Sleek Comes the Night

Chapter One

Nic gunned the engine, the wheel spinning before gaining purchase in a spray of gravel. The bike careened up the driveway, motor whining tinnily, and he cursed his father’s cautiousness yet again. It had him piloting what amounted to a two-wheeled ride-on lawn mower. His heart popped spastically in his chest.

At the end, their house blazed, every light in every room revealing its innards through walls of glass like some yawning monster in the dark. Sam was the only one home, their father’s car absent despite ink painting the sky hours ago. No surprises there. And that was just the way Nic wanted it. He preferred the expected.

His anxiety spiked and he wrung the accelerator in the vain hope of bleeding an ounce more speed. Since their mother’s death from breast cancer three years back, his fifteen-year-old little brother had been what dad termed fragile. A good day after school saw him immersed in COD, the blue halo flashing reassurance from down the road. A bad day was anything else. Right now was more anything else than ever. Nic felt familiar guilt at staying out so late. It competed with the dread contracting his gut.

Finally, he reached the turning circle, laying the bike over in a tinny whine of cylinders to leap off without bothering to kill the ignition. It spluttered to a halt. He pelted to the door, fumbling keys.

Sam?

After an obscenely stretched few seconds, metal slid home and he wrenched the knob. The door sprang open, jerking to a stop on the chain. His brother was more inclined to leave every access to the house a gaping invitation to trespass than remember the dead-bolt.

Sam!

Nic attempted to wriggle his hand through. He’d been able to do it what seemed only months ago, but an adolescent growth spurt abruptly added bulk to his lean form. Hours spent rowing probably didn’t help. He belted out every expletive he’d ever heard. Thanks to footy team-mates, he'd heard a few.

Shut up, Sam urged from behind the door. Move your hand!

The chain rattled and he whipped it open, hustling Nic in with unfamiliar urgency. As soon he’d breached the threshold, Sam shut the door and re-bolted it. He put a finger to his lips and collected the pump-action Remington leaning the jamb. The shot-gun clashed with his ‘Bolt Your Poon, Newb!’ t-shirt and fuzzy striped socks peeking from acid-ripped jeans.

Dad will have a stroke if he sees you with that! Nic whispered. You’re scaring me, Sam-Well. What’s going on?

Something’s spooking the horses. Something big. His brown eyes were wide beneath a shaggy blonde mop.

Ah, crap. Not this again.

It’s true! I’m telling you, Nic. This time it’s true!

Nic sighed. Fine. Show me, but hand-over the gun.

Sam held it vertically as they’d been trained and reluctantly pushed it his way. Nic turned from his line of fire and removed the magazine. He cracked it and emptied the loaded chamber, slotting the gun in the umbrella stand, cartridges next to that day’s unopened mail on the foyer table. On second thought, Nic swiped the rounds into a drawer in case dad happened to arrive home and phoned his SWAT buddies in alarm.

How are we going to protect ourselves? Sam asked.

Never fear. I’ve got some moves, Nic said glibly.

As they headed out back via airy open-plan living spaces and stylish modern furniture -- a wealthy architect mother equalled design perfection -- Nic switched off lights. He’d rather live in a tumble-down shack if he could just have her back, alive and healthy. Often he missed her so bad, the ache wrung the oxygen from his body.

This day telescoped and he still hadn’t eaten or started on the hours of homework breeding on his desk. He had a looming Chemistry final that weighted heavily towards pre-Med. Yet with rowing drill, two time-devouring jobs and proxy parenting, Nic hadn’t eked enough time to study. Sleep became expendable.

Irritation eclipsed his initial worry. Sam was a dreamer, inclined to put too much stock in fairy tales and urban legend. He could explain the origins in fact of a million mythical creatures. Some stories were even entertaining. Nic’s favourite was of the Countess Bathory, a Hungarian murderess with a penchant for the blood of her serving girls -- a real live vampire from the seventeenth century. Of course, nowadays she’d be locked up as a particularly vicious homicidal maniac, rather than bricked in and fed bread and water through a slit.

His father didn’t help, recounting a local tale he’d known as a boy. Back in the Dark Ages. A derailed circus train. Some mythical marauder prowling the hills. But stressing its fictitiousness was as effective as telling a kid not to watch the horror movie to avoid nightmares. Sam was obsessed and refused to listen to reason. Every falling branch, snapped twig, animal growl or insect screech morphed into sinister omen.

And their acreage was surrounded by forest on three sides. The closest residence was a Georgian mansion nestled in dense foliage high in the hills, uninhabited for ages. They shared a single road in and out. Normally Nic tolerated the fantasy, but playing with lethal weapons went too far.

You don’t believe me, Sam mumbled.

Ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? We’ve two mares in foal. They get skittish.

I’m not stupid! he snapped.

Did I say you were, Sam? We’re looking, aren’t we?

The horses were screaming. I saw its eyes.

They’d reached the gleaming stainless steel kitchen, a huge barn visible under spotlight out dining windows. Three meals congealed beneath plastic on the bench. Nic stopped and stared down at Sam. The boy was petrified, his voice quaking. He draped an arm about skinny shoulders and gave him a brief hug.

I’ll take the shovel. Give it good nine-iron swing if a butterfly comes within spit. Okay, Welly?

Sam shook him off, even more terrified. You’re not going out there!

Oh, have mercy! What do you want me to do, Sam? Malinger at the back door like a frightened child for who knows how long, while the thing from the pit eats our horses? Should I believe you and go check? Or we can sit down to dinner and forget about it.

I’d rather it took the horses than you! he yelled.

Nic regretted the outburst, but he’d been up since five this morning and his patience waned. Look. I’ll take a torch and the shovel, go out and give the barn a quick scan. See the horses are okay. We’ll get Hank to have a proper ground’s inspection tomorrow. How’s that?

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. His face was pale and brow puckered. Can I have the gun? I’ll cover you.

Over my dead body.

Don’t say that! Sam trotted to the butcher’s block in the middle of the kitchen. He extracted a huge carving knife from the sharpener and returned to offer it handle first to Nic. Only if you take this.

***

Chapter Two

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