Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Jack
He cried in my arms. Silently, and with great composure and dignity. But he cried. For hours while allowing me to hold him.
Then I gently kissed the tears on his cheeks, kissed my way down his body, and blew him. After that, he fell asleep. Deeply. So deeply that now I know all he had been doing beside me was dozing. He must be exhausted.
I lie awake watching him in the pale morning light filtering through our curtains, marvelling at how different he looks when he’s truly at rest. The careful masks are gone, the perpetual vigilance that keeps his shoulders tense even in sleep has finally eased.
His face is soft, almost boyish, and there’s something peaceful about his expression that I’ve never seen before.
Last night changed everything between us.
All the careful politeness, the tentative trust, the walls we’ve both been maintaining.
Gone. Stripped away by a blazing confrontation and what I hope is now mutual understanding.
I know now what my presence costs him, and he knows that I see him.
Really see him, not just the performance he’s spent a lifetime perfecting.
My chest tightens with protective tenderness as I watch him sleep. This remarkable, brilliant, wounded man who’s survived so much and somehow still found the courage to let me hold him while he wept.
I want to stay here forever, just watching over him, making sure nothing disturbs this rare moment of peace. But the universe, it seems, has other plans.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Then again. And again.
Dyfri doesn’t even twitch. Whatever healing sleep has claimed him is deeper than I’ve ever seen.
I carefully extract myself from the bed and grab the phone, frowning at the string of missed calls from a private number.
Bloody hell. What now?
I’m just reaching for my clothes when there’s a sharp knock at our door. Not the polite tap of staff, but the sort of authoritative rap that means business.
“Mr Caxton?” Agent Morrison’s voice cuts through the morning quiet. “We need to speak with you. Immediately.”
My stomach tightens. Morrison doesn’t make unscheduled house calls unless something terrible has happened. And he has never made them for me.
I glance back at Dyfri, still deeply asleep, and make a decision. Whatever this is about, I need to understand the situation first.
I throw on yesterday’s clothes and slip out of the bedroom, closing the door as quietly as possible behind me.
Morrison is waiting in our living room, flanked by two other agents I vaguely recognise from security briefings. All three look grimly determined, and there’s a tension in the air that makes my skin crawl.
“Morrison,” I say, trying to project calm authority while my heart hammers. “This is unexpected. Has something happened?”
Morrison’s pale eyes fix on me with sharp focus. “We’ve been conducting surveillance on activities related to our previous discussions, Mr Caxton. The results are... concerning.”
“Concerning how?” I ask carefully.
One of the other agents steps forward, a woman with steel-grey hair and the bearing of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “We have surveillance footage from three days ago. An abandoned office building in East London.”
My blood turns cold. They’ve been watching Silas’s meeting location. But that means they’ve been watching us, despite our agreement to work together.
Morrison produces a tablet and swipes the screen. Audio waveforms dance across the display as Silas’s voice fills the room.
“The summer solstice is our target. Maximum symbolic impact...”
A recording of our Resistance planning session. Every detail of what we’re attempting to accomplish, laid out for MI5 to analyse.
“I’m confused,” I say, working to keep my voice steady. “Are we under surveillance now? I thought we had an understanding.”
“We do,” Morrison replies. “Which is precisely the problem. Our understanding was that we would explore ways to work together toward mutually beneficial outcomes. What this recording suggests is that you’ve been working with other parties to plan major operations without any MI5 input whatsoever.”
The grey-haired agent nods. “Our agreement was contingent on cooperation, Mr Caxton. What we’re seeing looks remarkably like you’ve decided to proceed independently.”
Ah. They’re not angry about the Resistance itself, they’re angry about being left out of the planning. The tentative partnership we agreed to has remained exactly that. Tentative. While we got down to serious plotting with Silas, Cai, and Ninian, MI5 only watched from the sidelines.
“The people I met with,” I say slowly, “have very good reasons to be cautious about government involvement. They needed time to assess whether cooperation was viable.”
“And have they?” Morrison asks. “Assessed it?”
“They’re... considering it.”
Morrison’s smile is thin. “Mr Caxton, what we heard on that recording was detailed planning for an operation to permanently sever interdimensional portals. That’s not ‘considering cooperation’, that’s preparing for action with or without us.”
“Which brings us to why we’re here,” the woman adds. “This kind of operation, targeting the opponent’s infrastructure with permanent consequences, requires professional oversight. The potential for catastrophic failure is simply too high to ignore.”
I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling the weight of trying to balance impossible loyalties. “What exactly are you asking for?”
“Full operational partnership,” Morrison says without hesitation. “Not tentative agreements or vague promises of future cooperation. Real integration. Joint planning. Shared intelligence. Access to all parties involved.”
“Including your necromancer friend and his supernatural network,” the woman clarifies. “We understand he’s been... reluctant to engage with government agencies.”
That’s putting it mildly. I have the distinct impression Silas would probably disappear permanently if he knew MI5 was demanding access to his operations.
“You’re asking me to convince people who’ve spent years hiding from intelligence services to suddenly trust you completely,” I point out.
“We’re asking you to decide whether you want this operation to succeed or fail,” Morrison counters. “Because amateur Resistance movements attempting to overthrow an incumbent power that has far more resources than they do, have a disturbing tendency to create disasters.”
“And disasters of this magnitude,” the grey-haired agent adds, “tend to result in massive casualties and international incidents that no one can contain. And in this unprecedented situation, it could lead to genocide. Ours.”
The threat is clear, even if diplomatically phrased. Work with us properly, or we’ll have to shut you down to prevent the destruction of the human race, because we don’t trust you not to fuck it up.
“Jack?”
I turn to find Dyfri standing in the bedroom doorway.
His dark eyes take in the scene with sharp intelligence, reading the tension and positioning like a strategic map.
He’s fully dressed despite having been deeply asleep moments ago.
Full fey robes and immaculate hair. His magnificent horns are on full display, and he looks every inch a fey prince. I’m pretty sure it’s a calculated move.
“Agent Morrison,” he says with perfect courtly politeness. “How unexpected. I trust there isn’t an emergency.”
Morrison stands, his posture respectful but firm. “Prince Dyfri. We were just discussing the next phase of our collaboration.”
“Were you indeed.” Dyfri moves into the room with fluid grace, settling onto the arm of my chair in a gesture that’s both casual and protective. “And what phase might that be?”
“The phase where theoretical cooperation becomes practical reality,” Morrison replies. “You and your husband have been very helpful in establishing initial contact, but we’ve reached the point where tentative agreements are no longer sufficient.”
Dyfri’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel the slight tension that runs through his body. “I see. And what level of... sufficiency were you hoping to achieve?”
“Full operational integration. Joint planning sessions with all parties involved. Complete coordination between your Resistance contacts and our resources.”
“Including direct contact with Mr Darkstar,” the woman adds. “We understand he commands considerable supernatural resources that could prove invaluable to the mission’s success.”
Something flickers in Dyfri’s eyes. Calculation, maybe, or recognition of a chess move he’d been expecting. “Silas has very compelling reasons for maintaining his privacy. Your organisation’s history with supernatural communities has not been... collaborative.”
“Past policies don’t necessarily dictate future relationships,” Morrison says. “Current circumstances require new approaches.”
“You’re asking us to convince our allies to trust the same government agency that’s been treating them as threats to be monitored, sometimes outright hunted, rather than citizens to be protected,” Dyfri observes mildly.
“I’m asking you to consider whether the mission’s success is worth overcoming historical grievances,” Morrison replies. “Because right now, your operation has maybe a thirty percent chance of succeeding without professional support. Those aren’t odds anyone should be comfortable with.”
Dyfri tilts his head slightly, studying Morrison with the sort of attention a predator gives potential prey. “And with your involvement?”
“Significantly better. We have the resources you need. Access to comprehensive intelligence. Technical expertise and tools. Weapons. The manpower of highly skilled agents. Most importantly, contingency planning for when things go wrong.”
“When, not if?”
Morrison’s smile is grim. “Prince Dyfri, you’re talking about sabotaging the enemy’s own tools. Something that ambitious doesn’t go exactly according to plan. Ever.”
For a long moment, the room is silent except for the soft hum of the heating system. I can practically see Dyfri weighing impossible options, calculating risks and benefits in ways I can’t even imagine.
“You realise,” he says finally, “that what you’re asking could destroy the very network you want to access. These people have survived by avoiding exactly this kind of exposure.”
“Then we protect them,” Morrison says firmly. “Full cooperation means full protection. Whatever resources are needed to ensure their safety.”
Dyfri’s laugh is soft and skeptical. “You’re offering to protect a necromancer who commands supernatural legions, a dragon rider whose people haven’t trusted human governments in centuries, and a fey defector who’s wanted by his own people for treason. That’s quite an ambitious protection program.”
“We’ve handled difficult cases before,” the grey-haired agent says with more confidence than seems warranted.
“Have you handled cases involving interdimensional fugitives and beings who can raise the dead?” Dyfri asks politely.
“We’ll adapt,” Morrison says.
Dyfri raises an elegant eyebrow. “And protect them from yourselves and other players and agencies who might wish to capture, dissect and study them in order to learn the secrets of their abilities?”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Morrison says with great conviction. “We all want our world back. Those that seemed a threat before, seem less so now that we’ve seen what the fey can do.”
Another long pause. Then Dyfri nods slowly. “Very well. I’ll arrange a meeting.”
Morrison visibly relaxes. “Excellent. When?”
“That depends entirely on how persuasive I can be,” Dyfri replies. “You’re asking people to risk everything they’ve built on the promise that you’ll keep them safe. That’s not a small request.”
“How long do you need?” Morrison asks.
“Seventy-two hours. Possibly longer if the initial conversations go poorly.” Dyfri’s smile is sharp. “And Agent Morrison? This arrangement only works if it remains completely confidential until all parties agree. If word reaches the wrong ears before we’re ready...”
“Understood,” Morrison assures him. “Complete discretion until you give us the all-clear.”
After they leave, I turn to Dyfri, who’s staring thoughtfully at the closed door.
“That escalated quickly,” I observe.
“Did it?” Dyfri’s attention is still elsewhere. “I’d say it was inevitable. We agreed to work with them, then proceeded to plan major operations without involving them. They were bound to object, eventually.”
“Do you think we can convince the others?”
“I think,” Dyfri says slowly, “that Silas is going to hate this idea. Cai will be suspicious. Ninian will be terrified.”
“And yet you agreed to try.”
Dyfri turns to look at me, his dark eyes serious. “Because Morrison isn’t wrong about the odds, Jack. What we’re attempting is extraordinarily dangerous. If we can improve our chances of success by accepting more soldiers into our army, then we have an obligation to try.”
“Even if it means risking everything?”
“Even then.” His smile is sharp and beautiful and slightly dangerous.
As he moves towards the wall I know has a portal hidden in it, I can’t shake the feeling that the next few days are going to test every alliance we’ve built.
The question is whether the Resistance will survive the process.