beats per minute

by Alex Mae

  Opening and closing her hand again, Sukey just smiled.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  Bree, who had been watching the exchange anxiously, furrowed her brow. ‘What are you two talking about?’

  ‘Sukey...’ Raegan shook her head, physically trying to dislodge the image from her mind. ‘She came to me in a dream. When I was recovering in hospital.’

  Bree looked at Sukey sharply. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘She was lost. I found her. I was not the only one.’

  ‘Sukey!’ Bree glanced between the two girls quickly. ‘I said before, Raegan, that she could be unpredictable... I’m sorry, she’s not supposed to – well, she’s not even supposed to be able to go into other people’s minds, I’m not sure how she did it...’

  ‘She was lost.’ Sukey nodded.

  Distantly, there was a chime. Bree’s head whipped upwards. The sky was lightening. ‘I’m sorry, but we must go.’

  At that, all thoughts of rescuing lost souls vanished and something shattered behind Sukey’s eyes. A low wail started in her throat. Bree took both of her shoulders in a strong grip. ‘Sukey. Look at the sky. You know what it means. But when it’s dark again, I will come to you.’

  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.

  Chapter Sixteen: Birthday

  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 70th 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 jean
s 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 d
istracted – and as the bodies piled up, the fact that a dozen victims did not display the same symptoms as the majority went unnoticed.

  Ingmar was none the wiser until one, fateful day.

  The ajar door to his neighbour’s flat wasn’t the first sign that something was wrong. Ingmar had felt a strange tugging at his gut the moment that he reached the outside of the building, a crackling of energy that sent his senses into overdrive. Whether it was a mage, a shifter, another Regent, or a Fay, he did not know: but there was a creature of the Other in that building.

  Fleet of foot, Ingmar inched in to the apartment, scanning the space as he went. He knew it well; the family were dear friends of his. All was still. Quiet. At once the most hopeful and hopeless of signs.

  A jigsaw lay in the hall, half finished. A Barbie doll hung out of the right hand door: the room of Sophie, the youngest girl.

  But he could not stop there. His senses pulled him on to the living room.

  Image and movement collided as Ingmar stepped through the arch. They could have been embracing. But then there was the sweet, cloying smell of so much blood. Else, the mother, and the Fay were melded together; her golden hair fanned out over the pillow of the couch; a pale glow emanated from them, pulsing. He was on top of her. His hand was punched through her chest, squeezing her heart. Her mouth was open in a soundless scream.

  Her hair was already turning white.

  Rage drove Ingmar on, fuelling movements that seemed faster than ever before; fast, even, for a Regent of his skill. His blow collided with the Fay’s gluttonous cheek before he had even formed a rational thought. The creature flew across the room into the mantelpiece. A large crack appeared in the marble.

  But this Fay was a warrior; his carelessness and greed were borne of a well-deserved arrogance. Covered in scars, his biceps bulged as he sprang to his feet before Ingmar had a chance to grasp for his heartbeat.

  Instead, the Fay looked into his eyes and, with an almighty burst of power – Ingmar was being ripped down the middle, his insides were being turned outside, his head was splitting open – he threw his heartbeat into Ingmar’s. It was the most powerful, swift, terrible invasion Ingmar had ever experienced. Instantly, they were locked in, and the Fay had dominance.