Chapter One

Dixon hated England. He knew that was an unfair conclusion to come to when technically he hadn't seen anything of the country at all except the blurred and lit up images of houses seen way, way down on the ground from the airplane window. No, it would be more correct to say that Dixon hated what traveling to England was doing to Benedict. His wonderful mate had gone from being a warm, funny, casually dressed, and laid-back person, into some kind of overanxious closed-off aristocrat that reminded Dixon of characters he'd seen in a period drama movie once.

The soft jeans were gone, along with the Henley's and jackets. Dixon thought his mate was stunning in anything he wore, and the sharp three-piece suit fitted Benedict perfectly, but it didn't match what he knew of Benedict's style. Likewise the plane – Dixon guessed the Necromancer was well off because he had been alive for over a century. But they traveled to England in Benedict's private plane. Not the Dule's family plane. No, Benedict had quickly corrected that assumption. The plane was Benedict's personal mode of overseas transportation.

Clothing and airplanes aside, it was Benedict's mood that was really worrying Dixon and his bear. Benedict had barely said a word on the more than ten hour flight, although he held Dixon's hand for most of it. But as the tone of the engines changed and the plane started to descend, it appeared Benedict's mood was dropping with it.

"We could turn around and go back to the US," Dixon suggested quietly. The steward was busy in the back of the plane putting things away and likely straightening up the galley area, and it wasn't as though the pilot could hear them, but Dixon didn't want to embarrass his mate in any way. "We could move, find somewhere rural and off-grid so no one could find us."

"As tempting as that is, that wouldn't be fair to Gordon or Monica. Besides, I have to do this or we'll always be watching over our shoulders." Benedict's tone was also low. "I know I'm going to sound really selfish here, because realistically this would've been a lot more pleasant for you if you'd stayed in San Francisco, but I'm so glad you're here. I don't think… I'm not sure…"

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else." Dixon let out a long breath, and then asked the question that had been nagging at the back of his brain for most of the trip. "Have you not been back to England at all, since, you know… you left? Not even for a quick family visit?"

Benedict shook his head. "I knew what the Magical Council was doing was wrong. I knew it was disrespectful to the souls of the dead, and there was a time when I genuinely thought someone had been sniffing too many herbs in their spell casting and got a brain fugue or something, when the whole zombie army idea was brought up. But no. Uncle George told me, back when you and I first met, that the main instigator back when my family died – that man is on the other side of the veil now, so this whole situation goes deeper than just one idiot wanting to command a zombie army."

"Did the guy, the dead one, did he have many friends while he was on the Council?"

"Nobody is friends with anyone on the Council, not even the Council members themselves," Benedict warned. "There are strategic alliances – occasionally when a situation arises where two or more members can see the benefit of joining forces. But you'll see for yourself, the Magical Council has created a world of its own within the Paranormal Council compound." He chuckled. "If you're imagining dark dungeons, heavy dark drapes, and candles instead of electric lights, you wouldn't be far off the mark."

"Is this because the people on the Council – I assume they're all magic users like yourself – are they all older and cling to the more traditional way of doing things?" Dixon didn't have a clue. He'd rarely had anything to do with the Paranormal Council, either in the UK or North America, so it wasn't like he had any frame of reference on how those places were run. He just knew if any paranormal acted in a criminal way, or that those actions could possibly out paranormals to the general population, that was when the Paranormal Council stepped in – usually in the form of sending guards that would seemingly appear out of nowhere and a person could find themselves suddenly ‘disappeared.' At least, that's what Gordon had mentioned a couple of times when he was in a somber mood.

"Four of the five Council members are the ones who were in their positions when I left the country." There was a slight bump, as the wheels touched down on the runway, and then a ding as the seatbelt light went off. Benedict didn't seem in a hurry to move.

"I'm not sure who took the late Councilor Paxton's place – it could be anyone, but the chances of them being less than two hundred and fifty years old are small. Part of the reason magic users claim to be superior to other paranormals is because of the history involved in many of the rituals and spells they conduct. Anyone who'd been around less than at least two centuries wouldn't even be considered for the position, and that's without the social hierarchy that exists among magical user families."

Sounds like they could do with some younger members on the council, to drag them into the twenty-first century, although Dixon didn't say that. Instead he said, "Whatever it is, whoever it is, we'll face them together. One instance where I know paranormal law trumps anything that the Magical Council might decree, has to do with Fated Mates. They can't separate us, they can't refuse to let me stay with you, and I'm not leaving your side for any reason."

Benedict's hold on his hand turned into a squeeze. "Just remember to use your nose, my lovely bear," he warned. "There might be some who could claim I'm bitter because of what happened to my family and what the Council have tried to do to me. Most of my family members think that, so there will be others who do, too. Trust your gut, ignore the smiles on a person's face, and let your bear's instincts guide you in any interaction we might have. Hopefully there won't be that many."

The plane had come to a complete stop. The steward was standing expectantly by an open door. Benedict let out a long breath. "There is one more thing. I probably should've mentioned it, but honestly… shit, this place is a complete world away from San Francisco. Just don't freak out if anyone calls me Lord Dule or something else equally ridiculous, all right? It's just a family thing."

"Lord?" Dixon chuckled, even as he was wondering why that little nugget of information hadn't come up in Gordon's search. Maybe it did, and Gordon didn't think it was that important at the time, which was highly possible. Dixon focused on the moment. "You'll be telling me it's customary for people to bow to you next."

Benedict shrugged. "And you, too, most likely. If it happens, just nod in return."

"Wait." Dixon did a double take. His mate was serious. "Since when did I become a lord in England?"

"Since you bit me, hon." Benedict smiled. It was a tired one, not as powerful as it usually was, but Dixon loved his mate for trying. "It beats being called Lady Dule, doesn't it?"