𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓮𝓭

Chapter 2

Silas stared down at the stranger on his floor. He fell through the wards! Although

apparently they'd knocked him out in the process. The recoil from that power surge throbbed

in Silas's temples, but not with the huge energy-draw the wards would have demanded to

repel a demon. There was no scent of hellfire.

Not possessed by a demon. What is he, though? I should never have opened the door.

He hadn't 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