11. The Feds

The cops came, and the bomb squads, but leading the show were the federal agents all but itching to arrest people.

The hotel had been nearly empty, a few staff members near the booby-trapped lobby, confused and frightened, and the concierge, who Angel suspected of being involved. A hotel built to hold several hundred people was empty. There was no sign of the High Council members meant to be staying there—except the dead enforcer. The Bloodclan's information was wrong, for the first time in Angel's experience, and that wasn't sitting right with Simeon, who chafed at the proximity of the agents and police officers and their heated, accusatory stares.

And to Angel, it seemed their rescue of the werewolves had come too quickly for the abductors—the number of bombs was low, and Cian was able to disarm them all in minutes once found, minus the one that exploded already.

Scylla was gone, leaving through a back-alley fire exit after Angel obscured the camera system with some of his old friends, the black fog snakes covering each lens as thick as tar and just as impenetrable. She was on the way to the hospital to see her family.

The FBI agents currently corralling Angel and Simeon were dressed as expected, smartly in suits that looked as crisp as the first hour back from the cleaners, hair cuts and styles subdued and professional, with blank expressions on their faces.

Detective O'Malley was there, but the circle of feds kept him away from Angel and Simeon, and it was made clear that the BPD and CPD weren't in charge. Multiple bombs brought in the big guns, understandably, even if it made things harder and more inconvenient for Angel and his people.

Angel ignored their audience, who hadn't taken their eyes off them when Angel and Simeon volunteered to be the distraction so the others could get back to the Mansion or home, respectively. Constans and Isaac had immunity from mundane human laws. Constans was City Master, a sovereign entity, and Isaac as his mate had the same privileges. Technically, Simeon and Angel had the same immunity, as any Boston Bloodlcan vampire had, plus additional powers with Simeon being an Elder of the clan. They would use it to leave at their convenience if the FBI seemed determined to keep them in custody, but Angel elected to stay and see what he could learn from the Feds.

It was not his first time dealing with them, but he hardly recalled the first meeting. A couple of days after the Massacre, agents from the local FBI office came by the hotel Angel and Isaac were holed up in to ask them questions about what happened.

They didn't get much—Isaac was nearly catatonic, from what Angel now knew was guilt and not just grief—and Angel wasn't much better. He remembered a female-presenting human agent, silver hair cut short, stout and friendly in a motherly way that hurt more than helped—Ramona, Angel's mother, had died with his entire family and the loss was a burning hellfire ember in his chest.

"The last time I spoke to a federal agent was a couple days after the Massacre," Angel murmured, leaning into Simeon. Simeon lifted his arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, pulling him into the comfort of his embrace. "I don't remember much."

Simeon offered no meaningless platitudes, merely a kiss pressed to the top of his head and a gentle squeeze. Angel sighed, resting his head on the silent chest of his beloved, arms going around Simeon's lean, rock-hard waist and holding on for dear life. Simeon's familiar scent of copper, mint, and chocolate soothed Angel further, easing the old pains the memories brought up.

A tall, lanky agent with floppy blond hair approached, expression grim, and in some silent signal, handcuffs appeared like magic from the agents around them. Plain steel cuffs—no iron bound in runes, so they weren't going to stifle his magic. If he were planning on being a problem then they'd made their first mistake—aside from arresting them.

He wasn't worried about the feds, not really. He wanted to know what they knew, so he would play their game for now.

Several lifetimes would be too short to appreciate the beauty that was his mate. Ashwin was his everything. Kind, smart, witty, bold, adventurous, and compassionate. And above all things, patient. Patience was a requirement in mating Salvatore men, and Ashwin had it in spades.

But then Ignacio was a stubborn old goat, with the ability to break the patience of a saint. He would know, as he'd done it.

Saints had nothing on Ashwin when he got going, though, pushed a bit too far by Ignacio, and this was one of those times.

"You are not going out there and helping Angel and the others," Ashwin nearly shouted, trying to keep his voice down despite Andie—sorry, Leo—being sound asleep half a mansion away.

"I can help stop the Council once and for all! We can stop running, tesoro. We can give Leo the home he needs!"

"Don't you bring Leo into this," Ashwin stormed up to him, hands planted on lean hips. "This is about you not wanting to run or be left behind. I know you hate running, hate hiding, but neither of us is going to put ourselves in harm's way until we can guarantee Leo's safety. He is our priority. Not getting vengeance."

"He is safe, here, now. Safer than he's ever been."

"What happens if we go out there, get killed or hurt, and we can't take care of Leo? Do you think that Angel or Isaac are going to want to take on a child distantly related to them? Leo may be a Salvatore, but that doesn't help him unless it means something to them, and while I know they're good men, I can't be certain that we can fully trust them with Leo yet. I need to know more. It's been twenty-four hours, my love. We need more time."

"We came here knowing it would be safe."

"I know. And yes, we did."

"Then why…?"

"I might be a vampire, my love, but I am also a father. And taking care of my child will always be my priority. And I refuse to orphan my son. I will not have that happen to him, not like it happened to me."

Ashwin was born sometime in the late Elizabethan Golden Age in England, and Turned when he was around twenty or so years of age. Ashwin wasn't sure, having no idea of his own birthday or the year he was born, simply guessing off his earliest memories. He was orphaned by a plague in early childhood, and left to run wild and perpetually hungry on the streets of London until he caught the eye of an actor working in the Globe Theatre. His life changed forever after that—the actor had been a vampire, and after Ashwin proved adept at treading the boards, he Turned the young Londoner into a vampire himself. The tale was more complicated than that—full of pain and betrayal—but it meant Ashwin was fiercely protective of their son.

Despite chafing at Ashwin's limits, Ignacio loved his mate and understood his caution. Leandro might be Ignacio's blood, but Ashwin was a natural and loving father to their son, and a far better father than Ignacio could ever be.

A rumble interrupted them, and roused the dragon sleeping on the hearth.

Watching the sidhe mound manifest itself was unnerving, and the stone moved as water, solidifying into a new shape, the mantle gone and in its place an open door.

Eroch muttered, clearly displeased at the disturbance, and slunk off the hearth and grumpily climbed onto the nearest couch, collapsing in a heap before snoring, dead asleep.

Ashwin blurred to stand in front of the archway, though who else would it be other than a Salvatore ally? Remigius, the vampire, stepped through, and Ashwin stepped out of the way with a soft welcome and nod. Celyn came running into the library at that point, and the two met in a spectacular embrace in the middle of the room after running to each other.

"What happened?" Ignacio asked when the new lovers parted.

"A trap we interrupted the laying of in a hotel near the abduction site. An enforcer is dead, blown up by his own bomb, and Rael and Jameson are safe, heading to the hospital."

"Injured?" Ashwin asked.

"Wolfsbane aerosol grenades."

"Lethal against werewolves if exposed to too much," Ignacio added. "The Council did not care if the boy and his mate lived or died."

"I agree." Remi said.

"Angelus?" Ignacio asked.

Remi grimaced. "The FBI showed up and took both Angel and Simeon into custody for questioning. Angel told us to leave."

"Why would he do that?" Ignacio demanded.

Dame Fontaine stepped through the archway and answered him. "Because we all can't afford to be locked up in the middle of a war. He knows this, and he won't be there long. He wants to know what they know, and he's going to find out before walking out of there."

"You've a lot of faith in him," Ignacio stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

"All the faith in the world," she agreed, lifting her chin and meeting his glare head-on. "You need to catch up."

His lip twitched at the challenge in every inch of her diminutive frame. "Perhaps I do."

"Isaac and Connie?" Ashwin asked.

"They went home to the Tower. Connie can't create any more portals for a day or so at least. They went home in a limo." Cian answered, dropping his glamour in the middle of the room, smiling widely when they all jumped at his sudden appearance.

"You wretched creature," Ashwin swore at the sidhe, though out of all them, he'd reacted the least.

Cian merely smiled briefly before turning his attention to the sleeping dragon. He walked over to Eroch, and scooped the beastie up into his arms. "I'll be heading to bed, and minding the poor child at the same time. Remi, little cousin," he said, addressing the vampire and his young mate. "There is a door in the temple to the immediate left that will take you to the Tower."

"Oh, that sounds fun! C'mon!" Celyn grabbed Remi's hand and began towing his mate toward the archway, waving to those present as they passed. "It was wonderful meeting you, have a great night!"

"Lots of fun," Remi said. "Goodnight!" He called over his shoulder as they went into the temple and turned from sight.

Milly sighed, and reached down, leaning on Ashwin with one hand on his shoulder while removing her high heels with the other. Ashwin said nothing but did toss Ignacio an amused look. "I'm heading up to snag a spare guest room. I'm done in."

"You're not worried about your partner being in federal custody?" Ignacio had trouble imagining a world where a man got arrested by the government and his family wasn't worried for his safety.

"You'd do better saving your worry for the agents," Milly said with a little wave of her own. "Goodnight, gentlemen, I'll see you in the morning."

The Federal Bureau of Investigation building in Chelsea was a glass and concrete monstrosity that glimmered like the bottom portion of a shattered rectangular box in the city lights. It was lit up from within even at the late hour.

The SUVs pulled up in a convoy in the street outside the main entrance, and deposited Angel and Simeon on the pavement with their escort of agents. Six of them surrounded the pair of them, including the tall, lanky blond agent who introduced himself in the car on the long drive as Special Agent in Charge Samuel Kenzie.

They were escorted into the bright lobby, then into a heavily-manned security checkpoint with metal detectors, x-ray machines, and officers with wands. A security K9 was brought up to them, but the dog wanted to play with Simeon more than it wanted to sniff them over for threats or contraband.

He put his cellphone, keys, and wallet in the basket when directed, able to do so cuffed. Simeon did the same between petting the officer's dog, despite warnings not to—the dog was happily jumping on Simeon, whimpering and whining and licking his hands and trying to reach his face. Dogs loved Simeon, and the feeling was mutual.

Prior to the police cordoning them off from the others, Simeon handed off his cellphone to Batiste in a subtle move no one but Angel and Isaac noticed. That was before the agents figured out who they were and separated Angel and Simeon from the others. Thankfully, his family and guests managed to leave without the authorities noticing, either, and that was a blessing he'd need to thank a deity for later. He wouldn't put it past the government to try and pressure Angel by leaning on his family. The tactics used by the High Council of Fuckery were used by governments in every corner of the world.

Mundane human governments were notorious for their heavy-handed tactics. Angel was curious to see what Special Agent Kenzie had in store for them.

Angel was divested of his athame and the scabbard harness he wore under his shirt, which took some maneuvering with handcuffs and strangers' hands under his shirt, Simeon watching closely the whole time.

"That athame better be in my hands the moment I walk out of this building, Special Agent Kenzie," Angel said conversationally, making eye contact with the agent, heedless of their audience.

"Are you threatening a federal agent, Mr. Salvatore?" Kenzie asked, hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, the perfect image of a man at ease.

"Not at all. Just saving your job. My lawyers are feral, blood-thirsty bastards," Angel advised the agent with a sharp half-smile, feeling the urge to growl and resisting. Simeon was rubbing off on him, and it was almost as good as the fun way.

"Do you want your lawyer present for questioning?" Special Agent Kenzie asked while Angel was uncuffed just long enough to walk through the metal detector, and endure the subsequent pat-down around his waist and legs. His shirt was a light gray tee, and the material was too delicate for anything to be under it. He figured they were more worried about spell traps or hexes than Angel smuggling in weapons, considering the look of surprise when the more than foot-long athame with its Damascus steel blade and malachite and silver hilt and grip came out from under his shirt.

"We'll get to the lawyer a bit later," Angel replied, calmly accepting the reapplication of the cuffs, glad he wasn't restrained with his hands behind him. He could cast without needing his hands or speaking out loud, but he was honest enough to admit he liked doing it that way more; it made him feel better when casting. Learning how to cast without a word or gesture as a young teen had been a challenge, as he enjoyed the emotional catharsis from casting verbally and using his hands. It was almost a physical release, like a deep, satisfying yawn or a long-held, muscle-burning stretch.

Simeon was not so sanguine about the process of going through security. The officers manning the checkpoint were reluctant to get too close, despite Simeon setting off the metal detector. He was a big man, with broad shoulders, not muscle-bound but close to it—he was a warrior dressed in a suit that wouldn't look amiss on a runway or in an action film. He once called Simeon his undead Irish James Bond, and that was still true—he cut a fine figure, and Angel concealed an appreciative sigh so the agents wouldn't hear him mooning over his mate.

Simeon offered one agent a toothy grin, both upper and lower fangs extended, and the agent went ghost-white and stepped back once the cuffs clicked into place.

"Sir, the necklace?" another agent asked Kenzie, holding the huntsman's whistle necklace they'd divested from Simeon before he went through the metal detector. Angel made no reaction, other than to lift a questioning brow at the agent-in-charge—he wondered if this man knew what it was and the potential danger it held. It was useless to anyone but Simeon—he bound it to Simeon himself and locked the spells, so not even another necromancer could use the whistle without potentially breaking the very magic that summoned the hellhound, Scáth.

The hellhound himself was no secret—Simeon took the beastie on walks in the evenings through Beacon Hill—but most people assumed Angel summoned the beastie instead of Simeon. He was fine with not clarifying details to the general public, but those in the know would recognize a huntsman's whistle and what it could do, and the power it held. On the open market, it was priced in the millions.

"Give it back," Kenzie said with a casual wave of his hand.

That moment was when Angel decided that Special Agent Samuel Kenzie was trying too hard to convince Angel that he was an ignorant mundane human.

His wariness increased with that epiphany. The agent holding the necklace gave the silver whistle back to Simeon, who was able to slip it over his head and around his neck without issue, even cuffed. It was dangerous, more-so than a more obvious weapon like the athame and its dragon-claw-sharp edge.

Scáth was capable of leveling this building, walking through all defenses, and killing everyone present—magic that wasn't from the whistle made no impact on the beastie, and only Angel's shields were impervious. Angel made sure of that before he gave the whistle to Simeon—he trusted his mate, but a hellhound was too dangerous to trust completely—which he did now, but hadn't before Simeon summoned Scáth the first time.

A show, all for show. No one became an FBI agent-in-charge without knowing that the interrogation began well before they ever reached the actual interview stage.

Angel had faced scarier things. Like angry mother werewolves and ancient liches. Angel enjoyed a fight; he was self-aware enough to know that his darker impulses were forged in war and he had enjoyed the battles on some level. The adrenaline, the victory. He never lost, though a few times he was faced with a mutual draw and retreat. Fighting in a city with magic meant people were in the crossfire all the time, and people got hurt, and hurt humans meant police and ambulances and news crews. Retreat meant staying out of human jail and it happened more times than Angel liked to recall.

It was that unfortunate truth, and the deaths of so many humans in the Massacre, that eventually drove the mundane humans into action at the end of the Blood Wars. Angel knew he was free instead of jailed like the remaining Macavoys because of his family dying en masse. No government official wanted to make the call—so Angel and Isaac were hailed as the unofficial victors, and the Salvatore scions remained free to go about what remained of their lives.

All that meant Special Agent Kenzie was trying to lower his defenses. Make him less combative. More luck to him. Angel was always ready for combat.

The interview room was more like a breakroom in a TV show than any place Angel expected to see an interrogation occur. Angel put up no fuss when Simeon was put in the common area and Angel led off on his own, but for a look back over his shoulder with a reassuring nod and smile for his mate. Unless the rooms were warded against supernatural eavesdropping, Simeon would be able to keep track of what was happening with Angel.

A cursory glance around the offices and wide common area on the fifth floor showed Angel a disturbing lack of magic—even naturally occurring ambient magic wasn't as prevalent as it should have been in a building full of living humans. Humans shed living magic like dogs shed fur. He would need more time with his inner vision to investigate where all the magic was going if not into the ambient fields. But then, he had something else to do that night.

He sat, uncuffed, on a small couch in the interview room, the door open, though an agent stood in the hall outside the door to keep him from wandering. A nice enough person if the slight smile they gave him every time his gaze wandered that way was enough to go by—though, Angel didn't trust the Feds as far as he could throw them and he could toss a person pretty far with kinetic magic.

"Sorry to make you wait, Mr. Salvatore," Special Agent Kenzie said as he came into the room from the hall, shutting the door softly behind him. He carried a manila folder full of paperwork and a tablet, and set both on the coffee table in front of him before he sat in a comfortable-looking armchair across from Angel. He sat back, one ankle on the other knee, relaxed and informal.

Angel shook his head once, tsking. "You know better."

"Excuse me?"

Angel fixed him with a knowing gaze and smiled to see the truth reflected back at him, and the frustration in the tiny lines around eyes trying hard to be guileless. "You know better. So, do better."

A faint grimace, then Kenzie sat up and out both feet on the ground. "Necromancer Salvatore, I apologize." No excuses. Good. Angel was reading him right so far.

"Excellent, thank you." This time Angel leaned back in his seat and set his hands across his lap, mildly bored and relaxed, at least to the casual observance of a stranger.

He was having fun.

"Necromancer Salvatore, what brought you to the King's Chalice tonight?"

"My apprentice was kidnapped and we went to rescue him and his mate."

Kenzie frowned slightly, and said, "Daniel Macavoy? Your apprentice."

Angel sighed in disappointment. "You're doing it again."

"I'm sorry?"

"Pretending not to know better." Angel met and held Kenzie's gaze head-on and was pleased to see frustration rising to the fore. "You know full well that Daniel is my adopted son, a Salvatore, and no longer my apprentice. This was all filed with the Superior Court system well over a week ago, and there's no way you don't know that."

"Hmm," Kenzie sat back again, tapping a finger on his thigh, contemplating the folder. "If Daniel Macavoy—" at that Angel quirked a brow, and Kenzie changed course. "—if Daniel Salvatore isn't your apprentice anymore, who is?"

"Is that relevant?"

"We need to corroborate anything you tell us during the course of this investigation into the bombs at King's Chalice."

"Rael Morrow is my new apprentice, a new member of the Cambridge Pack. He was kidnapped earlier this evening along with his mate, Jameson Mercer. You'll need to contact his alpha directly to organize a meeting with Rael."

"Your apprentice is a werewolf?" Kenzie broke character and blurted that out, startled and ready to doubt. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"Heaven and earth and all that," Angel replied glibly. "Your ignorance is irrelevant to the truth."

"Mr. Salva—"

"Again? This has to be on purpose," Angel said calmly, but with a sharp bite.

Special Agent Kenzie silenced himself with a nearly audible clack of snapping teeth, and there was a faint glower on his otherwise pleasant face. He was pleasing to look at, but in a puppy kind of way. Floppy and lanky, with big eyes and an easygoing manner—well, when Angel wasn't deliberately provoking him, he supposed.

Angel decided he was too tired for any more bullshit, and cut to the chase. "Why am I here? I gave a statement to your agents on scene, with multiple witnesses, and I've no doubt the FBI's own practitioners can corroborate everything I said in my statement. The magical remnants are there and tell the truth."

Kenzie said nothing, merely tapping that finger on his thigh as he tried to find a new approach that Angel might respond to, perhaps trying to switch gears, not that he had any intention of letting the agent steer the conversation.

Angel had no intention of letting this interview turn into a real interrogation, so he switched topics himself.

"Why is there so little ambient magic here? The building is teeming with living bodies, and yet there's no signs of a wizard nearby, not that I saw at least. Do you not share space with your practitioners? Does the FBI segregate its agents?"

"Mr. Salvatore—"

Angel sliced a hand through the air in a short, fast gesture that startled Kenzie to silence. "I'm not here for your casual disrespect. I came to see what you know about what the High Council is doing."

"Necromancer Salvatore, you're being detained while we investigate the bombing at King's Chalice Hotel and…"

"I'm not under arrest, and neither is my mate," Angel informed the agent with hard certainty. "I let you bring us here so I can source information. I can leave whenever I please. That's human and vampire law."

"You're not a vampire," Kenzie began, scattered and looking for some avenue of attack to regain what he thought was control of the conversation. Angel had no intention of letting him.

"I am mated to Simeon, First Elder and Champion of the Boston Bloodclan. The Bloodclan is a sovereign entity. He has full diplomatic immunity, and so do I as his bonded mate. Additionally, I was acting well within my rights as a mentor rescuing my apprentice from danger. Human governments don't involve themselves in practitioner matters."

"We do if there's a war on the horizon, poised to endanger our people." Kenzie's retort was angry and sharp. Angel gave him that point, nodding once in acknowledgement.

"I understand your worry. Mundane humans died in the Blood Wars, and no one wants to see a repeat of that ever again. I have made no moves of aggression against the Council—I act only to safeguard my clan and my family. I will continue to do so." Angel took a breath. "Answer my question—where's all the ambient magic?"

The door opened with a sigh across the carpet behind Kenzie. A tall, heavy-set, broad-shouldered man walked into the room in a grand entrance that Angel thought would look great in a movie. Dark hair streaked with silver, a rugged face that spoke of a hard life, but also of wealth to offset the trials he suffered, and bright, sharp, gray eyes that lit upon Angel and refused to look elsewhere. Wearing a set of solid black robes that fell from shoulder to ankle, red flashing underneath when the garment swayed as he walked into the center of the room.

Angel knew instantly that the stranger was the source of the drained ambient magic.

A blood mage.

In the FBI. Uncuffed, with no escort, and Special Agent Kenzie rose to his feet in respect for the newcomer, clasping his hands at his waist and facing the blood mage.

"Ah," Angel breathed out as it dawned on him. "Someone cleared the magic out. Perhaps before I came? To minimize the power I have access to, perhaps?"

"Who told you this?" Kenzie demanded suddenly. "That's classified information."

"No one told him, Special Agent Kenzie. Necromancer Salvatore deduced it on his own."

Kenzie quickly moved so he was no longer between Angel and the newcomer. Angel carefully stood, recognizing the energies swirling around the mage. A blood mage in control, not lost to the madness of addiction to stolen magic.

Disciplined, like the blood mages Constantine spoke of in his ancient past. A blood mage in control was as frightening as a feral vampire.