Chapter 1 - The Arrival
At current count, Sage Smith had been on around seven undercover missions.
The first time he had portrayed a regular ol’ human guy during a three-month operation infiltrating an organ-harvesting ring in Nashville. It had honestly been terrifying, pretending to be a buyer while feeding information back to the Feds, the Church, and local PD without being busted by the organization running it.
Since that success, he had been a go-to man to send out from New Mission Church in those situations. Hostile Orcs, Vampires, humans, even dirty cops down in Gainesville, rogue witches and magic users, Sage had gone into each event with a wary certainty that he could get the job done, then get back home to see his family.
However, that had been then.
This new assignment was a little more complicated than just putting on a human hat and flashing a smile, all while knowing he could overpower or outmaneuver his opposition.
No.
He was scared that this time his luck had run out.
Driving into the small town of Salt Springs, he was feeling that crush of wavering confidence.
It was three hours outside of New Hudson, on the borders of Free Territories, boasting around three thousand people of all varieties who called it home if the census could be trusted. However, no census could predict the people on the other side in the sovereign states dominated by feral factions.
Shit, no census taker was stupid enough to go in with a clipboard to ask.
That day, he was heading to a small local motel, but the closer he got to his destination, the more he began to crush with very, very old terrors.
Namely, the other half of his bloodline.
The Woodland Fae, and this trip, he wasn’t hiding what he was.
He couldn’t. They wouldn’t have bought it anyway. Between fully fledged Seers, their inherent gifts of Sight, and a lot of old bodies moving through the ranks, Sage would have never infiltrated their ranks with a hidden identity and a convoluted segue plot.
For one, Woodland Fae didn’t screw around with outsiders outside of militant business. They were smart in business dealings, and generally speaking, the most you could peg them for was purchasing illegal, unregistered firearms. They otherwise ran their own world, living on the fringe of normal society.
For Sages’ entire life, he had been very aware that had they crossed paths, there was a fifty-fifty shot they would shun him or a hell of a lot worse if they had known what he did for a living.
And here his happy ass was, driving into the Salt Springs like an idiot, with a goal to not just infiltrate their ranks but somehow convince these people that he was a trustworthy bystander stumbling upon them by happenstance alone.
He had one shot.
No take-backs, no oopsies.
He’d either connect or not, but fuck, Sage was really fucking scared.
In all honesty, he wished he was only there to explore his heritage, not undertake this shitshow of an assignment.
He raked his short blonde hair back from his eyes.
Going in, Sage had one bit of information his employer had managed to suss out: one Saturday a month, at eight o’clock, a few of the boys from the forest came to Salt Springs to sell booze to a local distributor, then stayed for a night of mingling with common people before vanishing the same night back into the aether.
He glanced at his cerulean eyes in the mirror, the oceanic green color already overbright with his distress.
God, but if he fucked up…if they found out what he was doing there?
Jesus.
He tried not to think about it while he pulled into the motel lot, checked in to the small front desk where a local was manning the counters, and got his reserved key for room six. The motel was all single-level, all the doors facing the lot in a neat little row, so he found the place pretty easily.
Already, the night was encroaching fast, the sun sliding behind the deep canopy and foothills that dominated Hudson Reservoir National Forest. The twilight-lit sky was beautiful, a deep purple streaked with golden streamers, a crescent moon fully visible hovering in the gap between two high peaks.
While Sage gathered his bags to bring in, he paused, hearing the distant rumble of thunder somewhere over the ranges, a telltale warning that by tonight, the storm the weather app on his phone heralded was coming in hot.
He shouldered his belongings, got his hunting kit in hand, slammed the trunk of his Cherokee, and headed inside the one-bedroom shithole to shower and change for his night.
God damn, but he was terrified.
~
Sage made sure to get to his destination early. Showing up after his target’s arrival seemed suspicious, and he wanted to have his ass planted on a stool sipping beers for at least half an hour before anyone with pointy ears bothered to show.
The nervous flutter in his belly was dancing while he followed his GPS to a bar called The Thistle, and he couldn’t get over the fact that he was kind of advertising tonight.
He was almost embarrassed by the Fae tats on his arm and shoulder, an impulsive identity-crisis moment back when he had been eighteen that he truly loved, but constantly reminded him as an adult just how false it felt.
The script said, “Honor The Family”, and yet he didn’t even do that anymore.
He had been adopted as a Smith, and left even his father’s last name in the dust, let alone his mother’s namesake of Niall. The woodland scene otherwise denoted the stag, the animal of the Niall line, along with their bird, a barn owl, flying overhead in an elaborate, photo-realistic tangle of vines and forest land. Beautiful, arranged elegantly in the fashion of all Fae aesthetic: outer upper arm only with a solid wrapped gauntlet closing around the forearm and wrist.
Tonight, he was displaying most of it with a short-sleeved T-shirt, had slapped on some well-loved jeans, and a casual set of All-Stars that he and his brother Caden had shared a real love for.
He had a coat as well, but the plan was to shed it and let them get an eyeful of his markings, to hopefully draw some curious attention. Then maybe, just maybe, make some kind of magic happen.
If nothing else, most Fae he had come across were curious over his alien bloodline, but he was hoping that theme carried to his specific brand of people as well. After all, he was clearly not full-blooded. He didn’t have the sharp point to the shell of the ear. His canines weren’t as pronounced, and while he was tall, six foot two, he was short compared to his brethren who regularly hit six foot five.
On the other hand, his hyperpigmented eyes shone with nocturnal lenses, his build screamed Fae with the shared lean length of limbs and long, powerful legs.
Day to day, Sage looked like what he was to the trained seeking eye, and Fae were very adept at spotting their own.
He found the bar and was admittedly bemused in a good way to see that The Thistle looked like an old-timey rendition of a tavern. Dual-level, very rustic, it was just on the outskirts of the town, bordering the forest that loomed not even half an acre from the property line. The place had a large overhang above its door, arched with hand-carved wooden eaves and window frames that made it look like a whimsical construct straight from a Fairy tale. The double doors were painted dark jade green but had an aged, weathered quality that announced to patrons that it had let in thousands of people over the years.
To the left was a large porch platform with an overhang. There was no mistaking the craftsmanship here. From the tables set out, chairs, benches, and a single picnic table for good weather days or loitering smokers, the aesthetic of the Forest people reigned supreme. The curved, exceptionally carved wood surfaces, the twisted wicker motif, and highly polished natural finish were dead giveaways.
Beautiful, it was quaint, and Sage really liked the swinging sign hanging from the apex of the awnings that read The Thistle, carved with an abundance of beautiful forest elements and thistle fields, complete with a squirrel perched on the second -T-.
Sage climbed out when he parked, eyes scanning the scene curiously. For once, he had opted to leave his weapons behind, knowing any Fae would smell the hardware and gunpowder, and honestly felt a little naked without. In the gravel lot, there was nothing but a handful of beat cars, a pair of big ass Fords, and one Rubicon.
Busy, even for a place on the outskirts of town.
His heart was hammering when he pulled the elegant, curved handle outward and entered the rustic space.
It was now or never.
Here was to hoping it went well enough.
