Agent Nomad 1 Read online

  I was about to duck into the nearest carriage when I spotted a familiar figure in the shadows. It was the man in the blue jacket – the one who had shared my carriage from Hollingvale. I hesitated on the platform. He was probably just another traveller, heading into the city. But just in case, I scuttled towards a different carriage. Better safe than sorry.

  The trip into Melbourne would take about an hour, leaving only minutes to run from the station to the theatre. On the bright side, I knew the Visionary Theatre sat directly opposite one of the CBD loop stations, which this train would visit on its way to Flinders Street. If I sprinted fast enough, I might make it by midnight – or at the very latest, a minute or two afterward.

  But in the meantime, I had to survive this train trip.

  I plodded down the aisle, twisting to avoid walloping a pair of little old ladies as I squeezed past them. The train trundled through endless suburbs, punctuated by street lamps, brick houses and graffitied fences. I sat near the front of the carriage, in a backward-facing seat that allowed me to keep an eye on the other passengers. I tried to ignore the swirl of my quintessence around my shoulders. It tickled now, like a shawl of itchy wool.

  One by one, the stations flashed by. Carrum, Bonbeach, Chelsea …

  Apart from the old ladies, the only other figure in my carriage was a young woman with a baby in her arms. Since she clearly wasn’t one of the bulky men who’d invaded my house, I began to relax a little. Every station brought me closer to the city. Mordialloc, Parkdale, Mentone …

  The door to the next carriage slid open. I stiffened. No reason to panic, was it? Just someone moving from one carriage to the next. It was a bit odd, admittedly, since there was hardly anyone on the train. Surely there were enough seats in the previous carriage? Still, it didn’t mean anything dodgy was going on.

  It was the man in the blue jacket.

  My mouth fell open. I ducked my head quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. In that split second, however, I’d caught my first decent glimpse of the man’s face. He was pale and gaunt, like the old men I’d seen staggering home from Hollingvale Pub late at night. His face was lined with wrinkles, gouged as deep as wounds into each sagging pocket of flesh. Beneath his hood, I was willing to bet his hair was white and sparse – or else that his scalp was entirely bare.

  I exhaled. He was clearly no threat. Just a harmless old man, doddering over to a window seat.

  Except that he wasn’t doddering.

  It took a few bewildering seconds for my brain to register what was wrong. The stranger looked like an old man, but he didn’t move like an old man. No sign of aches or arthritis, no hunch in his posture. He moved with tall, strong strides, like a man in his prime.

  The old man sat by the window. It was dark outside, and his face reflected clearly on the black glass.

  I looked down at my lap, not wanting to stare. To give myself something to do, I pulled the packet of gum from my pocket and began to unwrap a piece, slowly and cautiously. The wrapper crinkled.

  The man was watching me.

  I’m not sure how I knew it – my eyes were fixed on the gum – but somehow, I could feel his gaze. It was a primal instinct, like the fear of a gazelle when it senses a lion nearby. My forearms prickled under the cold, black sleeves of my raincoat. My breaths grew a little shorter, a little sharper. As if my body were reacting before my mind could catch up with it: prey on the brink of flight.

  Don’t move, I told myself. Don’t draw attention to yourself …

  But if he was already watching me, wasn’t it too late?

  No, it was just a coincidence. The man had already been on the Hollingvale train before I boarded, hadn’t he? He couldn’t have guessed I would take that particular train, or that particular carriage. Really, I was the one following him, not the other way around.

  But even so, he was watching me.

  Slowly, I raised my head – just enough to catch his reflection out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t watch his actual face, but its twin upon the vast black window. As I focused, the world seemed to darken slightly, as if shadows were stretching across the carriage floor.

  And in that moment, his face … gleamed.

  There was no other word for it. No way to rationalise it, or wave it away as a trick of the light. One minute, his face was that of an old man – and then it flickered, like a burst of static on an old TV, and his face was hollow: a mask of shining light atop his shoulders.

  I blinked. The light vanished, and my vision returned to normal. Instantly, the illusion of age slipped back into place.

  It was like he was wearing a carnival mask – the most realistic mask I had ever seen – and it had briefly awoken and shimmered, before melting back across his face. The wrinkles dug creases back into his skin. His nose elongated, and his eyes twisted outward, the crow’s feet unfurling like fronds.

  Was he a sorcerer?

  Centurion hadn’t mentioned this, had he? He’d claimed sorcerers had ‘quintessences’, which they could learn to control. He hadn’t said they could change their faces, or disguise themselves with sorcery. But how else to explain what I had just seen? It had to be magic. It wasn’t natural.

  It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how it worked, or whether it was sorcery, or what had powered the eerie glow. All that mattered was that this man was not what he appeared to be, and he had deliberately moved into my carriage.

  He was following me.

  Vaguely, I realised I was still holding the piece of gum. I slipped it into my pocket, alongside the wrapper. I had to switch carriages without attracting suspicion. If I could pretend that my muscles were stiff, or that I needed to stretch my legs …

  Fighting to hide my nerves, I gave a loud yawn, with one hand clapped over my mouth. I stretched out my legs, flexing my toes like the world’s most awkward ballerina, and then stumbled to my feet.

  Forcing myself to move slowly was the hardest thing I’d done so far. Every instinct screamed at me to flee. But I wasn’t some useless victim in a horror movie, who’d run around screaming and flailing with my arms in the air. I was going to survive this. I was going to escape, and make it to the Visionary by midnight.

  There was no other option.

  With a stride so casual it felt ridiculous, I sauntered to the nearest door. I pressed the button and slipped between the sliding glass panes into a concertina walkway – and then into the next carriage.

  I repeated this journey twice more, from carriage to carriage, edging forward along the train. I passed a man snoozing in his raincoat, an umbrella folded by his side. I passed the girls I’d seen on the platform, giggling and preening as they posed for selfies on their phones.

  And finally, with a heartbeat to rival the rattle of the train, I stumbled into an empty carriage. I hurried up the aisle and pressed the door button at its far end. The doors slowly slid open, suggesting I had crossed into the next carriage, but I darted backward instead. Silently, I slipped into the gap between two rows of seats.

  Crouching in the shadows, I pulled up the hood of my raincoat and curled into a ball. I hugged my knees – making myself as small as possible – and forced myself to freeze.

  The back door of the carriage opened. I glimpsed a narrow slice of it from beneath the seats. As I watched, the old man stepped inside. His attention was fixed on front of the carriage, where the door was now automatically sliding shut, as if someone had just passed through it. He strode forward, his pace quickening, and followed me through the doors into the carriage beyond.

  Or so he thought, anyway.

  A woman’s voice boomed through the train. It was stilted and electronic, each syllable clearly delineated. ‘The next station is … Caulfield.’

  As soon as the train rolled into the station, I tumbled out into the night, heart pounding. I was too visible here, stranded on the brightly lit platform. But Caulfield was a popular station, right across the road from a university campus. I was in luck. A bunch of students shoved past me, carr
ying on an animated argument as they bustled into my carriage.

  In the brief moment of chaos, I took my chance to slip away. I bustled down a dark corridor into a grimy underpass that cut beneath the station. The train groaned as it pulled away again, taking the old man with it. I allowed myself a grim smile. Hopefully he’d be searching the carriages all the way to the city.

  I climbed a set of concrete steps to reach the street, where a row of taxis waited patiently by the side of the road.

  ‘The Visionary Theatre, please,’ I said, slipping into a car.

  The driver raised an eyebrow. ‘You know it’s closed, right?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ I gave the most nonchalant shrug I could muster. ‘I’m meeting a friend nearby.’

  ‘All righty, then.’

  I knew this trip would be pricey, but I didn’t have a choice. I had no other way to reach the city by midnight. My debit card was in my wallet, and I had sixty bucks saved up in my bank account. If there was ever a time to dip into my emergency savings, this was it.

  And so, as the taxi meter began to tick, we pulled away into the night.

  By the time we reached the Visionary, it was five minutes past midnight. I paid the taxi driver – trying to hide my wince at the price – and watched as she pulled away into the darkness.

  I was alone.

  Slowly, I turned to face the Visionary. The old theatre was a rundown husk, already half-gutted by demolition crews. The windows were boarded up with plywood planks, upon which protesters had spray-painted an enormous slogan: ‘Keep Live Music Alive!’ Normally I’d have admired their passion, but right now I was more concerned with keeping myself alive.

  I approached the door and gave a cautious knock. No one answered – but to my surprise, the door swung inwards with a creak. I froze. Surely the venue should be locked up?

  With a sharp breath, I crept inside.

  The entrance hall was in a pitiful state. Moonlight streamed through stained glass windows, dappling the frayed remains of carpets and tapestries, and the shards of a grand chandelier. It would have been a striking setting for a painting if I’d brought my art kit with me. I pictured a swirl of silver on the canvas, then a dab of grey and smoky watercolour …

  The idea made my fingers itch.

  I could imagine guests here in the 1920s or 30s, sipping champagne from elegant glasses while they swanned about in fancy suits and gowns. And later, I could imagine the queue of eager rock fans, jostling forward to buy a band t-shirt, or lining up to snare a spot at the front of the mosh.

  Now, the room was a jumble of dust and memories, broken glass and torn-up carpets. And above it all, a quiet whiff of mildew stained the air.

  The Hall of Quiet Eyes.

  My footsteps crunched as I crossed the floor. There was no one else in the atrium. For a moment, I feared I had guessed the wrong location. With my heart in my throat, I pushed open the theatre door and slipped inside.

  Two figures stood on the stage, framed by a pair of moth-eaten red curtains. They were silhouetted by a light behind them, and further obscured by the bright white torches they held in their hands. Judging from the silhouetted ponytail on the left figure, I guessed she was female. The figure on the right was slightly taller, with short hair.

  As I approached, the figures did not move, nor speak. By the time I finally reached the stage, my heart was beating fast enough to rival a squirrel on steroids.

  ‘You’re late,’ the left-hand figure said.

  The voice was female, but surprisingly young. More like a teenage girl than the woman I’d expected. An underlying bite of distaste lingered on her words.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, faltering. ‘I had to … I mean, I had some trouble on the train. Um … are you guys from HELIX?’

  I straightened up, trying to look more confident. After all, if I was supposed to be a magical super spy, shouldn’t I be able to bluff my way out of this sort of situation?

  ‘Trouble?’ the girl said.

  ‘I had to deal with a tail,’ I said, vaguely remembering the term from some American cop show or other. ‘This guy was following me on the train, and his face kept glowing.’

  ‘His face glowed?’ This time, it was the boy who spoke.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I could see it glowing in the window, and then he followed me into another carriage, but I snuck off at Caulfield and caught a taxi …’

  I trailed off, feeling awkward. Now that I was here, staring into those dazzlingly bright torches, the whole thing felt absurd. What if I’d let my fear get the better of me and imagined the whole shemozzle?

  For a long moment, no one moved. Then the figures glanced at each other – as if to confirm a joint decision – and lowered their torches. For the first time, I got a clear look at their faces.

  They were even younger than I’d guessed. Fifteen or sixteen at the most. They could have been my classmates. The girl wore winged eyeliner and thick black mascara. An array of silver studs crawled up the side of her left ear. She’d dyed her dark hair with streaks of teal and dusky pink – not Barbie-aisle pink, but the colour of dried roses. As she looked down at me, her lips curled into a grimace.

  Clearly, she wasn’t keen to be here.

  The boy was, if possible, her exact opposite. He responded to my gaze with a cheery little salute and a mischievous grin, and jiggled on the spot, wound up with excess energy. He looked East Asian, with a slender build and a mop of floppy black hair. He wore baggy jeans with an AC/DC t-shirt.

  Instantly, I liked him.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘lucky you made it in one piece, I reckon! Don’t worry about my friend here, she’s as grouchy as a grizzly until she’s had her morning Weet-Bix.’

  ‘It isn’t morning,’ I said, before I could gather my thoughts into a more appropriate response.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I mean, for her morning Weet-Bix …’

  The boy eyed his watch. ‘It’s nine minutes past midnight, I reckon that’s the morning.’ He leapt down from the stage and grappled my hand into an enthusiastic shake. ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Nata–’

  He cut me off. ‘Hang on, wait! I meant your codename. We’re not supposed to tell each other our old identities – you’re meant to leave all that behind when you join HELIX.’

  ‘Oh.’ I withdrew my hand, feeling uncertain. ‘Um … I don’t know, really. Do I have to choose a name for myself?’

  ‘Well, we’ve gotta call you something. Tell you what, I’ll just go with “Freckles” until you come up with something better.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m Riff,’ he informed me, ‘and that grump up on the stage is Phoenix. I used to call her KFC, ’cause she’s a fiery bird and all that, but Centurion said it was “disrespectful conduct” and I had to use proper codenames.’

  Phoenix didn’t respond. Honestly, she didn’t look like she would care one way or the other. Fingerless gloves covered her hands, and a bored expression covered her face. Now that I was closer, the pink streaks in her hair looked less like dried roses and more like slices of Turkish Delight. If she’d rocked up to Hollingvale High with that dye job – not to mention all those piercings – Mrs Strickland would have fainted on the spot from an overdose of uniform violations.

  When Phoenix caught me staring, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Problem, Freckles?’

  ‘It’s just … I mean, you don’t really look how I’d picture a spy.’ I hesitated, gesturing at her hair. ‘Isn’t it hard to blend in? I mean, if you had to go undercover or something.’

  ‘I won’t be doing undercover work,’ Phoenix said. ‘When my training’s done, I want to be on a backup team. I’m already getting extra coaching for it.’

  ‘What’s that mean – a backup team?’

  ‘Means I’m a damn good shot,’ she said. ‘When your cover gets blown, I’m the one who blasts inside and rescues your sorry butt before the bad guys murder you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Goo
d. I mean … that’s good to know, then.’

  ‘Planning to blow your cover already, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just nice to know we’ll have backup when we do … whatever we’ll be doing.’

  It was a fairly lame response, but my mind was whirling. Phoenix’s words had brought home something that I hadn’t quite realised had been fermenting at the back of my mind. Cover … backup … bad guys …

  This wasn’t just a training opportunity. It was an opportunity to work for HELIX, and to risk my neck on their behalf. I would be plunging into danger, like a spy in a movie – except with a lot less swagger and a much higher chance of getting killed.

  Was I making a terrible mistake?

  ‘Look,’ I said, turning back to Riff, ‘I still don’t know what I’m doing here. Centurion didn’t tell me anything about you guys, and I haven’t got a clue what those Inductor blokes are after …’

  As I spoke, I realised that Riff had risen slightly, so that I had to tilt my face upwards to maintain eye contact. For a moment, I thought he must have started to clamber back up onto the stage – and then I glanced downwards.

  His feet were no longer on the floor.

  Riff was levitating slightly, a foot or so above the ground. It was a subtle effect, but it was enough to make my entire body seize from the shock of it. ‘You … you’re …’

  ‘Oh, this?’ Riff grinned at my reaction. ‘Yeah, I’ve been studying levitation. It’s a pretty simple trick – you’ve just gotta hang a few quintessic circuits off your limbs, and then you press the magic down to launch yourself up.’ He scrunched his face in concentration. ‘Takes a bit of practice to get it right, though.’

  I was about to ask what a ‘quintessic circuit’ was, but Riff held up a hand to forestall my question and gave a neat little bow. In the process, he suddenly flipped his entire body forward, hurtling into a mid-air somersault. Then he floated for a moment, his arms thrust out to steady himself, as if he were treading water. I noticed his torch did not flicker. Was it somehow shielded from the influence of sorcery?

  ‘Ha!’ Riff threw a triumphant look at Phoenix. ‘Told you I was getting better, didn’t I? Anyway, that’s how you use your quintessence to levitate.’