The Crone's Stone

by S E Holmes

stopped and he pushed the button to call the lift. Smith peered warily at me, clearly wrestling with curiosity, his lips pursed in disapproval reminiscent of Bea. He heaved a sigh and gave up, facing me while holding me steady with both hands.

  “How?”

  “I think about you. The very first time I saw you in the garage. Your hair was bright pink and your t-shirt had holes in it. You were the grouchiest kid I’d ever seen. But you were still beautiful. You didn’t laugh at my name when Bea introduced us.”

  He grinned, despite my disgrace. “You took your shoes off and walked over to me barefoot. Your feet got filthy in seconds. It looked odd with your expensive designer dress. You hopped right up next to me and sat on the bonnet of the judge’s new Merc, greasing the fender. Bea was furious. I thought you were an angel. You didn’t laugh at my name, either.”

  I gazed longingly up at him. “I love you.”

  He rolled his eyes and laughed. “If I’ve learned only one thing from the judge, it’s never believe the inebriated. Tell me again when you feel better.” Smithy hugged me tight. “As the only straight one here, however, what I have to say counts. I love you, Bear.”

  Then, in affirmation of Karma from two years ago in his freezing shower, I threw up all down his front.

  Twenty-Eight

  A short while later, during which Smithy showered and changed into a full set of pyjamas this time, I lay in a foetal position on my bed with my thundering head in his lap. A towel draped Smithy’s knees and a bucket rested on the bedside table, just in case. Although the only thing left to bring up was bile.

  “I’m really sorry, Smithy,” I mumbled for the umpteenth time from my prone position. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I swear I only had two little glasses. How can anyone do this on purpose? It’s no fun at all!”

  “Don’t sweat it. We’re even now. Besides, I’ve endured much worse from people I like far less. And drinking’s not always about fun. It probably affected you so badly because you hadn’t eaten. Never drink on an empty stomach.”

  He minimised movement so as not to provoke my rebellious stomach. The room slowly revolved and my mouth felt as though I’d eaten a fistful of sand.

  “Do you think you can stay awake long enough for us to suss out what this package contains?” His fingers peeled open to reveal Raphaela’s gift. Wrapped in brown paper and tied by string, it was the size and shape of a large green apple. Oddly, the comparison made me think of the Garden of Eden and I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.

  “There’ll be no sleep until the urge to hurl subsides. I’ve never felt so ill. I thought sea-sickness was bad.”

  Bea stalked into my room, giving me a disdainful onceover. “Just desserts, Winsome. I hope this teaches you never to accept illicit substances from strangers! You are fortunate there is no chance presently to deliver a lengthy, very timely lecture on disobedience. You can expect it at the first opportunity.”

  Mrs Paget and Fortescue filed in at her rear. “In Winsome’s defence, Bea,” Fortescue said. “She was not to know the drink Seth gave her was cinnaber.”

  He dragged my desk chair closer and offered it to Mrs Paget, who gratefully sunk from her feet, Fortescue himself remaining staunchly upright behind.

  Bea perched stiffly on the end of my bed. “Jerome, it does not matter whether the item in question is a puppy or boiled lollies. I would have thought Winsome grasped the concept of stranger-danger long ago.”

  I hated it when they talked about me over my head like I was a two-year-old. But who had the energy to complain?

  “What about if the item in question is a parcel from Raphaela, whom I’ve never met?”

  She ignored my cheek with a cranky huff. “Not to mention contradicting instructions to come straight back after the Temple, once the initiation was complete. When Enoch arrives, I am considering requesting he leave Winsome with an instructive hangover!”

  “I’m already far too familiar with hangovers! Thanks.” I moaned to stress the point.

  Bea was aghast. “Has my faith in you been so misguided? Since when did you become an expert on the effects of alcohol?”

  I would have rolled my eyes, but feared the movement might cause a shooting sliver of misery. “Not my hangovers! I’ve seen Seth’s lifestyle in visions. He seemed perpetually under the weather.” Smithy bristled on hearing his name and I hastily moved on. “And I guarantee I will never drink again. I’m aiming to conserve my only remaining brain cell and avoid cirrhosis of the liver.”

  “I bet that’s not the only thing he wanted to show you,” Smithy muttered. “Fortescue, what did you say that scumbag forced Bear to drink?” Pointing out this was not technically true and I’d been a willing consumer was definitely the wrong fact to share with any of them, especially Smith.

  “Cinnaber,” said Fortescue. “It is made from an ancient recipe that soothes and bestows acceptance in those who are naive to its use. Individuals who regularly partake gain clarity of thought, but only at very low doses. High doses result in total amnesia, higher still – paralysis. Mrs Paget keeps stills for our personal supply. She is a master distiller of potent liqueurs from recipes lost to antiquity.”

  Mrs Paget shrugged modestly. I knew why Seth abused cinnaber, trying in vain as he was to forget his tortured past. And to the numerous suspect dealings of my ever-surprising minders, we added illegal alcohol production. They were bootleggers. I wondered where they kept the vats.

  “Winnie was at his mercy! He could have made her believe anything he says or forget everything he does?” Smithy asked, outraged. “He should be jailed at the bottom of the deepest sea trench and that still wouldn’t be far enough away. Here’s an idea, what about the moon?”

  “Calm yourself, Vegas. Seth can do no damage to Winsome or anyone else while restrained in my artifice,” said a mild, yet authoritative voice.

  I begged to differ and had the DT’s to prove it, which was probably another observation I should keep to myself. Enoch stood framed in the doorway. He was even more nondescript in physical reality, wearing the same immaculate black suit and plain tie. If I looked away, it was impossible to recall the shade of his hair or the colour of his eyes – his features were so utterly indistinguishable.

  “Bear has defences you do not, Vegas. She will not sustain a lasting bewitchment. However, we must not let him in your head,” Enoch said. “He has come too close already, even if through Winnie’s eyes.”

  “Pardus maculas non deponit!” said Fortescue.

  “The leopard does not change its spots,” I translated.

  “Gold star, Winsome!”

  My butler was clearly delighted that his worst student of European languages, who could faithfully swear in several tongues but mangled anything more demanding, had developed a new talent for Latin.

  Enoch wasn’t as easily impressed. “Seth can be a threat, but I beg you not to view him as the enemy. Of all of us, he is the direst victim of Finesse’s machinations. He deserves our compassion. Our true rivals will make themselves known soon enough.”

  I did not need to see Smithy’s face to know this advice would earn a sulky pout. Bea straightened, her countenance as hard as diamonds.

  “Are you Enoch ‘the blind and inept’ Watcher?” she asked softly. “Seth and Raphaela cavorted under your nose for undetermined years. You did nothing, despite the obvious threat to all the Sacred Trinity has stood for across centuries of sacrifice. The time is nigh for you to pick a side, Enoch. I will not have my grand-niece jeopardised further by your equivocation.”

  Ouch! Bea was more furious at him than she’d been at me for my intoxication.

  Mrs Paget turned to Enoch. “I concur.” Fortescue nodded once, firmly.

  Sighing resignedly, Enoch braved their united hostility and entered my room, coming to stand at the end of my bed. Without breaking eye contact with any of the others, he gave me a sad smile. It was as though he had five faces. The throbbing pain in my head and nausea instantly lifted.

  “
As I have asserted in the past, I am not infallible. Raphaela’s skill grew beyond my capacity to see. I cannot observe your path at all, young Keeper. From this point forward we are not forewarned by my prediction.”

  Bea massaged the bridge of her nose. “It appears you really are Enoch the blind. Can you monitor the whereabouts of the Crone, still?”

  “Her activities will always be my purview. I fear the occasion for hiding has passed. You, Winsome, must find a way to best her, or we are all condemned.”

  “No pressure then,” I said.

  “I may not be able to predict the future, but I can sense the other Bloods descending on Sydney like a biblical pestilence,” a voice rang from the doorway.

  “Hugo!” I leaped out of bed and ran to hug him. He was solid and broader than a huge redwood, looking none the worse for his ordeal. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  He returned the embrace with gusto, almost snapping my spine. “It is wonderful to be back, Dumpling.”

  “You’ve been keeping secrets from me, Hugo!”

  A guilty look appeared on his face, as I crossed back to bed and snuggled against Smith. They exchanged a grudging nod. Bea’s set expression indicated she was not done with Hugo’s account of events. He loitered in the doorframe, keeping his distance, and sensible enough to realise no amount of muscle would protect him from what he had coming. I did not envy him a night spent in interrogation with my enraged great-aunt.

  Smith dropped the parcel into my palm with a loaded look. As soon as he did so, whatever was inside sent a hum through my veins, a tingle of vital, pulsing energy up my arms. Unburdened by a hangover, I could feel the power speaking to me, almost as clearly as I often heard the whispers of past Keepers in my mind. The message was one of urgency and … incompleteness, as though the contents were missing an essential part.

  “Shall we open Raphaela’s gift?” I tugged at the string, eager to understand the puzzle within.

  Mrs Paget gasped at a hint of gold, as I peeled away layers of paper. Everyone’s gaze turned to her shocked but excited face.

  “It cannot be,” she said, as the final layer came free. Nestled within the wrapping cupped in my hands like an open flower, was a triangular trinket box made of gold and studded rubies, covered in the now familiar repulsive demon carvings. “To shield!”

  Smithy leaned closer to ask in an undertone, “Keeper’s motto, or something?”

  I shushed him and spoke directly to Mrs Paget. “The Amulet?”

  She nodded vigorously. On its top was a Delta, the central area within the triangle free of engravings. The box seemed to be hollow, but I could not find a way to open it. I gave it a couple of experimental twists and tugs, but it was a wasted effort.

  I inspected the trinket box in minute detail. There had to be a secret catch. There was not a sound in the room, the tension palpable. I rubbed the smoothness inside the triangle on top, clasping the bottom and pushing my thumb into the middle. There was a chink as the inner part sunk inwards and a split travelled around the top to form a lid that could be pried free. Rotating the cap, it came off in my hand, a thick wedge of folded parchment underneath the rim. I set the sheaf aside on my doona.

  Inside were two red-velvet lined compartments. Mrs Paget impatiently thrummed her fingers on her knee. One section held a small piece of petrified bone, so worn by time that I could not determine its species or anatomy of origin. The other section contained a pendant. Pulling it out, I held it up for all to see: a heavy rope spun from gold with a downward-pointing triangle the size of my palm. Inside the triangle dangled a large, round ruby.

  “The Amulet indeed,” Bea said, astonished.

  Smithy’s face clouded. “Er, not to sound remedial, but what does having the Amulet mean?”

  “At the moment, we are only truly protected from exposure by our enemies if we remain within the defensive wards of this warehouse,” Bea explained. “We have never before, since the very first Keeper was charged with guarding the Stone, been so vulnerable to its corrosion. Because there has never been a gap in the Keeper’s mastery over the Stone, the line has remained unbroken for over a thousand years. This Amulet shields us and allows freedom of movement outside, until Winsome can recover her birthright and master the Stone in a sacred Claiming Ritual. The Amulet’s power also provides a temporary solution to the problem of our waning health.”

  Enoch continued. “Not only that, but without your predecessor, Winsome, there can be no transference of powers from the ancestral line. Raphaela was your only access to this history and talent. We must find another way to conduct the Ritual.”

  “How, Enoch? How did she find the Amulet?” Mrs Paget said. “It was lost, along with the other two articles.”

  “The answer is of utmost importance. I shall find out what I can. We may need to send one of you to Lafayette to search the grounds of Raphaela’s house.”

  We lapsed into silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Smithy’s hand reached for mine, his heat reassuring.

  “Winsome, you must wear the Amulet to activate its power.”

  I had never been partial to Snoop Dogg’s bling, nor to jewellery capable of puncturing my chest, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I reluctantly placed the long chain over my head and watched in amazement as it shrunk to a dainty size and twisted so the V sat comfortably between my breasts. It was actually very pretty. The Amulet vibrated and grew so warm that I feared it might burn me.

  “Bear!” Smith murmured. “Look.”

  We stared at my minders. The years fell away from all three of them, so fast that within several blinks they stood before us with unbowed backs, strong bodies, plumper complexions and features glowing with relief.

  Bea smiled broadly. Her fingers, which were no longer crooked with arthritis, smoothed her lustrous auburn bob. “I have not before so thoroughly appreciated never having to dye my hair.”

  Enoch prepared to depart, addressing me. “The Amulet will not come off unless you deliberately remove it.” I had no intention of ever taking it off, if the Keeper’s jewellery could buy Bea and Mrs Paget and Fortescue enough time to fix this mess.

  “And Winsome, you are Raphaela’s sole beneficiary. She left her entire estate to the last Keeper. The paperwork awaits downtown at Bea’s offices. Do not delay. There is much to do and little time, before our enemies gather in Sydney. Let wisdom and providence guide you.”

  “Wait!”

  “Yes, Winsome?”

  “If the Amulet’s protection is fleeting, how long do we have?”

  “You have a week or two before the effects wear off and your guardians’ physical condition returns to this extent of deterioration.”

  He blessed us all with a flash of brilliance and then was gone. A week? So little time! Enoch’s final message was only for me; the words echoed despairingly in my mind. “Singly they stand afore the onslaught. Guard your heart, Winsome. The Keeper stands alone.”

  Bea rose. “At first light tomorrow, we shall outline our strategy for Louisiana. It will be a tricky endeavour, given Anathema no doubt crawl the surrounds of Raphaela’s property on the hunt for their mistress. It is time for you both to begin your training.”

  She kissed Smithy and me on the cheek, before Mrs Paget took her turn to do the same and then left the room with Hugo. He blew me a jaunty kiss on the way out and Smith scowled murderously. In reply, Hugo blew him a kiss too. Surprisingly, Fortescue lingered to hug me hard and gruffly shook Smith’s hand prior to joining the others. Aunt Bea paused briefly in the corridor, her finger raised in reprimand.

  “I mean it! Sleep only.” She shut the door.

  “I can’t believe Aunt Bea trusts me to do as she says. After all the rules I’ve broken.”

  “She doesn’t trust you, Bear. She trusts me.” He winked and I burst into laughter, getting comfortable in his arms.

  “We’re in serious trouble, if you’re the yardstick for reliability.” I played with a button on his pyjama top. “
You never did tell me what you usually wear to bed.”

  His eyes twinkled with mischief, fingers caressing my cheek. “Nothing.”

  “I’d like to see that!” I said. He didn’t stop me as I traced the chiselled contour of his chest and undid the top button.

  “I rest my case,” he said huskily. “You’re the on who’s going to get us into serious trouble, Bear.”

  It was true. Us. Enoch’s words flashed my brain and I pulled my hand away.

  Smith frowned, clearly disappointed. “What’s wrong?”

  “A Keeper stands alone, Vegas. I’m a danger to all of you. Once I’ve claimed that Stone, I’ll have to go.”

  He appeared genuinely bewildered. “Go where?”

  “I don’t know. Away from you, away from Bea and Mrs Paget and Fortescue. Away from anyone who’ll get hurt.”

  “Bear, how many schools have you been kicked out of?”

  “Pardon?” He didn’t seem to be taking my decision to leave at all appropriately. I’d expected a heated objection and was more than slightly miffed. I tried to put distance between us, but he just scooted closer.

  Smoothing my cranky brow with his fingertips, he said gently, “Humour me. Please.”

  “I lost count after exhausting all my fingers.”

  He smirked, the feel of him a temptation difficult to fight. “And how many laws, regulations, curfews, municipal ordinances, public offences, heavenly virtues, sins and so on, have I broken or committed?”

  “Well, we’d have to line up everyone who lives in the warehouse, including the cats, count all their fingers, toes and collective limbs and it probably still wouldn’t be sufficient.”

  “You didn’t have to agree quite so enthusiastically.” He hurried on in response to my dark expression. “Do you remember when the judge threw that cocktails-and-grovelling session for his uptight legal leeches? We mortified him by sabotaging the DJ and moshing to The Prodigy’s ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.”

  “I thought it was Marilyn Manson. The judge’s junior clerk quit. He must’ve been more the Hillsong type.”

  We’d pogoed wildly about beneath the banner advertising the evening’s theme: ‘Twenty-five years maintaining political correctness in the courts’. After a few too many, Judge Bennet had thrown off his suit and joined us on the dance floor, tie about his forehead, gigantic, hairy pot-belly jiggling over his Y-fronts.

  “How about the legendary Ruby Tuesday incident? Man! That still cracks me up.”

  We’d exploited my horrific lack of singing talent at one of Bea’s relic auctions at the Sydney Museum. These evenings were always packed with pretentious bores in tuxedos and tiaras. Smithy played piano as I stepped to the microphone. It was highly amusing as everyone pretended to enjoy my performance – optimistically likened to beating a bag of possums – because Bea had made a generous bequest to the museum. She’d pronounced it the highlight of the evening.

  “Yes, and? Aside