Haze (10 page)

‘Where’d the little fucker go?’

He’d better not mean Maggie.

I check the takeaway counter—Jason’s gone—scan the room, find him near the front window.

‘There.’

Jason watches us approach, waiting between two tables of noisy families.

‘Outside,’ Rafa says.

Jason ignores him. ‘Are you staying in town a few more hours?’ he asks me, and then steps sideways to let a man push his chair out further. ‘There’s something I need to do. Please, let me make up for what happened in Iowa.’

‘Are you shitting me?’ Rafa says, incredulous. He earns a filthy look from a mother spoonfeeding a baby next to us. ‘I want answers, Goldilocks.’

‘So do I,’ Jason says.

Diners at both tables are looking at us now, annoyed.

‘I’ll meet you at the bungalow when Maggie’s finished work. I only need a few hours.’ His eyes plead with me. ‘Do you still trust me?’

Do I? He’s trusted me with so much. And he’s never looked at me the way the rest of the Rephaim do.

‘Not a chance,’ Rafa says.

I hold Jason’s gaze. ‘Be quick.’

He gives me a grateful nod and ducks out from the tables and into the street. I stop Rafa from following.

‘Let him go.’

‘Melbourne, Gaby. Unbelievable. How much slack does this guy get?’

I take my time moving outside, feeling his impatience at every step.

‘What now then?’ he says. ‘We going to sit here drinking coffee all day?’

Yeah, him, me and his short temper. I don’t think so. I need to burn some energy.

‘I’m going home and then I’m going for a run,’ I say.

‘How is that going to—’

‘Do you want to come or not?’

He stops. ‘You want me to run with you?’ He asks me like it’s a trick question.

I shrug. ‘It’s up to you.’

His lips slowly curl into a smile. ‘You’re on.’

We jog down from the bungalow and follow the path into the park. A small boy and his mother are eating hot chips at one of the picnic tables. Seagulls dot the grass, waiting for scraps they can’t digest. We pass the tree that Taya threw me into; I wonder if it still has my blood on it.

We run to the esplanade without speaking. And then we’re on the boardwalk, shoulder to shoulder, running parallel to the ocean.

‘Forest or beach?’ I ask.

‘Beach.’

We reach the fork and veer right. At least this time I’m running with Rafa, not from him. I’m ready to tackle the sand when he puts out his arm, forcing me to stop.

‘You done already?’ I lean over to rest my hands on my knees while I catch my breath. The air is cool, salty.

‘In your dreams.’ He’s hardly broken a sweat. He kicks off his runners and socks. I do the same.

‘Race you to the headland,’ he says.

It’s about five hundred metres up the empty beach. ‘Soft sand or hard?’

‘Hard.’ He looks amused. All traces of his annoyance in the cafe are gone.

‘No shifting.’

He grins. ‘I don’t need to cheat. You’re so out of shape, Maggie’s mum could beat you.’

I shove his shoulder and jog down to the water line. A wave breaks violently in the shallows and the wash races up to us. It covers my feet, dragging away the sand beneath me as it recedes. I find firmer ground.

‘Ready?’ My pulse quickens.

We plant our feet, elbows touching and heads turned towards each other. I’m coiled, ready. A light breeze keeps my hair out of my eyes. I love this feeling.

Rafa grins. He takes off. ‘Go,’ he calls over his shoulder.

So much for not cheating.

I reach him in four strides, my toes digging into the hard-packed sand. My feet pound to the rhythm of my pulse. Everything jolts—my bad leg, sore ribs, bruised shoulder—but between the adrenaline driving my limbs and the wind cooling the sweat on my skin, I barely notice.

We’re about three quarters of the way to our arbitrary finish line when Rafa starts to pull away. I dig in harder and make up the distance. My chest is about to explode. Muscles are straining in Rafa’s neck. He pulls away again and this time I can’t catch him.

He reaches the headland about three steps ahead of me, then veers up the beach so he can collapse in softer sand. I follow and drop to my knees. He’s on his back, breathing so hard he can’t speak. Black spots slide across my vision. I lean forward and take my weight on my hands.

‘Not bad.’ He takes a big breath, then laughs. ‘Not bad at all.’

It’s a bit longer before I can speak.

‘I didn’t realise you were so competitive,’ I finally manage, then sit back.

‘You’ve never beaten me in a foot race. I wasn’t about to let that change today.’ He smiles. A warm, unguarded expression I’ve only seen till now in photographs.

‘What, never?’

He props himself on his elbows. ‘Occasionally, you’d beat me in skills tests with the katana, but I’ve always been quicker. Always.’

‘And humble.’

He lies back with his hands clasped behind his head and closes his eyes. The rise and fall of his rib cage slows to normal. He’s ridiculously fit.

‘What about Jude? What was he good at?’

‘Everything,’ Rafa says without thinking. ‘Particularly swords and knives. And he’s the smartest guy I know, especially with languages.’

‘Which languages?’

Rafa’s eyes are still shut, so I poke his side with my bare foot to get him to answer. He grabs my foot without looking.

‘All of them.’ He massages my instep with his thumb, almost absently. ‘We can understand every human language ever spoken—another gift from our fathers. But we’re not all great at reading or speaking them or getting the accents right. Jude was a freak. It used to annoy the crap out of Daniel that he was such a natural.’

I’m trying to concentrate on what he’s saying, but his fingers are very distracting. I close my eyes and listen to his voice. I still can’t place his accent. I’m starting to think the Rephaim have one all of their own.

‘Goldilocks has a bit of a talent for it himself, given that New York accent he pulled out of his arse in Iowa,’ he says.

‘Do I have one?’

Rafa’s fingers slide up to my ankle. He’s using two hands now. ‘You sound vaguely Australian these days. You must have instinctively adapted when you woke up in the hospital.’

I open my eyes. He’s sitting up, cradling my foot in his lap, watching me. My pulse forgets itself. How can someone so quick to anger be capable of such tenderness?

‘Do you want me to stop?’ His hair is damp on his forehead.

‘No.’

He leans forward until his face is only centimetres from mine. I don’t move back. The last few days recede. That other history between us, the one he won’t tell me about, melts away under the warm sun. And then Rafa kisses me, not with the urgency of our last encounter, but softly, thoughtfully. He tastes like oranges. His hands stay on my ankle, restrained. The kiss deepens. I slide my palm up his thigh. He stops me and pulls back. ‘You’re killing me, you know that?’

‘Do you want me to stop?’ I mean to sound playful but it comes out breathless.

‘No.’

His mouth is on mine again, hands on my hips, drawing me across his lap. I wind my legs and arms around him, pull him to me until there’s no space left between us. One of his hands slips under my shirt, climbs my back, the other slides around my waist. My legs tighten around his hips. His breath catches; his fingertips press into my skin. His kisses are still controlled, measured—until I move against him, slowly. The small sound that escapes him sends a thrill of pleasure through me. I need to touch more of him. His t-shirt is coated with sand; I pull at it, hitch it up so I can run my palm over his warm skin. Rafa’s touch is stronger. His tongue, his lips, his hands…exploring with more purpose. I know there’s a reason I’m not supposed to be giving in to this, but I can’t remember what it is—

‘Yoo hoo!’

It’s Mrs Williamson. Her voice whips away in the breeze.

Our kiss slows, our grip on each other eases. I linger for a second, kissing his lower lip while my heart rate steadies.

Mrs Williamson is making her way down the headland track with her husband. She gives a quick wave with an arthritic hand and then goes back to concentrating on where she’s putting her feet. Mr Williamson keeps her upright, clutching the handrail as they descend from the dunes. They’re out earlier than usual.

The last time they saw me here I was running for my life. I’m not sure this is any better. They head straight for us.

‘Friends of yours?’ Rafa asks, still slightly breathless. His chest rises and falls against mine.

‘Yes, so be polite.’

His teeth graze my earlobe, teasing. ‘I’m always polite.’ He kisses me again. ‘You really need to move or I’m not going to be in any state to stand up.’

By the time he helps me to my feet, the Williamsons have almost reached us. Mrs Williamson is smiling, Mr Williamson, not so much. I once heard he was a career army man. I can see that in him now.

I introduce them and Mr Williamson pumps Rafa’s hand like he’s trying to get water out of him.

‘Walk us back to town, lad,’ he says, gruff.

Rafa glances at me. ‘Sure.’

We start back up the beach, the men leading the way. Mrs Williamson gestures to Rafa behind his back and pretends to fan herself.

‘In my day we didn’t kiss respectable girls like that in public,’ Mr Williamson says. His shoulders are stooped, but he must have been nearly as tall as Rafa in his prime. We’re walking into the wind so his voice carries clearly.

‘You think Gaby’s respectable?’ Rafa grins at me over his shoulder.

‘Don’t be a smart alec, lad. And yes, I do. It’s not like her to take up with your type.’

‘Define my “type”?’

‘No-hopers who blow in and out of town as though they own the place, bringing nothing but trouble.’ Mr Williamson peers at Rafa from under his cap. ‘Are you staying long?’

‘That’s up to Gaby.’

‘She’s a good girl, a hard worker. Don’t go playing games with her. Don’t you hurt her.’

I don’t catch Rafa’s response.

When we reach the boardwalk, the Williamsons continue on to the esplanade and Rafa and I go back to our shoes. I’m strangely touched by Mr Williamson’s protectiveness.

‘I don’t think he likes you,’ I say to Rafa.

‘If he’d been five minutes later, he would have liked me a lot less.’

With the Williamsons gone I’m thinking that he’ll kiss me again. I see him thinking it too. But he doesn’t.

I sit down to put on my shoes, hoping the breeze cools the heat in my neck. As usual, I can’t really tell what’s going on with him. Like when he kissed me the night we met. I thought he wanted me. He thought I was pretending not to know him and was trying to get a reaction.

Or in his bedroom, when he knew I wanted him. He backed off because I’m a virgin—or because I
think
I am—and he doesn’t want the fall-out if I ever get my other life back.

‘You know that first night at the bar,’ I say, knocking sand out of a runner. ‘What did you mean about not realising I was that good?’

Rafa gives me a sidelong glance as he joins me on the ground. ‘You thought I was complimenting your technique?’ He finishes tying a double-knot and realises I’m waiting for an answer. ‘I thought you were faking being into me and I was impressed at your commitment to your cover. That kiss was pretty convincing.’

He can talk.

‘What about a year ago—why did I break your nose?’

Rafa gets up and goes to the boardwalk, stretches his calves. ‘I found you and Jude on Patmos. I was pissed off he’d taken you there—you hadn’t been there before. I questioned your motives in talking to him again. There may have been some mention of “Daniel” and “puppet”. And of course we got into it. This…volatility between us—it’s not new.’ He sets off along the boardwalk.

I jam my feet into my runners and jog to catch him.

‘That’s why you think I’ll be pissed off at you if I remember my old life? Because the last time we saw each other we had a fight?’

His eyes are ahead of us, either scanning for threats or avoiding me. Or both. ‘It’s not that simple but, yeah, something like that.’

DID THE EARTH MOVE FOR YOU?

It’s after six when we hear the front door. Maggie and Jason are walking close, hands not quite touching. Maggie is still in her work clothes: a black skirt and white t-shirt, a silver chain tucked beneath.

Rafa is pacing the kitchen. He stops when they come in. It’s taking all of his self-control not to pin Jason to the wall. ‘Hey you,’ I say to Maggie as she leans in for a quick hug, keeping the bench between us.

‘How are you, Rafael?’ she asks, all politeness.

‘I’m very well, Margaret,’ he says. ‘I’ll be better when I hear your boy explain what the hell happened today.’

Jason holds up a hand. ‘I swear I had no idea that room existed or that it was possible to trap Rephaim. All the times I’ve been there, I—’

‘Yeah, yeah. All I care about is what happened today.’

‘Sophie worked out you were Rephaim—I don’t know how, although all those questions didn’t help. Anyway,’ he continues before Rafa can jump in again, ‘when you went in that room she was straight over to a keypad and the cavity door closed.’

‘And then what?’

He takes a breath. ‘She accused me of bringing “one of the damned” to the farm. I told her I didn’t know who you were. She didn’t believe me. She gave me the necklace, but she was so scared.’ He drops his gaze, studies the floor.

‘Shit, Goldilocks,’ Rafa says. ‘You didn’t hurt a girl, did you?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’ He nods to Maggie. ‘Show them.’

She draws the chain out, revealing a flat, round pendant the size of a twenty-cent piece, then takes it off and hands it to me. Both sides are etched with the wing design of the iron room. Rafa leans in so close our heads touch. He smells like he always does after a shower: fresh, earthy.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters, fixated on the pendant.

Jason frowns. ‘I wish I knew how Sophie figured out you were Rephaite.’

‘They have photos of all of us.’ Rafa lifts his head. ‘Except you.’

I show Jason the images on my phone of the photos plastering the room and the iron wall with the giant wings.

He studies them and then leans back against the sink, stares past me. ‘I don’t understand…’