Alexander's Army

by Chris D'Lacey

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “How? In what way?”

  “She will not be harmed, but she must be controlled.”

  “How?” I said again.

  He tapped the chair. “We have secure facilities —”

  “You’re gonna cage her? Hah! Are you crazy?”

  “She is dangerous. You witnessed that this morning.”

  “I don’t care. I won’t betray her,” I growled. “She was my friend once.” My closest friend. The only girl apart from Josie I’d ever really liked. And now she scared the wits out of me. “I’m not gonna set her up or lead her to you.”

  He smiled again. “Trust me, we are capable of tracking down Freya. In the meantime, I want you to investigate another situation. Something rather intriguing has come up, which appears to be connected to Freya’s … rebirth. Another force is acting on the changes you made to the boundaries of the temporal equilibrium.”

  I spread my hands. “In English, please.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a comic book. “Do you know a store in Holton called The Fourth Enchantment?”

  “Yes,” I said, though I’d never been there. It was a tiny place off the main mall where you could buy any number of comic books or action figures. A hangout for nerdy types who dug superheroes. I’d read a lot of science fiction books, but Spider-Man had never really been my thing.

  Klimt leaned forward and handed me the comic. “This has been prominently displayed in the window, ever since Freya … changed.”

  I looked at the cover, and my heart all but stopped. The comic was called The Amazing Crow Girl. On the front was a pretty good likeness of Freya. Wild hair. Wings spread. Crows around her, flying. Trapped beneath her feet was a limp human figure.

  Me.

  Or so I thought, at first. When I looked closer, it could have been anyone in Freya’s claws. The hair was like mine, light brown, a little shaggy, but the facial features were fuzzy at best.

  I opened the comic. The pages were blank. Same on the back. Nothing. Blank.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Nor I,” Klimt replied. “But this was not put there by chance, Michael. Whoever drew this image has either seen Freya or somehow become aware of her presence. I believe it to be a calling card.”

  “For me?”

  “No, for her. The image was posted up where anyone could see it, but it is clearly an invitation for Freya to make contact. The artist wants to know her story. This is the significance of the empty pages.”

  “No,” I said. I could see where this was headed. “Send Mulrooney in. Let him deal with it.”

  “It was Mulrooney who brought me the comic,” he said. “There were several copies in a box on a table outside the store. Like you, he was puzzled by the lack of detail. But when he tried to go into the store to inquire … the door appeared to be locked.”

  “What do you mean, ‘appeared’? It either was or it wasn’t.”

  “There was no sign indicating closure,” said Klimt, “and Mulrooney had just seen another customer depart. Yet when he pushed the door, it would not open. He claims he heard a click as if a latch had been dropped.”

  “The owner shut him out?”

  “Something shut him out — but there was nothing behind the glass and no sign of anyone serving at the counter. The next day, I sent Chantelle to browse the store. She, too, had a strange experience.”

  Chantelle. The stunning French girl with amazing eyes who’d first drawn me into UNICORNE’s clutches. I kind of missed her, even though she treated me like a little kid. “What happened? Is she okay?”

  “She broke a heel on her shoe.”

  “So? What’s weird about that?” It had happened to Mom once in the middle of town. She’d clucked like a hen, but hobbled to the mall and bought a cheap pair of sneakers to get her home. A broken heel would be a serious fashion faux pas for Chantelle, but not enough to stop her looking around a comic store.

  And Klimt agreed. “Ordinarily, such a thing would not have inconvenienced an experienced agent, but the manner in which it happened suggests that Chantelle, like Mulrooney, was singled out and stopped.” He steepled his fingers and gazed into the open fireplace. I had a sudden déjà vu of Dad doing that and it spooked me even more than the story Klimt was telling. “She claims the break happened with great force, as though something had either chopped through the heel or thrown a rope around it and tugged it off.”

  “What?”

  “As a result, she fell. And though she was not aware of striking her head, she became dizzy and briefly passed out. She said it felt as if someone had applied a pad of chloroform across her nose and mouth. When she came around, she was in the street, being attended to by a concerned pedestrian. The store, by then, was closed.”

  “Is it haunted — the store?”

  He raised his gaze slowly. “That is what I want you to find out. If there is a temporal entity present — a ghost,” he clarified. “Who better than you to investigate it? You proved on your last mission that you could enter the plane of spiritual detachment and, more importantly, return from it.”

  Yes, but that ghost had been friendly (to a point). “Why did it stop Chantelle and Mulrooney?”

  He picked up a piece of fluff and dropped it. Another habit that reminded me so much of Dad. “We must assume it recognized that they, like you, have gifts outside the spectrum of normal human ability and that it considered them to be some kind of threat. This is a powerful life force, Michael. It will know that you are no ordinary boy.”

  I shuddered and looked at the comic again. “And what if I refuse?”

  “Then Freya’s fate will be in our hands and you will always be left wondering about the comic. I hardly need to tell you that time is of the essence.”

  “I can’t,” I hissed through teeth so tightly clenched they were threatening to crack. “I’m a kid — or have you forgotten that? I have to go to school — and Mom always makes me do homework till five.” Today was Sunday. It would be six days before I could get into town for store opening hours. And I didn’t dare pull more truant stuff, like I’d done on my last “mission.”

  Klimt dusted his trousers and prepared to stand. “Keep the comic as a souvenir. You may call your mother in now.”

  “But —?” What about the mission?

  He raised an eyebrow in the direction of the hall.

  Fuddled, and a little frustrated, I stuffed the comic in my schoolbag, then went to the room that had been Dad’s study and told Mom we were done.

  She stepped into the hall where Klimt was waiting. “Well? How did it go?”

  Klimt rested his hand on my shoulder. “Given that Michael was involved in a serious road accident just a few weeks ago, it is not uncommon to expect some residual trauma.”

  “That sounds serious,” said Mom. Her lovely green eyes contracted a little.

  “I think not,” said Klimt. “I have explained to Michael that the death of someone close can cause extreme emotional reactions, often provoking mild hallucinations and unusual beliefs.”

  He had?

  “I think these … visions of Freya are nothing more than that. But just to be sure there are no physical deficiencies, I would like to have him back in the clinic for a day or two, so we can run some checks.”

  He would?

  “Oh, right,” Mom said, her voice changing gear. “Well, whatever you think is necessary. I’ll make arrangements at work and —”

  “No, no,” Klimt stalled her. “I will send a car for Michael in the morning. All you need to do is phone his school. He will be safe with us. And, of course, you may visit him in the evening.”

  “Yes. I see. Well, yes,” Mom muttered, now as fuddled as I was. She knuckled my arm. “You okay with this?”

  Was Klimt serious about the medical checks? I had been badly hurt in the crash. My left leg ached even now. Or was it just a ruse to get me out of school and into the comic store? As usual, his agenda was pretty m
urky.

  “Eight o’clock,” he said before I could object. “We will provide night clothes.” He gave a curt nod and was about to leave when his gaze locked onto something behind Mom.

  The door of the study was still half-open. I realized Klimt was staring at a painting on the wall of the alcove, above the desk where Dad used to sit.

  “The Tree of Life,” he muttered, his accent almost slurring a little.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mom. She fluffed her hair. “Michael’s father, Thomas, liked the work of the artist. I’m sure you’re aware he shared your name. Gustav Klimt, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Amadeus Klimt. And something seemed to whir behind his purple eyes. Without another word, he marched out of the house and straight down the drive.

  “He left a bit suddenly,” said Mom as we watched Klimt get into a waiting black car. “You don’t think we upset him, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. It didn’t seem possible that Klimt could be rattled. But something in the painting had made him pause, as if the twisting pattern of branches had sent a viral worm into his high-powered software. It was the first time I’d seen a flicker in him of something that might be called an emotion.

  The unnerving thing was, it looked like sorrow.

  “Mom, is it okay if I go out for a bit?”

  “Out?” she said. You could almost hear the rattle of a jailer’s keys. She had barely closed the door on Klimt and here I was asking for a burst of freedom.

  “Just on my bike.”

  “Where to?”

  “Dunno.”

  She folded her arms. Never a good sign. “No, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Better than what?”

  “Better than ‘dunno.’ ” She had her Igor voice on now. Why did parents always turn into the creepy butler whenever they repeated your own words back? She said, “Two hours ago, I was scolding you for hiding in your room all week. Now, suddenly, you want to go out? What’s changed?”

  “I’m cured,” I said. All hail Dr. K, miracle worker.

  “Don’t get smart, Michael.”

  I threw out my hands. “Well, what am I s’posed to say? You moan if I stay in and you moan if I don’t. Moan, moan, moan. I’m sick of it.” I slumped against the wall, with my hands in my pockets.

  “What’s going on?” Josie was slowly descending the stairs like an actress fearful of stepping on her dress.

  “Your brother’s having a tantrum.”

  “Oh, like, tell me something I don’t know. What did Dr. K want?”

  “I asked him to come and have a chat with Michael.”

  “And now I’ve gotta go into the hospital,” I ranted. “And have wires stuck in me and —”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Mom snapped, before I could mention the weird octopus creature that had crawled on my face the last time I’d been in the UNICORNE clinic. Right away, I’d almost blown my cover again. Mom had no idea what she was sending me into. No idea.

  “Hospital?” said Josie. She took the last step with a heavy bump.

  “For a checkup,” said Mom. “Nothing serious. Dr. K is concerned that Michael hasn’t gotten over Freya’s death yet.”

  “He said I had a trauma.”

  Josie flicked her hair. “Well, he got that right. You’re a bigger trauma queen than Lauren Shenton. If he dies, Mom, can I have his room?”

  “What? Get lost, you little —”

  “MICHAEL!” Mom was totally in my face now.

  I turned to the wall again.

  “Michael, look at me.”

  “No.”

  “Mich-ael …?”

  I turned. And I looked at her. “All I want to do is go and mess around with Ryan for a bit.”

  Josie hooted at that. “You wanna mess around with Ryan Garvey? A kid whose nose you splattered all over the senior school lockers? Pff! You’re right, Mom, he’s definitely ill.” She waltzed into the front room and closed the door.

  I mouthed something after her, which, thankfully, Mom didn’t see. “You had a fight with Ryan? What was that about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It doesn’t sound like nothing if you bloodied his nose.”

  “She’s just exaggerating, as usual. I made up with Ryan, anyway. He was here for my birthday, re-mem-bur?” Now it was me with the Igor voice.

  She pointed a finger. “Don’t push it. You’ve been a child of mine for long enough now to know that I don’t like lip.” She let out a sigh that seemed to last about thirteen seconds, one for every year of my life so far. “All right. One hour. Is that enough?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Well, is it or isn’t it?”

  “Yes!”

  “Don’t shout. I’m just concerned for you, Michael. You’ve been a real worry this past week.” An awkward silence descended. As usual, she was the first to crack. “Oh, come here.” She drew me into a hug. “You mustn’t be frightened of going back to the clinic.” She parted the hair just above my left ear. “Dr. K knows what he’s doing.”

  Oh, yeah. Klimt knew what he was doing, all right. I looked over her shoulder into Dad’s room. The solitary raven-like bird that sat on a branch in The Tree of Life painting looked right back. Fly away, I mouthed at it, and squeezed my eyes shut.

  But it was still there, dark and brooding, when I opened my eyes again and Mom let me go.

  I pedaled to the coast road. A ten-minute ride. I did think about calling Ryan. Dumb and annoying as Garvey was, he at least made me feel like a normal kid. And that would be no bad thing right now. My fight with him had been over Freya and who was supposed to be “going out” with her. So weird. Me and Ryan fighting over a girl. Back in fifth grade, girls were so far off our radar, they might as well have lived in outer space. So much had changed since Amadeus Klimt walked into my life.

  But I didn’t call Ryan. I stuck to my plan and went straight to one of the wooden benches that dotted the cliffs looking over the sea. Mom always said we were lucky living so close to the water, where the air was clear and you could breathe — and think. But if she’d known what had happened on these very same cliffs a fortnight ago, what I’d been involved in, what I’d done, she would have had us packed and moved on before I could blink.

  I spun my bike into a heap, sat down, and waited. It was a cold afternoon with no promise of sun. The sea stretched out like a sleepy cat, a dark reflection of the gray clouds above. One small fishing boat was chugging toward the southernmost point of Berry Head. A gull circled silently above, then shrieked and took off in the same direction as the fishing boat. A chill wind ripped at my ankles. The crows were coming. I could feel it.

  Simultaneously, two of them landed on the backrest on either side of me, flapping gently to keep their balance. They cawed as they eyeballed me.

  And then came Freya.

  Two hands slid across my eyes. I jumped so hard that I almost kicked a clod of earth out of the ground.

  “Guess,” she whispered.

  Shaking, I said, “I haven’t got long. You have to listen to me. You have to leave, Freya. You have to get away. I’ve come here to warn you. They might be watching.”

  “Shush,” she went, her voice rattling as if she had a pea in her throat. “This is sweet. This is how it should be. You and me together. Staying close.”

  “They want to put you in a cage,” I said. “Fly away. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

  She drew her hands sideways and down, raking the sides of my face with her claws. “You still haven’t told me about the geek.”

  Klimt. She meant Klimt. She’d seen him in the graveyard the first time she’d revealed her crow self to me.

  “He’s … not real,” I panted. “My dad helped to make him. But the people he works for —”

  She pushed a claw against my neck, denting the skin. Both crows gave an encouraging caark!

  “Please don’t kill me,” I whimpered.

  “He is real,” she rasped.

&
nbsp; I wanted to shake my head. Not wise. “No, he’s a robot.”

  “He has a conscience. I felt it.”

  “When?”

  “In the graveyard.”

  Klimt, with a conscience? My mind flickered back to that moment in the hall. “No way. He’s not like us. He’s a machine.”

  “Us?” she repeated. She leaned over me and breathed out the scent of slugs. But for that claw near my throat, I would have retched. “Am I real, Michael?”

  “I don’t know,” I stammered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she repeated with a caark. Her claw broke through my skin. “This world, this disgusting … existence you’ve given me, it’s like being in the closet with the monsters at night. I sense things you wouldn’t believe. I see darkness everywhere. I see it in you. I know what you did to make me like this.”

  “Please, Freya.” I wriggled my feet. “I didn’t mean to turn you into a crow.”

  “Yet you haven’t tried to turn me back,” she rasped. “And you’ve been avoiding me. Bad, bad friend.”

  “No. I want to help you, I promise. I just don’t understand how my power works, not fully.”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” she hissed, making the cut I knew had been coming. “I’ll tell you exactly how this works. You talk to geek man. You tell him you want to free me from this.” She leaned forward and whispered. “Do it soon, Michael. Unless you want to be a slug eater, too?”

  “What have you done?” I said, feeling my neck. My fingers were streaked with fresh, warm blood.

  Freya spread her wings and gave a grating cry, exciting both crows, who opened their throats and screamed for a kill. At the same time a voice said, “Michael, roll away.”

  Instead, I turned to see Chantelle, clasping what looked like a phaser out of Star Trek. “Au revoir, crow girl,” she said, and fired.

  So much can happen in an instant of time. Two weeks ago, on this very cliff, I’d looked down the barrel of a different kind of weapon, a speeding black car. Back then, my senses had responded quicker than light and I’d jumped the tracks of the multiverse. I’d survived and changed my reality, reinventing the lives of the people around me, including Freya, including Chantelle. Had I known Chantelle would fire that device, maybe my “gift” would have kicked in again. Then maybe the beam that streaked out and lit Freya in a halo of blue would have slowed or missed its target completely.