A History of Trouble: A Beacon Hill Sorcerer Anthology Read online

  A History of Trouble

  A Beacon Hill Sorcerer Anthology

  SJ Himes

  Table of Contents

  1. Red Wine & Blood

  2. A History of Trouble

  3. A Dragon in the City

  4. Fae’s Gold

  Afterword

  Also by SJ Himes

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  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by SJ Himes

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by: Miranda Vescio

  Cover design by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover By Design

  http://www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk

  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.

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  WARNING: Brief mentions of past sexual assault. Mentions of alcohol abuse.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  For the fans of my BHS series.

  Red Wine & Blood

  Beacon Hill, Boston

  Year of The Blood Wars 103

  1897 AD

  Vampire Ashwin Metcalfe ducked behind a collapsed wall, the corner grocer was reduced to rubble. His fangs ached in his jaws; his desire to seek sustenance to repair the traumatic damage to his body almost distracted him from the sound of footsteps hurrying down the sidewalk, heading right for him. He ducked as low as he could behind the pile of stone and brick, claws extended, and he kicked off his once shiny leather shoes. He had no traction in those costly and pretty shoes.

  He tossed his ruined waistcoat aside, mourning the loss of the paisley silk, a gift from his lover. He’d caught three sorcerers from the Melbourne clan strong-arming money from one of the many small businesses in Salvatore territory, and Ashwin couldn’t let them get away with it. His hot temper almost cost him his life when the sorcerers responded to his demand that they leave immediately with concussive force, blasting him through the wall into the darkened street, his body skidding across the cobblestones. He should have known better and summoned reinforcements, but the old man they were smacking about was a favorite of Ashwin’s.

  A hot warmth startled him, and he grabbed for his pocket, pulling out the small mirror that hummed with energy. He could not see his own reflection, because a dear face stared back out at him, frown in place. “Ashwin, I sensed your pain. Mi amor, what’s wrong?” Ignacio Salvatore asked, his deep voice tinny from the magic and the tiny mirror.

  “I went out for some wine at Mercutio’s and found three Melbourne casters roughing the old man up for money. I told them to stop.” Ashwin ducked a fireball, hissing as his broken ribs complained at the sudden movement. “They protested my interruption.”

  He had recently fed, but breaking half a dozen bones in a single blow from kinetic magic would slow down anyone, even a two-hundred-year-old vampire. Blood, cold and thick, so dark as to be black, seeped from where some of his ribs erupted from under his skin along his side. He nudged the worst of them back under the flesh, thankful he did not need to breathe, as any gasps of pain might be heard in the sudden silence along Charles Street. Though not breathing reduced his ability to scent, so he relied on his hearing. Three sets of footsteps moved with more confidence as they approached, believing him to be incapacitated. If he was younger, he likely would be too injured to move.

  “I’m coming,” Ignacio replied, and the mirror went blank instantly. Ashwin grumbled and slipped the mirror back in his pocket just as a reckless and utterly stupid human practitioner peeked over the top of the rubble. Ashwin snapped out a hand, claws embedding an inch deep into flesh and bone, and yanked the screaming mortal over the rubble. He could not drink from the practitioner, but the wet snap from breaking the Melbourne rat’s neck was almost as satisfying. Shouts came from the other side of the rubble, and Ashwin snarled as he tossed the body back at the remaining practitioners, knocking them off their feet.

  He leapt, following the body through the air, and landed hard on one of the mages. A slash of claws and blood gurgled from a ruptured neck, a black rose blooming in a midnight garden. He roared, ready to leap again at the remaining mortal, but a fireball slammed into his damaged side, knocking him back several feet. Ashwin landed on his back, hissing in defiance, his skin burning, more blood running from his side.

  A rolling boom, a rumble akin to a storm surge at high tide, shook the cobblestones of the street, glass rattling, earth splitting in spurts of dust and grime from the gutters. Pigeons took off in complaint, and a roiling cloud of righteous fury turned the corner of Charles Street. Ignacio Salvatore was a big man with broad of shoulders, befitting a man who carried the weight of fighting a century-long war and protecting over half of Boston from the depravations of the Macavoy and Melbourne clans. The horse he rode was as black as night, an Andalusian stallion whose hooves sparked on the stones as it galloped into the fray.

  Storm winds lifted dust and debris, even tossing the two dead Melbourne sorcerers farther down the street. The remaining practitioner’s cry of alarm was drowned by fierce winds, and Ignacio leapt from the back of his horse, spell unleashing before his boots hit the cobblestones between Ashwin and the enemy.

  Lightning cracked the evening sky, and rain colder than ice lashed the city. Ignacio Salvatore, elementalist and master of storms, had no mercy to spare for enemies who crossed territorial lines and harmed those he loved.

  And he loved Ashwin Metcalfe, lone vampire and his lover of twenty years.

  A blackened husk of bones and melted belt and shoe buckles was all that remained of the last Melbourne. Ignacio strode back to Ashwin, helping him to his feet with a large, swarthy hand. “Mi amor, what am I to do with you? Only you could end up in a heated battle over a bottle of Spanish red.”

  Ashwin hissed, pressing a hand to his ribs, forcing them back into place. He was healing fast, but he could use some blood. Ignacio cupped a big hand around Ashwin’s cold cheek, and he leaned into the heat of his mortal lover, closing his eyes and soaking in the love and exasperated affection. A kiss softly landed on his lips, and he hummed in delight.

  Hoofbeats thundered off the brick walls around them, and Ashwin pulled back as Ignacio’s oldest son and younger brother rode down the street. Arturo Salvatore was very much like his father, broad and solid, heavy with muscle, while Ignacio’s younger brother, Aurelio, favored the Salvatore matriarch Astoria, slim and lean, a head shorter than his brother.

  “Ashwin!” Aurelio cried out, dismounting from his gelding and running over. He looked about the destroyed street and saw Mercutio, the grocer, cursing up a new storm from within the shattered remnants of his storef
ront. “What happened?”

  “Explanations later,” Ignacio interrupted and directed his brother and son toward the bodies half a block away. “Identify the dead men. The one I blasted was one of the Melbourne cousins. See if any of the elder brothers are the dead men. We may have gotten lucky.”

  “Lucky? I come into the city for a shipment of wine and find myself in a pitched battle for Charles Street, and that is lucky?” Ashwin asked, half amused, half exasperated. Ignacio, his battlemage, was ever pragmatic, only exposing the tender lover behind closed doors and away from prying eyes. Ashwin swayed a bit, and Ignacio grabbed him, holding him still as Aurelio and Arturo went past them, climbing over the rubble caused by Ashwin being knocked through the wall.

  “You need blood, mi amor.” Ignacio’s eyes were dark with worry, and his big hands cradled Ashwin’s shoulders as if afraid the vampire might collapse. His ribs were snapping back into place, the blood no longer flowing. He might need to punch a few ribs back into a better position, but that was something he would do when he and Ignacio were alone. He did not feel comfortable revealing his vulnerabilities in front of anyone, not even the Salvatore clan, despite the last twenty years living among them. “Our bond is not yet to the point I might sustain you safely. You need one of your donors.”

  Ashwin grimaced in distaste. His soulmate bond to Ignacio grew stronger with each passing year, halting Ignacio’s aging, aiding in his healing, and increasing Ashwin’s resistance to certain types of magic, but the bond was far from complete. Rarely did human practitioners and vampires soulbond—usually it was vampire to vampire, and they had centuries for the soulbond to cement and complete. Ashwin predicted another decade before he might feed from Ignacio without suffering blood magic poisoning, so for now, he needed mundane human blood donors. He needed blood, and he would drink from the well-paid donors he hired from among the Salvatore servants, but he wanted to drink from Ignacio and hated the necessity.

  “Don’t frown so, Ashwin. You’ll crease your pretty face,” Aurelio teased as he dragged back one of the dead men. “Brother, we are without luck this day, save Ashwin’s survival. The remaining dead men are lesser cousins and not the eldest Melbourne brothers.”

  “Mother will be pleased,” Ignacio said, shaking his head and wrapping one arm around Ashwin’s waist. “She wants the Melbourne brothers to herself. Settle with Mercutio for the damage done to his establishment. I am taking Ashwin home.”

  Ashwin saved his protestations for another time and let Ignacio toss him up on his stallion’s back before mounting himself. Ashwin gripped Ignacio’s hips and leaned into the heat of his mortal lover’s back. He could hear the reassuring beat of a heart, the rush of blood through veins, and the hum of life beneath his skin. “Take me home, Iggy. I want a glass of red, a nip of blood, and your arms around me until dawn.”

  Ignacio sighed at the reprehensible nickname but turned the stallion’s head to the south and the Salvatore mansion. “You’ll have my arms about you for eternity, mi amor. Forget the dawn. Let us aim for forever.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Ashwin murmured, smiling and closing his eyes. Love was forever, after all. So too was their bond. And they had many lifetimes to explore it.

  A History of Trouble

  Takes place between BHS#1 and BHS#2.

  When Angel made the joke about the mammoth, he hadn’t expected to be right. A mammoth rampage was exactly what happened to the dead people strewn about the large room. Looking at the scene in person, Angel had no choice but to curse his fast tongue and sigh heavily, resigned to a horrible night of cleaning up after deceased idiots.

  The six dead graduate students of Boston’s College of Magical Arts hadn’t more than a moment of regret before the ancient beast they resurrected from its muddy grave lost its shit and trampled them. One unlucky soul was run through by a ten-thousand-year-old ivory tusk then tossed through a wall. The rest were smashed to bone dust and red mush.

  The Museum of Natural History in Boston had one of the rarest archaeological specimens ever found, from the permafrost of Siberia. A nearly perfectly preserved adult male mammoth. Behind the platform where the mammoth had spent the last twenty years intimidating visitors to the museum, there was a mural from floor to ceiling depicting the ancient beasts of the ice age grazing on the tall grasses of the steppes. The mammoths were drawn life-size. One mammoth bull stood nearly fifteen feet tall at the shoulders, and its tusks were longer than Angel was tall.

  “What do you think?” Detective O’Malley asked, contemplating the wreckage with a mildly disinterested expression.

  “I think a bunch of people are going to be fired,” Angel quipped, finally examining the wards and preservation spells that had kept the mammoth carcass from decomposing while on display for the public. “This is crappy spell work. No locks to prevent tampering aside from the most basic of spells. A child could have messed with this, never mind sorcery-level graduate students. Who are the victims?”

  O’Malley pulled out his smart phone and pulled up the memo screen, tilting it to show Angel. He squinted at the list, dismissing the names of each victim. None of the victims nor their families had any necromancers or death magic affinity in their family history. He would know—in fact he knew exactly how many necromancers existed at that moment around the world.

  Angel shook his head at their idiocy and continued to examine the scene. Because none of the graduate students were necromancers, they lacked the natural ability to control that which they summoned. Sheer power and knowledge could have made up for the lack, but it didn’t here.

  Angel cursed under his breath, hands tucked in his pockets. He stepped around puddles of blood, yellow evidence tags, and forensic techs. He caught sight of the glances and stiff postures of several cops and smiled to himself; they still had trouble with a Salvatore being involved in cases.

  The cold night air came in through a massive hole to the outside punched through the stone exterior wall from floor to ceiling. It was about fifteen feet wide, and pieces of the wall were scattered across the manicured, dormant lawn. He heard chirping and caught a glimpse of Eroch flitting about, the curious beastie investigating the scene on his own, though for entirely different reasons. Eroch was a carnivore, and Angel didn’t know how he would react to fresh corpses dripping blood, potentially tempting for the small dragon. He encouraged Eroch to leave the immediate area in case temptation grew too great and the dragon decided to munch on some dead humans. It would not have bothered Angel, but he doubted the police would have been so sanguine about his familiar having snack.

  The moon broke through the cloud cover, and he could see large imprints made by the undead beast as it stumbled to freedom. He was looking outside at his dragon flying through the moonlight, chirping with excitement, when a shadow blurred at the periphery of his vision. Simeon appeared at his side, the vampire moving so fast his sudden appearance seem to be magic. A couple of nearby humans jumped in alarm, Simeon having moved fast enough to be invisible to human eyes.

  “The ancient creature is in the park, my love,” Simeon said before Angel could ask. “I tracked it—due to the late hour, it hasn’t encountered anyone aside from a startled brownie it rousted from the bushes. The mammoth,” Simeon’s lips twitched in amusement, “is attempting to graze near the duck pond. If we move quickly, you can take care of it before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Angel nodded and quickly turned back to the room. “O’Malley!” he called, everyone stopping and turning in his direction. O’Malley stopped talking to one of his junior detectives and looked up at his shout with a questioning expression. “I need to disable the resurrection spell. Everyone has to move away.”

  Techs scrambled, not waiting for O’Malley to give the order. Gear was grabbed and moved aside and more than a handful of people watched Angel with apprehension and suspicion. A few tenacious techs clicked away with their cameras, obviously assuming Angel would destroy evidence. He rolled his eyes and raised a hand clenching his fist.

/>   The death magic that naturally existed in the world was thickest here in the museum—aside from a graveyard or battlefield, museums held the largest collection of dead things in the modern world. Mummies and stuffed creatures, weapons and machines of death, destruction, and mayhem—human civilization was rife with objects of death.

  A crudely drawn pentagram lay under the blood, glass, and crumbled drywall, and it flared to life when he called the death magics. The stench of burning industrial paint filled the air and smoke rose in noxious clouds as Angel poured power into the working. Runes lit up, and he could see the symbols and spells the dead idiots used to drag the deceased mammoth’s essence from death.

  “Shit,” Angel swore, and Simeon moved closer to his side.

  “Mo ghra?”

  “It’s not a revenant,” Angel said as he charged the pentagram, overpowering the entire framework. “It’s not a revenant, so destroying the spell won’t get rid of it.”

  “Then what is it?” Simeon asked just as Angel broke the pentagram, and the entire thing burst into flame. Within seconds, it burnt to ash.

  Angel took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “It’s a zombie.”

  “What’s the difference?” O’Malley asked as they walked cautiously into the small park. The entire park was cordoned off by police barricades, and there were occasional flashes of blue and red light through the trees.

  “If it was a revenant, the spirit would have departed the moment I disabled the spells, dropping the mammoth immediately,” Angel explained as he followed along behind Simeon. His mate led the way, moving silently through the shadows, the moon above hidden behind cloud cover. It was cold, frost and ice gathering on grass and tree alike. Winter was getting closer. “Since it’s a zombie, the animating spell is self-sustaining.”