Page 23

“Put them on or I kill him!” Kenzie shouted, arm shaking, pointing at the cuffs in Angel’s hands.

“Alright, alright, I’m putting them on,” Angel assured the agent, making a show of lifting the cuffs and his hands at the same time. He read some of the runes as he did so, deciphering the strength of the nullification effect—they were strong enough to knock out his magic completely, and if he tried overloading them, he might lose his hands doing it.

He could not let the cuffs get on his wrists. Not if he wanted to live, because he doubted that Kenzie would take him anywhere but directly to the Grand Master of the Council. And they wanted him out of the way. If they had him cuffed and powerless he had some chance of living, but a blood mage for a Grand Master made that living likely to be a hellish experience.

He was no one’s sacrifice, and no pawn for others to play with—and there was no guarantee that Kenzie would let Martin live.

“Put the cuffs on!” Kenzie screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, and Angel watched in detached horror as a thin line of blood dripped from one eye down a pale cheek.

The compulsion spell riding Kenzie was killing him, but not fast enough.

Angel set one cuff on his left wrist, snapping it into place, moving slowly as he tried to reach Simeon mentally through the mate bond. Even with one cuff Angel felt the smothering effects of the nullification, suppressing his powers and abilities to use them—they did not reach the soulbond, but his power was failing.

The weight of the iron and silver was almost painful.

“Move faster!” Kenzie ordered, and Angel sent him a sharp glare even as he carefully and slowly put his hands behind his back, clinking the cuffs together.

“It won’t close,” Angel said, holding his breath.

Kenzie snarled in frustrated rage, and Angel struggled not to move as Kenzie dropped the gun away from Martin’s face before shoving the man to the floor.

Kenzie charged Angel, gun in hand but pointed at the floor. “Turn around, I’ll do it!”

Kenzie grabbed Angel by his shoulder, jerking him on his feet, so close to Angel that he felt the feverish heat pouring off the human. The spells around his head and shoulders were even more visible up close. Angel didn’t need his inner vision to see the havoc played out on the man’s brain and central nervous system.

“Give me the cuffs!” Kenzie shouted in his face.

“Okay, okay!” Angel said, and he brought both hands back out from behind his back, raising the cuffed hand in front of Kenzie, the open cuff swinging.

The athame he’d slipped into his hand slid into skin and muscle, through bone and sinew, like a hot blade through butter. Several inches of Damascus steel, dragon-claw sharp, sank to the hilt into Kenzie’s stomach, and Angel felt the man’s whole body jerk when the blade tip exited his back.

Hot blood poured down Angel’s hand, his wrist, soaking his skin and dripping to the floor. The rich, metallic scent filled his nose and mouth.

Kenzie gasped, and blood dribbled from his lips, down his chin, joining the growing puddle on the floor at their feet.

The gun clattered to the stone floor, smearing the puddle, scattering crimson droplets across the white marble.

Angel kept his grip on the blade. Kenzie’s grip on his shoulder failed, the human staggering back, pulling himself off the athame as he did, as easily as it went in. Angel kept it as sharp as his father had, never letting the blade dull with time or use. He never really expected to stab someone with it, despite threatening it several times over the years. The reality of it was a bit alarming, somehow more intimate and too real.

Angel closed his eyes and reached deep, sending his urgent need for Simeon along the soulbond. He tried not to scare Simeon, but his mate sensed Angel’s turmoil, and his alarm was galvanizing. Angel breathed in quick and deep, opening his eyes, and he kicked the gun away, so it slid across the foyer down the side hall.

Kenzie toppled to the floor. He was still alive, but he was bleeding profusely.

“Martin!” Angel ran to his butler, kneeling next to him. “Are you alright?”

Martin’s face was bruised, and he was horribly pale, shaking, but it seemed to be adrenaline more than harm. “In one piece sir, thank you.”

“Can you stand?” Angel asked. “Can you check on the staff downstairs?”

Having something to do seemed to help Martin pull himself together.

“I can and I will.” Martin carefully got to his feet, Angel doing the same.

He sensed Simeon was coming; he’d be there any minute.

“Call the police for me, please,” Angel said, and with the cuffed hand, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his smartphone, unlocking it before handing it to Martin. “Call O’Malley.”

“Certainly, sir,” Martin said, pulling up the Contacts list even as he glared at the dying man on the foyer floor. “Will you be safe?”

“Simeon is on his way, he’ll be here any moment now,” Angel assured his butler, who finally hit dial as he jogged toward the stairs that led downstairs to the staff apartments.

“Mo ghra!” Simeon yelled from upstairs.

“In the foyer!” Angel shouted back.

Angel met Simeon at the base of the stairs, his mate crashing into him and lifting him off his feet, arms like steel bands around him. His mint and chocolate scent filled Angel’s nose, replacing the headiness of Kenzie’s blood. He wrapped his arms around Simeon as best he could, careful of the cuffs and the athame, not wanting to hurt Simeon.

Constans and Isaac weren’t far behind Simeon, Constans leaping over the banister and heading right for Kenzie, growling. Isaac almost tripped in his rush down the stairs, but he saw Angel in Simeon’s arms and slowed himself in time to avoid breaking a bone or two.

“Angie? What the fuck! Whose blood is that?” Isaac demanded, eyes wide, looking at the blood on Angel’s hands, and the athame dripping blood—and then he saw the puddle of blood and the bleeding human on the floor.

“I’m fine, it’s not my blood,” Angel said to both brother and mate. “I’m safe and sound. Special Agent Kenzie needs an ambulance. Or the coroner.”

Angel was shaken, covered in blood, and far too pale for Simeon’s comfort. He kept his hands on his mate, but sat Angel carefully on the bottom step of the stairs and Simeon knelt in front of him, only moving enough for Isaac to come down the stairs and sit beside his brother.

“Fuck, that’s a null cuff,” Isaac said, shocked, grabbing Angel’s left wrist and raising his arm enough to examine the runes. “Are you okay?”

“It’s dampening some of my power, but not all,” Angel shared, grimacing at the tacky blood on his right hand. The athame was covered as well, from tip to pommel, soaked in mortal blood. Simeon’s senses were swamped by the bleeding human, but the stench of blood magic was strong and ruined any temptation he may have felt for the fresh blood.

Simeon checked over his shoulder, but his Master had the human well in hand.

“Do we wish for this one to live?” Constantine asked, raising his voice only a little.

“He’s been compelled by blood magic,” Angel answered, grimacing. “It’s not entirely his fault.”

“He is a federal agent,” Simeon told Constantine, who scowled down at the dying man. Stabbed through the gut was a painful way to die, and slow, too.

“A point in our favor, then,” Constantine said, and pricked the tip of one finger on a fang, blood welling up. He ripped open the man’s black, blood-soaked shirt, and with delicate precision, let a spattering of drops fall on the stab wound. Kenzie groaned as the wound began to heal, Constantine’s blood immensely powerful, but the process would hurt quite a bit in that location.

“He’s still being ridden by blood magic,” Angel shared. “I have no idea how to help him. I can’t burn the magic out of him like I can with vampires. It would kill him.”

“A powerful healer might be able to save him, if they were willing to put in the time,” Constantine said, Rory’s name left unspoken. “They’d need to continuously heal and outlast the spell.”

“I’m getting Daniel and Rory,” Isaac said, pulling out his phone and dialing.

“My love, give me your wrist,” Simeon gently ordered his mate. Angel obeyed without pause, and Simeon examined the silver and iron cuff before he managed to slip a finger under it. He grabbed the far side of the closed cuff and added resistance, snapping the metal cuff open, the metal warping.

He tossed it to the floor off to the side, and Angel sucked in a deep breath. He felt Angel’s relief through the mate bond at being freed. Next, Simeon reached into a pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief, then gently took the blade from Angel, his mate letting it go with a nod. Simeon knelt on the cold floor in front of his mate and cleaned his father’s athame, the malachite and silver pommel and grip revealed under his steady ministrations as he gently scrubbed away the drying blood. The silk would be ruined, but that was nothing compared to helping Angel regain his equilibrium.

“I’ve never stabbed anyone before,” Angel said quietly.

“Most practitioners haven’t,” Simeon said, kindly. Most practitioners, if they fought, did so from a distance—they did not feel the act of magical violence like one did when physically hurting another living soul.

“It was really easy,” Angel said, softly, almost a whisper. “It shouldn’t have been that easy.” Angel rubbed his bloody fingers together, the tacky blood nearly like glue. Simeon knew how it felt for blood to dry on the skin. Uncomfortable, hot, sticky, and the stench was unforgettable.

“The ease of it speaks to a ready mind and soul,” Simeon told his mate. “You acted to save yourself, and others.” Simeon nodded to the other side of the foyer, where Martin led the cook and housekeeper from the downstairs apartments. Martin saw him and nodded, clearly relieved. None of them appeared to be hurt, aside from a growing bruise on Martin’s forehead. Angel saw them, and his shoulders relaxed in deep relief. “They’re alive right now. Remember that.” Simeon reminded him.

“Does it ever get easier?” Angel asked.

“In some ways,” Simeon answered. “But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It keeps you alive, that instinct for violence. Tempering it with respect for life keeps a soul from enjoying it too much. Those who don’t care are the ones who become monsters. And that will never be you, my love.”

Angel nodded, deep in thought. Simeon set the athame aside on the step beside Angel, most of the blood gone. It would need a more thorough cleaning later to prevent rust.

Isaac hung up the phone, putting it back in his pocket. “Daniel and Rory are coming.”

Simeon took Angel’s hand in his and began to wipe at the blood, the bits that would bother the most—the palm, between the fingers. Not to clean the hand entirely—water was needed for that—but to make his mate comfortable. Angel leaned forward and rested his head on Simeon’s shoulder, and he kissed the side of his mate’s neck, continuing to wipe at the blood.

Hands somewhat clean, athame put away in Angel’s bedroom, and the police on their way, Angel accepted Simeon’s help off the stairs and he went past the pool of blood and past Special Agent Kenzie, who still lay prone on the floor. Rory sat cross-legged by his shoulder, one hand out and resting on the agent’s forehead, eyes closed, quietly battling the blood curse rampaging through the human’s body.

Rory and Daniel had arrived with little fanfare, Daniel hugging Angel tightly and Rory heading for the downed agent, knocking him unconscious with a subtle use of magic so no one needed to guard him while Rory worked. He healed the body in the wake of the curse, over and over, and Angel struggled to comprehend the compassion it would take for Rory to do so with so much patience and steadfast determination.

He would have let Kenzie die. Probably. Most likely.

He genuinely wasn’t sure.

Angel turned away from the tableau of Rory healing, and faced the doorway and the wide swath of death and blood magic that drenched the ward boundaries.

The front steps of the townhouse were relatively clean, but for the dead body carelessly dropped on the concrete.

Simeon stopped beside the open door, angling himself so he could watch both ends of the street, sharp eyes looking for threats.

Constans and Isaac were standing over the body, Isaac trying to get a look at the face without touching the corpse. Angel joined them. They could hear the sirens wailing in the distance heralding the arrival of the authorities, a few blocks away. “Any idea who our corpse is?”

Dressed in black, the standard Council enforcer gear, the person’s dark brown hair obscured their face, but Angel saw enough to know it wasn’t anyone he was familiar with.

“It’s no one I know,” Constans answered. “The scent is unfamiliar.”

“Thank Hecate,” Isaac muttered. “Cops are gonna be here any minute.”

“Anyone who doesn’t wanna deal with them can head to the Mansion or go home,” Angel told his brother, but spoke loudly enough that Daniel heard him where he stood vigil at Rory’s back. Daniel frowned, but stayed put, not unexpected. Isaac grumbled but he made no move to leave, leaning into Constans.

“How did he die?” Isaac asked.

Angel took a look at the body with his inner vision, oozing death magic across the steps and sidewalk, and found the cause of death instantly. “Broken neck. He didn’t suffer.”

“A blood mage killed one of their own to get Kenzie through your wards. Why not just go in themselves?” Isaac asked.

“I set a pestilence bomb at Milly’s—probably expected more booby-traps at my own house.” Angel said, thinking. “Kenzie was as disposable as this guy was, whoever he is.”

A car pulled up the curb, coming from the opposite side of the street than the cops were coming from. Angel saw Scylla Morrow step out, and he nodded to the werewolf as she approached.

“Rael called me and told me what happened,” Scylla offered as she stopped a few feet from the body. “That group chat is handy. Add me to it, please.”

“Sure thing,” Isaac said, pulling out his phone and doing just that. Scylla told him her number as they stood over the dead enforcer.

Scylla took in a long, deep breath through her open mouth, a scenting behavior. She grinned. “The dead man is one of the enforcers who stole my son and his mate.”

“The Grand Master is cleaning up past mistakes,” Angel said.

“Cops are here, mo ghra,” Simeon said, a second before the first squad car peeled around the corner and came racing down the street.

Scylla rolled her eyes, grumbling about reckless driving, and jogged up the stairs, heading into the townhouse. “I’m gonna use your magic door to visit my son!”

“Rael spilled about the magic door,” Isaac said unnecessarily as Scylla disappeared inside the townhouse, ignoring the blood and the unconscious mortal on the floor.

“Keeping something from Scylla is more dangerous than telling her secrets,” Angel replied. “She’d have figured it out on her own eventually.”

He was never more thankful for a human than he was for Detective James O’Malley. Despite the chaos of the FBI descending on them once Kenzie’s identity made it out over the radio, O’Malley kept the feds from taking over or trying to drag Angel away again. Angel never really heard O’Malley get as loud as he did when yelling at federal agents.

“Your man tried to kill a BPD consultant, and took several people hostage! He killed a man, for cripes sake! Ain’t none of ya suits getting anywhere near this crime scene or these people,” O’Malley ground out in his whiskey-and-smoke Southie accent. He didn’t even sound like he was yelling, but his words carried through the townhouse and onto the street through the open door. “You all might as well be suspects! Now get outta here!”

The crowd of suits thinned a smidge, but they mostly migrated to the far side of the police cordon, next to the coroner’s van, milling about as they spoke on phones and muttered to each other, reminding Angel of angry pigeons.

“Commissioner is on my side with this,” O’Malley continued, turning back to Angel. “We can’t trust any of them federal agents after what their fellow agent just pulled, compulsion spell or not.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Kenzie killed the enforcer—I think it was the Grand Master, a man named Onfroi de la Roche. He’s a blood mage. I think he cut the wards open with the dead man’s sacrifice and then cursed Kenzie.”

“Then like a coward he took off when things didn’t go the way he wanted,” O’Malley finished. “I can get behind that theory. I’ll see if I can’t get a warrant issued, but right now things are touchy with the mayor—the governor is poking his nose into things too, and it’s a pissing contest over diplomatic immunity bullshit and whether or not they can kick the whole mess off to the federal government. Any judge paying attention may want to stay out of this shitstorm.”

“Fuck,” Angel breathed out. Having the humans on his side might have made things simpler—but if the human governments were playing political hot potato then chances of help from that quarter took a nosedive. “Well, the FBI might play nicely once Rory gives Kenzie a clean bill of health.”

Rory was still tending to the human, but this time in the back of an ambulance while the paramedics supplied an IV and monitored his vitals. Angel saw that the curse on Kenzie was nearly gone, having degraded naturally as time went by—Rory was both faster and more powerful than the curse and the one who laid it, and he was able to repair the damage it was causing. The gut wound was nearly completely healed —Constans’ blood was powerful and did its job swiftly.

“I wouldn’t trust the man even after the curse is lifted. Was he cursed when you got arrested and met the Grand Master in Chelsea?” O’Malley asked.

“No, yet he was following orders from the Grand Master. Maybe the curse was a smokescreen to keep Kenzie from taking the fall if he got caught—or maybe de la Roche found Kenzie’s hard limit for what crimes he’s willing to commit,” Angel guessed. “Either way, you’re right. He’s not worth trusting.”

“I’m gonna mark this on my calendar,” O’Malley grunted. “You said I’m right.”

“Shush, you old goat,” Angel teased, grinning for the first time in hours. “If we’re good, I’m gonna go check on my clan. Call me if something comes up.”

“Yeah, we’re good,” O’Malley said, waving him off. “I’m glad you’re okay. Get some sleep, you look wrecked.”

“Gee, thanks,” Angel drawled, but he waved at O’Malley and headed back inside his house as O’Malley started calling his people to exit the townhouse and wrap things up.

Simeon was in the foyer, eagle-eye on all the cops as they left the house, his sharp senses monitoring their movements and actions, and Constans was upstairs doing the same, helping to protect Angel’s privacy. Rory had managed to glamour the archway in the upstairs hall, disguising it as a bare wall, and Constans and Isaac were posted next to it to keep anyone from accidentally hitting it with a shoulder as they walked by—Angel was not a fan of leaving things to chance, so he appreciated the abundance of caution.

O’Malley came through earlier and prevented the forensic team from taking Angel’s athame as evidence—Angel bent enough to allow pictures and a swab to prove it was what stabbed Kenzie, but as the injury was mostly healed by the time anyone thought to take pictures, having the weapon was a moot point. There was no matching injury to go with the blade. Simeon promised to clean it properly once the police left and they had some peace.

The chance for peace and quiet sounded wonderful, but he doubted it would happen anytime soon.