Swept Away_An Epic Fantasy Page 18

‘It is highly addictive,’ and Boonov shrugs, as if this excuses Milo’s willingness to be overrun. ‘But you do not belong here, Milo. Get your device and return to Coldivor.’

  ‘How is it?’ Milo asks.

  ‘If you speak of Coldivor, we have seen better days. If you speak of the Tramp—’

  ‘Dezaray,’ Milo snaps.

  Boonov tenses. ‘If you speak of her, then as far as I know, all is well.’

  Milo loosens a breath. ‘I need you to deliver a message.’

  Boonov waits expectantly.

  ‘Tell them that I’m well and safe. That I will find my way back and that they should keep an eye on Dezaray. Diez plans to use her for whatever scheme he’s concocting. Tell them to look further into the Orange moon.’ Milo’s gaze lands on Pessa as she slips through the crowd towards him.

  ‘What has she asked of you?’ Boonov says, following Milo’s glare.

  ‘Touch…I think.’

  Boonov shudders. ‘As many Meriamtess would ask.’

  ‘What should I do?’ Milo murmurs, Pessa now almost upon him.

  ‘I will see that your message reaches the Coltis. You: find a way to run. Whatever she’s promised, she’ll not hold up her end of the bargain,’ and Boonov dissipates, leaving Milo alone by the band.

  ‘I see you managed to escape your admirers,’ Pessa smiles, tersely, as she reaches him. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Milo bunches his lips in the semblance of a smile and takes her hand in his.

  THE REVEAL

  I grimace when I step into Bongos later that night. Strobe lights streak through the dark, stuttering over fabric sofas and across tiny round tables crammed with bottles and broken glass. Clouds of smoke rising from fat cigars choke the cider soaked air that’s wrought with an undertone of piss and puke. The music is a barrage of noise that never seems to change and the bar to one side is crowded with rowdy men and loose women. I imagine Steak Home, my parent’s old business, now looking something like this.

  Sakiya nudges my elbow, granting me a whiff of her flowery shampoo. I cling to the smell but it isn’t enough to disguise the stench of this place. I was worried the bouncer wouldn’t let Sakiya in but he barely spared any of us a glance, as we stood in line and slowly ambled inside.

  ‘They said they’d be at the back,’ Sakiya yells over the music and leads us through the crush of the crowd, making our way to a door at the other side of the bar. A sign above it reads ‘VIP’ and another hulking mass of a man stands there. His shoulders are broad enough to conceal two of me behind them, his neck thick, goatee carefully groomed, eyes brooding.

  Nathaniel steps forward, looking extremely smart in a white V-neck and a navy jacket rolled up at the sleeves.

  ‘We’re meeting the Dragons,’ he tells the bouncer, his head held high. The man stares him up and down, then does the same to Jude, Sakiya and myself.

  ‘How old’s that one?’ he asks, thrusting a thumb at Sakiya.

  ‘Come on, bruv,’ Nathaniel shrugs. There’s that word again. ‘Trig said you were cool.’ Mentioning Trig seems to be the right move, for the bouncer clasps his hands in front of himself, assessing us once more.

  ‘Go on in,’ he grumbles at last.

  Before he can change his mind, we slip through the door and into something entirely different to what we’ve left behind. Beige carpet instead of concrete now lies underfoot and a series of tables sectioned off with partitions of frosted glass and off-white gossamer curtains lie ahead. The flower-patterned wallpaper is peeling and stained with smears of food, dirt and things I can’t nor wish to identify. The light in here is dim, soaking everything in an orange glow, and the music is a subtle flow of jazz and comes through hidden speakers. No one looks up as we enter. There are stacks of poker chips, playing cards and money strewn across the tables, a group of people sitting around each, studying their cards or attempting to read their opponents.

  ‘There he is,’ Trig drawls, coming up behind us and throwing an arm around Nathaniel’s shoulders. I almost don’t recognise him. He’s dressed in a cream T-shirt and blue jeans and his black hoodie has been replaced with a fitted black jacket. The same green tribal markings that were on his hoodie spiral up the arms and over the back. Looking closer, I make out the shape of a dragon. He’s discarded his red beanie, letting his small black curls show, which I now see are dusted with gold. ‘Ready for me to take all your money?’ he jokes.

  ‘Ready to see you try,’ Nathaniel goads and we follow as Trig leads us to a table near a dingy corridor that, judging by the odour, leads to the loo.

  The gang is already here, laughing and joking with each other. They lean against the partition and slip comfortably into seats around the table. I recognise Swift—the one who began dancing in the courtyard—and Mops; she’d rapped along with the best of them. She looks even more stunning now. Her caramel coloured skin seems glazed in the light and she’s roughly scooped her sandy brown ringlets on top of her head. Her cunning green eyes meet mine and I force a grin. Then I spy Mutt, the lad I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting earlier, as Tanks had been sitting across him. He has a boy trapped in a headlock and laughs as the lad squirms in his grip. Mutt has a dragon tattoo inked on the side of his neck, the tail disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His dirty blonde hair is short and two lines have been sheered along either side of his head. I recognise no one else from the college.

  ‘Are you two playing this game?’ Mops calls to Sakiya and me.

  ‘I might try the next round,’ Sakiya smirks, eyeing those around the table like a fox in a hen coop. I don’t doubt she could take them all for every penny.

  ‘I’m observing,’ I say, ‘for now, anyway.’ I leave out that none of us plan to stay long. After getting home in the afternoon we channelled Lexovia with a list of those we thought would be here tonight, and so far they all are, except for Tanks.

  ‘Brill,’ Mops enthuses, climbing over the chairs to get to us. ‘We can sit together. Observers deck,’ and she grabs my hand and leads me to a couple of stools by a mini fridge, although still close enough to the others to join in their conversation. We’re far enough away, though, not to be accused of helping anyone cheat. She slumps onto a stool, taking two cans of beer from the fridge. I take the one she offers, sit down and pull it open.

  ‘A little birdie tells me you and Jude got taken to the headmaster’s office today.’ She snorts. My eyes fall to Jude. He looks ordinary yet somehow still carries his air of peculiar. He’s all in black, aside from splashes of brown: the boots on his feet, a chestnut scarf loosely wrapped around his neck and a pork pie hat on his head.

  I shrug, ‘It’s not the first time.’ I try to think of a way to change the subject. The more we lie to these people, the harder it’s going to be to get them to trust us.

  ‘You should have called me. I have a knack for getting out of sticky situations. Always cleaning up messes.’ She takes a swig from her can.

  ‘That’s why they call you Mops,’ I realise.

  She grins, ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And Mutt?’

  ‘Because the brute is like a wild dog,’ she laughs. ‘Plus, the sorry sod was living on the streets until Tanks set her sights on him.’

  I can’t help but pass a fleeting glance of pity in Mutts direction. My house wasn’t always a home but at least I had somewhere to go, partly the reason I didn’t leave.

  ‘Tanks family is loaded and she has a soft spot for the strays,’ Mops goes on to say. ‘She threw a fit and got her parents to take Mutt in. They set him up in their loft.’

  ‘Where is Tanks?’

  ‘She’ll be along any minute. Tanks likes to make an entrance.’

  I take a sip of my beer; it’s dry. ‘And how did she get her name?’

  ‘Because she’s built like a brick shithouse.’ Mops cackles at her choice of words and I can’t help laughing too. ‘Plus she’s deadly that one. She enters a room and everyone takes notice.’

  I nod, quite looking f
orward to meeting her. ‘And Swift?’

  ‘Swift got his name—’ but we jump as Swift himself pops up beside us, snatching a bottle of lager from the fridge, his thin frame easily slipping between us.

  ‘Because,’ Swift says, “he’s like a cheetah: sly, sleek and swift.’

  ‘Can you please stop referring to yourself in the third person?’ and Mops rolls her eyes.

  Swift chuckles, then squats, his brown hair falling back as he leans against the wall. ‘I tried to get them to call me Triple S but they wouldn’t go for it.’

  ‘Get over it, already,’ Mops screeches. ‘Triple S is a rubbish name.’

  I smile as Swift pushes her leg then casually rests his hand on her knee. She doesn’t shrug him off as I expect.

  ‘What about Trig?’

  Mops hesitates, her shoulders tense and though she appears to lean comfortably against the wall, it’s clear my question has made her extremely uncomfortable. She sits straighter, drains her can then swipes another from the fridge. As she pops it open, she says, ‘Trig is called Trig…because he’s the only one who’s ever shot someone.’

  Her eyes fall on her friend, a flash of anger and sorrow in them before she turns them to me and shrugs. Swift stays silent, just sips his beer and stares at his crew: The Dragons. And I do the same. Drake’s name balances on the tip of my tongue and I consider letting it fall, but instead I swallow it. There’ll be plenty of time to swap horror stories if the Dragons agree to join us.

  As I watch them interact; laughing, pushing and playful on the outside, each with their own scars concealed beneath practiced smiles; I start to think that people aren’t so different, that perhaps the secrets we keep and the shields we build are the very things that unite us.

  ‘Right on time,’ Mops murmurs, and I sense a shift in the atmosphere. Frowning, I turn and see someone familiar, a girl with black hair, bang straight and as sleek as silk. She struts in on needlepoint heels. Her crop top strains under the weight of her breasts and her wide hips groan against her fitted pale blue jeans. Her dark eyes sweep the crowd, finding Mutt’s like a guided missile. He raises his tumbler of whisky to her and she saunters over, tossing her bag on the floor.

  ‘Hey, beautiful,’ Mutt purrs. Tanks smirks. She leans over, her bust threatening to slip from her top, and plants a rough and yet somehow affectionate kiss on his lips. As soon as they’re united, the air seems to clear. Chatter resumes and I feel I can breathe again.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Mops raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah,’ I gasp.

  ‘That’s Tanks,’ Swift muses.

  I barely hear the faint tinkle at first, having forgotten I am supposed to be listening out for it, but slowly it penetrates my thoughts. I look down at my bag and the cause of the sound: the crystal ball. Coldivor is calling.

  ‘Mops, could you join me for a second?’ I slip off my stool and tilt my head towards the bathroom.

  She snorts, ‘You don’t want to go in there.’

  ‘Please,’ I say, dancing on the spot, ‘it looks dodgy. I don’t want to go alone.’

  ‘It is dodgy,’ she laughs, but then sighs and stands up. Swift springs into her seat, and she yelps.

  ‘I’m swift,’ he shrugs, nonchalantly clasping his wiry fingers behind his head.

  She rolls her eyes and follows me to the loo. The pong is worse the closer we get, like something warm and sour. We slip into the girls’ toilets, squeezing past the rusted door that barely hangs on. Fluorescent lights hum and flicker as they dangle from the graffiti infested ceiling that leaks dirty water, and the remains of a shattered mirror gather around stained sinks. I step over a puddle, making as though I’m going into one of two tiny stalls with aged doors.

  ‘Make it quick,’ Mops hisses, covering her mouth and nose with her shirt.

  I turn my back on her and my hands tremble as I pull the still tinkling ball from my bag and wave my hand over it.

  ‘Are you going in or what?’ she asks.

  I watch as Lexovia appears in the ball, and before she can ask, I say, ‘I’m with Olivia Webbing.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Mops tone is sharp as a razor. I turn to her. She barely notes the ball in my hand before her burning gaze is back on me. ‘How do you know my real name?’

  I step towards her and she’s quick to take a step back.

  ‘I know a lot of things and can’t even think where to begin.’ I hold the ball out to her. ‘But here feels like a good place.’ Mops doesn’t move, save for her eyes as they ricochet between me and the busted door.

  ‘Hello?’ says a voice from inside the ball. I glance in, briefly making out short blue hair and a round face, so similar to Mops’s own.

  ‘Mops, this girl is another version of you,’ I tell her, keeping the ball extended, ‘in another world.’

  ‘What?’ Mops brow furrows and she glowers at me, as if betrayed. ‘What is this? Who are you?’

  ‘I know this is a lot to take in,’ and I lower my voice, making it soothing, ‘but there’s a world outside this one, with people like us…only different.’ I offer her the ball once more. ‘Talk to her?’

  ‘No,’ and she shakes her head adamantly. ‘I think you better leave. Trig hasn’t shot anyone in a long time. I’ll bet his fingers are getting pretty itchy.’

  ‘Mops?’ the girl calls from inside the crystal, ‘I live in a world called Coldivor. We all used to live as one once, Coltis and Corporeal, but prejudice and fear ruined that.’

  Mops turns to leave but is stopped by Sakiya and Jude as they enter. She looks like a trapped animal, one not afraid to bite.

  ‘I think you should listen to her, Mops.’ My eyes bug out of my head when I realise who has spoken: Trig, coming in behind Jude. In their wake is Swift and Nathaniel. ‘I’m glad I listened to mine.’

  I peel off my clothes, discarding them in a rumpled pile on the floor, and collapse into bed like a sack of potatoes. Despite the rocky start, the night ended well. Somehow, Nathaniel and Jude had managed to convince Trig that they weren’t crazy, and as soon as Trig was on-board, it became slightly easier to round up the others—but only just. I remember how Tanks scowled at me, like I was a bug she couldn’t wait to crush beneath her shoe, but I thrust the orb in her face all the same, and let her counterpart, Anna, speak from the other side.

  It took the better part of an hour, but finally the Dragons accepted our cards with the meeting date and address and we said our goodnights.

  My body aches now as I roll onto my back and gaze bleakly up at the ceiling above my bed, seeking bumps and dots in the cream paint. It isn’t long before my thoughts, as always, lead me back to Milo. I hear the way he used to say my name, feel the trace of his fingers on my skin. I smell him: vanilla and a hint of pine, strongest when he’s just stepped out of the shower. I wonder where he is now—how he is. Lexovia told Jude that the Portologists had managed to replicate the gethadrox and had gone after him, but nothing’s been heard of them since.

  My chest feels tight and I massage it, squinting as if that would block out my worry. I flip onto my stomach and squeeze my pillow, swallowing the urge to scream. Milo is exactly who I would want to speak to after the day I’ve had.

  ‘Just come back,’ I breathe.

  Without looking, I scramble for the switch to my bedside lamp, turn it off and plummet into darkness. As I drift off to sleep, visions of coffins, of soil riddled with squirming worms, flashes of blinding violet light and a sphere in the sky—orange like an extinguished sun—dance across my mind. Too exhausted from our day of recruiting, I barely have time to question what they mean before I’m dragged from consciousness.

  A CAGE OF BONE

  Pessa gossips and giggles all the way back to her home made of coral. She insults the plethora of ladies that had flung themselves at Milo and mocks his politeness.

  ‘If it wasn’t I who introduced you to Kizar, I’d almost be insulted,’ she notes, tersely.

  Milo barely listens. The effects of the K
izar have long since dulled but he hides this from Pessa, allowing her to gently twiddle her fingers in his as they make their way through the skeins of weeds marking the entrance to her home.

  ‘Well,’ she yawns, ‘goodnight.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Milo asks as he follows her to her bedchamber. It’s almost a replica of the one she gave him, only it has a frilly blanket strewn over the stone bed, and an array of shells, vines and dreamcatchers drape from the ceiling.

  She stares blankly at him over her shoulder.

  ‘The gethadrox.’

  Pessa glares, a sneer on her lips. ‘And here I was: thinking you may have warmed to me.’

  Milo gives her a knowing look but says nothing, his body unyielding. She chuckles to herself as she wriggles to her dresser and pulls off her necklace. Then, as if she’s plucked it from an invisible pocket in the air, the gethadrox appears in her hand.

  Milo steps towards her, hand outstretched, but she recoils.

  ‘Not yet,’ and she wags a finger.

  Milo glowers, ‘We had an agreement.’

  ‘Yes,’ she drawls, noncommittal. Milo watches as she slowly sways higher, towards the ceiling. She pauses by a wafting dreamcatcher and wedges the gethadrox into its centre. ‘But you forgot to get it in writing,’ she cackles as her tail thrashes and an enchanted shield shimmers like rippling gold around the gethadrox.

  Milo lunges, the ground crunching under his weight as he springs up towards her. She bounds out of the way and he collides with the shield, slamming into a force as unyielding as concrete. He’s thrown onto the bed below, his back cracking and his legs heavy. Pessa laughs.

  ‘You can’t keep me here,’ Milo growls, bunching his fists and drawing on his inner strength to rise.

  ‘I think you’ll find, Milo, that I can,’ Pessa barks. ‘If you haven’t noticed, you’re my pet. My little human pet.’ She swoops down to pinch his cheeks, which Milo returns by whacking his head against her. She yelps, leaping back, and Milo bounds to his feet, the wrath of liquid fire slaking his veins.