Sleek Comes the Night

by S E Holmes

“What am I listening to, Sam?” Nic rasped.

  “Nic!” Sam threw himself over the patient, hugging him fiercely. “Dad’s going to be so relieved. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been trampled by a bull,” he said, voice stifled by his brother. “Maybe a stampede of them.”

  “Sorry!” Sam removed himself, looking ruffled. The room smelled of antiseptic, the corona of a lamp the only illumination. An IV trolley rested in the corner, its bag dehydrated. Nic wore clean boxers, his sheets crisp and not a trace of vomit on the carpet. “Hanna suggested a familiar voice might help. I’ve been reading you an old legend. But you’ve got to go through the gross romantic bits to get to the really good stuff.” He grimaced in disgust.

  “Do we really, though?”

  “Shh! You need to rest.”

  “What day is it?”

  “It’s six Wednesday evening. You’ve been out for almost three days.”

  At least captive to the narrative, Nic’s thoughts didn’t roam unpleasant nooks. Like the fact he’d missed his English exam, pro-rata marks in no way sufficient to win him a scholarship. Or like Balt.

  “Read.” For pity’s sake, Nic begged.

  And when Sam recommenced, the same disorienting experience pulled him under. The print animated so vividly, honeyed fingertips singed his body, the heady scents of sandalwood, lavender and cinnamon lingering long after the fiction ended.

  Kafele had drained his purse and more besides securing this tryst. She poised on tippy toes by a richly engraved temple pillar, seeking him. His heart soared and breath left him on the fact of her attendance. The foolishness of this risk was too easy to ignore in her presence. Her love was surely a miraculous gift from the Gods.

  Gilded in the buttery lamplight, her chest heaved from the exertion of dancing, the gossamer of her costume clinging to enticing curves. She’d never worn less than her scant Festival corset and skirts, and he ached for her caress as a starved man for sustenance. Going quickly, the trespasser made pledge to the deities for luck. His presence in the Temple meant excruciating death if caught.

  “My Kafele!” she gushed. He’d seen lapis lazuli less vibrant than the Blue Nile of her eyes. “I was beginning to think...”

  “Never! I would never deny you.”

  Pressed together, their gaze deepened. Kafele took her hand and pulled her further into shadow lit only by a single candle. Sanura flattened against the wall, a teardrop of sweat dribbling between voluptuous mounds for the concavity of her tawny belly. He traced its course beneath colourful gems and she shuddered with pleasure, before her face fell.

  “We spurn the Gods, Kafele!”

  “The Gods dictate everything. We must give thanks for this blessing,” he panted. “I will stop should you say it.”

  “You will stop on my command, despoiler!” The imperious voice of the High Priestess echoed the chamber. The beads of her sistrum rattled in emphasis. The two froze, Kafele risking a glance at their enforcers from behind the pillar. The Pharaoh’s personal guard flanked the Temple Mistress in rowed spears, kohl defining her eyes like a cat’s. “You think me oblivious to the absence of my best dancer? Come out, traitors to the Great Bast!”

  Delaying would add to the punishment. The lovers lurched into view and prostrated themselves on pink granite, but Kafele knew no amount of grovelling erased this crime. He stared over at Sanura, who peeked through a cascade of hair, beautiful eyes wide with fear. Reckless desire had sealed their fate and all but murdered the one he loved most.

  Kafele reached to grip her hand. “I shall save you, Sanura. I promise to find a way.”

  Nic roused alone in his room. The clock showed eleven p.m. His hollow stomach complained and he tried to drag upright, but weakness held him prone. He idly peered around, focus trapped by the blinking mobile on his bed-stand. There’d be messages of support and comfort, farming communities alert to the special bond between owners and their animals.

  The need to avoid the harsh truth brought Nic to rubbery legs and he stumbled out into the hallway for the kitchen. A bandage wrapped his bare torso. Jonathon sat at the bench in his vest, cupping steaming tea in the dimness of the range-hood light. Grey chest hairs curled over the white cotton neck. Since when had his once powerfully framed father seemed so old and caved in?

  “You’re up,” he said simply, but gratitude marked his expression. “Have a seat. I’ll make you some toast. Hanna advised to take it slow on food for a while, until you’re fully recovered.”

  “Why are you in with them all of a sudden?”

  Nic’s throat grated on the question. Did he really want the answer? He watched his father fuss with the toaster, preparing food just as adaptable to evasion.

  “You saw the file. They’re guilty by false accusation and rumour. The Arkady’s aren’t enemies.”

  “Not even Sasha?”

  “He’s unbalanced, ever since the tragic passing of his mother. Anatoly assures me arrangements for his care are underway. He’ll be gone soon. In the meantime, exercise a little sympathy. You’ve got something in common.” So Sasha was at once unstable and worthy of pity because his mother had killed herself?

  “Sympathy?” Nic asked incredulously, never exploiting such excuses. “He unleashed a killer cat on me! Balt’s dead because of him. The guy’s a deranged assassin.”

  “Sasha swears he did all he could to stop that cat escaping. It was a dreadful accident. Hanna and Anatoly saved your life. We owe them.”

  “Owe them? I was there. There are witnesses. Sasha deliberately unhooked her!” Jonathon slid across a plate of Vegemite toast and a large glass of apple juice with several pills, but Nic’s appetite was no longer swayed by the comforting aroma. “Isn’t there some law against keeping a savage cat in suburbia? Has Barney looked into it?”

  “Calm down, Nic. You really shouldn’t get worked up. It’ll sap your strength to fight the infection. Take your antibiotics.” He brusquely sponged crumbs, before collecting his mug, keeping the bench between them. “Barney has no need to be involved in our business.”

  The Arkady’s had hypnotised his father, it was the only explanation. Nic held his fury in check and tried a different approach. “Are we bankrupt, Dad?”

  “You heard?” Nic nodded. “We’ve had a few problems. Stud fees for the best Arabian stallions cost. Measures are now in place. Things will be fine. Nothing to worry about, Nic. You just concentrate on healing.”

  “Swear to me. You’ve not taken money from them, have you?”

  Jonathon leaned across the stone counter, balanced on elbows, his face earnest. “I know Balt’s death will hit hard, Nic. I’m truly sorry. So are the Arkady’s. Even though they’re not responsible, they’ve made more than generous restitution.”

  Nic slumped, energy for this argument draining in his weakened state. “You can’t help me if I make it to Med-school, can you?”

  “You really need to take that pool job, Nic.”

  And now, with a rapidly receding scholarship, he was restricted to an internship working other jobs to keep above fees and afford a diet of three-minute noodles. Unless he took that job and cashed their cheque. Mira was, of course, correct. Her family took root in his life with the tenacity of seabed weeds that fouled limbs and dragged a swimmer inexorably below.

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Three