Free Camdeboo Nights by Nerine Dorman Page B

should be fine.
    “Right, now you take off your shoes,” Arwen commanded.
    “No thorns?”
    “Shhh. Just do what I say.”
    Helen complied and the two girls stood for a while before the makeshift altar.
    “Breathe. I want you to relax, inhale, exhale and try to forget about all the shit that’s going on at school, at home, everything.”
    This was fine for her to say. Her own heart hammered so hard she could feel it beating in her collarbone. Her stomach roiled and the joints in her knees wanted to disintegrate.
    Why was she so nervous? There was absolutely no reason for this. But, perhaps, it was because this was the real thing–no more practicing.
    Aunt Sonja always said your own words worked better than someone else’s. This should be a cinch. What could possibly go wrong?
    Taking her dagger, the wine and the salt, which she sprinkled, Arwen cast the circle, starting at the north and walking around in a clockwise motion. By this time, her voice had stopped shaking, although she had to admit she felt the fool for speaking the words out loud.
    What if Helen thought her crazy? She stilled these doubts, lest her tongue stumble. Imperceptible at first, by the time she’d called upon the Guardians of the Quarters a faint stirring in the air around her suggested a measure of success.
    To quantify whatever this was in everyday terms was difficult, except that their sacred space had become somewhat clarified. The cricket chorus in their vicinity had fallen silent. Helen’s eyes were big and Arwen did not have to squint to see the spinning, fiery motes congregating like fireflies above her companion’s head or deny the definite singing in her own veins that tugged at her.
    Now, for the evocation. Arwen positioned herself before the headstone. She tried to shrug aside her fierce exultation that this was working.
    A twig cracked–a noise out of place–from the other side of the wall.
    Oh shit! Someone was here.
    Helen called out. “I can see you there, behind the tree.”
    Darn girl had pluck though she deserved a slap for being so stupid. Arwen couldn’t see Jack diddly squat. Narrow skeins of alarm constricted her chest and she hastily put out her candles.
    “If it’s the cops, we’re gonna have hell to pay,” she muttered. “Help me, Helen, don’t just stand there gawping.”
    Helen was oblivious to Arwen’s request, leaving Arwen cursing beneath her breath while she bundled her tools into the altar cloth. Maybe next weekend, with Etienne helping...
    “Oh, it’s you,” Helen said, relief in her tone.
    “Who is it?” Arwen asked as she slipped on her shoes.
    “It’s the boy I met the other night. Trystan, right?” Helen toed on her flip-flops.
    A shadow separated from the darkness of the poplar tree overhanging the cemetery.
    The boy wasn’t that much taller than Helen–still taller than Arwen by a head–perhaps no older than them, but there was something indefinably different. No, wait, wrong , about him, about the tightness in the way his skinny limbs were placed each time he took a step.
    In the light of the stars, it was quite evident that he was paler even than her. He wore a pair of cut-off denims with a black t-shirt, and moved like a cat. Long dark blond hair had been tied back in a messy ponytail and something feral gleamed in his eyes, catching what little illumination there was.
    He’s the other piece , her Wyrd said, and once again the strings of Arwen’s Wyrd tightened.
    Dismay grabbed her by the guts. Although the boy’s aura buzzed, he wasn’t human. He was a vampire. Nightstalker. For once words failed Arwen. These creatures weren’t supposed to live out here, or so her father had assured her.

 
    Chapter 12
    Heeding the Call
     
    In the end, Trystan had spent five nights shaking Mantis off his tail. The last thing he’d wanted was for her to follow him back to Graaff-Reinet and on to Nieu Bethesda.
    Instead, he’d driven back down the N9 National Road, spent a day in