by Helen Harper
He starts walking, stumbles over a tree root that’s jutting out of the earth and goes flying. I manage to pull him back before he lands face first in the dirt. ‘You do that, O’Shea. I need a big strong man like you around to keep me safe.’
He sticks his tongue out and I laugh. ‘Come on.’ I check my watch. ‘We’ve got five hours. Let’s find a way inside then get that Trace thing going.’
We jog down a small hill towards the base. From this elevated viewpoint, I can see what O’Shea meant: it’s a sprawling complex. It would have taken me far too long to locate the time bubble orbs – not just because I can only operate during the night hours unless I want to spontaneously combust, but also because the more time I spend inside the base, the more chance I’ll end up getting caught.
I wrinkle my nose at the high fence. The top is looped with barbed wire and I have no doubt that it extends far enough underground to stop us digging our way in. ‘How did you get inside when you had your, um, assignation?’ I ask.
‘I had a visitor’s pass, of course.’ O’Shea squints at me. ‘Do you mean you don’t have a plan to get us in through the gate?’
‘Why do you think I asked you for help?’
O’Shea throws up his hands. ‘Do I have to think of everything?’
I glance down towards the road leading into the base. Two headlights on full beam are bearing down on us. ‘Actually, no – but we need to run.’
We’re in luck that the vehicle is some kind of large truck; it means there’s more room underneath the chassis. This is far from an ideal method of transport but I’m counting on the fact that we won’t be travelling far and definitely not at high speed. The difficult part will be bringing the damn Trace along with us.
I reach the slow-moving vehicle before O’Shea. It’s helpful that there are speed bumps along this stretch although it will be more painful. I keep to the truck’s blind spot, flinging myself underneath as it slows down before another bump. Then I use my fingers to cling to the undercarriage, pull up my feet and gain enough purchase with my toes to keep my body off the ground. The metal is searingly hot to the touch but I’m a vampire: I can stand a bit of pain. I rest the box containing the Trace spell on my stomach and try to stop it falling off. That would be disastrous.
I’m starting to think that O’Shea won’t make it before we reach the main gates to the base but he appears when it’s almost too late, squeezing up to join me. Just about the only part of him that’s visible is his eyes. He doesn’t look happy.
‘This is a really bad idea!’ he hisses to me.
‘I know it’s hard to cling on but it won’t be for long,’ I soothe. ‘You’re a daemon. Your fingers are virtually made of asbestos.’
‘That’s not what I mean!’
‘What then?’
The truck comes to a juddering halt and there’s the sound of muffled voices. I hear a clank and my insides freeze as I realise someone is checking underneath with an angled mirror.
‘Drop!’
Both O’Shea and I fall to the ground. I hug the Trace box and roll away from the mirror. I pray that there’s only one guard; if we have to deal with two checking both sides simultaneously, we’ve no hope.
It’s the night shift so we’re in luck. And they’re probably looking for bombs – not a vampire and a daemon.
When the boot-covered feet move round the back of the truck, O’Shea and I scoot forward and to our left. He keeps muttering under his breath and I catch the words ‘fucking stupid’. He’s not wrong. It’s not until the vehicle finally jerks forward that I think we might be in the clear. I reach up and hold on again, ignoring the blisters that are forming on my fingers and toes.
I count to twenty in my head as the truck accelerates. I can’t cling on for much longer and I daren’t turn my head to look at O’Shea and see how he’s doing. The moment I reach twenty, I let myself fall. My back bangs against the tarmac, sending a jolt of pain through me. A second later I hear a thump as O’Shea follows.
I stay flat on the road until the truck has driven away and then crawl to the side of the road. I lie on the cool, dewy grass and pant.
‘Thanks,’ O’Shea says sarcastically. ‘Thanks a lot.’
I peer up at him. He has every right to be pissed off. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, clambering slowly to my feet. ‘I should have thought that through better.’
He points to a dark stain on his shirt. ‘I’m covered in grease. You’re paying my dry cleaning bill, Blackman!’
There’s another smear down his cheek, shaped like a black witch’s tattoo. I stifle a giggle. It’s not really funny but, for some reason, mild hysteria overtakes me.
Unimpressed, O’Shea lifts his fingers to his cheeks. When he sees the dark grease, he shudders delicately. It makes me snigger even more.
‘You’re covered in oil too,’ he points out. ‘But I’m too much of a gentleman to make a thing of it.’
I touch my cheek and feel the sticky substance. I get my giggles under control and sober up. ‘What does it look like?’
‘Like you’ve been clinging to the underside of a freaking truck. What do you think it looks like?’
I reach over and adjust the smear on his face so it looks like a witch’s tattoo again. ‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘Can you make the oil look like a black witch’s signet?’
His brow furrows. ‘Huh?’
‘One of their tattoos? There are cameras all over the place. It might depend how high tech they are but if we both look like we’re witches and the cameras happen to pick us up…’
He nods in sudden understanding. ‘Gotcha.’ He steps over to me and peers down. ‘There’s a lot of grease on both your cheeks. Without some soap I’m not sure I can clean enough off.’
‘No problem,’ I tell him. ‘Make me look like a hybrid.’ I hate those bastards. It’ll appeal to my sense of self-righteousness for one of them to get blamed for this ill-advised heist.
O’Shea does what he can while I twist my hair into a tight knot. My face might currently be one of the more recognisable ones on the planet but if I have a more boyish hairstyle and keep my chin down, I might get away with this. Eventually O’Shea steps back. ‘It won’t hold up to close inspection.’
‘If anyone gets close, we’re already doomed,’ I say. I lift the lid off the Trace box and stare at it doubtfully. ‘How do we make this work then?’
‘Pick it up.’
I start to do as I’m told. My fingers barely brush against the cool glass of the orb, however, when I receive a shock of static and draw back, hissing through my teeth.
O’Shea juts out his bottom lip. ‘Aw. Did the big bad vampire get an electric shock?’ I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Sorry. I meant little bad vampire.’
I don’t rise to the bait. Instead, I try again, this time managing to scoop up the globe and hold it in both hands. Almost immediately it tugs me forward. I blink.
‘Cool, huh?’ O’Shea grins.
‘If it works.’
‘Bo, you’re no fun these days.’
‘We’re not out on a jolly,’ I tell him. ‘This is a serious matter. If anyone catches us … or even sees us…’
He casts a hand around as I’m yanked forward again. ‘No one’s here. It’s the middle of the night. Just let yourself relax.’
‘We’re slap bang in the centre of an army base, surrounded by lots of soldiers and lots of guns. I’m not about to kick back and chill until we’ve got what we came for and we’re safely away.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘I meant relax and the Trace can do its job.’ He winks. ‘Trust me, Bo. I’m a daemon.’
For some reason his words put me in mind of X and his ridiculous antics at the television studio. I force myself to concentrate on the matter in hand though and follow O’Shea’s instructions. I loosen the tension in my muscles while the Trace continues to exert its pressure on me. It’s easier said than done but soon we’re moving at a brisk pace while I keep the Trace in front of me. I stumble several
times as it leads us down the immaculate road fringed with a lawn that is cut so evenly I imagine some poor band of recruits measures each blade of grass every morning to ensure conformity.
The Trace is pulling me over to the left when I hear the sound of voices from up ahead. O’Shea and I exchange quick glances and run to the nearest building, letting the heavy shadows conceal us as best as they can. I’m still nervous about cameras capturing our images so I keep my head down. A moment later, two soldiers appear. Both have identical crew-cuts and straight-backed postures. The army certainly keeps its worker bees in line.
The pressure from the Trace is growing. I shift its weight in my sweaty palms as it tries to make me move. In an attempt to exert more control, I hug it to my chest but it makes my whole body jerk. I grit my teeth and concentrate on remaining upright while the soldiers pass by.
They are about ten feet away, heading towards the main gates, when the Trace apparently decides enough is enough. With a burst of uncontrollable energy, it flings me forward. I feel O’Shea grab the back of my dress to restrain me but it’s too late. My feet kick up the gravel that surrounds the building as I try to regain my balance. The only thing I can do is crouch into a ball but even then the bloody thing still pulls me forward. I’m wondering what Isaac Newton would have made of a Trace when I realise the soldiers have stopped and are turning in our direction.
‘Shit,’ O’Shea breathes.
My instinct is to run but if we try that we’ll be spotted for sure. The soldier nearest to us starts to walk over in our direction. ‘Is anyone there?’ he calls out, peering towards us.
Our only saving grace is that we’re enveloped in darkness and invisible from the road. My mind races through our options. We could rush the soldiers and escape but then we’d have no hope of getting near the orbs we need. I’m still wearing the dress; I could use O’Shea’s story about the lance corporal and wander out to chat to them, making it seem like I have permission to be here. It would buy us about five seconds before they discovered the truth. And what the hell do I do with the damned Trace? If I stand up, it’ll start yanking me again with such power that I’ll either drop it and allow the soldiers to pinpoint our presence, or it’ll fling me directly in their path. Bugger, bugger, bugger. This was such a stupid idea.
There’s a crackle from the second soldier’s radio. He unclips it from his belt and holds it up to his face. He nods briskly. ‘We’ve got to go.’
‘But…’
‘It’s probably a damn cat. You might want to get on Arbuckle’s bad side but I’m not in the mood for another bawling out.’
‘That was Colonel Arbuckle?’ Even in the darkness, I can see his face pale. ‘But…’
‘We’re wanted in the Situation Room. Now.’
The soldier’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows nervously and turns away. My eyes track them as their heavy boots clump away. I stay where I am, hunched over the Trace as it continues to try and move me, until I’m certain they’ve gone.
O’Shea peels himself away from the wall. ‘That was too freaking close.’
‘Did you hear his radio? Do you know what was said?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just a word or two. I guess this Arbuckle fellow is kind of scary.’
I gnaw on my lip. ‘Yeah,’ I say slowly, ‘I guess so.’ I imagine another identikit crew-cut but accompanied by a thicker neck and harder eyes.
‘Can you stand up?’
I grimace. ‘I have the feeling that as soon as I do, I’ll fly through the air at a velocity that defies the laws of physics. No wonder these sodding Traces aren’t used very often.’
‘It’s following your orders.’
‘To find the orbs.’
‘Yup.’
‘Well in that case, let’s find them and get the hell out of here. We don’t need any more close encounters like that.’
I uncurl carefully. The momentum has been building in the Trace so as soon as I’m half upright, I’m hurled forward like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle. My arms are outstretched and my feet drag behind me as I’m shoved straight onto the road. If we’d not managed to hide in time, I’d have run smack-bang into the soldiers.
‘Can’t you control that thing?’
‘You’re welcome to try,’ I say to O’Shea as I’m rapidly propelled along the tarmac before being swung to my right and thrown flat against the wall of another building.
‘No, thanks,’ he says, catching up.
I step back, only to be thrust against the wall again. It’s pebble-dashed, and sharp little stones dig uncomfortably into my skin. I turn my face to the side but I’m still being squashed thanks to the Trace.
‘Do you think it wants us to go inside?’ I ask, my voice muffled against the stone.
‘Pardon?’ O’Shea leans towards me. I think he’s enjoying this.
I drop the Trace and feel as if a great burden has been lifted from me. It looks pretty innocuous now I’m no longer touching it. I turn my head and look at the wall. There’s a dark smudge where the grease on my cheek has rubbed off. I shiver. ‘Bloody chunk of…’
O’Shea stops me. ‘Semi-sentient, remember? Perhaps you don’t want to piss it off.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Bloody thing. Come on. Let’s find the door.’
Rather than pick up the Trace again, I kick it gently along the ground, mindful of O’Shea’s warning. Every time my foot connects, I feel another burst of static ripple through me. It doesn’t help when we reach the door and discover it’s tightly locked, with a keypad for entry.
‘We could try a window,’ O’Shea suggests.
I crane my neck. There are small panes of glass in the second storey of the building. I’m spry enough to reach them but I bet they’re alarmed. ‘I have a better idea.’
I turn round and jog to the nearest patch of grass, digging my fingernails in it to grab some soil. It has not rained for a week or two so the earth is dry enough to suit my purpose. I crumble the clumps into fine particles, return to the door and blow them gently onto the keypad. As I’d hoped, several stick to the buttons where traces of oil from human skin linger.
‘One, two, three, seven, eight,’ O’Shea reads, flicking me a look. ‘Not necessarily in that order though. There are only 55,049 possible permutations. That won’t take us long.’ When I stare at him, he shrugs. ‘Maths and magic go hand in hand. At least for mixing potions like I do.’
‘I don’t suppose you have a potion for this?’
‘Give me six months and I’ll come up with something.’
‘Helpful,’ I murmur, staring at the numbers. ‘Maybe it doesn’t matter which order you press them in.’
He snorts. ‘Yeah, right.’
I shrug. ‘There’s no harm in trying.’
‘Of course, you can try. We’ll only maybe set off an alarm that’ll wake up the entire base if we get it wrong.’
‘I’m sure it’ll give us a few attempts,’ I say, not feeling sure at all. A troubling thought nags at the back of my mind but I push it away.
O’Shea grins. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ He pulls his sleeve over his finger to avoid leaving his prints and presses the numbers in quick succession. There’s a whirr followed by an immediate click. Then the door opens.
‘Huh,’ he says, ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
He starts to move forward but I grab his arm and shake my head. ‘No.’
‘What?’
I keep my voice low. ‘It’s too easy. All this is too easy. They know we’re here.’
He scratches his nose. ‘Explain.’
‘Getting through the main gate like that was a stretch. But those soldiers veering off at the last minute because they got an order in the middle of the night? And now this? It’s too pat.’
O’Shea’s eyes dart from side to side as if he’s expecting platoons to appear from every corner. ‘We need to get out of here.’
‘If I’m right, leaving now won’t make any difference. They’re not going to let
us stroll off the base.’
‘We’ve not done anything illegal yet.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Other than venture onto a military installation, you mean.’
He looks uncomfortable. ‘Other than that.’
‘They probably don’t know who we are. Our little ploy with the grease might be working – they might still think we’re witches.’
‘All they need is to catch a glimpse of your face in the light and…’
I hold up my palms. ‘I know, I know.’
‘So what do we do?’
I outline my plan. O’Shea looks at me as if I’m crazy – which may well be the case.
‘That’ll never work,’ he says flatly. I don’t say anything. He puts his hands in his pockets and sighs. ‘Alright then.’
‘Turn round.’
‘You know, as lovely as your legs are, they don’t actually do anything for me.’
‘O’Shea…’
‘Fine, fine,’ he grumbles, facing away from me.
I bend down and pick up the Trace again, making sure I’m away from the open door when I do so. I hike up my dress and shove the Trace underneath and against my belly, just managing to keep my balance as I do so. I have to brace myself with one hand against the wall when I pull the hem back down. The dress is tight enough that the Trace is snug against my skin.
‘OK.’
O’Shea turns back round. ‘You realise you look like you’re about five months’ pregnant?’
I glance down. ‘I guess so. This baby has got a hell of a kick for five months though.’ The words have barely left my mouth when I’m flung against the wall once more. The only thing that stops me from being squashed against it is the bulge of the Trace acting as a barrier between the pebble-dash and my skin. I pray the globe won’t break easily.
‘Ready?’ I ask grimly.
O’Shea bites his lip and nods. ‘I hope that when they lock me up and throw away the key I at least get some good-looking soldiers to guard me.’ His light words belie the tremor in his voice. I shouldn’t have dragged him into this. It’s not as if I’m investigating Tobias Renfrew for any reason other than curiosity. We’ve come too far now though.
I wish I had my little pebble with me. I could do with some reassuring solidity. Instead I take a deep breath. ‘OK dokey.’
