The Necromancer's Dance (The Beacon Hill Sorcerer Book 1) Read online

  Necromancer’s Dance

  Book One of The Beacon Hill Sorcerer

  By SJ Himes

  Necromancer’s Dance, BOOK ONE of The Beacon Hill Sorcerer, By SJ Himes

  Copyright © 2016 SJ Himes

  Edited by Amanda Coolong

  Cover by Book Cover By Design

  All artwork, designs, emblems created by Kellie Dennis of Book Cover By Design.

  Cover photo by Dan Skinner Photography

  http://danthedanimal.deviantart.com/

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you are reading a pirated version or a copy of this book that you did not purchase yourself, or was not gifted/loaned to you through allowable and legal means, then please keep in mind that you have effectively stolen this book. That means you have taken money directly from the author, making it harder for the author to continue to write.

  Please purchase your own copy, and remember to review.

  SJ Himes

  www.sjhimes.com

  Contents

  Dedication

  Warning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  To Be Continued

  Other Books by SJ Himes

  Dedication

  Huge thank you to Heather C Leigh, Sloan Johnson, MA Church, Jordan L Hawk, and the other many authors who have taken the time to help me name this series and several of the characters. This is my first foray into urban fantasy, and everyone has been encouraging and supportive as I enter this new genre.

  Thank you to Andrea and Michele and Crystal and Morningstar. You know what for and why.

  I want to thank my betas readers and my editors.

  Huge thank you to Amanda B and Amanda C, I love you both.

  More thanks for the countless others who have waited patiently for my books, and offered advice and encouragement. Writing for a living is a lot harder than it may seem, and I am my own worst enemy at times. Thank you all for the support and the slaps to the back of the head.

  Warning

  Violence, death, gore, bad Latin, and bastardized Irish.

  The sex in this book is between two supernatural beings who don’t need to worry about STDs and other threats incurred when not practicing safe sex. Don’t be an idiot—wrap it up! Condoms, contraceptives, and proper hygiene makes everything all that much more enjoyable when you don’t need to worry about getting sick or pregnant. Condoms can save your life. And use lube!!!

  Speaking of sex. Of the male/male persuasion. Enjoy!

  Chapter One

  Smoking Can Kill You

  “Elder Simeon begs you attend an urgent matter most delicate. Elder Simeon wishes to inform you our Master is holding to your behest in regards to Gregory Doyle, and bids you come with all speed.”

  It was well past eleven at night when Angel Salvatore got a knock on the door and the summons that dragged him out into the cold night in nothing but thin silk pajama bottoms. He’d slid a pair of sandals on and followed the two blood slaves out of his apartment complex and into the Master’s car, idling at the curb.

  He usually would’ve told the Master to stick it where the sun won’t shine, seeing as how the old vamp would burn to a brittle crisp if even a smidgen of daylight touched that porcelain delicate skin of his, but it took one name to get Angel out of the relative safety of his apartment and grabbing his work bag. And that one name was always mentioned in conjunction with another, one annoying and dear to Angel, so out he went.

  Isaac Salvatore and Greg Doyle lived in each other’s pockets, and that applied in times of trouble, too.

  Fucking idiots.

  They managed the short drive across town in silence, after the two blood bags of minimal thinking refused to answer Angel’s questions, and he rolled the window down as far it could go, propping his arm on the open frame and breathing in the moist night air. Angel could see downtown across the bay, lit up in bright gold and sunset orange lights, the skyscrapers and high-rises burning like medieval torches in the far distance. The briny water gave the air a heady, damp and earthy taste, the recent drenching from autumn rains soaking the banks and keeping everything slightly squishy with retained water. It was really too cold to have the window open, seeing as how he was just in sleepwear, but he was more concerned with why his brother’s best friend decided to break into the local vamp headquarters. And of course he got caught, seeing as how most of the bloodsuckers in residence at HQ were older than dirt and could hear a pin drop in a crowded football stadium during a Sunday night game.

  His brother Isaac was a loner, or he had been after their family died. The summer of their funerals was when he met Greg, and the loner status became instead that of sidekick to the recent addition to their tiny corner of Beacon Hill. Things used to be quiet when they were kids, and their parents were still alive, but things changed after the massacre and the Blood Wars ten years ago. So after that horrific spring and the bodies were buried and families were trying to patch themselves up around the gaping holes left in them, which was the summer Isaac decided he wasn’t going to be a good boy and go to school, and tagged along behind Greg. And that was just the first summer of misadventure, with Angel coming along to fix his brother’s mess, one disaster after another. Just like tonight.

  The car came to a halt in the narrow alley behind vamp HQ, and Angel was out of the car and slamming the door shut before the blood slaves even moved, heading for the back door. Angel slapped it open with the flat of his hand, the sound sharp enough to get every eye on him as he stormed into the storage room just off the kitchen. He ignored the vampires growling and hissing at his entrance, and pushed through the humans crowded along the back wall, and went straight to the idiot sitting alone in the center of the killing horde. Greg, Isaac Salvatore’s best friend and Angel’s worst nightmare, was sitting at a small wooden table under a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and he flinched when he saw Angel storming across the room. Angel took a quick look but didn’t see Isaac anywhere. There was a lessening of the tension in his shoulders. Angel was cautious though—just because he didn’t see Isaac, that didn’t mean his idiot brother wasn’t around somewhere. Angel just hoped he had a pulse and wasn’t feeding an enraged master vamp.

  “Someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Angel demanded, throwing his dark green linen satchel down on the table, clanging and clashing as the contents protested at the rough handling. Greg flinched away, opened his mouth, but Angel snapped his fingers at him, and Greg stopped before he started. “Someone who won’t lie to me, if you would?”

  Angel skewered the crowd in the small room, glaring at everyone brave enough to meet his eyes. The shadows hid most of them from Angel’s gaze, but there was a ton of shifting and ducking of heads as most of the occupants tried to pretend they weren’t there.

  Most, not all. One man stood tall an
d proud, unafraid to meet the stony eyes of a necromancer.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, and with dark auburn hair, Simeon met Angel’s eyes fearlessly, his dark green orbs catching the light as the bare bulb above their head swung with the breeze of Angel’s entrance. Simeon gave Angel a simple twitch of the lips, as close to a smile as Angel had ever seen the four-hundred-year-old vampire get. Simeon smirked; he never smiled. Angel thought Simeon was that old, as the tattoo on his right upper arm dated back to Ireland at about that time period, and Angel had heard the lower ranked vamps and blood slaves call him the ‘Celt’. Vamps can’t get tattooed after their resurrection, and the tattoos on his body could only have been placed there while he was human. It made sense to Angel. He couldn’t tell for certain though, but Angel knew that right now he was the oldest vamp in the room, so Simeon had the authority to tell him what was going on.

  “Simeon. Care to share? Wanna tell me why I was dragged outta bed and driven across town to find my brother’s boyfriend locked in your storage room?” Angel growled at the old vamp, and Simeon’s lip twitched again.

  Angel had something of a temper problem. Just a bit. And Simeon loved to poke at it, like a fool hunter nagging at a bear with a stick after a long cold winter. “And if anyone says Isaac was involved with this stupid endeavor I’m about to hear, I am gonna start handing out hexes indiscriminately.”

  “Mr. Doyle,” Simeon said, tilting his head at the man cowering at the table, “decided he was going to take a job to burglarize the place of business of our Master. He was caught,” Simeon continued, a calm veneer over a well of tension. Simeon’s voice was accented faintly, and had a lilt to it that could seduce the clothes off a nun—which Angel was certain Simeon had done at some point in his long life. Simeon was one slick bastard. “He refuses to tell us who hired him. As per the arrangement you have with our master, we did not get the information from him as we usually would. That is why you are here, Sorcerer Salvatore.”

  He’s breaking out the title, he must really want to know what’s going on, and he’s being very careful with me. Never mind Angel hated being called that, as it sounded like the name for an online sex-worker. He wasn’t going to complain though, because he’d never hear the end of it from Simeon if Angel confessed why he didn’t like his name.

  And those methods of extracting information? That usually comes with the extracting of blood from unwilling blood donors. Crap. Thank heaven for small mercies, Greg hasn’t been drained. Now all I can do is pray silently that Isaac wasn’t involved.

  “And my brother? Was he involved as well?” Angel asked, finally looking away from the Irish vamp and at the idiot stinking of booze and stale cigarette smoke. Greg was the same age as Isaac, but no one would ever be able to tell. Greg had been chain smoking since he was a pre-teen, and drinking for nearly as long. While both Isaac Salvatore and Greg Doyle were in their early twenties, Greg could pass for a man in his late thirties, worn out by life and bad, bad choices. Thankfully, Isaac had the family genes, and hard living had yet to leave its mark on him.

  “Mr. Doyle was caught alone, within the confines of the building. He has yet to speak, aside to tell us that it wasn’t his idea, he was being paid to do it. We asked politely what he was after,” yeah, I’m sure they did, “—but he has refused to speak more on the matter. We then recalled his connection to you, and the arrangement you have with our Master. We would like to know what he was sent here to steal, and by whom.”

  “So would I.” Angel grabbed another chair, and pulled it back from the table, sitting heavily with an exasperated sigh. He sat across the table from Greg, who was doing his level best not to make eye contact with Angel.

  Think a room full of pissed off vampires is scary? Try pissing off a sorcerer with anger management issues and an affinity for working with the dead and dearly departed.

  Angel stared. Silence. More staring. Angel was letting this fool see every single time he regretted not hexing his ass over the years—and it was only because Isaac loved this poor excuse of a man, and once upon a time, he helped Angel’s little brother get over the deep depression he’d fallen into after the death of their whole family. Greg wouldn’t make eye contact, and he was sweating, a drop running down his left temple and dripping off his jaw to land on his stained shirt. There were a few bruises and abrasions on him, but Angel didn’t see any apparent bite marks, or anything serious. Angel could take his time on this if he had to—he was already up, and Angel was not going away until he got some answers.

  “I’m not talking,” Greg finally burst out after what felt like hours of silence, mumbling defiantly down at the scarred tabletop. What felt like forever was really only a handful of minutes. Angel waited, quiet and motionless, knowing that Greg was about to crack. It didn’t take long. “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “What wasn’t your idea?” Angel asked, sounding bored, when inside all he want to do was bash in Greg’s skull and dig around for his one last remaining brain cell. The poor thing needs to be rescued, all alone in that empty head.

  “Comin’ here. Not my idea. Just needed the cash.” Sweat ran down his temples, his hairline soaking wet.

  “I can see that. You’re always bumming money off of Isaac. Who paid you?” Angel asked calmly, picking at one of his nails, the corner jagged. Angel wasn’t looking at him directly, but could still see the way Greg’s eyes dart around the room, ever mindful of the numerous vampires and fanatically devoted blood slaves surrounding them. Though Greg really didn’t need to worry about them, he needed to worry about the man sitting across from him.

  “Not telling.”

  Gawd, that’s mature. Sounds like a five-year-old being asked if he did something wrong. And this guy is Isaac’s bestie? I’m really hoping they aren’t sleeping together. I’m pretty sure Greg’s gay, and I don’t want to deal with any STDs that Isaac may get from him.

  Angel was watching his face when Greg replied to his question, so he saw a tiny twitch of his head. To most normal people, that wouldn’t even register to them, and if someone did see that twitch? Angel knew most people would dismiss it out of hand. Just nerves or something, right? Nope.

  It was a good thing Angel was there, and not a cop or another master vamp. If they’d tried draining Greg to get their answers, Angel would have had a five-story building full of very old and very sick vamps to deal with. This was a compulsion. Magical compulsion. When magic was active and running its course through a human, the blood would make vamps ill if they drank it. Which was another reason why Angel was cool sitting there in a relatively skimpy outfit and not worried about becoming a snack. Angel’s kind didn’t taste good to vamps.

  That particular head twitch was common across the board for humans compelled by sorcery, and it usually took a practitioner of the arts to recognize the signs.

  Not making eye contact. Extreme sweating. Refusal to speak when it would save your ass, behavior contrary to personality. Greg should be tattling so fast right now yet he’s not. Mental faculties diminished the longer the compulsion is in place. Yup. He’s been hexed.

  “Clear the room please,” Angel said softly, and Simeon made no sound, but the vamps blurred as they darted out of the room, the blood slaves moving at a comparatively leisurely pace after their masters. Simeon remained, and two blood slaves, and a couple of vamps Angel didn’t recognize stayed in the shadows along the far wall. For them to stay they must be older masters and the humans who belonged to them. Simeon stared at one in particular for a long moment, face unreadable, expression frozen, but the Celt said nothing to the vampire in the shadows, so he or she was probably another Elder. Angel shrugged, unperturbed by the remaining witnesses. It was the whole mob of lesser masters and symbiotic slaves that couldn’t keep a secret and gossiped like old ladies at bingo.

  “What… what are you gonna do?” Greg asked, eyes darting between Angel and the door over his shoulder. Sorry hun, you’re not fast enough to get outta here.

  “I’m going to get you talkin
g. So shut up.”

  Angel heard Simeon snort quietly at that, and sent him a sneer. It was almost midnight on a work night, Angel was sleeping an hour ago, and his grownup behavior was left on his pillow. Simeon grinned at Angel, all cocky attitude and rippling muscles, and Angel had to force himself to look back at the ruin of human potential sitting at the table. Angel was floored Simeon was smiling at him, since he had never seen the master vamp actually smile. Maybe it’s the outfit I’m barely wearing. Simeon is eye candy for certain, but that’s a whole-bag-full-of-pissed-off-cats kinda trouble there.

  Angel dug into his bag, and pulled out his smartphone, waking the screen to see that it was a few minutes to midnight. Had he really been in this dank and smelly storage room with the world’s biggest idiot for forty minutes?

  Angel pulled out a small silver dish, once part of a serving set that their Grams used to have, but the pieces had all steadily disappeared over the years. Probably thanks to Isaac and his bad habits. It was small, and ornately etched, blackened from long years and zero polishing on Angel’s part. It was going to serve its purpose tonight well enough. Angel kept digging, but couldn’t find what he needed. Angel sent a look at Greg, and considered bumming the bum for a cigarette, but he wrinkled his nose at that thought. I’d rather not pollute my lungs with anything he’s carrying around.

  “Anyone got a smoke?” Angel asked the room at large, and unsurprisingly, Simeon materialized next to him, a slim gold cigar case open in his pale hand. Angel cocked a brow at the old vamp, and got another dazzling grin in return. Angel leaned over, and picked out a thin cheroot that smelled like rich green things and cinnamon. He ran it under his nose, breathed in deep, and smiled, eyes closing for a moment in appreciation. For an undead bloodsucker, Simeon had fantastic taste in human vices. Angel send Simeon a wink and grin of his own, too angry and fed up to worry about encouraging the vampire. “Thanks, babe.”