The Crone's Stone

by S E Holmes

continued the pattern of interconnected symbols from outside, was another golden Delta triangle.

  This one took up most of the floor’s surface area and sat underneath a thin transparent layer. It was big enough to clearly discern the cryptographs crowding the inner frame. The signs reminded me of Egyptian hieroglyphs, telling a story with stylised pictures.

  The Delta glowed brighter with my approach. Three embossed metallic discs the size of dinner plates sat outside its perimeter, halfway along each side and flush with the parquetry. The entire scene was eerily familiar; it mimicked the arrangement Raphaela had died in. The bronze caps that rested on the floor were situated as her black candles had been. They melted away when I neared, allowing me to peer through into submerged white-lit bowls.

  I knelt to look. Suspended within the container closest to me was the ritual dagger, its wavy blade now sparkling and free of blood. I crawled around to the next glistening orb; it held a ruby-encrusted golden goblet. The last was a set of old-fashioned scales, also gold and decorated on its stem and base with red gems. The Keeper’s diary could have enlightened me as to their function, but I’d neglected to bring it.

  As if in response to my unspoken query, a shaft of light shone from above to illuminate a circle within the triangle. I gazed upwards and noticed an oculus in the dome, a sun-drenched round opening submerged beneath a multi-storeyed building, which spot-lit the Diary floating overhead. On a hunch, I reached for the book. It hovered into my open palms.

  A disbelieving little voice nagged in my head, telling me I’d finally shattered reality with this fantasy. Or was it a horror story? But I could not let negative thoughts intrude; I’d never succeed otherwise. Attending the diary in my hands, it fell open to a page entitled: Objects of the Sacred Trinity. The print read:

  ‘There are six principle articles. The Scabior Blade, for protection. The Chalice, for sight. The Balance, for truth. The Irons, to hold. The Amulet, to shield. The Sceptre, to bind. Each confers power in accord with the requirements of the Sacred Trinity. Together they form the Keeper’s Key, to open.’

  Most uninformative! And someone couldn’t count. There were only three articles present, the blade, the cup and the scales. As if sensing my discontent, the diary soared back to its airborne position like a spurned bird, disappearing as the light beaming via the oculus faded.

  “Same to you!” I muttered.

  None the wiser, I knew where information on reversing my guardians’ disintegration could be found. My skin prickled with apprehension – it was time to visit Seth. The main barrier was the fact his location remained a mystery. Disobeying Aunt Bea yet again was as appealing as barbequed rat, but I had a hunch that demanded I break my pledge of a hasty return. And forced the disappointing admission that keeping promises wasn’t my best trait. I left the chamber with no clear direction in mind, glancing up and down the long corridor. Cherish and Vovo got to their paws from their vigil in front of each pillar, stretching placidly before slinking towards the elevator.

  Six other doors lined the wall facing the chamber’s entrance. I knew Seth was not behind any of them, as if the intimacies – and the horrors – we’d shared forged a bond drawing me to him. It was not until I focused my attention to the right, at the end of the hallway opposite the lift that an anomaly caught my eye. Instead of a door, a plain white plaster alcove stood there, hung with delicate white mesh that fluttered on a faint breeze from within. Sunshine flickered behind the netting. It looked like no jail I could imagine, but I knew instantly this was the place.

  The cats paused almost at the lift, hissing their disapproval when I turned from them towards Seth’s new residence. They refused to accompany me further along the way. I reached the arch, my breathing erratic. The floor warmed my bare feet and the scent of frangipanis permeated the air. I cleared my throat and searched for somewhere to knock.

  “Enter!” That memorable voice sent a panicky wave through me.

  I hastily dropped my fist and strove for a shred of self-discipline. Delaying while the jumpiness settled, I prayed his hold over me was neutralised by incarceration.

  “I hope you didn’t change your mind.” Seth suddenly smiled alluringly at me from behind the sheer fabric.

  Could beauty blind? I’d mistakenly believed his influence over me would be absent while exiled here. He was thoroughly relaxed and casually attired, wearing a light pair of three-quarter pants and an unbuttoned, sleeveless shirt that hung open and exposed a chest worthy of Michelangelo. He chuckled smugly on catching me gawking and beckoned me in, vanishing into his room.

  His nonchalance bothered me more than I could stand, sparking the single weapon I possessed. Fury. I reefed aside the flimsy material and stalked across an expansive, modern apartment, too hell-bent on punishing him for amazement.

  “Hey, you!”

  Seth turned in slow motion, surprise evident in his stance. I steamrollered him, shoving as hard as I could and using the momentum to follow through and punch him in the gut. He expelled a gust with a slight “Oof” – not the agonising groan I’d hoped for – and reeled backwards a couple of steps. He righted himself prior to hitting the deck. Damn! I wish I drove a real steamroller, or maybe a crane with a wrecking ball.

  “You’d better have answers for me or I’ll let the cats in, and they’re immune to synthetic charm!”

  “I am not permitted to touch you. You, however, may handle me in whatever manner you see fit. That was not what I had in mind.”

  “I don’t care one speck about what’s in your depraved head. I want you to tell me how to claim that forsaken Stone with Finesse trapped in the Delta. My guardians are dying and you’re going to help me save them.”

  “I cannot.”

  “I know Raphaela had a plan. And I know you are fully informed of what that plan is.” I rolled my fists and adopted a fighter’s stance. His lips thinned in suppressed amusement and he raised his hands.

  “I surrender. I cannot help you as you ask, because the witch sets the agenda. She must find her way out of the trap Raphaela set for her. You must be ready to claim the Stone when that happens. But that does not mean I cannot help you at all. Come, sit. We shall discuss it in civilised fashion, not as brawling savages.”

  Civilised? This guy was outrageous and lacking any appreciation of irony. The muscles along my jaw ached from clenching them and my nails dug into my palms.

  “I don’t have time for a polite chinwag. Especially from someone who only hours ago used me as a mattress and threatened to suffocate me with sex!”

  I should not have said it! As soon as the utterance breached my lips, those memories surged back. Traitorous hormones danced a smouldering Latin beat in my belly. I would have an intercom installed, so we could converse without ever having to be in close quarters. I refused to be disloyal to Smith and grounded myself with the memory of him leaning against the banister outside my room, the night he took me to dinner. Was that truly only last night?

  Seth’s expression turned serious, possibly even understanding. “Please, follow me. I have something that will help.”

  I followed Seth, looking at my surroundings properly for the first time. My capacity for utter amazement still had scope. Seth’s cell was a better prison than my wildest fantasies could invent – and they’d been working overtime recently.

  Impossibly, we were in a large, glass-walled apartment sparsely decorated by sleek white furniture, the white walls only interrupted by paintings of the avant-garde school. The Picasso looked suspiciously real and therefore, priceless. We headed across an open-plan expanse of pale-blond polished floorboards and out onto a shaded terrace which ran the length of the room. Glorious crimson flowers draped from the eaves.

  The villa perched on a lushly gardened hill, overlooking a private beach that hugged a shimmering bay. The midmorning view stunned me, with iridescent water meeting cerulean sky as far as the eye could see. Two wide white-leather sunlounges were oriented to take advantage of the spectacular cove, whic
h reminded of a Greek Island.

  “Sit, please. Make yourself at home.”

  Seth busied himself at a wet bar, tinkling glasses and preparing appetisers – the perfect jailbird host. I sank onto one of the recliners and stared in awe at this parallel reality, too dazed by the island-in-a-basement concept to concentrate on Seth or the task I’d set myself of saving my guardians.

  “Enoch’s very good, isn’t he?” Seth inquired conversationally, as he carried the tray over and deposited it between us on a side table.

  He must be the last of our group: Enoch was the Watcher. “You’ve seen him?”

  “He roused me on arrival and requested I choose my ideal lockup. Of course, I thought it was a joke. He showed me otherwise by delivering all I asked. I certainly felt foolish for doubting him.”

  “Enoch did this? He’s here in the warehouse?”

  Seth spread his muscled arms wide in proof and sighed happily. He was not the same menacing enemy from the boat, who chased Smithy and me through the streets with deathly intent. The same cold beast set upon negotiating with our lives as bargaining chips. It almost seemed as though he didn’t remember his vow to murder me. Was he schizophrenic?

  His shirt wafted open in a stray gust, revealing more of his chest and nailing my attention. I jerked my focus away and silently raged at myself. I had