The Agency, Volume I

by Sylvan, Dianne

  "You don't have to…"

  "Yes, I do." He met her eyes. "It's why I exist."

  He touched her mind again, letting her see some of what he had been once, just a glimpse of how joyful and loving his life had once been. He had devoted himself to his art, to those he served, and had been happy, at peace. Every day that he denied himself that, every day severed from his purpose, was a day he might as well have been dead.

  She understood, and lay back onto the pillows, a blank canvas stretched out before a master's hands. He let her feel his appreciation for a moment before turning his attention back to her body and his mind back to her mind.

  It took mere seconds, while he let his mouth travel over the rolling landscape of her belly, to sweep his senses through her and ascertain every tiny detail about her desires—most of his earlier impressions were correct, of course, but this was far more intimate, encompassing her history, her fears, even things she herself wasn't aware of. The whole of her sexual identity logged itself into him, becoming part of the endless evolution of his work. He learned from everyone he touched. Strange how effortless it was to fall back into the dance, skin and sweat and breath moving in and out, the perfect arch of her back pressing her hips into his, the taste of her thighs one he already knew, because he'd already been there, tongue flicking against her flesh, her nails clutching his sides rhythmically as they had a thousand times, and never.

  He held her close, barely allowing any space between them even as she writhed and moaned beneath him. One of her hands twisted in the blankets, the other in his hair, and he fed more energy into her and moved so slowly in her body that every sensation was multiplied.

  Twice…three times…four…orgasms rolled through her, thunder, waves crashing. She wasn't loud but her energy certainly was, and he dampened it lest the entire wing of the building be struck horny and cause mayhem throughout the Agency. The last time, she cried out, spasming around him before going completely limp from exhaustion, slick and spent, eyes unfocused, breathing in gasps.

  It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

  Rowan collapsed beside her, his own breath still matching hers, and he deliberately slowed his, knowing she would unconsciously follow suit as long as the link between them was active.

  Long minutes passed with only their breathing to relieve the silence, before Sara looked over at him, her eyes black in the dim light. Her mouth worked soundlessly—she had, by some miracle, lost her usual witty hold over the English language.

  [Try this way,] he offered, using the telepathic channel they'd been working on that week.

  She nodded weakly. [I don't…I don't know what to say.]

  [I do. Thank you.]

  [God, I should be thanking you. For the rest of my life. I thought you said you were rusty?]

  He gave her a sleepy smile. [I suppose all I needed was proper lubrication.]

  She laughed out loud, the sound bright and happy, warming him. [But…you didn't…]

  [I didn't need to. Rethla are different, Sara. We live for the pleasure of our partners. If I get off that means essentially that the evening is over with.]

  Her eyebrows shot up. [And it isn't?]

  [I would never assume without asking first.]

  [Aren't you exhausted?]

  [Give me a few minutes to rest, and I can give you more.]

  Sara smiled, but shook her head. [I think you've shagged me senseless for the night, darling. It's been a long time for me, too—my thighs are actually quivering. And I think you need the rest, to see how you feel after this.]

  She was being far more sensible than he would have been; but then, despite his age and their difference in race, she was still a woman, and women tended to be more sensible across the board. He acquiesced to her wishes readily, and they curled up together under the sheets, both sticky and damp but unwilling to break apart just yet while it still felt so wonderful, and so peaceful, just to be together. He hadn't slept with anyone beside him in many years, and yet he felt himself wandering down the shadowed corridor of oblivion, releasing his hold on wakefulness as soon as he was sure that his partner was asleep first.

  It was there, in the dark, that the nightmares found him.

  *****

  Chains. The sound of chains rattling. Water dripping from the wall. The sounds were almost the worst part—footsteps meant they were coming, the rattle of a key meant they were here. Guttural voices beyond the cell door were the worst, the worst. He knew those men.

  "Get him up."

  Bright light across his face, and someone dragged him to his feet. He hadn't been fed in days and could barely stand, and once upright blood began to flow sluggishly from several of his wounds. He was filthy, emaciated. Only the magic, magic that was supposed to connect to bodies in love and healing, explained why they wanted him again and again, even disgusting and half dead.

  "There's a party tonight. Clean him."

  Fear, cold as iron, filled his empty belly. They dragged him forward, out of the cell, and he tried to walk but ended up mostly pulled along on his knees. He heard other captives mocking him, hooting and whistling at his naked body—many of them had fucked him too, as a reward if their masters were feeling charitable. He had been ridden by every dick in this place at least once.

  They threw him into a windowless stone room and turned a blast hose on him. The water pressure was so high the water stung unbearably against his already-abraded skin, and he cried out in pain, trying to curl up into a ball in the corner. One of the guards kicked him until he was back on his feet, and they held his arms and legs apart and soaped him over, groping and playing with his body however they liked as they washed off the filth from the last time they'd had his company. Then they hosed him off again, and he slipped and fell onto his hands and knees, watching hypnotized as blood and semen and water and dirt washed down the drain, all evidence of the last few days gone to the sea.

  One of the guards pushed him with a foot and he vomited into the drain, mostly dry heaves. Another shot with the hose, and they forced him back onto his feet again, but he wasn't strong enough to stand, and kept sinking back to the ground.

  "Get UP!" the guard roared, reaching for the button at his belt, and through Rowan tried desperately to obey, his body was simply too worn out, and he fell again. The guard hit the button, and agony unlike any he'd known in his long life coursed through him from the device implanted in his wrist, every nerve in his body on fire, stung by a thousand wasps, screaming, screaming.

  When he had finished his spasms they got him up again, and he stayed upright through sheer force of will as they draped a fresh robe over him, the easy-access garment of choice for Elf-fuckers all over the world. Another grabbed his head and raked a comb through his matted hair, pulling out knotted handfuls as he did, leaving Rowan's scalp raw and probably bleeding like the rest of him.

  "All right, bring him."

  Time flashed forward and he was on his knees again, this time his throat burning, back aching beyond endurance as another cock was forced into his mouth. How long had he been here, on this bed, with one man in front of him and another behind, both yelling out their enjoyment of the best fuck they'd ever had, pumping him full of their scalding hot hatred? Was this time the one where there were ten, or twenty? Or was this the one with the costumes, where he'd been dressed as a pig and raped by men in farmer's outfits? Rich owner, middle-class owner? Silk sheets or linen? The stains were always the same. The grunts of pleasure and the hard slaps to his face were always the same. Their come always tasted like old bread and stagnant water.

  Then one day, he simply said "No."

  The latest owner, a madam in charge of a whorehouse of fifty, stared at him in disbelief. "What did you just say to me, bitch?"

  His heart had shut down, and he had nothing more to give her, or anyone else. He had nothing left to lose. "I said no."

  "You do not say yes or no to me, you little faggot. You just do what you're told, suck what's given you to suck, and
make money for me. Because if you don't, I hit this button, and everyone gets to hear you cry and beg for mercy."

  Something in his eyes had frightened her that night. He met her hateful gaze with perfect, desolate calm. "I don't want mercy," he said to her.

  "Oh? You don't want mercy?" She got right up in his face. "So what do you want, you perverted little demon-seed? What do you want?"

  He smiled, the expression alien and wrong on his face. "I want you to die."

  She didn't see the gun until it was pressed into her stomach, and didn't realize what was happening until the bullet ripped through her intestines and shattered her spine. She screamed, and fell, blood pooling out all around her. Her associates tried to help, and the guards started to move to subdue him, but he still had the gun.

  One, two, three; pop, pop, pop. The three guards went down and didn't move again.

  All around there were screams, but his were not among them. He stood silently, still holding the gun, barely even aware of the havoc he had caused. He bent and dipped a finger in the old woman's blood, holding it up, admiring its dark crimson thickness. A simple thing, really, just squeeze, and wait.

  He lifted the gun to his temple, but before he could act, the door to the brothel burst open and a dozen men in black rushed in, each one armed to the teeth, shouting for everyone to lay down and put their hands above their heads.

  Rowan watched them all distractedly, not moving, even when one of the soldiers got right up in front of him and demanded that he obey.

  "No," he said softly. "I do not obey. I am no one's whore…not now."

  He gingerly handed the gun to the soldier, who had immediately figured out what was going on, and then collapsed, his entire frail body wracked with sobs, the blood on his finger smeared over his face. He fell, and the soldier caught him and steered him toward where the medics had set up a triage center for the other prisoners. By the time they got him to a stretcher, he was screaming, long banshee-like wails of loss and horror that gave the entire team nightmares for days afterward.

  He screamed, and would have kept screaming if Dr. Nava, at the time the junior Medical Officer for the SA California branch who would transfer with him to Texas in a few weeks, hadn't run an IV into him and pushed enough sedatives into his body that he didn't so much as wiggle a finger for three days.

  Other than that, there was only one thing he remembered with any clarity. One of the black-clad men had helped get him onto the stretcher, had held his hand while the medic tried to examine him, had stroked his fevered forehead and spoken to him gently while the delirium overcame him and the screams built in his heart. Comfort, only a moment's comfort, before all was cast back into darkness and pain, but that touch, that voice, stayed with him, as did the light of those moonlit blue eyes, leading him to safety, to rest.

  *****

  He was sobbing even as he woke, and Sara's arms were already around him. He clung to her weakly, fighting his way out of the memories—the first of thousands, he knew, and he would have to face them all if he wanted to continue with this madness.

  "What can I do?" Sara asked, as she would go on to ask every night they spent together, after hours of lovemaking yielded up hours of nightmares and his broken weeping recovery.

  The pain was back, with a vengeance, and if he didn't stop it soon he'd go into seizures. "Prescription bottle," he panted. "Two pills. Please."

  She all but leapt out of the bed, and he hated how cold it was without her there. She returned quickly with the pills and a glass of water, and it was hard to force himself to swallow them; he was shaking violently, and nearly dropped the glass.

  "I should get help," Sara said, face pale and grave. "You're not well, Rowan. I didn't know this could happen—you should have warned me."

  "I didn't…either…" he said, but he was lying and she knew it; using his powers again was bound to unblock a lot of old memories and energies. It was necessary, if he truly wanted to heal…but was he really ready? Could he handle it? Could Sara?

  He got his answer as she said, "We'll have to be more careful next time, maybe cast a Circle around the room to control the energetic influences better. We can try it at my place, too—there's a lot of wards and charms to protect the space, make it safe. We need to find ways to work through this on your terms."

  He found he was smiling, even through the white-hot fire snaking through his body. "Remarkable…woman…" he murmured.

  She watched him sweat and shiver for another minute before shaking her head and reaching for the phone. "This remarkable woman knows when she's out of her depth, darling. I'm calling another one of my kind for reinforcements."

  He was drifting in and out of consciousness, but he knew Dr. Nava's presence quite well from his days in the infirmary. She was a large, brown-skinned woman with a hearty laugh and an appreciation for good food, but she was also fierce when it came to patient care.

  She looked around the bedroom, took in his and Sara's states of undress, and said, "Let me guess. This isn't what it looks like."

  Sara squeezed Rowan's hand protectively. "It's exactly what it looks like, Doctor. He’s in pain and he needs help. I called you because you were the lead on his case."

  "I'm not going to ask you how you know that," the doctor muttered, setting the case she'd brought with her on the bedside table. She reached in and produced a hypodermic. "Now, your girlfriend should know a few things about Elven anatomy before things go any further."

  Rowan managed, "She already knows quite a few."

  Nava tried not to smile, and succeeded in keeping her expression serious, but only just. "Most human drugs don't work on Elves because their immune systems, digestive systems, and nervous systems operate at twice the speed of ours. There are a few that are effective, but just handing him a Tylenol won't help. The only pill we can give him is straight up oxycontin, which I hate to do, but nothing else works. The alternative, which I'm going to insist you keep around if you plan to continue having sex, is morphine."

  She pushed the plunger into the hypodermic, and he felt as if someone had cracked an egg on the top of his head, letting warm liquid relief ooze down over his body. The pain melted before the lava's slow burn, and he felt his muscles unclench and relax.

  Nava looked from Sara to Rowan and back again. "I'm assuming you are aware of the risks involved in this behavior."

  "Yes," Sara answered for him. "We talked about it beforehand. He needs to open himself back up, Doctor. He can't go on living like the walking dead. I want to help him. How about you show me how much of that to give him, and when, so that I can be prepared if this happens again."

  The doctor was surprised, but glanced at Rowan, and he sensed her approval. "All right, then. The implant that injected the neurotoxin was on his left wrist, so if you can find a vein in that area you'll get a faster result. If not, aim for the bicep."

  Rowan sagged back into the pillows, loving the heat and release of the morphine, the sudden cessation of pain so wonderful that more than once it had made him cry. He drifted in that warm dark sea, hearing them talk at a distance, eventually hearing Nava leave the apartment.

  He felt Sara take his hand and trace her fingers along the still-visible rectangular scar on his wrist.

  "What am I getting myself into?" he heard her ask the quiet room, or perhaps just herself. "I'm not a counselor, not a therapist, I'm not even a…whatever you are."

  "Rethla," he murmured.

  "That either. What if I do you more harm than good?"

  "What you are, Sara, is a friend," he said to her, twining his fingers through hers. "You are a friend and a lover and by the time this is over I will owe you more than my life. I'll owe you my soul. It's just…going to suck, is all."

  "Yeah, well…" She stretched out beside him again, turning off the lamp, and curled up around him, pulling the blankets back up to keep them both warm. "I guess you're just going to have to make it up to me somehow."

  "Deal," he replied, already starting to drift o
ff again, this time into drug-induced sleep that he hoped would be empty and silent.

  But with the softness of Sara's skin against his, and her hand curled around his arm; with her breath at his ear and her hair tickling his shoulder…even with the nightmares, even with the memory of pain, he felt something in that moment that he hadn't dared let himself feel in so long, tears came to his eyes and spilled hotly onto the pillow…

  …hope.

  Lunacy

  “Federal Agent! Step away from the goat!”

  SA-7 really, really hated Full Moons.

  The man in the black velvet robe with the huge embroidered Solomon’s Seal hit the floor with a squeal, his cheap ceremonial knife clattering to the bare concrete. He was already blubbering to assert his innocence, an interesting proposition given that there was a rather discontented-looking goat tied in the center of a huge diagram chalked on the floor and the man was dressed like Satan’s pimp.