Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (9 page)

"Your condition is… abnormal."

The
last word makes me sit up straight, as rigid as the chair beneath me.

"Abnormal or paranormal?"

His pupils grow as soon as I mention the word. He pulls his chair closer and leans in, the overhead light reflecting off his well moisturised cheeks.

"Sasha, I can help you and your father. But we need to work together. Now, is there anything you'd like to tell me, anything at all?"

I thumb the folded-up hangman game in my jeans pocket. Sometimes it pays to be paranoid and superstitious, I remind myself. A digitized classical music theme suddenly rings out.

"Do excuse me," says Blake, taking his mobile phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket. I'm not sure whether he wants me to leave the room while he takes the call. I decide it will bother him more if I stay. "The target is eliminated? Good work."

I've heard this conversation before. It's the same one Dad had when I hid in his attic, which means that he must have been reporting in to Blake that day.

"Permissi
on to move onto the next target… not granted, Miss Gordon."

Blake is on the phone to Zara Gordon. He casts me a sideways glance; he must have seen a flicker of recognition in my crimson eyes.

"I'm taking you off field duty, Gordon," Blake continues. "Report back to HQ immediately."

Blake looks directly at me as he speaks to Zara. Does he somehow know that I want to speak to her so badly?

"Thank you," he says, ending the call.

He stares at me searchingly for what is an uncomfortably long time.

"That was Zara Gordon, who you met in the kitchen earlier."

"Oh, right."

I try to sound disinterested.

"Miss Gordon is one of The Agency's brightest talents. She graduated from university with a first class psychology degree and her special skills are unrivalled. In fact, I can't find a fault in anything she's done during her time here. The only problem is that her mother is ─ how shall I put it ─ permanently detained by the authorities.
Which is why I don't trust her."

Why is he telling me this? Is he trying to influence my opinion of Zara Gordon, even though I barely have one? I put on my best poker face and try to give nothing away, even though I've never played poker.

Blake leans forward and his tone changes. "You are both the victims of your parent's misfortune." He has this irritating habit of emphasizing one particular word in each sentence. "I am sorry about what happened to your father, Sasha."

"
It wasn't your fault, was it?"

Blake opens a drawer in
his desk, taking out a cardboard folder and ignoring the question. He walks around the desk and perches on it, his fingers curled around the edge. He has a horrible knack of invading my personal space.

"I am also sorry that your mother disappeared. It can't have been easy these last few years, growing up without a mother."

I feel a lump form in my throat and try to swallow to make it go away. Hearing him mention my mum makes my chest hurt for a second, like someone has squeezed it in a vice. Blake slides the folder across the desk.

"I know she disappeared on the Day of Dystopia three years ago. I can't bring your mother back, Sasha, but I can give you some answers."

He turns the folder over. It has a name typed on the front and a black and white photograph of a face I long to see:

ASHLEIGH HUNTER

"Mum!" I cry, but as I reach to grab the folder Blake whisks it away.

"Not so fast."

His voice is cold and sharp, like thin ice cracking. If he was playing the role of a good cop before, he's most certainly playing the bad cop now.

"You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Tell me what you know, tell me everything, and you can have the answers you seek."

Tears well in my eyes as I fight to hold them back. For years I've longed to know why Mum disappeared. All I have to do is hand over the hangman game. Blake nods at the folder with Mum's name on the front.

"My of
fer is on the table, literally. I don't expect you to make a decision right now. Think it over."

He
strolls casually past me and opens the door. Ludvig steps into the office, heavy-footed.

"Escort Sasha back to her room," Blake instructs the giant Russian. "Then go and find Agent Gordon and bring her here."

As I leave the room Blake clears his throat to speak again.

"I'll call for you soon, Sasha, and we can finalise our agreement."

Chapter 10

Tuesday 17 September 3:15pm

Zara Gordon

"Come on, Rover. . . start!"

An old man shuffles alongside the driver window and stares in at me without a shred of embarrassment, as only old people seem able to do. I turn the ignition key with even more aggression and the
Landrover responds with a pathetic cough. The old man taps on the window.

"Sounds like the battery, or the starter motor. Or maybe you put the wrong fuel in?"

"Well, thanks for the expert opinion."

I immediately regret the sarcastic reply. He's only trying to help. Either he didn't hear me, or he didn't get the sarcasm.

"Try pumping the gas."

Resisting the temptation to tell him where to go, I
stomp on the accelerator. When I turn the key Rover roars to life.

"It worked!" I say and give him the thumbs up, before pulling off and accidentally leaving him in a cloud of diesel smoke.

I make a mental note to treat Rover to a service. Car maintenance is a Dad kind of thing; mine didn't hang around long enough to change a nappy. It would make much more sense to get a newer, more reliable car, but Rover is like an old friend to me. Like anyone else, he has his faults, but I'm too attached to scrap him. He was given to me as a gift by my mother for getting a place at a university. She had Rover as long as I can remember; it still smells of her. It took me a while to get used to climbing into the driver's side rather than onto the passenger seat like I did as a young girl. Like mother, Rover has gone one too many times around the mileage clock. This car was the last thing she gave me before her mental breakdown. It happened three years ago, on the Day of Dystopia.

I associate Rover with a better time, when mother was vibrant and engaging. The car was also a symbolic gift. Being her only child, I guess she was proud that I'd managed to even make it to university.

If only she knew I'd graduated with a first class degree in psychology.

If only she knew I'd just performed an exorcism.

The traffic lights turn red and I'm worried Rover might cut out. My mind is still on Menzies Blake and the phone call I just had with him. It's normal practice to call in and report a completed assignment, at which point he usually assigns a new job. However, this time he asked me to come back to HQ immediately. It was his sense of urgency that got my attention. I wanted to ask him why, but I knew he wouldn't disclose anything over the telephone. At times like this I'd normally call Agent Hunter for advice. He's always known how to deal with Blake. But right now, Hunter is in a coma.

It's not the first time an Agent has been injured in the line of duty. Dealing with the supernatural is a dangerous profession. On hearing the news about Hunter, I took Agent Hart to the hospital to see him. For some reason, he was prevented access; immediate family only, apparently.
Strange how I noticed Blake's car in the hospital car park. Then Hunter's daughter turns up at HQ wearing a visitor pass. There are too many coincidences and things just don't feel right.

The traffic lights remain on red and the car behind inches closer impatiently. A young school girl ponders at the crossing, which still shows a red man. I feel a momentary wave of dizziness and I know what's coming: a premonition.

The girl begins to cross as the car behind loses patience and tries to jump the lights. It doesn't end well.

I press the horn and keep my hand held down. The girl jumps back and looks at me angrily. The man in the car behind throws his hands in the air and utters expletives as he jumps the lights. He screeches through the space that the girl was about to walk into. Pedestrians look at me and shake their heads for making such a racket with the horn. None of them understand, so I can't get frustrated. It's just how it goes sometimes.

The lights turn green. I press down on the accelerator and Rover stalls. Great.

+ + +

I arrive back at HQ more stressed by the journey than the assignment. If my car doesn't always work at least my precognitive senses do. Ludvig is standing on the stone steps of the mansion like some kind of nightclub doorman. The guy creeps me out. While Agents come and go regularly Ludvig is always here, always watching. I've never understood why Blake has his own personal bodyguards.

"Morning,
loverboy," I say, trying to provoke a reaction.

He remains as emotionless as a wax dummy, only moving to follow me as I enter the building and ascend the stairs to Blake's office.
There's an uncomfortable silence as he walks behind me, step for step, until we reach Blake's room. I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open.

"Agent Gordon, please come in. I have some freshly brewed coffee."

Blake nods to Ludvig who closes the door behind us. He offers me a seat and a drink.

"White with four
sugars, please."

Blake double-takes at my request.
As he tips the spoonfuls into the fine china cup the coffee level rises and spills onto the saucer. Blake fusses over the spillage with napkins; he must be some kind of neat-freak.

"How can I help you, Mr Blake?"

"Please, call me Menzies."

Why would he want me to call him by his first name after referring to him as Mr Blake for so long? He carefully places the cup onto a coaster in front of me. Everything about his office smacks of cleanliness and order. It's kind of ironic, for a man in the business of chaos.

"Now Zara, you understand how important our work is here at The Agency?"

I nod and take a far too audible sip of coffee. Blake frowns at my faux pas,
then quickly recovers.

"You'll also be aware that we've had a situation with Agent Hunter. Unfortunately, he has caused himself harm by pursuing his
own unauthorised investigation. For this reason, I have offered lodgings to his daughter, who I also believe to be at risk."

Blake reclines in his expensive leather chair, inviting a response. I don't have one, so I take another sip of coffee.
He clears his throat and seems mildly irritated by my behaviour.

"You have worked closely with Agent Hunter during your time here. I know you are close to him. What can you tell me about his extra-curricular activities, so to speak?"

He's probing me, and I don't like it.

"Agent Hunter has been nothing but professional and extremely helpful to me," I reply in a neutral tone. "He follows procedures to the book, as far as I'm aware."

"And what of his daughter, Sasha?"

"I didn
't know she existed until today."

Blake rises from his chair and stands facing out of the window behind his desk, with his back to me. They say people who lie can't look you in the eyes. He moves his hand over a decorative cloth which is draped over a box. As he whisks away the cloth I recoil at the sight of half a dozen large white rats
in a cage. To say I don't like rats is an understatement.

Blake opens the cage and reaches inside to pull out one of the scurrying rodents. I hold my breath; it's all I can do not to vomit. He cradles the white rat in cupped hands, its pink tail curling around his wrist.

"Rats are my favourite creatures. They are intelligent and ruthless survivalists." He strokes the rat and the sight sends a cold shiver down my spine. I try to take a sip of coffee to distract my mind. "You are greatly valued here, Zara. I have high hopes for you. All I ask of you is one thing. Please do inform me of any premonitions you may have concerning Agent Hunter and his daughter."             

I'm uncomfortable with this request. He's never asked me to use my skills like this before. As I place the cup on his desk a half-covered brown
cardboard file catches my eye. It's got Ashleigh Hunter's name on it. I wonder whether Blake left it there on purpose.

"You must know about Agent Hunter's wife?" asks Blake.

I'm aware that he's probing me for information again, but this time I don't need to be evasive.

"Not really," I reply. "Agent Hunter doesn't talk about his personal life, and I don't ask."

The rat squeaks and wriggles in his hands.

"Of course," says Blake. "Wh
at happened on the Day of Dystopia was. . . unfortunate. That will be all Agent Gordon. Thank you, and good day."

I'm mid-sip when he ends the conversation. Before I'm able to digest what I've heard, I feel the familiar faint dizziness that always precedes a premonition. Blake is busy returning the rat to its cage and hasn't noticed my disposition. I mumble a thank you and try to compose myself as I open the door to leave.
Ludvig steps aside to allow me to pass, but I'm sure he's picked up on my sense of urgency as I dash along the corridor.

I dive into the nearest room and lean against the wall for steadiness. The premonition comes on fast.

A young girl in a dark forest. It's Sasha Hunter. She's lost and disoriented. Something appears from nowhere. It's a ghost, and it looks like it's holding a noose.

It's a strong vision, so I know it's only the first of many. I need to figure this out, and quickly.