Unwrapped: A Fated Realms Novel - 1

by M J Sherlock

  The kitchen counter held a red kettle, microwave and a huddle of Poppy mugs. I rummaged through the pine cupboards and drawers. Inside were cutlery, crockery and enough tinned food and drinks to last a week. To the right, behind an oak door, was a grey tiled wet room complete with folded red towels on a shelf and the usual white toilet, sink and a corner shower. Instead of shrinking, my list of questions grew. I searched the place but was none the wiser. I returned home, oblivious to fellow tube passengers, as confused thoughts twirled and twisted through my mind.

  My parents had gone back to work. Around seven, my new friends arrived. I welcomed them into the hall.

  ‘Love the blue highlights, Betty Boop.’

  I wished I’d never told Maisie my nickname. She felt the long silky strands of my black hair. So different from her blonde and pink corkscrew curls.

  ‘Electric blue and black always a winning combo.’ Katherine shuffled her feet. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘One minute.’ I pulled the Étoile out my bag. ‘Can you see this?’

  ‘See what?’ They both shook their heads and looked confused.

  Gutted, I shoved it back in my bag and focused on keeping my fingers steady. They wouldn’t be joining me in this madness then. Outwardly, we had a fun night bowling, eating pizza and teasing Maisie about her latest crush. Inwardly I felt lost, alone and terrified I was losing it. Why could no one else see or feel the Étoile? Who had given it to me and why?

  Despite its delicate appearance, the Étoile seemed indestructible and I soon discarded its woollen wrappings. Weeks went by with little new information. Shimmering doorways appeared in a few ancient parks. I explored each one. They all concealed the same holiday let sort of apartment. All smelled musty and disused. I listed them in my journal but couldn’t figure out why they were there.

  Once when I was at Battersea Park with Maisie and Katherine, I again saw a yellow shimmering doorway. My heart stuttered. Maybe this time they would see it too. ‘Want to see something special?’ I asked as I pulled them towards a doorway. As we drew closer, they both threw up an arm in front of their faces as if dazzled. Maisie swayed and Katherine’s face paled.

  ‘I feel like I’m going to throw up.’ Katherine pulled away and headed in the other direction, followed by a stumbling Maisie.

  Hiding my shaking hands in my coat pockets, I turned my back on the doorway. ‘Did you see the yellow light?’

  ‘No.’

  Maisie wrapped her arms around her stomach. ‘I’m getting cramps. Can we head back?’

  Why did the doorways make them ill and yet not affect me? Would I ever find out? Were there any others like me out there? Why were tourists unaffected? Had the weird sickness only affected Katherine and Maisie because I had tried to drag them inside? My thoughts seemed to circle on an endless loop for days.

  Why could I enter the doorway unharmed while my friends could neither see it nor go near it without retching? Was it because I was carrying the Étoile? The next day I asked them about the incident but all they could remember was feeling sick. For a couple of weeks, I avoided going to parks as if that would ward off fate’s call.

  Winter gave way to spring as flowering bulbs appeared and cuckoos called. As apple trees uncurled their blossom, I had a waking vision of the girl with orange-red hair talking to me. I scrawled every detail in my journal. ‘At 5 p.m. tomorrow go and meet a Cloaken Envoy called Vashtin. Tall, with auburn curly hair, emerald green eyes and a Welsh accent. He’ll wear rust-coloured chinos, a moss green t-shirt and a matching sweater….’

  My stomach fluttered with anticipation. What would tomorrow bring? That night my dream was a confusion of flashes of light, oozing purple slime and tinkling pianos.

  Chapter 3: Venator

  For Galden it was a mission like any other, apart from its Priority One status which rankled. He pulled together his team and briefed them. Dressed all in black they could merge easily into a crowd. Each was eager to take down the latest Guardian and the Cloaken fiend. The Cloaken are an abomination with no place in a purist society. The rhetoric once fed to him by his trainers had a parasitic hold on him. Feeding on his brain cells where free thought once lived. Occasionally he would dream of a different life but with the ease of long practice, he blinked those thoughts away. Over time they had subsided to the point they rarely caused ripples on the surface of his mind.

  Galden lifted the binoculars and studied the four storey, converted Victorian House. He focused on the two-bedroom, luxurious penthouse. His team had wired it for sound and vision yesterday and added a few explosives. It had an open plan L-shaped living area and kitchen space plus an opulent bathroom and a further en-suite to the master bedroom and a guest room. It was gaudy and pretentious, sparkling with the bling so beloved of the nouveau riche. He gave a wry smile as he imagined the before and after photos.

  His Commanding Officer, Orev, had summoned him three days ago. Orev designed his personal quarters to seduce the unwary. Muted shades of green decorated the walls, contrasting with dull grey corridors. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Brown Chesterfield chairs gathered in front of an imposing desk. Mirrors and paintings disguised the lack of windows. Whispered stories told of hidden cameras, safes, torture and of carpet that hid blood. Scratches on Orev’s civilised veneer.

  Orev’s over-sized chair, intended to lend him gravitas, dwarfed him. ‘Your primary objective is to capture a Cloaken named Vashtin alive. Alive Captain.' He jolted his china cup as he waved his hands for emphasis and coffee spread over nearby papers.

  'Conclave sources say it’s due to meet with a Guardian in London. A female. You’ll find the details in the orders.' Orev referred to the Cloaken as objects, as if granting them genders demeaned humanity.

  Galden unsealed the orders. Pencil at the ready to scratch down notes.

  Conclave to Operations: Alpha priority 1

  Mission objectives: Recover and deliver to Jabez

  Cloaken: Vashtin alive

  Guardian: Unknown alive

  Cloaken artefacts and weaponry

  Target location: Penthouse, 11 Sevenake Street. Near Hampstead Heath, London

  When: Three days, time unknown

  Source: Merciless.

  Galden read the orders, stiffening with outrage. Every inch of his five-foot-ten frame stretched taut. The Venator considered his team expendable as shown by the tag Alpha Priority One. Previous attempts to capture a Cloaken alive had failed. Usually with significant loss of life or limb. These were his people, his family. The Conclave’s scant regard for their lives disturbed him. The grandfather clock chimed the hour behind him. Leaving even one Cloaken alive was too many.

  ‘Alive?’ He couldn’t help himself. The word slipped out.

  Orev’s eyes held a hint of madness and a desperation Galden hadn’t seen before. ‘Do whatever it takes. We’ve achieved zero over the last decade. Zero.’ He cradled his head in his hands. ‘The Conclave summoned the High Inquisitor. Only Sheldon’s head returned. I have no desire to meet the same fate.'

  Galden frowned. He too would prefer to avoid the Conclave. Several meetings with the former High Inquisitor had convinced him of that. He still bore the scars.

  'We can’t afford to fail. Jabez is on my case now.’ Orev scrabbled for tissue to mop up the spilt coffee.

  'An obsequious toad. Why are we even bothering with him?' Galden’s pencil snapped and he threw its useless remains into the metal bin with a clatter.

  'Because he’s the High Inquisitor designate.’ Orev’s corded muscles bulged on his neck and arms. He pulled himself back in line, like a Rottweiler straining at the end of a choke chain. He softened his tone. ‘You’re a fine Captain. Your unit may be the best we have. But Intel is trying to finger Operations as a failing department or at least as culpable.'

  Galden started with indignation as his fists curled at his sides.

  'Yeah, I know it’s all bull but that’s politics. The spreading and sharing of it. Even Technical is not imm
une.’ Orev slammed a drawer in frustration.

  Used to his theatrics, Galden didn't blink.

  ‘Ratface says he has something for you. Check it out. You’re dismissed.'

  Galden saluted, spun and left the room.

  Technical dominated a third of LZ One and consisted of Forensics, Laboratories, Armouries and Research and Development. Bracegirdle oversaw Technical. His prominent eyes and constant twitching earned him the nickname, ‘Ratface.’ Only the more senior officers used it openly.

  Galden found him in a laboratory. He couldn’t imagine working there. Too much like being in a plastic box with the lid snapped shut.

  'Our magnificent saviour,' Ratface gave a mock bow.

  ‘Ratface.’ Galden marched over to him.

  Scowling, Ratface pointed at the dismantled weapon in front of him on a chrome lab bench. 'What’s wrong with this?'

  'Poor maintenance. If any of my team showed me their gun like that, I would strip them of their rank. Throw them in the hole.'

  Each time equipment failed, Ratface or his team found themselves in the hole. A season ticket to hell. A five-metre squared pit with two buckets. One for drinking, the other a toilet. Galden endured the longest week of his life down there. He had been sixteen. Undeserved. Some imagined infraction of the rules. He never wanted to repeat the experience.

  'The weapon has fired three hundred rounds.'

  'Faulty from manufacturing then.' Galden plonked himself on a white chair.

  'Hardly.' Ratface dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand.

  In an instant, Galden was back on his feet. He hated small talk, especially with supercilious rats like this one. He went toe-to-toe with Ratface. 'I don’t give a flying monkey. Have you got new stuff for us?'

  Ratface took a step back but maintained eye contact. 'Learn to care. We’re testing new ammunition. Capable of cutting through three inches of armour plating before exploding-’

  ‘-What’s your point?’

  ‘Their weight reduces their range. Causes heavy wear and tear. Limits the life of the gun. Have your team field-test them and report back.’

  ‘Not this time. Our mission is to recover alive.’

  'The mission to save all our careers.’ Ratface smirked. ‘We developed something that should help. Come.' He marched into one of the smaller armouries. ‘Some new toys for you.'

  'Tasers, are you insane?’ Galden jabbed his finger into Ratface’s chest. ‘Their accuracy is useless. They don’t pierce armour. Worse, there’s not enough punch to drop a target. Anderson lost half his team last time he tried them.' Galden sprayed him with spittle with each burst of conversation.

  Ratface grimaced, wiping his face with his sleeve. His fingers twitched to check his chest for bruising. 'Neanderthal, these are phasors. Three times more powerful than last time. They’ll drop an elephant in seconds. They’ll drop your targets. They may even fry them. Don’t fail. If I face the Headsman, I’m taking you with me.'

  Stone-faced, Galden stared Ratface down. 'Threaten me again and the Conclave won’t need a Headsman.'

  'Whatever. There’s your gear. Make it count.' Ratface’s walk turned into a run as he bolted like a rat into a maze.

  Galden shivered as a bracing wind brought him back to the present. His unit was equipped with the new phasors. A test on one of Ratface’s team had proved their effectiveness. Galden chuckled, unsure when the idiot would be out of the infirmary. However, the phasors were useless unless they got close to their targets.

  Shield, part of T3, was on overwatch with his sniper rifle. Ex-SAS, he was discharged after a knee injury. The Venator offered him a chance to kill for them. Galden snorted, he hated newcomers. Most were like himself, raised from childhood to serve the Conclave. Why let in riffraff like him?

  Galden split his unit into four. T1 for the initial insertion. T2 to watch entrances and exits. T3 on the nearby rooftops. Shield’s job was to tag targets who would otherwise escape. Varying roof heights, chimneys and Victorian roof decorations created blind spots and hindered firing lines.

  Ghost and Sable, a couple of female officers made up T4. They worked out of a nearby Command and Control van and supplied the mission’s eyes and ears. Their recordings would help define future tactics. Hampered by lack of target descriptions, the unit was in for a wearing day. Dusk fell as his headset burst into life, for what felt like the thousandth time.

  'T3: Contact. Potential Guardian strolling along Sevenake Street, West to East. Black ponytail. Black Jeans, blue hoodie and turquoise backpack. Designate Beta.'

  'Galden: Any eyes on Alpha?'

  They needed both targets in place. Vashtin was their priority although any ambush was unlikely to be one-sided, so they needed to remain alert.

  'Galden to Ghost, anything moving inside the apartment?'

  'Negative Captain.'

  Galden swore. He followed the teen with his binoculars. She failed to check her surroundings and passed parked cars with blithe naivety. Could she be as untrained as she appeared? If the order hadn’t been, ‘Alive,’ she’d be dead by now. If she even was a Guardian. All day, they had gone through this ritual. Like a comedy routine, they were in danger of getting stale.

  His radio clicked.

  'Shield: Contact - Two Blues fifty yards behind, designate Charlie.'

  Were they following the girl, protecting her? Could they be carrying out surveillance or were they merely a random patrol? He didn’t want to hurt humans but would if required. ‘Galden to Dax: Charlie is yours. Non-lethal takedown if they interfere.'

  'Affirmative.’ Dax’s tall, slim figure moved into position behind the police officers. He carried a tranquiliser gun disguised in a messenger bag.

  ‘Shield: Beta is entering the building.'

  'Galden to T1, Beta incoming. Alpha may be in situ. Rest of T2, on guard. Ghost keep us informed.'

  'Ghost: Apartment door opened. Beta entering. Checking it out. Called out, no response. Moving between the rooms. Waiting. Playing with something in her hand. Main door opening. Shutting…' A pause. 'She’s stood up. Talking. Nodding. Agitated. Looking around. Only one target. I don’t understand.'

  'Galden to Shield - You see anything?'

  'Negative. Blinds are in the way.'

  'Ghost: She’s on the move. Heading to the kitchen area.'

  'Dax: Charlie’s gone. No threat.'

  Galden ran through various scenarios. Only one made sense. Alpha must be in there and they had missed him. 'All teams go - go - go! Immediate take down.'

  T1 activated the explosives against the windows and they blew in. The resulting roar was like a piano dropping off a building, all tinkling glass and rumbling masonry. Suffocating clouds of dust swirled in a haze. His team rappelled in through the murk.

  Galden leapt across from a nearby rooftop for a first-hand view of the action. He entered through empty window frames, crunching glass underfoot.

  'Move it, Ellie,' yelled Vashtin.

  'Galden to Ghost. What have we got?'

  'Ghost: T1 in the living room moving towards the kitchen. No eyes or ears on Alpha. T1 moving to intercept.'

  Flashes of light came from the kitchen as the Alpha fought his men. Phasors ricocheted off a Cloaken shield. One of his men slammed into the living room, his neck was at an impossible angle. Not again. The girl screamed. Galden tightened the grip on his weapon, remembering Seal’s incendiary death, thirteen years before. The first time he had seen Cloaken kill.

  'Ghost: Man Down, T1 firing. What the heck? She’s gone.'

  'What?' Galden scanned the Penthouse. Where were the targets? The remains of T1 raced past him, out of the apartment and back to where they’d come in.

  'Ghost: She’s gone. Nothing on the monitors. No eyes or ears. Only T1 moving towards the main doors.'

  'T1 Sit Rep now.' Galden ran down thick grey-carpeted stairs, two steps at a time.

  'T1: Targets flown, in pursuit. Alpha six foot two male. Brown chinos, green sweater. Beta black hair. Fi
ve foot four. Approximately 120 pounds.'

  'Ghost: T1 at main door.'

  'T2 report?' Galden reached the base of the stairwell.

  'T2: No-one has left. Door opening now. T1 coming through.'

  'Where are the targets?'

  'Shield: Targets in Apartment Ten heading west. Covering external fire exit.'

  'Apartment Ten? How? Never mind, T1 get on it. T2 continue to block main exits.’

  'Ghost: Main stairs and fire exit available from Apartment Ten.'

  ‘Galden: How did they get past T1, past me?’ He ran back up.

  'Shield: Charlie’s back.’

  Time was now critical. ‘Ghost monitor the emergency frequencies. Teams shoot Beta on sight. It may slow Alpha down. All other teams stay on task.’

  'T1 in pursuit, no target in sight.'

  'Shield: Targets exiting onto fire escape, taking shot.'

  Galden heard the cough of a weapon. He checked for Beta out the landing window. No sign of her.

  'Shield: They’ve gone again.'

  'Ghost: Emergency services three minutes out.'

  Galden cursed as he checked the horizon. 'Anyone, see the targets?' Wailing sirens sounded, getting closer by the second. He rammed his fist into a door, bruising his knuckles and cracking the wood. 'All teams abort and regroup at LZ One.'

  His shoulders slumped as he surveyed the ruined penthouse. How had their targets escaped? Emergency services pulled into the street. Good luck working out what happened. He made his way downstairs. His headset clicked.

  'Shield: Target acquired. Alpha tagged. Dispersing.'

  A smile creased Galden’s face as he jogged back to LZ One.

  Chapter 4: Ambush

  How did it become a life and death struggle so fast? One moment, I was greeting Vashtin and the next we were under attack. ‘We’ve been betrayed-’ he managed to say as the windows exploded and men in black rappelled in.