Marked by Death (Necromancer #1) - Kaje Harper Page 0,3

planned to. The shouting and battering that woke him had blended for a moment in atavistic dreams of torches and pitchforks, of a mob clamoring for his head, although his dawning common sense said it was almost 1963, and roused citizens would have baseball bats and flashlights, not pitchforks. He’d crept to the window to peer out. Seeing just one guy down there had been a relief that quickly changed to fury. He’d marched downstairs to open the door and yell in the bastard’s face and slam him out. Maybe with an arcane shove down the steps.

But then he fell in. And passed out cold.

Speaking of cold— the stranger’s feet hung over the threshold, keeping the door ajar, and the icy chill was sucking the heat out of the house. Silas gave a half-second’s thought to rolling the man out again before shutting it.

He’d freeze to death.

And how is that my problem?

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Some dreaded necromancer you are.

He took hold of the guy under the arms and dragged him a few feet forward. He was lighter than Silas expected, like maybe he hadn’t eaten in a while, and he breathed shallowly. A ratty suitcase lay partially under him and Silas shoved it to the side. The vicious wind cut off as he bumped the door shut. Despite his curiosity, he took a moment to reset the door wards. Weaving the pattern pulled more power from him, and he clutched the door frame for a moment, before bending to roll his uninvited guest over.

Well, now, he’s worth getting out of bed for. The man was young, not much over twenty, with perfectly-shaped full lips and high cheekbones under a scruff of unshaved beard. A few wisps of straight, dark hair fell from under the knit cap he wore. He was bundled in an old jacket that looked too lightweight for the chill outside, and was none too clean.

“Since when do your toys get delivered to the door?” Grimalkin padded toward them, paws silent on the wood floor, tail-tip twitching. “In the middle of the night yet.”

“Hush, cat,” Silas said. “He’s not a toy.”

“Really?” Grim made a circle of the young man’s body, whiskers twitching. “He looks like your type. Smells like trouble, though. Smells of death and dirt and screams in the night.”

Silas held back a sigh. Grim might be a pain in the ass, as familiars went, but he was also usually right. Of course this wouldn’t be some innocent young gentleman banging on a necromancer’s door at midnight because he had a hankering for necromancer cock. “How much trouble?”

Grim touched his pink nose to the stranger’s wrist, and then stilled for a moment, an inward look in his eyes. He huffed, and shook his whiskers. “None at all, unless you start getting him warmed up. He might’ve caught his death of cold out there, which would solve your problem.”

Silas knelt swiftly to check the man’s pulse. It fluttered threadily and slow under skin that held almost no heat. Dammit, I’m no nursemaid. His powers were pretty much antithetical to healing.

Which doesn’t mean you can’t manage a warm bath and a glass of whiskey. He bent and slid his arms under the stranger, lifting him. The thin body hung limp in his arms, and as the man’s head fell back, the skin of his exposed throat showed a wide dark line that glimmered to Silas’s senses.

A spirit mark. Damn. Trouble indeed.

He carried the young man up the stairs, pressing his hip against the railing for stability and cursing the strain of the unwieldy weight under his breath. I need to exercise more. Sorcery was best done in a balance of mind, body, and spirit, and he’d been neglecting the body aspect. Serve me right if a demon does eat me. But not tonight.

He sighed with relief as he reached the upper floor. The guest bath was down at the end of the hall, but his own suite was closer. The raised tub he’d put in for himself was a lot bigger and more accessible than the old claw-foot that still lurked in the guest bath, and his rooms were warmer.

Laying the young man on the tiled floor, he set about removing the guy’s clothes. Easing off the hat revealed a mop of straight, ink-black hair that looked like it had been cut with nail scissors. Smoky lashes just as dark fluttered, but the man’s eyes didn’t open. Silas cradled his skull gently and set the