And they were on the move now. Coming closer, fast.
She stumbled sideways, pushing a big guy with a guitar case strapped to his back into the path of a giant luggage bag. He tripped, sprawling, crash-tackling another man who had two young boys in tow. The children shouted in surprise and people began to stare.
And even though her brain felt as frozen as the rest of her innards, Samantha knew she had to make her move. She couldn’t outrun them. Even if she did manage to make it through this crowd and bolt screaming for help, Kirra was so super-fast she’d be on top of her, have her sedated and have a convincing story for the authorities before they had any idea what was going on.
It’s now or never, Sam thought. She squeezed her eyes shut and conjured up memories of Lala, Esmeralda, Bo and Mirela. And then of Tamas and their legs tangled together in the ghost train. A searing wave of homesickness and love instantly blasted the ice from her stomach. She amplified the feelings, whipping them faster and faster into a burning sphere that roiled within her, a mushrooming, molten mass of emotion that she knew she could not hold inside much longer. With no idea whether it would work, and feeling as if surely people around her could see she was irradiated, she bent forward, as though to help the men she’d knocked over.
Instead, she said, ‘My name is Mirela. And I’m the most famous movie star in the world.’
She spoke as loudly as she could manage, and she was sure that only a few people could have heard her. But it would have to do. The energy inside her demanded urgent release. She stood up straight, focused on the heat, and pushed.
The sphere of light exploded and for a mind-blowing second she felt as though she’d splintered into a billion points of energy. She stood there, trembling. Unable to breathe, let alone think clearly, she wondered whether it had worked.
And then the screaming began.
***
Sam cried out as the mob swarmed her. She couldn’t hear her own voice, and the sound made absolutely no difference to the noise level – the decibels were already through the roof. All of them had their mouths wide open, screaming and sobbing her name – well, not her name. Mirela’s. Mirela had always wanted to be famous, so she’d used hers at the last minute. But not even Mirela would want this much adoration.
The only thing keeping the pack of hysterical people from tearing her apart was the big bloke with the guitar case and the man she’d pushed over, both of them using their luggage as battering rams to keep people back.
What have I done?
Sam could feel that the men saw themselves as her personal bodyguards and would die fighting before they’d let anyone touch her. Unfortunately, that was beginning to look like a possibility. The crowd was in an absolute frenzy. They surged forward, and hands from everywhere reached for her. She screamed again when, from behind her, someone grabbed a fistful of her hair. She stumbled backwards, and, panicked, struggled to stand upright before she was dragged into the crowd. Too late. Whoever it was had a full handful of her hair, and terrified, face streaming with tears, she was yanked into the riot.
Blurred body parts. People kissing her, groping her, trying to shred her jacket, rip her bag away from her – its strap digging into the skin of her neck. They fought each other, scratching and punching, scrabbling and climbing to reach her. And their emotions – lust, greed, envy and an insane desire to possess her, to be her – choked her airways, until she lost all sense of direction, of who she was. Her senses reached maximum capacity and tripped out. She no longer knew whether she was standing or being carried along, upside down. And she felt nothing. Nothing more than a faint sense of regret that she was about to be torn apart and she would never again get to kiss Tamas.
Dimly, she heard air sirens. The hands around her stopped grasping as people covered their ears, trying to block out the noise, moaning and wailing. Samantha was sure she was doing the same thing, but it just didn’t seem to matter any more.
And then she saw the commandos. Heading straight for her, two blue-uniformed men with buzz-cut scalps and necks the size of her waist cut through the crowd like butter. They had batons in their hands and ear-mikes to their mouths, and they seemed oblivious to the deafening roar of the sirens. The darker-skinned of the two reached her first, and with a single arm, scooped her up from the tangle of writhing people around her and slung her over his shoulder.
Bumping along upside down, peeking under a boulder-like bicep, Samantha saw three things.
She saw that they were marching straight for the exit to the airport – outside, into Sydney.
She saw that standing in a cordoned-off section by the doors, Kirra, Scarface and company did not look happy.
And she also saw that waiting outside the doors were three vehicles resembling army tanks, with the letters AFP stencilled across the front. She recognised the acronym from the airport website – Australian Federal Police. She’d read that they were trained to handle just about any terrorist situation, and she figured that even the ninjas were a little under-equipped right now.
A wave of relief washed over her. Looks like I’m going to make it out of here today, after all.
When she and the man-mountain were parallel to the barricade, Samantha raised her head, exhausted.
With the very last of her energy, she gave Kirra a smile and a special single-digit salute.
***
Samantha pressed her chipped, orange-painted fingernails into the flesh of her palms. She tried to smile at Mason and Ruben, the two AFP officers who’d just dragged her out of the deliriously murderous crowd.
Mason and Ruben. They smiled back at her, eyes glazed, goofy-looking.
I really must learn to control whatever it is I did back there, she thought. I wonder when it wears off?
The relief she’d felt at escaping the mob and the ninjas had dissipated, and now she was beginning to wonder how on earth she was going to get out of the back of this truck. She took another look around the insides of the AFP urban military vehicle. With bench seating for maybe twelve normal people and six Mason-Ruben-sized people, the rest of the space was occupied by computer screens, blinking lights, riot shields, facemasks and racks of weapons. She could hear the muffled sound of rain beating down on the armoured truck.
She stopped forcing her fingernails into her palm when she felt them break the skin.
‘Um, this is a great… place you have here,’ she said.
Mason grinned wider. His blond hair was cut so close to his skull he seemed bald. She imagined that would look pretty scary to a bad guy, especially when the body underneath the bald head was the size of a fridge-freezer combo.
‘But I think you can send the other cars away now,’ she said to Ruben, the other giant, who’d slung her over his shoulder and carried her through the airport.
Ruben looked as though he could bench press the truck. And like he ate a whole cow for breakfast. He pressed a finger to his ear.
‘Yeah, we got her,’ he said quietly into his mike. ‘Make sure the crowd’s dispersed and then report back to base. Roger that.’
He swung his face back towards her, awaiting further command.
Cool, she thought, in spite of herself. My own private tank. The thought gave her another idea.
‘Um, Ruben,’ she said. She felt Mason sulking because she hadn’t talked to him. ‘And Mason,’ she continued.
He snapped his eyes to hers, gave her full attention.
‘There are these four fans in there who kinda follow me everywhere,’ she said. ‘And they’ve been a little, um, threatening. I wonder whether your guys could ask them to…’
‘Describe them,’ they said, in unison.
So she did. It wasn’t too difficult. Two minutes later, Ruben had issued instructions for Kirra and Co to have a bad day at the hands of the AFP.
‘Now, where can we take you?’ said Mason.
‘And where are your handlers?’ said Ruben. ‘Why don’t you have bodyguards here to protect you?’
All very good qu
estions, she thought.
‘Well, there was a mix-up,’ she said, thinking fast. ‘And my entourage ended up booked on the wrong flight, but I absolutely had to get here for an engagement, so I came alone.’
As she spoke, Mason nodded and Ruben shook his head.
‘And they’re all waiting for me at the, um, hotel.’
‘Which hotel?’ said Ruben. ‘We’ll escort you there.’
Samantha just wanted to get out of the truck before the magic spell thing wore off. Problem was, she didn’t know the names of any hotels and she didn’t think these guys would just drop her in the street.
‘Oh, you know, it’s the…’
‘Ritz-Carlton?’ said Ruben.
‘Park Hyatt?’ said Mason.
‘That’s the one,’ said Samantha.
‘I got it riiight,’ said Mason, poking his tongue out at Ruben.
Ruben flexed a bicep and his jaw twitched.
Sheesh. Get me out of here, thought Sam. I do not want to be in here when these gods hurl lightning at each other.
‘Um, I’m really tired,’ she said. I’m reeeally tired, she thought. And I need to have a shower and change my clothes. Except that I have no other clothes, no money, and nowhere to shower. Still, she did think it best to be away from the police when they figured out that she wasn’t actually a movie star but a fifteen-year-old runaway gypsy from Romania.
‘If you wouldn’t mind dropping me at that Park hotel whatsie, that would be lovely,’ she said.
***
Mason and Ruben hadn’t been too happy about leaving her unaccompanied at the front of the Park Hyatt hotel in Circular Quay, but she’d assured them that she had staff and friends waiting for her, and that she didn’t want to cause another scene.
‘Please,’ she’d smiled, extra wide, and they’d relented.
She stared morosely after them as they pulled away from the curved driveway of the elegant hotel. Now she really was on her own. And the love-spell or whatever she’d performed at the airport had obviously not reached the hotel. A beautifully dressed woman took a step away from her and huddled a little closer to her escort. A dark-suited attendant stepped to her side.
‘May I assist you with anything this evening, madam?’ he said, smiling.
‘No, I’m okay, thanks,’ she said, turning away.
I didn’t think so, she knew he was thinking.
She huddled into her jacket, trudging along beside the curved walls of the building. The rain was just a miserable drizzle now, enough to further wound her aching heart as she thought about the golden sunshine that would be drenching Romania. Cars slid like dark eels in the gloom along the road beside her. Everything felt wet, worrying and winter-like.
Even though she’d read on the website that it was winter here in Australia, she’d still somehow expected it to be warm. That’s how she’d always pictured Australia: kangaroos, beautiful beaches, sunshine and…
The Opera House!
She rounded the final corner of the hotel and stepped into a postcard. Ahead of her spread a wide, sandstone forecourt dotted with fairylights; beyond lay an inky harbour; and glowing incandescently directly ahead of her was an image she’d only ever seen in photographs: the Sydney Opera House. It seemed to float on the dark water like a full moon fallen from the night sky.
She made her way across a boardwalk that ran along the other side of the Park Hyatt hotel. The guestrooms, glowing warm gold, were just above her, wrapped around the harbour, around this view. She was sure it must be the most beautiful hotel in the world. She reached the edge of the walkway, the edge of Australia, and stared at the Opera House. From the first time she’d seen its image, she’d dreamed of coming here. She could never have imagined that it would be under these circumstances.
A solitary tear escaped her lashes. She stopped the others immediately, certain that if she began to cry now she would never stop. With all of the panic and despair at the Carnivale, the shocking news about her past, and the terrible knowledge that she’d brought mortal danger to everyone she loved, Sera’s plan to spirit her out of Romania had seemed her only option. She saw now that it was the most ludicrous action she could ever have taken. How could she have been so completely stupid to have trusted that woman so blindly? And how could Birthday Jones have gone along with everything?
Her bottom lip trembled and she bit down on it, hard. They’d promised to explain everything to Lala. Would they do that, or would they just let everyone think she’d been abducted, or worse? How could she trust either of them? How could they send her here with nothing, no one?
Although the rain was little more than a frigid mist now, the chill had saturated the leather jacket; she tugged the collar up around her ears and shoved her hands deep into her pockets. There were very few pedestrians, and those who passed her wore coats and scarves. She began to walk again, left this time. She imagined herself up there in one of the hotel rooms with Mirela, Tamas and Shofranka. And a hot shower and food and a bed.
Well, that’s not going to happen, Samantha, she told herself. And it’s not like you haven’t slept outdoors before. And they call this winter? Winter in Romania would give these people a lesson about winter, she thought, trying to rally her spirits, fearing that if she didn’t, she would sit down in a puddle right there and give up.
Find somewhere drier, away from the wind and rain and bunk down for the night, she told herself. Tomorrow’s another day. You can look for Luke tomorrow. She ignored the other voice telling her that tomorrow that would be just as impossible as tonight.
She rounded another corner. And gasped. Right above her, rearing like a massive grey dragon, was the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Even from underneath its enormous belly, there was no mistaking it. She hugged her arms about her chest, staring upward, open-mouthed, and was so captivated by the bridge that she missed the feeling of threat until she heard voices. Drunk males. Three of them, twenty metres ahead and closing.
Sam knew they’d seen her. A thread of adrenalin wired its way into her bloodstream. She quickly scanned the ground for something she could use as a weapon: a bottle, a rock. Nothing. She reached into her bag, eyes on them, sizing them up. She knew she could easily outrun the two fat ones; they looked to be having a hard time of it just walking, let alone chasing her. The shorter skinny one, wearing a knitted beanie pulled down almost to his eyes, looked as though he could run, and like he knew what he wanted. Her.
Sam pulled the phone from her bag. If they thought she was talking to someone, or that she could call the police, they might leave her alone. And besides, it was the hardest object she had. If she did have to run and Skinny could keep up with her, she’d make sure she took all his teeth out with it if he tried to touch her.
She flipped open the scarlet case of the phone and almost dropped it. Impossible! The screen glowed green. A cursor flashed patiently, waiting for input. Oh my God! But there’s no battery? She stared at the phone, stunned. Her heart began to race with excitement.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’
The drunks had reached her. Skinny, who’d greeted her, already stood too close.
Oh, I so do not have time for this, she thought. Not now.
‘GET LOST!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs, pushing out a wave of anger-emotion.
To her surprise it worked. They backed away and shuffled off with curses she was glad she couldn’t understand.
She turned back to the phone. How was it working? What else could it do? Suddenly, she realised that Seraphina had given her this phone for a reason. Maybe she’d be able to talk to her? What if it could somehow connect her to her brother, to Luke?
The cold air transformed her rapid breaths into steam, and her fingers trembled as she hovered them over the keypad. There was no number she knew to dial – she only hoped the phone knew what to do.
Holding her breath, feeling more optimism than she’d experienced in more than two days, she pressed the Send button. And waited.
Nothing.
&n
bsp; The cursor flashed just as before. She frowned at it, struggling to think of something else to try, when she heard a footstep immediately behind her.
She spun, ready to attack or bolt. Or both.
A boy stood there. She jumped back quickly, her hand over her mouth. He felt familiar. He felt confused. He felt strangely broken.
‘Luke?’ she said.
The boy just looked at her, blinking. She stared back.
Taller than her, and older, she guessed, by maybe a couple of years, the boy wore jeans and a black-and-white-striped T-shirt. She glanced down at his feet – no shoes. He had to be freezing. He had brown-black hair, blue eyes and full lips. He wore a slightly worried half-frown. She had a sudden, ridiculous urge to reach up and stroke his beautiful face. He seemed so puzzled, so childlike.
‘Who are you?’ she said. He wasn’t Luke, she instinctively knew that.
The boy said nothing.
Okay, she thought. I must just be tired. This boy doesn’t have anything to do with me. The thought made her desperately sad. She had so wanted something to happen. Maybe he’s lost, she thought. Well, I’m definitely the wrong person to look to for help. She began to walk away.
She heard him following and turned again, preparing to scream at him too. But she couldn’t do it; he stared down at her so innocently.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
He reached a hand around behind his back and she tensed, ready to run. But he pulled a folded notepad from his back pocket, holding it out towards her.
She frowned. Maybe he couldn’t speak and he had something written on there, to help him if he got lost. He certainly didn’t look as though he should be out here alone tonight. Knowing she couldn’t help him, she took the notepad anyway.
Disharmony Page 25
