Author's note: This chapter contains disturbing imagery in nightmares, so be aware. And a hint of some brutal stuff.
Eliot had never seen Wapanjara so deserted. The day was gloomy with clouds that were dark and constant, and the silence was unnerving. Not even the magpies wittered and fluted in the almond stand as he walked down the incline from the stringybarks at the top of the hill, his shoes kicking up dank, red dust.
As he carefully strode through the open gate of the homestead, there was no welcome from the three heelers, no chopping barks or wagging tails or a daft Dopey leaping about like an idiot.
Where the hell were the dogs?
Looking to his right he tried to see if the ute was parked in the entrance of the barn. Yep. There it was. So … everyone was here, but he just couldn't see them yet. A glance to the gate of the nearby paddock took him aback slightly. Gertie would have noticed him by now and would be hanging over the gate, honking and flapping her lip in delight, Bomber close behind, swishing his tail patiently. But no Gertie, which was odd … and Bomber was dead, wasn't he? At least that was what Eliot remembered.
He frowned, puzzled. He didn't like being puzzled.
Bernadette and Oggie still sat in the yard, but the trailer's awning was torn, flapping in a breeze Eliot couldn't feel.
He ran his fingers through his hair, and encountered a neat, expensive haircut, short and practical as befitted the work he did. He looked down at his arms and saw he was dressed in one of his favourite suits, made by a very exclusive bespoke tailor in Savile Row. Eliot, a man best at home in Henley shirts, boots and a beanie, liked to dress well if need be, and the suit was understated and beautifully cut. Damien Moreau moved in exclusive circles, and therefore so did Eliot. He did 'well-dressed knucklehead' very skilfully indeed, which had cost many, many people their lives when they didn't see the highly intelligent, very deadly man beneath the easy smile and charming blue eyes.
Huh.
He looked up at the veranda.
Jo's crossword lay unfinished on the table, and Soapy's stock whip lay unfurled on Eliot's recliner chair by the door. A tray set with tea and lamingtons sat beside the crossword puzzle, but Eliot was suddenly aware of the sound of buzzing flies. The lamingtons were blue with mould, and now there was a creeping, ever-increasing odour of decay and rotting flesh.
Looking up at the water tower he saw the remains of a deckchair and sun umbrella, and the cooler box beside the chair swarmed with bluebottles.
Something moved.
At last, Eliot thought, and strode over to Gertie's paddock, a smile on his face. So that's where the dumb-ass camel was, but his smile faded as he saw something standing under the ancient mulga tree in the paddock.
It was Moke, the old brown mare who had been Gertie's constant companion until her death of extreme old age two years ago. Moke let loose a soft nicker of welcome, but the quiver of her nostrils shook free the maggots feasting on her decaying flesh. She was swarming with them, Eliot realised, and he stepped back in shock as Moke ambled shakily on bone-bare legs towards him, peering at him through empty eye sockets.
What the hell?
"Good job, Eliot!" a voice said, and he turned. A handsome, smiling face greeted him.
Moreau. Moreau was here, at Wapanjara. At his home.
"Damien," Eliot replied, and his eyes narrowed. He had no idea what was going on, but maybe … maybe his old boss would have some answers, even if Eliot had to squeeze his throat a few times to make him come clean. Why here … why Wapanjara? And where the hell were his team and his family?
"Job?" Eliot asked, keeping his body attuned to the moment. He couldn't let his guard down … not with his people missing. "And what job would that be?"
Moreau smirked and raised an eyebrow.
"Coming here … making them trust you … and then clearing the way for me. You know I want this place as my base of operations in northern Australia."
But that doesn't make sense, Eliot thought. Damien Moreau would no more want to base his business at remote Wapanjara than in Antarctica. He was a man of the city, of urbanity and tall buildings made of glass and evenings at the opera. Not red dust and poor communications and bad roads.
Moreau smiled, his eyes crinkling in good humour.
"Besides," he continued, "it was a little bit of a test … you know the kind of thing … just for fun. I suppose you've heard the story about the Waffen SS during the Second World War? The one about every young officer being given a cuddly little puppy when they began training? And they looked after it … fed it, trained it … allowed it to become a companion until their last day of training, when their commanding officer told them to kill their dogs, and if they didn't, they failed their training?"
Eliot said nothing, but a feeling of utter dread began to settle in his heart.
Moreau waved a hand dismissively.
"A myth, of course. But I was curious to see if it could be done." His smile widened, dark eyes sparking with amusement. "And, Eliot, my loyal, deadly right-hand man, you passed the test with flying colours. Well … almost."
Eliot felt something in his hands and he looked down at them. The horror was almost a physical blow. His hands were blood to the elbows, fresh and bright, soaking into the beautiful cashmere wool suit and dripping from his fingers. His right hand held his old Ka-Bar knife, and in his left … dear God, what had he done? His left hand held a beautiful, bloody plait of hair, blonde and glimmering in the dull air. Eliot knew then it was Parker's.
But when he looked up again, his tear-ridden blue eyes seeking out Moreau, he realised the man wasn't alone.
Lizzie stood beside him, holding Moreau's hand. She lifted her free hand and waved happily at Eliot.
Moreau let go of Lizzie's hand and used it to ruffle the child's dark, curly hair. Then he touched her shoulder, urging her towards Eliot. Lizzie grinned up at Moreau, and set off, walking cheerfully towards Eliot, who just watched, disbelieving, as the horror began to descend into true nightmare.
Moreau turned his benign visage on Eliot.
"Just one more to go, my friend. One more, and then you will be back in the fold as though you had never left. A stray lamb, coming back to the shepherd. She's all yours. Kill her."
Eliot dropped the plait of hair and the knife.
He realised he was shaking so badly he could hardly move, but he had to save Lizzie. No matter what he had done … and he knew now he had betrayed and destroyed the only true family he had ever had … he could not allow Lizzie to walk into danger.
"Lizbeth Grace!" he yelled, desperation rife in every word, "Git! Go on! Go into the house an' I'll take care of Moreau!"
Lizzie just kept coming, her dark eyes never wavering as she gazed at her blood-soaked guardian … the man who was her best friend in the whole world and who had just murdered her family.
Moreau cocked his head.
"Aww," he said, "'Lizbeth Grace'. So very cute. And I'm not denying she's a little sweetheart, as children go. But … she needs to die, Eliot. You know she does. So be a good boy and slit her throat for me, will you?"
Eliot snarled and his eyes blazed. He leaned down and picked up his knife, ready to charge Moreau and spill his guts on the ground, but he found his feet wouldn't move.
"No … no-no-no-" He growled desperately, and he tried again, but his feet just wouldn't budge, as though he was nailed to the red earth. "Lizzie! Stay put! Don't come near me!" he roared, but Lizzie acted as though she didn't hear him and kept coming, her love for him shining from her face.
"GO TO HELL, MOREAU! I ain't touchin' her!" Eliot swore, and even as he said it, Lizzie reached out to hug him.
Moreau sighed and shook his head.
"There now …" he murmured, "I thought that's what you would say. I'm disappointed, Eliot. Very disappointed indeed." He turned his eyes to Eliot's left, and when the Oklahoman followed his gaze, his heart almost stopped.
Derry Ryan stood a few feet away, his grey eyes filmy and dull. He turned his dead gaze on Eliot, and then reached up and pulled the Razorback knife from his own throat, and watery blood and maggots streamed from the gaping hole in his flesh down his chest and onto the ground.
Moreau nodded and gestured at Lizzie, who smiled at Ryan.
"Mister Ryan," Moreau said amiably. "If you would be so kind …?"
It was then that Eliot knew he was in Hell.
"LIZZIE! GET AWAY FROM ME! GO!" He bellowed with all his might, helpless and unable to save his best girl from the monster that was Eliot Spencer.
And Lizzie kept walking towards him, her smile empty and loving, and the flies buzzed around her and the stench of death was all around him and he could do absolutely nothing about it until the hands held him. Hands, tight around his arms and pressing on his shoulder, and he could smell jasmine and roses on still night air.
Then … then he could fight back, and he struggled and yelled and flailed, but there were too many, and all he saw were Lizzie's dark, dark eyes widen and flare with terror, even as the voices began.
They drifted into his mind as though through a sea-fog, and the hands became tendrils in the darkness, wrapping around his wrists and forcing his head back, and oh God, he hurt, but the hands wouldn't stop.
The light was becoming too bright, and Wapanjara wasn't there anymore. Moreau dissolved into the mist and Derry Ryan's rotting face and Lizzie's terrified eyes was all he could see.
"Eliot! ELIOT! C'mon, bro … relax … it's okay, you're safe … Lizzie's safe …"
It was a voice he knew but couldn't place, and he curled his left fist so he could punch the crap out of the owner of the voice, but the sudden pain in his left side and chest took the breath right out of him.
"Easy, boy … you'll burst your stitches and then where will you be?"
It was a woman speaking now, and something in her voice settled him for some reason, and he stopped struggling because the voice made him think of silver-auburn curls and green eyes. Jo. Her name was Jo.
"I won't go!" a voice wailed, and this time Eliot knew his best girl, and he stilled, listening, and Derry Ryan crumbled to dust. "I won't leave him!" the voice continued, "He won't hurt me – Eliot would never hurt me, I don't care what he says! He needs me, Alec!" Small hands tightened around his clenched fist, and Eliot tried to open his eyes, because now he knew where he was. "Eliot! It's okay!" the voice said, "Please, please wake up! You'll start bleeding again, and –"
"'Lizbeth Grace?" Eliot croaked, his voice hoarse and arid. "'Lizbeth Grace … go, girl … get away from me. I … I'm … not …"
But Lizzie wouldn't have any of it.
"Eliot! You're awake! You have to stop moving around, alright? Grandma Jo's here and -"
Eliot pried open his eyes to see Lizzie hanging on to his fisted left hand as though her life depended on it. Shit! If he'd thrown that punch …
"I coulda hurt you!" he growled weakly, but Lizzie shook her head defiantly.
"You will never …ever … hurt me!" she declared, her bottom lip beginning to tremble.
The big hand resting on Eliot's shoulder suddenly moved, and Hardison swam into focus.
"Dammit, Hardison!" Eliot snarled, even though his words came out slurred and groggy, "Get her away from me! She …" Eliot reached out a shaky right hand and clutched Hardison's sleeve, pulling the hacker close. "She doesn't know what I am!" he hissed desperately, even as the headache began to thump behind his eyes.
Hardison frowned, puzzled, and patted Eliot's hand where it lay.
"Listen, brother … you … you lost a lot of blood, an' you're confused, okay? It was just a nightmare. A NIGHT. MARE. I don't know what's goin' on in that punched-out head of yours, but Lizzie's here an' she's worried about you. If you send her away she'll jus' sneak back in 'cause you know she's gotta take care of you. That's the way she's built." Hardison's dark eyes softened. "She loves you, you idiot!"
But Eliot wasn't listening. His eyes darted around the room … his room, the one that held what few possessions he cared about, and his gaze settled on the windows. The one nearest his bed, the big window overlooking Gertie's paddock, was open, allowing the rich scent of flowers to drift in on the cool air. The other one … the small one high over the left side of the fireplace … was lacking glass and open to the elements.
"Hardison … Hardison, we gotta do somethin' about the windows. Close 'em, will ya? It ain't safe leavin' 'em open. He could get in –" The sense of urgency in Eliot's voice made Hardison's brows draw down in confusion.
The wail of a tiny baby startled Eliot and he flinched, his eyes widening.
"Jesus!" he ground out and tried to sit up, but the hands returned, gently stopping him from moving, and Lizzie's grip tightened. "The kids! The kids ain't safe here –" he began to rant.
"Eliot, love, they're fine!" Jo said, worried now. She had seen Eliot badly hurt before, but not like this. He seemed hyper-aware … tension thrummed through his damaged body, and she knew if Hardison had not been in the room to hold the hitter down, Eliot would be out of his bed and to hell with the stitches and blood–loss.
Effie appeared at the door and frowned, muddy eyes full of concern.
"Stop it, you daft jumbuck!" she growled, and stumped around Eliot's bed to draw down the blinds on the big window. "I can't do anything about the small window because that bastard Chong shot out the glass. Took me bloody ages to sweep up the bits," she added grumpily. "I think some got into your guitar."
Eliot relaxed a little, and Lizzie peered at him quizzically. She let go of his hand and felt his brow, and then his bare arms where they lay over of the blankets, one still attached to the plasma bag suspended from the coat-stand. Eliot suddenly noticed the oxygen mask was gone.
"You feel cold and you're shaking," Lizzie muttered. "Are you cold? 'Cause I can get more hot-water bottles," she said, and squeezed his hand. Effie retrieved the two luke-warm hot-water bottles from Eliot's sides.
Eliot, still jumpy, nodded.
"Yeah … m'freezin' …"
Lizzie patted Eliot's arm and then padded around to her chair and lifted her comforter. Hauling it from the chair, she draped it over Eliot's battered torso and the instant warmth made Eliot sigh with relief.
Effie dropped a pudgy hand on Lizzie's shoulder.
"C'mon, nipper – let's refill these –" she held up the two bottles, both covered by ludicrously fluffy bright orange jackets, "- and bring this young mongrel some hot tea, hey? With condensed milk and a bit of sugar. Mebbee that'll sweeten him up a bit." She paused for a second, and then scowled. "But I doubt it, the daft bugger," she added as an afterthought.
And with Lizzie following dutifully behind, she gimped off to the kitchen, grumbling.
Jo sank down onto Effie's rocking chair and watched as Eliot fought to stay awake, and she checked the valve on the bag of plasma.
"Last one, I think," she murmured. "You're doing pretty well, considering," she added. "Eliot … who's 'he'? You mentioned a 'he' coming through the window?"
Eliot's drowsy blue eyes snapped open for a second and drifted back to the broken window. Then he shook his head and regretted it, as the headache began to worsen.
"Nobody. I … " He tried to relax in the warmth of Lizzie's comforter. "Just … it doesn't matter," he finished lamely, and Derry Ryan's rotting features flashed into his mind. He had a sudden feeling of maggots swarming over his bedcovers and he shuddered.
Jo pursed her lips and looked over at Hardison, standing on the other side of the bed dressed in his sleeping sweats and a warm cardigan. He had been sound asleep on a fold-down bed in the living room when Eliot had woken with a yell.
The young hacker shrugged. He had no idea what was going on in Eliot's head, and put the confusion down to blood-loss.
Jo sighed.
"Want something for the pain?" she asked softly. "I can let you have some paracetamol. No aspirin though. We don't want what blood you have to thin, do we?"
"I'm okay," Eliot reassured her, dismayed at the thought of the drug making him fall asleep again. "S'not not too bad," he said, which was a lie. His side ached like shit and his head felt like it was about to fall off. The maggots were beginning to work their way under the bedcovers. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there.
There was another whimper from one of the babies somewhere in the house and Eliot tensed painfully. The memory of slaughtered women and children lying in a filthy basement and the stench of rotting flesh swamped his mind, and it took all of his severely compromised self-control to stop him from vomiting. The maggots were now working their way under his bandages, towards the blood and lacerated flesh beneath. He could feel their fat, off-white bodies writhing and forcing their voracious jaws through the wrappings, sensing the wounds below. They would soon begin eating him alive from the inside out, and he would become a heaving, revolting mass of –
"Eliot?" Lizzie had returned from the kitchen, hot-water bottles in hand and a tentative smile on her face. "Here … I hope you feel warmer now," she continued apprehensively as Jo helped her slip the bottles, oozing welcome heat and softness, against his sides. Eliot glanced at her for a moment. She still looked scared of him. He had frightened the hell out of her, he was sure.
"Thanks darlin'," he whispered, and Lizzie beamed. Perhaps he was beginning to forgive her for what she had done, Lizzie thought. He was still shaking though, and didn't seem to be able to stop. But he was cold, so that was probably the reason, she decided.
Effie arrived with Eliot's tea, and Lizzie helped her best friend slowly drink the sweet beverage, sip by small sip. She helped steady his hand and held the mug for him when the effort became too much and he needed to rest a moment or two. But not once did Eliot look at her. He seemed to fix his gaze on the old Fender guitar sitting on its stand under the broken window.
When he had finished the tea, Lizzie placed the mug on his bedside cabinet and reached for his hand. Once again Eliot flinched at her touch, but he tolerated it, and her fingers were reassuring. Slowly he relaxed, and to his immense relief, he discovered the maggots burrowing into his body had mysteriously gone. Eliot closed his eyes and before he knew it, he was asleep.
Jo squeezed Lizzie's shoulder.
"Give him time, sweetie. He's very confused and that's because of the blood-loss. He's been concussed and he's having a wretched time, so be patient. He'll come right, I'm sure." Jo looked at Eliot's alarm clock. It was just past one in the morning. "Let him sleep now. If he does this again, tell Effie and then fetch me. And don't forget to get some sleep yourself, young lady. You promised you would be very quiet and not worry Eliot, and he'll fret if you don't get some rest."
Lizzie nodded reluctantly, but agreed.
"I will, I promise. Grandma Jo … why … why won't Eliot look at me? Is it because –"
Jo smiled down at the little girl who adored this dangerous, lethal man and trusted him implicitly. Lizzie could not even begin to imagine Eliot fearing anything. Even wounded and debilitated as he was, Lizzie was sure he could protect his family like the wolf he carried in his heart.
"Let him heal, child. And go to sleep." Jo insisted, and as Effie, now rested, settled herself in her rocking chair and Hardison and Jo returned to their beds, Lizzie snuggled in her chair beside Eliot to quietly watch over her beloved guardian and best friend.
Albany Mining Company was as silent as the grave.
Nate had stopped a mile from the mine, on a small rise overlooking the gates. Even without Hardison's night-scope, it was obvious the place had been abandoned. Rickenbacker had fled, taking the few men he had left with him.
As the trucks drew close to the gates, Nate saw they hung unlocked, swinging gently in a night-breeze. Security lights blared on, illuminating the whole place like a Hollywood premiere night without the bling. It was a ghost-mine.
Charlie put the Ducati up on its kick-bar and opened the gates wide enough to allow the two trucks to drive through, and they rumbled to a halt beside the offices set away from the main workshops and entrance to the mine.
Nate slid out of the driver's seat, his body stiff and aching from the long trip, and wiped a hand over his face. God, he was tired. He wondered how Eliot was doing … wondered if the man was still alive. He had been on his feet when Nate and Charlie left, but that was due simply to sheer willpower alone. Nate knew Eliot was badly hurt. If Eliot died, he would lose a man he regarded as family … well, a man who was family, because he was Lizzie's guardian. He and Sophie had entrusted their only child to Eliot Spencer, and there had been a bond between the two of them from the first moment Eliot had held her, newly-born, squalling and screaming with anger, in Lucille's cramped interior as a thunderstorm crashed overhead. Lizzie loved Eliot … she loved every grouchy, bad-tempered, song-singing, chef-y, deadly-but-gentle inch of him.
Nate hauled out his cell 'phone and stared at it, but stuffed it back in his pocket.
"You want to call home, mate? Check on Eliot?" Charlie said in his ear, and Nate twitched in surprise. He thought only Eliot could sneak up on him like that.
Nate gave the young aborigine a bitter smile.
"Yeah … yeah I want to, but I can't. No service." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "This is killing me … not knowing."
Charlie nodded, understanding.
"Eliot's not dead, my friend." He put his hand flat on his chest. "Eliot's in here. In my heart. He's my papparti … my big brother. He has been for a long time now. I'd know if he was gone. Like I knew when …" he swallowed as the pain of loss hit him, "when she died. It was like my chest exploded. If Eliot was walking the Dreaming I would know."
And Nate believed him. He saw the truth of it in Charlie's fathomless black eyes and the timbre of his voice, and once again he felt the ageless song of the people whose land this was.
Running shaking fingers through unruly hair, Nate nodded his thanks, and turned back to the truck to see Khenbish Hadan struggle out of the passenger seat and slide down onto solid ground, using her sword to steady herself.
The tiny Mongolian stared up at Nate with dead eyes.
"What do you intend to do?" she asked wearily. Her useless shoulder was hunched, and she was obviously in a lot of pain.
Nate glanced at Charlie, whose face was suddenly still and stony. When he turned back to Hadan, Nate was thoughtful for a second or two before answering.
"Eliot said you were free to go. That you would take care of these men," he said, gesturing at the groaning pile of men lying in the back of the first truck.
Hadan nodded soberly.
"I will. What honour I have left will mean I deal with these men and Chong's legacy." Her olive eyes softened for a moment. "Perhaps I can atone for at least a small part of what has been done against you and your people."
Nate's jaw muscles flexed, but he controlled his hatred of this small, fragile-looking woman.
"You can't bring people back, Hadan. You murdered a man's wife … a son's mother. Not you personally, it's true, but still … you were involved. And if Eliot hadn't stopped you, you would have killed every person at Wapanjara, including the children … our children. So don't expect me to like you."
Hadan shrugged and winced.
"That is of no consequence. So … now you both go. Leave the trucks and the men. I have plans for them. And the driver." She smiled grimly. "Do not worry – I will not kill him if he does as he's told."
Hadan straightened as well as she could and gestured at the Ducati.
"You should go now. I have work to do." She was about to turn away, when she stopped and gazed at Nate one last time. "That man who killed my Rafe … he is clever, I think. I have no doubt he will have made every attempt to lead the police and others away from your people … that he will have created digital traps and information and labyrinths to lead them in an entirely different direction. And if I have guessed properly, what I do tonight will cement that information in place." She smiled then, and it was a warm smile, lighting up her green eyes. "It will be the honourable thing to do. You and your family are safe."
And with those parting words, she walked unsteadily away from Nate and Charlie and did not look back.
Nate felt Charlie's hand drop onto his shoulder.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's go home." He handed the spare helmet to Nate and took the Ducati off its kick bar and turned the keys in the ignition.
Nate didn't hesitate. He put on the helmet and buckled the chinstrap, and then he swung himself onto the back seat of Eliot's old motorcycle.
Charlie slipped the machine into gear, and sent the Ducati out of the swinging gates, leaving the lights and emptiness and the wounded assassin behind them. They headed up the hill and then they were free of the light, and Nate felt the wind cool his body and the now-starry night drifted above, cleansing his mind of the terror and danger of the past days. Now he needed to be home … to see his family and his daughter, and to see if Eliot Spencer still lived.
Khenbish Hadan limped to the back of the first truck, where the wounded men lay. She gestured at the young aborigine, still behind the wheel of the second truck, to join her. He scrambled hurriedly out of the driver's seat and trotted over to the tiny woman. He looked terrified.
"What's your name?" Hadan asked.
The young man swallowed dryly before answering.
"Bluey," he croaked.
Hadan studied him for a moment or two before gesturing with her chin at the wounded men.
"Do you have a strong stomach, Bluey?" she said.
Bluey didn't know what to say, so he shrugged.
"Dunno."
"Well, all you have to do is hold these men still for me," Hadan said. "Bring them to me, one by one."
Bluey's eyes widened.
"What … what're you goin' to do?"
Hadan stuck her sword upright in the dirt and winced as she rubbed her wounded shoulder.
"I cannot hold them myself, unfortunately. I need to make sure they never speak of what has happened here. Do you understand?"
"Um …" Bluey stammered.
"Well? Go on! One at a time!" Hadan snapped impatiently.
Bluey, frightened out of his wits, managed to drag one of the wounded men, still bristling with fish-hooks, out of the truck. The man yelped with pain.
"Make him kneel in front of me," Hadan instructed.
Bluey, now shaking, managed to get the man onto his knees, holding his shoulders to keep him still.
Hadan reached down to her left boot and slid out a small throwing knife. She had not had the opportunity to use it on Eliot Spencer, but it had turned out to be fortuitous. She held it skilfully in her left hand and turned to Bluey.
"Now … pull his head back and open his mouth," she said.
Bluey felt as though he was going to be sick, but he did as he was told.
Hadan looked at the wounded man closely and with great interest.
"I do this to save your life," she said. "I do this so you cannot speak of this place or of Wapanjara. You understand?"
The man began to shriek, but Hadan ignored him.
"Hold him tight, I said!" she growled, and as Bluey forced the man's mouth open, he turned his head away and closed his eyes as the screaming began.
Charlie and Nate arrived back at Wapanjara as the sun rose over the far hills, bathing the battered homestead in golden light. The fog had gone.
Nate was off the Ducati before Charlie had even switched off the engine, and stiff and sore as he was, Nate took the veranda steps in three strides, unbuckling the helmet as he went, and was met at the door by Sophie.
She saw his dusty face and his exhausted eyes and smiled before he could even open his mouth. She kissed him then, and taking his hand, led him to Eliot's bedroom where Parker dozed in Effie's rocking chair.
Eliot lay sprawled beneath blankets and Lizzie's comforter, and Lizzie slept soundly on the chair beside him, her hand entangled in Eliot's. The hitter was pale, obviously very ill, but his breathing was even and the remnants of a plasma bag still hung suspended from Eliot's coat-stand.
"That bad?" Nate asked, shocked.
"He collapsed just as you left. It was touch and go for a while … he almost bled to death. But he's doing better now, thank God," Sophie whispered so as not to disturb any of the three members of her family.
She backed away quietly, taking Nate with her, and they wandered into the kitchen where Effie was beginning breakfast. A pot of tea and mugs sat on a trivet in the centre of the now spotlessly-clean table.
Effie raised an eyebrow at Nate.
Well?" she rumbled. "Is it over?"
Nate sank down onto a stool and tried to pour tea into a mug, but he was so tired his hands trembled. Sophie poured it for him, and he took a sip. The rich, fresh-scented tea felt wonderful as it trickled down his throat, warming his chest. He looked up at Effie, who placed a plate in front of him with a couple of lamingtons on it.
He sighed.
"I don't know, Effie," he said. "I honestly don't know. I guess we wait and find out."
And as Charlie trudged up the veranda steps and into the house to see his son, Wapanjara began to awaken. The magpies fluted in the almond stand and lorikeets and galahs flew in clouds to the billabong, ready to slake their thirst. Gertie snoozed in her paddock and Buster snored beside Mei as she slept soundly in one of the big chairs in the living room, Jamie and Rose in their drawer-bed beside her, fed and warm.
It was the dawn of a brand new day, and Nate had absolutely no idea what it would bring.
To be continued …