Survivor

SURVIVOR

1 February 2046

St Brigid’s Day

‘Hurry, Paige. We’re almost there.’

Finn pulled on my hand. I was six years old, and we were in the congested heart of Dublin, surrounded by shouting people with placards.

‘Finn, I don’t like this,’ I said, but he ignored me. He had ignored me since we got here.

We were meant to be at the cinema, that crisp February morning in 2046, when the winter sun spilled white gold on the Liffey. I had been staying with Aunt Sandra, who had taken me off my grandparents’ hands while they dealt with the black mould on the farm. That day, she had told her son to look after me while she was at work.

You shouldn’t be going in today.Finn had looked sullen. We should all be in Dublin.

Unlike you students, I can’t take a day off to go shouting at politicians. Aunt Sandra swung on her coat, her face hard as steel. If I hear you took your cousin there, I’ll not be held responsible for my actions. Do you hear me, Finn Mac Cárthaigh?

Bell is courting a tyrant. He wants to hand us to the English on a platter. He’s meeting Mayfield, Finn had said, furious. You’ve nothing to say about that, Mam?

The Taoiseach won’t negotiate. You know he’ll keep us safe.She had picked up her keys. I don’t have time to argue with you. I’ll be back at seven. Paige, you have a good day, won’t you?

Yes, Auntie Sandra.

As soon as she was gone, Finn had got me into my coat and gumboots and buckled me into the car. As he drove from Dún Laoghaire, he promised we could see a film and have lunch, but first he needed to meet up with his university friends by the statue of Molly Malone.

‘Today we make history, Pip,’ he told me, squeezing my mittened hand.

I wrinkled my nose; history was for school. I loved Finn – he was funny and clever, and he spoiled me when I came to stay – but I had seen Molly plenty of times. I knew all the words of her song off by heart.

Finn had driven as far into the city as he could, only to find the streets thronged with thousands of people. Abandoning the car, he had taken me into the crowd on foot. Now he was on his phone, shouting over the din.

‘I’m here.’ He let go of me to jam a finger in his ear. I clung to his jacket. ‘Where are you?’

I looked up at the angry people. They were shouting, chanting, all crushed together. I could read some of the words on their signs, but there was one I didn’t know, which was everywhere: SCION. Messages flashed past, high in the air, Gaeilge and English mixed together: DOWN WITH MAYFIELD. AXE THE ANCHOR. ÉIRE GO BRÁCH. REMEMBER THE BALKANS. CATHAL THE SASANACH. DUBLIN SAYS NO.

‘Finn,’ I said tearfully, ‘what’s happening?’

I spoke in Gaeilge, which got his attention.

‘You’re fine, Paige.’ He sounded impatient, but stopped to pick me up, still on his phone: ‘Wait, I can’t hear you. Laoise, are you there?’

A deafening chant began: ‘SCION OUT! SCION DOWN!’

‘Ah, fuck it—’ Finn hung up and joined in: ‘SCION OUT! SCION DOWN!’

We were near the statue now, jostled by the crowd. When I saw Molly, tears of fright jolted into my eyes. There was a bag over her head, a rope around her neck. Her baskets were overflowing with flowers.

‘Finn, I want to go home,’ I pleaded, but my voice was too small. ‘I want Auntie Sandra.’

‘SCION OUT OF DUBLIN TOWN!’

I still couldn’t understand why everyone was shouting. An elbow knocked into me. People were looking at their phones in confusion, holding them skyward. I held fast to Finn.

‘Kay,’ Finn bellowed. He put me down, ignoring my pleas. ‘Kay, over here!’

Kay pushed through the crowd. I had always loved her. She had beautiful hair – a dark auburn that shone like copper and curled like mine. Finn had given her a Claddagh ring, which she wore on her left hand, with the heart pointing away from her body.

Today she was dressed all in black, and her pale cheeks were painted green, orange and white. Like Finn, she studied at Trinity College.

‘Finn,’ she called, reaching us. ‘I thought I’d never find you. My phone’s not working.’

‘I thought it was just me.’ He pulled her close. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

‘Oscar and Anjali went ahead. Antoinette Carter is giving a speech,’ Kay said over the din, ‘but there are so many people there. I’m afraid—’ She was cut off when someone crashed into her side. Finn swore at the culprit and pushed him away. ‘Temi is over at Leinster House. She says there’s a rumour Cathal Bell will speak at noon.’

‘What about Laoise?’

‘Not here. There was a roadblock at—’

‘Kay,’ I piped up, ‘what’s going on?’

When Kay saw me, she stared, her mouth falling open. ‘Finn,’ she said, ‘why in God’s name have you brought Paige here?’

‘What?’

‘Take Paige home, now!’

‘There’s no one home to look after her, Kay. I’m not missing this for the world,’ Finn said hotly. ‘If these bastards get in, we’ll never get them out.’

‘Finn, she’s six! This could get violent.’ Kay grasped my hand. ‘Sandra would be ashamed of you, exposing her to this. Come on, Paige—’

‘No.’ Finn snatched my other hand. ‘I want her to be here.’

‘Finn!’

My cousin knelt in front of me and pulled off his peaked cap. Beneath it, his hair was tousled. Finn was the spitting image of my father, and now he was just as serious, his hands tight on my shoulders.

‘Paige,’ he said, ‘do you know what’s happening?’

I shook my head, holding on to Kay.

‘A bad man has come here from over the sea,’ Finn told me. ‘A man named Mayfield.’

‘Is he from England, like Mammy?’

‘Yes, from London. He wants to bring other bad people here, to lock us up in our city and hurt us. We won’t be allowed to speak Gaeilge any more, or watch the films we like, or go outside Ireland. They’ll rip down our buildings and burn our books, take everything that makes us ourselves,’ Finn said, his voice roughening. ‘And people like you, Pip – they don’t like you.’

I looked into his eyes, knowing what he meant. Finn had caught me staring at invisible people. ‘Why does Molly have a bag over her head, Finn?’

‘Because the bad people do that when they hate other people for no good reason. They put bags over their heads and ropes around their necks, to kill them.’ He pulled hard at his own collar. ‘Even little girls, like you.’

‘Finn, you’re scaring her,’ Kay objected. ‘Let me take her to—’

‘This man, Mayfield,’ Finn said, ‘we’ve come here to tell him to go home and take his notions with him. We don’t want to be part of Scion.’

‘SCION OUT! SCION DOWN!’

My eyes hurt. A bubble filled my throat, but I refused to cry. I was brave. I was brave, like Finn. I didn’t want the bad people to hurt us.

‘SCION OUT OF DUBLIN TOWN!’

Finn put his cap on my head. ‘We have to stop them, Paige.’ He smudged a tear from my cheek. ‘Are you going to help me stop them?’

I nodded.

And then came a sound I had never heard – a sound like a drill, louder than all our voices put together. Kay turned to look as a scream rang out. I saw her lips form my name. Her dark eyes widening in fear.

The sound came again, and she fell to the ground.

And then my world exploded.

I woke with gunfire echoing in my ears.

My skin was slick and cold. I lay as if paralysed, my heart pounding like artillery. I could still hear the screaming, thirteen years later. I could see Kay – and Finn, howling as he tackled her killer, bare hands and rage against a rifle. The crowd had devoured them, leaving me alone.

I never saw my cousin again.

It had taken me years to understand what happened that day. The day of the Dublin Incursion, otherwise known as the Imbolc Massacre.

The Courier had broken the story. Cathal Bell, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, had invited Inquisitor Mayfield to Dublin. Bell had long advocated for Ireland to join the Republic of Scion. According to the article, their meeting would be held at Iveagh House on St Brigid’s Day.

Mayfield had never been in Dublin. Bell had planted the story himself, luring his most outspoken detractors – activists, students, celebrities, even his fellow politicians – to the streets around St Stephen’s Green.

The night before, while my aunt tucked me in, Scion had been sending warships into Dublin Bay. The next day, agents of the anchor had destroyed our phone masts while armed soldiers infiltrated the protest.

None of us had been ready for gunfire.

No emergency services, no warnings, no way out.

Later, it had been agreed that the first shots were fired on Grafton Street, right by the statue of Molly Malone.

I must have slipped back to sleep. When I stirred a second time, I tried to get my bearings, a tightness on my cheeks. The memory had been so vivid.

A sharp breeze gusted past. I blinked several times, blind. From what I could tell, I was lying in a tiny shelter, not unlike the one in the meadows behind Magdalen, where Nuala had been. A tarpaulin covered my body, leaving my face and one hand exposed.

‘Warden,’ I said hoarsely.

There was no reply.

The cold had sunk past the lining of my coat. Shivering with it, I shifted towards the doorway and reached for a weight in my left pocket, finding a torch. Its beam revealed a long clearing, encircled by old trees.

My breath caught. I rummaged in my other pocket and pulled out a small envelope. I recognised the handwriting and broke the wax seal.

Nashira has decreed that you must take your second test. I wanted you to have more time to recover from your first possession, but my cautious approach has tested her patience.

It had been nine days, but my head still ached from possessing the butterfly. I kept reading:

Gallows Wood surrounds our city, hiding many perils. Your task is to find your way out by sunrise. A marker awaits you on Cherwell Meadow.

The case to your left contains vital equipment. Use your gift. Trust your instincts. And do me this honour: survive the night. I am sure you would rather not be rescued.

Good luck, Paige.

I crumpled the note, trying to think. The last thing I remembered was coming down from my room, ready for training with Merope. Michael had been waiting with a cup of tea, of all things. Like a fool, I had drunk it.

‘You bastard,’ I breathed.

Warden had forced Michael to sedate me, then dumped me in the middle of nowhere. So much for treating me with respect. I should have expected no less of a Reph.

I took a calming breath. This had been inevitable. Nashira was aware that I was ready for my second test, and Liss had warned me it would be a surprise.

Gallows Wood creaked and rustled. I reached for the æther. There were no dreamscapes in the vicinity, which meant I was over a mile out. For now, my gift wouldn’t help as a compass. I wasn’t a rhabdomancer, capable of fashioning a dowsing rod to find a path. I wasn’t any kind of augur, which would help in a forest, where there were twigs and leaves, even flowers.

I soon found the reinforced case in the shelter. Inside was another envelope from Warden.

Be careful with the darts. The acid inside is highly corrosive. Use the flare only in an emergency. It will summon the red-jackets to your location, but you will fail your test.

Avoid the ice. Do not go south.

I shone my torch into the case. Warden had left me a flare gun, a flip lighter, a combat knife, a syringe of military-grade adrenalin, and three pressurised silver darts labelled FLUOROANTIMONIC ACID, with an air rifle to shoot them. No firearms.

Of course he hadn’t deigned to give me a flamethrower or a proper rifle. Clearly some robust protection was too much to ask.

Lastly, there was a wristwatch. Its hands glowed blue, showing me that it was almost half two in the morning. The sun would rise around five.

I had wanted to fail the first test, but I meant to pass this one. A red tunic would give me the authority to support the performers, including Liss.

My breath came in billowing clouds. Unless I wanted to freeze here, I had to get moving.

A small backpack was folded inside the case. I strapped the watch to my wrist. With my hood pulled up and my coat fastened to the chin, I carefully loaded one of the acid darts. The combat knife went into a sheath on my belt, the syringe into my pocket, and the rest into the backpack.

I got up. As I took my first step out of the shelter, something crunched. My torch revealed a line of tiny white crystals, which had been poured around my starting point. After a hesitation, I crouched to rub my fingers in it, then tasted it.

Warden had left me in a circle of salt.

I held still, trying to think. Jaxon thought salt could potentially be used for divination, along with sand and dust – but even if it was true, I was no augur, and Warden knew it. This couldn’t be for me.

I could picture him now, watching the clock like a hawk. He would expect pride to hinder me again.

He had no idea what I had survived. I would remind him not to count me out just yet.

His note warned me not to go south. He might be throwing me a bone, telling me I should head north. I searched the sky for the pole star.

Dense woodland lay in that direction, thick and overgrown. I was about to set out when I glanced over my shoulder. The forest looked more navigable on the other side of the clearing – firs and pines looming tall, but spaced wide. That path would lead me away from the city.

Do not go south.

It could be advice, or it could be a warning. Either way, I was curious.

Oxford was northwest of London. If I went south, I was heading in the right direction. I might just reach the very edge of the Rephs’ domain – and even if I couldn’t escape, I could see what sort of barrier was there.

Wind rushed through the leaves. It was now or never.

I turned and headed south.

Heavy rain had softened the earth, leaving it spongy and damp. My boots made no sound as I trekked between the massive pines, sometimes breaking into a jog. A strange mist wreathed their trunks and wove a thin blanket over the ground. I willed my torch to hold out. I had never been afraid of the dark, but after nearly three months of living in close quarters with Warden, this degree of isolation was chilling. I wasn’t used to this silence, this stillness.

These pines had grown for two centuries, hiding the city from prying eyes. I wondered if the journalist from the Roaring Boy had seen them, before he was run off the road. Perhaps his car had been dumped here. Perhaps his corpse as well.

Coming this way might have been the wrong choice. The farther south I went, the higher my risk of failing the test. As I walked, I checked the branches, searching for surveillance cameras. Drawing a deep breath, I picked up my pace. I needed to leave myself time to backtrack.

Suddenly I stopped, remembering what Liss had told me.

The red-jackets patrol it to stop them reaching the lamplight. Apparently its far reaches are full of mines and trap pits.

Warden could have been warning me not to venture into those reaches. The clearing must be a last safe point before the minefield. I stayed where I was, ears pricked. I pointed my torch at the ground.

Other voyants had tried to escape. Perhaps the test included resisting the temptation. I almost turned back, but a mulish determination pushed me on.

The Rephs could be sowing fear of these woods to stop us glimpsing the edge of their city. If I didn’t take a few risks, I would never see my gang again. I would never reclaim my position as the Pale Dreamer.

I stopped when my torchlight fell on a skull.

Not just a skull, but a skeleton – still in the shreds of a pink tunic, both legs missing at the knee.

My breath caught. I pressed my back straight to the trunk of a pine, my skin turning damp. When I swung my torch to the right, I saw the crater, surrounded by shards of mine casing.

Fuck this.

Warden had told me not to let pride cloud my judgement. For once, I would listen. No amount of clairvoyance would help me navigate a minefield in complete darkness. Knees shaking, mouth dry, I started to inch back towards the clearing, my hand clammy around the torch.

A root came underfoot and floored me. As soon as I hit the ground, I tensed, eyes tightly shut.

A long silence resounded, broken only by my breathing.

I turned to the skeleton, screwing my courage in place. There was a sack under its fingerbones. Checking the ground in front of me, I crawled towards it, prising the sack free. It was dark with dry blood. Inside I found a hip flask, rotten crumbs of bread, and a rusty trowel.

No one could dig their way out of hell.

Finding the skeleton had given me an idea. I dug in my backpack for the lighter. Dreamwalking was useless for now, but I could still call on the dead. Placing one hand on the broken skeleton, I flicked the lighter open, and a clean flame rose. Even though I wasn’t a pyromancer, any nearby spirits would be drawn to this tongue of flame, a numen.

‘I need a guide.’ I tightened my grip on the bones. ‘Are you still here?’

For a long time, there was nothing. The flame guttered. Then my sixth sense jolted, and a spirit – a revenant – emerged from the trees. I got to my feet.

I had rarely seen revenants outside burial grounds. They were similar to ghosts, but specifically haunted their own remains.

‘Thanks for coming.’ I held the lighter out to it. ‘I was hoping to see the edge of these woods. Any chance you could lead me through the minefield?’

The spirit rang in negative.

‘It’s okay. I knew it was a long shot,’ I said. ‘Can anyone else help me?’

The same vibration, more insistent.

‘All right. I won’t risk it.’ I breathed out. ‘Would you help me find the city, then?’

It started to drift the way I had come. Sensing this was the spirit of the dead pink-jacket, I followed. It had no reason to mislead me.

It was a bitter pill to swallow – just like the one I took every night – but north was my only choice. A minefield was too dangerous to risk.

The shelter came back into sight. The wind blew out my lighter, but the spirit clung fast. I took a moment to catch my breath, then set off into the other trees, torch in hand, my guide darting just ahead.

I had lost time venturing south, so I followed my new friend at a brisk clip. Merope was an unapologetic tyrant, but at least her drilling had forced me back into shape. I could hold a jog with relative ease.

The spirit pressed on. My ears and nose smarted with cold, which set my jaw to rattling. I could barely feel my toes. After an eternity, a dreamscape twinged at the edge of my perception. The farther I walked, the more I could feel. I released my breath in a cloud.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the spirit. ‘I can find my own way from here.’

To my surprise, it stuck to my aura, quivering.

‘Really, it’s okay.’

It stayed exactly where it was. It might be lonely, after all these years.

Just then, an eerie light caught my eye. It was cool and pale, like moonlight, but that couldn’t be it. The moon was in its last quarter, not full enough to shine that bright. I strayed towards it, drawn by the æther.

What I found was a perfect circle of ice. White and smooth, it formed a beacon in the dark, surrounded by mist. I took another step, my breath forming thicker clouds. My spirit guide circled me, frantic.

Avoid the ice.

I had an overpowering urge to disobey. I wanted to step on that ice, to hear it splinter and cave in. I wanted it to swallow me into whatever lay beneath. I saw myself sinking into black waters, deep enough to drown.

Come, it seemed to breathe. Come into the beyond.

A seam had burst in the æther, opening a door. I rested the toe of my boot on the ice. My sixth sense heightened, but nothing else happened. The ice was both an invitation and a locked door, unyielding.

A gust of wind ruffled my hair, breaking my trance. It carried a smell that tapped into some primal instinct – something physical, animal. It pulled my attention from the æther. My nape tingled. I turned, shining my torch ahead.

It must have been a fox. Now it was tufts of fur on bone, matted with blood, eye sockets brimful of maggots. I buried my nose and mouth in my sleeve.

A cold spot formed near the old willow. Liss picking nettles, watching the wood. I can’t risk it.

The ice had to be a cold spot. And whatever had killed the fox was out here in the woods with me.

I had just started to leave when a twig snapped.

It must be a guard, a red-jacket on night patrol – except there were no dreamscapes nearby. I heard footsteps, too heavy to be human. I retreated into the hollow of an oak and switched off the torch.

Gallows Wood fell dark again.

The silence pressed against my ears. I could still hear those footsteps, moving closer – and then a wet chewing, the sound of teeth working at a carcass. Something had found the fox. Or come back for it.

Behind me, the spirit trembled. My eardrums were straining to the point that I could hear my watch, the hands chiselling away at my time limit. Even if there was a Buzzer here – and it had to be a Buzzer – I needed to keep heading back. Staying low and quiet, I continued towards the city, each step threatening to expose my position.

Three guttural clicks stopped me.

Every muscle in my body tensed. My lips clamped together, and I froze in place, eyes wide. I took a deep breath and reached for the æther.

Something was very wrong. For the first time, I noticed the complete lack of animals. Not even an earthworm crawled in this area.

The æther should always feel lighter than air. Now it was clotting, as if the cold had spread from the corporeal world and started to freeze it. Within that terrible heaviness, I sensed the inverse of a dreamscape, more absence than presence. A black hole in the æther.

Fear stilled my limbs and tightened my throat. I couldn’t get moving until I distracted it. Distantly, I remembered the acid darts. Instinct told me to seek the safety of higher ground, but climbing would make too much noise. I felt along the soil, searching for something I could throw.

Every move I made seemed deafening – every breath, every rustle of my jacket. My fingers closed around a stone. I hurled it towards the black hole.

It hit a tree, then the ground. As the creature loped towards it, I thought I heard a buzzing, like a swarm of flies. It could have been outside or inside my head.

Nausea surged in my gut. Even after the oration, even after what David had told me, I had almost started to believe I would never see a Buzzer.

It was all I could do to keep myself standing. My hands and lips shook; my breathing shallowed. Could it hear my pulse, or smell my fear?

Was it aware of me?

The Buzzer rattled. I needed to leave, but I was light-headed, drained by the thickening in the æther. I slid off my backpack and reached inside, finding the gun with the acid dart. Only when I had it in my hand did I begin to run.

The Buzzer let out a deafening scream, but not a scream like any I had ever heard. It came as if from many throats – like hundreds of people howling in a ballroom, their voices overlapping, all roaring in a deranged cacophony. It set my hair on end and soaked my face in icy sweat.

I aimed into the black hole and fired.

The dart sizzled like hot fat in a pan. This time, the whole forest echoed the scream.

My spirit guide fled. I bolted as well, heading straight for the city.

A weight struck me square between the shoulders. The shock of it pitched me to the ground. Instinctively, I flung out a hand to stop my fall. My wrist bent too far back and broke. I strangled my scream a moment too late.

The Buzzer had just thrown a rock at me. It had enough intelligence to know how to extend its reach. My back ached from the impact.

My torch lay nearby. I grabbed it, shone it on the thing. In the heartbeat I had to look, I glimpsed two white pinpricks of eyes. A body that looked almost human, but somehow both withered and stretched. Had it stood up on two legs, it would have been taller than a Reph.

No sooner was I on my feet than it was on my tail. A rush of air went overhead – its elongated arm, grasping for me. I wove between the pines, hearing its claws scrape against bark, long and sharp as scythes. A dance of death with a grim reaper, seeking its harvest of bone.

My boots pounded. In the jolts of torchlight, I could have sworn I glimpsed dark shapes between the trees, but none of them had dreamscapes. Either I was seeing things, or those were more Buzzers.

Did they hunt in packs?

The flare gun was not an option. I would not fail this test. The memory of my cousin filled me, and hot rage flooded in, crushing the fear.

If I could survive the Dublin Incursion, I could survive Gallows Wood.

One good sprint would get me to the city, but my body was about to give out. The Buzzer moved in great lunges – its limbs cleared far more ground than mine. My agility was all that had kept me away from its claws.

I slewed down an incline, plastering myself in mud. At the bottom, I spotted a fallen tree and crawled inside, buying myself a few precious moments. Shaking with cold and exertion, I loaded another acid dart. Just as the Buzzer found my tree, I took out the syringe and punched the needle through my trousers, straight into my thigh.

A spring-loaded jolt of adrenalin shot into the muscle. Scion military adrenalin was designed to improve performance – not just to help the body function, but to wipe out pain, make you stronger. It would give me the last boost I needed.

I checked my watch, blotting my face. It was almost quarter to five.

Shit.

The Buzzer tore at the trunk. I scrambled out and hit it with the acid dart. This time, I stopped for long enough to see its grey flesh splitting open, steaming. Before it could recover, I launched into a dead run, my heart racing. The adrenalin had no effect on my sixth sense, but it made it easier to focus on the æther, so I could keep tabs on my pursuer.

Sweat drenched my clothes. I passed a rusted sign: USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORISED. Good – for once, I was in desperate need of deadly force.

Gallows Wood was thinning. Ahead, I saw the towers of the House.

Warden was there. I refused to be eaten before I could rebuke him for this hellish night.

All that stood between us was a meadow and a rusted fence, which looked as if a toothpick and a wish held it together. It was high, but I sensed no ethereal battery. With no time to find a gap, I started to climb, jamming my boots into small toeholds. The adrenalin was suppressing the pain in my broken wrist, allowing me to use both hands. In the meadow, I could see the marker, the finish line – a flare planted in the ground, flanked by red-jackets. I swung a leg over the fence.

The Buzzer rammed straight into it. I fell off on the other side and hit the ground running. Another crash, and the Buzzer broke through.

David was with the red-jackets. They opened fire with old rifles. I dived to the ground and crawled for my life. The strongest acid in Scion was sizzling in its veins, and somehow the Buzzer was still charging after me.

The marker was close, but so was the beast. I twisted to face it and threw out my spirit, heading straight for the darkness.

Straight away, I knew I had fucked up. Other dreamscapes had defences – others tried to keep me out – but this one was a gaping maw, drawing me towards it. I fought like a fish on the end of a line.

Once you entered a black hole, you could never escape.

I jerked back to myself with a gasp. David lowered a gun with a strange trumpet barrel. A weighted net had flown out to entangle the Buzzer.

‘You’re welcome,’ David said.

Hardly able to see, I planted my boot on the ground and got up, hearing the whole company run forward. With the very last ounce of strength I could muster, I dashed past the flare and collapsed in its fizzing red glow.

‘Pass.’ Merope looked down at me. ‘By the narrowest of margins, 40.’

My own weak laugh was the last thing I heard.