Chapter 5 The Lies We Tell
The Lies We Tell
Astrid Mathieson
Lies are lies, even if they are told to save people. And every time I take the witness stand against one of the detainees I helped catch, I have to lie. I have to hide what I am.
Every word of testimony I give is technically true—he'd killed three people before we took him down. A banker, a teacher, and a college student. All found in their beds, minds shattered, bodies wasted away from being trapped in comas for weeks.
What I don’t tell is that I was able to move faster than a human to catch him. That I was able to hit harder than a human, knocking him out with one blow. What I don’t say is that I’m just like him and it helped me catch him.
He looks so human, sitting there in his pressed suit and polished shoes, handcuffs gleaming against skin so dark it seems to absorb the fluorescent lighting.
But I've seen his eyes flash molten gold when the judge read the charges.
Some of them have slightly pointed ears, but this guy.
.. It's just the occasional flicker of magick in his eyes that gives him away.
A dream-walking vampire—at least that's what we call them. One of the rarest creatures GUIDE has ever encountered. They don't drink blood, but they feed on consciousness itself, trapping their victims in comas filled with endless nightmares, thus the name.
Six people survived only because we'd finally pieced together the pattern.
Six people who now wake screaming every night, their testimony helping us track him to that run down motel where he'd been hunting.
Their haunted expressions in court today tell me everything about the horrors they'd endured in their minds while he fed.
There’s something about his calm demeanor that sets my teeth on edge. Most magickal beings we bring to trial rage or beg or try to justify their actions. This one just... watches.
His gaze drifts over the courtroom with an unsettling serenity that makes my skin crawl. Then his eyes meet mine, and the world... shifts.
My body isn't my own anymore.
I'm standing, muscles moving without my permission.
I climb over the wall of the witness stand and hurl myself at the accused.
The guard nearest me reaches for his sidearm, but I'm faster.
Years of combat training make me lethal, even unarmed.
My elbow drives into his throat before he can shout a warning.
Kill me, a voice whispers in my head. Better your hands than their spectacle.
I fight against his control, but he's too strong. Through the haze, I see Ghost moving toward me.
"Blades?"
My fist connects with his jaw. He stumbles back, eyes wide with shock. Part of me screams to stop, but my body won't listen.
"She's compromised!" Sherlock's voice cuts through the chaos. He knows my moves, anticipates the kick I aim at his sternum. But even he can't predict how the dreamwalker will make me react. I pivot and my knee catches Sherlock in the solar plexus. I hear his breath leave in a painful whoosh.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I scream in my head.
They'll kill you anyway, the voice promises. Once they know what you are. We're like each other, you and I. There’s something special inside you. I wish I had more time to look at it.
The courtroom erupts into panic. I catch glimpses through the dreamwalker's influence—people fleeing, security rushing in, my team trying to contain me without causing serious harm. I land three solid hits on Ghost before Sherlock re-engages and manages to get behind me.
"Astrid!" Ghost's use of my real name barely penetrates the fog. Blood trickles from his split lip. "Fight it!"
Then the his attention shifts. The massive guard beside him jerks like a puppet on strings. Thick fingers wrap around the dreamwalker's throat as chaos engulfs the courtroom.
"Stop him!" Someone shouts, but it's too late. The crack of vertebrae echoes through the room.
His control shatters.
I stumble, finally back in command of my own body, just in time to see both men collapse. The guard's vacant eyes fade back to brown as the dreamwalker's influence dies with him.
Ghost catches me before I hit the floor, his grip gentle despite the damage I've done to his face. "You with us?"
I nod, fighting nausea. "I couldn't stop it.
He was just... there. In my head. I thought they could only control unconscious people.
Sleeping people!" I could have fought harder, used my own magick to resist, but that would have hurt people, potentially hurt my team, and exposed me to everyone in the courtroom.
"That's why we contain these things," Sherlock says quietly, but there's something in his voice that makes me look up.
He's watching me with those too-observant eyes, and I wonder if he noticed that I was the first one the dreamwalker chose to control.
If he's adding that to his mental file of things that don't quite add up about me.
Court officers swarm the scene, securing the guard's body, checking the dreamwalker's lifeless form. Hayes will be furious—no public execution means no message sent to the magickal community. No deterrent.
"Two days leave starts soon," Sherlock says, helping Ghost steady me. "After that display, Hayes can't deny we need it."
Ghost touches his swollen jaw. "Damn, Blades. You've been holding out on us in training."
My stomach turns. "Wasn't me," I mutter. "It was him. Making my body move."
"Deputy Director Hayes would like to speak to you, ma’am," a uniformed guard says, approaching us, eyeing the growing bruise on Ghost's jaw. "Medical team is standing by."
"I'm fine." Ghost waves him off. "Just a love tap from my fearless team lead."
The director was here—watching.
My hands won't stop shaking. Not from the dreamwalker's influence—that died with him.
No, this is from how close I came to exposure.
One wrong move, one slip of control while fighting his power, and my own magick might have leaked through.
The courtroom cameras are still rolling, documenting every moment of this disaster.
"Agent Mathieson." Hayes' voice cuts through the chaos. He’s standing near the judge's bench, his expression unreadable. "Judge’s chambers. Now."
Ghost squeezes my shoulder. "Want backup?"
"No." I straighten my jacket, try to steady my hands. "I've got this. Go get some ice on that jaw."
I hurry ahead of him into the judge’s chamber, doing my best not to look like I want to run away with my tail between my legs.
He closes the door behind us with a soft click that sounds like a prison gate shutting. "Explain."
"Sir, the dreamwalker—"
"Compromised my best agent in the middle of a globally broadcast trial." He turns, fixing me with that cold stare that makes most agents squirm. "The same agent who has an unprecedented success rate against magickal beings."
My mouth goes dry. "Sir, I—"
"Your team is shipping out to Rome as soon as you get back from your two-day leave.
I expect a full tactical analysis of today's security failure on my desk before you ship out to Rome.
" He pauses. "And Mathieson? The next time you want to take point alone on a high-risk target, remember this moment.
Remember how easily they can get in your head. "
"Yes, sir." The dismissal is clear. I turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
"The execution would have been cleaner, but killing more of them on sight might be the best solution moving forward." He sighs. "We cannot afford to have GUIDE agents look weak like that."
I escape into the hallway, my carefully constructed world feeling shakier than ever. Two days. Two days to pull myself together, check on my mom, and pray that nobody looks too closely at what happened here today.
Ghost and Sherlock are waiting outside. "Hayes rip you a new one?" Ghost asks.
"Could have been worse." I manage a weak smile. "Look, about what happened in there—"
"Don't." Sherlock cuts me off. "We've all seen what these monsters can do. No one blames you. Nobody knew they could control a conscious mind. It’s never been documented before."
I take a deep breath. If they only knew. There’s probably a lot more undocumented stuff than we realize, myself included.
The locker room is empty when I get there. I peel off my court attire—blazer, blouse, skirt—and pull on jeans and a worn GUIDE tactical shirt. My hands have finally stopped shaking. The mirror shows no evidence of what happened in that courtroom. No bruises, no marks.
A strange restlessness prickles beneath my skin, like static electricity building with nowhere to go. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the sensation, but it persists—a warning system with no clear danger to identify.
I take the long way to the parking garage, giving myself time to breathe.
To think. The garage is nearly empty at this hour, my footsteps echoing between concrete pillars in the silence.
Just as I reach for my keys, familiar voices drift from around the corner.
I freeze mid-step, then carefully press myself against the wall, every sense suddenly on high alert.
"—pattern goes back months," comes Sherlock's voice, low and serious.
I freeze.
"The Kazakhstan mission. Barcelona. That warehouse in Singapore. She walks away without a scratch every time, not even a bruise."
"Agent Mathieson is one of our best." Hayes sounds tired, irritated. "Her record is impeccable. You know what happened to her father."
"Last week in Alaska, sir. That thing's claws shredded her tactical gear to ribbons.
But not a mark on her. No one is that lucky.
" A pause. "And today in the courtroom—she moved differently under the dreamwalker's control.
Like she was fighting it, but not the way a normal person would.
Almost like she was arguing with the monster. "
"You're suggesting one of my top agents—an agent who has hunted these creatures for five years, who watched her father die at their hands—is one of them?" Hayes' voice turns sharp. "Be very careful, Chen."
“I don’t want to be right, sir. There’s just regular inconsistencies.”
Hayes grunts something I can’t understand.
"Something else, sir. Look at this photo from the Rome briefing. These puncture wounds—double canines, half-inch apart. Just like the other victims."
My heart stops. The Rome briefing. Why would Sherlock have that first? He’s not the team lead. I am. That brief should’ve been on my desk first.
"Just like her father's wounds," Hayes says quietly.
"If this really is..." His voice softens and I can’t hear the end.
A long pause. "Keep watching. Document everything. But do not stop her from taking this monster down. It has killed agents on two different teams. We need her, inconsistencies or not, luck or not. Consider that an order."
"Understood."
I wait until their footsteps fade before letting out the breath I've been holding. Sherlock—my teammate, my friend, the man I trust like a brother to watch my back—has been spying on me. Son of a fucking bitch, I think, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
My phone buzzes. The Rome briefing documents pop up in my inbox.
I open the pictures and look at the bite marks. They look the same. After sixteen years of searching, could this finally be the one? The creature that killed my father?
But in the back of my mind I’m worried that Sherlock will figure out what I am before I can find the creature. And if he does, will he turn on me?