beats per minute (26 page)

Sukey’s eyes darted frantically from side to side. They
rested on Raegan for a moment.
‘And your friend?’

Bree sounded surprised but dubious. ‘Well...’

Her sister began to quiver. ‘Yes! Yes!’ Bree changed tack
instantly. ‘We’ll both come back... some time. But I’ll be back sooner. I’ll be
back, Sukey, like always.’

Sukey seemed to collapse. Bree caught her, crooning
soothingly under her breath. Tears streamed down Sukey’s face. As the sisters
clung to one another, Raegan saw their likeness for the first time. Sukey was
slight, with wider, far-apart eyes and a pointed chin; but the straight,
slightly snub nose and high cheekbones were exactly the same as Bree’s.

Finally managing to disentangle herself, Bree hurried away.
Her eyes were wet. The sound of Sukey’s cries, as she pleaded with Bree not to
leave, followed them. ‘I hate to go when she’s like this, but my window is
time-specific. If I don’t make it back before dawn, I might not be allowed to
visit again. I took a big risk tonight as it was – not coming alone.’

‘I know.’ Raegan grabbed her hand as they reached the top of
the stairs. ‘Thank you.’ The cries gathered in strength until ragged shrieks of
pain resonated around the room. Even the stone wall, reinstated, could not blot
them out.

Raegan could tell that it took all of Bree’s strength not to
break down as they made their way back to camp. The journey passed in heavy
silence.

Alone at last, she didn’t bother to undress. It took all of
her remaining strength just to pull off her shoes. Yet when she finally lay on
her bed, though she couldn’t remember feeling more tired in her life, she
couldn’t bear to close her eyes. Instead, the night’s events replayed before
her, repeating over and over with horrible, obsessive fascination.

Sukey’s desperate screams echoed in her ears for a long time
before sleep finally took her.

For the first time in years, the night-time darkness of the
North Wall was broken up by lights twinkling in the Old Library. But then today
was not any old day: it was the 70
^th
birthday of Ingmar Ostergaard.
Though ostensibly part of the Brain contingent, Ingmar had always been more of
a scholar than a soldier, content to hide away with his books with only minor
forays into active combat. Nonetheless, his extensive knowledge was a huge
asset to the Sentinel, and his eccentricity and charm were legendary. Everyone
in the Unit was enormously fond of him.

Though the majority of the camp was still in the wilds of
Russia, there was no question of Ingmar’s birthday passing without celebration.
The subject of
where
to celebrate such an auspicious occasion was little
more tricky
. Max, always keen to show off his grand
home, immediately suggested the
principia –
but Yali and Liana were not
sure about this. Max wanted to invite the Sentinel. Yali and Liana wanted to
invite the students. Rico didn’t much care, so long as beer was on tap.

Finally, their laconic, imposing Body centurion Zeke
countered reasonably that as Ingmar was particularly close to the librarian,
Lucille Financier (whom Ingmar and now everyone else called ‘Cakey’) it made
sense to include her in the proceedings. And, if that was the case, he continued
in his deep, slow voice, why not
have the gathering
in
the library itself? It would be fitting for a man with such a love of
literature.

 And so, for one night only, the teachers cancelled
evening classes and hurried from their last appointments to the Old Library,
ready to raise a glass for their old friend.

***

Cakey had really outdone herself. The Old Library was
austere and relatively small, but now that she had locked away all of the valuable
volumes and given everything a good clean, the beauty of the space shone out.
The white stone arches surrounding the room were lit with arrangements of
Ingmar’s favourite daisies peeking out from every surface; long, wooden tables
with carved feet and crimson leather armchairs, so plump they begged for
bottoms to sit on them, had been polished until they gleamed. An oddly
intoxicating aroma of warm cheese straws and beeswax floated on the air.

At eight pm on the dot Raegan was the first to arrive, to
her embarrassment – but the delight on the petite Frenchwoman’s face
immediately set her at ease.

‘Raegan!
You look wonderful!
Tres jolie!’
Cakey, as ever, was the epitome of chic; her
black bob was as sleek and shiny as the furniture she had polished, and she was
dressed perfectly for crisp spring weather in a suit of light lemon wool.

Raegan looked down at her boring navy dress and black
legging combo dubiously. ‘Thanks. Wish I could’ve worn something a bit more
festive but my legs are covered in bruises! Robert and I moved on to double
staffs this week and he takes no prisoners.’

She took a swig from the glass of non-alcoholic punch that
Cakey pressed into her hand. The tropical spices bursting on her tongue were
delicious. ‘But you look fab! Is that a new outfit?’

The room began to fill up and Cakey soon had to excuse
herself to fill glasses and whisk around trays of canapés; some kitchen staff
had also been laid on to act as waiters but she insisted on helping, barking
orders in her French lilt.

Her place was swiftly taken by Max, carrying two brimming
glasses of champagne.

‘Can I tempt you?’ he said smoothly.

‘I better stick with punch, thanks,’ she waggled her glass
at him awkwardly.

‘Very well... but empty glasses have no place at a Regency
party!’ Flashing his teeth at her like a wolf baring its fangs, he clicked his
fingers. A young boy Raegan recognised from the canteen scuttled up with a
fresh tray of drinks. His bow-tie was slightly lopsided.

‘Kindly remove this,’ Max instructed without looking at him,
holding the used cup out delicately. ‘And ensure that no-one else is left
without refreshment for the duration.’

Raegan felt mortified as she saw the boy’s cheeks bloom with
an ugly maroon. ‘Sorry,’ he stammered, clumsily grasping the empty glass in a
sweaty-looking paw.

Max waved him away without a second look.

Sipping her fresh drink as gingerly as if it was poison,
Raegan glanced at her Praetor. He looked disgustingly pleased with himself.
Rumour had it that he had just returned from a three day-long Sentinel
conference in Rome; and he was tanned enough for Raegan to reckon that most of
that time had been spent drinking scotch on the golf-course rather than in a
boardroom.

She felt an irrational, angry urge to throw the drink in his
smug face. How dare he turn up now, all pally, when he’d been talking about her
to Bree? She hated that he knew so much about her - more than she did, about
her
own life
. If only she could have been a fly on the wall when Bree visited
him the night before; if only she could have heard what he said about the
Trace… 

At that moment, Bree stalked in, dark hair slicked back off
her pale face. Even with hair still wet from the shower, dressed in a pair of
ratty old jeans with no make up, every head in the room turned to look at her.
Max was among them. Sexist pig, Raegan thought. Probably thought every female
on the campus was his to perve over. Yuck. Other people might be fooled by his
fake smile but she didn’t buy it.

When the Praetor excused himself a moment later, Raegan was
relieved. But she was still no closer to finding out about the Trace.  If
only she could talk it all through with Bree; if only she could figure out how
to get the answers she needed without seeming selfish or tactless. She hadn’t
seen her friend all day. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe Bree was
avoiding her.

 ‘More pickled herrings!’

The noise level in the Old Library suddenly kicked up a few
notches, jolting Raegan out of her reverie – and no-one was louder or more
indulgent than the birthday boy himself, whose cry for his favourite, fishy
treat had cut through the hubbub like a sonic boom.

In the midst of animated conversation, he caught her eye.
‘Raegan!’
Smiling broadly, he held out his arms. ‘Come and
join us!’ Some of the small coterie around him turned their heads in the
direction of his voice. Sam was the last to turn. His gaze swept over her from
head to foot. Max, on the other side of the group, noted the exchange without
interest.

As tentatively as if she was entering shark-infested waters,
she picked her way over, coming to rest shyly on Sam’s side of the circle.
‘More champagne for everyone,’ Ingmar beamed at a passing waiter. ‘There, dear
boy! These young things are parched, I am sure. Now me! I am not nearly drunk
enough to merit my advancing years…’

The crowd roared with laughter. Sam took that moment to turn
to her. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know. Knackered, hungry, not sure how training went
today… average, I guess!’ She was stuttering. Lost in his eyes, which were the
exact dark blue of his shirt, Raegan couldn’t believe she had ever doubted him.
He was gorgeous.  

‘Hungry! Not on my watch.’ Sam reached for a silver platter
of tiny pastries. Teasingly, he held the small bite out to her. ‘Here.’

Blushing furiously, Raegan opened her mouth so that Sam
could touch the pastry to her lips; his fingers lingered on the soft flesh for
a moment.

‘Good?’ His eyes were watchful and unsmiling.

It was, on both counts. The filo melted in her mouth,
filling it with a delicate taste of cheese and herbs. The imprint of his
fingers still burned.

She giggled nervously, ducking away from his hand then
immediately wishing she hadn’t.
‘Yum,
thanks! Hope I
didn’t dribble on you!’

As soon as the words were out of Raegan’s mouth she cringed.
Dribble! Of all the things she could have said! She was such a freak….
Mortified, she turned back to Ingmar, who was still talking.

‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you have come! All
of you – some old friends, some new.’ His Danish accent thickened with emotion
as he beamed at the small crowd; much of the party had disbanded by now,
leaving only the core teachers and Regents-in-training. ‘Yali Nureyev, it fills
me with joy to see you here, still as lively as your young protégés! My dear
friend, how is it that you never look any older? I have known you for thirty
years and still you look the same! Do you have some decomposing painting in
your attic?’

He held up his glass in a toast. ‘To Yali Nureyev, champion
Brain and wisest of all Regents. Long may you slay the Gavriils of this
world!
’

The crowd cheered in response. Yali and Ingmar smashed their
glasses at the same time, which elicited more whoops and noises of assent.

Ingmar was not finished. No sooner was he handed a new glass
than he was drunkenly holding it up again, this time looking at the petite
Asian woman to his right: ‘To Sveta, keenest of mind and fiercest of friends.
Long may
you
slay any Chanda who dares cross your
path!
’

More glass smashing.

Raegan frowned. ‘What does he mean?’ she whispered to Sam,
curiosity overcoming any shyness. ‘What are Gavriils and Chandas?’

Ingmar was toasting Liana now so Sam had to lean into her to
be heard. The soft cotton of his shirt brushing against her arm was like a
delicious electric shock. She forced herself to concentrate. ‘Gavriil was the
name of Yali’s Mark - I guess Chanda must’ve been Sveta’s.’

Before she could ask what he meant he was stomping his feet
noisily, joining in with Bree and Warwick, who had started a chant.
‘Speech, speech, speech!’

Yali held up a hand, laughing. ‘Our students are right,
Ingmar – the birthday boy must spare a few words for himself! Before that,
though, allow us to raise our glasses to you: our beloved Ingmar Ostergaard,
the cleverest man any of us will ever meet, the noble and the brave! As you
would say, long may you slay the Viggos of this
world.
Happy Birthday!’

A chorus of ‘Happy birthdays’ rang out on the air, along
with applause and whistling. Even Max cheered, though he winced slightly as the
whoops reached a fever pitch.

‘Tell us the Viggo story again,’ Bree, her pale cheeks
uncharacteristically flushed after so much champagne, clapped her hands
enthusiastically. ‘Please, Ingmar!’

Warwick looped an arm around her shoulder, seconding the
plea. Raegan noticed Adriana’s sour face and hastily looked away; obviously
Raegan’s fib about Bree’s nightly movements had not assuaged her suspicions.

Oblivious, Warwick turned to the rest of the contingent;
with a start, Raegan noticed Declan for the first time, standing almost directly
opposite. Rico, heavyset and half-cut, smirked at her from behind his head. The
optio looked rough even for him; scruffy, stubbly, and with violet marks around
his slitty eyes. She was about to point this out to Sam but Warwick’s rumbling
voice silenced her, as he yelled: ‘Come on, you guys! Get involved! What better
time to hear about Ingmar kicking ass than on his birthday? Who wants to hear?’

‘She does!’ Sam grasped Raegan’s hand and raised it in the
air. She could feel Declan’s eyes on her; flushing, she tried to pull away, but
Sam held fast. He smiled down at her cheekily before clearing his throat and
addressing Ingmar. ‘Please, Ingmar! Especially for the new girl – she’s never
heard this story before!’

Looking down at their eager faces, Ingmar, in an incredibly
agile gesture for a man of his years, leapt down from the chair on which he
stood.
‘You children,
jeg ved det ikke
!
Always
you want the stories…’ Indulgently, he smiled at them. ‘But how can I deny you?
And after all, it is a corker, is it not?’

‘But first, more champagne!
I must
have more champagne...’

The circle fanned out so that everyone could see Ingmar;
some, having heard the story before, sat on the floor or collapsed into chairs.
His glass now full, Ingmar took position in the centre of the circle, eyes
closed theatrically. Gradually the noise in the room died down until the merest
dropping of a pin would be heard.

Reeling with alcohol, Ingmar’s voice was shaky at first and
he stumbled over a few words. Still the hush remained. There was something
compelling about the old man, dressed as he was in ratty brogues and a heavily
darned tweed jacket, his floppy grey hair ruffled, rising in mad plumes above
his wrinkled face. Raegan, whose favourite session was his Regent History
class, listened in fascination, hardly aware of Sam’s thigh pressed up against
her own as they sat on the floor.

It was 1963 and a particularly hard winter in Copenhagen
where Ingmar was stationed. ‘These were before my book-learning days,
children,’ he said melodramatically, ‘when my appetite was fresh and my blood
was hot!’ He was the primary Regent in the area, responsible for monitoring and
hunting any Fay that might come there to feed. Then the snow came in droves.
Pipes froze; water stopped; people were trapped inside their apartments and
houses. The first of many power-cuts hit the city; eventually, a deathly flu
epidemic took hold. Fresh food and medical supplies soon ran out.

And then the Fay arrived. Blessed with a Regent’s huge
strength, Ingmar didn’t suffer the way civilians did; but the panic of the city
affected all of its inhabitants. He spent as much time as he could
helping
out friends and neighbours, running errands, mending
pipes, fetching supplies. He was distracted – and as the bodies piled up, the
fact that a dozen victims did not display the same symptoms as the majority
went unnoticed.