Agent of Chaos (Dark Fae FBI Book 2) Read online

  Agent of Chaos

  Dark Fae FBI Series

  Alex Rivers

  C.N. Crawford

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Also by C.N. Crawford

  Acknowledgments

  About

  Agent of Chaos

  Book 2 of the Dark Fae FBI Series.

  Copyright © 2017 by C. N. Crawford and Alex Rivers.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter 1

  The lone black carrion crow flew above the Thames, languidly flapping its wings. My eyes followed its flight for a few moments. Although the gray city of London spilled in front of me in every direction, it was the crow that caught my eye, its movements so calm and serene. I liked it up here in the crisp air.

  On the monument’s balcony to my right stood a small group of tourists, listening to a tour guide describe the Great Fire of London. His squeaky voice pierced the air as he tried hard to speak above the wind. I half-listened as he explained about the fire.

  Apparently, it had begun in a bakery just below us, before incinerating most of the city and ending at the corner of Pye Lane. Therefore, it stood to reason that the true culprit was the sin of gluttony—that and Catholics. While Salem Puritans were blaming cow pox and wilting crops on witches, seventeenth-century Londoners had the Catholics and sin itself to scapegoat.

  I glanced at my phone, wondering if Scarlett had sent anything, but nope. The last message I had from her was the same cryptic text that had been waiting for me when I woke up.

  Guess what? Coming to London. Work related, we’ll talk when I get there. Meet me at the monument to the great fire at four thirty.

  She hadn’t answered my replies, or tell me her flight plans. I checked the flights inbound to London, but I wasn’t even sure what city she was coming from. The words “Work related, we’ll talk when I get there” made no sense. Scarlett was in a covert I’d-tell-you-about-it-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you-and-your-cat CIA unit. Normally, she didn’t tell me when or where she was flying, let alone why. Why would this time be different? And what was she doing in London?

  For that matter, what was I doing in London? I’d managed to strike a deal with Gabriel, temporarily renting his guest room for a hundred pounds a week. Much cheaper than a hotel, and we both liked the company.

  And yet obviously, I should be on my way back to the states. We’d concluded the investigation of the “Terrorist Ripper.” In fact, I’d killed the murderer myself.

  I had been shot, and had spent three days in the hospital. The trauma I’d mentioned to my chief wasn’t total bullshit. That said, the doctors had been quite amazed at the speed with which I recovered once they got the bullet out. Clearly, they hadn’t been used to treating pixies.

  Still, I wasn’t ready to go back home yet. Not until I knew more.

  The tour guide shouted over the wind. “So the actual number of bodies recorded may not reflect the true number of hideously charred remains.”

  A little girl, four or five years old, tried to pull away from her mother’s hand to get to the iron mesh surrounding the balcony, but her mother held her tight. The girl noticed me looking at her and grinned, showing a large gap between her front teeth. I smiled back, sympathizing. Never mind the carnage—no five-year-old should be subjected to a history lesson, especially not on vacation.

  My phone buzzed, and I pulled it from my pocket. The caller name simply said Russell—the third time he’d called in two days.

  Moving away from the crowd of tourists, I answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Agent Liddell,” the familiar gruff voice said.

  “Hey, Chief.”

  “Don’t you hey, chief me, agent. Why aren’t you on a flight yet?”

  “Still recuperating, sir. The psychological trauma was quite severe. I think I’m suffering from post—”

  “You’ll be suffering from unemployment if you don’t get back, agent.”

  “Of course. Just a few more days to recover after being shot, you know? I need time to get over the mental and physical—”

  “You’ve been recuperating for eight days, agent. And what’s this I’ve heard from the London attachés about your debriefing interview?”

  Oh. That.

  During the several days I’d spent debriefing with the FBI’s overseas office in London, I’d left out the niggling little details about the killer being a terrifying fae known as the Rix, the right hand man of the Fae High King. I’d left out the parts about how I was a pixie with power of my own, and the part about how I’d traveled to the fae realm. What remained was a story that basically didn’t make sense, and unfortunately, the London attachés were smart enough to catch on. At least Gabriel was there to testify that I’d killed the Rix in self-defense, but beyond that, my account of events sounded highly suspect.

  I cleared my throat. “You know it’s very difficult for people to process memories accurately under severe duress. It’s a well-known psychological phenomenon. Of course my story didn’t link up perfectly.”

  “They think you’re hiding something.” I heard a loud gulp as he took a sip of something. “Let me revise my orders. Return to the London office, clear up your story so it makes sense, and come back to Virginia.”

  “Sure.” I wasn’t going back to the FBI offices, but at least this plan would buy me some time. Forget serial killers. They were no longer my singular, obsessive interest. I had a lot to learn about the fae, about how I was connected to them. “I’ll head back soon.”

  “I want you on a flight within three days.” The line went dead.

  I sighed, shoving the phone back in my pocket, and crossed back to the group of tourists, looking out on the Thames again.

  The tour guide wore a gleeful expression. “Before the fire, the bubonic plague had claimed half the city. The red crosses on the doors meant people inside were slowly dying of festering and bleeding lymph nodes. So, in a way, the flames were a mercy.”

  The tourists had gone a bit pale, and the mother covered her little girl’s ears as the guide went on to describe the plague doctors in their terrifying, bird-like masks. Surely there was a Disney version of this story he could spin.

  As I thought of London’s dark and disturbing history—the shadow city, connected to our own—my thoughts turned to Roan. I felt a tiny spark of rage when he entered my mind. He’d manipulated me, had stalked me for years, used me like a pawn for his own personal goals. On the other hand, he’d also saved my life. But I couldn’t trust him—not until I knew more.

  I glance
d at the time. Quarter to five. I’d give it to five, and then I’d find a pub. Scarlett had my phone number—

  “Pink? Seriously, Cass? Two weeks without me and you dye your hair pink?” the familiar soft voice said behind me.

  I turned around, grinning at the sight of her. Scarlett. Sunlight blazed through her auburn hair, and her mouth twisted in mock horror. Still, I could see the amusement twinkling in her green eyes. She was stylishly dressed in leather leggings, a cute black jacket, and a white blouse she’d borrowed from me months ago and never returned.

  “Hey,” I said, and to my surprise, my voice broke. Tears rising, I rushed to her, hugging her tight, burying my face in her hair as I blinked away the tears. I hadn’t realized how much I missed having a familiar, friendly face around me. All the people I had met here, even Gabriel, were still strangers. I couldn’t open up to them completely. With Scarlett here, I felt as if I’d regained a piece of myself.

  “Hey Cass,” she whispered in my ear, hugging me tight.

  We held each other for a few seconds, and then she pulled away, and scanned me from top to bottom.

  “Well, okay,” she said. “Frankly, it looks good on you. Though I don’t know what your boss would say. Who’s ever heard of an FBI agent with pink hair?”

  “I’ll dye it before I fly back,” I said. I wasn’t sure if that would do any good. Roan had changed it with magic. Could peroxide get rid of pink glamour?

  Scarlett walked over to the metal grid, threading her fingers through the holes. She stared at the city in awe, and I gave her a moment. Scarlett had a thing for London—especially its ancient history.

  “How long are you here for?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Until things get sorted out.”

  “Right.” I didn’t ask what things. We never asked each other about work.

  She shrugged. “I was hoping you could help us with it.”

  I blinked in surprise. “Help you? The CIA? How could I—”

  She turned to me, lowering her voice to a whisper. “We were hoping for some inter-agency cooperation, Cass. I got cleared to talk to you about it.” She nodded at the tourists. “Not here, of course. Somewhere safe.”

  “But… cooperation about what?”

  She looked at me intently. “Trinovantum.”

  My expression instantly went blank by reflex, revealing nothing. Hearing Scarlett utter the name of the fae city was practically the weirdest thing to happen in weeks. My skin prickled. Scarlett’s eyes narrowed, and I knew she could see she had struck a nerve.

  “Not here,” she said quickly. “We’ll go to the embassy. We have—”

  A boom interrupted her sentence. A tourist shrieked, pointing. In the distance, a thick cloud of dark smoke billowed into the air, and just beneath it, the flicker of orange and yellow flames.

  “An explosion,” I breathed.

  “Shit,” Scarlett muttered. “Oh, shit shit shit. We’re too late.”

  Another boom ripped through the air, and my heart clenched. A towering, glass-fronted building not far from us shuddered, and a cloud of smoke curled from within. Tall, bright flames licked the building’s windows.

  “The number of the beast,” Scarlett muttered. “The idiots had it wrong. It was never about the monument. It was about the fucking fire itself.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  Boom. Smoke rose from another building, just up the hill. Even closer.

  “The Great Fire of London,” Scarlett said. “They’re repeating it, except with bombs. And the path seems to be in reverse.”

  “Who’s repeating it?”

  Her green eyes glinted with rage. “Who do you think? It’s them, Cassandra.”

  I swallowed hard. “If the explosions are going in reverse…”

  A large explosion thundered, close enough for us to feel the blast and the heat. Screams rose around us as it became clear we were not safe up here in our tower. Frantically, the tourists began shoving each other to get to the stairs. My pulse raced, but I’d have to wait, or we’d all trample each other to death in the narrow stairs.

  Boom. The windows and walls blew out of the lower story of a concrete building just below us—the underground station. People in the street scrambled away in panic, screams rending the air. Cars screeched, and the road erupted into a frenzied dance of its own.

  “Look,” Scarlett said, her voice surprisingly steady.

  I instinctively noticed what drew her attention. Two figures strolled from the flaming building—not running like the rest, but moving at a calm pace. Our culprits.

  “We have to get to them,” she said.

  “We’re too far. We—”

  “Move!” she shouted, racing for the stairs. She thundered down the spiraling steps at a shocking speed, pushing through the crowd at the bottom. I ran after her as best I could, my breath ragged in my throat. When we got to the monument’s base, I raced out into the street, just catching sight of those two figures moving up Fish Hill Street, walking past the smoking underground station. Already Scarlett was taking after them on foot, but I had another method of transportation.

  My heart thundering, I rummaged in my purse and pulled out one of my many brand new compact mirrors.

  I popped it open, then gazed into it, staring at my own blue eyes, my pink hair catching in the wind. I let the reflection becoming part of me, bonding with it, feeling it slide over my body like a second skin. My fae senses searched for another reflection down on the street. There. A shop’s window, reflecting the running, screaming throng, and the two figures slowly ambling amidst it all. Was it my imagination, or was one of them half the size of the other?

  I let the reflections merge, and passed through, feeling the cold magic wash over me. Dizzy, I stumbled onto the street, the heat of flames blazing behind me.

  Chapter 2

  Fear.

  The emotion vibrated in the air around me, and pulsed through my gut like a bass drum. My body surged with power, making my skin tingle, my heart thrum, my senses sharpen. Fae fed off human feelings, and each of us was tuned to a specific emotion. Some could draw power from rage, others from lust, or happiness.

  And my drug was fear. Or, in Roan’s charming words, I was a terror leech.

  Right now, the crowd’s terror pulsed through my blood, igniting my powers. With this rush of fear, I felt I could run a thousand miles, or lift a car in the air.

  My vision sharpened and I scanned the crowds, searching for two people moving slower than the rest. It took about twenty seconds before I spotted them, strolling through the crowd.

  A tall, dark-haired woman and a blond boy. Who would suspect them?

  I focused hard on them, trying to see their true forms. For just a moment, their bodies flickered. A pair of fiery wings shimmered on the boy’s back, and the woman’s feet transformed into strong, brown hooves. Fae, of course.

  For a second, I almost dashed after them, pumped up on the hysteria that reverberated between my ribs.

  I managed to stop myself in time. My own feelings were far from calm right now. I was a pixie, a half fae. The two full-blooded terrorist fae would easily sense my emotions as soon as I got anywhere near them. Even in this chaos, my pixie emotions would resonate through the air like an alarm. A woman and a child seemed harmless, but I’d learned to ignore appearances. That kid could be a creature from my worst nightmares, for all I knew.

  Instead, I needed to follow them from afar, see where they were going, and form a plan. The least I could do was postpone any conflict until we were somewhere less populated. Tucking my head down, I matched my pace to theirs and followed them from a distance of a few dozen yards. I’d bolt after them as soon as they ran.

  At the top of the hill, they turned right, disappearing from my view. It took all my self-control not to sprint after them. Instead, I hastened my pace just a bit.

  Already, police constables were storming the streets, many of them crouching to help the injured, to bind wounds
and staunch the bleeding. When I reached the street corner, I searched frantically through the crowd. Chaos reigned here in the center of the city. Black smoke curled into the sky and sirens blared, nearly drowning out the screaming. Panicking crowds jostled me as they ran from burning buildings. Using my heightened senses, I could still focus on the strange couple as they crossed the street—the only people in London who moved with the casual stride of two humans out for a walk on the beach. I loosed a slow breath, relieved that I hadn’t lost them. Still matching their pace, I moved across the street after them, weaving between the panicking crowds.

  My phone buzzed, and Scarlett’s name shone on the screen. I flicked it open.

  “Where are you?” Tension tightened her voice.

  I glanced at the street sign. “Eastcheap Street. I’m following them. They’re approaching Philpot Lane.”

  “Don’t let them out of your sight.” She sounded out of breath. “I’m on my way.”

  “Right.” My gaze was locked on them as they turned left. “They just turned onto Philpot Lane.”

  “Don’t lose them!” she panted into the phone.

  “I won’t,” I snapped. Like she was the only one who knew how to track a perpetrator.

  I bit my lip as I turned onto the narrow road. Perhaps I was getting a little too close to them if I didn’t want to give my game away. I glanced at one of the shop windows, mentally merging with the reflection. The glass morphed to my will, showing a different image on Philpot Lane: The woman and the child walked calmly, their faces now visible. The child smiled, talking excitedly. Anger darkened the woman’s eyes, and she didn’t answer his prattling.

  My pulse raced, and I held my phone to my ear. “I still see them.”

  Billowing smoke clouded the air, and a fire truck flew by me, sirens blaring. Through the phone, the same siren whined. Scarlett was close.

  “Don’t engage them yet,” Scarlett said. “We’ll do it together.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. I was half-fae and pumped up by terror, but Scarlett was just a human. A trained CIA operative, but still. She’d be no match for the fae. “Scarlett, listen, these two… they’re dangerous.”