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SJ Himes

The Realms of Love

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The Beacon Hill Sorcerer

The Necromancer’s Dance

June 18, 2018 by

Title: The Necromancer's Dance
Series: The Beacon Hill Sorcerer #1
Buy the Book: Amazon, Audible
Genre: gay romance, lgbt fantasy, romance, urban fantasy, urban fantasy romance
Pages: 284

In a world where magic is real and evil walks amongst humanity, a young sorcerer is beset upon by enemies, both old and new.

Angelus Salvatore is the only necromancer in all of Boston, and his name is whispered warily by the undead and fellow sorcerers alike. He and his brother Isaac are the lone survivors of an attack by an army of the undead, in which Angel used a spell so powerful it forever marked his place in history. Now, years later, Angel struggles to balance his career as a teacher of the higher magical arts, his role as big brother, and a tenuous relationship with an Elder vampire from the local clan. When his brother's boyfriend is used as a pawn in a mysterious plot to draw Angel out, Angel is once again drawn back into the old hostilities that fueled the Blood Wars and led to his family's death.

Leaning on others for help is something Angel cannot do, and while he searches for clues into who may be targeting him and his brother, Angel finds his heart steadily growing occupied with Simeon, Elder and vampire. Dealing with death magic and vampires on a daily basis may leave Angel jaded when it comes to life and staying that way, but the more time he spends fending off the ancient vampire's attention and affections, the more he realizes he wants to give in.

Can Angel find out who wants him dead, and keep his heart safe in the process? How can he fall for a vampire, when his whole family was torn apart by an army of the undead?

Death stalks the streets of Boston's historic Beacon Hill....and there is no one more suited to battle against death than a necromancer.

 

 

 

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The Necromancer’s Dilemma

June 18, 2018 by

Title: The Necromancer's Dilemma
Series: The Beacon Hill Sorcerer #2
Buy the Book: Amazon, Audible
Genre: gay romance, lgbt fantasy, romance, urban fantasy, urban fantasy romance
Pages: 280

Even love can die without trust.

Angel’s brother, Isaac, has returned home, and the pair begins to make slow and awkward attempts back to each other. Learning how to be a brother to a grown man instead of a parental figure has Angel adjusting his behaviors and habits, and Isaac still remains a mystery. Was it merely entering adulthood that turned Isaac away from an overprotective Angel, or does Isaac carry a secret that will keep them from finally being a real family?

Daniel Macavoy, Angel’s new apprentice, is torn between his bond with Angel and the grasping machinations of his father. Dealing with a traumatized apprentice with dangerous holes in his magical education, saving Daniel may be harder than Angel first thought—especially since the biggest problem is not revenge, but guilt.

The one shining beacon in his life is Simeon, Elder vampire of Boston’s only Bloodclan. Four hundred years old and sexy as sin, Simeon is warrior and sage, patient and cunning. The strength Angel draws from Simeon’s devotion and the newborn mate-bond between them is steadfast and true…and the fount of death magic that animates the undead lord places Angel in the midst of a power struggle for control over himself, his lover, and his family.

Through it all, Angel is beleaguered by the unwanted attention of a troll-hybrid, the adventures of a dragon in the city, and a serial killer has decided to hunt the back alleys and midnight streets of Boston.

Contains bonus short story at the end, "The Necromancer's Birthday Surprise", written for Crystal's Many Reviewers, March 2016. Book TWO in a series. Not standalone.

 

 

 

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The Necromancer’s Reckoning

June 18, 2018 by

Title: The Necromancer's Reckoning
Series: The Beacon Hill Sorcerer #3
Buy the Book: Amazon, Audible, Tantor
Genre: gay romance, lgbt fantasy, romance, urban fantasy, urban fantasy romance
Pages: 302

Every action has consequences.

For a decade, Angel Salvatore has been the most powerful sorcerer and only necromancer in all the Northeast. Never one to ask permission nor apologies, he has acted with near impunity for years.

Until now.

The High Council of Sorcery has come to Boston, and Angel is their target. Charged with numerous violations of practitioner laws, his freedom and family are placed in jeopardy.

If found guilty, Angel's apprentice Daniel will be imprisoned to serve out the remaining years of his apprenticeship. Isaac, his brother, is too vulnerable to be left unguarded, and Angel fears for his sanity and health. And Simeon, Elder vampire and Angel's mate refuses to see Angel convicted under the laws of the Council and his actions to keep Angel free threaten to start a war that could destroy their world. And Angel faces the severest of punishments—the castration of his gifts.

The Council has never cared for the people of Boston, and Angel doubts their motives. They have come for some insidious reason, and it has nothing to do with upholding the law and everything to do with Angel.

Dealing with an impending trial, a wayward ghost, and a graverobbing ring of thieves leaves Angel on the edge. He thinks he may have a handle on things until violence erupts across the city, and a stranger comes to town...a stranger with his own dark powers of necromancy.


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The Necromancer’s Reckoning by SJ Himes Excerpt #1

“What do you mean, I got a letter?” Angel held his smartphone between his ear and shoulder, fumbling with the keys to his office. It was still dark, and he huffed with impatience, blinking a small orb of hellfire into existence over his hands so he could find the right key. Inserting it into the lock, he opened the door and dismissed the orb, flicking the light switch by the door.
“It was delivered by courier about ten minutes ago,” Daniel replied, his apprentice talking past food. “I had to sign for it. The courier almost didn’t leave it with me until I told him I was your apprentice.”
Angel grumbled to himself, tossing his keys on his desk and grabbing his phone, rubbing the back of his neck. He left his apartment not even ten minutes before, which was only a couple blocks away, so the courier must have shown up right as he was leaving. He frowned, thinking back to the pre-dawn street, and he didn’t recall seeing anyone—not even a car or taxi.
“Well, go ahead and open it,” Angel said, tapping his phone to put it on speaker. Daniel made a happy sound past whatever he was chewing, and Angel snorted out a laugh. He booted up his laptop, looking for the appointment he had that morning at the ass-crack of dawn. Why in the world he thought it would be a good idea to have a private consultation so damn early on a Monday was beyond him. Which was why he decided on waking up everyone he lived with so he could share the misery. Though it was only Daniel since Isaac was at Nevermore and Simeon was at the Tower.
A sharp yelp and swearing came out from the speakers, and Angel laughed. “Papercut?”
“No! It shocked me!” Daniel gasped out, cussing under his breath. “I can’t open it!”
“What do you mean you can’t open it? Just rip it open.”
“I’m trying! Ouch!” Daniel yelped again, and the sounds coming from over the phone were parts hilarious and alarming. “I’m not risking my fingers. You can open it.”
“Who is it from? It might be warded if a courier brought it.”
“Now you tell me,” Daniel muttered, and Angel grinned as he found the appointment time. Daniel was finding his courage and picking up sass lessons from Isaac. His shy apprentice was learning all about sarcasm in the Salvatore household. His appointment was in about five minutes. No time to run back home and get the letter that was singeing his apprentice’s fingers. Daniel recited the address on the letter, “It says, ‘To Angelus Raine Salvatore, Necromancer of Beacon Hill, Boston, Massachusetts. From’…Oh, wow.”
“Who’s it from?”
“The High Council of Sorcery, Bucharest, Romania.”
Angel stood up straight, hands falling away from his laptop. He stared at the phone, the quiet in his office somehow loud, heart pounding in his ears. He looked up at the door as if any second one of the Council enforcers would blast through the doorway, ready to take him into custody for crimes sundry against international sorcery laws. He breathed in, breath shaky, and flexed his fingers. He reached out with his mind, cautiously testing the wards around his office, and there was nothing.
“Angel? Angel!” Daniel squawked over the phone, and Angel snapped free of the tension that held him frozen and snatched up the phone.
“Daniel, my appointment is any minute. Can you bring the letter here? Just hang out in the main room until I’m done if we’ve started when you get here. Wake up Eroch and have him come with you.”
“Um, okay…wake up the fire-breathing lizard, he says.”
“Just pick him up and carry him with you if he doesn’t wake up. He was sleeping on my pillow when I left. Don’t walk over here alone. I’d say hold on to it until I get home, but I have a feeling I need to read that letter as soon as possible.”
“Okay. Can I take a shower first?”
“You better,” Angel chuckled and hung up. Twenty-year-old men needed showers for the sake of everyone.
A knock sounded from the front of the office, and Angel took a deep breath, calming his off-center nerves before heading to answer the door. He was still cautious, sending out his awareness, his wards humming in the recesses of his mind, unmolested. There were two people on the small landing outside his door, their auras muffled by the panel, but they were both practitioners.
Angel opened the door, a polite smile on his face.
“Angelus Salvatore?” asked a tall, bulky man in a dark coat, his face set to glower. Angel lifted a brow, unable to see the person behind the big man. He could see a flash of red hair and a small bit of alabaster skin before the big guy shifted.
“I am,” Angel replied, opening the door wider, stepping back and gesturing them inside. His wards were set to allow strangers inside, but they would dampen any magic cast in this space by strangers or those he blocked. Came in handy when dealing with young sorcerers and unexpected guests. They could still cast, but his magic permeated the space, claiming even the ambient magical energies and stifling spells cast by interlopers. Not much use against a practitioner who used their own reserves, but the more dangerous, higher-ranked practitioners tended to reach outside themselves first before casting.
A tall woman was behind the big guy, slim and covered head to toe in black, from her leather high-heeled boots and ankle-length black pea coat to her black silk scarf and a jaunty, tiny pillbox hat atop titian curls. She was familiar, but the shadows were still dark enough Angel was having difficulty determining her identity. He led them back to his office, gesturing at the chairs in front of his desk. The woman sat, unwinding her scarf, her escort taking a stance beside the office door. Angel turned on the lamps as dawn was taking its time arriving and the room had shadows in inconvenient places.
The woman removed her scarf, putting it on her lap before shrugging from her coat. Her escort stepped forward, taking it from her before returning to his spot by the door. The woman, dressed in a thin black wraparound dress that hugged every slim curve and long line of her body, smiled at Angel. She was pretty, in a very human way, nothing of the fae about her in face or form. Dark green eyes, nothing at all like the brilliant emerald of Simeon’s eyes but arresting enough in their own merits, gazed back at him, glistening with wry humor.
“Lady Kensington,” Angel acknowledged after a moment’s pause, surprised. The recent widow was a wizard and a skilled apothecary who owned and ran Nightshade Apothecary not far from where they sat in Beacon Hill. Angel would see her occasionally in the neighborhood or when he needed supplies between scheduled deliveries. Her husband, Lord Greyson Kensington, died of a heart attack three months ago while shoveling snow off the front stoop of their shop one chilly winter morning.
“Call me Heather, please,” she said, voice melodic and rich, smooth as hot chocolate with a shot of whiskey. Her chin rose as if she was expecting argument. What Angel could remember of her husband, the man was a stickler for propriety and demanded to be addressed by his title, even to friends.
Angel never liked the man.
“Heather,” Angel agreed with a grin, surprising her into smiling back at him. “What can I do for you? And why so early? I would’ve come to the shop.”
“I’m afraid this matter requires a measure of discretion,” Lady Heather replied, twisting her scarf in her fingers. “It’s regarding my late husband.”
Angel paused, thinking. Usually when the recently bereaved came to his door, they wanted either the impossible, like a resurrection, or more commonly, a summoning of the departed spirit. He rarely acquiesced as nothing good could come from repeatedly dialing in to the Other Side. It kept the living from moving on and tormented the souls he would be recalling to this plane.
She must have seen some of these thoughts on his face, as she held up a dainty hand, forestalling his coming denial. “I don’t want you to summon him from the Other Side,” she said, tears gathering on her lashes. Angel waited, curious despite himself. “I want you to find him for me.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not following,” Angel said warily, hoping she didn’t cry. Isaac or Daniel breaking down he hated but knew what to do, a near stranger crying left him awkward.
“The shop was broken into three nights ago,” Lady Heather said quickly, words tumbling over themselves as she hurried to explain. “I heard the commotion from my apartment upstairs, but by the time the police arrived, it was too late.”
“What did they steal?” Angel was trying to follow along, he really was, but he had no idea what a burglary would have to do with her deceased husband.
“They stole him,” Lady Heather said, digging out a handkerchief from her tiny black purse. She dabbed at her eyes, miraculously not smearing her mascara.
Angel frowned. “I’m going to need you to spell this out for me.”
“The thieves stole Greyson’s ghost. I need you to find him.”

 

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A History of Trouble

February 26, 2019 by

Title: A History of Trouble: A Beacon Hill Sorcerer Collection
Series: The Beacon Hill Sorcerer #3.5
Buy the Book: Amazon, Audible, Tantor
Genre: collection, gay romance, lgbt fantasy, short story, urban fantasy, urban fantasy romance
Pages: 92

A HISTORY OF TROUBLE

A Beacon Hill Sorcerer Collection

 

A collection of brand-new short stories, featuring characters from The Beacon Hill Sorcerer Series by bestselling author SJ Himes.

 

Red Wine and Blood

The Blood Wars raged for centuries across Boston. Witness a brief glimpse into the brutal history of the Wars with Ignacio Salvatore and the vampire he loves, Ashwin Metcalfe, in 1897.

 

A History of Trouble

Angel was joking when he asked O'Malley if someone resurrected a mammoth. Little did he know that was exactly what someone did. Experience the untold story of what happened that unfortunate night at the Boston Public Museum.

 

A Dragon in the City

What happens when Eroch goes adventuring in Beacon Hill without Angel? Chaos, pure chaos.

 

Fae's Gold

Daniel is helping the newly-resurrected fae Ruairi Brennan become accustomed to modern-day living. A boring trip to the bank quickly escalates, and Daniel calls Angel for help. The day goes downhill from there but ends in a comfy meal in a pub for an ancient fae warrior and a necromancer's apprentice.

 

This is a collection, featuring vignettes and short stories from the universe of The Beacon Hill Sorcerer series. For full enjoyment, the Beacon Hill Sorcerer Series Books 1 through 3 should be read before reading this collection.

 

 

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Mastering the Flames

October 2, 2019 by

Title: Mastering the Flames
Series: The Beacon Hill Sorcerer #4
Buy the Book: Amazon, Audible, Tantor
Genre: gay romance, lgbt fantasy, urban fantasy, urban fantasy romance
Pages: 394

Guilt-ridden after the massacre of his family, Isaac Salvatore turned to binge drinking to escape the pain. Now twenty-four years old, Isaac is a recovering alcoholic woefully out of practice in the magical arts, leaving his fire affinity hanging on the edge of disaster. After a month of rehab, he returns to Beacon Hill and his family, determined to remain sober, learn to control his magic, and figure out a plan for his life that doesn't involve drinking.

 

Constantine Batiste is the oldest, most powerful vampire in the city. Born in ancient Gaul, the bastard son of a Celtic king, his long life has been shrouded in tragedy and horrors. Recent mistakes have left him wary and determined to guard his clan from all foes. When two of his clan members fall victim to an ancient evil, he summons the Necromancer of Boston for aid. Accompanying his older brother to the Tower is the handsome young fire mage once wounded by Constantine's arrogance, and their encounter reignites an attraction that burns within both Constantine and Isaac.

 

The answer to who is targeting the vampires of Boston is buried in the dark, early days of Constantine's transition to an immortal life. Isaac finds himself saddled with a painful insight into the evil cutting a swath through the supernatural population of Boston. While his brother, Angel, takes over the hunt to find and stop the threat to the city, Isaac struggles to find a balance between helping his brother and finding his own purpose and place in the world, free from his brother's shadow.

 

Falling in love wasn’t part of his plan, but mastering the flames that burn between him and Constantine soon becomes the most important thing in his life, even as an ancient evil seeks to destroy them.

 

 

 


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Blood soaked Batiste’s wrists, his hands, and the front of his collar and shoulder, the blood dark red, nearly black by the edges of the stains. Batiste stepped away, closer to Isaac, and he found himself looking up at the Master vamp. Batiste was a handful of inches taller than Isaac, and he tipped his head back. Lush pink lips, the corner stained faintly by blood, and dark crimson smeared on a chiseled chin and jaw drew his gaze. Brilliant blue orbs took up his whole world, and he fought not to fall under the sway of the Master vamp. 

He wanted to, though, very badly. 

“Are you…” Isaac wet his lips, blue eyes tracking the motion, and tried again. “Are you okay? I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re…covered in blood.” Isaac flushed, not knowing what to say or do. A human covered in so much blood would be less sanguine for certain. Batiste was calm and collected, as if nothing were amiss. It was Simeon’s blood, but still—Isaac would be freaking out.

“A new shirt would be welcome,” Batiste smiled faintly, a burst of humor in his gaze. His regard flicked past Isaac’s shoulder for a split second, then back, regaining eye contact. “One of my children is fetching me a fresh garment as we speak. And hello again, young Isaac.”

“Hi.” An inane reply, spoken in a breathy whisper. 

 Batiste was standing close, too close for his brain to be functioning at full capacity. He was even more attractive than Isaac remembered, and Isaac wasn’t used to hot men, either living or undead, being so close to him with so many clothes on. He and Greg weren’t entirely exclusive, and once Isaac clued in to Greg’s penchant for hustling to pay for drugs and alcohol, he gave up on notions of monogamy while with Greg. Drunk Isaac wasn’t the best at making good decisions, and now Sober Isaac was realizing how fucked up his usual responses were to attractive men. What was he supposed to do now? If they were in a club or bar, Isaac wouldn’t hesitate to offer a blowjob in the bathroom or a fuck in a back alley somewhere. Sober Isaac was turned on, slightly bothered by the blood, and feeling out of his depth.

 Batiste was feeding the flames, and Sober Isaac was clueless about how to proceed.

A pang of longing shot through him, landing in the center of his chest, and it only resurrected the sense of oddness he experienced before Dr. M clued him in to his state of mind. Drunk Isaac would be asking for a fuck; Sober Isaac wanted to fuck but didn’t want to feel like shit afterwards. And he would. He always did. 

“I did not expect to see you here,” Batiste began unbuttoning his shirt. Isaac blinked, mouth dry, as Batiste peeled back his shirt and handed it off to a vampire, one that came from seemingly nowhere. Isaac’s heart thumped, but he forced himself to stay calm. The sight of Batiste’s muscled torso made the tingling sensation return, and Isaac’s fingers itched to trace pale, smooth skin over taut, hard flesh. 

The hex stood out in stark relief against Batiste’s pale skin. It appeared as new as the day Angel cast it, skin blackened in the thin lines of the rune. Isaac frowned, confused about how he felt seeing the evidence of Batiste’s past transgression and proof he could not, in any way, use his vampiric gifts to charm or sway him again. A part of him felt relief, and another part felt guilt. Guilt he was unfortunately familiar with, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

“It is not your doing,” Batiste said abruptly, snapping Isaac out of his thoughts. “My wrongdoing earned me the brand. I will not have you carry guilt for something outside of your control.”

“My brother branded you.” Isaac kept his voice down, checking briefly to make sure the others weren’t listening. “My brother hexed you—left a mark on you. A rune with my name carved into it, set in your flesh. How are you not blaming me? Hell, blaming Angel?”

Batiste shrugged one shoulder, a casual motion that conveyed his lack of upset quite clearly. “I earned it. I trespassed upon you. No other. Do not assign yourself guilt over a wrongdoing you did not commit. It is my shame to bear, and mine alone.”

“But…”

“No.”

Isaac grumbled, then nodded. “Okay, okay. I get it. I just can’t understand why you aren’t more upset.”

“I was upset, do not think I was in any way agreeable toward the hex. But then I was left with my regrets once my ire faded, and I cannot escape punishment for a transgression I would insist be placed upon another if they erred so egregiously. Understood?”

Isaac nodded, mute, eyes wide, stunned by the fervent words. Batiste gazed back down at him, and if the undead man breathed as a human did, they would be sharing air. No mortal warmth met Isaac in the narrowing space between them; cold and quiet, no heat from another’s flesh. Stone cold, and just as silent. He shivered, a reaction to the cold alone. 

The vampire who brought the clean shirt left with the sullied one, and another vampire appeared in the same place, moving so fast Isaac had to blink to realize it wasn’t the same vamp. They were incredibly fast, and Isaac gulped, throat clicking, nerves turning from excitement to a shallow fear. Batiste took a small step back, and Isaac dragged in fresh air, trying to calm himself. Batiste took the wet wipes offered by the other vampire, and discreetly cleaned his mouth and chin. There was still blood on his skin along his collarbone and down his pec. The other vampire, one Isaac was thinking was a servant or something, reached out and swiped the blood from his master’s torso, and Isaac frowned, biting his tongue to keep from voicing an objection.

He wanted to do that. 

Seeing another’s hands on that carved expanse of muscle and smooth skin left him unsettled and wishing he knew what to do next.

Maybe coming to the Tower was a bad idea. He took a half step back, and Batiste caught the motion, gaze searching Isaac’s for a sharp second before he lifted a hand. “Enough, my child.” Batiste stopped the attentions of the nameless vampire, and Batiste wiped his wrists and double-checked his face and neck. His wrists were healed as if nothing happened, Isaac avidly examining the unblemished skin when Batiste handed over the used wipes to the other vampire, who backed away with a bow before blurring from the room. 

Batiste was still shirtless, dressed only in trousers that clung to his thighs and ass, leather shoes, and a black leather belt with a gleaming metal buckle. Everything else was bare skin, and when Batiste turned, Isaac’s breath caught.

Scars. So many scars, bright red and deep pink against the white of his skin, Batiste was a walking, talking testament to physical trauma. Isaac had no idea what half the scars were from, but his imagination picked out what looked to be whip marks, slashes from swords or knives, and a multitude of claw marks and bites.

He choked back a cry of dismay, a hand lifting, hovering over Batiste’s back, not quite touching. He froze, deeply uncertain.

Isaac knew vampires did not scar after they were reborn as one of the undead. They could not be tattooed, and all injuries healed cleanly, without a trace of the wound. They carried with them old scars and tattoos from their mortal years, and sometimes in the Turning, they were healed of grievous injuries that occurred near or just before the time of the rebirth. Many humans were turned into a vampire to survive terminal illnesses and fatal injuries, and oftentimes the fatal wounds would disappear when they rose as one of the undead. 

Batiste had been injured, many times, as a mortal man. Isaac struggled to understand how Batiste even survived to be Turned. Some scars were from fire, decorating one shoulder. The other shoulder bore a deep reddish-pink scar that cut through the top of his shoulder, and likely resulted in crushed bones and pulverized muscles. Batiste looked back at him and saw Isaac’s hand, which he promptly dropped back to his side. 

“What? How?” Isaac breathed out, and flinched, not meaning to say a damn thing.

A small smile curved up one side of Batiste’s lush lips, and he turned back to Isaac, arms lifted out and away from his sides a foot or so, and Isaac looked past the sexy six-pack abs to the rest of the undead man. There were scars on his chest and abdomen, though not as many on his upper arms. These were fainter, as if older, and there were more singular, long slashes from what might have been swords rather than the horrors visited upon the flesh of his back. That was what he saw under the fabric of the ruined shirt earlier—the scars. So many of them.

“I was a warrior in my mortal life,” Batiste answered the half-baked question he’d blurted out. “War and violence were as common in my youth as they are today. Only the weapons changed as the years went on.”

“I can’t…there’s so many scars.” Isaac felt like an idiot, stating the obvious.

Batiste said nothing. What was there to say, really? The obvious was there in front of his eyes, and it was reshaping something in Isaac’s mind. Batiste just let him look his fill, and Isaac mentally tallied the scars until he could not stand to count any more. 

Cultured and suave and elegant, Constantine Batiste was the consummate gentleman, a noble of the undead, a player in social circles that were so beyond Isaac he didn’t even want to think about them. Yet beneath the suits, the expensive fabrics, and the mannerisms fit for a royal court, Batiste was something, someone entirely different.

A warrior, as he said. The truth was there in the refined muscles, the long-healed but tortured flesh, and the way he moved. A warrior made into a vampire, an apex predator, and while he dressed up his nature in fine suits, refined speech, and cultured manners, there was no longer any hiding what and who he really was—a dangerous, deadly being.

“Do I frighten you now, young Isaac?” Batiste asked softly, his arms lowered now to his sides, head tilted slightly, blond hair shifting across his brow.

He thought about it. He should be terrified, given proof that the vampire in front of him had more than his supernatural state to draw upon to wreak havoc. Training and a brutal life of war added to the predatory gifts of the undead, and Batiste was enough to terrify even the most hardened of battlemages and warriors. Yet he wasn’t afraid. He was more afraid of the random vampires blurring in and out of the room, highlighting that which made them so dangerous to mortals, their speed nearly impossible to protect against. 

“I don’t know.” Honesty was all he had. 

“Better than a yes,” Batiste replied, and Isaac nodded, thinking the same. “Perhaps you’ll tell me when you decide?”

Isaac nodded once, lifting his eyes to Batiste’s, which were calm and reserved, emotions hidden. “Sure, I can do that.”

Batiste smiled, and it knocked the air from his lungs. It was a dangerous thing, that smile, and it disappeared as swiftly as it came, leaving him stunned.

Batiste left him stunned in so many ways.

Angel called Batiste over, breaking the quiet bubble around them. Batiste went, but slowly, as if he too needed reminding of where they were and what was happening. Isaac was left there alone, despite being surrounded by his family. Adrift in a storm of emotions, but he knew one thing with terrible certainty.

He wanted Constantine Batiste, and that frightened him more than the undead man himself.

 

This site uses Amazon affiliate links and a small income may be accrued from sales made by those links.

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