Page 45 of The Unlikely Spare

That afternoon, the sun beats down with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me wonder if Australia has a secret agenda to cook us all for Christmas dinner. Even the locals look uncomfortable as they mill around the makeshift arena where the Flying Doctors fundraiser is underway.

The main attraction of the afternoon is about to begin—an annual tradition called the Christmas Camel Parade, where decorated camels are presented for judging by this year’s celebrity judge, Prince Nicholas.

“Crowd’s getting bigger,” Blake observes beside me as we scan the perimeter. “At least three hundred more than expected, according to local police.”

“Makes life more complicated,” I reply, eyes never stopping as I scan each face, each movement.

Nicholas is positioned at the judges’ area, looking fresh as a feckin’ daisy in his crisp shirt, as if forty-degree temperatures are a mere inconvenience.

The first decorated camel lumbers into the arena, led by a beaming teenage girl. It’s adorned with tinsel, fairy lights, and what appears to be a miniature sleigh attached to its hump.

Nicholas circles the camel with a contemplative expression. “Magnificent tinsel work,” he says. “The light-to-bauble ratio shows exceptional restraint. Very tasteful.”

I continue scanning the crowd, marking each exit point, each potential vulnerability. The protesters from outside the hotel don’t seem to be present.

But it only takes one nutter to turn a festive event into something far more sinister.

The parade continues with four more elaborately decorated camels, and Nicholas performs his role perfectly.

When a particularly grumpy camel refuses to stand still for judging, Nicholas quips, “I sympathize entirely. I, too, get rather testy when forced to wear tinsel before noon.”

“Potential concern, two o’clock,” Blake murmurs to me. “Man with the camera bag.”

I follow her gaze, observing the subject. Takes me a second, then I ease up. “Press. I recognize him from yesterday’s briefing.”

She nods, but neither of us drops our vigilance.

After the judging concludes, Nicholas announces the winner is a massive beast named Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, adorned with pink feather boas, silver stars, and a miniature disco ball hanging from its hump. The animal looks thoroughly unimpressed with its newfound celebrity as a gangly guy leads it forward to receive the oversized ribbon.

“If the prize is dignity, that poor beast has been robbed,” Blake murmurs.

I snort softly, scanning the crowd again.

Nothing out of place, just families having a fun day out.

Following the presentation, Nicholas is escorted to a small hospitality tent they’ve set up for the royal party. It’s my turn on close security, so I trail him inside, grateful to get out of the feckin’ sun that’s beating down like it’s auditioning for the roleof Satan’s personal space heater. The tent’s nearly empty, aside from a couple of event organizers who leave quick enough when James mentions the prince needs a moment.

I position myself near the entrance, back to the canvas wall, maintaining a line of sight to both Nicholas and the tent’s opening. He pours himself a glass of water, loosening his tie as he scans the room.

“Well, that was certainly one of my more unique royal duties,” he says. “Not every day one gets to critically evaluate festive dromedaries.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I reply.

Nicholas’s head tilts slightly, his eyes gleaming dangerously as he regards me. “You know, O’Connell, that third camel reminded me of someone.”

My adrenaline spikes. Knowing that I’m about to be on the receiving end of Prince Nicholas’s wit causes my body to tense in a way that could be anticipation or self-preservation.

Possibly both.

“Did it?” I respond neutrally.

“Mmm.” Nicholas takes a casual sip of water, still studying me. “Something in the eyes. That particular way of looking at people as if they’re profound disappointments to camelkind.”

Ah, for fuck’s sake.

If I remember rightly, the camel he’s referring to had been a particularly disgruntled-looking specimen with an expression of utter disdain.

“Can’t say I noticed any resemblance, sir.” I keep my voice even.