CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

When I was young and my disease hadn't yet overtaken my life, my mother used to take me to the beach. Every Monday while my dad was at work, for the year prior to starting school, we'd leave for the sea, packing beach towels and sunscreen and floatation devices, and we'd spend the day on the sand. During winter, we would pack a blanket and lay it down on the grassy hill before the ocean, watching as the relentless waves crashed against the shore. When it rained, we'd bring a massive umbrella and sit huddled together, enjoying the feeling of the sporadic drops of rain on our skin. And when it got hot, we'd spend the day in the salty water, soaking up more than our fair share of sunlight.

We never missed a single Monday. It was a ritual, a tradition, a celebration. And I loved it.

One particular Monday when we headed down to the beach, thick, unbroken clouds rolled overhead like an endless grey sea. Spring had just announced its arrival and little white flowers began to poke out of the grass on the hill, swaying in the persistent breeze. I remember laying a blanket on the grass, unpacking our basket of food and games, and sitting by a dull-blue ocean that seemed to have no end, merging with the clouds at the horizon. For a whole day, I sent looks at the grey-toned waves until the colour was implanted in my brain, a backdrop to everything I saw.

I dreamt about the ocean that night – about a tsunami of grey-blue engulfing my house, along with my parents and I. I remember waking up drenched in a cold sweat, my eyes snapping straight to the window that overlooked the sea. For some reason, the ocean had felt different; it had felt stronger – more alive – than ever before, and it terrified me. And every time I saw that same dull-blue colour – on a passing car, as a background to an ad, on someone's shirt – I was brought back to that day and the terror of my dream of a living, pulsing ocean that couldn't be stopped by the shore.

And it's as I step into the old squat building that I see it again.

Two dull-blue pools that strangle me into their depths, reminding me of crashing waves and unbroken grey skies.

They were waiting for me.

This whole time, my vision had been leading me to a trap.

Before me: an unbroken line of men and women, their clothing dark, their faces clouded with determination. Behind me: a locked door and no way out. And in the centre of it all: a man with the eyes of an overcast sea – a man who crashed my parents car and tried to strangle me at my front door.

They had been waiting for me.

A smile slowly creeps onto the man's face and all I see is blue. Engulfing me. Overtaking me. Stealing the breath from my lungs. I want away from here. I want to pinch myself awake and find out that this whole thing – the past ten years of my life – was just one very big, very long and very complex bad dream.

But there's no waking from reality, and I can't do anything except stand rooted to the spot as the words roll off his tongue like violent waves. "Lost, are we?" he says and steps forward. "Or have you just finally given up?"

I want to crumble into a terrified mess, but I will myself to stand tall, to keep my head high and my voice steady. I will be strong.

"Neither," I say, my voice carrying into the extensive lobby.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I've come to take back what's mine - what was stolen."

He wants to laugh – I can see it in his dull eyes – but he doesn't. "And what might that be?" His words have a humorous edge.

"My life," I shout and at the same time, I strike out. I feel power surge through me, rushing down my outstretched arms and out of my hands in the form of an enormous gust of wind. It crashes into the people before me, flinging them back like they weigh nothing, and they smack against the wall, collapsing to the ground like rag dolls.

My pulse is racing, my breathing coming in gasps. I'm pumped up with adrenaline and I don't wait around to see what happens when they get up, instead running towards the nearest staircase. I could get in one of the two elevators on the side walls and save myself the trouble of running up set after set of stairs, but I don't have time to wait around, and to be completely honest, I just want out of here. Now.

But I've barely made it to the entrance of the stairwell when suddenly the dull-eyed man appears out of thin air before me. I come to halt, my eyes wide. He just appeared.

Teleported.

I start taking steps backwards, a sense of déjà vu falling over me. For every step he takes, I take a step away, and I half-expect for my back to hit a wall, for his arm to rise and grip my neck, for my throat to be crushed in his hand. But that already happened, and this time, I don't think he wants to kill me. This night won't end with me dragging his limp body down the street and dumping it in a grassy block of land.

"You're making this harder than it has to be," he says.

"It was always going to be like this," I reply, my voice strong and determined. "There is no easy way out."

"Maybe not for you."

And then I stumble into something behind me, only it's not a wall. It's hard and soft and alive, and it's hands grab my upper arms, pain lacing up to my shoulders where the persons gloved fingers dig into my skin. I struggle, slamming my foot down onto theirs, kicking at their legs with my feet, throwing my head back in a last-ditch attempt to knock them out. But everything I do only causes their grip to tighten, and their hot breath collides with the back of my neck, their grunts reaching my ears as they continue to keep me still.

The dull-eyed man continues his advance, coming to a halt before me, and I don't stop struggling the whole time, even after I realise it's useless.

"We have plans for the world – plans that will change life as we know it – and they all start with you," he says. "You are our kick-start, our little red button that will trigger an explosion, and we plan to use you. To press you down until you are weak and empty and lifeless. My dear, there is no way out."

And then his fist connects with my face and everything boils down to two things: exploding pain and a dull, infinite blue.

-:-:-:-:-

A while later, the pain finally turns to a weak throb and I find I'm able to concentrate again as they lead me roughly down an artificially lighted corridor. I can imagine the bruise forming on my upper left cheek where his fist connected with my face and I try not to think too much about where they're taking me, what happens once we reach our destination and what that'll mean for me and Sarah and everyone else back at Katherine's place, probably deep asleep and blissfully unaware that I've screwed up.

A few turns later and we stop before a large door at the corner of the building. The man with the dull-blue eyes steps towards the door and knocks, three firm pounds that echo in my ears.

"Come in," a voice says faintly, and the young man twists the handle and steps aside, holding the door open as my capturer urges me forward. Unwillingly, I enter first and come face to face with Patrick, seated at a large glass and metal desk. He's dressed in a suit with a black shirt and tie and his eyes become alert as he sees me.

"Melissa," he says. "What a pleasant surprise."

"We both know this wasn't a surprise," I say bitterly, and he smiles.

My eyes take note of my surroundings – the framed awards on the wall, the large window to my right, the shelf filled with books and photo-frames on my left – as he leans forward, clasping his hands together on his desk, studying me. I instantly recall this room from the vision I received while in class – the one of Patrick and the man with dull-blue eyes conspiring to kill me.

"You're head of the nameless group," I say, my mind thinking back on the events of the vision.

"The nameless group?" He laughs and I squeeze my hands into fists. "And sort of. I only head the Sydney area."

I frown. "How big is this group?"

"Society," he corrects me, "and there's as many of us as there are of you – your kind, that is."

"My kind? How many is that?"

He shrugs. "There's thousands of you around the globe but we can't be sure of an exact number."

I suddenly feel very small. If I really am the girl from that fifty-year-old prophetic vision and this society is the evil I must overcome, then how in the world am I meant to do it? Suddenly, swapping back seems like a small task.

He sighs. "What are you doing here Melissa?"

I look down, refusing to respond.

After a minute, he leans down and pulls something out of a low drawer in his desks. He tosses the object onto the table before him, allowing it to spin and clatter. It rolls to a stop just before the edge and I stare down at the thing, its edges curved, its surface black. I know immediately what it is.

A device. One that swapped me and will swap me back. I shiver.

"Is this what you came for?"

I don't say anything but I get the feeling I don't have to. He already knows.

He sighs again. "It took me a long time to make this. I spent years figuring out how to contain everything needed within such a small device, but eventually, I worked it out. This particular one was the first of its kind: a piece of equipment that can swap two people's spirits. I've made thousands."

Thousands. The word echoes in my mind, ricocheting off the walls.

"But you know what this device doesn't do?" he asks. Out of nowhere, he brings down a fisted hand, smashing the disk into a dozen flattened pieces. I just stare.

"It doesn't swap people back. Which brings me to my original question: why are you here?"

"You know why," I reply, keeping my voice strong even though my mind is whirling. On the inside, I'm a lost mess of confusion and panic, and I take care not to let any of these emotions pass onto my face.

"You want to swap back, of course. But the device you came for doesn't do what you want it to – it never will. So how are you going to accomplish what you came to do, Melissa?"

I shake my head. I don't want to believe him, but deep down, I know his words are true, and there's no running from the truth. Trust me, I've tried.

"I don't know," I whisper, looking down.

"What if I told you that the power to return to your rightful body has rested within you this entire time?"

"I wouldn't believe you," I say, but I'm not as confident as my words.

He chuckles softly. "Don't you ever wonder why we don't just let you die? Why we risk everything to try and kill you when all we need to do is wait?"

"Because you're afraid I'll swap with Sarah."

"Exactly. We're afraid because we thought it was only a matter of time before you worked it out, and the longer you evaded us, the higher the chance you would. I honestly thought you would have realised how to swap back by now." He shrugs. "Guess I was wrong."

My thoughts are moving at a hundred miles an hour, colliding with each other as they fight for my attention. There's a nagging at the back of my mind and I know it's trying to tell me something, but I can't figure out what. I'm fighting through a haze of pointless words and I can't seem to get through.

"Your heat attacks, Melissa," Patrick says, nudging me towards a revelation. He can see I'm thinking hard and for some reason he wants me to work it out. "It has to do with your heat attacks."

Now I'm more confused than I was to begin with. How can swapping back have anything to do with my heat attacks? They're just heat and pain and the occasional out-of-body experience.

My eyes grow wide.

Holy crap.

Patrick, sensing that I've worked it out, starts talking, but I'm only half-listening. The other half is sifting through my thoughts, trying to organise the jumbled mess only barely contained within my mind.

"Spirits are naturally cold, and so when they come in contact with heat, they do everything in their power to get away from it. Your heat attacks force your spirit out of your body, as I'm sure you've already experienced. From there, all you had need do is enter your original body and push out the spirit of your friend. Usually, doing that would kill a person, but since it isn't really her body to begin with, she can just slip out unaffected and you can take her place."

The information flows into my mind where I try to process it. Every time I had a heat attack, I was so close to swapping back and I didn't even know it. If I had just spent time thinking things through I could have figured it out and saved both Sarah's and my life. Instead I rushed off towards an old building that held nothing of value, my mind clouded with thoughts of visions and dreams.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

"I thought you would want to know how close you came to getting what you wanted before you messed up your chances."

"Well, you thought wrong," I say, and the anger is there, almost radiating off my skin.

There's a change in his persona, and he stares at me for a moment longer, his eyes vicious. "Be careful how you speak around me," he says warningly. "I'm not a forgiving person."

I meet his eyes, unafraid. I hate him, and hate will always be stronger than fear.

"Take her away," he says to someone over my shoulder, and suddenly the hands on my arms tighten again and I'm pulled backwards. I struggle, my heart speeding up in my chest.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" I ask, my words like a gasp.

"Oh, I will, but your convenient arrival has provided me with an opportunity I don't want to miss out on." He turns to the dull-eyed man in the corner. "I want the machine fully-operational in an hour."

Fear claws at my heart. "Machine?" I parrot, hating how my strength has been replaced with weakness.

"Did you know there's a way to take someone's powers from their body, Melissa?" he asks, seeming very far away. The person stops pulling me back and I stand still, frozen.

"You have to heat the spirit up to a manageable temperature first, seeing as they're freezing cold, and then it's just a matter of inserting a syringe made of durable metal in just the right place. Once it's in, you simply pull back on the syringe and drain the abilities from the spirit. From there, you can do a number of things, like consume it."

"Why would you want to do that?" I interrupt, my eyebrows knitting together.

"Isn't it obvious? I want more powers – more strength. What's the point of leading all these people without a few perks?"

I scowl, disgusted with the person before me. To think I'm related to him.

"Why are you so determined to tell me all these things?" I ask. "Who are you?"

"I'm your uncle," he says simply.

"No, I mean who are all of you – collectively? Why do you hate me so much? Why do you so desperately want me dead?" I have to cut myself short. I have too many questions and not enough breath to say them all. Why did my uncle join this society in the first place? Did he have anything to do with my real fathers death? What are these people even trying to achieve and why am I so important? What about me makes them so afraid?

"Why don't you figure it out?" Patrick answers. "You're a smart girl."

I don't even try. They've left no clues, no hints. It's like trying to figure out what kind of person someone is from their shoes: you have somewhere to start, but not nearly enough to solve the riddle. It's impossible.

Patrick must sense that I can't work it out because he says, "I'll tell you what – I'll give you an hour. If you haven't worked it out by then, then you'll probably never know." He pauses, considering. "You can go."

And then I'm pulled back again, and this time, I don't put up a fight. I'm dragged out of the room and the massive doors slam shut in my face.