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“You only passed three weeks ago,” Sy really wished he could convince the boys to talk to the Detectives directly, but he didn’t want to argue with them. If they felt it was helpless, he was bound to accept that. “Can you tell me where you’ve been all this time? Where did you live?”

  “It was a big place. Lots of concrete. We were never allowed out,” the first victim said, looking at the others who nodded. “I’d never seen grass until he took me out that night.”

  Oh, mother of God, this is worse than I thought. Worst still, Sy could feel their connection waning. “Are there others? How many, how many more are still there?”

  The second Peter looked at Warren who held up both hands, his fingers splayed but his thumbs tucked into his transparent palm. “Eight more, there are eight more men like you being held?”

  Warren nodded. “There were thirteen of us in total,” the first victim said. “For the thirteen disciples the Master said.”

  There were only twelve disciples in the bible. But Sy didn’t have time to discuss religion. The apparitions in front of him were wavering and his knees were shaky. He clung hard to his staff.

  “Please,” he begged. “Anything you can tell me about who you were, or where you were held. We have to save the others.”

  “I was Peter Johnson,” the third victim said, his voice barely heard above the rising wind. Sy’s spell was fading and he pulled on everything he had to push forward with his magic one last time. “The Master called the camp he kept us in the Sanctuary. Please tell them to hurry. My little brother is Peter number eight. His name is Thomas Peter Johnson.”

  “You’re being killed in the order you were taken?”

  But even as he asked the question, Sy knew it was too late for him to get an answer. The boys’ spirits were picked up and whisked away and the veil closed around him, leaving him in the land of the living. Leaning his head on the skull of his staff, Sy panted as his brain quickly sifted and sorted the information he’d been given.

  “Sir, sir, are you all right?” Brock came close but didn’t touch him. Only when Sy nodded did he push through the gurneys and supported him as Sy stumbled to the nearest couch. He could feel the barely repressed fury and anxiety from the bear and the wolf shifter, but for the moment he needed to get his breathing under control. Raising one spirit was difficult. Four at the same time, well, five if he included Warren was the Necromancer equivalent of running a sub-four-minute mile. Taking a sip from the cup Brock shoved in his hands, Sy turned his eyes to Dakar who was hovering.

  “We have to work fast. The killer is holding at least eight others.”

  /~/~/~/~/

  With three names to go on, finding their records should have been a simple task. But the knowledge the boys were snatched as children complicated the issue. Most departments only started keeping electronic records five years before and a lot of cold cases, especially in incidences of considered runaways, hadn’t been entered into the new system. Which meant Dakar and Brad had to slog their way through thousands of dusty files.

  “What’s going on with you and the Necromancer known as Sy?” Brad asked as Dakar sneezed for the tenth time. The file storage room was nothing more than a concrete box and with no through draft the air was thick with dust. Brad’s voice was huskier than usual, probably for the same reason. Dakar looked over to see Brad watching him intently. Although he’d only known the bear shifter for three months, since joining the department, he already considered the big bearded man a friend.

  “My wolf thinks he’s my mate.” Dakar knew there was no point in lying to another shifter. “But that can’t be possible, can it? I thought magic users and shifters didn’t mix.”

  “Who’s been filling your head with that baloney?” Brad laughed, heaving another box of files onto the table they were using. “The Fates have been known to have a sense of humor. My cousin Tommy mated with a fairy, can you believe it? It took him a week to get the little guy to settle down long enough to get his fangs in his neck.”

  “A fairy as opposed to a fae?”

  “Oh yeah, I don’t think Pippin would know one end of a sword from the other. He’s like a little sex-bomb with silvery wings.”

  “Tommy will be smitten then.” Dakar grinned as his fingers flicked through the tabs on the top of the files. Paterson, Patrick, Peterson. Peterson! “I found one, I think.” His fingers trembling, Dakar opened the file. A photo of a young blond boy with buck teeth fell out. “Warren Peterson, human, aged 8, went missing from the Pedace park twelve years ago. His mother said he’d never had any trouble at school, he was well liked, blah, blah, blah. The uniforms thought he was a runaway because his mother had recently remarried. They suspected the step-father initially, but he was cleared. Marked as a cold case six months later. Fuck.”

  “Yeah, no better here, I found the Johnson file. More humans, which fits with our victims so far.” Brad slapped it on the table. “Their mother was killed in a single car collision ten years ago; her car hit a power pole. No one realized the two children, Peter aged 12 and Thomas aged 8 were even in the car until the neighbor claimed she saw them get into it before the accident. The police tracked down the father who was on business out of the county at the time. He committed suicide three months later. With no leads the case was shoved into storage.”

  “Double fuck.” Dakar cursed. “So, what do we do? Visit the Petersons and see if we can find out anything there? They’ll need to be advised about Warren’s death although after twelve years I’m not sure how forcing the mother to do an ID would do any good. We’ll have to get a photo and use that. Are there any DNA records on file?”

  Brad shook his head. “Nope. Happened too long ago for that sort of thing. I wonder if your Necromancer could offer any closure for the family. He did speak to Warren.”

  “After he died. Shit.” Dakar tugged on his hair. “You know this is going to make us look bad. They don’t hear anything from us for twelve fucking years and then we show up and tell them Warren’s dead and the only reason we found him is because he was left out like an altar offering for us to find.”

  “We’re going to need to chase up the Johnson family and see who dealt with the estate. We have Peter’s body, but Thomas still hasn’t been found. What the hell’s going to happen to him when we do find him alive?”

  Dakar appreciated Brad’s confidence. Since Sy had come onto their team, he really felt they had a chance at solving the case. “He’s an adult now, hopefully someone left him enough to build a new life for himself. But gods, this sucks donkey balls.” The alarm going off on his watch made Dakar jump. Six thirty. Dakar grabbed the files and stood, stretching his legs.

  “Where are you off too?” Brad looked at his watch. “Shit, is that the time? I suppose there’s nothing more we can do until tomorrow. The Peterson’s have waited this long to hear about the fate of their son. They can wait one more day, unless you want the uniforms to do it tonight?”

  “That might be for the best. I know it sounds weird, but I feel they should know. At least the Captain will be happy we’ve found something. Make sure the uniforms know to make an appointment for us to see the mother tomorrow sometime and get them to run the usual checks.” Dakar looked in the file for the last known address. It was only five minutes from town. “She can come in or we can go there. Either way doesn’t bother me. Whatever she feels more comfortable with.”

  “So, do I get to ask why you’re hell bent on getting out of here tonight? Do you have a date with a certain Necromancer by any chance? I didn’t remember seeing you speak to him after he did his thing at the morgue. Knowing you’re mates has me commending your control.”

  “Even I’m not kinky enough to go thinking about mating in a morgue. Brock informed me my presence is required at dinner tonight before they left,” Dakar quirked his brow at his friend. “He gave me the impression Sy is shy. I think this is the butler’s way of letting me know I have been approved for social contact with his charge.”

  “Rather you than me, bu
ddy, although I wouldn’t mind seeing what that butler looks like stripped out of his starchy suits. I’m guessing there’s some powerful muscles he’s hiding under that buttoned up uniform of his.” Brad winked. “I’d wish you luck, but I figure a cocky guy like you believes he doesn’t need it.”

  “Yeah,” Dakar laughed, “get out of here and take these files with you. See you bright and early in the morning.”

  Hurrying through the department basement, Dakar’s wolf perked up, his excitement at seeing Sy again almost causing Dakar to sprout fur. His wolf really needed a run, but Dakar didn’t have the time. Dinner, he’d been informed, was at seven thirty sharp and the last thing he wanted was to create a bad impression by being late. His mother had also taught him that he should never show up for a meal empty handed. But what on earth did you get a Necromancer who lived in a mansion?

  Chapter Six

  “Don’t hover Brock, I’m busy.” Sy looked down at the notes he was making. Perturbed about the spirits’ comments about thirteen disciples, he was in his extensive library, researching all he could about disciples and the significance of the number thirteen.

  “It’s time to get changed for dinner, sir. You are having company this evening.”

  That statement was shocking enough for Sy to look up. “Company? We don’t have company. We don’t get visitors except during office hours and it’s not as though I have a social life. The only time we share a meal with…. Oh no, tell me it’s not my parents. I’m too busy to spend time with them. Father will just stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong and piss me off while Mother will lecture me about my monkish habits.”

  “Your mother might have a point, but I’m sure that is about to change.” Did Brock’s lips actually twitch? Sy blinked rapidly. Maybe he’d been staring at the books for too long. “Detective Dakar Rhodes has been invited for a meal at your invitation. He’ll be here at seven thirty.”

  “I didn’t invite him. I barely said anything to him.” Sy’s heart started to pound in his chest. Sure, he might have had stray thoughts about the detective since they left the morgue but burying his head in musty volumes had a way of suppressing any desires he might have had in that quarter. Desires he really didn’t have a clue how to handle.

  “I took the liberty of passing on the invitation in your name.” Brock was unruffled as ever. “The man believes you are his mate. The least you can do is sit with him and share a meal.”

  Sy’s breath quickened; his heart was in danger of bursting out of his chest. “My research,” he said quickly latching onto the one excuse he had. “Warren told me the man who took them called them his thirteen disciples, but I know there was only twelve or fourteen depending on which bible gospel you read, but then I clicked when I realized the men described in the bible were actually apostles, so I started researching what the number thirteen meant in magical terms, thinking the number was significant. Did you know all covens have thirteen members and that there are thirteen weeks between the equinox and solstice or vice versa depending on what hemisphere you’re on?”

  “I did know that, yes.” Swizzle sticks. Sy should have known Brock could see right through his distraction ruse. “Friday the thirteenth is considered unlucky because the Knights Templar were arrested on that date in October 1307. You have thirteen major joints in your body. There are thirteen lunar cycles a year and perhaps more relevant to your enquiries the thirteenth rune is known as Eiwaz, which is the balance point between Heaven and the Underworld. The ancient Egyptians believe there are thirteen steps on the ladder to eternity and that the number itself represents immortality. The fact that the thirteenth card in tarot is the death card is also important I imagine.”

  “That’s it. That has to be it.” Sy scrabbled among the numerous pieces of paper on his desk. “Thirteen steps, thirteen deaths. All of them innocents, I’d stake my life on it. This guy’s trying to become immortal.”

  “And I’m sure with further digging on your part and the detective’s, you will find the source of this nasty business in due course. In the meantime, you need to get changed for dinner.” Sy found himself pulled out of his chair and frog marched out of the library. He tried to brace his heels on the carpet, but Brock didn’t even notice.

  “I don’t know what to talk about at dinner,” he whined as Brock propelled him into his bedroom. “I never took a class in small talk, you know that.”

  “I know you’re scared,” Brock held him by the shoulders, forcing Sy to look at him. “That’s perfectly understandable, given your upbringing. I’ve already hinted to the detective you are shy. You’re not expected to have anal intercourse with him on the table. It’s just dinner.”

  “He’s going to want to do that too? Shoots, of course he will. He’s a shifter. They’re dominated by the basic instincts of their animal form. Brock, I can’t do this. Tell him, I’m sick. I have a headache. Reschedule. Do something.” Sy looked around the room, desperate to find another excuse to get out of dinner. It didn’t help that his stomach was letting him know it was empty but going without a meal was easier than talking to someone who was virtually a stranger.

  “Your bath is waiting,” Brock was firm. “I’ll lay out smart but comfortable clothes. As for conversation topics, mention a few of your more interesting cases and if you can’t think of anything, ask him questions about himself. Most alpha types love that sort of thing. Now go on. Get in the bath.”

  “I’m going to drown myself in it,” Sy muttered as he gave up and stomped towards the bathroom. Brock had been like a father to him his whole life; better than a father he was a friend, his protector. Growing up in a house where appearances meant everything, Brock was his one buffer against cold and verbally abusive parents. The only time Sy had ever seen Brock refuse an order was when his father retired and moved to Transylvania.

  His father insisted Brock was to go with him. Brock said “no”. To this day Sy didn’t know what Brock said to make his father change his mind. But when his parents finally left in a flurry of packing cases, orders, and admonishments to behave, Brock was there to ease his anxiety and run his household.

  “And so now,” Sy mocked himself as he dropped his clothes on the floor and stepped into the bath. “Now, I will go and make nice with a detective who probably wants to eat me in more ways than one.” He poked at his dick which was unusually hard. “What do you think you’re doing up? It’s not Friday.”

  Like everything in his life, masturbation was scheduled. Sy didn’t see a need for what he considered a useless appendage, but in attempts at being perceived as normal, every Friday night at ten pm, he fisted his cock until it made a mess. It’s not something he ever told anyone about, but the action was something men did, so he did it to. His weekly wank session was the sum total of his sexual experience. Personally, he didn’t know why sex seemed so darned important. Brock referred him to books, movies and more internet porn sites than he could shake his dick at, when he realized that was one part of growing up his parents neglected to mention, but Sy was unmoved by all of it.

  And now his dick was bobbing about in the water as if looking for a play date. “Go down.” Sy poked at it again but it just bobbed about all the more. Huffing a sigh, Sy decided to ignore it. He didn’t have a clue why it stood up on its own and he wasn’t about to encourage that sort of behavior. Oh, he understood the biology behind it, but he’d always supposed some sort of stimulus was required to make it work. Sitting in a bath didn’t count as stimulus as far as he was concerned. Huffing out a long breath, Sy reached for his wash cloth. He just hoped his outfit would include a shirt long enough to hide the darn thing if it didn’t go down before dinner. He refused to consider the possibility his dick was reacting to the idea of seeing the sexy detective again.

  /~/~/~/~/

  At precisely seven twenty-eight, Dakar ran a sweaty palm down his trousers, before rapping sharply on the front door of the Necromancer’s home. He was freshly showered; his facial hair was smartly trimmed, and he’d left hi
s long hair down for the evening. He’d even taken the time to rub one out while he was showering, in the hopes he could control his urges over dinner. Urges that were already threatening to bring his wolf out.

  As the front door opened, he managed a tight smile for Brock who looked him up and down before letting him inside. “It’s nice to see you are on time, Detective.”

  “It’s not always possible in my line of work, but as Brad and I spent the day going through records, it was easy to get away early.” Dakar stamped his feet and wiped them on the mat provided while Brock closed the door. But instead of leading him through the maze of the house to wherever Sy might be waiting, Brock held up his hand.

  “Please. There are a few things you should know about Sy before we go into dinner.”

  “Is it a butler’s place to talk about their employer with a guest?”

  “I’m sure you’re already aware I am no ordinary butler. You are a detective.”

  Dakar frowned. “Do you and the Necromancer have some sort of a relationship? Are you banging my mate?” His wolf leapt to the challenge. No one should be touching their mate.

  “How dare you suggest such a thing.” Brock’s fury was so intense Dakar felt he could reach out and touch it. Considering they were standing chest to chest, it wouldn’t be a difficult thing to do. “Prince Sebastian York has been under my protection since the day he was born seventy years ago. I have been in the York’s family service for more than three hundred years. To even suggest there is anything remotely inappropriate going on between me and my employer is an insult to us both.”

  Dakar’s protective tendencies backed down as he absorbed the butler’s words. “Fair enough,” he said, taking a step back, “although you have to admit I can’t be the first person who would think that. You hover over him like a mother hen; from what I hear, he goes nowhere without you and it certainly looked like you and he were on a date when we met.”

  Brock relaxed his posture. “It was never my intention to give that impression to anyone. For the last year, I’ve insisted that Sy spend a minimum of four hours a week pursuing social activities. Otherwise he’d spend all his time in our library except for the two hours a day he spends on appointments. On that particular evening he picked a club. The entire evening the little toe rag had his wards up so no one could get close to him and he spent the whole time watching other people have fun. What does that tell you Detective?”