The Agency

You know, shit like this isn't really supposed to happen to file clerks.

I knelt on my living room floor, hands behind my head, staring fixedly at the barrel of the gun that glinted off the light of my altar candles, while all around me men in black with the kind of rifles you see in Army movies tossed my apartment. I could hear my cat, Pywacket, growling menacingly from under the couch, but the intruders took no notice of him--small mercies, I guess.

I can handle a lot of things, but even men with guns shouldn't mess with a Witch's cat.

At some point in the five or so minutes between the front door flying open and me winding up on my knees in front of the TV--where an episode of Torchwood was still playing--I had gone from terrified to numb to the verge of hysterical laughter. Shock, I supposed. My mind was operating quite rationally given the utter ridiculousness of the situation.

"I told you," I repeated, amazed at the calm in my voice. "My name is Sara Larson. I'm a temp, I do filing at the Capitol Area Tissue and Organ Bank. I moved here from Houston a month ago. I am no longer affiliated with the Blue Moon Rising coven."

"Then why did their high priest, a man calling himself WolfStar, place five calls to your cell number in the last week?"

The man asking the questions didn't look like the sort who had the slightest idea what really went on in a Wiccan coven, and hearing a name like WolfStar in his brisk military tone almost brought the laughter bubbling up past my lips. Well, laughter, and my dinner. Tacos had been a bad, bad idea.

"I didn't answer," I replied. "I don't want anything to do with those people."

"And why is that?"

"They're…okay, in Wicca we have this rule about not hurting people. You know, like with guns?" I glanced around at the other men, who seemed mostly finished tearing through my possessions. "Blue Moon Rising was doing things I didn't agree with."

"What, like hexing people?"

A low undercurrent of laughter went around the room, and my hand clenched with impotent anger. Pointing a gun at my head, destroying my home, scaring my cat, insulting my religion. Had to be the military. "Yes, like hexing people. You must know what went on, otherwise I can't imagine why you'd be here threatening the life of an overweight woman in pajamas. I mean, wouldn't it have been easier to have some nice agent in a suit show up at my door first? You don't even know who I am."

"Sara Elizabeth Larson," came a voice, and the room fell deathly silent. "Born in Wharton, Texas, November 17, 1978. Only child of Meredith and Richard Larson, both deceased. National Merit Scholar, flunked out of Rice University after discovering marijuana, tequila, and the Wiccan religion, in that order. Second degree priestess of the Blue Moon Rising coven, moved to Austin after said coven was discovered performing black magic resulting in the death of two former members. Currently a resident of Salem Walk apartments, single, cohabits with a male American shorthair named Pywacket. Vegetarian, member of the Sierra Club, PETA, and the Texas Pagan Alliance."

I stared as another black-clad figure stepped through my doorway, this one in a black trench coat. When the others saw him, they automatically stepped back--including the guy with the gun pointed at my head.

The newcomer walked into the light, and I felt a slow quake of fear return to my heart.

He was tall and slender, dark-haired, and even though I shouldn't have been able to tell in the semidarkness, his eyes were almost insanely blue. He was oddly pale, almost ivory, and there was something in the way he moved, a grace that was almost…inhuman…like a stalking panther, or a snake watching a rabbit from behind a stand of grass.

My mind cataloged the weapons I could see--disturbingly large guns on each hip, some kind of knife at his belt, one of those across-the-chest holster things that held a sidearm. There were also several digital gadgets on his belt, one of which emitted a soft blue light. I had a distinct feeling there was a lot more I couldn't see.

His eyes were almost glowing, and they were cold, calculating. If it hadn't been for that I would have called him drop-dead gorgeous. As it was…

Those eyes flicked to the TV screen, then back to me.

"One of my favorite episodes," he said before switching the television off and coming to tower over me, as if he wasn't already intimidating just being in the room.

"According to our files, Ms. Larson, you have the gift of psychometry. You are also a telepath, although the talent is undeveloped, and an empath at level 3 or below."

I had no idea what levels he was using, but I swallowed. "Yes."

"Your psychometric gift is particularly strong. You read objects by touch, and combined with the empathy and telepathy you read people and in layman's terms, talk to houses, sensing the energetic impressions left by former occupants and events."

"How do you know…"

"I'll ask the questions, Ms. Larson."

The men who had broken into my home had been direct, at least--guns out, shouting at me, forcing me to my knees. This…man…watched me impassively, not making a move toward his weapons. I knew, without knowing, that even the big burly guys with the rifles were way less dangerous than this one. This one could kill me with one hand…or less. I swallowed again.

The man who'd held the gun to my head took the opportunity to say, "SA-7, I was informed that this was a standard detain-and-question op and that the SA would not be involved at this stage."

The trench-coated man simply looked at him, and the gunman took an involuntary step back.

"The Agency is unimpressed by your approach to this case," he replied sharply. "As the human said, she's hardly a threat to you."

"You just said--"

"Do you really think an M-15 is going to protect you against a psychic?"

I shifted on my knees. My arms were cramping up badly. "Could I put my hands down, maybe, please? I promise not to throw fireballs at you or anything."

The man in the trench coat returned his gaze to me, and I might have been hallucinating, but it looked like he almost smiled. He gave me a measured nod, and I dropped my arms, groaning with relief.

"All right," he said. "Captain, you and your men may go. The SA will take over from here."

"I have orders from--"

Just then another voice interrupted, this one staticky, from the vicinity of the gunman's waist. "Team 2, you are ordered to stand down."

Guns all around the room lowered. I could suddenly breathe just a little easier.

Trench Coat glanced back at Grumpy Gun, and said again, "The SA will take over from here, Captain. You may go."

"What are you going to do with her?" Grumpy Gun demanded.

"Concerned for her welfare, Captain?"

I nearly snorted.

Grumpy Gun said, poison darts in every word, "The SA is not known for its adherence to interrogation protocol…Agent."

"No, we are not." He reached into his coat and pulled out a smallish gun, then removed something from his belt and snapped it into the weapon. "Don't worry, Captain. We don't leave witnesses, and we don't leave marks."

With that, he held up the gun--at me.

I started to cry out, but I heard a click and a whistle, and felt the sting of something hitting my neck.

The carpet rushed up toward my head, and that was it.

*****

Bright light stabbed through the fog, and I whimpered, trying to put my hands over my face.

My arms wouldn't move.

Something jerked my head upward, and suddenly I could see--there had been a bag over my head.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, this can't be happening. This can't be happening. This isn't TV, I'm not goddamned Natalie Portman, where's V when you need him, this can't be happening…

I was sitting upright in an extremely uncomfortable metal chair, in front of a metal table. My arms were cuffed behind my back.

There was a mirror behind the table, and probably one behind me--I'd seen enough police shows to know this had to be an interrogation room, and there were probably FBI agents on the other side of the mirror taping what went on in here.

I became aware of a clattering sound, from a distance. My teeth, chattering. It was freezing in here and I was still in my pajamas. Someone was going to find my body dumped somewhere in my pajamas, and nobody would know to feed Py, and--

The door opened, and Trench Coat walked in.

He had a black file folder in his hand, and dropped it on the table before taking the chair opposite me.

Up close, several things registered that hadn't before: one, he was definitely hot, in a going-to-kill-me kind of way; two, he was a lot younger than he'd seemed, maybe 25; three, where the other men had been wearing body armor of some sort, he wasn't, just a tight black t-shirt that showed off muscle definition I should not be interested in right now; four, there was some kind of contraption behind his ear that gave off the same light as the thing at his belt, which I interpreted as probably communications gear, like those dumbass headset things people wore around town talking to themselves.

He regarded me in silence for a moment before opening the file folder. "Do you know why you've been brought here, Ms. Larson?"

"That was good," I said before I could stop myself. "You sound just like that guy on Law & Order. Should I ask for a lawyer now, or is it too early in the scene?"

One eyebrow quirked, and I wondered how I must seem to him. Nuts, probably. I certainly felt that way.

It was about then that I looked up at the mirrored wall behind him, and froze.

I could see the reflection of the room: the table, the chairs, me sitting there with my hands behind my back, my knee bouncing nervously.

He wasn't in the mirror.

"Oh shit," I whispered.

He looked back behind him, then back at me again, but didn't comment. "Do you recognize this, Ms. Larson?" he asked, laying a photograph in front of me.

"You…you're…what…you're…what the fuck is going on here?" That last bit came out almost as a shriek, my voice rising on every word. I dug my bare feet into the tile floor and shoved backward, trying to put as much space between me and him as I could, until the chair rammed into the wall and took my head with it. I saw stars, compounded by whatever drug he'd hit me with earlier, and my head pounded so hard I felt myself start to cry.

"I'm just a file clerk," I moaned, shaking my head. "I didn't kill those people. I left when things got bad, I just wanted to get away. They said I was next."

"They threatened you?"

I nodded miserably. "I saved the voice mails. I was going to have my cell service cancelled. You've got my phone, check it yourself. That bastard WolfStar said I was next, if I talked. I just wanted to get away. Please…" I tried not to sob, but it was getting impossible. "Please have somebody feed my cat. There's nobody else here."

He watched me cry for a minute, apparently unaffected by my outburst, but then he said, "Send in the Elf."

I blinked, momentarily startled out of my tears. "Huh?"

"I wasn't talking to you."

The door opened again, and another person entered, this one in a hood…a hooded cloak.

At this point I think my brain had gone into total overload and was no longer capable of processing anything. I just stared, feeling both numb and drunk, my head hurting so badly I couldn't even react when the figure came toward me, silent as death, extending a hand from beneath the cloak.

The hand was small, graceful; its skin was an unusual shade of tan, almost nut-colored. As his palm touched my head, intense heat flooded through me, as if I'd had the most intense massage--or orgasm--of my life. My whole body slumped, tension evaporating from every muscle, and I was only vaguely aware that the cuffs were removed so I could sit up straighter.

The other man, or whatever he was, was still watching, and he said, "This is the part where you rub your wrists."

I obeyed. Far be it from me to violate the law enforcement cliché. The chair was moved back up to the table, and the hand once again touched my head, this time as if in benediction.

"SA-7," a gentle voice said, "Your manners are deplorable as ever."

"Thank you, SA-5," he replied wryly. "Something about dealing with murderers tends to do away with the niceties."

"Niceties are often all that separate us from the enemy. The wounds left behind tend to be the same."

"Are you here to philosophize, or assist?"

A sigh. "She's clean, Jason. I could have told you that before you kidnapped her. Look at her."

"The woman with the Sphere looks harmless, too, if you'll recall. You of all people should know better than to believe appearances."

This time the voice was firmer, but still soft. "And you of all people should know to trust your instincts."

"Maybe my instincts said she's a killer."

A laugh, silvery, like water tumbling over rocks. "Or maybe your instincts said that if you didn't bring her back here with you, the fools at the FBI would have her shot in the head and tossed in a shallow grave outside of town."

I watched them talk with a detached sort of interest, feeling unaccountably like I was intruding on something far more intimate than I ought to be seeing. Lovers? No, it wasn't that…but they knew each other well, these two. They had a common bond, something old, something…

"Immortal," the cloaked one said to me, reaching up to push back the hood.

The first thing I saw were eyes--luminous, like the other's, but green, the bright life-soaked green of Spring. Even with the youth of the color, I could sense age beneath them, stretching back, and back. Those eyes had seen empires rise and fall, had seen pain and death and beauty and the slow turn of the world, and lit on me kindly, as if we had been friends from childhood.

I knew he was male, though how I knew, I couldn't say. His features were delicate, not exactly feminine but almost gender-neutral, with a triangular face and high cheekbones. His ears were pointed, poking up through hair that was about a dozen different shades of brown, green, even a shoot or two of blue--the color of a field of bluebonnets, maybe, a riot of living color just like the season going on outside in Central Texas. He must singlehandedly be keeping Clairol in business with a dye job like that.

He made me think of deer, of trees. Of peace.

Of Tolkien.

"You're an Elf," I said dumbly.

"Yes, I am."

"Then what is he? Some sort of vampire?"

The other--Jason, I recalled--made a humorless noise something like a laugh. "There's only one sort of vampire."

"I would have to disagree," the Elf said with a smile that was like the sun edging around a cloud. "You and Beck are almost positively different sorts of vampire."

Now he smiled back, and there was an affection in the expression that made me wonder again if they were lovers. "Point taken. Now, if you'll kindly return to the point, SA-5?"

"Of course."

SA-5 tilted his chin toward the photograph that Jason, SA-7, had placed in front of me. "The object in the photograph, Ms. Larson. Have you seen it before?"

I took a deep breath and noticed for the first time that my headache was totally gone. I nearly forgot the question, I was so shocked, but why it would surprise me that an honest-to-god Elf could heal a headache, I have no idea.

I looked down at the picture. It was a little blurry, but the object in question was obvious: a stone sphere, some sort of banded pattern like tiger's eye, but in shades of red and black. I'd seen red tiger's eye before, but this was too brightly colored. The sphere sat on a stand made of a dull silver metal, fashioned after a bird's talon.

I shook my head slowly. "No. The stone looks familiar, but the sphere itself, no. Is it tiger's eye?"

SA-5 shook his head. "What you're looking at is known as Muertinite. This particular piece is called the Reaping Sphere. There were three made originally, and we have two in our possession."

"Reaping Sphere. So, what, it kills people? It's cursed?"

He tilted his head to one side. "Do not…what's the phrase? Play dumb, Ms. Larson. You're a trained Witch. You are well aware of the power inherent in crystals and gemstones. We found at least three dozen in your apartment of various kinds and shapes."

I breathed deeply again. "All right. Muertinite, as in muerte, Spanish, I'm guessing, for death or dead. So it must kill people. What does it have to do with me?"

"This Sphere was used by your former coven to kill James Harker and Leigh Ann Sellars. The high priestess of that coven told us that you had the Sphere, and had stolen it from the group in order to use it on your own."

I blinked. "Owl tried to frame me for murder? Are you fucking serious? After they tried to force me to help them, and then voted me off their freak-ass island, they tried to sell me to the fucking FBI? That…that…"

Jason folded his hands, and said helpfully, "I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'lying cunt.'"

"That lying cunt!"

I was on my feet, practically pacing. "Where the hell did they get that thing? It must have been through the store. WolfStar--can you believe what a stupid name he picked to be known to his gods by?--owned a Pagan supply store, he probably got it off Ebay or something. Blue Moon was a reputable coven when I joined, right after Foxglove retired. Things were fine for the first two years, then they…there were all these secret meetings, and…wait…" I stopped, faced them again. "You don't believe her, do you?"

SA-5 and SA-7 exchanged a look. "No," SA-5 answered. "I knew she was lying before she opened her mouth, just as I knew you weren't. The search of your apartment turned up no evidence of the Sphere, and it's obvious you'd never seen it before."

"And we're not FBI," SA-7 added.

"Then…who are you people?"

"We're the SA," he said. "The Shadow Agency. On paper we're a branch of the FBI specializing in classified weapons technology."

I sat back down. "I guess that's a front. Unless there are Elves and vampires in the FBI too."

"It would be a cold day in hell," SA-7 said, disdain clear in his tone. "The SA is dedicated to evaluating and eliminating potential occult and supernatural threats to national security. We keep tabs on every major magical and psychic power in the country. We have files on every coven, every secret society, every ceremonial group, and every idiot named Raven in America, harmless or otherwise." He tapped the folder in front of him. "This is your former coven."

He opened it again, and I saw sickeningly familiar faces…but not mine. "Shouldn't I be in there too?"

The Elf smiled, reached into his cloak, and pulled out another file. "You have your own, Ms. Larson."

"Do I want to know why?"

"You have what we classify as a level 7 psychometric gift, and your secondary gift is at…I would say…a 4 or better, possibly a 5 to 6 with proper training. Even without the Blue Moon issue, you would be of interest to us."

"You've been watching me? That's a breach of privacy! What is this, England?"

"England has its own problems. The Shadow Agency doesn't answer to the same sets of regulations as other law enforcement agencies. We deal with nonhuman citizens, powerful psychics, weapons that defy conventional physics."

"Don't I still have rights?"

SA-7 cast his eyes around the room, then to my face. "You're in a windowless interrogation room being questioned about occult murders by a vampire and an Elf, Ms. Larson. You have bigger problems than privacy right now."

The Elf gave him a mildly irritated look, then said, "I think we've kept this poor woman long enough, Jason. I'm sure that if we have more questions about her associations, and we don't come in guns blazing and tear up her home, she'll cooperate."

The vampire stared at me again, then shook his head. "Too risky. We'll have to wipe her memory and send regular FBI next time."

I sat back hard. "Wipe my…what now?"

"You realize of course that you can't leave this room knowing what you know about the Agency."

"I won't tell anyone--"

The Elf reached over and put his hand on the vampire's arm. SA-7 paused in whatever he was about to say to counter my assertions, and stared at the hand, seeming surprised, and even a little flustered, his words dying on his lips.

Withdrawing his hand, the Elf pointed out, "She isn't safe if this Wolf person has made threats against her life. Until we find the Sphere we should assume she's a target."

"What do you suggest, then? We can't very well turn her loose with her memory intact."

He opened my folder and withdrew a stack of blank forms. Beneath the stack I saw what looked an awful lot like my most recent resume.

"Ms. Larson," the Elf said, "we can offer you protective custody and relocate you outside of Austin, but I have another proposal you may find more appealing."

Now the vampire looked bewildered. "Rowan, what the fuck--"

I looked down at the stack of papers.

It was a job application.

"We're in need of an admin," SA-5 said. "Filing, general office tasks, possibly some logistical backup for our field Agents. Nothing terribly glamorous, but it pays double your current salary. Room and board are covered, as is health care. All Agency personnel live on base."

"Why…why me?" I stuttered, staring at the application as if it were a unicorn. Christ, maybe they had them here too.

The Elf pointed at my file. "You've already been pre-approved, pending official paperwork and a final interview with the Director of Operations."

"Do I have time to think it over?"

"Thirty seconds," he said with a smile.

"Can I bring Pywacket?"

"He's already here," the Elf replied. "He scratched the hell out of SA-14."

"And if I say no?"

"You'll wake up tomorrow with no memory of the last 24 hours. But I can't guarantee your ex-covenmates won't try to harm you. As part of the Agency you can help us bring them to justice and stop them from killing anyone else. You can help us, Ms. Larson. Out there, you're just a file clerk who talks to buildings. Here, you'll be part of something extraordinary."

I looked from Elf to vampire, one face open, the other hard; I looked at sheaf of paper in front of me. It was standard government-issue complete with boxes for my SSN and birthdate. The official seal of the Shadow Agency, Texas branch, was stamped atop each page: a stylized bald eagle perched atop a pentacle, with a Latin motto beneath. I puzzled at the words until the Elf translated them for me:

"Ten thousand gods, five hundred races, one people."

I took a deep breath, and met his bright green eyes. "Got a pen?"