Toxic Influence Page 4

  "Oh, so it's not just bad fashion sense. And knock off the sir crap, Dash. Director Svenson's not hiding in the closet waiting to jump out and catch you." He lowered his hands and sighed. "So let me get this straight. Gutt told me already what happened, but I just want to make sure we're all on the same page." He leaned in, eyes focused intently on me, pinning me in place. My stomach was not happy with the extra attention, tossing and churning.

  Then his lips parted into a massive smile, like his face was rubber being stretched. "Did you punch a motherfucking sorcerer in the face and steal his gas mask?"

  I blinked a few times and swallowed to make my mouth actually work again. "That's how I remember it. But I was poisoned recently, so maybe not? Maybe whatever doesn't get me fired?"

  He shot off a raucous cackle, the kind that tossed his whole body around like a gingko tree whipping in the wind. "I ain't planning to write you up for saving five people's lives from a poison gas attack. Neither is Carlson."

  "You talked to Carlson already?"

  "Well I had to. OPA enjoys a certain amount of freedom when it comes to magical threats, don't get me wrong, but even I can't run in and snipe any agent I want without talking to their superiors first."

  I sat a moment, nodding, until what he said sank in. Or at least tried to sink in. Apparently it didn't quite take. "Sorry, sir…Swift. What exactly do you mean?"

  He grabbed a folder from the stack of papers and flipped it open. "Four-point-oh GPA and a Master's Degree from Norwich University in National Security Studies. One of the best schools in the country for that."

  "Yes it is. That's why I applied. 9/11 in my senior year set me on the path." My head danced with static and fuzz, so I was apparently just rattling off my past until I got my shit together. "You have my file?"

  "Ninety-second percentile in marksmanship, and you were characterized as exceptionally bright when I called around."

  That was all very true, and very…not exactly his business. I mean, he was the head of an FBI department…but he wasn't the head of my department. "Thank you?"

  He set the file down and grabbed a pale yellow sticky note from the outside of the folder. "On top of that, pretty much everyone said you had an independent streak and like to question authority. I would ask you about that, but you did ignore a direct order from your superior in the field, putting your own life in imminent danger. So I think I can see what they were getting at with that one."

  "Swift, sir…permission to speak freely?"

  "Jesus, I wish you would. Gutt's normally the one people are afraid of, not me."

  "I really don't understand what's going on? It sounded like you wanted me to join the OPA at first, but—"

  "We have no one with experience in counterterrorism on board right now." His voice was a little less lazy, slightly fiery and excitable. And I realized that accent was real, and it was something southern. Couldn’t tell you, like, a state that he could have been from, though. "It's been a tooth and nail scrabble to get this office established to the point it's at, which means we are woefully understaffed in a few areas." He shook his head. "There's three Special Agents involved at the top end here. Gutt's from the Hidden Kingdoms, I came out of organized crime, and Abigail came out of white collar. It's high time to expand out our roster a little bit, don't you think?"

  "Agent Carlson—"

  "Jeff's a great agent. Worked with him before. Case in Louisiana." That must have been the accent. "He thinks magic is dangerous and weird. Won't touch it with a seventeen foot pole unless it finds him first. And he has a less than stellar reputation in the elven community. No good bringing that in when we can avoid it."

  I didn't ask, couldn't really gather more information I would need to comprehend. "But there are still agents with a lot more experience. I've only been in counterterrorism for three months." I'd set my sights on working there from the outset, and I finally had my foot in the door. "I don't think I'm the best option."

  "I disagree. You don't go to that school and get that degree without knowing your shit." He came around to the other side of the desk and sat next to me. "We are in the wilderness, here. Us humans don't know enough about the threats we're dealing with, and Gutt, Casey, and Bancroft only fill in a small percent of the puzzle for us. Especially on a case like this."

  Finally, my head cleared a little. I leaned fully back into the chair. "This is a lot to take in. I was just poisoned, you know. I just had a man regrow all the skin on my legs."

  "Yeah. Casey's good at what he does. Everyone here is good at what they do. That's why I want you. You do not punch a sorcerer in the face without balls of solid steel. And you don't work NYPD for three years or let a troll come in and carry you in his arms and hate preets." Swift shifted in his chair to face me a little more directly. "I've already got the go-ahead from Carlson to transfer you ASAP. What's it going to take to convince you to come skipping into the OPA, happy as a fluffy little new baby bird?"

  "I don't skip."

  "Then walk very masculinely. Why don't you want part of this? You'd still be an FBI agent. You'd still be protecting and serving. I encourage you to speak your mind, especially on this damn case. Plus working OPA gets you an instant pay raise."

  I quirked one eyebrow, I'm not too proud to admit it. "Pay raise?"

  "FBI figures anyone crazy enough to come join us, shooting dragons and arresting selkies deserves a little extra. Mostly because the higher ups don't want anything to do with it, so we have bargaining power. It's the only place they’re willing to spend a little extra on the OPA without a big fuss and fight on our part. In case you didn't notice our austere surroundings when you walked in."

  "Agent Swift…working counterterrorism has been my end goal since I was seventeen. I just got in there. I don't think I can leave."

  "And I respect that more than you might assume, Dash." He sighed. "I tell you what: you come work OPA for this case. Try it on for size. If you're truly and completely miserable when all is said and done, I will hand you back to Jeff Carlson with a smile on my face and you'll never have to set foot in here again. But I need someone in here now. And you're the someone I want."

  It still felt off, and I needed to stall until everything filtered through. "Are you even sure these are terrorists? How do you know it's not just one disgruntled sorcerer?"

  "Not the least reason? We weren't expecting a sorcerer. We were able to do some latent magic readings. At least two elves and a ghoul have been involved, plus the sorcerer. Besides, do you really think this is all the work of one angry bastard?"

  I didn't, especially not after hearing they'd already considered the option of a lone wolf, but that led me back around to my first damn point. "But why me? If this is a terrorist cell, and they're all at least as dangerous as the guy in NYC, you want somebody a lot better at this job than me. You want to keep people safe." I had a healthy ego, no question. Always have. But he was making a bad decision. "I've been with the FBI a year. Punching one sorcerer isn't enough."

  "And I'm here to respectfully disagree. Balls of steel, Dash. You protect people. I need people in the OPA with guts like that. Requirement number one. FBI agents put their lives on the line any time they go out on a job. Even white collar crimes where Abigail was isn't all paperwork. It's not easy, it's dangerous." Swift sighed, and for a moment looked closer to fifty or sixty. Just for a moment before he continued, as though the universe changed him to drive home just how hard this job was. "We do just the same, but we don't always know what the threats are. We don't know if the wildfires are a sorcerer or a dragon. Kidnappings could be mundane, could be elves or fairies, or they could just be a seriously unbalanced preternatural. I need someone with the balls to punch a sorcerer in the face, and the sense of duty to protect people at any cost, and I can't sell this better than all that. You're the agent I want." He rose and moved back behind his desk. "I mentioned the raise, right? I'd finagle it to get you on our payroll during your tenure here, even if you decided to leave."


  "You mentioned the raise." I blew out a long, slow breath and looked up at the ceiling. It was…it was a lot. Whatever adrenaline or endorphins I'd gotten from Casey fixing my legs and my lungs and everything else had apparently dissipated, and I was feeling my little excursion in New York in a real way. It was in my muscles, in my bones, in my head. The effort of this particular conversation wasn't doing anything to fix the exhaustion, of course. "How long has the OPA been on this case?"

  "First poison gas attack, we wrote it off as somebody else's department. Second one caught our interest enough to check through those first two sites. Once we found signs of magic, we decided we'd better stick around, at least long enough to figure out if it was one of ours or not." Swift moved all his paperwork back to the center of the desk, with my file smack on top. "This one, with the target pretty clearly figured, it was our first shot to get in there and maybe see who was doing this firsthand. I came back to my desk with three calls tossing us the case officially." He sighed and fixed bright, hard eyes on me. "But you know, even with all the information from the other incidents delivered, there's nothing like having someone who was on the case firsthand from day one."

  Namely me. I stared back into his eyes. They were…energizing. Weirdly so. I was still exhausted enough I wanted to curl up underground for a thousand years, but that spark of life in his gaze was like the light at the end of the tunnel. "You doing magic on me right now, Swift?"

  "Me? Not a drop of magic to be had." He shrugged. "FBI's more comfortable with a Mundane son of a bitch like me heading up the OPA. Gutt and Casey are the only ones with magic in his blood."

  "It's in Casey's blood?"

  "His grandma was a hag. Old school magic, strong shit…once he hits about seventy-five, anyway. Mostly dormant with him being so young, but enough for our purposes." He went back to his paperwork. "For someone who isn't joining up, you're asking a lot of questions, Dash."

  "And you're answering a lot of questions, considering I'm not planning on sticking around."

  He chuckled. "Valid point. Ready to part ways? I might have to stop by and collect your incident report, hope you don't mind."

  I rose in my faded-ass T-shirt with my newly hairless legs exposed thanks to the ridiculous red cargo shorts, and looked at Swift one more time. He stared right back. No laziness, no laxness, no relaxation in him this time. He looked…he looked like a badass FBI Agent.

  I aimed for counterterrorism to stop sons of bitches like Al Qaeda. I learned after the fact that domestic terrorism was a way worse threat. Now we were looking at magical terrorists wreaking havoc in the country's most populated city.

  But at the core of it, the same basic, thrumming beat drove me forward: what's right? It wasn't right for all those people to die on September Eleventh. It wasn't right that some nutjob walked into a church in Charleston and opened fire. It wasn't right that forty-nine people lost their lives in a nightclub in Florida.

  And it wasn't right that dozens of people had already succumbed to these poison gas attacks.

  "What time tomorrow?"

  Swift locked eyes with me, scanning I guess for any falter or wiggle room. Then he nodded. "With a case this big, you'll probably want to show up around six-thirty." He grabbed a pen, scribbled something out on the sticky note pad, and handed the first slip to me. "You'll need that, too."

  I glanced down it. "Earl Grey, one sugar, double cappuccino times two, one with sugar…coffee order?"

  He nodded. "You're the new hire. Traditions are traditions, after all. But you'll be getting paid much better to fetch coffee for the OPA."

  "Guess it could be worse."

  "And so we don't have to have this conversation later, no media."

  "What?"

  "We don't talk to the media. Part of our work here, so long as I am head of this department, is to make people less afraid of magic, and less wary of preternaturals." Swift folded his hands on the desk. "It's bad enough with idiots out there like the Fundamentalist Humanitarians, spreading hate. If we told reporters about every stray unicorn, fairy swarm, and batch of dragon's dew slipping into the Mundane causing problems? Our job would get easier sometimes, sure. But the lives of those preets would get harder every time."

  "Right." It made sense. And looking back, you didn't hear much about the OPA on the news. Hell, you didn't hear much about them inside the bureau, for that matter. "No media. I think I can juggle one rule."

  "I hope so, Dash. Otherwise, maybe exceptionally bright doesn't mean what I thought it did." He turned back to his paperwork, but he smiled as I walked out. And not even for the reason most of my superiors smiled when I left.

  As I passed Gutt's cubicle, he looked up and turned around. "What did Swift want with you?"

  I shook my head. "He needed to give me the coffee order for tomorrow morning."

  Gutt smiled, baring all his trollish teeth, and it wasn't nearly as terrifying as before. Guess you really can get used to anything. "You just won me a dinner out on Bancroft's dime."

  The old man with the books grunted. "I'm supposed to assume Swift will hire every poisoning victim that strolls through Casey's office?" He rolled his eyes. "Still, impressive what you did. Not just anyone would stand up to a sorcerer like that."

  "Well, you know the FBI motto: punch evil sons of bitches in the face. I took it to heart." I yawned. I needed sleep, and I also needed to file that one last report with Carlson before I was officially OPA tomorrow.

  Somehow, even if I never would have chosen this path, it was the right thing to do. I just couldn't leave this case. Not now. Not after I'd experienced what that poison did to someone. I needed to see it through to the end.

  I almost walked off, ready to go see how Carlson reacted to the ridiculous getup I was stuck with, but something caught me and pulled me back. "Hey Gutt? Who's Abigail? Haven't seen her skulking around anywhere yet."

  "Agent King has her own office. She's been here a long time, and I'm sure she'll be there tomorrow morning for the briefing we're sure to be getting about this last attack."

  "Oh. She's the grumpy one Casey warned me about."

  "Grumpy would definitely describe Agent King." Bancroft finally turned his full attention toward me. He had bright blue eyes set into a face full of fine wrinkles, maybe fifty-five years old or so. "I recommend not calling her Abigail, either. Only one of us gets away with that, and that would be Swift."

  I nodded. "Right. Well, off to sleep my way through the rest of this poison. But I'll be back tomorrow. Sorry about the bet."

  Bancroft snorted. "Do you know how much a troll eats in a given meal? And Gutt has acquired quite the taste for good human food in his ten years here. Average caloric intake for a troll of his size and age is three times that of the average human male."

  Gutt chuckled. "Don't worry so much, Bancroft. I'm not going to eat you out of house and home in one meal. I'll show restraint, much as it pains me. I was far more concerned about winning the bet than about reaping the rewards."

  I rolled my eyes. I had a feeling those two enjoyed being stuffy together far more than I would ever enjoy listening to them being stuffy together. I waved behind me as I walked back through the doors. I had no fucking clue how to get back to Carlson's office from where I was, but the FBI offices were only so big, and I'd run across some kind of sign at some point. Or more likely, someone who could get me pointed the right way.

  I headed out of the OPA, knowing in the back of my mind I'd be returning in the morning.

  With a variety of caffeinated beverages, because even a dose of magic in my life couldn't change everything.

  I'd never admit it when asked, of course, but I wanted to follow this case to the end. The thought of immersing myself in this spooky, preet-filled world, it wasn't a fun one. But I got a punch in on that bastard. I'd followed the other attacks through until that as well. I needed to follow it out to the end, so if that meant fighting ghouls and elves and sorcerers alongside a troll and a quarter hag who thought I didn't notice
him checking out my ass? I'd do it happily.

  Chapter Four

  I arrived at the office with coffee…and I'd already downed a double shot espresso on my way over. Whether it was stress or the poison or the magic Casey used to fix me up, something had me feeling like I'd just gotten over a flu. And run a marathon. And maybe died for a minute or two.

  Of course, all that was better than not being able to walk by a long shot and a half, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

  Still, I was there with my second double shot and six other cardboard cups in a couple carriers. I walked through the doors into an otherwise empty room. It would just figure that I was earlier than everyone else.

  "Dash, you didn't wise up and change your mind." Swift walked up behind me, the elevator doors sliding closed behind him. "I was just down getting you a key, in case you need to get in after hours." He held a tiny silver key on a ring in front of me. "Come on. Briefing room. And you can meet everyone. They'll like you; you have coffee."

  I chuckled as I took the key. "I thought something had gone wrong, or I showed up too early or something."

  "No. You are a little early by my watch, but nice initiative. You look like shit though."

  "I feel like shit."

  "Well, at least the insides match the outsides." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "It's to be expected after what you went through. As long as it doesn't become a real problem, nothing to worry about. If it does, Casey'll take a look at you again. Fun being his guinea pig, ain't it?" He pointed to a door off along the far wall. "Now, I need my team awake, so go deliver caffeine to the masses."

  We walked together into the room. I went first and stood aside. It was a cramped little space, especially compared to where we got our briefings in counterterrorism, and the press of bodies inside didn't help. Hard to imagine Gutt would ever make a room feel less full and crowded, that was for damn sure, but even without him, we'd all have been breathing a lot of the same air. A kidney-shaped table, the top of the curve pointing away from the door, took up the whole middle of the space, and a large flat screen hung from the wall, though it was currently blank.