The Necromancer's Reckoning (The Beacon Hill Sorcerer Book 3) Read online

  Book Three of the Beacon Hill Sorcerer

  © 2018 SJ Himes

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1. A Sorcerer Walks into a Bar

  2. Can I Dragon Today?

  3. When Trouble Blows Into Town

  4. Feels Like Detention

  5. Defiance

  6. When Justice Yields

  7. One Less Monster

  8. Ghost Hunting

  9. Broken Edges

  10. It’s in the Cards

  11. Jailbait

  12. Dead, and Not Quite Gone

  13. Howling Madness

  14. Giving up the Goods

  15. Sex is Best

  16. Striking a Deal and Bad Memories

  17. Bodies…Bodies Everywhere

  18. Coed Chaos

  19. Impasse

  20. Persistent Folly

  21. The Lamb

  22. Magica Duellum

  Epilogue

  Titles by SJ Himes

  Writing As Revella Hawthorne

  Untitled

  The Necromancer’s Reckoning © 2018 SJ Himes

  Edited by Miranda Vescio

  Cover by Kellie Dennis of Book Cover By Design

  Beacon Hill Sorcerer series design © Book Cover By Design, exclusive use by SJ HIMES.

  Interior Design and Formatting by: SloanJ Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Digital piracy of books kills indie authors.

  The digital edition of this book is ONLY for sale via Amazon, enrolled in Kindle Unlimited. If you see it for sale elsewhere, or downloadable for free from a non-Amazon site without the author’s permission, then this book has been pirated.

  I can’t write the books readers love if I can’t make a living doing so. Please don’t pirate my books. Don’t download them for free.

  TRIGGER WARNINGS:

  Mentions of past sexual abuse and rape. Violence and gore. Alcohol abuse and alcoholism.

  Author’s Note

  I’ve done my best to keep the geography of Boston and the Beacon Hill District as accurate as possible, though the Tower, the attached vamp HQ, and the High Council Consulate are 100% fictional. While the rest of the locations are real, none of the businesses nor occupants of these places have any connection to the fictional world I’ve created.

  In this book, the issue of alcohol abuse is raised, and the way it’s handled is based upon the experiences of people I know personally, and research on a wide range of treatments. Please keep in mind that this is fiction, and while I tried my utmost best to address the issues with respect and realism, I made artistic decisions that facilitated the progress of the story and the development of characters. No one’s life experiences will match that of someone else, even fictional characters—we all wear our scars differently, feel pain differently, and we all heal differently.

  There is no, one perfect universal intersectionality of life experiences.

  I want to thank the following people:

  Special thanks to Amanda, Janessa, and Jennifer for letting me kill you in spectacular ways. Hope it was as fun for you as it was for me.

  Thank you, Susan H., for the reminders of home and helping me find the best places to send our guys on their adventures.

  Thank you to my editor, Miranda Vescio, for her patience and the love she has for my characters.

  Thank you, Sloan Johnson and Heather C Leigh, for lending me your names to give to my characters.

  Thank you to Caer Jones for letting me pick your brain in relation to Tarot and reading the cards.

  And a special thank you to Nicholas L. Your magic helped bring the story to life.

  A special thanks to my Star. You let me crash on your futon for a week. You are the reason this book was finished.

  And a special shout out to Anu H, for winning the “Name the Hellhound” competition in my Fan Group on Facebook. Well done!

  To everyone who keeps me motivated, keeps me functioning—thank you.

  I’d be getting nowhere fast without my friends and family.

  “The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.”

  -William Blake

  1

  A Sorcerer Walks into a Bar

  “I’m having a serious case of déjà vu,” Angel grumbled, knocking open the door to the bar with a shoulder, leaving behind the damp, exhaust-laden late winter air for the stink of stale sweat and cheap booze.

  The bar was a human haunt, the one difference in this trip down memory lane. The seedy dive was dark, smoky, and filled with the malcontents of South Boston, and Angel let the shadowy patrons get a clear look at him before the door swung shut, blocking out the light from the street. Best they know who he was so he didn’t get a repeat of the last time he went into a bar after his brother. He gave it even odds someone in here would recognize him.

  Angel pulled out his cell, one eye on the few people brave enough to regard him with disfavor as he dialed Isaac. He waited a moment, and when he heard a grumble and the low tolling of church bells, he headed in that direction. He hung up halfway down the bar where Isaac was slumped over the wide surface fumbling with his pocket, trying to get his cell out.

  “Oh! Angie, you came,” Isaac slurred, dropping his hand to the bar, knocking into his glass; nearly empty, it reeked of cheap hops and watered-down beer. “Want a drink?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” Angel said softly, keeping an eye on his brother and the immediate crowd. He nodded at the hovering bartender. “My brother’s tab, please.”

  “Sure thing.” The bartender made haste for the register, no doubt increasing Isaac’s tab now that Angel was there. Isaac tended to disappear completely when he went on these binges, only taking his smartphone and wallet, though more times than not he conveniently forgot his wallet. Not that Isaac was hurting for cash—Angel was certain he did it so he had a reason to call him at the end of a long, lonely night of getting drunk.

  “This place is new,” Angel said, pulling out his wallet and tossing down a few twenties. He put his wallet back while giving the bar another quick once-over. “Not your usual venue.”

  “The vamps own my usual places,” Isaac belched, his exhaustion-smudged eyes blurry. Isaac was beautiful, even when drunk and surly. “They cut me off early. Had to go find someplace new.”

  “That happens when you decide to go drinking at your brother-in-law’s bars,” Angel frowned, withholding his exasperation and the accompanying sigh.

  A man sitting on a stool on Isaac’s far side eyed Angel, taking in his shorter-than-average-stature and the expensive cut to his clothes. He wasn’t a clotheshorse like Simeon or Daniel, but he bought quality clothing and made sure he was clean when he stepped out of the apartment. Angel gave the barfly a cocky smile and held his gaze until he turned away, mumbling into his beer. The bartender took Angel’s cash, and since he wasn’t expecting a place like this to give change, he turned Isaac on his seat and wrapped one of his arms over his shoulder. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s go home.”

  Isaac was nearly a head taller than him, lanky and sleek with muscles, but his drunkenness left him
limp and uncoordinated, so Angel held firm before they both toppled to the floor. Though it had been several months since he last dragged Isaac from a bar, it was still muscle memory at this point. Step after lurching step, he managed to get Isaac to the door, and Angel opened it with a judicious use of kinetic magic.

  The screech of wooden chair legs across the cement floor told him they were being followed, but he wasn’t worried. There were times he ended up brushing off a disgruntled sex worker who thought Isaac was an easy mark or breaking up a raucous group of revelers who thought Isaac's brand of snark too precious to part with while the alcohol was still flowing. This wouldn't be his first bar fight, certainly not while rescuing Isaac from himself. First time dragging Isaac out of a strictly human establishment though, which was why the fools on their heels were following. If this was a strictly practitioner or supernat establishment, Angel would have been recognized, and Isaac as well. He wouldn’t be worried about getting jumped while trying to get Isaac home on his own.

  Though this time, he wasn’t alone.

  Angel and Isaac hit the street seconds before the curious barfly and two other men followed them out the door. Isaac tried to give warning, but he groaned and bent at the waist, vomiting across the wet sidewalk. Angel dodged the beer and bile mix, at the same time turning so he faced the three men advancing on them. He kept one hand buried in the collar of Isaac’s leather jacket and eyed their new friends.

  “Bad idea, guys.” Angel tried to warn them, but he got guffaws and wide, greedy grins in reply. One man, the barfly who sat next to Isaac, gave Angel a nasty examination with his rheumy eyes, making him want to throw up as well. He knew what the drunkard saw—short, slim guy in expensive clothing, who if not for the scruff on his jaw looked like a young, twenty-something co-ed. He didn’t look thirty, and while that was great on an average day, it was a handicap in situations like this. “Seriously, guys. One more step, and this is going to end up being the worst night of your lives.”

  “Pretty thing like you? Pshaw. Your lips are gonna look great stretched around my fat dick. Boys, I get the smaller one first. Roll the drunk, see what he’s got.”

  Angel sighed, not even bothering to look worried, and raised a shield quicker than thought between them and the three idiots.

  Chaos exploded on the narrow sidewalk.

  Blood flew in a wide arc, hissing and burning when it collided with the hellfire green of his shield. Angel yanked Isaac back, leaning them both against the rear of Simeon’s sexy Jaguar.

  Isaac peered into the shadows and burped again. “He’s fast.”

  “Vampires usually are,” Angel agreed, making sure to keep his hand on Isaac lest his brother take a header for the pavement.

  Screams and pleas filled the narrow street where the bar squatted between shuttered storefronts. A blur tossed one bleeding and broken drunkard after another back into the bar, the two of them squalling like wet cats when they landed in a pile just past the door. Angel caught a glimpse of shocked and frightened faces inside before the door swung shut with a thud. The third man begged and sobbed for mercy on his knees, slobbery with snot and tears. There was a rip in his shirt that exposed pasty skin and claws marks, blood was running in rivulets down his flabby abdomen.

  “Should I snap this one’s neck, my love? He was exceptionally rude,” Simeon growled, his Irish accent thicker than usual, his fangs dropped and brilliantly white in the pale moonlight. His vibrant emerald eyes glittered and reflected the light, their glow intense. Clad in his usual dark blue suit and shiny leather shoes, Simeon was a few thousand steps above the clientele of the seedy bar.

  “Hungry?” Angel called over, loud enough for the asshole to hear him over his own sobbing. Angel dropped his shield, and it dissipated with a wink of green light and smoke.

  “I don’t fancy drinking from the likes of him,” Simeon dismissed, the fool at his feet looking relieved for a brief second before Simeon spoke again. “I’d just as soon break his neck and drop his foul carcass in the gutter.”

  “I didn’t bring bail money,” Angel declared, and Isaac snorted back a laugh. Not that Simeon would get arrested for killing the human. His rank had more privileges than most. “I’ll leave his disposal up to you.”

  “No! Please! I’m sorry!” the guy begged, tears running from bloodshot eyes. Simeon lifted a hand, his scalpel-sharp claws extended, his hands having shifted from manicured elegance to predatory lethality with a swift thought. Sharp enough to score stone and eviscerate the sturdiest of fae, Simeon’s claws caught and held the terrified gaze of the man at his feet.

  The pungent scent of urine filled the air, and Angel wrinkled his nose in distaste. Isaac groaned, gagged, and bent over, spitting to the pavement. Simeon sighed and took a discrete step back from his victim. A subtle flex of his fingers had Simeon’s claws retracting, his eyes dimming, and his fangs pulling back into his gums, disguised again as pristine, human canines.

  Angel relaxed back, content to accept whatever decision Simeon made. Technically, his position as Elder in Boston’s only Bloodclan gave him the impunity and authority to use lethal force in the defense of his clan or mate.

  Angel was his mate.

  “You would have raped my mate,” Simeon stated, casual, tugging at his cuffs. “Assaulted the youngling as well, if given the chance, and robbed them. If they were normal mortals that is. Were I not here, I think you’d already be reduced to hot cinders, disintegrating in the wind.”

  The man kneeling on the pavement sent a nervous glance Angel’s way, skipping over the sagging Isaac. Bloodshot eyes returned to stare up at Simeon, the man clearly disbelieving. Simeon bent down, and whispered conspiratorially, “Surely you recognize them. No? Perhaps the name then. Salvatore?”

  Isaac gave a tortured laugh when the human’s eyes went wide, the man shaking with harsh tremors. The expression on his face would have been flattering if Isaac wasn’t three sheets to the wind and Angel’s patience evaporated from dealing with idiots.

  “I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Salvatore! Don’t turn me into a toad!”

  Humans.

  Angel rolled his eyes, stepping away from the Jag and popping the rear door. “In you get, kiddo.”

  Isaac went with a grumble, and Angel shut the door, trying not to slam it. Simeon called over to him, “What shall I do with our friend, a ghra?”

  “I’m partial to castration, but it’s up to you. I want to go home,” Angel responded over his shoulder as he got in the front passenger seat, shutting the door behind him with a solid thud.

  The lush interior muffled most exterior noise, and Angel watched in the side mirror as Simeon leaned down, snagging eye contact with the terrified human at his feet. A short moment later, the human’s eyes glazed over and he gave a slow nod. He went limp, slouching to the pavement, and Simeon stood. He turned his back on the human and walked around to the driver’s side of the Jag.

  Simeon got in, and a minute later, they were driving north, heading for Beacon Hill.

  “What…uumm, did you do? Ish he dead?” Isaac slurred, his little brother holding onto consciousness with maximum effort.

  Simeon was quiet for a long moment, and Angel could see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. Simeon glanced in the rearview mirror. “I told him to go to the nearest police precinct and admit to all sexual assaults he may have committed or participated in. He agreed, and once he’s able to stand, he should be on his way to the police.”

  “You charmed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s…good,” Isaac mumbled to himself then went quiet. A quick glance confirmed Isaac was passed out at last.

  Angel stared forward, eyes blind, too worked up to see the passing streets or traffic. Simeon’s cool, strong hand wrapped around his, joining them together over the center console and holding tight. The drive home felt like forever though it was less than thirty minutes at the late hour.

  “Mo ghra?”

  “Yeah?” Angel was quieter than us
ual as he did his best to hold back his emotions.

  “He needs help.” Simeon was blunt, but his tone was kind. There was a burning in Angel’s chest—frustration and anger, along with pain, all fighting to escape. Angel refused to break down. Not now, not in the car with his drunk baby brother in the backseat stinking of booze and smoke. The booze was obvious, but the smoke wasn’t from the bar—Isaac’s control was weak and his fire affinity was seeping out.

  “I know he does,” Angel replied, a stray, scalding hot tear escaping down a cool cheek, and he dashed it away angrily. “I’ve tried the nonjudgmental approach. I’ve tried not saying anything, just being there and letting him work things out on his own. I’ve tried telling him I don’t blame him for our family. He was only a child, thirteen years old and in no way responsible for our family’s slaughter. The wards at the Mansion may have been compromised, but all that did was hasten an end we would have faced, regardless. Instead of fighting a fruitless battle for a few hours, it was reduced to less than one.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “His reply was if he hadn’t compromised the wards, they would have held out long enough for the magic of the coercion spell to poison the vampires, killing them off in enough numbers that our family might have been able to destroy the rest.”

  Angel bit the inside of his cheek, fisting his hand in Simeon’s grip, whole body taut and ready to snap. Logic was a bitch sometimes; how to argue that point? The Salvatore family’s destruction came down to one basic fact—they were overrun, outnumbered, and maybe, if the wards had held out longer, more of them may have survived.