London, England, 12:37

Pre-dawn fog had shifted into a day of mottled sun and clouds over London. From the second floor window of a downtown Starbucks, Don had a high enough vantage point to people-watch without being spotted. Nothing he saw grabbed his full attention away from his work. He had claimed a corner booth, legs stretched out across the bench and papers blanketing the table. One earbud in, the other hanging to his shoulder, he sat with his back to the wall so that passersby would not glimpse his laptop. As he tabbed between surveillance feeds, the chatroom, and the news, he slurped a mocha frappuccino with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Marty had yet to log into chat, and he wasn’t finding anything odd online, either. He idly stirred his frappe, wondering if he’d chosen the wrong city.

To his right, teenagers filtered toward and from the counter in crowds. Their voices blended into a crush of noise which he tuned out with ease -- until, through them, cut another, female and graced with the quintessential London accent.

“Don Wheeler? Is that you?”

Startled, he tabbed to the news page, despite that the two agents approaching him could not see his screen anyways. The one who had spoken flicked scrappy blonde bangs from her face; most of her hair, cropped short as a man’s, sprung in multiple directions, save for that which a pair of sunglasses held down. A navy blazer and slacks, typical of juniors when they emerged from their basement workstations, balanced the look. One hand held a cup in a knitted cozy; the other rested on the strap of a black backpack hanging from her shoulder.

Just a step behind her, the other kept a more polished appearance -- a brushed-smooth brown ponytail, sepia eyeshadow, and shades tucked into the lapel pocket of an identical blazer. Her expression was decidedly more dour and only focused on him for seconds at a time. Instead, she scanned the café and looked to be scanning for threats.

Don had a vague sense of recognizing them from somewhere, but could not say when or where they would have met.

He set his drink down and asked, “Sorry, do we all know each other?”

The blonde agent offered her hand to shake; he did, and was surprised at the firmness of her grasp.

“Kipper Hill,” she said, then with a gesture to her partner, “and Mary Harding.

From that transfer seminar when you first joined COURT. We were panel members.”

Her reminder clicked -- he’d been almost asleep from boredom in an auditorium occupied by a small group of transfers, most of them just as bored as he was. Agent Hill had cracked some joke that had lightened the air, but that he’d never recalled.

“Oh, right,” he acknowledged. “Feels like forever ago, don’t it?”

Hill, unlike Marty, did not correct his grammar. “A lot happens in a year and a half. What brings you here?”

He shrugged and took another drink of his frappe. “Our senior sent us on a little vacation. Glad to have a break for once.”

Harding, after a sip of coffee, commented, “That doesn’t look like vacation to me.”

She said so with a nod to his paperwork. Don stood and leaned on the table, his hands behind him and curled around the edge. He covered growing jitters by relaxing his shoulders; had they seen any of it? The Ballycastle and Manchester case files were right there -- open for the agents to read before he had blocked their view.

If Hill did notice, she gave nothing away, asking, “Where’s Agent O’Flannigan?”

“Ah, we had a bit of a disagreement over where to go. I wanted London, she wanted Edinburgh, and... you know how she is. She does what she wants.” Don smiled and gathered his papers into a stack, all face down, as though making room. “You wanna sit?”

The two exchanged a glance, and Hill joined him at the table; Harding stayed by the side of the booth, scrolling on her phone to hide that she was standing guard.

Don couldn’t blame her.

“So,” he said to Hill. “How’s stuff going down here?”

It was then that something about their casual conversation faltered. He wasn’t sure of precisely what, and it only lasted an instant. But when she returned his smile, it looked so natural that Don questioned if perhaps he’d imagined the change. Regardless, he could think of no reason for imagining it to begin with.

“It’s average, I’d say,” she answered. “We’ve had the typical sorts of cases you see around the city.”

“Yeah? I wish I were you. Things have been real busy up in Glasgow.”

“I hear Glasgow gets strange ‘round this time of year. It isn’t too bad, is it?”

“Hey, it could be worse.” He put on a half-smirk to feign ease. “We could all be stuck in Galway -- most haunted and fae-touched city in all the Isles.”

That drew a hint of a laugh even from Harding.

“The first of it’s a mystery, but the worst of it’s from Ireland,” Hill quipped, quoting a common saying throughout COURT.

No one was sure when or how the fae had found this world, but Ireland had a reputation for being infested. For all its charm, all its lushness, it was miserable on the cusp of Samhain. Don guessed that the agents there had created the line themselves. Moreover, it gave him an idea for a different approach.

He let his smirk turn to a ghost-story grin and leaned forward. “You ever seen anything super creepy here? Ghosties and beasties and whatnot?”

Hill laughed again, but this time, it was a nervous sound and broke into silence. She stared at her cup while Harding eyed them without a word. The switch in mood was like the shift from autumn to winter condensed into a single moment: brittle. Cold.

“Wheeler, you cannot repeat this to anyone,” she said -- in fluent Irish.

Don blinked, his mind stumbling in confusion. Every COURT agent was at least proficient, for the faeries did share the language, albeit with all the regional differences one would expect. But between humans in the capital of England, and given the context, this was in no way normal.

As much as he fumbled the pronunciation, Don followed along. “I can’t repeat what?”

Waiting for an answer and struggling to calm his nerves, he took another slurp of his drink.

“Early yesterday morning, we saw someone from the Dublin Command Center visiting London H.Q. -- we know he was from Dublin. He had the flag and the black mountain insignia on his sleeve.”

Don almost coughed on whipped cream. He then caught himself before replying reflexively in English. “Nobody comes from or goes to Dublin unless something is wrong.”

“We know,” Harding added. “He might have been a courier. It makes sense.”

He drummed his fingers on his stack of paperwork, deliberating. Should he tell them about Avery? Would it be a disaster? Would it help?

Instead, he asked, “Did anything else happen?”

“Well,” Hill began. She paused, fidgeting with the cup cozy. “Our senior instructed us to only monitor. The order was to not hunt.”

“What the hell?” Don hissed, his voice low. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know! But we can’t investigate. It’s against policy.”

Even though the other patrons were still oblivious, Don whispered, “To hell with policy. Marty and I are investigating. Our senior is hiding something. We worked an unusual case in Manchester, and days later, he told us not to go to England.”

Hill’s eyes widened; she sat quiet, listening.

“He said the Northern Irish branch was struggling, and he sent us there. But he lied. We have a Northern Irish agent investigating, too. These lies might not be allowed.”

The longer he spoke, the more obvious the tension in Harding’s posture became. She reached down and nudged Hill, who murmured something to Harding too low for Don to hear.

And, as if everything was still as casual as before, Hill said, “It’s really nice to see you again -- but we do have to head out. Duty calls.”

With twin smiles, Harding’s slightly less convincing, they grabbed their cups and stalked out, off to wherever their mission would bring them.

❦❦❦

Edinburgh, Scotland, 13:05

Certain amounts of rain could keep anybody indoors, and Marty was no exception. It poured down in sheets, too heavy for any hunting to be effective -- she didn’t dare bring her equipment outside now. Instead, the cameras inside potted plants and between books in the bookshelf would have to do; each one pointed toward an entrance, be that the front door or back door or windows.

With a glass of whiskey in one hand, and the other cradling a bowl of unshelled peanuts, Marty lounged in bed against pillows piled high. Her eyes were fixed on her laptop, which showed her a constant stream of surveillance feeds. They circled from Edinburgh to Glasgow, London to Manchester, even Ballycastle on occasion. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. She cracked open a peanut and, just in case, opened the chatroom -- only to be met with a flurry of messages from Don.

Her adrenaline spiked. She set her glass on the nightstand, more feeling for where she should put it down than looking.

17881 at 12:50: Are u on?

17881 at 12:51: we really need to talk, having a major wtf moment over here

17881 at 12:52: just met two London team agents, was told something big, please answer

22315 at 13:05: I’m here now; what’s going on?

17881: do you know Kipper Hill and Mary Harding?

Trying to concentrate, to remember, Marty hovered her fingers over the keys.

22315: No, do you know them?

17881: Yeah, they were at this transfer thing I went to. Can we get Sully on here before i say anything more?

22315: You really want to drag him into this?

17881: He’s already been dragged in. if we ask for help, he’ll give it.

Now, she set her bowl aside as well, too on edge to eat.

22315: Fine. Text him, tell him to download the app, and send him the link to this room.

17881: Will do, hang on

With every minute that the chatroom sat silent, the tension grew stronger and stronger. Just how close were they to the truth? Had Don been right to sneak away after all? She hooked her wireless headset around her arm and moved to the desk, where she continued to almost-tap the keyboard.

At last, Agent Hughes’ number appeared.

66001: This the right place?

17881: finally. we got stuff happening.

66001: Haha, hello to you too, mate

22315: Don, get to the point.

Marty’s impatience made her temper short.

And Don dropped the proverbial bombshell.

17881: Guys. juniors Mary Harding and Kipper Hill of London saw someone from Dublin at their HQ. Very early yesterday. All secretive. And then their senior told them NOT to hunt, only to monitor. We had to speak Irish to avoid people eavesdropping.

66001: Whoa. The hell?

22315: What?? They’re certain? How do they know that person was from Dublin?

17881: they said he had the mountain insignia on his sleeve

Marty slumped forward, chin in her hands, head spinning. Only Dublin agents wore the sign of the black mountain -- the very translation of their city’s name, Dubh Linn. And only for deeply important matters did they visit other nations’ COURT headquarters.

66001: Shite.

17881: man, we really need you to tell us if you’ve heard anything weird from Belfast. If Dublin CC is in on this, all the capitals might be.

22315: Wait, Don, now you think Cardiff is involved too?

17881: well, they could be, right?

66001: Not sure. Seems the Welsh teams keep to themselves these days. Anyways, Belfast. They’re closer with Dublin CC than pretty much anyone else is. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re working together on this whole thing.

17881: so you don’t know anything definitive yet?

66001: I’ll do my best to find out. Any word from your senior?

Marty, as she’d been about to reply, paused. They were already halfway through their holiday and Avery still hadn’t contacted them, which in itself was odd. Though she tried to assure herself that he was simply busy, the worry stuck like a stubborn thorn. Don’s message echoed her concerns.

17881: none, and he tends to at least check in by now.

66001: Hey, not to jump to conclusions, but he just might be up to something.

At that, a buried scrap of information unearthed itself, a hymn among the din of her other thoughts.

22315: This vacation wasn’t listed on our calendar. It was out of the blue.

17881: Almost like he wanted us out of the way again...

22315: But what on earth for? And he killed the Manchester faerie, right??

17881: Yknow, we never found out what he did with it. thing could’ve cut a deal. He could’ve released it back to the realm.

22315: Don, what would that deal even be!?

17881: i got no clue.

Marty heaved a sigh; a dull ache had begun in her stomach, the precursor to nausea and eventual sickness. Each step they took into this mystery, the more wrong it became. She wasn’t certain why she wondered at the fate of their twenty-third target -- perhaps because he had set the entire mess in motion.

17881: hey Sully, you there?

66001: Partially, sorry. My senior was asking what I’m typing. Told her it’s notes.

22315: Log off, then, it’s safer. We’ll talk later.

66001: That’d be best, yeah. Listen, I’m with you both. Things aren’t supposed to be this grim. I don’t know when I’ll be on again, so good luck.

The third number vanished, and seconds later, Don sent one more message: I’m gonna go poke around. might see if there are pagan groups or other new agers who’d know something useful. You good for now?

22315: I’m good.

It was the only thing she could say -- she refused to let Don see how shaken their impromptu discussion had left her. She slowly closed her laptop, alone with the rain and the wind howling over the hills.

Bigger problems in England, she remembered. Every path lead back to England. And London was at the end of them all.

❦❦❦

Dublin, Ireland, 20:13

The orange-tinged reflection of city lights on fog set the Dublin sky aglow. Dark did not quiet these streets, for though the night was new, they shone starfire bright against the surrounding hills -- to locals, the Pale. Even midnight’s descent would be swallowed in the rush: from an undercurrent of vehicular noise, there rose the thrum of parties, and laughter in peals, and screams to cheers to blaring horns. A harsher cold than any plaguing western London was no deterrent to joining in the nightlife. While the outskirts seldom saw such a bustle, it was more unusual here for things to be quiet, and thus, the Irish capital was an unrivaled home for COURT’s Command Center.

It towered from the steel and concrete spread of the largest business district, from whence many a government agency gave their orders. In many regards, it appeared ordinary: the car park was partway full, and revolving doors guided people inside, and within its walls, meetings were still being conducted.

In one room on the west-facing side, from which the window gave a shadow cloaked view of slopes, crags, and the sea beyond them, an agent and an officer sat face to face across a desk. Lamplight cast their expressions in yellow hues; they did not once look at each other. Behind the desk, one was silhouetted against the tricolor of Ireland. In the lines between her brows and around her lips, and in a missing left earlobe, cut clean off and long since healed, it would seem that her work had aged her. But beneath her blazer, she was fit, her shoulders broad, her posture upright. Four scars marked her jawline, the strength of which lent her a military severity, offset a hint by humidity-ruffled curls peeking from beneath her cap. It was ultimately her gaze that matched Avery’s in intensity, sharp as glass and just as clear.

A black trenchcoat hung from the back of his chair, and by his feet he had placed his briefcase. With Agent Leary’s focus locked on him, he pored over the Supreme Minister’s letter. Beside it, his notepad was open to a page full of scrawled phrases.

We’ve reason to believe the motive was political, the letter read.

Incomplete truth, Avery wrote. Minister already knew motive was political.

Perhaps retaliation for the implementation of our Democracy.

Shaking his head, he added, Would not guess that if he didn’t already have info.

Aloud, he sighed and said, “The prick is lying. He’s acting like he doesn’t know what’s happening right under his nose.”

Leary half-scoffed and half-laughed. “And that comes as news to you?”

“Of course not. See here.” He pointed his pen to what he had written, then flicked it to the corresponding lines in the letter. “If the Minister thinks the Taking was retaliation for his new rule, then he was aware of the problem to begin with. It’s not a matter of ‘perhaps’.”

Leary leaned in for a closer look. Both she and Avery kept their hands well away from each other.

“Hmm,” was all she said at first. Then, after a long pause, “You’re right. Rebels don’t go quietly, no matter how much time passes. Let alone only thirty years. Pretending to just now have thought of that is a lie by omission.”

“Yes. As for what kind of rebels, are you thinking what I am thinking?”

“That faerie monarchists did this?”

To hear the theory spoken sent a chill racing up his spine; he almost wanted to check and be sure that the window was closed.

“Yes,” he repeated, hushed. “During the monarchy, there were dissenters, sure. But why would they go against those who ousted the king and queen?”

“They wouldn’t.”

“And their methods -- who else would do something so...?”

“So traditional, in the nastiest sense of the word? No one. No one but secret Seelie and Unseelie factions would take changelings.”

Avery then flipped to a fresh page and began again to write.

Monarchist rebels best possibility Changeling was Seelie

“And, Leary... a life-aligned child was stolen. At least according to what he’s said in our following letters. That’s a Seelie child, even if the Minister won’t admit it outright.”

“Hmm.” She grabbed her own pen, clicked it several times, and skimmed his notes.

“The culprit was Unseelie,” he said. “They fled to... where?”

“I don’t know, Avery.”

“Where did they even get the replacement human child?”

“I don’t know that, either!” she snapped.

Avery took his notepad back and clutched it. The ever-familiar energy of hunting coursed through his veins, and his inhibitions -- against pushing protocol, against testing his superior -- switched off.

“I propose something radical,” he began.

Leary crossed her arms, waiting.

“My juniors will have no part in this. Instead... we will. Let us partner.”

Her eyes flashed blade-quick danger. “What?”

“Hear me out, please --”

“No! No, you cannot walk with my circle!”

“Because I’m not Irish?” He regretted this in an instant, yet could not cave.

“None of that!” Leary practically hissed at him, hunching over her work to glare flame and knives. “You don’t have what it takes. I am saying that to protect you. It’s got nothing to do with you being English or Irish or a goddamned Martian! If the culprit is in England, as you were told, then you are best staying out of its way. Stay in Scotland.”

“So I’m not strong enough? Not skilled enough? Or is this about us?”

If he’d regretted his previous comment, then this one unleashed a torrent of both guilt and fear -- swirling together as mud and water would in a flood. Leary, to no surprise of his, looked as though she wanted to slap him.

He could see her fighting to level her temper with one deep breath, then two.

“Avery,” she said at last, her tone forced even. “The past is the past. The branches of COURT agree to that, regarding their histories, and so can we, regarding ours. If you continue to act unprofessional, then you will no longer be on this case. You know I have sway with the chief commander. I’ll have my courier send word to her.”

“I’m sorry. It will not happen again.”

He could not decide what stung more: being labeled unprofessional, or suffering Leary’s anger to such a degree. His uncertainty must have made his apology genuine, as Leary gave a nod of relent.

“Fine,” she murmured, and in a clearer voice, after another moment of quiet, said, “Your capture of Target Manchester Twenty-three was invaluable to the Taking investigation. From Glasgow, you will assist us in locating the culprit. This faerie is far too dangerous for anybody besides the elites to take on, and must be tried as a criminal, not killed.”

“I know.” His own words came soft, though he did not purposely make them so. “The Minister can kill the creature if he sees fit.”

“Thank you, Avery.”

That was his queue to leave. He tugged on his coat and slid the notepad into his briefcase; as Avery crossed the threshold into the hall, he looked back on simple impulse.

Leary’s smile was fleeting as a ghost, but real. The game was indeed on.