by A. W. Exley
He glanced at her. This woman perplexed him. Normally he had only to indicate his interest and a woman dropped to her knees before him. There were only two notable exceptions. One was Cara Devon, the wife of his business partner. Loki didn’t count her as a failure, since she shared some unnatural bond with Nate which Loki was sure overrode the power of his smile.
The second was Amy Hamilton, a good friend of Cara’s. Loki’d made a half-hearted play for Amy, mainly to try and win a bet and to annoy the ugly thug Jackson who had gone moonfaced over the girl. Amy wasn’t his type anyway, being far too innocent, easily shocked, and thoroughly conventional. Loki shuddered. He couldn’t imagine a fate worse than being tied to that for the rest of his life.
Paniha seemed to have a resistance similar to Cara’s, and similar skill at throwing verbal barbs. It was lucky he was confident of his superiority compared to other men, or he might take her rejection personally. He thought of Hone standing on the lookout tower, surveying his land, and reluctantly admitted the chief was possibly of his same calibre. Thoughts of the three of them twisted together flared into his mind, and he wet his lips with his tongue. There was something to fuel his dreams tonight.
“Are the Maori happy to live side by side with the pakeha settlers?” he asked. He wondered how in touch Hone was with the opinion of his people. Were they all as close and content as they appeared, or were they like the European settlement, with hidden fractures?
She sucked in her lip as she thought, an action that emphasised its dark lushness. With the greenish-black ink of the tattoo spilling over her chin, he wanted to lick the lines as though she were an exotic treat.
“Their ways are not our ways, but we learn together. Disagreements will always arise. It is how we address them that is important.”
An answer that wasn’t really an answer and sounded much like what Hone said. The closest of families had arguments among the members and those ties didn’t stop fatal rows. Were they deliberately evading his questions?
Paniha tilted her head to one side as she regarded him and seemed to peer into his thoughts. “Who are your whanua, Kahu? Who are your people?”
Kahu. She also used the Maori version of his family name; did that mean she and Hone spoke about him? He shoved the thought aside. “My family? My mother died when I was young, and I left home and never saw them again.” He never gave a second thought to his father; why should he? The man never gave a thought to his wife, who had starved and died for want of a morsel of affection.
She shook her head. “Whanau are more than blood. Who is the family the years have brought to you?”
Ah. That was easier. He had such an oddly constructed family back in England.
“Miguel is part of my family; he is somewhat of a nephew to me. I have a handful of others back in England. We are bound by friendship, not blood.”
“Is that all?” Her voice was a low tone, her face so close her breath whispered over his skin.
“I would add you to my circle. You would be the envy of your friends.” He could show her pleasure greater than she could ever experience with another. He threw his partners higher than an airship could fly.
She laughed and batted at his arm, pushing him away with a gentle touch. “Why would I chose you? Shallow words spill easily over your pakeha tongue, but actions come from far deeper and always speak true. If you were silenced, what would your actions say of you?”
He rather thought other parts of him would do the speaking. Perhaps she just needed to see him naked?
A group of children kicked through the water, showering them both. Paniha laughed and leapt back into the pool after them. The youngsters dived under with yells of delight.
Loki sighed and wiped dripping water off his face. He was chipping away at her resolve. He could tell. Only a few more days and he would explore her fertile territory.
11
The next day, even though Loki had been in Aotearoa less than a week, he attended his second funeral. The excitement of the flight on the Jenny Elle was dampened by events. The children either saluted or waved when they spotted him, but their parents pulled them aside or called out for them to return indoors. As they walked up the main street to the quaint little church, the settlers were decidedly skittish. They muttered under their breath, congregated in groups of two or three, and held whispered conversations. Sideways glances were cast at other groups and there was a distinct lack of any Maori running around town.
“Do you ever get the feeling something happened last night that we weren’t privy to?” he asked Miguel as another group fell silent until they had passed by.
Miguel dug his hands into his jacket pockets. “Going up in the airship was exciting but what happened yesterday has reminded them of more terrestrial concerns. Now we have two mysterious deaths.”
Funerals did tend to wipe away smiles. A few people milled around the church, waiting for other friends or the reverend. Mourners were scattered on the rows of pews, forming the same small groups that they saw outside.
“We have had another family ask for our help to relocate. They want to know if we can deposit them in Australia,” Miguel said as they took up seats at the back of the church and waited for the funeral to start.
Loki swallowed a snort. The situation was desperate if they were choosing to flee to Australia. They hadn’t discussed the return route yet, but a stopover on the next continent was possible. They could collect more specimens for the scientists and naturalists back in Europe. The idea had potential. Plus it wouldn’t take long to traverse the Tasman Sea and offload the passengers.
On their tour around the South Island, they had finally received Nate's reply via the aethergraph. On Loki’s next trip to Aotearoa the Jenny Elle would have a baby and out of her hold would slip a small and agile airship just for Hone. They were also going to provide the turbines and batteries to run electric lights. God, how he missed electric lights! Candle smoke burned his eyes and was useless for reading a book. How did people live for months on end in these primitive conditions?
“Are you listening?” Miguel asked.
Loki wiped a hand over his face. “Sorry, didn’t hear a single word. I was thinking how much I miss decent lighting to read by.”
Miguel arched one auburn eyebrow, in a gesture that reminded Loki of Cara Devon. How were the two not related? If it weren’t for the age difference they could have been twins.
“I thought dim lighting was better suited for pleasuring yourself to pornography,” his second said with a straight face.
The lad certainly had her sharp tongue. Loki determined to do his own digging into the youth’s origins.
“Tsk, lad, really? We are in the house of God.” Part of him was quietly proud of his protégé’s witty retorts. It was time he lobbed some back, though. Wouldn’t do for Miguel to have too inflated an opinion of himself.
He was somewhat mollified when the youngster turned beetroot red. One problem with having auburn hair—he blushed easily.
“Sorry,” Miguel muttered.
“It’s not me you have to apologise to.” Loki pointed up at the roof and whatever lay beyond. “Have you and Marika got around to sinning yet? Perhaps you could save up and confess on Sunday to a multitude of indiscretions.”
Miguel stared hard at the book of psalms in his hands, and Loki swore the lad’s ears went even brighter crimson. There was a line of enquiry to pursue after dinner, when they sat on the verandah with a few beers. Alcohol would loosen the boy’s tongue. Despite the softening in Paniha's suspicion toward him, Loki still hadn't advanced his suit any further. At least he could live vicariously and extract the details of any juicy liaison from Miguel.
The funeral commenced, following the same format as the previous one. Men spoke of a quiet colleague and friend who would be much missed. Another woman in black sobbed while a child clung to her side. The English sang a few hymns without any great conviction or gusto, but in a quiet apologetic manner so as not to disturb the wildlife.
>
Outside they assembled around another rectangle of freshly dug soil. There were less than two dozen headstones in the cemetery with its low picket fence. Despite the harsh nature of life in a remote outpost, death didn’t seem to have visited Matanui very often. Until now.
Men whispered of the Maori and the taniwha being responsible, but none would say it out loud. The undercurrent of discontent grew with each passing day that no person, or creature, was held accountable for the deaths. The widow approached and threw a handful of dirt into the grave as a final goodbye. Then the other mourners filed behind her and did likewise. In dribbles of two or three, they drifted back down the main road.
“What now?” Miguel asked after everyone had gone. They stood on the lawn and watched the reverend strip off his jacket and pick up a spade to shovel dirt back into the grave. The priest shed one role to take up another. Men here had to shoulder many different jobs.
“First I need to find Hone and tell him he can have his airship. Then I’m going to have a chat with Colonel Austin and see what he has uncovered. Dead settlers on his watch will be a mark against his name. I’m sure he has quite a vested interest in finding the culprit.” Matanui drew Loki into the settlement’s problems, whether he wanted it or not.
Miguel’s serious hazel gaze rested on Loki. “But will he find the guilty culprit or the convenient one?”
Loki cast a glance around, then pulled Miguel toward the road and away from the ears of the reverend. “An astute question and one for which I don’t have an answer. I’m going up the hill. What do you have to do this afternoon?”
“I’m going to find Taylor. I’m hoping to hear back from the sealers further up the coast, if they have furs we can take. The traders camped here have nothing to offer. Their loads were already promised to others.” Miguel frowned. The lad worried too much about securing a cargo. If they had no luck here, they could make more stops on the way home.
Loki shook the youngster’s shoulder as they parted. “I’ll meet you back at the cottage later.” Where he intended to find out exactly what oral skills Miguel had been practising with Marika.
There was no sign of Hone at the pa; an elder said he had gone into the forest to commune with whenua, or something similar. Loki wasn’t sure what that meant, but he headed back down the hill and into the cool canopy. Trying to find Hone was a long shot, given the warrior’s ability to blend into a tree trunk. Loki could walk right over him and never know he was there. The curious fantailed birds joined him and flitted around his head as he walked, chirping questions he couldn’t answer. There was something about the serene quiet of the forest that made him resist yelling out Hone’s name.
A sense of peace washed over him and soothed the constant white noise of activity in his brain. Strange that out here in the forest he felt more in touch with God, or whatever had created the earth under his feet, than he did in the church. He rested his palm on the rough bark of a beech as he walked by. A deep sigh left his chest as he breathed out the many problems plaguing him. It was as though the tree breathed in his problems as they left his body.
A clearing opened up ahead and at last, he found Hone, practising with a staff. The Maori called this one a taiaha. It looked similar to a spear, with a sharp pointed end for stabbing. A light sheen of sweat covered the warrior’s torso as he spun the staff and slammed it down against an invisible opponent. As Loki watched, he analysed Hone’s strengths and weaknesses. Reach and strength were in his favour, but size made him slower in his turns. A smaller and more agile person could use that to their advantage to land a blow from underneath.
“Are you going to spar with me or just watch?” Hone asked without looking up from his routine.
Loki grinned. He needed to burn off some energy; it had been too long between fights. He stripped off his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head. Then he walked out into the clearing and rotated his head to loosen up his neck.
Another taiaha lay on the ground. Hone hooked the toes of one bare foot under the length of wood and with a kick, tossed it at Loki. He caught the staff and twirled it around his head, assessing its weight and balance.
When his mother died, Loki had left home with plans of joining the Royal Aeronautical Corps and serving queen and country. After a few too many ales for Dutch courage, fate revealed its sense of humour when he snuck aboard a pirate ship, instead of one of Her Majesty’s. The crew hadn’t discovered him until they were a hundred feet in the air, at which point they proceeded to beat him senseless. Having passed that initiation rite, he was welcomed aboard once he regained consciousness. From that point on, pirate Loki had become an expert in two things—fighting and fucking.
A good day involved one or the other. An excellent day had both. But the best type of day ever combined the two.
The two men traded a few light blows, measuring each other. With each stab, deflect, swipe, and parry they judged strength, speed, and reactions. As time progressed the blows came harder and faster. Hone caught Loki’s shoulder with a stab from the blunt end of the taiaha and spun him to one side. Loki winced but gritted his jaw and used his speed, swooping in under Hone’s arm and slamming a blow to his opponent’s abdomen.
Hone grunted and raised an eyebrow. “Good,” he said, before trying to take Loki’s head off with a sideways sweep. “Why were you looking for me?”
Loki defended and parried. “To tell you that you can have your airship. Much smaller than the Jenny Elle, but it will allow you to travel this country.”
Hone rained a number of blows on Loki’s taiaha, driving him back toward the trees. Then he dropped the staff to his side, wiped sweat from his brow, and walked back to the centre of the glade. “Having a kereru like yours will help Matanui and my people. Many want to travel and visit other tribes but worry about going for too long.”
That was what stopped Paniha from flying with him—she didn’t want to be away from her people. He needed to persuade her that it wouldn’t be such a terribly long time. A few months at most. “Will you allow me access to the gold mines and your store of pounamu now?”
Rather than answer, Hone renewed his attack with a flurry of short, rapid stabs and strikes. Loki danced backward, keeping his balance as he defended. His muscles ached but his mind rejoiced in the burn of the activity.
Yet again he dodged under Hone’s arm on his upswing and thrust into his gut with the short end of the weapon. Hone passed a hand down his chest and rubbed at the spot. Just as Loki was congratulating himself, Hone swept the ground with his staff and took out Loki’s feet. The pirate landed on his back with a grunt as the air left his lungs. He contemplated staying down. It had been weeks since he expended this much energy. Sweat covered his skin and itched between his shoulder blades.
Then sparring turned into wrestling as Hone tossed his staff aside and pinned Loki to the ground. He slammed into Loki’s torso with a bent arm, pushing his elbow into Loki’s tight stomach.
Loki was definitely staying down now. Having the warrior draped over him was like wearing a bearskin rug. Hone used his weight on his arm to keep Loki’s shoulders flat to the earth.
“What will you do now, little Kahu? Fly away?” Hone’s voice was a deep whisper, rumbling over Loki’s body.
Skin to skin, their sweat mingled. Both men breathed heavily. Hone would fight with honour; Loki wouldn’t. He had a number of options, from kneeing Hone in the groin to grinding his fingers in the other man’s eye sockets. Then he picked one that better suited his mood.
He kissed Hone.
Not a light, gentle kiss like he would bestow on a woman, but a rough kiss where he took a savage sweep of the other man’s mouth and then dropped his head back to the ground to savour the taste on his tongue.
Hone’s eyes widened and he pulled back. Then his gaze narrowed and he closed the distance between them again, just a fraction.
The light in his gaze changed and for a brief moment Loki wondered if Hone would return the kiss with the Maori equivalent of a Live
rpool kiss. If the warrior smacked him in the head, how long would he be unconscious? Everybody kept saying there were no predators out here, but he didn’t want to wake up to find his fingers and toes chewed off.
Hone slid one hand up Loki’s body and curled it around his throat—tight enough to hold him in place, then he squeezed a little more. Loki shuddered at the raw power as his breath came shorter. The Maori chief controlled even the air seeking to enter and leave his captive’s body.
Then he kissed Loki with the same intensity as he fought. A harsh clashing of teeth as the men’s tongues sparred with one another. Loki bit Hone’s lip and sucked it into his mouth, but the chief closed his fist a little tighter until Loki gasped for air. When he opened his mouth wide to draw a breath, the Maori plundered his lips, exploring with his thick tongue.
Hone’s grip released a fraction and Loki drew in hot air. Fuck, it felt good. He raised his head, seeking more, pressing harder into Hone.
Hone sucked on the piercing at the corner of Loki’s mouth and pulled at the metal until Loki swore out loud, the sharp stab of pain racing through his body and igniting an inferno.
Hone lifted his head and laughed. “You fight adequately for a pakeha.”
“And you kiss all right for a Maori.” Loki’s body craved more, to pursue the rough edge until they were both exhausted, battered, and satisfied.
Instead, Hone pushed off and stood. He held out a hand to Loki, helping him to his feet. Then the larger man slapped him on the back as normal airflow resumed in his lungs.
Loki wondered if all Maori fights ended like this, but he suspected not. He experienced a pang of envy that Paniha got to marry the chief and keep him all to herself. “You never answered my question. Can I have access to the gold and pounamu?”
Hone picked up the staffs. “I like you, Kahu. But you are still a pakeha. You can have our taonga to sell to the British when I get my airship.”
He had hoped the Maori would extend him a line of credit. Having to provide the airship first would mean a half-empty hold on the trip back to England. “I have to fetch it from England. It’s being made for you.”