Guardian of the Dead (31 page)

‘Open them,' I panted. ‘Okay. Let's go.'

HOME, LAND AND SEA

K
EVIN SPED DOWN
the flat length of Memorial Drive, instructing us to look for police on the way. I reflected that between Mark and the mask, being pulled over wouldn't slow us down much, but neglected to explain that to Kevin. Instead I occupied the time by looking through Iris's wallet. The small family portrait in the ID pocket had survived the dunking: her father stood clasping one wrist with his other hand, wearing a severe dark suit, boxy at the shoulders; her mother sat on a low-backed chair, wearing a bright-pink high-necked jacket. A much younger Iris sat on her mother's knee in a fluffy pink dress, beside an older boy I didn't recognise. His skin was darker than hers; Iris looked more like her father. I wondered what Iris's brother did, if he lived in the North Island.

I had to stare out the window, blinking fast.

At the airport, Kevin parked in the two-minute off-load zone, and insisted on getting my bag out of the boot, oblivious to the glares of other drivers. Mark waited a tactful few paces away while we said our goodbyes.

‘Thanks,' I said, forcing the words out of a suddenly tight throat. ‘You know. For everything.'

‘You too,' he said, and lightly touched my cheek. ‘It's weird. You look taller.'

I touched the top of my head, appalled.

‘Not actually taller,' he amended. ‘But you've stopped hunching.'

I felt my shoulders cave in. When my back protested I straightened again. He grinned. ‘Looks good, Ell.'

Mark made a sharp noise, and took off toward the entrance.

I began to follow him, but Kevin caught my sleeve. His eyes were intent on mine. ‘I feel like a bad friend. I haven't been around for you much lately.'

‘You're the best friend,' I said, and meant it.

‘Are you and Mark Nolan together? Or is that part of the big secret?'

‘Nope,' I said, happy that I could be completely honest about
something
. ‘To tell the truth, I have no idea what I'm doing there.' Mark was almost out of sight in the crowd, stalking towards the doors. ‘I better go.'

‘Okay. Whatever you're doing, be careful.'

‘I'll try,' I said, and started moving, gear bag heavy in my numb-fingered grip as I jogged.

I realised why Mark had taken off so quickly when I saw who else was standing under the eaves of the sliding doors.

Reka wore dark, expensive sunglasses, but there was no disguising that erect carriage or the mass of shining hair, coiled and pinned about her delicate skull. She'd changed her clothes again – a black dress fell to flowing folds about her gleaming, booted ankles, a matching bolero jacket over her shoulders. Mourning colours, I thought, for a movie star's funeral.

Mark was speaking to her, his shoulders set and hostile. ‘—changed your mind?' I caught.

Her head tilted to look just over his shoulder. ‘Not quite,' she said coolly. ‘I will not go with you.'

‘Fine by me.'

‘However, I have brought you two gifts. The first is the rest of the knowledge I gleaned. The attack will be tomorrow night. Be prepared.'

Mark blinked. ‘Thank you,' he said after a moment.

‘And this is the second.'

She reached down the neck of her dress, to draw out a small flax bag. It was hanging from her neck on a cord, and I was unpleasantly reminded of the bone carvings the patupaiarehe had worn, on similar strings. The flax was newly made, still green, with the distinctive scent of sap rising from it. The cord shone gold-red in the light. Somewhere under that pile of glossy red hair was the bare patch of a missing strand.

‘I told you, I don't want anything you have to offer.'

‘See it before you decide.'

Mark hesitated, then took the bag, peering inside. I'd braced for something unusual, but the power hidden in the bag struck up through my heels and shuddered through my bones to the top of my skull. The mask stirred unhappily, and I patted the outside of the handbag to soothe it.

Reka smiled. ‘Do you accept my gift?'

‘You shouldn't have done this,' Mark whispered.

‘That was my choice. Do you accept?'

He bowed his head. ‘I do.' Pulling the bag closed, he slipped the cord over his head and tucked the bag into the tracksuit jacket. That vibrating rush vanished, with a feeling like the air after a thunderclap's final echo had gone.

‘Well, then. I hope they may aid you. Come back safe with them.' She hesitated, then held out her right hand for him to shake.

Mark took it, then reached for her left hand and grasped them both lightly. Very slowly, he bent down and pressed his nose against hers. She jerked, then sighed, relaxing into the
hongi
, sharing his breath, until he moved away again, ending the greeting. ‘Perhaps you don't know me as well as you thought you did,' she suggested.

‘Maybe not,' he said. ‘I still can't forgive what you did.'

‘I have never asked for forgiveness.'

This was way too awkward.

‘I'll go inside,' I suggested, and Reka started.

‘Ah, yes. Eleanor Spencer. Guard my son.'

The mirrored sunglasses were still tilted toward Mark. Evidently I was unworthy of direct eye contact. I had the immediate urge to tell Mark to go screw himself, but I nodded anyway.

‘I want your word.'

‘You've got it,' I snapped.

Some tension dissolved from her shoulders. People were passing us to go into the airport, paying us little attention. All the power of her presence was diluted into ordinary charisma, her beauty and clothing collecting second glances, but no awe.

‘Goodbye,' Mark said, and gripped her shoulder once on his way past. She stayed in the doorway, staring out over the car park from behind her expensive shades.

‘What was that about?' I muttered.

‘I'll tell you later. We better check in.'

We picked up boarding passes and checked my bag without any hassle, and passed through the slow-moving security line. The mask in my handbag got a raised eyebrow from the man on scanner duty and I tensed up, but a visual inspection satisfied him that I wasn't carrying anything dangerous.

Hah.

The mask didn't care about the inspection; the security guard was no threat to it or to me. Throughout the check-in process, I was very aware of Mark's presence at my back, and had to prevent myself from oh-so-casually leaning back against him. One kiss was not enough. I was internally thrumming with the need for more.

But he didn't speak. Obviously, we couldn't discuss the really important things while surrounded by grumbling fellow passengers, but I was a little disappointed that we couldn't talk about something ordinary. I told myself that if he didn't feel like conversation, I wasn't going to push him.

Just wait, and want.

My stomach gurgled as we got to the departure lounge, and I eyed the small café off to the side. ‘Do you want a sandwich or something?'

‘Yes,' he said, then: ‘Wait, no.'

I rolled my eyes. ‘Which?'

‘I better not eat anything,' he said quietly.

I stared at him. He avoided my eyes. ‘I had better observe purity, as far as I can.'

‘What did she give you?' I demanded.

He glanced at the people around us. ‘Something tapu.'

I reached for his hand, but he pulled away, giving me a look that pleaded for understanding. ‘Something really tapu,' he repeated. ‘I shouldn't touch you. I mean, I shouldn't touch anyone.'

My jaw tightened. ‘For how long?'

He looked away. ‘We'll talk about it when it's all over.'

Wailing like a kid whose ice-cream had fallen out of the cone after one taste was an attractive option, but would probably draw a lot of unwanted attention. ‘Fine,' I said shortly, and went to buy myself an overpriced salad while he sat in a deserted corner of the departure lounge, staring at the planes leaping into the sky. I wasn't hungry for
lettuce
.

I finished the salad without speaking and went back to the small café to grab a chocolate bar. Waiting in line behind an elderly couple deciding between Belgium biscuits and custard squares, it occurred to me that if he'd had second thoughts about me, maintaining the sacred nature of whatever he was carrying would be a great, culturally untouchable excuse.

Or maybe, his dad had just been murdered and the body probably brutalized, and his mother was a psycho, and I should give the guy a break instead of being a paranoid bitch.

I put the chocolate bar back, half smiled at the woman behind the counter in apology, and slid my wallet into my bag. My fingers brushed the smooth, cool surface of the mask.

I could put it on. Mark would want me then. The mask could make him want me. The mask would give me anyone I wanted, because I was beautiful and it loved me.

A hand landed on my shoulder, and the buzzing in my head abruptly died.

‘Excuse me?'

I jumped, dropping the mask back into the bag. I'd pulled it half out in my daze. A woman with frizzy orange hair was standing behind me, two caramel squares balanced on her tray. She wrinkled her tiny nose. ‘Are you all right?'

I was shivering. ‘I'm fine. I'm sorry. I just really hate flying.'

She gave me a sympathetic smile. Beyond her, Mark was standing by the window, watching me anxiously.

‘I'm sorry,' I said again, and stood out of her way. My steps quickened as I moved toward Mark. He lifted his hand, then arrested the motion.

‘What happened to you? You went completely still.'

‘The mask.' I was shaking, and not only from fear. I knew it had been wrong, what I'd done to Chappell – but the adoration, the love, that had felt so good. And it was something I was never going to get without the mask's help.

He waved his hand near the bag. It shuddered. ‘Ow.'

‘Ow,' I echoed. ‘What's wrong with it?'

A bored, pleasant voice announced our flight. Mark slung my pack over his shoulder. ‘It's just . . . very much yours,' he said quietly. ‘I'll talk to the flight attendants and get us separate seats.'

The mask thought that was a good idea. If I wasn't going to control the other magician, it wanted him far away from me. I followed Mark like a forlorn puppy, fingers tracing the outline of the mask through the shiny black leather, trying not to picture him looking at me with that same lost devotion.

It felt too good.

I spent the flight with a paper bag clutched in my fists, forcing myself not to use it. The Asian-featured man next to me eyed it with some alarm, and I gave him a sick smile that tried to be reassuring.

I couldn't very well explain that I never got travelsick and that the reason I was nauseated and sweaty was the view out the window. The land below me shifted and trembled. One minute, we were floating over the snow-dusted mountain range that formed the spine of the South Island. The next, I was seeing M
ui's giant canoe beneath me instead, a vessel he'd hewn from a single log, the ancient, smoke-darkened wood evidence of a magic I couldn't begin to comprehend.