A hysterical giggle forced itself from her throat and she dashed the unshed tears from her eyes.
The swordsman had stood poised, the blade about to cut down. It could have been her, Arwen or, God forbid, Etienne, who had sprawled with Arwen yet remained miraculously unhurt after a knot of kids had leapt over the row of chairs behind them.
The fear had given way to a cold rush of certainty, as if she existed solely as a conduit for a vast river. Instinct had kicked in and she’d reacted to the threat with a punch, the muscles of her arms bunching before releasing.
There had been more to that punch, hadn’t there? She didn’t remember her hand making any contact with that boy. Under normal circumstances, she would never have been able to strike someone so they flew away like that. Then, these were not normal circumstances, were they?
How many other people had seen the spectacle? She’d read about ordinary people experiencing extraordinary stresses and somehow being able to react with superhuman powers, mothers lifting burning cars to free trapped children; men pushing objects more than ten times their weight.
Helen shivered.
What if someone had called her grandmother? Or, what if Anabel heard about this before she had a chance to call and reassure her?
A sense of urgency flooded her, forcing her to her feet. No one looked in her direction. Too much chaos played out already, with teachers speaking to small groups of kids in quiet tones, hands placed on shoulders to give comfort.
Although she’d much rather sink into the softness of the armchair, she slipped out and made her way back to the hall. She had to find Etienne and she definitely needed to make sure her brother was okay.
The quad outside the hall had been cordoned off by the time Helen arrived, a stocky, dark-skinned policewoman barring her way.
“No, miss, you go to your home room. All the kids report to their home rooms.”
“Please, officer, I’d like to know if my brother’s okay, and my friends.” Damon would be in shock. He’d need to speak to her.
The woman did not give way, her gaze flicking about, missing nothing.
Sneaking past would be no use but she could slip back to the dorms if she were quick. She’d call her grandmother first; perhaps even try her father, if he answered. Damon was most likely already in one of the classrooms. Helen looked over the woman’s shoulder into an empty area. Her brother would be fine, for now, wouldn’t he?
The colonnaded walkways were too empty, the poles making her think of regiments of bone marching to keep pace with her. Helen had grown used to the passage of so many feet that to walk where she knew she was not supposed to be, among deserted buildings, left her twitchy.
Perhaps it was still the adrenaline in her system.
She tried not to think of what she had survived, preferring to concentrate on remaining unseen. Twice she managed to avoid two constables who patrolled the grounds.
What were they looking for?
Her dorm key would not fit in its lock. She was sure a policeman would turn the corner any moment now and was only too glad when she breathed deeply, steadied her hand, and unlocked the door. Helen sank onto her bed, allowing her body to relax. Her muscles twinged. How long would she have before they sent someone here to look for her?
The teachers would be taking roll call, like when they drilled for a bomb scare. Five, maybe ten minutes at most, then they’d discover she was absent.
This was going to get her into way more trouble than being caught whispering during assembly. She tried not to think of Ms. Engelbrecht’s mean, puckered mouth set into a line of disapproval.
She called her father, relying on muscle memory as she dialed.
The familiar message asking her to leave her name and details did not come as a surprise.
Why was he never there when she needed him?
“Dad, it’s me, Helen. Dad? Something really bad happened at school today. I don’t know why. Some kid with a sword. I don’t know. Dad? Please call me back as soon as you can.”
Her throat closed and she had to take deep breaths to gain control again.
She’d better call her grandmother. The phone rang eight times and Helen almost considered killing the call.
“Schroeder household.” Anabel’s abrupt greeting shocked her out of the daze she’d slipped into while waiting for someone to answer.
“Anabel!” Helen gasped the word. She spoke then in a tumble of words.
“Slow down, Helen! What happened?”
Helen’s breath wheezed over her lips. “During assembly, someone attacked us with a sword.”
Anabel’s voice remained even. “Are you unhurt? Is Damon unhurt?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I shall arrange with Szandor to come fetch you.”
“But Arwen...”
“Is she–”
“No. She must’ve hit her head when she fell. Some kids pushed us over trying to get away. I’m not sure if she’s okay. The paramedics took her to hospital.”
“Well, sit tight. I gather you’ve already tried to speak to your father?”
“Yes.” Her voice had turned into a squeak.
“Oh, Helen, if only I had the car fixed. Just hang in there. You’re of better blood than your father’s family. Don’t allow his... Never mind. Where are you now?”
“I’m in my dorm room.”
“Go make sure your brother is all right. I’ll sort something out. I’m going to speak to Szandor. Go to your brother.” The steel returned to Anabel’s tone.
Helen held the phone to her ear for a few heartbeats, her breathing loud in her ears even after her grandmother ended the call.
Helen’s departure from the familiar confines of her dorm, with its plain pine furniture and the door that kept the world out, was the last thing she wanted but in this situation, family came first. Even though school regulations prohibited keeping a cell phone on during school hours, she slipped her phone into her pocket. There was no telling when their father would call, and he would call, when he picked up his messages.
Her brother would worry himself sick about her. So would Etienne. Where had she found the presence of mind to face down that sword-wielding maniac? And, who was this person who had tried to kill her?
Chapter 22
Across the Black River
The change in the humidity was immediate. Instead of the Karoo’s crisp dry heat, the air among the trees felt heavy, laden with moisture and the brown smell of ages of rotting vegetation.
Mantis’s BMW looked incongruous among the tall, liana-festooned trunks. They’d driven in silence down a track mostly hidden by a riot of ferns, the soft fronds shushing along the car’s paintwork.
Invisible in the moist undergrowth, small amphibians croaked and clicked away. Some sort of bird piped and trilled in a flush of descending notes, even though it was still night.
How many hours remained until daylight? How soon could he escape? Trystan hoped the Hudson would not be towed away, and he could somehow find his way back to Graaff-Reinet before things went from bad to worse. What about Helen? What if Szandor figured out Trystan was missing, and sought to use the girl in a summoning? There was no telling what her limits would be if her Essence were to be directed.
Much worse could happen to Helen. The witches had more use for her alive than dead. Or turned. She could be a powerful vampire possessing more than the average for a youngster. Alive she merely posed a threat but undead...
Then, why was he stalling? Why keep her alive at all?
He had asked himself these questions on numerous occasions and still did not have answers. Was it her easy smile? She knew nothing of the shadowy world he inhabited. He’d wanted time to observe the lovely creature, to see the world anew through fresh eyes.
When she’d spoken of her world, he’d reached, and been able to pick up some of her memories piecemeal. For the first time in years he could appreciate bright sunlight that glinted off waves breaking on a beach, without the accompanying sting on his skin.
He saw the flash and turn of poplar trees twisting in a breeze, skies blue and not star-pierced. Helen’s memories had fed his soul.
Trystan cursed himself for not having come to some sort of decision sooner. He should have stolen her away while he’d had a chance, but like a fool he’d imagined his precious ruse–his hidden river valley–would remain just that, his place outside of time where the horrors of the greater world would be kept at bay.
The car drew to a halt where the track made an abrupt end and a dense-wooded ravine formed a barrier.
“Now what?” Trystan was unable to keep the sour note out of his voice.
“We get out.” Mantis grinned and depressed the button that rolled up the window on his side.
He stepped out, his feet sinking into the layer of humus which cushioned him from the ground. Behind him, the car’s doors snicked as the black-haired vampire clicked the remote.
“And now?”
“Now?” Her laugh was rich, melodious. “Now, Trystan, my dear, we walk. Don’t think of running. You know I’m faster than you and you also have far more Essence than you need. There’s no hiding for you, love. I’ll find you.”
He grumbled, looked away, and turned his face so he could stare up through the canopy. Even during the day very little light would penetrate here. There was a good chance he could get quite far even with the sun up.
Mantis gestured for him to follow the small path which zigzagged down into the cleft cut by black waters that would eventually run into the Knysna River.
“What about the elephants?” Trystan asked, hoping to stall their descent.
“Nice try, mister. They don’t come here. You can walk ahead of me so I can keep an eye on you. You wouldn’t get far if you tried, you know. We’re being watched.”
He cast about but sensed nothing, and Mantis made another impatient chopping gesture with her hand. Trystan grimaced and obeyed. Even if he somehow did manage to escape Mantis, he would be at a disadvantage here, deep within Renegade territory. If Mantis didn’t catch up, they certainly would. She hadn’t told him why she now acted on behalf of the Renegades, and merely deflected any questions he’d asked earlier. Annoying.
He’d been out of the loop so long he didn’t know how the powers may have shifted. At least the Black Pope clearly didn’t want him dead. Well, at least not yet.
They walked without speaking and, in the manner of vampires, without making noise, each footfall carefully considered. As they progressed closer to the river, the sound of water splashing over stones grew louder. The frogs and small creatures were not ignorant of their approach, and fell silent as they passed, before resuming their nocturnal musings.
Once he thought he heard the guttural krahk of a bird roosting overhead and an animal the size of a large dog crashed away in the bushes to his left. Bushpig, perhaps.
Around them, the tall trunks of trees marched in all directions. Yellow wood, ironwood, saffron, Cape pear, boekenhout and red alder. At first glance they all looked the same beneath their verdant coats of moss and stringy lichen.
Their path met a footbridge, wide enough for one to pass at a time, which had been constructed from saplings lashed together with hempen twine. Beneath this, a vigorous black stream rushed, tumbling over round rocks which gleamed like ivory.
Here Mantis stopped to scent. Her Essence flared as she reached a directed tendril across the river, snaking to his right, upstream. Then she whistled, a sound that disrupted the calls of other living things. The quiet that followed hurt his ears.
In the distance, muffled by the vegetation, came an answering whistle. Mantis smiled and gestured for Trystan to cross.
He toyed with the idea of making a break for it but thought better of it when Mantis shook her head.
“You could at least tell me why. We’ve come this far. You could have killed me by now, yet you haven’t.”
Mantis shook her head again. “No talking now until we get there. Others may be listening.”
He stepped onto the bridge with some reluctance, looking back once at the trim, black-clad figure behind him. The bark of the small trees forming the bridge felt rough beneath his feet and in its center, the structure dipped alarmingly as he crossed. Trystan spared a glance at the rushing water below him–always a bad idea–he was sure he saw eyes, lambent green, looking up at him.
If he discovered that the Black Pope employed unheard-of beings to guard his realm he would not be surprised. But he’d rather not encounter these creatures first-hand.
A ripple of relief passed through him when his feet made contact with the soft, moist earth on the other side.
“Mantis?” He turned around, expecting to see her follow. The small clearing where they had stood only moments ago was empty. She hadn’t made a sound.
She was going back! Trystan was about to follow when dark shapes materialized from behind the trees.
He whipped around to face the new threat–two figures clad in an assembly of animal skins, their exposed flesh daubed with various hues of red ochre and brown mud.
The only sign betraying them as his brethren was the buzz of their Essence which set his teeth on edge. Two pairs of dark eyes followed his movements but he would not be foolish enough to attack–or run. Two ornately carved bone blades were pointed at his heart. He did not have to reach to see and know these weapons had been imbued with Essence.
“Yiza apha wena,” said one, a male.
“Um, ndi isiXhosa, um, es, esincinci,” Trystan stumbled over the words. It had been a very long time since he’d spoken the language and, try as he may he mangled the clicks no matter how much he had practiced in the past.
The two vampires turned to each other and laughed.
The smaller one peered up at him. “You come with us.” His English was heavily accented.
“Do I have a choice? What about the woman?”
They shrugged, sniggering at him. The taller one circled behind him, the point of his spear almost touching Trystan’s skin. The proximity of the Essence-charged weapon gave him the urge to run.
Damn Mantis for putting him in this situation. If she so much as touched Helen, he’d finish her. Running right now would be a very bad idea.
He refused to budge, and stared hard at the vampire before him. His captors both looked as if they’d just stepped off a set for a stone-age film. Their long hair had been braided, into which many small ivory, bone and gold beads had been woven. Bands of gold decorated their ears. Each had his lower lip pierced with a fierce bone spike that protruded three inches.
Never before in the two centuries Trystan had walked the earth and the one-hundred-and-fifty that he’d explored southern Africa had he encountered such a savage representation of his kind. The salons of Cape Town and Johannesburg were very far away now. He had no doubt these two savages could kill him with ease, without having to first discuss niceties as the elders in the city would.
He may as well see what their leader wanted. It had certainly been a while since he’d seen the bastard. Yet, Trystan drew little comfort from knowing the Renegades didn’t need him to be dead. And, it bugged the hell out of him that Mantis was, at present, rushing back to Graaff-Reinet, most likely to do something with Helen.
Chapter 23
Unfortunate Circumstances
Whatever constituted fun, waking in hospital, dressed in one of those unfortunate gowns that never quite closed properly at the rear, was definitely not Arwen’s idea of a good time.
Her head throbbed in time to her heartbeat, pulsing in her eardrums. Thanks to Szandor’s comprehensive medical aid she’d been installed in a semi-private ward and the only other bed here lay fallow.
Thank the goddess no one else shared with her. No inane chatter about appendectomies or having to put up with other patients’ annoying relatives.
Arwen mulled over her memories and tried to extract the information that would tell her how she had arrived here. With strobe-like precision, she recalled the events leading up to the inky blac
kness which obscured her probing. Assembly...yes... Falling bodies...screaming...a blade dipped in blood whistling through the air.
A surge of kids had pushed over chairs and knocked her down with Helen, who had somehow pushed–no–punched the swordsman.
Groaning, Arwen massaged her temples. What now? Through slit eyelids she viewed the room’s “tastefully” tinted off-blue walls, cream curtains shutting out the glare from outside. She had no idea how long she’d been sleeping–an incredibly disturbing thought.
Tightness enclosed her wrist. Plastic tubing led from a drip hanging from a stainless steel hook attached to the ceiling.
Waves of hot and cold flushed her skin. There would be a needle shoved up her vein. Uggh. Almost immediately Arwen’s arm ached where the plastic fittings met her flesh.
The bell for the nurse should be around somewhere. She cast about, grabbed the buzzer and depressed the rubbery button then waited, counting thirty heartbeats before pushing the button again.
She wanted to get the hell out of here, concussion or not.
A tiny nurse, her white uniform contrasting with her mahogany skin, bustled in. “Ah, Miss Wareing, you’re awake, your father–”
“It’s obvious I’m awake otherwise I wouldn’t be ringing the damn bell. I want this drip out of me. Now!”
“I’m sorry, miss, only Doctor–”
“If you don’t do it now, I’ll rip it out myself. I don’t care what the doctor says.” Arwen prayed her ruse worked. She’d most likely faint if she followed through with her threat.
The nurse–Sister Mbane by her nametag–lifted her hands in dismay. “No! No! Miss Wareing, please don’t! I’ll help you.”
Arwen smirked and looked away while Sister Mbane busied herself with the needle. She bit the inside of her cheek to distract herself from the pain–not that it hurt much–but it was uncomfortable and the mere thought of the needle sliding out of her flesh made her stomach turn. “What time is it?”
“It is two in the afternoon.”
“What day?”
“Friday, miss.”
“You mean I’ve been sleeping for an entire day?”
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