by S E Holmes
she left the warehouse? It must have only been hours ago, but seemed like days.
“None of my grubby tricks surpass your foul talents, little leech,” he murmured. “Your special gift for genocide. And of course, self-righteous hypocrisy.”
Genocide? “What are you talking about?” I rasped, battling the white-hot throb in my chest. I kept my hands balled in fists by my sides, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.
He narrowed those dazzling ice-chip eyes at me. Somehow, the more time I spent in his company, the less attractive I found him. Tilting his head he asked, “Could it be that you truly do not know what you are?”
I had the strong impression my current ignorance was a blessing. But I was so sick of operating blind. “Tell me! I have to know.”
Seth peered at me, the faintest tremor of sympathy crossing his features. If that didn’t make my stomach drop, nothing would.
“Keeper, you don’t know what you ask. You offer me a better way to torture you than anything I could contrive.”
Why could I never shut my mouth?
Twenty-Three
“You harvest years from anyone born into the Trinity. But not from the core members, who are immune. Providing, of course, the Stone is not free to destroy this fragile balance.”
Seth looked far less fierce, like his passion for the hunt had dissolved. He imparted the information flatly. I wasn’t sure I understood. Although interrupting seemed a poor idea, I had to ask.
“Who are the core members?”
“Your ignorance is breathtaking.” He looked at me with disdain. “The core is made up of the only ones left, of course. The most powerful feed off the lives accumulated to extend their own survival. As things stand now, those years slip fast through the hourglass. Raphaela has trapped the Crone in the Delta gate, blocking your single access to the Keeper’s full inheritance. You cannot perform the claiming ritual. The Stone is beyond your mastery now. Its unchecked power grows, draining the strength of the feeble Trinity.”
So Smithy was right about the poisonous Stone killing my guardians. Unless I found a way to claim that accursed Stone, and quickly, they would certainly die. Despite the evidence, I just could not believe Raphaela had damned her family in such a way. She seemed to be trying to give us an advantage, to help us when the outcome looked bleak. Not corner us with no way out. Given I was all that stood between the Crone and victory, a smart, experienced Keeper would have put in place a contingency plan. Surely?
Or was I just naive and desperate? It was so hard to think with him hovering over me, aggravated by my tender chest, which had settled into the dull clout of a ten-pound hammer. Why didn’t Seth simply wait until the Stone eventually revealed itself? I’d be done for then, without presenting an obstacle. This whole kidnapping thing seemed off kilter compared to what I’d seen in my visions. His last words to Raphaela before he ran from her home echoed back to me, “… Stick to the plan. Protect the Stone.”
That other word ‘Delta’ had surfaced again and I wished I’d taken the opportunity to ask Fortescue about it at the warehouse. Really, in hindsight I wished I’d taken the opportunity to do many sensible things, none of which would lead to this ordeal.
“What does harvest years actually mean?” I asked.
Seth grimaced. It was kind of comical on one so striking. “I cannot believe I am tasked with educating you.”
“Someone has to.”
Evidently, he agreed. “Every person on the planet has a destined death date. When an ancestor of the original Triplicate dies early, the remainder of their years pass to the Trinity vault. It is like a bank of time, allowing the most potent Trinity members to drawer upon the deposited wealth and thwart the aging process. Thus, a select few live far beyond their own death dates. It is necessary to correct the imbalance between good and evil that the Stone brings to this natural plain. Those best suited to the fight, live. The rest … fail to endure. It is lucky you come from fertile stock.”
I nearly gave in to the urge to punch Seth. Instead, I stared at the beige-flecked tile, ignoring the discomfort of the freezing floor. The consequences of this knowledge settled like a yoke upon my shoulders.
“Otherwise, the limited lifespan of the Crone’s enemies would end the contest without her lifting a finger. For she is animated by a far stronger, otherworldly force and cannot die while her Stone exists. The cosmos it seems, does not favour a monopoly.”
How many years had my parents sacrificed to the cause? If their true death dates were around the average mortality of eighty years old, the amount left over from dying in their early twenties was about sixty years each. Shiloh and Isaiah were taken before the bloom of youth had faded because they weren’t strong enough.
And because their daughter was a parasite, a bloated tick feasting on the dismal fates of others. Their dreadful deaths plagued my mind. I pressed my hands hard against my temples, until white spots appeared. Fanny had drowned, probably alone in a filthy cot, the fluids of infection swallowing her lungs. Fortescue’s wife and their baby, Mrs Paget and Aunt Bea’s husbands, that chart was huge and filled with hundreds of names.
How could I live with what I was? The infernal years would stretch out endlessly, each a testament to the murder of an innocent. That is, if I survived Seth’s games. How did my guardians stand the noose of blame?
“I should be called the reaper, not a Keeper,” I whispered. “I don’t want this!”
Seth had offered me a way out. But what happened then, to those left behind?
“Welcome to my world. Anathema have awaited this day, to return the Stone to Mistress Apollyon. When Finesse shatters her bondage, her wrath will be immeasurable. She will devastate you and yours like the coming of the Apocalypse. The Crone will have her way with history. None of you will ever have existed … after she has played with you at her leisure.”
“And if I fight?” I asked half-heartedly.
“A Keeper’s talents are stealth, subterfuge, concealment and – if push comes to shove – evasion. Not ideal for confrontation.”
Seth appeared to enjoy tormenting me. Smithy had been right not to trust him, regardless of how Finesse had treated him. I wondered why Raphaela had put her faith in the Crone’s enforcer. He wasn’t invested in helping her, and by extension us, at all.
“You are too weak.” He forged on. “It is clear the Trinity have failed you, keeping you blind and untrained. You are doomed, little Keeper, and nothing stands in her way.” I scowled, irritated that my guardians had left me so vulnerable. Yet, hadn’t Mrs Paget told me I was not completely powerless? “Do I detect the seeds of rebelliousness budding on that pretty face? We must do something about those delusions of competence.”
“You really know how to flatter a girl.”
“I don’t need flattery to get everything I want.” The smile he gave me was so luminous it had to be genuine.
I wasn’t fooled. “You should be on the stage.”
After a prolonged, withering look, he bent to me and began to trace a tiny circle on the top of my knee with his forefinger. I recoiled as far as the wall allowed, horribly engrossed as he stopped and floated his fingertip millimetres above my skin.
At first, it seemed as though nothing happened. But as I squinted, tiny black tendrils the width of hairs wriggled across the gap. I tried to jump away, but Seth simply shook his head. My body went rigid again. Still attached to him, they began to penetrate the fleshy part above my kneecap. At first, they felt like a lover’s caress, soft and tickling. Little by little, pinpricks jabbed until a thousand stinging needles centred in one spot.
“Please, inform me how you intend to fight when you have no clue of what you’re up against. How long do you think it would take me to learn all of your secrets? Your name?”
I ground my teeth against the onslaught. My knee quickly turned a disgusting mottled green-grey, black lines branching under the surface in tunnelling capillaries. The stench of rotting flesh invaded the air – my rott
ing flesh! They travelled outwards like the bigger ones that had infiltrated the bathroom earlier. Every vicious strand was a boiling sear, ripping muscle. I silently chanted it was all in my mind until the tide of agony became too great.
Inching my face closer – the only mobile bit of me – I stared straight at him, speaking through gritted teeth. “I’m used to bullies. Do your worst.” The defiance took every ounce of energy.
God it hurt. My head lolled to the side. I stifled a whimper, a tear squeezing onto my cheek. Seth would not win: I swore not to scream. He played with my head. An excruciating burn raced for my ankle and thigh and I’d happily pass out soon. If I wasn’t at his mercy now, that would seal the deal.
Trapped in a perfect storm of pain, a blur of names filled my mind listing all who’d gone too early, laying waste to my past and blighting my future. Bea, Mrs Paget, Fortescue and Smithy weren’t to blame, nor was I. We needed to survive. Who else would wreak vengeance for the lives stolen? Awareness crystallised into a hard knot of resolve.
“I told you before,” I said, mentally testing the boundaries of his hold. The pain eased slightly and gave me strength. He deemed me pitiful. I’d prove him wrong. “Get out of my brain.”
His torture ended abruptly, the relief intense. I blinked moisture from my eyes and peeked at my leg. Aside from goosebumps, the flesh was unmarked. Seth regarded