even
trying to express her loss. No sacrifice would be too great for Liz to get a
breaking story and rave reviews.
The Ducati’s engine thrummed in the thick silence, before
the redhead finally shrugged. “Cryptozoology is gaining attention in Australia,
with more sightings and hard evidence of panthers and other big cats.” She
tipped her head to the side. “Your father was the top of his field. He was my
best choice for finding the facts.”
“ Stealing the facts,” Alexia said bitterly, before
she pulled on her helmet and clipped together its chinstrap.
Thank god she’d hidden the journal, which her father had
found beside bones at the entrance of a cave guarding ancient Dreamtime
aboriginal drawings. Apparently the images inside the cave had depicted
half-human, half-panther beings. The ancient transcript above the drawings had
taken her father much less time to translate.
Illawatti.
The reporter’s voice rose in volume. “You call it stealing.
I call it sharing of information.”
“Stay the fuck away from me.” With an unforgiving glare at
the other woman, Alexia gave the Ducati a rev and whipped the sleek motorcycle
around with a roar. Ignoring Liz’s aggrieved shout to stop, she headed away
from the outer suburbs of Newcastle. Away from her grief. Her pain.
Destination, Sydney. And to the one name her father had
deciphered from a list of five in the journal.
* * * * *
Some four hours later she parked the bike opposite yet
another decrepit apartment block. Flickering streetlights fizzed and hissed in
the twilight, attempting to chase away the shadows of the dank, poor
outer-suburb of Sydney, but succeeding only in fraying her already stretched
nerves.
Blake Powell had not been an easy man to find, despite the
embellishments from ex-neighbors and acquaintances of his amazing good looks
and wealth.
So, what was he doing in this dive?
It hadn’t taken her long to discover that he’d started to
move around a lot in the last few months, never staying in one place for too
long. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was a man on the run.
Except, even if Blake was a descendent from a name on
the list, it didn’t mean he knew anything more than she did. It didn’t mean he
was suddenly a wanted man because of his name’s association with her father’s
research.
Nothing added up and nothing made sense. But unless she
wanted to use a linguistics expert and risk blowing every single piece of
research out of the water, Blake was the only name deciphered from the list,
and therefore her only lead. Her one glimmer of hope.
Her hands clenched and her chest went tight. She only hoped
the critics were proud of the damage they’d wrought on her father, a brilliant
and ethical man who’d done nothing but spoken the truth. In her heart she knew
the criticisms had killed something inside him long before he’d taken his last
breath. Still, she’d never once thought things had gotten so bad he’d take his
own life and leave her to face the world alone.
She bit hard into her bottom lip. Grief was doing her head
in and not allowing her to see things straight. Maybe a week from now…a month,
she’d reason things through, if such a thing was even possible.
She took a steadying breath, refocusing once again as she
checked the latest address she’d scrawled on the inside of her hand. She
climbed concrete steps, the heels of her booted feet then clacking along a
narrow, railed corridor that ran the length of the block of tiny apartments.
If the journal really was as old as she suspected, was Blake
even connected? It was a common enough name. She sighed. Maybe she was doing
nothing more than chasing her own tail.
Guns N’ Roses blared from inside nondescript Apartment 14.
She took a deep, calming breath as adrenaline surged within. What if she really had found an ancestor to the name in the journal? She raised a fist and
hammered on the flimsy, peeling wooden door.
The music shut down. A baby wailed
trying to express her loss. No sacrifice would be too great for Liz to get a
breaking story and rave reviews.
The Ducati’s engine thrummed in the thick silence, before
the redhead finally shrugged. “Cryptozoology is gaining attention in Australia,
with more sightings and hard evidence of panthers and other big cats.” She
tipped her head to the side. “Your father was the top of his field. He was my
best choice for finding the facts.”
“ Stealing the facts,” Alexia said bitterly, before
she pulled on her helmet and clipped together its chinstrap.
Thank god she’d hidden the journal, which her father had
found beside bones at the entrance of a cave guarding ancient Dreamtime
aboriginal drawings. Apparently the images inside the cave had depicted
half-human, half-panther beings. The ancient transcript above the drawings had
taken her father much less time to translate.
Illawatti.
The reporter’s voice rose in volume. “You call it stealing.
I call it sharing of information.”
“Stay the fuck away from me.” With an unforgiving glare at
the other woman, Alexia gave the Ducati a rev and whipped the sleek motorcycle
around with a roar. Ignoring Liz’s aggrieved shout to stop, she headed away
from the outer suburbs of Newcastle. Away from her grief. Her pain.
Destination, Sydney. And to the one name her father had
deciphered from a list of five in the journal.
* * * * *
Some four hours later she parked the bike opposite yet
another decrepit apartment block. Flickering streetlights fizzed and hissed in
the twilight, attempting to chase away the shadows of the dank, poor
outer-suburb of Sydney, but succeeding only in fraying her already stretched
nerves.
Blake Powell had not been an easy man to find, despite the
embellishments from ex-neighbors and acquaintances of his amazing good looks
and wealth.
So, what was he doing in this dive?
It hadn’t taken her long to discover that he’d started to
move around a lot in the last few months, never staying in one place for too
long. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was a man on the run.
Except, even if Blake was a descendent from a name on
the list, it didn’t mean he knew anything more than she did. It didn’t mean he
was suddenly a wanted man because of his name’s association with her father’s
research.
Nothing added up and nothing made sense. But unless she
wanted to use a linguistics expert and risk blowing every single piece of
research out of the water, Blake was the only name deciphered from the list,
and therefore her only lead. Her one glimmer of hope.
Her hands clenched and her chest went tight. She only hoped
the critics were proud of the damage they’d wrought on her father, a brilliant
and ethical man who’d done nothing but spoken the truth. In her heart she knew
the criticisms had killed something inside him long before he’d taken his last
breath. Still, she’d never once thought things had gotten so bad he’d take his
own life and leave her to face the world alone.
She bit hard into her bottom lip. Grief was doing her head
in and not allowing her to see things straight. Maybe a week from now…a month,
she’d reason things through, if such a thing was even possible.
She took a steadying breath, refocusing once again as she
checked the latest address she’d scrawled on the inside of her hand. She
climbed concrete steps, the heels of her booted feet then clacking along a
narrow, railed corridor that ran the length of the block of tiny apartments.
If the journal really was as old as she suspected, was Blake
even connected? It was a common enough name. She sighed. Maybe she was doing
nothing more than chasing her own tail.
Guns N’ Roses blared from inside nondescript Apartment 14.
She took a deep, calming breath as adrenaline surged within. What if she really had found an ancestor to the name in the journal? She raised a fist and
hammered on the flimsy, peeling wooden door.
The music shut down. A baby wailed
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