The Big Smoke

by Jason Nahrung

  'How do you do all this?' he asked. His life on the run with Taipan had been one of abandoned houses and sheds, of — he shuddered — murdered inhabitants in isolated homesteads: food and shelter.

  'There are people who fix such things. One advantage of being plugged into Maximilian von Schiller's network. Someone to pay the power bills, keep the landlord off your back.'

  'Does Blake live here, too?'

  'Too quaint for him. He's got a nest in Paddo, kind of an artist's commune with some of the Romantics on tap.'

  'You and him—'

  'He turned me. A while ago, before he came to seek "inspiration in the Antipodes". An act of undying love, he called it. Quite the stalker, he was.'

  When he said nothing, she filled the silence. 'Would you like to see?' She held out a pale, slender wrist.

  He shook his head, looked again at the view, the flat; anywhere but at those purple veins.

  'You've got a lot of music and stuff.'

  'I like to stay up to date,' she said. 'Not always easy. Things change so fast. Would you like a drink?'

  'Sure,' he said, not thinking, and then wondering if he could change his mind as she grinned, teasingly, triumphantly. She reached down a wine glass from a display cabinet, studied it against the light with a sniff of 'good enough', then pulled a knife from a block.

  He opened his mouth to say 'no' but the word drowned in the scent of blood as she opened her wrist and let the blood half fill the glass before the wound closed.

  'Bedlam?' he said as she walked to him, glass out. 'Oh, that's right: you've got an aptitude.'

  'For giving and receiving.'

  He took the glass and she stroked his cheek, his chin.

  'You aren't like him.'

  Did she mean Taipan or Blake, or both? Just how much had she seen in his blood? He kept his eyes on the glass, the liquid sloshing with the trembling of his hand.

  'You said you were plugged into Maximilian's organisation.'

  She cocked her head, eyes hardening. 'You aren't dead yet, are you?'

  He hesitated.

  'You can trust me, Kevin.' Her fingers guided the glass to his lips. 'Let me show you.'

  He drank. Swayed, as the sound of the sea rose up, a crimson surf dragging him down.

  Felt, distantly, her lips on his throat. Her teeth. The sharp, tearing pain, but her grip was strong. Together, they fell.

  A long, bright pier; cards on a velvet-covered table, one a picture of a man done up like a medieval prince, another of a tower collapsing; a woman running on a pebbled beach and dragged down into the swash, her blood running out, dark in the froth. Blake: wielding his cane like a cudgel, and then, terrifying, twisting the knob in response to a shout to cease; twisting it clockwise, a click, the whisper of steel leaving its home a counterpoint to Blake's fevered whisper, 'There is no going back'; and Blake ramming the naked blade into Mel's chest, and the syrup gushing from her mouth as she falls in slow motion, and then her coughing fit as the sword is withdrawn to leave her to recover, and him holding her, telling her how much he needs her; her, his muse.

  They had something in common, Melpomene and Danica. Other than being very good at keeping secrets.

  From what little they had allowed him to see in their blood, it was obvious they were both bloodhags; like Mira, they were able to use blood in almost magical ways that most vampires could not. He suspected Mel's powers were much narrower than Danica's whose, he gathered, were off the scale. And Mel kept that small aptitude a secret, for fear of being recruited into Maximilian's inner sanctum.

  Back in the day, both women had made a name as soothsayers. Danica's fame had drawn Maximilian. Mel's had drawn Blake. And both women had ended up being dragged in the slipstream of the men who'd made them. Danica had already rebelled. And Mel?

  You aren't like him

  He wasn't so sure. He was using Mel to get to Mira; Mira had used him to get to Danica. And Maximilian, he realised, the knowledge suddenly apparent, had used Mira to get to Danica.

  Maximilian had come calling, looking for a Strigoi, and when Danica knocked him back, he'd found a more receptive ear in the daughter. Where daughter went, mother followed, two for the price of one, but Mira turned out to be her new father's daughter and Danica had run.

  Perhaps that was where the mess had started: some hovel in a European backwater, a mother desperate to keep a daughter already lost to her — a daughter who eventually tried to kill her mother, to consume her.

  That was the reason he was here. Mira had already consumed one life too many. If he couldn't recover his mother, he could at least make sure no one else had to go through this. Whatever it cost.

  He turned to Mel, caressed her cheek, murmured sleepily, 'So, tell me again what you know about Maximilian's tower.'

  They were in the bedroom, shielded behind the velvet curtains of a four-poster bed, a border of grey light above the rail like a twilight horizon. He felt heavy and hot with blood, exhausted by the heat of the day. He had seen little of Mel's life. A measured dose, she'd fed him. How much had he shown her? He had no way of knowing. She hadn't killed him in his sleep, which was a good sign.

  Not so good was what she knew of Thorn. The entrances were few and thoroughly screened, and access to the upper floors was even more strictly controlled. To sneak inside with a stolen ID was possible; to penetrate to where the vampires lurked, highly unlikely. Not without "considerable bother".

  He regarded the sleeping woman beside him, her smooth, pale shoulder naked above the sheet. Would Mel help him? Was that what last night had been about? She was already risking her life by having him in her home. Is that why he was awake so early — guilt?

  Or was it because bother had come calling, and he'd been too busy plotting revenge to notice the sound of the door opening?

  A footstep. Beside the bed!

  His heartbeat tripped.

  Greaser reefed aside a curtain. She stared at them with a stony expression.

  'Shouldn't you be in school?' he asked, clutching for a sheet as he jack-knifed into a sitting position. Mel sat up, hair mussed, face ruddy, chest unselfconsciously naked.

  'It's almost sundown, arsehole,' Greaser said. 'Besides, I haven't been in school for years.'

  'Greaser does not play well with others,' Mel said, sounding weary.

  'Depends on the others,' she said, blushing, and looked away.

  'How's the Monaro?' Kevin asked.

  'Comfortable,' she said. 'You aren't dead yet, huh.'

  'Not yet,' he said, though his neck throbbed; and his chest, where Mel had bitten him. He closed his eyes, then, glad of the pillow behind him as a moment swirled from his bloodstream, of fucking Kala when she was warm, of the sudden cooling afterward. Mel's blood swam through him like an electric eel. His nostrils flared at the smell of blood, as thick as sex. Greaser stepped back as he eyed her, and let the curtain fall. She'd bathed, smelled of soap and deodorant. Her blood pulsed inside her flesh; her heart thudded like a bass drum causing shockwaves in his senses.

  Mel finger-combed her fringe, wiped her face, swung her legs from the bed and reached for a gown draped over a nearby chair. Her absence left him alone and vulnerable. She stood, spine rippling, and slid the silky material on and belted it at her waist. 'News, Greaser?'

  'Yeah,' she said. 'Blake rang. The meet's on for tonight. Sandgate.'

  'Well, then, bring the car around.' She shot Kevin a sly grin. 'Fortunately, we've already eaten.'

  Kevin hauled himself out of bed and looked for clothes. He thought he'd dropped his shirt in the lounge room.

  Greaser, by the door, looked away as he pulled his jeans on.

  'Where's Sandgate?' he asked.

  'North-east; by the sea. Maybe an hour with the traffic. It's easy to find, but. You just take Sandgate Road as far as it goes. If you hit the water, you've gone too far.'

  Too late for that, Kevin thought. He was already out of his depth.

  ELEVEN

  Felicity was
gone when a telephone call woke Reece an hour before dawn. He showered and shaved and, feeling only slightly rumpled in his stiff black GS uniform, made his way through Thorn. He wasn't convinced what had happened between he and Felicity was anything other than stress relief, but he had no regrets.

  Forty years he'd been in Maximilian's employ, a rare beast indeed: brought in by Mira, installed from the start as a Hunter and her personal favourite. It had made him unpopular with pretty much everyone. With Mira off the board, chickens were coming home to roost. It was only the tacit agreement not to admit that Mira would not be coming back from her bedlam that forestalled more serious repercussions for Reece. The Old Man had not accepted his daughter was lost; her favourite could not be too seriously impugned.

  But he could be demoted, to the Gespenstenstaffel — an elite unit of mostly vampires and red-eyes under Heinrich's command.

  So the pre-dawn phone call was a strange one. Marshall Jane Smith, in charge of Thorn's far more mundane security concerns, wanted to see him. Down he went to her office on the second floor, at the opposite end of the building to Mira's sequestered chambers, never the twain to meet: access to the Strigoi's section was strictly limited, red lift only, and a pass-controlled set of fire stairs.

  Had the special treatment for the Strigoi rankled? Oh yes. Had the Strigoi cared? Not one jot. Was Reece expecting to have his nose rubbed in her fall, and his? Most definitely.

  A man in the crisp, olive-coloured uniform of Marshall's VSS — Von Schiller Security, guardians of all Maximilian's facilities — looked up from his computer screen as Reece entered the reception. The man's eyes flashed the tell-tale crimson of a red-eye.

  'You took your time,' Marshall's Familiare told him, his voice as sharp as the sword-shaped letter opener on his desk. In fairness, they had told him to report ASAP, which to his mind allowed for a shave and a quick wake-up coffee and a smoke.

  'Got lost,' Reece said. It'd been meant to be a thinly-veiled insult about being on their floor, but there was a deeper truth to the statement that made him blanch. Suddenly, he was too tired to trade insults with the officious red-eye. 'I can come back if she's busy.'

  The man sniffed and pressed an intercom to announce Reece's belated arrival. Then he stood and opened the door, closing it behind Reece with a soft click, surprisingly similar to a weapon being cocked.

  Windowless, the room had all the charm of a cell, the air conditioning set to chilly, the décor to cheap motel. Filing cabinets, bar fridge, microwave, several changes of clothes for different occasions hanging in plastic from a naked rack. Two computer screens. A muted wall-mounted television set to a 24-hour news channel, a transistor radio whispering to itself. The room stank of cigarettes. Homely, Reece thought.

  Marshall Jane Smith stood as he entered; walked around to shake his hand with a firm grip, then indicated a chair before returning to her desk and clicking off the radio.

  Marshall, as she was known, was about his height, stocky, toned, hair trimmed to a low-maintenance bob. She clearly hadn't given up the good things in life. Some did, gradually letting the blood take over, and ended up looking like a walking advertisement for anorexia, hunger on legs. Marshall wasn't that much older than Reece, in unnatural terms, and still retained curves and complexion.

  She flicked open a cigarette packet and offered him one, which he accepted though he found tailor-mades unpleasant in both taste and smell. She lit it for him, then one for herself. An ashtray in the shape of Australia sat brim-full on the desk, the acronym ASIO carved in the lip.

  Marshall blew smoke at the ceiling — there was an exhaust fan there, he could hear the quiet whirr, a subtle reminder that power came with privileges.

  'Busted, eh, Lieutenant Reece.'

  'How so, Madam Marshall?'

  'Please, just Marshall. This is an informal chat.'

  He sighed blue breath, not having had enough sleep for jousting, and waited. He was due to be at some bullshit orientation program soon, but she'd know that, putting him under subtle pressure. Maybe he shouldn't have had the coffee after all.

  'Takes a while to get used to uniform again, doesn't it?'

  He nodded. She was in a suit jacket and white blouse, the top button undone; he'd noted the blue jeans, tight around the thighs, and RM Williams boots.

  'This gunfight at the tattoo parlour in the Valley. How concerned should I be?'

  'That would depend on how long Kevin Matheson stays at large.'

  'Explain.'

  'Matheson wants to take out Mira. He's looking for access.'

  'Access.' Marshall tapped ash. 'The late Jack Flash was a known associate of the villein known as the Needle, was he not?'

  'That is an avenue of—'

  'That bloody spook. Got his fingers in more pies than we do. Could he get the assassin in?'

  'The question is, would he want to?'

  She was quiet then, just the sound of them drawing in breath and exhaling smoke, and the exhaust fan. If she was feeling the weight of the new day breaking outside, she gave no sign.

  Reece leaned forward to ash his cigarette. He noticed a folder on her desk, the heading, and caught her eye.

  'Fronds: the new casino at Coolum,' she confirmed. 'We're handling security, naturally.'

  'I liked Coolum, back in the day. Quiet.'

  'It won't be once this gets going.' She indicated the folder with her cigarette. 'The council's already jockeying to see who claims grazing rights.'

  By council she meant Maximilian's board of department heads and favoured vassals, each doing their bit to ensure his empire ran smoothly. The actual municipal council would've had little say in the matter, once Maximilian had made up his mind about the development. Money talks, especially when backed up by the promise of immortality and the more mundane threats of early death and financial ruin. Big business, immortal style; gave the futures market a whole new meaning.

  'I'm surprised anyone would want to leave Brisbane.'

  'Come on, Reece. An hour out of town, away from the Old Man's gaze, and all those hopeless, desperate losers chasing a promise that's unlikely to ever happen. Throw in backpackers and holidaymakers and the entire Sunshine Coast to nibble on; it's a bloody smorgasbord.'

  He gave a nod, conceding, as she analysed him, green-eyed, through the smoke. 'The Old Man does like his casinos. Casinos and brothels.' Both gave perfect exposure to powerful men with secrets to keep, as well as losers no one would miss should they get an offer they couldn't refuse. 'Who's the frontrunner?'

  'The Toffs, maybe. Campbell thinks it'll shore up their support. Give us a few more inroads into the finance world.'

  'You don't want it?'

  'And give up all this?' She slipped the folder into a drawer and locked it. 'You ever think maybe Danica was right?'

  'How's that?'

  'We don't belong anymore. We shouldn't even try; just slip away, under the surface.'

  'Could you do that?'

  She dug out a folder from a tray and passed it to him. 'What do you know about this chap?'

  He flicked through the papers, paused at a head-and-shoulders shot of a young man in a VSS uniform. 'I heard about it. Briggs, private, one of yours. Head cut off, hands and feet removed.'

  'ID'd by DNA. Found among what's left of the mangroves under the expressway. Crabs had taken a nibble; fish too, maybe.'

  'Just before the Debacle,' Reece said, noting the estimated day of death.

  'Check the picture of his back. What does that suggest to you?'

  He dug through the glossies until he found the photo: the mottled, pale skin, an ulcer-type wound on the right shoulder blade. He held it up to the light. 'A patch of skin taken off? A tattoo?'

  'Tell me again about your interest in the Needle.'

  He paused, studied the image. Couldn't fault her intelligence gathering. Couldn't see any point denying what she already knew. 'You think Briggs leaked the information about Jasmine Turner setting up shop out west to the Needle. Then was silence
d by whoever told him in the first place, because no way could a VSS private know about it off his own bat.'

  'Leaving me with the shit sandwich.'

  Reece sat up straight, handed back the file, ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. The room had become quite cold. 'Why are you showing me this, Madam Marshall?'

  'He should've watched his back.' A tight grimace at her word play. 'I think there's something in that for all of us. You'd better run along, Reece. You don't want to be late for your reorientation.'

  He got as far as the door when she said, 'And perhaps it might be best if you keep me in the loop on this Matheson case. I'd like to know I've got a wolf at my door before he eats the baby.'

  TWELVE

  Kevin pulled the Monaro to a halt in a car park atop a bluff. It wasn't yet eight, but he felt as if the night had lasted a month already. Through a screen of pine and gum trees, he could see the ocean, dark and ominous and palely ruffled. A timber pier stretched out like a bony arm, sickly yellow in the electric wash of its lights. The swollen moon hung high over the water.

  The only vehicle in the car park was a motor home covered in graffiti. A blond teenager in a trench coat lounged against the Winnebago's wall, smoking; light showed behind the vehicle's curtained windows.

  Mel got out and popped the seat forward to let Greaser scramble after her. Blondie knocked on the Winnebago's door, then flicked his cigarette away as Kevin locked the car.

  Mel led him over, saying, 'Argent, this is Kevin. The Needle's expecting us.'

  The boy stared at Kevin, eyes showing silver. He opened the door. A teenage girl stood there, submachine gun pointed at them. She lowered it when she saw Mel. A silver tattoo — some creature's scaly tail — curled down her left side from under the ragged hem of her short singlet to disappear into her cut-off shorts. Another sliver snaked up her throat, vanishing behind her ear. Like the boy, she wore her peroxided hair short. Her eyes reflected a mercury sheen — contacts, Kevin realised. He was willing to bet they were both red-eyes.

  Herbal scents floated out from behind the girl; there was the smell of antiseptic and a trace of blood. Kevin steadied himself, pushing away the recent blood memories from Ambrose and Mel.