Agent of Enchantment (Dark Fae FBI Book 1)
Page 1
Agent of Enchantment
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 Enchantment
Book 1 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 fae lay on the ancient flagstones, candlelight dancing over his handsome features.
I had power over him now, and it intoxicated me. I was beyond taking things slow, beyond being careful. I was a fugitive, at the end of the line. I had very little to lose.
Standing below the towering stone arches of the ancient London church, I stared at him. Candlelight wavered around the nave, and high above me, thick shadows danced over the peaked vaults like malicious spirits. I took a deep breath, the battle over.
At least, I thought it was over.
As I drew closer, he seemed to rally, his lips curling into a grimace. With a roar, he leapt to his feet, charging me in a blur of movement. He moved impossibly fast, and yet to my eyes time seemed to slow down. His powerful arms swung like heavy pendulums, as if he were moving through a sea of honey.
Reflexes took over as I slid aside and let his fist pass me. Then, with both hands, I grabbed his wrist. Dipping my hips, I used his momentum to send him flying into a stone pillar. The crunch of his bones echoed off the vaulted ceiling, and dusty stone rained down on us.
The asshole had wanted to keep me in a cage, to torture me for fun. He wasn’t going to see my merciful side.
With a dark smile curling my lips, I stalked toward him. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead, and he glared at me with his good eye. He snarled, a bestial sound—a predator, unused to being prey. As I came within reach, he tried to punch me in the stomach.
I slapped his hand away, then backhanded him across the face. His head snapped right, and he fell to the floor. I picked him up by the collar and hurled him at a row of pews. When he crashed into them, his body splintered the wood.
And yet he kept going, dragging himself up again, breath rasping.
This time I charged fast, intent on beating seven shades of shit out of him, but he was reaching for his boot. A knife? No. I recognized the familiar shape of a Glock 17, rising to point at my chest. My heart thundered. Shit shit shit. I dove, but not in time.
A gunshot echoed off the stone. Pain ripped through my side. Gasping, I fell back, clutching at my waist, my hands covered in blood.
He stood slowly, training the gun on me as I stumbled back, pain splintering my gut. The custom iron bullet seared me from within, and I fell to my knees.
Already the poison was spreading through my body, dizzying me. Quenching my magic. I gritted my teeth, mentally whispering my mantra. Be prepared to kill everyone you meet. Right about now, that wasn’t working out so well for me.
His pale eyes flashing with fury, he pulled the trigger again, but it only clicked dully. The gun was empty. A small mercy.
“Well.” He smiled wryly, walking toward me. “I guess I could always kill you the old-fashioned way.”
I crawled away from him, gripping my gut, trying to block out the searing agony. “I should have known it was you. A fascination with power. Obsession with fear. You worship chaos…” Shivers wracked my body as the blood seeped through my fingers. “I profiled you all along.”
“Mmm. Yet look where you are now, mongrel,” he growled, eyes gleaming.
“Yeah, well…” I looked down at my blood-stained fingers. “I like to know that I got things right.”
He kicked me in the stomach, right where he’d shot me. I gasped with pain, collapsing to my back, staring at the arched stone ceiling. Shadows writhed along the pillars, as if this place were cursed. And maybe it was—Smithfield, the vortex of slaughter. Moaning, I gritted my teeth.
The fae smiled, apparently enjoying my grimace of pain.
At the sight of his shit-eating grin, rage flared in me. Fight, Cassandra. Always fight. If only there were some way I could use my remaining magic… I grasped around me for metal, glass, anything.
“No one to save you anymore.” He knelt over me, running a fingertip down my chest. “No more tricks. No more magic. Just me and you. Do you know what I think I’d like to do? Break your ribs, one by one. I want to see the fear in your eyes. What do you think, profiler? Will I enjoy it?”
A line of blood trickled from my mouth. “I think you need a more pro-social hobby.”
He leaned over me, his pupils black as coal, completely devoid of feeling. “Ready to die, mongrel?” he asked, pressing his knee on the gunshot wound.
I screamed.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” His fingers wrapped around my throat.
As if in a dream, I stared into his eyes. So soulless, so empty, that I could see nothing in them but my own reflection.
Chapter 2
Five days earlier
Despite my Special Agent training, I nearly got myself killed three seconds after leaving Heathrow airport. I could handle snipers, knife attacks, poison, bombs—just not cars driving on the left side of the road.
But hey, in my defense, I was a bit preoccupied with the serial killer case I’d been called in to profile.
Anyway, three steps into the road, and it was all screeching brakes, honking, and the words “stupid twat” and “fuckwit” piercing the air.
And I’d been thinking everyone in England would be polite.
As the red-faced man continued his tirade (“Watch where you’re going, fucking dozy mare!”), I jumped back to the sidewalk, cheeks burning. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. I was in England now. The land of Shakespeare, Chaucer, and—as I was quickly learning—inventive swearing. They drove on the left here, something I should really keep in mind.
Having oriented myself, I decided that maybe navigating my way to a bus in a foreign city in the middle of the night was beyond my capabilities right now.
I mentally scanned through everything I’d digested in my tourist guide on the plane: trains, the Underground, black cabs. Perhaps best to just get one of those. Supposedly, the black cab drivers were required to memorize the entire city, street by street.
I turned, catching a glimpse of the yellow Taxi sign by a long line of cabs. Pulling my suitcase behind me, I hurried across the crosswalk, back toward the terminal. As I hustled past the airport’s gleaming windows, I caught a glimps
e of myself: pale skin, rumpled blond hair, wrinkled skirt, and coffee stains on my white sweater.
Apart from the gloriousness of my favorite black boots, I looked like shit.
I reached the line of black cabs, and a bearded man rolled down the window, leaning over. “Taxi?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, relieved. “I need to get to the Bishopsgate police station.”
“No problem.” He smiled. “Hop in. I’ll get your bags.”
I let him put my carry-on in the trunk while I slid into the back seat. At least some of them are polite.
The driver got in, switched on the engine, and rolled into traffic. I relaxed into the soft leather seat.
I stared out the window at the dark West London streets. I was pretty sure we had a long drive ahead of us to the other side of London—the part called “the City.” It was the old section of London, the part the Romans had encircled with a wall nearly two thousand years ago. The wall had fallen, but the ancient Square Mile still had its own governing bodies, separate from the rest of London. The Square Mile even had its own City police force.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. My stomach churned as I watched the contact name slowly scroll across the screen: Under No Circumstances Should You Answer A Call From This Ballsack, it read.
That would be my ex-boyfriend.
See? Brits aren’t the only ones who can swear creatively.
I’m not normally the angry sort, but when I’d come home to find that my boyfriend had left open a dating site on my computer (username: VirginiaStallion), the swears had just rolled off the tongue.
According to a quick Google search, the Virginia Stallion had also been quite busy swapping dating tips on bodybuilding forums. Apparently, wearing a nicely tailored suit attracts the ladies, and Valentine’s Day can be a nightmare when you’re “banging three chicks on the regular.” All things I’d learned in the past two weeks.
You’d think I’d be more careful about the kind of men I let into my life. Lesson learned for the future.
Scowling, I shoved my phone back in my pocket.
The driver glanced back at me. “Did you come from America or Canada?”
“The US. It’s my first time here.” I bit my lip. “Have you ever encountered the phrase ‘dozy mare?’”
“Did someone call you that, miss?”
“Based on the context, I’m assuming it wasn’t a compliment.”
“I wouldn’t pay it any mind, love.” He turned onto a highway. “You working with the police at Bishopsgate? I don’t imagine you came all the way from America to report a crime.”
“Just doing a bit of consulting,” I said. “Insider trading cases in the City. White-collar stuff.”
A lie, and one boring enough that he wouldn’t ask any follow-up questions. I’d become quite used to lying after a few years with the Bureau, though I still lacked the skill of the Virginia Stallion.
“Right,” he said. “The financial district. You ask me, half those people should be in jail. Mucking about with the stock market and all that. Screws it up for everyone.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
My lies bored even me, but I wasn’t about to expose the fact that I was here to profile London’s most famous serial killer since Jack the Ripper. Plus, it creeped people out when I said I was an FBI special agent. And it particularly spooked them if they learned I worked for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, as a psychologist who profiled criminals. All of a sudden, people got jittery, as if I were going to unearth their darkest secrets just by looking into their eyes.
We lapsed into silence as the cab sped along the M4. As we drove further into the city, I began to feel a change tingle over my body, as though my senses were becoming heightened. Here, in the center of the City, the streetlights seemed to burn brighter, washing the streets in white light. On a road called Chancery Lane, we drove past squat Tudor-looking buildings, the colored lights from the shops on their lower floors dazzling off puddles on the pavement. No one lingered on the dark streets at this hour, but for just a moment, I thought I heard the buzz of a crowd of people; then it faded into the distance again.
A shiver rippled over my body. I’d never been to London, and yet I had a strange sense of déjà vu here. Get a grip, Cassandra.
The driver turned to me. “You hear about the new Ripper murders in the City?” he asked.
“I did hear about them. It freaked me out. Nearly canceled my trip,” I lied. “You don’t normally get many murders around here, do you?”
“Not like you do. We don’t have guns. But these murders… I wouldn’t advise walking around at night if I was you. From what I hear, they didn’t even put the worst of it in the papers. The girls they found, they was…” He cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t want to scare you.”
“I’ll certainly be careful.”
I didn’t need him to tell me the details—I’d been poring over them for the entire flight, and before that, in my BAU office back at Quantico. I practically knew the depth of each laceration by heart. Still, the cab driver’s concern was cute, and I appreciated it. I was quickly reviving my “polite” theory of Brits.
A few days ago, the City of London police had persuaded me to fly to the UK. The London FBI overseas office was slammed with other work, the attachés delving into investigations of terrorism cases and election interference. None of them had time for a serial killer, but I’d made my career off these cases. I’d been researching serial killers for the Bureau for years. The strange details of this case had piqued my Unit Chief’s interest—enough that he was willing to foot the bill. And the City Police wanted to meet me as soon as I arrived—a Detective Constable Stewart was waiting for me, even at this late hour.
I rummaged in my bag, searching for some makeup and my mirrored compact. I pulled out a rose lipstick and dotted some pink on to my pale cheeks in the reflection. As I did, something glimmered in my blue irises—a hint of rushing water, like a rolling river.
I snapped the compact shut. I am losing my mind. I obviously needed sleep, or water, or perhaps several Manhattans.
I rubbed my forehead. I was supposed to head straight to the station to quickly meet the detective, and the details of the case nagged at the back of my mind.
The driver looked over his shoulder at me. “Lots of papers to go through, I imagine. With your sort of work.”
“Oh, you have no idea. I’d better go through some of the financials now, in fact.” Diving back into my bag, I pulled out the case reports the police had sent earlier that week. I flipped through them, taking care to shield the gruesome photos from the driver.
Over the past month, three young women had been found dead in London. The killer had slashed their throats and abdomens open. And just like Jack the Ripper, he’d claimed macabre trophies: a uterus from one, a kidney and heart from another. From the third victim, he’d taken her liver.
So was this a Ripper copycat? The papers certainly thought so. The UK tabloids were already gleefully declaring “The Ripper Is Back!”
I wasn’t so sure we were dealing with the same mentality. The killer was almost certainly inspired by the Ripper, but he was killing at a much faster pace.
Staring at one of the crime scene photos, I shook my head. I’d never understood why Jack the Ripper had gotten so much attention. He was hardly the worst, in numbers or methodology. Perhaps it was the name that had inspired endless horror stories. Or the fact that the lack of resolution provided fertile ground for wild conspiracies. Whatever the reason, no one could quite let it go.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I grumbled under my breath. But when I pulled it out to glance at the screen, it read Unknown Number.
Tentatively, I swiped the screen. “Hello?”
“Agent Liddell?” It was a British man with a deep voice. A faint London accent, I thought.
“Speaking.”
“I’m Detective Constable Gabriel Stewart. I’m the detective in charge of the serial kill
er cases.”
“Right. Hi. I’m on my way to meet you right now.” Gabriel was supposed to be my contact.
He cleared his throat. “I think you should come directly to Mitre Square instead.”
I glanced at the time. It was past midnight. “Why?”
“There’s been another murder.” He paused for a moment as a siren wailed in the background. “Mitre Square is the location of the crime scene.”
* * *
If I had any hope that the crime scene would be reasonably contained, it evaporated the moment I turned down the narrow covered alley leading to Mitre Square. Blocked by a line of police tape, a small crowd jammed one end of the passage, barring my way. One of the men seemed to be leaning against the wall, half asleep, and the entire passage smelled of piss and beer.
Pausing, I pulled out my phone to call Detective Stewart.
“Hello?” The detective answered almost immediately.
“Detective, it’s Cassandra.”
“Who?”
“Agent Cassandra Liddell.”
“Oh, right! Are you close?”
“I’m standing just outside the crime scene perimeter in Mitre Passage,” I said. “Do you want to let me inside?”
“Sure, just wait until Officer Holbrook comes over to you. Flash your badge, and he’ll let you right through.”
“Maybe I should be more discreet with all these spectators around?”
He went silent for a moment. “Good point,” he finally said. “I’ll come for you myself.”
I hung up, gripping my suitcase a little tighter and scanning the crowd. For all I knew, the killer could be lingering around here to watch the action. It was one of those weird quirks of some serial killers, returning to the scene of the crime to relive it. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, as his previous history suggested he wasn’t overtly psychotic or disorganized. But it wouldn’t hurt to memorize the faces for later. I looked at them hard for a long moment, imprinting the view in my mind. Satisfied, I relaxed and took a deep breath.