The Big Smoke. Jason Nahrung
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him in his sleep, which was a good sign.
Not so good was what she knew of Thorn. The entrances were few and thoroughly screened, and access to the upper floors was even more strictly controlled. To sneak inside with a stolen ID was possible; to penetrate to where the vampires lurked, highly unlikely. Not without "considerable bother".
He regarded the sleeping woman beside him, her smooth, pale shoulder naked above the sheet. Would Mel help him? Was that what last night had been about? She was already risking her life by having him in her home. Is that why he was awake so early — guilt?
Or was it because bother had come calling, and he'd been too busy plotting revenge to notice the sound of the door opening?
A footstep. Beside the bed!
His heartbeat tripped.
Greaser reefed aside a curtain. She stared at them with a stony expression.
'Shouldn't you be in school?' he asked, clutching for a sheet as he jack-knifed into a sitting position. Mel sat up, hair mussed, face ruddy, chest unselfconsciously naked.
'It's almost sundown, arsehole,' Greaser said. 'Besides, I haven't been in school for years.'
'Greaser does not play well with others,' Mel said, sounding weary.
'Depends on the others,' she said, blushing, and looked away.
'How's the Monaro?' Kevin asked.
'Comfortable,' she said. 'You aren't dead yet, huh.'
'Not yet,' he said, though his neck throbbed; and his chest, where Mel had bitten him. He closed his eyes, then, glad of the pillow behind him as a moment swirled from his bloodstream, of fucking Kala when she was warm, of the sudden cooling afterward. Mel's blood swam through him like an electric eel. His nostrils flared at the smell of blood, as thick as sex. Greaser stepped back as he eyed her, and let the curtain fall. She'd bathed, smelled of soap and deodorant. Her blood pulsed inside her flesh; her heart thudded like a bass drum causing shockwaves in his senses.
Mel finger-combed her fringe, wiped her face, swung her legs from the bed and reached for a gown draped over a nearby chair. Her absence left him alone and vulnerable. She stood, spine rippling, and slid the silky material on and belted it at her waist. 'News, Greaser?'
'Yeah,' she said. 'Blake rang. The meet's on for tonight. Sandgate.'
'Well, then, bring the car around.' She shot Kevin a sly grin. 'Fortunately, we've already eaten.'
Kevin hauled himself out of bed and looked for clothes. He thought he'd dropped his shirt in the lounge room.
Greaser, by the door, looked away as he pulled his jeans on.
'Where's Sandgate?' he asked.
'North-east; by the sea. Maybe an hour with the traffic. It's easy to find, but. You just take Sandgate Road as far as it goes. If you hit the water, you've gone too far.'
Too late for that, Kevin thought. He was already out of his depth.
ELEVEN
Felicity was gone when a telephone call woke Reece an hour before dawn. He showered and shaved and, feeling only slightly rumpled in his stiff black GS uniform, made his way through Thorn. He wasn't convinced what had happened between he and Felicity was anything other than stress relief, but he had no regrets.
Forty years he'd been in Maximilian's employ, a rare beast indeed: brought in by Mira, installed from the start as a Hunter and her personal favourite. It had made him unpopular with pretty much everyone. With Mira off the board, chickens were coming home to roost. It was only the tacit agreement not to admit that Mira would not be coming back from her bedlam that forestalled more serious repercussions for Reece. The Old Man had not accepted his daughter was lost; her favourite could not be too seriously impugned.
But he could be demoted, to the Gespenstenstaffel — an elite unit of mostly vampires and red-eyes under Heinrich's command.
So the pre-dawn phone call was a strange one. Marshall Jane Smith, in charge of Thorn's far more mundane security concerns, wanted to see him. Down he went to her office on the second floor, at the opposite end of the building to Mira's sequestered chambers, never the twain to meet: access to the Strigoi's section was strictly limited, red lift only, and a pass-controlled set of fire stairs.
Had the special treatment for the Strigoi rankled? Oh yes. Had the Strigoi cared? Not one jot. Was Reece expecting to have his nose rubbed in her fall, and his? Most definitely.
A man in the crisp, olive-coloured uniform of Marshall's VSS — Von Schiller Security, guardians of all Maximilian's facilities — looked up from his computer screen as Reece entered the reception. The man's eyes flashed the tell-tale crimson of a red-eye.
'You took your time,' Marshall's Familiare told him, his voice as sharp as the sword-shaped letter opener on his desk. In fairness, they had told him to report ASAP, which to his mind allowed for a shave and a quick wake-up coffee and a smoke.
'Got lost,' Reece said. It'd been meant to be a thinly-veiled insult about being on their floor, but there was a deeper truth to the statement that made him blanch. Suddenly, he was too tired to trade insults with the officious red-eye. 'I can come back if she's busy.'
The man sniffed and pressed an intercom to announce Reece's belated arrival. Then he stood and opened the door, closing it behind Reece with a soft click, surprisingly similar to a weapon being cocked.
Windowless, the room had all the charm of a cell, the air conditioning set to chilly, the décor to cheap motel. Filing cabinets, bar fridge, microwave, several changes of clothes for different occasions hanging in plastic from a naked rack. Two computer screens. A muted wall-mounted television set to a 24-hour news channel, a transistor radio whispering to itself. The room stank of cigarettes. Homely, Reece thought.
Marshall Jane Smith stood as he entered; walked around to shake his hand with a firm grip, then indicated a chair before returning to her desk and clicking off the radio.
Marshall, as she was known, was about his height, stocky, toned, hair trimmed to a low-maintenance bob. She clearly hadn't given up the good things in life. Some did, gradually letting the blood take over, and ended up looking like a walking advertisement for anorexia, hunger on legs. Marshall wasn't that much older than Reece, in unnatural terms, and still retained curves and complexion.
She flicked open a cigarette packet and offered him one, which he accepted though he found tailor-mades unpleasant in both taste and smell. She lit it for him, then one for herself. An ashtray in the shape of Australia sat brim-full on the desk, the acronym ASIO carved in the lip.
Marshall blew smoke at the ceiling — there was an exhaust fan there, he could hear the quiet whirr, a subtle reminder that power came with privileges.
'Busted, eh, Lieutenant Reece.'
'How so, Madam Marshall?'
'Please, just Marshall. This is an informal chat.'
He sighed blue breath, not having had enough sleep for jousting, and waited. He was due to be at some bullshit orientation program soon, but she'd know that, putting him under subtle pressure. Maybe he shouldn't have had the coffee after all.
'Takes a while to get used to uniform again, doesn't it?'
He nodded. She was in a suit jacket and white blouse, the top button undone; he'd noted the blue jeans, tight around the thighs, and RM Williams boots.
'This gunfight at the tattoo parlour in the Valley. How concerned should I be?'
'That would depend on how long Kevin Matheson stays at large.'
'Explain.'
'Matheson wants to take out Mira. He's looking for access.'
'Access.' Marshall tapped ash. 'The late Jack Flash was a known associate of the villein known as the Needle, was he not?'
'That is an avenue of—'
'That