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expansive and friendly to the world in his post-coital stupor, but nonetheless confused by this unexpected company. Do I know you? he thought to say, but did not utter. His brain and tongue felt sluggish. He stumbled and went over, letting out an animallike grunt of surprise, and it was some seconds after his elbows had jarred painfully against stone, breaking his fall, that he realised he had been pushed.
    ‘Hey!’ he began, but before the words left his lips, they were cut off by an excruciating burning, something like a liquid fire hitting his mouth. His instinct was to shield himself from the source of this fresh agony, but it was too late, the fire was everywhere: dark, acrid and smelling sharply of vinegar.
    Choking.
    Writhing on the ground, Jean-Baptiste clawed at his face and felt his palms burn as they too melted. Acid! Just like in the play. Only this is real, this is happening. Behind eyelids shut against a bright kaleidoscope of pain, he recalled vivid flashesof Henri’s face in The Final Kiss— the primitive stage makeup with its appearance of festering death, layers of raw skin and exposed bone—and he knew in that moment that he was melting, his face was melting, he was becoming that thing on the stage, the creature stripped of humanity, the living monster. Screams reverberated through his body and into the alley, infinitely more jarring than the trained shrieks of his lover Bijou on her stage.
    That famous scream seemed hollow now, unconvincing, a pale imitation of the shriek that emanated from the deepest part of him, shredding the passages along which it passed, from his burning lungs to the melting hole that had once been his beautiful mouth.

CHAPTER 1
    To Makedde Vanderwall, the clear asphalt curves of the Federal Highway were a most welcome sight.
    With her slender, leather-gloved hand, she gripped the throttle of her motorcycle, the road opening before her unsullied by snarls of traffic. Despite being weighed down by more than the usual amount of supplies, woman and motorcycle cut briskly through the air as one creature, bringing with them a satisfyingly thunderous roar. Mak had fitted her motorcycle with aftermarket pipes, and their throaty tones still excited her, no matter how many times she turned the key. It was a clear February day for her ride; the blue Australian summer sky nearly cloudless. Mak hoped that was a good omen. She needed a good omen. She had ruminated on the implications of this particular ride for many long nights, and now that she was finally making the journey, she wished only for greater certainty about her decision, and for greater luck in her future.
    With adrenaline pumping from the strong coffee she’d downed to counter lack of sleep, Makedde followed thehighway as it arced past Lake George, an ancient basin known by indigenous Australians as Werriwa, meaning ‘bad water’. It emptied and filled in cycles, and had taken many a life through drowning when its waters were full. But today it looked to be bone dry, and it again occurred to Mak that Australia was a place of extremes. Certainly her life in Australia had been consistent with the theme.
    No more extremes. No more bad luck.
    When Makedde rode her motorcycle there was little room for meandering thoughts, which was precisely why she favoured it. There was much she didn’t care to think about. She’d spent far too much time on painful debate, argument and the endless weighing of options. Now was a time for action.
    Sharp corner, gear down, drift right, look through the turn, lean…
    Makedde—or Mak, as her friends called her—executed the turn confidently, and anyone observing the young woman could not have guessed that she had not so long ago survived a stunning motorcycle crash. Her previous bike had been totalled. She was lucky to be alive. But her late mother had been fond of the old adage about ‘getting back on the horse’, and so Makedde had wasted no time. Her new horse was a 900cc Triumph