The shed contains several bales of straw, stacked in an orderly manner in a corner. Sets of shelves are arranged against two of the walls, bare and dusty aside from some tools: a saw, some pliers, and a set of different-sized wrenches. In the center of the space stand a few boxes. She recognizes the logo on the side of some of them: a well-known grocery chain, a textiles company and, most surprisingly, the green star emblem of Bellator’s largest hospital. She reflexively recoils from that one, unwelcome memories of her recent test flooding over her.
Opening the lid of the closest box, she discovers it is almost empty. A couple of packets of soup and noodles lie at its base. Another holds a box of crackers and some dried fruit. She removes the contents of both cartons and slides them into her backpack quickly, swallowing her guilt. She is only taking the remnants of the goods in these boxes, she tells herself. Just forgotten supplies . . . leftovers. She needs it to survive. But her reasoning doesn’t help to dispel the lead weight in her stomach. Sighing, she manages to fasten the lids back over the boxes, satisfied that no one would know she had been here, at least at a glance.
Now she has stocked up, she looks around and considers her options. On the back of the door hang a number of sweaters and overalls. She drags a few of them down and wraps them around her body tightly. Easing her exhausted body onto the straw bales, she huddles as close to the wall as she can, hoping to feel more secure. Despite her fatigue, she now finds it difficult to relax, alert for any noise that might signal the approach of an enemy. For now though, there is only the muffled sound of the animals in the woods outside, and that of her own rapid breathing.
The clothing she has clutched around her smells strange, musky somehow. It’s an unfamiliar scent. The straw beneath her is not soft, as she had hoped it might be. It scratches her face. Torturing herself with thoughts of her feather-down quilt and satin sheets back home, she rises once more. She pries open one of the textiles company boxes but finds it empty. Finally, she limps her cramped body across to the door, stretching up to rescue another set of overalls from the hooks. Once back in her makeshift bed, she bunches it up under her head like a pillow, determined to get at least some sleep.
Eventually, she focuses on her breathing, deepening it as her classes have taught her. She manages to relax her body to a point where she can close her eyes without panicking. The heavy rain pounds on the wooden roof, but the constant thrumming sound is almost melodic. The woody scent of the overalls envelops her and, unfamiliar though it is, seems somehow comforting.
Finally, she drifts.
The waiting room is almost empty now, the seats around her deserted one by one by their occupants, as more and more women disappear behind the numerous doors. Once gone, they do not return.
Most women will sail through the test and leave the building within the hour. An unlucky few will be dispatched to a different department before they are permitted to go home. Bellator does not want those left behind in the waiting room to know how many of the others have been sent upstairs. She bites back a sigh. As though anyone else’s result matters to her. As though if Auro saw one of the other women in the street in a few months’ time, she wouldn’t be able to tell.
But, for now at least, no one but the medics must know. The secrecy makes her dread it all the more.
When she wakes, it is light. Even before she opens her eyes, she knows this. She feels the warm sun bathing her body, its bright rays piercing her eyelids. The storm is over, but not for her. She has slept too long, missed her chance. Panic threatens to swallow her as she opens her eyes, desperately hoping she might still be able to sneak out unnoticed.
A pair of bright blue ones stare back at her.
Yet, they do not seem threatening. In fact, they gaze with open curiosity and are unflinching, even as she stares back into them. A slow smile spreads across the face the eyes belong to. She pushes herself into a sitting position, and only then does the figure retreat slightly. At that moment, she realizes that it’s a child. But there is something else strange about the figure.
Her mind still groggy from sleep, she struggles to work out what it is. It feels like one of those frustrating puzzles she had when she was young, missing only a single piece which will make sense of the whole.
“Paulo?” The voice is close by, a low, urgent tone. “Where are you?”
The blue eyes are suddenly wary, and a guilty expression flits across the child’s face. A second later there is a sharp clicking sound and the door bangs back against the wall.
“Paulo, I told you—”
The owner of the voice enters, an initial look of gentle frustration disappearing instantly and transforming into a fierce, guarded fury which turns Auro’s blood cold. One hand grasps Paulo, thrusting the child out of harm’s way, while the other reaches instinctively for a knife secured to a thick leather belt.
Instantly, she springs to her feet, clutching her pack and ready to run. But her exit is blocked.
The man is tall and broad, and standing in her path. There is no way her slight frame will slip past him. Unless he decides to let her go, she is trapped.
And then it registers.
A man.
Men, Bellator teaches, are base creatures. Prone to violence, selfishness, and obsessed with power. She has never been totally convinced by her lessons, but her experience of men is so limited, she has not had the capacity to make up her own mind. Certainly, the man who stares at her right now looks angry enough to be violent. She holds his stare for what seems like an eternity, a thousand emotions emblazoned on her face, despite her struggle to seem impassive. The silence is only broken by the boy and, despite the long hair hanging below the collar of his well-worn shirt, she now realizes he is also male. Her earlier confusion lifts as the final piece clicks into place.
The boy shifts slightly, leaning around his protector and peering into her face. “Who is she, Fortis?”
The man does not reply. He holds his ground in the doorway, seemingly unsure what to do next. The boy continues to stare at her, and then, as she steels herself not to flinch, takes two steps forward and places a small hand on her cheek. His touch is gentle, curious, and as far from violent as she could have ever imagined. But he is a child. He is not the threat here. The man who stands in the doorway, his face fearful as he watches their interaction, is the one she needs to worry about.
Straightening up, she finds her voice. “I’m sorry. I was exhausted. I had nowhere to . . . I’ll leave.”
She takes hold of the child’s hand and for the first time, the man at the door moves toward her. His gaze is serious, protective. She can see he cares for the boy. Shaking her head, she lets go of the small hand and takes a tentative step to meet the man.
“I mean him . . . you . . . no harm.”
“Who is she?” The boy’s voice is insistent, demanding an answer.
When the man speaks, his voice is quiet, calm, with an undertone of steel. “Paulo, this is a stranger. You know we have to be wary of strangers.”
“She looks different.” The boy cocks his head to one side. “Not like anyone we know.”
Her glance darts between the boy and the man. Back and forth. Back and forth, desperately trying to predict the outcome of the situation and act accordingly.
They continue, the man’s voice more insistent now, “She’s not like anyone we know Paulo, you’re right. Move away.”
She attempts a plea, trying not to sound as weak as she feels, “Let me go. Please. I’ll never come here again.”
He will not meet her gaze. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a danger.” His fists curl at his sides and her heart lurches in her chest. “You could tell others of our presence here.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
He laughs, but the sound has no mirth. “You’re a stranger. A woman. From Bellator, right?”
She nods her head.
“Why should we trust you?”
; “B-because I—”
“No one down there knows we’re here,” he cuts across her. “We can’t let you go. We can’t risk it.”
She clasps her hands together, trying to stop them from shaking. “What will you . . . what are you going to do, then?”
He shrugs.
The boy turns to her again, his interest still piqued. “Can she stay with us, Fortis?”
The child is still standing quite close to her. She could reach him easily, pull him toward her. For a second, she considers the fear in the man’s eyes, his concern for the boy, and wonders if she can use the child to her advantage. But she is tired, and weak, and has no weapons. The boy has done nothing to her. And she can’t help but think of the life she is trying to save. It’s no use. She cannot threaten the child, whatever her circumstances.
She needs to get away. Having successfully gathered new supplies though, she is unwilling to abandon them. She makes a decision. Instead of attempting to run, she moves away, to the rear of the shed. The man at the door looks confused for a moment, as she appears to settle herself back down on the straw. When she has slid an arm through the strap of her backpack, she thrusts herself to her feet again and, head down, attempts to rush at the door.
For a second, she has the element of surprise, but as she ducks under his arm, he twists to one side and closes a fist tightly around her wrist. She cries out. This is the behavior she has been taught to expect from a man. Brute strength. She jabs an elbow into his ribs and winces as it collides with solid flesh. He barely moves. Stamping her boot down hard on his toes, she seems for a moment to have some kind of impact. He loosens his hold on her and she sinks her teeth into the fleshy part of his hand.
Now he lets go. As Paulo lets out a protective cry, she slips through the man’s grasp and leaves him behind, cradling his injured hand. But she hasn’t even reached the fence which surrounds the small homestead when there are thundering footsteps in pursuit. Leaping the fence, she manages to get clear and is heading for the trees when she makes the mistake of looking back. The looming figure is closing in on her as she surges forward in a desperate attempt to reach some kind of cover.
She doesn’t even see the tree.
As she sinks into unconsciousness, she is aware of the boy Paulo’s brilliant blue eyes staring into her own as his protector takes a firm hold of her arm again. Then, everything goes black.
“Auro Madden?”
She starts at the sound of her name, and raises her hand as the eyes of a stern-looking woman in white dart around the room. Hawk-like, her eyes settle on her prey. She curls a clawed finger, beckoning Auro to follow her, before disappearing through the door again.
Auro slides out of her seat and obeys. Her timid knock on the door warrants an impatient, “Come!” and, seconds later, she is hovering uncertainly by a long white bed covered with a sheet. The hawk sits in front of a glowing screen inputting data, her fierce eyes fixed on the information as the furious tap of her fingernails ricochets around the room.
A second woman, plump and bustling, is taking medical equipment out of its packaging. She smiles broadly.
“Auro?”
She waits for a nod before continuing. “I’m Genus, one of the medics here, and”—she gestures at her colleague, who doesn’t look away from her screen—“I’ll be supported today by Malum. I will conduct the procedure, but she is here to witness and record the result, okay?”
Another nod.
“You understand the nature of the test you will undertake today?”
She manages to find her voice. “Yes.”
“And the actions I am bound to take depending on the result?”
Auro feels sick to her stomach now, wishing she was anywhere but here. She forces herself to continue. “I do.”
“Don’t worry, the chances of an unfavorable result are pretty slim.” The woman pats her hand kindly. “Now, do you have any questions?”
“No.”
“Alright then. Lie down on the bed, please. We’ll get started in just a minute.”
When she wakes she is stiff and uncomfortable, but not cold. Without opening her eyes, she tries to work out where she is. The surface under her head is fairly soft, and although her head aches, she does not feel as though she has been injured in any way. The only major source of discomfort is her hands, which she finds, to her horror, she cannot move. Something secures them tightly, preventing her from using them.
Listening intently, she begins to make out faint sounds. Crackling, as though a fire burns, faint laughter, and muttered conversation. Sliding one eye open a crack, she recognizes the room she escaped from earlier. The window is closed this time, and the world outside is almost dark. She is lying on the small bed, and has been left to sleep in peace, it seems, except for the ropes which tether her hands to the bedposts.
She fights the rising panic. There is no one to race in and save her. Everything she has ever been taught about men tells her they mean her harm. But why tie her up? If they are afraid she will give them away, why not kill her while she was unconscious?
As she lies there, the voices grow in volume. Loud enough for her to hear. Two voices, both male, neither of them the young boy who was here earlier. Snatches of the conversation float through to her.
“. . . from Bellator. She must be . . .” This voice is more familiar: Fortis.
“. . . what do you think we should . . .?” The second voice is kindly and the tone is thoughtful, considered.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not from where I’m sitting, no.”
“. . . can’t let her go.”
“Then what? You’re not thinking of killing her.” There is an incredulous pause. “Are you?”
“No! Well . . . I don’t know.”
There is another silence as the two men break off, seemingly at an impasse. She is mildly surprised that neither man seems to want her dead. It is Fortis, she is certain, who is more concerned about her presence, but his voice holds fear rather than hatred. The other voice is calmer, older perhaps, and seems to wish her no harm. But they are still afraid to let her go.
“We’re not going to be here much longer. Another day at most. We can keep her here ’til then, can’t we? Once Spiro gets back, we’re gone. Then it doesn’t matter.”
There is an exasperated hiss of air from Fortis. “But Spiro’s not back yet. And if she returns to Bellator and tells them about this base, we can’t use it again. It’s our best one and you know it. Close enough to the city to get in and out. Well-concealed in the trees. I still don’t know how she found us. The patrols never usually make it this far out.” There is a tutting sound, “Arrogant fools don’t believe Bellator’s at risk from this distance.”
The older man sighs. “True. But perhaps we should talk to her. I’m curious to know what she’s doing here.”
“She’s spying of course! Why else would she be so far out?”
“She’s not a spy!” The tone is exasperated.
“Can you be certain of that? Regum, you know what the women of Bellator are like.” There is a sound like a sharp intake of breath. “What we’ve seen. Heard.”
“I do. And she doesn’t currently fit any of it. She seems poor, desperate, frightened.”
“It’s all an act. A disguise. Spies are clever.”
Regum’s mirthless laughter rumbles around the cottage.
“Shh! You’ll wake her. Or Paulo. He hasn’t been sleeping well since we got here, you know that.”
“He’ll be fine once we get back to camp, don’t you worry. Seems quite concerned about her, by all accounts. Another reason you can’t get rid of her—he’ll never forgive you.”
“Damn him! I don’t know why he has to attach himself to people that way.” There is a frustrated pause before he continues. “What if she’s the first of many? Like you say, the patrols don’t ever come up here, but what if they suspect us? If they’re aware that stock is going missing? She reports back what she’s seen, they’ll come
straight here. Send a whole regiment. We’ll lose the base forever.”
She feels like the older man is shrugging.
“Still doesn’t seem like a spy to me.”
A long silence follows, and she strains to hear, wondering if they have left the room. After a moment, Fortis continues.
“But why else would she be out here?”
Regum’s voice softens and she can only just hear his reply, “Ever thought she might be running away herself?”
“From Bellator?” Now it is Fortis’s turn to laugh. “She’s a woman! Why would she run?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“And if she is running, what if they come looking for her?”
“So many ifs.” She can hear a chair being scraped back, as if the speaker is standing. “Why don’t we ask her?”
She clamps her eyes shut as she hears footsteps approaching the door to her room. She does not want them to know she has been listening, and forces her body to relax on the bed, as though she is still sleeping. She can feel a light sheen of sweat spreading across her body as the door creaks open and a shadow falls across her. Giving what she hopes is a convincing pretense, she opens and then widens her eyes in alarm, as if remembering where she is. Then she flexes her hands stiffly. The eyes above her are not Fortis’s. Instead, a much older man stares down at her. His expression is kindly and his eyes twinkle with curiosity.
On the Brink Page 17