Swept Away: An Epic Fantasy (The Last Elentrice Book 3)

by S McPherson

  About to give another polite but firm response, Milo stops, the words falling flat on his lips as he notices the gethadrox in her hand.

  ‘How did you—’

  ‘This is your device, isn’t it?’ she grins.

  He nods, opening his hand. No doubt the creature took it as soon as it fell from his satchel, using it to get what she wanted first. She stares blankly at his hand then back up at his face.

  ‘What?’ she asks, feigning ignorance.

  ‘The device,’ Milo growls. ‘I’ve done what you asked of me. You have your arm, now hand it over.’

  She smirks. ‘There’s a ball this evening. I want to go.’

  ‘So go,’ and Milo makes a grab for the gethadrox, but far quicker than it appeared, it vanishes. He gapes at her, fury stinging his eyes.

  ‘Take me to the ball.’ She presses a finger to his lips, pushing the membrane into his face and so silencing his protest. ‘After, and only after, will I give you your device.’

  Milo watches her as she watches him. No hint of amusement shines behind her words, just cold hard truth. She and this ball stand between him and his way out of here, something he has to do. The orange moon is coming and Milo is the only one who knows what Diez has planned for the occasion.

  With clenched fists, he nods. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good answer,’ she says, and pulls the membrane away from his face. Milo prepares for the thing to snap, allowing water to gush in and flood his lungs, but it only stretches before springing back to cover his face like a slick mask. He can see clearer now, breathe easier. The Meriamtess looks even more hideous without the haze of the bubble, and especially more so with her new limb. It’s so off kilter with the rest of her, but he doesn’t show his repulsion. Instead, he waits. This is her game, and in this round, it’s her move.

  CONFIDENCE IS KEY

  Harrington Heights College is even less impressive than Bentford Sixth Form, and a far, far cry from the grand fortress of stone and oak that is Thornton High. I look at the old building before us: a mismatch of wonky bricks plastered in spackle and grime to make up the walls. Rusted pipes bend from circular crevices cut into the jumble of red and brown, broken by occasional windows with flaking windowpanes and a tall, murky glass door that marks the entrance. Jude, Nathaniel, Sakiya, and I walk up the narrow steps leading to it and step into an entrance hall.

  Fluorescent lights humming overhead glaze everything in pale blue and a large walnut reception desk stretches along the back wall. I assume the receptionist is hidden somewhere behind it, judging by the sound of tapping computer keys. To our right are a couple of closed doors, thin and hollow, coated with a wood effect finish. My fingers twitch, itching to touch them. Though I still try to go to work every day, Mr Picklesby has been more than accommodating with my many days off. A part of me misses the countless hours I spend in the backroom of Carve & Wood, surrounded by those sombre tones and that warm scent. Just for a moment they let me forget myself and my worries outside of those walls.

  Behind the closed doors, we can hear the murmurings of deep voices, and printed on the wood are the words ‘Office: Headmaster’. To our left is a row of blue fabric chairs. It’s a bland and dusty blue that looks like it has never known soap. A lone and leafy plant wilts in a pot at the centre of a low glass coffee table, across which are strewn outdated newspapers and magazines. I notice Nathaniel’s eyes rest on the plant, no doubt imagining all the ways he could revive it. I smile to myself. I doubt Nathaniel will ever stop trying to rescue one thing or another. He rescued me enough.

  We’ve arrived early for our meeting with the tour guide, afraid we wouldn’t find the building, but as I go to let the receptionist know we are here Jude grips me, shakes his head and signals for us to sit down. The chairs are as uncomfortable as they look, and I can’t help fidgeting as I idly tap my feet on the rubber tiled floor, waiting as Jude types a message into his phone and hands it to Nathaniel who sits between us. I peek at the screen, reading: Why don’t you three make a run for it? I’ll say you never showed up.

  I look around. It’s true: the receptionist still hasn’t realised we’ve entered. Would she notice if we slipped away through the open door a few feet from her desk? Through it, I can make out a small corridor that curves away, no doubt leading to the college grounds, to its students and our possible recruits. I meet Nathaniel’s gaze. It’s not a bad idea. The tour took up valuable time in Benidorm and the short lunch break left us having to leave one boy we wanted behind. I hand the phone to Sakiya. She reads it and smirks, like I knew she would, before handing it back. I type my reply to Jude and watch as he reads the words: Why don’t we all go?

  He grins, barely considering before granting me a subtle nod, then gets to his feet in that peculiarly eerie way he has, particularly when Up-Top. Nathaniel follows and I ignore the pang of apprehension in my gut as I do the same. Sakiya nimbly darts past, meeting Jude at the front. We stay close to the wall, pretending to admire the few mundane pieces of artwork, though we mime it, staying quiet not to draw attention. My gaze falls on a sketch of a young girl on a swing, or at least that’s what I think it is. She looks more like a scribble of black lines and a blob. I’m sure I could do better without even trying.

  I swallow a yelp as something pinches my arm: Sakiya. I’m about to hiss and ask what she’s playing at when I realise Jude and Nathaniel are already through the door and rounding the corner. No doubt, Sakiya was too, until she realised I was missing. I simper an apology and my eyes dart to the receptionist who appears to be engrossed in her phone. Hastily, I follow Sakiya out of the lobby and into the corridor. I decide that if we get caught we can just apologise and claim to be looking for the loo. These feel like famous last words, but really; what’s the worst that could happen?

  Harrington Heights is a labyrinth of tough guys and high heels. The grey walls surrounding the courtyard creak, bursting under the strain of testosterone and fishnets. The students’ brutal confidence slams into me like a lead shield and immediately my back straightens and my chin rises. I regret wearing my jeans this morning; high-waisted shorts or mini-skirts and crop tops—preferably made from lace leaving little to the imagination—are clearly the way to go. Sakiya sniffs, her chest puffing with obvious pride and admiration. She rips off her black jacket, letting it fall to the floor, revealing her own bare midriff. She’s worn a long skirt and I gawk as she grips the dark fabric, no doubt tapping into her inner Fuerté, before ripping it a good few inches above the knee.

  ‘I’m home,’ she smirks at those who’ve noticed, watching as what was once her skirt collects at her feet.

  Jude bursts out laughing and shakes his head. I shrug off my own cardigan as we push our way through the mass and toss it onto a bench beneath a cluster of fragile-looking trees. I doubt it will still be there when we’re done here, but, oh well, c’est la vie. I’m not wearing a crop top but I’m in a tight fitting T-shirt that will have to do. Sakiya saunters over, and with no warning, tears the T-shirt at my bellybutton, revealing bare flesh. Before I can stop her, she rips off the sleeves, as well.

  ‘I liked that top,’ I hiss.

  She oozes a saccharine smile. ‘Like this,’ she murmurs, thrusting her middle finger in my face. I catch her eyes as they briefly dart to one side and realise we’re being watched. We’re fresh meat; as good as a herd of gazelle circled by ravenous lions, unless we prove we belong here. I scoff, smacking her hand aside.

  Before she can retort, someone says, ‘Ladies, ladies.’ I barely recognise the voice of the boy who steps between us. It’s silky, suave and as deep as an ocean floor. I try not to show my surprise as Jude wraps an arm around my waist. ‘If you’ve got some pent-up rage, I’d be more than happy to help you work it off.’

  I notice a glimmer of mischief in his eyes and try not to roll my own. I hear the boys behind us snicker, apparently impressed by the newcomer. I glance over Jude’s shoulder to where Nathaniel has claimed Sakiya’s attention. She pushes him away before stri
ding off, but he grabs her and wrestles her back, attempting to whisper in her ear. No one interrupts; every man for himself in this place. But I can feel eyes on them, and on us.

  I smirk, turning into Jude and place a hand at the base of his throat. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he growls in that syrupy voice of his, then clasps my hand and draws me from the crowded courtyard.

  We slink around the side of the building, the whole time pawing at each other and leering like wolves eyeing up their prey. There are fewer students back here, ones who seem more down-to-earth. I even notice a few girls in jeans and breathe a sigh of relief. Jude keeps an arm around my waist as we stroll along a cobbled walkway, past groups of students hunched over their text books or sprawled in the grass. I can’t help noticing that it’s too early to be lunch time and yet no one seems in a hurry to get to class.

  ‘Let’s go over there,’ Jude whispers in my ear, keeping up appearances. I let him lead us until at last we’re concealed behind a broad trunk of a tree. ‘I saw quite a few potentials,’ he notes, abandoning his gravelly voice.

  ‘Same here. But we somehow need to get their names.’ I stare out at the mass of Harrington Heights students who have turned this place into their own battlefield. Perhaps an other-world war is just the place for these people.

  Jude frowns, also staring out at the mess of bodies: wolves and lions in human flesh. Another swarm of students rounds the corner and he stills. ‘I have an idea,’ he murmurs and grips my hand.

  He guides me back up the footpaths and we make our way through the still crowded courtyard that leaks hormones and self-importance, and from which four grey doors lead off. One is the door we came through, the one I keep eyeing in case our tour guide comes looking for us. Given that everyone seems so slack in this place, I imagine our tour guide didn’t even show up, or if she did, she was probably relieved to find the waiting seats vacant.

  Even so, we steer clear of that door and Jude pulls me through another, one that leads into a deserted corridor. Metal lockers line the walls, broken occasionally by a steel door, presumably to the classrooms. Just like the entrance hall, the rubber-tiled floor here is a grimy blue, and garish fluorescent lights smog the air. A few posters have been stuck haphazardly along the corridor’s brick wall, not enough to hide its lengthy cracks or where it’s crumbling; mounds of it rest on the swollen skirting board. Clusters of used gum gather like moss near a stained water cooler and the air smells damp. No wonder everyone is out in the grounds.

  ‘We need to get into the office,’ Jude murmurs after scanning the length of the corridor to make sure it’s truly empty. ‘There has to be a yearbook or student files in there.’

  I think back to that dingy reception and the closed office doors leading off it. There’d been voices coming from behind them and I doubt the owner will let us snoop around. I’m about to point this out when a searing cold rakes through my arm and I flinch. My gaze falls to where Jude’s holding my wrist, freezing me. At last, he lets go and my fingers throb, my arm aching as blood rushes through it—then I understand. Somehow, we will get into the office, and Jude will freeze whoever gets in our way.

  ‘You’ll have to get close,’ I whisper.

  ‘I’ll find a way,’ he grins and then steps back outside into the blur of bodies and pheromones.

  Following, I take a healthy gulp of fresh air and smile up at the greying sky. Anything is better than being inside that musty old place. I jump when someone prods me in the side with a bony finger and look down to find Sakiya smirking up at me. She is perched on Nathaniel’s lap, the two of them looking completely at ease as they sit at a wooden table surrounded by a group of fierce-looking students.

  ‘Well, well, look who it is,’ she purrs, and I hope we aren’t about to get into a catfight. ‘We thought we’d lost you.’

  ‘Ah, green eyes,’ one of the lads calls at me, gesturing to the already cramped bench, ‘join us.’

  I hesitate. Jude waits beside the entrance door, not close enough to see Sakiya and Nathaniel sitting in front of me. The one who offered me a seat follows my stare.

  ‘Is that your fella?’ he asks, waving Jude over.

  I twist my mouth to one side in a noncommittal gesture and wriggle into the tiny strip of bench still visible. I’m wedged between Sakiya and Nathaniel on one side and a voluptuous doe-eyed girl currently straddling someone on my other. Jude saunters over, arms folded and leans comfortably against a lamppost beside the table.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he drawls, his sultry voice having returned.

  ‘Your boy was just telling us about his skills with a deck of cards,’ says the one who beckoned him over as he gestures to Nathaniel. I admire the way confidence seems to radiate from him. He doesn’t try to squish in with the rest of us but sits on top of the table beside us, his feet propped on the bench, his forearms resting easily on his knees. He wears a black hoodie with a green tribal symbol running across it and black tracksuit bottoms. A dark red beanie hangs loosely over his thick afro curls and a thin golden loop dangles from his brow.

  Nathaniel grins, puffs out his chest and throws back his arms in a carefree gesture. ‘What can I say, bruv? I’m gifted.’

  ‘Bruv?’ I almost bark. I’ve never heard Nathaniel say ‘Bruv’ in all the years I’ve known him.

  Whilst the boys flex their pecks and banter about who’s got a better poker face, I turn to Sakiya. She brings her ear down to me and I whisper, ‘Names?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Trig,’ she says, flicking her chin at the one arguing with Nathaniel. ‘Mutt, Swift, Mops, Tanks,’ she reels off as she gestures to the others around me. ‘All nicknames, though.’

  I note that Tanks is the girl beside me, currently crushed against her boyfriend. I wonder why they call her Tanks. Perhaps I’ll find out later when she doesn’t have Mutt on her face.

  The one called Swift slips out of his seat, his phone blasting out a hip-hop beat. His feet start moving, each in the air, one after the other, his arms swinging in time to the rhythm. Then he’s on the ground, kicking out one leg, twisting, balancing: break dancing. I watch, mesmerised by his fluid movements. He has a square jaw, narrow chocolate-coloured eyes and tanned skin that looks like buttermilk pancakes. His thin brown hair flicks and falls with his every move, his clothes too big for his slim frame.

  Another boy I didn’t get the name of bobs his head to the music. His dreadlocks bounce, his entire upper half rocking with them. Then he pumps a hand in front of his tattooed face as he starts to rap. I assume it’s freestyle, for he ‘Uh’s and ‘Ah’s when he seems at a loss for words. A distant bell rings and I become vaguely aware of a few students now milling inside, although most remain where they are.

  More people join in the dance or take it in turns to say a few lines over the beat. Even girls get in on the act, revelling in their sensuality and their ability to rhyme faster and deliver lines better than the boys. I marvel at their undiluted ease, the normalcy of it all, and can’t completely ignore the pang of guilt I feel as I remember that we’re about to stretch considerably their definition of normal.

  I jump when Sakiya murmurs in my ear, ‘I snapped pictures of each of them,’ and she presses her phone into my hand. I look around for Nathaniel, only now realising he’s stood up, laughing and bickering with Trig on the other side of the table. ‘Jude says you two are breaking into the office,’ she explains to my blank stare. ‘Find these guys.’

  I shuffle her phone into my pocket as I wriggle out of the seat. When had she spoken to Jude? How long had I been locked in the students’ revelry? I don’t know what I crave more: the desire truly to belong somewhere or the desire just to be so comfortable in my own skin, regardless of where I am.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I say, then seductively slide past Jude, making sure to press myself against him in case anyone is watching, and head to the entrance to the reception. Jude doesn’t wait long before following, looking pre
tty pleased with himself.

  Around the corner from the receptionist’s office, I hastily smear my lipstick across Jude’s mouth with my finger and he unbuttons half his shirt. Then he ruffles his hands in my hair and I pull down the scrap of sleeve left of my T-shirt, letting it hang off my shoulder. His hands are cold and I almost slap him away as he hikes my top just that fraction higher and then flings an arm around my waist.

  ‘Ready?’ he murmurs.

  ‘Ready.’ I throw my own arm around his neck and we stumble into the reception, laughing wildly. This time, the receptionist notices us, wide-eyed.

  I attempt to look contrite, pushing my wayward hair behind my ears. ‘We’ve been sent to the headmaster’s office,’ I pant.

  The receptionist quirks a disapproving eyebrow then frowns, as if trying to place us, no doubt wondering why we don’t seem familiar. Jude nuzzles his head in my neck and I squeal playfully.

  The receptionist snarls, a guttural sound, before stalking from her seat and beating on the headmaster’s door. A voice on the other side calls ‘Come in’, and Jude and I simper at her as she opens the door and ushers us in.

  The office is no different to any other: a box of a room with most of its space taken up by an oval desk. Behind this stands a bookshelf crammed with thick hefty books, some boasting authors like Faulkner, Shakespeare, Brontë, and Vonnegut; all their titles in cursive gold. I doubt the man before me has even touched them, the shelf just a prop designed to portray knowledge and sophistication. He sits in a faux leather swivel chair, bits of it flaking off. He’s a slim man, no hair on his head or laughter in his eyes. Across the desk from him, and on which a plaque states ‘Headmaster Burns’, stands two chairs that look like they might snap in a brisk wind. Next to me, so close I could reach out and touch them, are filing cabinets, their blue metal drawers just waiting to be opened, keys dangling from their locks.