I imagined myself in the woods, wearing that sheer red dress, Roan hunting for me. I watched his powerful form thunder through the undergrowth, watched myself back up against a tree. Roan grabbed me, lifting my dress, grabbing my ass as I wrapped my legs around his hips. He kissed me hard.
I opened my eyes, surprised to find that I’d leaned down, my lips hovering just over Roan’s. Slowly, his eyes opened, burning with a deep gold. And now I felt the magic rolling off him, heating my body with a powerful need, making my pulse race. He wrapped his arms around me, one hand finding its way to my hair, the other sliding down my back. As if enchanted, he pulled me in for a kiss. He brushed his lips over mine, then nipped at my lower lip.
Powerful desire rushed through my body—and that’s when I pulled away. And as soon as I did, a sharp burst of pain ripped through my body where I’d been shot.
“No, Roan,” I said. “I was just helping you.”
“Mmmm.” His hands traced over my body as he relaxed his grip on me, his body glowing with a pure, golden light. “Why do I feel like you can’t keep your hands off me?”
I’d needed just enough lust to help him, but I wasn’t going to lie here making out with my stalker.
I straightened, catching my breath. “Are you feeling better?”
“Much better, pixie.”
I slid off him, clutching my gut. “Good, then tell me what you were doing stalking me for the past three years.”
He sat up, frowning at my gut. “You’re hurt.”
“I realize that. But I asked you a question.”
“And I’m not answering while you’re bleeding to death. Let me help you.”
I was running out of patience. And probably blood. Slowly, I rose, feeling dizzy. “You know what? I’m going to find you later. And when I do, I want answers.”
“Where is the Rix?”
“Dead.”
“You killed him?”
“Yes.”
He smiled slyly. “You impress me, pixie.”
“That wasn’t really my goal.” And yet, I felt a strange surge of pride as I shuffled out of the church. As I got to the door, I called back to him, “I’m going to find out your secrets, Roan Taranis. It’s what I do.”
“Fine,” he called back, his voice echoing off the vaults. “But first, you might want to find out your own.”
Chapter 33
In Leroy’s wine bar, a somber mood hung over the half-empty room like a dark storm cloud. The old woman dressed like an Elizabethan countess, dripping with rubies, followed me with her eyes as I crossed the room and sat at the bar, setting my bag on it. I winced a little as I sat, my gut still sore where I’d been shot. Still, the time I’d spent in the emergency room had nearly completely healed me—not from the medical treatment as much as from the heavy waves of other people’s fear, which soothed and mended my body.
Leroy turned to me, eyeing me with a suspicious frown.
“Can I have a glass of claret?”
He nodded, and turned around to pour my order from one of the aged barrels.
The stool next to me squeaked as Alvin hopped onto it. “Hello, beautiful. What are we having?”
“I am having a glass of claret,” I said.
“Oh, good!” He smiled, his eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. As usual, a cloud of marijuana smoke seemed to hang in the air around him. His T-shirt read simply Inside Job. “I’m Hank Marvin.”
“What?”
“Rhyming slang, innit?”
“Starving,” I ventured.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll get you something to eat. But I could use some help.”
He appeared to be struggling to keep his eyes open. “What kind of help?”
“A reading lesson.”
“You seem clever enough. Can’t you read?”
I rummaged in my bag, trying not to touch the iron knife that had been warped by the Rix’s soul. It pulsed with dark energy, and I pushed past it to retrieve the article from the newspaper.
“Not this.” I slapped it on the bar top. It was the article I had found in Roan’s cabin—the one about my parents’ death. Roan’s strange markings sprawled across the edges in a spidery script.
He looked at it for a moment, and then back at me. “Well… I’m sure we can work something out. I’ll have a butcher’s.”
More rhyming slang, I imagined. “Dinner for reading. Deal?”
Leroy placed the glass of amber wine in front of me, and I took a small sip, shutting my eyes as the bittersweet taste rolled around my taste buds, making them quiver in joy.
“Deal!” he said and turned to Leroy. “Bruv, two baguettes, a saucer of milk, and a cup of honey. Churned fondant honey, none of that crystallized bollocks, you get me?”
Leroy turned to the kitchen, unfazed.
“So…” I pointed at the article. “What does it say?”
Frowning, he pointed at the top, where the script snaked and curled, almost seeming to shift while I was looking at it. “Here it just says that both parents were murdered.”
A lump rose in my throat, and I shook my head. “Both parents were murdered? This article clearly mentions that my… that this man, Horace, killed his wife. Then he killed himself.”
“I guess the human police are never wrong.”
I blinked, trying not to hear the screams replay in my mind, but I’d been there. And I’d never really forget. Horace, don’t!
“It’s a mistake,” I muttered.
“Then I guess you’re not interested in what it says here.” He pointed at a shorter inscription on the bottom.
“What does it say?”
“It names the murderer.”
“And what’s his name?” I clenched my fists tight, and the stitches in my side pulsed in a dull pain.
“Her name is Siofra, according to the handwriting.”
“Siofra,” I repeated numbly. “Who is Siofra?”
“Interesting question.”
Leroy brought out his food, and the baguettes took up half the counter.
“Tell me, Cassandra, you ever try to boil stew in a couple of eggshells?”
“Is that… rhyming slang?” I blinked in confusion.
“No. You should try it. It’s fucking hilarious.” He picked up his plate, and jumped off the stool.
“Hang on. Where are you going? I still want to ask—”
“I’m not staying around if he’s coming.” A hint of fear glinted in his eyes. “See you around, Cassandra.” He hurried to one of the candlelit tunnels, with his churned fondant honey and baguettes.
I sighed. “I can feel you looming behind me.”
Roan sat on the empty bar stool, then nodded at Leroy, who turned around, leaving us alone.
“How’s the old wound?” I asked.
“It hurts. Where did you learn to sew up bullet wounds?”
“I didn’t really learn that part.”
“That would explain the pain.”
“Yeah, well…” I sipped from my wine. “I did save your life. As you did mine.”
He held my gaze for an uncomfortably long time before asking, “Why did you save my life?”
I shrugged. “Like I said. You showed up to kill Wood. Or the Rix, or whoever. I realized you weren’t the killer. And maybe you had some sort of explanation for what I found in your cottage. And why you wanted the victim’s organs.”
Leroy returned, placing a large glass full of red wine in front of Roan before disappearing again.
Roan took a sip of his wine. “Elrine could track the killer with the organs he’d taken. When he took their lives, he left a bit of his twisted soul behind.”
“And that’s how you knew to show up at Great Saint Bart’s.” I frowned. “And the Rix’s motive—he just wanted to feed off power, I take it? To create mob fear and panic in London?”
“That was part of it.” Roan frowned.
“What’s with the skulls under water?” I nodded at the heraldic emblem on the wall. �
��We had a witness with a tattoo, and I saw it on the Rix’s clothes.”
“The Court of Weala Broc. The Fae High King’s court. That’s their insignia.”
“It’s eerie. The witness—Gemma—she said something about fealty. She thought the fae were gods who demand sacrifices.”
Silence fell for a moment before Roan met my gaze again. “We haven’t seen the last of fae terrorizing the city of London.”
“I would imagine not.”
He sucked in a breath. “The gutter fae who attacked you in that alley—I didn’t think they’d go that far. They were supposed to scare you, not attack you. I should have anticipated that your pixie emotions might set them off.”
I had the feeling this was as close as Roan ever came to an apology.
“What do you want from me, Roan?” I was losing patience. “Why are you stalking me? Who is this… Siofra?” I pointed to the article.
“She’s the woman who killed your parents.”
The air left my lungs. “My father killed my mother. I remember it. I remember her screams.”
“That’s not what the Callach says.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “She’s wrong.” I rubbed the tattoo over my ribs: Dux Femina Facti. I’d spent so much time hating my father, I didn’t even want to allow for the possibility that I’d had it wrong all this time. And anyway, I could remember what happened. I took a sip of my wine, trying to ignore the chaos roiling in my mind. “You still haven’t told me why you’ve been stalking me.”
“You heard the Callach.” His emerald eyes burned into me. “You’re the key.”
“To what?”
“To defeating the Fae High King. The King of Hearts, of drowned men, the Lord of Terror.”
At his words, a wave of dizziness hit me. But even in the muddle of my confusion, one thing rang clear in my mind: I wouldn’t be leaving London anytime soon.
* * *
We hope you enjoyed Agent of Chaos. If you want to read a free short story from Roan’s perspective, click the link cover above.
Yours,
Alex and Christine
Also by C.N. Crawford
The Demons of Fire and Night Series
Book 1: Infernal Magic
Book 2: Nocturnal Magic
The Vampire’s Mage Series
Book 1: Magic Hunter
Book 1.1: Shadow Mage
Book 2: Witch Hunter
Book 3: Blood Hunter
Acknowledgments
We’d like to thank Alex’s lovely wife Liora for her amazing notes, and to Marina Finlayson for giving us her urban fantasy expertise. Thanks to Robin for her corrections and cross-cultural expertise. Thanks to Nick for the early edits and help throughout.
Our cover designers, Clarissa and Lee did an amazing job bringing our characters to life.
And finally, we’d like to thank our wonderful editors, Elayne and Izzy.
About
Alex Rivers is the co-author of the Dark Fae FBI Series. In the past, he's been a journalist, a game developer, and the CEO of the company Loadingames. He is married to a woman who diligently forces him to live his dream, and is the father of an angel, a pixie, and a gremlin. He has two voracious hounds that wag their tail quite menacingly at anyone who comes near his home.
Alex has been imagining himself fighting demons and vampires since forever. Writing about it is even better, because he doesn’t get bitten, or tormented in hell, or even just muddy. In fact, he does it in his slippers.
Alex also writes crime thrillers under the pen name Mike Omer.
You can contact Alex by sending him an email to [email protected].
C. N. Crawford is sometimes two people—a married couple named Christine and Nick. But for the Dark Fae FBI series, it’s just Christine. Christine grew up in New England and has a lifelong interest in local folklore—with a particular fondness for creepy old cemeteries. She is a psychologist who spent eight years in London obsessively learning about its history, and misses it every day.
Please join us here to talk about books, fantasy, and writing updates! https://www.facebook.com/groups/cncrawford/
@cn_crawford
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[email protected]
Agent of Enchantment (Dark Fae FBI Book 1) Page 26