Mammon

by J. B. Thomas

  A tight, gulping sensation hit, and fresh tears stung her eyes. She blinked rapidly, staring at his boots.

  Ivan drew closer. ‘I know this is all new for you, but you need to learn respect for your teammates and for yourself. You compromised your own safety, which is just as bad as risking theirs.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m not sure that you’re ready for my squad – or for this job, for that matter.’

  She gasped. ‘That’s not fair . . .’ The wind wheezed out of her; he’d given her a verbal punch to the stomach. ‘You haven’t given me a chance. I just . . .’ Her throat constricted. She had just lost her parents.

  ‘Do you really want this? Do you really want to fight?’

  Nodding, she cleared her throat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to give you a chance.’ He bent closer; compelling her to look at him. ‘But you will either accept that I’ll demote you to a junior squad, or you’ll enlist in my boot camp.’

  Her eyes flickered, her heart lifted, she looked into his face. A glimmer of humour. A ray of hope. ‘What . . . you would train me?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why not? I have a vested interest in seeing you do well. To have a telepath, or should I say, a telepath who can exercise self-control, is a very valuable thing. But you need to be trained properly.’

  ‘Just . . . just you and me?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He nodded. ‘Unless you have a problem with that?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Half-past six. Do not be late.’

  GRACE SAT ON her bed, pressing her fists into the mattress. Sunset had arrived and stroked the treetops in a watercolour mist of gold, brown and green. The telltale signs came: the clenching in the throat, stinging in the eyes. Cramping in the stomach. Grace held back tears. Pounding music from the recreation room and happy, lilting voices closed in on her, making her feel all the more lonely. Dinner in thirty minutes . . . how could she face them all?

  She squeezed the edge of the quilt as the dark anger swelled in her stomach and adrenaline crawled up her spine.

  Her gaze drifted to her phone, still sitting on the bedside table. She picked it up and looked at the message from that morning. Should she? She stared at the dying light outside, weighing up the options. To hell with this. She was out of here.

  She slid the phone into her pocket and made her way to Joe’s room and pounded on his door.

  Joe flung open the door. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Look at this.’ Grace shoved the phone into his hand and kicked the door shut behind her.

  Joe stared at the text message. ‘Tonight only, huh?’ He shrugged. ‘We can’t really go, can we?’ He passed her the phone back.

  ‘Joe, it’s the VIP tent!’ She slumped against the wall, her fingers tapping against the screen. ‘Come on! I’ve had a crap day. That tasering really hurt.’

  Joe sighed. ‘Don’t play the sympathy card.’

  ‘Are you too scared to go?’

  Joe smirked. ‘As if.’ He lay back on his bed, hands behind his head. ‘I don’t really give a toss about what they say.’

  Grace jumped up. ‘Good.’ She grabbed his ankles and tried to pull him to the floor. ‘Come on!’

  ‘God, you’re so angsty!’ He shoved his phone into his pocket and picked up a hoodie top. ‘All right, then.’

  Grace grinned. ‘Cool.’

  ‘The bike’s out the back.’

  ‘What – it’s here?’

  He threw her a ‘you idiot’ look and pulled the hoodie over his head. ‘Yeah, I insisted they bring it here. How else did you think we would get away?’

  She shrugged. ‘One of their bikes.’

  ‘They’d track it in a heartbeat. They’ve got more tech here than friggin’ NASA.’

  * * *

  INSIDE, A STEADY throng of recruits poured into the dining room, drawn by the spicy, stomach-rumbling smell of roast chicken. Joe wheeled his bike around the back of the Residence, closely shadowed by Grace. He crouched as they passed the kitchen window. ‘I’m hungry. Go grab me something while I start the bike.’

  ‘No! They’ll see me.’

  ‘They won’t. The door’s just there. Use your mind tricks.’ He whirled his fingers at the side of his head.

  ‘That’s the loony sign, you idiot.’

  ‘You know what I mean! Go on – just a chicken leg.’

  She glanced around. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  ‘Come on, Grace. I said yes to the concert.’

  ‘I haven’t practised enough.’

  ‘Grace. You made Armin think he was a teapot. You can do this.’ Joe slid his helmet on. ‘Hurry, now.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘O-kay.’ She clenched her teeth and edged her way along the darkened wall. Peering around, she glimpsed two women in white aprons and chequered hats, laying out trays of chicken pieces, roast vegetables, bread and jugs of juice on the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area.

  Three, two, one.

  You are the only ones in this room. Keep working. She walked inside and slipped between the women, over to the counter. She tensed at an unwelcome worry: what if they were mercenaries? They would see through her trick.

  But the women just turned and moved around the benchtop.

  Grace breathed out and took hold of a chicken leg. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of Ivan walking into the dining room. That bitch, Stephanie, was on his tail; with burning envy Grace watched the girl flick her mane and flutter her eyelids as she took a seat next to Ivan.

  Her heart thudded. A sudden longing to stay over- came her.

  Maybe she should. But then again, he had been horrible to her today. She would show him that she didn’t need him.

  She darted out of the door into the safe blackness of the night.

  ‘Here.’ She thrust the piece at Joe.

  ‘Great.’ Joe tore into the leg; with his other hand rumpled through his pockets. ‘Got any cash?’

  ‘Yeah . . . about fifty.’ Grace fitted her helmet.

  Joe swallowed the last piece of meat. With a loud belch, he flung the bones away.

  ‘Pig.’

  Grinning, Joe gunned the engine.

  As they approached the gate, Grace closed her eyes; calmed her mind. Now this was for real. She wasn’t a naughty recruit stealing food this time. If they were caught . . .

  She breathed out and looked up at the guard, who was staring down at her with a confused expression. She created a picture for him: a long, black car, Diana in the driver’s seat – her voice in his ear.

  Open the gate, please, Brutus. The visitors are leaving.

  The man nodded. ‘Right you are, Diana.’ He pressed a button; the riders passed through the gate.

  * * *

  AS THEY RAMPED onto the highway, Grace considered the possibilities. What if guards detected them? She imagined voices, shouting inside the Renfield walls right now, alerted by the screeching alarm. Panicked people running through the halls, searching for the newly missing. A light shone in her peripheral vision; she peered around and noticed a pair of headlights trailing them. In a blinding moment of panic she wondered whether they’d been caught. Then the headlights turned off into a side road, and she took a deep breath of relief.

  To their right lay the eternal hills: the dividing line between the City and the great outland beyond – the red desert. Gradually, the landscape morphed from grasslands to small farms and cottages sitting on blocks of rolling pastures and then to quaint towns, where by day the narrow streets were cluttered with food stalls, antique vendors and clothing racks. Past weatherboard cottages, their trimming rusted with age. People sat on their verandahs, rocking in creaky chairs, their old-world pre
sence defying the modern pace all around them as the cars rushed past.

  Finally, the neon glow of the City and the palm-lined boulevard that sat on the edge of Cold River. Jets of purple and yellow light emanated from the esplanade park that spanned the entire eastern bank of the river.

  * * *

  THE WELL-BUILT SECURITY guard stood in a passive, unobtrusive manner against the wall at the festival entry gates. For the past four hours, he’d been checking each likely suspect against the photograph of the siblings. His eyes were starting to ache. The photo was crumpled around the edges from being held too tightly. He threw a tired look at his colleague, who rolled his eyes in return.

  But neither of them would move. Mr Jones didn’t take failure well, and both guards had young families to worry about.

  He yawned, stretched his shoulders and tipped his head back on the wall. These kids had better show up.

  A young voice floated across from the ticket counter.

  ‘I was told to quote number 6940.’

  The ticket collector smiled. ‘Yes, that’s fine. Just scan your phone here.’ She turned and gave the guard a brisk nod.

  With a harsh beep, Grace Callahan’s ID came up on screen.

  Bingo! The guard turned his head towards the wall and pressed his finger to his earpiece. ‘They’re here, sir.’

  * * *

  THE LONG BLACK car pulled into the reserved bay behind the VIP tent. An usher rushed forward and opened the passenger doors.

  Andromalius and Zagan stepped out. The usher shrunk back as Andromalius eyed him. ‘Vodka.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The young man ran towards the tent, nearly tripping over a crate of glasses in his hurry.

  A group of kitchen staff on a smoke break stopped talking and stared as a tall, tanned blonde alighted from the car. Haures caught her reflection and grimaced, hating the platinum hair and sunburned skin. It defied her self-concept as an intelligent, educated woman.

  She screwed up her nose. ‘I hate this look.’

  Andromalius slid an arm around her waist. ‘If the boy hadn’t seen you on the road, you could’ve stayed a beautiful redhead.’

  Haures shot him a horrified look. ‘What – are you saying I don’t look beautiful now?’

  Andromalius pressed his mouth to her ear. ‘So beautiful, the idea of having to share you is driving me crazy.’

  Andras open the passenger door; Mammon stepped out and smoothed down his jacket. ‘Come here, my children.’ He gave Haures an appreciative once-over. ‘You look superb. Joe isn’t going to know what hit him.’

  Haures smiled, but a thudding pain persisted in her head.

  This shapeshift had taken nearly all her energy. She eyed off the usher, who hovered around the edge of the group, carrying a vodka bottle. Yes. She wanted some of that.

  ‘Uh, sir?’ The usher gestured to Andromalius.

  Mammon sniffed, as though he’d stood in something.

  ‘Give it here!’ Andromalius yanked the bottle away. The usher stumbled, losing control of the tray.

  Haures caught one of the shot glasses and thrust it in Andromalius’s face. ‘Fill me up, baby. I’m the one doing the work tonight.’

  ‘Not too much, young lady. You need to stay in character.’ Mammon cast a firm glance around the group. ‘Remember, only tell them what they need to know.’ He walked towards the marquee.

  ‘Don’t you want the other glasses?’ The usher gulped. ‘Never mind.’ He backed away into the shadows.

  Haures drank her shot and closed her eyes as her throat burned. She tossed the glass on to the grass and pressed her palms against Andromalius’s chest. ‘It’s just a game, baby. You know I love you, and only you.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t make a fuss. We’re on to a good thing here.’ She squeezed his hand and led him into the marquee.

  * * *

  AS GRACE AND Joe left the ticket office, a waiter met them. ‘The VIP tent is this way.’ With a pleasant smile, he gestured for them to go ahead.

  The electronica beat and the mass of swaying bodies filled Grace with a sudden longing to see Ivan; to feel his hands on her waist, his chest against her back and warm voice in her ear. Yet, he was horrible to her. The urge dissolved as she recalled the coldness in his voice; the mockery she’d endured from the other mercenaries.

  Stuff him. Stuff all of them.

  She stepped inside the marquee, Joe close behind her. The ceiling was dotted with fairy lights, white chairs swathed in purple velvet were tucked under round tables topped with chocolate fountains. People stood in cosy groups or leaned against the several bars that lined the edge. In the middle, a sushi train ran around the edge of a circular bar. Purple and silver stars hung from the ceiling. Beneath their feet, a thick red carpet.

  ‘Wow.’ Grace blinked. ‘This is really nice.’

  ‘Time for a drink.’ Joe walked up to the closest bar. ‘Coke.’

  The bartender smiled. ‘Certainly, sir.’ He gave Grace an enquiring look.

  ‘Orange juice, please.’

  Joe shot Grace a smile. ‘Money?’

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a fifty- dollar note.

  With a warm smile, Mammon leaned on the bar next to Joe. ‘Bring me a bottle of absinthe and five glasses.’

  Joe raised his eyebrows. That must have been expensive.

  Mammon gave the siblings a friendly nod. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi,’ Joe said guardedly.

  The bartender brought their drinks. ‘Fifteen-fifty.’

  Sighing, Joe passed him the money.

  Mammon waved it away. ‘It’s on me.’

  The bartender nodded and walked away.

  Joe gave Mammon a long stare and then shrugged. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’ Smiling, Mammon took his seat.

  ‘It’s weird,’ Joe muttered, scanning his eyes around the group. ‘I think I recognise that guy.’

  Grace sipped her juice. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’ With narrowed eyes, Joe scanned the group the man sat with. His gaze came to rest on the girl. His eyes drifted over her face, the gold locks draped over her shoulders, the extreme neckline. What a hottie.

  Andras looked over, giving them his most persuasive smile. ‘Join us?’ He gave Joe a long look.

  Grace nudged her brother. No.

  Joe swatted her elbow away. ‘Love to.’

  Grace sighed.

  Andras looked across. ‘The invitation was for you, too.’ His eyes were very blue, and as she stared at them she felt her apprehension ooze away.

  Mammon patted the chair next to him. ‘You can sit here, sweetheart. We don’t bite.’

  ‘Okay.’ Grace sat down. Across the table, Joe was leaning into the girl, whispering in her ear.

  The guy with the blue eyes leaned in. ‘My name is Andras. Would you like another drink?’ He glanced at her empty glass.

  ‘I’ll get one when I’m ready.’

  Andras nodded and stroked his chin. ‘That’s probably wise of you. Or –’ he gestured to the green bottle in the middle of the table – ‘you can have what we’re having.’ He winked. ‘Might see the green fairy, if you’re lucky.’ He paused. ‘You are over eighteen, of course?’

  Grace gave him a vigorous nod. ‘Of course.’

  Andras passed her a glass. She pressed it to her lips, closed her eyes and tipped the glass back. Her eyes burned, her stomach clenched. ‘That’s horrible.’ She put down the glass. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken. It’s not for everyone.’

  Then – like a smooth, caressing wind – tranquil warmth flooded her body. All was good in the world.

  Andras gave her a knowing smile. ‘Feeling better?’<
br />
  ‘Yeah.’ Wide-eyed, Grace looked at the bottle. ‘That’s amazing. I feel great.’ She slid the glass across to Andras. ‘Can I have another one?’

  She swallowed, flinching as the green liquid burned its way to her stomach. ‘Oh,’ she groaned. ‘It’s really strong, though.’

  ‘Sometimes we add something sweet.’ Andras lifted his hand; a waiter appeared. ‘Lemonade.’

  Grace cast a look around the table. The older man was watching her with an expression she couldn’t decipher. The other two guys were talking quietly – although one of them, the blond guy, kept glancing across at the pretty girl, who was engrossed in something Joe was saying.

  Grace let her eyes travel down the girl’s neckline. It was black lace, which normally she would have liked to wear herself, but her breasts were pushed up and out, and it looked as though her belly was fully on show. She laughed to herself, imagining Dad’s reaction if she ever tried to go out looking like that. Sadness hit her. Dad was never going to see her go out again.

  With a laugh, Joe slammed his fist on the table; Grace looked up in alarm. Red-cheeked, her brother looked around the table, his eyes falling on Mammon’s face. He caught his breath, clicked his fingers. ‘Hey! I know who you are! You’re that rich guy.’

  The man nodded. ‘My name is Mammon Jones.’

  Grace studied his face. ‘I’ve seen you on TV.’

  Mammon smiled. ‘That happens.’ He swallowed a shot of absinthe. ‘Mmm. Lovely.’ He put down the glass and relaxed back in his chair.

  ‘I’m Joe. This is my sister, Grace.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you both.’

  One by one, Grace examined the men at the table. Black shirts, black pants. Standard uniform for most guys on a night out. But there was something different here. The smell of refined cologne. Well-kept hair. Expensive watches.

  And that super-expensive drink. These weren’t ordinary people. She looked at Mammon. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Joe laughed. ‘Forgive my sister. She can be rude.’

  ‘Shut up, Joe.’ She could tell he was play acting.

  Mammon smiled. ‘It’s all right. Nothing wrong with a bit of youthful curiosity. We’re here because my company is a major sponsor.’