Agent of Change: The Fae-touched Chronicles, #4

By Christen Stovall and Jennifer Sanders

One mistake ruined her life.

 

Abandoned by her first love—or so she believed—Lady Constance Mayweather carved out a life of security for herself and her son with a man she did not love. When her husband is murdered and her child stolen, she must rely on the one man she knows she should not trust to bring her son safely home

 

One mistake cost him everything.

 

Wealthy, witty, sinfully handsome Quinn Rutherford is the despair of hopeful Victorian debutantes: a man with nothing better to do than gamble, drink, and seduce his way into an early grave. But this shallow exterior hides her Majesty's perfect Agency operative: clever, ruthless, reckless, fearless. A tangled web of murder, kidnapping, and a plot against the throne lead Quinn to brave the dangers of the Fae realm itself to save the woman he loved and lost—and the child he never knew—from forces he cannot fully comprehend.

 

In a race against magic, time, and the pain of the past, can they get to their son before he is lost to the Fae realm forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boundless Fantasy
• Release date: May 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736266298

Christen Stovall

Christen is an avid reader who enjoys going on adventures whenever she can. Her love of fantasy started at an early age with fairytales and The Hobbit. She lives in Kansas in the home she shared with her late husband. She first discovered a love of storytelling on the stage. In her late teens she began writing, a hobby that helped her through her husband's death. She is the author of the Song of Souls trilogy, and its prequel, The Twisted Path, as well as the romance fantasy series The Fae-touched Chronicles, co-authored with Jennifer Sanders. Christen enjoys spending days in her gardens and having adventures with her friends and family. Destiny of the Fallen is Christen's first work in partnership with the audio drama production company, Adventurous Ideas.

Book preview

Prologue

Seven years ago

Having retrieved the umbrella he’d been after, Quinn Rutherford made his way back to the gazebo through the sudden downpour. Though his waistcoat and pant legs were soaked through and his shoes would be fit for nothing after today’s muddy excursion, his mood was as bright as the sunniest day, and he grinned to himself. This was not at all the way he’d expected his afternoon to go, but it had been an absolutely brilliant turn of events, for Constance Harris loved him.

He’d been planning to speak to her father as soon as his current mission was complete; as a junior field agent in the Agency, a secret branch of Her Majesty’s service under Mr. Melville, Quinn generally went where he was sent and did what he was told, so there was little chance of postponing his current assignment. When he was more senior he’d be able to pick and choose, but for now, fresh from Oxford, he was bound to his duty as it was prescribed. 

But the current assignment was simple enough, a routine reconnaissance to Sarajevo. The area was a little volatile, but there was no reason Quinn or his partner would run into trouble. Get in, gather intelligence, get out. A fortnight at best, and then...

The gazebo came into view, and with it memories of the afternoon: confessing his love to Constance and hearing her vow hers to him–and what followed. Storm without, storm within, he thought, smiling like an idiot. He was well and truly pledged to her now, and she to him, giving him her innocence while the rain beat down outside. 

Maybe it wasn’t wise, but the passion between them was more than he could resist, and he would never forget the soul-deep joy of sinking into her body, the heat of her lips against his marking him as surely as a brand.

She was still waiting for him when he opened the door, the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld, and infinitely more dear now than she had been even hours ago, when he’d last inspected the ring he hoped to give her.

He had no words, and so he didn’t try to use any, casting the umbrella aside and catching Constance around the waist to bring her mouth to his again.

She laughed a little as their lips met, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers weaving into his hair as that warm, sweet mouth welcomed him back, welcomed him home. I love you, Quinn Rutherford, she whispered when the kiss broke.

As I love you, my Constance, he replied softly. I’ve loved you since we were children—and I’ll love you for all of my days, I swear it.

She was smiling up at him, eyes full of adoration as she stroked his cheeks. I’ve always been yours, and when you get back from your business overseas I hope never to be parted from you again.

He kissed her nose. When I return I’ll speak to your father, and then I’ll have a question to ask you. Best to think about the answer carefully, my darling.

She snuggled close to him. I already know the answer, my dearest Quinn. She turned her head closer to his chest and inhaled softly. Must you truly go away? It was miserable enough waiting the few minutes it took you to come back with the umbrella.

I'm afraid I must, he replied. It won’t take long—a small commission for my grandfather. He’s adamant that I join him in business, you know—and we butt heads on the subject more than I’d like. This one favor seemed a small enough price to pay for a bit of peace. His conscience pricked a little at the falsehood, but the rules of his Agency were clear, and when once she was his wife he need never lie to her again.

I could come along. We could imagine we were on one of our adventures. She looked up at him playfully. Captains Quinn and Constance, sailing the Seven Seas.

He chuckled. If only you could. But I promise—a fortnight at most, and then I’ll return to you. His demeanor sobered and he kissed her mouth again, lingeringly. I’m yours, Constance. I will ask you that question, I swear it, though Hell itself bars the way.

Chapter One

A Bump in the Night

Present day, 1890

Lady Constance Mayweather’s eyes flew open. She blinked in the dark, trying to figure out what had wakened her from her sleep. Everything in her bedroom seemed to be in order, but something had stirred her from her rest. A door opened and closed in the hall, and the sound of voices drifted from the corridor. She frowned, pushing the blankets aside and reached for her dressing gown as the footsteps passed her door.

She threw her robe on and tiptoed across the room, instinct warning that secrecy was in order. There was more than one person moving about in the hall, but there was something in the forced shuffling of one set of footsteps that put her on edge, and indicated that this was not the sound of servants stirring about the house.

Another door opened and closed, and after a moment of silence, Constance crept out into the hall. She paused at her son’s room, stepping inside, needing to know he was safe. Leander slumbered peacefully in his bed, his dark hair disheveled, a battered stuffed rabbit tucked under one of his arms. She tucked the blankets around her little boy and placed a feather-light kiss on the top of his head. That much was right in the world and Constance allowed herself the smallest moment of relief.

But her relief was short-lived. Voices drifted down the hall and through the open nursery door. Now’s not the time to play the hero, mortal. The voice was strange, almost like two voices in unison. I hunger, and there is lamb in this house, sleeping in a little room just down the corridor.

You wouldn’t dare. Her husband’s voice was furious.

Will you bet your son's life on that? came the terrifying response.

That last statement chilled Constance to the bone and lit a protective fire in her belly. She slipped out of the nursery, pulling the door almost closed, but stopping just short. The handle had a terrible squeak when it latched, and she didn’t dare draw attention to her son’s bedroom, or risk alerting anyone to her presence. She moved stealthily toward her husband’s study, stopping long enough to grab one of the heavy pewter candlesticks that decorated the small table just outside the door.

Demonstrate it. I would see this portal you have so arrogantly created. The stranger’s voice was lacking in patience.

Don’t be a fool. Eustace’s tone took on a stubborn tone. I won’t do anything of the sort. Now take yourself off before I call the police.

The door to the study was slightly ajar, and Constance pushed against the wall to avoid being seen even as she craned her neck to look inside. Eustace was standing in front of his desk, arms crossed, face red beneath his mop of blond hair. 

There was a pause, and the distinct sound of... sniffing. I scent female, the eerie voice said, almost singsong. Curious, foolish... delicious female. Suddenly the door flung wide.

Constance jumped back, raising the candlestick over her head to bludgeon the blackguard, but a vice-like grip was on her wrist as quick as lightning. Get out of my house, she spat through gritted teeth, chin raised in defiance despite the way her heart was pounding against her ribcage and the advantage her attacker had. 

The intruder was tall and broadly built through shoulder and chest, enveloped in a voluminous black greatcoat and a knitted cap pulled down over his forehead and ears. The grip around her wrist was preternaturally strong and painful, and the candlestick fell from her nerveless fingers as he jerked her into the room.

Your mate seeks to protect you, he rasped in that unearthly voice, and then laughed as he produced a dagger from his pocket. In one quick, fluid movement he spun Constance around and pulled her back against him, twisting her arm up behind her as he pressed the blade to her throat. Well, mortal? What is your choice?

Her husband’s face grew even redder. "Constance, you bloody fool, what are you doing? He turned to the trespasser. Let her go—she’s of no use to you. She knows nothing about any of this."

Constance breath caught, the cold edge of the dagger stinging as it just barely broke skin. Her mind was still racing to make sense of the nightmare unfolding in her husband’s study: the steely grip around her waist, the weapon against her neck. Eustace—what is going on?

The stranger bent close to Constance and inhaled, tracing his nose up the side of her neck. Fear, he sighed. Intoxicating. Choose, he said to Eustace, or I shall.

Eustace pressed his lips together. Damn it, Constance—why could you not have stayed in your room? He walked around to the other side of his desk and turned his back to them. There was a series of clicks before he faced them again, this time with a strange cylindrical object in his hands. It looked something like a map case, though Constance had never seen it before. Eustace twisted the end as he returned to his place in front of the desk. It’s a combination lock.

Good, now show me. The arm around her waist was like unyielding iron. And remember, if you try anything, your mate will pay the price. He pushed the dagger more firmly against her neck. Constance gasped, flinching a little despite herself.

Her husband shot Constance an infuriated glare, then shifted his gaze to the intruder. You leave me little choice. The combination is, here he hesitated, then went on in a defeated tone, Albert.

The man holding Constance jerked his head toward the object, indicating that Eustace should activate it. Her husband’s lips thinned, but he began to work the cylinder. Constance watched as little veins of light began to etch across its surface. They spread out, connected, and then began elongating and twisting beyond the cylinder into the air around it, creating a web of light in the center of the room. The arm around her waist loosened ever so slightly, and the knife moved from her throat.

Seeing her chance, Constance tried to stomp on her assailant’s foot but missed, collected herself and elbowed him as hard as she could. The sudden rush of movement caught him off-guard, and she was able to twist away from him. She dove to the floor and scrambled to reach for the candlestick again, ready to club the man over the head and put an end to his uninvited visit.

Constance–get out of the way! Eustace cried. The cylinder leapt from his hands and to the tangle of light that hovered in the air, expanding into a kind of opening, which then burst apart in a blindingly brilliant flash.

Startled and frightened by the sudden flare, Constance scrambled away from the illuminated... whatever it was, gaping in awe and confusion. Eustace, what... Words failed her as she stared in disbelief at the pulsating frame that expanded and took shape before her eyes, resolving into a crackling, illuminated doorway. Beyond the passage stood a dimly-lit forest, deeply shadowed, beckoning... warning. The scent of dry leaves and storm filled the air along with a low, musical thrumming.

Trespasser! The stranger staggered toward Eustace with a furious shout, dagger now pointed at Lord Mayweather. You dare to place your foolish portal in my Lady’s territory? Eustace scrabbled at his desk, coming up with his prized revolver, and waved it about, fulminating threats, but the intruder lunged forward, and then the sharp report of a gun going off echoed through the room.

Constance jumped violently, the explosive noise pulling her attention from the radiant portal to Eustace. He lay slumped against the corner of his desk, crimson rapidly spreading across his chest. The gun lay useless and smoking on the floor a short distance away. Beside the body, Eustace’s killer bared his teeth and turned on her, his blade dripping blood. 

Mama? came a small voice from the doorway.

Constance’s eyes darted to the door, the blood draining from her face. Run, Leander! Run!

But the interloper snatched Leander by the arm and yanked him into the room before the boy could react to Constance’s call. The little lamb is awake, is it? Just in time for the slaughter.

Get your hands off of him! Constance shrieked, launching herself at the man, fully prepared to tear his head off with her bare hands if she had to. She clawed at his face and the knitted cap came off in her hands to reveal two small horns curling back from his temples.

The horned man let go of Leander and backhanded Constance across the face, knocking her away with savage force. Her head connected with the corner of a cabinet and she fell to the floor, stunned, blood seeping from her hairline. She lay dazed, the room at a strange angle, and the buzz of the portal intensifying the ringing in her ears. Even as Constance struggled to gain her wits and rise she could see her attacker striding toward her with an uneven gait, and in sudden horror she realized that where feet should have been, instead were a pair of large cloven hooves.

Mama! Leander screamed, darting forward, and through a haze of blood and panic Constance saw the murderer turn on her boy. The child cowered back, stumbled, and without so much as a whisper slipped into the crackling archway and vanished. The light winked out, the doorway folded in on itself and the cylinder dropped abruptly to the floor.

Leander! Constance shrieked, forcing herself upright. She scrambled toward the cylinder but the room tilted wildly and she caught the edge of a small table instead, pulling it down as she collapsed onto the floor again. She dashed at the blood that streamed from her forehead, obscuring her vision and soaking the neckline of her nightrail. To her horror, the bestial murderer snatched up the cylinder that had swallowed up her son, and galloped out of the room.

NO! The word tore from Constance’s throat. She pushed herself up on all fours and began crawling to the door, gripping the frame to pull herself to her feet before she stumbled into the hallway.

He was already halfway down the stairs and moving fast. Constance clung to the wall and forced herself forward, even as the corridor bucked and swayed. My son—give me back my son! she cried, clumsily trying to follow. The creature gave her a backward glance as he jumped the last few steps and bolted through the front door into the night while Constance screamed out a protest. 

A clatter from the downstairs hall and their butler, Henge, came running into view half-dressed and red-faced. My lady, I thought I heard a gun—good God! What’s— He ran up the stairs two at a time to take hold of Constance. My lady—what’s happened? Fetch a doctor, he told the other servants now stumbling into the hall in various states of dress and alertness. 

She felt more than saw the moment he caught sight of the study beyond: his body went still, his grip tightening. Roy, Henge cried to one of the footmen, call the police! The master’s been murdered!

Constance jerked away from Henge and the other hands that tried to take hold of her, plunging headlong for the stairs in a desperate attempt to follow the beast that had stolen her Leander. She made it halfway down the staircase before missing a step and tumbling the rest of the way, blood spattering the stairs and the wall as she went.

She would not—could not—stop, struggling to her feet and staggering toward the open door. She knew what she’d seen—the doorway, the forest beyond, her child falling into it, arms reaching for her as he fell. The image, the sounds were burned into her mind, replaying over and over even as she fell forward again, struggling on her hands and knees. She needed to get that doorway back to rescue her son. She’d crawl after him through all of London if she had to.

My lady—my lady, stop! You’re hurt–you need help– Hands were pulling at her again, lifting her to her feet and urging her back toward the parlor. The police are on the way—come lie down—

Constant tried to shake them off. My baby, he took my baby! The room was spinning again, and she couldn’t seem to keep her feet under her, or remain upright. I have to stop him. I have to get Leander back.

Somehow she found herself on a chaise in the parlor with a cold cloth to her head. Henge knelt beside her. My lady, he murmured, I’ve called the Agency.

Constance tried to sit up, but the movement made her head throb, and she felt like she was falling again, even though she hadn’t moved from the chaise. Stop him, Henge. You—you have to stop him. He’d said something about an agency, and in the fog of blinding pain and spinning rooms, and the soul-wrenching knowledge that her son was gone, the fragment of a memory floundered to the surface. Eustace had told her there were people who could help, should they ever be in need: call, and the Agency would come. Send them to me as soon as they arrive, she managed, and gave over to the threatening darkness.

Consciousness ebbed and returned; Constance was covered with a blanket, her maid sitting nearby. She was coaxed to drink some water through chattering teeth. 

A few salient facts filtered through the pain in her head and in her heart: Eustace was dead, and Leander was gone. Heavy boots tromped through the house—police, she registered vaguely–but then the sound of a familiar voice cut through everything: a voice she’d not heard in years, except in her dreams.

Constance?

It was so soft she wasn’t sure she’d been meant to hear it, but she knew that sound like she knew the beating of her own heart. She flung the blanket aside and forced herself to stand, even as her body protested and her legs refused to feel anything. Quinn was here—but how, why? How had he known she would need him?

Somehow she managed to cross the room, swaying precariously with each step toward the doorway and the source of that voice. Strong arms caught her, held her; the scent of bergamot and sandalwood enveloped her, comforted her. Quinn, she breathed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket, using him for balance as the last reserves of her strength began to give way.

I’m here, he murmured gently, and scooped her up. Tell me what happened.

A broken sob ripped from her lips. Leander... Quinn, it took Leander—it killed my husband and took my son! And then everything that happened came crashing down on Constance all at once: the horrible inhuman appearance of the intruder, Eustace’s body slumped and bloody on the floor, and the last glimpse of her baby disappearing through a strange door of light. She shuddered and then gave into the darkness again, going limp in Quinn Rutherford’s arms.

Quinn bit out several curses in varying languages. Move, he said unceremoniously to his companion, and maneuvered past him to place Constance gently on the chaise, kneeling at her side. 

Asher Burton trailed him in his usual quiet way, but Quinn had worked with him long enough to know that his former field partner was taking in every detail of the room. Has a doctor been sent for? he asked the lady’s maid who hovered nearby.

Yes sir, she replied, wringing her hands and looking at Constance with open dismay. But he’s not been here yet, the girl’s voice wobbled as she spoke.

There was little to be said to that, Quinn knew, but he still wanted to tear the doctor’s head off for not arriving immediately. But there was work to be done, and he was here to do it, much as he wanted to simply remain where he was until Constance regained consciousness. He looked up at the maid. Notify me at once when the doctor arrives, he bit out. Quinn stood up and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to sort his thoughts so he could apply himself to the job at hand. He glanced at Asher. Come on, make yourself useful. With that he went in search of the crime scene, not really caring if his friend followed or not.

Asher did, of course, sticking close as they pushed past the brigade of policemen that were scouring the upstairs, many of which were gathered outside a door at the end of the corridor. 

Have you spoken to Lady Mayweather yet? a familiar voice drifted from the room, one Inspector Kephart. Quinn rolled his eyes. Of course that incompetent booby was here. The servants said she claims there was a man in the room with Lord Mayweather?

Yes, but she’s been in and out of consciousness since before we arrived. The servants said she took a nasty fall down the stairs, came the response. I thought it best to wait until the lady was attended by a doctor before I took her statement.

Giving her time to make up her story, eh? Kephart growled. These upper-class people always think they can pull the wool over our eyes. Keep a close watch on that one, he told his lieutenant, and the youth eagerly jogged down the stairs. 

Making assumptions already, Kephart? Quinn’s tone was dry. Bit early, even for you. You got here, what, ten minutes ago? He elbowed his way past the inspector and went into the victim’s study, where the man himself lay dead, waiting for the medical examiner to arrive.

Kephart huffed in irritation. "I’ve interviewed the servants who came on the scene. Lady Mayweather is the only person who claims there was someone else here. And she said that he had horns, he scoffed. He stood taller and crossed his arms. In my fifteen years on this job I’ve learned that the simplest explanation is generally the truth."

Where is the murder weapon? Asher asked, making a slow circle through the room.

We have it—Mayweather’s own gun, Kephart blustered. I thought you retired from the field, Burton. In which case you have no jurisdiction here.

Quinn rolled his eyes. At least pretend not to be an arse, Kephart. Burton’s commission is still active, and what he does with it is his business. He began to look around while Asher took careful notes, as usual. So your theory is that Lady Mayweather shot her husband, dealt herself a blow on the head, and then managed to spirit away her s–son? He only bobbled that last word a little—nobody would notice.

Nobody except Asher, who glanced at him briefly before returning to his notes. That does not sound like the simplest answer, Inspector, Quinn’s partner observed mildly.

I’ve seen killers do more to cover their tracks, Kephart countered, but his tone was considerably deflated. He growled slightly. "Very well, what do you suppose happened, Rutherford?"

Quinn was measuring out his steps, trying to recreate what had happened from the position of the bloodied cabinet, the overturned table and the flipped corner of the Oriental rug on the floor. He examined a bullet hole in the wall and then looked at the inspector. Until I’m given reason to suppose otherwise, the obvious inference is that there was a third person in the room. There was clearly some sort of struggle, he indicated the cabinet, and it’s absurd in the extreme to think that Lady Mayweather overpowered her husband, who was nearly twice her size. And there is a child missing—what have you done about that?

Kephart drew himself up again. I am not a complete fool. I’ve had the house searched, and have men searching the streets. Perhaps the boy was frightened and ran off.

Blood, here—Lady Mayweather’s, judging by the size of the print, Asher reported from the doorframe. That fits with what the servants said when they found her. He crossed to the body, squatting to peer more closely at the wound. Stabbed, not shot, so you don’t have the weapon. Asher used his pencil to lift a limp dark shape from the ground. A knitted cap, he observed. Whose?

Lord Mayweather’s, one presumes, Kephart said sniffily. It’s just a hat, Burton.

A hat near the body at a crime scene. Asher turned the hat this way and that, peering at it. Lord Mayweather was blond. He pulled a long dark hair from inside the cap. And before you start, this isn’t the lady’s hair, either. Far too dark. Which is rather conclusive, to my mind. He looked at Kephart. How old is the child?

Six this past March, Quinn replied absently, still trying not to launch himself at the inspector. ‘Frightened and ran off’ suits your original idiotic theory, but if there was a third party, we have a potential kidnapping, and these first hours are crucial—and all you’ve done is have men search the streets? He was practically snarling. If any harm comes to that boy due to your negligence, Kephart, I’ll have your badge. In fact—you’re off the case as of now. Take yourself off.

Whatever Kephart might have said was interrupted by a commotion at the door. Constance’s maid had pushed past the bevy of policemen and was standing just outside the study. Sir, you asked to be alerted– she looked into the room and let out a horrified gasp. Oh! Lord Mayweather... oh, The girl clamped her eyes shut and swayed a little, but to her credit did not swoon. She fixed her gaze on the floor just outside the door. The doctor arrived. He’s with my lady now. She woke just as I left to come for you.

Quinn shouldered his way out of the room, following the maid and wishing like hell his friend Ross was here, with his healing magic, rather than in the wilds of Colorado with his new wife. He hurried down the stairs, nimbly avoiding the bloody evidence of Constance’s fall, and into the parlor where she lay.

The doctor was seated on a footstool beside the chaise, bent over Constance, examining the jagged gash on her head. The cloth having been removed, the wound was bleeding freely again. I’ll have to stitch this up, my lady. I can give you something to help you sleep through it.

But Constance grabbed him by the wrist as he reached for his medical bag. I do not need to sleep. I need to find my son. She pushed his hand away and moved as if she might try to get up, but stopped short, closing her eyes and swallowing. Just sew it up, and give me something to help the dizziness.

My lady, you must rest. You are overwrought, the physician replied—rather patronizingly, in Quinn’s opinion. The stitching will be unpleasant and it would be better if you slept through it.

Constance’s jaw clenched, her chin raised, and she met the doctor’s gaze unwaveringly. Sew the wound and leave me be. The stubborn set of her jaw, the look of agonized determination in her eyes was enough to tell Quinn that the doctor was fighting a lost cause.

He moved further into the room. I can hold the lady’s head, if it would help, he volunteered, knowing full well he was stepping past the bounds of propriety