Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (19 page)

Now I realise why she has been so distant from me all morning. I shift awkwardly in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

"I've worked closely with your father for the last two years," says Zara. "He never even mentioned that he had a daughter, never mind one with powers. If we are going to find him, we need to know everything about him, and you."

Zara respects Dad in a way I can't
understand, but the secrecy of my existence, and my true identity, has clearly upset her. My relationship with Zara is far from simple. I look up to her like the older sister I never had, yet she seems to look at me with jealousy. I pull the dagger from my pocket and hold it out in the palm of my hand, as my Mum had once. Holding it is the closest I've been to her in years. As I stroke the blunt blade I realise it's strangely cold, like it contains something otherworldly. I place the dagger on the table and slide it forward.

"Funny looking letter-opener," says Aaron.

Zara leans forward, takes her glasses off and folds them.

"I've seen this before. It appeared in my vision of you in the forest. I didn't fully understand its significance." She picks up the small dagger and hands it to Aaron. "Maybe you can use your
Empath skills to tell us what it means?"

Aaron takes the small knife and cups it between both hands, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"It's an Athame," he answers, bewildered. "It belonged to a White Witch. It's used to direct energy, to channel power. What are you doing with an Athame, Sasha?"

I take a long suck on the straw of my drink, buying time, trying to work out how to relate what Dad told me in the
Tyburn tunnel. I find it difficult to maintain eye contact with Zara at the best of times. Our breakfast lies between us, almost forgotten. There's no easy way to tell someone your darkest secret, so I decide on the direct approach.

"M
y mum was a White Witch and. . . I'm kind of one too."

Aaron nearly chokes on his breakfast. Zara's cold exterior seems to melt away. I'm conscious of her staring at me and continue to speak to avoid further embarrassment.

"Dad told me in the Tyburn tunnel. What does that mean?"

Zara continues to stare at me without blinking, like she's searching me for answers.

"It means that you can use the Athame in the same way as your mother did."

"Dad said my mum
was an Agent. Did you know her, Zara?"

"I knew of her, but she was part of The Agency before I joined. Blake has a file on her; he keeps records of all Agents, which was why I was suspicious when I saw
it."

The cardboard folder with my mother's name on it was within inches of my grasp. Blake has the answers to my questions about what happened to her on Dystopia Day. I'm sure he knows even more than my father. Right now, the chances of ever hearing from either of them again are bleak.

Aaron passes the Athame to Zara and she rotates it carefully in her hand.

"Over the years The Agency has been home to people with unique skills and powers: clairvoyants, mediums, psychics and the like. But White Witches are very rare."

She stares at me like she is seeing me for the first time and I shift uncomfortably. Aaron shakes his head in disbelief.

"Sasha Hunter, daughter of a
Clairist and a White Witch. Can I have your autograph?"

Zara elbows Aaron in the ribs, then hands me the
Athame.

"Sasha, if this is
true, you're our most powerful weapon."

I tuck the small knife inside my pocket, not totally convinced I'll ever be able to use it properly.

"I was pretty powerless to help Dad in the Tyburn tunnel."

I want to learn to master the thing that belonged to my mother, and I know that Dad could help me do that. The image of him suspended mid-air by the ghost of Jack Ketch stings my mind's eye and I try to force conversation to make it go away.

"So what else did you come up with, Zara?"

She produces a small pad and flicks though pages of notes.

"I've transcribed the entire recording of Blake's conversation. He said that Jack Ketch will take Agent Hunter to the place he is most powerful. I've been trying to think where that could be."

Aaron chews reflectively, then picks up the sandwich and opens his mouth to take a bite.

"This pig had a really pleasant life. Now I feel really guilty about eating this. Man, being an Empath has its drawbacks. . ."

He turns to me slightly with that
loveable silly grin on his face to indicate he is just messing with her. I can't help but laugh, which seems to irritate Zara all the more.

"Can you two focus for just one minute? Hart, do you remember what we found out at the
Tyburn convent?"

"Not much, really," says Aaron, taking a bite. His feelings for the pig have clearly evaporated. "It was just some boring history stuff. The nuns told us that prisoners from
Newgate Jail were taken by cart to Tyburn to be hung. The important prisoners were kept at the Tower of London and executed there. Gruesome or what?"

I pull the hangman game out of my pocket. For the last few
days, it's been my link to the other side; a portal by which Jack Ketch has taunted and toyed with me. As I carefully unfold the paper, it crumbles into brown flakes which disintegrate onto the tabletop in a dusting of ash.

"What just happened?" I ask in a panic.

"I think the Hangman Ghost has stopped communicating with you," says Zara.

"But why?"

"Because we're close. I have a theory why Jack Ketch has been communicating with your dad, but I'm not sure you'll want to hear it."

Over the last few days I've heard and seen things — awful things — that I never thought possible.
They say knowledge is power and I need all of the knowledge I can get. I feel ready for anything.

"Please, tell me."

Zara clears her throat and takes a laboured breath like she's about to break bad news.

"Jack Ketch is one of the most active Poltergeists we've known.
Menzies Blake certainly seems to have taken a big interest in it. Using the Ouija board Ketch told us he is looking for a host; a human body he can possess. I think he's chosen your dad."

The thought of the Hangman Ghost possessing Dad makes my stomach lurch. I knew my father's life was in
danger, but now he faces a fate worse than death.

"We need to find him! Zara, can you see into the future and tell us where Dad is?"

My voice has a desperate tone and I feel tears beginning to well in my eyes.

"Sorry Sasha, my precognitive skills don't work like that. I only get small glimpses of the future; it's like quickly flicking through the channels
on a TV. It's not easy to sort out which future belongs to which person."

"Maybe you could just give it a go," I plead.

I'm all too aware that asking her to do this means wiping another childhood memory from her mind. If there was any other alternative, I'd choose it, but our options are dwindling and time is running out.

"I'll try my best," Zara replies in a determined tone.

She closes her eyes tightly and I can see her eyeballs shooting left then right in rapid movements.

"It's dark. I can see a castle. It looks like some kind of dungeon, but that doesn't make sense. Blake is there, as well as yo
ur father, and so is Jack Ketch…"

Aaron takes another inappropriate bite of his sandwich.

"That's it!" he says, dropping the food. "Blake said Jack Ketch will take your dad to the place where he's most powerful. In life, Ketch was most powerful at the place where he acted as jailor and executioner of powerful people. We were looking at the wrong place. Tyburn wasn't his residency, it's―"

"The Tower of London," finishes Zara. "The nuns told us that people were executed there too. And if Sasha's theory on the time scale is
correct, we only have until midnight to find Jack Ketch and save Agent Hunter."

Aaron takes one last slurp from his milkshake before tossing the contents of his tray into the nearby bin.

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go catch us a Poltergeist."

Chapter 2
3

Thursday 19 September 4:09pm

We take a tube train, then make our way to the Tower of London on foot, trying our best to merge into the crowds of tourists. In the distance, on the opposite side of the Thames, The London Eye rotates slowly like an exhausted fan. The giant Ferris wheel is a stark, modern day contrast to the foreboding ancient walls. The Tower of London, a medieval castle turned popular attraction, is a complex of stone buildings set within high perimeter walls. A tall, square stronghold rises from within its heart, known as the White Tower.

We approach the information centre where tourists mill around, taking turns to photograph each other. I watch them with disdain. How can they be so oblivious? Don't they know how dangerous this place is? Zara's eyes are everywhere and I know without asking that she's on the lookout for
Menzies Blake. Aaron fiddles impatiently with the zip of a yellow raincoat he has purchased to wear over his gym clothes.

"Nice weather for a day out," he mutters sarcastically, looking up to the gathering rain clouds. "So do we buy some tickets and queue to get in?"

"Jack Ketch is in there," says Zara, "but Blake isn't. He's waiting until the place is quiet, and so should we."

I check my watch; the tourist crowds are already starting to disperse.

"But the Tower will be closed in an hour," I say.

"And t
hen it will be dark," says Zara. "That's when we make our move."

If Zara has a plan, then she's not about to share any of the details just yet.
I lean against a wall and listen to a castle warden, known as a Beefeater, as he talks dramatically to a party of tourists. He makes animated movements with his arms while dressed in his distinctive black and red costume.

"During its long and illustrious nine-hundred-year history, The Tower of London has developed a reputation as one of the most haunted places in Britain."

"Great," I mumble to myself.

"It's not so bad," says Aaron. "It's mainly the residency of Spirits and Apparitions. We might bump into some of Henry the Eighth's wives, or the two princes murdered by Richard the Third."

I want this to be a joke, but Aaron delivers it deadpan.

"Don't worry too much," says Zara. "Not all the ghosts here are dangerous. Ninety-nine
percent of all ghosts are harmless; they are nothing more than loved ones who have passed over making occasional trips back to this world. It's the other one per cent you need to worry about."

Zara realises that she's doing little to calm my nerves so she settles for a different approach.

"Here," she says, handing me some loose change. "Why don't you go and get us some coffee, and plenty of sugar. We could be hanging around for a while."

+ + +

The sun begins to set, smearing red across the late evening sky. Heavy, dark clouds creep over London and a fog sweeps across the Thames, descending on the Tower like a cold, dank curtain. A sudden and brilliant flash of lightning shimmers across the river and the first drops of heavy rain begin to fall. It's the type of rain that Dad humorously calls "wet rain"; the kind that does a good job of soaking you through.

I take a preventative pump from my inhaler; stormy weather always seems to trigger my asthma. The Tower looks even more foreboding in the dark, the night shadows settling on its imposing walls. With all the tourist attractions closed and the novelty stalls packed up, the atmosphere has changed from earlier in the day. Other than the occasional passer-by sheltered under an umbrella, we're alone. 

As the rain begins to fall harder, we take cover under the overhanging branches of a tree set back from the Thames river walk. I'm old enough ─ and superstitious enough ─ to know that this is the one thing you shouldn't do during a thunderstorm. Just as I'm about to question it, Zara ushers us toward the outer wall of the Tower. This section of the wall has eroded and sits lower than the rest, yet it still stands a good ten feet high.

"Everything has a weak point," she says.

It's a typical Zara saying, and I make a mental note to remember it. Glancing left then right, Zara motions to Aaron, who moves into position. With his back against the wall, he clasps his hands together to provide her with a foothold. Zara manages to climb up the first part of the wall, then uses Aaron's shoulders as a step and lets her upper body strength do the rest. As her outline reaches the top of the perimeter wall it looks like the fog will swallow her up. With one thigh on either side of the wall, she peers out over the grounds, like the lookout on a pirate ship, and then gives the thumbs-up.

"She's impressive, for sure," says Aaron, looking at Zara in awe.

He turns and motions me toward him. Zara made it look easy, like a professional gymnast. Physical exercise has never been my thing. Aaron takes my hand and I know that he will feel my fear. Our fingers are loosely woven together; mine, slender and pale; his, warm and strong. He pulls me torward him and wraps his arms around me in a protective embrace. When he looks at me momentarily I think we may kiss again. A warm heat blooms inside of me and works its way onto my cheeks. He grins a knowing smile and I feel myself blush. Leaning closer, he whispers to into my ear.

"You're strong Sasha, and smart. So be strong in here tonight and make smart choices. I'll be right behind you."

Under different circumstances we might have kissed. Zara makes an angry whistle and I snap out of my momentary crush. Aaron boosts me up and I stretch far enough so that Zara is able to pull me to the top.

"Hurry up Hart!" she urges.

Despite his strength, Aaron struggles to gain a footing without anyone to lift him from the ground. A passer-by glances up from underneath their umbrella and Aaron stuffs his hands into the pockets of the yellow raincoat and whistles innocently.

"This isn't going to work," he says after several more failed attempts.
"If someone reports me or the police find me here it will blow our cover. I'll find another way in, you two get going."

He looks up at me and pushes his hair, soaked with rainwater, out of his eyes.

"You'll be fine," he whispers.

"I know," I say without conviction.

Then he's gone.

Zara helps me down from the perimeter wall and we hide in the shadows to survey the Tower's grounds. The fog descends around us like a wispy blindfold, obliterating anything distant from view. I stay close to Zara, the atmosphere making me even more edgy.

"Great, like we needed things to get any spookier."

"It's fine," Zara reassures. "The fog will provide natural cover."

Towering oak trees and manicured lawns are skirted by rows of black-and-white half-timbered houses. I'd read in a tour guide that they provi
de accommodation for the Tower of London wardens, the Beefeaters. Two ravens hop over and caw loudly as if trying to expose us.

"
Pssst!" I hiss in a lame attempt to scare them away. "Fly off, will you!"

"They can't," says Zara. "Legend says that if the ravens leave, the Tower
and kingdom will fall, so the wardens clip their wings to keep them here. Don't worry, they won't bother us."

"I didn't read that in the guidebook," I say. "You really did your research."

"When you decide to break into the place holding the crown jewels, you have to be prepared. And being prepared is that much easier when you can see into the future. Now stay close; keep low and don't stop moving."

Zara moves with the elegance of a cat and the stealth of a ninja. The fog closes in behind us like a portcullis and I can barely see beyond the fingers of my outstretched hand. I have to concentrate on each footstep, trying to avoid treading on brittle twigs. Zara has better fitness levels than me; I get the feeling that her regular shadow-stops are simply a chance for me to catch my breath. My nose still feels slightly blocked from the last asthma attack, so I take another dose from my inhaler before we set off again. The dash takes us through a courtyard and past a building with a plaque naming it as "The Bloody Tower."

"Shouldn't we take a look in here?" I ask.

"The ghost of Jack Ketch is in the White Tower," says Zara confidently. "That's where the torture chamber is."

"Sounds great," I mumble under my breath.

My sarcasm is only a front; underneath it, rising fear builds like a fire that's burning out of control.

We wait in the alcove of a building while two Beefeaters walk by, chatting casually as they patrol the grounds. I lean against the hard stone wall, making the most of the time we have to recuperate. Working on autopilot, my brain tries to forget how desperately tired I am. Once they are out of sight, we tiptoe up the wooden staircase.

A grand stone archway provides the entrance to the White Tower, the centrepiece of the tourist attraction. Our entry is denied by an imposing
wooden door strapped with blackened ironworks and sealed shut with a sturdy padlock.

"This is the tricky bit," says Zara.

She pulls a small case from her rucksack and zips it open to reveal a set of little metallic wires. After a minute or so of twisting the wires at different angles, the lock clicks. I stare at her in awe and Zara simply shrugs off the achievement.

"Lock picking is week one of Agency training," she explains. "I'll show you one day."

The door creaks open to expose a draughty stone corridor. Zara closes the door gently behind us and flicks on a flashlight. As I move forward, she grabs my arm and points at the top of the wall.

"See those little boxes up
there? They're motion sensors which emit invisible infrared rays. If they detect movement, it will trigger the alarm system and alert the guards. Wait here while I find the control box and disable them."

Zara slips outside and into the fog and I'm left alone in the dark corridor. I feel cold; my breath
plumes, then disperses in wispy white clouds. I'm not cut out for this paranormal investigation business. I'm just a girl; a very frightened, tired, homesick girl.

I hear a noise behind me, like the faint footsteps of someone trying not to be heard. I can feel my insides churning. It isn't the instinctive adrenaline
surge, but rather the cold, sickening pang of nerves. I tell myself that I'm being stupid for feeling so frightened, but I'm not. Cold fingers reach out from the gloom and wrap around my mouth. I'm dragged backward into a shadowy recess, my feet scrabbling on the floor. Powerless to resist the firm grip, I prepare for the worst. A strand of dyed red hair rests on my shoulder and a familiar voice whispers into my ear.

"Sasha, it's me."

I know the voice ― it's Katalina! As she releases me, I hug her instinctively, so relieved to see her. Strangely, she doesn't return the hug.

"Kat, what are you doing here?"

"I'm here for you, Sasha."

When Kat speaks her friendly broken English is replaced by a much harsher accent. It's an accent I've heard before. It's the same voice I h
eard talking to Blake at Tyburn. . .

"Mr Blake no longer needs your assistance."

My brain takes half a second to process everything. I feel the blood rush to my head, and light up the crimson around my irises. Kat is one of Blake's spies! I can barely believe it. I'm far too stunned to speak.

I feel the rough stone
wall pressing into my back as she pushes me into an alcove. Kat is far stronger than she appears. Any distinction I could make between reality and fantasy has been obliterated. Blake has made a spider's web of spies and I'm the poor little fly caught up in it. For so long Katalina has been the only constant in my life. She was more than a friendly foreign housekeeper, she was my only friend, or so I thought. I've depended on her so often since my mother disappeared. And now it turns out — much like everything else — that she isn't the person I thought she was.

"I've put up with you and your father for too long
… "

Having discarded her mask of innocence,
Katalina's face becomes twisted with hatred, her eyes burning with malice.

"Sorry, Sasha, but you're too dangerous to be left alive."

Katalina stands directly in front of me, blocking the exit door. She is the one person I trusted more than anyone. My friend turned killer-to-be. As I back away, I'm aware of the invisible web of infra-red rays spanning the corridor behind me. If I step back it will trigger the alarm and the Beefeaters will come running to my rescue. It might save my life, but we'd never make it to Dad in time to save his.

Kat raises her hands to display a set of vicious-looking nails, sharpened to points like claws. I've never noticed that
she had such long nails before. I slowly move my hand to my pocket, feeling for the Athame knife. Kat flicks the strands of dyed-red hair from her forehead, her face contorting into a wicked snarl. It's not the face of the woman I cared for; her body has transformed into something much more evil.

"Sorry it has to end like this."

As Katalina swipes at my face, I throw myself sideways and slam into the hard stone wall. The impact of stone-on-shoulder makes me wince in pain. I slump to the floor like a dead weight and land in a heap at Katalina's feet.