After several hours of rolling around in bed, I grabbed my phone, glancing at the time. Half past three. How long had I been in the Stone? Minutes? Hours? It had felt like days.
I threw off my covers and rose from my bed, my mind reeling. How long had I been awake? Too long.
Even if I didn’t know what the Stone had done to my brain, I knew what insomnia did. My thalamus—the central switching station of the brain—would burn out. All the functions of the prefrontal cortex—emotional regulation, planning ability, reality-testing—it would all go to shit. Then my brain would feed on its own neurons and synaptic connections while my emotions completely took over.
Basically, I had to sleep, or I’d finish my descent into insanity pretty fast. Blinking, I pulled on my jacket. Obviously, I needed more wine to quiet the fucking screaming in my head. Just enough that I could pass out.
I quickly pulled on my jeans and my leather jacket, then snuck through the darkened hostel’s lobby into the cool night air. Silence fell over the city at this time of night, which disturbed me. Without distractions, I had nothing to listen to but the echoes of screams in my mind. What the hell had that thing done to me? I felt as if toxins from the Stone had seeped into my mind, poisoning me. But of course, that didn’t make a lot of sense.
I hurried across the street to a twenty-four hour Tesco. When the doors slid open, the fluorescent lights of the supermarket felt blinding. My head pounded, and shapes clouded my vision. I blinked to clear my mind.
A maze of consumer products lay before me—beans, white bread, frozen foods. I wandered between the shelves for what felt like hours, lost. And then I found what I was looking for. The booze section. I scanned it until I got to the cheapest bottle I could find—something simply called French Wine for £2.99. Perfect. All I needed was something to dull the screams, to ease me to sleep. It didn’t need to be good.
I pulled two bottles from the shelf, then crossed to the checkout line.
The young woman at the counter frowned at me. I knew what she saw: a disheveled woman who looked half-insane buying cheap wine at close to four a.m. I didn’t care. If she could hear the screams in my head, and if she knew what I knew, she might be indulging in a tipple, too.
I swiped my card. When it beeped, I snatched the plastic bag from the counter. As I hurried back to the hostel, pulling out my key card, I tried to block out the voices that rolled around my skull in waves.
As soon as I got back into the hotel room, I unscrewed the cap of the first bottle. I took a swig. Then another, trying to chug down as much cheap wine as I could. Lucky for me, I wasn’t a wine connoisseur, so the £2.99 French Wine seemed good enough—though when I drank it, it became clear that it paled in comparison to Leroy’s claret, and the generic label was starting to bother me. Maybe I should have sprung for something fancier even if I couldn’t taste the difference, just so I didn’t feel like a total wino. Still, the cheap stuff did the job.
When I’d drained half the bottle, the voices began to quiet in my mind. The dingy hostel room tipped and turned, my mind emptying, dulling. I rummaged in my bag, pulled out a pen, and scrawled the word Fancy over the wine’s label.
As the sharp cries dulled to a low roar, nothing remained in my mind but a dim sense of misery. And with that, I finally fell asleep in my clothes.
“Can I help you?” The young blond woman stared at me from behind the counter at the sports shop, her eyes betraying her thoughts. The main thought being you look like shit.
I glanced down at myself, taking in the jeans with the zipper down, the T-shirt covered in mustard stains… When the hell did I eat mustard? Please don’t tell me I ate a sausage from a street vendor.
I tried to discreetly zip up my fly, my eyes already trailing back to the display case. A white cloth covered half of it, draped over the jagged hole in the glass. The bottom half of the London Stone still showed under the cloth, humming with a strange power that drew me in. I needed to touch it again, to hear that one scream.
Maybe I could just tell this woman that my mother’s essence lingered in that rock, trapped and alone. As I stepped nearer to the Stone, the screams grew deafening.
Peering around the corner of a small glass fridge of sports drinks, the shop clerk narrowed her eyes. Probably wondering if she should call the police at this point. Did she suspect that I’d smashed the glass? A mixture of blood and mustard stained the bandage on my wrist.
I met her gaze. “Just looking for a bottle of water.” I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle. “Got it.”
My hands trembled as I dropped it on the countertop, the screams still echoing in my mind. The clamoring emotions overwhelmed my own thoughts.
I forced a smile. “I like to stay hydrated.” Did that sound normal?
No. That most definitely did not sound normal.
Late that night, I shimmered into the shop again, shivering, sickness climbing up my throat. When had I last eaten? As soon as I left the shop, I’d get some food. Anything but a street sausage.
The London Stone loomed in the display case, drawing me closer. I couldn’t explain why I’d come. The thing terrified me, filled my skull with these terrible screams. And yet, I yearned to feel that dark thrill that had surged over my body when I’d touched it, the power so intense it had drowned out my own thoughts. I just needed the screams to be loud enough. Pure terror, not the memories that haunted my mind. When I’d touched the Stone, for just a few moments, I’d lost myself in the rushing torrents of screams. It had felt like freedom—a dark, Dionysian ecstasy. The ancients had known the importance of this feeling, this freedom from the thoughts that haunted us.
More than that, it connected me to my mother. I’d heard her voice there, wailing above the rest. I couldn’t tell what compelled me to the Stone more: the need for that release, or the desperation to connect with my mom.
Haltingly, I moved closer, until I stood before the cloth-covered glass. I reached out, lifting the fabric, staring at the rough limestone surface, and I felt it tug on my body. My fingers trembled as I reached into the jagged hole.
Of course I shouldn’t touch the rock, but I wanted to lose myself in the screams again. As if hearing my doubts, the rock’s power flowed into my mind, a river of wails. For just a moment, I melded with the Stone—and through it, with another presence: a masculine spirit. From its smooth surface, visions arose: a powerful hand, gripping a sword, the blade slicing through a woman’s neck by a riverside. Those same hands, dripping red wax onto a folded parchment, and sealing it with the symbol of a cypress tree. Then, the same powerful hands, picking up a blade, driving it into the soft flesh below a woman’s ribs; I felt the stranger’s murderous thrill lighting up my body with power. Then, an apple orchard, fruit hanging from a bough, red and tempting until the skin blackened and rotted before my eyes.
My hand shook harder, and the glass pierced the skin on my wrist. The shock of pain brought me to my senses, and I snatched my hand back, forcing myself to step away.
Fuck. I needed to stop this. I didn’t know what was going on at this point, but this wasn’t good.
I scrambled back, my blood dripping onto the floor. The screams that had lured me to the mirror called me back, begging for me for mercy. And in their cries, three words rang out: Mistress of Dread.
I blinked in Tesco’s blindingly bright lights. The clerk glared at my feet, and as I swayed before the counter, it took me a moment to realize why. I’d stumbled out of the hostel wearing a pair of slippers, paired with a gold cocktail dress. Crumbs littered my dress, and what I could only assume was wine stained the front. I really needed to look in the mirror before venturing out or they’d stop selling me whiskey, but the damn screams in my mind kept distracting me.
“They’re comfortable,” I said. “The slippers.”
Glaring at me, the woman behind the counter took the second bottle of whiskey, scanning it.
I’d already prepared the pound notes as she scanned the third bottle, and I thrust
them at her. I yearned to get back to my hotel room, dim the echoes in my mind, to sleep deeply.
Maybe I’d just visit the Stone one more time before going to bed, hear my mom again. Maybe this time she wouldn’t be screaming.
I stood in the hostel bathroom, staring at the mirror. The Stone looked back at me, visible in the reflection of the display glass. If I reached into the reflection, I could touch it. Would I hear my mother’s voice again? Could I free her? That would be an interesting experiment: most of my body in a dirty communal bathroom, my hand on the London Stone more than a mile away, my soul merging with it. I raised the whiskey to my lips, took a swig, relishing the delicious burn in my throat.
What time was it? Near three a.m. maybe? But then, ruddy daylight lit the limestone surface, staining it rose. It must be dawn already. Somewhere in another dimension, a mentally functioning Cassandra jogged in a park, eating grapefruit for breakfast, feeling good to be alive.
My phone buzzed—probably Scarlett again. I ignored it, staring at the Stone. My mind felt heavy, sluggish with the whiskey.
I resisted touching the Stone again, letting its image shimmer away, and my reflection returned, staring at me. My pale pink hair hung lank over my shoulders, and purple bags darkened the skin below my bloodshot eyes. I looked like absolute shit. Worthless.
Somewhere inside, my mind screamed at me to get out of that city, away from that terrible rock before it was too late. Before Cassandra Liddell disappeared forever.
“Cass, please,” said Scarlett. “What are you talking about?”
Lying flat on my back, I held the phone to my ear, frustrated that she wasn’t getting this. “I said I found my mother. What’s left of her. She’s in the city’s amygdala.” I tried to mask the trembling in my voice, the slurring of my words. Maybe I should have called after the whiskey had worn off. But then again, if I sobered up, the screams would return.
“The what now?” she asked.
“The amygdala, where the fear lives. I heard my mother’s voice in the Stone.” What was so complicated about this?
“Cass, sweetie. Your mother is dead. What do you—”
“Not that mother! Not the woman who raised me. I’m talking about my birth mother. I found her. She’s in the London Stone, or at least her spirit is. And when I touch it… I feel power. Terror and power. It means something. It’s like… like a reservoir of terrible things. Fear and horror, like the ancient part of the brain. Right?”
Silence greeted me for a few long moments. “Cass, I’m buying you a plane ticket right now. I want you to get back here. Whatever you’re talking about, we’ll get this sorted.”
“I’m not coming back! Not until I figure out how my mom is connected to the Stone, and what it’s for. I can hear her screaming, like she was there. Or her spirit is trapped there. You know what I mean? But I need your help, Scarlett, I need everything the CIA has on the London Stone. It’s some sort of fae artifact, or a tool. It’s important.”
“Cass, this line isn’t secure.”
I waved my hand. “Who do you think is listening to us? The fae? They don’t even have phones, let alone wiretaps. Their technology ends in the Iron Age. Trust me. And anyway, they’ve got bigger things to worry about than us.”
“I’m about three seconds from hanging up on you,” she said. “I know you’ve been through some shit, but you’re endangering national security interests. Not to mention my job. You need to get some coffee, sober up, and get a flight back to the States. And then maybe you should see a therapist or something. I don’t know. You’re better with all the touchy-feely stuff than I am, but I feel like if I were babbling incoherently to you, you would tell me to see a therapist.”
Anger ignited. “Incoherent? I’ve just given you a crucial piece of intel—the rock is full of tormented spirits. And you’re telling me I need therapy? You don’t trust me anymore?”
“Maybe if you were sober it would make more sense, but as it is, no, I don’t really trust your judgment. The only reason I haven’t hung up already is that it’s so nonsensical, you’re not leaking anything useful. I’d go to London to bring you home myself if I could, but I’ve got a crisis here, and two dead agents. So I need you to get some sleep and some coffee, and get the hell out of London.”
“I might be drunk, yes, but that’s because of the screams. My work is here. In London. The Stone is a seat of ancient power.”
“You’re clearly not working effectively right now, Cass, or you wouldn’t be slurring your words.”
“I’m not coming back, Scarlett. And if you’re not going to help me, you’re worthless to me.” I hung up, my body shaking, then threw the phone out the window. I watched it as it tumbled through the air, smashing on the dark street below. I’d switched a lot of phones in this city. Maybe I should stop buying new ones.
I sat in my underwear at the edge of my bed, staring at the Stone’s reflection in my last hand mirror. I watched it with bloodshot eyes, trying to tear myself away. I fumbled for the whiskey, but the damn bottle lay empty. How many bottles had I gone through in the past few days?
Blinking blearily, I scanned the room until I spotted the shopping bag with a single bottle still in it. I let out a breath of relief. Still one to go. I returned my gaze to the Stone, mesmerized. Where had it come from?
The reflection shimmered, changed, and I blinked as it solidified, revealing an image of a towering limestone, standing in a field of tall grasses, white anemones, bluebells, and dandelions. The stone looked different—larger, but I recognized it all the same. The London Stone.
The image shimmered again, giving way to an image of an ancient city: the London Stone towered over a dirty street, and white timber-framed buildings with ruddy tiled roofs lined the road. A crow landed on the stone surface, puffing its wings. Women in white dresses, their curling locks piled up high, walked past the Stone.
I was watching the Stone through time, centuries ago. How could this be possible?
The image flickered, the buildings growing taller and darker—but engulfed in flames. The great city burned. Fire roared above the cityscape, the air full of smoke and ash. People ran along the muddy streets, eyes wide with terror. It was the Great Fire of London, the Stone at its center, its surface glowing with a silvery power.
And that was when I started to understand why I felt so connected to the rock.
Like me, the Stone was a terror leech.
The cashier at Tesco eyed me cautiously as I slowly emptied my shopping cart onto the counter. This time, I’d worn shoes and had my fly zipped up, so the woman had no cause to give me the stink-eye, but she was doing it anyway.
Six, eight, ten, fourteen… mirrors upon mirrors, in various shapes and sizes.
“What’s all this for, then?” she asked. “Some sort of party?”
“Yeah. I’m having a mirror party.” Okay, so the screams and alcohol were making me a bit cranky.
One of the mirrors flickered on the counter, the London Stone flashing on the surface. I clenched my jaw tightly, severing the connection with the reflection. The woman didn’t seem to notice.
I read the smudged name tag on her T-shirt.
“Julia, can we do this really quickly? It’s important.”
I’d spread the mirrors around me, images flickering on them. The Stone under the night sky, the houses around it more shabby and poor. The Stone in the middle of a busy street, and oxen dragging a cart. The Stone in a storm, lightning setting the street alight, rain hammering the ground. The Stone inside a church, then in a green pasture. In each image it looked different, its size changing, its surface growing worn with age. But its essence remained the same.
I sat in the middle of the mirrors, gazing at the flickering glass around me. I cradled the nearly-empty bottle, no longer sure what I was looking for. A glimmer caught my eye, and I turned my head.
Fae, standing around the Stone. Some with wings, others with ivory or metallic horns. Mist whirled around them, and I couldn’t se
e their faces. Just brief flashes of teeth and hands—males red in tooth and claw, blood dripping from their mouths and fingertips.
At their feet lay a young fae, her face streaked with tears and blood. A man’s hands—were they the same powerful hands I’d seen in the reflections?—held a torch before her terrified face. He shoved the flames at the girl’s body, igniting her dress. My heart clenched as she writhed, mouth wide in a wordless cry. Tears stung my eyes, and I swear her screams filtered through the reflection.
Bile climbed up my throat. Stumbling back, I flung the mirror against the wall, watched it shatter to pieces.
Around me, the reflections shimmered, showing the room, showing my wild eyes, my dirty face.
In others, my reflection smiled, her eyes dark with pleasure. Cassandra, the Mistress of Dread.
I stood on the dimly-lit Cannon Street, staring at the London Stone between the iron latticework. Safer to stay on this side of the Stone. I didn’t want to feel compelled to touch it, to feed off those centuries of horror. Somewhere, from London’s dark and winding streets, a man’s song floated on the breeze. A drunk man singing. A happy drunk.
Footsteps sounded behind me, but I didn’t bother turning my head until a man’s voice broke my concentration.
“You all right there, love?”
I turned, frowning at the portly man in a Millwall T-shirt, a pint sloshing in his hand. “I’m fine. It’s just that the fae have stored my mom’s soul in the rock, and it’s calling to me. I don’t think she’s happy.”
His forehead crinkled, and he sipped his beer contemplatively before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I think I had that happen once. The thing with the rock.”
“Right.”
I raised my bottle in mock salute to the man and took the final swig of the whiskey, feeling the drops of the soothing liquid touching my tongue, running down my throat, my mind dulling just a bit more. I let the bottle drop to the pavement, and it rolled away. Ignoring the man, I crouched down, touching the metal grating, following the curving lines. I didn’t know what I felt anymore.
Agent of Darkness (Dark Fae FBI Book 3) Page 4