‘So why are you driving my car? Why didn’t you just take me upstairs? Where are you taking me?’
Hopefully he wouldn’t offer to let me drive. Right now even the frangipani smell blasting in through the broken window turned my stomach.
‘You’re welcome.’ He cast me an ironic look. ‘I didn’t know your entry code and your mother isn’t home so there’s no-one to buzz me in. Plus I didn’t fancy carrying you unconscious past the night guard. You should have stayed in tonight, like I asked. I’m taking you somewhere safe.’ Another glance in the mirror and his brows knitted tighter.
‘My mother!’ I clenched my teeth as he changed lanes. ‘If they know where I live, they’ll find her.’
‘She’s safe enough while she’s with Michael Eisen,’ he said coolly. ‘He’s got security coming out his ears. I sent her a text in your name telling her to stay with him if she wanted. You really should password your phone, you know.’
His long fingers flexed around the steering wheel. Dropping back a gear he accelerated, turning a corner a fraction faster than was wise. I gripped the seat and swallowed again, concentrating on thinking healthy thoughts until he slowed and straightened.
‘Well,’ I managed, raising a leaden arm to shade my eyes against the lights, ‘I’ll tell you this: you need to pull over or I’ll throw up on you.’
Showing great intelligence, he pulled the car off to the side of the road, under the shadow of a broad tree. He doused the lights and watched the rear view for a few seconds before relaxing.
I peered out. We seemed to be somewhere in the suburbs. Groaning I scrabbled at the seat until I managed to slump half upright against the door. It took some careful thought to operate the seat-back mechanism, but I finally raised it to vertical. The last dregs of the sedative seemed to be wearing off.
With clumsy fingers, I flipped open the glovebox and extracted a small bottle of water. Swallowing the luke-warm, tasteless stuff settled my stomach and wet my cottonwool mouth so I could speak properly. I was pretty confident I wasn’t going to chuck.
‘What the hell happened and why should I believe whatever you tell me?’ I wasn’t in the mood to be polite. ‘You already lied to me once.’
He ignored that jibe. ‘You were mugged again. The groaning bodies suggested you handled it ok – again. I particularly enjoyed seeing the twitching guy, by the way. I was tempted to kill him, but dead bodies bring cops and I’m sure neither of us want that.’ He shrugged, slewing in the seat so he faced me. ‘As for believing me, well, that’s your choice. I can only tell you what I know, which isn’t much.’ The orange overhead streetlight cast shadows, emphasising strong cheekbones and jaw. ‘Twice is a little odd, don’t you think? Did you know any of them?’
‘A little odd? That’s an understatement. No, I don’t know them.’ I rubbed my thumbs into my temples, pressing against the fuzziness muddling my thoughts. Angular, deep eyesockets, short, dark hair, somewhere in his thirties. ‘But I’ll recognise the one I tased. The one who darted me.’ I took another swallow of water, washing away the bitter taste of anger and fear. ‘And when I find him, he’ll frigging well regret this.’
My rescuer, if he could be called that, didn’t reply. He checked the rear-view mirror again, watching it for long enough that I turned to scan the road behind. Either we weren’t followed, or our tail had parked. I couldn’t see anyone.
‘How do you feel?’
His quiet question retrieved my attention but he wasn’t watching me. His eyes were still on the mirror.
‘Like I’ve been beaten with very large, heavy pillows and had my brain replaced with their stuffing. Thanks for asking. How long was I out?’
‘About fifteen minutes.’ He caught my apprehensive peek out the back window. The suburban street was still dark and quiet. ‘We’re somewhere on the northside. We weren’t followed.’
He held a phone. My phone. Before I could protest, he pulled the battery out of it and dropped it back into my handbag in two parts. I shut my mouth and checked his body language for threat. Disassembling my phone stopped anyone tracking me…and stopped me making calls.
‘And now they shouldn’t be able to ping you,’ he said. ‘What about the car gps?’
‘I disabled it the day we rented the car. So, who are you again? And who are “they”? And why are you acting like this is perfectly normal?’ I scowled at him.
I should be grateful. It was just difficult to work up any emotion other than suspicion at him and anger at my attackers. But my mother had drilled manners into me, so I tried.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you getting me out of there, but why did you do it? And I know the “just happened past” is bullshit. I saw your bike when Paul brought me home. Why did you follow me? Where do you fit into this?’
‘Into what?’ He raised a brow, just visible in the orange half-light.
‘Yes,’ I growled. ‘Exactly. What?’
8
I don’t think she knows her heritage, or who’s after her.
I think you could be wrong about that. I don’t think they’re after her just because of what she is. They haven’t been nearly this circumspect with the others. They could easily have killed her both times. I think they want her alive and undamaged. We need to find out why if we’re going to have the advantage. I’m going to bring her to you.
I stared out the window, ignoring the cookie cutter rows of houses with curtains flashing blue-white as government-approved, televised brain-junkfood went on behind them. Tugging at my lower lip I re-ran the attack.
Outside MJE must have been a first attempt. They’d upped the ante tonight to make sure I’d go down. Who the hell were those guys? Had the guy who’d been in Christchurch, and darted me tonight, also been in Japan? Maybe I just hadn’t seen him?
‘Logan.’ Fynn extended a hand. I flinched back in non-comprehension. ‘My real name is Logan,’ he repeated. ‘I lied. Twice. Sorry.’
Logan Litson? The comic-book, alliterated hero-name did nothing to ease my suspicions. His real name? Why was he living here under a false name? And what prompted him to give me the real one, if it actually was, now? Something was off here. So off it stank. I kept my hands safely tucked into my folded arms. I didn’t want to touch him in case it triggered another reaction. It would be nice to know his intentions but my head was too fuzzy to handle it right now. I might say something and things were already complicated enough.
‘What do you want?’ It wasn’t the friendliest reply but I wasn’t feeling inclined to be friendly. It’d been a buzz-wrecking end to a half-decent evening and I disliked being in anyone’s debt.
His face hardened. ‘I want to know who you are. Do you know?’ He mirrored my pose, folding his arms.
Irritation cleared the last dregs of fog. ‘That’s a stupid question. Of course I do. I was sedated not concussed. I also know I’m not some pathetic princess waiting to be rescued. All I need from you is what you know about the ocair. After that, feel free to find the nearest taxi and go back for your bike. Appreciate the help but I’m fine. Thanks.’
He examined me in silence then shifted, moving in until we were eye to eye. I leaned away, head pressed against the window glass. Putting my hands out to fend him off, I encountered warm, smooth muscle barely masked by the thin cloth of his t-shirt. I snatched my hands back. He seemed unmoved. His gaze skimmed the contours of my face. It was unnerving.
His mouth twisted into a grimace. His eyes gleamed with unshared knowledge.
‘Interesting. You don’t know who you are, do you?’ He stared briefly out the front window, his eyes glazing. Then he shrugged. ‘Would you like to? And you’re not fine, by the way.’
‘I do know. No. And I damned well am,’ I replied, glad of the distraction. ‘I’ve managed to get along for eighteen ignorant years without your opinions so you can keep them to yourself now. You have no idea who I am
. Tell me what I need to know so I can get these bastards off my case, then get out.’ I put my hands back on his chest, intending to push him away.
He gripped both my wrists. I twisted against the weakest part of his grip. His fingers tightened and he countered easily, teeth flashing white in the half-shadowed space. What the...?
‘Let go, Litson. I don’t want to hurt you.’ I glared at him, trying to ignore the adrenalin-fuelled racing of my heart. The sedative must be still affecting me. No-one had ever been able to stop me from breaking a grip. No-one.
The tension in his face eased into irony. ‘Give it your best shot.’
I pursed my lips and repeated in a no-nonsense tone, ‘Let. Go.’
He drew me even closer, until we were just a few centimetres apart.
I ought to feel threatened, but didn’t. I ought to be afraid, but wasn’t. I froze, breathing in the scent of his skin. The warm, solid strength of him exerted a powerful attraction and, just for one insane moment, I knew an urge to lean against his calm strength and rest. He peered into my eyes intently then touched the centre of my forehead with a fingertip.
A shock snapped into my head, as though he’d built up a static charge and touching me discharged it straight into my brain. My body jerked and sagged. I grabbed at the dashboard for support. Random images popped into my mind like a movie played at an indecipherably high speed. Images of people I’d never seen, places I’d never been. Someone else’s life flared behind my eyes. I couldn’t hold them and they vanished, leaving a vague feeling that some part of my brain wasn’t quite under my control; locked away and inaccessible. I’d always felt that way but had never known what was missing until it was, for the briefest moment, there.
A baseball bat made of pure, thought-killing pain slammed into my head, turning my brain to mush and agony. I pressed my temples in a vain effort to squeeze the pain out. Biting my lip was a distraction at best. I whimpered and tried to resist the urge to curl into a small ball around the hurt and just die.
‘Dammit. That wasn’t meant to happen.’ Logan shifted, gunning the engine. ‘You won’t want to go to a hospital. I’ll get you to someone who can help.’
‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I just need somewhere dark and cool to sleep for a while. Then I’ll be ok. If you move the car I’ll throw up.’ The thought of it made me choke.
He swore and pulled out into the street anyway. Brilliant streetlights stabbed through my closed eyelids and I couldn’t help the tears of despair that slipped beneath my lashes, even as I hated myself for such weakness. Every bump in the road sliced like a dagger in the brain. Where was he taking me?
I flailed at his leg. ‘Leave me. I’ll sleep in the car.’
‘Don’t be any more stupid than you have to be. You can’t stay in a car. Not in this condition. Not even you,’ he said. ‘You’d suffocate in this heat. I know someone who can help. She’s a doctor but not mainstream. Dammit, Rowan, stop!’
That car ride was worse, even, than the drive with Paul, for Logan was far less careful around the corners. Twice he pulled over so I could throw up. At some point we stopped and he lifted me into a different car; bigger, more comfortable, smoother. Helpless, I couldn’t even walk, let alone take the chance to run.
‘Hang in there, Rowan,’ Logan murmured, helping me into the back seat. ‘Not far now. We’ll be out of town soon, so it should get easier.’ He climbed in beside me. I lay on my side, aching head on his leg, his fingers warm on my shoulder. Someone else drove. I didn’t care who.
Eventually, the quality of light torturing me changed, becoming cooler and darker, almost soothing. Voices swirled around me, shifting in and out of hearing, sometimes even sounding like they echoed inside my skull. The words made no sense. They spoke a different language, one I almost understood, but not quite. The effort of trying to understand made me retch.
Logan lifted me out of the car. Too-bright lights shone through my closed lids. I groaned and covered my eyes. The lights flicked out and the voices softened to a murmur. Logan deposited me gently on a bed not my own, but I didn’t care. The voices stopped. An airconditioner hummed in the silence that followed.
The bed dipped. A cool cloth descended over my aching forehead and eyes and I managed an inarticulate thanks. Seconds later, an arm slid under my back, raising me. Protesting faintly, I tried to push away, but he gripped me tightly.
‘I told you not to be stupid. Drink this. It’ll help,’ Logan’s impatient voice ordered. ‘Yes, I’ll let you sleep when you’ve drunk it all. It’s just herbal tea with clematis and a little willowbark – good for migraines. Synthetic painkillers don’t work well do they? No, didn’t think so. Drink. Good girl.’
I swallowed the bitter liquid. How did he know about the painkillers? He laid me back on the blessedly soft pillows. Cool fingers stroked my temples, draining the pain as I sank into oblivion.
Just before sleep swamped me, fear resurfaced.
He’d called me ‘Rowan’. My real name.
It is remarkably silent this high up – apart from the faint whistling of a warm tropical breeze that steals my breath; breath rushing harshly from my lips. My heart is oddly slow, as though it hasn’t yet realised the danger. Wind, breath and the slow, steady pulse of blood in my veins; that’s all I can hear. Oh…and the sound of soft, triumphant laughter from the man holding my arm so tightly.
Man? Is it a man, or some sort of ghost? I’m not sure now. Not sure how I got here. Not sure if he’ll keep holding on, or if he’ll let go. I crane my neck to try and see his face but it’s shadowed. All I see is the gleam of a pale eye and the white-tipped fingers of a tanned, strong hand.
I glance down and regret it. The street is a long, long way below.
He lets go.
If only I could fly.
I awoke with a scream of fear strangled in my throat. Sitting up in the half-light, I clutched at the bedclothes, heart racing. I struggled against the remnants of the dream.
A light snapped on. A pair of arms wrapped around me. Weren’t they the same tanned, strong hands that held my life over the edge of a building; the same hands that dropped me? I shoved against their binding strength and scrambled away from the bed, staring in suspicion at the man who occupied it.
Tousled and bleary-looking, Logan yawned at me, rubbing his eyes. He swung long, jeans-clad legs off the bed. He only was half-dressed. As was I. He must have taken off my dress, leaving me in underwear and a white, lacy bra.
On a small table nearby, a plate and empty glass spoke of someone’s late-night meal. I edged closer and palmed the butter knife, hefting the weight. My handbag sat on a chair not far away. My dress was nowhere to be seen.
‘What is it? Your head?’ Logan pushed his fingers through his dark hair and glanced at the clock. Red numbers glowed six am. The morning light crept between shutters closed across the window.
‘No.’ I took another step away, closer to where my handbag rested. ‘No, it was just…a dream, I guess.’
I flipped the knife over. Not the most effective edged weapon, but better than nothing.
‘Put the knife down,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. If I was, I’d’ve done it already.’
‘I know,’ I said reasonably, ‘because if you try I’ll take your eye out with it.’
He raised one brow and slid off the other side of the bed with his hands up in surrender but no hint of it in his cool, grey eyes. I retreated. A white wicker chair caught the back of my knees and I half-fell into the seat. My head was remarkably pain-free though post-migraine lassitude made my movements clumsy and slow. Now I needed to shake the lingering adrenalin from falling so I could think clearly.
Walking slowly around the bed, Logan then knelt before me, plucked the knife from me and regarded me like a doctor making a diagnosis.
‘You know I’m not going to hurt you.’ He flipped the butter knife at a wooden board on the far side of the room. It stuck firmly in the timber, leaving one more amongst dozens of simil
ar cuts in the surface.
His distance softened to understanding and his eyes narrowed as he inspected my face. ‘Migraine gone? You look better.’
I nodded, leaning away from him. I touched my own hair, short and wildly messy. My wig hung over the back of a nearby chair. Logan’s mouth quirked in a slight, wry grin.
He flicked an auburn curl with one fingertip. ‘It suits you better than brown, I have to say.’
I remained silent, exposed and vulnerable. No-one but my mother had seen my real hair and eye colour since I was four.
Seeking to change the subject away from myself, I studied the dimly lit room. Timber-slatted window shutters let strips of light fall in patterns of light and shade across the rumpled double-bed. A white ceiling fan turned lazily up near the high ceiling, but the room was cool enough not to need it. The floors were polished timber, the walls tongue-and-groove, white-painted timber, the furnishings a hodge-podge of old colonial and shabby-chic white wicker. Not a motel room.
‘Where am I and why are we in the same bed?’ My voice came out a little more panicked-sounding than I intended. I quashed fear. It wasn’t helpful.
He seemed unfazed. ‘You’re at our weekend place on up on the Tablelands. You needed to be away from people and town.’
That made no sense and sounded a lot like kidnapping.
‘We’re not kidnapping you,’ he said gently, ‘and I didn’t want you to freak when you woke up in a strange place so I stayed here with you. There’s only three bedrooms, anyway. This is mine.’
I grabbed a cushion, holding it before my body, shivering with more than the pre-dawn cool. ‘Who’s “we”?’
He jerked his head at the door. ‘I told you. I live with my aunt, Maeve, and my cousin, Jennifer. They’re still asleep in the other rooms.’
Relics and Runes Anthology Page 67
