Agent of Darkness (Dark Fae FBI Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  I crossed my arms, suddenly self-conscious. “Let me guess. You could feel them?” I crossed to his side, looking out onto the dark London street.

  “Yes. I could feel your dreams pulsing through the walls. Roan’s room is right next to yours, and he is masking your emotions well. But he can’t hide your dreams from me.”

  “Why is that?”

  He grinned mischievously. “Because I eat dreams for breakfast. I’m what the fae call a bedbug. I’m a dream fae.”

  I blinked. “Oh.”

  “Usually, I just feel the dreams of the humans in the nearby homes. Dreams about their work, or about that time they were late for the math test. Your dreams are a lot more… intense.”

  “I’m not surprised.” I hugged myself. Abellio had seen me at my weakest. He could sense my deepest fears, my embarrassments, my twisted thoughts. Christ, if I had a sex dream about Roan, which was bound to happen at some point…

  I cleared my throat. “Can you… uh… turn it off?”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Can you stop feeding on fear?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t stop either. But don’t worry. Unless you have a sex dream, I can’t really see it.”

  My dread must have been instantly obvious because he burst out laughing. “I’m kidding! I can’t see any of your dreams; I can only get a very vague taste of what they’re about.”

  I took a deep breath. Okay, so there was nothing I could do about it. I was an open book to all the fae around me. The Rix had enjoyed my terror. Roan could feel my lust, and I’d hit him with a powerful dose of it this evening. Everyone found my pixie emotions interesting, or intense, or exquisite. Now it turned out that even my dreams were an open book. I wondered what the rest of the fae here fed on. “I didn’t wake you with my dreams, did I?”

  “You probably would have, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m staying watch. We always have one fae awake and alert. The king could find out our location at any given moment.”

  The screams had started to dull in my mind. Something about Abellio’s presence soothed me. Must be the dream thing. “You all take shifts?”

  “Yes. But I do more than the others. Nighttime is when I feed best.”

  I couldn’t go back to sleep yet, couldn’t stand the thought of being left alone with my own thoughts. “So… what do you think about Elrine’s idea—breaking into the banshee’s home to look for Lord Balor?”

  He gazed out the window again. “It’s a good idea. We need information, and if we can find Lord Balor, it could help us significantly. Most importantly, we need to find out who our traitor is. Someone told the king where to find the path, and if it wasn’t you, it was one of our own.”

  I nodded, and then hesitantly asked, “Abellio… what were they talking about during dinner? Nerius referred to a power that Roan has, and Roan—”

  “We really shouldn’t talk about it,” Abellio said, frowning.

  “Talk about what? I don’t even know what I’m supposed to avoid. Clearly, everyone here know about this.”

  He studied me in silence. Finally, he sighed. “Roan is what we call storm-kissed.”

  I waited, staying silent.

  “Supposedly, fae like Roan can call up a powerful storm. It’s a rare talent, and highly volatile and dangerous. A storm is not a power one can control easily.”

  “And Roan won’t use it,” I said. “Why?”

  “He summoned a lightning storm once, in his past. It… ended badly. Innocents died.”

  “Who? How did it—”

  “Cassandra, you should ask Roan about that, not me.”

  “Okay,” I relented. After a moment, I changed the subject. “They were talking about another rebellion. Something about Ulthor. What was that?”

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “Better than being left alone with my nightmares,” I muttered.

  Abellio nodded, his eyes sympathetic. “The rebellion of Ulthor. What a mess.” He traced his fingertips over the age-warped windowpanes, as if scrying into the past. “The house of Taranis and the house of Ernmas conspired to bring down the fae high king. Ulthor Taranis led the revolt—Roan’s father. He wanted to restore the old ways—the ancient Unseelie Kingdom used to rule by six courts who made decisions together, with a representative of the Elder Fae to break the tied votes. No one court reigned supreme over the rest. His plan was good. Apart from the Court of Terror, those two courts were the strongest courts—Lust and Mirth. Together, they controlled almost half of the king’s army, and they had the element of surprise on their side.”

  “What happened?”

  “They managed to take control of the fortress, but the king fled before they could capture him. Outside the castle walls, he gathered his army and besieged the castle. Weala Broc loyalists who were still inside the keep somehow managed to destroy the keep’s stores. And the king announced that he’d grant forgiveness to the first court to surrender.”

  “Did they surrender?”

  “Ulthor Taranis would have starved to death along with all his family before he surrendered. But Leo Ernmas, the head of the Ernmas court, saw his men and women starve. He saw his daughter—Elrine—crying in hunger. He wouldn’t let her die. He opened the gate for the king’s forces. True to his word, the king pardoned the Ernmas court, executing only Leo. Nearly the entire Taranis court was destroyed, most killed, a few imprisoned for life. Tortured. Roan among them.”

  My stomach clenched, and tears stung my eyes. A powerful surge of protectiveness overtook me, and I almost wanted to run up to Roan’s room and wrap my arms around him. “How did he get out?”

  “The Court of Lust was destroyed, and Roan was released only because he was the single link between the Unseelie and the Elder Fae. The Elder Fae had a long history with his family, and they would negotiate with no one else. The king needed him.”

  “And the rest of Roan’s family is gone now?” My heart ached for him.

  Abellio nodded. “Almost all of them. Roan was only fourteen at the time. A babe, by fae reckoning.”

  My stomach clenched. No wonder he spent so much time alone in the woods—he had no one else.

  Abellio frowned at me. “I can feel your emotions running out of control again.” He sucked in a breath. “Do you need help managing your dreams?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can soothe your dreams as you sleep.”

  I frowned. “Can you do that?”

  “If you allow it. When you dream, you are not in control. You are at the mercy of your fears, of your lusts, of your guilt. You need someone to help you maintain control over the dream state.”

  I thought of my nightmare—Gabriel’s throat torn by another Cassandra, her eyes dead. “So… what, you stay near me and send me happy thoughts?”

  “It’s more than that. When you’re sleeping, I walk in your dreams and help you maintain control. I can be your ally in the dream. Your friend.”

  I knew he could already taste my dreams, but I didn’t want to let him in any further than I had to. “I think I can manage on my own. But thanks.”

  “All right.” He seemed unperturbed, his eyes locked on the street outside.

  “I’m going to try to sleep again. Good night, Abellio.”

  “Good night, Cassandra. Don’t let your dreams fool you. You are not responsible for your friend’s death.”

  I swallowed hard, walking away over the cold tiled floor. I didn’t need magic to know he was wrong.

  So Elrine was from the Court of Mirth. Too bad for her; she’d be getting none from me.

  By the time the morning sun stained the sky pale pink, I deeply regretted my decision to decline Abellio’s offer. I had slept badly, repeatedly waking up out of breath, my heart beating wildly. A pounding headache throbbed in my skull, even though the screams had faded away completely.

  Branwen had loaned me some of her clothes—mostly tight, black leather, and a few short dresses, and I stripped off my
nightgown and pulled on a black sundress.

  I had a new mission right now. A mission for coffee.

  First, I crossed into the open-air dining room, hoping to find someone there, but I found only the morning light sparkling on dust motes in the air. After a few false turns, I found the kitchen—a vast stone hall with enormous brick ovens, copper cauldrons, and ancient-looking spit for roasting. Nothing, however, that looked like a coffee pot.

  Okay. Maybe I could find my way out of this glamoured building to the nearest Starbucks. After all, it’s not like I was a prisoner here.

  As I crossed through a sandstone corridor, the distinct scent of coffee drew me closer. I paused, glancing inside a room for its source.

  There, in the center of a bare room, stood Branwen, dressed in tight leather that hugged her curves. A large mirror covered one wall, and a weapons rack stood against another wall.

  Branwen gripped a stiletto knife in each hand. Her eyes were closed, and I stared as she swerved in a graceful arc, the blades whistling in the air around her. Her right hand snaked fast, striking an imaginary opponent, while her left hand rose high as if to deflect an invisible blow.

  When she opened her eyes, she turned to look at me. “Good morning. My dress looks awfully good on you.”

  “Thanks for lending it to me.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “I’ve had better nights.” No use hiding it. The black circles under my eyes gave away the truth, and everyone had probably felt my emotions all night anyway.

  “Coffee?” She nodded at the corner of the room. “You can use my cup.”

  On a small wooden table sat a silver jug, steam curling from its top, and a ceramic mug by its side. I almost gasped in relief. “Yes, thank you.” I crossed to it.

  Branwen stretched her arms above her head. “It’s my one addiction from the human world.”

  “You have amazing taste.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. When I sipped it, I shut my eyes in pleasure. It was sublime.

  When I opened my eyes, Branwen was smiling at me in amusement.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not myself until I drink my first cup.”

  She lowered her knives. “It’s okay. I get it.”

  A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between us. Our shared interest had run its course, leaving us with nothing to say.

  “Training?” I asked. When in doubt, state the obvious.

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “As much as I can. It’s difficult to train without a real opponent.” She cocked her head. “Want to spar with me? I want to see what a pixie can do.”

  “Um.” The knives weren’t training knives, and I wasn’t keen on getting impaled. Also, the pounding in my head didn’t exactly stoke my enthusiasm. “I doubt I’d be much good right now. I think your imaginary opponent creates a better challenge than I would.”

  “Fine.” She turned away from me, and I had a feeling I had just lost a measure of respect from her. She pierced the air with one of her stilettos, fast as a biting snake.

  “I might be able to help, though,” I added.

  She glanced at me, looking half-bored. “How?”

  I felt for the large mirror’s reflection, letting it bond with my mind. Then, I imagined a fae warrior wielding a large sword. Sunlight gleamed off his scaly skin and his dark, reptilian eyes. The image materialized on the mirror, and he lunged, as if about to attack Branwen.

  She stared at him before turning to me. “Reflection magic.”

  I shrugged. “It’s kind of my thing.”

  She nodded, giving me a little smile of renewed appreciation, and turned to the warrior. She attacked, piercing the air, and he moved, as if deflecting her stab. Her other hand swung, slashing at his throat, and I made him pounce back, then lunge forward as if striking. It was just another measure of make-believe. The mirror was flat; Branwen was essentially fighting air, but I did my best to make it look real, embellishing details to distract her: flames in the background, blurry figures fighting each other, a horse galloping across the mirror. A complete fae battleground, harvested from some ancient part of my brain. The entire scene was uncannily silent.

  Branwen kept ducking, parrying, stabbing. When she made a particularly clever maneuver with her right blade, I made my warrior’s neck bleed, and he toppled over.

  “More.” She gasped for breath.

  Two warriors took his place. One wielded a shield and a sword, the other a long spear. It was engaging, to try and keep the reflections’ actions in tune with Branwen’s. My mind, completely focused on the task, felt lighter than it had been for days.

  “What do you think about breaking into the banshee’s house?” I asked.

  A spear thrust at her violently, and she whirled to the side. “I agree with my brother,” she said, gasping, swinging her left hand at the swordsman. “It’s a terrible idea.”

  He raised his shield. “Why?”

  “Dangerous and pointless. Lord Balor is probably dead.”

  “He might not be. And maybe we can find out information about the spy in your midst.”

  “There’s no spy.” She jumped back as both my warriors attacked together.

  “How do you know that?

  “You’re ruining my focus.”

  I recalled myself sparring with my teacher in the Academy as he kept distracting me with questions about bombs, hostage situations, reading suspects. When the fighting gets real, there’s always distraction. And no better time for me to get information that wouldn’t be handed out easily otherwise.

  “When you actually get to fight, you won’t be able to tell everyone around you to shut up and let you concentrate,” I pointed out.

  “Fine,” she snarled, and thrust at the spearman’s shoulder. I summoned some blood from his wound.

  “Others think that someone told the king about the secret path,” I said. “A spy among the rebels. Why don’t you believe it?”

  “The king has trackers, like Elrine, and even better. They could find that path on their own. I trust our people.”

  “Perhaps we can find out why the king thinks the Mistress of Dread is a threat, and why he wants me dead.”

  “I don’t care why the king wants you dead.”

  My swordsman lunged at her with a lightning fast blow. She danced aside, but he would have hit her, and we both knew it.

  “Where are the rest of the rebels?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “A suspicious person might start to think you’re asking too many questions,” Branwen said. “Perhaps I should take back my claim that we have no spies among us.” Sweat glistened on her neck.

  “There are only five of you,” I pressed on. “I know there are more. I’ve met some, they were called—”

  “Don’t tell me their names!” she barked.

  My lips twitched in a small smile. She had stumbled, given me a piece of their strategy. “You’re working in cells. That way, if captured, you wouldn’t be able to give the details of the others.”

  She scowled, focusing on the flickering mirror.

  “Which court do you belong to?” I asked, changing the subject again.

  She sneered. “Why do you ask?”

  “Abellio told me about the last rebellion. The courts of Taranis and Ernmas joining together to topple the king. Do you belong to one of those courts or—?”

  “Typical royalist fae. Mentioning the courts that took part, but ignoring the rest,” she said. Her movements were becoming erratic, angry. She slashed at the mirror.

  I pressed on. “What rest? The Elder Fae?”

  Slash. “No.”

  “Another court?”

  Slash. “No! It’s easy for people like Abellio to forget, but not all fae belong to a court. Most of the people who actually fought in the rebellion were unaligned. Fae who were tired of being trodden on and used by the nobles. They joined Ulthor Taranis because they saw hope for a change. And when the king smashed the rebellion to pieces, most of them paid with their lives.”


  She thrust at my swordsman, forgetting the spearman, and I had him plunge forward. He would have skewered her.

  “Unaligned fae.” I recalled the phrase Roan used once. “Is that what people call the… gutter fae?”

  She whirled to face me, pointing one of her stilettos at me. “Do you like it when people call you mongrel, or fortal?”

  “I’m sorry.” I crossed to her, holding up a hand placatingly. “I’m just trying to piece it all together.”

  “They all call us gutter fae,” she snarled, turning to face the mirror, thrusting her stiletto knives with vehemence at the spearman. “Even our allies. We can’t own lands, are treated as lesser. A gutter fae will always remain just that—in the gutter. When a noble sees a gutter fae, they don’t see someone they can really know or love. All they see is—”

  She slammed her knife into the mirror with her full force, and, with a loud crack, the mirror broke, pieces falling everywhere. Branwen jumped back, and I grabbed her, steadying her.

  “Damn it,” she muttered.

  We looked at the mess around us. Shards of broken mirror littered the ground.

  “Let’s clean this up,” I suggested softly. I’d obviously set her off.

  Silently, we collected the pieces into an old dustbin, and I wondered if Branwen regretted her outburst and her slip of the tongue. I was almost certain that she did. Who was it she loved, who didn’t love her back? Abellio? Roan?

  As we tidied the room, her breath still seemed labored, even though she was no longer exerting herself. I gave her time to calm herself, saying nothing. Carefully, we piled all the shards into the dustbin, until it was mostly clean. I wondered if the rebels had a vacuum somewhere in this mansion. A large piece of mirror still lay across the floor—six feet tall, and nearly three feet wide.

  Branwen bent and picked up the large shard, body-sized glass and placed it against one of the walls. Then she picked up another large shard, and placed it against a different wall. Now, mirrors reflect her from two sides.

  “Okay.” She raised her knives. “I want to keep training. But no talking.”