Metal Angels - Part One: (A Supernatural Thriller Serial)

by D K Girl

  Blake was messed up. That wasn’t news. Bottled up everything till it blocked her up like an enormous grief turd. And constipation at that level clearly did fucky things to a person. Case in point, part-man, part-android, part-who-knows-fucking-what sitting opposite.

  Kira would stay on the ride. For now. For the poor son of a bitch caught up in this. But if Blake thought she would sit with ghosts in Melgrove, then she could go fuck herself.

  Blake - 12

  Blake watched the recording for a third time. Perry wiped down the bar, one, two, three swipes with a chequered cloth whose colour was hidden from her in the black-and-white footage. He pulled a tray of steaming glasses from a dishwasher at one end of the bar, leaning his face over the rising heat and eyes fluttering closed. Only to open again almost immediately.

  ‘Hello?’ he called, moving out from behind the bar and heading into the main area.‘You shouldn’t be in here, get the hell out.’

  But his confused expression belied his authoritative voice. He could hear someone but clearly couldn’t see them. Perry twisted towards a loud crash at his right, then just as swiftly had to swing the other way when a mirroring sound occurred out of sight of the camera to his left.

  Blake had played the recording over and over. Each movement was seared into her memory. Five hours after Perry had delivered Azrael and Kira to the airport, he lay motionless on the red-carpeted floor of the bar. In all likelihood he was deceased. Yet Blake could not find the impetus to abandon her surveillance just yet.

  ‘Shit.’ She bit into her knuckle, eyes darting between the live feed on the left-hand screen and the earlier recorded vision on her right. Blood warmed her lips as her teeth pierced thin skin. ‘Come on, get up. Get up, Perry.’

  The man had lain still for almost fifteen minutes now, and still indecision gripped her. Drawing any attention to this event could lead to Azrael’s absence being discovered faster than it would have otherwise.

  The door to the basement swung open, and Blake’s heart slammed into her ribcage. Rossiter raced down the short flight of stairs, his heavy body thunderous against the wooden slats. ‘What’s wrong? Are you all right?’

  ‘I would prefer that you announced yourself before making your way into my basement.’

  The bald-headed man paused at the base of the stairs, his face dark with irritation. ‘And I would prefer that you do not summon me urgently without giving any indication of your status.’

  ‘The issue is external. Not with me.’

  Her status was nauseated. Her fingers were twitching as though the nerves had taken a life of their own. Her pulse thudded at her temples. It was three thirty in the morning. Apart from the solitary hour of sleep she’d woken from a short time ago, she’d been awake for approximately thirty-six hours. An unreasonable length of time, even by her standards, but Tamas and Captain Nex had been relentless in ensuring all testing on the four carapaces was complete before they removed—tore— them from her care.

  Blake rubbed at the grooves marked into her cheek where it had rested against the table. She did not believe in fate, or predestination, but was willing to recognise serendipity wherever it arose. And for whatever reason, it had risen yesterday, cementing her shaky ideas of rebellion. When Captain Nex had ordered Azrael relocated to level nine, in order to keep level eleven clear and ready for the Final Meld, the chances of spiriting Azrael out of the Facility rose. All eyes were on the Four, and level eleven. Tamas had barely acknowledged the Captain’s request for the transfer. A nod, a muttered approval, and the conversation was concluded. Since declaring the Final Meld, Tamas’s demeanour had changed. Grown so distracted he looked straight through her. Though they had required her assistance in the tech rooms for some minor issues last night, Blake’s time in the inner circle appeared to have come to an abrupt halt. Any other time the sudden invisibility would have riled her.

  ‘Blake?’ Rossiter’s bulky shadow fell across her keyboard.

  ‘I need you to view something that’s occurred at the Wheel and Barrow.’ Blake gestured to the recorded footage. Perry on his knees, back arched at an unnatural angle. Despite having watched it several times, it still roiled her stomach.

  She hit the playback button, and the video recommenced. Perry’s mouth widened, but no sound escaped him. His body jerked and twisted in all manner of unnatural angles, head flicking back and forth like a deranged dancer.

  ‘Jesus,’ Rossiter hissed. ‘What is happening to him? Is it a seizure?’

  Blake’s least-favoured words fell bitterly from her lips. ‘I do not know.’

  Her lack of understanding drove her to distraction. To be at the heart of things and yet still know so little was torturous.

  The dark hue of Perry’s face deepened further. Suffocation, or choking, Blake decided on her third viewing.

  ‘Did you call an ambulance?’ Rossiter dug his broad hand into his pant pocket, but Blake shook her head. Just that slight movement dizzied her. An occurrence growing more frequent as Cym’s latest potion lost its lustre.

  ‘No. I was asleep when this occurred. Keep watching.’

  Perry jumped to his feet, jerking upright as if invisible strings hauled him upward. The image wavered, and static lines criss-crossed the screen. Though Perry stood, his own legs did not seem to support him. His knees bent, threatening to buckle altogether, but he somehow remained upright. He spun towards the camera. For one brief second his eyes fixed on the lens, and in the black-and-white image, they glinted as an animal’s would when caught in a car’s headlights. Except there were no headlights, no lights at all in the corner where the camera watched over the bar. The only lights on in the place were the soft overheads above the dark wood of the bar.

  Then the spark disappeared. And Perry collapsed, lying with arms and legs splayed. The very position he remained in now, on the live feed. Blake turned to Rossiter, and her self-doubt immediately faded. This was no visual hallucination. No overreaction on her part. And a wrenching disappointment gripped her.

  ‘Christ, Blake.’ Rossiter squinted, leaning in close to the screen. ‘What just happened to him?’

  She refused to admit lack of understanding yet again. ‘You saw it too? The odd light at the end? The interference with the TV circuit?’

  ‘I saw a man who needs medical care. That is Kira’s closest friend; we need to at least call an ambulance. But I don’t understand, why are you watching the Wheel and Barrow?’

  Habit, and gut instinct, had seen her call on Rossiter. With the weakening of her body had come a clouding of her mind. And had, if the hallucinations she’d been experiencing were to be believed, begun to affect her senses. She did not have a ginger cat in her townhouse. Nor was it possible that her father had called out to her from the empty kitchen. Yet she had seen and heard both. She needed to be absolutely certain what was on the screen was real.

  ‘I believe this may have something to do with Azrael.’

  Rossiter frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’ His voice dipped to a strained growl. ‘Tell me Kira is still in her townhouse.’

  ‘No. She is not.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He swept his hand over his bald head, a habitual movement related to his stress levels. ‘That stupid girl, did she not learn the first time?’

  Now was the moment Blake should interject. Defend her sister’s actions and admit her involvement in all this. Blake ran unsteady fingers over the fading groove in her cheek. ‘We both know that Kira is not a ready learner. Her dependence on alcohol continues to cloud her faculties. I should have been more vigilant. Despite my instruction, she has taken Azrael off Facility grounds. A short time after she and Azrael left the pub, this occurred. I don’t believe Azrael was involved directly, but I do believe something preternatural has occurred.’

  A reputation was a more powerful tool than the truth in this instance. The longer Blake concealed her involvement, the more readily she could lead those who searched for the gallu down a false trail. Granted, Rossiter’s loyalty
was undoubted, but he wasn’t the one she distrusted. It was the means by which the Syranians and Tamas might attempt to withdraw information from him regarding Azrael’s whereabouts. Rossiter’s physical strength was impressive, but they would not simply beat information out of him. And Blake would not give up her prize. The tangible link to further understanding. It had been a gamble extricating Azrael, but it had already brought a pay-off. As undesirable as Perry’s state may be, it was proof that the Syranians’ purpose here was far more nefarious than ever declared, than she had ever allowed herself to believe. The Four hunted for one man, so they said. Well, a man was already dead and the four carapaces were still unfilled.

  ‘Kira is out of control. I told you a long time ago the girl needed to be put into rehab.’ Disapproval fell hard and sharp. Rossiter had been a longtime friend of her father’s and shared his inability to conceal emotions. Positive or otherwise.

  ‘And you were right. But this is hardly the moment to discuss my sister’s shortcomings.’

  ‘Do the Syranians know of Azrael’s absence? I haven’t heard any alarms being raised.’

  ‘No. They are unaware.’ Blake rose to her feet and braced against the table as the room spun. ‘And I wish to keep it that way for now. They are preoccupied. I believe there is still time to return Azrael before they are even unaware he is missing. I want you to go to the pub and retrieve Perry. If he lives…’ Her voice caught on the words, and she cleared her throat. ‘If he lives, there is a rural hospital where I have a contact. I can make it worth their while to treat him with the utmost discretion. The hospital is desperate for new equipment, I understand.’

  ‘Blake, do you think Perry is still alive?’

  ‘It seems unlikely.’ She swallowed against a parched throat. In an ironic twist, the Waters plagued her with a dreadful thirst on occasion. She strode to the bottom of the stairs, pausing there, contemplating her chances of walking to the top without displaying obvious signs of fatigue.

  ‘This will destroy her.’ Rossiter’s deep voice seemed to fill the space.

  Blake frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your sister, Blake. Kira. I think Perry is the only true damn friend she’s got. And this is her fault. Her stupid mistake.’ He lowered his eyes, and his next word was barely audible. ‘Again.’

  The handrail bit into Blake’s thigh, her full body weight against it. All the heat drained from her and she shivered. ‘Nothing can be done about that right now. Please go. Take one of the helicopters. Get to Perry before anyone else does.’

  Rossiter strode past her on the steps without another word. Leaving her alone in the basement. When he reached the front door upstairs, he slammed it hard enough to rattle the windows.

  Blake made her cautious way to the top of the stairs, taking it slow across the kitchen, into the hall and up another flight of stairs to her bedroom. Vertigo plagued her every step of the way. And just when she thought herself safe, seated on the edge of her bed the contents of her stomach pushed up against the back of her throat. Zigzagging, she made it to the bathroom but failed to reach the toilet. The floor and her clothing suffered for it.

  Twenty minutes later she headed back downstairs, snail’s pace, skin damp from her shower, face reddened by the heat of the water. The peach cotton blouse she’d pulled on needed laundering, but it was closest to hand and she didn’t have the energy to give a damn. Her black linen pants were awash with creases and hung around her hips.

  Reaching the lounge room, her attention went straight to her mobile phone resting on the coffee table. No flashes of light to indicate the bodyguard had anything important to relay. She was far too eager. Chances were he’d only just lifted off. The doorbell announced a visitor and Blake jumped. She made her way to the front door, pulse racing at a ludicrous speed. Rossiter would not use the bell. She jabbed at the monitor by the side of the door, and a little of the panic subsided.

  Blake pulled the door open.

  ‘Cym, how can I help you?’

  The tall Syranian nodded in greeting. High cheekbones shadowed by the porch light, and accentuated by the short cut of his hair. The only one of the Syrana who chose to cut the length of his hair into a more traditional human style. Short back and sides. ‘Blake, I thought I might have a moment of your time. There is something I’d like to discuss . . .’ His shaped, dark eyebrows furrowed. ‘You have been unwell?’

  A blush warmed her cheeks. The Syranians’ sense of smell was remarkable, and humiliating. ‘No more than usual.’

  Fatigue and anxiety gave her words a harshness Cym did not deserve. She had worked closely with the Syranians from the day of their extraterrestrial arrival. Though he was a medic essentially, his limited knowledge of engineering had proved far more important when only a fraction of the Syranian fleet had survived the journey to Earth. As Blake assumed her place as Technician, in the absence of those sent for the task, Cym had been at her side. And he’d not hesitated to conceal her declining health from those, namely the captain, who would view it less favourably and see it as an opportunity to remove ‘human interference’ altogether.

  ‘I’m sorry, please, come in.’

  She stepped aside, and he entered the room. His movement always reminded her of the loping gait of a giraffe. Clumsy and yet impossibly elegant at the same time.

  ‘I have been developing the treatment for you.’ Brown contact lenses hid his white eyes, giving his gaze a warmth that was absent in reality. ‘The last dosage was promising. This I believe, may bring further relief. I must warn you, there could be side effects –’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Blake held out her hand. ‘I’m assuming you have them with you, hence the visit.’

  His narrow lips curved with a smile. The Syranians had adopted the habit since their arrival, and Cym was by far the most adept at it. ‘Correct. And I’ll admit it seems odd to not have been with you for almost a day, after working so closely for so long.’

  He moved close and cupped her hand with his own, dwarfing hers, then placed a small velvet pouch in her open palm. ‘Intravenous, I’m afraid. But with your stomach already experiencing duress, this mixture may prove too harsh in tablet form.’

  ‘I’m fine with needles.’

  Cym withdrew his grip, but her assurance was contradicted by the shaking of her hand.

  ‘Allow me, Blake.’

  She didn’t protest as he withdrew the vial and narrow syringe from the pouch. They seated themselves on the couch, and she watched his narrow fingers work to fill the syringe with grey-tinted fluid.

  ‘We will commence with a very limited dose. Ascertain side effects.’ Cym pressed the needle to the crux of her arm, her veins blue-green against her pale skin. Blake bit down on her lip. ‘I apologise.’

  She shook her head. ‘No need. It’s fine. I’m fine.’ A pinch, a sting, nothing horrendous, but uncomfortable all the same.

  Brown eyes lifted and fixed on her. ‘Of course.’

  The fluid made its way through her system, warm and unexpectedly soothing. The sigh escaped her before she could stop it. Cym withdrew the needle, heading into the kitchen to dispose of it. She realised that, aside from Rossiter, Cym was likely the only other visitor who had crossed her threshold in months. The Syranian displayed a curiosity about human invention and ingenuity that was impossible to dismiss. He wondered over the simplest things: toasters, microwaves. Electric toothbrushes. Around him, Blake enjoyed some taste of what it must feel like to be the advanced race.

  The shaking in her hands lessened, not disappearing entirely but becoming far easier to conceal. Knots she didn’t realise she held began to unwind. In her belly, her shoulders. Blake relaxed against the leather couch, sinking into its softness. She must have dozed off, because when the banging at the door commenced, the shock of the sound almost caused her to lurch from the seat. Cym rose from the armchair to her left with all his usual grace and calm.

  ‘Who is that?’ Blake demanded, rising to her feet. She noted with relief that the world d
id not spin.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Cym frowned. ‘I remained to ensure nothing untoward happened. You have been sleeping, and I was about to return to prepare for Service.’

  Blake glanced at her watch. Five-thirty in the morning. She’d lost an hour and a half. With no call from Rossiter. The tension began to curl back into her tired muscles.

  The person demanding entry hammered at the front door. ‘Blake, open up, or I’ll open it up for you.’

  Blake crossed the lounge room, walking in a straight line, her breath coming easily. Short-term at least, Cym’s treatment was working. She swung the door open, coming face to face with Nari and Reuben, Tamas’s shadows.

  ‘You need to come with me, Blake. The boss has a few questions for you.’ Nari’s hand hung casually, but pointedly, by her sidearm. She glanced over Blake’s shoulder. ‘Well, I didn’t realise the exotic taste extended to you too, Blake. Good morning, Cym.’

  ‘Nari,’ came the stilted reply.

  ‘Tamas has questions about what, Nari?’ Blake tucked her trembling hands into her pant pockets, remaining outwardly calm.

  Reuben spoke up, his blank expression betraying little. ‘About what you have done with Azrael.’

  ‘What are you talking about? The gallu is contained underground.’

  ‘You already know that is not the case.’ Blake’s heart raced with sudden, violent palpitations. Reuben stared at her like she’d grown a secondary head, while Nari’s lips pressed with a disapproving frown.

  ‘Miss Beckworth?’ Reuben took a step towards her.

  It would have been an ideal way to ensure questioning of any sort was delayed, faking a sudden illness. But there was nothing fake about her display. Blake opened her mouth to reply, but her crazed pulse filled every vein to bursting. Her throat tightened, contracted in on itself. As did her vision. Until all that remained was a fuzzy image of three faces huddled over her.

  Eron - 13

  Eron’s tongue curved through the holy words of service. His voice dipped low with the guttural sounds of the homage to Lahar. There had been no slumber for him the evening before, after the captain advised Eron he would be allowed to attend this morning’s service. Bel led the prayers, kneeling beneath the Precon beast carved into the ceiling of Lahar’s Shrine. His usual passion was amplified on this morning. Gren, to his right, was equally vocal, his thin voice echoing Bel’s enthusiasm. Seder and Parator knelt just in front of Eron. Their adorations were less vociferous, but their faces held an uncharacteristic brightness.