Blood & Dust (5 page)

A presence tickled at the edge of his brooding mind. Mira. It was never a good sign that her
control had slipped enough to allow that sensation to filter through their bloodlink. Hunger
stirred, different to the steak and eggs he'd polished off. Pavlovian, that's what it was. Needing
that taste, needing it today more than ever to ease his many pains. How angry was she? He blew his
concerns out with a last lungful of cigarette smoke and ground the butt out.

Back in his room, he checked his pistol where it lay on the bedside table, then rinsed his face,
pulled on shoes and buttoned up his bloodstained shirt. He'd just double-checked that the internal
door into the pub was locked when someone knocked on the verandah door. He didn't need to look
through the window to know who it was. He could feel her, a seething thunderhead; could see in his
mind's eye that boot tapping impatiently on the floor. He opened the door before Mira could kick it
in, then stood back with a bob of the head and a muttered 'Strigoi'.

Mira stood, dark and electric, eyes glinting green from the shade of her hood, her custom
Driza-Bone draped about her like bat wings. 'What happened, Reece?'

'We lost him.'

She hovered on the threshold, as though waiting for an invitation, considering her options,
perhaps, to bleed him or not to bleed him, and he wondered if he had time to get to the bedside
table, if perhaps he shouldn't have had the Glock tucked into his belt. Futile, when she was this
close. She entered, her shoulder brushing his chest, and flipped the overcoat across the single
chair. The material snapped like a matador's cape. Her driver followed, looking boyish in a pants
suit, a black ranger cap pushed down on her tightly pulled-back hair. She cleared a space on the
small table for a duffel bag, then removed her mirrored sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket.
Ponytail, freckles, wide shoulders. Familiar, but he didn't think they'd worked together. 'Nice
place,' she said.

'Penthouse was taken.' He checked who might have seen them arrive - no-one - and locked the door
before, as casually as he could, edging closer to his pistol.

'I've just spent an hour convincing the redneck coroner in Charleville that your partner died
from a bullet to the brain and that no further inquiry was necessary.' Mira wiped the corners of her
mouth with her thumb. 'He reeked of body odour. He ate tomatoes, raw, with salt, like they were
apples. It was disgusting.'

The driver stood with her back to the veranda door. Reece caught the flash of a shoulder holster
through her open jacket.

'I had to pay through the nose for a charter flight. Drag Felicity here off the GS roster with no
notice.'

He re-appraised the driver. A jackal? Yeah, she was Gespenstenstaffel all right - no collar
flashes, but she had the economy of movement, the hint of cherry glazing across the eye when the
light caught it just right. And she was on first-name terms with the boss. The girls had obviously
bonded during the journey.

Mira shed her suit jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse. 'Hire a vehicle. Sort out those
witless fools in Charleville, then drive up here, wherever here is. I am hot. I am tired. I am
sunburnt
.'

'Dave didn't mean to get killed.'

Mira stopped at the last button, her open blouse revealing a black band of bra, a hint of rib
cage and a flat stomach. She gave him a look that said her patience was stretched as thin as his
luck. The Strigoi didn't appreciate being interrupted. 'And
I
would not have expected the
retrieval of one Rogue on ice to have been so problematic.' She stared at him, her presence filling
the room. 'I needed Taipan, Reece. I needed him and you let him go.'

'You should've sent the chopper.'

'The chopper's out of commission.'

'Would've been nice to know that before we came out here with our arses bared.'

She arched an eyebrow and he felt Felicity tense. He thought, this time, finally, he'd gone too
far. But to hell with it. Dave and he had driven twelve fucking hours to collect Taipan from
holier-than-thou Jasmine Turner, only to be kicked out before sun-up with nothing more than a slice
of cold shoulder - straight into the Night Riders' ambush. It should never have happened; he wasn't
wearing the blame.

'We could've brought some back-up, at least,' he said. 'We were completely outgunned. Who knows
where they got that much firepower.'

Mira held his stare, her purple-tinted eyes examining, divining, weighing. Then she blinked, and
he breathed again as she shook her head, rubbed her temples, her eyes flashing green on the way back
to their natural brown.

'Strigoi?' Felicity asked, poised but uncertain.

Mira removed her blouse and draped it over the chair. Above the lace of her bra, the
rust-coloured pentacle tattoo on her left breast glittered with silver streaks, like fish swimming
in a stream. The sight triggered the familiar constriction in his throat, the dryness in his mouth,
the tightening of his balls. Damn her.

'Long day, Reece?' Mira said.

'You could say that.'

'And you've been smoking.'

'And I've been smoking.'

'And drinking.'

'Medicinal only.'

'How's that wolfbite?'

'It isn't. We were in the car most of the time. Just got a bit toasty in the roadhouse, that's
all.'

'It was unfortunate timing, Reece. The helicopter's upgrade is taking longer than anticipated.
And as I said, the mission was routine. We tried to handle it quietly and it blew up in our faces.
Now, we have to deal with the fallout. Felicity - my belt.'

Felicity retrieved Mira's weapon belts from the duffel and stood with them at the ready. One held
a sidearm and ammunition pouches, the other a long knife and a curved sword in their scabbards. That
hit Reece like a splash of cold water
- Mira had brought her blades. She meant business.

'Show me.'

He opened his shirt and turned his head. She drew the smaller of the blades, as long as her
forearm, and sliced the side of his neck. He flinched; the cut had gone deep. She handed Felicity
the basilard to clean, then bent her lips to the wound. The pain spiked as her fangs tore at the
lips of the wound, her tongue probing, lapping, and then he groaned with the familiar sense of
himself draining out as she swallowed him down. 'You taste like a brewery,' she murmured, 'and smell
like an ashtray.' Mira stepped back, deep purple eyes staring as she sifted his lifestream. Blood
smeared her lips and chin. A few drips made short, languid lines near the tattoo over her heart.
Reece wanted desperately to lick her chest clean, but he stood still, a hand pressed to the wound in
his neck, blood trickling through his fingers, feeling woozy.

'You're sure about the boy?' Mira asked. 'Taipan brought him across?'

'Not for certain, but it looked like he'd gone through the motions. Needless to say, I didn't go
back for him.'

'Shame. The grease monkey could've given us a valuable link to the gang. I expect more
flexibility from my Favourite.'

'Standing orders are to destroy all unauthorised newborns,' he said, unable to put much fight
into it. He'd been running on empty before she tapped him. He lowered his hand from his throat,
letting the blood flow down his chest. His gun was on the table, the hall door locked, Felicity
barring the exit with a sidearm and two blades in her hands, not counting what she was carrying
herself. He was royally screwed and, honestly, too exhausted to give a damn. The kid would've
thanked him, if he'd any idea what Taipan had done to him.

'Basilard,' Mira ordered Felicity, who handed her the dagger once more.

Reece smelled the girl's anticipation, saw it filling her eyes like a kid's on Christmas morning.
He could've told her to hold her horses, the ambitious little bitch. He wasn't being retired just
yet. He hoped.

'Come here,' Mira said as she ran the blade across her forearm. The skin parted, just above two
vibrant scars circling her left wrist, and dribbled crimson. 'Have a drink, Reece. It's medicinal.'

He was on his knees, sucking down her blood, aware of Felicity looking on, all but panting, when
his phone rang. Felicity answered it. 'He's in the loo…
Yeah
, I'm his
secretary
… What do you want?'

Constable Smith, she reported after she'd ended the call. Diana Matheson's son had turned up at
the house, hardly hurt at all. Smith would let Reece know if he found out anything when he spoke to
the lad.

Mira pulled her arm away. 'So, not dead. That changes things.'

Reece leaned against the bed, waiting for the rush to subside. It was taking longer to kick in
each time; each time, it ended too soon. Through that delirious haze, past the burning itch of
wounds healing, he heard Mira tell Felicity to contact this Constable Smith - no interference. No
cops, no doctors, no
verdammt
reporters. Reece would handle it. Make it sound good.

'Get cleaned up,' she told Reece. 'Felicity's got a new kit for you in the car. I haven't decided
yet whether the cost should come out of your wages - or your hide.' She scooped scarlet drops from
her chest and licked them from her finger tip, then rubbed her temple again. 'Everybody just needs
to be quiet for a moment while I think this through. We might be able to salvage this yet.'

Reece headed for the en suite. He felt sorry for the mechanic and his family, sorry he'd pulled
in there and achieved nothing. Dave had died anyway; Taipan had escaped; and now the boy had a death
warrant hanging over him. Usually it was Reece's job to defend the herd, or avenge them. But this
time, he'd brought hell to their door, and now the devil had come to sweep up the mess.

There was a knock at the door and Meg answered it.

'Well, hello,' a male voice said, and Kevin's mother looked over from the pan and said,
'Sergeant, what is it?'

'Constable Smith told me your good news, so I had to come out and see for myself. Hope you don't
mind.'

Hunter walked into Kevin's line of sight. A faint rash down one side of his face. New clothes,
same scruffy coat. Same raggedy bullet-proof vest. Belt bulging with pouches, some kind of baton.

His mother twiddled with the stove and then moved to the kitchen entry. 'I was just cooking-'

The chair scraped a rude interruption as Kevin hauled himself to his feet, using the table for
support. 'What the hell are you doing here, Hunter?'

The man held up a hand and Kevin stayed where he was. 'Calm down, sport. We're here to sort it
all out.'

A woman in black walked in behind him. She wore an ankle-length skirt and a blouse under some
kind of wide-shouldered, hooded Driza-Bone. Her hair was cropped close to the scalp, her face all
angles, tight and hard, humourless, the mug shot of someone who'd blown up a bus. Her eyes glimmered
green, like a cat's. Something about her reminded Kevin of Taipan.

Meg closed the door and walked over to hold his arm tight. He pulled her to him. This was not
going to go well.

'My, quite the welcome home party we're having,' the woman said.

'My, um, supervisor,' Hunter told them. 'From Brisbane.'

The woman studied Kevin. 'Well, our star attraction's up and about. How do you feel, boy?'

'What's the story, Hunter?' Kevin demanded. 'What the hell happened? What happened to my dad?'

The woman glanced at Hunter when Kevin said his name, an eyebrow arched in inquiry, faintly
amused or annoyed, he couldn't tell. Who wore a 'Bone out here in summer, anyway?

'Kevin,' his mother said. 'Stay calm, son.'

'He's fine,' Meg said. 'But the ambos are on their way from Charleville. I think he should be
under observation or something.'

'Oh, definitely
or something
,' the woman said. 'In fact, I think he should come with us.'

'With you?' Kevin's mother said.

Meg tightened her grip on his arm. 'He hasn't done anything.'

'He is a material witness to the death of a policeman,' the woman said.

'And my dad,' Kevin added.

'And your father.'

Kevin pointed at Hunter. 'This bloke knows more about it than me. He brought that biker to the
servo. He left us to die in there.'

'That's not what happened, sport.'

'Don't
sport
me. I saw what you did to that bloke's arm. I saw-'

'Oh, Reece,' the woman said, reaching inside her coat.

'Wait,' Hunter said. 'Mira.'

Mira gave him the look of a school teacher being told bullshit about homework not done, then
walked toward Kevin's mother. She picked up a photograph of Kevin in his cricket whites, leg
streaked with red from his bowling stint that netted his first five-for. 'You must be very proud to
have such a fit son.'

'Very proud.'

'I like you, little mother.' She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. 'You smell of strength.
Not here.' She squeezed his mother's bicep. 'Here.' A hand on her chest, dark-coloured nails
glinting. His mother stood, as straight as a crowbar. 'Strength and anger. A little bit of fear,
too, I think. The smells of the peasant, leavened with dirt and sunshine.' Mira's hand slid down,
over his mother's stomach.

Kevin held Meg closer. He could smell his own sweat. Realised that the sausages were starting to
burn, the sizzling growing louder. His pulse reverberated in his ears. Meg radiated heat beside him;
a trick of his hearing made it sound as if he could hear her racing heartbeat, too, feel it thudding
against him where their bodies pressed together. He could see only Mira: her face so close to his
mother's cheek, the crown of her head reaching only to his mother's nose; that hand, spread wide as
though to sense a baby's kick.

'Stop it,' he said, but she ignored him, lost in some kind of reverie.

'I, too, was a peasant once,' Mira said. 'So, dirt and sunshine, I understand, though I have left
them far, far behind. But I do like to taste them sometimes. It is good to be reminded of where we
come from, don't you think? Of our heritage. Of the blood in our veins.'