Agent of Darkness (Dark Fae FBI Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  The rider charged for us, his cries nearly unintelligible, but one word ringing out clearly. Traitor!

  Roan swung his sword, striking it clean through one of the rider’s necks. The head tumbled off, and a hot arc of crimson blood stained the snow.

  The rider turned sharply, still gripping his own sword. He charged us again, his shrieks piercing the quiet woodland. As he swung, Roan moved, quick as lightning, parrying his blow. He swung again, striking off another head, and blood spurted into the air. With a final shriek, the rider galloped off into the forest. I let out a long breath.

  “Damn!” Roan snapped.

  “What?”

  “He’ll get his men to block the trail to the portal. We won’t be able to get through.”

  My heart thundered against my ribs. “Do we need to hunt him down and kill him?”

  Roan shook his head. “He could be leading us into a trap. I don’t want to risk being outnumbered. There’s another way.”

  In the next moment, we were galloping again, leaving the severed heads behind us. I wiped at my cheek, my fingers coming away sticky with blood.

  The wind whipped at my hair as Roan guided his horse over the rocky terrain. Slowly, a low roar began to drown out the sounds of the horse’s footfalls in the snow. At last, the forest began to thin, and we approached a rolling river. Water rushed over sharp rocks, breaking in angry white foam. As I clung to Roan’s body, he guided his horse directly to the most turbulent part of the river, where the water churned violently over rocks. What the hell was he doing?

  “Roan?”

  He ignored me, and my stomach lurched. But as Oberon’s hoofs plunged into the water, the surface shimmered. A cool energy whispered over my skin, and the waters around me calmed, the rocks growing smaller and rounder.

  “Ancient glamour,” Roan said. “Created by the Elder Fae, and recently used by the king’s opposition. A secret rebel path, known only to a few.”

  I stared down at the water, mesmerized by the illusion. Wherever the horse stepped in the turbulent river, the waters calmed, growing shallow and clear. Darting away from the horse’s hooves, small, emerald-green fish swam.

  After a few minutes, the towering oaks began to look more familiar. The portal was nearby.

  The adrenaline began to leave my body, and fatigue replaced it. My eyelids felt heavy, and I had the strongest urge to lean against his back and fall asleep.

  “There.” Roan pointed to an oak—the towering tree that would take me back to London.

  Reluctantly, I climbed off Oberon. Away from Roan’s warmth, a shiver overtook my body, and hollowness filled my ribs. I looked up at him. “Thanks for the ride.”

  He stared down at me. “Just returning you to where you belong.”

  A lump rose in my throat, and I walked to the portal, emptiness gnawing at my chest. I felt unmoored, I guess, completely untethered. I’d hoped Roan would be some kind of an answer for me—a goal, a mission. I needed to serve a purpose now. And maybe I wanted to feel his powerful arms around me again, so I could feel that sense of peace, sleeping against his beating heart. It seemed that in Roan’s presence, the raging chaos on my mind went quiet.

  Worthless. His word rang in my mind like a curse.

  I could feel his eyes on me, as if to make sure he’d finally rid me from his life. I walked into the snug crevice of the oak, surrounded by the scents of the forest. While Roan stared at me, I thought of losing myself in London’s crowded and winding streets, and the magic of the fae oak transported me.

  Chapter 2

  I stepped into the dingy reception area of the St. Paul’s Youth Hostel, the ground floor of an old Victorian building. A white-haired man behind the desk glared at me over the rims of his glasses. Yellow fluorescent light flickered off his thick lenses.

  I crossed to the desk. “Hi. I need a room.” I frowned, thinking of the youth hostels I’d been in before—the cramped rooms with bunkbeds, people coming and going at all hours. “Are there any single rooms?”

  “Forty pounds a night.” He looked me slowly up and down, with the disgusted look you might give an old bit of cheese in your fridge.

  I was running seriously low on cash at this point, but I’d pay whatever I had for my own room. “Great. Fine.”

  “How many nights?” Somehow, his tone conveyed that zero was the preferred answer.

  “I don’t know. At least one. Maybe a few more.”

  “You pay in advance. Cash.”

  I nodded. Slung on my shoulder was the bag I’d stashed in a locker at Liverpool Street Station for the past week. I’d stashed in it all the things I couldn’t use in the fae realm—a phone, my wallet, keys, some clothes, and a laptop. I shoved my hand into the bag and yanked out my wallet, divesting myself of two of my twenty-pound notes. The man snatched them up, narrowing his eyes as he examined the notes for signs of fraud. At last, he slid a room key across the desk.

  When I climbed the narrow stairwell to the second floor, I found a dark hall covered in a faded blue carpet. Room twenty-seven was at the end of the hall, a white door with cracked paint. It creaked open into a small space that managed to seem both drab and garish at the same time: cracked, green walls and a gray carpet—what Scarlett would have called a crapet. And then on the bed, as if to try and battle with the horror of the green walls, butterflies and flowers of neon pink and purple covered the duvet. A large brown smudge on the carpet left me playing my favorite game, Guess the Stain. Coke? Blood? Vomit?

  Still, the room was a perfect match for the dark, hollow feeling in my chest. Might as well run with the misery.

  I dropped the bags near the door, my magic senses already attuning to reflections in the room. A body-length mirror hung on the wall beside the closet. Just down the hall, I could feel the reflections of the mirrors in the communal bathroom. Fainter reflections glowed from the single window pane, and the dull metal of the bed frame.

  I approached the mirror, staring at myself. No wonder the receptionist had given me a chilly welcome. My clothing dripped into the rug. Brambles and horse hair covered my clothes. My hair was a mess—dirty and bedraggled, its pink tint fading. Purple smudges darkened my eyes. I stroked my fingers over the soft wool sweater Roan had given to me, now spattered in mud. If I lifted the fabric to my face, I could almost smell him—the faint scent of moss and musk. I’d fallen asleep on him once—in Trinovantum, curled in his lap, with my head on his chest. His warm arms around me, the sound of his beating heart had calmed me until I’d fallen into a deep sleep. I ached for that feeling of safety now.

  Still, that wasn’t an option. I let out a shuddering sigh, and felt for the reflection, merging with it. I tried to imagine the old Cassandra into it, the Cassandra who thought she was human, the FBI agent who helped catch serial killers and would scoff at the idea of magic. But I couldn’t seem to control my thoughts. Instead, an image of my parents shimmered in the reflection. My mom and dad, as I wanted to remember them: sitting in the backyard in the afternoon sun, my father grilling burgers and awkwardly shimmying to “Hungry Like the Wolf” while he worked, my mom setting up citronella candles to keep the bugs away.

  For just a moment, my chest unclenched. I wanted to step right into those entrancing images. But just as I shifted closer to the mirror, my treacherous mind cast the Rix into the reflection, standing by my father’s grill, a cruel smile twitching on his face behind the smoke. I snarled, severing my connection to the mirror.

  Horace and Martha Liddell had never known who I really was, that their daughter had been kidnapped, switched with a monster. What would they have thought of me if they’d known?

  I tried to shove those thoughts to the back of my mind. The damn silence in this place would drive me crazy. My mind reeling, I pulled my phone from my bag and plugged it in to charge it. Then I snatched a change of clothes from my bag.

  I hadn’t brought a towel with me, which would make a shower interesting, but I headed down the hall anyway, pushing through a door into a b
eige-tiled room. In one of the stalls, I pulled off my clothes, shivering from the cold, then turned on a tepid stream of water.

  In the quiet of the bathroom, with the sad stream of water running over my body, I couldn’t ignore some basic questions.

  Namely, what the fuck was I doing with my life at this point? I should have gone from the portal straight to the airport—should have bought the first available ticket back to the US, and tried to get my life back on track. I should have been heading back to the FBI like I was supposed to a week ago, moving on with my life.

  As I soaped the forest grime from my body, I tried to think about what I could say to the chief. The FBI didn’t know the fae existed. I couldn’t tell him I’d stayed in London to fight my changeling twin, to prevent her from destroying the city. Maybe I could just beg forgiveness. He was a tough old man, but I suspected that somewhere inside he had a soft heart. I’d always been a favorite of his. Maybe I could even piece together some semblance of a normal life, with a nice, wholesome boyfriend I’d meet online.

  I turned off the shower, stepping into the changing stall. I pulled my clothes onto my wet body without drying off, my underwear sticking to my thighs on the way up. At least the sweater I pulled on would keep me somewhat warm.

  Back in my room, I threw myself down on the butterfly-flower duvet of horror. I stared at the ceiling, scanning the cracks. My mind churned relentlessly with the memories of the past few weeks, and somehow, the thought of returning to the States felt wrong.

  The past week, I felt as if I’d been skimming over a chaotic bubble, a delicate sphere that protected me from the raging waters under its surface. And only one thing could keep me from plummeting into those chaotic depths: movement. I had to keep going, rushing along into the world of the fae, or my delicate bubble would burst.

  I grabbed my phone off the bed. It still had less than twenty percent battery. Leaving it plugged, I called Scarlett’s number.

  “Hello?” she answered almost immediately, her voice alert and sharp. “Cass?”

  “Hey Scarlett.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

  “Cass, are you okay? What’s wrong?” Apparently I had failed miserably at my attempts to hide the truth from my best friend.

  I swallowed hard. “Scarlett, I’m so tired.”

  “Cass, where are you?”

  “A hostel. In London.”

  “Back from your vacation already?” she asked, her voice soft, but carrying an undercurrent of tension. The line wasn’t secure, I knew. Talking about my recent visit to Trinovantum wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “Yeah.” I sniffed. “The, uh… guy I was visiting wasn’t interested to see me after all.”

  “It wasn’t a good idea, Cass. You need to come back to the States.”

  Come back. I realized what she was saying, and another pang of loneliness hit me. “You’ve left the UK already?”

  She let out a sigh. “Yeah. I flew back two days ago. I’m back in the States.”

  “Oh.”

  “Cass, you should really come home. We have a lot to talk about. Face to face. And I think your guys are getting kind of impatient with your disappearing act.”

  “Yeah.” My voice sounded hollow. “You’re right.”

  “Cass, you sound terrible.”

  “I’m just tired. I haven’t slept for…” I thought back. “For days. I’m worn out.”

  “So you said.” Worry tinged her voice.

  I suddenly regretted calling her. I should have known we wouldn’t be able to talk properly on the phone. “I wish you were here.”

  “Me too, sweetie. You want me to buy you a ticket home? All you need to do is show up at Heathrow.”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Get some sleep,” she said. “I can buy you a ticket, and you can pay me back later. They need you here.”

  “I’m not convinced I still have a job, Scarlett.”

  “Cass…”

  That image flashed in my mind again—my parents, with the Rix looming behind them. “Did you know that my parents weren’t my real parents?” I asked. “Did it say that in my file?”

  “We can’t talk about your file right now.”

  A sudden realization struck me like a punch to the gut. “Cassandra Liddell isn’t even my name. The name belonged to another baby, one stolen by the fae.” I could almost see her eyes—the horrified look on Siofra’s face when I’d trapped her in the void between reflections.

  “Cass,” Scarlett said firmly. “This isn’t a secure line, and I think you really need to sleep—”

  “It’s not my name, It’s a… a… stolen name. I trapped its owner…”

  I heard a click as she hung up the line, obviously trying to cut short my indiscretions.

  Right. Not a secure line.

  I was barely hanging on, I knew. Exhaustion and the oedipal horror of killing my own dad were causing an emotional meltdown. Not to mention the deep sting of Roan’s rejection. Scarlett was right. I should sleep, and in the morning, I’d buy a ticket and go back home, forget this whole disaster of a trip.

  I slid my legs under the sheets, flicked off the bedside lamp, and pulled the blankets tight around my shoulder.

  My mind whirling, I rolled to my stomach and closed my eyes, willing sleep to come. But instead, memories echoed in my skull. My mother’s voice: Such a chubby-faced baby. Everyone in the maternity ward fell in love with you instantly. Then, the sound of my mother’s dying breath the day she’d been murdered. I’d hid under the bed, staring at my discarded sweatshirt on the floor, listening to my world fall apart. Then the images flickered faster in my mind: My first day of school; my seventh birthday, a roller-skating party with arcade games; the day I got the ballerina doll for Christmas.

  How would it have all turned out if I hadn’t been swapped? If I’d grown up in Trinovantum with the Rix and… and…

  And who?

  If the Rix was my father, who was my birth mother?

  Distraction. I had been desperate for something to take me away from these memories, and now that this tantalizing question dangled in front of me, I clung to it desperately. I might have a mom out there. If I could find her, maybe I had a chance at getting a family back. Maybe she wanted to see me.

  I couldn’t go back to the US just yet. I still had a bit of my past to uncover. I needed to know my identity. I was a pixie; I had a human mother whose name I didn’t know.

  I rose from the bed, completely giving up on sleep, and pulled on my shoes.

  As I walked down the creaking stairs to Leroy’s Wine Bar, a sad jazz tune wound over the low hum of conversation. Over the sound of a trumpet and sax, a woman sang forlornly about a lost love who’d abandoned her by the seashore.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I scanned the room for just a moment, taking in the familiar decor—the tunnels that branched off from the main room, the barrels of aged wine, and the old heraldic emblems hung on the walls: a raven, a dove, a skull under water, foxglove, a phoenix. But the emblem that most drew my eye was the one that had been defaced, its surface smashed. The six kingdoms of Trinovantum, one of them ruined. Once, I’d asked Roan about the smashed emblem, and he’d simply changed the subject.

  At the thought of him, and that look in his face when he’d kicked me out of his house, an ache gripped my chest. I hugged myself, looking at Leroy’s patrons for the first time. That was when I noticed the dozens of suspicious eyes, staring directly at me.

  Since I’d walked in, all conversation had ceased. A woman whose blue hair cascaded down to her hips gaped at me through milky white eyes; another with mahogany skin, dressed in a white velvet doublet, had paused mid-wine-sip to stare in my direction. A man with a pointed beard and black lace collar narrowed his eyes at me. Even the sax player stared.

  That’s right. Last time I’d been here, I’d brought Scarlett with me, and she’d threatened everyone with an iron-bullet gun. Apparently that didn’t go over well with the fae crowd.


  Still, they didn’t look like they were about to attack. The only person not staring at me right now was the woman singing into the microphone, her long, silver hair draped over a crimson gown, seemingly lost in the pain of her own song. I listened to the music for several seconds, meeting the glares around me, trying to appear casual, relaxed. Slowly, the faces turned away, and the muttered conversations resumed.

  I heaved a sigh, spotting a narrow-framed figure hunched over a barstool, his shaggy blond hair hanging in his eyes. Alvin. Just who I’d wanted to find.

  Keeping my head down, I crossed to him. As I walked, I couldn’t help but notice that the bar patrons seemed to visibly recoil from me as I walked past them.

  As I approached Alvin, a haze of marijuana smoke greeted me, and he turned to smile lazily at me, his eyes bloodshot. “All right, boss?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “How are you?”

  “Leroy!” he called out. “Claret for my friend, here! And one for me, while you’re at it.”

  Leroy pushed through a door by the bar, frowning at me. “You want two clarets?”

  I nodded, my body tight with nervous energy. “A generous pour, please.” I tapped the faded wooden bar, my chest aching with a familiar hollowness. “In fact, can you just bring us a bottle?”

  He nodded and turned to the rack behind him. I swiveled my stool, turning to face Alvin. He wore a black jacket over a shirt that read, If we can’t make it, we’ll fake it—NASA, 1969.

  He stared at me, his eyes glazed. “You sure you’re all right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, thanks. How are you? Everything okay with your… acquaintances?”

  Last time we’d met, Alvin had told me he’d been acting as a double agent for the CIA Fae Unit. If the king had found out, Alvin would be dead right now. So I’d helped him out, deleting his name from the CIA database.

  “Yeah. It’s all cool now. Cheers for that.”

  I smoothed my wrinkled shirt, casting another nervous glance around the bar. “Everyone here seems on edge.”