“Eleanor?”
Teeth clicked together. “Indeed. Does that knowledge prove to you that I am not apt to poison you and your little friend?”
“Perhaps,” Arwen said. She’d been four when they left and her new life in Nieu Bethesda had made those early years with her uncle’s circus seem like they belonged in a story book.
Etienne spoke. “Arwen, what about Trystan? What about the car?”
Eleanor stiffened and stretched her neck in the direction of the stand of acacias where the Hudson was parked. She tensed then relaxed. “The car and its occupant will be fine. Few will even notice the vehicle.”
What the hell? Arwen had felt a shift in power, as if the fabric of reality had melted and reformed. Why had she never noticed Eleanor’s abilities before? Why had she forgotten this enigmatic woman in the first place? More witchery beyond her ken?
Eleanor pulled her cloak closer to her spare frame and started walking.
“C’mon, Etienne,” Arwen said. “We’d better go with her.”
A ferocious scowl disfigured Etienne’s features. “I’m not sure that I want to.”
“It’s going to be fine, really.”
“How sure are you?”
“Sure.” Well, not really, but to admit that... “It’s either this or you go pee in the bushes then wait for death breath to wake up.”
He hesitated before running after her and Eleanor’s retreating figure.
Arwen sucked in air slowly and tried to control her breathing. To be honest, she remembered little of her early childhood. How much of what she recalled could be trusted? Bravado only got a person so far before she was quite maimed or dead.
The last thing she needed right now was for Etienne to see that she was scared.
Chapter 30
Sister Salvation
A tall woman with lustrous black hair climbed out of the BMW, moving with all the assurance of a big cat about to make a kill. The smile on her face spoke of violent intent.
Mama Ruthie responded by gripping her carved wooden stave then leaping from the passenger seat in a fluid motion that belied her size and age.
“Get thee gone, soul-stealer!” She pointed the carved stick at the woman.
Helen felt an inrush of energy, the lights grew dim around her and the temperature plunged. Now would be a good time to get out of the car, make a dash for it. Where?
The engine was still running and Bijou revved it.
“Hold on Miss Ashfield,” she said.
The car lurched forward straight at the raven-haired woman as though to squash her like a bug between the two vehicles. Helen gripped the seat in front of her and closed her eyes.
Metal screeched against metal as the cars impacted, and the Toyota slewed to one side, its bonnet crumpled.
“Maman!” Bijou flew out of her seat.
Helen looked to her right, behind her, where Mama Ruthie had stood only seconds before. She sprawled on her back, in the tall woman’s embrace. Why was her head dipped over Mama Ruthie’s neck?
The black-haired woman looked up, her pale eyes ablaze and scarlet smeared around her mouth. How?
Some instincts were good to obey and Helen found her feet without bothering to look back as she pelted down the road. Rather leave the carnage behind her.
I’m not going to think about any of this. I’m going to run as fast as possible, and as far as possible, until I cannot run anymore.
Getting lost was the easy part. All Helen had to do was take as many random turns through the leafy green suburb as possible. The houses with their high walls all looked the same to her, as did the expensive German cars that cruised past. She listened for the labored gasps of her breathing, the slap of her shoes on the tarmac. People she passed cast her curious looks, which she ignored, narrowly missing being run over by cars more than a handful of times. She didn’t stop running until she reached a busy, dual-carriage road.
To compound matters, night had fallen. Helen leaned against a wall then slid down to her backside as she struggled to draw breath. The sweat on her skin turned cold and her lungs wanted to explode.
The woman had bitten Mama Ruthie and that had been blood staining her face. What manner of person attacked another like that? Bijou’s anxious cries as she called her mother’s name still rang in her ears.
What now?
Helen didn’t have her phone, and had no idea in which part of Johannesburg she was. She had no money, had no idea how she could get hold of her friends.
What was the most intelligent thing she could do right now?
For one, she could catch her breath. Then she’d find a restaurant or cafe and ask if she could make a call.
Helen held up her hands. They trembled and she was sure small filaments of light like fireflies buzzed around her fingers with a blue-green brilliance.
Funny, she’d never noticed that before.
Her scalp tingled. If she stayed here, someone would find her eventually, which was not a good thing, yet her body did not want to respond. With a grunt, she pushed back, using her elbows to prop herself up against the wall. Every muscle in her body protested, alternating between numbness and excruciating agony.
“Fuck it!”
Helen managed a limping stumble in her intended direction. Not far ahead, the familiar red-and-yellow lights of a service station cast a pool of illumination. Surely someone there would be willing to help her?
That’s if they didn’t mistake her for some dumb junkie out for a quick score.
All the times she’d been approached by people on the street, who’d spun some sort of tale of woe–keys locked in a car, a lost wallet, and here she was, in the same situation only she wasn’t trying to con anyone out of a buck. It would be a bitch to get help. She was sure she looked a mess, with her hair plastered down on damp skin, clothes disheveled.
“Need a lift, baby?” A car had slowed down without her noticing and a man had spoken.
“No! No!” Helen put some speed in her steps. She turned around and walked in the opposite direction. Briefly she caught a glimpse of the driver, a rather squat man with close-cropped, balding hair and an almost non-existent chin.
She imagined his cold, clammy hands resting on her thigh, and her stomach contracted at the thought.
A sharp, shooting pain stabbed down her left leg, forcing Helen to lean against the palisade fencing to her right, only to stumble half off the pavement when a pair of large German Shepherds threw themselves against the bars, barking like mad.
What could she do but pause, rubbing vigorously at her cramping leg while the beasts jumped, slavered and snapped at her through the barrier.
That was too close. The ghost of a tooth had shaved past her skin. The dogs’ eyes bulged and foam flecked their jaws, their heads snaking out at her through the gaps.
People drove by, encapsulated in their cars, safe in their ignorance. Helen drew a ragged breath. The first man to stop had driven on but she may not be lucky if there was a second or third. She couldn’t run anymore.
Why was she in danger? Why had those two foreign-sounding women sought her out? How had they gotten their car past her father’s security? What about the woman with the black BMW?
She daren’t go back home to her father. What if they were waiting for her there?
She must call Anabel, or someone. Helen cursed herself for not having memorized her brother’s number, but that was the price one paid for overreliance on gadgetry. She shouldn’t involve anyone in this lest they get hurt but where was she to turn?
Phone Anabel. Get out of Joburg. Go home.
But, where was home? Home was no longer the house in which she’d grown up, in Hout Bay. She’d hardly spent time in Nieu Bethesda, she could not call that place home, either. Her father’s house in Houghton was the last place on earth she’d be right now.
Adrift. Everything she took for granted meant nothing now. It would be so easy to fall between the cracks, to vanish like mist before the sun. All she needed to do
was lie down, to allow events to flood her, but a fierce flame burned in her heart kept her going.
The soft hiss of sprinklers sent their droplets to darken the cement, releasing the baked sun smell of the pavers, and unaccountably reminding her of the swimming pool at her old primary school, of aquamarine water and the sharp tang of chlorine.
A wail of sirens split the air and she pressed herself against one of the acacias forming part of the regiment marching down this road. A fire engine roared past, its light creating a red-and-white staccato. When it had gone, Helen had to pause, leaning against the smooth bark which smelled of bitter tealeaves.
The receding siren blotted out all rational thought.
A hand clamped itself around her upper arm and she was jerked to her feet.
“You gotta run!” a woman yelled.
Helen swerved to face this new menace, her hand raised to punch, only to find herself face to face with Bijou.
“What?” Helen cried out.
“We don’t have time! Follow me!”
Sweat glistened on Bijou’s round face, her almond-shaped eyes wide with fear. Helen’s heart raced in sympathy, her mind refusing to follow the order.
“Why?”
“There’s no time! I’ll explain later!”
Was Bijou crying?
“I can’t!” Helen wailed.
Bijou growled, yanking a reluctant Helen after her. “No time! You white girls make useless magicians.”
Magicians? What the hell did she mean by that?
Summoning energy she did not know she possessed, Helen obeyed, for even as they stumbled on down a side road, a brooding presence seemed to build, still far down the main road they had just left, but approaching fast.
Chapter 31
Dancing on Old Scratch’s Soul
Even though he’d parked the Hudson beneath an acacia, the car grew abominably hot during the day. This did not cause Trystan any great discomfort since his body did not need to regulate its temperature. Despite the blankets and the tinted windows, however, no matter how he shifted, he could not escape the sun’s questing fingers that somehow found their way through the leafy canopy. Little stabs of sizzled flesh, every once in a while, contributed to his already foul mood.
As his kind was wont, he immersed himself in memories, and allowed the sounds from outside to wash over him as he slipped into a kind of waking trance. Was that a lion roaring?
Men and women laughing, the throb of dance music, the cough and grumble of cars’ engines sent his thoughts skittering from scene to scene. He recalled the favorite horse he’d ridden during the late eighteen hundreds, when he’d first arrived in the Cape. He’d drifted through an encampment of San tribespeople, their shaman pausing in mid chant to make eye contact from across a crackling bonfire.
I know, those eyes said.
So many faces, names.
Rose raised a number of eyebrows.
One or two people paused outside to gawk at the vehicle. He knew when curious hands reached out to trail a finger longingly across the car’s paintwork.
She was his! And she would still be plying these roads long after they were dust.
The two young humans didn’t return during the day and he hoped they’d behaved themselves, and did not end up in some form of trouble.
What of Helen? Would they have allowed her any peace? Had Mantis tracked her down at all? He hated traveling blind, not knowing what awaited him. His impatience settled with an itching pall.
By late afternoon, a typical Lowveld thunder storm built. Trystan could almost taste metal on his tongue as the pressure grew. The air thickened and the sun grew dimmer.
At the first grumbles he forced himself up, and tried to push aside the lethargy that had turned his limbs leaden. The world outside the windows was bronzed, the clouds vicious, bruised.
Dare he? Trystan checked the clock on the dashboard, every inch of his flesh crying out against movement, for him to stay hidden.
Four o’clock. Three more hours of sunlight at the very least, but he daren’t risk lying low anymore.
He’d pulled this kind of crazy stunt before, had walked about well covered during some of the heavier Cape winters, but not up here in Gauteng, where a thunderstorm was apt to dissipate as soon as it threatened to tear the world asunder.
“For the love of God.” He had an old coat and wide-brimmed hat under the driver’s seat in the back, as well as an old pair of jeans. He’d look like something out of a Wild West movie but it was better than developing blisters that flaked to telltale ash.
Where the hell were those kids?
He could leave them here.
Yes, he’d do that. Trystan pulled on the jeans–stiffly caked with old blood from a past kill, more muddy brown and black, leaving dusty brown marks on his skin. The hat, an old leather thing that had seen better days, fit perfectly–an old friend. He let his hair down on either side, and hardly recognized the pale rogue with bloodshot eyes who grimaced back at him in the rear view mirror.
Not bothering with the coat, he swung into the front of the car. Now, where in hell’s name were the keys? Futile pats at the ignition and by the pedals did not deliver the expected comfort of shaped metal.
Then he spotted the folded paper, a torn scrap from the map-book–TRISTAN written in smudged black eyeliner. He unfolded the paper.
Dear Tristan. In case you’re wondering, I’ve taken the keys. Etienne.
“Bleeding dwarf!” Trystan slammed his hand hard on the dashboard and stared into the middle distance until he’d calmed down. “Well, there goes that plan.” Damned dwarf could’ve at least spelled his name right.
A flash of lightning bleached all color for an instant and was shortly followed by loud grumble of thunder. The first heavy drops landed on the roof and bonnet, as if nature wanted to puncture the metal.
He had to laugh. “Imagine that, playing babysitter to a couple of misfit teens. Just what I bleeding need.”
Trystan got out, shrugged into the coat and walked into the steady fall. Where were those children? He stood still for a moment, reaching, only to recoil immediately after encountering a maelstrom of Essence that blinked and twined in the dim afternoon. How had he missed that when they’d arrived? Unless whatever it was had not wanted to be seen. Then. Now was another story. The source of the power was saying, “Here I am,” loud and clear.
If Helen had given off a flare, this was a bonfire. He could become intoxicated with the various strains. Trystan pulled back, and formed a barrier between himself and the wildfire. Only one collective had this much impact, and he hadn’t expected to run into them so soon. If Thorn Paladin’s circus invited him in then there were bigger issues afoot than Darwin, Mantis and all the others.
The mud sucked at his feet as he made his way around the decrepit prefabricated building to find a laager of trailers, trucks and caravans. Weathered canvas bore the imprint of the Paladin circus.
Trystan shivered although he no longer felt the cold. The circus. Looked almost innocuous in the late afternoon brightness. Asleep. Waiting.
Thorn Paladin Senior, in his heyday during the late eighteen hundreds, had run a tight crew, and had offered sanctuary for a bareback rider with a past.
The roaring twenties, girls in short fringed dresses, ostrich plumes and Irish whiskey, sweat, tobacco smoke and sawdust, horseshit and perfume–a heady combination. If he closed his eyes he still heard Arnold the accordion player, saw him standing solitary beneath a spotlight, squeezing out wheezy tunes.
The circus with its burlesque girls, big cats leaping through burning hoops and parading elephants still marched down Kimberley’s main drag.
He’d lived without fear then, somehow beyond the reach of the law, until the jagters tracked him down, sent him into hiding.
Here and now, almost a century hence, the circus still crouched. Sure, it was tatterdemalion now, but it pulsed. The magic ran bone deep.
Trystan wanted to turn away this instant, take the ro
ad and place as much distance between himself and the traveling folk as possible.
His keys. He would go nowhere without Rose. In the days before immobilizers he could have hotwired her. Sometimes he could be too clever for his own good.
“Modern technology. Bah!”
This fizz of static that was Arwen had gone to ground in a long silver Airstream trailer–the kind he’d seen in American movies from the 1960s. Terribly trendy, however now, in the pelting rain and thunder-flashes was not the time to be concerned with coolness factor.
He had to find Arwen and Etienne and get his keys back. Even now Mantis would be closing in on her prey–Helen.
The Black Pope, also, had been far too interested, making Helen’s return Trystan’s condition for freedom and he hoped the pint-sized terror could not reach farther than the Garden Route.
“So, she’s strong in Essence,” Darwin had said. “How strong?”
“As strong as Ingrid, Barney Barnato.”
“Then find her.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
He sincerely hoped he could wiggle his way out of this one. As to what he’d do, he hadn’t given that much thought either. Just get Helen away from Johannesburg to start, the rest would fall into place. Maybe.
People moved about the covered trailers, eyeing him. Circus folk. Their expressions told a tale of life spent on the road. Despite their hard faces and lined skin, their truth would later be masked beneath greasepaint and glitter and illuminated by colored spotlights.
No smiles were aimed at Trystan, just gazes that slid away from him. Mud squelched between his toes and he recognized no one from the old days.
How could he? They’d all be dead by now. Well, most of them, anyway.
He reached again, spreading his awareness like a blanket. Too much strangeness assaulted him. Another vampire, yes, two, perhaps, the faint buzz of Arwen and...others.
Camdeboo Nights Page 18
