Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Waverly
Sitting back on my heels, I scan the scrubby bushes, grasses, and dense cluster of acacia and gum trees around me, chewing on my bottom lip.
Damn it, where did he go?
No idea. I had him in my sights, and then… Gone!
In my hands, my favorite camera—a Canon EOS 1500—shuts itself off.
“Wow, camera,” I mutter. “Talk about being judgy.” It hasn’t been that long since I last got a glimpse of my subject, has it?
To be fair, dragonflies are notorious for their ability to seemingly just disappear in the bush, no matter how focused you are on their dance in the air. But this particular dragonfly?
My heart thumps a little faster, and I bite my bottom lip harder.
I’d planned to spend the day trekking, hiking, and crawling around the wilds of the Hartley Ridge region searching for the endangered and illusive Brush-tailed Rock Wallaby.
That was the actual focus of my last university assignment ever.
So I wasn’t prepared for a lone—and very energetic—Giant Dragon to buzz past me.
I’m not, however, going to ignore a gift horse in the mouth.
Gift dragonfly? Gift petalura gigantea?
This petalura gigantea, AKA the South-Eastern Petaltail, AKA the Giant Dragonfly—capitals earned and deserved, thank you very much—is making my life tricky. Exciting but tricky.
Finding it when it’s considered almost extinct is a rush, given my zoology degree major is in endangered species, but finding it here? Halfway up the side of Talisman Peak is nowhere near its normal swamp habitat.
Squinting into the vegetation around me, I draw in a steadying breath.
It’s here somewhere. I can hear its massive wings beating over the squee of cicadas.
Something dark buzzes past my face so close I swear the displaced air tickles my nose.
There!
Locking my stare on the dragonfly that’s darting about as if to mock me, I scramble to my feet, raise my camera to my face, and—
“Crap!” I mutter, waking up my camera as I continue to track the dragonfly in the air.
A part of my brain registers the pinky-golden glow of dusk, the deep shadows stretching around me, over me.
But another part of me knows if I get a photo of a petalura gigantea in this part of the Blue Mountains, at this elevation, on this mountain, the followers of my little Instagram account dedicated to photographing all creatures, great and small, will go absolutely nuts.
And I’m going to get that photo.
No way am I going to let a dragonfly beat me.
Is it really about making a few thousand strangers happy, or more about proving you’re not a disappointment?
Hovering a few feet away, the insect seems to wait. Taunting me…
Sucking a slow breath, I raise my camera—ready to go this time—compose the shot and—
The dragonfly darts away.
“Bastard,” I protest, scrambling after it. Gripping my camera tightly in one hand, I dodge the blades of wild grasses and low branches in my path. The dragonfly zips from side to side, following its own invisible path up the incline.
Thank God, I’m relatively fit. Running for the bus almost every morning has its benefits. As does working at an indoor rock-climbing facility where I have to scale the various walls most weekends to rescue little kids showing off at birthday parties. Otherwise, this goddamn dragonfly would—
“Shit,” I burst out as it disappears again.
Stopping, I scowl at the annoying Australian bush and then blink at the dirt road I’m on. No, not a road. A track. Where does it lead to?
It leads up, Waverly.
My father’s voice whispers in my head, his thick Californian accent as mocking as the dragonfly.
“It could also lead down,” I say to the absent patriarch. Ha, Absent. He’s been AWOL since I was sixteen. Brought me and Mom here to Australia and then decided he wanted nothing more to do with us. Jerk.
The dragonfly dances past me, heading up the track.
“Oh, I’ve got you now,” I whisper, hurrying after it. Without bushes and scrubs and plants to worry about, all I need to focus on is the flying target.
It continues to waltz up the track. I follow, snapping occasional photos I know aren’t good enough. I’ve been taking photos of wildlife ever since Dad left. I’m sure a therapist would tell me it’s a coping mechanism, and they’d probably be correct. Now, though, I do it because I want to.
And I want to photograph this goddamn freaking—
“Hey!”
I stumble to a halt at a male voice shouting—an angry male voice—and blink at the sight of a mountain of a man storming down the track toward me. Behind him was a small house framed by dense bush, trees, and shadows. So many shadows.
Oh fuck.
My heart smashes up into my throat.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ve seen Wolf Creek. I know all about strange men out in the middle of the Australian wilderness.
“Hey!” the man shouts again, a scowl darkening a face that is way too good-looking for a psychopath. “I swear, I’m going to lose my fucking shit, and you’re going to regret ever coming up—”
Run! my brain screams.
Flinging my camera over my shoulder, I spin around, trip over my own goddamn feet, and fall face-first onto the track, camera smacking the back of my skull.
The last thing I see before everything goes black are two jeans-clad legs stopping near my head.
And behind them, a flitting, dancing Giant Dragonfly.
And then nothing…