Camdeboo Nights (20 page)

“Do I have a choice? What about the woman?”

They shrugged, sniggering at him. The taller one circled behind him, the point of his spear almost touching Trystan’s skin. The proximity of the Essence-charged weapon gave him the urge to run.

Damn Mantis for putting him in this situation. If she so much as touched Helen, he’d finish her. Running right now would be a very bad idea.

He refused to budge, and stared hard at the vampire before him. His captors both looked as if they’d just stepped off a set for a stone-age film. Their long hair had been braided, into which many small ivory, bone and gold beads had been woven. Bands of gold decorated their ears. Each had his lower lip pierced with a fierce bone spike that protruded three inches.

Never before in the two centuries Trystan had walked the earth and the one-hundred-and-fifty that he’d explored southern Africa had he encountered such a savage representation of his kind. The salons of Cape Town and Johannesburg were very far away now. He had no doubt these two savages could kill him with ease, without having to first discuss niceties as the elders in the city would.

He may as well see what their leader wanted. It had certainly been a while since he’d seen the bastard. Yet, Trystan drew little comfort from knowing the Renegades didn’t need him to be dead. And, it bugged the hell out of him that Mantis was, at present, rushing back to Graaff-Reinet, most likely to do something with Helen.

Chapter 23

Unfortunate Circumstances

Whatever constituted fun, waking in hospital, dressed in one of those unfortunate gowns that never quite closed properly at the rear, was definitely not Arwen’s idea of a good time.

Her head throbbed in time to her heartbeat, pulsing in her eardrums. Thanks to Szandor’s comprehensive medical aid she’d been installed in a semi-private ward and the only other bed here lay fallow.

Thank the goddess no one else shared with her. No inane chatter about appendectomies or having to put up with other patients’ annoying relatives.

Arwen mulled over her memories and tried to extract the information that would tell her how she had arrived here. With strobe-like precision, she recalled the events leading up to the inky blackness which obscured her probing. Assembly...yes... Falling bodies...screaming...a blade dipped in blood whistling through the air.

A surge of kids had pushed over chairs and knocked her down with Helen, who had somehow pushed–no–
punched
the swordsman.

Groaning, Arwen massaged her temples. What now? Through slit eyelids she viewed the room’s “tastefully” tinted off-blue walls, cream curtains shutting out the glare from outside. She had no idea how long she’d been sleeping–an incredibly disturbing thought.

Tightness enclosed her wrist. Plastic tubing led from a drip hanging from a stainless steel hook attached to the ceiling.

Waves of hot and cold flushed her skin. There would be a needle shoved up her vein.
Uggh.
Almost immediately Arwen’s arm ached where the plastic fittings met her flesh.

The bell for the nurse should be around somewhere. She cast about, grabbed the buzzer and depressed the rubbery button then waited, counting thirty heartbeats before pushing the button again.

She wanted to get the hell out of here, concussion or not.

A tiny nurse, her white uniform contrasting with her mahogany skin, bustled in. “Ah, Miss Wareing, you’re awake, your father–”

“It’s obvious I’m awake otherwise I wouldn’t be ringing the damn bell. I want this drip out of me. Now!”

“I’m sorry, miss, only Doctor–”

“If you don’t do it now, I’ll rip it out myself. I don’t care what the doctor says.” Arwen prayed her ruse worked. She’d most likely faint if she followed through with her threat.

The nurse–Sister Mbane by her nametag–lifted her hands in dismay. “No! No! Miss Wareing, please don’t! I’ll help you.”

Arwen smirked and looked away while Sister Mbane busied herself with the needle. She bit the inside of her cheek to distract herself from the pain–not that it hurt much–but it was uncomfortable and the mere thought of the needle sliding out of her flesh made her stomach turn. “What time is it?”

“It is two in the afternoon.”

“What day?”

“Friday, miss.”

“You mean I’ve been sleeping for an entire day?”

The nurse nodded.

“I need to call my dad!”

“Give the switchboard the number.”

Arwen tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed but a wave of nausea forced her back down, small beads of perspiration forming on her brow.

“Please don’t get up, Miss Wareing. You do have a mild concussion.”

“My friends!” Arwen wailed.

Mbane’s eyes softened and she placed a cool hand on Arwen’s shoulder, pushing her back. “Hush,
sisi, tula wena
. What do you need to know?”

Where did the tears come from that smudged her vision? The nurse’s features swam in and out of focus.

“Did...did anyone d-d-die?”

The woman’s breath caught. “Yes.”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Who?” Arwen’s throat felt thick.

“A girl. Two boys.”

“Who? I need to know.”

“The girl was called Odette, the boys Jean-Pierre and another called Petrus.”

The laughter bubbling from Arwen’s throat sounded strangled. The day her cards burned sprang to mind.

Chapter 24

City of Gold

Helen and Damon’s father fetched them early on the Friday morning. Helen didn’t know if she should laugh or cry at his prompt reaction. She was glad she had missed the argument between Anabel and Brent when he’d dropped the bomb. They were leaving for Johannesburg.

Brent had called back after lunch on the Thursday, his voice full of concern. None of the usual lessons had resumed at school, Rubidge Secondary emptying fast as worried parents collected their offspring. A hell of a lot of PR work would go into repairing the damage wrought by the “Ninja killer,” as the media had dubbed the fiasco.

Etienne saw them off. The small boy looked up at her, biting his lip. “Whatcha going to do, Helen?” He’d miss them the most, of that she was certain.

“Dunno. Dad’s decided that we’re better off up in Gauteng. We haven’t discussed all the details yet. I’m hoping we’re just going to let the dust settle.” Helen squinted into the late afternoon sun baking the car park outside the school.

She didn’t tell Etienne their father was wracked with guilt, and blamed himself for not being a good parent, for not having enough time for his children. Funny how it had taken a near-disaster to bring their father round.

“You’ll call, send emails?” Etienne asked.

Helen nodded and wished she could reassure him that this situation would only be temporary.

“After all,” Etienne added, scuffing his foot in the dirt, “we only just started getting to know you.”

“True,” Helen said. She did not want to be standing out here beneath the karee willows with her father’s Land Rover crouching in what little shade it could find, a stone’s throw away. He already had Gauteng number plates.

Damon and Brent approached, their father dragging a big suitcase with wheels that could not turn fast enough for their pace. The luggage bounced down the steps behind the two figures. They looked so similar, seen together. Not much longer now and Damon would soon be as tall as their father. Even though he was in his late thirties, Brent had not filled out in adulthood, and still moved with the nervous, gangly gait mirrored by his son, who was all knees and elbows.

Helen sighed and kicked at a quartz pebble, rolling it beneath her sneaker’s toe. “Guess I wasn’t here long enough to really miss things.”

“You’ll miss me and Arwen, I hope.” Etienne forced a faltering smile.

“Of course! But I’m hoping to come back. I’ve had too many things change lately and I’m not good with goodbyes.”

“Maybe I’ll come visit. I have a grandmother near Pretoria. My father should be visiting. He won’t let me spend Christmas here again. I hope.”

A pang of guilt knifed through Helen. She’d never asked Etienne about his family, and had always assumed he would not want to talk about things.

And here she’d been babbling about all that stuff going on in her life and she knew nothing about him–Etienne who had always listened.

“I’ll chat with my father. Maybe, aw, but I’m not planning on staying there. I want to be near my mom.”

Etienne smiled, his lips thin. “Face it, Helen, it doesn’t look like your dad’s the type to let you stay here, not after what happened yesterday. He’s moved pretty quickly to fetch you now. If he can’t keep you guys safe out in the country, I reckon he’ll take his chances with you where he can keep you under his nose in the big city. The guy’s probably feeling lank guilty as it is.”

At that moment, Brent and Damon reached them.

“Hullo.” Brent dropped the suitcase and offered Etienne a hand. “You must be Etienne. Damon was just telling me about you.”

A mask of friendliness slipped over Etienne’s face, as if he were the happiest person in the world, despite the dark rings circling his eyes.

“Mr. Ashfield!” He shook Brent’s hand with enthusiasm, something utterly ridiculous presenting itself in this scene, with the very short, raven-haired teen greeting a flame-haired giant who had to stoop to exchange pleasantries. “I wish we could meet during more auspicious times.”

Trust Etienne to roll out the upper-class British mannerisms at a time like this.

“Indeed.” Brent hefted the suitcase again. “I’m glad that Damon and Helen made some friends while they were here. Pity about–” He did not finish the sentence.

And sorry I’m taking them away so soon
, Helen thought bitterly.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other soon,” Etienne replied without blinking.

“Yes, um, well, we must be going. We still have to pick up some of their things from their grandmother’s house. They have to say goodbye to Anabel and, erm–”

“Our mother.” Damon’s tone was cold. Helen cringed.

Let there not be a scene out here in the parking lot.

“Take care,” Helen said. “Please tell Arwen I’m sorry there wasn’t time for us to see her at the hospital.”

She knelt to embrace Etienne, reluctant to extend this situation any further.

Other people’s parents loaded suitcases into cars. By five o’clock the school would be deserted save for Etienne and the other few unlucky enough to be abandoned. She didn’t have the guts to ask him whether he’d be collected.

Somewhere the cicadas shrieked–that ever-present anthem of all Africa’s arid places. Helen looked forward to the cool, air-conditioned climes of her father’s car all of a sudden.

She hadn’t been here long enough to put down roots. Why must it hurt so much? What about her and Trystan? Would she see him before she went? She didn’t even have his telephone number.

She pushed that anxiety away deep and regarded Etienne instead.

He chewed his lip. “Well, that’s it for now, isn’t it?”

“I’ll call and get hold of you on Skype, or something.”

“And find me on Facebook?”

“Ugh. Yes.” She turned around quickly and brushed past her brother, who had yet to say his farewells. Helen pointedly avoided looking at him, and focused instead on her father, who already had the engine running, no doubt to cool the car’s interior. He was on the phone, firing off rapid statements to some unfortunate recipient.

“What do you mean ‘there’s a technical problem’? I couldn’t give a flying fuck about your technical problems. I’ve been in the industry long enough to know that your so-called technical problems are just a production manager’s excuse for when a bigger job needs to go to print–”

Helen rubbed her nape, trying to smooth out some of the tension. If only Szandor had been able to collect them last night then she could have seen Trystan one last time, spoken to him, perhaps left a telephone number. She wasn’t certain Arwen would pass on the details, especially not now after she claimed to have seen Trystan loiter outside her window after dark.