London, England, 10:35

Don was greeted by a rare sunny sky as he awoke to the plane beginning its cityward descent. It had been a short flight, two hours at most, and it had begun covered in fog. Now, he gazed down at the sprawling expanse of London. The city was a silver carpet across a canvas of green, which faded in autumn’s color-bleaching grasp; toward the outskirts, it lay flat upon the ground, and toward the center, spiked up into skyscraper teeth. He watched the ground grow closer, and the buildings filling it grow larger, and tried to follow winding streets toward his hotel. It should be somewhere near Heathrow Airport -- one of five major ports here. If he were being honest with himself, he’d have admitted that he’d chosen the western side because it was inland and thus warmer.

Around him, the other passengers stirred from naps and gathered their things out of seat-back pockets. Don swept a large pile of candy wrappers from his tray and into the plastic bag at his feet. His neighbor in the aisle seat, with a smile, handed the bag over to a passing flight attendant.

“Oh -- young man, good luck,” she said to Don when the attendant moved on to the next row. She straightened her glasses and buttoned her cardigan, a winter coat resting across her lap. “I hope you and your friend can reconnect after all this time.”

Don gave an easy grin in return, unfazed by the tug of inertia and the roar of engines as the plane touched down. The safety lights overhead flicked off, and thus began the wait to exit.

“Good luck with the grandkids’ party. Y’all have a blast.”

While he didn’t dislike lying, he didn’t enjoy it, either -- not when people were so friendly. The old woman had believed his cover story without a single question, and just as well: better to hide in plain sight, armed with a lie, than to lurk in the shadows, clutching the truth.

After a long and boring fifteen minutes, the plane emptied; inside the dry-air confines of the airport, Don could at last find a place to sit. He perched upon a heater that spanned the length of the hall through which the crowd was moving. There, he slid his phone from the pocket, connected to the Wi-Fi, and was met with a notification: One message from #22315. Answering Marty could wait; he had to hurry.

Before long, Don had woven through the sea of people toward the far more organized customs desks. He allowed himself a moment to admire the sheer calm: there was no meandering, no grumbling, no irate travelers or overworked agents. It was, in his mind, a blessing that he’d never have to return to the American version of this.

Bypassing tourists and businesspeople, he held his identification card at the ready. His passport -- American, as he had left the Scottish one at home -- and his boarding pass from Glasgow were tucked into his front pocket for easy access. As he waited in line with mostly men in suits, he stared down at the picture of himself on the card. It looked like any other dead-eyed passport photo, and in it, he wore the same charcoal blazer that he was wearing now. Level Two Field Operative, Coalition of Unorthodox Research Teams, it said across the top. Below that, it listed his name, height, sex, and age, along with labeling him a transfer from the American Special Investigative Forces to the European COURT. Young as he looked, at twenty-eight, he was just old enough to be a Level Two: a junior agent.

Lugging a suitcase full of iron, herbs, knives, and firearms was certainly easier with a government I.D.. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to explain the surveillance equipment in his duffel, either.

He looked up at the call of “Next!”, having reached the front of the line at last. The customs officer waved him forward from behind a glass-walled desk, and he approached, placing all three identification forms upon the countertop. As the officer read through them, Don assumed an air on the edge of boredom: casual, but not so much that he appeared too relaxed. The officer nodded in satisfaction and gestured for Don’s luggage, which he hoisted up and opened. With the occasional focused mumble, he nudged through the weapons, each encased in foam to protect it, then the equipment. He was completely nonplussed, but he must see things like this every day.

“What brings you to London?” he asked; it was nothing more than routine procedure.

“Scottish special forces transfer seminar,” Don said, keeping his accent at softer levels than usual. The more ordinary he sounded, the better. “For five days.”

“Mhm,” the officer replied. “And these herbs in jars?”

Don slipped a piece of his cover story into his answer -- mainstream governments did know of COURT, but the fae remained a guarded secret. “Tea. They’re a gift for a friend once I’m done with the seminar.”

“Mhm,” he said again, zipped the suitcase and carry-on, and handed Don’s luggage back. “You’re free to go.”

With his suitcase in hand and duffel hanging on his shoulder, Don tucked the three documents deep into his pocket. As he passed the final pair of officers before the customs exit, he added, “Y’all have a good afternoon.”

A little politeness never hurt, after all. And neither did fast food once in a while. Now that he had cleared security, he finally noticed his grumbling stomach, and followed the hanging signs to the food court. Don couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a Big Mac; such things weren’t permitted at COURT. Too many chemicals, too many empty calories, and not enough real, raw ingredients. Still, Marty did manage to sneak fish and chips into their basement office every weekend. She’d once gotten them fried Snickers bars, too -- a Scottish delicacy, and to Don, a reason to let her temper slide.

Waiting behind a cluster of tourists at the McDonald’s kiosk, he sent her a brief message: you at your hotel yet? Perhaps five minutes dragged past without her answering. Don ordered the cheeseburger, waited another five, and soon headed for the main entrance with his brown paper sack of grease.

With no meetings to attend, no hunts to start, Don had plenty of time for wandering and savoring his first real meal of the day. He carried his duffel with ease despite its weight, and spared a moment to be thankful for London’s smooth pavements -- it would have been a pain to roll a suitcase down the cobbled streets of Edinburgh. Stopping to lean on a tree, he glanced at his phone yet again. Marty still had not responded. He sent her another message: It’s really not that bad out here. Nothing weird so far, though.

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Indeed, the city looked as normal as any other, if a little cleaner than what he was used to. Every now and then, he checked the directions to his hotel; the closer he came, the more he paid attention. With hardly any trouble, he reached it: a slim brick building between two modern masses of glass, its doorway arched and palm-sized flags strung along the railings.

Inside, three leather armchairs surrounded a fireplace -- the real kind, not one with the fake LED flames. In their center sat a table bearing stacks of books and a ceramic bowl of fruit. The warm air, laden with a cinnamon scent and something like old paper, provided respite from September’s chill. His loafers sank into carpet as he stepped up to the front desk, upon which miniature trolley cars and double-decker buses trailed toward a concierge bell. He rang it for service and slipped a handful of chocolates from the dish. Check-in was seamless; he gave the concierge the same story that he’d given everyone else along his journey, and in return, was given the key -- an actual key -- to his room.

A winding staircase lead him there from beside the office entrance. Up in the halls, he noted the smell of mothballs, acrid and leaving an ache in his nose. But of course, what could he expect for a two-hundred-ten pound special?

It took several moments of adjusting and readjusting the key for the door to open, and Don finally had a look at his room. The space was smaller than he’d imagined: a twin bed faced windows cloaked in curtains, which were scattered with a pattern of roses and leaves. Between the bed and the window stood the desk, with just a lamp and a notepad upon it. A television atop a dark wood dresser occupied the left corner; in the right was a smaller table bearing a tea kettle, boxes of biscuits, and a basket of tea bags. He shrugged his duffel onto the bed with a thump and a mattress squeak, then peered inside the dresser. It held two mugs, two plates, two knives, forks, and spoons. On the shelf below that, there were only a Bible and a copy of Shakespeare’s complete works. The bathroom consisted of a toilet, shower, and vanity all packed into a two-and-a-half meter cube. It, too, had a lingering mothball odor.

Don rested against the door frame, hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, and smiled.

This was perfect. He didn’t need to deal with Marty scouring for the cheapest posh rooms they could get.

He hefted his suitcase onto the bed as well, releasing another squeal from the mattress, and kicked back in the desk chair. Completing his four nights’ arrangement was the Wi-Fi password scrawled on the notepad. Phone in hand, he switched off his mobile data, logged in, and sent one more message.

17881: come on! Lol

It was now a quarter past noon; he relished the chance to relax, and so grabbed a carton of buttermilk biscuits as he awaited his partner’s reply.

❦❦❦

Edinburgh, Scotland, 12:15

Beyond their five hundred and thirty pound budget, Marty had not needed to worry about money. After all, her expenses were completely authorized, and that gave her a touch of comfort regarding Don’s activities.

Her living quarters for this holiday were also a great help. They weren’t everything she would have liked -- so much time spent in basements and alleyways and goodness knows where else had given her a preference for the finer things. But nor were they whatever Don must have found. The room was sizeable enough to fit a queen-sized bed, an entertainment center, a chaise and ottoman, and a wardrobe full of extra pillows -- all without being so crammed that she couldn’t move about.

At its far side, double doors opened onto a chrome-fenced balcony with a table and chairs; there she lounged, a tin of oatcakes in her arm and a two-liter seltzer on the floor.

She had a vast view across Edinburgh, a landscape crafted from curls of fog and blurs of green verdance, spindly church towers and medieval stone. The towers rose one by one from the mist, trailing up and up into the hills, which then swept into mountains swathed in an even deeper fog than this. And yet, Marty’s gaze was glued to her laptop.

Every once in a while, she nibbled an oatcake as she scrolled through local blogs and social media, looking for any clue regarding the fae. Her Bluetooth headset provided a feed of Scotland’s less credible news channels; the credible ones would never touch anything with possible supernatural connections. Marty loathed listening to tabloids, and she tuned out the heaps of celebrity rumors and UFO sightings.

Now and then, she looked from her computer to her phone, where she hid on incognito mode to read the English branch’s forums. They wrote almost entirely about work -- where to buy supplies in bulk, where to get the purest iron -- peppered with complaints that nobody had heard from Dublin in forever. The latter was nothing new. English juniors would insist that Dublin’s Command Center didn’t communicate, the posts would disappear, and talk would float in from both England and Ireland that seniors had the gossip deleted. Marty didn’t doubt for a minute that the juniors just didn’t check their emails.

She saw not a thing out of the ordinary, and instead, opened the chatroom. Marty and Don had downloaded it onto their laptops as well -- at least COURT didn’t track agents’ downloads. Not without reason, that is, and if all went as planned, they wouldn’t have one.

17881 at 11:40: you at your hotel yet?

17881 at 11:51: it’s really not that bad here. Nothing weird so far, though.

17881 at 12:15: come on! Lol

Shaking her head at Don’s impatience, she increased the volume on her news feed.

22315 at 12:17: I’m here, at hotel, have found no evidence on Internet.

17881: Where on internet?

22315: EF.

To name anything directly, the English forums included, could spell failure -- and naming Avery was a one-way ticket to termination, if he managed to find their chat log. Neither Marty nor Don dared to even mention his gender, in case.

17881: Any word from the boss? They still think we’re in the same place?

22315: Nothing to suggest otherwise. But no word.

There came a pause of about three minutes. Marty crunched the next oatcake a little faster than the last.

17881: what if they ask for pictures?? You know, as proof?

22315: They won’t. They’ve never asked for pictures before.

17881: we’ve never done this before though!

22315: Cold feet? This was your idea.

17881: Hell no. splitting up was YOUR idea.

22315: And running off to where you are was yours. End of conversation.

To smooth the waters before Don could say something rash, she added on.

22315: We’ll be fine, so think straight. We should see an increase in stuff happening within a day or two. Awake till 3?

17881: Yeah, awake till 3.

That, too, was a slight comfort -- and stronger motivation. Three a.m., the witches’ hour, the cursed hour, was their best chance to see something that night, if there was anything to see. Marty didn’t think she’d witness faeries traipsing through the town square, but she could at least be online if Don relayed an incident.

For now, the day would be best spent preparing. She turned in her seat, watching as a low-hanging cloud phased over a spire and peeled in half. Better to leave before the rain.

❦❦❦

A tri-colored flag flapped in the wind, too darkened by night for its colors to be clear. The road was empty save for a taxi rolling away; its back lights became eyes, and they stared, red and glowing, down a corridor of city concrete.

When the car had gone, the only sounds were footsteps, then a horn honking in the distance. A man in a trench coat, clutching a briefcase, made his way down the street and around the corner. The clip of his shoes echoed, for his pace was quick. He kept away from street lights and vehicles, concealed, hurrying, hurrying.