by SJ Himes
“My love?”
“I know a vampire turns to ash in sun and fire. But if a vampire was to be killed by removing the heart, would the heart and body remain intact?”
“Yes. A vampire might be healed if the heart is returned in time, but the body decays swiftly after a short time. Magic and some modern chemicals can sustain the heart intact. We as a people have had human scientists try such a technique before. They met unpleasant ends.”
“Disgusting and I’m glad you took them out.” Angel rubbed Simeon’s hand, and looked at Milly and Isaac in turn. “If we follow the common and publicly perceived hierarchy in the supernatural species’ power scales, vampires are at the top, with some species of fae equivalent or even higher. Agree?”
Milly and Isaac both nodded in agreement. “Right. So Simeon’s limo is attacked by Stone because the fae lord sent him out after vampires. They are proving too hard for Stone to handle on his own, so I think the fae lord began to tail Stone to make sure he was able to pull it off. The clan had some attacks on vampires before you were hit, right?” Angel asked, and Simeon gave him a short affirmation. “So, Ben Stone goes after Simeon because the limo obviously belongs to the clan, so there’s bound to be vampires in there. Stone doesn’t strike me as the smartest tool in the kit. Simeon defeats Stone. The fae lord comes in, stops Simeon, but doesn’t kill him. What was it he said to you?”
“The first thing he said to me was, ‘Best get that tended to, Elder, lest you leave your Leannán grieving your loss.’” Simeon frowned, remembering. “He knew I was bonded.”
“How do the fae perceive mate bonds?” Angel asked.
“To the fae, there is no more sacred bond than that of soulmates.” Milly fussed with her empty cup, looking between Angel and Simeon. “He probably realized who you were. Your mate bond with Angel is common knowledge in the supernatural community. That’s probably why he left you alive. To kill someone bonded would have been dishonorable.”
“But killing a dozen people is acceptable.” Angel grumbled, but he got her point. Sometimes necessity won out over honor. She shrugged helplessly.
“Maybe the vampire hearts he has now will be enough. Maybe he’s got what he needed, and he’s done killing. I still don’t know what ritual the fae lord is planning, but whatever it is, it’s fueled by unwilling sacrifice. That says ‘evil’ to me. Agreed?” Angel looked around the room, and was satisfied at the resolve and stern expressions on his family’s faces.
“He needs to be stopped. So this is my plan. Stone is the weak link. The fae lord, if he is High Court Sidhe like the book suggests, is an unknown player. I’ve never fought against a fae before. Too damn rare. Tracking him is pointless. That’s why I’m going after Stone. I either track him to the fae lord, or make him talk. Stone needs to be stopped, and so does his boss. Find Stone, we find them both.”
“This doesn’t sound good,” Milly said, frowning at him. “What are you planning?”
“Troll hunting, of course.”
“Run this by me again,” O’Malley said, spitting out the words and actually getting in Angel’s face.
“I’m going hunting, and I want the police to stay out of my way.” Angel stood resolute, the older and taller man trying to stare him down.
“And when you say hunting, are we talking tracking and then you’ll call the cops and let us take the bad guys down, or are you going in for the kill?”
“The fae lord has presumably killed six vampires,” Angel stated, chin up, eyes level. “Please tell me what super-secret weapon the police have that can handle a High Court Sidhe and a troll-hybrid that took out six vampires.”
“You don’t know the vampires are dead,” O’Malley challenged. His tone was getting rougher, louder, and the precinct around them in the detectives’ den grew quiet. Angel kept his eyes on O’Malley, indifferent to the audience watching and listening.
Angel arched a brow, letting his thoughts express themselves clearly on his face. His disbelief at that possibility was strong. Simeon’s soldiers were loyal and obedient to him and the Master—they would have returned if they could. And no vampire would let himself be taken hostage. It wasn’t in their nature.
O’Malley exhaled loudly and threw his hands up in defeat. “This serial killer has been terrorizing the town for weeks, and the mayor and the chief have both been breathing down our necks to get this solved, and you want the police to stay out of your way? I brought you in to help, not take over! So what, I go home and wait by the phone?”
“Not so bluntly, but yes,” Angel replied. “I should have been involved from the start. We both had the chance at the first murder, weeks ago. People are dead because we failed to see the truth. I will rectify this as best I can, but it will be done my way, and I will not have anyone else killed going after the fae lord and Stone. They are beyond the current resources of the BPD.”
“But not beyond you?”
“I am the only one capable of taking them out,” Angel said, his words carrying over the silence in the large room. Papers rustled, the vents overhead wheezed out in complaint against the cold, and Angel could almost feel the weighty regard of the varied law enforcement officers in the room. O’Malley glowered at him, and Angel tried again. “This is my city. I will stop them.”
“I could just ignore you,” O’Malley ventured, and Angel gave him a small, tight smile. “In fact, I think I should go straight to my captain and tell him we need to reevaluate our consultation contract with you.”
“You can ignore me, but I thought ahead. I’m sorry, James, I really am. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here warning you off,” Angel said, regret coloring his words. There was a commotion at his back, and the ripple effect of having The Master appear in the middle of the precinct, with no warning or sign he was present swept across the room, humans gasping and swearing in alarm.
Batiste sauntered into the room to stand next to Angel, and O’Malley and several detectives nearby took a step or two back, instinctively responding to the threat emanating from the supreme predator in the room. Angel gave O’Malley an apologetic glance, and walked back to the door.
He tried the nice way. Time for the hammer.
“Detective O’Malley, I am here as sovereign leader of the Boston Blood Clan to assert my clan’s right to vengeance and justice, for the assault on several of my children, and the kidnapping and presumed murder of six of my soldiers. As such, with my authority, I am ordering the BPD to stand down. The fae lord and the serial killer are more than likely one and the same, and due to the corroborating evidence supporting this theory, the investigation into the serial killings is closed. Boston Police will not hinder or restrict Necromancer Salvatore’s actions or obstruct justice mete out at his discretion. Your cooperation and assistance into this matter is duly appreciated, and I must offer my sincere gratitude for the BPD’s efforts.”
O’Malley said nothing in reply, his swarthy face reddened by anger and likely embarrassment. Angel suffered a twinge of guilt, and then banished it. He waited, and O’Malley eventually gave the Master a slow, short nod in agreement.
Angel left the room. The Master could find his own way home, as he found his way there to begin with. Angel was just thankful Batiste answered Simeon’s call and took their side.
Angel walked down the hallway, hands in his pockets, certain he may have just damaged his relationship with the BPD, erasing the last few months of improvement since Grant Collins left on his forced sabbatical.
The door swung shut behind him, the hallway long and empty to the front. Angel steeled his spine, and walked on, determined to begin the hunt. The city was his for the night, and if his plans came off correctly, the dawn would see the threat posed by Stone and the mysterious fae lord laid to rest.
Chapter Fourteen
Before The Hunt
The sun set, obscured by a heavy cloud cover and the buildings to the west across
the river. Angel palmed his athame, and checked he had his linen bag strap tight across his chest so it wouldn’t slam about if he had to run. He slid the blade into the scabbard at his back, and tugged his sweater back into place. He touched a finger to the window facing the street, feeling the zing from his wards responding to his touch.
“Angie?”
“Isaac, I swear to god if you call me that one more time…” he complained, shaking his head. Angel turned from the window, and he glared at his brother standing a few feet away.
“Yeah, still gonna do it,” Isaac retorted, waving off any threat Angel was about to make. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?”
“Simeon and I will be fine,” Angel assured his brother. “I swear, we will be fine, and we will come back.”
“Yeah, but…”
“No buts,” Angel teased, and Isaac grumbled at him under his breath about annoying older brothers. “Daniel is still injured. Milly is sick with the flu and can’t help. And you’re a capable sorcerer, little brother, but you have no combat experience. You’ll get there, one day, but jumping in right now at this point will mean I’ll have to protect you while hunting.”
Isaac bit his lip, thinking about it. Angel could almost see the thoughts spinning in his brother’s mind. Isaac was stubborn—the last few months of brotherly peace felt artificial, and Angel kept waiting for Isaac to snap, to reveal the surly and argumentative young man he knew was buried under the facade Isaac was carrying since Greg Doyle’s murder. Even before, when Isaac lived with Angel the first time, Isaac never thought things through, always arguing and defying Angel for the sake of it. Perhaps he was wrong, and Isaac was different, a new man after the recent traumas, but old habits die hard. Wondering if this time Isaac would revert back to his previous behavior, Angel waited.
“I remember those nights when I was a kid,” Isaac blurted, eyes wide, dark and troubled. Angel frowned, but let Isaac continue. “I know you think otherwise, but I remember the first night Dad took you out, the first time you fought the Macavoys. I was ten? You were seventeen? Maybe? It was a short trip into disputed territory, and Dad wasn’t expecting trouble, but it turned into a nightmare. That’s what Dad called it. He said it was hell, but he smiled the next morning at breakfast, prouder than shit, that his son fought back without flinching. He called you fearless.”
“Isaac…”
Isaac shook his head, and pointed at Angel, stopping him from moving forward. “I remember it very clearly, because that’s when things started getting crazy. The War turned, and we were winning. I heard everyone. Mom, Grandpa, August, everyone. ‘The Salvatores have a necromancer. We’re going to win.’ I remember them all, saying it with smiles on their faces. ‘The only necromancer on the entire East Coast,’ and ‘no one can match him, he’s one of kind.’”
Angel breathed in, battling back the memories. Isaac was right. Their family had lauded the rise of his powers, his affinity’s growth in his later teen years. Angel had pushed himself, becoming one of the youngest sorcerers and battlemages in the Blood Wars. He learned to fight without mercy, and enjoyed the favor and praise of his family for it. Even when he killed.
Isaac sat on the couch, picking at his nails, looking at the floor. He risked a few steps closer, and Isaac looked up at him and the raw pain on his brother’s face made him pause. “Isaac?”
“You were special to everyone because you were a necromancer. They were right—one of kind. But those nights and days during the War…every time you left, I prayed to whatever deity who would listen, ‘Let him come back. Let him come home. He’s the only brother I have, he’s one of kind.’”
“Isaac.” Angel was gutted, heart sundered. He choked, covering his mouth to stifle a sudden sob.
“I wanted to go with you, near the end. I wasn’t more than a kid, and my powers were just starting to come in, but I wanted to follow you. Stand next to my brother and fight our enemies—not because you were already famous, but because you were my big brother, and I loved you.” Isaac went back to looking at the floor, and Angel was helpless to stop the pair of tears that scalded his cheeks as they escaped his eyes. “I used to watch you leave, and every time that door closed I was afraid you’d never walk back in again.”
Angel gave up restraint. He pulled Isaac to his feet and hugged his little brother, so tight he made him cough. “I am coming back. I swear,” he whispered, voice rough from tears and a pressure in his chest that felt like, if it broke, he’d cry forever. Isaac’s hands clutched at his back, fisting in his sweater, grasping, as if searching for a grip strong enough to keep him from walking out the door. Isaac’s tears wet his neck, his shirt collar, his little brother sobbing quietly. Angel bit his lip, shutting his eyes as tightly as he could, forcing his own tears back.
He had to leave, and Isaac had to stay. There was no choice in any of this, but for them all staying safe inside, and chancing that someone else may die because they did nothing.
Angel pulled back, and gently grabbed Isaac’s face in his hands, wiping away tears, his brother’s eyes wet, cheeks flushed, misery on his expressive features. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for caring about me, about anyone. Never apologize for loving someone. There is nothing you have done that I can’t forgive. You’re my little brother, and I love you, too.”
Isaac gasped, choking on his tears, and he back away a step, stumbling a bit. He wiped angrily at his face, embarrassed and awkward, a teenager all over again. Angel’s heart ached, and he was at a loss. Something was wrong, beyond Isaac’s worry that Angel may not come home again once he stepped out that door. Isaac wiped his sleeve over his eyes, and he backed away again.
“Isaac? What is it?”
“Do you mean it?”
“That I love you? Of course.”
“No!” Isaac’s voice rose sharply, then fell to a whisper. “That you’d forgive me anything?”
“Isaac, I know you. The worst you’ve ever done was leave your wallet at home and then get picked up for public intoxication, then calling me for bail money and a ride home. I’ve forgiven you each time for that, no matter how pissed off and annoyed I was at the time.” Angel smiled, trying to calm Isaac, to tease him back down from the emotional edge he was on.
“I’m not…I’ve done…I’m not a good person.” Isaac’s protests were weak, his eyes so full of misery than Angel’s instincts rose to the fore. There was something more, hints of an old behavior. “You don’t know. You’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Angel asked quietly, intent on watching Isaac’s reactions. “What’s wrong?”
“A ghra, the sun has set, are you ready…” Simeon came out of the bedroom, Eroch fussing on his shoulder, the little dragon flapping his wings and making a ruckus.
Simeon took one look at them both, and then stepped back in the bedroom, shutting the door. Isaac was a statue, expression tormented, eyes down and refusing to look at Angel.
“We can talk when you get back, yeah. I’m gonna go check on Daniel.” Isaac took off down the hall, and Angel tried to stop him, but Isaac’s longer legs took him out of reach. Isaac disappeared into Daniel’s room, the door closing with a click behind him.
Angel grumbled under his breath, frustrated.
“My love?” Simeon called to him softly, concern in the sexy lilt of his voice.
Angel shook it off. He wiped his own eyes, confused, saddened, and more than willing to knock down that door and demand answers, but they had more pressing matters.
“I’m fine,” Angel said, backing away from the hall and walking to the front door. Simeon’s expression kindly called him on his bullshit, but his lover said nothing to contradict him. Eroch jumped from Simeon’s shoulder to Angel’s, and Angel opened his sweater enough for the dragon to crawl inside and curl around his neck.
“Let’s go hunting.”
“The weather ha
sn’t been favorable for hunting by scent,” Simeon mused, sucking in a lungful of cold air. “There is no spoor left to follow, a ghra.”
Angel stepped up beside him, boots crunching in the fresh snow on the sidewalk. They were standing where the limo had nosedived into the deli front, the brick wall a jumbled mess. Angel reached into his pocket, and pulled out a sandwich bag. Angel opened it, the smell of blood and troll coming off the battered piece of fabric he withdrew. “What is that?”
“A piece of your suit jacket. It’s the one you were wearing when you fought Stone. It has some of his blood on it.” Angel shook out the fabric, and Simeon shook his head.
“The scent may live on in his blood, but if the trail itself is abolished, I cannot track him from here.”
“I figured. I have a backup plan, actually.” Angel gave him smile, a mysterious gleam in his eyes that made him want to drag Angel in and ravage his mouth. Angel continued speaking, pulling his bag around and opening the flap. “No point in scrying for him, not if he’s carrying a nullifier charm on him. That would be useless.”
Angel rooted inside his bag, and came out with a small metal object. Light glittered off the tiny artifact, and Simeon was surprised to see it was a dog whistle, at least a couple hundred years old from the style. Noblemen in the Old World would buy such things for their huntmasters, handing them out as gifts or symbols of favor.
Carved and intricate, the silver whistle had hunting hounds running after a small fox, the designs so small and minute that from a distance they blended together. About four inches long, the thin pipe dangled from a necklace, which Angel wrapped around his bare hand, the ends of the whistle sticking out on either side of his fist.
“Don’t interrupt me,” Angel said softly, eyes falling shut. Simeon knew by now not to do so, but it was habit for Angel to say such, part of his ritual.
