The Agency, Volume I

by Sylvan, Dianne

  The Agency

  Volume I

  By Dianne Sylvan

  Text copyright © 2013 Dianne Sylvan

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Prologue: The Interview

  The New Girl

  A Week in Flux

  The Healer

  Lunacy

  Since You Asked…

  Learning to Aim

  Pentecost

  Preface

  The Agency series began as a fangirl’s ode to her favorite television shows. Back before my first novel, Queen of Shadows, was published, I started this series entirely for fun on LiveJournal, and it took on something of a life of its own even as I was hard at work on the Shadow World series.

  I kept the stories up on my website for a long time, but decided about a year ago to take them down. Since then I’ve gotten a surprising number of emails wondering why they’re gone and if I plan to publish them in some other way. I loved writing this series so much that eventually I caved, and here we are.

  Because The Agency started before the Shadow World, you’ll find there are a number of similarities--some of the characters will seem a bit familiar (like Beck, who inspired the character of Sophie in Queen of Shadows) and there are a few minor story elements in common. Sara’s cat in the Agency and Stella’s in Shadow’s Fall share a name. I thought about changing these details, but in the end I decided to let these stories stand on their own without tampering.

  The Agency also takes place in Austin because that’s where I live, and the city is one of my favorite characters in all of my work. But even with those similarities The Agency certainly has its own personality; it’s a totally different world, populated by a whole host of creatures that don’t appear in the Shadow World.

  I only point that out because a lot of people go into this series thinking it takes place in the same universe as my novels, and I don’t want anyone to confuse the two--I adore this series, and I adore the Shadow World, and I hope you’ll enjoy both.

  Prologue: The Interview

  You know, shit like this isn't really supposed to happen to file clerks.

  I knelt on my living room floor, hands behind my head, staring fixedly at the barrel of the gun that glinted off the light of my altar candles, while all around me men in black with the kind of rifles you see in Army movies tossed my apartment. I could hear my cat, Pywacket, growling menacingly from under the couch, but the intruders took no notice of him—small mercies, I guess.

  I can handle a lot of things, but even men with guns shouldn't mess with a Witch's cat.

  At some point in the five or so minutes between the front door flying open and me winding up on my knees in front of the TV—where an episode of Torchwood was still playing—I had gone from terrified to numb to the verge of hysterical laughter. Shock, I supposed. My mind was operating quite rationally given the utter ridiculousness of the situation.

  "I told you," I repeated, amazed at the calm in my voice. "My name is Sara Larson. I'm a temp; I do filing at the Capitol Area Tissue and Organ Bank. I moved here from Houston a month ago. I am no longer affiliated with the Blue Moon Rising coven."

  "Then why did their high priest, a man calling himself WolfStar, place five calls to your cell number in the last week?"

  The man asking the questions didn't look like the sort who had the slightest idea what really went on in a Wiccan coven, and hearing a name like WolfStar in his brisk military tone almost brought the laughter bubbling up past my lips. Well, laughter, and my dinner. Tip: don’t’ have tacos the night before your house is raided by the freaking Army.

  "I didn't answer," I replied. "I don't want anything to do with those people."

  "And why is that?"

  "They're…okay, in Wicca we have this rule about not hurting people. You know, like with guns?" I glanced around at the other men, who seemed mostly finished tearing through my possessions. "Blue Moon Rising was doing things I didn't agree with."

  "What, like hexing people?"

  A low undercurrent of laughter went around the room, and my hand clenched with impotent anger. Pointing a gun at my head, destroying my home, scaring my cat, insulting my religion. Had to be the military. "Yes, like hexing people. You must know what went on; otherwise I can't imagine why you'd be here threatening the life of a woman in pajamas. I mean, wouldn't it have been easier to have some nice agent in a suit show up at my door first? You don't even know who I am."

  "Sara Elizabeth Larson," came a voice, and the room fell deathly silent. "Born in Wharton, Texas, November 17, 1978. Only child of Meredith and Richard Larson, both deceased. National Merit Scholar, flunked out of Rice University after discovering marijuana, tequila, and the Wiccan religion, in that order. Second degree priestess of the Blue Moon Rising coven, moved to Austin after said coven was discovered performing black magic resulting in the death of two former members. Currently a resident of Salem Walk apartments, single, cohabits with a male American shorthair named Pywacket. Vegetarian, member of the Sierra Club, PETA, and the Texas Pagan Alliance."

  I stared as another black-clad figure stepped through my doorway, this one in a black trench coat. When the others saw him, they automatically stepped back—including the guy with the gun pointed at my head.

  The newcomer walked into the light, and I felt a slow quake of fear return to my heart.

  He was tall and slender, dark-haired, and even though I shouldn't have been able to tell in the semidarkness, his eyes were almost insanely blue. He was oddly pale, almost ivory, and there was something in the way he moved, a grace that was almost…inhuman…like a stalking panther, or a snake watching a rabbit from behind a stand of grass.

  My mind cataloged the weapons I could see—disturbingly large guns on each hip, some kind of knife at his belt, one of those across-the-chest holster things that held a sidearm. There were also several digital gadgets on his belt, one of which emitted a soft blue light. I had a distinct feeling there was a lot more I couldn't see.

  His eyes were almost glowing, and they were cold, calculating. If it hadn't been for that I would have called him drop-dead gorgeous. As it was…

  I stared. I could feel…something. Even without touching him I could feel something. My heart leapt up into my throat and tried to claw its way out.

  Those eyes flicked to the TV screen, then back to me.

  "One of my favorite episodes," he said before switching the television off and coming to tower over me, as if he wasn't already intimidating just being in the room.

  "According to our files, Ms. Larson, you have the gift of psychometry. You are also a telepath, although the talent is undeveloped, and an empath at level 3 or below."

  I had no idea what levels he was using, but I swallowed. "Yes."

  "Your psychometric gift is particularly strong. You read objects by touch, and combined with the empathy and telepathy you read people and in layman's terms, talk to houses, sensing the energetic impressions left by former occupants and events."

  "How do you know…"

  "I'll ask the questions, Ms. Larson."

  The men who had broken into my home had been direct, at least—guns out, shouting at me, forcing me to my knees. This…man…watched me impassively, not making a move toward his weapons. I knew, without knowing, that even the big burly guys with the rifles were way less dangerous than this one. This one could kill me with one hand…or less. I swallowed again.

  The man who'd held the gun to my head took the opportunity to say, "SA-7, I was informed that this was a standard detain-and-question op and that the SA would not be involved at this stage."

  The trench-coated man simply looked at him, and the gunman took an involuntary step back.

/>   "The Agency is unimpressed by your approach to this case," he replied sharply. "As the human said, she's hardly a threat to you."

  "You just said—"

  "Do you really think an M-15 is going to protect you against a psychic?"

  I shifted on my knees. My arms were cramping up badly. "Could I put my hands down, maybe, please? I promise not to throw fireballs at you or anything."

  The man in the trench coat returned his gaze to me, and I might have been hallucinating, but it looked like he almost smiled. He gave me a measured nod, and I dropped my arms, groaning with relief.

  "All right," he said. "Captain, you and your men may go. The SA will take over from here."

  "I have orders from—"

  Just then another voice interrupted, this one staticky, from the vicinity of the gunman's waist. "Team 2, you are ordered to stand down."

  Guns all around the room lowered. I could suddenly breathe just a little easier.

  Trench Coat glanced back at Grumpy Gun, and said again, "The SA will take over from here, Captain. You may go."

  "What are you going to do with her?" Grumpy Gun demanded.

  "Concerned for her welfare, Captain?"

  I nearly snorted.

  Grumpy Gun said, poison darts in every word, "The SA is not known for its adherence to interrogation protocol…Agent."

  "No, we are not." He reached into his coat and pulled out a smallish gun, then removed something from his belt and snapped it into the weapon. "Don't worry, Captain. We don't leave witnesses, and we don't leave marks."

  With that, he held up the gun—at me.

  I started to cry out, but I heard a click and a whistle, and felt the sting of something hitting my neck.

  The carpet rushed up toward my head, and that was it.

  *****

  Bright light stabbed through the fog, and I whimpered, trying to put my hands over my face.

  My arms wouldn't move.

  Something jerked my head upward, and suddenly I could see—there had been a bag over my head.

  Oh fuck, oh fuck, this can't be happening. This can't be happening. This isn't TV, I'm not goddamned Natalie Portman, where's V when you need him, this can't be happening…

  I was sitting upright in an extremely uncomfortable metal chair, in front of a metal table. My arms were cuffed behind my back.

  There was a mirror behind the table, and probably one behind me—I'd seen enough police shows to know this had to be an interrogation room, and there were probably FBI agents on the other side of the mirror taping what went on in here.

  I became aware of a clattering sound, from a distance. My teeth, chattering. It was freezing in here and I was still in my pajamas. Someone was going to find my body dumped somewhere in my pajamas, and nobody would know to feed Py, and—

  The door opened, and Trench Coat walked in.

  He had a black file folder in his hand, and dropped it on the table before taking the chair opposite me.

  Up close, several things registered that hadn't before: one, he was definitely hot, in a going-to-kill-me kind of way; two, he was a lot younger than he'd seemed, maybe 25; three, where the other men had been wearing body armor of some sort, he wasn't, just a tight black t-shirt that showed off muscle definition I should not be interested in right now; four, there was some kind of contraption behind his ear that gave off the same light as the thing at his belt, which I interpreted as probably communications gear, like those dumbass headset things people wore around town talking to themselves.

  He regarded me in silence for a moment before opening the file folder. "Do you know why you've been brought here, Ms. Larson?"

  "That was good," I said before I could stop myself. "You sound just like that guy on Law & Order. Should I ask for a lawyer now, or is it too early in the scene?"

  One eyebrow quirked, and I wondered how I must seem to him. Nuts, probably. I certainly felt that way.

  It was about then that I looked up at the mirrored wall behind him, and froze.

  I could see the reflection of the room: the table, the chairs, me sitting there with my hands behind my back, my knee bouncing nervously.

  He wasn't in the mirror.

  "Oh shit," I whispered.

  He looked back behind him, then back at me again, but didn't comment. "Do you recognize this, Ms. Larson?" he asked, laying a photograph in front of me.

  "You…you're…what…you're…what the fuck is going on here?" That last bit came out almost as a shriek, my voice rising on every word. I dug my bare feet into the tile floor and shoved backward, trying to put as much space between him and me as I could, until the chair rammed into the wall and took my head with it. I saw stars, compounded by whatever drug he'd hit me with earlier, and my head pounded so hard I felt myself start to cry.

  "I'm just a file clerk," I moaned, shaking my head. "I didn't kill those people. I left when things got bad, I just wanted to get away. They said I was next."

  "They threatened you?"

  I nodded miserably. "I saved the voice mails. I was going to have my cell service cancelled. You've got my phone, check it yourself. That bastard WolfStar said I was next, if I talked. I just wanted to get away. Please…” I tried not to sob, but it was getting impossible. "Please have somebody feed my cat. I don’t know anybody else here."

  He watched me cry for a minute, apparently unaffected by my outburst, but then he said, "Send in the Elf."

  I blinked, momentarily startled out of my tears. "Huh?"

  "I wasn't talking to you."

  The door opened again, and another person entered, this one in a hood…a hooded cloak.

  At this point I think my brain had gone into total overload and was no longer capable of processing anything. I just stared, feeling both numb and drunk, my head hurting so badly I couldn't even react when the figure came toward me, silent as death, extending a hand from beneath the cloak.

  The hand was small, graceful; its skin was an unusual shade of tan, almost nut-colored. As his palm touched my head, intense heat flooded through me, as if I'd had the most intense massage—or orgasm—of my life. My whole body slumped, tension evaporating from every muscle, and I was only vaguely aware that the cuffs were removed so I could sit up straighter.

  The other man, or whatever he was, was still watching, and he said, "This is the part where you rub your wrists."

  I obeyed. Far be it from me to violate the law enforcement cliché. The chair was moved back up to the table, and the hand once again touched my head, this time as if in benediction.

  "SA-7," a gentle voice said, "Your manners are deplorable as ever."

  "Thank you, SA-5," he replied wryly. "Something about dealing with murderers tends to do away with the niceties."

  "Niceties are often all that separate us from the enemy. The wounds left behind tend to be the same."

  "Are you here to philosophize, or assist?"

  A sigh. "She's clean, Jason. I could have told you that before you kidnapped her. Look at her."

  "The woman with the Sphere looks harmless, too, if you'll recall. You of all people should know better than to believe appearances."

  This time the voice was firmer, but still soft. "And you of all people should know to trust your instincts."

  "Maybe my instincts said she's a killer."

  A laugh, silvery, like water tumbling over rocks. "Or maybe your instincts said that if you didn't bring her back here with you, the fools at the FBI would have her shot in the head and tossed in a shallow grave outside of town."

  I watched them talk with a detached sort of interest, feeling unaccountably like I was intruding on something far more intimate than I ought to be seeing. Lovers? No, it wasn't that…but they knew each other well, these two. They had a common bond, something old, something…

  "Immortal," the cloaked one said to me, reaching up to push back the hood.

  The first thing I saw were eyes—luminous, like the other's, but green, the bright life-soaked green of Spring. Even with the youth
of the color, I could sense age beneath them, stretching back, and back. Those eyes had seen empires rise and fall, had seen pain and death and beauty and the slow turn of the world, and lit on me kindly, as if we had been friends from childhood.

  I knew he was male, though how I knew, I couldn't say. His features were delicate, not exactly feminine but almost gender-neutral, with a triangular face and high cheekbones. His ears were pointed, poking up through hair that was about a dozen different shades of brown, green, even a shoot or two of blue—the color of a field of bluebonnets, maybe, a riot of living color just like the season going on outside in Central Texas. He must singlehandedly be keeping Clairol in business with a dye job like that.