Agent of Enchantment (Dark Fae FBI Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  “We’ll try to find the king,” I said. “But I want to hear more about him first. How do I find him?”

  Around the cramped room, the shadows seemed to darken, climbing higher up the walls, and my breath caught in my throat. Was Gabriel seeing this?

  Somewhere, in the darkest hollows of my mind, I began to hear the scratchy whispers of oaks and rivers, of earthly gods demanding blood. And through the whispers, the word magic rang in my skull like a death knell.

  I tightened my fists, trying to keep control. I should end the interview, I knew, but I needed more from her. I needed to know what she meant about water and sacrifices, and why those words made my pulse race.

  “Gemma.” I spoke a little too sharply, my restraint slipping. “Tell us about Catherine. Was she dating anyone? What did you mean about a sacrifice?”

  Gemma simply glared at me, her jaw tightening.

  I loosed a breath. I’d fucked up. I was trying to pull her into my world, not the other way around.

  “I know what will bring the king to me.” Her gaze darted to the glass. In the next instant, she smashed her glass on the table, shattering it. She gripped a shard, hand jerking backward quickly, bringing it to her throat. But Gabriel lunged over the table, snatching her wrists. Blood dripped down her hands, as she stared into Gabriel’s face, hissing in anger, her eyes devoid of conscious thought. A constable burst into the room and grabbed her, pulling her hands behind her back.

  Gemma had just bought her way to an involuntary commitment.

  And we weren’t any closer to finding out what had happened to Catherine.

  Chapter 6

  After the calamitous interview, I sat at my desk, biting into a brie and pear sandwich, courtesy of Gabriel. Was it a coincidence that Gemma had referenced a king and water—or did she know the killer? Was there anything to her “sacrifice” comment, or had it been a wild guess?

  I’d said that the killer had searched for someone called Catherine to emulate the Ripper only after the newspapers began calling him the “Terrorist Ripper.” But if Gemma knew the killer, maybe he had chosen Catherine long before. Maybe he had simply decided to kill her in Mitre Square to emulate the Ripper.

  I was certain of one thing: I needed to interview Gemma again—after she’d been medicated. Maybe after I’d been medicated, too, but I tried to ignore that particular worry for now.

  In the meantime, I pored through news articles about the Victorian Ripper’s killing spree. I was certain our nursery-rhyme maniac was probably doing the same.

  How would he feel reading about himself? Excited? Satisfied? Maybe it was more about the thrill of the chase, turning the tables so the hunter was now the hunted. Or perhaps he just wanted to enshrine his place in history, to earn his spot on a macabre throne by the Ripper’s side?

  The references to the queen threw me off. Was she related to the King of Hearts from the earlier poem? Was she an important woman in his life? His mother, perhaps? Gemma would have been a suspect, but her alibi had been verified by three unrelated witnesses.

  I sighed, leaning back in my chair. Basically, I was getting nowhere, and throughout it all, tantalizing images of the stranger from the alley invaded my thoughts. The scent of musk and oak enveloping me, his fingers on my skin, just above my hipbone, electrifying me with his touch. The feel of his lips, hot on my neck. My body warmed at the thought of him.

  What would have happened if I hadn’t stopped him? I’m pretty sure he would have banged me right there, and somehow I couldn’t get that thought out of my mind…

  Whatever the case, I needed to block those heated images completely from my brain. I was sure of only one thing about the stranger from the alley. Despite the fact that he’d helped me, he’d seemed dangerous as hell. Lurking around the crime scene, charming the pants off women. Wouldn’t have been hard for a guy like that to lure innocent victims wherever he wanted them.

  “Cassandra.”

  Gabriel’s deep voice turned my head, and I jumped. He leaned over my desk, studying me with his soft hazel eyes. Talk about charming.

  “What do you plan on doing for dinner?” he asked.

  “Dinner?” I tried to snap out of my haze, and my gaze flicked to the clock. It was seven in the evening, and my stomach was starting to rumble. “I was just gonna grab something at that pub connected to my hotel.”

  “I don’t recommend it unless you have a masochistic streak. The burgers are charred leather and the chips drowned themselves in oil to end their misery.”

  “Any better suggestions?” I asked. Frankly, in my current state of starvation, I could have eaten cardboard cake.

  “There’s a better pub, just around the corner. The Water Poet. I’m heading there right now. Care to join me?”

  “Uh… sure,” I said, surprised. All interactions with Gabriel until now had given me the impression that he’d rather get dental surgery than spend time with me.

  Still, I grabbed my bag and followed him out of the station.

  * * *

  The Water Poet’s crimson walls, dark wood floor, and soft leather couches were oddly inviting. The whole place had a quirky, eclectic feel: chandeliers and gilt-framed mirrors combined with mounted-antler wall hangings.

  I sat in a comfy leather armchair in front of a wooden table. Through the window to my right, the panes warped by age, I peered out onto the street. Wet cobblestones gleamed under the streetlights. The sun hadn’t yet set, but clouds covered the sky, and a hard rain hammered the ground.

  For a moment, I could almost forget that I sat in the center of a city with more residents than the entire state of Virginia. On this crooked little side street, I felt as if we’d stumbled back in time, to an era when people knew their neighbors by name.

  I glanced at Gabriel, who was ordering our food and drinks at the bar. From the way the blond bartender was leaning over to give a view of her cleavage, I had the impression that they might know each other by name. As she poured two pints of Guinness, Gabriel flashed a brilliant smile at her.

  After paying the barmaid, he crossed back to our table, a pint in each hand. “You wanted something English, so I ordered us both steak and kidney pies.”

  I grimaced. “Kidney?”

  His smile faded as he sat. “Oh right. I forgot you’d been reading the Ripper case files all day.” He took a sip of his Guinness. “Forget I said anything about kidneys.”

  “I’m so hungry I think I can ignore it.”

  Gabriel put down his drink, studying me closely. “Did something happen last night? I don’t remember that bruise there when I met you yesterday.”

  I touched my cheek. “Ah. I take it the makeup is wearing off.”

  His jaw tightened. “What happened?” he asked again, more firmly.

  “I was walking home, and took a wrong turn down Catherine Wheel Alley. Two men jumped me. I broke one of their noses; they stepped on my face. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my gun. Fortunately, an even scarier dude showed up and chased them away. And then I went to my hotel room.”

  He swore under his breath, all traces of his charming smile now gone. “Why didn’t you call me? Or report it?”

  “I called the station to report it. I wanted someone to send a patrol over. They told me to file a report the next day, but I didn’t see much point. The guys were long gone by the next morning.”

  “Who did you speak to on the phone?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. And anyway, the City Police have more important matters to deal with at this point.” I sipped my beer. “I don’t have the sense that our killer is stupid enough to walk around mugging people by the crime scene. And I don’t get the sense that he’s working with another man, like my attackers last night.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  I cocked my head, thinking back. “But the third man—the one who came to my rescue. There was something really odd about him.”

  “Odd how?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have
gone this far in the conversation. I couldn’t tell him that I’d hallucinated horns coming out of the stranger’s head, and I certainly couldn’t tell him about my impulse to kiss the guy.

  I took a deep breath. “He was very strong, and very fast. But his emotional expression didn’t match his actions. He was helping me, and his words were polite. He seemed fascinated by me in some way. But even though he was helping me, he seemed—angry.”

  “Angry how?”

  “The way he spoke with his jaw tensed, the way he tightened his fists. I had the sense that there was something deeply personal about his anger. Oh, and when he offered to help me with my suitcase, he referred to it as a wheelbarrow.”

  Gabriel stared at me. “A wheelbarrow,” he repeated.

  “Yeah. Maybe he was crazy, but his clothing was expensive. Elegant, even. It doesn’t add up. A psychotic person doesn’t walk around in new cashmere sweaters.” And a psychotic person wouldn’t have been so damn sexy, I was sure of that much.

  “I’m gonna have our guys check the CCTV. What did he look like, besides the cashmere?”

  I bit my lip. Let’s see… hot, muscular, maybe some gold horns and eyes that changed colors, plus an aura of pure sex. “He was extremely tall. Six five, at least. I think he was wearing a moss green coat, with a copper clasp shaped like a stag’s head.”

  “There are some real freaks around here, you know that? All the more reason you should have accepted my offer to walk you home.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Doesn’t seem that way,” he muttered.

  My cheeks reddened. “I’ll stay on the main roads from now on. Happy?”

  He was clutching his pint with a death grip. “How many times did they hit you?”

  “I don’t know. Several? A few kicks… Did I mention I broke one of their noses?”

  “Before the night is over, I want a full description of all three of them. If I happen to come across them again, I will beat seven shades of shit out of them.”

  “Fine.” I hadn’t expected him to be quite so protective, considering we’d just met. “Thanks, I guess.”

  For the next few minutes, we sat in uncomfortable silence. I was afraid that if Gabriel and I kept talking about whether or not I could look after myself, I’d end up glassing him.

  Fortunately, the silence was cut short by the blond barmaid sashaying over. As she slid our meals onto the table, she smiled at Gabriel in a manner that suggested they definitely had a history, and that this history could repeat itself in the future. For a moment, looking at the way his hazel eyes met hers, I felt a pang of jealousy.

  Oh God, what was wrong with me? I’d been lusting after some lunatic last night, and now I apparently wanted to feast on my colleague?

  I pulled my gaze from him, looking down at the food set before me. Tendrils of steam curled from flaky-crusted pies. As the barmaid walked away, I inhaled the rich aroma, my mouth watering. Maybe I should focus on feasting on this amazing food instead of on Gabriel…

  There’s no better seasoning than hunger. When I’m famished, I can eat celery with gusto, feeling as if I’m dining at a Michelin-starred restaurant. But this meat pie—with a flaky crust, and a side of mashed potatoes and thick gravy—would have tempted me no matter what. I cut into the crust and took a bite, the rich flavors melting on my tongue.

  I nearly moaned. “God, this is delicious.”

  “I promised you it would be good,” said Gabriel. “See? I’m the kind of guy who knows what he’s talking about.”

  A bit cocky, but I was too busy eating to reply. I had to force myself to chew slowly, trying not to wolf the entire pie in three bites like my taste buds demanded.

  I swallowed a mouthful of buttery potatoes. “Any progress with the poem?” As far as I was concerned, there were two options. If the unsub was psychotic, then the poem was likely completely meaningless. Word salad—a collection of random rhyming words that would get us nowhere. But if the message could be decoded, then we had a different situation on our hands. A killer with a plan.

  He shook his head. “I have a few theories, but nothing firm,” he said. “Assuming it means anything at all, ‘the evil one’ might refer to our killer, but I doubt he sees himself as evil.”

  I nodded. “Most killers don’t. They rationalize their murders, seeing them as a necessity. They aggrandize certain aspects of their own personalities. Kindness to strangers, or the fact that they love animals. It helps them justify their own character to themselves, and they usually have their own rationale for their murders.”

  “Right.” He frowned. “I’m not sure I see the point in trying to psychoanalyze murderous nutters. They’re fucked in the head. End of story.”

  I speared a hunk of meat, perhaps a little viciously. “My entire job is to analyze killers.”

  “Yeah, well…” He waved his fork dismissively.

  “You know,” I said, anger inflaming my cheeks, “I wouldn’t go around telling you that being a detective is an idiotic line of work.”

  “You’re right.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I was being a knob. I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted. I will note, however, that you did analyze the killer. You suggested that he wouldn’t think of himself as evil, and it was an astute observation. He might refer his compulsion to kill as evil, but not himself. He might divorce himself from his actions, or ascribe them to an imaginary entity outside himself.”

  “Like the King of Hearts?”

  “Exactly. But I’m not sure what the bear refers to, or the queen.”

  He sipped his drink. “The queen and the bear. Sounds like a gay bar.”

  “Witty.” I speared another hunk of meat. “But I know you’re more complex than you pretend. I can hear your accent shifting—sometimes you’re a Londoner, sometimes a little more middle class when you’re muttering to yourself. When you think no one’s listening, you quote Thoreau, but you’d never say it out loud to your colleagues, would you?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’ve seen your resume. You have a history degree from Cambridge. I’d imagine you’re more familiar with analytical thought than your gay bar comment suggests.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You got me. I tend to play down that degree when I’m at work. And you’re right. I’ve certainly read my fair share of poems.”

  “I might be American, Gabriel, but I don’t need you to dumb things down for me.”

  “Point taken.”

  “And how did you get from studying history to police work?”

  “Well, my mom, being the conservative Jewish mum, always wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer. As far as Jewish mums go, these are the only acceptable professions available. My dad wanted me to work in his restaurant. He has one of the best Caribbean cafés in the city. Naturally, my instinct was to disappoint them both. So I became a cop.”

  I took a sip of my beer. “And does your conservative mom know you like to beat seven shades of shit out of people?”

  “Can’t say I’ve used that phrase around her.” He smiled mischievously. I wondered how many times he’d been asked about his background, and how many times he had used the same ridiculous explanation about disappointing his parents. “I just tell her I Taser people when they misbehave.”

  “Taser? Isn’t that a bit violent for the British police? I thought you guys didn’t believe in weapons, and that you never got more severe than a stern ‘Good day to you, sir.’”

  He shook his head, but I could swear I saw a hint of smile. “Some of us have Tasers for emergencies. When the criminals don’t listen to our stern admonishments.”

  “Do you have a Taser?”

  “In my drawer at work. I don’t really need to carry it around on me." He arched a cautionary eyebrow. "Thugs can tell well enough I'm not a man to mess with just by looking at me."

  “Right.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “How did you become a profiler?”

  “All special a
gents are trained as profilers,” I answered mechanically.

  “Yeah, but not all of them work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, right? What drew you there?”

  According to the stranger I’d met last night, I fed off fear—an accusation not a million miles off from Goatee Man’s “trauma junkie” characterization of profilers.

  But it wasn’t that I particularly liked haunting murder scenes. After what had happened to my family years ago, I was consumed by a desperate need to understand the mindset of the killers, and how the world had shaped them.

  Still, I didn’t need to dredge up that grim history now, in this cozy little pub. “I thought it would be an interesting line of work. I just thank my lucky stars that they decided to assign me to the BAU, and not to bank robbery investigations.”

  He laughed. “Bank robbery doesn’t sound so bad. I’d thank my lucky stars…” He trailed off, staring down at his pint. Slowly, he began tracing his fingertips around the rim of his glass.

  I waited for him to finish. “What?” I finally asked.

  “Lucky stars,” he said. “The queen and the bear. My mum used to call the big dipper ‘the big bear.’ She said that’s how it translates from Hebrew.”

  “Yeah. Ursa Major. Ursa is Latin for ‘bear.’”

  He was still staring at his beer, deep in thought. “The queen could be the constellation Cassiopeia, a queen from Greek myths. Ursa Major and Cassiopeia. The constellations appear to move, in circles. Ancient sailors navigated that way.”

  “It would fit the dramatic flair of the poem.”

  He met my gaze again. “But what does ‘the evil one’ reference?”

  “Well…” Considering evil tended to follow me like a shadow, the concept was something I’d spent a lot of time reading about. “In Arabic mythology, the North Star is an evil star. He is the ‘constant star,’ forever frozen in time as punishment for a murder.”

  He blinked at me. “How do you know that?”

  “You’re not the only one with a college education.”