Camdeboo Nights (24 page)

She’d meant to visit the Owl House again today, had promised Etienne he could spend the weekend away from the dorms. And, she would have seen Trystan. Right now she was too angry to switch on her phone or do anything constructive. If she spoke to Arwen or Etienne now, she’d be crying within the first minute of their conversation.

Instead, she sat on the veranda and watched the gray loeries scold and chase each other through a giant coral tree, whose branches pooled welcome shade in the late afternoon.

Yet, even now, the clouds were rushing in along the horizon. There would be a storm later and the heat sapped all her will.

The others had gone out to one of the malls, Rosebank, perhaps, to catch a movie. Christine, laughing, blond and perfect, had already won Damon over with off-color jokes.

Lawyer chic.

Christine drove a Mercedes Benz Kompressor, all silver and sleek, like her petite figure. Christine tried too hard to be nice. Her smile was too bright.

The bitch would have to do better than that.

So, Helen brooded, and tried to read the Andre Brink novel she’d pulled off the shelf in her father’s study–filled with Christine’s books. She had to grudgingly admit the woman had taste when it came to reading material. The words kept dissolving, though, and her gaze strayed to her unfamiliar surroundings.

A small stone Buddha lurked by a stand of reeds near the pond where fat, lazy koi described circles, occasionally mouthing at the surface. A too-artful arrangement of containers created a feature by a weeping mulberry that drooped over the lawn, where small birds harvested the ripe fruit.

Everything was too perfect, too contrived, as if Christine had bought everything from a catalogue. The garden back in Hout Bay had been an overgrown jungle in part, the lawn always needing to be mown, last season’s dead annuals still sticking out of the beds filled with crimson poppies and Paterson’s curse. Mother’s garden had seemed more honest, somehow. And indicative of her state of mind.

A low rumble in the distance warned of the coming storm but Helen was in no mood to move. Sheltered, she sat beneath the tin roof while bulbous clouds solidified out of thin air above. Her hair crackled with static.

They’d driven part of the way here to Gauteng through a thunderstorm, white-violet flashes striating through the darkness, the thunder shaking her to her bones.

A turtledove’s tired call limped along then fell silent. She should switch on her phone, try to get hold of Etienne, call Arwen, yet she stared at the device where it lay on the table. She’d brought it down but simply hadn’t plucked up the courage to go that one step further.

Her limbs grew still and she allowed the creeping numbness to spread from her toes up, while she listened to the suburban sounds of children bomb-dropping in the garden next door, large happy explosions of water playing counterpoint to their shrieks.

Would Trystan be angry with her? Too short a time had passed for anything concrete to develop between them. Helen recalled the feel of his cool fingers clasping hers, the way he hesitated the first time she’d been able to make him smile.

To shut out the world of sight proved easier. Her book grew heavy in her hands, eventually slipping to the quarry tiles unheeded. Helen slept during the growing storm, dreaming of the house in Hout Bay, of packing boxes that wouldn’t close properly, of doors opening into rooms leading to passages she’d never known existed.

She awoke with a start when a violent crack of lightning exploded directly above, the thunder simultaneously rattling the glass in the panes behind her.

In this garden, where shadows cloaked everything and crickets chirruped in an almighty chorus that threatened to drown out everything else, she was no longer alone. And was certain of it.

She blinked, and rubbed at the gumminess in her eyes. There was no mistaking the person-shaped figure standing beneath the mulberry. Also, this figure, short and somewhat squat, was no one who belonged to this household.

For an instant she was tempted to think ghost but no, these things did not exist.

“Hello? Can I help you?” Helen called out.

No response. In the murky half-light, she could not be certain if–

Warm, moist hands clamped down on her shoulders, the scent of rose, cloying, sweet, assailed her sinuses.

Helen let out a yelp, and twisted around to look into the round face of a black woman she did not know.

“Hush, babyshoes, hush. Mama Ruthie’s here now. Don’t fear.” The woman’s husky, dry voice hinted at a French upbringing. Wildly, Helen looked toward the lawn. No figure stood by the tree.

“What do you want?” She wanted to reach for the woman’s hands but her arms would not obey her.

“Hush.” Mama Ruthie hissed into her ear. A peculiar lassitude seeped from the woman’s palms. “I’m here to fetch you from those dead ones, the ones who’ll suck up all your magic, all your soul.”

“Wha–” The simple query required too much effort.

The woman who called herself Mama Ruthie let go of her shoulders, myriad wooden bracelets clacking on her arms. She moved around to sit at the table, opposite Helen.

All Helen could do was stare at the woman. Middle-aged, yet her skin was still unlined, her dark eyes burned into Helen’s own. Dark braids obscured one side of her face.

“Now,
ma cherie
, you gonna listen to me. I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but we’re gonna have to get you out of here, away from this stinking city.”

Ruthie turned her head, as if reacting to something unheard, her face in profile. She raised a hand and brushed the braids from her face.

Half her face was gone, as if something had ripped the skin off and it had healed badly, the lips pulled into a taut grimace with teeth showing.

Helen fought the sudden urge to vomit, yet could not find the strength to look away.

“Bijou!” Ruthie called, urgent, before firing off rapidly in French.

“
Oui, maman
.” A girl’s voice echoed somewhere in the house.

Dimly Helen wondered how these people had managed to break into her father’s house. What now? Would they kill her? Would they be stealing things?

Ruthie turned toward her, smoothing with stubby hands the floral print of a dress that put up a valiant attempt at trying to keep her flesh covered. String upon string of beads and carved ivory charms hung from her neck.

The girl stepped out onto the patio. Helen caught a glimpse of her form clad in black denim and a tank top, her frame thin, but lithe.

They argued, gesturing at Helen, then accusingly at something over the fence before the girl spun on her heel to stomp back into the house.

“Now, Helen Ashfield, you don’t be scared now, you hear. Bijou’s going to start the car so long. We gonna take you someplace safe.”

Safe? But I’m safe here!
Helen wanted to retort.

Compelled by a suggestion she could not resist, she followed, a mute puppet to Mama Ruthie’s instruction. What would her father do? How would she get hold of Etienne? Her phone lay abandoned on the wrought iron table as she was escorted to a battered old Toyota Corolla, its paintwork so patched and rusted Helen could not tell if the car had once been white or beige.

Bijou sat in the driver’s seat, her dark gaze flashing as she scanned the driveway while her fingers tapped on the side of the door. She started the engine as soon as Mama Ruthie finished helping Helen into the back, taking the seat next to Bijou. The woman placed a gnarled stick covered in sinuous carvings on top of the dashboard. The scent of rose in the car nearly overwhelmed Helen.

“Good, we go. Now.” Mama Ruthie smiled at her daughter.

Bijou rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath then revved the car’s engine. When she released the clutch, they lurched forward, the tires squealing on the brickwork. The large, ornamental iron gates parted before them, although no remote was in evidence. Helen pushed at the smothering fog of calm which prevented her from reacting, felt herself slide sideways.

Move, Helen! Get out of the car! But her limbs would not obey. Had they drugged her somehow? She was safe, wasn’t she? These people would have hurt her by now if they’d meant her harm?

A sudden scream of brakes jerked Helen forward so that she fell and hit her head against Bijou’s headrest. She crumpled into the foot well.

“Wha–” Helen’s tongue unglued itself from the roof of her mouth. Some of the stupor eased from her limbs and she pulled herself back onto the seat.

A large, gleaming BMW barred their exit, its windows tinted as dark as its paintwork.

“
Putain
!” Bijou shouted.

Mama Ruthie managed a drawn-out groan.

Chapter 28

Oh, for the Open Road

Trystan intended to drop the two humans in Nieu Bethesda. He could not and would not face Anabel. She had been pretty when she was young, but he’d had to watch her grow old from a distance. He couldn’t let her see him now, not like this, not when he’d broken her heart. Their differences would be too glaring, too jarring. Trystan suppressed the memories but couldn’t help see the curve of Anabel’s features ghosted in Helen’s.

Instead, he pushed the Hudson hard, and focused on the unwinding road.

Arwen clutched at the dashboard. “Drive carefully you damn stupid vamp!”

“Shut up, stupid human! I’ve never had an accident and I don’t intend having one now, either.”

“Vamp? What the–” Etienne piped up from the back seat. “What did you...”

“He’s a vampire, Etienne. Look carefully. He only breathes when he wants to say or smell something. Look how his canines extend when he gets stressed.”

Trystan closed his mouth, ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. His canines had extended. Bitch witch. “Thank you, Miss Wareing. Now I’m going to have to kill your friend.”

“Stop the car!” Etienne shrieked.

Arwen spoke in a low voice. “For fuck’s sake, Trystan. Don’t be daft. Drive your bloody car and get us there safely. How the hell am I going to explain to my–”

“Try phoning Helen again!” Trystan shouted.

“She’s not answering!” Arwen said.

Etienne gripped the passenger seat’s headrest. “Stop the car! He wants to kill me!”

“Cut it out, Etienne! Trystan couldn’t kill you even if his continued existence depended on it ’cause it would piss Helen off and he won’t want that ’cause he may even care for her.”

Trystan’s snarl was ugly. How dare the little whelp... “Phone your father, get Anabel’s number. We need to get the address in Johannesburg,” Trystan said through clenched teeth.

The Hudson hit a patch of gravel and slewed across the road. Both youngsters shrieked but Trystan pulled
Rose
straight, not wanting to think how much damage he was causing his car. When this is done, he’d fix her up, give her some TLC. She must just see him through tonight.

“Fuck it!” Arwen swore.

“What?” Etienne and Trystan answered simultaneously.

“I’m out of frigging airtime!”

“Not much longer now,” Trystan muttered.

“Just watch it coming down the pass,” Arwen said.

“You forget, Mistress Potty-mouth, I’ve been living here for almost a century. I could drive this road blindfolded.”

“Big whoopee, Mr. Leech... Now be careful!” They hit a ditch and she gave a small squeak.

Trystan tuned out the two kids. He’d have to trust that Arwen would force Etienne to keep his secret.

Since when did he care so much about Helen anyway? Was it guilt? Lust? Hunger? Or, was it that he couldn’t stand the idea that she was currently hot property among the undead? To a degree, he was to blame for the sudden interest shown in her. If only he’d stopped Arwen from creating a spike in Helen’s Essence that night... The witch had awakened some vital part of Helen’s being and now there was no shutting it off.

Etienne and Arwen argued all the way into the hamlet. He kept his peace and concentrated on the road revealed in the sweep of
Rose’s
headlights.

How many hours of driving could he manage before sunrise?

Nieu Bethesda slept, oblivious to the small drama playing itself out when they roared to a stop outside Anabel’s house.