He lowered both weapons. “Two...”
The men stumbled away, whimpering, pulling each other along. By the time Jason got to “seven” they were both around the corner and gone.
He holstered both pistols and drew his coat shut again. Idiot mortals.
Then, with a sigh, he turned back toward Lamar, and went to buy a peach.
Part Two
The Shadow Agency had 119 employees. Of those, thirty-two were at a psychic level 4 or above; of those thirty-two, seven were Agents (two vampires, one Elf, four humans), and 18 worked in dispatch, manning the Ears. Five were in charge of the energy monitoring system across Texas, known as the Eyes. One was Dru, whose gifts were powerful but not the sort of thing the Agency knew what to do with.
The other was Sara Larson, Agent trainee.
119 employees. On the average day she saw maybe a third of that many. The base ran on a 24-hour schedule, so typically any given employee would only be acquainted with the handful of others who shared his or her hours.
It surprised her, then, that when she sat down in the meeting room, every chair was full. She had taken a chair near the back, allowing her to survey the assembly unnoticed.
She did a quick count—15, and she didn't know a single one. Were they all on day shifts? Or were some Ears, so she only saw them at a distance as they were plugged into the system all night? Or had she just been living under a rock?
There was a hum of conversation, and Sara felt strangely removed from it all. She hadn’t really wanted to come, but Rowan had practically shoved her out the door, claiming—quite rightly—that she needed more friends. She couldn't spend all her time with him and her trainers; she was getting cabin fever and losing her social skills. Hours a day with Beck would do that to a person.
It took her a moment to notice that there was a willowy woman standing up in the front of the room, trying unsuccessfully to get everyone’s attention. She looked about forty, and had the stringy-haired, owl-eyed look of about a third of the Pagan women Sara had met in her life, down to the quartz crystal jewelry and a generic silver pentacle pendant. This must be Dawn, the coordinator, though as group leaders went she seemed a bit fragile, like a stiff breeze would knock her over.
She was still trying to bring the meeting to order, and Sara was about to try and help when someone let out one of those painfully loud two-fingered whistles, and silence cut through the room like an ax blade.
With a pathetically grateful look, the woman said, “Thank you, Sage. Blessed be, everyone, and welcome to the SA Pagan Employees’ Alliance. My name is Dawn, and I’ve been the coordinator for the past two years. Why don’t we go around the room and introduce ourselves, give our names and job titles and so forth, and talk a bit about why we’re all here at SAPEA?”
Dawn nodded toward the man nearest her, and he stood self-consciously and started speaking.
It was a pretty average mix, if a group of people who worshipped gods long ago declared dead and performed magic and ritual deemed heresy by the mainstream Church could ever be considered average at anything. They were mostly Wiccans, like Sara; the rest were a mix of traditions and beliefs ranging from Heathenry to Druidism.
Then a young woman stepped forward and said, “I’m Sage. I work in Food Service. I'm a baker—all those cookies you guys eat, that's me." There was a ripple of laughter and a few expressions of gratitude. "It's not glamorous work, but I love it. I'm a Wiccan, have been for five years, since I was sixteen."
Sara watched her as she talked, and sized her up: bright green eyes, flaming red hair, freckles galore. She had the round body of a baker, for sure, and the air of both an Earth-Mother and a warrior maid. Her voice was warm with a sparkling wit, and she seemed remarkably centered for a 21-year-old.
Sara found herself oddly drawn to the girl, and out of curiosity, made a tentative sweep of her psychic senses—nothing intrusive, just a glance. People with gifts tended to seek each other out; there were, of course, other psychics in the room, but so far Sage seemed the only one whose job didn’t relate directly. Several of the attendees worked either as Ears or Eyes, and none were Agents.
The girl was probably about a level 3 telepath, but with a few months of training that could be pushed up to a 4. She seemed to have empathy, too, though at what level, Sara couldn’t tell with a cursory look. Rowan would be able to say for sure. It occurred to Sara to wonder if Rowan had in fact tested Sage when she was hired on. She’d have to ask him later.
Sage seemed to feel Sara's eyes on her, and their gazes locked a moment; Sara was first to look away, embarrassed to be caught staring. Unfortunately it was her turn next to talk.
She stood up, thankful she'd had time to shower and change before the meeting; she'd been a fright, coming off a session with Carlos. She had also been working on her self-confidence, thanks to Rowan; she reminded herself to stand up straight, shoulders back and down, and look people in the eye.
"I'm Sara Larson," she said, and to her surprise there was recognition on several people's faces. A couple even exchanged glances. "I'm technically an Admin II, but I'm in the SA training program as well. I've been a Wiccan since college but this is the first time in a while I've come out of my cave long enough to meet new people. It's easy to become a hermit in this place." There were nods of agreement. "Mostly I'm hoping to make a few new friends and have someplace to celebrate holidays with people I don't have to lie to about my job."
More nods, and Sara felt a stab of kinship with everyone around her, even though they probably didn’t have much in common besides working in this crazy place and worshipping outside the mainstream. They all understood how hard it was to maintain any sort of friendships or relationships in the outside world, and they all understood the burden of secrecy. Sara considered herself lucky to be an orphan, something she never figured she’d say.
"Thank you, everyone," Dawn said, "Now that we know each other a little better, why don't we brainstorm a few ideas for group activities for this next quarter. Lammas is our next Sabbat, and several of you have expressed interest in a potluck and open ritual similar to the one we did at Midsummer. We'll need someone to coordinate the event, to find a location, to write the ritual, et cetera. Do we have any volunteers?"
This of course was the part where Sara could practically hear crickets chirping, the silence was so absolute. It was a paradox of human nature, and an annoying one, that while people always wanted things to happen, few were actually willing to step up and make them happen.
She heard a heavy sigh, and Sage said, “I’ll do it.”
The relief was palpable. Dawn fell all over herself thanking Sage, who shrugged as if to say, “If you want something done right...” As Dawn began to make recommendations for Sage to start a committee and iron out the location details as soon as possible, Sage looked over at Sara again, and shot her a grin that Sara realized was conspiratorial.
Sara knew, beyond doubt, that she was about to be drafted, and although her schedule didn’t really have a lot of free time available for any sort of committee duties, she couldn’t bring herself to mind.
*****
“I’m insane. No, I’m not just insane; I’m Bride of Insane. What was I thinking?”
Rowan smiled at her serenely, swallowed his bite of peach, and said, “What did she ask you to do?”
“Nothing concrete yet. We’re supposed to meet after she comes off shift. You don’t mind, do you? I hate to eat and run.”
He shook his head. “I’m supposed to meet Jason for coffee down below.”
“Good.” Sara picked up the cupcake she’d nabbed from the line, turning it this way and that; it was a marvel of baking artistry, a creamy vanilla perfectly topped with a swirl of raspberry cream cheese frosting and a single fresh berry on top. “Do you ever talk to the Food Service staff?”
“Of course,” Rowan replied. “Anyone with odd dietary needs has to deal with them pretty often.”
“What needs are those?” She blinked. She hadn�
��t been aware that he had any allergies or anything like that—she felt a twinge of guilt that she’d been sleeping with him for two months and barely paid attention to what he ate. It was a good thing that she wasn’t technically his girlfriend—and it was also a good thing that they didn’t do their own cooking, or she might have made him dinner and accidentally killed him.
“Elves can’t digest flesh or dairy,” he told her, “and refined foods like white flour make us sick. We can handle the occasional egg, but I stick with a vegan diet just for simplicity’s sake. Sage is always inventing new recipes to accommodate people with issues. Her seven-grain bread is amazing.”
“So you have met Sage.”
“Oh, yes. She’s lovely.” His eyes lost focus for a few seconds, then he shook himself back to the room—she recognized the expression. It was what happened when his powers got the better of him, and he was presented with a vision or sense of someone’s sexual desires. He knew things about almost everyone in the building that would curl their hair…and make them writhe and sweat.
Sara was madly curious what he’d seen about Sage, but refrained from asking; he already fought with himself over whether or not his knowledge was an invasion of their privacy now that he was no longer a practicing rethla, even though there was nothing he could do about it yet.
“She’s almost a 4,” Sara pointed out, biting the berry off her cupcake, savoring the tartness beneath its sweet flavor. “Why is she working in Food Service?”
“Because she wants to.” He shrugged. “Just because someone has abilities doesn’t mean he or she has to use them in the SA. There’s nothing shameful about being a cook, Sara. Nurturing people is a high calling.”
Sara heard the soft admonishment in his voice, and bit her lip. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…psychic people tend not to be left alone. It gets you in trouble. Plus, she’s a Wiccan, so she already works with energy on some level. That’s like waving a great big ‘kick me’ sign at the universe.”
He smiled. “True. I’m sure she has her story as much as you do. Perhaps you’ll hear it. I know how you love finding out all the lurid details of people’s lives.”
Again, the admonishing tone, and she blushed before realizing that, this time, he was kidding her. She still felt like an ass for snooping among the Personnel files—true to her word, after reading his…all right, his and Beck’s…she had stopped and not gone back.
“I can’t help it,” she said defensively. “I’m a Scorpio.”
“You’re a secret agent in the making,” he corrected, squeezing her hand. “Besides, if you hadn’t somehow hacked into the files, you and I wouldn’t be here now.”
Involuntarily, she thought of what she had seen in his file—photographs and video documenting the injuries he’d had when Jason brought him in. She couldn’t help but remember, looking at him now, the bruises, the visible ribs, the surgical scars from where Nava had cut the implant out of his arm. Nausea wormed its way into her, and she closed her eyes, hands trembling slightly on her cupcake. She set it down; it had abruptly gone tasteless.
“It’s all right,” Rowan said softly, taking her other hand, kissing both. “I’m all right now. And you’re helping me get even better. Don’t carry someone else’s past in addition to your own. No one is that strong.”
She sighed, pulling herself together, and just in time—someone was moving toward their table.
Sage, dressed in chef’s whites coated liberally with flour, smiled as she approached. “How’s the cupcake?”
Sara returned the smile. “Fantastic. Your handiwork?”
“You bet.” She stood by the table, tendrils of her hair falling damply into her face; one hand took a towel from her waist and reached up to Sara’s face. “You’ve got frosting on your nose.”
Sara giggled, then shot Rowan an accusatory look.
“I thought it was cute,” he said.
“Oh, wow, Rowan, I didn’t recognize you,” Sage said, eyes widening. “You’re hardly ever up here when there’s a crowd.”
He gave Sara an affectionate smile, then Sage a charming one. “I get out more these days.”
“You look so different from when we last met.”
“It was October,” he replied. “And I am…quite a bit healthier now.”
Sara smiled, feeling herself blush again. It was true; since they had started working together, his energy had cleared and strengthened, and gradually he was getting better at controlling his power when they were together. The nightmares were fading, and he depended less on painkillers—it was by no means a full recovery, but they were definitely getting somewhere.
“So, Sara,” Sage said, “it looks like I’m going to be working late—my assistant got a migraine and I have about fifty trillion cookies to bake for the next shift. Do you want to postpone getting together? Or you could come back into the kitchen and we could talk while I work.”
“How about I help you? I’m not much of a cook, but I can stir things, and I’m hell with a mop.”
Sage practically beamed. “That would be wonderful. I knew I was going to adore you.”
“No problem. Let me put up my tray and I’ll meet you at the kitchen door in five minutes.”
Rowan looked inordinately pleased as he walked beside Sara to the conveyor belt on the far side of the cafeteria where used trays and utensils went. “Have fun,” he told Sara, leaning forward to deposit a kiss on her temple. “Remember, you’re sleeping over tonight.”
Sara laughed. “Right. I’ll bring my teddy bear.”
His eyes sparkled. “Behave yourself, woman, or I’ll freeze your bra.”
Part Three
“Pentecost,” Frog said, clicking the mouse so that a chemical diagram appeared on the conference room screen. “The compound itself only took us about half an hour to break down. Anyone care to guess why?”
Jason leaned forward, crossing his arms, staring at the image. Carbon, oxygen, hydrogen. Something about it was familiar.
Beck frowned. “Doesn’t look like Ecstasy or anything similar.”
“That’s because it’s not,” Frog said, his characteristic nervousness in front of an audience parting a moment to allow a short bark of a laugh. “It’s not a drug at all.”
Suddenly it came together. “It’s sucrose,” Jason declared with a groan.
“Along with gum Arabic, gelatin, and oil of wintergreen,” Frog affirmed with a nod. “It’s basically a mint.”
“A sugar pill.” Jason sat back hard in his chair. “Son of a bitch sold me four Altoids for a hundred dollars.”
“Not quite.” Frog switched the screen, and another diagram appeared, this one similar to a chemical breakdown but using alchemical symbols, nothing that would ever be seen on the Periodic Table. “It’s been dosed with two formulas from the Grimoire of Soldaris Bathsheba, circa 1428. The first is a magical hallucinogen compounded from wormwood and toad sweat. The second is a psychic dilator. It opens the senses as wide as possible, outside tolerance for most humans, while the hallucinogen makes the person think they’re seeing all sorts of heavenly visions. Then, if the victim is powerful enough, the third formula, a mind control agent, takes effect—that’s a purely modern addition, and quite ingenious, I might add. It implants the incantation into the victim’s brain. Put them all together, and you have…”
Frog clicked the mouse again, and the sound recording Doyle had given Jason filled the room: a stereotypically demonic voice chanting in deep, guttural tones. Frog only allowed the chant to play for a few seconds before switching it off. Generally a sound recording wasn’t magically effective, but there was no sense taking a chance.
“What language is that, Dr. Patel?” Ness asked, turning to one of the other researchers, a lovely young woman with large, dark eyes.
“It’s an extinct dialect from the former Sunjara region,” the doctor replied. “A literal translation would be impossible, but using the language comparison database we discerned that it is a summoning incan
tation for some sort of entity, known as the Devouring Fire. We’re trying to hunt down anything we can on this specific creature, but so far, our information is sketchy.”
“So,” Beck mused, “These dealers feed thousands of people the Unholy Altoid, and they go insane and chant to summon this Devouring dude. What does he devour?”
“Souls,” Patel said crisply.
“As in, the souls of the people who’ve taken the Unholy Altoid,” Ness concluded. “They’re all blown open, psychically speaking—they wouldn’t be able to stop him from sucking all their psychic energy out permanently and leaving them crispy fried.”
"So this goes beyond murder." Jason stared at the diagram. "It's murder, illegal substances, and maleficarum all rolled into one."
The Agency, Volume I Page 18