I wrestle the keys out at last and run for the Jeep parked near the gates, think-calling, Rawiri, as the tail-lights flash, unlocked, and when he doesn’t answer, I say, Ariel, and that’s when he says, Go, Johnno, you have to go RIGHT NOW, though I can’t leave him behind, but someone is running towards me, and I fling open the door and jump in and press the ignition button, slam my foot down on the accelerator, and I’m driving full tilt at the gate, the gate opener attached to the rear-vision mirror flashing, please open, and it does, it does.

  And I careen through, skidding sideways for a second before time’s arrow kicks in, and I’m flying forward, but Rawiri is nowhere to be seen.

  And he think-shouts, Go, Johnno, it’s your last chance, and then he’s gone, like a candle has been extinguished.

  And I’m driving and crying, so distracted I nearly veer off the road, and then I hear Violet, sweet Violet, and she’s saying, Johnno, are you OK? Please tell me you’re OK.

  Yes, I say. Yes, but I just killed two men, and one of them was Ethan’s best friend.

  FIFTY-ONE:

  VIOLET

  I wake gasping, as if I’d been swimming underwater and had forgotten how far I was from the surface, my breath coming in short bursts, my heart galloping, and for a minute I could have sworn I was a—

  (lion?)

  ‘Is everything OK?’ The flight attendant hovers beside me, a tiny crease between her jewelled eyebrows.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, curling into my seat, which isn’t easy, since I’m on the aisle with a very large man beside me. ‘Just a bad dream.’

  ‘Must have been pretty vivid.’ She holds out a steaming jug. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Um, yes. Thanks.’ I push the cup towards her, seeking out Johnno. My hand jerks — crap — and the flight attendant slaps a wad of paper towels on top of my tray.

  ‘Are you sure you’re—’

  ‘I don’t want a cup of tea,’ I snap. She tuts and pushes her trolley down the aisle, her thoughts clearly audible: Entitled brat, I can’t wait to finish this shift and it’s not even half over. I’m too wound up to care, because I can still feel Johnno’s heart racing, his panic clouding my thought-stream. Johnno, I say, are you OK? Please tell me you’re OK.

  Yes, he answers, his panic dimming a little, but only a little. Yes, but I just killed two men, and one of them was Ethan’s best friend.

  Rawiri? Oh no, oh no.

  Rawiri, yes. We were meant to get out together — after we — God, Vi, we did what we had to but I killed a security guard.

  Before he killed you, I interject, a shiver rippling through me.

  Yeah, and then we went back for our bodies, and that’s when I lost him.

  Wait, I say. Wait, how do you know he’s dead?

  Because I can’t hear him anymore. And he’s got to be. They’ll have shot him by now, I’m sure of it.

  Johnno, I say. Johnno, wait, you don’t know that. And it dawns on me that I can help them, even from thirty thousand feet in the air. Yes. Yes, I can.

  No. His words are whiplash-quick. No, you mustn’t.

  Keep driving, I tell him. Get help. I’ll be with you soon.

  Violet, no, he repeats, but it’s too late.

  I’m already there.

  FIFTY-TWO:

  JOHNNO

  Driving away from the Foundation is the hardest thing I’ve ever done when every nerve, every atom in my body is drawn towards her, Violet, my white wolf. She’s in my vicinity now, her magnetic pull almost unbearable.

  Be careful, I plead, barely pausing for a Give Way sign. Please, please, be careful. Violet doesn’t answer but I’m channelling the reverberation of her dream-flow, even as her earthly body remains in the plane, thirty-two thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean. In forty minutes, maybe less, the plane will land. If Violet hasn’t returned to her body, she’ll be dragged off to hospital for sure.

  No, I can’t let that happen.

  Something darts in front of the car and I touch my foot to the brake, then accelerate again. A possum or a rabbit, maybe a cat. I wonder what form Violet has taken. A wolf? A panther? A bird?

  Violet, I try again. No reply. Where am I driving to, anyway? Rawiri’s plan to go straight to his parents’ house is no good when I don’t know where that is. Even if I did, turning up by myself all covered in blood just seems like a really good way of getting the emergency services called.

  Glancing at the GPS on the dash, I see that it’s 12.27 am, and that I’m close to Titirangi. With shaking fingers, I tap in the only destination I can think of: Auckland Airport; travel time twenty-nine minutes.

  Take the next left, an automated voice announces, before reminding me that I’m twenty kilometres over the speed limit.

  ‘Screw your speed limit,’ I yell. ‘Screw you, Marlow and Bauer and Melody and Greta.’ And then, because Violet’s not listening, ‘And screw you too, Nicholas Black.’

  The speedo needle inches up to one hundred kilometres per hour.

  FIFTY-THREE:

  VIOLET

  I’m flying. Over the tree tops, the drizzly air clinging to my feathers, the scents of moist soil and pine and rain-soaked bitumen swirling through my nostrils. I can feel Johnno, so close, his panic sparking through my veins (please, please, be careful). But it’s not Johnno who needs my help, not at this moment. No, I’m seeking him, Rawiri, the Keeper of Secrets.

  The hub-and-spoke building seems smaller than before, but the fence is higher, the barbed wire a new addition. I perch on the roof, taking in the activity below. Alarms. Shouts. People running. In the distance, a siren.

  I’m listening to something else, though, something within: his thought-stream running so deep I can barely make it out.

  Rawiri, I think-say. Rawiri, is that you?

  Who is … are you … A faint glow, yes, he’s there. He’s there and he can hear me, for now.

  I’m Violet, I confirm. Where are you?

  I don’t … Rawiri fades out. Either he’s sedated or badly injured or both. But I’ve got a fix now, a link so strong that no one will be able to break it unless one of us dies.

  I’m not going to let that happen.

  I shift, and I am crouching behind his eyes, and oh, his skull feels as though it’s about to cleave open, his vision blurry. We are lying on the floor in a small room, squinting at the woman standing over us. She has long black hair, dark eyes and a gun.

  A gun. I do a quick inventory of Rawiri’s body. Apart from his head, which is pounding, nothing else is sore. It’s cool, and drizzle is blowing in through the broken window.

  ‘Don’t move,’ the woman says. ‘Or I’ll do it again.’

  Wait, I tell Rawiri before making the next shift, and almost simultaneously, I leap and bring her down with a sickening thud, my mouth on her throat. She smells like soap and toothpaste, and suddenly, urine, and she is lying very still, not making a sound, because that’s what you do when a panther has you by the throat.

  Rawiri appears behind me, staggering slightly, and says, ‘I’ve got this.’ He presses the gun to her temple. ‘Don’t say a word,’ he says. ‘Or I’ll give you double what you gave me.’ Stun gun, he tells me in think-speak. The siren is getting closer.

  Stun her as soon as I release her, I say, and then get out. Just one thing …

  Yeah? Rawiri asks. I smell blood — his, I think. The woman whimpers again. I sink my teeth into her throat, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave marks. She shuts up.

  I’m going to create a distraction, I think-say. And you’re going to run, because the gates are about to open for that ambulance. OK?

  Rawiri hesitates.

  Go, I think-say, and I release the woman, hear a simultaneous groan. I jump through the shattered window, Rawiri right behind me, and as I shift I see him dart along the fence line, just as the gates swing open and an ambulance drives in. The area in front of the Foundation is crawling with people, mostly men carrying guns, but no one is looking at Rawiri because when I spread my massive wings and launch myself into the air, all eyes are upon me, the first Andean condor ever to be sighted on these shores.

  By the time the first gunshot cracks the night air, Rawiri has disappeared, and by the time the second gunshot arrives, my breath is gone.

  FIFTY-FOUR:

  JOHNNO

  I’m on the motorway, trying not to speed because the last thing I need is to get pulled over by some undercover cop or clocked by a traffic drone, and the whole time I’m checking the GPS. Ten minutes to go. Nine minutes, eight minutes, seven. I hurtle over the Māngere Bridge, sea on both sides of me. It’s been a long time since I saw this much water at once.

  It’s raining properly now, sheeting down the windscreen, and one of the wipers is screeching so badly I feel like ripping it off. It’s five to one in the morning, but as I draw closer to the airport, the traffic builds until I’m sitting at the traffic lights surrounded by identical Zubers, like a bad dream.

  When the lights go green, I’m off, zipping in and out of lanes, flying around a roundabout and into the international airport. I zoom up to the front doors and jump out. There’s a plane coming in to land, its tail just visible above the terminal. Maybe it’s Violet’s and maybe it isn’t. I’m running, and no one is looking at me because it’s normal to run at airports, but I have the sense to duck into a bathroom as soon as I get inside. There I wash my hands, rusty water swirling down the plughole, and feel ill all over again.

  I just killed two men. I just killed two men.

  The door swings open and an elderly man walks in wheeling an enormous suitcase. I duck around him and make straight for the nearest arrivals screen to check out the list of incoming flights. Sydney, Melbourne, Singapore, Alice Springs.

  Alice Springs. Scheduled 1.05 am. Estimated 1.07 am. The time on the top of the screen says 1.06. I blink. The screen changes, and I can barely breathe, because it says landed beside Alice Springs. I start moving forward, trying to get as close as I can to the automatic doors between customs and the main body of the terminal. The doors keep opening and closing, ejecting bleary-eyed travellers in ones and twos and threes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ someone says. Ignoring him, I keep walking. ‘Excuse me,’ he repeats, more loudly this time, and I turn, irritated, and say, ‘What?’

  ‘You dropped these.’ The man holds up a set of keys.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a closer look at him. He looks familiar, but why?

  He frowns, his eyes roving over me. ‘Do I know you?’ He’s wearing blue leather trousers, a black t-shirt, a Bluetooth earpiece. With a jolt I realise I know exactly who he is, because I’ve accessed his thought-stream before, because he shares a quarter of my unborn child’s DNA.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say, as my past, present and future simultaneously converge, ‘but you may have gone to my funeral.’ I stick out my hand. ‘Johnno Fletcher. I’ve recently returned from the dead, just like your daughter.’

  FIFTY-FIVE:

  VIOLET

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. There’s something over my mouth and nose, and I struggle against it for a moment before sucking in a huge lungful of plastic-scented air.

  ‘There you go, deep breaths,’ someone says. Two faces peer down at me. One is the overweight man sitting next to me, the other the flight attendant.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ the flight attendant asks, while thinking, For God’s sake, is this shift never going to end?

  I lift the oxygen mask off. ‘Fine.’ Guns. Rawiri. Did he really get away?

  ‘I thought you’d stopped breathing for a moment there,’ the man says.

  ‘I was just having a deep sleep.’ I sit upright, embarrassed to see that while the seats in front of me are empty, all of the passengers behind us are waiting. ‘Have we landed?’

  ‘Take your time,’ the flight attendant says. ‘Is someone picking you up?’

  ‘Yes.’ I stand up, relieved to see that there’s no sign of damage to my earthly body. I could have sworn one of those bullets whistled right past me. ‘Thank you so much for helping me.’

  The man shuffles out behind me, panting with the effort of squeezing between the seats, and takes my bag out of the overhead locker. ‘You take care now.’

  ‘I will. Thanks.’

  Ducking my head, I walk swiftly down the aisle, my heart racing. The Foundation staff must be looking for me by now. For all I know, the airport could be crawling with them, ready to haul me off to their New Zealand base.

  Violet.

  Startled, I stop moving, and the man bumps into me.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Fine. Sorry,’ I mumble, resuming walking. Johnno, where are you? I think-ask.

  I’m in the terminal, he think-says, waiting for you. Orange-yellow relief floods through me, so intense I start shaking all over. I continue through premium economy, with its extra-large seats and e-screens, and turn left, where a male flight attendant is standing sentry at the door. For a moment I think he’s about to pull me aside, but all he says is, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply, resisting the urge to start running. I continue on, through the electronic gates, barely registering the fact that my retinal scan has just let me through as Sarah Schumann with no alarms, down the travellator and straight through the baggage area.

  I’m nearly there, I think-say, and Johnno replies, I know. Next I get stuck in a line for customs, and I tell them I have nothing to declare, which isn’t true, because I have all sorts of things to declare, like I’ve been a prisoner for months and I just rescued my dead boyfriend’s best friend by turning into a panther. Then I am rushing through the automatic doors, and there he is, Johnno, with his stubbly chin and tattooed eyebrow, his arms covered in cuts and scratches and I stop dead, because now I can see who is standing next to him.

  I should be happy, but I’m trembling all over, my heart pounding, and I can’t breathe, again, again. Through the adrenaline haze, I see Johnno indicate to my dad to stand back, and then Johnno jogs towards me, but he’s not the only one, because there is a blonde woman hurrying towards me from the opposite direction.

  In the split second before my vision cuts out completely, I think, Oh my God, it’s Ethan’s mum, but before I can work out why she’s here, I’m gone.

  When I wake, I’m lying in a bed with soft white sheets. On the ceiling is a poster of a dragon standing on top of a mountain, its wings outspread, and that’s how I know I’m not in hospital, not in the Foundation.

  That, and the lips against my cheek, the voice in my ear. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe. We’re safe.’

  I turn my head. Johnno is perched next to me. He’s dressed in unfamiliar clothes, metallic blue trousers and a white V-neck t-shirt.

  ‘Dad,’ I remember, panic rising again.

  Johnno lays cool fingers on my forehead. ‘Stop. He’s not going to hurt you.’

  ‘The conditioning,’ I say. After several such pairings of the rat and the noise, Albert was shown only the rat and became very distressed, reacting by crying and crawling away.

  Am I going to be like Little Albert forever?

  Johnno nods. ‘Exactly. June says she knows someone who might be able to help you with that.’ He passes me a bottle of water. I prop myself up on my elbow, drinking deeply.

  ‘June,’ I say. ‘That’s Ethan’s mum, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Johnno sets the bottle on the bedside table. ‘Lucky she’s a nurse,’ he adds, when I touch one of the adhesive dressings on his arms. ‘Cut myself to shreds when I was crawling through the window.’ He leans forward to kiss me again and I pull him closer, breathing in his scent: soap and toothpaste, and faintly, lion. But maybe I’m imagining that.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘No, the evening.’ Obviously catching the confused expression on my face, Johnno laughs. It’s been a long time since I heard that, and it makes me happy and sad at the same time. ‘June gave you a sedative because you were freaking out, and since then you’ve slept for ages. I guess you were pretty tired. And …’ He hesitates.

  ‘And I’m pregnant,’ I whisper, overwhelmed again.

  Sighing, Johnno climbs in beside me and folds me into his arms. ‘We can talk about that tomorrow.’

  I gulp, nod. ‘Are we at June’s house?’

  ‘Yeah. She said we can stay here for as long as we want, until everything is sorted out.’

  ‘That could be a really long time.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’ I get the sense there’s something he’s not telling me, but then he kisses me, and it feels so good to be pressed up against him, and we move against each other until he gives out a soft groan. ‘Watch it, Liesl.’

  ‘No, you watch it, Wolf,’ I murmur back.

  Smiling, he layers his fingers over my belly, nudges his nose against mine. ‘Do you think it can hear us?’

  ‘I don’t know if it even has ears yet,’ I say, and sense the glow of his smile. Don’t make me attached to this baby, I think, this baby that isn’t even a baby yet, but when he bends to kiss my navel, I don’t stop him.

  ‘Is the door locked?’ I whisper, once he has removed the few clothes I’m wearing, namely underwear and a t-shirt with a love heart on the front.

  ‘No one’s going to come in,’ he says, taking off his clothes in record time. I don’t have the willpower to argue, let alone resist. And a short time later, when I lose my breath, it’s for all the right reasons.