Agent of Darkness (Dark Fae FBI Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  An ancient dark power blazed, and I moved faster away from the guards, like an arrow soaring on the wind. Wolf claws lengthened from my fingertips, and I felt my canines extending. I whirled, desperate to tear into fae flesh. As the guard reached me, I grabbed the nearest one, slamming him against the wall. I tore his neck, blood on my tongue. His screams echoed off the stone wall.

  In the distance, a banshee wailed. Someone was going to die.

  I let out a roar and shifted to face the others. Three more were coming for me. My shadow was losing ground, fighting a fae with a huge battle axe. Beyond us, two fae loaded crossbows.

  I arched my back, and time slowed to a trickle.

  Dark tendrils of fear coiled around me—the strongest one coming from the fae I’d bitten. The fear of death. I absorbed it into me, along with the rest. I combined them, churning the fear into a stronger, nightmarish terror.

  Mistress of Dread.

  Flinging back my arms, I reflected the terror at all the guards around me.

  The fae with the battle axe fumbled, dropping his weapon. The rest paused in their tracks, bodies trembling violently. Someone wept; two more shrieked, eyes wide with terror.

  Then, the shadow and I moved.

  Stilettos and claws swinging, slashing, piercing, cutting into flesh. Some died screaming. Others were silent, robbed of the air in their lungs, unable to utter a sound. Two tried to get away, get help, and died with blades in their backs.

  The blood fury flowed in me, and I thought of nothing but the power of the moment, a pure predator.

  Within moments, it was all over. Some were dead, others close to death or unconscious, no longer a threat. I hurried to the door, trying the doorknob of the atrium. Unlocked. There was no need to lock a door guarded by eleven male fae, after all.

  It opened with a loud screech.

  As I stepped into the dark interrogation room, the door screeched closed behind me. Moving quietly into the room, I pulled a small flashlight from my pocket. My footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

  I cast the beam around the room, taking in the layers of web that covered the floor and the walls. The beam darted over Lord Balor, his eyeless corpse gaping at me. Bile climbed up my throat, and I shuddered, moving the beam around the room, searching for the Stone.

  “The pixie has returned.” A low whisper from the corner of the room send a shudder snaking up my spine.

  Tensing, I whirled to point the beam of light at the sound. A spidery form moved from the shadows. She stared at me, her insect-like eyes glinting in the beam of my light.

  “I’m thrilled,” she hissed. “The taste I got from you the last time was… exquisite.”

  I licked my canine teeth. Behind her loomed the dark, squat form of the London Stone. I could almost feel the power pulsing from it, luring me closer.

  The old woman prowled closer on eight spindly legs. Then, she lunged for me, a strand of silk spinning from her mouth. My shadow darted forward, slamming her in the chest with her boot.

  “Shadows don’t despair.” I bared my sharp teeth in a predatory snarl.

  It was my turn. I unfurled my senses, searching for the tendril of fear.

  I found nothing.

  She moved forward, quick as a snake, her limbs clacking on the stone floor. Her tail whipped out, striking the shadow, knocking it over. The interrogator spat another web strand at me, and I leapt away, rolling on the floor, the web missing me by inches. She scuttled toward me, her tail in the air. I scrambled back, my hand brushing against the strand of silk.

  Immediately, sorrow pulled me under. It was a lost cause. She was stronger, faster. She had no fear. I should kill myself before she wrapped me in her sticky web.

  As she took another step closer, my shadow stepped between us, buying me precious seconds. Summoning every shed of willpower I had, I scraped away the silk from my hand, rubbing it onto the stone floor. And as I did, the despair dissipated.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Mistress of Dread.” Her ancient voice dripped with contempt. “I fear nothing. I’m older than the city itself.”

  “Everyone fears something.” I pulled a lighter from my pocket. When I flicked it, and a tiny flame sparked, entrancing me. I raised my hand, holding the dancing flame directly above a stream of silk. “If you strike me, this drops. Your web burns easily, doesn’t it? I’ve seen it.”

  She laughed, her voice raspy. “Will you set this entire room ablaze? You’ll burn with me, little pixie. You’ll die.”

  “That’s fine. I could use a rest.” I lowered the flame further.

  She twitched, a flicker in her eyes. Fear. I quested again, and time slowed to a crawl. It was there. A tiny coil of dark fear.

  That was all I needed.

  I tilted back my neck, pulling the coil of fear into me. Deep within my ribs, it pulsed like a tiny heart, growing larger. Her fear twisted and turned, singing of infernos and fiery death. It sang of blackening skin, of hair set ablaze. Death waited beyond, even for her. And then, with a sharp arch of my back, I flung it back at her.

  Her body trembled, her feet making a strange clacking sound on the floor. Her face, more insect than woman, wore a twisted mask of horror, paralyzed with terror.

  I shifted, raising a claw, marking her bare throat, vulnerable, soft. I took a step forward, then froze.

  Her tail still moved, swinging left and right, the venomous tip raised high. The terror in her brain did nothing to make it stop, as if it moved of its own accord, a reflex that would lash and sting if I got too close.

  I dodged to the side, out of her tail’s reach. Apart from the twitching tail, she didn’t react, her mouth agape in horror. Moving at a safe distance from her tail, I ran straight for the London Stone.

  As I got closer to the Stone, its cries rang in the back of my skull, beckoning me closer. And there, keening high above the rest, my mother’s voice shrieking in the din.

  My hands morphed into pixie hands, the fingers pale. I ran my fingertips over the Stone’s rough surface, feeling the power that pulsed dully underneath. But nothing happened. The Stone remained shut.

  The first time I’d touched it, the magic had overwhelmed me, but the conditions hadn’t been the same. When I’d first touched it, my hand had been bleeding from the broken the glass of the display case. And when I touched the Stone, my bloody hand had ignited it.

  The bloodline of dread.

  I pulled the stiletto knife from my belt, gripped the blade with my right hand, and swiped it in one swift movement, wincing as the blood ran down my palm, my wrist. Then I opened my fist wide and slapped it hard on the rock.

  Screams rose around me like a maelstrom of agony. Hundreds of voices, wailing in horror and fear and pain, me among them, screaming as well, a voice in the crowd. A river of torment, rushing endlessly.

  In the London Stone.

  I had no name, no body, nothing to call mine.

  You are Cassandra Liddell, terror leech, pixie, Mistress of Dread, former FBI agent.

  All I could do was blend into the din, add my voice to the torment.

  You are looking for King Ogmios. Your father.

  Over the onslaught of wails, my mother’s voice keened above the rest.

  Her own scream of fear, stored here by Ogmios. I could feel the king here, too—another presence in this sea of dread. His spirit coiled around me, icy wisps of dark magic. I tilted back my head, letting his presence flow into me, linking us. When I’d pulled his spirit into mine, I knew it was time to leave.

  Only, I couldn’t. The voices drew me closer, beckoning me into the chaos, the inexorable lure of mass fear. A terrified crowd has power. Fear breeds strength, in its own horrific way, and I wanted to merge with them. To scream with them. I let myself sink into the dread, opened my mouth to wail.

  But something pulled me away, yanking on my arm. I struggled against it, trying to stay here, where I belonged.

  And then suddenly, I was back in the interrogator’s cave, my shadow dragging me
away from the Stone, and pointing emphatically behind me.

  The interrogator was turning to face me, her face twisted with hatred.

  “You will suffer!” she shrieked, still trembling.

  I reeled, still in shock from the thrill of the terror I’d felt, but that fear had also fed me, too. The interrogator scuttled closer, her tail high above her head.

  I pulled the small lighter out. When I clicked it, the tiny flame sparked again. I tossed it into the webs. As the interrogator’s horrified eyes followed the arc of the flame, I twisted my wrist and stared into the reflection on my bracelet.

  A hot, searing flame licked at my skin as I leapt away.

  Chapter 35

  Touching the Stone had unleashed the screams of terror in my skull all over again.

  In my clean, crisp hotel room, I lay in the bed and shut my eyes, trying to tune out the noise. I’d wanted to be alone. I momentarily considered opening the hotel’s minibar, drowning the screams away, but I quickly shoved the idea away. Never again.

  Instead, I searched for my mental connection with King Ogmios.

  There, under the roiling surface of my mind, was an alien presence, a web of memories and thoughts that didn’t belong to me, that I could hardly understand.

  I prodded gently against the web, the dark strands of memories. As soon as I touched a strand, I was immediately overcome by a stream of images and feelings so powerful they knocked the breath from me. Quickly, I backed away, my heart thrumming hard.

  Ogmios was a very old fae. He’d lived for centuries. Diving into his memories would be like trying to dive into the Atlantic Ocean, and I’d drown within seconds.

  No. If I wanted anything from his mind, I’d have to fish it out. Carefully.

  I hesitated. Where should I start? I had no idea how to scan the web of memories for his precise weaknesses.

  I would start with myself—his greatest shame.

  Closing my eyes, I conjured in my mind the day when Ogmios had come to visit me, when he’d balked at the wretched smell. And I used this image to prod his memories, a strand of memories glowing hot among the web.

  I wanted to see her, but it was too dark. My own instructions, of course. I knew what the abomination could do with just a flicker of light. The tiniest reflection, and she would be gone. No, I would leave her in the darkness. It was enough to feel her pixie emotions—broken, scared, desperate. I felt the exquisite fear in her, and for a moment was tempted to taste it, enjoy it, revel in it, but resisted the temptation. I would not lose control to this… mistake.

  “Already broken?” I asked her. “After just two months?”

  I pulled away, my throat clenching. His poisonous thoughts revolted me, fed on hatred and anger. After a moment to gather my thoughts, I moved closer to the memory again. It was linked to others, and one beckoned me—the brightest, the strongest.

  Reaching out with my mind, I touched the strand.

  A man dressed in sky blue velvet stood on the tile floor before me, over the stunning mosaic of a skull beneath the water. His hands were shaking, and the sight of his terror filled me with a dark pleasure. I leaned over my desk, trying to hide my smile. Sunlight streamed in from tall windows, igniting his ginger hair.

  “I am very sorry, Your Majesty,” he stammered. “But the human woman insisted that you owe her a debt. Should I have her thrown to the cells?”

  I stared coldly at the simpering servant. Worthless. All of them worthless—except for one. “A debt?” I let him hear the rage in my voice. “To a human animal? A filthy beast? How could you even consider such a thing? That you trouble me with this matter right before the council meeting amazes me.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” He bowed even lower, his forehead touching the tip of the skull mosaic. “I will take care of her at once.”

  “No. You will take care of nothing. You will go to the captain of guards and inform him that you should be given thirty lashes for being useless. And on your way out, send in the human animal. I will take care of her myself.”

  The servant practically tripped on his cloak in his rush to get out. Had I been too lenient with my punishment?

  My gaze flicked to the bowl of apples in the corner of my desk. Two days old, no longer as succulent and tempting as they were before. All untouched, of course. I should have them replaced with new ones.

  When the door swung open, a young woman entered, clutching a bundle of cloth. Her fear slammed into me, a hot thrill. I nearly shut my eyes in relish, but I struggled with the temptation. Her terror had a familiar taste.

  It was her.

  My misstep a year ago, after the memorial to my parents. A repugnant weakness. Her body had been young, soft and inviting… and she had caught me at my weakest moment. Harlot. Animal.

  The bundle of cloth suddenly moved, emitting a slight sound. The woman held it closer, murmuring to it. A babe.

  “What do you want, whore?” Ice laced my voice.

  “Your Majesty, ten months ago, we met at the rune-stone ceremony. You were—”

  “I remember you. I remember that night. Didn’t take much for you to open your legs, did it?” The beast might have been beautiful, but her morals revolted me.

  She was one of the few humans who still worshiped the fae as gods, the way it was meant to be. She and her animal friends had summoned us to the rhinestones, had worshiped us. And then, she’d seduced me with her sheer dress, her breasts on display like a whore, tempting me.

  “After the ceremony in May, I became pregnant. I had a daughter. This is her. If you could allow me to live here—”

  “My child? Impossible!” Icy fingers of rage gripped my heart. I couldn’t have given life to such an abomination… Unthinkable.

  “It must be yours, my king. There was no one else.”

  “I am not your majesty, beast. Harlot. You are not fae, and never will be.” My fists clenched in anger. “Come closer.”

  She stepped towards me, her blond hair cascading down her back. Beautiful, yes, but not fae. A forbidden fruit.

  I rose from behind my desk, desire and fury pounding in my body. I wanted to cut her throat right there. I wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her as she squealed like a beast on the cold tile floor.

  I did none of those things. I was in control, not the weak fae I had been in the intoxicating atmosphere of the human fertility ceremony. I approached her and stared down at the babe.

  My own deep blue eyes stared back at me, eyes blue as the ancient Weala Broc river. She was a mongrel, I could feel it, even though her emotions were still simple, the emotions of a young babe. An abomination with my blood.

  Her mother lifted her. “Her name is—”

  “I don’t care what her name is, whore.”

  “Your Majesty. We need money. A few gold coins like the one you gave me that night would be more than enough—”

  Of course. Gold. What more would a greedy animal want? “Wait outside. I will take care of it.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at me, backing away.

  I waited until she left, trembling with fury. How could I have been so weak?

  I considered having her killed instantly, but something stayed my hand. I turned to the bowl of fruit, took one apple in hand, and smelled it, my mouth watering even though it was already dying.

  I stared at it and then clenched my fist, crushing the fruit into pulp. I was stronger than temptation now. I would keep this reminder of my weakness alive. It would help me stay strong.

  I crossed to the back wall, where a silver chain connected to a bell. I pulled on it, summoning the Rix.

  As I waited, I crossed over the tiles, cleaning my hand with an embroidered handkerchief. After a few moments, the Rix appeared, bowing deeply in respect. The one man I could trust.

  “There is a human woman outside,” I said. “With a babe. A pixie babe. An indiscretion of one of our fae lords.”

  He showed no shock at this, no emotion at all. “Yes, Your Majesty.”


  “Take the woman to the cells.” I considered for a moment. No reason to let good things go to waste. “I will feed her fear to the Stone later.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Take her to the changeling midwife. Have her placed somewhere… far away. In the human realm.”

  “What do I do with the human changeling we receive in her stead?”

  I couldn’t care less. “Kill her, sell her, keep her as a slave—do as you please.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” He turned and left. I stared at his back grimly, thinking of my own whip. I would atone again tonight, and never make such a mistake again.

  I pulled back from the memory, bile in my throat. It had been my mother’s scream I’d heard. The king had fed her terror into the Stone.

  My fingers tightened into fists. Perhaps a few months ago, I would have crumpled up and fallen apart.

  Not anymore. I knew who I was. I knew what I needed to do, what I needed to focus on next.

  I let that part of the web die, envisioning it rotting within my mind. I spared only the memory of the king feeding my mother’s fear into the Stone. I reached for the strand of memory, and touched it.

  So many memories related to the Stone, branching out in the web of his thoughts.

  One was the oldest, and the strongest, and I pulled it to me.

  I wandered the dirty streets of Lundenwic, hungry for fear. My body had become weak, drained of magic, slowly wasting away. Ever since the Romans had abandoned Londinium, the remaining Seelie could hardly feed, and few remembered to worship us.

  Perhaps we should emigrate north, but abandoning our conquered lands to the Seelie was too much to bear. No. We had to bide our time, wait until the moment was right. Or die—here, by the Weala Broc River, where humans had once worshiped us.

  On a filthy dirt street, I passed by a woman washing clothes in a tub of dirty water, her face lined with grime. I looked around, scanning the crude wooden houses around us. Completely alone.