CHAPTER FOUR
Atticus had sat in the backseat beside Wyatt on the return to the Palace, and every instinct in his body begged him to move closer to touch the handsome vampire and to learn all he could about the man.
He'd known there was something unique about the man, something that set him apart from every other man he'd ever met, but he hadn't put a name to it until Wyatt had shed blood for him.
The moment the scent of his blood hit the air in that cemetery, it was like a shining beacon.
The chances of a thing like this happening to a Necromancer of his level were a million to one, but apparently, he had hit the jackpot.
He was the vampire's beloved; it was unlikely that the man was not aware of that fact, and Atticus did not know what to make of that information.
Wyatt would have known it almost immediately upon meeting Atticus, and yet he made no move and no mention.
They had entered the Palace from the rear entrance, a beautiful wide terrace that echoed the palatial splendor of the original Versailles.
The Watchtower room was on the upper floor and was visible from the terrace.
It was a very good imitation of an old tower room, and Atticus found it comfortable; he assumed Louis gave it to him for that purpose, and he appreciated his attention to detail.
Wyatt walked at his side, eyes straight ahead.
He'd fought for him, but that was his duty, and apart from the few touches, there was no overt indication that he felt anything at all.
Atticus was too old to play games, but was he prepared for a denial, a refusal?
He was not what anyone would dream of for their beloved.
He wasn't soft, quiet, gentle, easy like so many of the matches that he had observed over the years.
Wyatt was carrying some demons of his own, and it could prove devastating to take on the energies, the limitations, and the strangeness of a person like himself.
It would be best if he followed his initial plan and let this job be his last. His soul was too old, too out of touch, and too steeped in darkness and the macabre to ever be able to establish an adequate bond with anyone.
It was time for him to move on like his brothers. It was a morbid thought, but his services were becoming outdated, and his presence was becoming redundant. Leaving this plane would free Wyatt to pursue another.
Wyatt was better off keeping his distance, even though Atticus could feel the pull in every corner of his being, and whatever he was feeling, the vampire had to be feeling more. Vampires were physiologically tuned to react to their beloved, and yet he showed nothing.
Wyatt had a rigid air to him, indicating he was keeping all his feelings under wraps. Atticus considered saying something when they returned to the room in the tower, but he decided against it because he didn't want their final hours together to be awkward.
Atticus walked back over to the window and stood looking out.
He heard Wyatt return to his position by the front of the door.
Atticus lowered his head and breathed in the atmosphere of the room and closed his eyes.
The embers and ash filled him, and he stilled his thoughts, carefully controlling his reactions.
“Would you like for me to order you dinner?” Wyatt’s voice broke the heavy silence. Atticus shook his head.
"No, thank you, but feel free to order for yourself if you'd like." Atticus did not turn around.
"I'm fine." He said, and silence fell over them again. The easiness of their time together while walking through Mt. Pleasant had disappeared, and the stilted, wooden manner of their interaction had returned. It was a pity, but as it should be, he supposed.
"I'm going to lie down," Atticus stated and turned toward the bedroom off to his left.
It was a lovely and elegant space with a large bed with just the right mixture of fabrics, woods, and color that made it look both solid and comfortable.
He figured there was time to relax and meditate for a few hours before morning began the final phases of the purification rite.
Everything was in place and spells had been cast, and his power as the Necromancer would settle into every corner of Mt. Pleasant. The blight and the lesser forms would have nowhere to hide. He'd taken two steps toward the bedroom when Wyatt spoke up.
"You should have something to eat before going to bed.
" He rushed out the statement as if he had a stake in the matter.
Atticus paused and looked back at him over his left shoulder.
"You haven't eaten since that small lunch; you need to keep up your strength.
" There was more here than dinner, but Atticus could not discern what it was.
"I'm fine, really. This isn't the first blight that I have dealt with. They aren't as common as they were, but they still occur when ritual is forgotten, and proper precautions are ignored." Atticus decided to leave it there and continued to the bedroom.
"I'll order a protein drink and bring it to you when it arrives," Wyatt said, and his tone left no room for argument on the matter.
Atticus did not respond, simply nodded, and continued into the bedroom.
He did not close the door since he was just going to lie down for a few hours, and it seemed unnecessary.
He enjoyed Wyatt's aura and drank it in after taking off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt, and stretching out on his back.
He stared up at the ceiling and let his thoughts wander.
There were those in the Coven who despised him for his magic and his powers, and there were those who feared him for the same reasons.
He did not know where Wyatt stood, where his beliefs brought him; did he hate necromancers, was he afraid, or did he simply not care?
Atticus wished he could get a better read on him, but Fate put a buffer between Fated bonds, so he was prevented from getting a look at Wyatt's thoughts and feelings apart from the agitation he seemed to be constantly bearing.
Once again, he pushed the thoughts away; they were starting to interfere with his deliberation on the problem at hand.
It was paramount that he dispatch this shadow blight before it had the opportunity to grow further and to harm more life.
In the grand scheme of things, his hurt feelings were of no real importance to anyone.
***
Wyatt was desperate to have Atticus eat something.
He'd endured hours of walking the town and setting up boundaries and spells, and then being attacked in the cemetery; he needed to eat something.
He had to be starving, but he refused; he did it very nicely, but he still refused to eat.
The protein drink would help, but Wyatt still believed it to be inadequate for the needs of an ancient necromancer.
He asked them to add extra protein powder to the mixture.
When it arrived, he moved directly to the bedroom. Atticus had not closed the door, so he stood at the threshold and stared in at the man lying on his back with his eyes closed. The vision was utterly enthralling, catching him up and making his heart beat rapidly.
His black dress shirt was open at the neck, and his dark burgundy pants fit him like a fucking glove, and he was breathless at the sight of his long black curls fanning out around the pillow; he was stunning.
Wyatt wanted him so fucking badly; his hands were sweating, and his body trembled.
His beloved lay out like a decadent offering that he would kill to get his hands on.
He took a deep breath, flooding his senses with the smell of his Fated lover, and stepped into the room. Atticus did not stir and did not acknowledge his presence until Wyatt stood beside him at the side of the bed. His green eyes sparkled in the subdued light as they looked up at him.
"Your drink. It is important that you drink something.
" Wyatt noticed that he'd started looking at him with eyes that got steadily sadder as their time together wore on.
Wyatt didn't understand and assumed he was tired, worn out from the events of the day and needed sustenance and rest, but his eyes held more than just fatigue.
The look bothered him in a way he could not quite describe, and the feeling made him anxious and uncertain. Wyatt held out his hand to assist Atticus in sitting up, but he did not take his hand. He pushed up, and then Wyatt moved as Atticus swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He stretched and set his feet flat on the floor before looking once again at Wyatt.
"Thank you." He said and reached out to take the tall glass from Wyatt.
Their fingers touched lightly, and he watched as Atticus took a long sip from the glass, emptying about a quarter of it.
He slowly licked his lips and looked down into the glass, gently swirling the thick contents.
He closed his eyes for a moment without moving and took a long, deep breath, slowly releasing it through his nose.
“Are you okay?” Wyatt asked and took a step closer. Atticus did not look up at him this time but rather kept his gaze on the contents in the glass.
"Hemlock has no effect on me, but few are aware of that fact.
As an ancient necromancer of the old world, my soul exists within the twilight between life and death; therefore, it takes a lot to kill me.
Poison is useless. To kill me, you must use a sword of iron, and you will need to remove my head completely.
" Atticus sounded disappointed and saddened; his tone was not angry or accusatory, just precise.
He didn't look at Wyatt; he carefully set the glass on the end table. "I should leave."