The Crone's Stone

by S E Holmes

people.

  “It’s okay, really. I’ll let you know if I need you.” He begrudgingly resituated several paces away. I grabbed Smith’s coat and dragged him back down next to me. “Sit, before we draw a crowd!”

  “Wow, Bear! You have grown up in two years. You look …” Smithy appraised me admiringly. “Mind-blowing! Welcome home.” He’d christened me ‘Little Bear’ when we’d first met, after Winnie the Pooh, and over the years it had been shortened to ‘Bear’.

  He wrapped me in a close hug with a second wave of shampoo and manly scent. It was a challenge to breathe. Gently releasing me after a prolonged clinch, he sat back. Every female in the room stared at me with unbridled resentment, including the judge’s new trophy wife. Brianna had sidled over earlier on the pretext of introductions, but finding me no challenge to her model-like proportions had lost interest quickly.

  I shifted uneasily. It wasn’t my fault Smithy was beautiful. He got less scrutiny when he was actively trying to stand out with parrot-hued hair, tattoos and piercings. But all that was gone or discreetly hidden. And I couldn’t shake how invitingly solid he’d felt when we hugged. I loathed the extra attention his presence drew. My hands fidgeted in my lap. Vegas placed one of his over mine to still them, increasing the venomous female stares.

  “How are you, Bear? Words don’t cover how unbelievable it is to see you home. Finally!” He beamed and perfect teeth amped the wattage, causing a collective sigh in the nearby girls gravitating with a purpose towards us.

  “I was fine until the news on potential gastritis. Go away, Smith! I’m not talking to you.”

  “I believe you’re managing so far. And I would have rescued you earlier, but I came in from a run and had to get respectable for your homecoming.”

  “Who says I need to be rescued? You and respectable do not belong in the same sentence. Besides, you’re a magnet for unwanted interest. Here comes Iffy Tiffy and her leeches, no doubt to rope you into ditching decency on the dance floor. Head her off at the pass, and I may be grateful enough to say goodbye when I leave.”

  “You can’t leave. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “I wasn’t too keen on the last thing you showed me.” Adjusting to this new version of a boy I’d known longer than any other person outside my funny little family was also entirely unsettling.

  “I’m not the same as I was then. I want to make it up to you, Bear. Please, let’s start over?”

  Seven

  We’d met on our arrival in the newest of many cities. Smithy and I had forged an immediate and close bond, both odd outcasts, both handicapped by dorky names. His honouring his place of conception and mine because my parents were definitely smoking crack at the time. It was the only explanation, although I didn’t like to speak ill of the dead. Winsome Light! What were they thinking?

  Vegas Smith’s adolescence was more complex than most. After the judge dumped his mother, who ran away to a commune when she lost custody of her baby, Smithy’s father traded a series of wives, each getting younger. The current model was spanking fresh and sat somewhere in her mid-twenties.

  In retaliation, Smithy held everything the judge did in contempt, disfiguring himself with dreadful haircuts in fluorescent shades and owning the churlish ‘emo’ attitude. He rode every parent’s nightmare motorcycle, was into extreme martial arts and bone-shattering parkour. Once, he got staggeringly drunk and urinated on the shag pile in front of the judge’s guests, including two senators and the British Ambassador.

  “What happened to you, Smithy? You’re not hammered, naked or creating a public nuisance. Are there even enough anonymous programmes in existence for you?”

  “Art school! The Judge had his heart set on me graduating in Law and following in the family tradition. Family!” he snorted. “As if that applies. Naturally, I had to disappoint him. If only I’d come up with it sooner. I wouldn’t have had to waste years on all that other stupid stuff.”

  “I’m glad for you, Smithy. Happiness suits you. But I’m still not speaking to you.”

  He grinned and quirked an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

  Having never taken anything I’d ever said seriously, he didn’t look set to start now. Circumstances took a considerable turn for the worse when Tiffany reached our spot.

  “Don’t touch her, Vegas! You’ll get scabies or a tapeworm!”

  Should I have Hugo shoot her? It was very tempting. Possibly just a kneecap.

  Smithy’s smile vanished. “Retract your claws, Tiffany. I’ve had it with your drama. I told the judge to stop inviting you to his events, and you wouldn’t be here if not for your father’s attendance. Apologise to Winsome!” His face blazed and he protectively squeezed my hand.

  “Don’t be angry at me!” Tiffany moped. “My phone’s missing and I didn’t get your calls. You know I’ll always text you back.”

  “I haven’t called you. Or messaged you. Nor will I ever again, unless you say sorry to Winsome.”

  I frowned, addled by Smithy’s sudden re-emergence as a butterfly, rather than the slug I’d come to expect. “Don’t bother, Smith. I can take care of myself.”

  Contrary to what Bea believed, I did not need a saviour. At the sound of my voice, Tiffany puffed up defensively. I knew where this was heading. I had to get away, but my aunt was nowhere in sight. Bodies jostling to a slow beat on the dance floor blocked the view. The moody lighting didn’t help.

  Sensing my desperation, Smith took charge. “We’d better get you out of here before the judge sees you and can’t resist dropping another age bracket in his choice of lady friends.”

  “Truly, it isn’t necessary.” Smith didn’t grasp he was the largest reason for my discomfort. “And Bea would skin your father alive if he so much as breathed at me wrong.”

  “Vegas,” Tiffany pouted. “Come and dance with me!”

  She sashayed forward, holding her hand out like Cleopatra greeting a kneeling suitor. Smith paid her no heed. He nestled closer to speak softly in my ear.

  “You’re a pretty big enticement, Bear. I’m not sure anyone could resist. Besides,” he sat back and peeked at me from beneath long lashes, “I really want you to be the first to see something.”

  Reaching over with a wistful expression, Smithy touched the pink enamelled flower in my hair. My cheeks prickled. From the corner of my vision, Tiffany’s eyes bulged. She slithered over to the neglected food with a dogged expression, scooped a handful of caviar and hurled it at me. Chilled eggs slimed my bare chest, oozing fishily into my cleavage, dripping onto my skirt and splattering Smith’s sleeve. We smelled of beached seaweed on a hot day.

  I sighed and stood. Where the hell was the man mountain? Not that I required his help, but he normally adhered to me like superglue. I turned to scowl at him and he shrugged with a smirk.

  “You didn’t let me know you needed your handbag.”

  I closed my eyes and prayed for patience. “Essence of Beluga. Charming.”

  I’d copped worse and had learned to pick my fights. With the number of wasted rich kids present this had a tinderbox feel to it. Nearby dancers stopped and gawked, their stillness contagious. We were quickly the focus of onlookers. The twins Prue and Priscilla clapped and laughed from the midst of the group. It was easy to get them enthused; their combined shoe sizes outbid their IQs.

  Smith jumped to action, his jaw clenched in angry profile. “Come with me.”

  Hugo made to follow us. Smithy beckoned Prue over as we cut a swathe through the crowd, saying softly, “See that big blond guy?” He pointed at Hugo. She tilted her head, inspecting the target with a cascade of flaxen locks, and nodded eagerly. “He’s a single, straight, multi-millionaire, who loves shopping and Pomeranians. Adores dressing them up in little diamante coats. I’d dibs that special before the stampede.”

  Her face lit up. Seconds later, the persistent twins and a tittering flock of their friends waylaid Hugo. If I wasn’t so busy laughing, I might have felt sorry for him.

  “Th
at should keep him occupied for a bit,” Smithy said with a satisfied nod.

  In the background, someone called, “Hey, there’s a mobile in the punch!”

  We brushed past Tiffany without a word. Her mortified face revealed our departure together was better justice than drowning her phone in vodka and fruit-pulp. If we weren’t enemies before this, the vendetta was now cemented. Smith lightly grasped my elbow and propelled me through the spectators, oblivious of the withering looks I received and the open-mouthed yearning he encouraged.

  “How did you know Hugo wasn’t bluffing about his gun?”

  “You’d never believe me if I told you.”

  “You’d be surprised by what I believe these days.”

  “Guns, plural. And two knives. A small-calibre strapped to his ankle and a knife on his other calf. One big military blade under his shirt on his right hip and a large bore canon in a holster at his back, loaded with hollow-points. He also has knuckle dusters, a garrotte and throwing stars in his pockets. The man’s a walking munitions cache.”

  “But how do you know that?”

  “Um, I could smell the polishing compound and see he was carrying from the way his jacket fell.”

  The answer was as watertight as a sea sponge, and from his shifty look, he knew it. We headed up the curvaceous staircase and along the hall, far away from the delightful Tiffany. I thought of a few more questions, but decided I’d had my fill of cryptic half-baked