The Colours of Death

  They’re standing very still, hands at their sides. Facing her.

  Watching.

  And all of a sudden, she’s full of it – this full, desperate, volatile thing climbing up her stomach and into her lungs, turning her muscles rigid all over again. It’s foreign, a billowing that latches onto her, forcing her to feel it.

  ‘Hey!’ she yells, and the adrenaline floods her.

  They take off.

  She’s not thinking straight. She knows better than to throw herself into this situation. But she’s going after them, pushing muscles that scream at her now to stop but she’s not doing it. Because she recognises the weight of it. She’d felt it the other night when she’d been staring into the dark of the tram, positive that something had been locked on her.

  Frustration eats at her as she makes it to the top, panting at the climb and eyes seeking out the figure. Instead she hears it, hears running steps. The streets here are quiet enough that they echo. She takes off again, following the sound, and as she catches sight of them running, taking the zigzagging path that leads higher up the hill instead of her earlier route, she keeps going.

  She shouldn’t. The higher up she goes, the more deserted it’ll become.

  The sound of their breaths lingers in the night, like trailing crumbs for her to follow as the streetlights become scarcer.

  Her lungs ache and frustration eats at her because she’s done too much. She won’t be able to keep up.

  Isabel sets her jaw. Knows what she is about to do is useless even as she does it because the effects of the pill are still in place. She does it anyway. She pushes against the distance, throws her Gift against the barriers, feels the stretch of it, makes herself focus on the body growing smaller in her line of sight even as she pumps her legs faster. It’s too much. Isabel pushes, focuses all her senses on that person, and it’s like a part of herself thins even as it expands, going taut – trying to reach.

  She has to know. She has to know who they are.

  Panic. Not her own.

  She sinks into the feeling, imagines herself dragging it towards her. She wraps it tight around herself even as she fights against the weight of the barriers imposed by the pill, tries to push them up and slip beneath them.

  If she just pushes a bit more, she can do it.

  Her breaths are hissing through her gritted teeth and her pace is slowing. She’s going to lose them. When she’s so close.

  Come on, Isabel. Come on.

  She gathers as much energy as she can and shoves through the barrier.

  A scream rips through the dark.

  White, searing pain cracks through her head and she stumbles, then hits the ground.

  Another cry, weaker this time. Her knees and the palms of her hands are on fire, but she can’t—

  Her head is cracking open and she presses her hands to her temples like she can hold it together. It’s hard to breathe. She can’t see.

  ‘I can’t—’ she gasps.

  She can’t.

  Everything stops.

  And then she feels nothing else.

  Chapter 44

  Isabel feels a rhythmic pounding through her entire body.

  There’s a bright light being shone in her face. She flinches away from it and the drag of the blanket against her skin hurts.

  The groan that leaves her feels like it comes all the way from her gut. She twists away from the light. The blanket wraps around her legs and the air is stolen right out of her lungs as the shift sets off throbbing all over her body.

  It takes several seconds of lying on her back, hands shaking, taking quick and shallow breaths, for her to feel brave enough to open her eyes again. The pain is centred on her right side, but her knees, her hands, her face feel scraped raw.

  There are people right outside her window speaking loudly and she grits her teeth. The throbbing of her head sharpens.

  It takes longer than it should for it to dawn on her that the pounding is coming from her front door.

  Cursing, she pushes herself up. Her throat feels dry. She tugs the blanket from around her and turns carefully to see where she is lying. On her duvet are little rust-red lines here and there, enough to let her know that she took some serious damage. Gingerly, she sets her feet on the floor, still in her trainers.

  The person outside her house. The chase.

  Her head breaking open and the blinding pain.

  Another round of banging starts and someone is calling out her name. Not the people outside her window, though they still haven’t shut up.

  Hissing at the effort, Isabel stands. Her back curves under the weight of the aches. She presses her hand carefully to her ribs. Then presses harder.

  When she opens the door, Voronov freezes, eyes all over her face.

  It gives her a pretty good idea of how she must look.

  ‘What happened to you?’ He takes the rest of her in and before she can answer he’s stepping inside and putting a hand on her shoulder. Merda, did she get jumped? Does she need a hospital?

  Isabel flinches back but he doesn’t let go.

  ‘The Chief has been trying to call you since this morning.’

  ‘Morning?’ She winces. ‘And why are you speaking like that?’ she asks. ‘And who the hell is that outside my house?’ She presses her hands to her eyes and steps away from the door. ‘Do me a favour and tell them to shut the fuck up or I’m going to murder someone, Voronov.’

  Voronov stares at her. Then he turns and pulls the door closed behind him.

  ‘Isabel, there’s no one outside. What are you talking about?’

  Confused, Isabel looks beyond him at the closed door. ‘But . . .’ She can still hear them.

  She turns back in to her apartment to go and look at the window and she can hear Voronov talking to her, something off about his tone and just droning on until she can’t take it any more.

  She spins around. ‘Jesus, stop talking and let me think!’

  Except Voronov is standing in her hallway, still as anything, not talking. There’s something wrong about his expression.

  ‘What?’ She steps away from him. Ironically, though her head is hurting, it’s not the usual headache brought on by the S3. Instead it’s radiating from what feels like a fair-sized bump on the side of her head, which she only dares brush her fingers over gently.

  A glance at the clock in the living room shows that it’s nearing noon. ‘Wait, what did you say? The Chief?’

  ‘I said,’ he says, following her, ‘the Chief’s been trying to reach you since this morning. You didn’t pick up. Jacinta tried to get hold of you too. I came over to check if you were okay.’

  Isabel goes into the bathroom, flicking the light switch on and taking a good long look at herself in the cabinet mirror.

  Shit. There’s not enough foundation in the world to cover all of that up.

  Scrapes mar the entire right side of her face from jawline to temple and the bruising is starting to show, a pale green-blue hue that will deepen as the day goes on. The skin under her eye is shiny and darker, the swell making it puffy.

  Isabel swears under her breath and pulls the face towel from where it hangs by the sink, turning on the cold water tap and soaking it through.

  Her hands are just as much of a mess and less than steady.

  ‘Isabel,’ Voronov says, and she notices how close he is then.

  ‘What?’ she bites out. She doesn’t need him here. There’s no way she wants to explain herself to him. Even if she did understand what had happened the night before.

  ‘Isabel,’ he says again, and this time reaches for her hand.

  She yanks her arm back because she can’t take touch right now – can’t stand the idea of hearing his thoughts. Not when the pit of her stomach is mired in dread and she has the sinking feeling that she’s crossed a line she can’t uncross. Because Voronov is right.

  There were no people outside her apartment. There was no one outside her window.

  Those words hadn�
�t been coming from anywhere but inside her head.

  ‘Hey.’ Again that edge to his voice. He grabs the towel from her. ‘Don’t be stupid. What do you think I’m going to do?’ And it’s the first time she’s heard his tone slip like this, irritated and impatient. ‘You’re standing here looking like you got dragged by a car and your hands are shaking.’ Except she can hear his thoughts spilling out like overflowing water.

  Frustration builds up, her hands curling into fists as she turns her back on him.

  Then after a moment she sits on the lip of the bath. Her fingers dig into the porcelain, eyes locked on the fluffy carpet.

  She hears the tap switch on again but doesn’t look up. The rush of water shuts off and she hears him wring out the towel.

  His booted feet come into view and she presses her fingertips into the lip of the bath even harder.

  ‘Come on, tilt your head up.’

  Reluctantly, she does it. The normally fluffy towel feels like it’s scraping over raw skin despite how gentle he’s being.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ he asks, moving it up to her temple.

  ‘I was out for a jog last night. Slipped and fell.’

  He gives her a look that tells her just how much he thinks that’s bullshit, before turning back to the task at hand. ‘All right.’

  Isabel glances away.

  ‘Your hands are in a bad way too. Stop clenching the bath like that before you make it worse,’ he says.

  She bites back the fuck you, barely. ‘As you can see,’ she says, ‘I’m alive. You can go now.’

  Voronov scoffs and shakes his head, expression grim. He uses the towel to tilt her head back a little further and presses it to her jawline. ‘The Chief was trying to reach you to warn you. The whole team was contacted this morning.’

  She pushes his hand away, careful to avoid touching skin. ‘Why? Has something else happened?’

  Voronov walks back to the sink and soaks the towel once more, then rinses it. He turns around and holds it out to her. ‘For your hands.’

  Isabel takes it. ‘Well?’

  ‘The press have our names, they were all over the precinct today.’ He nods at her face. ‘Good thing you didn’t show up looking like that.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Isabel finishes wiping off her hands, ignoring the fresh sting it leaves behind, and throws the towel in the sink, the wet slap of it loud in the small space. ‘How?’ she asks.

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  Isabel stands, body stiff. ‘I have to talk to the Chief.’

  ‘I’d suggest you do that over the phone. And maybe take the day off.’

  She shoots him a dirty look.

  He lifts his hands in a gesture of peace and turns to leave the bathroom. ‘I told you. The press is all over the precinct right now. And unless you’re also planning to lie to Chief Bautista about what happened, then it might be a better idea for you to keep yourself inside for a day.’ He glances pointedly at her scraped face. ‘Or two. I’ll see you later. Make sure you call in. Let me know when you’re back.’

  Isabel follows him as he heads to the door.

  The voices are still there. Isabel keeps it from showing on her face and makes a concentrated effort to block them out. She needs to eat something and take a pill ASAP.

  ‘Voronov.’

  He pauses, already half out the door and glances back at her.

  ‘Can you keep this to yourself? Please.’

  He takes a good long look at her. ‘I wasn’t planning on saying anything to begin with.’

  Maybe Isabel would feel a little bit shit about making an assumption, except she hurts all over. Except that she still doesn’t know if she can trust him.

  She just nods.

  ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ The door closes with a quiet snick behind him.

  The voices still don’t stop.

  The heat of the bath is both soothing and a torture. Isabel sinks into it with a grimace, forearms trembling from the effort of lowering herself. Her knees, like the rest of her, are a mess and sting like crazy as they slip under the water.

  Her conversation with the Chief had been brief and thankfully uncomplicated.

  ‘You sound like shit and Voronov says you look it too. Stay inside, get better. I want you at a hundred per cent to deal with this circus. Take the day and check in with me tomorrow if you’re still not good enough to come back. But Isabel?’

  ‘Yes, Chief?’

  ‘I mean it when I’m telling you to rest. But we can’t afford to lose too much time with this.’

  She’d thanked her and then spent a full five minutes with her head in her hands fighting down the panic trying to take her by the throat.

  Isabel sinks into the water and breathes out, leaning her head back. She’d left the TV on, the murmur of an actual physical sound making her feel a little less crazy, and when she focuses on it, she finds it helps her ignore the other voices. The ones where no one is actually speaking to her.

  It’s all she can do to feel a little less freaked out until the pill kicks in. She’d knocked one back the second the door had shut behind Voronov but so far it’s made no difference.

  The steam has fogged up the mirrors and she can see the ceiling gleam with the damp. It’ll be dripping in no time. It’s why she usually keeps her showers short and sweet. The dehumidifier is old and switches itself on and off, so she’s given up using it. It’s tucked uselessly into a corner of the bathroom.

  Isabel feels wrung out.

  The person standing outside her place last night – they have been watching her now for some time. She’d been so close last night. So close.

  She’s going to have to report it.

  She snorts at that and laughs quietly, sending ripples through the water.

  And say what? That she took off running after them and smashed her face to pieces when her Gift snapped out of her control? She has no useful description, no proof, couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

  She’d pushed herself too hard. She’d had a long day and then having to deal with Michael on top of it all – Isabel’s never pushed her Gift like that.

  ‘Not a mistake I’m planning on making again any time soon,’ she mutters.

  She soaks for a while longer, until the water shifts from hot to warm and then to edging into something cooler. It sloshes off her when she stands, even though she does it carefully and wraps herself up in a towel.

  The cold seeps in, leaving her skin a map of goose-pimpled flesh, and she finishes patting herself dry as quickly as she dares before slipping on the softest nightclothes she can find in her closet. The pyjama trousers are so old that the waistband has lost its elasticity and sags to her hips, and she tops it with a jumper just as worn and soft. She wraps herself up in a robe for good measure and pulls on woolly socks. She’s always hated slippers. Even in winter, she hates the things.

  As she’s heating her tea, breaking news comes up on her TV – Bento Soares in front of his big house with its stunning backdrop, arm around his wife, both dressed in black.

  ‘—do you feel about the progress the PJ is making into your son’s case?’ the reporter asks and points her mic in Bento’s direction.

  ‘The PJ has many hard-working individuals. At this time, we have no choice but to leave this in their hands. I have my doubts about the particular team that has been assigned to my son’s case but have to trust that the PJ know their own people best.’

  ‘Cabrão,’ Isabel murmurs.

  ‘I will be following the investigation very closely and I will ensure the PJ does its job diligently, so that my son and our family can get the justice we deserve.’

  Isabel grits her teeth, staring at the unforgiving face of a man who hates her people and knows deep down that the Gifted community has no chance of making it out of this unscathed.

  She knows she definitely won’t.

  Chapter 45

  With the press surrounding them the case comes under additional
scrutiny.

  Isabel is back to work the next day and ignores the stares that follow her as she heads straight for their case room. She doesn’t even have the energy to deal with it.

  There had been no sleep for her. It had been as if the voices of every individual in her building were being spoken directly into her ears throughout the night and she’d spent the night on the sofa, with the TV on, trying to block everything out. She’d eventually managed to doze off around 3 a.m.

  The S3 had made no difference.

  They start rechecking all evidence taken in since the beginning of the case, going through reports, phone logs, accounts, diaries, papers, anything that they can think of that might give them a break.

  The scrapes on Isabel’s face are still vivid; her knees are starting to scab over. Her wounds chafe against the denim of her jeans.

  The team, already in the case room, all look up when she walks in.

  Jacinta’s mouth drops open and Carla’s eyes widen. Daniel straightens and takes a step towards her before he catches himself.

  Isabel waves their reactions away and eases herself out of her jacket. ‘I’m fine. Hi.’

  The tension lingers in the room.

  ‘Fine,’ Daniel mutters, ‘looks like she kissed a wall with her face, and she says she’s fine.’ Before Isabel can open her mouth and tell him to shut it, he’s heading towards the door. ‘I’ll get you a coffee.’

  Isabel relaxes. ‘Thanks. And can you close the door behind you? Still a little sensitive,’ she lies, ‘the less noise the better.’

  Voronov catches her eye then but doesn’t comment.

  ‘I really am fine,’ she says to the rest.

  Another lie. She’d sat in her car for nearly forty minutes before coming inside, eyes closed and trying to centre herself. Bracing herself to enter the building and the bombardment of thoughts that would blanket her the second she stepped inside.

  She can hear them all, like monologue upon monologue smudged in colours of emotion, and she has to cut through all of it and focus on one thing, one thing only. So that’s what she’d done, hyper-focusing on the sound of her steps as she’d made her way through the precinct, giving people clipped nods as they’d greeted her but keeping her senses narrowed to that one thing.