down, gripped Stone by one wrist, and hoisted the unconscious troll over his shoulder. Simeon screamed again in rage, voiceless in the storm assaulting his senses. Stone was gigantic compared to Simeon, and he dwarfed the slim fae to a ridiculous degree, yet the supernat tossed him about like a toy, taking Simeon’s prey from him.
The fae and his oversized burden jogged down the street, and Simeon forced himself back to his feet, swaying, but he took off after them. He tried, at least—the winds sucked at his strength, his mind confused, and he stumbled. Simeon gasped, thick blood choking him as the wound in his gut ripped even more, sending blood up his throat and out his mouth. His essence was torn open and spilling to the frozen pavement.
The wind died after an interminable passage of time, and Simeon stood, staring down the empty street. Simeon pressed a hand to his abdomen, cold thick blood oozing past his fingers. He swayed on his feet, surprised to feel weak. Centuries since an injury made him feel vulnerable, the cut from the silver blade left his innards exposed to the icy wind and the threat of second death.
He fell.
Angel ran.
He hurt, from his throat seared by the subzero air, to the soles of his feet insufficiently protected in his house shoes, each stride that hit the ice-cold pavement jarring his bones, his hands scraped and raw from slipping when he’d first made the street outside his apartment building. The fingers of his right hand were numb, the stone and damask steel of his athame freezing in the cold night air.
Simeon was somewhere ahead, so close. Another corner, another minute, a small moment of time. It felt like forever, and yet in seconds Angel rounded a corner three blocks from his apartment, and saw Simeon’s limo crashed into a closed deli, the engine still running and ticking in the cold air. Angel slowed, searching for Simeon, and he panted out a denial when he saw a body flung carelessly to the sidewalk. He took a step forward before his mind caught up to his eyes—it was a human, eyes vacant and dull, neck broken from hitting the wall. He wore a style of black suit common among the Tower employees, and Angel panted in relief and ever-growing fear that it wasn’t Simeon.
“Simeon!” Angel screamed, and he jogged ahead, thinking Simeon might be in the limo. The crash didn’t appear severe enough to incapacitate a vampire, but Simeon might have been unlucky.
“Mo ghra.” The familiar Irish, whispered so quiet it might have been the wind, made him stop, sliding on the slick road.
“Where…where…” Angel increased his inner sight, and the glow of the bond led him through the long shadows between street lights. “Simeon!”
Simeon was on his back, both hands pressed to his stomach, and Angel choked on a desperate sob when he saw the black blood that soaked Simeon’s white dress shirt and his dark gray trousers. Blood puddled beneath him, and frost collected on the edges of the pool.
Angel dropped to his knees beside Simeon, and he cursed the low light. He took a quick inward breath, and in the second before his exhale, lit the dark street on fir
e.
Hellfire rose from the cobblestones, dancing hand-height up from the ground, swirling in the wind in joyous trails until they were in the center of a circle. Angel dropped the athame and gripped Simeon’s hands and pulled them away, swallowing back bile. Green light illuminated the street, up the sides of buildings, and Angel was able to see the damage done to Simeon’s abdomen.
The right side of his abdomen, from his lowest rib to the top of his right hip gaped like a red mouth, exposing dark flesh, loosened muscles, and the glistening coils of dormant organs. Angel gagged, covering his mouth with his right hand, his left shaking as he reached out and cupped Simeon’s cheek for a moment. Simeon shifted, hissing through his teeth, and Angel snapped back into crisis mode at the sound of his lover’s pain.
“Don’t move,” Angel ordered, ripping at Simeon’s dress shirt, buttons flying off in all directions. “What happened? Can you tell me?”
“Fae…with a silver blade. Snuck up on me.” Simeon gasped the words out, his ability to draw in enough air to speak affected by the gaping wound. Angel tugged at Simeon’s waistband, checking how far down the injury went, but it appeared to stop right above his belt. Not that it helped—he was filleted open.
The incongruity of anyone sneaking up on Simeon had to wait until Angel figured out how to save him.
“What do you need to heal?” Angel asked, his inner sight in overdrive as he checked the wound for latent spells. Fae weapons were usually bespelled with secondary characteristics, like poisoning, or a spell to prevent blood clotting to insure an injury bled out. The fae didn’t fuck around.
There was residual magic in the wound tract, but nothing active, so Angel discounted worrying about spells messing with Simeon further. “Simeon! What do you need to heal? Blood?”
“Batiste…yes, blood.” That made sense—Batiste could heal his clan members, that much Angel knew. Simeon couldn’t feed from Angel—his blood would kill him. Angel dug out his cell, dialing a number he had never called before but Simeon insisted he have in case of emergency. It was a fucking emergency now, and Angel rocked on his knees as it rang in his ear.
