The Agency
Volume 4
By Dianne Sylvan
Text © 2013 by Dianne Sylvan.
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
The Dreaming Gate:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Blue
The Dreaming Gate
Part One
A hail of gunfire greeted the Agent as he rounded the corner at a full run. He could sense the bullets screaming toward him before they even disturbed the air, and threw himself to the ground in a roll that would appear as a blur to any mortal onlooker. A split-second later the ping-ping-ping of rounds hitting the brick wall where his head had just been sent chips of brick flying into the air, one striking his cheek as he came back up to his feet, already firing.
The first went down with a grunt and the second turned and ran, missing the bullet meant for his skull by a hair's breadth. He hit the chain-link fence at the back of the alley and there was a pause as he nearly panicked--
Jason squeezed the trigger again, only to find he was empty. He jerked a full clip out of his belt and switched them out without breaking stride, reaching the fence just as the man tumbled over it, landing on his feet and running as if the Devil himself were on his heels.
Jason smiled, took aim, and fired straight through the fence, hitting the man in the back of the neck.
[SA-7 reporting, two suspects neutralized.]
Sage was saying something in his Ear, the standard protocol after shooting someone being to call for an ambulance, but he ignored it as he usually did and scaled the fence in a quarter of the time it had taken the human.
He walked up to the body and toed it with his boot. Dead; that much he'd known. He nudged open the man's coat, revealing a long flat metal box carved with a variety of bindrunes and hex marks.
[Artifact reclaimed,] he added, bending to retrieve it. He regarded the man who stared open-eyed at the sky as if astonished that he'd ended up this way.
"Put your hands in the air!"
Jason half-turned toward the voice, neither raising his hands nor bothering to hide his gun.
A third thug had emerged from the alley, this one a scrawny fellow less than 30 years old who reeked strongly of Nyquil and spent matches. Meth addict.
Said meth addict was armed, and Jason noted with some dismay that he was armed with a spear gun loaded with a wooden stake.
Well, fuck.
"Put the box on the ground and put your hands up!" the man yelled.
"Nice trick," Jason told him, still unmoving. "Pretending there were only two of you and setting up...sort of an ambush, I guess, although one man isn't much of one. Still, there's strength in numbers. Right, Beck?"
"Right," she said, and rammed her Elven knife through the man's spine.
[Third suspect neutralized,] he told Sage. [Send a cleanup team to my current coordinates.]
[ETA five minutes,] Sage replied.
Beck pulled the knife out of the man's corpse and cleaned the blade on his shirt, looking disgusted. "Dirty blood," she muttered. "I once knew a guy who loved to eat these."
"The world is full of perverts," he replied, casting his gaze about to make sure there were no bystanders. "Remember that woman in Sacramento who only drank from poodles?"
She laughed at the memory. "Oh, yeah. Anyone who can make us look normal is really fucked in the head."
He holstered his weapon and secured the box in his coat. "What else have you got on tap for tonight?" he asked. "Want to go for a drink after shift?"
"Oh...I can't. I've got rehearsal. What about you?"
"Well..." He sighed. "I was thinking I should check on Lex. Maybe apologize for being such a bastard to him. See if he needs anything."
"No," she said quickly, then frowned and added, "I don't think that's a good idea. He's still really upset and you'd just be pouring salt in the wounds."
"Right, right. I forgot you went to visit him the other day." He hadn't forgotten, though he'd tried to; he had no reason to object to Beck befriending the Seraph, but still, it bothered him. At least they weren't sleeping together. "You said he was upset, but okay, mostly?"
"Yeah." She looked genuinely uncomfortable, something he had forgotten she was capable of. "Like I said, I think it's too soon. Besides, you dumped him, remember? You can't just pop in and out of his life whenever you feel guilty."
He wanted to snap at her in response, but the fact was she was right--seeing Lex now would only make things much worse for the boy in the long run. "Yeah. If you change your mind, or get done early, I'll probably be at the Slipknot drowning myself in Jack Daniels."
Beck gave him something like an affectionate grin. "Don't be such a drama queen. A couple of weeks from now your godling will be home, and you can have lots of nice sweaty Elf sex and life can go on."
The distant sound of sirens heralded the arrival of the cleanup team, and Jason let out his breath, trying not to get lost again in the gigantic Rowan-shaped hole in his life. "I hope you're right," he said, the words barely audible over the noise.
*****
In the end he just went home, spent the rest of his shift writing up reports on the case, and coded off. He wasn't in the mood to be hit on, or to put up with the noise and fuss of a human crowd, and the vampire bars were dangerous for a race traitor like him.
Beck had an easier time of it; she had several fake identities, including the one that played with Fang Porn, and somehow managed to play both ends against the middle no matter what city they were in. It was a particular skill of hers, something like a glamour but not nearly so organized, to make people think she was someone else.
The blonde wig didn't hurt either.
He was finishing up his field notes when there was a knock at the office door.
"Ness," he said. "Is something wrong?"
The Director shook her head. "I thought I'd come have a bit of a chat."
He blinked. "Shit. What did I do now?"
"Nothing, nothing." She took the chair opposite him, every inch the professional and just as fierce looking as any Agent he'd ever met. She'd been a field operative, of course, for years before her promotion; it occurred to him to wonder how many people she'd had the occasion to shoot for her country. "I didn't call you up to my office because this isn't an official meeting, just an off-the-record check of your status."
He sat back, folding his hands. "You want to know if I'm losing my mind without my partner."
"The thought had occurred to me. I know how you were when we all thought Rowan was dead, and I've noticed your log of rounds fired has been a little high even for you. I don't want things to get to the point they did last time."
He smiled thinly and said, "Ness...he's not dead. He's only a few hours away, just a phone call or a text. We talk frequently. I'm frustrated, and I can't say I'm happy, but I'm not cracking up."
She smiled back. "You know, if Rowan or Sara were here I could have either of them read you in seconds flat and I'd know if you're trying to pull one over on me. My instincts will have to do, I suppose. Like I said, we're off the record here. I'm just a bit concerned."
"I appreciate your concern."
She eyed him in silence for a minute before changing the subject entirely. "Since I’m here, I might as well tell you: I may have a new case for you tomorrow night. Health and Human Services picked up a young man they say has an interesting story that is either right up our alley or completely batshit insane. They're
bringing him here from ASH tomorrow and I'd like you to question him."
"Why me?"
"I need someone with good shielding, a keen eye, and interrogation skill. That's you. Also, we may have a new lead on the Karnes case."
"Ah, yes. The necromancer. That would be nice--we haven't had a break on that in months."
"We had an anonymous tip phoned in that he may be back in town. I'd like you to check it out."
"Yes, ma'am."
"All right, then. If you're sure everything is okay."
"It is, Ness."
"Then get out of here, SA-7. Go call your partner and then get some rest."
She left him, and again he wondered about her. Did she have a life outside the base? So few of them did. What was it like, being the leader of an organization that didn't exist? He knew the kind of past that drove people like him to join the Agency, but what was her story? He probably knew her better than anyone here and he still didn't know her at all.
And he was stalling.
With a sigh, Jason shut down his computer and locked the office, taking the long hallway to his and Rowan's empty apartment.
At least now, the Elf's presence was still vibrant, though tinged with worry and doubt. The silence wasn't as oppressive as it had been months before, and Jason could sleep decently without drugs...most nights.
He changed into his usual after-work clothes, a t-shirt and black cotton pants, and poured himself a drink before settling into the desk chair and clicking on the monitor.
No messages; a few spam emails but that was all. He opened the chat program and sent the digital equivalent of a tap on the shoulder across the miles, via satellite.
He called every night, without fail. Sometimes Rowan answered, sometimes Sara did. Sometimes neither. Still, he called, just on the hope that he might hear Rowan's voice, just for a minute.
Their conversations were brief, without a lot of detail. Jason didn't want to press. He'd told Rowan he could have all the space he needed, and tried desperately to maintain emotional distance to go with the physical distance. Rowan didn't seem to have any trouble staying away. Sometimes he was distracted, even disinterested...or perhaps he was just trying the best he could to cope with what was happening...whatever it was.
All Jason really knew was that Sara was doing all right, in fact was feeling much better. The Healers mostly let her be, unlike the doctors at the Agency. They were gathering a lot of useful information about Elven pregnancy and sending reports back to Nava.
The search for the Jenai wasn't going as well. Jason suspected that Rowan wasn't looking very hard--that he was simply taking the time to breathe, and as he had said, work through some things on his own.
Five minutes ticked by, then ten, and there was no answer. Jason finally gave up and closed the window, downed the rest of his whiskey, and got up from the desk.
There was really only one thing left to do before he finished the bottle and collapsed on the couch for another night. He went into the bedroom and retrieved the Tempest, hoping he could spare some of the magic that had helped other people into helping himself, for once.
*****
The Elvish term for an unborn baby was tramera.
Literal translation: magic fish.
A race with such a historically low birth rate was bound to have superstitions around the subject, no matter how rational they normally were. Among Elves it was taboo to speak of a fetus as if it were a person, because that could jinx its chances of becoming one; no one ever discussed names or genders before the birth, either, or prepared a nursery. All of those things were taken care of during the infant’s first month of life, before its official naming ceremony.
Abortions were basically unheard of except in extreme circumstances, but then, it wasn’t much of an issue. As Rowan had said, any unwanted child had a home, and any woman who didn’t want to conceive had only to pay a visit to the Healers, who performed a sort of temporary magical surgery to stop her from ovulating.
Sara made a note of that. She knew what she’d be doing a year from now regardless of how things turned out.
She leaned sideways against the tree, gathering the blanket tighter around her shoulders against the growing chill of sunset. Despite the slight nip in the air she was reluctant to go inside; she had been feeling progressively better since they'd arrived, but was afraid that if she stood up the nausea would return and the bland broth she’d eaten earlier would make an unceremonious return.
She was finally starting to relax. It helped that the Healers, who she knew were keen to examine her, had left her alone after their arrival in the village; the lead Healer, Mellis, told her to come to the House of Healing whenever she felt ready in the next few days, and that they understood she needed rest. One of the assistants had stopped by briefly each afternoon to check on her, not asking to poke or prod, just inquiring politely if she needed anything. Today, she had been napping and the Healer hadn’t even woken her.
Sara liked that. She liked that they weren’t in a hurry. It was a marked contrast to the invasiveness of Western human medicine. She also liked the fact that when they did get a chance to examine her there would be no needles or machines, just magic. Rowan had told her so.
Speaking of which, she wondered where he was; probably looking in on Aven, or visiting one of his many friends in the Clan. He, too, seemed reluctant to get things underway. He needed to find answers about her condition and about himself, but they had silently agreed to take time to get their feet back on the ground before moving forward. She wasn’t sure if he’d mentioned that to the Healers or if they had intuited her need for solitude, but regardless, she had exactly what she needed. In fact aside from the junior Healer her only visitors had been—
“Sara?”
She smiled and lifted her head. “Over here.”
Ardeth emerged from the winding path into the small clearing where she had cloistered herself for most of the afternoon. There were many such private spaces around the village for contemplation or quiet conversation, hidden from view but easily accessible. This one was a five-minute stroll from the guest house and so far it was her favorite spot, a single stone bench that looked like it had grown beneath the tree, surrounded by vines and the heady smell of jasmine.
The smith smiled when he saw her. They hadn't seen each other since she had left the Clan, and a lot had changed since then. Elora had come by several times, seeming a bit put out with her father that he was staying away.
Ardeth seemed a little reluctant to get too close to her, keeping a respectful distance until she rolled her eyes and motioned for him to come sit by her.
"Not you, too," she said with a sigh. "Please, just...treat me normally."
"I'm not sure I can," he replied, though he didn't draw away when she folded her hand in his. "I...I heard."
"You and most of the Western Hemisphere."
Ardeth looked like he wanted to say something, and she had a suspicion she knew what it was, and beat him to it. "It's not yours," she told him.
He let out a breath, and his eyes cleared. "I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Relieved that it was not I who jeopardized your health this way, but..."
"I know," she said gently. "I understand. This whole thing is...it's a lot to take in no matter where you're standing."
"I can only imagine how much worse it is for you," he noted, taking the end of his cloak and wrapping it around her. She snuggled in closer, glad that the tension was dealt with. "Whatever I can do for you, fedela, you need only ask."
She looked up at him. "I know word about me must have gotten around, but...is anyone talking about Rowan?"
"Yes, but no one seems sure what to think. So few of the refugees are old enough to have heard of the Jenai, the going theory right now is that it's some sort of genetic fluke. As far as anyone knows, Rowan is here to research precedents on your condition, not his own. I think for now that's best."
"Me, too. He's already freaked enough without everyone
treating him like some kind of god."
Ardeth frowned slightly and inclined his head. "Sara...if all of this is true, then that's exactly what he is. There may be more at stake than any of us realize."
"I'm trying not to think about that yet." She shrugged, aiming for cavalier, and landing mostly in the territory of obvious bravado. "Besides, it doesn't matter what he is. He's still Rowan. He's changed even since I met him; how much different could he get?"
The question hung in the air between them, unanswered.
*****
It was hard to say exactly when Kaelan of Clan Oak had died. Had it been in the filthy dark cells of the slavers, or on the perfumed sheets of a brothel? Had it been the moment he had raised a gun to his captives? Or had it been before that, long before, the day the Clan was massacred and all he knew burned to dust?
Watching him now one thing was clear: Kaelan of Clan Oak was long dead. The Elf who had grown in his place was another creature altogether. Gone was the unhurried glide of one born to the Elven priesthood; the grace in his walk was now full of purpose, the stride of a warrior even when seemingly aimless. He held himself so differently--not slouching like a human, but without the easiness of his youth. He was hyper-aware, reading the environment automatically and assessing any potential threat without even realizing he did so.
He kept his hair cut short in the human fashion, no doubt unsettling the other survivors of Clan Yew, and looked far more at home in mortal costume than the flowing robes of his office. Even the drapes and folds of the latter betrayed the hard muscle underneath, and no one, not even a human, would mistake him for frail despite his slenderness. He was old and strong enough to lead the Clan himself, but had chosen to remain in the city with his vampire and his work among the humans...work that had required him to kill more than once and delve into the bloodstained underbelly of the occult world.
Yet even with the violence of his current calling, it was known that he still practiced his old one; he had saved more than one Elf's life and sanity through his skills as a Rethla, and whatever severity there was in his appearance it was tempered with the deep compassion of their people and a will to heal that belied the weapons he habitually wore even here in the safety of Clan Willow.
The Agency, Volume IV Page 1