Field Mission Base 04, Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, 17:35

As a grey Sunday drew to an end, the sky released a covering of coastal fog. It rolled in across the shore, over piers and boulders and parks, ghostly among the dwindling daylight.

Right on the cusp of the ocean, this side of an already small town was a far cry from Glasgow or Manchester. The surrounding hills sloped up into mountainous ground, and down into cliffs; like streams, cobbled streets wound between homes and main streets, and at last reached out toward the water.

At the end of one such street, a white house rose above the rest, paint chipped and stonework weathered, all but two of its shutters closed: the first on the top floor, the second below that. Beside the door, a wooden sign was nailed: Department of Marine Meteorology Studies. That was all -- no university or company or phone number. Adjacent the sign hung a mailbox rusted from exposure to constant humidity.

From the top floor window, Marty watched an occasional car pass by and gulls bicker for scraps. She ached too much to do anything else, and could swear that she still stank of peat. After a night and a day spent trudging through a bramble-filled bog, pulling her spare clothing from her backpack had felt like Christmas morning. They had only started at the Dark Hedges. Most of the mission had been to follow the Northern Irish team, doing what they said when they said it, laying trip wires and bait piles and sheets over holes bristling with spikes.

It had been a less than welcome reminder of her early training, and compared to her previous hunt-down and face-off chase, it was drudgery. There had been no thrill, only hissing creatures that were more hairless cat than fae.

Only Don’s misery from the cold had made the trip bearable. Neither he nor Marty had joined the team’s wisecracking, but now, he’d wandered away from her to find them. Alone, she ignored bursts of laughter, his included, through walls from nearby.

The top two floors were reserved for casual gatherings and overnight stays, since most of the real work -- besides that in the field -- was confined to the basement. Keeping the bulk of their work belowground was protocol back in Glasgow and at any other location, though Marty often heard rumors of things being different in the Dublin offices. According to Don, they even partied on weekends.

She heaved a sigh and drew the blinds closed. What she wouldn’t give to be in a city, whether her home city or one on some far-flung island. If she’d had the energy, she would have explored the town; still, she wasn’t certain that she’d find a decent Internet connection.

At least here, at the so-called fourth mission base along the northern coast, it was decent enough. She slid her phone from her pocket, slouched lower in her windowside armchair, and began to scroll. The news was too dire, spilling prophecies of despair across her feed; memes were more Don’s territory. On top of that, she had finished her book.

So, instead, she let her eyes drift closed, listening to the ticking clock on the nightstand as she thought.

Six junior agents, three senior, two secretaries, and a courier made for a sparse team: most teams were at least twice this size. But few as they were, they had been perfectly capable of exterminating brownies on their own. So far, Marty had seen nothing to substantiate Avery’s claim that the entire Northern Irish branch was overwhelmed -- even in a place so small that some maps didn’t include it. Besides, if that were true, the Irish branch would be scrambling to aid them, being just a border away.

Why send the two to Ballycastle? Why not somewhere more active, like Belfast or Derry or Craigavon?

A knock at the door jolted her from her sleep-deprived analysis. She jumped up from her chair, phone still in hand, and squinted through the peephole. Don peered back at her, his arm around the shoulders of someone she recognized from their mission, but could not name.

He was Don’s height, and roughly the same build, though his skin tone was closer to Marty’s. A scruff of ginger hair poked from beneath the flat cap that he’d flipped backwards; a beard the same shade framed a round face dusted with freckles. Like most sent into the field, he had his share of scars: a nicked eyebrow, a pockmark on his forehead. Instead of tactical gear, he wore jeans and a pumpkin orange pullover. It was his grin that caught her attention: crooked, with a lip ring glinting in the hallway lamplight. He’d been among the agents making jokes that night.

She let the two in, stepping aside to let them pass.

Don launched into an immediate explanation, his voice alive with the excitement of wild theorizing. “Marty, I told Sully here about Avery being all weird, and --”

Marty cut in, holding her hand up. “Wait there. You’re spreading gossip about our commanding officer? Don’t you think anything through?”

Sully, whom she’d remembered was called Agent Hughes, gave her a more apologetic smile, easing away the tension. “Nah, don’t worry; I haven’t told a soul. I don’t plan to. Agent O’Flannigan, right?”

Arms crossed, she flicked a brief glare at her partner. “Right. What have you heard?”

“Might I continue?” Don asked, his tone a mocking version of Southern gentility.

“Fine. Continue.”

With a partial laugh at Don’s sarcasm, and probably Marty’s annoyance, Sully leaned against the wall to listen.

Don cleared his throat and resumed. “He swore not to repeat a thing. I told him how we got this mission in the first place, and how soon it happened after Manchester. I mean, we’re juniors, and that was real soon for our rank, wasn’t it?”

Marty sank into the armchair again, drumming her fingers on the cushion. “I guess.”

“I also told him what the faerie said.”

“Don, why does that matter? It was trying to save itself!”

“I know, but of all the damn things to say --”

“If I may,” Sully interjected, stepping forward from the wall, “I think it’s less about what the faerie said and more about the timing.”

“The timing?” she repeated.

“Yup. It told you there were bigger issues in England, then almost immediately after, you were sent away from England.”

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Marty rolled her eyes, wanting to scream in frustration. Sully was just as bad as Don.

“Yes, we were sent away because there was nothing that big happening.”

“So we were sent to the middle of nowhere? Where there’s nothing happening, either?” Don said. “No offense, Sully.”

“None taken.”

“I don’t know!” she snapped. “I don’t know what direction this whole mess is going, or what Avery is up to, or if it’s even a mess at all! Maybe it’s nothing, too!”

Don huffed and gave no reply.

When Sully spoke again, he did so slowly, with the sound of another theory forming. “Here, juniors are kept out of anything above a certain danger level. It’s the same in Scotland?”

“Well, yes, but the worst you have out here are kelpies! Juniors can hunt a --”

“No, they can’t,” Don interrupted. “Not in Scotland.”

Under her breath, she muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“But you two caught a regular old faerie,” Sully said. “The sort that used to steal babies back in the day. You can handle those.”

Needing an outlet other than shouting at them, Marty began to pace. “This is unbelievable. We’re discussing whether our superior is involved in some plot to stop us from gaining experience.”

Don shifted his weight from foot to foot, seeming hesitant. Marty paused in her prowling to watch him.

He gave a tenuous suggestion. “I’m not so sure that’s what it’s about. Whatever’s going on, he must want to protect us.”

“Of course he wants to protect us. It’s his job, Don.”

Sully, who had spent the past several seconds chewing his lip in thought, said, “There was this one time -- in the Derry bases, not here -- that the senior agents did bar their juniors from missions. See, the whole border is crawling with redcaps. I’m talking colonies.”

Don raised a brow. “And?”

“And a redcap colony can wipe out a team in... five, six hours. So, instead of juniors, they brought some help over from Ireland. Lifford and Letterkenny, to be exact. Border towns. I hear it was some brutal stuff.”

“So, England has, like, a redcap infestation?” Even Don’s resolve was beginning to erode; Marty heard it in his voice.

Sully shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Could be. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Well, maybe... maybe Avery just wants us to brush up on the basics,” she offered, but didn’t believe a single one of her own words.

“Then why couldn’t he sign us in for training exercises?” Don said.

She fumbled for an answer, but her mind lay blank, either because she was too exhausted to argue, or because Don was right -- or both.

Sully stretched, cracked his knuckles, and patted them each on the back. “Hope the journey home tonight goes well. You two have my cell if you want to reach me.” With a wink, he added, “My unofficial one.”

With that, Sully left, nudging the door closed behind him. Marty and Don were alone to pick apart the pieces of the debate they’d just had; in a flash, her promise changed.

To hell with babysitting Don. It’s time to figure out what Avery’s hiding.

❦❦❦

Under a star-sprinkled sky, Avery’s office was locked, with the blinds drawn and lights off. It would appear that he had gone, if not for the half-whispered, half-spoken conversation taking place within.

“We do have a lead,” he assured his contact. Avery stalked the length of the room, perhaps five by five meters, head down and movements tense.

“And what would that be?”

“During my questioning of target twenty-three, it was revealed that in recent years, there was a taking. I have been waiting for the right time to tell you.”

“A taking? That sounds like a lie.”

“I’m not certain it is one.” He stopped, looked over his shoulder at the office door, and went on. “The culprit was never caught, and this target insisted that he felt a strong death-aligned presence --”

“Avery, you cannot pinpoint one faerie in an entire country just based on insistence! You have no evidence and there is no clear motive for a taking to begin with.”

“We will determine a motive, and with permission from Dublin, we can question the target again.”

“Enough! I want action. Calling my circle in was a mistake.”

Sudden panic lanced through him, leaving his heartbeat racing. “I promise that you will have action --”

There came a scuffing sound from the hallway -- footsteps on carpet. Silent, Avery peels aside the blinds on the door. He could have sighed in relief; a company messenger, disguised as a janitor in an ivy green uniform and pushing a bucket of cleaning supplies, stood before him. She checked twice that no other staff were present, then slid an envelope from her apron.

He muttered a request for his contact to wait, and stepped outside.

“Yes?” he asked.

Her only response was to hand the envelope forth, and she shuffled away, the wheels on her bucket clicking. Avery once again locked his office as he retreated, at which point he switched on the lights. The envelope was at once sturdy and soft, with flecks of organic matter embedded in its paper. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, he turned it over.

Urgent. Classified. Tall, red letters, a muted shade as though the ink was natural in origin, not manufactured. His breaths started to come deeper, and little by little, he felt the same thrill burning through his veins that he had when he’d last called his contact.

“Avery?” she prompted.

“I’m here. Just... just a moment.” He pried the flap open, hardly daring to touch it in case he tore it. When he teased the letter out, his instinctive sense was confirmed. In as clear but quiet a tone as he could use, he read it aloud.

Our dearest Friends at COURT,

Much has transpired in the last thirteen years, from war gripping both our precious lands, to the most wondrous of Breakthroughs and Inventions. We know not where you stand on the spectrum of ally to rival to enemy, thus it is with great Risk that we reach to you now.

The Supreme Minister must waste not a minute. We in the Realm require your aid towards the peace and prosperity of our Society, and his Eminence the Supreme Minister offers you exceptional reward for your Labor upon our behalf.

This is, purely and simply, an issue of Justice. While the Fae may have different perceptions of justice than Humanity does, we share many commonalities, and we regret to inform you of the problem with which we have struggled for too long.

We seek the perpetrator of the Realm’s first accursed Taking in over a century. We’ve reason to believe that the motive was political -- perhaps retaliation for the implementation of our Democracy -- and that the perpetrator fled to your lands.

Agent Avery, we have reached to you for your connection to us by Blood and your high regard of professional conduct.

Officer Leary, we have reached to you for your deep understanding of Rebellions and the forces who lead them, whether gracious or cruel.

Do not delay. Samhain approaches.

Send us your agreement by courier, and have a blessed day.

Avery, almost breathless in a storm of disbelief and adrenaline, resumed his pacing. He scanned the letter again and again, watching but not feeling his fingers tremble.

At long last, his contact spoke, her voice uncharacteristically hushed. “Damn him. Forcing our hand, then thanking us for it.”

“My gut feeling was correct.” He said it just as much to himself as to her, still processing what he had read.

“That death-aligned energy...”

“Is the Realm’s fugitive,” he finished.

“All lines connect... Avery, keep your juniors out of this. It could get them killed.”

Avery shuddered at the thought, placing the letter on his desk with both fear and reverence. “Where should I send them?”

“Far away from this. I need you in Dublin before the end of the week. Can you do that? Can you be here?”

For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, before he said in complete earnesty, “For you, I will do anything, Leary --”

The phone clicked.

He was left in the dark, but seeing with more clarity than he had in thirteen years.