The Lost Tohunga by David Hair

Refuge, a big old house only a few blocks from Evan’s house. It didn’t seem far enough away. Robyn was speaking but all Hine could think about was that she had only tonight in which to find somewhere to hide before that Evan-thing came looking for her.
    When she stepped from the car, in front of the refuge, her heart fluttered. She shouldered her bag of things, while Robyn went ahead. The street was empty. Tamati was bent over his cop radio. She took a few steps, then looked around as asmall woof sounded in the shadows of the building. Godfrey was there, his tail wagging. She went to the dog, unnoticed by Robyn who was knocking on the door. She knelt, stroking his fur.
    â€˜Hello, lass,’ said a quiet voice, English-sounding, throaty and down to earth, melodious and resonant. ‘I’m Aethlyn Jones. Godfrey and I have come to take you home.’
    She looked up. Standing back from the dog was an old man with a rough whiskery face, a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth, shapeless clothing, and unkempt grey hair. He held out a hand. Godfrey rubbed against her leg, and then walked to Jones and licked his other hand. That decided her, somehow.
    She held out her hand. He took it in his callused but gentle grip, and they walked away down the side of the building, and were gone.
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    Robyn and Tamati searched for her all night. They tried every street, every known place that the girl could have gone to, to no avail. At dawn they issued a missing persons report before getting dressed down by the local police chief for letting the girl out of their sight. But Hine Horatai was gone.

Asher Grieve
    Sunday
    D onna Kyle stared at the mirror, mourning all she had lost. Her once-perfect nose was crooked and scarred; a puckered reddish-pink ridge cut a jagged line across her face. Her skin felt like old paper. The moko on her chin had faded to grey and her lips were bloodless. She turned from the looking glass, unable to bear the beaten visage it held.
    She was in a war, and she was losing. She hadn’t realized how much she had depended upon Puarata’s gifts. He had given her a stream of little trinkets and potions that did this or boosted that. She had once thought it was her skill that had brought her to his side, elevated her above the others. She had imagined herself his most powerful acolyte, but now she knew better.
    I was just his favourite whore.
    When he died, his trinkets had also begun to fade. What did she have left now? The binding words to enslave a few fairy beings of limited power. A little influence among the tipua tribes. The mana of having been Puarata’s woman, such as it was. Little else. She now knew her talents were no better than the others’, no more than even that pig Sebastian Venn’s. Venn!Damn the man! He had taken everything. All that was hers by right, he now held. And damn all those vile men, clubbing together against her. He had bought the loyalty of everyone, turning her into an outcast.
    She had fought tooth and nail, but it had been hopeless. She was no general. She had no money. The bikers and mobsters she managed to woo were nothing against his mercenaries with their fat contracts. Even her supernatural allies failed her. She sent hau hau or tipua, but he countered with settler soldiers, armed with guns and well disciplined. Her forces had disintegrated. Those few apprentices of Puarata’s circle that had joined her were dead. Bryce had fled south after that debacle at Waikaremoana. Weak bastard! Only Kurangaituku still stood by her, and she was mad and utterly untrustworthy. The Ureweras were lost. Venn controlled the Lodge she had once thought of as home. He had legal title to all of Puarata’s property and the manpower to back it up. His pre-eminence among the northern warlocks was undoubted. Bryce still held the South, but he was refusing to aid her. Unless she swore service to him. Never!
    The war went on covertly, nevertheless. Information