Who Needs Enemies
Page 1
Chapter One
The sense of trouble slipped across my skin like a teasing caress, making the hairs on my arms stand on end and my heart race.
I paused and studied the street ahead. Though the sun had yet to rise, Berren was waking and her streets echoed with the growing sounds of life. A tram rattled down nearby Collins street, car lights speared the shadows as they sped past, and joggers pounded the pavement, the sting of their sweat lingering in the air.
There was absolutely nothing that remotely resembled a threat, but I’d learned long ago to trust that niggly sixth sense of mine. It had gotten me out of a whole lot in the past.
Of course, it had also gotten me into trouble, and I was never entirely sure which side of fate's coin my luck would fall.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly five, which meant I was a few minutes late for my meeting with the one and only relative I had much to do with these days. But that wasn't unusual, and the old elf was certainly used to my tardiness.
So why did I suddenly feel that this time, my tardiness had landed him in trouble?
Frowning, I turned into Little Collins Street and jogged down the hill towards Charles Street. Buildings loomed overhead, their rooftops lost to the shadows of a day not yet risen. A light breeze stirred the rubbish left in the wake of garbage trucks, and a rainbow assortment of plastic bags pirouetted limply down the centre of the road. Rodents scurried through the deeper shadows closer to the buildings, and the scent of urine and unwashed flesh mingled with the waking groans of the drunks who’d spent the night passed out in doorways. They were no threat, but something here definitely was.
I suddenly wished I’d bought something more than a camera with me. I had a basic understanding of fighting techniques thanks to a former boyfriend’s instance that all women should be able to protect themselves, but, right now, with the sensation of danger getting ever stronger, that didn’t seem quite enough.
Of course, I could generally sweet talk my way out of sticky situations thanks to the fact I was also part siren, but there were occasions when a weapon seemed to make better sense. It was also a sad truth that a silver tongued woman wasn’t half as respected as a loaded gun, although anyone who knew anything about sirens had a clear understanding of which was more dangerous.
I jogged on. Abnormal sounds began to leach through the gloom—the scrape of a boot heel against concrete, the smack of flesh against flesh. Grunts of pain.
And it was coming from the very place where Lyle and I were supposed to meet.
I thought briefly about calling the cops, then swore softly and sprinted forward. Whatever trouble Lyle had gotten himself into, he sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate me bringing the law into it. Not that the cops would make it here in time to save the situation, anyway.
The sounds were becoming more aggressive, but I nevertheless slowed as I neared the lane that ran between Little Collins and Collins Street. Over the years it had become something of a haven for the drunk and drug addicted and, to some extent, Lyle was both. Or as much as an elf could be given they really didn’t have addictive tendencies when it came to alcohol and drugs.
The lane itself was narrow, and filled with bins that had yet to be emptied. Their contents spewed over the bitumen and the stench of rotting food rode the air. A solitary light gleamed down the far end of the lane, but it did little to lift the majority of shadows. Not that I really needed light—I could see as well at night as I could by day. A gift of the Elven part of me, and one of the few I was thankful for.
In the shadows, three large forms were beating a fourth, much smaller, and all too familiar one.
Shit, I thought. Shit, shit, shit!
Lyle wasn’t being beaten up by your every day, run-of-the-mill muggers. His assailants were trolls. Which in itself suggested a professional hit, because trolls didn’t touch anyone unless they were paid first. They claimed it went against their pacifist natures to do otherwise.
Lyle had obviously pissed someone off again.
But the troll factor was a major problem, because trolls were immune to the song of a siren. And fighting was definitely out. No matter how capable I was of defending myself, it was one half-breed female against three fucking large trolls. Not great odds at the best of times. Hell, even a baby troll was probably beyond my capabilities.
I bit my bottom lip, still torn between the need to call the cops and the knowledge that Lyle would be furious if I did. Then I sighed and swung my camera around. When all else failed, lie through your teeth. Or so one of my brothers was known to say, and it seemed to work well enough for him. He was a successful politician, after all.
I switched the camera to infrared, took several shots, then removed the memory card and replaced it with another. After switching it back to normal flash, I took a deep breath that didn’t do a whole lot to calm the butterflies doing cartwheels in my stomach, then strode forward, taking several quick shots as I did so. The flash’s light bit through the darkness and, as one, the three trolls turned. Lyle slapped back to the bitumen like a piece of raw meat.
“Hey, that’s not, you know, cool,” the biggest of the three said. There was enough gold hanging off his ear to fill a barrow and it clanged when he moved, sounding like a symphony of ill-tuned bells. “We’re gonna have to take that off you now.”
I stopped and raised the camera. Their gazes didn’t follow the movement, but then, I hadn’t really expected them too. Trolls weren’t fools, despite appearances. “If you take one step in my direction, I’ll press this little bitty button marked sat-link, and your smiling faces will be splashed all over the six a.m news.”
Which was something of a fabrication given I’d lost the sat-link when I’d given up my job as a photographer for the newspaper several months ago. But trolls didn’t have the sharpest eyes, and they weren’t likely to spot that the button was inactive from this distance.
The troll wiped a hand the size of a spade across his bulbous nose. “A fucking reporter. Just our luck.”
“Yeah, it is. And that’s my uncle laying at your feet.” I glanced at Lyle. He wasn’t moving or making any sound, but he was at least breathing. “You want to tell me just why you’re beating him up?”
The troll grinned, revealing uneven rows of yellow-green enamel. I was suddenly grateful that I wasn’t close enough to smell his breath.
“We were just discussing the weather. Nothing serious.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who sent you here to discuss the weather?” I didn’t hold much hope of getting an answer, because trolls considered it a matter of honor to uphold all deals made. Of course, they were also opportunists, and would certainly weather honor's loss if a greater amount of money was offered, or their life was threatened. I couldn’t exactly do either.
The troll sniffed. “Now you know I can’t do that.”
“Then step away from my uncle.” I hesitated, then added, “Please.”
It didn’t hurt to be polite. They might be pacifists, but I preferred not to take a chance.
The three of them glanced at each other, then took one step back. Doing what I asked, nothing more. I wasn’t about to push my luck.
“Lyle, get up.”
He didn’t respond. The trolls shared another glance. Deciding whether to risk the early morning publicity or not, I thought with a shiver. I had to get Lyle out of here, and quickly. Yet I didn’t dare step any closer in case they realized my lie about the sat-link.
“Lyle, get your lazy carcass into gear,” I said, my voice curt. “Move, now.”
The old elf groaned in response then, finally, he moved—with all the speed of a snail—into a sitting position. “That you, Harriet?”
I rolled my eyes. Lyle was the only one who ever used my god-awful first name, and nothing I ever said could persuade him to do otherwise. Elves tended to be sticklers when it came to that sort of stuff—it was one of the many reasons I was more than happy to be a half-breed reject.
“Yes, it’s me.” My gaze went back to the trolls. Most races signaled their intention to attack with their eyes. With trolls, you watched their hands. Their sheer size meant they had to swing their arms into action before the rest of them caught up. “Get off your butt and over here.”
Lyle scrubbed a hand across his face, smearing blood. It looked like wet war paint in the predawn darkness. Then he climbed slowly to his feet and staggered forward. I caught him before he could collapse, suddenly grateful the old fool didn’t weigh much.
The hands moved. Only fractionally, but it was warning enough. I flashed the camera again. The trolls clenched their fists but otherwise remained still.
“Let’s make a deal, boys. You let us go, and I’ll give you the memory card.”
They shared another glance. “You ain’t no stinking reporter,” the troll with all the gold said. “No reporter is ever willing to give up a good story.”
“You’re right,” I said, my voice calm despite the fact the butterflies were beginning to tie my stomach into knots. “I’m not a reporter. But I am a photographer working for the Herald-Sun. Trust me, I have the contacts to make your life a misery.”
The troll contemplated me for a moment, then held up his hands. “The missus will kill me if I land another jail term right now. We accept the deal.”
“I have your word that you’ll let us go?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
I relaxed, but only a little. Few trolls ever broke a promise, but I still wasn’t about to turn my back on them, all the same.
I retreated, dragging Lyle with me. At the corner of the lane, I thrust the old elf against the wall, leaned a shoulder against his chest to keep him upright, then removed the memory card from the camera. I held it up so the trolls could see it, then placed it on top of the nearest bin. Then I swung the camera out of the way, wrapped my arm around Lyle again, and got the hell out of there.
Once we’d reached the relative safety of busier Charles Street, I glanced over my shoulder. The trolls had kept their promise. They weren’t following us.
The sense of trouble slipped across my skin like a teasing caress, making the hairs on my arms stand on end and my heart race.
I paused and studied the street ahead. Though the sun had yet to rise, Berren was waking and her streets echoed with the growing sounds of life. A tram rattled down nearby Collins street, car lights speared the shadows as they sped past, and joggers pounded the pavement, the sting of their sweat lingering in the air.
There was absolutely nothing that remotely resembled a threat, but I’d learned long ago to trust that niggly sixth sense of mine. It had gotten me out of a whole lot in the past.
Of course, it had also gotten me into trouble, and I was never entirely sure which side of fate's coin my luck would fall.
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly five, which meant I was a few minutes late for my meeting with the one and only relative I had much to do with these days. But that wasn't unusual, and the old elf was certainly used to my tardiness.
So why did I suddenly feel that this time, my tardiness had landed him in trouble?
Frowning, I turned into Little Collins Street and jogged down the hill towards Charles Street. Buildings loomed overhead, their rooftops lost to the shadows of a day not yet risen. A light breeze stirred the rubbish left in the wake of garbage trucks, and a rainbow assortment of plastic bags pirouetted limply down the centre of the road. Rodents scurried through the deeper shadows closer to the buildings, and the scent of urine and unwashed flesh mingled with the waking groans of the drunks who’d spent the night passed out in doorways. They were no threat, but something here definitely was.
I suddenly wished I’d bought something more than a camera with me. I had a basic understanding of fighting techniques thanks to a former boyfriend’s instance that all women should be able to protect themselves, but, right now, with the sensation of danger getting ever stronger, that didn’t seem quite enough.
Of course, I could generally sweet talk my way out of sticky situations thanks to the fact I was also part siren, but there were occasions when a weapon seemed to make better sense. It was also a sad truth that a silver tongued woman wasn’t half as respected as a loaded gun, although anyone who knew anything about sirens had a clear understanding of which was more dangerous.
I jogged on. Abnormal sounds began to leach through the gloom—the scrape of a boot heel against concrete, the smack of flesh against flesh. Grunts of pain.
And it was coming from the very place where Lyle and I were supposed to meet.
I thought briefly about calling the cops, then swore softly and sprinted forward. Whatever trouble Lyle had gotten himself into, he sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate me bringing the law into it. Not that the cops would make it here in time to save the situation, anyway.
The sounds were becoming more aggressive, but I nevertheless slowed as I neared the lane that ran between Little Collins and Collins Street. Over the years it had become something of a haven for the drunk and drug addicted and, to some extent, Lyle was both. Or as much as an elf could be given they really didn’t have addictive tendencies when it came to alcohol and drugs.
The lane itself was narrow, and filled with bins that had yet to be emptied. Their contents spewed over the bitumen and the stench of rotting food rode the air. A solitary light gleamed down the far end of the lane, but it did little to lift the majority of shadows. Not that I really needed light—I could see as well at night as I could by day. A gift of the Elven part of me, and one of the few I was thankful for.
In the shadows, three large forms were beating a fourth, much smaller, and all too familiar one.
Shit, I thought. Shit, shit, shit!
Lyle wasn’t being beaten up by your every day, run-of-the-mill muggers. His assailants were trolls. Which in itself suggested a professional hit, because trolls didn’t touch anyone unless they were paid first. They claimed it went against their pacifist natures to do otherwise.
Lyle had obviously pissed someone off again.
But the troll factor was a major problem, because trolls were immune to the song of a siren. And fighting was definitely out. No matter how capable I was of defending myself, it was one half-breed female against three fucking large trolls. Not great odds at the best of times. Hell, even a baby troll was probably beyond my capabilities.
I bit my bottom lip, still torn between the need to call the cops and the knowledge that Lyle would be furious if I did. Then I sighed and swung my camera around. When all else failed, lie through your teeth. Or so one of my brothers was known to say, and it seemed to work well enough for him. He was a successful politician, after all.
I switched the camera to infrared, took several shots, then removed the memory card and replaced it with another. After switching it back to normal flash, I took a deep breath that didn’t do a whole lot to calm the butterflies doing cartwheels in my stomach, then strode forward, taking several quick shots as I did so. The flash’s light bit through the darkness and, as one, the three trolls turned. Lyle slapped back to the bitumen like a piece of raw meat.
“Hey, that’s not, you know, cool,” the biggest of the three said. There was enough gold hanging off his ear to fill a barrow and it clanged when he moved, sounding like a symphony of ill-tuned bells. “We’re gonna have to take that off you now.”
I stopped and raised the camera. Their gazes didn’t follow the movement, but then, I hadn’t really expected them too. Trolls weren’t fools, despite appearances. “If you take one step in my direction, I’ll press this little bitty button marked sat-link, and your smiling faces will be splashed all over the six a.m news.”
Which was something of a fabrication given I’d lost the sat-link when I’d given up my job as a photographer for the newspaper several months ago. But trolls didn’t have the sharpest eyes, and they weren’t likely to spot that the button was inactive from this distance.
The troll wiped a hand the size of a spade across his bulbous nose. “A fucking reporter. Just our luck.”
“Yeah, it is. And that’s my uncle laying at your feet.” I glanced at Lyle. He wasn’t moving or making any sound, but he was at least breathing. “You want to tell me just why you’re beating him up?”
The troll grinned, revealing uneven rows of yellow-green enamel. I was suddenly grateful that I wasn’t close enough to smell his breath.
“We were just discussing the weather. Nothing serious.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who sent you here to discuss the weather?” I didn’t hold much hope of getting an answer, because trolls considered it a matter of honor to uphold all deals made. Of course, they were also opportunists, and would certainly weather honor's loss if a greater amount of money was offered, or their life was threatened. I couldn’t exactly do either.
The troll sniffed. “Now you know I can’t do that.”
“Then step away from my uncle.” I hesitated, then added, “Please.”
It didn’t hurt to be polite. They might be pacifists, but I preferred not to take a chance.
The three of them glanced at each other, then took one step back. Doing what I asked, nothing more. I wasn’t about to push my luck.
“Lyle, get up.”
He didn’t respond. The trolls shared another glance. Deciding whether to risk the early morning publicity or not, I thought with a shiver. I had to get Lyle out of here, and quickly. Yet I didn’t dare step any closer in case they realized my lie about the sat-link.
“Lyle, get your lazy carcass into gear,” I said, my voice curt. “Move, now.”
The old elf groaned in response then, finally, he moved—with all the speed of a snail—into a sitting position. “That you, Harriet?”
I rolled my eyes. Lyle was the only one who ever used my god-awful first name, and nothing I ever said could persuade him to do otherwise. Elves tended to be sticklers when it came to that sort of stuff—it was one of the many reasons I was more than happy to be a half-breed reject.
“Yes, it’s me.” My gaze went back to the trolls. Most races signaled their intention to attack with their eyes. With trolls, you watched their hands. Their sheer size meant they had to swing their arms into action before the rest of them caught up. “Get off your butt and over here.”
Lyle scrubbed a hand across his face, smearing blood. It looked like wet war paint in the predawn darkness. Then he climbed slowly to his feet and staggered forward. I caught him before he could collapse, suddenly grateful the old fool didn’t weigh much.
The hands moved. Only fractionally, but it was warning enough. I flashed the camera again. The trolls clenched their fists but otherwise remained still.
“Let’s make a deal, boys. You let us go, and I’ll give you the memory card.”
They shared another glance. “You ain’t no stinking reporter,” the troll with all the gold said. “No reporter is ever willing to give up a good story.”
“You’re right,” I said, my voice calm despite the fact the butterflies were beginning to tie my stomach into knots. “I’m not a reporter. But I am a photographer working for the Herald-Sun. Trust me, I have the contacts to make your life a misery.”
The troll contemplated me for a moment, then held up his hands. “The missus will kill me if I land another jail term right now. We accept the deal.”
“I have your word that you’ll let us go?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
I relaxed, but only a little. Few trolls ever broke a promise, but I still wasn’t about to turn my back on them, all the same.
I retreated, dragging Lyle with me. At the corner of the lane, I thrust the old elf against the wall, leaned a shoulder against his chest to keep him upright, then removed the memory card from the camera. I held it up so the trolls could see it, then placed it on top of the nearest bin. Then I swung the camera out of the way, wrapped my arm around Lyle again, and got the hell out of there.
Once we’d reached the relative safety of busier Charles Street, I glanced over my shoulder. The trolls had kept their promise. They weren’t following us.
