He knew what that felt like, that yearning for contact, to hear that one voice, to see that one smile. All gone now. The empty street, the silent buildings, closed around him. So desolate. Sepulchral was the word that came to mind; it wasn't one of his. And not likely to be one of Taipan's; he'd done his damnedest to reject the education Jasmine Turner had forced on him. The word was more likely Mira's, or someone she'd eaten and liked enough to keep.
His head swarmed with the ghosts of other people's lives. Danica had shown him how to stop them from overwhelming him, from sending him into bedlam, but there was leakage, usually in response to something like this: some emotion that sparked a vivid memory from his life or someone else's, and pulled it unbidden into consciousness.
'That beamer in the graveyard. Did you see him?' Kevin asked, keen to shake the phantoms in his bloodstream.
'Mister ambidextrous? Hard to miss.'
'You ever seen anything like that?'
'Nothing that freaky. I've heard of similar, though, body modifiers who try to use implants and whatnot to reshape the flesh.'
'Like growing extra arms?'
'That's, kind of extreme,' he shrugged. 'It didn't look like it was working very well. Kind of fighting biology there, not to mention nerves, muscles, whatever. It's a pretty painful process. Lots of traction and re-breaking of bones to overcome our super healing. I heard of this one guy—' Yoshi gripped the hilt of his sword. 'Car coming.'
A taxi pulled up in front of the apartments. Blake stumbled out like a drunkard.
'Well guessed,' Yoshi whispered.
'Let's grab him.'
'Wait for him to get upstairs. Comfy. Safe. Might shake him up a bit.'
'He looks pretty shaken up already.'
'A little more won't hurt. Not easy to interrogate fangers; you need to get them off-balance, hope they slip, or that you can find something in their blood.'
'Risky, isn't it?'
'Last resort, sure; the chance of anyone other than a bloodhag extracting the right information is pretty remote. I'll be interested to see what the Needle can do.'
'You think he's a bloodhag?'
'He's got something going on.' He smacked Kevin's arm. 'Come on. Let's go chat with our pal.'
'Wait,' Kevin said, holding him back. 'Look there.'
A flying fox winged low across the roof of the departing cab, then circled while Blake fiddled at the front door. It flew to a nearby gum tree and settled upside down; wings wrapped around its body like a cloak.
'That's a big motherfucker,' Yoshi said.
'Let's go round the back, see if we can find another way in.'
They vaulted a back fence into an overgrown yard. A tumbledown brick structure showed where a presumably communal barbecue had once stood; a vandalised Hills Hoist stood like the mast of a ghost ship, arms bent and wires dangling, a single tattered singlet hanging forlornly.
'What's with the bat thing?' Yoshi asked.
'Maximilian uses them to spy on people, apparently.'
'Cheaper than helicopters, I guess.' Yoshi shook his head, and Kevin wondered how long he'd have to survive before nothing could surprise him; to get a handle on this bizarre world of monsters he'd been dragged into.
A crack, and he realised Yoshi had already grabbed the handle of the back door and heaved. The frame was splintered, the handle hanging loose, but the way was clear.
'Top floor,' Kevin said.
They took the stairs. 'Whew,' Yoshi said as a rank, stale smell cloaked them. The dim sounds of life carried: televisions and babies, a cat mewling.
Outside Mel's, they heard a piano being keyed, plunk, plunk, plunk.
Yoshi tested the door. Locked.
He rapped with a single knuckle.
The piano stilled.
Incense filtered out, the earthy, floral scent reminding Kevin of Mel.
'We know you're home, Blake,' Yoshi yelled. 'We're here to help.'
'Who is it?'
'Just let us in, pal.'
The door opened, just a few inches. Blake looked puzzled as he studied Yoshi. Then he saw Kevin and his eyes widened. He tried to slam the door. Yoshi pushed and Blake lurched back. Blake fumbled with his cane and Yoshi knocked it from his hand, sending it rattling down the hall.
'Rough night, pal?' Yoshi asked as Kevin followed him in and shut the door, slipped the security chain across.
'Rather,' he said, and retreated to the living room. He slumped into a stuffed sofa.
Shadows cloaked the room, lit only by the dim city glow through the windows.
Yoshi hit the lights and went around the room, picking up things and putting them back down again.
'So what have you been up to, Blake?' Kevin asked.
'It's your fault. Had she not run off with you—'
'I want to get her back,' Kevin said.
Blake looked desperately at him. 'I can barely feel her.' He held out a hand, palm up, fingers spread wide. 'She's slipping away. She's slipping away.' The hand clenched to a fist. 'What are they doing to her?'
'Nothing nice,' Kevin said. 'So the sooner we free her, the better. Do you know where she is?'
'I was going to trade you for her. Now — now it's too late.'
'This is beautiful,' Yoshi said. 'An original?' He stood with a finger pressed against a small, framed painting. A couple in period dress, like characters in a Jane Austen TV show. Blake? And Mel?
'Buck was quite the admirer,' Blake said. 'In our sunlit days. You know of him?'
'Sure. I know a bit about art.'
'The muse; it changes. After you've been given the bite. You know?'
'I know.'
'Blake! Do you know where Melpomene is?' Kevin repeated.
'Slipping away,' Blake said. 'Out of reach.'
Kevin grabbed the man, shook him until his eyes focused. 'Do I need to open a vein?'
'No, no,' he said, eyes bulging. 'After you escaped from the graveyard, they sent a message to my house. A brick through the window. Stylish, as always.'
He dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and held it out, a child offering a bully his pocket money. 'For my failure to deliver you, she is to be sent to the coast. In the morning.' His eyes lost their focus once more. 'She always did like the sea; always at night, even before—'
Kevin snatched the paper.
Last chance to deliver the mechanic. At 9, she's on her way to hang 10 with the meter maids.
Yoshi read the note over Kevin's shoulder. 'They left out the bit about it being a set-up.'
'It's between the lines,' Kevin said. 'Fuck.'
'What are these meter maids?' Yoshi asked.
Kevin shrugged, but Blake tuned in. 'Lovely girls. And boys.
On the Gold Coast. They more or less run the joint. Vassals, of course.'
'Can we intercept them before they get there?' Yoshi asked.
'You could just give yourself up,' Blake said.
Kevin ignored him. 'Stake out the tower? See who leaves? Run them off the road?'
'At nine in the morning?' Yoshi said. 'Gonna be hot out there.'
'Maybe the Needle would like to volunteer some red-eyes. A little bit of sunburn won't worry them too much.'
'He was pretty clear about not getting involved. I could have another word to him — if you were prepared to meet our terms.'
Kevin shook his head. 'What about your mob, Blake? They happy to take some risks to get Mel back?'
'We're poets. Writers. We can't go up against Maximilian's stormtroopers!'
'What happened to the pen being mightier?' Yoshi asked. 'No matter. I've got a couple of crates of the best "swords" money can buy. Max won't be expecting that.'
Kevin dug Rabbit's dancing skeleton brooch out of his pocket and weighed it in his palm. 'Gather your Romantics, Blake. It's time to stick it to Maximilian.'
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was oh-five-hundred plus a coffee, and Reece sat alone in the cafeteria. The place was less than half full, a sorry sign of their
depleted numbers and the difficulty of recruiting mercenaries for an organisation that had to make allowances for ops that were blacker than black. The eggs were rubbery, the toast cold, the bacon like slivers of steel. He heard his name, looked up and lost whatever appetite he had.
Petersen and Newman were manoeuvring through the tables with a familiar young man in tow.
'Nice uniform, Reecey,' Petersen sneered.
'Just right for a bus driver,' Newman said. 'You got a job. You and your mate, here.'
The kid, fidgeting in his VSS private's uniform, stepped forward and waved a hazy hello. 'Nigel. From out — you know.'
'I remember you, Judas.' The surfie had run with Taipan's gang until he'd sold them out to Mira. Reece couldn't stand snitches, as much as he acknowledged their usefulness. He'd heard Mira had repaid his treachery with a job in the garage. Nigel was a passing good mechanic, by all accounts.
The kid blushed.
'They let you keep your surfboard?' Reece asked.
'Not much time for it, y'know.'
Newman clapped a hand on Nigel's shoulder. 'Which is why we thought the private here might like a nice drive to the Goldie. Maybe you could take the board, eh?'
'What's this about?' Reece asked, tired of the bullshit and happy to let it show.
'You two have been requisitioned,' Petersen said. 'For a job.'
'Marshall know?'
'Your boss's got no say in it,' Newman said. 'This is from the top.'
'So why isn't the top doing it?'
'You got the skills,' Petersen said.
'Yeah,' Newman said. 'You two were the first names to come up when we were looking for volunteers. Being old mates, and all.'
'Prisoner transport duty to the Gold Coast. Cushy. Right up your alley,' Petersen said.
'Who?'
'The poet's squeeze.'
Oh, shit, Reece thought. 'I heard I was off that case.'
'You're whatever the boss tells you, Reecey,' Petersen said.
'Dunno if driving a van amounts to being on the case, so much as being along for the ride.' Newman picked up a piece of bacon and nipped off the end. 'Not quite the same as the tucker upstairs, is it?'
'Have it; I'm done.'
'You certainly are, sunshine.'
TWENTY-EIGHT
Reece and Nigel, wearing civvies and issued with false driver's licences, waited in the office of the VIP section of the basement car park under the watchful gaze of a GS staffer. Their ride was parked outside: a modified four-wheel-drive van, riding low on its boosted suspension due to the weight of armour. The Hunters had taken Reece's and Nigel's phones, on the pretence of a possible security leak. To which Reece called bullshit, but was powerless to overturn.
'Keys,' he said.
'Petersen gave them to me,' Nigel said.
Reece snapped his fingers.
Nigel moved his shotgun to the other shoulder so he could fork them out.
'You loaded for bear?' Reece asked.
'Huh?'
'Are you carrying high explosive for that cannon?'
'Yeah, yeah. That's what Petersen said.'
'Petersen gave you that?'
'With the keys. Told me not to shoot my dick off, the wanker.'
'Give it here.' Reece checked the load. 'Looks okay.'
'Why wouldn't it be?'
Reece concentrated on extracting a semi-drinkable coffee from the machine to go with his cigarette.
Nigel swore, mumbled something about being treated like a mushroom.
'Is it everything you expected it to be, Judas?' Reece asked as the machine vomited froth into the plastic cup.
'Better than out on the road, an eye over your shoulder all the time.'
'But was it worth selling out Taipan's gang?'
'They were about to replace me with that Matheson guy. I did what I had to.'
'That what you tell yourself?'
'It's the bloody truth.'
The lift doors opened. Petersen and Newman escorted two troopers wheeling a gurney. A girl was strapped to it, a hood over her head, a hospital gown open at the front where a silver stake poked out of her chest.
Reece pinched out his cigarette as they arrived, then lifted the girl's hood.
'Satisfied?' Petersen asked.
'Always like to check the cargo,' he said, and nodded for the troopers to load the gurney into the van.
'No stopping for snacks,' Newman said, managing to make it sound salacious. 'Straight to the Goldie, undamaged.'
'Expecting trouble?' Reece asked. The soldiers wore flak jackets and carried automatic rifles.
Petersen sneered at him. 'She's on ice, but we understand your previous history with prisoners isn't the best.'
Reece made a promise to himself to flatten Petersen the next chance he got. The troopers strapped down the gurney, then perched on fold-down seats on either side.
Reece shut the doors. 'You boys aren't coming?' he asked the sneering Hunters.
'We've got important work to do, cleaning up your mess. Have a good trip, boys. Don't forget the sunscreen.'
Fuck you, Reece thought. As a red-eye, it was true his tolerance for direct sunlight was much, much higher than a vampire's, but prolonged exposure still hurt like a bitch as the sun triggered nasty reactions with the vampire blood in his system. The result was nicknamed wolfbite, for the red rash it caused. But he had a lot more to worry about on this trip.
Reece and Nigel clambered into the front. It was dead on nine. Reece fired up the truck, let it idle while he checked the radio — direct to a GS operator, despite the fact the squad were all Green Shirts. Marshall had been cut out of the loop.
'You've been here a month,' he said to Nigel. 'You recognise those guys in the back?'
'Nah. Should I have?'
'Probably not. They aren't red-eyes, though.'
'Is that a problem?'
'No, they're no problem at all,' Reece muttered, and relit his cigarette. As an afterthought, he offered his tobacco pouch to Nigel, who waved it back.
'Just means I don't like our chances of reaching the coast.' He slid open the slit window in the compartment door between the cab and the rear. 'Good to go?' One gave a thumbs-up. Reece checked the lock. The soldiers could bail out the back if they had to, but no one was coming up the front without his say-so.
Nigel stared at him through the wreath of cigarette smoke; hand tight on the shotgun at his side. 'What do you mean, you don't like our chances? What's going to happen?'
Cigarette held in his lips, Reece put the truck into drive and headed for the gate. 'She's going to be rescued. And we're going to be killed to make it look good.'
TWENTY-NINE
The lookout, positioned across the road from Thorn, reported a van leaving. A photo followed by text message.
'That's it,' Kevin said, recognising Hunter at the wheel. He couldn't make out the passenger behind the windscreen glare.
A motorcycle tailed at a distance, confirming the van was taking the most direct route along the M3, before merging with the M1. Traffic was moderate. Keeping tabs on the vehicle wasn't difficult as it trundled along the highway at slightly under the speed limit. The bike reported a police helicopter keeping pace.
'That could be a pain,' Kevin said.
Blake, next to him in their stolen Commodore, groaned. The poet had insisted on being in on the rescue and had complained the whole time about the formless attempt at sun-smart clothing, the heat, his thirst. Fair call — Kevin felt as though he was in a sandwich toaster, ham and cheese bubbling away, tomato gushing out the seal — but there was nothing to be gained by whingeing about it.
He'd rather Yoshi came along, but the vampire ruled himself out of a daylight operation. 'Think of me as back-up,' he'd said as the team set out from Brissie in the wee hours.
Blake had mustered four red-eyes, including Ambrose and Bella, and a few more wannabes; and Greaser had found a few friends among the Snipes willing to risk the Needle's disapproval to rescue Mel.
They'd all been kitted out in long pants and tops, gloves and balaclavas. Blake had foregone his cane and carried a rapier and a long, thin dagger. He'd been offered a gun but refused. 'Garish,' he said.
They had a good half hour to wait, now that the route had been confirmed. Parked near a boat ramp on the southern side of a bridge over the Logan River, they were separated from the highway by a row of trees. Traffic hummed. A boat had puttered down the river but paid them no mind as they'd slithered down low behind the dash until it passed.
They'd stolen two other vehicles: a hatchback to provide an escort, and a delivery van to get Melpomene away. The Commodore's job was interception. Kevin couldn't afford to fuck this up.
'Time is very slow for those who wait,' Blake pronounced, wiping his eyes for the umpteenth time. They were cooking, the sunlight wearing them down.
Ambrose and Bella, in the back seat, were feeling it too; patches of exposed flesh showing the mottled crimson of wolfbite. They stretched, trying to ease the ache in their joints and spines as the sun teased at the vampire taint in their blood.
The phone rang — the bike, reporting the VS van's approach.
'Time to go,' Kevin said, and Ambrose joined the group in the hatchback, Bella the delivery van.
Greaser's voice jagged from a walkie-talkie. She was among the trees, keeping watch. Kevin had sent her up there to keep her out of harm's way. She wasn't vampire and she wasn't a red-eye; she would have no chance against either if it came down to a one-on-one. She had used up her luck in the cemetery; he didn't want another life on his ledger. 'I see them,' she said.
Kevin wheeled the Commodore around as a shadow passed overhead, the chopper just audible over the traffic and the motor and his thumping heart. The delivery van and the hatchback pulled into position, one on either side of the Commodore.
'They're speeding up!' Greaser reported. 'Go—go—go!'
Kevin planted his foot. The Commodore jumped forward. He tore through a gap in the scrubby wattle and slammed onto the highway. The impact threw him and Blake against their seat belts.
The VS vehicle, in the far lane, sped past.
Kevin swore, stomped on the accelerator. They leaped across the distance, clipped the van's rear. It swung in a wild waltz as metal crunched; the Commodore bucked, the wheel wild in Kevin's hands.
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