Desert Flame

by Nicole R. Taylor

  “Well,” he said, “I think I better go out there and have a look around.”

  “They’re not drilling core samples,” Kyne warned him. “They’re sinking a shaft.”

  “Then we were right to be worried.”

  Eloise pushed Kyne’s hands away. “I’m coming with you.”

  “You better go home and get some rest,” Hardy told her with a shake of his head. “Vera will have something to help with your elemental overload.”

  “I’m fine,” she argued. “I’m worried about you, Hardy.”

  “Me?” He glanced at Kyne, who nodded. “Don’t worry about me. If a vampire is riding with EarthBore, it’ll only be a matter of time before they figure out that I’m here, then the seal will be next. Vampires can be devious creatures…all spite and bloodlust.”

  Eloise stared at him. “Hardy—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He turned towards the door and looked over his shoulder at the elementals. “Stay inside and don’t go outside if you can help it. Best not stay here, either.”

  Leaving his shop behind, Hardy ran. Solace was gone in a flash, his vampire speed hurtling him through the scrub and across the outback faster than any human eye could follow.

  What could vampires want with the seal, if the seal was what they were after?

  He’d met many vampires over his long life who had developed tastes for more than blood. Power and wealth walked hand-in-hand, and it was far easier to remain undetected by doing things the old-fashioned way—meaning they complied with human law—than compelling humans to hand over what they needed to survive. It was necessary in this modern world where every step of a human life was recorded not only by some government agency, but surveillance cameras and satellites, too.

  That’s why Hardy wasn’t surprised that a vampire had their fingers in the pie that was called EarthBore. His kind could pass as human, but it also meant they had to act like it if they wanted to become more than nomads skulking on the edges of society.

  Hardy came to a halt on top of a rise overlooking the remote edges of Walawala Station, the property line barely discernible from the rough scrub. The lack of fencing wasn’t that much of an issue this far out from the main homestead as livestock rarely raged this far. If they did, they were closely monitored by the station hands, or stockmen as they were once called.

  Out here, his problems usually disappeared with the rush of wind as he ran. The vast sky and unforgiving landscape made his immortal life seem fleeting in comparison, but not today. Both seemed to be closing in on him and forcing one to reconcile with the other.

  His brow creased as he looked down on the assortment of trucks and cars. They were unloading a great deal of equipment, but it was for small-scale mining. Kyne was right about them not drilling for cores, but what did they expect to find with that Caldweld?

  Standing as still as he possibly could, he focused his vampire eyes on the movement below. A dozen men dressed in high visibility vests and hardhats wandered around as the excavator was driven off the back of a flatbed truck, the tracks kicking up clouds of red dust as they churned up the earth below.

  The black 4WD Eloise had seen sat back towards the highway and a group of three men in suits lingered in front of it. Two had left their suit jackets behind and had rolled their shirtsleeves up but had forgotten to bring hats. Their ties flapped in the wind as they referred to a map they’d rolled out across the bonnet of the 4WD.

  The third man looked at the excavator and seemed uninterested in what the other suits were discussing. Not only did he still have his black jacket on, but all the buttons were done up tight.

  He stood out amongst the human workers, not only for his unreasonably dark clothing, but for his presence. Hardy only had to look once to know he was a vampire, and an old one at that.

  As Hardy watched the scene below, trying to figure out what they were up to, the vampire turned, and he saw a face he’d hoped he would never see again.

  Darius.

  The name pierced a long-hidden memory in his mind—one full of blood and suffering—and he ducked low, his breath catching.

  “You see.”

  Hardy jumped, his cold heart lurching in his chest, and he turned to see Coen lingering in the shade of a gum that’s been twisted by the wind.

  “Coen,” he hissed, wiping the back of his arm across his clammy brow. “Bloody hell.”

  The Indigenous man chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “I managed to frighten a vampire.”

  “I wouldn’t be proud of it. I could’ve torn you to pieces.”

  Coen grinned at him unperturbed and looked down at the EarthBore trucks. “It’s testing you.”

  Hardy screwed up his face. “What?”

  “The seal.”

  “The seal is testing me?” The vampire snorted. “Whatever for?”

  “It tests you all in its own way,” Coen went on. “Why is not for us to know.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Hardy didn’t want to believe in cosmic forces—they never spoke plainly. “I’m here to watch EarthBore.” He looked for the marlu, but the kangaroo wasn’t anywhere to be seen. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Watching the paths in the Dreaming,” he replied. “This land is scared by many things. The wars with the white fellas and more things… Older things.”

  Hardy grunted and rose to his feet. Turning his gaze back to the trucks below, he felt slightly reassured to see Darius still down there and not up here with them.

  “Are you prepared to face the ancestor’s paths?” Coen asked.

  He turned, his brow creasing. “What?”

  “Together we’ll watch the vampire,” Coen went on. “I’m teaching Drew how to see with his dingo eyes.” He waved Hardy away as the vampire took a step towards him. “The lightning will watch and wait for the moment to strike.”

  “I—” Hardy bit his tongue, not sure if he should reveal he knew the vampire with EarthBore or not.

  “You haven’t opened all your eyes yet.” Coen poked Hardy between his eyes, making him cross-eyed for a moment. “Go.”

  “Go?” He pointed to the trucks. “I can’t go.”

  “You’re not ready.”

  Annoyance flared and he felt his blood quicken. “Not ready?”

  Coen either didn’t understand or care that Hardy’s vampire side was rising. He grabbed Hardy’s shoulders and turned him to face the way back to Solace. “Go.”

  Hardy’s mind filled with thoughts of darkness and blood, and he knew Coen was right. He hadn’t come to terms with what he’d become, even after all this time.

  Casting one last glance at Darius, he turned to Coen. He knew what the vampire was capable of and felt uneasy leaving.

  “Go,” the Indigenous man said, more firmly this time.

  So he went.

  Chapter 10

  Port Arthur, Van Diemen’s Land, Australia, 1835

  * * *

  Humid darkness wrapped around Hardy as he gripped the heavy pick in his blistered hands.

  The dull light of his lantern barely cast enough light for him to see the rock face before him and the coal he was forced to mine. The sounds of men working in the dark reaches echoed down the tunnel—tink, tink, tink as their hand tools slammed against stone—and the rattle of a laden cart rolling along the steel tracks towards the main shaft made his ears ring.

  Hardy breathed deeply, desperate for the fresh air that awaited above ground. Sweat rolled down his back as the humidity wrung what little moisture was left in his worn body.

  Lifting the pick again, he heaved it towards the wall. When the end of the pick hit coal, the force of the blow vibrated up his exhausted arms.

  In the darkness, gasping for breath, he almost gave in to the memories he’d been running from for four long years. Just over half of his sentence had passed and every single day of it was misery.

  Hardy hadn’t made a particularly good thief, but he learned fast. With no
thing left to lose, he’d made a name for himself amongst the other convicts at the Port Arthur penitentiary, his antics drawing the ire of his gaolers. His name had even made it to the desk of the governor, a British man by the name of George Arthur. Hardy’s back bore the permanent memory of that encounter.

  His lamp flickered beside him, the pitiful flame struggling to stay alight. He looked down as the dull shadows danced across the rock face.

  Seeing how low the flame had burned, he dropped his pick as the light faded. “No, no, no.”

  He lunged for the lantern, but it was too late. The pitiful flame faded to blue, gave one last gasp, then snuffed out, plunging the tunnel into pitch-black darkness.

  Hardy landed on his knees and rock cut through his trousers and bit into his flesh, but a few scratches were the least of his problems. With no light, he wouldn’t be able to see any coal, let alone find his way out of the awful pit. If he didn’t make his quota…

  Still, he tried. He swung his pick at the wall, missing more than he struck, and flung anything he could into the cart behind him.

  When the whistle blew down the shaft to signal the end of shift, he fumbled his way to the end of the cart and began pushing, knowing it was full of useless rubbish and not enough of it to escape what was coming.

  Hardy’s heart sank at the thought of escape. The only way out of Port Arthur was by the grace of the governor and he had none of that.

  He saw light ahead as he pushed the cart along the tracks. His spirits rose even as they sank as the first taste of sweet, cool air filled his lungs. He kept moving.

  “Where is that filthy shite Hardy?”

  The voice boomed down the tunnel and he quickened his steps, pushing the cart out into the sunlight.

  Hardy blinked as the clearing came into view and his heart sank as he saw the men waiting for him. He was the last out and there was an unwelcoming party assembled.

  The overseer was a sadistic man by the name of Henry Davis, who had a mean pinched face, little beady eyes, and a thick moustache that was too big for his face. Hardy always through he looked like he’d strained too hard on the privy and the wind had changed, locking his face in a perpetual shitting motion. But at that moment, there was nothing comical about it.

  Davis looked into the cart and turned his glare onto Hardy. “Explain yourself.”

  “My light went out.”

  “Your light went out?” The overseer’s face turned red, his eyes bulging. He tightened his grip on the truncheon on his belt—the same truncheon that saw a great deal of use both when it was warranted and not.

  Hardy was a little grateful he wasn’t going for the rifle slung over his shoulder but knew both would sting from firsthand experience.

  “You’re under quota.”

  He jutted his chin out in defiance. “And?”

  The other convicts began to mutter, their hard gazes turning on him.

  “You know the punishment,” the overseer said. “One under quota, the whole shift is punished.”

  The convicts began shout and pressed forwards, their angry faces smeared with coal dust.

  Hardy knew if he didn’t do something, he’d cop it from both sides—and both would be as bad as the next. Losing the respect of his fellow inmates would be the death of him, and up until now he’d managed to absolve all but himself from the bite of the overseer’s whip. It was the only way to survive Port Arthur, and he wasn’t about to let Davis stop the tradition.

  Hardy flung himself at the overseer with a roar. He moved faster than he ought, considering the exhaustion weighing him down. The blow jarred up his arm as his fist slammed into Davis’ nose.

  The overseer shouted as blood poured down his face, and the convicts hollered. As the soldiers stared in shock, they took the opportunity to push back against their captors.

  Fists began flying in all directions and Hardy was jerked backwards. He fell and felt several boots collide with his back and sides.

  “Grab him!” Davis shouted, hurrying into the fray. “Get back, you scum!”

  Whistles blew shrilly as soldiers hurried into the clearing and began pulling men away. A scuffle broke out between a few of the rowdier men, and they suffered nasty blows courtesy of several rifle butts.

  The soldiers quickly got the scuffle under control, driving the convicts back and pulling them away from Hardy.

  Davis wiped the back of his hand across his bloodied nose, smearing the red stuff through his moustache. “You just got yourself ten lashes for that, Hardy,” he said with a sneer, “and a stay in solitary.”

  Hardy scrambled backwards but was caught by two soldiers. They grasped his shoulders and hauled him up, dragging him across the yard.

  “Chain him to the pole,” Davis commanded, “and get me my whip.”

  “I’ll take it all,” Hardy cried as he was dragged through the dirt. “I’ll take for all of them.”

  The overseer scoffed and looked back at the coal-stained convicts, who’d all fallen silent at Hardy’s cries.

  “You want to take the cat-o-nine-tails for this sorry lot?” Davis asked as a solider handed him his favourite weapon. “So be it, boy. Fifty lashes…and I’ll count every one.”

  If it were any other occasion, Hardy would’ve laughed at the overseer calling him a boy. He was a grown man at twenty-five and aged beyond his years thanks to life at Port Arthur.

  He grit his teeth as the solders chained him to the pole at the head of the clearing. They tore off his threadbare shirt and hoisted his arms above his head, fixing him in place. The soldier to his right had the grace to give him a look filled with shame, knowing the sorry state Hardy would be in after…if he survived. The man seemed regretful for his part but did nothing to stop it.

  Hardy pressed his forehead against the pole, waiting for the sting of leather to open his already scarred back. Many men would have taken that moment to think about their loved ones, but he thought of nothing at all.

  As the first lash landed, the whole bush seemed to fall silent as the whip crack echoed.

  “One,” Davis declared.

  The leather bit into his back again.

  “Two.”

  Warm stone pressed against Hardy’s cheek, his eyes wide and unseeing in the pitch-black of the solitary cell that lay deep within the coal mine.

  His breath came in shallow gasps, the only motion that didn’t send fire coursing through his body. The air seemed thin and thick at the same time, but he barely cared.

  Death seemed like it was calling, and he was glad. He never dared to take his own life for fear of damning his soul, so Davis had done him a favour.

  His back had been seen to and bandaged, but his care had only been rudimentary. Why waste precious medical supplies on a troublesome convict when the well-to-do families back in Port Arthur needed it more.

  “What a sorry sight,” a voice murmured from the darkness. “A truly pitiful soul left to die in a wretched hole.”

  He didn’t move. There was no one here. He was down in the mine alone, and his fevered mind was playing tricks on him. It wasn’t the first he’d heard unknown voices in the dark and it wouldn’t be the last…if he survived his latest sojourn in solitary confinement.

  “Your wounds are festering,” the voice said. “I can smell the sickly rot of infection in the air.” The unknown man sighed. “Not that there’s much of that in this God forsaken hole.”

  Hardy ran his tongue over his cracked bottom lip and tasted sweat, blood, and charcoal.

  The sound of metal squeaking echoed through the cell—an oil lantern—and warmth permeated the darkness. The sudden light, meagre as it was, blinded him, and Hardy blinked furiously as his vision adjusted.

  Hardy now saw his visitor clearly. He’d crouched beside the convict and looked down upon him with cold eyes. His hair was dark and close-cropped, and his face was clean shaven, which was a stark contrast to the long, full beards the men of the colonies preferred. His eyes were big and round, the irises so dark they appe
ared black, and his clothing… The unknown man was the cleanest, most presentable man Hardy had ever seen outside of the officers themselves.

  What was a man like that doing in his cell, two hundred metres underground in a stinking coal mine?

  The man smiled, revealing the whitest teeth Hardy had ever seen. “I’ve been watching you, Frederick Hardy.”

  “W-who…” The words barely made it out of him.

  The man didn’t seem to hear. “What did you do to warrant transportation?”

  “I stole.”

  “What?”

  Hardy coughed and the rough stone cut into his cheek.

  The stranger snarled and grasped the convict’s threadbare shirt, hauling him up off the ground. “What did you steal, convict?”

  Hardy cried out as pain seared through his back. His heartbeat began to quicken as he found the words tumbling from his mouth unbidden. “Medicine for my sister.”

  “Medicine for your sister.” The man’s lip curled as if he was disappointed. “Well, at least your spirit is broken. I would have preferred a little murder and mayhem in you, but it’s been a long time since I’ve shaped a clean slate.”

  Hardy barely understood what the man was saying. His head spun with pain, and his ears buzzed from the lack of oxygen in his cell. There were many questions he should have asked the stranger, but he lacked the sensibilities.

  “The wretched make the best vampires,” the man murmured, gazing upon him with unfeeling eyes. “When I save them from their misery, they become so thankful that they would follow me to the ends of the Earth if I command it. Will you be grateful?” The man smirked and trailed a finger over Hardy’s charcoal-smeared forehead. Holding up his finger, he peered at the blackened grime. “I think you will be.” He shoved the convict away.

  Hardy landed on his back, bellowing in agony as his ruined flesh tore. The man poured hot liquid into his mouth and he gagged as a sickening copper taste hit his tongue. Blood.

  Hardy spat, gagging and gasping, desperate to rid himself of the foul stuff, but the man had other ideas.

  “Swallow, you fool,” he hissed, forcing Hardy’s mouth closed. “Swallow and live.”