One area, a roughly circular patch surrounding an oak nearly four feet in diameter, belongs to the Shadow Agency.
There were a thousand ways for an employee of the SA to die in the line of duty, ranging from the law-enforcement standard gunshot wound to being totally dissolved in the caustic slime coat of a ThrCzrnog demon. Every employee from Agent to janitor had a form on file for postmortem instructions: burial versus cremation, funereal rites, next-of-kin.
Vampires never left corpses, as no matter how they died their bodies simply fell to ash. Naiads were susceptible to a variety of water-borne illnesses and pollutants, and the minute they died, their bodies began to dry out and shrivel with no way to preserve them. Humans liked to pump their dead full of chemicals in a belated attempt to stave off mortality. And Elves…
Sara didn't know about Elves, and now…
In so many instances there was nothing to bury. Around the base of the oak there was a ring of stone markers with the names and dates of those who had left nothing behind.
Once she would have found standing in a graveyard at night a creepy experience. Now, she did everything at night, and it was so normal, her eyes had no trouble separating the black trunk of the tree from the black trench coat of the figure standing before it, head bowed, silent as the stones themselves.
She stayed away for a while, but eventually she had to go to him—she had to see it for herself, to make herself believe.
Without realizing it she sank to her knees, reaching out to touch the newest stone, to trace the letters carved into it. She couldn't read it. She had always meant to ask, to learn, but she'd never got around to it.
After a long moment she forced herself to look up through her tears. When she saw what he was holding in his hand she nearly curled up in a ball and sobbed, but she no longer had the strength for that much emotion; instead it felt like she was leaking sorrow out through her eyes, and she had given up trying to dam it.
The moonlight caught the silver, and she saw the broken edge. The black smudges of soot had been carefully polished off, and she could see him doing it in her mind's eye, his talented hands running over the letters of his own name, shaking, the loss too deep for weeping, too deep even to feel.
Sara wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her coat and looked up to his face. She remembered, months and months ago when she had first joined the SA, how distant he had been, and how gradually something in him had opened, just a little. Love had changed him, but now, the look on his face was the same she had seen back then, absolutely expressionless, devoid of anything human or warm.
Softly, she asked, "What are we going to do?"
SA-7's voice was hard. "We go back to work."
He turned away from the tree and took the sidewalk that led from it like a spoke in a wheel, and she pushed herself up and followed.
"But—" she began.
He rounded on her, and there was a moment's spark of cold fury in his eyes, quickly snuffed and replaced with even colder resignation. "This is our life, Sara. This is what happens. We work, we fight, we die. Nothing lasts. Nothing ever has. Accept that, and next time it'll be easier."
She met his gaze evenly. "And next time for you?"
He lowered his eyes. "Trust me, there won't be one. I'm not making this mistake again."
She had to practically run to keep up with him, but her anger gave her renewed energy. "That's what it was? That's what he was, a mistake?" She tried to grab his arm, but he shook her off. "Talk to me, damn it. You can't keep this up. You haven't even slept since—"
"Code back onto the network," he snarled. "Inform your Ear that you're on your way back to base. And next time you skip out on your patrol to come looking for me, SA-9, you'll be hauled in front of the disciplinary committee and put on suspension." He stuffed the bracelet into his coat pocket, the considerably longer length of his stride leaving her behind, and added, "Time doesn't stop for death. The world doesn't care about what you've lost. It's all the same--in the end it all comes to dust."
"Then why are you still here?" she yelled after him, her voice nearly swallowed in the cemetery's silence. "What's the point of even trying?"
He paused and turned back to her, and she could see the luminous silver of his eyes, but it wasn't bloodlust she saw in them, it was grief.
When he spoke it was barely above a whisper, but the wind carried it to her almost gently.
"I don't know anymore," he said, and walked away.
*****
"What?"
Ness stared back at him across her desk, her expression belying his momentary belief that she was making some sort of joke. "I'm relieving you of active duty, Jason. Two weeks. That's not a suggestion, it's an order."
He started to snap at her, but she cut him off sternly. "I don't want to hear it. You've barely slept in nearly two months, you haven't had a single day off, and you look like absolute hell. Sage is terrified to say two words to you, you punched a cop in the face yesterday—right now you're a liability to this Agency, and I won't have you destroying your reputation or ours."
Rage clouded his vision, and he had the urge to reach across the desk and break her neck, but she looked him straight in the eye, ignoring their color change, and said more gently, "You have to stop this. You're going to kill yourself."
He gripped the arms of his chair so hard the wood creaked. "Promise?"
Ness took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and when she spoke again it was with surprising emotion. "It's never easy to lose an Agent. Six months ago when SA-9 was shot I had to make the call to his family in Wisconsin—it's one of the worst things about this position, having to give that kind of news, especially when you can't tell someone what their son really did for a living, and the true nature of the heroism he showed. I thought there was nothing worse than that feeling, until the night I sent all of you out there to stop that raid and had to listen, helpless, as one of the best Agents ever known to this branch, and a friend of mine, was simply…gone. And now I'm dangerously close to losing you, too, and to be frank with you, Jason, I'm afraid of what will happen to this place if that occurs."
She slid a form across the desk along with a pen. "This is the request for bereavement leave you should have submitted seven weeks ago. You're not suspended; this won't be a mark on your record. Sign it. Please."
He stared at the pen for a long moment, and it was like so many things—he couldn't remember what to do with it. Sometimes he found himself standing in the middle of the street with a gun in his hand and no idea how to fire. He remembered Beck appearing beside him one night and carefully prying a coathanger from his fingers; he'd been standing there with it in the living room for over an hour when she found him, eyes fixed on nothing, mind running in circles.
Finally he picked the pen up, and watched his hand write out the letters of his name in surprisingly even script. Then he pushed himself away from the desk and left Ness's office without another word.
He didn't realize until he was back at their...his…quarters that he was still holding the pen.
He dropped it carelessly in the hallway and ran his badge over the door scanner. This was the last place he wanted to be, but where else could he go? This apartment, this handful of rooms with the mixed belongings of two people from completely separate worlds, had been a sanctuary for them both, and now it was nothing but a collection of furniture and the clawing void where there should be warmth, just like the one in the back of his mind.
That feeling, that overwhelming sense of vacancy, was why he hadn't slept. He had tried; even a vampire could only go so long without rest, but every time he lay down in his bed, the silence bore down on him and the walls closed in. He flung himself out of bed time and again and all but ran for the gun range or the training rooms.
The only sleep he had eked out had not really been restful; he'd collapsed once from exhaustion, and another time had drunk himself unconscious.
He leaned back against the door, unwilling to take even another step i
nto the place. He had barely touched anything since that last night; it almost looked like nothing had happened. There was still a half-empty wine glass on the coffee table, the fleece throw blanket was still in a heap on the couch. The only thing that was obviously wrong was the paper bag sitting on the table, and only because it was starting to smell. Three days ago he'd found himself returning from yet another round of patrols with a Whole Foods bag in his hands, just like a thousand nights before, and it was only when he stopped a moment and looked around the room that reality settled back over him.
Robotically, he walked over and picked up the bag, taking it into the kitchen to throw away. He looked around in confusion for a while, his mind skipping like an old CD, and then dragged the trash can over to the fridge, a blast of cold air hitting his face as he opened the door. He removed one item at a time and dropped it into the trash without letting himself think. Oranges, rotten grapes, a carton of expired chocolate Silk; a pint of sorbet from the freezer. When there was nothing left but blood and beer, he tied the bag shut and shoved it away, irritated at the way his hands were shaking.
He took a shower, but it was a blip on the memory radar, and time seemed to jump forward to entering his bedroom to find clothes. There were still two broken pieces of a bow lying on the floor where he'd snapped it in half three weeks ago. He hadn't intended to; he'd been putting the Tempest into her case and folding up the music stand when suddenly he picked up the bow and broke it and then threw it, hard, at the wall.
Dr. Nava had given him a variety of pills last month, none of which he'd taken, but if he was going to survive the next two weeks it would have to be in a stupor of some kind. He wrenched open the bottle of Ambien and washed three of them down with a shot of whiskey.
The second bedroom was exactly as it had been left, and as always, it was a contrast to his own. The bed was made, the floor clear, no piles of clean laundry waiting to be put away. The light aftertaste of incense still clung to the air over the scent of blown-out candles.
The pillows still smelled of organic herbal shampoo and soap. He pressed his face into one of them, breathing it in, and that was how Sara found him half an hour later; he heard the door beep from miles away, and sensed her entering the apartment and looking for him. She stood in the doorway for a long time before she said anything.
"I heard you're on leave," she said.
He would have snorted if he hadn't had a face full of pillow. Time did not stop for death or for the Shadow Agency gossip machine.
When he looked up at her she was crying again, but he didn't have the energy to be annoyed. Perhaps it was the drugs, but he finally felt tired, so tired it took effort to speak. "What do you want, Sara?"
"I came to check on you. Beck sent me—she's coming to see you as soon as she's off duty."
"Tell her not to bother. I'm fine."
A humorless laugh. "Right." She came into the room, lifting one hand to touch the wall adjacent to the door. It was painted in the mottled colors of the forest, with translucent leaves glazed over it that looked like they were drifting toward the floor. "I helped paint this wall," she said quietly, tracing a leaf with her fingers. "I've always loved this room."
He turned his head so he could see her better. "Did you have sex in here?"
She looked aghast at the question, but swallowed hard and said, "Of course."
They hadn't ever really talked about that. It had lain mostly unspoken between them for over a year since the handfasting—he'd never really been sure if his opinion of the whole thing should change or not, and she had apparently never wanted to bring it up. There had been others, he knew; the Naiad, Sedna, a couple of humans. He had never indulged himself, but it hadn't bothered him. But Sara was different. Sara was loved. Looking at it now, it was really too late to object, and truthfully he didn't want to.
"If I'd known the last time was going to be the last time, it would have been in here," he murmured, "not up against the wall of my office."
Sara smiled slightly. "Living room floor," she noted. "Mine. The cat kept licking my face. We ended up laughing so hard we couldn't finish."
Unbidden the memory of the time-before-the-last rose up, and it had in fact been in this very room. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to see it, but he couldn't help himself. A Saturday, he recalled, and they'd both been off for the whole weekend, and they'd made love for nearly five hours, so slowly and reverently the world beyond the bedroom had fallen away. Afterward they'd watched a movie...something entertaining but completely stupid…The Fifth Element.
That was the last movie they would ever watch together. The last time they'd ever sweat all over each other in this bed. The last glass of wine, the last snuggle on the couch, the last…the last…the last.
Two days later there was the deafening sound of an explosion, the stench of burned flesh, the screams of the four survivors who had since been relocated to Clan Willow. An explosion, the roar of flames…and silence on the other end of the comm line. The next day, the forensics team sifting through the remains would bring him a broken piece of silver, and his last threads of hope would be severed.
Fire.
It was always fire.
He looked up at Sara, and something in his face made her cross the room and sit down on the bed beside him, a fresh round of tears in her eyes. She laid an experimental hand on his arm and slid it down to his hand, and out of impulse he took it, trying not to squeeze so hard he broke her fingers.
"He's dead," he said softly. "Rowan's dead."
She swallowed, and nodded. "Yes."
"I couldn't save him."
"No."
"He's gone." The words were strange on his lips, and felt so unbelievably wrong, but that didn't stop them from being true. "He's gone."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He didn't speak again, and didn't weep, but she stayed at his side, holding onto his hand, until the drugs swept over him and he finally, finally slept.
Part Two
Kir cried out in his sleep, arms flailing weakly against an invisible assailant. The sound was as heartbreaking as it was familiar--he'd woken himself this way almost every night for weeks.
"Hush now," Sethen murmured to him, gently taking his arms and holding him down so he wouldn't hurt himself. "You're safe, little lost one. You're safe."
Whimpering, Kir opened his eyes and stared up at Sethen, momentarily not recognizing him. "Where..."
"You're safe," Sethen repeated, letting him go and stroking his face with careful fingers. "Just breathe, and remember."
"I was so afraid," Kir whispered, clinging to him desperately. "There was fire..."
"No, no...let that go. Remember where you are now. Breathe... in...out...good."
Slowly, breath by breath, the young Elf calmed, and the wildness left his eyes. He was almost talking to himself as he said, "My name is Kir. I'm an initiate of Clan Yew. I'm a Healer. The Clan saved me and brought me to live in the light of the Goddess."
"That's right." Sethen drew him close, and the young Healer burrowed into his shoulder, his hands clutching Sethen's arms. "And where are you right now?"
Kir drew back, and there was a shaky but genuine smile on his lips. "With you."
Sethen smiled back. "That will do," he said, and kissed the Healer softly, banishing the last of the nightmares. Kir returned the kiss with surprising fervor--but then, he was like that, wandering the village in a daze like all the new initiates, then giving himself over completely to passion, as if for a few hours there was nothing else in the world.
Sethen had found himself feeling uncharacteristic tenderness toward the Healer, though at first he had been annoyed that the Council had assigned him as Kir's mentor--the last thing he'd needed was a wide-eyed neophyte to the Way following him around complaining about his post-initiatory amnesia, but Kir...perhaps it was the way his hands wound through Sethen's hair, pulling just enough; or perhaps it was how he wrapped his body around Sethen's, pressing hard against him
while his tongue darted into the Guardian’s mouth; or perhaps it was simply the sweetness of his presence, bringing something warm into what had been a cold existence.
Whatever it was, he surrendered quite happily to Kir's hands and lips, letting the Healer find his way beneath blankets and robes, his eyes aflame in the moonlight that streamed through their window.
*****
Dawn slipped quietly over the forest, lifting the mist that held onto the valley every morning and muffled even the sounds of morning birds.
The Agency, Volume II Page 22
