Fang for the Flame

The sun hung low over the horizon like a bruised peach, casting long shadows across the tree-dotted plains of the game reserve. Jaco van der Merwe wiped the grease from his hands on a rag that had seen better days-the kind that had started its life as a dish towel but ended as a mechanic's salvation. At thirty-two, he was built like the land itself-broad-shouldered, sun-browned skin stretched over muscles shaped by years of turning engines and wrestling with stubborn cattle gates. His hair, the color of dry corn, was cut short beneath a faded cap, and his hazel eyes missed nothing-not the way a Volkswagen misfired, nor the flicker of discomfort in a customer's eyes.

The farm, a sprawling 500 hectares near Secunda, wasn't his by blood, but it felt like home. His father had gotten the job as caretaker in '93, fresh off the ship from Ireland-a subject they never spoke of.

"We came for the sun, lad-it's nice and warm here," his father would say over the braai coals, turning boerewors with a pair of tongs as old as Jaco himself. His mother, with her soft accent that never fully lost its Irish lilt, would nod, her eyes distant, as if listening to ghosts in the wind.

They raised Jaco among the who owned the place-Oom Koos, with his endless tales of Voortrekker journeys, and Tannie Magda, who baked koeksisters that clung to your teeth like sweet tar. Jaco learned to track kudu before he could read, and to swear in three languages by the time he was a teenager. School was a dusty bakkie ride into town, but the real lessons came from the farm's workshop, where his father taught him how to breathe life back into broken Land Cruisers.

These days, Jaco lived in a flat-roofed house on the edge of the farm-the kind with a stoep wide enough for a six-pack of Castle and a sunset view of the lion cub enclosure. He wrestled with cars the same way he wrestled with life's mysteries-fixing old VWs rescued from scrapyards, tuning bakkies to roar like thunder along the N17. Word spread, and soon his reputation as a mechanic grew into a full-fledged workshop in Secunda-an old rented building wedged between a police station and a fuel depot where cars revved and raced on weekends.

"Crazy gears Garage: We fix what breaks your heart," the sign read, painted in flaking yellow letters. He'd laugh when clients quoted it back to him, but deep down, it stung a little. Hearts weren't his specialty.

Lately, though, something inside Jaco had broken-something no wrench could touch. It began small: a crawling itch beneath his skin like stinging nettles after a bushwalk, sharper senses that could pick up the metallic tang of rain two days before it fell, or hear the low growl of a jackal a kilometer away. Then came the dreams-vivid as fever: silver-gray creatures running through mist-shrouded forests that didn't look like Mpumalanga, and voices whispering in a tongue that pulled at his mother's old lullabies.

And then came the voice inside.

Not madness-not quite. It was like a radio tuning in-static at first, then clear as the crunch of a veldskoen on gravel.

Run, it had said during the last full moon, while Jaco paced his house, sweat dripping despite the autumn chill. Hunt. Feel the earth beneath paws.

He'd laughed it off, blamed the Castle Lager. But the next morning, he found claw marks on his kitchen table-deep grooves, like from a large dog. Only, he didn't own one. His father caught him staring at them over breakfast, the smell of coffee thick in the air.

"Everything alright, son?" his father asked, voice rough as sandpaper.

"Ja, Pa. Just... restless." Jaco forced a grin, but his father's gaze lingered, shadowed with something unspoken. They never talked about Ireland-or why they'd left.

"From the pack," his mother had once let slip, half drunk after a jol, before clamping her mouth shut.

Pack of what? Wolves? Jaco had laughed at the time, chalking it up to family oddities. Wolves didn't exist in South Africa-not outside zoos or Oom Koos's long stories.

By midday, the workshop was a symphony of clanging tools and colorful language. His two employees, Sipho and Thabo, wrestled with a rusted Golf's alternator while he bent over a Toyota engine, the sharp scent of brake fluid in his nostrils. The itch was back, crawling up his spine like ants in a termite mound. He straightened, rolled his shoulders-then the bell over the door jingled like a warning.

She walked in like the heatwave that sometimes rolled off the Highveld-sudden, shimmering, impossible to ignore. Mid-twenties, maybe, with sun-streaked blonde hair in a loose braid brushing her shoulders. Her skin was the warm caramel of someone who chased waves at Jeffreys Bay, and her eyes-green as new maize leaves-scanned the reception area with a mix of defiance and uncertainty. She wore faded, dust-smeared boots and a simple white blouse that fit just enough to hint at curves earned from farm work or long walks through nature. In her hand, a bunch of keys jingled like a charm.

"Good afternoon," she said, her Afrikaans soft and sure, like a farmer's daughter's. "My bakkie's acting up again. Can you please help? This is the third time this month."

Jaco wiped his hands, suddenly aware of how grimy the rag felt. "Afternoon, ma'am. What's she doing-coughing like a chain-smoker, or just refusing to start?"

She sighed, handing him the keys. "Won't start. I had it at that place in Trichardt last week-they said it was the battery, charged me an arm and a leg for a new one. Now it's worse."

Her name was Maddelyn du Plessis, she told him as he followed her to the lot where a mud-caked Nissan Hardbody sat like a stubborn challenge. Maddelyn. It suited her-light on the tongue, but with backbone. She was from a farm between Bethal and Ermelo, just before the toll gate, helping her grandfather run it while studying botany online.

"Botany, of all things," she said with a quick grin. "Plants don't lie to you."

He smiled, leaning over the engine bay. "Wish I could say the same for cars."

He worked methodically, the voice in his head quiet for once, soothed by the rhythm of diagnosis. The multimeter's probes danced over terminals, the beeps slicing through silence. Maddelyn watched, arms folded, her presence a low hum that made his skin prickle-not unpleasantly.

"These wires," he muttered after ten minutes, spotting a frayed line near the starter. "Looks like rats had a party. But that's not the main problem." He straightened, meeting her gaze. "Your battery's fine. But they crossed the cables-positive to negative. Classic amateur hour. Cost you a fortune for nothing, and now everything's shorted."

Her face flushed, her green eyes flashed like lightning over the veld. "I swear! Those guys in Trichardt-crooks. Quoting 'labor costs' like I'm made of money. I should've known."

Jaco laughed, low and warm. "Yeah, well, now you're here. I'll fix it-rewire it properly, clean the negative terminal. Five thousand, parts included. Done by sundown."

She tilted her head, studying him like one of her plants-roots and all. "You're crazy. Why so expensive?"

He grinned. "Just kidding. I'll fix it for free. Bring it back for a service next time and we'll call it even."

Maddelyn blushed. "You're a lifesaver, Jaco van der Merwe. How did you get so good at this?"

"Practice," he shrugged, fetching tools. "And a love for the sound of a good engine. Makes the world make sense."

They slipped easily into banter as he worked-she teased him about his grease-streaked arms ("Looks like you wrestled a robot"), he teased her about driving a bakkie older than she was ("Did this thing come off Noah's Ark?"). Maddelyn's laugh was like wind chimes in a breeze-quick and bright-and every time their eyes met, something tugged in his chest, a wild thrill his heart didn't understand.

But beneath it, Maddelyn felt it too-a pull deeper than flirting, like roots reaching for water in dry soil. She wasn't unfamiliar with secrets. Her gifts had awakened young: whispers from the earth, brews that healed fevers or broke curses, visions in tealeaves that left her breathless.

Witches, her grandmother had called them, with a wink and a warning. "Hide it, child. The world is not kind to strange things."

She had learned to keep it buried-to feel the threads of fate without tugging too hard. But Jaco... gods, he was a storm.

As he leaned over the engine, sweat beading at his neck, she felt it stir-a wild pulse, ancient and raw, thrumming beneath his skin. Not human. Not entirely. It called to her like a storm on the horizon, magnetic and untamed, tangling her senses until her fingertips tingled with green fire. She clenched her fists to contain it. What was he? A spirit? A curse? Her curiosity burned, urging her to trace the line of his jaw, to press her palm to his chest and listen to the creature beneath.

She shook it off, blaming the heat-but her cheeks warmed when he looked up, his hazel eyes catching hers with an intensity that mirrored her own.

By late afternoon, the bakkie started on the first turn-smooth as new. Jaco slammed the hood shut, grinning. "She's good to go. Take her for a spin."

Maddelyn turned the key, the engine eager. She climbed out, her face radiant. "Thank you, Jaco. I owe you a drink sometime. There's a braai at my grandpa's farm next weekend-avocados straight from Barberton, none of that store rubbish. You come, or I'll pay you. I don't take freebies."

He hesitated, the itch flaring again, that inner voice stirring like coals in a fresh breeze.

"Her... pack... ours?" it whispered.

Hell, what's happening to me? he thought.

He smirked. "Sounds good, Maddelyn. Not every day a pretty girl invites me over. I'll bring the wors."

"You'll bring nothing," she said, blushing. "I owe you."

As she sped away, waving out the window, Jaco stood in the empty lot, the sun sinking behind the workshop. The clang and chatter of the day had faded; Sipho and Thabo locked up with quick nods. Alone, he felt the change creep in-not the itch this time, but something heavier. His nails ached, lengthening for a heartbeat before snapping back. The voice returned, clearer now, a growl laced with amusement.

"She smells of earth and storm. Is she ours?"

Jaco froze, heart hammering. "What the hell are you?" he whispered into the empty air, the words strange on his tongue.

Far off, in the direction of her fading taillights, Maddelyn gripped the steering wheel tighter, her free hand closing around the amulet at her throat-a mix of curiosity and dread thrumming in her heart. Whatever shadow followed Jaco van der Merwe, it wasn't done with him.

And neither was she.