Agent of Darkness (Dark Fae FBI Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I leaned in, whispering. “I guess they’re still pissed off about the gun thing.”

  He snorted. “Come on, Cass. No one gives a fuck about that.”

  “They don’t? Then why am I getting all the death stares?”

  “Can’t you even feel what you’re projecting?” He swirled his glass of water. “You’re a storm on the horizon, Cass. You feel like a hurricane of anger and pain.”

  I blinked. “Oh. You don’t seem to mind.”

  “I’m lean.”

  “What?”

  “I’m stoned. It helps.”

  Leroy slid two large wine glasses across the bar, then filled them up slowly, and I watched, transfixed, as the amber liquid caught in the pale candlelight of his bar. He left the bottle and slunk into the shadows, then leaned in the corner, arms folded, looking half asleep.

  Light glinted through the dark green glass of the bottle—the color of Roan’s eyes. I took a sip of the claret, letting the sweet liquid linger on my tongue before swallowing it. Maybe if I drank enough of this stuff, I could finally relax.

  I nodded at the singer. “She’s good.”

  Alvin shrugged. “She’s been singing these sad songs for a few hundred years. I’ve heard them all before.”

  “Is she particularly sad about something?”

  He swiveled in his chair, watching the singer. “Her fella left her for his soulmate three hundred years ago, and she never got over it.”

  I took another sip of claret. “His soulmate?”

  “Yeah. Some fae have soulmates. People talk about it like it’s a gift from the gods, but it’s mostly something that ruins everyone’s lives. Like Roxanne here.” He lifted a glass to the singer, a tribute. “Her life is ruined.”

  “So, what—people are predestined to love others, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it? You have to leave the person you’ve been with for centuries, just because fate says so?”

  “Yeah. It’s some bullshit, if you ask me.”

  “No arguments here.”

  He turned to face me. “I’m surprised to see you here. I heard you went to Trinovantum.”

  “How did you hear that? Who told you?”

  “I know things, Cass. That’s what I do.”

  I sipped my wine. “Well, I’m back. And I need some information.”

  “Really?” His eyes flickered with an orange glow. “What about?”

  “My birth mother.”

  “Oh? What about her?”

  I took a long sip before answering. “You know what I am.”

  “A nice girl,” Alvin said. “A Fed. A pixie—”

  “A changeling.”

  “Yeah. That too.”

  “You knew all along. You even told me, when I asked about Siofra.” I felt the tears stinging my eyes.

  He lifted his bony shoulders in a shrug. “I knew… some of it.”

  “You could have saved me a lot of trouble if you’d just told me from the start. Maybe you would have saved some lives.”

  “I deal in secrets, Cassandra. You know what makes a secret valuable?”

  I drained the last of my glass, not responding.

  “Of course you do. Secrets are valuable when not many people know them.”

  “Is that all you care about? The value of your wares?”

  “What do you need, Cass?”

  I refilled my glass. “I want to know who gave birth to me—who my real mother is.”

  “I haven’t got a clue.”

  My spirits sank. It had been a flimsy hope to begin with, but now that it was shattered, I felt the emptiness starting to eat at me again.

  He took a deep breath. “But I have something that could help you find out.”

  My eyes met his, trying to appear calm. “What is it?”

  “What do you have to trade for it?”

  “What do you need?”

  “You can always… owe me a favor.”

  “No. Never again.” Last time, it nearly got me killed. “Name another price. How about dinner?”

  “Nah, that won’t even come close to covering it. But you should get it for me anyway. It’s a good way to start the bargaining process, know what I mean? Leroy recently got a wheel of Vacherin Mont d’Or that’s mad good. Let’s start with that, shall we?”

  I sighed and glanced at Leroy. “Can we have a plate of… what he wants, and some bread?”

  “And make sure it’s the Vacherin. Don’t give me that American knock-off shit and think I won’t know, Leroy. I always know.” He stared at Leroy, muttering, “I always know.”

  Leroy grunted, pushing past the kitchen door.

  I knocked back a long slug of claret, then met Alvin’s gaze. “So, how do I find my mother?”

  “First, let’s talk about what you can give me.”

  With my next sip of wine, I finally felt what I needed—that gentle slowing and dulling of my thoughts. At last, the tension in my shoulders began to relax. So what did Alvin value? “How about some information?”

  He nodded. “What do you have?”

  Leroy returned, placing a round, wooden tray with a slab of bread and cheese on the bar. Steam curled off the bread. Alvin snatched a piece, spreading some cheese on its surface. He took a deep bite, and shut his eyes in pleasure.

  I grabbed a piece of the warm bread. “The previous mayor of London was a changeling.”

  “Come on, Cass. Everyone knows that. That has no value.”

  I thought hard. “War is coming. The king is planning to attack the Seelie.”

  “Do you really need me to explain again what makes a secret valuable?” Alvin sucked a smudge of cheese off his thumb.

  “Fine!” I gritted my teeth, considering leaving. I closed my eyes, searching my mind for a piece of intel this infuriating fae might want. And as I thought, an image burned in my mind. Siofra’s eyes, after I’d trapped her in the reflection. “Siofra,” I said slowly.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s gone.” I took a sip of wine. “But she isn’t dead.”

  His chewing slowed down, his eyes glimmering with that uncanny orange color. “Isn’t she, now? Talk softly. I have good ears.”

  I lowered my voice. “She’s trapped. Trapped between mirrors. Still alive.”

  He stared at me, his body taking on that eerie fae stillness. “You’ve changed, Cass. It feels as if only weeks ago you blundered in here to ask me how magic works.”

  My mind had taken on a happy buzz, and I poured myself another glass. “It was only weeks ago.”

  “And now look at you.”

  “Only I know this,” I said. After a moment I added, “And maybe Scarlett. I told her part of it.”

  “Still. A good secret.”

  “So how can I find my mother?”

  He put down his bread and reached into the fold of his jacket, then pulled out a round, tarnished brass object. It looked like an old pocket watch. He handed it to me, and I clicked it open, revealing a compass. The needle swiveled round and round, never stopping.

  “What do I do with this?” I asked.

  “You think of the person you’re looking for, while holding it to your right cheek. It’ll start pointing toward that person’s aura.”

  “What if the person is dead?”

  “It’ll point to where her essence is strongest. A home she lived in for many years, or a place she used to visit often. Possibly her grave.”

  “What if she’s two thousand miles away?”

  “It’ll still point to the right way, but you’d have a hell of time finding her.”

  For the first time in days, my mind felt at ease. “How do I think of her if I don’t know the first thing about her?”

  “All you need is an idea. You are talking about the woman who gave birth to you. That’s an idea.”

  “Okay.” I pocketed the compass, smiling. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” He sliced another piece of the cheese. “I hope finding her
makes you whole, Cass.”

  Chapter 3

  I stood outside Leroy’s, shivering in the chilly night air, dwarfed by the towering spires of Guildhall. For once, the memories that had been plaguing me over the past week, that word worthless that had been rolling in my mind relentlessly, had all gone quiet. Probably something to do with the half-bottle of wine I’d chugged, and the ground tilting beneath my feet. Obviously, I thought, I should go back to the hostel, sleep it off, and try to use the compass tomorrow when I’m sober. But I had to see how this thing worked first.

  I pulled the compass out of my pocket and flipped it open. Its needle whirled, occasionally shuddering to a halt for a second, and then moving again, searching. I took a deep breath, and held the compass to my cheek, thinking of what my birth must have been like, of a biological connection to a woman I had never known. What was she like? Did she look anything like me? Had she given me up for adoption, or had the fae abducted me?

  In the back of my mind, a silhouette formed of my mother, a hollow form, made of questions.

  The metal on my cheek began pulsing with warmth.

  When I pulled it away, the tarnished compass metal pulsed with a gentle silver light. The needle pointed southeast, completely unwavering. I crossed down Guildhall Yard, following the arrow.

  With my eyes glued to the metal circle, I began to walk along the quiet city streets, staring at the needle. For all I knew, it could be pointing to Italy, or the United States, or a location in the middle of the ocean. Nevertheless, I walked, following the needle’s signal, my mind and gaze focused on it completely.

  When I got near Walbrook—the site of the underground river, where I could sometimes hear tormented screams—the needle suddenly jumped a fraction, and my heart leaped. I took a few steps back, then walked forward again. It was no accident. It moved with me.

  If target were far away, it wouldn’t move. It would point stubbornly the same way, just like most compasses point toward the north pole, never shifting. I was homing in on her, moving past the wide streets around Bank Station, following the needle south. The way the needle moved, it sure seemed like my mom was in London—not far at all. My pulse began to race. Was it really possible?

  I turned onto an old, narrow road—St. Swithin’s Lane, an alley, really. Modern buildings towered over the passage. The needle led me onward until some of the architecture began to look older; Victorian buildings with ornate stone cornices. I watched as the needle slowly edged along, until it reached a fixed point. At the end of the alley, I stepped into a larger, shop-lined road, with a few black taxi cabs rolling along. The needle pointed sharply to the right.

  I turned onto the wide sidewalk, and the needle now aligned almost completely with the direction I faced. I was heading the right way. As I walked, the needle vibrated, until at last it stopped, pointing right again. My heart thudding, I raised my eyes, staring at a building’s façade.

  I knew where I was, and my heart began to sink.

  Roan had taken me here weeks ago, when he’d first told me about the fae. It was where I’d caught my first glimpse of Trinovantum—the building that housed the London Stone.

  Slowly, I crouched next to the ornate iron grill in the wall beside me. Beyond it, protected behind dull glass, yellow light glowed over the London Stone. I moved the compass left and right next to the Stone, watching the needle. It followed the limestone, constantly pointing to its center. This was where it had fucking led me?

  Sadness bloomed in my chest, and before I knew it, a hot tear trickled down my cheek. I’d honestly thought the compass was leading me to my mom—a flesh and blood woman who could finally give me some answers. But it hadn’t. It led me to this stone—a lifeless thing—and that meant my mother had died. Here, perhaps.

  I took a deep breath, trying to think clearly. If Alvin had been speaking the truth, my mother’s essence lingered here. What did that mean? When Roan had first taken me here, he’d used the Stone to show me a vision of Trinovantum. He’d treated the rock with a reverence I hadn’t seen from him since. What the hell was this Stone, exactly? A connection the fae realm. Maybe a portal?

  I looked between the bars and the glass that protected it. It was difficult to see into the room beyond the glass, but though the darkness, I could see racks of clothing. A sports store, perhaps.

  I let my magic seep into the building, searching. As if pulled by a magnetic tug, my magic homed in on the reflections inside, on metal and glass. I rummaged in my bag, took out one of my hand mirrors, and stared at it, merging with a mirror on one of the shop walls. My mind clicked as I bonded with it, and I felt the cool rush of magic wash over my skin as I jumped into the reflection.

  I stepped out into the darkened shop, turning around until I spotted the Stone in the window. I wove between the racks of clothing to get to the Stone, staring at the glass smudged with fingerprints and dust. This ancient, powerful relic had obviously seen better times.

  I knelt in front of it, wondering how Roan had managed to use it. I tried to feel for the Stone, like I felt for reflections. I pressed my hand against the dingy glass, but felt nothing. Closing my eyes, I thought of Trinovantum. Nothing. When I took out the compass, I found that it still pointed at the Stone. This was definitely the right place. Cold sweat broke out on my skin.

  I thought of my mother, of a woman holding me as a newborn. Questions roiled in my mind like a storm, breaking through the haze of my wine buzz. Had my mom gotten to hold me? Had it hurt her when they took me away? The questions echoed in my skull, amplified by my loneliness. My heart raced, hammering hard against my ribs. My vision went dark, until an image of rushing water pooled in my mind, the currents surrounding my skin, moving higher up my body. Terrified screams pierced my mind, the cries of the sacrifices…

  My eyes snapped open again, and I stared, pain lancing my knuckles. Consumed by the hallucination, I’d punched my damn fist through the glass. Blood dripped down my fingertips, staining the dusty shelf. And yet the Stone seemed to pull me closer.

  As if drawn in by a gravitational pull, I touched its rough surface. The instant my fingers made contact, a wave of noise slammed over me. It felt like plunging into a river of voices, my own voice a mere drop among the cacophony, intertwining with the rest. There was no me anymore. No Cassandra—no Rix’s daughter, worthless terror leech. Just the river of tormented screams in a void of darkness.

  In the shadows, whirling eddies of fearful, sorrowful, tormented voices churned together, clamoring against each other. The sounds of Hell filled my body with a dark thrill, intense power that vibrated along my skin, ran up my spine. Maybe it horrified me, but I needed it—a release from my own thoughts.

  A powerful charge of horror enveloped me, pulling me under, until nothing existed but me and the black rush of the screams. And then, just for a fragment of a moment, I recalled a name: Cassandra. I forced myself to roll this idea around in my mind, slowly collecting bits and pieces of myself from the river. I was an FBI agent. I liked Oreos, hip-hop, and I couldn’t tell expensive wine from the cheap stuff which meant I liked all of it. I liked watching dance videos and binge-reading historical romances about brawny Scottish lairds. I used to keep a diary in high school with cutouts of old movie stars I wanted to look like—Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelley. I was a pixie, a half-fae. I’d been stung by bees three times and had an allergy to bananas. I was a profiler. My first crush was a boy nicknamed Blaze who wore eyeliner and played guitar. I was a terror leech. And a changeling.

  I’d come to find the woman who’d brought me into the world.

  Where was I? Had I moved inside the Stone somehow? The space around me pulsed with life, and the Stone seemed to connect me to the rest of the city—and not just London as it existed now, but ancient London, the layers of its history. I was mainlining centuries of London’s terror. I began to drown in the din of the disembodied wails.

  I unleashed a shriek into the river, “Mom!” but the screams drowned out my voice. I sought her, sought
a connection with a woman who’d been separated from her daughter. I felt for that sense of loss.

  Somewhere in the torrent, a soft keening rose above the rest and I could feel a link, something shared. A genetic link? Shared loss? I only knew it was a bond. I tried to touch the voice, to tell her I wanted to help, to ask how I could get her out of there. But the cry just kept going, radiating sorrow and fear.

  The next thing I knew, I was lying flat on the gray carpet, breathing hard, tears streaming down my face. Pain seared my hand where I’d punched the glass. When I pushed myself up to look at it, I felt nauseated at the sight of the gashes running down my forearm. At least one of them was deep, running with blood. Stumbling to my feet, I snatched a sports jersey off the rack to staunch the bleeding. I glanced at the broken display case, at my blood streaming over the jagged edges of glass. Even though I was no longer touching the Stone, voices still clamored in my head. The screams of tortured souls, and one that keened above the rest—the one connected to me. What had happened to her? I needed to know.

  Stumbling to one of the metal clothing racks, I stared into the reflection, searching for somewhere safe.

  Chapter 4

  I lay on the bed in the hostel, yearning for sleep, but the voices echoing in my mind kept snapping me awake. Every time I drifted off for a few minutes, the screams turned into nightmares. Images rose in my mind—men and women standing by a riverside, dressed in white robes, their cries piercing the air. Old Cassandra would have diagnosed herself with auditory hallucinations and a stress-induced psychotic break, but Old Cassandra hadn’t known the truth. She hadn’t known about magic. After a few seconds of sleep, my eyes would snap open again, and I’d pull the blanket tightly around me.

  Slowly, a theory grew about the Stone. It had felt alive, a pulsing nexus in a living city. Not its heart, but part of its brain—a conscious entity. The London Stone was like the city’s amygdala—the ancient part of the brain that told us if we should fight or run. And somehow, by mainlining London’s terror, I’d screwed up my own brain. How? I didn’t know. I guess I’d skipped the Magical Stones and Their Effect on the Brain class in grad school.