Wraith

by Shane Smithers

  While James was wondering if the Empyrean was making a veiled threat, the far door opened and in strode a slim but blurry figure of a teenage girl. Her long blonde hair was her only discernible feature.

  ‘Father, you must listen to me,’ she said fiercely. ‘I know I am right.’

  The Empyrean looked at James and rolled his eyes. ‘Teenagers,’ he muttered under his breath as he stood up.

  ‘Father . . .’

  ‘Now is not the time, Aureole. I have a guest,’ growled the Empyrean, nodding towards James.

  James was trying not to look at her because it made his eyes ache.

  ‘It is never the right time,’ said Aureole, ignoring James.

  ‘Let me introduce you to James Locke,’ the Empyrean persisted. James quickly stood up.

  Aureole’s blurred face looked him up and down. ‘This is the Agrarien?’ she said, sounding disappointed.

  ‘Um, hi,’ said James, already disliking her.

  Aureole’s blurred face stared at him – she could’ve been poking her tongue out at him, he couldn’t tell – and then turned back to her father. ‘Why is he not locked up? Maybe he has got something to do with its disappearance.’

  The Empyrean ignored her comments. ‘James, this is Aureole, my lovely – but obnoxious – daughter.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said James awkwardly. He didn’t really think it was nice to meet her – she seemed very stuck up.

  Aureole’s cheeks flushed with anger, as even James could make out through the blur. She swivelled on her heels, her blonde hair swishing wildly in the air, and she marched out in a huff.

  ‘Sorry, James, my daughter can be rather hot-headed at times.’

  James nodded silently in agreement.

  The Empyrean held out his hand for James to shake. ‘Well, James, it was a pleasure to meet you. I am sure we will talk again soon.’

  Cirro appeared in the doorway and nodded to them both.

  ‘Primary Agent Cirro will escort you back to the hospital,’ continued the Empyrean. ‘I have directed him to give you his undivided attention while you are with us. So if there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask him.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Excellency,’ said James. With a less than graceful bow, he retreated through the door and followed Cirro back to the waiting hopper.

  ~

  After Cirro had returned James to the hospital, he quickly made his way back to Welkin Palace, where the Empyrean was pacing impatiently.

  ‘I want to know everything there is to know about this boy,’ growled Nimbus, not waiting for the primary agent to finish his customary bow. ‘Get people over there checking out where he lives. Find his parents. Get all the information you can about them, as well. I want to know everything, right down to what colour his auntie’s best friend’s favourite hat is – do I make myself clear?’

  Cirro was more than used to the Empyrean’s fiery temper and simply said, ‘I have already begun investigations, Your Excellency. The Agrarien files on their background are very brief.’ He retrieved his Supasmart Z – the latest device that no primary agent would be without – from his jacket pocket and scrolled through his notes on James’s parents. ‘Robert and Celeste Locke, aged forty and thirty-eight respectively,’ he read out loud. ‘Moved to the outskirts of Sydney, Australia, thirteen years ago.’ He stopped, scrolled a bit further. ‘There are no records of where they lived previously.’

  Nimbus’s gruffness lost its edge. ‘A good start, but I want more. Also, the boy says he can fly.’ Cirro raised an eyebrow but said nothing. ‘Get Dr Kawasaki to check out his ability. But do not tell him the boy can fly. I do not want him going in with any preconceived ideas.’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

  ‘And, under no circumstances let the boy out of your sight – understand?’

  Cirro understood perfectly. ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’

  THIRTEEN

  Heavenly Rest Cemetery, Sydney, Australia

  The Mini Cooper S gave a squeal as it came to an abrupt stop. The Mini was one of many vehicles Erebus owned. He had them scattered around the country, around the world, all registered under different names.

  He killed the engine and gazed at the gloomy cemetery across the road. Grey headstones sat in crooked rows, half obscured by scruffy tufts of spikey grass. Here and there, statues and crosses and old gnarled Banksia trees cast eerie shadows that seemed to constantly shift and change. Above it all peeped a near-full moon through dark grey clouds. It was exactly like the graveyards depicted in horror films. Erebus felt uneasy.

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in a Return of the Living Dead sequel,’ he muttered. He could only guess why the drop-off place had to be here.

  Just hand over the flash drive, give the message and get out as quickly as possible, he thought.

  Finding a particular grave at night, amongst hundreds, was not going to be easy. Worse still, his boss Scarlet had given such vague instructions that he had no idea which grave he was looking for. ‘It’s a grave to die for,’ she had said. ‘You’ll know it when you see it.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Could she be any more cryptic?’ sighed Erebus. He had a sneaking suspicion that Scarlet, as beautiful as she was, had a mean streak. Thinking of him stumbling around a cemetery at midnight would be amusing to her. As he headed across the road, he wondered if he might regret taking on this job.

  When the rusty wrought-iron gate swung back on its hinges, it sounded like fingernails down a blackboard. Erebus cringed; he’d always hated that sound. That, and yodelling. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any yodelling tonight.

  On closer inspection the nearby graves appeared to be in poor condition. Many of the headstones were leaning at odd angles and more were broken. They reminded Erebus of jagged, decaying teeth. Without thinking, he ran his tongue over his own perfect teeth. He liked things tidy, orderly, the opposite of this cemetery.

  He began making his way methodically through the unkempt rows, brushing aside the long grass, looking for a clue. ‘A grave to die for?’ he muttered. It was as much a question as a reminder of what Scarlet had said. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in any of these.’

  He shivered a little as the temperature dropped, and started buttoning his overcoat. His shoulders stiffened and he froze. Had he just heard something? He cast a rapid glance around, listening. Nothing.

  ‘Humph,’ he said. After all, it was just a graveyard full of dead people, and they weren’t going to bother him.

  He chided himself, wandering deeper into the cemetery, until he couldn’t see the entrance anymore. Not too far ahead, he noticed the silhouettes of angels, obelisks and carved stone relics. Maybe I should be looking for something a little grander, he thought. It made sense. He knew Scarlet had expensive taste.

  ‘This looks more like it,’ he said softly. A full-size weeping angel statue loomed in front of him, its face pressed into its hand, its wings outstretched. It would have been unnerving even in the daylight. He carefully sidestepped it and began weaving his way through the rows of graves.

  The moon slipped behind a cloud, and the graveyard plummeted into darkness. Cold air pervaded the place, sending another chill through him. A twig snapped somewhere and he caught a glimpse of movement to his right, just as the moon reappeared. He crouched low and scanned the area again, his heart thumping. Had someone followed him here? He wasn’t certain. He waited a few minutes: nothing.

  Maybe he should forget this whole thing and just get out of here. There were plenty of other clients in want of his expertise. He didn’t need Scarlet’s job. She had ways of ensuring that, once committed to her, one stayed. It would be hard to back out.

  This is ridiculous, he thought. He couldn’t let this place get to him. He straightened up and headed for the only section he had yet to explore. Rounding a small stand of trees, he stumbled over a fallen branch and cursed Scarlet under his breath. And that’s when he saw it.

  Erebus felt the hairs on the back of his
neck prickle. ‘What the . . . ?’ he muttered.

  Surrounded by a high cast-iron fence capped with spearheads stood a large stone coffin. This must be the place, he thought, hurrying over. An old cast-iron padlock was the only thing stopping him from entering. He went to work picking the lock. He just about had it when his peripheral vision caught sight of a dark shape flashing across the horizon. Now, he knew he wasn’t alone. He whipped around, ready for whatever it was. Another flash of movement on the other side made him turn again. He wondered if he was surrounded.

  Erebus turned back to the gate and focused all his attention on the last pin. He was inside the little compound in a matter of seconds, slammed the gate shut and slipped the bolt. He peered into the darkness but couldn’t see anyone and heaved a sigh. He felt much safer behind the bars than trapped by shadows and rustling grass.

  He pulled out his mini-torch, clutched it tightly and shone it over the stone coffin. He released a long, low whistle. ‘Impressive,’ he said under his breath. He’d seen something similar to this coffin in the Natural Museum of Rome – the Portonaccio Sarcophagus. That coffin had been over 1,800 years old.

  He hunkered down to examine this one more closely. What a coffin of this quality was doing in a run-down, out-of-the-way cemetery like this, he had no idea. ‘How extraordinary,’ he said, moving his torchlight slowly over detailed carvings. A battle, or rather a slaughter, raged on all four sides. Each side portrayed a different scene: prehistoric men with clubs and stone axes; ancient Egyptians on foot and in chariots; Babylonians in ranks with shields and spikes, and ancient Greeks, some dressed in robes, others in studded leather armour, wielding swords. Strangely, their foes were women hurling lightning bolts, and it seemed to Erebus that the women were winning. The dismembered, the disfigured and the dead lay before them, the living cowering at their feet.

  ‘Only the dead have seen the end of the war,’ he muttered, repeating the saying he had heard so many times before.

  On one corner of the stone coffin was an elegant bust of a woman with her hair pulled back and a tiara in place. Erebus moved his torchlight slowly over the coffin lid. There was no name, no sweet words of love or loss, but there was an unusual epitaph, in a style similar to that of a Ouija board. The words arched across the top, numbers ran across the bottom, and “yes” and “no” appeared on either side. Erebus was certain that this was the grave. He knew Scarlet loved to be dramatic. ‘A grave to die for. You will know it when you see it,’ she had said with a hint of a smile, and she was right. Nothing in this cemetery came close.

  Despite the distraction of shifting shadows and sounds of movement, Erebus directed his attention towards the lid of the coffin. He gazed at the inscription. Death is abject, improvize quickly, go wax in life. It didn’t take him long to realise it was a pangram; a sentence containing all 26 letters of the alphabet.

  Finally, things were coming together. Above the numbers, Erebus noticed a little shield with a circular indent at its centre. It looked like a moveable pointer. He placed his finger in the notch but the shield seemed fixed, carved into the lid itself. His shoulders slumped. How was he supposed to leave his message? He tried touching the letters, but nothing happened.

  Erebus stepped back, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Focus, Erebus, he told himself. The sooner you figure this out . . .

  His torchlight landed on an open hand carved in the base beneath the bust. His heart lifted. ‘Okay, this makes more sense,’ he said. The hand reminded him of the other part of Scarlet’s instruction: “Hand over the file at the grave.”

  Erebus reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the flash drive, and carefully placed it into the palm. But still nothing happened. Ahhh! This was driving him crazy. What was Scarlet playing at? It shouldn’t be this hard.

  He examined the epitaph again. It was definitely a pangram, and it seemed only reasonable that he had to employ the little shield as a moving pointer. He placed his finger in the circular indent once more, and suddenly found that it moved freely. ‘Yes!’ he said. He pointed to certain letters in the epitaph, quickly completing his message. A whirring noise began and the hand holding the flash drive arced upwards, depositing the flash drive into the mouth of the bust, where it disappeared.

  ‘She never ceases to amaze me,’ said Erebus, shaking his head.

  Only Scarlet could come up with some fancy mechanical coffin as a drop-off point. He gave a little chuckle and turned to leave, but stopped in his tracks when he heard a faint scratching noise coming from the coffin. He looked back. A chill slithered down his spine. The pointer was moving of its own accord. Slowly, it crept toward the letter G, then scraped its way over to the letter O, then T. Erebus stood mesmerized. Finally, after the shield had spelt out “GOTOTHEOLDCITYOFBATMANIA”, it paused.

  Then it continued, “SATURDAYNIGHTTWO WEEKS”, and stopped.

  Erebus swallowed hard. ‘That’s not at all creepy,’ he muttered.

  The pointer moved again, spelling out, “IAM DISAPPOINTED”.

  Erebus frowned, glanced around thinking that Scarlet must be close by. As he turned, he heard a flutter, looked up, saw a dark shape swooping toward him. He dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding the attack. A high-pitched squeal sliced through the cool night air. He flashed his torch in the direction of the scream.

  ‘For crying out loud!’ he said, and took a deep breath. ‘You scared the bejeebers out of me.’ In his torchlight was a Tawny Frogmouth, dismembering a small rodent.

  Erebus had had enough, and hastened from the enclosure without looking back. A cold wind blew from the south, rustling the grass, and the moon disappeared behind thick cloud. The hair on his neck rose as his torchlight fell upon the intense face of an angel gazing down at him, her wings outspread. He took a step back, then dashed for the exit. He revved up the Mini and took off, never wanting to think of this night again.

  FOURTEEN

  Interview Room, General Hospital, Nebulosity

  James rubbed his hands up and down his arms, goose-bumps popping up at the sight of the room he was in. Every surface shone like stainless steel, and a strong smell of ammonia hung in the air. ‘How long do I have to stay here?’ he asked the male attendant who had brought him. Apparently he was in the south wing of the hospital, where another doctor was coming to meet him.

  ‘Dr Kawasaki will be with you shortly,’ replied the attendant. ‘He will answer all your questions. Just try to make yourself comfortable.’ He gestured toward the only furniture in the room, a square metal table with two chairs. ‘Have a seat.’ He gave James a reassuring smile and then left, closing the door behind him.

  James disregarded the table and chairs, too nervous to sit still. Instead, he turned his attention to the rest of the room, ran his fingertips along the cold metal walls, tapped them with his knuckles and listened to the metallic echo. As he circled the room, his reflection followed him, noticeably distorted. He looked skinnier than he thought possible and slightly banana-shaped. He stomped his feet on the shiny floor, which let out a dull metallic ring, and then inspected the door to see if it was locked. It was. Finally, not knowing what else to do, he perched on the edge of one of the metal chairs and softly drummed his fingertips on the table.

  The more time that passed, the uneasier James felt. His eyes flicked to the small vent he hadn’t noticed earlier. They’re watching me. I bet there’s a camera inside that vent.

  He was about to investigate when the door opened and a middle-aged man with round, tinted glasses and a grey goatee strode in with his hand outstretched. For a second, James thought he recognised him. But that couldn’t be possible, could it?

  ‘Good morning, I’m David Kawasaki,’ said the man. ‘And you must be James.’

  James got to his feet, pushing back his chair and causing a high-pitched squeal to reverberate around the room as metal scrapped on metal. They both grimaced.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered James.

  Kawasaki smiled and stretched out his hand again.
‘So how are you feeling today?’

  ‘Much better, thank you,’ said James, shaking the man’s hand. ‘I . . . I know you, don’t I? You’re Doctor . . . Doctor . . .’

  ‘Yes, Dr Kawasaki,’ replied Kawasaki. James was still shaking his hand.

  ‘Yeah! That’s it, Dr Kawasaki.’ James couldn’t believe it. This man was hugely famous in the scientific world, and he was actually meeting him in person. ‘My dad made me watch your documentary on that tree, the Douglas fir.’

  ‘Made you?’

  James finally released the doctor’s hand. ‘Yeah, but it was really good.’

  The doctor nodded politely. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  James relaxed. It was such a relief to see someone he knew, even if he had only ever seen this person on TV. Things weren’t as weird as he’d thought. ‘How long have you known about the Azuriens? Are you a guest here too, or do you work for them?’

  ‘Well,’ started Dr Kawasaki slowly, ‘to answer your first question, I’ve known about the Azuriens ever since I can remember. In fact, since I was born. And to answer your second question, yes, I work for them.’

  James frowned. ‘Do you mean . . .’

  ‘I’m an Azurien? Yes, I am.’

  ‘But,’ started James, ‘I don’t get it. You don’t talk like them and your eyes . . .’

  ‘I’ve spent a lot of time down below, so speech patterns tend to rub off. And I wear these,’ said Dr Kawasaki, removing his glasses, ‘so I don’t attract too much attention when I’m down there.’ Sure enough, behind the tint, the doctor’s eyes were Azurien.

  ‘Do other Azuriens come down too?’

  ‘Some,’ replied Kawasaki. ‘But let’s leave those types of questions for another time. We’re here to talk about you.’ He pointed to a chair. ‘Take a seat.’ Lifting one of the metal chairs out from under the table, he sat down and waited for James to join him. ‘I heard about your – what would you call it? – adventure, in one of my very expensive Atmospheric Sampling Units. It intrigues me as to how you managed to get inside. It seems an impossible feat, a thousand metres above the ground with no sign of an aircraft or balloon. How did you do it?’