Sleek Comes the Night, Page 2

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