beats per minute (31 page)

The female Fay had been blocking off the quickest route so
she had come a long way round, but she was nearly back at the rear door. It
felt like years since she and Declan had stepped out of there.

Maybe he had been right all along; they should have kept
running.

The wall was cool against her back as she leaned, closing
her eyes, trying to swallow the tight ache from her throat.
Focus,
focus, focus.
Declan would die if she did not get help. She had to get
inside.

Painfully, she pushed off from the wall, staring at the
dirty floor. To stand a chance, she needed to be in absolute control; her bpm
needed to be as low as she dared. She heard Liana’s voice.
Summon the clock.
Gradually, her breathing slowed, her skin tingled and her vision cleared;
the tick-tock-tick-tock sounded comfortingly in her ears; time was with her,
once more.

She eyeballed the black, dilapidated door. Trying to be as
quiet as possible, she applied careful pressure. The door stayed resolutely
closed.

She nearly cried in frustration. Short of launching herself
into the thing, she was out of ideas – and what would be the point of battering
down the door only to run smack into a Fay, lurking on the other side? If only
there was some way of knowing if the door had been locked, or whether there was
a guard, or maybe something heavy leaned against it...

An idea struck her.

Feeling silly, she stretched out a hand. Gingerly she ran
her palm over the rough surface. Nothing happened. She felt ridiculously
deflated. Objects were meant to yield their memories, their time, to her touch
- weren’t they? What was the point of having this gift, this Trace, the one
that everyone was so bloody interested in, if she couldn’t even
use
it?
Of all the stupid-

A brief kaleidoscope of colour flashed behind her eyes. She
jumped. With mounting excitement, she flexed her fingers more firmly against
the cool iron of the door, waiting. There it was again! A glimmer of
indistinctness, a mass of fuzzy shapes; faster and faster these rushed past, as
if she was flipping through a catalogue of time, whizzing through the pages
until she found what she needed. There! Mentally she was pushing through the
iron, through to the other side of the door; now, like turning the knobs on
binoculars, she strained, bringing the picture into focus.

It wasn’t clear. There was no linear video playing in her
mind. Instead, she
was
the door. She was being given glimpses of the
door’s memories. Shadows merged and unfurled in wispy, partial images: a Fay,
yanking a human down the corridor; a Fay, throwing the same poor civilian
against the door with brutal force; roughly prodding and probing, ripping the
clothes from the woman’s body until the keys were found; then, discarding her
without a second thought, a mere twist to the neck enough to casually end life;
the violet bob swishing as the keys were inserted in the locks, the bolts
drawn, many of them, enough to trap the rest of the civilians inside...

The door had remained lonely and locked ever since.

Her eyes flew open, breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
Wonderingly, she pressed her fingertips to the door in delicate assessment. It
was unguarded. Her way should be clear. Now, if she could only get it open...

She was strong. She was fast. Hopefully it would be enough.

There was an overhanging iron bar where a light had once
hung, brightening the doorway; now it was an empty shell, but useful for her
purposes. Extending her arms upward, she jumped up and swung, gaining as much
as momentum as possible. Back and forth she went, higher and higher, faster and
faster, getting ready to kick the door in, hoping the force would be enough to
drive past the bolts.

Her legs whistled through the air; but the sound was not loud
enough to mask the faintest creak from somewhere inside. Someone was coming!

Allowing the momentum to drive her backwards over 180
degrees, she supported herself on her hands, fighting gravity, body straight as
a jack-knife
above the iron bar, legs toward the sky.
The blood rushed to her face; a few strands of red hair came loose, dangling in
front of her eyes. But she could still see the doorway.

This was her only chance.

A scraping noise indicated that the door was opening. A
golden head appeared beneath her; surprisingly close beneath her. The man was
very tall.

It was a moment before she realised he was talking into a
small device. It did not look like any mobile phone she had ever seen. The
notion of dangling upside down and listening to her mortal enemy chatting on
the phone would’ve been funny if she hadn’t been so tense.

‘No sign of any remarkable gift,’ he was saying, in softly
accented English. ‘They are all strong fighters. We have wounded, but not
fatally. Abrafo is dead; Stravos, too. Irina is guarding the perimeter. I will
reconvene with her before I leave.’

Two were dead, she thought frantically. The woman she had
encountered was likely to be Irina. Perhaps there were only two left inside, if
this man was one of the six. This was good. A Regent could be spared to come
with her and help Declan.

Tactically, her best move was to wait; the Fay below might
not notice her, he might leave, and she could slip inside, unseen. She knew
better than to risk another entanglement if she did not have to: her instincts
might be primed for combat but it was obvious that her skills weren’t.

Her arms were trembling with the effort now. Her grip, too,
was failing; gradually loosening with the sweating of her palms. She held her
breath.

‘What more would you ask of me? I told you I wanted no part
in this; yet, on your orders, I have come. I have reported what I have seen. I
have fulfilled my duty.’

He snapped the device shut, pocketing it. He was leaving.
She should be relieved.

Instead she was overcome with a mad compulsion to see his
face; and, as if drawn by her desire, the Fay tilted his face up to stare at
the sky. He found her instead.

It was like it was happening in slow motion. They stared at
each other, eyes directly locked onto eyes, both pairs wide with shock. The
powerful jolt of electricity that coursed through Raegan was like nothing on
earth: his face was already branded on her memory, on her soul, somehow.

An ancient whisper in her ear; a seeing that went beyond the
physical into the heart of her; an unravelling within.
I see you. I know
you.

Her body reacted violently to the invasion. Flipping off the
bar, she somersaulted over, kicking out with her feet. She caught him squarely
between the shoulders, landing neatly between his falling form and the door.

That curious feeling of being pulled in two directions
arrived in Raegan again. Her feet were planted firmly to the floor though her
core was screaming for her to move. She longed for him to turn round. She
prayed that he didn’t.

 ‘I didn’t come here to fight.’

The words sounded genuine. As he turned, his face showed all
the confusion that she felt. He made no move to attack. She stayed in battle
stance.

 With his great height and the streetlight behind him, glinting
around his golden head like a halo, he looked like an angel.

Disbelieving, entranced, her mouth dry, she raised her head.
Their eyes met. She gasped.

It was as if her heart leapt out of her chest.

She hadn’t even known that he was reaching for her, or she
for him; but they were locked in instantly. The world melted away. His
heartbeat was in her ears, inside her chest, melded with her own; a great
energy rose up around them, a light so blinding that she wasn’t sure if it was
in front of her eyes or behind it; she was shaking, head to foot, almost
convulsing with intensity.

In her bones she suddenly understood that everything had
happened as it had tonight to bring her here, to him, in this moment.

And then she knew with a terrible certainty what he was.

Her Mark.

But how could that be? Where was the shock that Ingmar had
spoken of, the invasion, the suffocation, the horrible loss of power?

Where was the pain?

‘Raegan!’

There was the pain. The Fay had broken their gaze, now
staring at a spot behind her, and she felt a sharp, crushing sense of loss. At
the same time, the strength seemed to leak from her, sapping her muscles. It
took all of her concentration to stay standing. With a huge effort she looked
over her shoulder.

Sam stood in the open doorway. One arm was outstretched to
Raegan, beckoning her inside. The other pointed a crossbow at the Fay’s chest.

‘Get behind me, Raegan,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now.’

‘I did her no harm.’ The Fay was softly spoken. He did not
plead; nor did he acknowledge the crossbow with the remotest fear. The deep
pools of his eyes shone with sincerity.

‘Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.’ Sam retracted his
other arm, gripping the crossbow with both hands for a steadier shot. ‘What,
now that the rest of your mates have snuffed it you think we should turn the
other cheek? Let you go?’

He focused his aim; a little higher now, directly for the
throat – perhaps hoping to take out two major arteries at once.

Another woman spoke before Raegan could,
slinking
out of the shadows with a venomous, insinuating manner.

‘I would not be so bold, if I were you.’

It was the Fay Raegan had fought earlier. And then her heart
leaped into her throat as she caught sight of Declan, not far behind; his right
eye was battered and completely closed, and viscous blood poured freely from
his mouth. The violet-haired Fay was dragging him by his wounded leg. It looked
more misshapen than ever; Raegan, sick to her stomach, thought she could see
shards of bone protruding from the knee of his jeans.

‘Lower your weapon or the whelp dies.’

Sam didn’t hesitate. ‘No.’

Raegan’s jaw dropped in shock. She tried to conceal any
emotion from their opponents, but could not stop the plea bursting from her
lips. ‘Sam-‘

The female Fay laughed; it was an awful humourless sound.
‘You are a fool. What choice do you have?’

Sam’s finger tightened on the trigger.

‘What are you doing?’ Raegan hissed under her breath.

‘Without this, we have nothing,’ he shot out of the corner
of his mouth.

‘You’re giving them Declan! You really hate him that much?’

‘To answer your question, I have plenty of choice.’ Sam
raised his voice, cutting Raegan off and addressing the Fay. ‘The rest of your
team are dead. I only have to raise my voice and a team of Regents come
running. You’d be outnumbered in a second.
Or less.’

 ‘We could take them,’ the female snarled at the male.
Her fervency was real. ‘They would be no match for us, Leron. Let me kill the
boy now, for their insolence!’ For emphasis she drove her foot into Declan’s
knee. He screamed.

‘No.’ Before Sam could let the bolt fly, the Fay called
Leron spoke. ‘Let him go, Irina.’

Irina’s face contorted with animosity and disbelief. There
was nothing attractive about her now.

‘We will withdraw,’ Leron’s voice commanded obedience. ‘We will
leave this one to you in exchange for safe passage.’

‘You think I’m going to let you just walk away?’ The
crossbow vibrated with anger.
Colour rising in his cheeks,
Sam spat; the glob of saliva landed inches from Leron’s feet.

The golden haired Fay took a minute step forward. His
height, at this close range, was beyond intimidating.

 ‘I am patient but there are limits. Do not test me,
boy.’ Every syllable was loaded with weight.

Towering over Sam, Leron looked down at the crossbow once
more, before raising his eyes to the younger man’s face. Though his expression
did not change, the mere gesture indicated his lack of interest in the weapon
pointed at him; as if, when fired, the arrow would merely bounce off his wide
chest. Satisfied that the matter was settled, he drew himself up to full
height, calling over his shoulder imperiously.

‘Come, Irina.’

Raegan dared not look at him, though she could feel his eyes
sweeping over her, lingering like a hot flame. When she finally succumbed to
the temptation Leron was halfway down the alley, hair glinting in the
moonlight.

Irina, following, was not so trusting. She backed away, gaze
firmly on them, crouched as if ready to strike, until she was out of sight. The
look on her face as she left would haunt the Regents for a long time. Indeed,
the alleyway seemed full of menace; as if something of Irina’s aura survived
her.
The force of her hate, which hung on the air like a sour
breath.
The foreboding promise of retribution.

Jasper trudged wearily back to the Armoury, the sheets of
metal wedged between his head and his shoulder digging uncomfortably into his
skin. It had been a week since the cadets’ ill-fated trip to Carrigaline; and
though the Unit was quieter in general – the cadets were now continually under
lock and key – Max’s presence was louder than ever.

There was no pleasing him. The security protecting the base
itself had trebled in intensity, with every Skipper on constant alert. Each day
saw the arrival of more soldiers to boost their numbers. The cadets were being
run ragged: privileges revoked, alarm-calls and curfews earlier than ever,
constant supervision and a backbreaking cycle of new exams to study for,
ensuring that every free second was spent working. Little mercy had been shown
for their various injuries; Jasper had even seen Warwick running laps on a leg
that was still in a splint.

Not that Jasper had had much time to feel sorry for the
cadets. Max had really been on his case. He had never had so many conversations
with the Praetor
nor
so many complicated instructions.
Earlier that same day the phone had rung yet again. Without a word of greeting,
the Praetor began to bark at him. The base was on high alert due to the
presence of the Fay in Carrigaline. He assumed preparations had already been
set in motion to meet the increased demand for weapons. In fact, what was
really needed was to get rid of all their current kit. It was old.
Tired.
An entirely new set of weapons should be designed and
manufactured for each and every soldier.

The urgent need to revamp their current inventory was news
to the custos. But when Jasper expressed surprise, Max replied, in a voice that
froze his blood, that if Jasper was not able to keep track of important details
perhaps they would have to reconsider his position. Mouthing with shock, he was
not given a chance to say a word in his defence before Max hung up the phone.

Jasper knew that there was not much he could do except wait.
This storm would blow over; it had to. For now the best plan of action would be
to just keep his head down.

And so, although he was late returning from a meeting with
the Masters, he did not even entertain the notion of sleep. His arms were
really aching. He wished the Regents were not on lock-down; he could have used
their strength.

‘Damn!’ his phone was vibrating in his pocket – just what he
needed at this particular moment. With a grunt, he bent his knees and lowered
the heavy load to the floor. Typically, by the time he had dug the phone out of
his jeans, it had stopped buzzing.

One missed call.
Tristan.
Anxiously
he chewed his lip. Probably it was for the best that he hadn’t answered; he
could only imagine what his father would say if he heard how displeased the
Praetor was. Jasper could deal with his father’s anger; but if Tristan really
thought that Jasper might lose his position here, that tone, that terrible note
of desperation, would creep in. Jasper could not bear to hear it.

With renewed purpose, he stuffed the phone back into his
pocket, hefted the metal up and began to walk.

He would work until these new weapons met Max’s
satisfaction.
Even if it killed him.

Inside his haven he was a whirlwind of motion. Switches were
flicked, dials were twiddled,
implements
were laid
carefully out on the table. Squatting, eyes flitting with nervous energy, he
squinted at the temperature gage on the furnace. Still not hot enough! He
paused, eyeballing the gage fiercely as if this would help the temperature to
rise.

And that was when he heard the little sigh.

His eyes fell on the sofa, piled high with ragged ends of
old blankets and sheaves of paper. The jumble appeared to be moving. Jasper
crept forward.

Her face, only partially visible, was pale and drawn even in
sleep. The healing redness trailing from ear to neck evidenced her recent
injuries. Despite these battle scars she looked painfully young. The long nose
was tinged scarlet from the chill of the night air.

Realising Raegan might be
cold,
Jasper pulled the blankets together more tightly. He looked down at her fondly.
She was so clever and gutsy that it was easy to forget she had only just turned
sixteen. It was also part of the reason he was so surprised to see her – other
teenagers might just turn up like this, unannounced and after curfew, but not
Raegan. She had her head screwed on too tight for that.

Which was why he should probably be worrying right about
now. But he was too glad to see her to care. There would be time enough later
to ask why she had come. He would let her sleep on. He could use the company
and, from the look of it, she needed the rest.

***

When Raegan finally stirred, nearly three hours later, she
was plunged into panic. Her neck was stiff and sore from leaning up against something
which did not feel like her pillow. Then she heard the familiar grinding of a
chisel against metal and a delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted up
her nostrils. Her entire body relaxed. She was with Jasper. She was safe.

‘You’re awake!’ Jasper’s voice was like a tonic. Pushing up
his goggles, he beamed at her.
‘Coffee?’

‘I’ll get it,’ she croaked, doing her best to return the
smile.

With a belly full of lead, she dragged herself over to the
pot. It took a long time to get going; her mind was all over the place. She
found herself topping up the fresh coffee with cold water from the jug instead
of milk, and had to start all over again. Then, switching to autopilot, she put
teabags in the mugs by mistake. Pouring the scalding coffee, her mistake was
not obvious until the teabags floated to the top, bobbing in the dark brown
liquid like deflated lifejackets. The mixture looked disgusting. She stared at
it helplessly.

 ‘Fish them out,’ Jasper said kindly. He had put his
tools down and was now standing behind her.
‘Won’t do nowt to
the taste.
Anyway, caffeine is caffeine! I’ve put some toast on.’

The coffee was tasteless in her mouth but she forced it
down, grateful for the warmth. Jasper pushed the plate of toast, dripping with
butter, towards her. The sight of the shiny yellow liquid pooling out of the
porous surface of the bread turned her stomach. Swallowing nausea, she shook
her head.

 ‘So what brings you here?’ Jasper asked thickly
through a mouthful of toast. ‘Not that I’m not chuffed. It’s been ages.’

He looked so happy to see her. Raegan didn’t want to spoil
it. Squeezing the warm mug between her hands, which still felt like two blocks
of ice, she tried to work out where to start.

‘Something horrible happened,’ she managed after a long pause.
Then, bitterly, ‘Or rather, something
else
horrible happened. It hasn’t
been a great week.’

‘I heard. About the night out, I mean - well, not the
details, obviously,’ Jasper admitted. ‘But Max has been in a hell of a mood the
last few days.
A rotten, stinking mood, to be frank.
It’s been hard to avoid, so lord knows what he’s been like with you lot.’

‘Awful. But then, I’m not surprised. The whole thing was a
disaster.’

‘But you won!’

‘Technically.
Didn’t
look much like champions when we got back.
We’d had the crap kicked out
of us. There were so many near misses...’

‘Don’t think about it. You’re safe. That’s all that
matters.’

‘Am I?’ Raegan’s eyes as she lifted them to his were
red-rimmed and hollow. ‘Forget the Fay for a minute. What about Unit Prime? I
haven’t felt safe here for a long time, Jas. I know you thought it was all in
my head, all that creepy stuff that was happening – and then my necklace...’
She took a deep breath. ‘The necklace –
my
necklace –
was
stolen.
By Declan.’ Her head dropped forward into her hands. ‘And now you’re looking at
me like I’m mad.’

‘I was thinking that that you look knackered,’ he said
gently. ‘Are you getting any sleep?’

‘Apart from the last few hours here, not
much.
And every time I close my eyes it’s those sodding dreams, over and
over.’

‘The hourglasses?’

‘Hourglasses, fire, the works.’
She
yawned, emphasising her point. ‘Maybe the hourglass in my dream is my necklace;
like my brain is trying to work it all out.
Leading me to
Declan.’

‘Except you’ve had these suspicions for a
while.
And like I said at the time, I can see why. He’s never given you
a chance. But behaving like an arse doesn’t make him a thief.’

‘It was in his effects,’ Raegan said quietly.

Jasper set his mug down. He looked at her steadily, waiting.

She continued. ‘After Carrigaline… well, when we finally got
back we were taken straight to the Praetor’s quarters for a right royal
bollocking.
All of us except Declan.
He was in such a
state that he had to be rushed to the infirmary right away. They took his
belongings away to test – Declan had been alone with one of the Fay for a while
and they thought she might have done something to his stuff. Turns out she
hadn’t, so his effects were returned to Max. I was going to volunteer to take
it all back to Declan’s room. And then I looked inside the box. My necklace was
on top.

‘And before you ask yes, I’m sure. The necklace is one of a
kind.’ She shook her head. ‘He’d been carrying it with him. So it was all for
nothing – us getting caught by Adriana, what I had to do after - even if we had
got into his room that night it probably wouldn’t have been there.’

‘Declan stealing the necklace doesn’t mean he’s out to get
you, specifically, like.’ Jasper realised that this did not sound very
supportive, and hastily tried to rephrase. ‘But what he did was totally out of
order, don’t get me wrong. What did Max say?’

She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘Raegan!’
Jasper pushed his glasses
back more firmly, always a sign of gravity. ‘You
did
tell Max, then and
there?’

‘No. Oh, don’t look at me like that! I was a mess. I guess I
wasn’t thinking straight. I can tell you one thing - I wasn’t trying to protect
Declan, that’s for sure. But Max had just spent the past hour shouting at us. And
you should have heard him, Jasper. He was so, so angry. And it’s not like he’s
ever really invited my confidence on a good day. To be honest, I don’t think he
likes me very much. I didn’t think he would believe me.’

‘So... what
did
you do?’

‘Not much. I was too out of it to even feel angry. I just
felt sick. I’d started to trust him- I thought-
‘ her
coffee, now cold, seemed to stick in her throat. ‘When we were trying to escape
together, from the club, we argued. But then we worked together and it was...
ok. Good, actually. He really had me fooled.

‘But now he’s out of hospital and our punishments mean that
we are stuck together all the time, even more than before; in lessons, at
meal-times, in that bloody library. I just avoid him. When he puts his stuff
down near me, I get up and walk away. I thought it was working.’

‘But you can’t just let him get away with it! He’s a thief!’

‘That’s the thing.’ She tried to push the hair out of her
eyes but her hands were shaking too much. The coffee had been a bad idea. She
was already jittery enough.

She got up. ‘I’m not sure he is just a thief.’

Quivering like a fly caught in tar, held back but straining
to move forward, Raegan extracted a small white container from her pile of
belongings. Returning to the table and Jasper, she placed it as far away from
herself as possible on the wooden surface. Her expression was one of utter
revulsion.

‘I found this last night. It was pinned to my door.’

From the way Raegan was deliberately not looking at the box,
this was not going to be pretty. With trepidation Jasper lifted the lid.

A white pigeon lay inside. Its ruby eyes, strangely
reflective in the brightness of the strip lights overhead, were open and
glassily staring. He was not squeamish, but even he balked at the grotesque
twist of its head – nearly a full 360 degrees – and the blood matting the snowy
feathers.

‘There’s more,’ Raegan croaked. She handed him a piece of
paper. Written on it, in dark crimson, was one word: ‘Soon.’

He looked back from the pigeon to the note, again and again.
Finally, he took a deep breath.
‘The writing.
It’s not
inked. It’s in-‘

‘The pigeon’s blood.
Yeah, I think
so.’

The paper fluttered to the floor. After a moment, faintly
green in the cheeks, Jasper pushed the now cold plate of toasted bread away.

‘It was tame,’ Raegan said, for want of anything else to
say.
‘The bird.
It used to come to my window.
Sometimes I would feed it scraps.’ The bird’s eyes seemed to be staring at her
now. Feeling sick again, she replaced the lid, at the same time reaching her
hand down to scrabble for the note. She stuffed both back inside her bag.

It didn’t help much. She knew it was still there. Insides
squirming, she hovered by the edge of the table, tapping the grooves on the top
of one of the wooden chairs with her fingertips.

‘That was the horrible thing, right? The thing that made you
stay
here? Don’t tell me there’s more,’ Jasper tried
for a joke, but it was half-hearted.

A tear trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away, but
another followed it, retracing the shiny,
snail’s
trail across the white skin. ‘I was scared. I ran all the way here.’

Concern burst the lid off Jasper’s customary reticence.
Clumsily, bumping into the table, he came to her side.