The Cait Lennox Box Set

by Roderick Donald

  Cait Lennox: femme fatale series

  The Awakening - the prequel

  The Mind Controller

  The Assassin’s Apprentice

  “…freakin’ fantastic…Cait is a kick-a** leading lady…superbly written.”

  Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer

  Roderick Donald

  The Awakening - the prequel

  This must-read tale is the prequel to the heroine, Cait, later morphing into a ruthless femme fatale with amazing Otherworld powers in the actual Cait Lennox: femme fatale series. Discover how Cait found The Gift and meet many of the characters who appear in the series.

  The steroid-pumped man was all tattoos, swagger, and attitude. He appeared to have no neck, just massive shoulders topped by an ugly, shaved head and he occupied a space that said “don’t mess with me.” This was one mean mother who oozed aggression.

  And at 12:30 at night he was rushing on speed and ice, and itching for a fight.

  “Hey you fuckin’ curry muncher. What you lookin’ at? You don’t have the right to walk these streets. Why don’t you piss off and go back to the shithole you crawled out of.” The Thug was all bravado and machismo in front of his two subordinates, who were diligently following a pace behind.

  “Yeah arsehole, why don’t you fuck off,” mimicked Subordinate Number One. “You’re a lowlife.” The Thug-in-training was one of those people who, if he actually had a brain, would find it lonely inside his head.

  Rishi was walking down Robe Street in the Melbourne bayside suburb of St Kilda after having seen his friend Jason’s band play at the Espy. The tiff he’d just had with Cait was still bouncing around inside his head, confusion dominating his thoughts as he recalled her harsh comments, and The Thug and his lackeys caught him totally by surprise. In fact, he hadn’t noticed the three of them until right at the last minute. Rishi was streetwise, and had he seen them approaching in the distance, he would have crossed the road.

  As The Thug grunted his threats, Rishi’s stomach sank and he became aware of an involuntarily wetness between his legs. He suddenly felt about as safe as a gerbil in a pit of vipers.

  Oh shit, this is bad. Really bad. The thought blared in his head like a siren warning of impending disaster.

  He spun around to run. But Subordinate Number Two had already darted behind Rishi and let fly with a left hook, hitting him hard on the back of his head, just behind his right ear.

  Rishi’s head lurched forward violently, and he staggered a few steps toward The Thug.

  “Well, lookee here. What have we got? A gook who wants to party,” mocked The Thug, smiling, revealing a mouth that was missing more than a few teeth.

  The blow had caught Rishi unawares. Feeling no real pain, the only telltale sign was an aching that soon gave way to numbness in the back of his head. Rishi stumbled, dazed and unable to react. The Thug casually walked up beside him, laughed, and pushed him backward into Subordinate Number Two.

  “Hey boss, this black boy’s having difficulty walking a straight line. I think you need to teach him a lesson,” said Subordinate Number Two, amused at Rishi’s distress. He shoved Rishi forward again. But this time it was toward Subordinate Number One, who was standing slightly off to the left, bouncing up and down like a jack-in-the-box that had just been released from its cramped home. Subordinate Number One was strutting from left to right, shadowboxing. As Rishi came close, he let fly with a forceful left-right combination.

  “Useless prick.”

  Rishi grunted as the lightning-fast punches landed, cracking two ribs and leaving him winded.

  “Hey, this lowlife’s as soft as putty. This is fun.”

  Lashing out with a well-placed tae kwon do kick, Subordinate Number One then caught Rishi just below his left shoulder, doing no damage but sending him violently back toward The Thug.

  “Boss, he’s all yours.” Subordinate Number One let loose a high-pitched cackle that made him sound like a chipmunk on helium gas.

  “Fucking wog.” The Thug threw a right hook, connecting perfectly with Rishi’s left temple, knocking his head sideways as if it were a speed ball bag.

  Rishi staggered.

  The Thug immediately followed with an unforgiving left cross to Rishi’s opposite cheek.

  Blood flew through the air in an arc, the crimson spots splattering across the front of The Thug’s once-white T-shirt. Rishi’s head bounced backward as if on a spring. With a grunt and then a sigh, he dropped, lifeless.

  Landing heavily on the concrete path, Rishi’s head bounced off the pavement with a sickening thud.

  “Whoa-ho, will you look at that,” said The Thug. “He’s fallen over.”

  Rishi was semiconscious. He was only vaguely aware of a deep ache in the back of his head and a warm sensation on the side of his face. Then with blood puddling under his neck, the world went black—as dark as the angel of death.

  Time to put the boots in.

  The Thug walked clockwise around his target, sizing him up and nudging him roughly with one of his calf-length biker boots.

  “Prick’s dead to the world.” He was opposite Rishi’s hip, and lifting his right leg, he stomped down hard on Rishi’s thigh.

  No response.

  “Fuck it!” said The Thug, disappointed. “Prick’s spoiling all the fun.”

  “Yeah Boss,” replied Subordinate Number One excitedly. “Good left-right combination, eh. Boom, boom, ya dead.”

  “Arsehole!” The Thug drew his leg back, psyching himself up for the headshot. He thought to himself, A size twelve to the jaw will knock out a few teeth and teach the wog a big lesson.

  “Hey, you! . . . leave that person alone! . . . stop that!” yelled an authoritative voice from the shadows.

  A group of friends were walking around the corner just as Rishi had been knocked out. Seventy-five meters up the street they saw some poor guy about to get the living bejesus kicked out of him and they reacted. But this wasn’t any ordinary group of partygoers; instead it was four men and two women who were celebrating after just having graduated from the police academy, full of well-meaning intentions and a social conscience.

  And the newly graduated cops weren’t about to back off. They had all taken a pledge only yesterday to devote their life to upholding the law and citizen’s rights, and there was a serious crime being committed, right in front of them.

  And this was their first real-life action as fully-fledged cops, even if they were off duty.

  They sprinted toward the fray. “Stop. Police . . . hey, stop right there.”

  The Thug was currently on parole after having finished an eighteen-month stint inside for robbery and aggravated assault, and there was no way he was going to have a run-in with the cops. Not now. So he spun around and bolted, his mates the usual one pace behind, following him like the sheep that they were.

  There’s plenty more gooks where this one came from, he thought as he ran down the street, away from Rishi’s white knights. The prick’s not worth another stint in the slammer for.

  The flashing lights of the ambulance danced off the walls of the darkened buildings, sharpening corners and lending an eerie, threatening depth to the shadowy recesses out of reach of the darting orange glow.

  “So what happened here?” said the paramedic to the newly graduated cop, who was kneeling over Rishi, cradling his head to keep his cervical spine straight.

  The cop proudly flashed her new badge.

  Rishi was now semiconscious, groaning between labored breaths and slowly moving his legs. Following basic first aid procedures, since Rishi was unconscious when they initially arrived, the cops checked his breathing and vital signs then rolled him onto his side into the recovery position to keep his airways open and
unobstructed. One of the graduates put on a pair of latex gloves she happened to be carrying with her, and applying pressure to Rishi’s head wound to stem the bleeding, quietly comforted him as he was regaining consciousness while someone else called for help.

  Using their newly granted influence, an ambulance arrived in six minutes.

  “The victim was attacked approximately ten minutes ago. We witnessed him being knocked to the ground after being hit with a punch to the right side of his head by a male who ran off. The victim was unconscious when we first got to him. His vital signs are positive, airways clear, breathing is labored but regular, and there are signs of bleeding from a head injury of some sort.”

  “Thanks for the report. Now please, stand back and clear the area so we’ve room to work. And keep the onlookers back.” The flashing lights of the ambulance were beginning to attract an audience like flies to a dog turd.

  The ambulance driver had already opened the rear doors of his ambulance, making it look more like the jaws of a mythical beast set to devour its prey than an angel of mercy. Emerging with a neck brace and spine board under one arm and an oxygen cylinder in the other, he joined his partner, who had already hastily applied a dressing to Rishi’s head and was now manually immobilizing Rishi’s upper spine until a cervical collar could be applied. He was talking to Rishi at the same time to establish his condition and level of discomfort as a way of concurrently obtaining Rishi’s Glasgow Coma Scale score.

  The paramedic mentally gave Rishi a score of eleven out of a possible fifteen.

  Not good, but he’d seen worse.

  He’s a bit disoriented but he appears to be coming around, thought the paramedic. I’m not happy with the blow to the lad’s head. Hopefully he’s just got a concussion.

  “The victim’s name is Rishi and he was assaulted approximately fifteen minutes ago,” the paramedic said to his partner. “BP eighty-two over fifty, pulse ninety-five, breathing shallow and rapid but regular. He needs oxygen, eight liters per minute.” The paramedic who was attending to Rishi was calling the shots.

  “Headache with some pain in his left jaw and right ribs, but no need for analgesia at this stage.” The two paramedics were working in sync as if they were one.

  “Rishi, we’re going to place a small IV needle into your arm in case we need to give you some fluids, so you may feel a prick. Just relax, okay. Then we’ll roll you over onto this stretcher and put a neck brace on you. Do you understand all that?”

  “Yeah, but can’t I just get up?” Rishi heard himself speak, but it was as if someone else was talking.

  “Rishi, you’ve got a head injury and you can never be too careful. It’s best if you just lie there and let us do the work.”

  “Yeah . . . whatever.”

  “So now we’re going to roll you over onto your back. Then we’ll take you to the emergency room so you can be checked out, okay? So just leave it all to us. You’re in good hands.”

  As the two paramedics logrolled Rishi onto the spine board, the one caring for him quickly ran his hands over Rishi from head to toe, checking for any other injuries while his partner provided manual neck support until they could fit the neck brace. Once the cervical collar was in place the driver rushed back to his ambulance and began radioing in to the emergency department at The Alfred Hospital, leaving the other paramedic busily strapping Rishi to the spine board and stabilizing his neck.

  “Patient sustained a head injury following a punch to the face then fell backward, hitting his head on the ground. Loss of consciousness for three minutes. Current GCS eleven. Deep laceration above left eye. Pulse one-zero-five. BP eighty over fifty-two. Respiration shallow, rapid, regular. Been given eight liters oxygen. No analgesia. Pupils dilated and uneven. Evidence of concussion. Require a trauma cubicle. ETA ten minutes.”

  After loading Rishi into the ambulance, the treating paramedic began checking Rishi’s vital signs once more and started hooking him up to an IV drip while the driver mentally calculated the quickest way out of the maze of one-way streets and dead ends that made up this part of St Kilda.

  “Makes you feel good to be able to help, doesn’t it?” said one of the rookie cops to her friend as they watched the reflected glow of the flashing lights from the ambulance speeding off around the corner.

  “Yeah, that’s what it’s all about, I suppose.”

  THREE HOURS EARLIER

  The door bitch at The Espy was her usual officious self. Backed up by two bulky men in black beside her, the curly cables of their earpieces resembling small worms disappearing down their backs, she was full of bravado, claiming ownership of the ten square meters at the base of the stairs, plus as much of the sidewalk as she could steal. Cait, Rishi, Dec, and Justin smugly flashed their invitations with a “we’re with the band so don’t even think about knocking us back” look, and then walked straight inside without another glance at her.

  The closer they got to the Gershwin Room where Justin’s brother Jason was scheduled to play with his garage band GrafX, the more the heavy bass of the house music vibrated through their bodies.

  “Holy crap, can you feel that, Rishi?” said Dec to his sister Cait’s university friend.

  “Sure can. The music’s running up my spine and blowing a hole in the top of my head. Feel like I’m vibrating across the floor.”

  The repetitive electronic beat came into its own as they walked inside and were hit by the steamy, perfumed air, the music assaulting them with a cacophony of sound that shot around the room from speaker to speaker as if they were in a gigantic echo chamber.

  Except instead it was the famously flamboyant Gershwin Room, an intimate rock venue that was a favorite with musicians and audiences alike. An open stage occupied one entire end of the room with only a low dais so it was as if the bands were part of the party crowd; the décor was ornate, reminiscent of an old-style music hall, complete with lashings of elaborate gold gilt and large framed paintings of long-dead people staring down at the revelers. With loads of ornate plaster patterning inlaid into the ceiling and running down the walls, plus a themed bar to the left, complete with baroque motifs, this was one of Melbourne’s iconic pub rock venues at its best.

  And GrafX were about to strut their stuff for a room full of primed rock ’n’ roll fans. Anything could happen—in fact it often did. It was that sort of place.

  “Cait! Cait! Over here,” gushed Nat, who was talking to her twin sister Jen next to the bar. “Oh, it’s soooo good to see you. You look gorgeous as usual.” Throwing her arms around Cait’s neck in an over-the-top show of affection, they air-kissed, brushing their cheeks together.

  Before Cait even had time to say hi, Nat turned her attention to the others. She had a soft spot for Cait’s brother Dec and at times wondered if they could be an item, but so far it had never eventuated.

  “Dec,” Nat said as she grabbed Dec’s hand, “and Rishi, Justin. Great to see you guys again. It’s time to party. Whoop whoop!”

  With that she dragged the four of them over to the bar where Jen was lining up shots for some of her hard-partying friends who already had a head start, judging by their outlandish behavior and loud laughter. She was looking stunning as usual in a red dress that was so tight, it must have been painted on. The plunging neckline displayed a generous amount of cleavage and was so short that if she took a deep breath, well, you just had to hope she wouldn’t flash the room.

  “Jen, look who’s here! Some of my favorite people,” yelled Nat to her sister over the deafening music. “Now buy them a drink and line up those shots, girl! Got to start the party with a big bang, my dad always says.”

  Nat and Jen had a seemingly limitless credit card each, courtesy of their father Steve, who was also Cait’s godfather, and the two families and their kids were best of friends.

  As Nat turned, sashaying back to her buddies, Justin and Dec followed her with lustful eyes. Her five-inch, shimmering silver stilettos lengthened her legs almost to the point of being ridiculous, and he
r black dress was equally as formfitting as her twin’s.

  “Now that’s sex on a stick, Jus,” said Dec, staring, momentarily transfixed. Rishi followed suit and glanced over in Nat’s direction, then quickly diverted his gaze back to Cait.

  “The twins may be hot, Cait,” said Rishi, his mouth so close to Cait’s ear that he found himself intoxicated with the fresh lemon floral scent of her perfume as it wafted up to greet him, “but they’re just so out there.”

  “What? They’re beautiful,” yelled Cait.

  “Nah, you missed the point. The difference is that you’ve got class; they’ve just got sex appeal.”

  “Whatever,” replied Cait, almost brushing off Rishi’s attempt at a compliment as an annoyance.

  “Hey guys, look but don’t touch. My sister’s taken, remember,” said Jen, drawing their attention back to herself with a flip of her head so her long brunette hair flicked off her face and then bounced around her shoulders. The bling around her wrist caught the light and shot multicolored sparkles across the ceiling, making it look like a diamond-studded night sky.

  “Here guys, first drink of the evening. Suck on this,” said Jen with a tongue-in-cheek inflection. “A Wet Pussy to start the evening. Yeah.”

  The hot pink shots were lined up on the bar and . . .

  “One, two, three. Go!” Four shots were thrown back in record time, the tiny glasses slamming back down on the bar seconds later, sounding like a rapid-fire machine gun as they made contact one after the other.

  “And now my lovelies, it’s time to go forth and party. Jason’s band is on soon.”

  The music had cranked up a notch as David Guetta played over the sound system—loud, hard-hitting bass which pulsated back through the floor, with multilayered tracks and a shitload of mixed overlaid sound.

  “OMG, it doesn’t get much better than this,” said Cait excitedly to Rishi as Dirty Talk boomed out. Without a second’s hesitation she grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the half-full dance floor and began to strut her stuff. While Nat and Jen were all about glitz and glamour, Cait was a picture of absolute refined elegance. Skintight white dress, as short as short could be, yes; long strawberry blonde hair kissing her shoulders and draping down her back, yes. But somehow she carried the look off with such natural stylishness that she positively glowed on the dance floor.