The Agency

"Federal Agent! Step away from the goat!"

SA-7 really, really hated Full Moons.

The man in the black velvet robe with the huge embroidered Solomon's Seal hit the floor with a squeal, his cheap ceremonial knife clattering to the bare concrete. He was already blubbering to assert his innocence, an interesting proposition given that there was a rather discontented-looking goat tied in the center of a huge diagram chalked on the floor and the man was dressed like Satan's pimp.

It was also pretty obvious that, intentions aside, the man was harmless.

Jason lowered his weapon, walked over to the altar (a folding table draped in yet more velvet; what was it with these guys and velvet?), and took note of the array of items there, including a cylinder of hollowed-out ivory with gold caps on either end and a series of symbols carved into the side. The whole thing was about the size of his index finger.

He leaned closer and listened. After a few seconds he heard a quiet scratching sound, as of a dog's claws on a door, trying to get out.

Another one. Damn it, he was going to impale whoever was getting this shit into the city past the network.

Jason holstered his gun and took an evidence bag from his coat, carefully sliding the cylinder into it without touching its surface. He sealed the bag, then reached up and tapped the communicator relay behind his ear.

[Artifact confiscated,] he said. [Suspect in custody. Send a unit for collection of suspect, Artifact, and farm animal.]

Tanya, who was the senior dispatch staffer and usually served as his Ear, was trying not to laugh in his mind. [On their way, SA-7. ETA five minutes.]

[Acknowledged.] He turned to the man lying prone on the floor and hoisted him back onto his feet with one arm, digging out a pair of cuffs with the other. He switched back to verbal communication and said, "Russell Farnsdale, you're under arrest for violation of section 1.4.1.3-F of the Crowleyan Code as well as a class B misdemeanor, harboring a domestic animal with intent to sacrifice. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…"

The man was whimpering, but didn't resist arrest, a nice change of pace given how Jason's night had been going so far. He heard the van pull up outside the dilapidated storefront where this little Moonlight Shenanigan had been occurring, and waited for the reinforcements to come in and take over.

"I…I didn't do anything wrong," the man whined.

"Really? Then where'd you get the reliquary, Mr. Farnsdale? And what's in it, a demon?"

Stutters and stammers. Just as well; the boys at R&D would figure out what was in the reliquary, and he'd let SA-14 handle the interrogation and processing. Once upon a time he'd hated delegating, but it was an art he was learning to appreciate.

The backup Agents entered the building with their guns out, and he gestured for them to put them away. He handed Farnsdale off to another Agent, and told the human, "By the way, we're taking the goat."

He stopped to pat the animal on the head, and it gave him a disdainful glare before returning to the pile of hay that the would-be wizard had thoughtfully left at its feet. It was probably going to hate living at the Austin Zoo with all the other rescued animals, but it was either that or end up roasted with barbecue sauce. Texas was a rough state for hoofed mammals.

Jason stepped back out into the comparatively cool night air, breathing deeply, glad to be free of the incense smoke. SA-14 was on his way into the building, and he stopped for a status check.

"Routine," Jason told him. "Next time we get one of these you can handle it. Tell R&D I'm pretty sure there's a Loshnar in the reliquary. Make sure Frog and Samuels don't have to get near it."

"Christ, another one? What is it, Loshnar season?"

"Not until September," Jason said. "Have the completed case file on my desk by tomorrow sunset."

"Yes, sir."

SA-7 left the younger Agent to worry about the aftermath, and called Tanya. [Case disposition 5, awaiting final report. What next?]

[We've got reports of suspected werewolf activity off of Guadalupe and 29th. Sending you the coordinates now.]

As he left the scene, she transferred the address to him--a Thai noodle house near campus. [Werewolves. Right. How do I always end up on patrol on Full Moons?]

[You volunteered, remember? Too much chaos for ordinary Agents to handle and Beck just finished her patrol month, so she couldn't take this one.]

[Let the record show that I'm an idiot.]

[Standing assumption, Agent.]

He headed up Congress Avenue toward the University, weaving in and out of the crowds of normal everyday Austinites going about their nighttime business. It was high Summer, hot as hell during the day and mostly tolerable at night, and today's temperatures had reached 100. Yet another reason to be nocturnal.

He was fond of Austin, having lived in a dozen cities and visited half the world's countries. The city had a restless spirit, but not like, say, New Orleans, with its deep festering grudges and the taste of death in the air. Austin was inquisitive, eager. Live music poured out of the bars he passed, and had it been two hours later he might have stopped off in one, but there was still the rest of his patrol to finish, a pile of paperwork on his desk back at base awaiting his return, and a particular someone he'd been hoping to spend more than five minutes with this week, scheduled to meet him for coffee before sunrise.

If what he had come to suspect about Rowan was true, however, he was going to end up wishing he'd had a beer instead.

Such a small thing, but enough to fill his veins with poisonous jealousy and something dangerously close to rage: last Friday, at the end of his weekly meeting with the new trainee, she'd walked out of his office, and he'd caught an unmistakable scent. Incense, oak leaves, something soft and cool that he knew was the smell of immortality, and a faint top note that changed every time--that night it had been strawberries. He knew, because he'd bought them himself.

Worst of all, underneath the combined scents of all those things was the smell of sex. She'd showered since it happened, but it was recent enough that his heightened senses could pick it out easily, which meant in the last two days or less. Vampires could tell the difference between a cabernet and a merlot at a distance of a hundred yards. No human would be able to discern what he could, which was that she'd been with one person, a male, someone with opiates in his system…and it hadn't been the first time.

Strawberries and sex. The thought had driven him to the shooting range several times already to empty an entire clip into a single human-shaped target.

Jason shook his head and tried to focus on the task at hand, but it was difficult given that he knew he was walking into nothing. There were no werewolves in Austin, at least none on the registry, and any illegals would have been spotted long before they got that close to college students. Most likely it was a dog or a prank.

[What's the background on this?] he asked Tanya.

She beamed him the original report, and he frowned. A 911 caller had claimed she found a body ripped to shreds back behind a dumpster off Guadalupe, and the officers who responded had verified an animal attack of some kind. They were still on-scene with the Medical Examiner.

[Tell APD I'll be there in five minutes, and to get their hands off the body. If it is a lycanthrope they could pick up the virus even through latex gloves.]

[Calling them now.]

True to his word, he made it to the dingy little restaurant quickly, and rounded the back corner just in time to hear one of the officers mutter something about "Fucking FBI."

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, emerging from the shadows into the flood lamps the police had set up around the crime scene. "Thank you for waiting."

He recognized the woman in charge as well as the ME. "Oh, Christ," the detective said. "Not you again."

He strode up to where they were clustered around the body, flashing his badge and giving her his version of a charming smile, which he then turned on the ME, a young human male who blushed and started stammering under the vampire's gaze. Everyone stepped back out of Jason's way as he approached.

"I told you I was sorry about your uniform, Detective Harding," he said calmly. "Next time I say 'stand back,' you should listen."

She snorted. "I didn't call for the Feds," she said. "What are you doing here?"

He stepped over the body and crouched beside it, much closer than any of the police; a couple, he noticed, were green and sick looking at the sight of so much blood.

"Male, Caucasian, early 40s, homeless from the look of it," the ME said, regaining his composure. "It looks like he was mauled by a bear."

"I hate those city-dwelling bears, don't you?" Jason muttered, leaning over, trying to keep his coat out of the mess. The man had been mauled, all right, torn open from neck to knees, long gashes parallel to the spine. There was blood and viscera drying everywhere, and the stench was overpowering, or at least, it would be to a human. Intellectually he could say it was a disgusting sight, but in reality he didn't find corpses that disturbing, having been one himself.

There was a dark green slimy substance in the edges of some of the wounds. He tapped his relay again. [Tanya, I'm sending you images of our John Doe.]

The second part of the Ear, a device on his belt, could be switched into several modes; he spun the click wheel until red letters flashed in front of his mind's eye saying "Camera." There was a faint flash of light, and he switched back to communicator mode and sent the picture to dispatch.

"Any ID?" he asked, looking up at Harding.

"No," she replied tersely. "Can you tell me anything useful or are you just here to rubberneck?"

Jason straightened, just in time for Tanya to beam him the information he wanted. "Victim is Donald Ray Bowman, age 43. Former patient at the VA hospital, paranoid-schizophrenic. No family in Texas. You can run a search for next-of-kin. The substance in the wounds suggests a Felthrais demon, but I'll have to take a sample to be sure. If it is, you guys are off the hook on this one. Give me five minutes."

He knelt again, this time removing a small glass vial attached to a tube from his coat, along with a probe and a pair of gloves.

"Doesn't the FBI have forensics people who do this sort of work?" the ME asked, looking uncomfortable. Jason didn't really blame him; he'd be irritated if a Fed tried to do his job, too.

"I have extensive experience in this field," he said, pulling on the gloves and capturing a small dollop of the slime with the probe. Once it was in the vial, he capped it and stripped the gloves off, tossing them in the dumpster, then connected the tube to his belt and switched the Ear's setting again.

"Analysis Running" blinked in his mind telepathically.

"Not to mention," he went on, "if this is a Felthrais, this goo is toxic and will eat right through human skin."

"And what, you aren't human?" Harding asked with a snide laugh. "Come on, Adams, you're not that special."

He ignored her, as he often did with conversation not to his taste, and asked Tanya, [How's it coming?]

[R&D has a preliminary report--definitely Felthrais. Six out of eight markers match. We'll probably have all eight in another few minutes. I'm dispatching two units to the scene right now.]

[Shit. I guess I know what I'll be doing with the last hour of my shift, then. Can you get me a track on the demon?]

[No, sorry. The attack must have been more than four hours ago--there's no remaining energy signature.]

[I'll just have to do it the old fashioned way.]

"All right, Detective, you can all go," he said. "We'll take it from here."

She was pissed. They were always pissed. It was her bad luck that she had dealt with the SA more than once; in an average year there were perhaps ten supernatural murders in Travis County, and most of them were handled from beginning to end by the SA. Only a handful, like this one, failed to trip any sort of energetic alarms.

While he waited for the units to arrive, he examined the rest of the crime scene, looking for evidence that would point him toward the Felthrais. There were usually two reasons a demon ended up on the physical plane: it was brought there by a human, or it escaped from its home dimension when a doorway or crack opened up between there and Earth. In either case the protocol was the same: destroy on sight. A demon wasn't an animal, or one of the recognized allied races. It was a construct designed to kill, maim, or destroy, if not all three.

In a way the ME hadn't been far off; Felthrais did look something like bears. Lizard bears with six-inch teeth, at least. Luckily they weren't very bright, and tended to leave a trial of debris from running into things. Not far from the body he found a board knocked loose from the fence, and there in the mud beyond, paydirt: three-toed footprints and the drag mark of a heavy tail.

The Agents were arriving, and the police were leaving. Jason drew his pistol and replaced the standard rounds with a special clip he'd made himself: hollow-core bullets filled with acid.

[I'm going after it,] he informed Tanya. [Do me a favor and let SA-5 know I may be late.]

[As always,] she said. [Good hunting.]

*****

Three hours later he took one of the subterranean tunnels that crisscrossed Austin back to the base, avoiding the swiftly-lightening sky; it was half an hour before sunrise, long after he would prefer to be in bed. His shift had him keeping hard hours for a vampire, rising too early and resting too late, but it was the only way to get everything done. As it was, if he wanted to have coffee with the Elf he was going to have to put off his paperwork and get up even earlier the next evening to finish it.

He stopped at the base's main underground entrance and let the security system scan his retinas, fingerprints, and badge. The computer prompted him for his verbal code, and he said into the mic, "Shadow Agent 7. Adams, Jason. Authorization 47075-9."

"Authorization accepted. Welcome home, Agent 7."

The doors slid open, and he made his tired way to the Armory, where he repeated the identification process to gain access to his arsenal.

The Armory was long and narrow, lined with benches on one side and labeled metal drawers on the other. Each Agent had a drawer that held his or her weapons and gear, with slots for the individual guns, knives, and specialized ammo that they carried.

The last thing he took off was his Ear, but first he said, [SA-7 coding off for the night. 47075-9.]

Tanya sounded as sleepy as he felt. [Coding accepted, SA-7. Get some rest and I'll talk to you tomorrow.]

He tucked both pieces of the Ear into his locker and pushed it back into the wall, where it beeped and the locks engaged.

Arming and disarming every night was a ritual he had performed for decades. It was always followed by a much-needed shower. He stripped off his filthy uniform, including the coat; the Felthrais had bled all over him, and as a result there were holes in all his clothing. He'd also jumped over a fence in the pursuit and landed rather embarrassingly in a thorny rose bush, so he was scratched all over. He dropped the uniform down the chute outside the showers; a clean one would be waiting for him at his next shift.

Just before he tossed the coat down with the rest, he removed the bag in the left interior pocket: a mango, hopefully not too bruised, purchased before he'd been called to deal with the wizard wannabe. He set the bag on a seat outside the showers and got in the stall, turning the hot water on full blast.

Finally, clean and dressed in garments that didn't stink of flowers and demon blood, went by the lockers again, this time entering a command override that allowed him access to all of them. He pulled open Beck's drawer and put the bag with the mango inside--he usually gave them to her personally, but he wasn't going to see her until the next night, and this was another ritual he never failed to keep. She'd be back from her own shift already, but her weapons were still out, so she must be in the training rooms fine-tuning the simulator. Good; the mango wouldn't have time to get mushy.

He went to his office, intending to call and ask Rowan if they could meet in the subterranean lounge instead of the cafeteria. The sun would be well up by now, and while the surface-level windows had ultraviolet blocking screens and indirect radiation wouldn't kill him, it would leave him nauseated with a bitch of a headache as tired as he was.

To his surprise, the Elf was waiting for him, leaning back in his desk chair.

Jason's stomach tightened with automatic nerves, but he smiled. "You're the first good thing I've seen all night," he said.

Rowan smiled back, and they held each other's eyes for just a beat longer than Jason would have with anyone else. "Long shift?"

"Full Moon."

"Oh, bless your heart. All the crazies come out--anything good?" Rowan got to his feet and the two walked side by side from the office, across the Floor toward the smaller of the sub-level lounges; they preferred that one because the larger was usually more crowded, though the coffee was better there.

"Nutter with a goat," Jason told him, earning a laugh. "Plus a Felthrais demon, a group of art majors trying to conjure something with a cursed Thrysus, a couple of false alarms, and someone dealing pot laced with henbane."

They settled into their usual table in the lounge, and Rowan insisted on getting their drinks himself. After knowing each other ten years, they knew each other's habits as well as their own, which was making it very hard for Jason not to ask point-blank what was going on.

Something was certainly different. Rowan seemed more relaxed, but moreover, his energy had changed ever so slightly. True, he changed all the time--right now his eyes were a deep, shadowed green, and shoots of grey and paler brown had appeared in his hair as the leaves and grass outside dried out--but this was more subtle, as if something in him had started to open.

When he returned to the table, Jason caught the scent again, elemental and undeniable: sex. A woman…human…vegetarian…today.

God, it was true.

"One coffee black, one regular," Rowan said, setting the first cup down in front of Jason. Seeing the expression on Jason's face, his eyes grew concerned. "Are you all right?"

"What? No, I mean, yes, I'm fine. Just tired. Are…how are you?"

"Pretty well, actually," he answered. "I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks."

"You barely have. You've been hard to find lately." Jason tried to keep the accusatory note out of his voice. "Been having a torrid secret affair?"

Was he imagining it, or did Rowan look the tiniest bit guilty at that? "You know me," he said with a laugh. "I don't really do torrid."

Not torrid…but secret, now, that was fair game, apparently. "How's the inhibitor coming?"

Rowan started talking about his work with Frog, which was one subject Jason had no clue about, but wasn't really expected to; like the Ears, there was some technology in this place that was simply beyond even an immortal's grasp. As the Elf spoke, Jason watched him, ostensibly paying attention, but really watching his mouth, his hands around his coffee mug, the way he leaned forward when he was talking about something important, the way he tucked his hair absently behind one pointed ear.

How long had it been, now, that this had gone on? Years, but how many? Five? Longer? Perhaps the Elf had had him that first moment, when Jason had stood in front of him that horrible night and gently taken the gun from his hand. He knew that Rowan didn't remember it was Jason who found him, who half-carried him to the stretcher, and who sat by him until he lost consciousness. He might not even remember any of that night, and Jason hoped profoundly that he didn't for his own sake. It was hard to connect that pitiful wraith of a creature with the grace and beauty before him now.

In the end, it didn't matter. This Elf, the one who knew he liked his coffee black and who could sense emotions so deeply buried in people that years of therapy couldn't bring them out, had no idea, no idea at all.

And now he was fucking that girl.

The thought occurred to Jason that if he wanted to, he could put a stop to it. A trainee and trainer sleeping together was, to put it mildly, a conflict of interest. There was no one else to train Sara's gifts, so he was well within his rights to demand that they stop or be fired. He wondered if either of them had thought, or cared, about such consequences to their behavior.

Of course, there was no way he'd do such a thing. Unless he saw a legitimate reason beyond his own jealousy he wasn't going to ruin Sara's career over it, and as long as Rowan was happy…at least there was someone willing to make him happy, someone who wasn't afraid…he couldn't stand in the way.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," Rowan said, startling him back to the room. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm just…" He met the Elf's eyes again, and again considered just lowering his shields and letting him see. "I think I might need to head off to bed pretty soon. I skipped out on my reports tonight so I'm going to have to get up early."

"Again?" Rowan clucked his tongue in disapproval. "You don't get enough rest, young man. I know you love your job, but you shouldn't let it kill you."

He smiled. "Of all the things that might kill me, overwork isn't on the list."

Rowan took a drink of his coffee and said, "Even after all this time you're still impossible to read, did you know that?"

"Yes. I learned the hard way not to let anything show."

"That means that there's still a lot about you I don't know, and wish I did."

"So ask me."

Something odd crossed Rowan's face, something almost yearning, but he shook it off and shook his head. "Maybe when you're not fall-down exhausted, or maybe when we're both fall-down drunk. But maybe you could tell me, if there's a simple answer, why you're so blocked off?"

Jason stared into his cup. "It's not a simple answer, but the short version is…love."

There was a soft smile in Rowan's voice. "It's hard to imagine you in love."

"Is it?" He determinedly avoided looking the Elf in the eye. "I guess that means I'm doing something right." He was thankful for his coffee cup, which gave him something to do with his hands. "Besides, there's plenty I don't know about you either. You have three centuries' worth of history on me."

"Not much to tell," Rowan told him--and now it was his turn to look uncomfortable. "Life wasn't much of an adventure before it went to hell."

"Tell me about it." Jason chuckled in spite of himself. "It's a damn shame the only way to lead a fascinating life is to invite tragedy as well as adventure."

"Amen to that. And we're not exactly in a line of work that encourages peace and quiet. We're all mad as March hares, doing this."

"Absolutely." Jason held up his cup. "To the lunacy that saves our sanity."

They both laughed and toasted with the dregs of their coffee; then Rowan all but shoved him out of his chair and toward his quarters. "Go to bed," he insisted. "Save the world from goat-fuckers tomorrow."

On an impulse, as they parted, Jason reached out and caught Rowan's hand, squeezed it, and let go. "Good night."

"Good night," was the reply, but as he glanced back he saw Rowan standing there in the hallway, staring at his own hand as if he'd never seen it before.

Jason ran his badge through the scanner on his door, and it swung open, allowing a blast of loud music to nearly knock him backwards, along with the musty sweat-socks smell of marijuana.

He groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Beck."

His sister, draped over the couch with her big black boots propped up on the coffee table, held up the joint in her hand without looking up from the magazine she was reading. "Want some?"

"If you're going to break the law couldn't you do it in your own damn room?" he asked, shutting the door behind him. As he walked by he pushed her feet off the table, and she made a face at him. He went over and turned the stereo volume down to half of where it had been; his head was pounding already.

"Oh, like anyone's going to arrest one of us." She let the joint go out and stuck it in her jacket pocket, blowing a smoke ring at him. "You really should take up some vices, you know. Besides unrequited love, that is. A little THC would probably loosen that stick up your ass." Her gaze became critical as she looked him over. "You look like shit, bubba. Have you even fed tonight?"

"Before I went on shift. What are you doing here? I really need to go to bed."

"Two things. One, I came to raid your music. You said I could come get the new Aimee Mann, remember?" She held up a thumb drive. "I also nabbed the Screaming Mimis--we're doing a cover of 'Suck This' and I wanted to give the bass a listen. Two, I worked that bug out of the fight simulator. There was a problem with the harmonizer on the second projector. I figured you'd be later than this, though, so I was gonna finish up with the stereo and leave you a note about the other thing. What are you doing back, anyway? Usually you and Elf-boy are off for hours doing…whatever it is you do."

"I'm tired, Beck," he snapped. "And all we do is talk."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Bitchy much?"

He flopped onto the chair across from her. "He's sleeping with Sara."

Beck gave him a long blink. "You're shitting me."

"No."

"Wow, he's obviously unclear on the concept of 'celibate,'" she said. "I'm so gonna kick her ass on Monday."

"Don't you dare," he said firmly. "She hasn't done anything wrong, Beck. They're adults, and it's not like…it's not like anything's going to happen with me and him anyway."

"Yeah, because you're a chickenshit," she told him, shaking her head. "How many times have I told you just to ask him out? And that if you waited too long, this was going to happen eventually? I mean, yeah, he's got a messed up past, but it's been twelve years. That's a long time to go without sex, especially for a man." She sat forward, dropping her above-it-all front for a moment. "He'd be lucky to have you, you know. You're awesome. And I'm not just saying that because we shot out of the same vagina."

He smiled. "Thanks, I think."

"Look…I know you've got romance issues. I know what you've been through. I was there, remember? I just don't think it's good for you to stay so shut down forever. If it was anyone else I wouldn't be so pushy--"

"The hell you say," he cut in.

"--but this is Rowan we're talking about. Don't you think he'd be worth taking a leap?"

Jason ran a hand through his hair. "You're not allowed to be smarter than me."

She grinned impishly. "So don't be such a moron. Look, I've got Sara for a weapons session on Monday. I'll see if I can find out what's going on, how serious this is. Who knows? If it's just shagging, you've still got a shot. Besides, she's a human. One way or another eventually she'll be out of the picture."

"I thought you liked Sara."

"I do. She's cool, for a tree-hugging vegetarian and all that." Beck stood, walked over, and kissed him on the forehead. "But I like you more. You're the only person here half as badass as I am."

"True," he agreed, kissing her cheek. "Get out of here, wench. Let me sleep."

"Fine, fine. But we're going to get you into that Elf's pants one way or another." She tousled his hair, winked, and headed for the door. "'Night, bubba."

"Good night."

Alone, finally, he switched off the stereo and stripped off his clothes, crawling into bed with a sigh. His mind was full of conflicting thoughts and feelings, but over the decades he had taught himself how to clear them away and coax his restless heart into sleep.

He let his eyes rest on the music stand across the room, and on the gleaming wood of the violin that lay there. Slowly, note by note, he drew music into his mind, as if his hands were on the instrument, the sounds only he could hear replacing thought by thought. The piece was old and had no name--it was the first he had ever learned, and over time he had embellished it, adding new layers of melody and meaning as each new heartbreak gave him more to work with. If pain was the true medium of art, after 150 years he was a virtuoso.

Memories flowed in with the music: memories of strong hands on his shoulders, the heat of a mouth covering his own, the flash of a bow as it danced over the strings. So long ago…the song had its own life now, and it was all he had left of its creator. That, and the violin itself, one of the only two constant companions in his world. As long as he lived, and whoever he might be unfortunate enough to love, there would always be that place in him that ached, an ache that only music could soothe.

With a sigh, Shadow Agent 7 closed his eyes and followed the memory, down and down into the darkness, into rest, into a peace beyond the reach of moonlight, and sunlight, and sorrow.