The Necromancer’s Dilemma

The Thinking House, a long-standing gourmet coffee house on Tremont, was overflowing with people needing their coffee hit. The line moved up, and Angel regretted his burning desire to have a peppermint latte. It was early evening, the weekend officially started, and Angel was after caffeine fortification before heading out to battle. Or shopping, really, but they felt like the same thing. He disliked people in general, and hated shopping. He got his groceries delivered, and shopping during the holidays was enough to make him exceedingly short-tempered.

This year the people he had to shop for presents was doubled, and he still felt odd about that. Simeon was simple, all he had to do was raid the Salvatore Mansion and rescue an ancient tapestry that dated back to Ireland in the 11^th century. It was small, only about the size of a movie poster, but the battle scene depicted ancient Picts and Celts, covered in woad battle markings and carrying weapons of a bygone era. It was presently wrapped up in a cotton sheath and in a pine box, the restorers able to clean the tapestry and repair a decade of dust and damp damage. The mansion may have been locked up and the furniture shrouded, but Angel hadn’t been thinking clearly when he closed the old house up and he’d missed some things.

Milly was even easier to shop for. He spent all of thirty minutes searching online for a diamond necklace and a hundred-dollar gift card to The Cheesecake Factory. His teaching partner adored diamonds and cheesecake, and he had yet to vary from that very reliable and successful gift arrangement. Worked like a charm for birthdays, too. The one year he decided to change things up, she’d flat out told him to stick to what he knew, and that’s what he did.

Simeon insisted it was only polite that Batiste, the Master of Boston, receive a present from them. Angel had accepted Simeon’s courtship and Angel was now considered part of the bloodclan. He refused to obey Batiste or live in the Tower, and while Angel had the feeling that such a stance wouldn’t be accepted from any other pair, Batiste let it go. Angel was in that gray area of being a practitioner and a vampire’s bonded mate, so both sides had a claim of authority over him. Well, if he listened to any authority other than his own that is—he had trouble listening to the police, let alone the Council of High Sorcery that supposedly ruled practitioners. Though how much ruling a council of stuffy, snobbish, elitist sorcerers could do from across the ocean in Europe was beyond Angel.

Angel had no idea what to get the Master, but Simeon said he would take care of it and Angel would just have to sign the card. He’d shrugged, signed the card when Simeon brought it to him, and went back to stressing over what to get Isaac and Daniel.

He had no idea. Daniel had been in his care since autumn, two months of living under his roof and accepting Angel as his master. Daniel quickly shed any hints of his past identity, which left Angel confused and pleased, and worried on top of that. The young man was twenty years old, and had been ten years old when his whole family and two other magical clans had enslaved a vampire clan and sent them after the Salvatores. Daniel, his father Leicester, and a few retainers were all that remained of the Macavoys after the human authorities stepped in after the tragedy. Leicester avoided prison somehow, and Daniel was raised by a man who succumbed to alcoholism and agoraphobia. Daniel was no longer terrified of Angel, but he also wasn’t opening up. Angel sucked at interpersonal relationships—hell, he’d never had a lover before Simeon, and he certainly didn’t count a handful of hookups, and Angel was still learning as he went. Knowing how to get Daniel to open up to him and be his own man was outside his experience, especially since Angel was convinced he’d fucked up Isaac while raising him.

Isaac was the biggest mystery. He knew his brother yet didn’t—he knew his brother’s likes and dislikes, but the man? No idea. Isaac steadily shut down on Angel when he turned eighteen, and grew worse as the years went by, and Angel was still in the dark as to the cause.

Angel was deep in thought when he got to the counter, and the barista coughing at him brought him back. Angel glared at the rude ass but ordered his white chocolate and peppermint latte. Simeon was in line just to keep him company, but Angel ordered a small hot chocolate for Eroch, and a scone. Eroch chirped in thanks, and the barista’s eyes went huge when he noticed the dragon curled under the collar of Angel’s sweater. Angel swiped his card, and had to reach over and grab his receipt from the machine when the guy kept staring. Eroch ate the attention up, puffing out tiny bursts of smoke and slow-blinking his bright yellow eyes.

“Stop flirting, I want my coffee,” Angel chided, and he went to wait down at the end of the counter. The barista kept on staring and Angel huffed, turning his back to the counter and crossing his arms. “My dragon. He can stare at his own. It’s so rude, like no one has ever seen a dragon before.”

Simeon laughed, and leaned next to him on the counter. “My love, no one has seen a dragon in this realm in hundreds of years. Would you be so sanguine if a unicorn were to be carried in someone’s purse like a pet?”

“I would want one immediately,” Angel said primly, arching a brow. “And I would never keep a unicorn in a purse.” He was kidding. One fantastical beastie was enough—God help him if there were unicorns out there, too. Eroch gave a meep and poked his snout at Angel’s cheek. “I’m kidding, my wee beastie. You’re it for me, I promise. No sparkly horse with an antler can ever replace you.”