“You kidding?” Guy didn’t bother looking at me. “North plays West Coast live tonight.”

So they’d be here until ten, at least. “Lyle’s coming over later. Try to be polite to the man if I’m not back.”

“I’m always a gentleman,” Guy said, and belched.

His three compatriots didn’t respond with gales of laughter. They barely even twitched. The sermon was about to begin—the umpire had the ball in his hand and was about to bounce. I shook my head and left.

It didn’t take all that long to drive to the remand center. It was Saturday afternoon, the BCG had the full-house signs out, and the game was being replayed live across the country. Berren was the home of Australian Rules Football, and a good portion of her population never missed a game.

I parked in Adderley Street, just around the corner from the remand center. After feeding the meter, I made my way around to the main entrance. Two scans later, I was being escorted down sterile white corridors and then out through a side door into what had been the old exercise yards. Four dragon-containment cells now dominated the space. Built with titanium, they were fire-proof and fully electrified, and had a hundred percent success rate so far. Once in, dragons didn’t get out. Of course, the real trick was getting them in.

“Don’t touch the walls or you’ll fry,” the guard said, and opened the first of the two cell doors. “Just buzz when you want out.”

I nodded and stepped into the barren space between the two doors. The first one slammed shut, then another buzzer sounded and the second door opened.

Keale had regained human form. He lay—not quite spread eagled—in the center of the concrete expanse, a gangly, red-haired scarecrow of a man staring up at the miserable sky framed through the overhead titanium bars. Dragons weren’t fond of small spaces, even in human form, so though the cell did have a shelter, it only had three walls. Presumably, the bed, TV, and bathroom facilities were all open to the elements, though I’d hazard a guess that the hut had been built in such a way that there was little chance of rain actually getting in. The unions would have been up in arms about it, otherwise. Football commentary blasted from the shelter, though I couldn’t tell if it were the TV or the radio.

I sat cross-legged beside him. A roar came from the direction of the shelter. The Western Bulldogs—the team I half barracked for—had just scored a goal and were leading Richmond by one point.

“I’ve backed the dogs,” Keale said. “Got three to one on them.”

“Good odds, considering they’re second on the ladder.”

“I thought so.” He continued to stare unblinking at the sky for several more minutes, then scrubbed his left hand across his eyes. His right arm had been plastered from elbow to wrist. “The shit has really hit the fan this time, hasn’t it?”

“Buried it, I’m afraid,” I agreed, voice grim.

“They said I hit a helicopter. Killed four people.” Disbelief edged his voice. “I can’t even remember leaving the pub, let alone flying home.”

“So you definitely can’t tell me why you were flying through the city?”

Keale glanced at me, his black eyes bright with confusion. “The city? How the hell did I get there? Why would I even go there? For fuck’s sake, after working all damn day I was totally knackered. It would have been an effort to fly home—why the hell would I take such a weird detour?”

“I don’t know.” I frowned. “Do you remember being with Numar? You told me at the bridge after the crash that you’d been drinking with him.”

“I did?” He hesitated, and scrubbed his jaw. It sounded like sandpaper being scraped along concrete. “I can’t remember it, but from what the docs have said, I’d certainly been drinking with someone.”

Yeah, and if not Numar, then who? “What happened to Rebecca? I thought you had a date with her last night?”

“Yeah, but she called to cancel. Something had come up.” He grimaced. “Shame really, given that if the cops get their way, the memory of hot sex is all I’ll have for quite a long time.”

“Lyle’s working your case, and he’s one of the best.” I patted his arm, though I doubted it provided much in the way of comfort. “But you were with her the night before, weren’t you?”

“I did the early shift, and left before eleven.”

“Why so early?”

Keale shrugged. “She didn’t want me there any longer. Probably had another dragon lined up for the late night shift.”

I nodded. Dragons were not monogamous creatures, and females only had a short window of fertility. To give themselves the maximum chance of falling pregnant, it wasn’t unusual for them to take on three or four males over the course of the mating cycle. And they could afford to be choosy, because males outnumbered them four to one. Of course, both sexes did have sex at other times, in human form. They were just infertile with each other and other races when in that form, which is why you never saw half-breed dragons gadding about. And that was probably just as well.

“So why would the police say you’ve been drinking for days?” I asked. “And why the hell would you be drinking when her mating cycle hasn’t finished?”

“Harri, I don’t know. Everything is a blur. I have no idea what the hell went on last night, let alone what I thinking.”

“So what are your first clear memories?”

“Waking up in this fucking cell with a broken bloody arm, a sliced-up back, and a freight train screaming through my head. Bit of a shock, I can tell you.”

“Your back is obviously okay.” He was, after all, laying on it.

“They shot me full of painkillers and told me to keep off it.” Keale snorted. “As if. I would rather soak in the sky than barren concrete walls, even if it does fucking cause more damage.”

I glanced down at the concrete. There didn’t seem to be any blood staining it, nor could I smell its stink, so he hadn’t opened any wounds just yet. “Where’s Numar staying?”

“He normally bunks down with Olisa, an old girlfriend of his, but I think he mentioned work putting him up at the meeting venue this time.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know which venue or hotel, would you?”

He frowned. “Ibis, I think. On Springvale road.”

I nodded and glanced at my watch. It was just after four, which meant I needed to get moving if I was to meet my father on time.

“Lyle said you were likely to make bail, but they’ll electronically track and restrict your movements.” I hesitated, then added, “You got somewhere to stay?”

“I’ll head home. My sister is interstate and I refuse to go to mother’s.” He glanced at me. “I’ll be all right, Harri. I can look after myself, you know.”

I smiled, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I know. But if you feel like some company, or just a bed for a couple of nights, then my spare room is always available.”

“You’re a sweetheart, but I’ll see how I go first.”

“Good.” I rose. “Be careful of your back.”

He waved my concern away and kept staring at the sky. Drinking it in while he could, perhaps.

I left. The streets were still relatively free of traffic, so I made it to Brunswick in plenty of time—which was just as well, given the serious lack of parking in the area. I eventually found a spot in a side street half a dozen blocks from the café, and walked back, grateful the rain had at least stopped. The wind, however, still held a chill. I zipped up my jacket and shoved my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. Most sirens loved winter—loved the cold, the wet, and the storms—simply because it was the sort of conditions they might find at sea. But even in that, I’d taken more after my Elven side. I hated winter.

Noah’s Ark was a small, single fronted café situated in the heart of Lygon Street’s famed restaurant district. It served brilliant coffee as well as a mix of Italian and Greek food at reasonable prices, and, as usual, it was packed. Which is actually why I’d arranged to meet my father here—with all the noise, there was less likelihood of our conversation being overheard.

I ordered a coffee and a large helping of carrot cake, then headed for our table, which was, as I’d requested, tucked into a rear corner well away from the windows. Bramwell wasn’t likely to appreciate the chance of roving reporters seeing us together.

Five o’clock came and went. I ordered another coffee. My watch soon tripped past five-thirty and still he hadn’t turned up. Either Bramwell had decided he didn’t need to explain the photo to me, or he’d resorted to more nefarious methods of checking it out.

I was voting for the latter option.

My phone chose that moment to ring. I half-expected it to be my father, calmly proclaiming he’d either procured and erased the photo, or that he’d rather see it circulated than meet with unwanted offspring.

I was wrong.

It was Guy.

And the ogre sounded madder than hell.

Chapter Five

“Harri,” he growled. “You weren’t expecting a couple of trolls to come busting through your door, were you?”

“No.” The fact that they obviously had meant my father had taken option number two rather than explain the existence of the photos to me. I wasn’t surprised, but I was annoyed. “Is everyone there all right?”

“We are. The trolls are a little worse for the wear.”

No surprise there. Ogres don’t take too kindly to people interrupting their football viewing. “What happened?”

“Nothing much. A little undue force was used, but no damage caused—at least to the house. Missed the bloody end of the footy, though.”

And no doubt the trolls had been given an extra punch or two for that thoughtlessness. “Where are they now?”

“Here in the kitchen. Moe and Curly are sitting on them.”