 
Sleek Comes the Night

SueEllen Holmes

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012

Smashword Edition, License Notes

This ebook edition is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Thank you for purchasing this eBook. If you enjoyed the writing please return to Smashwords.com to discover more works by this author. Alternatively, other books written by SueEllen Holmes can be obtained either through the author's official website:

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or through select online book retailers. Your ongoing support is much appreciated.

Urban Fantasy and Sci-Fi titles available so far:

Brink (Maverick Trilogy)

Dominion (SOS series)

The Crone's Stone (The Sacred Trinity Trilogy)

Trouble with Angels (Free Novella)

A Darker Shade of Grey (Free Short Story)

Kaleidoscopic (Free Short Story)

Coming Soon:

Bain's Creed (Second in the Maverick Trilogy)

The Warriors' Pledge (Second in the Sacred Trinity Trilogy)

Silver Mage (Second in the SOS series)

Chapter One

Nic gunned the engine, the wheel spinning before gaining purchase in a spray of gravel. The bike careened up the driveway, motor whining tinnily, and he cursed his father's cautiousness yet again. It had him piloting what amounted to a two-wheeled ride-on lawn mower. His heart popped spastically in his chest.

At the end, their house blazed, every light in every room revealing its innards through walls of glass like some yawning monster in the dark. Sam was the only one home, their father's car absent despite ink painting the sky hours ago. No surprises there. And that was just the way Nic wanted it. He preferred the expected.

His anxiety spiked and he wrung the accelerator in the vain hope of bleeding an ounce more speed. Since their mother's death from breast cancer three years back, his fifteen-year-old little brother had been what dad termed "fragile". A good day after school saw him immersed in COD, the blue halo flashing reassurance from down the road. A bad day was anything else. Right now was more "anything else" than ever. Nic felt familiar guilt at staying out so late. It competed with the dread contracting his gut.

Finally, he reached the turning circle, laying the bike over in a tinny whine of cylinders to leap off without bothering to kill the ignition. It spluttered to a halt. He pelted to the door, fumbling keys.

"Sam?"

After an obscenely stretched few seconds, metal slid home and he wrenched the knob. The door sprang open, jerking to a stop on the chain. His brother was more inclined to leave every access to the house a gaping invitation to trespass than remember the dead-bolt.

"Sam!"

Nic attempted to wriggle his hand through. He'd been able to do it what seemed only months ago, but an adolescent growth spurt abruptly added bulk to his lean form. Hours spent rowing probably didn't help. He belted out every expletive he'd ever heard. Thanks to footy team-mates, he'd heard a few.

"Shut up," Sam urged from behind the door. "Move your hand!"

The chain rattled and he whipped it open, hustling Nic in with unfamiliar urgency. As soon he'd breached the threshold, Sam shut the door and re-bolted it. He put a finger to his lips and collected the pump-action Remington leaning the jamb. The shot-gun clashed with his 'Bolt Your Poon, Newb!' t-shirt and fuzzy striped socks peeking from acid-ripped jeans.

"Dad will have a stroke if he sees you with that!" Nic whispered. "You're scaring me, Sam-Well. What's going on?"

"Something's spooking the horses. Something big." His brown eyes were wide beneath a shaggy blonde mop.

"Ah, crap. Not this again."

"It's true! I'm telling you, Nic. This time it's true!"

Nic sighed. "Fine. Show me, but hand-over the gun."

Sam held it vertically as they'd been trained and reluctantly pushed it his way. Nic turned from his line of fire and removed the magazine. He cracked it and emptied the loaded chamber, slotting the gun in the umbrella stand, cartridges next to that day's unopened mail on the foyer table. On second thought, Nic swiped the rounds into a drawer in case dad happened to arrive home and phoned his SWAT buddies in alarm.

"How are we going to protect ourselves?" Sam asked.

"Never fear. I've got some moves," Nic said glibly.

As they headed out back via airy open-plan living spaces and stylish modern furniture -- a wealthy architect mother equalled design perfection -- Nic switched off lights. He'd rather live in a tumble-down shack if he could just have her back, alive and healthy. Often he missed her so bad, the ache wrung the oxygen from his body.

This day telescoped and he still hadn't eaten or started on the hours of homework breeding on his desk. He had a looming Chemistry final that weighted heavily towards pre-Med. Yet with rowing drill, two time-devouring jobs and proxy parenting, Nic hadn't eked enough time to study. Sleep became expendable.

Irritation eclipsed his initial worry. Sam was a dreamer, inclined to put too much stock in fairy tales and urban legend. He could explain the origins in fact of a million mythical creatures. Some stories were even entertaining. Nic's favourite was of the Countess Bathory, a Hungarian murderess with a penchant for the blood of her serving girls -- a real live vampire from the seventeenth century. Of course, nowadays she'd be locked up as a particularly vicious homicidal maniac, rather than bricked in and fed bread and water through a slit.

His father didn't help, recounting a local tale he'd known as a boy. Back in the Dark Ages. A derailed circus train. Some mythical marauder prowling the hills. But stressing its fictitiousness was as effective as telling a kid not to watch the horror movie to avoid nightmares. Sam was obsessed and refused to listen to reason. Every falling branch, snapped twig, animal growl or insect screech morphed into sinister omen.

And their acreage was surrounded by forest on three sides. The closest residence was a Georgian mansion nestled in dense foliage high in the hills, uninhabited for ages. They shared a single road in and out. Normally Nic tolerated the fantasy, but playing with lethal weapons went too far.

"You don't believe me," Sam mumbled.

"Ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? We've two mares in foal. They get skittish."

"I'm not stupid!" he snapped.

"Did I say you were, Sam? We're looking, aren't we?"

"The horses were screaming. I saw its eyes."

They'd reached the gleaming stainless steel kitchen, a huge barn visible under spotlight out dining windows. Three meals congealed beneath plastic on the bench. Nic stopped and stared down at Sam. The boy was petrified, his voice quaking. He draped an arm about skinny shoulders and gave him a brief hug.

"I'll take the shovel. Give it good nine-iron swing if a butterfly comes within spit. Okay, Welly?"

Sam shook him off, even more terrified. "You're not going out there!"

"Oh, have mercy! What do you want me to do, Sam? Malinger at the back door like a frightened child for who knows how long, while the thing from the pit eats our horses? Should I believe you and go check? Or we can sit down to dinner and forget about it."

"I'd rather it took the horses than you!" he yelled.

Nic regretted the outburst, but he'd been up since five this morning and his patience waned. "Look. I'll take a torch and the shovel, go out and give the barn a quick scan. See the horses are okay. We'll get Hank to have a proper ground's inspection tomorrow. How's that?"

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. His face was pale and brow puckered. "Can I have the gun? I'll cover you."

"Over my dead body."

"Don't say that!" Sam trotted to the butcher's block in the middle of the kitchen. He extracted a huge carving knife from the sharpener and returned to offer it handle first to Nic. "Only if you take this."

***

Chapter Two

Nic felt like an Indiana Jones idiot. Poncing around his own backyard, knife raised to convince Sam he took it seriously, juggling a torch underarm and the shovel. He completed a once around, detouring behind the shed to pass a beam over empty corrals, willing the watery light to penetrate the black. He fought paranoia about what lurked beyond the corona. Sam's words about the "screaming horses" creeped him out. He loved those animals, wanted to be a vet, and would never lie about such a thing. This all seemed more extreme than usual.

Oh, God! Nic hoped they didn't have to go back to the Psychiatrist, the stupid biddy insisting on family grief therapy. The skin had calloused over his wounds. Why dredge around until they bled again? He'd only recently managed to wean Sam off the meds, after scrupulous research. The shrink would have a pink fit. Dad might not be too impressed, either.

But the world didn't need another chemically lobotomised teen -- especially not his brother. Diluting emotion became a habit hard to break. Grief was best felt keen and moved through naturally. It was a part of life. He'd been doing all right...

A slight breeze shifted the trees, Nic's newly naked neck goose-pimpling. He had shorn his sandy curls the day before, a number two more practical with a hectic schedule. Sam said the cut made him look like a leukaemia victim. Well, the intent wasn't to make a fashion statement. The night was silent. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He looped back around to bring the house into view, glancing at Sam, his tension framed by brightness. Nic gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up, almost losing the torch, and headed towards the barn. The restless shifting and snorting of the mares in their stalls met him as he entered, the big sliding partition open to the mild weather. He went to flick on fluorescents. Up, down, up, down. Odd. Nothing happened. The full moon swam behind clouds, departed lunar rays deepening recesses.

Nic stepped further inside, nerves humming. Panning the torch, he settled on his favourite mare. A beautiful black Arabian with a mischievous nature. Ebon glared back, the whites of her eyes showing and nostrils flared. She stamped a hoof and whinnied, not easily scared. It echoed loudly in the close space. The other mare snorted, tossing her head. Funny, he could ignore his little brother, but he couldn't ignore the horses. Something alien invaded their home.

"It's okay, girl," he spoke out loud to ease the tension. It didn't help him or the horses.

The torch was pitiful against seething blackness, plenty of hiding spots behind heaped hay and empty stalls. It didn't make sense. There weren't large predators in these parts. And he felt watched more than at risk of attack.

"Come out! There's nothing here for you to steal. Unless you plan on hocking a saddle. Come on out or I'll find you. If that happens, you're at the pity of the Police." Damn! He added belatedly, "I've already phoned them. They're on the way." It sounded lame and unconvincing.

Hay rustled in the storage niche at the end of rowed stalls. Nic strode towards the sound, readying for a confrontation. He briefly mourned the orphaned shot-gun. The best outcome was a vagrant seeking shelter, although the horses' reaction seemed out of proportion. A shovel couldn't compete with a revolver. Nevertheless, he had no intention of stabbing anyone. Just in case, he wedged the knife in a post.

Nic reached the nook, torch-light bathing it blue. He cleared his throat and strived to project authority, using the shovel as a strut. Straw slowly tumbled upwards like mud bubbling from a geyser. A hand appeared in its midst: small, with long fine fingers and pearly pale skin. And then its match. He stood mesmerised as a head appeared between slim arms, one covered by silken black locks.

And then her breathtaking face. She was exotic and dazzlingly beautiful. Almond-shaped eyes the colour of palest ice-blue. He'd never seen the shade before. It reminded of frozen water in pristine glaciers. She had wide high cheek bones and an invitingly full mouth. It was all he could do to gather his sluggish faculties and close his hanging jaw. The rest of her materialised dressed in his father's yard-coat. The sleeves slid to her wrists when she rose.

"What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"

She peered at him with a wary, defiant expression. A slight shake of her head swished the curtain of hair that hung to her waist. They'd reached a conversational impasse after two sentences. And Nic finally recalled the intrusion and his panicked brother back at the house.

"This is private property." He reached out a hand and she shied away. "You need to come out of there and explain yourself. Before my father gets home. He's high in the Police and might not be willing to let this go."

"And you are willing?" she muttered.

Her voice was a low growl, accented. Maybe Russian he thought, but languages weren't his strong suit. English wasn't even his best subject and he'd been speaking it since before he could walk.

"Pardon?"

She waded through straw and stood in front of him, radiating hostility. It was as though she had the right, and he was the impostor here. The sense of entitlement ticked him off, despite glimpsing long shapely legs scantily draped in thigh-high leather. He squashed the startling realisation she was naked beneath. She seemed intact, no bruises or blood.

He politely dropped his gaze, rallying to argue, when the tracker-anklet above her left foot stole his focus. It blinked red. Daylight flooded suddenly.

"Nicholas! What's going on?"

Jonathon Lawson strode the aisle, lanky legs and purposeful gate making short work of its length. The horses nickered in welcome. Sam trailed their father, inspecting the girl with an astonished gape. Behind them ambled a stranger in an immaculate grey pinstriped suit and navy silk tie, hands clasped at his back as though taking a casual turn about the park. He had thick wavy dark hair, a muscled physique and the same striking foreign visage as the girl. They were clearly related.

In comparison to the dapper visitor, his father exuded a crumpled, harried vibe, firearm bulging beneath wrinkled off-the-rack jacket. His wiry hair fell over his forehead, blonde turning grey at the temples, and he raked it irritably to the back of his scalp. His hazel eyes were hooded by exhaustion. The groups merged.

"Well, Nic?"

It was always "well, Nic?" never "well, boys?". And as such, the seventeen-year-old elder took responsibility for whatever occurred, good or bad. He'd never requested the obligation; it was just the way things went. On occasions he pined to swap with Sam, kick-back and goof-off, give full rein to his weaknesses and fears. Be the one who earned sympathy and support, rather than a slap on the back, a "keep up the good work", and yet another request to complete a chore. What would happen in the novel event Sam was asked?

Nic shrugged. "I found her in the hay."

"Jonathon. If I may?" The stranger's throaty tenor reverberated, more heavily accented than his daughter's. Nic had figured that much. "I am Anatoly Arkady." He smoothly extended a hand and Nic shook it with manly confidence, as he'd been taught. "And you are Nicholas. This is my daughter, Mira," he confirmed. It was a statement, not an introduction. "She is a little... Troubled." The thin stretching of lips seemed more a grimace. "I am sorry for any distress and I thank you greatly for your efforts. I assure you all, this will not happen again."

Anatoly looked her way for the first time, uttering a stream in his native tongue, the words terse. Still, his face remained composed, body relaxed. Mira scowled. She actually hissed at her father. It was too weird. Nic's fatigue surfaced, along with his unfulfilled appetite. His stomach rumbled, garnering a narrow-eyed glimpse from Mira. She might be a hoodlum, but she could certainly hear.

"Not a problem. Happy ending." Sort of. He wondered what Mira's problem was, exactly. She didn't look much like a delinquent, more the high-society debutante slumming it, even minus a ball gown. "Can I be excused, Dad? I've got a final to study for."

"Of course, Son. Good job. I'll finish here. Take your brother." Jonathon dismissed the boys with a distracted wave.

"Nice to meet you." Nic doffed a farewell nod in their direction.

Anatoly intervened. "You have already done so much, Nicholas. I wonder if you would do me the service of escorting Mira to our car. It is parked in your turning circle."

Nic tensed to stop his shoulders drooping. He imagined his mates high-fiving, but girls were low on an extensive list of priorities. She was pretty, sure. Stunning, actually. Yet the thought of dealing with another drink-sozzled, self-absorbed female appealed as much as delaying dinner. Albeit a desiccated, soggy one. There were plenty to choose from around town. Females, not shrivelled meals. Oh, he was so buggered!

"Sure," he managed a taut smile. "Welly?" Sam gazed at him, suppressing a grin. "Nuke my pie, please? I won't be long." He'd made the message clear. "Mira?" She loped along behind him, underscoring her own message in a lip-curled sneer. What a pain!

"One thing more, Nicholas?"

He turned back to Anatoly, eyebrows raised in query. Lawson senior glowered disapproval at the barely disguised rudeness.

"When will you turn eighteen?" The question issued with startling intensity.

"Two months," Nic answered, bewildered.

"Good!" Anatoly nodded pleasantly. "Good. Goodbye for now, Nicholas Lawson."

***

Chapter Three

"I can find my own way!" Mira snapped as soon as they were beyond earshot.

"And I'll get blamed when you abscond." He stomped the garden path with poor grace. She snickered and he misunderstood, accustomed to explaining his vocabulary. "It means escape."

"I know what it means. Did you win the spelling-bee when you were a kid?"

"Something like that. I got a trophy. It's better than what you got."

She failed to rise to the bait, lapsing back into moody silence. He fought curiosity, refusing to engage her so she could flay him with more insults or nasty scowls. They rounded the house via English cottage shrubbery, embedded lights waking several steps ahead of their progress.

Nic admired the black 'Benz sports-car stopped at a wayward angle next to his father's dull work sedan. Mira proceeded around the bonnet and slid onto buttery upholstery. He decided to torture her, just a tad.

"You going to return that coat?" he demanded through the open door. She threw knives at him and commenced shrugging it off, a shoulder and the enticing curve of half a breast too rapidly exposed. "Quit! It was a joke. Did you get done for public nudity?"

"I murdered a boy who pissed me off," she snarled, redressing a beat before the indecent.

The alluring image branded his retinas. She was mind-blowingly endowed. Shame about the personality. Nic pressed his lips together to gather composure.

"I don't give a crap if you make it to the South Pole," he said after a pause. "You're the most obnoxious person I've ever met." Who cares if you're the hottest, most sizzling babe in history. "Even if they flog me, it'll be worth putting distance between us."

The frostiness thawed briefly and she actually looked satisfied, crossing her arms as if embracing herself. "I hope that's a promise."

"I never break my word." Nic turned heel, fuming.

What had he done to deserve this? He made it to the blessed front door, only to realise even if he had a key, his blasted brother dead-bolted it. He thumped lacquered wood, mentally begging anything divine to give him a break. A gust of wind blew leaves to his feet and the sturdy door whispered ajar.

"Sam?"

Nic started with shock, positive it had been locked and chained. There was no-one on the other side. Inside the dark foyer, he pivoted using the door for camouflage, and peered out into the night. The Mercedes had vanished without a sound. There didn't seem time. He experienced a mix of relief and puzzlement. At least the irksome passenger was gone. Hopefully for good.

***

Chapter Four

"Stroke... Stroke... Stroke!" the coxswain bellowed, upping the rate a notch.

This was the last lap for the morning. Nic's muscles burned, their rhythm sliding in synchrony with the oarsman in front. The river smelled of briny earth, the rising sun rippling its surface in scattered diamonds, quick splashes affirming the boat's speed. He loved the knowledge his strength added to their swift slice through the water.

The team glided in to the jetty, hassling each other and exchanging congrats for a good session. Their times improved, giving the new team a real shot at the inter-schools championship. Enmasse, the eight ferried the boat and other equipment to the rowing shed.

"Oy! Nic." There was a volley of whistles and murmured appreciation.

"Yeah?" Nic squatted over his bag, towelling sweat from his face. It was six-thirty a.m. and he'd already moved on in his mind, cataloguing the rest of the day's burdens.

"Who's the milf?"

"What?"

"She's asking for you, big-boy."

"Woo, hoo!"

He stood, the glare blinding, and turned in the direction of tapped heels on plank. "Nicholas Lawson?"

His stomach contracted. He recognised the accent. Sure enough, a lovely woman that had to be Mira's mother clipped over. These people were like a virus, hard to shake off once you'd been exposed. She had a brisk manner, adorned in an elegant skirt and jacket, a hint of lace showing. Dark tresses piled in a glossy do and make-up complimented her flawless skin. Gold glinted everywhere. It was hard not to notice her exceptional figure.

"What can I do for you, Mrs...Mira?"

"You have me, Nicholas." Her voice dripped honey, almost hypnotic. He really hoped none of the guys caught that. He'd never hear the end of it. They'd made themselves visibly scarce, but he knew the worst stirrers snooped nearby. "I am Hanna Arkady. Wife to Anatoly. Mother to Mira. And Aunt to Sasha."

He battled the urge to mimic the introduction. 'I am Nicholas Benjamin Lawson. Son of Jonathon. Brother to Samuel. I enjoy pina coladas at sunset. My star sign is Scorpio.' He extended a hand. "Mrs Arkady. I'm Nic. What can I do for you?"

"Call me Hanna." Fantastic, he though wryly. More ammunition for the gits giggling like toddlers in the shed. Her cool palm brushed his in a brief squeeze. "I wish to hire you for a job. I understand you clean pools?"

"Ahh, yeah. I'm absolutely booked solid, sorry." It wasn't a lie, what with his tutoring commitments. He automatically moved to push hair from his eyes, the habit so ingrained he forgot it was unnecessary. "But I have a colleague who might have slot. Would you like me to pass on your details? Or Mr Jackson at the shop could put you in contact."

"The shop?"

How did she know he cleaned pools, if not through the shop? "Jackson's Pool and Spa. It's on the main strip, when you enter town limits."

"I see. We shall speak soon, I am sure."

She minced from the dock, haughtily ignoring the attention of two of his more brazen pals, who'd decided to swan about shirtless for her exit, tensing biceps and glistening from exertion. Nic shook his head. "Himbos," he muttered.

After extended ogling, which only ended when she drove away in a silver convertible Merc, Nate sidled over, Cody in tow. "Well. Well. Met the neighbour I see. Please tell me I've got her slot," he jauntily raised an eyebrow. Nate was tall and broad and brown-haired. Girls fell over themselves for his handsome charisma. His sleaze didn't deter them at all. It deterred Nic. Often.

Cody feigned sobbing, gaining a sympathetic head-pat from Nate. "Why do I not have your dumb luck?"

He didn't need luck, also genetically gifted with dark skin and curly hair. Unlike Nate, whose morals shamed a chimpanzee, Cody had a regular girlfriend and familiarity with the concept of loyalty. His full moniker was Cody Joplin and earned him the nickname CJ.

"Whose neighbour?" Nic had a sinking feeling.

"You don't know," they cried in unison.

"It's priceless," CJ gazed at Nate in glee.

"The only guy in town in the dark!" Nate grinned back. "Tell me, young Nicholas. Are you in possession of even a speck of testosterone?"

"He was born without that gland. Poor sucker."

"No." Nate tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Let us consider the philosophical implications. Maybe he's the privileged one, and we're the poor suckers." Cody looked as though Nate had lost his mind. "Defenceless under the tyranny of our organs," he elaborated.

"Of course. But where does free-will figure? If we're nothing but hormonal chumps."

Nic rolled his eyes and gathered his gear. "I've got an exam." He didn't want to know the answer anyway. "Plato. Socrates. See you in school."

But they kept pace, book-ending him as he made for the showers. "Apparently," Nate supplied conspirationally, "the Arkady clan owns the house on the hill. Your hill, you fortunate dog."

"They've been living in Europe," Cody said. "We're expecting an acquaintance with the delightful Sasha today. He's enrolled at Sacristy Grammar."

"Is there any way this information can be wrong?" Nic asked. "And how the hell do you gossiping old biddies know?"

"Our sources are infallible," Nate said.

"Gossiping old biddies, in fact. Butter them up with a bit of flattery, and they'll tell you their bra size."

Nate slapped Cody on the back of his head. "Do I need that mental image? It's stuck in there! I can't delete it."

Nic stopped listening as he breached the tiled amenities, dumping his bag on a bench and readying to disrobe. It had been idle optimism. Mira now lived a stone's throw from his house, dense forest and a long driveway feeble barriers, especially as her family seemed determined to drag him into their presence.

Maybe it was some European custom, targeting the first male encountered and brow-beating him into submission. There were plenty of potential specimens here. They were smack in the middle of an agricultural belt, teeming with farmhands, stockmen and growers. Why him?

***

Chapter Five

Nic should have guessed an hour and a half was too protracted a span to go without running in to another Arkady. One minute he chatted to Nate prior to first class, while rifling his locker. The next, a metal door slammed his shoulder, punctuated by an insincere drawl with a familiar accent.

"Sorry."

"You Arkadys spread like mould."

It was supremely rude and possibly undeserved. He should give the guy a chance. But the truth was: the constant uninvited approaches wore him down. Nic closed his door.

Sasha propped against a locker, arms crossed in mimicry of his sister only last night. "Yet another witty white-boy."

"To be fair," Nate joined in. "You're kind of a white-boy. Wit's scarce so far."

"Sasha. One of these yours?" Nic indicated the lockers.

"Nope."

"How did I guess," he sighed.

Sasha did the uniform justice, the crisp whiteness of the shirt highlighting olive skin. His black hair hung below the regulation height of his collar, the dark grey jacket with crimson piping and embroidered emblem straining across a formidable chest. He was as glamorous as his aunt and almost as arresting as his cousin.

Nic dropped texts into his satchel. "It seems I've collected the set, Nate."

"You can lock them in the cabinet now. Take them out occasionally and give them a polish." Nate took nothing seriously. A grin creased his cheeks, blue eyes sparkling.

Sasha sneered at them, unbridled enmity causing Nic to question his sanity. He wished he could check the guy's ankle. "What do you want, Arkady?"

"Stay away from Mira." He lifted open his jacket, revealing a knife in a holster under his arm. How he'd managed to slip it by security was a mystery. "If you set foot on our property this is the best you'll get."

"I couldn't be happier to comply. Don't get illusions," Nic took a step closer, anger rising. It seemed default since they'd invaded his existence. "It's because of her superlative character, not threats from a punk cousin."

"Problem, Mr Lawson?"

Typical. Teachers appeared like magic when you least needed them. "Of course not, Sir."

"Bell is imminent. On your way lads."

Sasha slinked in the opposite direction down the packed corridor. It seemed the crowd parted for him, like the prow of a ship through choppy swell. Nic hefted his pack and fell into step beside Nate for Chemistry. Neither of them avoided the argy-bargy with anything resembling grace. Nic was quietly confident about the upcoming test. He'd been up all night in last minute review. It was probably unnecessary; he knew the curriculum back to front.

"He's competing for Mr Congeniality," Nate commented snidely. "Can't say the odds are in his favour."

"You should meet the cousin."

Nate frowned. "What the hell? Did you thumbs-down the Arkady Facebook page or something?"

"My theory is psychopathic genes."

"She hot?" Nate elbowed him.

"Scorching. If you're attracted to serial killers."

"You don't mind, do you? I enjoy a challenge. If the occasion presents?"

"Knock yourself out." Nic laughed. "On the other hand, she'll probably do it for you."

"Ooh, coma sex without the Rufy. Kinky."

"You're sick, Nate. You know it, right?" Nic refused to place sex and Mira in the same sentence. There was no crawling from that quagmire of high-maintenance. They arrived outside the lab. A boy with pock-marked skin in fish-bowl glasses sweated profusely by the door. "You'll be cool, Isaac. Just remember what we've practised."

"That's the problem," he stuttered. "Remembering."

"Flipping the stereotype, hero? The jock tutoring the dweeb. How touching." Arkady slimed to the start of the queue, scrutinising Isaac. "Give up while you're ahead, sweet meat. You'd look good as a bus driver. Too scrawny for a garbage man."

"Why don't you shut your mouth, Arkady?"

"Aww. Sticking up for your little faggot friend." He barged up close and poked Nic in the chest. "Make me, pretty boy."

Nic's fingers curled into fists. He wanted so badly to rid himself of the Arkady blight, his mounting animosity zeroing in on the bastard stealing his air. What on earth was the issue with this aggravating-beyond-tolerance family?

"Nic!" Nate grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms. "We've got a final, man. Don't drop your bundle over this pecker-head. You'll stuff it up for both of us. I can't get through Med-school without you." Nic responded with a glare, Nate rushing to rectify his dismal effort at mediation. "I'm sympathetic, really. Pounding him is a temptation difficult to resist, I know. The sublime yet selfish reward of bones breaking, blood splattering --"

"Are you dissuading me or encouraging me?" He shirked his friend's hold, control ebbing back.

Sasha smirked. "Such a good, obedient little virgin."

Students lining for the door chuckled, eyes darting in shock. Rumours like that were hard to stamp out. Nic lunged on reflex, landing a stellar punch on the wanker's nose. He went down like a fighter throwing the round, screaming beyond all proportion. Blood did indeed splatter. But the ludicrous performance diminished the satisfaction. Until the plot became obvious.

He snivelled and yelled, "Help! He's got a knife. He's trying to stab me!"

"What?!" Nic's pride had stepped him in it. Possession of a knife earned immediate expulsion.

"Move aside, Gentlemen! Let me through."

With the precision only an adult could manage, the Chemistry Master Mr Jenkins arrived at exactly the wrong moment. A knife clattered to the floor between them. Sasha winked, before he was hauled to his feet, weeping and hollering, an authentic smear of blood over his top lip.

"Perhaps, I was misguided. Mostly Gentlemen, and two brawling idiots. What's the story, Lawson?" he raised his voice over the racket. Arkady chewed the furniture with his acting.

"Sir, I admit to the hit. Under extreme provocation. That knife is not mine."

"Can the opera, Arkady. To the office! Both of you. I've an exam to conduct."

"But, Sir! I need this result. Let me sit the exam. I'll cop whatever penalty after. Please, Sir!"

Nate stepped up. "It's true, Sir. The provocation was truly extreme. Calling a man a virgin in front of his peers. It's the lowest blow."

Nic huffed in exasperation, convinced Nate hindered rather than helped. Nic was the top Chemistry student. He'd slaved the entire year to reach this point. Fate would not deny him. It was too cruel.

"Get that wayward tongue under control, Nathan O'Connor. Or you'll be heading to the office with your boxing partner. Out of my sight, Boys." Jenkins knelt and lifted the knife. Arkady sniffled pathetically. "One more thing. Mr Arkady? If you ever bring a weapon onto this campus again, I'll have you black-banned from every school in the district. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Sir" Arkady said, his tone stony and eyes dry. Continuing the charade served no purpose. He'd won.

"I have no proof. Otherwise you would not complete the day," Jenkins said.

Nic broke the unspoken code between Sacristy students: never tell. "He's wearing a holster." Now he was a supposed virgin and a tattle-tale.

"Remove your jacket!"

Arkady did so. A smug smile never left his lips. Of course, the holster was gone.

Jenkins was genuinely regretful. "Sorry, Nic. You know the rules. You should not have retaliated, despite the slur regarding your manly prowess. Get a haircut, Arkady."

Nic was poised to miss his Chemistry final, ruining his scholarship chance at a prestigious programme. A programme he'd strived for his whole life. And the wretch Arkady wasn't even kicked to the curb. Hatred like he'd never known raised its ugly head.

***

Chapter Six

Nic stormed up the front path, grumpy after his challenging day. The sun still cast slanting rays through greenness and the Stud was a hive of activity. It had been months since he'd been home this early, almost directly from school, through no design of his own. A cheque for more money than he'd ever seen smouldered in the pocket of his pants. He was relieved, but not surprised, to note his father still at work. He needed to rally defences before that war.

"Hey! Nickles pickles! What in the Lord's name have you done to your beautiful hair?"

"Martha," Nic grinned. "It was this or a mullet."

"Wise choice. It's kind of Brad Pitt thirty years ago. If he had big brown eyes." Their housekeeper appraised him, immense bag in the crook of her elbow, tights and an over-sized t-shirt hiding her gaunt form. "My oh my, you've grown."

Her red hair needed a dye and was dragged tightly back against her scalp. Years of physical labour had hardened her features, but she always sparkled good-naturedly. Harry, her huge developmentally delayed son rounded the corner, clapping his hands excitedly and lumbering forwards on spotting Nic.

"High five!" he yelled.

Nic went through the motions of the complicated hand shake they'd developed, Harry's pudgy hands flying. "You're too good, Haroldo! I can't trick you. Find the wallet."

"No," Martha said. "You work too hard to give it away, Nic."

He ignored her, fully aware of how difficult her life was in comparison to his choice-laden, relatively pampered one. She cleaned, washed and cooked all day, only to go home and repeat the process as the single mother of a special son and young daughter. Jonathon paid generously, but it seemed an awfully tiring way to make a living.

"How's Henrietta doing in Maths?"

She beamed. "Oh, Nic. She came second in the state competition. I'm so proud. I cried at the presentation ceremony. Big sook. I can't thank you enough."

"Bingo!"

Harry bawled happily after patting him down, extracting Nic's wallet and the twenty dollar bill hiding inside. His own hassles contracted to a pin-prick and he mentally chastised himself for allowing self-pity to take hold. He shouldn't let that Arkady tosser get the better of him.

"It's really great to see you're all dining together tonight," Martha said innocently.

His face fell. Nic didn't believe her for a second. She'd worked with them forever and knew the nuances and foibles of the household. He swallowed hard, grateful for the warning.

"Dad parked in the garage?"

"'Fraid so. It's not all bad. The school rescheduled your Chem exam. If you can stay out of trouble until Friday." She raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Jenkins has known you since you were in nappies. Can't pull the wool so easily over his peepers."

"Yes!" Nic pumped the air. He hugged Martha and then Harry. "Thanks, mother Martha. Tell Henrietta congratulations from me. She deserves it. She's a bright kid."

Martha went all misty-eyed. "You're welcome, Pickles. Harry, Nic needs his wallet back."

He pulled it from his hoody and dropped it into Nic's outstretched palm, head bowed. "Sorry, Nic. Thank you for the present."

"It's cool. Take care."

Nic bounded through the front door, joy somewhat lessened when his father called from the study abutting the foyer, "Come see me when you've said hello to your brother." He didn't sound thrilled.

"Reading?" Nic exclaimed in amazement, several moments later from the doorway of his brother's room. The boys occupied one end of the residence, their father the other, living areas in between.

Sam sprawled on his stomach on the bed, a fat ancient book, the type with gold-leaf edges, spreading double plates across the quilt. "I read," he sniffed, uniform sleeves rolled up to his elbows, jacket, shoes and socks strewn over the floor. Other volumes made a haphazard pile on his desk.

"Texts maybe, not the real deal."

He marked his spot with the sash, stretched and sat up. "I heard about that Arkady dick. You landed a beauty, huh?"

"They reckon girls have dibs as the worst gossips. Sacristy beats the Enquirer," he shook his head. "And the only thing I landed was serious crap. Dad's waiting in ambush from his study."

"Weird having him home so early. He threatened FACs leave until the foals are born."

Nic perched on the edge of his brother's bed. "You're kidding. Actual time off? With us. At home."

"Yep to all of the above." They sat in reflective disbelief for a moment.

"Where did you get that book? What are you reading, anyway?"

Sam tried to conceal it with his pillow. "Nothing. Just a bit of research."

Nic reached for it and they engaged in several minutes of playful tussling, ending breathless and laughing. "Cough up. I promise I'll listen."

"I suppose you won't swallow it's for my career?" Sam sighed. "I've decided to specialise in cats. The big four."

"O-kay," Nic said, nodding encouragement. "Goals are good."

"I saw a black monster last night, Nic. A leopard or a jaguar. Not a girl."

"I thought the black ones were called panthers?" Nic had promised and intended to follow through. No matter the scepticism.

"Technically, there's no such animal. It's advantageous for some of the big cats whose habitats are shady to favour a black pelt. Those in Asia, for instance. The skin underneath is darker with a pigment called melanin. It's where we get freckles from."

"Hmm." Nic pursed his lips. "Asia is a long way from here."

"I knew you wouldn't take me seriously. I've got evidence! Hank rode up to the outer fields this morning. He discovered about fifteen rabbit carcasses ripped apart. The bones were stripped clean and stacked. He said he'd never seen anything like it. Claw marks in the skins, Nic. And teeth." He put forefingers either side of his mouth. "Big teeth. Our foreman's so concerned, he's moving the other horses closer to the house where we can keep an eye on them."

Sam sat back against the wall, challenging Nic with his expression. Like the frantic mares last night, Hank's evidence held weight. The man was country, born and bred, and not known for fits of whimsy or undue panic. Nic digested the news, unsure how to respond.

"Feral cats?" he asked, aware it was lame. "Foxes?" Hank would recognise their hunting practices instantly. It'd be a mutant fox the size of a bus to devour so many. Not to mention the speed and persistence required to catch such a large haul.

Sam made a ring with his thumb and fingers. "The puncture marks were this round. Yap went crazy for the scent, practically frothed at the jaw."

Yap was Hank's blue heeler. She accompanied him everywhere, probably even to the toilet. "I guess I owe you an apology. Sorry, Welly. What's dad say about it?"

"No way am I talking to him about this. He'll put me back on the dope."

"But Hank can back you up."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Hank doesn't have a theory. I do."

Anxiety churned when Nic eventually clomped to the other end of the house. And it wasn't only because his father was about to rearrange select areas of his anatomy for fighting at school. Sam's theory veered to the bizarre. Nic had heard enough to arouse major concern for his brother's mental health. A passion for fable was one thing, but spouting them as though fact was quite another. He kicked himself for not finding out where Sam picked up the strange book. It didn't seem the type of reading material found in the school library.

Nic decided getting him out and away from that horrid old text was the right medicine. They'd ride up to the back paddock and take a look around themselves in what was left of the afternoon. If he got the chance, he'd hide the book somewhere Sam would never find it. Excited, Sam scurried out back to bridle their horses, while Nic readied to endure a verbal reaming.

His father gestured him in, expression not as severe as expected. He slouched at his paper blanketed desk, wearing an old chambray shirt, ancient denims and scuffed boots: his at home comfort clothes. He was tense, but oddly not directing it towards Nic.

"Before you go getting your intestines in a knot, I'm aware of what happened at school today. Had a lovely little chat with the Principal. Motivation to take the afternoon off. Provided the ideal chance to plough through some of this rubbish." He waved a hand over the document stacks. "Bloody bills breed like fungus."

Nic launched. "I know I should not have hit him, Dad. There's no excuse for losing it like that. But you've got no idea how infuriating the guy is. Every time I turn around, there's an Arkady in my face."

"Yeah. Anatoly's an acquired taste. Quite persistent. I can only imagine what the nephew's like. Why don't you take a seat?"

Nic blinked in surprise and sunk onto squeaky leather. "Have you met Hanna?"

"No, I've not had the pleasure in person. She has an interesting phone manner though, an Empress bestowing privilege upon the peasants. But I've met their hench couple, Elmas and Kolb. Straight from the pages of Frankenstein. Elmas runs the house, Kolb takes care of the grounds. They're putting up electric fences. Watch yourselves on the outer perimeter."

He frowned. "What for?"

"Your guess is a good as mine."

Nic took out the slip and unfolded it on the surface, pushing it to his father. Jonathon's brows shot to the heavens. "This an advance for the year?"

"The month."

His father sat back in his chair, massaging his forehead. Professional suspicion crinkled his eyes. He was the Director of Major Crimes Investigation, after all, commuting to and from the city on a daily basis.

"I got to Jackson's ready for work this afternoon. Old Jacko himself waited for me. Said he was giving Nate my three clients and putting me exclusively on a single account. No credit for nailing the clues."

"This is for a month?" Jonathon repeated incredulously.

"Hanna just paraded in, went above my pay grade and altered my schedule, as if I wouldn't take offence. As if my say was irrelevant. I'd already told her 'no'. The Arkady's are like gum on my shoe. I can't seem to scrape them off. Half of them hate me, the other half won't leave me alone. It's really, truly disturbing."

"Don't do anything about this. Okay, Nicholas? That's a ridiculous amount for a pool job. I think I'll check their finances, criminal records and so forth. Make sure we're all kosher. Russian mafia are not endorsed by neighbourhood watch. It'll take a couple of days."

Russian mafia? "They're pretty pushy."

"Stall her."

"Apparently it's a large pool in an indoor gymnasium. Very run-down. Nate's as good with the chemicals as I am, and just as experienced. He's got more practical building know-how though. He's the better pick for such an involved job. Jackson tried to tell her but she wouldn't have a bar of it."

"Steer clear of the Arkady kid. Jenkins intervened on your behalf, but I don't think he could get you pardoned twice."

"I don't know, Dad. Sasha's not the type to let it alone. More likely, he'll plant drugs in my locker. Burn a stolen car on the front lawn, maybe."

"That's a pretty big vendetta against someone he doesn't even know." Jonathon tilted his head, a bemused look on his face. "What's his beef with you?"

"I haven't done anything to him. He warned me off Mira."

"The girl from the barn? Wasn't staying away from her a foregone conclusion?"

"Without doubt," Nic said. "It's as though he doesn't believe me and it's only a matter of time before we elope." He finally expressed aloud the question dogging him. "The thing is, with her looks there must be hordes of other guys stepping up. Why target me?"

***

Chapter Seven

The brothers clip-clopped along a well-worn dirt trail in no particular hurry. Sunlight dappled the ground through branches as they skirted the property's boundary, tracing a large circle. Colourful parrots squabbled and swooped from on high, eucalypt misting the air. The afternoon cooled so close to the hills and twilight would descend soon. Sam munched Anzac cookies, slurping chocolate milk from a flask. In respect of his training, Nic ate a boring apple. He figured they had another hour before darkness.

They proceeded along the fence line, following the road that eventually split at their border, and continued on to the Arkady residence. The boys chatted amiably -- school, music, girls (not insufferable black-haired ones). But an undercurrent of tension informed their words, until they fell into a companionable quiet. Nic tried several times to get Sam to reveal the origin of that book, to no avail. Sam's obstinate secrecy, so uncharacteristic, only served to heighten the worry.

His brother's mount, a nimble Australian Stock horse named Northern Star for the white diamond on her head, shortened to Noddy, neighed fretfully. Nic leaned down to scratch the mottled grey neck of his friend since childhood, feeding him the remnants of his apple. Balthazar was a rare Brumby-cross-Percheron draught horse, tall and dignified, with a placid temperament, yet tough and agile. He reminded of the warhorses of old that marched onto battlefields of clashing sword and shield. Over ten years, he'd never disobeyed a command. There was a first time for everything.

"Move! You stubborn nag." Nic gave Balt's flanks an encouraging nudge.

Sam's bay pranced nervously about Balt, who'd stopped dead still and refused to take a further step. Nic couldn't help but notice their location. They delayed in a gloomy hollow directly by the bottom field of the Arkady's, which shared the top fences of the Lawson's. Their horses' ears flattened to heads and eyes rolled.

"Check out how much forest they've cleared." Land that had previously been densely wooded was denuded in a wide margin, the tree-line pushed back. Not one, but two tall electric fences sandwiched a no-man's expanse in between. "That fortification's better suited to a Siberian gulag. What's all this for?"

His brother shrugged, cheeks burning. He'd always been a lousy liar. "We'd better turn back."

"What?" Nic said. "This is your expedition, Samuel." He urged Balt forward, but the aggravating beast would not budge. "What the hell's gotten into him? He always does what he's told." Leave this place. Nic whipped around, searching for the source of the echoing voice. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Sam battled the reigns, Noddy rebellious. She frothed and danced, looking ready to bolt. Hooves clattered exposed clay and rock, kicking up stones. Nic's danger alert raised a notch. They'd both been riders almost from the moment they could stand and were experienced horsemen with firm control of their animals. Not at the moment. Balt snorted irritably and pawed the ground.

Surveying scrub for the source, Nic's gaze stuck on a symbol carved into the thick bough of a tall eucalypt on their side. It was a circle, in which rested an odd feline with wings and the head of an Egyptian woman. A sphinx? The sign was positioned at the very corner of the merging properties.

Save yourself, Nic. Leave this place.

There was nowhere to hide close enough to allow such soft speech to filter. Nic squinted at his brother. Busy wrangling his steed, Sam was oblivious of mysterious female voices. Uh-oh! It was only in his head.

"Do you see that?" He pointed at the sphinx.

Sam sweated with exertion, too occupied wrangling Noddy's spirited resistance. "Nic! We need to go home. I can't get her to steady."

Giving-up this easily on his obsession seemed insincere, especially when Nic exercised so much patience humouring him. "Why do I have the feeling you're hiding things, Sam? You know what this is about. Don't you!"

"I've tried to explain, but you just think I'm nuts."

"Let me get this straight," Nic failed to keep anger from his tone. Balt backed up, huge hooves gouging clods from soft soil. He pulled and yanked at the bit. "The horses are acting out because --"

Leave now!

Noddy reared, very nearly throwing Sam. The horse took off, galloping back down the trail at full tilt, mane flying. His brother yelled, the sound diminishing as he crashed through brush.

"Oh, shit!"

Nic wheeled Balt, using the reigns to lash him to full speed. After two bounds, he gained balance and thundered in pursuit, the horse overjoyed to flee whatever had him riled. Eventually, Nic accepted the futility of chasing the swift, nimble stock horse. Balt was more suited to the marathon than the sprint; whipping his horse to lather served no purpose. He slowed to a walk, intending to interrogate his brother and learn the truth. Even if it necessitated gaffer-taping him to a chair and grilling him under spotlight.

He arrived home as evening fell, the aroma of a barbeque wetting his tongue. Nic tended his saddle and his horse, wiping Balt down, giving him a brush and cleaning his hooves, before turning him out to pasture.

"You heard it too, didn't you boy?" he murmured, while Balt nuzzled his jacket pocket for sugar cubes at the gate. "You don't deserve sweets. Behaviour like that gets the glue factory." Handing them over, he slapped Balt's hindquarters and the big horse trotted away.

Nic wandered past the barn, refusing to acknowledge anything noteworthy had happened there, refusing to pay the Arkady's more attention than they'd already thieved. His skull teemed with a thousand questions, none of which he wanted answered. He made the outdoor dining area, where his father fussed over the flame. Hank swigged beer from an esky, dusty denim-clad legs resting on its lid. Sam slouched next to him at the dining suite, looking flushed.

"You okay, Sam?" Nic inquired mildly. Sam made a surreptitious face at him. "No damage?" He took a seat at the table, already crammed with salads, bread, a water jug, utensils and crockery.

"I had no idea Noddy could run so fast. My butt's flogged."

Hank peered from one boy to the other. Their foreman had journeyed as a youth from Texas with Jonathon, both remaining to become naturalised Australians. Neither had lost their cattle-station American drawl. He lived on site in a van with Yap.

"Horses spooked?" Hank said. "Let me guess, the Arkady joint."

Nic sat forward. "You've had problems up there too?"

He shook his head in disbelief, tone tense. "That pile of bones was the eeriest thing I've ever seen. Neatly arranged like..." Hank shaped a pyramid in the air with gnarled hands. "My old chestnut's the only ride with gumption to tolerate the place."

Nic gathered courage. "Are there any engravings on posts or trunks? A weird animal in a circle." It sounded crazy. He almost expected a denial and immediate phone call to the loony-bin.

"Do believe there are. I tracked 'em the other day. Make a ring around our place. Those foreigners have cleared so much land. I don't think it's rightly legal. I'm making enquiries."

"It's a sphinx," Nic said, willing Sam to contribute. He stayed quiet, staring at his gym boots and picking a roll apart to bread crumbs. "Do you think Mira's bracelet is because she's some kind of psycho? Maybe she got done for animal cruelty. Satanism or sacrifice. Something like that."

"She didn't get done for anything," their dad said, roasting fork suspended over a sizzling wrack of lamb. "I've checked. She's clean, no criminal record, no speeding ticket, no incident on file, nothing."

Sam cleared his throat. "She sleep-walks. Anatoly's lost her a couple of times. She wears the anklet so he can keep track of her at night. To try and keep her safe."

Three heads turned towards Sam, Jonathon narrowing in suspicion. "And you would know that how, Son?"

"Anatoly and Hanna gave me a lift home from school today," he sighed. "Sasha didn't show up and he said it seemed a shame to waste the trip."

Nic had discovered the book's origin. He should have known.

"There's something about that crew doesn't sit right. I want you to keep away from them, Sammy."

"What! Why? When I told Anatoly about the crap Sasha pulled he was furious. Said he'd had enough of that boy's trouble-making. He apologised, even though he had nothing to do with it. Said he'd see to it Sasha left Nic alone."

"Great! Another one of them prying into my affairs! Adults trying to help in these situations generally make them worse. And who do you think Sasha will blame for copping crap?" Nic glared at Sam. "I wish you'd kept your trap shut."

"Just wait until I've checked them out, Sam. No argument."

An edgy silence hung between the boys during the meal, Sam obviously fuming over his prohibition. Beer bottles heaped between Jonathon and Hank, the leisure time a rarity. They exchanged reminiscences of early days, each narrative more boisterous than the last. As soon as he could, without seeming rude, Nic excused himself and commenced clearing away.

"Us old boys have got it." Hank waved a hand. "Go do whatever it is young folk do nowadays."

Nic considered sharing the truth. Young folk maintained the time-honoured tradition of arguing with their brothers. Sam stomped behind as they made the hallway to their bedrooms.

Nic whirled. "Damn it, Welly! You've got to give the crap a rest or I'll have to tell Dad you're relapsing. He'll flay me alive for helping you off the meds. It's a book of fairy tales! Give the stupid thing back. It's not real."

Sam barged passed to pause in his doorway, chest heaving and tears threatening. "Noddy stampeding was real. Balt disobeying you for the first time forever, was real. They know what's coming! They sense it. Why can't you trust me, just a little?"

"What's coming, Sam?" Nic prayed for the rational, knowing his faith would not be rewarded. "Listen hard when you say it out loud."

"The. Cats. Nic." He enunciated every word. "I've told you, the cats are coming."

"Isn't there a big black one here already? What did you call them? The Felid." Nic struggled to hide the disappointment and consuming anxiety for his brother's fractured psyche. The grief over their mother's death was too much; it had broken Sam. He'd always been the sensitive one.

"She's neither. Yet." He let the cryptic comment float between them and melted into his room, shutting the door.

Nic heard it lock. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against cool plaster, wondering why his carefully constructed existence dissolved between his fingers. Mira's message scored his mind, as clear as his morning alarm. Leave this place and save yourself. Maybe he was the one in need of pharmaceutical equilibrium.

***

Chapter Eight

She slid between the layers, bare thigh forcing his legs apart to rub against him. They fit together in seamless mosaic. The sensual shape of her, the peach roundness of her semi-exposed breast, and the whisper of her lips on his drove him to distraction. Nic woke with a start, gasping for breath, white-knuckled fists balling the sheets. He blinked, disoriented, until a rectangle of dawn-lit blind gained clarity. He dragged upright, belatedly aware of the dampness of his boxers.

"You've got to be kidding," he mumbled.

He hadn't had a wet-dream since he was twelve. The lack of control was kind of embarrassing. And disconcerting, considering the object of desire would rather douse him in acid than share his bed.

Scrubbing eyes blearily, he sought the clock. It was six-thirty on Saturday morning. He'd made it through the dregs of the week, Sasha conspicuous by his absence. The Chem final had been a snap, extra days of study an accidental gift. Of course, forty-eight Arkady free hours should have alerted him to the impending trial. Instead, he leaped from bed, completed a weights session and presented at the stables to help with mucking-out. For the first time in history, Sam had beaten him to it, working a pitchfork with unknown gusto.

"Morning, slug!"

The sunshiny greeting contrasted sharply with the sullenness of the preceding two days. His brother's mood matched the sparkling morning, a light breeze wafting hay, the warm organic aroma of the horses pervading. A small plane droned overhead, many of the farm-folk using them to ferry to and from the city. Nic had taken lessons since he was young, suspended until his exams were over.

He grinned. "You get to call me that after a single appearance? I don't think so. How many stalls have you done?"

"One and a half." Sam plucked straw from his singlet, expression superior and cheeks rosy from exertion.

"A fair handicap for a novice. I bet I can beat you by breakfast."

They made short labour of it, Nic only just besting his brother. The simple pleasure of physical labour and honest sweat in the sun made him feel as if all was right with life; a welcome change from the tension-filled past week. After an extended shower, they re-adjourned in the kitchen.

"Dad?" Nic called. He made for his father's office.

"Don't bother." Sam sat at the bar wolfing cereal. He kept checking the hands of the clock. "Hank and Dad left early this morning to fix the top fence. Apparently, there was a breach."

"A breach. Maybe that's how the..." Nic ceased before he referenced the cat. He quickly changed the subject. They'd had a productive morning. Why ruin it? "Are you going somewhere, Welly?"

As if on cue, a truck rumbled to a wheezed halt at the end of the drive, emphasised by the honk of a horn. "Yep. No need to say goodbye." There came a rap at the door. Sam did not look thrilled.

Nic glared. "Please, tell me that's not an Arkady."

Sam's excitement burst free. "Just for one second, pretend you're my brother. Not my father, Nic. I'm begging, come and see for yourself."

The knock grew insistent. Nic gritted his teeth. "Fine. But you explain to Dad why you ignored his request."

"Definitely. You won't regret it!" Sam ran for the door.

Nic regretted it instantly. And when the mellifluous tones of Anatoly Arkady's greeting penetrated the foyer, he regretted it even more. He slouched into the entrance hall, attempting to scrape up courtesy. Their visitor stood with arms extended, as though embracing the world. He gripped an Akubra, wearing jodhpurs, a waist-coat and blinding white shirt. Knee-high boots completed the ensemble. He reminded Nic of an R. M. Williams model.

"Nicholas too! Excellent."

Sam ran off down the path to where a semi-trailer stretched, its sides belted plastic. A sphinx imprint emblazoned in gold shone from a red background. Behind the truck, the silver convertible idled. An unpleasant dusky aroma of ammonia hung on the air. Anatoly strolled side-by-side with Nic along the path.

"My brother has an active imagination. I'd be extremely grateful if you would not encourage him."

"Imagination is a fine thing. It is how man conceived to reach the moon."

"It's also how we created the atom-bomb," Nic snapped, surprised by the venom in his voice. "I'm sorry, Anatoly. I didn't mean to come off so rudely. It's just, Sam's been a tad unstable since our mother's passing. He's only recently returned to us. You understand?"

"Of course," he chuckled. "My daughter wears an ankle bracelet. We are... How do you say it in English? Sharing the document?"

"On the same page," Nic couldn't help a smile.

Anatoly slapped him on the back. "You will see, Master Nicholas. I mean Sam no harm."

Nic refrained from elaborating his father's extensive gun collection, should the promised outcome go awry. A squat, beefy man that had to be Kolb briskly undid belts, rolling the side flap to reveal four large cages in a row. He resembled Beethoven, the underlying scaffold of his face prominent, his metal-grey hair wild. He chose lace-up boots, coupling them with a round-necked shirt and suspenders.

It was as though Nic had dropped into the country-manor fashions of the last century. Torn cut-offs and a ratty tee from a 'Groove in the Moo' festival couldn't compete. The smell intensified. Sam assisted Kolb, anchoring rope with an awe-struck gaze. Only one cage sported a heavy padlock, the high-pitched snarls and hissing from within unmistakable.

Could it be true? Had his brother been talking about actual big cats? The relief was profound. He peered over at Anatoly as they halted at the tailgate, gratitude warming him. Somewhat.

"Are they..." he flapped a hand, groping for words and coming up blank.

"We have a snow leopard. Her name is Anya and she is mild-mannered. Then our jaguar, very shy. Her name is Irina. Everybody's favourite is Sveta, our cougar. Very playful. Very affectionate. And finally. Katya, our leopard." Anatoly didn't provide a descriptor for her. He didn't need to. The cat's malevolence permeated through the bars.

"We are licensed handlers of endangered species, who require rehabilitation after idiots find out the hard way they are not merely pretty pets. These could not be placed back in the wild, due mostly to inappropriate temperament and loss of hunting skills."

Nic detected the underlying omission. "And Katya?"

"Yes. Very astute, Nicholas," he pursed his lips. "She is a killer of humans."

"Humans, plural?"

"I am afraid so."

Nic had paid little attention to what went on around him, so taken by the amazing turn of events, Sveta was out of her enclosure and next to him before he realised. Sam had hold of her lead, guiding her close, beaming. He tickled her ears, provoking a loud low rumbling. Nic froze.

"Look how beautiful she is! Cougars are the only big cat capable of purring," Sam said.

"Is it safe?" Nic asked sceptically. She was huge, up to his hip, and muscled with liquid brown eyes. One swipe would rip a limb from his body. "Have you de-clawed it?"

"Come! See the rest." Anatoly moved closer to the other cages, leaving Sam in charge of Sveta.

She slunk next to him, mocking an adored tabby. Everyone was so casual and nonplussed about the massive killing machine in their midst, it seemed cowardly to object. Nic desperately wanted to. His father would have a heart attack at the peril and stupidity of it. This was a wild animal, despite the domestic pretence. As if sensing his disquiet, Sveta sidled closer and nudged him with her broad head.

"Pat her, Nic. She likes you!"

He gagged out a chuckle and fondled its velvety ears, careful to keep his movements to a minimum. Isn't that what they said to do? The fur was dense, yet soft as chick-down. Nic silently conceded he was petrified, especially for his guileless, overly trusting brother. Sam had the glaze of a fanatic. He was head-over-heels in love and Nic knew they'd lost him.

Above, the leopard's efforts to get out grew frenzied. It shrieked and threw itself against the bars, fangs bared. Its claws screeched metal, answering Nic's question. These cats came equipped with a full arsenal. Its neighbours paced edgily and the cougar growled, its shackles bristling.

"Might be best if you hand her over, Sam," Nic begged.

A car door slammed. Mira shoved through them, relieving Sam of the lead. She issued a tirade in her own language, gesticulating madly at Katya. If Nic got the gist correct, she seemed concerned for the cat's well-being.

He tried not to notice tight black pants sitting high on the tiny arc of her waist, the tissuey white shirt with black piping, a clinging black singlet underneath. Black boots sat below her knees and she needed only a whip and top-hat to make the perfect ring-mistress to this circus. A single plait swung long, a bowed ribbon at its end.

Anatoly shrugged with a resigned sigh. "She ruins all my fun."

"Not walk?" Kolb asked.

"Nyet!"

Then another string of what sounded like gibberish to Nic. Mira vaulted onto the truck's platform with a single fluid movement. It sat at Nic's shoulder and his jaw dropped at the gymnastic grace and power.

Mira spun and clapped. "Sveta!" she barked and the cat took a run and padded up next to her. The cougar was thankfully back inside in a blink. Mira went to calm the agitated leopard.

"I had intended we walk up to the house, Sam. We shall drive instead."

"You're going too, Sam?"

"I'm going to help." Sam stared at Nic, daring him to say no.

Nic raised his hands in surrender. "You're the one explaining. Remember?"

"Perhaps, you would accompany us, Nic? You can appraise the pool-house and get an idea of what's involved."

Mira uttered something that sounded very much like an expletive. Anatoly glared at her.

"Thanks, Anatoly. I've got some errands to run. I'll come up later and collect Sam. Maybe, take a look then."

Nic's efforts to ignore Mira, a mutual activity, became tiresome. He wasn't used to such open rudeness. And the source of her vitriol remained elusive.

"Don't get eaten," was his terse farewell to Sam.

"Never fear, Nicholas. Our cats are very well fed."

The cat train departed and Nic dawdled inside. In opposition to Anatoly, apprehension simmered. He'd just let his brother skip off into the jaws of doom.

"Interesting display. It's not every day your boys are a breath from dismemberment. That man plays a dangerous game."

Nic jumped. "You saw." His father came out of the study, dismantling a laser-scoped sniper rifle. "I tried, Dad." Guilt surged. Nic should have done more to stop Sam. He'd let his father down. "They freed her before I'd even had a chance to object. Sammy's beyond common-sense and Anatoly is encouraging the obsession."

"You were in the cross-hairs the entire time. If that animal so much as unsheathed a nail," Jonathon's voice was ice. "I'd have shot it in the head."

"Yeah, but we're down here and Sam's up there. Who's watching his back now?"

"You are. You're taking a hand-gun and not letting him out of your sight."

Why could Nic not shut his mouth? "Am I shooting Sam or the cat?"

***

Chapter Nine

First a shovel, then a knife, now a semi-automatic hand-gun. What next? A bazooka? The .45 calibre Colt weighed an anvil at the small of his spine. There'd been a heated exchange, the closest he'd come to an argument with his father since his mother's death. If Sam chose to put himself in harm's way, why should Nic conduct the rescue? It didn't seem fair. He had no desire to go anywhere near the Arkady place for reasons too numerous to catalogue.

"You were there, Nic. You could have stopped him! Should have. He's your little brother. He depends on you."

"And you never thought to show yourself and express an opinion, instead of pretending to be Bruce Willis! Sam's not an invalid. You're the adult, Dad. Not me. In case you'd forgotten. What did you want me to do? Tackle him and use chains?"

Jonathon slumped at his desk. "Of course. You're right. I'm sorry, Nic. I've expected too much. Placed too much responsibility at your feet."

Oh great! Tired old reverse psychology that was bound to trigger submission. The grieving widower raising teens alone, etc. And so on. Nic was certain his father didn't do it intentionally, but exploiting his son's penchant to do right was obviously a well-worn and effective habit. Once again, plans for a game of footy in town and a pizza afterwards, maybe a movie with Nate and CJ, were shelved. He was just too over it to bother debating.

"Why aren't you doing this, Dad?"

"Because I'm investigating precisely who our new neighbours are."

So, he found himself puttering further along their road than he'd ever had the inclination to go, carting a pistol loaded with seven rounds. He was never the marksman his father was, liable to put a bullet in his own foot as hit a moving target. There was no mention of forcing Sam home in deference to his delicate emotional state. It was far more sensible to send his people-pleasing elder brother up, armed with a safety lecture, and dangerous to no-one but himself.

Nic decided he'd insist on a proper bike for his eighteenth with a gnarly, sizeable engine in compensation. He wasn't normally the demanding type, but it seemed to work for others. Higher and higher into the hills he rode, motor straining, the sun eclipsed by towering Liquid Ambers. Shadow smothered even though it was barely lunch. He shivered in his thin t-shirt, bemoaning forgetting his head phones. Music would provide some distraction from this Sasha-baiting, Mira-evading, covering-Sam's-arse chore.

The gates granting entry to the Arkady mansion came into view. They were huge curly iron numbers, painted black with spear-tips piercing the heavens. Excellent! He pressed the intercom and announced his name to a woman on the other end whose response was unintelligible. They swung wide in eerie silence and Nic rode through.

He thought the Dante quote about hope abandoned before entering hell seemed appropriate. Resentment made him melodramatic. It was high time to get a grip. The satisfying image of pounding his brother, repeatedly, helped. Ten winding minutes later, woodland opened out to reveal an imposing stately grey-stone home bathed in sunlight.

A man-made lake spread in the middle of manicured gardens as far as he could see, where swans honked and other water-fowl frolicked. He'd toppled into one of those Victorian romance novels his mother had read. A mob of baying hounds and a groundsman in tweed with dead pheasants slung over his shoulder would make a perfect addition. But the cats had probably eaten them all. The swans were next on the menu.

He loathed Jane Austen and her ilk, forced to study it in English. All the boys groaned and grunted their way through the course -- it was a vicious punishment at an all male school. The girls they knew from the Ladies College one suburb away frothed over Mr Whatever of Wherever, who saved the wishy-washy heroine after far too many pages and rambling sentences. The surrounds heightened his angry disposition.

A portly middle-aged woman, who must have been Elmas, trundled from a generous veranda down fluting charcoal slate steps, to this cul-de-sac. Parking for many visitors made an empty gravel rectangle cut from the lawn opposite. Black marble urns with pink flowers in bloom and modern granite sculptures dotted like an experiment in geometry.

His host flapped sinewy calloused hands, a home-knitted jumper and baggy slacks in brown doing nothing to flatter. The socks and scuffs were unlikely to make the style column either.

"Back! Back," she said, pointing animatedly.

Her accent was too thick to understand. Was she throwing him out? He squinted, straddling his bike, not wanting to ask again and seem ignorant. She closed her eyes and concentrated.

"Cats out back." She gave him a triumphant toothy grin and jabbed the direction. "Sam also."

"Ohh," he nodded. He put a hand on his chest. "I'm Nic."

Her reaction almost knocked him from his seat. She barrelled forward, crying, "Yes! Yes!" She grabbed his hand in both of hers, shaking it with tears in her eyes. "Good Nic!" She patted her own chest. "Elmas."

"Nice to meet you, Elmas."

She reached up and briefly stroked his cheek. "Very handsome."

Weird, but at least someone here liked him. She released him, backing towards the house, clasping hands in joy as though she'd had an audience with the Pope. She might not be as hospitable if she knew what he toted in his waistband.

"You! Lunch!"

"No, thank you. Um, jobs to do."

She nodded stubbornly, bun bobbing. "Lunch."

And wouldn't that be an awkward affair, various family members dying to impale him with cutlery or poison his soup. He'd make his excuses to Anatoly. He copied her point.

"I'll see the cats now."

As he rode around the corner, she spied his progress from the patio overlooking the lane, waving when he looked back. Nic merely had to trust his ears. Cat yowls and screams lead the way. Katya, no doubt. Curiosity about how they'd transfer her from one cage to another stirred, and with it begrudging worry for his brother. Little pest.

He pulled into a small carpark alongside the silver Mercedes, the cat pens concealed in a copse of trees via another broad expanse of grass. Just as he'd turned, a familiar scornful voice sounded.

"You don't pay attention, do you?"

Nic lost his cool, spinning back to get in Sasha's face in two long strides. "What is your problem?"

Where had he come from? He sprawled on the bonnet oozing contempt, appropriately decked out in black jeans and an even blacker t-shirt. "I'm not the one with the problem. All you had to do was stay away."

"I could live here and I still wouldn't go near Mira. Not enough girls in town for you? It's kind of pitiful, crushing on your cousin."

Nic refused to go on the defensive. None of this was his fault. He wanted to explain the Arkady parent entanglement, assisted in no small measure by his brother, but his temper intervened. He couldn't comprehend why Sasha had it in for him.

Cheeks mottled by fury, the enemy rose, placed a hand on Nic's chest and thrust. The motion was slight, yet Nic staggered rearward in spite of resistance. Sternum throbbing, he fought to inhale, bewildered as to how Arkady managed to injure him with so little effort.

"Mira is no ordinary girl. I'll say this only once more. You will obey me and keep away from her. You have half an hour to leave and never return." Applause and whooped victory floated their way, Sam's laughter in clear harmony. Sasha grinned, peering slyly towards the clamour. "There are more ways to skin a cat than you can imagine. I should know. Shall we go down and visit your brother?"

The threat could not have been clearer. The gun beckoned. All Nic had to do was reach for it, push it against this dickhead's temple and demonstrate his willingness to defend his family by flicking the safety off. It sorely tempted. He strove for the rational, rather than permitting hatred to rule and avenging the Chemistry incident. Common sense and years of lecturing prevailed. Tone forcefully civil, Nic tried again to understand.

"Why do you think I'd ever have a hope with her, even if I wanted it? She loathes me as much as you do."

"You are correct in your assessment of my attitude. Not Mira's. Soon, there will come a time when you must choose. Choose wisely. I shall always be watching." Sasha's smile was more disconcerting than the hostility. "Sam likes it here. I will make him a friend."

"Keep him out of this!"

"Really, Nic?" Sasha mocked. "You are not the one giving orders here. I am. Do as I say and no harm will come to sweet little Sammy. Don't do as I say... Well, be it on your head."

Sasha pivoted for the house. Nic's wrath detonated and he whipped the gun out, grasping Arkady by the face to yank him close. He pressed the barrel at the base of his skull, not foolhardy enough to disengage the safety.

"I will kill you if you so much as look at him the wrong way."

Sasha chuckled through fingers, teeth abruptly clamping Nic's palm. Pain seared and flesh tore when he jerked it from the vice. An elbow crashed Nic's ribcage, new agony competing with his wounded hand. In impossibly swift rotation, he found himself face-planting turf, a knee pinning one arm high on his back to the point of dislocation, the other extended by a boot at his wrist.

"I assure you, it will take more than a puny gun." Sasha plucked the weapon from the ground, ramming the cold barrel into Nic's ear. His face loomed, canines bloody and chin smeared. "Click. Ka-boom!"

The pressure released and Nic found himself suddenly alone, hacking sods, various body parts throbbing, humiliated, frustrated and crippled by futility. The bastard had bitten him and relieved him of the Colt. How the hell was he going to justify its loss to his father?

***

Chapter Ten

He'd considered abandoning Sam, but his blasted sense of duty won. Tramping to fetch him, rage boiled. It was not the only thing. Red smudged Nic's palm, each puncture an exquisitely stinging reminder of failure. The rib wasn't much better, nor his aching shoulder. He prayed any damage was superficial and would not interfere with rowing. He'd collect his brother and get out, banning further involvement with this strange dysfunctional bunch. Sam had seen the cats. That proved sufficient for several lifetimes.

Tall hedges guided him to the enclosures. The Arkadys, minus the charming Sasha, Kolb and Sam congregated by stout wire-mesh fences, all four animals safely ensconced in individual long runs that formed a corridor at a right angle to the clearing. Katya lay by the double ingress of the far pen, obviously tranquilised.

Entry was gained through an outer gate, closed behind a keeper before the inner unlocked. It reminded of a shark's cage intimate with the cat's lair, rather than the ocean. The other three gnawed a huge haunch of deer each, fangs crunching bone and rending tissue. Nic imagined he could smell the coppery taint of fresh blood. Maybe, his own.

"Nic!" Sam enthused, bounding over. "Guess what?"

The Arkadys swivelled as one, Kolb offering a brief nod hello. Hanna waved and beamed, teeth glaringly white, hair and outfit immaculate. In collection, they appeared as if they belonged in an advert for the Serengeti, sipping cocktails at dusk on the terrace after an accomplished day on safari.

Nic had no chance to respond before Sam continued. "Anatoly has given me a job here. Caring for the cats." He dropped his voice. "The pay's awesome! I told him I'd do it for free, but he insisted." Of course he did. Sam looked at him and his face fell. "What happened to you?"

Nic peered down at himself, his pants grass-stained and grubby, blood on his shirt where he'd wiped his hand. He hid the guilty limb at his back. "Nothing, Sam. I need to speak with you. In private."

Mira inspected him, eyes narrowed. She issued a curt comment and the rest snapped back in a babble of what Nic decided to call Russian. Hanna rushed to him before he'd reacted and dragged his arm out for all to see, unfurling his fingers. He struggled to pull away, but her spidery grip was firm and any opposition ineffective. He sighed and conceded, not prepared to show further weakness. A circle of expressions mirrored outrage.

Hanna inspected the damage. "Sasha bit you!"

It was Nic's turn to frown. "How do you know?"

"It is his modus-operandi," Mira snorted from several steps away.

He blinked astonishment. She'd never deigned to engage him with anything other than vinegar.

"How may we earn forgiveness for this disgrace, Nicholas?" Anatoly asked, joining his wife, both too earnest for comfort.

Nic squirmed, the honesty and attention an unforeseen distraction. The fact Mira loitered so close heightened the discomfort. "Don't worry about it. It's really not necessary. I need to chat with Sam. If you'll excuse us?"

He snatched his hand from Hanna and tugged Sam further down the path. They'd moved from Sveta's pen passed Anya's and on to Irina's, before Nic deemed it far enough. The jaguar eyed him disdainfully, black muzzle clotted crimson, then returned to the feast.

"We're leaving and I don't want a speck of trouble."

"Just because you've had another fight with Sasha," Sam hissed. "I have to suffer? I'm staying for lunch. Elmas is cooking me a special chocolate cake."

How could Nic outscore cats and cake? It was as if the Arkady's indulged in a competition he had no hope of participating in, let alone winning. He couldn't match the bribe. Nic appreciated the appeal. This was a home where females reigned, proxy mother-figures in abundance. But it was also the house that Sasha built; a lethal construction of malice and jeopardy. And Nic had very conveniently added to the armoury.

"We'll grab a slice to go. Please, Welly. It's not a simple fight. There's much more to it. I'll beg if I have to." A throat cleared politely. Nic whirled. "What?! Have you people no personal boundaries?"

Mira planted before him, unabashed. She raised an eyebrow. "I promise. We will take care of Sasha. This act shall not go unpunished."

"And if you recall, I promised I'd steer well clear of you. Now, if you don't mind, Samuel and I have a prior engagement." How much of the thirty minute buffer had slipped through the hour glass? Was wretched Sasha stalking them even now, pistol cocked?

"I'm not going!"

The chance to avoid an embarrassing outburst snapped shut. Sam stood his ground, arms crossing his chest, features defiant. A girl Nic had dated for a while, a kooky astrology nut, claimed there was no negotiating with an Aries. He was familiar with the look, the only way he'd extract Sam at this point, bodily. Enjoyable though the thought of tackling his pig-headed brother was, time trickled rapidly.

"You have twelve minutes remaining," Mira said. "In that time, Sam can collect his cake and I shall dress your wound. Bites are notorious for infection and who knows where Sasha puts his mouth. You see, he is terribly indiscriminate."

Dumbstruck, Nic could think of no response. Had Sasha told her? Perhaps he'd taken a short-cut, but then they'd all seemed genuinely horrified on sighting his hand. There were mysteries here that twisted his tired brain in knots. And the memory of explaining the meaning of 'abscond' to someone with an obviously sophisticated vocabulary made him feel a pompous prat.

"Whatever."

The trio traversed a generous covered back terrace several moments later, garden furniture reminiscent of grand English resorts of old dispersed amongst huge potted palms. Inside, Sam huffed for the kitchen with no further instruction from Mira, already too knowledgeable of the floor-plan.

"Meet me out front as soon as you're done," Nic said. Sam flashed him the finger.

Attuned to his reluctance, Mira squandered nothing on small-talk. Nic trailed her through richly decorous halls, all polished dark wood, tapestries and art, which lead to many closed doors, several sun-drenched parlours, a library, billiards bar and finally a bathroom better suited to communal Roman spas. A verdant enclosed courtyard seen through wall-to-ceiling glass washed black-and-white marble in rainforest hues. The sunken spa could ably accommodate thirty. He required breadcrumbs to find his way out.

"Take a seat." Mira gestured to a bench and disappeared into a partitioned alcove, returning with a bottle of spirits, swabs and crepe bandages.

She sat next to him and arranged the first aid. Her perfume enveloped him in Spring and a seductive musk he'd never encountered. Nic realised too late he should have refused. This scenario had the potential to push Sasha to a psychotic melt-down.

"Your cousin's unhinged," he blurted.

"Yes. He desires to possess that which he can never have." She rested his hand on her thigh and uncapped the bottle. Her warmth met his through fabric. This morning's fantasy of bare, creamy skin surfaced and he quickly throttled it. "This will hurt. Rather a lot."

He went to pull away. "You'll get your pants soaked."

She held tight. "Very thoughtful. Chicken!" Mira grinned at him. It changed her face completely, as if sunbeams broke through a storm cloud. Nic was so used to her flinty demeanour, he baulked at this playful double. She mistook him. "Wow! What a baby."

Nic clamped his jaw, the action so common since meeting her, a trip to the orthodontist to seemed warranted. This day, starting with the ease of mucking out stables with his brother, had surely devolved into an ongoing joke at his expense. "Whenever you're ready."

Cool liquid flowed, a peroxide fire spreading. His teeth, already conveniently clenched, ground together. A chemical tang invaded the air. Moisture sprung to his eyes.

"Are you all right?" Her brow dipped in sympathy.

"Awesome," he choked out, appearing to cry. She dabbed the tears streaming his cheeks with a pad of gauze. "It's the alcohol!"

Mira nodded robustly. "Of course it is."

Time to depart. "Thanks." He extricated his hand and swatted his irritated eyes. God! He looked like such a pussy -- and not the big predatory Arkady type either. "I've got to go. I'll be late..." He lurched vertical.

She gazed up at him, piercing sliver-blue eyes fringed in thick black lashes. Shadow and light veiled her face. She was simply the most radiant, beautiful girl he had ever seen. He looked away, lest flushed cheeks compounded his unsalvageable reputation as a pansy.

"The situation with Sasha will resolve itself. You merely have to endure for eight weeks. I journey then and shall never return."

Nic couldn't help a pang of disappointment. "Why eight weeks?"

"I leave on my eighteenth birthday."

Weird! "November twenty-first?"

"Yes," she smiled. "How did you know?"

Nic felt certain this was old news to the wily Arkadys. He just wished he knew what they were up to. "It seems we were born on the same day."

***

Chapter Eleven

Nic slammed into the hallway, Sam dogging his heels, while he collected his footy bag from his room. He tossed a change of clothes in as well, yanking coat hangers and ramming drawers. They'd argued the whole trip home, angry voices over the whine of the bike.

"It's still on?" Nic gripped his mobile in the crook of his neck. "Yep. I'll be there." He didn't care about the injured rib or his aching shoulder.

"Why couldn't I stay? I'm taking that job, Nic. Nothing you can do will stop me."

Out of his room, Nic barrelled for the foyer, furious countenance profiled in the mirror over the phone table. "Has it ever occurred not everything is about you? I'd really like a life of my own one of these days. Dad doesn't want you up there. If you do go, I'm the one who'll serve as your guard. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm in the middle of finals. I don't need the hassle, Sam!"

"Just take the pool job. Kill two birds with one stone." It all sounded so reasonable to his brother and Nic came off looking the inflexible tightarse.

"Two birds are the least things endangered. If only it was just a stone."

"Huh?" Sam made a dubious face. "I don't understand the problem! Anatoly won't let me near Katya, if that's your worry. This will be fun!"

"It's not what I want!" Nic bellowed. He grabbed his keys from the dish and pivoted, in time to see their father ease into the hall with a stunned expression, a crammed folder in hand. "I'm going out for the afternoon. I'm sure you two can manage without Nic the nanny for a couple of hours."

"Nic?"

"What, Dad?" He glared.

"Err, the package?"

Nic's face slackened. Damn! He'd forgotten to fabricate a lie about the lost gun. His father would crucify him. "I tripped and it fell in the pool. It's really fetid, green with muck. I'll make an excuse and retrieve it at some point."

Sam squinted at him, fully aware Nic hadn't been within hop of the gym. Jonathon's features puckered. He was a Lawman, any loose firearm cause for disquiet.

"At some point? If you're refusing the job, how?"

"I'll think of something," Nic barked in exasperation. "I'm out of here."

Pounding aggro out in tackles appealed, a footy field the only legal option. He usually played five-eight, but he'd don the number ten of a prop-forward this run-around.

"Nic!" His father tracked him to the bike. "That gun --"

"I know!" Nic shouted. "You'll have it back by the end of the weekend." He had no idea how.

Jonathon backed off. He waved the folder. "I'll put this on your bed. It's everything I've gathered on the Arkadys."

"You know what? I really don't care if I never hear that name again. Don't wait up."

Nic took off like buckshot from the barrel. He wasn't wearing a helmet and heard his dad shouting the same. It was one thing to putter around their property bare-headed, entirely another out on public roads. He opened the throttle and hurtled the straight. Splattering his brain would at least put him out of this misery.

***

Chapter Twelve

Many hours later, he stumbled down the main drag with Nate and CJ. They'd been kicked out of the pub when the eagle-eyed barman spotted Nate's older brother, Jed, plying them with beer. Nic felt slightly toasted after several schooners and a belly full of pizza. They'd played pool with CJ's girl, Emma, and a bunch of her friends, only recently departed.

The fun and light-hearted hassling had been the perfect remedy and Nic found it difficult to recall the wrath of earlier. Just in case, he planned to stay in town at Nate's, whose parents weren't such rigid sticklers for legality. It helped they very handily decided to take his sister to the coast for the weekend, gifting the boys a house to themselves.

"Speed Weed," CJ crowed. He burped long and loud. "That's got to take the prize."

"The burp or the name?" Nate looked confused. "And you'd choose that over Dork for a dorky name? Besides, Speed Weed is kind of a cool name."

"Come on, Nate. We need verification. Nobody's last name is Dork. And the rules are quite specific. It must be a real name, you've actually seen somewhere. Like Nanna Nanoo."

"I still think Kerfuffle beats them all. What about Smellovich? And I can quote you where they're from so you can check yourselves," Nic said.

"I'd rather check that!"

Nate pointed to a bank of lit windows on the second floor across the street. The trio bumbled to a halt, caboose style. Music playing on a piano floated into the night, along with clapped hands and the curt orders of the ballet mistress. Centre stage in the large studio, Mira spun and swayed like a willow on the wind, captivatingly graceful. A black leotard highlighted her jaw-dropping proportions. Nic silently convinced himself he didn't care.

"It's ten o'clock Saturday night. I can't imagine old Mrs Benson volunteering to take a student at this hour," CJ said.

"The Arkady's are inclined to the over-generous. She's probably earning the year's rent in one evening."

Nate humphed, disgusted. "You two are discussing logistics? Are you men or lace hankies? Look at her. She's surface-of-the-sun hot. I think I'll hang around and see if I can escort her home."

"Not a fabulous idea, Nate," Nic said.

Nate raised palms. "Hey, I'll step back if you've changed your mind."

"No! It's not that. I'm telling you, her cousin is deranged. And Mira's not the type to require an escort." The image of her vaulting onto the truck and commanding humungous flesh-eating felines came to mind.

"I've dealt with pissed-off brothers and fathers. Even a few husbands. I can take one snivelling douche." Nate rifled the pocket of his jeans for the house keys, lobbing them at Nic.

"I'm serious. Sasha is dangerous." And armed. Nic toyed with revealing the loss of the Colt. Surely, the nutbag wouldn't shoot someone? If anyone provided a justification, it was usually Nate. "Leave this one alone, Nate. What's wrong with Alison? She seems to have it bad for you. She'd definitely be up for a booty call."

"You certain you haven't got it bad for Mira? You're working awful hard there, Nicky boy."

"Listen to what I'm saying," he sighed, knowing it was hopeless. He held out his hand to reveal the teeth imprint. "Mira's a world of trouble."

"Oh, man!" CJ's features screwed-up in indignation. He'd observed the exchange in tennis fashion. "That bastard pulled a Mike Tyson on you?"

"I reckon I'll take my chances," Nate maintained stubbornly.

"Don't say you weren't warned."

Funnily, Nic experienced not a scrap of jealousy. He was certain Nate would fail with Mira. It was not intuition, simply an established fact. And he had no idea how the infallible knowledge came to be, conveniently disregarding why he would ever be jealous, one way or another.

"Nic's judgment is pretty credible, Nate. Otherwise, he'd go for her himself. Why don't you give it a rest, just this once? The guy bit him!"

"Exactly!" Nic could have kissed CJ.

"Cut the melodrama," Nate snapped. "She's just a bloody girl. What's up with you two? Sasha's not here, is he? What's he going to do? Eat me? Maul me to death?"

Nic peered about the street, ideal camouflage behind trees in bloom at matched intervals and slim, dreary alleyways between boutiques. A bus shelter further down the road and recessed shop entrances were also probable choices. Had he imagined it? Were eyes gleaming from the dark? A tabby shot across the bitumen and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"I wouldn't put it passed him."

"You're being ridiculous. And adding to the thrill of the chase, if I'm at all honest."

"I give up," Nic said. "Come on, CJ. Let the fool find out for himself."

"You're a dick, Nate. Is a back alley grope worth it? What if Nic's right?"

"For her?" he answered incredulously. "Without doubt, CJ. You'll be jealous when I relate details."

"You disrupt my sleep with a conquest story and I'll personally murder you," Nic said, moving off with CJ in tow. He shirked the crawling sensation of hostile eyes at his back.

Both his friends lived in town, a small country epicentre where almost everyone knew everyone else. Nate and CJ occupied the same suburb, several streets apart. Bidding his friend farewell, Nic eventually let himself in the back door, after an inordinate amount of fiddling the key in the unfamiliar lock in the dark. He'd tripped over pot plants, up stairs and almost landed in the garden. Nate's abandonment earned generous cursing and a throbbing shin. Nic fooled himself the wobbly-boot had nothing to do with the booze sloshing his belly.

Feeling his way through the house, Nic eventually stripped off his jeans and collapsed face-first onto the guest bed made up for him in an enclosed veranda. And that's where his father shook him awake several hours later, the red-and-blue strobe of Police cars jagged through water droplets on the window pane.

***

Chapter Thirteen

"What time is it?" Nic asked, voice muffled by the pillow, residual alcohol fuzzing his senses. Was this a dream? His face rested in a pool of dribble, tongue a wasteland.

"It's one a.m. Get up, Nicholas."

Why was his dad here? "I sent you a text. What's the problem?"

"Look! They let me come get you out of respect. Instead of carting you out of here cuffed by Barney."

Nic bolted upright, nearly head-butting Jonathon. "Cuffed?"

"Nate was shot last night."

"Shot?" he repeated like a dope. His brain lagged his stupid mouth. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah. He's in surgery now. Shattered shoulder. He lost a lot of blood, but he'll pull through. Mira got him to the hospital in time. Lucky she was there. Tell me quickly, before they storm the place. What really happened to my Colt?"

"I had another fight with Sasha Arkady. He stole the gun from me."

"How did he know you had a gun?"

"He threatened Sam. I threatened back."

His dad scrubbed hands through sleep-tussled hair. He'd obviously risen swiftly, jacket haphazard and shirt unbuttoned in the flashing gloom. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Because if Nic had shared he'd pulled a gun on someone, it would obliterate all trust forever even inspired by someone as deserving as Arkady.

"I didn't want to disappoint you twice in one day. His prints will be all over it." Then clarity hit. Arkady! Again. Dragging him down into his netherworld.

"That's the problem. Yours are the only ones showing up. They found it discarded in an industrial skip behind the strip."

"Is this a joke?" Nic asked, panic tinged.

The evening's events unfolded and he realised he had no solid alibi for the time in question, CJ the last person he'd seen. Having grown up in a house dominated by the legal system, Nic was intimately acquainted with his options. And they shrunk to a speck on the far horizon.

"I very much wish it was."

"Let me guess. The gun was retrieved just down from Benson's Ballet."

"You may want to keep comments like that to yourself for the interim. Come on, Son. Let's get this over with. See what's to be done."

"Have you got money for bail? Did you hire a lawyer?"

At this hour? His hysteria-riddled mind elaborated the negative -- he was poised to spend the remnants of this night and possibly longer in a cell at the station. There must be a way out of this! He was innocent.

Competing with obvious anxiety, his dad looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I'll sell the horses if I have to."

"You know I didn't do this. Right, Dad?"

"Of course. But my opinion's not worth a damn right now. It's the evidence that counts and it's not great for you."

"What's alleged?"

"Firearm charges. Malicious wounding. Attempted murder. Nate didn't see his attacker. He's a tad indisposed to clarify events."

"How opportune!" Nic swung his legs over the side and groped for his jeans. "It's that Arkady prick. He's trying to ruin me."

For a brief yet infinitely gratifying moment, Nic imagined pulling the trigger on his fanatical stalker, until reality snapped back. The seriousness of his current situation was bad enough. Bile filled his stomach and he battled the need to vomit. He couldn't afford a record. Any miniscule blight provided impetus to overlook him for the next candidate applying to med-school.

"What's his motive?" Jonathon eyed him the same way he used to regard Sam: with a mixture of scepticism and pity.

Nic grimaced, the obscurity of Sasha's purpose maddening. "Insanity?"

Barney appeared, framed in the disco of siren lights flooding the door. "Sorry, Jonathon. I'll need to take him for interview now. Hey, Nic. You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Nic said. "But I'm not going anywhere until you complete a GSR kit. Take my clothes as well. I'm not risking cross-contamination at the station. I haven't washed my hands since I arrived home and adding time will only degrade the samples."

"We've not laid charges. It's preliminary questioning."

"I don't care. I didn't shoot my friend. The lack of gun shot residue will go a long way to proving it. You can take everything in my overnight bag too. I'll walk out of here naked, if necessary."

Jonathon gazed at Barney. "It's a fair request, Officer. I'd be most appreciative."

Barney swabbed Nic's hands, collected clothes to evidence bags and waited while he redressed in Nate's gear. Nic scraped slim dignity and allowed his father's partner to usher him barefoot across dewed lawn into the back of a Police car, thankful for the absence of hand-cuffs. Inside smelt of urine and stale fried food.

By sunrise the whole town would know, the market grapevine in these parts faster than the internet. An overwhelming desire to laugh at the bizarreness of where he found himself took hold. But the injustice of Sasha dismantling his life like this, for no discernible reason, quashed the urge. And the bastard had hurt Nate. Could it be because he approached Mira? Or was it to get back at Nic, send some type of warped warning? Was anyone close to him the target of a lunatic?

His father leaned in, speaking via the open door. "Say nothing, Nic. Until I'm there. I'll be right behind you."

Barney outlined his rights, appearing more dismayed about it than both the Lawson's put together. He'd attended barbeques at their place and Nic had babysat his twin toddlers.

"I've got nothing to hide," Nic asserted, sliding low on cheap vinyl. The car door closed with ominous finality.

***

Chapter Fourteen

They held him for four hours, variously grilling on the evening's events and going over and over the loss of the Colt. Some instinct lead Nic to reduce the role played by Sasha. He couldn't tolerate the thought of bringing more trouble upon his loved ones. He sat on his damaged hand until the pins and needles mimicked knives and swords. Barney had eyed the bite suspiciously during the GSR process and Nic didn't need to remind him, lest he was forced to fabricate more lies.

"Look!" he yelled, after what seemed the thousandth time. "Somewhere between my house and the Arkady's place the gun slipped from my belt. I have no idea where. I was too distracted about Sam in the presence of that killer leopard."

Barney sat back and exhaled a long breath. "You're lucky, Nic. We've no evidence to hold you. Your prints are on the gun's handle, but strangely not on the safety or the trigger. If you were genuinely trying to hide involvement, you'd wipe the whole weapon, not select parts. It makes no sense, unless the residual prints were left deliberately to incriminate you. It appears you weren't the one wielding the weapon at the time of the incident. You're licensed to use it, so no breach there."

Nic mentally blessed his cautious avoidance of the trigger for fear of accidentally shooting Sasha. Maybe there were advantages to having a hyper-safety-conscious father and years of conditioning.

"I should be thankful? Hauled in here in the middle of the night for something I didn't do? Grateful my mate's in the hospital and the shooter remains at large because you're busy hassling an innocent person?"

Nic's temper smouldered. He was tired. And due to the lost chance to sleep it off, hung-over. An increasing need to see Nate, confirm they were still good mates, eroded his patience. It was his fault, after all. If only he'd hung on to that dumb gun!

His father shifted in the corner seat. He'd sat quietly throughout the ordeal, ensuring Nic acquitted himself appropriately.

"Okay, Nicholas. Let's not ride that high horse. Barney's simply following protocol. And Nate's alive to hook-up another day, girls be warned. That's better fortune than a murder charge."

"It's all right, Johnny. The kid's probably had it. Preliminary results indicate a dearth of GSR. Jed O'Connor says he snuck inside with his latest squeeze and both saw you passed out at the time in question. He considered shaving your eyebrows off, apparently. A solid alibi for the approximate time of the shooting, even with brows in tact. At this stage, unless further evidence comes to hand you're free and clear. But it seems to me, you're still in trouble, Nic. Someone's trying to frame you. Someone's pissed enough to implicate you in a serious crime."

Barney stared at Nic, willing disclosure of any information withheld. Nic knew he had doubts, and Jonathon was fully aware of the omissions in his son's statement. Awkward silence telescoped between them. Barney relented when it became clear he had nothing to add.

"It could be dumb opportunity. An individual happening on your Colt and then using it. God knows Nate's an expert at provocation. But there seem too many interconnecting threads based on what your father's said. You watch yourself out there, Nicholas. I'd rather never see you again, than see you back in here."

Jonathon dragged to his feet, chair-legs squealing linoleum. "Thanks, Barney. We'll do our best to comply. Won't we, Nic?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Barney. Sorry I got a bit testy."

Barney slapped him on the back with a meaty hand, showing them the door. "It's this room," he winked. "And I've seen far sorrier behaviour under easier circumstances. You ever change your mind about Medicine, Law Enforcement beckons. You're one cool customer, Nic."

Nic snorted at the compliment. "Yeah, call me dirty Harry."

"By the by," Barney added. "I might drive out and have a word with those Arkadys. It's the second or third time the name's come up in as many days. Hank's been kicking up a stink about the felled trees."

Nic gulped. His eyes slid to Jonathon's in silent appeal. Why goad the hornets?

"Leave it with me for a bit, Barney. I'll have a friendly chat with our new neighbours. Anything off and we'll bring them in."

"Sure thing, Johnny. The trout are running thick. See you next weekend for a spot of fishing?"

"Sounds like a plan, provided the mares don't drop."

It was seven a.m. before Nic had eaten, showered and collapsed between the sheets back in his own room. The fat folder containing more than he ever wanted to know on the Arkady's was discarded under the bed. He'd sleep for several hours and then go see Nate. At least, that was his aim. There came a soft knock at the door. He hurdled upright, temper igniting.

"Not now, Sam!" he shouted. "I've endured the worst night of my life. I told you, no amount of money would get me up to the accursed, miserable, stinking Arkady manor --"

He wrenched open the door in his underwear and stopped mid sentence. Mira smirked on the other side. Jonathon loitered in the background in pyjama bottoms, shoulders raised in befuddled apology.

"What do you want?" Nic was too surprised for manners.

She wore a tight-fitting beige dress and heels, her hair in a smooth roll and pearls at her ears. Her eyes lingered appreciatively over his state of undress. Heat crawled through him and he cleared his throat, wishing more than ever to slip into a foetal ball in bed and forget about the last twelve hours. Maybe develop amnesia for the previous week -- basically since the Arkady's had swept through his life like a Biblical plague.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your rest, Nic. Especially after the night you've endured. I thought it important to tell you Sam is up at the accursed, miserable, stinking Arkady manor."

Nic gave up on figuring how she was so well informed. She loitered in his doorway, all elegance and loveliness, suppressing amusement at his blatant discomfort. That perfume of hers did something to him deep inside. He mentally berated himself for an iota of interest and wrestled composure.

"One of yours collected him?"

"No. He rode your bike."

"The little tosser stole my bike?" he groaned.

They'd brought it home from town on the back of the farm ute. His father refused to let him ride, trapping him for the longest lecture he'd ever had the misfortune to sit through. Until Nic yelled he'd never wanted to touch the damn gun in the first place or go to the Arkady's at all. That shut Jonathon up quick smart and they'd completed the journey in grumpy muteness.

"Go back to bed, Nic. I'll get him."

Jonathon disappeared for the other end of the house, before profound gratitude escaped Nic's lips. Mira didn't seem disposed to leave immediately. She examined his room curiously, surveying posters of his favourite bands, scattered text books and a seldom watched flat screen TV on the wall, while he fidgeted.

"Are you going to church?"

"In a manner of speaking," she said. Nic could tell from the set of her jaw whatever task awaited was not viewed favourably. She settled on the electric guitar on a stand in the corner next to an amplifier. "Do you play?"

"Very poorly. My singing is even more rubbish. You helped Nate last night? I'd really appreciate it if you could explain what happened."

He stepped from the frame and offered her the seat at his desk. She wafted by and perched on the edge of his bed instead, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. She demurely pressed her knees together and arranged the hem modestly. It seemed odd in the modern age, where girls wore skirts resembling belts designed to flash as if in mating display. He smiled grimly, seeking pants on the floor before remembering his were at the station filed in plastic.

"Don't stand on ceremony for me," she grinned. The Arkady's really had no clue on privacy or boundaries. Blast! In last night's frenzy, he'd thrown on Nate's mustard coloured skinny jeans. He hated them. They were ridiculous. "Especially if they're the only choice." She scrutinised them with distaste.

"I'm glad someone has the luxury of humour. If you could get to the point, please. I'm buggered." He couldn't stop the sour attitude. She was guilty by association.

"Buggered?"

She tilted her head, a sliver of light glossing her hair. A strand had come loose, his instinct to tuck it back for her. The strappy shoes accentuated shapely, athletic calves, fabric straining her slim thighs. Nic really wanted Mira gone, even more so given his state of undress. Acknowledging the truth her presence thrilled him wasn't an option. The conflicting emotions churned like seasickness. He took the chair, draping limbs as casually as possible to cover himself.

"Fatigued. Exhausted. Fed-up."

"Of course. I am sorry. It is unwise to carry a gun near our cats. Even more so near Sasha."

"Thank you!" he snapped. "I've had my share of sermons for the day."

"No! You do not understand. Weapons are useless. The cats are too fast. However, they sense the threat. It serves only to aggravate them, to target their aggression. If you wish to protect yourself and your brother, a knife is premium. Sasha is too tricky to get caught over the shooting. He sends me a message as much as you."

Nic scowled. He was back to carrying a knife. "What message? Is he schizophrenic? Suffering delusions? You really need to up his meds. He's obsessed with you, fine. But in case he hasn't noticed, we barely speak. I've provided no cause for his paranoia. He seems to believe us being together is fate or some such crap."

"It appears irrational to you, I know. I wish I could explain fully and help you to understand. Sasha is not mad. He aims to secure his heritage."

The riddles irritated Nic passed forbearance. "This has been a blast. I don't mean to be rude \--"

"Which implies what follows will be. I shall spare you the trauma." She frowned and adjusted her hem. "Nic, please believe me when I say I am sorry for Sasha's intrusion. If I could find a way to make him stop, I would. But I fear he will prevail unless action is taken. In that endeavour, I have a proposition." She arched an eyebrow to ensure his attention. He nodded.

"Sam is determined and my father accommodating. I foresee your brother shall disobey in order to stay close to the cats. It will provoke difficulties between you. Accept my mother's job and I can help you monitor \--"

Nic interrupted, thoroughly over this suggestion. "That's an outstanding idea! Hang out even closer to you, really test the limits of Sasha's patience. He shot my friend at the merest hint I was in your vicinity!"

The realisation blossomed. She was here, in his bedroom, and him in scant shorts. Without thinking, he rushed to hustle her out, lifting her from the bed with an arm about her shoulders, her body pressing the length of him, skin on skin. It was the first time he'd voluntarily touched her. She cried out and shoved him, fingers brushing his chest.

"No!"

It was too late, goosebumps erupted, white heat detonating his nerves. The powerful impulse threw him across the room, where he sprawled to the carpet, panting and stunned.

"What have you done? You've woken the curse. I've been so careful, tried so hard to fight the instinct." Tears welled her eyes, matting lashes to trickle flushed cheeks. Nic gawked dopily, flesh buzzing, more energised than he'd ever felt. "How can I possibly save you now?"

***

Chapter Fifteen

Mira fled without further explanation. He tossed and writhed in bed, turning her final words inside out. They swam in his mind, meaningless yet ill-omened. Save him from what? Hormonal overload? Maybe Nate was right; it was better not to feel than be at the mercy of a rebellious adolescent body.

Nic wondered if such keen yearning was normal. Is that how it happened? Passion for her at the moment of contact devoured self-discipline, a 'curse' he'd never experienced. He was known for his stability and restraint. Strenuously overlooking the bizarre flight across his room served best.

Finally, despite the weariness, Nic could take it no more. His father hadn't returned, which was weird. Retrieving a wayward teen from the house on the hill, even one as stubborn as Sam, should take less than an hour. He needed a distraction and visiting Nate would provide it even if it meant borrowing Hank's rusted, exhaust-spewing, noise-polluting jalopy. Catching the bus after last night's adventure appealed as much as a public declaration of blame. He pictured the busy-body little old ladies eyeing him reprovingly over enormous shopping bags.

He rolled over and dragged the blinds open to gauge the day. At the end of the drive, a procession of fancy cars queued bumper-to-bumper for the Arkady residence. Through grey drizzle it was more vehicles than Nic had ever seen along the lane. He watched for a while, speculating on the purpose of a Sunday morning convention. Unlikely to gain answers anytime soon, he gave up.

As soon as his feet hit the floor, Nic felt the envelope. Settling back under the covers, he tipped the contents over the quilt: newspaper clippings, photographs, a thick family biography and financial reports. The astounding history of the Arkady's spread down the centuries and with it, an unsettling portrait of wealth beyond measure, philanthropy and upstanding citizenship too perfect to be real.

An ancestor possessed the uncanny ability to zero in on mineral-laden land. They owned a third of the planet's gold and diamond mines. Lucrative manufacturing, vast holdings in property and other investments to fund a small nation rounded out the portfolio. Nic sat gobsmacked. The facts explained the outrageous generosity. Yet, their good fortune in accruing fortunes was tempered by recent family tragedy.

Anatoly's sister, Lidya, Sasha's mother, hung herself at the tender age of twenty three. Her five-year old son was alone in the house with the corpse for many hours, before a staff member discovered the body. Nic conceded it went some way to accounting for Sasha's instability.

Anatoly's parents disappeared in Egypt when he was only ten. In creepy symmetry, a number of aunts who shared names with the cats also vanished in their late teens. One, Katya, was implicated in the savage murder of her fiancée, before she too went missing. There was not enough evidence for an accusation, let alone a conviction. The crime remained unsolved.

He thumbed the scene report. The bedroom shots were particularly graphic and grisly. The guy had literally been torn apart, blood and gore painting ornate wallpaper and antiques in horror. Several internal organs were gone, presumed eaten. Rumours of cults and cannibalism forced what was left of the family into seclusion. Nobody had heard from them in years.

And now, they were in his backyard. Nic closed the document, replacing them in the envelope, appetite for breakfast evaporated. Unless one of the AWOL women came forward, Mira and Sasha were the final Arkady heirs. But there was so much to go around, more than could ever be spent in many lifetimes by a single person, no matter how greedy. Nic couldn't fathom Sasha's rivalry for the spoils, even if a genuine inheritor joined the line. Besides, as far as he could gather, they already owned every toy or object an avaricious heart desired.

It was definitely occasion to embrace the mundane. Nic rifled his bottom drawer for a couple of old 'Sports Illustrated' magazines to take to his friend. After hitting the jackpot with the latest edition, still in plastic, he went in search of Hank to request the keys to his heap. When had existence become so packed, Nic had no time to read something other than a text book? All the while in the back of his mind, an oft-quoted motive from his father cycled. People murdered for money; usually far less than the fabulous Arkady cache.

***

Chapter Sixteen

What had it been? Twelve hours? Nate's hospital room was a profusion of floral tributes, silvery balloons with bright 'get wells' in pink hearts, cards sprouting on available surfaces, one sobbing sister, and stoic parents seats pulled close. The patient lay amid the colourful cardboard and foil garden with a doped grin plastering his slightly dazed face. His shoulder sported a thick bandage, tentacle IVs and machinery marking his progress in bleeps. A bright white plaster covered his forearm.

Nic loitered by the ensuite. "I can come back later."

"Don't be ridiculous, Nic. You're part of the family," Nate's walrus of a father boomed from a bedside chair. "We'll escort Lily down to the optimistically titled dining facilities. Give you a moment. Nate's fine. Us O'Connors are made of stern stuff."

His attention slid to his daughter in evidently wasted hope. Nate's mother, a small quietly spoken woman, who bore the brunt of three larger than life males with determined reserve, smiled at Nic and patted Lily. On sighting him, Nate's sister rallied.

"We never blamed you. Not for a second. I hate what they've been saying!"

She leaped up, ran over and buried her face in his chest. At sixteen, she wore the cusp of womanhood, the potential of her family's genes obvious in her budding beauty. She'd always nurtured a crush on Nic. One he tolerated with a mixture of acute embarrassment and the knowledge touching his best mate's sister broke some unwritten, but firm law.

He emulated Nate's mum, offering a shoulder pat and wishing he'd brought tissues. Parts of her rubbed him, an effort he was certain was deliberate, copper hair tickling his bare arm. Yet, despite the contact, Lily's proximity had not the least effect. Nothing like Mira's, which resembled stepping on a pheromone land-mine. At minimum.

Mrs O'Connor rose and delicately extracted Lily on the way passed to Nic's immense relief. The clinch went on so long, it bordered on indecent. He'd had no idea how to disengage without offending her. Her mother winked and guided her sniffling charge away. He pretended not to have caught the longing gaze Lily bestowed behind her back.

Mr O'Connor gave him a spine-jarring thump enroute out the door. "Don't listen to the bunkum, son. We know if you wanted to shoot Nathan, you'd have done it long ago. Hell! You asked me the right second, I might've loaded the gun myself."

"Thanks, Mr O. I'll give you a heads-up when I next feel the urge."

"At least give me a chance to finish a cup of the cafeteria swill that calls itself coffee. And don't mention it. I'm certain your old pa'll make a hasty arrest."

"Nicky boy," Nate slurred, beckoning him close with his good hand. "Barney inquired if you'd shot me. I laughed myself hoarse. And that was before the exceptional narcotics kicked in."

"Are you going to be all right? The row team's screwed without you." He took a seat, vinyl crackling.

"Yeah. This year's championship's down the gurgler. Unless you can come up with a replacement? I'll be aces next year, though. We'll join the uni crew."

"No-one's taking your spot. Did you see anything, Nate?"

"You mean aside from the bountiful Mira leaning over me with a look of dismay?" he said with a leer. Nic didn't have the gumption to share the true reason: that's because her cousin shot you. If only he could find proof. "It's all a bit of a blur. I passed out with the pain. I don't recommend getting shot. It's an utter bitch. Doesn't help we were pretty wasted. How'd that turkey get your gun?"

"It's a long and woeful story. My fault, absolutely. I'm so sorry, man."

"Have you seen the cards from my well-wishers?" Nate looked incredulous as he attempted to pull himself upright via the overhanging bar. Too weak, he gave up before Nic could rise and offer help, waving him away. "I couldn't let Mum read most of them. The messages and suggestions for my recuperative benefit are too obscene. Riley Stanley even went to the trouble of visual aids."

He wriggled brows conspirationally like some back alley pimp. "Delightfully explicit photos. You want to look, check the drawer there. Between Bible pages probably recounting commandments on chastity and modest behaviour. I don't think she's been familiar with either concept since she was ten. It works for me."

"You're going to hell. You know that, right?"

Nate's grin faltered after a moment. "You warned me. I didn't listen. Enough said. Tell you what, though?" Nic leaned forward and nodded. "You're right. There's something seriously messed up with those Arkady's. No matter how blistering she is, anyone who goes anywhere near Mira is totally tapped."

His little brother and father were there at a clan gathering right now. He experienced a sinking feeling. "What do you mean?"

"Anatoly showed up this morning after surgery, before my parents even got here. Couldn't have made it faster if he'd teleported. Offered to put me up in a private hospital at his expense, call in some big-wig mate who's the best surgeon going around. Arkady Senior didn't seem phased by any of it, kind of like he expects trouble and is ready to step in on demand. If that doesn't smack of guilt, I don't know what does."

Nic couldn't help but agree. "Anatoly's certainly smooth."

"Slipperier than a muddy eel."

Nate exhaled tiredly, the drugs taking a toll. Nic rose and deposited the magazines on the bedside table, along with a large bag of peanut M and M's purchased from the kiosk on the way in. A glowing buxom model spilling from a string bikini pouted up at them from the cover.

"Exceptional! I haven't read the latest edition."

"Yeah, you surely want it to 'read' the articles. Anything you need, Nate. Anything at all, don't hesitate." He leaned in and gingerly hugged his best mate, clasping the good hand.

"Thanks, brother! You'd better run, before Lily comes back and drools all over you. Not that it's not hilarious to watch, but Mum adores you. Probably has the church booked and the gift registry planned."

Nic made a show of gulping -- only a slight exaggeration -- and high-tailed it out of there. Some country mothers were ferocious in their matchmaking. Still, they paled in comparison to the Arkady parents. Finally arriving on the doorstep to his house, Nic halted in his tracks, key suspended. He'd feverishly mulled over events on the trip home. Was that really what Anatoly and Hanna were up to?

It seemed an impenetrably strange approach, the usual custom to invite the object of approval over for dinner. Maybe force reluctant teens together on family picnics, use thinly veiled hints about dates to the movies and dances, arrange 'accidental' run-ins at the supermarket or dry cleaners and such.

But the Arkady's had exploited the optimal means at their disposal: bucket loads of money. And when Nic declined to take the bait, they'd inveigled his brother, making the pool deal impossible to refuse. Sasha's threats compelled Nic to step in and protect Sam. It was inevitable, like they knew his hyper-responsible nature and manipulated him from the beginning.

Were they all working together to trap him? Surely there were a million guys more suitable for their daughter; one's who even liked her beyond blatant lust. The only thing he and Mira had between them was clothes. His mind finally broached the most puzzling aspect: what had she meant by that reference to a curse?

Perhaps sexual attraction was a sin where they came from, a metaphorical scourge and it was her task to cleanse his tainted soul of evil desire. If encouraging purity before marriage despite temptation or some completely unrealistic hooey was the aim, they were using the wrong deterrent. She was an almost irresistible challenge to virtue.

Besides, it was far too late for practically every friend he had and that consisted of roughly the entire population of teens in these parts. The outdoorsy life seemed to warrant the consistent shedding of attire. He'd happily shed more often if he could spare the time and avoid the subsequent entanglement. But then, where did a homicidal cousin with an amorous fixation fit?

And for the barest moment, he swore she'd experienced the explosive magnetism of their touch too. The intensity with which she briefly returned his stare literally burned. Nic shook his head. The debate hurt his brain, so frustrating with no obvious solutions.

Those blasted people made him paranoid. It was stupid. And he really needed to concentrate on schoolwork, his English exam in two miniscule days. He got the comparison between 'Blade Runner' and 'Frankenstein' well enough, but was useless at analysing poetry. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

"Hello?" Nic tossed Hank's spare keys into the bowl Sam had fashioned in year eight ceramic's class, the only other sound the ticking of the hall clock. It read one-thirty p.m. The foyer echoed emptily. "Dad? Sam!"

Stubborn silence confirmed it: his brother and his father had been missing for five-and-a-half hours.

***

Chapter Seventeen

Balt trotted merrily up the road, hooves clopping the staccato rhythm of Nic's heart, oblivious to the squall of confusion and worry his rider felt. What could possibly compel his father to stay so long? He found the Arkady's as repellent as his elder son did. It was chill in the thickly shaded avenue of trees, but clad in Levi's, steel-caps and a 'dress' t-shirt, not to mention insulated by concern, the cold didn't register.

He urged Balt to a gallop and eventually made the gates, thrown open in welcome of that morning's convoy. Balt skittered sideways on the verge, neighing his reluctance.

"Oh, no you don't."

Nic dug in his heels. With a giant lunge, Balt's powerful forequarters laboured against the winding incline. Nic was free to ponder the likelihood the unsociable Jonathon Lawson had joined the party, a sudden about-face puzzle to beat them all. They'd lured Sam with the irresistible quadrella of cats, money, double-chocolate-sponge and maternal surrogates. What did the Arkady's possess to entice Lawson Senior?

Nic dismounted on reaching the turning circle in front of the mansion, the problem of anchoring Balt solved when Kolb materialised. Truly, it was as if they anticipated his presence before he'd even made the decision to show. Numerous expensive cars rowed the drive, the vast dwelling immaculate and sparkling despite the grey weather. Elmas and Kolb certainly had their work cut out for them.

The beat-up Lawson farm-ute stuck out in their midst, sullying the refined atmosphere. The burble of many in conversation and a classical composition played on strings wafted the terrace.

"Not dressed," Kolb tutted, appraising Nic's clothing in disapproval.

"Hey! This is one of my best t-shirts."

It was white and sported a large red exclamation mark on the front. Come to think of it, Nic thought it particularly appropriate.

"You tuck!" Kolb motioned pushing fabric into his pants.

For an instant, he thought the old guy mispronounced "you suck" or worse. He laughed and shook his head. Nic wasn't overly taken with fashion, not like CJ anyway, who had a list of favoured designers, but that was a statement he'd never embrace.

"Not on your life."

The groundsman grunted concession and extended for the reins, scrubbing Balt's neck and murmuring encouragement in his native tongue. With the incentive of a magically produced carrot, Nic observed his disloyal horse lead placidly away without a backwards glance.

"Real cheap, Balt," he mumbled and took the stairs two at a time.

It wasn't until passing the threshold of concertinaed floor-to-ceiling windows, folded back to allow a seamless merging of outside with inside, that he recalled Sasha's ban. And if he was discovered on the Arkady property? Nic frowned, chewing the consequences and failing to take much notice of his progress. A spreading absence of sound dragged him to awareness.

He stopped and squinted around the salon in dimmed light. Every set of eyes riveted upon him, their Champagne flutes hovering and faces avid. Kolb had been correct. Nic was woefully underdressed: figures adorned in crisp suits and cocktail dresses stood or perched on elegant couches, a plethora of discreet yet obviously expensive jewellery on glittering display, perfectly coiffed hair the norm, and not just on the women. Even the aproned and cummerbunded serving staff outdid him.

His skin prickled under their examination. It all seemed an overreaction to shabby dress sense. Hanna detached from her draped position by a huge ornately carved hearth. Flickering logs added to the suffocating warmth of the room and bathed them all in sinister ruby.

In shiny dove-grey, Mira's mother slid uncomfortably close to murmur in his ear, "It is wonderful you are here, Nic."

Enveloped in a cloud of her perfume, a deep blush crawled his cheeks. She turned to the agog crowd with a practiced smile and a small flourish of the wrist. "Allow me the privilege to introduce," she paused for effect. "Nicholas Lawson."

An initial smattering of applause rose quickly to tumult, those present gaining their feet enmasse for a standing ovation. Now the embarrassment was overt. Were they mocking him? Nic shuffled on the spot, stunned and dying to melt into the rug. These were the creepiest people he'd ever met.

"Er, thanks." He swallowed awkwardly, words a vain attempt to stop the fuss.

How the hell was he going to get out of this? It was as though each new challenge topped the one before, Lily easy by comparison. A hush fell abruptly and the throng parted. Mira, looking ropable, barged their midst. They'd treated him as a treasured novelty, but their response to Mira was reverence befitting the messiah, features glassy with fanatical zeal.

In one hand, a magnum of Champagne hung loosely by her side, strappy sandals dangling about the neck of the bottle, in the other, knuckles were white on the stem of an empty glass. She dumped it on a tray held aloft by a youth regarding her with an expression of adoration, and grabbed a full replacement.

Finishing the contents in a single draught, she slammed it down, unbalanced glassware cascading to the floor with a loud crash, shards ricocheting. The horrified boy scrambled to tend the mess, the carpet fizzing soggily. Mira's dress was crumpled and her hair had come loose about her livid, blotched face. If guests were shocked, they didn't show it.

Hanna moved forward, arms outspread. "My darling, Mira. Please..."

Without a word, Mira brushed her mother away, gripped a fistful of Nic's shirt and tugged him from the room through a fervent guard of honour. She released him as soon as they made the long hallway and he had no choice but to follow as she marched along, barefoot and swigging Champagne.

"Parasites!" she muttered, disappearing along a right-angled corridor and up a dark narrow stairwell.

"Mira, wait!"

She ascended the tight spiral as though he wasn't there and his resentment mushroomed. Nic struggled to keep up, her back a flash at each twist. He swore under-breath. They finally emerged on a sunlit landing to a view of slate tiles out mullioned windows, this the highest turret. She drained the bottle and dropped it to the floorboards, unpinning her hair in a tumble of black satin.

He'd pursued her to her private space, a sprawling studio apartment with a roomy unmade bed at its centre swaddled in cherry linen. An old-fashioned bathtub on legs was visible behind a partition thrust aside. Canvases occupied scattered easels and art gear was strewn haphazardly over available surfaces. Mira was a painter. And a great one at that, of overblown flowers and foliage so life-like, yet unnaturally brightly coloured.

Nic held his surprise in check. She didn't seem the waffly arts-and-craft type, more the undaunted huntress, rifle and filleting knife at the ready. Diverted, he wasn't prepared when she wheeled to get in his face with a blast of wine-soaked breath.

"Why are you here?"

This was the intolerable Mira he'd come to expect. He took a pace back, answering with what he considered exceptional restraint. "It's generally what one does when one's family goes AWOL. Search for them."

"Well, as you can see, your father and your brother are not in my room."

Nic gladly exorcised the pent-up frustration of the past days, refusing to back down. "What the hell was that idiotic welcome? And I want the truth. I'm sick of the bullshit! What do they want from me?"

In answer, she went over and flopped on the bed. Her voice was soft and tone wrecked. "You want anything but the truth, Nic. I guarantee it.

***

Chapter Eighteen

"You may as well take a seat. It's too late now, anyway. Thanks to your stunt today."

Nic peered around uncertainly. "Stunt? Christ you people are cryptic."

"You were never supposed to touch me of your own volition."

There wasn't really any suitable furniture, resigning him to a spot cross-legged on the floor. "Well, lock me up for the crime of the century. I've had some recent experience with the Law. Thanks to Sasha's stunt last night."

"Touché."

She sighed theatrically and patted the mattress. He thought this a very bad idea, but complied anyway. As soon as he sat -- so near, the friction of her every breath whispered his flesh -- the enormity of the mistake jammed home. A current of attraction burst in his veins and he had to avert his gaze to stop from instinctively reaching for her. He closed eyes and waited for the urge to pass.

After a painfully stretched silence, he opted for humour to deflect the insistent, seething need. He grinned at her, testing the springs as she had done only this morning. Mira bounced slightly, bits of her a tantalising jiggle. Clearly best to avoid the humour approach.

She bit her lip. He was certain this time, she stared at him with raw hunger, forced to shake her head to break from the trance. Hair swished in a sinuous wave and he censored a vision of teasing it between his fingers. Nic had to get out of here at the nearest opportunity. He had not a scrap of faith in his dodgy resistance.

"Jonathon is playing billiards with, believe it or not, an ex-Texas Ranger. They are reminiscing on the glory of American chilli, among many topics. Sam is hanging on my father's every word at a seminar on big cat conservation... And other matters." A shifty expression briefly lit her features, gone before he was sure.

"You see," she spread palms and shrugged, the simple action somehow captivating. "They remain liberated from chains in our dungeons, all limbs intact."

Nic tried to ease his pulse by breathing slowly. "I trust you're using those chains to secure that lunatic cousin?"

"Hmm, he has proven more bothersome than usual. I have caught him spying on me, even here. I must be very careful when I undress."

He concentrated on the confusion, thoughts of her disrobed most unwise. "But it's four storeys off the ground with a steep roof. How?"

"Yes. That is the question, is it not?"

Nic wilted and rubbed his face. "Is there a remote chance you could speak plainly?"

She waited for him to take his head from his hands. Wriggling back against the carved bed-head to nestle on her side in plump pillows, she beckoned he join her. Nic nearly objected aloud on the grounds of feeble self-control, but caved. He grudgingly admitted it: he wanted more than anything to be next to her.

As she launched into her story, he worked like a madman to focus on the words only. Not her shapely legs extended beside his, not her little finger within millimetres of his, definitely not the rise and fall of her breasts on the fringe of sight. He did not spend any time at all obsessing over what her lips would feel like against his. He paid no attention whatsoever to the burn lighting his body.

"The Arkady line is long, back to the royalty of ancient Egypt in fact. Our ancestors worshipped the feline above all other creatures, the cat-goddess Bast. This devotion has continued to the current era. We keep their ceremonies and rituals alive. In return, the select few who practice our faith believe it bequeaths much influence and favour. Perhaps, it is the placebo effect or blind self-confidence, but all are at the pinnacle of their professions, successful and wealthy beyond measure."

Mira brushed a wayward lock from her mouth and his focus lingered there. The red sheets highlighted the brilliant opalescence of her eyes. He remembered Nate's claim: "no matter how blistering she is, anyone who goes anywhere near Mira is totally tapped."

"You belong to a cult?" Nic pretended he was in a dentist's chair, rifling his oppositional mind for images of maggots or anything disgusting to lessen the craving, the overbearing stimulation of her proximity.

"I was raised by the Felid. It is my life."

"You don't indulge in human sacrifice, do you?"

Nic had no difficulty imagining Sasha's enthusiastic participation in such a rite. She laughed, a throaty rumble that sent shivers through him. And he'd heard that name before, Sam's ramblings earning significance. Had they brain-washed his brother? His father would not succumb so readily, surely. Although, if they had other weapons like Mira at their disposal, no-one was safe.

"Your eyes are so wide right now. Scaredy cat," she teased, evidently enjoying his discomfort. Her beautiful face was far too close.

"Comical. You are joking. Aren't you?" She continued to stare and it felt as though he'd tumble into the ocean of her irises and be lost forever.

"They are the exact shade of a tiger's."

"You've gotten that near?"

"Of course. A long time ago. It is not something soon forgotten. Hypnotic and very beautiful, like orange-tinged toffee."

Was she granting him a compliment? "Mira, tell me! Are you joking about human sacrifice?"

"After a fashion."

"What does that mean?"

"In any legend, there is always a price to pay for magic or power."

"Well, that clears that up! And what has any of it got to do with me, specifically?"

Now," she shimmied closer, the length of her facing him, hip wedging his hand. "We come to the climax of our plot. You tell me, Nic."

He gasped; pornographic images of all the things he wanted to do to her flooding his mind, no matter how he fought to stop them. This was ludicrous; he'd never been so affected by a female. He writhed from her onto his back, but sleeker than night, she matched the effort, straddling him, skirt creeping up her thighs against the strain. Her hands were flat on the pillows either side of his head, keeping him prone.

"What are you thinking at this exact moment?" She smirked knowingly. "Have you experienced such overwhelming desire before?"

"Ah, ah," he stuttered, aiming for levity. No mean feat helpless and pinned like steak on a fork. The rumours of cannibalism and those gruesome crime scene photos chose this instant to emerge. Maybe that was why they'd all stared at him: sizing up the length of the roasting-spit and whether to stuff an apple in his mouth for dinner.

"Boy." He pointed at himself. "Girl." He pointed at her. "A strange girl. Who goes from abusing me one moment to apparently wanting to..." he struggled for a descriptor.

"Seduce you?"

"Yep, that seems to be next." His dignity had fled. She must be pissed. He hated getting involved with girls who drank too much. It made things complicated and messy; they never remembered what you'd done. Or said. "At bewildering light-speed."

"Try and fight it," Mira dared. Her expression was fierce, fingertips lightening across his cheek. "Such furious passion." Was he dreaming or did her breathing accelerate too?

"Of course I can fight it! I'm not an animal." She just had to drop scant centimetres to discover his arousal, so keen it hurt.

"We are all primitive beasts in one way or another. At the mercy of our urges."

"And what if I don't want to resist, anyway?" he asked quietly. Why was he striving so hard to stop? A smoking hot babe wrapped her legs around him, in a bed, unlikely to be interrupted. He'd earn that virginal reputation lest he acted, but some groundless instinct prevented it.

"Can you guess why I've endeavoured to avoid you, Nic?"

"Not a clue. Hence the questions." He prayed Sasha was not spying right now.

"My family and all those congregating downstairs believe you are my pre-ordained mate. Our union is foretold to herald a new beginning. One to invigorate the withering Felid line and return it to its rightful power."

"I can't believe I missed it. It's so obvious." Was she serious? He couldn't help it. Nic burst out in uncontrolled laughter.

"You think it funny?" she snapped.

In a single fluid movement Mira swung from him to stand over the bed, glowering. She dragged her skirt down to her knees. Her outrage added to the amusement. He obviously didn't give her fairy-tale appropriate gravity.

"Oh, no," he choked. "I think it's utterly hilarious! You and I hook-up and everyone's rewarded with a big dollop of ninja juju."

Free from the bind, Nic curled over and let hysteria get the better of him. What a spectacle! The whole lot of them were as deluded as some Jim Jones sect, whose kooky leaders dupe their followers into acts of idiocy, such as group suicide by cordial. It was thoroughly illogical.

Suddenly, he was reefed upright, shock silencing him immediately. He couldn't catch his breath. Mira held him aloft with embarrassing ease, face-to-face, his t-shirt bunched up and belly exposed. She was shorter than him, but he didn't want to hurt her trying to get free, so he hung there like limp spaghetti. And the disconcerting thought he was powerless against her strength refused to go away.

"It does not matter what you believe to be true. They will act to fulfil this prophecy. All of them are a danger to you unless you comply."

It occurred to ask. "Are your parents stalking me, Mira?"

"Yes," she nodded emphatically. "And they will entice your family, your friends, everyone you have any feelings towards, in order to gain the leverage to get what they want. They will invade your life, exploit what you value, weeds choking concrete until it crumbles. Melodramatic, don't you think? I should have brought more Champagne." Mira shook her head again, tone bitter. "Silly me. There is not enough alcohol in the world to drown these sorrows."

She lowered him miserably and smoothed the fabric over his stomach. He tensed and gently removed her hands, not sure allowing further intimacy, especially southward, helped. Nic realised Mira was a greater challenge than a drunkard: she was mentally ill. Is that what had stopped him? He couldn't take advantage of someone so messed-up? The best approach was no approach. Time to leave and never come back. They stood together, him clasping her wrists. Defeated, she did not try to break away.

"And what is it they want?"

She looked up at him, so sad he yearned to hug her. "For you to save their little girl."

***

Chapter Nineteen

Mira let him go without another remark. As he trudged the descent, Nic brooded on how difficult it would be to forget her. His progress through the labyrinthine mansion was marked by mute awe from anyone he met. Cloying from the outset, it reached a stifling level. He decided to say goodbye, find Balt and ride home, regardless of what Sam or his father chose. No matter what happened, he vowed not to return. They could prod him all they liked, he'd refuse to budge. This joint was crazy town.

True to Mira's claim, he finally discovered Jonathon in the billiards room with assistance from Elmas, who he'd collected like a duckling in his wake. "Some food, Mr Nicholas? Drink?"

"No thank you, Elmas. I'm not staying."

She clasped her hands in desperation, dressed for the occasion in a black frock and matching apron. It was a marked improvement on brown knitwear.

"You must! You must stay, Mr Nicholas."

"If you wouldn't mind, could you ask Kolb to bring my horse out front? Please?"

"Ohh," she grumbled. "The Mistress most unhappy. Punish Elmas."

"Crap! I don't want to get you in trouble. It's okay, I'll do it myself."

"No, no. I tell." The housekeeper scurried away, wringing her hands.

Sighing heavily, Nic entered the billiards hall and the predicted silence fell. Bearing a large brandy balloon and cigar, face flushed by out-of-the-ordinary-consumption, Jonathon negotiated the crowd, oblivious of their response to his son.

"Nic! Great you're here. Come on in and shoot a game. Meet Steve. You'll never believe it. He's from Galveston."

As far as Nic was concerned, that was the easiest bit to believe. The Arkady house was like another world. Six snooker tables occupied the middle space, club chairs arrayed in cosy nooks. A large bar with busy staff took the furthest wall, the entire hall plush with leather, crimson velour, stained glass and wood panelling.

Blue smoke shaded the air in an aroma Nic likened to a Swedish sauna. Jazz piped from hidden speakers, a pianist taking a rest at his grand piano in the corner. The combined effect was of a posh men's society from an earlier era, immaculate women included.

"I'm not staying."

Anatoly cruised over, suit impeccable, skin polished, nails manicured, making his father seem worn and shoddy by comparison. "Nicholas! Welcome to our home. It is outstanding you've joined us."

"No," Nic replied coldly. "I've not joined you. I'm here to say goodbye to my family. And Anatoly, you'll need to hire someone else to do your pool."

"Nicholas!" Jonathon said. "Anatoly has extended his hospitality. I won't tolerate this rudeness."

"Just as well I'm leaving then." He turned in the direction he guessed was the exit. Jonathon laid a hand on his shoulder. Nic spun back. "Have you forgotten this morning, Dad? Nate's bleeding from a gunshot wound in hospital. What are you doing about it?" He leaned to mutter in Jonathon's ear, "Fraternising with the enemy?"

His father's fingers slid off and Nic left them, Anatoly noticeably disappointed. Jonathon's apology could be heard over the rising babble, citing the stress of recent events. Nic experienced immense satisfaction, jostling worshippers from his trajectory, as he stalked the halls. Eventually, he made it outside into fresh air, not at the front as he'd hoped, but via the back patio. It was far too easy to get turned around inside.

Below on the lawn, Kolb wrestled Balt. The horse tossed his head, flinging the reins and dancing in agitated circles. Something nearby had him addled and Nic suspected its cause. He vaulted the remaining stairs, panic seeping his innards. Sasha.

"Thanks, Kolb. I'll take him." The groundsman wrenched the halter, provoking Balt further. He whinnied and snorted, front hooves lifted from the ground. "Really! I've got it."

Nic grappled the reins, gently tugging him onto all fours, reaching to stroke Balt's neck and calm him. He'd almost succeeded, when Kolb hurriedly strode towards the cat-pens, waving his arms and calling sharply.

Balt screamed, eyes rolling to yank free. He reared, forelocks digging the sky and it was all his master could do to scramble away as more than half a tonne of frightened animal rammed back to earth. Nic lunged for the bridle too late, as his horse reeled about and galloped madly for the gates.

Kolb's pleading apparently met deaf ears, because he broke into a sprint. Nic whirled for a better view. He swore enthusiastically. Sasha appeared from the tunnel of hedges, while restraining Katya on a flimsy lead. She writhed and snarled, claws unsheathed and fangs frothed with saliva, hatred zeroing Nic.

"Yeah," he whispered, aware he'd expected this the whole time.

Kolb wouldn't get there to prevent it. Sasha released the buckle and with vicious glee the leopard shot for its prey. Nic tensed, fingers coiled to fists; running was pointless. He'd have to fight. Although he wasn't optimistic, the chance to take vengeance in some small way appealed. He bent his knees, estimating the collision. The cat moved with uncanny speed, a spotted blur.

She leaped, paws outstretched and Nic jumped, both boots extended to meet with her jaw. Steel caps connected in a snap of bone and flailing claws. He couldn't believe it worked. Katya howled, back-flipping into a crouch. He crashed horizontal, launching upright before she could rally.

Nic assumed a wrestling stance. "Come on then, little bitch."

The cat hissed, yellow eyes crazed, hackles bristling. She lashed out and he dodged too slow, cloth tearing, four jagged ribbons across his chest. He staggered, knowing she'd sliced him deeply. The cat seemed to grow to preposterous size. Or maybe perception inflated the danger. Adrenaline blocked the pain -- as long as his intestines remained in tact. Battling while they spilled all over the lawn might prove a trial.

Aghast cries rose from behind, but he could not waste attention on the crowd pouring onto the veranda to witness his ruin. She tried again with needle talons, but he was ready, grabbing the leg to jerk her snout onto his fist. He pounded hard twice, and then threw her before she could retaliate with her unshackled paw. Landing in a poised squat with an enraged shriek, her lips curled to better display teeth, stalking a half ring at his front. He edged the arc, keeping a steady distance between them.

Nic wished the wretched cat would give up already. She merely looked cranky. He tired rapidly, the element of surprise waning. Evidently, there weren't that many ways to skin a cat, or at least catch one off guard.

A bullet abruptly sprayed dirt at his foot. In the background, Sasha roared for Katya to run and she streaked into the shadows in a hail of missed shots. Nic gasped relief, bent against the sharp throb spreading his torso. Thirty seconds later, he heard her voice.

"Nic. Come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with an Arkady. I want the lot of you to leave me the fuck alone!"

"It's far to run. You'll need transport," Mira said. "Your truck's parked in."

She took him by the arm, leading him to converted stables adjacent the residence, beyond which the glassed roof of the pool-house was visible. He was simply too fatigued to object and didn't relish a long jog.

"Sport over for the afternoon?" There was not a soul to be seen, the people amassing the patio having disappeared.

"He goes too far. Sasha will suffer for this infamy," she seethed.

"So you keep promising."

He didn't care how bad-mannered he sounded. Mira didn't seem to care either. "You have no reason to trust anything I say. And any apology I make will be hollow after all we've subjected you to."

He noticed she'd changed, wearing cut-off denim shorts and a singlet. Her sopping hair dripped a transparent patch down her back. The outfit was the first he'd seen that a normal teen would wear. Her feet were still bare and she hoisted a large bore rifle over one shoulder. He recognised it as a Bushmaster semiautomatic. The contradiction somehow lessened her superior demeanour, exposing the vulnerable girl beneath.

"You missed deliberately."

"Yes. I cannot kill that which we hold sacrosanct."

"And yet, they were quite prepared to stand by while Katya took another human pelt. I guess I know where I sit on the sacred scale." The venom drained with his flagging energy.

"I would have arrived sooner, had I not been in the tub. None of them dare challenge a Felid idol. You, however, held your own. I have never seen such an impressive display." She gazed at him with open respect. "True bravery is very rare in this modern age. And you seemed to anticipate Katya's every stroke."

"It wasn't hard. Decapitate, gore, disembowel, sever."

Nic felt numb, not courageous. The knowledge he'd tangled with a big cat was slippery and frankly impossible. He just wanted to turn heel and go home, briefly entertaining thanking Mira for saving him. But none of this would have occurred were it not for the Arkady snare. It was petty, but he couldn't help it. She shuddered in the cold, as they cut through a copse of trees, smothering them in dusk.

"Even after that ordeal, you find humour."

"I've been training on the odd chance I'll be forced into a bare-knuckled wrestle with a wild beast. It paid off. It's a shame I couldn't rescue my shirt, though."

"Sarcasm. You are a very unusual person, Nicholas."

He snorted. "And you guys are not weird at all."

"I need to tend that wound." She eyed the increasing blood, stark against the white of his torn shirt.

"No, thanks." Her rubbing his bare chest would surely push him too far, even with stinging antiseptic. "I'll suss it when I get home. I have some recent experience with bites. Scratches aren't that different."

"Touché," Mira smiled. Staying angry when she did that was trying. "Sam has the keys to your bike. You will need one of ours."

The last of his adrenaline spent, the pain amplified. And Nic began to worry properly about Balt, especially if that devil cat was still on the loose. At the long, low building, with its characteristic gabled vents and slatted shutters, Mira punched numbers on a control panel at the side. Two broad doors swung wide to reveal a modern garage, an astonishing assortment of vehicles rowed either side.

"I suppose the congregation's thrilled the lovebirds are taking a romantic stroll?" Nic asked wryly.

"I doubt it. They are well aware of my thoughts on the matter."

His curiosity peaked. "And what might they be?"

"We are at the end of our time. Take the 'Busa. It is the fastest."

***

Chapter Twenty

Loath as he was to owe an Arkady the slightest thing, Nic enjoyed their phenomenally fast Suzuki as he flew down the lane, woods a smudge through his visor. It sure beat driving a machine incapable of powering a forty-watt bulb. He might not have floored the accelerator so recklessly, if he knew what waited on rounding the bend near home. He squinted to help his mind make sense of what his eyes perceived in awful clarity.

An old man in a crimson bow-tie and vest beneath his charcoal suit rocked in the middle of the road, hands plastered to his mouth. A stately ancient Rolls Royce halted askew in a ditch by the broken fence. The bonnet had caved-in, its windshield a clotted spider's web of fractures. A large shape rested adjacent to the front bumper. Hank bent low over the heap, Yap barking manically by his side.

"No," Nic declared, breath mercifully fogging the transparency.

It could not be. He rode the last metres slowly, unwilling to confirm what his squeezed heart already knew. If he didn't see, it would never be real. The engine's whine blocked sounds he couldn't bear to hear.

Hank ambled to greet him, thumbs hooked beneath his belt and grizzled face sombre. He surveyed the red-sopped wreckage of Nic's front without comment, experienced enough with teen boys to let the story unfold to their schedule. Deepening creases in his brow were a more accurate reflection of concern.

Nic kicked the stand and removed the helmet, arranging himself with his back to the scene. Its meaning penetrated, but denial operated as a temporary shield. At some point, he knew the flimsy barricade would crumble to release the flood. There was no avoiding life's unpleasant lessons.

"Don't."

"Nicky, he's in pain. We have to put him down. Those injuries..." Hank swore under breath. "I'm sorry. They're too extensive. The old boy's not to blame. Balt charged right into him. There was no chance to manoeuvre in that tank."

Nic pressed trembling lips together, gripping the bike-seat so hard it hurt. He knew who was to blame and stored fury, tempered by the agony of loss, for later.

"I'll do it." His voice was gruff when he finally spoke, choking back bile.

"I'll load a revolver."

Boots crunched gravel, fading down the path to the house. He felt a light touch on his arm.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Nicholas." The accent was fruity, posh British. Another one of them. They multiplied like carrion flies. And of course, he knew who Nic was.

"Get your hand off me."

He swivelled, and with harsh resolve strode to his friend since childhood, not wasting a glance at the little fellow with his old-fashioned pocket-watch stretching a trim girth, silver pencil moustache, waves of white hair, small round spectacles and mortified expression. Balt nickered feebly and attempted to raise his head when Nic knelt, ignoring fragments of windshield embedding his jeans.

"Guess we're both a bit bloodied. Hey, Boy?"

Silent tears flowed as he picked glass from Balt's mane and rubbed his velvety muzzle with knuckles. The fabric of Nic's inner universe shredded, the anguish almost as intense as those final dreadful hours with his mother. Emaciated and barely cognisant from pain, she curled in on herself like a shrivelled flower, beautiful face contorted, long blonde curls stripped by the savage chemicals that failed to keep her from death. He'd never seen Jonathon cry before. To this day, Nic detested those fluffy hand-knitted beanies the oncology good-will ladies supplied.

His consciousness shied from gaping wounds apparent at the edge of vision, from bone piercing dappled grey. The gun intruded, Hank's fingers digging his shoulder. Nic shrugged them away.

"It's okay, Balt," he choked for air. "It won't hurt for too much longer."

Nic accepted the weapon with a trembling hand, releasing the safety. Alexis Lawson's pleas towards the end when all hope was lost swirled his brain, "It would surely be more humane for all of us, to shoot me, Nic."

He admired that: his mother embraced action and didn't mince words. She was tough and unyielding in the face of the ultimate trial. Doing what was best wasn't about him: it was for Balt. Nic wished to make her proud, cocked the hammer, pressed the barrel to Balt's forehead and pulled the trigger. The bang's finality reverberated the hills forever.

"Goodbye, Balthazar," he whispered, metal dropping to the bitumen with a bleak thud.

Hank and the stranger watched silently, as Nic hoisted upright, swiped his face and plodded along the path for his bedroom, emptiness a void to consume him. Within his pitiful sanctuary, he locked the door, kicked off blood-stained boots, ripped the shirt over his head and fell into bed in a shivering ball, praying beyond hope for the black forgetfulness of sleep.

***

Chapter Twenty-One

Sharp thumps woke him. The door quaked and his father's worry-tinged voice infiltrated the gloom.

"Nic! Open the door. Come on, mate. You've been comatose for twenty-three hours. You've got to eat something."

Groggy perception brought vicious aches and a tide of freezing sweat. A white blaze jack-hammered his skull. Nic's teeth rattled and he groaned, sicker than he'd ever been. Nausea hit and he projectiled onto the carpet. Finished, but not any better, he observed through slitted lids. It was the most he could manage.

"That's it! Move, Sam!" With a resonating crash, a splintered hole materialised around the knob, the sole of a Blundstone extracted. A hand looped through to wrangle the lock, and it eventually bounced open. Jonathon barged in, Sam pursuing tighter on his heels than a sheepdog.

"Jesus! What's that stink?"

"Vomit?" Sam supplied helpfully.

Nic wanted to laugh but didn't have the energy. His brother wore his school uniform and Nic strained to decipher if it was morning or afternoon.

"Something else..."

Another torture lurked beneath the pall of illness, but the physical symptoms besieged and he was thankful. Blinds shot up and sun accosted as if lava. He recoiled from the blitz, the motion stabbing swords in his flesh. The bed-linen reefed off in a glacial blast.

"Is the thermostat working?" he croaked in protest.

"Dad," Sam's tone was tremulous. "He looks awful. He's the colour of putty."

"Where's all that blood coming from?" A hand lay on his back provoking another volley of hurt and Nic flinched. "You're burning up. Help me, Sam. Let's get him unfurled and take a look."

He thought himself only half present, but when they attempted to wrestle him flat, Nic thrashed and howled against the reality. His core split apart like someone eviscerated him with a chainsaw.

"Hank!" Jonathon bellowed. Another set of hands joined the fray.

The trio eventually succeeded in crucifying him to the mattress, punctuated by Hank's, "Holy mother! You want me to phone an ambulance? That's god-awful infected. He'll be septic before too long."

"Call Hanna!" Sam cried. "She's a surgeon. Anatoly's a doctor as well. They'll get here faster."

A litany of 'no's' chorused in Nic's mind, but he couldn't get his glued mouth to function. Not an Arkady, please not another Arkady. He faded in and out.

"Hank?" Jonathon queried.

"You invite them here, I'm gone. There's a perfectly good hospital down the road."

"That's forty-five minutes away!" Sam said.

"No choice, I think. Make the call, Sam. Hurry! Get me some water and a flannel before you go, will you, Hank?"

"I'll bring the first aid kit. Maybe you can clean it up a bit. Give him some aspirin for the fever."

"He'll never keep it down. He needs an IV."

"I told you, Johnny, the big-house people are bad news. Crap happens anytime you go near 'em. Those are claw marks or I'm Sophia Loren."

"You couldn't be Florence Nightingale, make yourself useful?"

"Let me know when you remove those blinkers. Okay, Johnny? No amount of money's worth this shit."

"Shut up, Hank! You're out of a job if we lose this farm. I'm all ears and so far you've come up with zero alternatives."

"And how's your plan workin' out?"

"I don't have the luxury of choosiness. We're buried deep and I've got two sons to care for. I'll be buggered if they're paying for my mistakes."

"They're close enough to my own flesh and blood, so don't give me that bunkum," Hank said angrily.

"Keep your voice down!"

"I'm a partner in this catastrophe. You Lawson's are my only family, in case you'd forgotten. I'll be out more than a job, so we're in the same hole. But as I keep saying, the Arkady's aren't the solution. Makes no sense, but they're gunning for your boys. You want to care for them? Get them the hell away before there's a real burial." Stamped boots receded.

"Superstitious mumbo-jumbo," Jonathon muttered.

Nic's mind eddied sluggishly. Something important had transpired, but he couldn't nail it down before awareness fled. Sam's voice droned as he hovered in an out, transporting him to an ancient era, its geography exotic. In a detached portion of his mind, Nic recognised the throes of delirium, but was powerless against its inevitable drag.

His heart leapt. There she was again, converging on his path from an alleyway up ahead. From only a peek of black tresses and rouged lips beneath the cowl of her robe, he was certain. She moved through the market with an otherworldly grace, befitting a Priestess of the Temple of Ba en Aset. All grovelled to the dirt as she passed.

Her intoxicating perfume branded his senses. The bribe paid to determine her name was exorbitant: Sanura. If he was caught, death proved the beginning of his trials. A herd of ostrich bobbed past and he lost sight of her in the dust and noise of the bazaar. Craning, he tripped and stumbled into the boy in front.

"Kafele!" His head jerked under the onslaught of an open-palmed slap. He cursed his size and broadness amongst slim-hipped colleagues that made him too visible. The scribe-master bawled, "Wake up, boy! Is your brain in the sky?"

Kafele sighed and returned his attention to his sandals. "Yes, Master Baruti. I am sorry." As the son of Nobleman Senenet, the Pharaoh's most honoured advisor, behaviour above reproach was expected. Hoping for a peaceful moment to observe her in the teeming marketplace was futile, in any case.

And he pined in vain, a Chaste of the Temple off-limits. The upcoming festival of Akhet, the time of the Nile's great blessing, provided the only opportunity to get close \-- watching from a distance as the Priestesses danced in the Temple courtyard.

"Halt!" Master Baruti yelled.

His charges jostled to a stop like obedient sheep. Their Master moved off to indulge in an impassioned conversation with the nearby papyrus trader, the quality of the reeds from the previous season particularly noteworthy. These meetings always included lengthy speculation on the height of the Nile's imminent flood.

The apprentices milled by a stall selling flat-bread, Kafele's stomach growling in anticipation of the evening meal. Or maybe his hunger was due to another need entirely. Since he'd first set eyes on her at the Temple school, his mind had not strayed far from Sanura. And she seemed to appear with unerring regularity, wherever he ventured.

Not that he ventured beyond stone-bound walls often. Instruction as a Scribe was arduous work, twelve hour days, six days a week. But the food was good and plentiful, bathing frequent, and the potential for good standing among the nobility, high. These expeditions to learn the ways of taxation came as a welcome break.

"Kafele," Akiki whispered.

Unlike him, his friend was a litter-runt, ribs sharp relief above the gold cord of his white loin-skirt. He made an appalling stick-fighting partner and held a spear as gingerly as he would an asp. Flapping gums more than ably compensated for the lack of muscle.

He launched the all-too-familiar nag. "You could not be more obvious if Ra himself shone the light. You must stop this! Fornicating is frowned upon for us, above all others. You compromise your journey in the afterlife with open lust. A Bast Priestess could never accept such an advance."

"Calm yourself, Kiki. I know of our rules." He'd inked them on papyrus enough.

"Well do yourself justice and adhere to them!"

"Proceed!" the Master barked, shepherding them with rod-wielding zeal.

But when it came to Sanura, Kafele's restraint failed, which surprised him not at all. What did surprise? She eventually reciprocated with equal passion, earning the lovers a doom worse than exile to the Underworld.

***

Chapter Twenty-Two

"What am I listening to, Sam?" Nic rasped.

"Nic!" Sam threw himself over the patient, hugging him fiercely. "Dad's going to be so relieved. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been trampled by a bull," he said, voice stifled by his brother. "Maybe a stampede of them."

"Sorry!" Sam removed himself, looking ruffled. The room smelled of antiseptic, the corona of a lamp the only illumination. An IV trolley rested in the corner, its bag dehydrated. Nic wore clean boxers, his sheets crisp and not a trace of vomit on the carpet. "Hanna suggested a familiar voice might help. I've been reading you an old legend. But you've got to go through the gross romantic bits to get to the really good stuff." He grimaced in disgust.

"Do we really, though?"

"Shh! You need to rest."

"What day is it?"

"It's six Wednesday evening. You've been out for almost three days."

At least captive to the narrative, Nic's thoughts didn't roam unpleasant nooks. Like the fact he'd missed his English exam, pro-rata marks in no way sufficient to win him a scholarship. Or like Balt.

"Read." For pity's sake, Nic begged.

And when Sam recommenced, the same disorienting experience pulled him under. The print animated so vividly, honeyed fingertips singed his body, the heady scents of sandalwood, lavender and cinnamon lingering long after the fiction ended.

Kafele had drained his purse and more besides securing this tryst. She poised on tippy toes by a richly engraved temple pillar, seeking him. His heart soared and breath left him on the fact of her attendance. The foolishness of this risk was too easy to ignore in her presence. Her love was surely a miraculous gift from the Gods.

Gilded in the buttery lamplight, her chest heaved from the exertion of dancing, the gossamer of her costume clinging to enticing curves. She'd never worn less than her scant Festival corset and skirts, and he ached for her caress as a starved man for sustenance. Going quickly, the trespasser made pledge to the deities for luck. His presence in the Temple meant excruciating death if caught.

"My Kafele!" she gushed. He'd seen lapis lazuli less vibrant than the Blue Nile of her eyes. "I was beginning to think..."

"Never! I would never deny you."

Pressed together, their gaze deepened. Kafele took her hand and pulled her further into shadow lit only by a single candle. Sanura flattened against the wall, a teardrop of sweat dribbling between voluptuous mounds for the concavity of her tawny belly. He traced its course beneath colourful gems and she shuddered with pleasure, before her face fell.

"We spurn the Gods, Kafele!"

"The Gods dictate everything. We must give thanks for this blessing," he panted. "I will stop should you say it."

"You will stop on my command, despoiler!" The imperious voice of the High Priestess echoed the chamber. The beads of her sistrum rattled in emphasis. The two froze, Kafele risking a glance at their enforcers from behind the pillar. The Pharaoh's personal guard flanked the Temple Mistress in rowed spears, kohl defining her eyes like a cat's. "You think me oblivious to the absence of my best dancer? Come out, traitors to the Great Bast!"

Delaying would add to the punishment. The lovers lurched into view and prostrated themselves on pink granite, but Kafele knew no amount of grovelling erased this crime. He stared over at Sanura, who peeked through a cascade of hair, beautiful eyes wide with fear. Reckless desire had sealed their fate and all but murdered the one he loved most.

Kafele reached to grip her hand. "I shall save you, Sanura. I promise to find a way."

Nic roused alone in his room. The clock showed eleven p.m. His hollow stomach complained and he tried to drag upright, but weakness held him prone. He idly peered around, focus trapped by the blinking mobile on his bed-stand. There'd be messages of support and comfort, farming communities alert to the special bond between owners and their animals.

The need to avoid the harsh truth brought Nic to rubbery legs and he stumbled out into the hallway for the kitchen. A bandage wrapped his bare torso. Jonathon sat at the bench in his vest, cupping steaming tea in the dimness of the range-hood light. Grey chest hairs curled over the white cotton neck. Since when had his once powerfully framed father seemed so old and caved in?

"You're up," he said simply, but gratitude marked his expression. "Have a seat. I'll make you some toast. Hanna advised to take it slow on food for a while, until you're fully recovered."

"Why are you in with them all of a sudden?"

Nic's throat grated on the question. Did he really want the answer? He watched his father fuss with the toaster, preparing food just as adaptable to evasion.

"You saw the file. They're guilty by false accusation and rumour. The Arkady's aren't enemies."

"Not even Sasha?"

"He's unbalanced, ever since the tragic passing of his mother. Anatoly assures me arrangements for his care are underway. He'll be gone soon. In the meantime, exercise a little sympathy. You've got something in common." So Sasha was at once unstable and worthy of pity because his mother had killed herself?

"Sympathy?" Nic asked incredulously, never exploiting such excuses. "He unleashed a killer cat on me! Balt's dead because of him. The guy's a deranged assassin."

"Sasha swears he did all he could to stop that cat escaping. It was a dreadful accident. Hanna and Anatoly saved your life. We owe them."

"Owe them? I was there. There are witnesses. Sasha deliberately unhooked her!" Jonathon slid across a plate of Vegemite toast and a large glass of apple juice with several pills, but Nic's appetite was no longer swayed by the comforting aroma. "Isn't there some law against keeping a savage cat in suburbia? Has Barney looked into it?"

"Calm down, Nic. You really shouldn't get worked up. It'll sap your strength to fight the infection. Take your antibiotics." He brusquely sponged crumbs, before collecting his mug, keeping the bench between them. "Barney has no need to be involved in our business."

The Arkady's had hypnotised his father, it was the only explanation. Nic held his fury in check and tried a different approach. "Are we bankrupt, Dad?"

"You heard?" Nic nodded. "We've had a few problems. Stud fees for the best Arabian stallions cost. Measures are now in place. Things will be fine. Nothing to worry about, Nic. You just concentrate on healing."

"Swear to me. You've not taken money from them, have you?"

Jonathon leaned across the stone counter, balanced on elbows, his face earnest. "I know Balt's death will hit hard, Nic. I'm truly sorry. So are the Arkady's. Even though they're not responsible, they've made more than generous restitution."

Nic slumped, energy for this argument draining in his weakened state. "You can't help me if I make it to Med-school, can you?"

"You really need to take that pool job, Nic."

And now, with a rapidly receding scholarship, he was restricted to an internship working other jobs to keep above fees and afford a diet of three-minute noodles. Unless he took that job and cashed their cheque. Mira was, of course, correct. Her family took root in his life with the tenacity of seabed weeds that fouled limbs and dragged a swimmer inexorably below.

***

Chapter Twenty-Three

At five the next morning, Nic mastered the fatigue and lingering haze of sickness to greet the day's burdens. CJ had left numerous messages, graduating from sympathy to apprehension and climaxing in a dramatic voicemail that pronounced them "shafted by the ultimate mind-screw." Unwilling to confront the details by phone, they arranged via text to meet at the boatshed at five-forty-five.

Anxiety unsettled his gut, somewhat lessening the enjoyment of a full country breakfast waiting in a bain-marie on the servery, pots stacked in the drier on the sink. Jonathon had been up for some time, it seemed, cooking his respite. Nic refused to revisit last night's unpleasantness, choosing instead to adhere to the plan he'd made to avoid the Arkady's no matter what. There simply had to be another way to earn board for university.

After a final bite of foccacia, grilled tomato and buttered mushrooms -- over-stuffing himself in defiance of Hanna's instructions -- he stacked the dishwasher and went in search of the keys to his motor-bike.

Fifteen wasted minutes later, Nic stormed to the unused corral by the barn, where Hank and Jonathon squatted to complete the fitting of a new gate. Sun peeked through the trees in a glorious miasma of pink fading to gold, crimson dipped clouds scudding the heights. Parrots chattered and zipped overhead, the rustic beauty unappreciated in a peak of hassle.

"Dad! Do you know where Sam put my keys? I'm due at the boatshed in fifteen."

Jonathon unfolded his lanky form, patting dust from his jeans and looking decidedly guilty. "Kolb's giving it a service. It's in pieces up at the Arkady's."

"Oh my God!" Nic fumed through teeth. Hank's expression morphed to alarm and Yap's tail slid between her legs. "Is there any area off limits to those people?"

"Hey!" Jonathon raised his hands. "There's a replacement out front. Keys in the ignition." He frowned. "Is it really a wise idea to be up and about already, son? How are you feeling?"

"Who bloody cares? If you were really concerned you'd keep those fruit-loops away from me!"

With that, he spun to leave like a toddler indulging a tantrum. He could barely explain, even to himself, why they invoked his ire to such a degree. Sure, Sasha was a complete tool, dangerous unless chained to a concrete pylon, but at least he understood the hostility or jealousy or whatever. Sort of. Mira was spectacular, family or not.

The rest of them simply assumed. Their unwanted benevolence condescended and made him feel as though he was two and unable to cope. He'd kept that bike operational for years. It had been a long time since someone needed to tell him what to do or how to act.

"Don't forget to take your antibiotics," his father called.

Nic closed his eyes in a plea for restraint, eventually making the garage to reef open the roller-door. Adjusting to the gloom, he surveyed the rack of decrepit push-bikes adorning the wall. He'd look ridiculous if he rode one of the quad bikes to town. Besides, Hank and his father might need them. A couple were fit for riding: his mother's hot-pink racing model or an old BMX stunt bike with its skinny, angled trick-seat. He reluctantly selected the latter, going for impracticality rather than outright humiliation.

Several kilometres along the road to town, his error throbbed to fruition with every pot-hole, knees crimped in protest. Nic had outgrown the bike by years and about a metre, legs pumping almost to his chin, crammed backpack hunching his spine. And it was a seat in name only, unless an enema was the order of the day. His progress was punctuated by spewed profanity, bad enough to make his footy team blush.

A battered ute packed with bales jolted passed in a spray of pebbles, grit filming his eyes and prompting a coughing fit. It hurt so bad, it was all he could do to keep going, not turn around and collect the Hayabusa abandoned in the drive. Instead of this stretched thirty minute ordeal, he'd arrive in less than five, especially if he took his ire out on the accelerator. The sun beat down and sweat sheened his brow.

Mercifully, the ute's breaks squealed, tail-lights nearing as it reversed. Its occupant, Mildred, a sturdy dairy-farmer from several properties over, leaned to the open passenger window, thin roll-your-own smouldering from the corner of her mouth. Suppressed laughter deepened the crow's feet about her pale eyes, ruddy complexion glowing. She wore a dirty cap advertising a brand of combine harvester and grubby coveralls, best not inspected closely. Nic thought her the picture of a redeeming angel.

"I never did comprehend the ways of today's youth, but even to me that seems a mighty awkward manner in which to reach point B. Fancy a lift, Nic?" she drawled, smoke coiling to the sagged roof.

"You've no idea how much," Nic said. "Thanks, Mildred."

He tossed the stupid bike in back, pledging to sell it at their next yard sale, along with his bag, and vaulted into the messy cabin. The vinyl was covered in ash, mingled with cow dung, and the interior reeked of many years of Mildred's tobacco, which resembled burned compost. But Nic was thrilled something went right for a change, as the engine groaned effortfully and they bounced off.

"Sorry to hear about Balt, Nic."

He should have known the good vibe would not last, unprepared to fend off sympathy or the grief clamping his airway. It took skill to survive such pity and man-up in the face of their endless compassion, and he was out of practice.

"Thanks." He swallowed the lump and rallied, voice quivering only slightly while he groped for a distraction. "Good season for milk? How's your venture into boutique cheeses going?"

She offered a knowing look and obliged by changing the subject. An extended drone on the impact of rain on the quality of feed for her beloved heifers ensued, as well as instruction following which, he knew more than he'd ever imagined about Brie. Perhaps, he thought miserably, it could be his career, seeing as how Medicine was now unlikely.

She eyed him beadily. "So, you've finally acquired your own sire."

He almost missed the meaning, having been on nodding auto-pilot. He sat up. "Pardon?"

"Saw the delivery as I drove by this morning. Fine animal if ever there was one." Nic peered at her mutely. She steered one-handed, meaty arm jiggling on the sill, expression in contour avid for gossip. "Things must be better than I'd heard," she prodded.

"Err..." Country folk evidently possessed the uncanny ability to know more about an individual than those who lived with them. "I've been unwell..."

It was a lame excuse and by her critical gaze, she agreed. "Heard the owners have moved back into the big house. Nice people. It's important to have good neighbours."

"You've met the Arkady's?" he narrowed.

"They're officially my best customers. My income has tripled! They sure have a lot of shindigs," she beamed, a column of ash tumbling. "And they've friends all over the world, who've promised to buy my stock." Mildred smirked, "Daughter sure is a looker. You haven't got a girlfriend, have you, Nic?"

***

Chapter Twenty-Four

He made a pathetic sight, pushing his clownish mode of transport and waving Mildred off in a trail of silt from the side of the road. Secretly, Nic was disappointed his tight-knit community, typically less keen on outsiders, had welcomed the Arkady's so warmly. In keeping with his decision, he resolved not to fritter thought on what they may or may not be up to.

Rounding the lane leading to the boatshed cul-de-sac, it became clear he'd missed the meeting as attendees disbanded. CJ beckoned him over, a scowl obvious even at some distance. His cheeks were flushed and Nic realised he'd been excluded from a full training session prior to the chin-wag. Practice was odd, given Nate's extended leave.

"Man, am I glad to see you! What took you, Nic?"

Nic flourished at the BMX, chaining it to a railing. He contemplated leaving it unsecured in the hopes some kind thief would relieve him of the burden or maybe 'accidentally' toeing it into the drink.

"Transport issues."

"Yikes! We were in primary school the last time you dragged that out. Where's your bike?"

"Long, boring story."

"You look good for someone reportedly at death's door." His friend regarded him suspiciously. "Really good. Have you been avoiding the crew? I mean I can't blame you..."

He back-peddled hurriedly on seeing Nic's stony expression. The conversation hung, as scull-mates shuffled passed thumping Nic awkwardly and murmuring gruff commiserations over Balt.

"Bummer, Nic."

"Real sorry about your horse. He was great old steed."

Embarrassment at the forced display of emotion seemed the dominant attitude. A lot of throat clearing occurred, the wharf at their feet and water-lapped reeds uncommonly interesting.

"Let us know and we'll say goodbye over a few ales."

"Yeah, thanks guys."

The dock cleared slowly, all but two rowers loitering beyond earshot with their backs facing. Nic recognised the coach's freckled nape, but couldn't quiet place his stooped companion, hidden under a cap, towel wrapping his neck.

"Care to enlighten me? And what's with the cats, they filling in for Nate?"

The animals were everywhere, peeking from bushes and balanced on piers. Scar, the boat master's ugly, tail-less tom, sidled up close, battle wounds announced by the long scab across its pug snout and chunks of missing orange fur. Nic edged away, any proximity usually an excuse for a flashed talon or full-on assault, the higher up one's body the better prize. The cat perched nearby and commenced licking, a deep rumble emanating its chest.

"Super creepy. It's like an infestation." CJ squared-up in the universal signal something unpleasant was about to transpire. "You know who that is?" he jerked his head in the direction of the duo at the end of the jetty.

"Should I?" Nic asked uncertainly.

"Arkady took Nate's seat. He's been training with us since the beginning of the week. The coach is frothing over how powerful he is. Says the championship's in the bag, once you're back."

"That's Sasha?" He needed it repeated. It couldn't be true.

"Yep!" CJ made a popping sound on the end 'p'. Nic didn't really require the added drama, innards a turmoil of frustration and anger. Even if the wank proved an Olympian, he refused to crew with Sasha. The bastard had as much as pulled the trigger on his horse. "Wait until you get a load of him."

On cue, Arkady slowly swivelled. He removed his hat and scruffed his hair, haughty attitude cowed. His face was a mosaic of violet and garish puce, one eye a swollen slit and puffed lips cut in several spots. He briefly peered at Nic, then looked away.

"Jesus," Nic murmured.

"Yeah. Mira did that to him. Beat him senseless. Sam was there, saw the whole thing. Says she fights like the Tasmanian Devil."

"My Sam?" What else were they exposing his brother to?

"The very same," CJ nodded. "Got any clue as to why?"

"Several. Let's get out of here before I have to explain my resignation to the Coach."

"That's not all." They moved off along a green-fringed path for a bridge over the river to the back ovals of Sacristy.

"I don't know if I want to hear it, CJ."

"Oh, you want to hear this all right. Couple of the guys missed the Advanced English exam, including Nate. He apparently had a virus." His eyes slid sideways, as if to say 'the same fantasy illness you claim'. "The English Master was all set to reschedule a supplementary because he had a slim margin to justify it. But then Nate called, said he'd be satisfied with a pro-rata as his scholarship's been approved unconditionally. No longer enough numbers to run a supp. If you missed it, your marks are averaged."

"What bullshit! How the hell did Nate get an early entry scholarship? It's great and such," he added quickly, hesitant to disrespect the achievement.

CJ waved his hand irritably. "Yeah, yeah, we're all thrilled etcetera, etcetera. In a fair universe that would be you. But it's not. It seems Arkady Senior felt, regardless of a dearth of evidence connecting anyone to the act, Nate deserved compensation for the shooting. A professor friend expedited the application. It's the O'Connor Midas touch in operation. That guy hasn't had to lift a finger to get what he wanted all his life."

Nic plodded the wooded arch, water sluggish below, cicadas screeching in mimicry of his thoughts. He rubbed his chin absently, ignoring the bitter undertone to Cody's words. His gifted friend came from a penniless single-parent home, working more jobs than Nic to cover his education. Lack of money might circumvent his dreams, regardless of intellect. Recently impoverished, Nic empathised more than usual.

"Anatoly the puppet-master. Is there anything he doesn't meddle in?" Light paws on the deck thudded the rear. Over a shoulder, Nic observed Scar padding their wake. "Shoo!"

"Go on, get!" CJ joined in, veering in Scar's direction and clapping his hands. The cat plonked to haunches and gazed at them with a nonchalant air. CJ grimaced. "Nate scores an undeserved scholarship. We score an unwanted leech." He shook his head. "Crap since those arse-holes arrived is just too weird."

"You never uttered a truer sentence."

***

Chapter Twenty-Five

"I'll beg if I have to, Nate."

Nic struggled to keep his tone civil, arms crossed and feet planting the flowered Axminster of the O'Connor sitting room. The invalid rested like Nero on a throne, swaddled by cushions on the lounge, remote and a bell within easy reach.

"Relax, Nic. Take a seat."

He waved his good arm magnanimously. Riley bounded in, smiling brightly and handling a tray packed with biscuits and hot chocolate as only those with waitressing experience could. If one more person told Nic to relax, a positive outcome was not guaranteed.

"Oh hey, Nic! Wow! Have you been working out? I heard you'd been sick."

"Huh?" he said, annoyed by the disruption.

"Would you care for a hot chocolate?" She scrutinised his bare arms with far too much significance. He'd decided to abandon the dumb bicycle and jog home, changing from his uniform into training gear.

"You hitting the 'roids or something, mate? Seems like you've grown more muscular in days. Drugs'll shrivel your dick and make you talk like a girl. You'll develop man-boobs."

"I'm not abusing steroids!"

"Okay, no need to get testy. Geez, what's your problem?"

"Are you coming Friday night?" Riley interrupted again and this time Nic was grateful. She raised an eyebrow suggestively, bending to place the tray on a low footstool so as to offer a view down her top of breasts plumped in scant pink lace. Nate ogled as her mini hitched up her thigh.

"Err... Sure, whatever. Anyway, Nate, Smithson said if you changed your mind, he'd run the exam. I really need a chance to bring my English marks up. I'd owe you big time."

"What a drag! I'm officially done with school and you want me to go back?"

"Four hours, tops. I know it's an ask. I wouldn't be here if I really didn't need the favour."

Nate issued a put-upon sigh. "Let me think about it. I'll see how my recovery progresses. Let you know in a couple of days."

He patted beside him for Riley to sit and she fed him a Tim-Tam, giggling. Nic stifled an image of wringing his neck.

"I've got until Monday coming to let him know."

"Yeah, no worries." It was clear Nate's engagement with the topic was over. He whispered in Riley's ear, un-bandaged hand stroking circles on her arm. She laughed again.

"Right. Thanks, Nate. I'll leave you be."

"Oh, wait! I've got a great idea. I'll sit the test, if you monitor Lily on Friday night. Keep her out of trouble. The whole town'll be there and that's a lot of testosterone floating about."

He didn't think elaborating Nate supplied the biggest concentration hereabouts wise, unwilling to jeopardise this slim hope. "You want me to hang out with your sister?"

The prospect of holding Lily at arm's length without reducing her to tears appealed as much as attending a social gathering at all, not to mention keeping the town Lotharios at arm's length. But there was simply no other option. Without a scholarship, Nic could kick med-school goodbye. He prayed Mrs O'Connor didn't get wind of the arrangement, encouraging false hope of a relationship.

"I trust you. Lily trusts you. Better you than anyone else." Riley pouted at the lost opportunity. She obviously liked to keep her options open. "We'll collect you on the way passed. Seven sharp. And I'll need my skinnies back, clean and pressed."

"No you won't," Riley asserted. "It's black tie. Thank god," she mumbled the last. "Someone should take those awful dacks out the back and shoot them to smithereens."

"Are you besmirching my beloved skinnies?"

"I stand besmirching! Gladly," she said. "You may have trouble with size, Nic. Considering how broad you've become."

For the first time, Nate seemed aware of her overt flirting. And that his friend unintentionally attracted the bulk of her compliments. He glared mutinously at Nic.

"Wait a minute. Passed where I live?" It meant only one thing.

"The Arkady house-warming. Check your letterbox, the invite's all swirly silver writing. Very classy. They're sending a Limo."

Nic gave getting out of it a last ditch attempt. "CJ won't attend. I don't think it's fair without him."

"Are you kidding? Anatoly offered his mother a job on salary at three times the award rate. CJ's coming up in the world. He knows who to thank. Emma threatened to drop him if he put up a resistance."

Nate was on a first name basis with 'Anatoly'? No-one was immune and Nic experienced rising despair at the brilliance of his adversary. "What happened to 'there's something seriously messed up with those Arkadys'?"

"It might be insensitive to mention horses, mate, but you never look a gift specimen in the mouth."

***

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sam fidgeted next to him in the foyer in a white bow-tie and tails, tugging at the collar of his shirt. The suits had materialised that morning, all a precise fit, the pinned white card inscribed in silver 'Dear Friends, with compliments, the Arkadys'.

"Why would anybody choose to wear this straight-jacket and noose?" his brother complained. "And how come you're not, Nic? I would have worn jeans too, if I knew."

"Because I don't give a shit what the invite says. If I had my way, I wouldn't even be going."

"Here, here!" Martha said, coming to Sam's rescue. "You've done it too tight. No wonder you're the shade of a beetroot." She loosened the offending garrotte

"Don't tell me," Nic grumbled. "We've spotted the almost extinct naysayer, impervious to the universal Arkady charm. I should video the occasion for future proof. Did you not receive an invite, Martha?"

"Oh, I got one. Just like everybody else on the bribery list. There you are, Sammy, better?" She straightened his white handerchief in the breast pocket and gave him a vigorous, totally unnecessary de-fluffing with the dust brush.

"Definitely!"

"Jonathon! Hurry up, you'll be late."

A muffled reply echoed the hallway, grumpy tone obvious. Nic frowned. "You actually said 'no' to an Arkady offer?"

"I believe Hank and I are on that very select list. I'm holding down the fort, while he's in town for the weekend on an errand. Harry's ecstatic you've got cable." She surveyed Nic, head tilted in suspicion. "You are wearing the shirt the Arkady's sent, though."

"Humph," he grunted. "I'm having a big growth spurt. It was this or a bare midriff. Hot on girls, hillbilly on guys. But you'll note I'm protesting by not tucking it in. So... Why did you say no?"

"Strange. Even your hair seems to be included in the growth spurt. Come here. You'll look less formal with rolled sleeves. That oughta' learn them!" They chuckled and Nic momentarily forgot the upcoming ordeal. "I'm of the persuasion anything which seems wonderfully cheap comes with hidden costs. And I've never been partial to monopolies. What happens to all those now reliant on Arkady largesse, if our benevolent neighbours up and leave as fast as they appeared?"

He'd never thought of the fall-out and the idea provoked disquiet. It took several seconds to recall Mira had made that precise threat. Nic pushed thoughts of her deep and prayed she'd sulk upstairs for the duration and that maybe, the distance would appease Sasha. In any case, Mira was a complication he had no way of countering shackled to Lily as he was. Tonight's soiree resembled a trip into a field of landmines.

"I guess it means they have the entire town over a barrel." His father included. It was hard not to admire the magnificent Arabian stallion their neighbours had fronted to replace Balt. On principle, Nic had avoided the back field and refused to discuss the gift with anyone who deigned mention it.

"Not the entire town. A rebellion of three still constitutes a rebellion. Even if yours is rather covert. And Barney's working, so there are others who said no."

"I would love to stay at home and play COD with Harry, believe me. But bloody Nate's volunteered me for a date with Lily. Mrs O has probably confirmed the gift registry."

"Lily's not for you," Sam stated decisively. "You must let her know you're taken."

Nic opened his mouth to vilify this newfound interest in his love life, when their father edged into view. He loitered in discomfort on the runner, the picture of suave perfection, not a hair out of place.

"Well?" he asked, blinking excessively and flushed with embarrassment.

Sam gaped, "Who are you and what have you done with my rumpled dad?"

"Oh, very debonair!" Martha beamed, before checking herself for Nic's benefit. "If I, err, thought it was important in this particular instance." Nic gave her a sarcastic thumbs-up. "Sorry. I tried, Pickles. He really does look very nice."

She finagled his cuff-links (Nic guessed they were more Arkady inducements), and retrieved an expensive bottle of aftershave from the sideboard, spraying the three of them in clouds worthy of DDT. After a furious bout of choked sneezing, Jonathon proclaimed them ready. Nic didn't have the energy to object. Breaching the threshold, dread hung like a familiar spectre and he had no idea how to exorcise it.

***

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mr O'Connor lavished them all with expensive Champagne from the in-built fridge, as if the man had orchestrated such largesse. The motor purred in a car so stretched it resembled a bus. Nic wore a tight smile, akin to a grimace, failing to keep Lily's hand from its strangle-hold on his. He'd also failed in a desperate game of musical chairs, whereby Nate's sister had resolutely won a prized spot by his side. Mrs O'Connor beamed at Nic from across the expanse. Not guzzling the contents of his glass and demanding a refill, proved trying. But getting plastered would surely only make things worse. He must stay vigilant.

"I could get used to such luxury. What about you, Jonathon?"

There was no mention by O'Connor senior of the hunt for his son's shooter. The Arkady's seemed to have another special knack, among many, of sanitising unpleasantness.

"Too fancy for me, Harold."

Nic choked on a retort about fancy Arabian stallions being more his father's preference. The gates swung wide and they cruised through, every tree decorated with hanging orbs of various sizes so the forest resembled a star-spangled Milky Way. The women gushed "oohs" and "aahs", which swelled in decibel and frequency the closer they drove to the manor, while Nic fought rising nerves and a strange pulling sensation.

The overwhelming magnetism had nothing to do with vivid images of Mira straddling him in her bed. He repeated the denial like a chant, reminding himself the last tours up here had resulted in the death of his horse, a wrestle with a crazed monster and a gun to his skull. They were the reasons he felt so odd and jittery. The only reasons.

Lily released his hand, smirking coquettishly. "You're all sweaty. Did I make you hot, Nic?"

He blushed under the spotlight of many eyes, training his focus beyond the car. Fire-breathers on stilts, jugglers and acrobats teemed in colourful costume. Open marquees lined the lawn where exotic, international dishes were served fresh on demand, mouth-watering aromas wafting via rolled-down windows. There were bungy-trampolines, carnival rides including a sizeable Ferris-wheel, a side-show alley lit-up in the distance near the lake, and a live band playing on the balcony when they parked.

The Arkady mansion burst alive in a psychedelic laser-show painting its stone walls. Everything had the aura of elegance, not a toothless carny, burnt-butter popcorn stand, muddy puddle or faded big-top in sight. The entire town was already ensconced enjoying themselves adorned in cocktail dresses and coat-tails, crystal-cut glasses in hand, on scattered stages of tables and chairs, beneath rainbow nets of fairy-lights. Laughter and animated discussion soared above the music. To Nic, it seemed exhaustingly perfect.

"They really hired The Grates?" Nate gawked. The youthful bumped and jived in a seething mass at their front. And in their midst, Cody danced exuberantly with Emma. "These people know how to party!"

"I can't wait to see what you can win at the stalls. I bet it won't be a stupid, stuffed toy," Sam enthused.

The spectacle brought bile to Nic's throat. How could he possibly watch-over Sam in this nightmare, chained to Lily? An evening devoted to her whims stretched before him, the sinking realisation he should not have come recalling another broken pledge. And she had on a skimpy, red number designed for maximum impact, which would no doubt tempt every male in the vicinity. He scanned for Sasha, who at least obliged on first glance with his absence, although it was easy to hide in this crowd.

"All right, Nic?" Jonathon asked as they alighted. "You look a tad green."

What's it to you traitor, he wanted to snap. "Fine and dandy."

His father steadfastly ignored the sarcasm, turning heel to throw over his shoulder. "I'm in the billiards room, if either of you want me."

"Don't be such a sulky-pants, Nic," Lily said, already dragging him by the hand. "What first? How about the Ferris-wheel?"

He considered saying 'no' to such entrapment in close quarters, but the height would afford the best view in his search for Sasha. "Where are you off to, Sam?"

"I'm meeting some friends at the Sushi tent and then we're heading to side-show alley."

Nic nodded, "Good." It shouldn't be hard to track him from an elevated vantage. "Have fun."

He gestured for Nic with a conspirational look, getting on tiptoe to whisper, "Mira's expecting you. Don't let her wait too long. She promised me, it's time for the truth." He vanished before confusion escaped Nic's lips. Hadn't she made it clear on many occasions for him to keep a street, or perhaps a suburb, between them?

"Come on!" Lily lost patience and tugged him away.

They joined the queue, where he spent five minutes craning through packed bodies for his brother, Sasha, and although he tried to fool himself otherwise, Mira. He barely paid attention to Lily, who chattered non-stop. They took a seat, too squashed together beneath the bar for Nic's comfort. She snuggled into his arm and they began a revolution. The relentless survey continued, despite her insistent efforts to engage him in conversation.

"I've got syphilis. So if you've any idea of sex, we'll need protection. But don't worry. I brought loads of rubbers and the chancre hasn't really taken hold, yet."

"Uh-huh," Nic agreed, testing neck rotation. He grasped his error belatedly, the revellers a tide of penguin-suits difficult to distinguish from each other. Even with a telescope, spotting Sam was a test.

"Did you know, it can give you gangrene of the penis?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said with a trace of impatience. Why wouldn't she shut-up? Where the hell had his brother gone? Sushi tent, his arse! He patted for his mobile, realising he'd left it at home on discovering how tight his jeans had become.

"You don't like me. Do you, Nic?"

Lily earned his full-attention. "Pardon?" he spluttered.

She gazed at him, eyes bright. "You don't like me. Nate probably blackmailed you or something. That's why you're stuck with me."

"What do you mean? Of course, I like you. I've known you since you were in nappies."

"And I've known you since you were only recently out of nappies. Do I really need to point-out eighteen months is hardly the difference between youth and responsible adulthood?"

He must have looked entirely gormless, but it seemed overnight she'd morphed into a sophisticated creature who had all the answers. Lily was right: she was an awful lot older than he'd given her credit for. "I like you."

She flourished a hand dismissively. "I don't mean in general. I don't blame you. Nate's always in the way. Hypocrite! Lecturing me on behaving, while he carries-on like a deranged sex-addict. Don't get me started on mum. She's planned the number of grand-children we'll supply. We never stood a chance."

"Deranged?" Nic gulped feebly.

She bandied the word 'sex' about with unacceptable ease. He'd known her since she was in nappies, for crying out loud!

"So, I have a proposition. You let me go on my way without interference or tattling to either of my exceptionally annoying brothers. Then, we'll meet back together at the end of the night, no-one the wiser. Sweet?" It sounded so very reasonable.

Nic struggled to keep-up with the turn of events. "Oh, no. No, no, no. I gave my word. You're stuck with me for the interim."

He gagged at the irony, never for a moment thinking Lily wouldn't be thrilled by the prospect of hanging with him. He'd assumed the bare skin and cleavage were for his benefit. What a fat-headed tosser! All the mischief she could get up to in this Mecca of vice played out in horrifying detail. Were staff checking the age of patrons or distributing booze willy-nilly? Was anybody monitoring the pornographic activities of these teens, a million secluded nooks available for the cause? Could he detect the faint whiff of pot?

Her scant attire wouldn't take much to remove. It wasn't simply his English grade plummeting by the second; Nic was genuinely fraternal towards Lily. And Jed would kill him if he let anything happen, let alone Nate. Or Mr O'Connor. Heaven help him -- Mrs O'Connor!

"It's just a formality, Nic. As soon as this ride stops, I've some place else to be."

She crossed her arms and glared, the pig-headed family genes obviously not bypassing the females in the pool. And, consistent with his luck so far, the ride began to slow, couples disgorging through a lattice of ironwork. As soon as they made earth, his erstwhile date was out and dodging the obstacle course.

"Lily," he yelled, running after her jilted-lover style.

She darted ahead, the mob seeming to advance her progress, yet hindering his. It was almost by design.

"Nicholas! How marvellous." An extremely tall, cadaverous woman sporting a pair of opera glasses and a feather boa loomed into his path. One of them: the accursed Felid.

"Not now!"

He barged passed, but to no avail. Lily was consumed by the throng. Nic turned a circle in place, aware for the first time of the avid stares and fond "hellos" echoing this cave of bodies. Hands extended enmasse for a pat or a shake. Ceding defeat, Nic irritably fobbed touches and blocked calls of admiration and invites for a drinks. He felt a charlatan celebrity minus the helpful security entourage, fleeing for a less populated area. If he took them all up on the offers he'd end up paralytic or seriously over-hydrated.

Finally in a shadowy, out-of-the-way copse, he rested against a rough-barked tree and scrambled for a new plan. And that's when her captivating scent reached him, as clear as the night-sky. Angst fell away like sloughed sand. Her presence was a siren's song and Nic was powerless but to answer.

***

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Every zinging molecule shouted Mira's location in the pool-house, but when he arrived she was nowhere to be seen. His skin crawled with the suspicion of prying eyes. A survey revealed only trees and the muted glee of party-goers. Maybe paranoia got the better of him. Sasha's lack of attendance gave the impression he'd been warned off.

Nic pushed an ajar door, heavy wood grating the floor to stick firm and forcing a sidelong squeeze via a slim gap. Once inside, the hall was as grand and stately as the rest of the manor, sandstone blocks forming high pillars between large floor-to-ceiling arched windows, a tangle of vines winning the battle to claim available surfaces. His sight slowly adjusted in the gloom.

The place resembled an underwater grotto, moist and shadowy, the Olympic pool forming an empty blue void at its centre. At its furthest deep end, an ice-bucket and picnic blanket were highlighted in the ambient glow of a single candle.

"Mira?"

"Up here!"

His focus travelled up a diving tower several stories tall. Wearing only shorts and a singlet, Mira teetered at the very edge of the board jutting from the topmost platform, springing on tip-toe.

"Hey!" Nic shouted. "Stop!" Panic surged; without water it was surely a plummet to death.

She grinned, gave him a little wave and arced into an elegant head-first spear. He vaulted across the expanse, racing passed rowed deck-chairs and potted ferns, knowing full well there was no time to prevent a fatal collision. Just as he reached the pool's perimeter and coiled to launch off the side, emergency first-aid flashing consciousness, she performed a tumble mid-air to land on her feet. She flung her hands out, reminiscent of a gymnast, and executed a bow.

Nic could only gape, anger and fear simmering. "Are you absolutely insane?" he yelled.

"Hmm." She smirked. "Do I look the worse for wear?"

"But..." He shook his head. "How? You trumped terminal velocity. You breached the laws of Physics. How is that possible?"

She made her way over to the blanket and proceeded to pour two glasses of Champagne, seating herself on the rug, feet tucked beneath her. "Please, Nic. Come and sit so we can have a civilised conversation." She offered him a bubbling flute.

"Civilised!" He might just lose it.

"There's something you need to see. I hope afterwards, you'll understand." Mira's expression was concerned, eyes kind. "At least a little."

Nic contemplated turning heel, but knew it was an idle threat. He negotiated the ladder on shaky legs. His mind whirred through various explanations and came up blank: he simply could not fathom how she'd cheated death, or at least serious injury. She patted a spot facing her and handed him the drink. He sunk to knees to accept it, gulping the lot in one swallow.

"Are you an acrobat?" he frowned. It was lame, but no alternative seemed better.

She took his glass and refilled it. "Just endowed with feline grace."

Nic rolled his eyes in frustration and guzzled the second drink. "All right, I'll play along. Hit me with this truth everyone keeps harping about."

A pleasant buzz infused his body. Mira scooted closer to remove the flute. When she gripped his hands in both of hers a jolt of pleasure energised his flesh. Nic suppressed a gasp, wondering at the visceral impact she had. It was almost violent. Did Mira feel it too?

"Just relax," she soothed. Her proximity made it especially challenging, lips a lustrous gold shining by candle-flame, and he fought the desperate urge to steal a kiss. With extreme control, he centred on her dazzling face, denying the temptation to linger on her luscious body barely concealed by thin cotton. "Remember Kafele and Sanura."

And just like that, Nic was yanked to a stone-bound, square chamber where the caught lovers were imprisoned awaiting their sentence. Only, this time he was a detached observer.

The two were strapped spread-eagled to opposite walls by the crimson-tinged light of braziers. Kafele had been beaten savagely, one eye puffed shut, angry red welts criss-crossing his torso. His head lolled, tears splashing to the marble slab. Sanura's ceremonial costume hung in shreds, modesty compromised, absent her gold and gems. Aside from a vague aura of shame, she seemed none the worse for wear.

"I am sorry, my love," he whispered.

She lifted her chin defiantly. "Look at me, Kafele." He slowly raised his head, eyes anchored to hers. "I am not. I gladly suffer the fire-ant torture a thousand times, for the moments we have shared. I love you, truly and forever."

Shuffled footsteps echoed the chamber, followed by a bent figure swathed in a cowled robe elaborately gilded with the pharaoh's royal insignia. Kafele narrowed. "Father?"

He threw back the hood, a gaunt man with a long wisp of greying beard. "Hush, son. We must move quickly, if you are to make it safely outside the city."

Confusion flitted Kafele's features, replaced by fear. "No, father! They will kill you for this."

"Kafele. I am an old man." He dropped a sack and rifled its contents while explaining, pulling out a curved dagger and the plain garments of a palace slave. "I have had my fill of this life. I wish to earn a place of honour beyond death, beside your cherished mother. If the gods have willed this love, I shall not oppose it. Bast has chosen."

"But you will be stripped of honour, years of dedicated service stolen --" By his actions, Senenet had deprived himself the right to a ritual burial, the only way to send his spirit on its proper journey in the afterlife.

"Son!" his voice commanded. "I have not been a good father to you. Allow me this one gift, to make up for my absence." He bowed respectfully before Sanura, slitting the leather ties at her hands and feet. "Priestess, forgive the attire. It provides the best camouflage until the alarm is sounded."

"I no longer hold that title. Call me Sanura. And I thank you from the deepest well of gratitude, Senenet." She dropped to the ground and hastily dressed, dragging her long hair into a knot.

Senenet ran to his son and repeated the process. Kafele slumped without the support of his bonds. "Can you stand? You must flee as fast as you can, Kafele."

Doubt clouded the old man's face, as he struggled under the girth of his muscular only child. Together, he and Sanura helped Kafele upright to don the disguise. Senenet then pulled out two amulets on leather from the folds of his robe, placing them over the younger pair's heads: gilt ankhs with the jewelled visage of a lioness engraved within the loop.

"It saddens me that I shall not attend your wedding, nor bounce grandchildren upon my knee. Please, accept these in advance. May you be fertile always and live in the joy of Bast's good favour. Be sure to tuck them away."

Kafele clasped his father, desperation evident. "Come with us!"

The old man shook his head. "I will only slow you. I beg, delay no longer or all I have arranged is for nought."

His son rallied, squaring shoulders. "We honour your sacrifice, father, and will not fail. Thank you."

"The East gate. I have a man there with horses. I ask only one thing. No killing."

The lovers exchanged a glance: their escape had just become impossible. They looked back at Senenet and nodded in unison, before sprinting up the long, low passage that lead from the dungeons. The frenzied chipping of a chisel against stone echoed their rear. There was no chance for grief or regret.

The upper jailhouse halls were empty of guards, which shouted the generosity of Senenet's bribe, and the two were swift. Kafele's strength ebbed back, hope urging them onward. They pelted out into the warren of narrow adobe alleyways, hands clasped and sweat on their brows. A cold sprinkle of stars witnessed these insignificant human plots with infinite detachment.

Neither voiced the uncertainty: would their horses still be at the meet point? Who would risk themselves against the might of the Pharaoh's wrath for a mere purse of gold? Better to accept the treasure, thieve the animals, and run far from the taint of blame. In the distance, an avalanche of heavy sandstone blocks announced Senenet had succeeded in collapsing the chamber upon himself. A gong rang the alert, accompanied by shouts and the jogging of many sandaled feet. Kafele faltered and Sanura tugged him by the hand.

"I am sorry it had to be this way. Your father was a brave man. Let us not waste his gift."

Almost at the town square, they slowed to peek from the corner of a low-slung hut. Guards swarmed to block the gate by the light of many lanterns, which left no-where to hide. High walls either side funnelled those departing into a canyon of rowed soldiers, scimitars and daggers at the ready.

"It is impossible. How shall we get through?" Kafele grimaced.

Sanura surveyed the area briefly. "Not through, over." She gazed at him, resting a palm against his cheek. "Trust your body to know what to do, Kafele. You have trained for this. Follow my lead."

"Wait! You haven't trained for battle."

"I am a dancer of the Temple of Bast. It is almost the same thing."

She kissed him hard on the lips, and then leaped out into the teeming courtyard. With the element of surprise, Sanura seized a spear, spinning to knock its owner to the ground with one end. She planted the tip and levered to kick several more before they'd had a chance to acknowledge her presence. Kafele watched from the shadows, amazed as Sanura worked her way in whirling dervish towards the freedom of the desert. She was simply too agile and swift for the slow-moving men. And they didn't expect the offensive from a woman.

After clearing a path, she took a run and used the spear to pivot up over the enemies' heads and run horizontally along the wall, so fast she very nearly made the gate. Gasps of shock travelled with her, until those in front united to form an impenetrable barrier. With a startled cry, darkness swallowed her.

At the thought of Sanura in jeopardy, Kafele finally mobilised. Roaring his rage, he barged into their midst, hurling away any who hampered progress as easily as straw-toys. Using their own weapons against them, several dropped by the thick butt of a sword to the forehead, others a blade across the knees or a staff to the neck. True to Senenet's request, none were more than temporarily incapacitated. Lacking Sanura's agility, Kafele scrambled over shoulders sheep-dog style, jumping high to swing across by jutting beams, which supported the edifice. He repelled any challengers with skilful use of his feet and eventually reached the front. Sanura waited, chest heaving, face determined, men toppled about her. A trickle of blood smeared her chin.

"I cannot get it open," she said, back pressed against heavy doors. "It is barred and locked."

Kafele peered overhead at the arch above the barrier. He linked fingers and made a sling. "I will throw you. Then, you find something to anchor me so I can climb up."

She calmly placed her foot to the groans and shuffling of soldiers rousing. "I don't need to say it, but please hurry."

Jettisoned in an elegant loop, Sanura landed on the narrow ledge. She scrambled to locate a make-shift ladder in a deluge of arrows. Kafele crouched in a ball, miraculously spared while his attackers inadvertently fell. It was as if fate favoured the lovers.

"There is nothing!" she called, panic-tinged.

He rustled amongst the fallen for knives. A bloodied fist grasped Kafele's forearm and he stared into the wide eyes of a boy no older than himself. An arrow extended from a sucking wound in his rib-cage.

"I do not wish to hurt you." Kafele unclenched the boy's hand and showed him how to staunch the bleeding by compression. "Hold fast and the healers will help you. Do not remove the arrow."

"Kafele!" Sanura appeared over the edge, but she said nothing further on sighting the injured boy.

The boy whispered, "Gods bless you both."

Satisfied with the sturdiness of the weapons, Kafele leaped to embed one in splintered timber, writhing to punch the second higher on the gate and drag himself up, extracting the first and repeating the process. Battalions poured into the square, tossing spears only to curse mulishly feeble aim. Channelling brute strength and desperation, Kafele ascended as arrows rained, eventually hauling next to Sanura. Without pause, they plummeted to the other side, tearing for a shadowy copse of palms at a short length. But its obviousness made for a meagre refuge.

"What if --" Kafele panted.

"Do not say it. We've come this far..."

Gates creaked slowly at the rear, and the night echoed with the impatient snort and stamp of the Guard's horses preparing to charge. Sanura stumbled in the sand, and Kafele swept passed, hoisting her one-armed and continuing until they reached the outer perimeter of brush. They thrust deeper into the trees.

"Do not slow!" A muffled voice urged. "Tortoises shame your lazy pace."

Kafele narrowed as a figure materialised from the gloom, leading four laden camels. "Kiki?"

"Show your gratitude later. Get on, quickly!"

They mounted and lumbered out into the desert. "It is no good. The moon is too bright and their horses too rapid. How I wish for a sand-storm," Kafele said.

Hooves thundered, growing nearer. Kiki gave a short whistle and two decoy horses, complete with identically clothed effigies burst forth in the opposite direction. Concealed by the crest of a dune, the trio watched the Royal Guard veer off in pursuit.

"The ruse will not last long." Kiki nudged his camel into a trot.

"Where are we going?" Sanura asked.

Kiki looked over his shoulder and grinned, wrapping his turban. It made his head seem unbalanced on his slim form.

"While your man was tossing his staff in the sparring ring, some of us were using our brains to map the surrounding water-holes. I know of an oasis few traders use, but it is very remote and we will need to take advantage of the shifting sands to cover our tracks. We have a long ride ahead."

***

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The shout of his name brought Nic back to the present. He found himself alone, fist clenched on an object. Peeling fingers apart revealed Kafele's amulet. The weight spoke of priceless gold and jewels, as pristine now as the day they were forged and polished. Shocked, Nic flung it as if a stinging scorpion.

"Nic! You betraying bastard! Where are you?" Nate yelled, getting closer.

Nic stared at the necklace, afraid to pick it up. So, the lovers escaped. Somehow, he knew that was not the end of their story. There was no happily ever after where they were headed. He quashed the realisation these Felid idiots believed him the reincarnation of Kafele. It was just too stupid. And he guessed Mira played Sanura.

"I'm going to murder you when I find you!"

He couldn't leave the accursed thing here to be stolen. Nic collected the ankh and slid it over his head, planning on returning it at the nearest opportunity. There was no sudden arcane insight or surge of supernatural power. He was slightly regretful, thinking magic might come in handy to waylay Nate. Even Mira's skill with sneaky hypnosis would suffice, for that's definitely what had happened: another Arkady dupe.

A check of his watch showed four hours gone. It didn't seem possible. He'd missed the meeting with Lily. Nate was not the forgiving type and whatever this latest catastrophe, Nic knew he'd probably earned the blame -- whether it was fair or not. And he'd not addressed the more pressing issue of monitoring his brother.

Pictures of Sam's potential fate at the hands of Sasha brought Nic to his feet. He jogged out into the trees, flitting from one to the other to avoid Nate, who strode the grounds, his scowl obvious even at a distance. Whatever the problem, it could wait. He picked up the pace and dodged festivities to the front of the manor, running smack into a phalanx of ropable O'Connors. Lily slouched in their midst, drunk and bedraggled. Grass stained her dress in suggestive patches and a leaf stuck out from her mussed hair. Next to her stood a boy about the same age in a similar state, held aloft by the collar and a none-too-gentle Jed.

"If I'm not mistaken," Mr O'Connor flicked accusingly in the miserable boy's vicinity, "he's not you, Nic."

"Let him alone, dad. He's my boyfriend!"

Nate arrived, shoving Nic on the way passed, then whirling to confront him. "What the hell! I ask you for one miniscule favour and this is the outcome. You can forget about that exam."

"Oh, get stuffed, Nate. You self-righteous prick!" Lily slurred. "I don't need a baby-sitter!"

"Clearly, you do, young lady. Preferably a reliable one." Mrs O'Connor threw Nic a scathing look, before towing her disgruntled daughter towards a waiting limo. "And watch that mouth!"

"Sorry, Nic!" Lily said over her shoulder, wrenching free to walk unaided. "Mother," she continued, "Nic is not to blame. The whole lot of you are being ridiculous. I'm a teenager, for Christ's sake! And I'll need a bucket for the ride home."

While Nic admired her fortitude, it would have been much more convincing if Lily didn't lisp on every 's'. Or receive a threat to have her mouth salted on each curse word. He sighed and prepared for the inevitable rant, feeling more than a tad disgruntled himself. He had his own brother to worry about. Who had designated Nic shining knight for all distressed damsels and assorted small mammals?

Speaking of which, he noticed Scar malingering in the background, scrutinising events with uncanny interest from the terrace balustrade. How the cat got so far from home added to the rest of this night's infuriating mysteries. The idea he'd been drugged surfaced; that all this might be a dream or hallucination was oddly soothing.

Nate bunched Nic's shirt. "I oughta' beat you to a pulp."

Riley barged into their midst, grabbing her latest one-nighter by the wrist. "What the hell's wrong with you people? Is Lily really Nic's responsibility? What were the rest of you doing? Enjoying yourselves and leaving someone else to sort your child. And aren't you the world's biggest hypocrite, Nate?"

Nic could have kissed her. Until she smiled coyly at him. Nate's fist compressed his wind-pipe and starved lungs spoke of reality.

"Let go," he rasped, taken aback by the quiet authority of his own voice. Nate complied immediately, stepping away with a nervous face. "Leave the kid alone, Jed."

Jed's defiance dissipated under Nic's glare. He released the boy, who sidled away. The O'Connor men fidgeted awkwardly, but it was clear Riley's infatuation had doubled. She all but swooned.

"I'll sort my grades without you, Nate. I guess we've established what sort of friendship this is. I'm sorry I let you down, but it's time to accept Lily's her own person. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a brother to look after." If anyone deserved his allegiance it was Sam and he cursed himself for doing such an abysmal job of it so far.

"Nic!" Riley called at his retreating back.

"Can't. Busy!"

But after scouring the property twice, Nic failed to locate him and gave-up in exasperation. He trudged down the driveway, waving by vehicles that slowed to offer a lift. Thirty minutes later he crested the hill, the Lawson farm a panorama below. Instead of the expected two a.m. darkness, the property was lit by flashing Police lights in the turning circle, cars stretched haphazardly bumper-to-bumper in the lane. People swarmed the fields, torches panning in search. A helicopter swooped overhead adding its spotlight. Nic broke into a run.

He found Barney examining a district map spread on the bonnet of a cruiser, walkie-talkie to his mouth. Barney paused on spotting Nic. "Your father's with Martha. In the kitchen."

Nic swallowed fear and headed inside. Many of the women from town formed a supportive cordon about Martha, who gripped a coffee-cup at the dining table, face bleak and tears drying on her cheeks. Jonathon stood beside her with a fortifying hand on her back. Sequins and gaily hued taffeta clashed with sombre attitudes. Father glanced up and hurried over.

"Where've you been, Nic? I called about a thousand times."

"I left my phone here. Pants are too tight. What's going on?"

He moved his son to the breakfast bench out of Martha's earshot, tux rumpled and bow-tie dangling. "Harry's missing."

"What?"

"His mother went to check on him around ten and found the room empty. Sam's in with Henrietta. Go see if he needs a hand."

"I'm joining the search."

"See to Henri first. Then come and grab me. We'll find him. He can't have gone far." Jonathon's reassurance fell flat. They both knew whether Harry got far or not, there were infinite hazards between the bush and safety: aggressive brown snakes, Funnel Web spiders, precipitous gullies. Harry was off-kilter over perfectly level surfaces.

Nic headed for Sam's bedroom, trying and failing not to dwell on the awful possibilities. He knocked softly and pushed the door open. Sam brought his finger to his lips and came to meet him at the door. Henrietta curled in ball beneath the covers.

"Took ages to get her to sleep. I didn't think she'd ever stop crying. Poor kid." Nic choked hysteria at Sam calling anyone a kid, his own nerves frayed to breaking. "There's something you need to know." Nic closed his eyes in a plea for strength. "Earlier on, just as we got the news and had to leave the party in a hurry, I took the guys to see the cats. The thing is..." Sam's brow creased. "I'm pretty sure Katya wasn't in her pen."

***

Chapter Thirty

Nic sprinted for his father's office, working hard to come up with a way to get a rifle passed hawk-eyed Barney, without alarming civilians and especially Martha. He groped beneath the bottom drawer for the spare gun-locker key taped there.

Jonathon appeared in the frame. "What are you doing?"

He took a chance. "Katya's loose. The wild one."

Without hesitation, his father strode to a wall of book-shelves. Nic was relieved not to waste time convincing the elder Lawson, who swung a section wide to reveal a thick, metal cabinet, extracting keys on a chain and inserting one in the lock. "How do you know?"

"Sam."

"This complicates matters. I've spoken to Anatoly numerous times about putting that feral animal on a reserve or something. Man won't listen to reason." He shook his head, punching numbers on his mobile. "Barney! Bring the bird down, we've a cat on the loose. I'm going up with a rifle." There was a pause, during which Barney yelled down the line. Jonathon held the receiver out from his ear until the tirade ebbed, collecting his Armalite from the rack single-handed.

"Yes, I realise you were right. We'll argue about it later. You can tell me 'I told you so' as much as you want when Harry's back, safe and sound.... No, I'll call the Arkadys." He clicked off. "Go join the search, Nicholas. But stick close to the house in case Henri wakes. Or that blasted feline materialises. And take your phone."

"But --"

"Nic! There are already enough searchers spreading the fields, making for a tasty snack. I need someone I can rely on here, in case Harry shows. He'll be disoriented and upset. You have a way with him. Help Martha."

"Yes, sir," Nic grumbled.

Never for a second did he think to request a firearm for himself. Instead, he ambled into the garden via the front door and completed a once around the house for good measure, even though it seemed pointless. Barney had left to direct the chopper's landing, deserting a spot-lit jam of chaotically parked cars.

The searchers made bouncing pin-pricks of light in the distance, growing farther apart as they worked the grid. Around the back, he noticed the dining room in darkness: they'd finally coaxed Martha to bed, although he knew she wouldn't sleep a wink until the return of her son. Everything possible was being done, yet he loitered by the barbeque in a pall of worry, contributing nothing useful. He stopped fidgeting and listened.

Had there been a crunch of undergrowth? Nic strode beyond the barn, squinting to infiltrate densely towering eucalypts that abutted their land. The night was oddly silent, not a cricket or falling branch to disrupt the peace. He jumped the gate and followed a slim dirt track that angled from the main lane, negotiating a field littered with rolls of drying Lucerne. The path eventually dwindled deeper into the forest between increasingly packed boughs. No-one believed Harry could get through here, tangled brush and rocky outcrops blocking easy progress. Besides, why on earth would he want to?

"Harry!"

Nic cursed forgetting a torch. He climbed a fallen log, its centre rotted by writhing grubs, and cursed some more when his boot got stuck. Wrenching free, he almost toppled, skidding a decline of snarled lantana, managing an undignified halt-by-sapling. Fumbling around in a pitch black forest proved the peak of stupidity, but he was certain he'd heard snapped twigs. Damn shame about the expensive, white Arkady shirt dirtier with every step.

"Harry?" he murmured.

No howl of recognition or figure thrashing through scrub spoke of a Harry reunion. Rather, stealthy footfalls announced the truth. Ice shot up his spine: Nic was being stalked. Of course, it almost seemed inevitable. Anxiety for Harry mushroomed. With as much calm as he could muster, Nic quickly retraced his course. He winced on every cracked stick and rustled leaf, finally heaving over the fence-line and back into the hay paddock. The puny wire-and-post fence didn't make him feel any safer. Murky alleys through huge cylindrical hay bales were more sinister now, and he jumped at every shadow. What ever possessed him to come out here? As if in confirmation, he heard a low groan.

He knew it! "Harry?" Another moan guided him to a slim gap between bales. Nic peered inside. The gratifying sight of two large Converse-sneakered feet rested a short way within the triangle of alfalfa. "Haroldo? What are you doing in there?"

"I was hiding and I got stuck," came the sniffled reply.

"I'll grab your feet and see if we can pull you out, okay?"

Harry kicked away Nic's hand and screeched, "No! I'm not coming out! There's a mean cat. I just wanted to scratch its ears, but I made it angry."

"Scar?" Nic asked without much hope.

"Scar's my friend. He purrs when I pat him. He showed me where to hide."

Excellent, Nic though wryly. "Come on out, Harry. Your mum's very worried. Henrietta cried herself to sleep. You need to go home." He decided not to lie about the presence of cats, friendly or otherwise.

"Henri did? I don't want to make her cry," Harry muffled, and commenced backing up with a little help. Moments later, the two reached the main thoroughfare, only the gate proper and the straight road by the barn to span. Still, Nic didn't entertain optimism or let his vigilance wander.

"Do you think Henri will forgive me, Nic?" Harry's face was grimy with dirt and tears, eyes swollen red. "Is mamma very angry?"

"No, no," he rushed to reassure.

"But how do you know?" Harry whined stubbornly, refusing to climb the gate.

Oh, God! This was not the time for an exercise in patient persuasion. "Please, Harry! Just get over the gate." He tried to keep his voice level. Were they soft footfalls or falling leaves at the rear? Nic fought paranoia and the urge to frantically scan behind. He sucked a quelling breath. "Martha was really upset when she couldn't find you. She just wants you back, Harry, safe and unharmed. Everyone's out searching and we need to let them know you're fine. So, can we please just get back to the house?" Harry's doggedness wavered. "If you hurry up, we can ask the man in the helicopter to give you a ride sometime."

His eyes lit up. "There's a helicopter?"

Nic nodded. "But we'd better make it quick, or he'll be gone."

Harry finally scrambled over and trotted towards home, Nic in close pursuit. The new Arabian, Raj, galloped next to them along his border, neighing and tossing his long mane. He sure was fractious tonight, and Nic guessed the reason. He stopped and turned, knowing what he'd see. Katya oozed from the gloom, sauntering a bee-line for him. Oblivious, Harry forged on, the relief profound when he eventually banged into the kitchen.

Nic sprinted for the barn, heart crashing fit to burst through ribs. Glancing over a shoulder, she maintained her leisurely pace, taking her time to build suspense and spook the prey in the eternal strategy of a practiced predator.

It seemed fitting events should climax where this madness began. Nic burst into the barn, swatting light-switches. Sudden illumination blotched vision, but there was no time to adjust or drag the heavy door closed. Thankfully, the stalls were shut on the mares, who shifted and snorted their agitation within. Nic pivoted and reversed the middle section, frantic for a weapon, focus glued to the opening. He'd made it half way when the cat appeared. She hissed and bared long incisors, claws unsheathed.

What could he fight her with? The pitchforks were beyond his reach at the end, a coiled hose inadequate. Where were the shovels? Suddenly, his salvation shone in the periphery: the knife he'd wedged there the first night. With a snarl, Katya launched and he lunged. Nic gripped the handle a pulled, choreographing a split-second fall onto his back with the blade extended. In time-lapse increments, her talons appeared, then the rest of her gliding above him with her jaw wide. He had the chance to smell her carrion breath, the tickle of her warm, silken fur along his forearms, before he thrust upwards with all his might...

And then the yelped crunch. The knife penetrated her lower jaw, sliding up into her skull to jut from her forehead. Her yellow eyes glazed in an instant and musky heaviness smothered him. The smell of fresh blood stained the night, the horses bucking madly at the walls. Nic lay for a moment with his eyes tightly shut, pulling ragged breaths. He needed to calm the frantic animals lest they hurt themselves or their foals, both ready to drop any day. But he just couldn't do more than yank the knife and roll the leopard off.

He gathered the courage to peel lids and check it had all been real and that Katya was truly dead. Her pink tongue lolled, and she appeared much smaller in death. He suppressed the urge to nudge her tongue back inside her mouth. She really was very beautiful with a shiny mottled pelt, downy soft and white on her belly, and sunflower irises. Nic blinked, she shimmered oddly. Was he seeing things? The cat lost form.

Scrabbling backwards on elbows, Nic slammed hard against a pillar. The red-smeared knife clattered from his fist to concrete. A roar of fury and pain issued from the door through which she'd hunted him scant minutes previous. Sasha.

But Nic couldn't tear from the vision of Katya morphing into a stunning, dark-haired woman lying naked on her side, an ugly jagged gash in the centre of her forehead leaking blood onto straw.

***

Chapter Thirty-One

"I, I, don't understand," Nic stammered, too shocked for a more coherent sentence. He couldn't get the shakes under control. There was a woman. But he'd killed a cat! It was a cat!

"Murderer," Sasha jeered. He raised his phone and clicked pictures. "You'll pay for this. I'll bury you in a deep, dark ditch where no-one aside from your sex-deprived gorilla of a cell-mate will ever find you." His handsome features crumpled in dismay. "Oh, Katya."

Nic's mind kicked in, belatedly grasping the point of the photos. Sasha's eyes slid to the knife and in an instant they were both diving for it, viciously gouging, punching and kicking at each other. Nic swiped it across the floor, beyond his enemy's reach, and received a boot to the cheek for his troubles.

As they writhed, Nic grabbed fistfuls of Sasha's clothing, seeking for the phone he'd secreted in a pocket. He retaliated, ripping shirt buttons, and the amulet Nic had forgotten flung free. Sasha paused and squinted, staring at it with an incredulous look on his face.

"She gave you that? Mira actually gave you that?"

"I want that goddamned phone!"

The scuffle recommenced with added ferocity. A low growl halted their exertions. Scar slunk into view. With a giant shove, Sasha extricated himself and scrambled from the barn, fleeing into the darkness. Nic couldn't fail to recognise the emotion playing on his face: fear. He was deadly afraid of the ginger tom now daintily licking blood from the discarded knife. What Nic had failed at was obliterating those incriminating shots. Or maybe he deserved what he got -- he'd committed homicide after all, and the consequences slammed the breath from his lungs.

He hyperventilated, rocking where he sat. He might as well have stabbed his dreams; they were as dead as the slaughtered woman he couldn't bear to look at. Scar twined around him purring. Was he taunting Nic?

"Get away you stupid cat!" he bellowed, fatigued passed endurance.

Scar ran off with an offended yowl. And just in case the thought matters could not get any worse dared interrupt, Jonathon shouted from the back porch, accompanied by the tramp of boots approaching. "Nic!"

Ebon's distress finally penetrated. Nic jumped up, panicking. He had to get rid of the body! But reality hit home. What was the point? Plenty of stories over the years taught that crimes were virtually impossible to conceal from modern Forensics, and right now, Nic wore a torn, bloodied billboard advertising blame. His attention wandered to the point of struggle. He gasped: Katya had disappeared. Quickly, he kicked straw over the scene and tossed the knife in a bucket of chaff, stripping down to his singlet. The shirt followed the knife and he jammed on the lid. Deliberating over this night's eerie turn of events would bring him undone.

"Nicky? Are you in there?"

"Yep!" he called, running to undo the bolt and swing the stall door wide. Nic stroked Ebon's forehead and she nuzzled his neck. He felt her distended belly and checked behind. "You'd better ring the vet. I think Ebon's in labour. Maybe in breech." He popped his head out, relief predominant, until recalling Sasha's insta-pics. Nic had to retrieve that mobile.

Jonathon muttered from the barn entrance, "Fine time for Hank to go gallivanting." He proceeded within, jabbing buttons. "No sign of that cat?"

"Nah, it must have been a false alarm." There'd be no sign of her ever again.

"You look terrible. Is that blood? And scratches?"

Nic gulped, scrambling madly for an excuse. "Er, Ebon's waters have broken. I fell down a gully full of lantana."

Jonathon nodded. "Get some sleep, Nic. I've got this. You've done enough tonight. Martha's very grateful."

Yep, he sure had done enough. Not willing to risk further incriminating conversation, Nic fled for the sanctuary of his room, straight into the ensuite. He scrubbed himself raw under boiling jets, resting his head against cold tile and feeling a lot like Lady Macbeth, whose sins weren't easily expunged either. Just as his head finally hit the pillow, there was a tap at the door.

"Nic, it's me," said Sam.

He sighed. "Enter."

Sam came in and perched on the end of the bed, hair tousled and eyes puffy. "Barney drove Martha and the kids home."

"You came to tell me that at three a.m.? Are they okay?"

Sam nodded, compulsively rubbing the jacquard of the quilt with a thumb. "Anatoly phoned and told me they found Katya dead in her pen."

Nic sat up. "They did?" He so wanted to ask 'the woman or the cat?'. "What did she die of?"

"Natural causes, apparently. She was awfully old." Sam's expression was shrewd. "Mira called as well."

"Busy bunch aren't they? Do they ever sleep?"

"You're pretty busy too, aren't you, Nic?" His brother's tone conveyed an undercurrent of hurt. "Why don't you talk to me anymore? Tell me what's happening with you? You've listened to my crazy shit for years."

"I'm super tired, Welly. I don't have the energy for riddles."

"You killed Katya in our barn. Stabbed her to death."

There was no point lying. "That monster tried to kill me!"

"Oh, I don't blame you. Mira asked me to pass on a message. She has the photos. If you want them, come up in the morning and she'll hand them over."

"She will?"

Sam nodded and stood to leave. "It doesn't seem like it, but they're on your side, Nic. They're trying as hard as they can to help you."

Nic's temper exploded. "Why?! Some Felid crap about me being the reigning heir? Get a grip, Sam. Those people are lunatics. And they don't care about who they hurt upholding their delusions."

"You still don't believe, after all you've seen? You're wearing the Bast amulet. Not just anyone can do that. It helps you see them in their true form. You can't ignore the curse, Nic. It won't ignore you."

Nic reefed the ankh from his neck and hurled it to the carpet. "You're quoting their slogans now? I'll have t-shirts made-up."

"Nic, please! You have to take this seriously."

"It's screwed-up in twelve ways from normal." He scrunched down beneath the covers and made a point of grabbing the lamp switch. "Leave me alone, Sam. If you want to badger me, do it tomorrow." He lingered in the frame, arms crossed stubbornly. "Should I have taken you off the meds, Sam? Have I done the wrong thing?"

"She was relieved, at the end. You saved her, Nic, and I'm certain Katya was thankful. No-one but the rightful Bast successor can take a Felid life."

***

Chapter Thirty-Two

Nic woke bleary-eyed and pissed-off. Puny concerns over exams and rowing paled into insignificance compared with this latest slew of calamity. Sam needed a visit or fifty with the shrink, probably an economy box of anti-psychotics, and he contemplated a couple of sessions himself given the hallucinations. Nic had slayed something, but in the harsh reality of day wasn't positive what. Running feet and loud whoops of joy shattered the early morning silence.

"Twins! Wake-up, Nic." Sam pounded wood and the door flew open, its lock still indisposed due to assault by boot. "Ebon had twins!" Nic grinned, desperate for this fleeting happiness. His mouth was out of practice. "A girl and a boy. Dad says we're keeping the boy. For you." Sam's smile faltered. "If it's too soon... You'll be ready when he's old enough. He's a bit runty, but beautiful. You wanna' come see?"

"I'll go up to the Arkadys first, then we can spend the afternoon together with the foals. Is Ebon all right?"

"It's like she didn't even give birth." He looked devious. "I'll see you there later."

Sam vanished before Nic had a chance to ask where, exactly, his brother meant. The foreboding that had nagged since the arrival of their insane neighbours returned with a vengeance. The barn would be packed with people, and he'd have to acquire the bloodied shirt and knife later on. Without a body, there was no conviction, all evidence washed away with that morning's stable muck-out.

It was odd that Anatoly lied for him. Or had Katya's body magically dissolved and returned to her pen? Perhaps, Mira was the only one with the facts. In any case, Nic no longer wished to know the truth, preferring the secure, rational haven of denial.

The occasion had come to make himself clear: he'd return the amulet and the bike, collect his own, intending to cart it home in parts if necessary, and demand in no uncertain terms they cease interfering in his life. He'd level stalking charges at Sasha, if they didn't leave him alone. Once he'd retrieved those dreaded images, of course. Grudgingly satisfied with the less-than-foolproof plan, the Suzuki hastened the ride. Nic arrived at the Arkady mansion barely half an hour later. He wasn't sure how to sever Sam's connections here, though.

There was no sign of Elmas and Kolb. In fact, although the place was already in its usual state of flawless wonder, absent any indication of last night's merry hordes tramping the gardens, not a soul rushed to greet him. The contrast was both welcome and unsettling. He took a rallying breath and stalked up the stairs.

"Hello?" Nic called via a slight gap in the patio slider.

"Come in," Hanna said.

Her voice was ominously quiet and his stomach took a dive. She draped a wing chair by the cold hearth fussing over a pot of tea and platter of cakes, gesturing at a spot on the adjacent settee.

"Breakfast while we wait, Nicholas? Mira shall be down promptly and we've had so little opportunity to chat."

"Why not?" Did Hanna know what he had done? There was no hint in her elegant cream-suited demeanour, yet the feeling of threat refused to abate. "Look, I'm really sorry --"

She raised a hand to stop him. "The fault belongs with us." She sighed sadly. "My husband has handled this appallingly. You are the one owed a profound apology. How do you take your tea? Let me guess, black with lemon."

"Bang on. How did you know?"

"You have much in common with my recalcitrant daughter. Not to mention the extensive dossier we've researched on you and your family since your birth."

Nic's jaw dropped. He felt violated -- yes, that was the word which best described his antipathy towards them. She passed over his cup and a saucer holding a dainty pastry. He received them mechanically, sipping scalding liquid in a vain delay to form a reply that didn't contain too many offensive words. He stuffed the pastry in whole, its centre bursting with delicious vanilla custard that thankfully tamped the vitriol and soothed the blisters developing on the roof of his mouth.

"Anatoly has manipulated my poor nephew into doing his dirty work." She shook her head and frowned, as if bothered by a gnat. "You see, we have never met anyone not swayed by our money or the possibility of elevated status with the powerful elite. Anatoly does not understand you in the least, which is why I have stepped in to dictate proceedings. Before more innocents get hurt." She watched avidly as he ate and drank. "Sasha is too much of a loose canon to complete the task efficiently."

Nic nearly slopped tea in his lap. "Pardon?"

"If anyone has played the fool in this, it is me. I should have known the curse would have its way, in spite of Mira's efforts to thwart it. She did not want to come here and had accepted her fate. To be like the others, who cannot come back from the change." Hanna shrugged, as if to stress how natural her logic was. She leant forward with a beseeching expression. "You understand, Nicholas? A parent's love for their child. We refuse to let her go without a fight." She stared absently out the window. "Or perhaps, we are addicted to the gifts Bast bestows for a righteous sacrifice."

"Will Mira be long?" he asked, thoroughly non-plussed with the direction of this conversation. His voice sounded thick, mental faculties abruptly sluggish. It was a mistake to come into their territory. If he'd asked, Mira would have brought the phone to his house. He cursed the detriment of hindsight. Vulnerability and another decidedly unpleasant sensation coursed his flesh: he was mortally afraid.

"Anatoly swears you are the one to refresh the Felid and bring us back from our dwindled power. His belief borders on the fanatical. Still, meeting you, observing you, it is difficult this time not to hope."

Perception blurred and he leaned to place his cup on the table. The narrow void proved a severe threat to stability. Nic tried to blink away splotches obscuring sight and wobbled his head to dislodge an unpleasant buzz. Then realisation crash-tackled and he wilted to the horizontal.

"You...drruggged...mee." He couldn't lift his head from cushions, too insensate to panic. Nic closed his eyes and surrendered to oblivion.

He roused an indeterminate time later, feeling no worse than waking from normal sleep and relieved to discover he wasn't staked over a pyre, or boiling alive in a vat of stock. Nic was however, shackled. Although, the cuffs were lined with sheep-wool and allowed unimpeded movement, to a degree. The light was an odd luminous green, which he recognised from his first time in this place.

The Arkady bathroom, its significance ironic as the first occasion he'd beheld Mira's smile. A smile to drag him to doom. He crushed the memory. From the strength of light, Nic estimated it was late afternoon. He sprawled on the bottom of the huge sunken bath, which now constituted a prison-pen. And he was naked with glittering runes painting his body.

"Excellent!" The perpetually cheerful Anatoly loomed large from the side. He beamed down at Nic, rubbing hands together. "Our esteemed guest awakes."

"Christ," Nic muttered. "How do you treat your enemies?"

"There would be no need for theatrics, if you assured cooperation," he said, reasonably. "How are you feeling?" The crackpot was attired in some sort of ritual gown emblazoned by Egyptian glyphs, the sphinx prominent with the pelt of a snarling leopard for a head-piece.

"Jubilant." Nic couldn't help himself. "Not Katya, I pray?"

Anatoly faltered briefly. "That was my fault, not yours. But it was for the best in the end. She had suffered so, for far too long."

"How magnanimous."

He took no heed of the facetious tone. "Shortly, we shall begin. I have great hopes for you, Nicholas."

"What, that I'll taste good with garlic? Worried there's not enough of me to go around?"

Anatoly narrowed in confusion, before awareness dawned. He broke into enthusiastic laughter. "Ah, that old rumour. I am sorry, but you look a tad human for my tastes." Now, it was Nic's turn for confusion. "And please, when you see your father, do not be concerned. We will remove the hand-cuffs in due course, upon his full comprehension. Forgive me."

From the folds of his robe, he brought out an atomiser and sprayed Nic in the face. He passed out again, rousing groggily to low echoing chants. It wasn't English. The tiles flickered with candle-lit ambiance, devotees filing around the periphery in cat- themed costume. Lotus blossoms fluttered in aromatic rain and he caught murmured 'Good lucks' and 'Bast be with you'. The procession eventually diminished, a familiar youth trailing the end.

"Sam?" Nic tasted peppermint. Had someone cleaned his teeth?

"Bast be with you," his brother intoned with a happy wave, a skinned ocelot draping his shoulders.

Bloody little traitor! "Get back here, Samuel! Dad is going to flay you for this!"

Kolb and Elmas traipsed by, Jonathon between them with his wrists bound. He squinted in befuddlement, clearly under the influence of Anatoly's blasted spray-bottle. "Dad!" Nic yelled and struggled. "Dad! Call the riot squad. I'm a hostage!"

Acknowledgment flitted his face, quashed by the stupefied expression which descended like a yanked blind. The Arkady parents materialised in the dim illumination. Sasha was not present, but they were accompanied by a large black jaguar on a chain. The animal issued a sullen growl. Anatoly's mantra stopped and they peeled apart. Mira glided from between them and Nic's mouth fell open.

Wrapped in a shimmery gossamer sheath that concealed nothing, her body was gilt-tinged and magnificent. Despite the utter inappropriateness, the horror of the situation, his eyes devoured her. Her long hair fell in a loose braid down one shoulder and she was breathtakingly lovely, even with eyes glazed by drugs, chewing distractedly on her bottom lip.

A key swung low on a chain in her ample cleavage, next to the feminine version of Kafele's amulet, but no matter how tempting, Nic resisted the urge to ogle more than he already had. This public nudity embarrassed plenty, without a more obvious display of how much her presence thrilled him. Anatoly and Hanna exited with the cat, the clang of a bar locking them in together.

***

Chapter Thirty-Three

The noise snapped her to full clarity. She surveyed the space, focus coming to rest on Nic. He squirmed under the scrutiny, wishing for some way to reinstate modesty.

Mira closed her eyes and murmured, "You're kidding!"

She traversed the steps muttering obscenities and made her way across a springy rug strewn with fat pillows, her beguiling scent reaching him a beat before she did. Dropping to her knees in front, she perfunctorily used the key to release the cuffs at his wrists and ankles. Nic struggled to look anywhere but this tantalising vision so close he could reach out and touch. He resorted to concentrating on the negative aspects of his situation, anything to battle the want detonating his cells.

"I guess drugging and kidnap trump Sasha's phone," he joked. It was pitiful, but thinking with Mira on display like a juicy, gold-dipped candy proved a trial. Were her parents pimps?

She narrowed quizzically. "What phone? What are you talking about?" She checked for a fever, the cool back of her hand on his forehead.

"Umm, Katya? Sasha's channelling Spielberg."

"Oh, that! You did her the greatest mercy. Thank you, Nic. Scar showed me."

"Pardon?"

"I can see via cats," she said as if commenting on the weather. "Any will do, but I rather prefer him. He has a very quirky personality and an excellent sense of humour."

"Glad I asked." On to more rational topics. "So," he said casually, "when does the feast begin?"

"Bast does not celebrate cannibalism, Nic. It is the worship of love and sensual pleasure. You are my life-mate and our consummation will re-establish Bast's ascendance."

"That's all?" he croaked. Amongst all the kookiness, the dominant realisation she'd fought so hard just to avoid being with him hurt and it must have shown.

"It would be wise to inquire about the catch."

"There's a catch...?"

"Isn't there always?"

Perfect breasts eclipsed the scene. He cleared his throat, "Do you think you might sit next to me or something? Maybe, cover yourself with a cushion?"

Hiding himself was probably smart, for that matter. There were no guarantees, in spite of the circumstances, his arousal wouldn't reveal itself in palpable fashion. Particularly when she stretched to snag the biggest specimen available, offering a first rate view of her firm, round, squeezable behind... Crap! He needed to stay on point. But point was the wrong descriptor; it recalled her small, enticing nipples. He clutched a pillow between his legs, working to steady his breathing.

"Sorry." She flopped to his side, mercifully camouflaged, if only just.

"The catch," he prompted, amazed by her lack of self-consciousness. Her boldness added greatly to her scorching appeal.

"A rather humungous one in the grand scheme of things. Those who are worthy must prove it in the presence of Bast. At the completion of our union I undergo a transmutation, which you must survive in order to seal the new beginning. It's either a sacrifice, or a bestowal. History has favoured sacrifice."

"I'd be grateful if you spoke plain English. This has been the weirdest day of my existence and my patience is shaky." So was his defiance, which provoked physical pain. His groin throbbed.

She gazed at him. "I become a cat. We don't know the species until it happens, but it's usually a reflection of character. Without exception, they've all been savage, instinctive, untamed creatures-of-the-wild dedicated to extermination, until the rise of a new sun."

"No house-kitty then?" he scoffed. "I'm not really a cat person, but I suppose I could tolerate a Burmese."

Mira scowled. "Make jokes at your peril. Katya's lover did and his guts were splattered so far and wide, the techies couldn't retrieve all the pieces. His mother carried the tiny box of remains at the funeral. Single-handed. We demolished the suite because we could never eradicate the stink of blood and offal. And the guilt and grief drove Katya mad. You saw the rabid thing she became."

Nic swallowed hard. "The others?"

"Refused the risk. None of them sought their mates. Their coming-of-age saw them virgins, claiming their humanity for the duration. They cannot change back, trapped in their Bast forms. And under fading Bast magic, Lidya didn't transform at all, bringing nothing but shame and misfortune. Sasha's father abandoned her when she was pregnant. The arsehole blackmailed our family for millions and disappeared with the woman who helped con us. But you never cross the Felid. Those two met a very grisly end," she spat.

Mira covered her face with her hands. "It's taken everything I have to avoid you and I've failed often. You're the most courageous, kind, hard-working, ethical person I've ever met. And irresistible. I don't know if I'm strong enough. I don't trust myself with you."

He knew contact was incredibly stupid, but arranged an arm to pull her close, prising her fingers apart with the other. What the hell? These Felid were without doubt queer, but he really liked Mira. She carried the burden of her family alone and he related; whether she was a drunk or a lunatic didn't seem to matter. Nic smiled and smoothed away a strand of hair clumped by tears.

"It takes two to tango."

He leaned in and parted her lips with his tongue for a drawn-out, velvety kiss. Heart stuttering, a tsunami of desire threatened to drown him. The intensity of her own passion animated her lovely face and she tossed the cushions aside to straddle him, leaving scant fabric and his excitement between them. The ankh weaved a hypnotic rhythm to the motion of her hips.

His fingers whispered along the contour of her collar-bone, making her shiver with pleasure, while marvelling at her silken skin and tugging at the sparkly gauze wrapping her breasts. The material slithered free, invoking goosebumps and she giggled blissfully. Her unadorned curves triggered awe, and Nic hardly comprehended he could touch her anywhere he liked.

As he resolved to take his sweeter-than-honey time, craving swept aside all composure. He grabbed her and rolled on top, fist tangled in her hair without breaking the kiss, her tongue softly probing his mouth. Their movements grew frenzied. As he caressed the plumpness of her breast, circling a small peach nipple and pinching its hardness between fingertips, she gasped and arched towards the pressure.

"You must not linger when we're done," she panted, rubbing hard against him.

"Hm-mm." Nic pressed the flesh of her butt to increase friction, the other hand heading south and tongue replacing his vacated fingers. A perfect storm of heat swelled within.

"Oh," she groaned. "You're not quite as ethical as our reports indicated."

"Is it a problem?" His self-control teetered; she was so luscious it was all he could do not to take her on the spot.

"Promise me, Nic. Please! Waste no time, there are ropes. Get up into the rafters."

He would promise her anything; give her everything she asked for. "Yes, yes! I promise," he mumbled through a nuzzled mouthful.

"Don't forget to pull them up," her tone was desperate.

"Wait!" he said, suddenly protective. "You've never been with anyone before?"

"Do girls count?" she whispered teasingly in his ear.

"Ahh, crap," Nic moaned. "I can't wait any longer." Her hand folded him in warmth to guide him home.

***

Chapter Thirty-Four

Nic strained to catch his breath, exhilarated and utterly spent. Mira was a seductress extraordinaire, the hottest, most wonderful girl he'd ever laid eyes on. The sex blew his mind, fast and frantic and uninhibited. The next time, they'd take it leisurely and explore each other with scrupulous regard. He stretched luxuriously, trying to articulate the epiphany of this newfound joy. Until that annoying, nagging little voice intruded.

"Shit!" he leaped up, scanning the darkened confines.

Mira huddled as far in the corner as walls would permit. Her face was so distraught, it almost broke his heart. Nic gingerly took a step towards her, hand outstretched.

"Climb!" she growled. "Quickly!"

A glimmering halo outlined her form, and he stood transfixed. He still didn't quite believe these Felid stories. She threw her head back and screamed, one long ear-shattering noise that morphed into the roar of a lioness. Nic didn't need to be told again, he pivoted for the stairs, grabbing the lip of the pool and vaulting out in a single jump.

But of course, the decision came too late. A huge paw swatted legs from under him and he crashed to unyielding ceramics, slamming his forehead to see stars. Nic instinctively kicked with all the force he could, success met in a yowl of pain. He was up again before cognition willed it, sprinting the boundary for one of these mysterious ropes and praying he'd not wounded her badly. He blinked madly to clear a trickle of blood.

The rapid tick, tick of claws on tile answered the plea. He launched airborne, to seize rigging and haul hand-over-hand as fast as he could without risking a look down. A snarl of frustration echoed the bathroom, followed by the accelerating pads of a big cat running. Silence forecast the bound and Nic checked below at the instant Mira's out-thrust talons pierced his calf. He bellowed, twisting to crash her against the wall, capitalising on the force to gain momentum and slam her again. She wouldn't shake free, jaw spreading to sink her teeth deep if he gave her the chance. He dug his toe-nail in an eye and she plunged with a howl.

Clambering the rest of the way, he mounted the thin width of the beam and cautiously turned to coil the ropes. Unfazed, Mira paced underneath calculating alternatives. She made as captivating a cat as she did a girl: a glossy chocolate lioness the likes of which the world had never seen. Her coat was the identical colour of her hair.

"Here puss, puss, puss," he taunted.

She offered a disdainful grumble. Nic massaged the shredded tissue of his leg, which burned like a bitch, but all things considered wasn't unsalvageable. A few stitches and no worries. The real trick was remaining balanced on this pitiful girder, which made almost as practical a seat as his old BMX. Even more difficult given his state of undress. He had to last until morning, but weariness engulfed him. Inadequate sleep last night compounded the roller-coaster of this ludicrous day.

A grunt alerted to Mira's latest strategy. She scrambled up the parallel rope, aiming to jump the gap from on high. Anxiety bloomed, Nic speculating on the likelihood of success. She could easily knock him from this inadequate perch and he was screwed on the ground. What a determined killer! He rose, anticipating the angle of trajectory to best evade her. A sore leg impeded agility and he was no gymnast, the possibility of falling real.

As it eventuated, the concern was unnecessary: she failed half-way, missing the target to tumble heavily before retreating to lick her injuries. But she didn't give-up for long. Throughout the long night, Nic defended onslaught after onslaught, until exhausted, he slipped into a doze. He woke to a mid-air flail, plummeting sharply to earth. Everything ached, lying spread-eagled on biting coldness.

"Come and get me, Mira. I couldn't be bothered fending you off."

"Nic! Are you all right?"

Her beautiful human visage appeared in his view of the ceiling. It took a moment, before triumph filtered in and he lurched up to hug her tightly.

"We made it! Mira, we did it!" She disentangled and gently held him at arms length. Her expression was not the expected delight. "What's wrong?" The only interpretation was dismay.

"It's a miracle. Please, forgive me, Nic." His belly contorted: those words were too similar to Anatoly's before he was gassed. "You're angry."

He grimaced. "I'm not angry. I'm thrilled."

"You will be angry. Very angry. This is for our protection." She squirted him in the face. Awareness swirled the drain, but not before he caught Mira whisper, "I worried that you wouldn't fight hard to survive, if I told you the whole truth. And you had to survive, Nic. I couldn't live with myself otherwise."

When Nic finally woke, all the pain was gone. In fact, he'd never felt so robust. He gave his ear a vigorous scratch and enjoyed an ample yawn. He flinched on hearing an odd guttural groan, seeking its source. Was there a cat in here with him?

"Look at him! He's magnificent," Anatoly gushed.

The Arkady clan rowed at Nic's front. The bathroom reverberated with a menacing baritone growl. Yes, another infernal cat loitered nearby. Stupid man! Irritating family. Sam joined them, encouraging an attempt to translate why the scene was striped. Bars, Nic was behind bars. He reflexively lashed out, puzzled by the sight of a gigantic white paw. The act was accompanied by a metal-splintering roar and the screech of nails.

"It's really him?" Jonathon asked, stunned.

"You witnessed the change." Hanna gave his arm an encouraging squeeze. "It is temporary. Once Nicholas has accepted his position, he will master the metamorphosis and achieve it at will. As will Mira."

"You need not worry about him Jonathon. The supremacy of Bast reaches a new pinnacle in this couple, they are powerful beyond measure. He will return to his form."

Jonathon didn't appear convinced. "Can you guarantee that?"

Anatoly's confidence trembled, a fleeting tic, was it not for the fact Nic noticed everything with crystal keenness. He made a show of licking his teeth, their profile sharper than he remembered.

"Of course, of course!"

Sam took a tentative step closer. Nic tilted his head, which seemed bulkier somehow. He perceived a potent mix of soaps and perfumes. The texture of Anatoly's expensive silk suit resembled coarsest hessian and Mira's progress from her room thundered, regardless of babbling voices and layered wood and mortar overhead. Sam shuffled forward to warily place his hand on the cage.

Anatoly gasped, rushing to drag him back. "Not yet, Sam!"

But Jonathon anchored him by the jacket. "My sons have always shared a special bond. Let's watch what happens."

"He could lose an arm in the blink of an eye."

Mira entered, showered and dressed in a simple white shift. Strange gruff rumbles emanated, cut off abruptly when Nic grasped he was their origin.

"Let Sam alone, dad. Nic is happy to see him."

"And you, Mira!" Sam grinned. An astonishingly long tongue slid out and licked his brother's palm. "Tell him the rest of the legend. It'll be best coming from you, Mira."

"You and I are not the reincarnation of Kafele and Sanura, rather their twin children." Jonathon cleared his throat awkwardly and Mira laughed. "Yes, Sasha made that same error. We are not directly related. It is not literal, but a symbolic relationship."

Sam interrupted, "In modern times, we have lost the skills of hunting and defending against natural predators. Nowadays, humans are the pinnacle danger to wildlife. So, the Felid could not find suitable mates, especially for the men. They stopped changing centuries ago. The original twins were warriors, the most capable and talented of their people."

Nic collapsed to the floor with a disgruntled snort. He was hungry, fantasising about a big, fat juicy steak on the raw side.

"Nothing for you, impatient feline, until you take your human form," Hanna scolded.

"You're going to starve him?" Jonathon asked, clearly alarmed.

"Offering a little incentive, is all."

With a single imperious look, Mira shooed them all out. Nic had lost interest, occupied grooming himself and overjoyed to discover how easy it was to lick his own balls.

"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should! Typical male," Mira muttered. "All the power on earth at your disposal and that's what you elect to do."

Slightly sheepish, Nic plonked his head on crossed paws. She was displeased and he didn't want that. This state rendered strong emotion futile, unless action was called for: he'd protect his pride with unreserved ferocity, feed, sleep and procreate, those were the imperatives. It provided a tranquil, simple alternative to everything else. She sat cross-legged in front of the bars, gripping them to plead.

"Come back to me, Nic. Unless you master the change, we shall never be together. You see, I am a creature of the night and you the day. That is how it will remain until both of us take the last step. Do not forget yourself, Nic. You are a man, not a beast." This speech signified something, but he couldn't quite fathom the message.

"It probably doesn't mean much to you right now, but it's important not to forget the sacrifice Kafele and Sanura made to protect us from the full force of the Bast curse. Their village sprung up around a limitless oasis, traders came and went. Some remained, basking in prosperity. The lovers had many healthy children and blessed their good fortune every day. Until their first born twins' coming-of-age, when trouble began.

"Farm animals were ripped apart, children started to disappear and no-one felt safe. From out of the desert rode an emissary from the Temple of Bast. It was the old Priestess' acolyte and her news chilled their bones. She told them they'd been cursed by the original Priestess, who had recently died. Every one of their children would change on reaching eighteen. Kafele and Sanura begged, offering their own lives in exchange. And so, a bargain was struck and blood spilled on the Temple altar where it had all began, two lives sacrificed in good faith to give their offspring a fighting hope. For only the original Priestess could fully undo what had been done."

She reached through and scratched his nose, running her hand around his ears. He rubbed his head against her touch. "Only the strongest and brightest would suffer and if they failed the test, then Bast would have her way. Do not fail this test, Nic."

Mira stood to admire him, lifting her dress over her head. It fluttered to the floor, revealing her bare glory. "A white lion. You are truly magical, Nicholas. I am your incentive. I'll be waiting upstairs when you're ready."

Nic had never failed a test in his life. He wasn't about to start now.

###

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