by M. J. Hearle
Lamara smiled at him, feeling a little breathless. ‘Yes. Very much so. You have surpassed my expectations. I am deeply grateful.’
At her words, Teodore’s anxious expression relaxed and a smile creased his careworn features. ‘I would do anything you asked of me.’
Lamara reached out and touched his arm. ‘I know, Teodore.’
Their eyes locked briefly, but in that short time Lamara could see a life with this strong, quiet man. Both of them could leave their responsibilities behind. Travel to the west where the sun was lower in the skies and the ground fertile. It would be a happy life, one where she could be a mother, a wife. The farseer no longer.
His mouth worked as though he was trying to say something further, but a noise in the distance distracted them both, ruining the fragile moment. There were horses approaching.
Frowning, she and Teodore turned to see five men wrapped in black cloaks come riding around the bend. Her eyes narrowed in irritation when she saw who led them. It was Ufgar’s successor, Valloch, the high priest.
Valloch had always resented Lamara’s standing in the village, believing that he, and only he, was worthy of speaking for the gods. She suspected he secretly coveted her title as farseer. The scornful way he spoke of her youth and inexperience in the village meetings left little doubt that he felt he was a much more suitable candidate. The village had chosen her though, their decision based on her history with the previous farseer and her undeniable talent for scrying and prophecy. So far, their faith had been rewarded with Lamara’s accurate predictions with regards to crops and harvesting, but it would only take one mistake, one false or inaccurate reading for Valloch to denounce her. Had his moment finally arrived?
Shifting his bulk, Valloch dismounted clumsily from the horse and strode towards them. Teodore stepped protectively in front of Lamara. ‘What brings you to the mountain, Valloch?’
Valloch’s gaze shot past Teodore to Lamara. ‘It is of no concern to you, stonesmith. Our business is with the girl.’
Teodore’s aspect stiffened, his hand went to the hammer hanging from his belt. ‘Then your business is with me. I speak for the farseer and her acolytes and you would be wise to remember my standing when you address me.’
‘Be calm, friend,’ Lamara said softly as she stepped past Teodore. ‘Why do you seek me, high priest?’ she asked cautiously, her gaze jumping from the sword clanging at his hip to his fleshy, pink face.
‘Do not play innocent with me, girl!’ he grunted at her. His eyes went past her to the portal beyond. Visibly awed by the construct, he took a moment to regain his composure. ‘I see for myself the rumours are true.’
‘What rumours are these?’
‘You plan on carrying out this blasphemy! You mean to travel to the other side.’
‘Blasphemy? Where is it written that the gods do not welcome us in their kingdom?’
‘If it were so, then they would give us the means to do so.’
Lamara gestured at the portal. ‘They have.’
Valloch sneered, but his expression wavered as his gaze fell upon the stone rings once more. ‘That construct is the work of arrogance.’
‘I seek only to save my mother’s life.’
‘Her life is in the hands of the gods.’
‘And I’ll see they treat it with proper respect.’
Valloch’s face deepened in colour. ‘It is not for us to question their will. We cannot risk the wrath such an offence might incur. Lamara of the Grey, you will stop this madness.’
‘I will not!’ Lamara said, her voice rising above the wind howling around them.
‘Then we shall stop you,’ Valloch vowed, drawing his sword. The men he’d brought with him drew their weapons and began to advance on Lamara and Teodore.
‘You’ll not touch her!’ Teodore cried, brandishing his hammer.
‘Stand aside, Teodore!’ Valloch commanded, but Teodore ignored him, turning quickly to Lamara. ‘Go, my farseer. Go now!’
Lamara hesitated. She did not wish to see Teodore hurt in her name. ‘Teodore . . .’
‘Please.’ His gaze met hers once more, silently communicating everything left unsaid.
‘May the gods be with you,’ she said, wishing she could say more.
Teodore nodded, and then whirled to face Valloch. Teodore’s apprentices had taken up their hammers and joined the fray.
With the sound of clanging steel at her back, Lamara ran to the portal. As she drew closer she could see her frightened image reflected in the polished black stone, just as she had all those years ago. The face in the reflection was older but the expression the same. Her skin prickled, reacting to the strange heat emanating from it that Teodore had mentioned.
She realised with alarm that she was no longer certain of what was about to happen. The farseer’s agonised scream, her mother’s deathbed warning and her own insecurities swarmed through her mind, causing her to question herself. Could she really go through with this?
A man cried out in pain behind her. She resisted the temptation to see who it was, knowing that if she saw Teodore hurt she would falter. This was her one chance to see if the portal worked, as the farseer had claimed it would. Her one chance to try to save her mother’s life. Valloch would no doubt destroy it, should he break through Teodore’s defensive line.
Her heart pounding, Lamara placed her palms against the smooth surface of the black disc and closed her eyes. The stone felt warm beneath her touch, as though it remembered the fire it had been born from. As the old farseer had instructed her, she concentrated all her willpower on the abstract notion of ‘opening’. There was no hinge, no handle for her to grasp, but if this was a doorway then it must be able to open. She was the Key that would unlock it.
In the background another man cried out, but his voice sounded distant. A slow grinding sound rose above the noise of steel and iron clashing together. Lamara opened her eyes and saw with a surge of excitement the outer ring beginning to move. It was working! The heat from the stone beneath her palms intensified, but she didn’t draw away. Instead, she forced her body to welcome the heat, drawing it in like a dry cloth soaking up water. There is no pain, she told herself, ignoring the persistent memory of the farseer’s terror-stricken features. He had been unworthy. Afraid. Lamara was not.
Now the inner ring began to move, rotating in the opposite direction to the outer ring. The runes carved into the granite surface blurred as the motion quickened.
‘Stop her!’ She heard Valloch yell desperately, but it was too late. The black stone began to shiver and ripple with a weird green light. Its solid surface began to give way beneath her touch – her hands were sinking into the stone as though it had turned to liquid! Her body thrumming with power, Lamara pushed forward, sinking into the stone up to her elbows, her shoulders. She took a deep breath and stepped into the darkness.
Chapter 15
Though the dream was reluctant to let her go, Winter found herself pulled awake by the persistent beeping of her phone. For the first time in many nights, she had not spent hours tormented by the horrors she’d seen on Owl Mountain. Her subconscious had concocted a different scenario, one which was far less disturbing but still left her restless and upset as her eyes fluttered open.
Winter had been flying through the dark skies over Krypthia, possessing in the dream the Demori’s power of flight. It had been an extraordinarily vivid experience, and she could remember clearly the sensation of the warm wind against her face, and the intoxicating scent of the Dead Land’s air. For the first part of the dream she’d been preoccupied with her new-found power of flight, thrilling in the way she could affect her course, dipping and rising, bouncing on the invisible air streams, and then she realised she was not alone.
Someone was flying ahead of her, drifting just above the thick, bulbous clouds lit from the city lights below like vast Chinese lanterns. Their shadow floated along the cloud’s surface, skittering across vaporous hills and valleys.
It was Blake.<
br />
Shifting her course, she aimed towards the distant figure, willing herself to fly faster. Trying to call out his name, she was disappointed to find her voice didn’t work in this realm. The only sound she could hear was the wind rushing by, and the sound of bells chiming somewhere down in Krypthia. Like church bells, only eerily discordant. Slowly she gained on him, drifting ever closer. His grey suit flared out behind him like a cape, almost within arm’s reach and then the beeping had started and the dream lost its hold.
Groggily, she rolled over onto her side to check the message. Sam’s notebook slipped off her chest onto the floor. She’d still been reading it when her eyes had closed, unable to resist the pull of sleep after the evening’s drama had left her exhausted.
The message was from Jasmine and simply read: I’m sorry. Coffee?
Winter put the phone back down, too disorientated to reply immediately. The emotion churned up by the dream lingered, making it difficult to think clearly. She still felt half asleep, the events of last night unreal. Looking over at Blake’s journal drove home that it had all happened. Everything – the vision of Blake, Sidaris and Benedict, Sam’s intervention. Sam’s gift.
Reading about Claudette again had been at turns painful and frightening. She didn’t know what she’d expected to learn in Sam’s transcribed passages, but had been unprepared for such a dramatic entry.
Her eyes flicking nervously across the words, Winter had felt a cold chill creep down the back of her neck. It was all too easy to imagine herself in Ellen’s place, Claudette desperately trying to reach her to satisfy her monstrous cravings. As she’d read further, this fear had dissipated, replaced with an aching pity for Blake’s circumstances. Such loneliness and self-loathing. Before sleep had taken her, Winter’s eyes had been wet with tears and the salt of these tears still dusted her cheeks.
Wiping her face, Winter swung her legs out of bed and stooped to pick up Sam’s notebook.
Sam!
She twisted around and pressed her face against the window. The glass was cool, the morning light not yet strong enough to warm it. Her breath fogged the glass, obscuring the tree outside. She rubbed the condensation away but still couldn’t see the red scarf.
Heart pounding, Winter grabbed her dressing gown and raced out of the room. She took the stairs two at a time down to the garage and ran out the back door into the yard. Frosty grass crackled beneath her feet like broken glass as she circled the tree, searching for the flash of red. Relief flooded through her as she spotted the scarf tied around the bottom branch. Sam had survived the night.
Letting out a deep sigh, Winter untied the scarf. She was stuffing it into her pocket when the voice startled her.
‘Good morning.’
Winter turned and saw Dominic, dressed in the same clothes as the previous evening holding a bunch of green weeds in his hands.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Winter shook her head. ‘It’s okay. Did you sleep well?’ She regretted the question as soon it left her mouth, not really wanting to know what went on in her sister’s bedroom during the night.
Dominic’s cheeks coloured slightly. ‘Yes. Very well, thank you.’ He held up the weeds. ‘I was just picking some rocket.’
So that’s what the weeds were. It was news to Winter that herbs grew in their garden.
‘Why?’
‘Breakfast. I’m going to make omelettes.’
‘Impressive.’
‘It’s the most important meal of the day,’ he replied without a trace of irony. ‘What were you doing out here?’
Winter realised she didn’t have an excuse and her brain, still not fully alert, was unable to manufacture one for her. ‘I wasn’t picking rocket that’s for sure,’ she said, with what she hoped was a friendly grin. ‘Should we get inside? My feet are freezing.’
Dominic didn’t seem to mind that she’d dodged the question. Winter paused before they ascended the staircase back up to the house. ‘Thanks for what you did last night. Helping me out with Lucy.’
Dominic shrugged bashfully. ‘I was young once. Not all that long ago, actually. I know how important secrets can be at your age.’
It was a slightly odd response but she didn’t let it bother her. She had other things to worry about. Namely, Benedict. It was still early morning but the sun had already begun its journey across the sky. Last night it had all just been talk in the kitchen. With her thoughts occupied with Blake it had been easy not to dwell on the task she’d agreed to help Sam with. Murder. It was self-defence, but that didn’t stop her stomach twisting into a knot. Six-thirty would come soon enough.
Chapter 16
She spent the rest of the day trying to avoid clocks. It was hard enough trying to keep her mind off Benedict without being reminded constantly of the passing of time and the approach of her planned rendezvous with Sam. Unfortunately, this was incredibly difficult – Winter never realised just how many clocks there were in the house. There was the microwave with its green digits flashing in the kitchen, the DVD player over the television also showed the time, and there was the clock radio in her bedroom. Even the bathroom had a small hourglass egg-timer-like device which Lucy had bought because both of them were constantly spending too long in the shower and using up the hot water. Winter couldn’t escape time no matter how hard she tried.
It didn’t help matters that she was alone. Dominic left shortly after breakfast (the omelettes he made were amazing, and Winter regretted not being able to eat due to her poor appetite. It had been a long time since anything so tasty had been served in the Adams sisters’ kitchen), and Lucy was called in to the pharmacy to cover for someone who was sick. Usually, Lucy would have kicked up more of a fuss over having to sacrifice her Saturday, but nothing seemed able to shake the smile from her face.
If Winter hadn’t been so preoccupied she would have found her sister’s starry-eyedness sweet (if a little cringe-worthy). Unfortunately she couldn’t share Lucy’s happiness. She kept on seeing the image of Benedict’s cat-like eyes glittering in the darkness. What had she agreed to? Trapping and killing a Demori. The more she thought about it the more suicidal it seemed.
Winter watched television, listened to music, even read some more of Sam’s transcription of Blake’s journal, but nothing could hold her attention for long. The journal entries in fact made things worse. As much melancholic pleasure as she experienced reading Blake’s words, there was an undeniable sense of foreboding shadowing his passages. Reading about Ellen, Winter couldn’t help but remember the dark fate of Carol Oats, murdered by Claudette – the crime the Bane had blamed on Blake. She had a feeling poor Ellen might have suffered a similar fate. The scary thing was Blake seemed aware of this, but remained helpless to change the dark course he and his sister were on.
Eventually, as the time ticked down and the quiet of the house began to get to her, Winter decided she’d had enough. Originally, she’d planned on waiting until Lucy came home to borrow the car, but getting out of the house and walking to meet Sam now seemed a better option. Hopefully the exercise would help her sweat off some of this anxiety she felt creeping over her like an army of ants.
Before leaving, she considered writing a note for Lucy. What could she say? Hey Sis, gone monster hunting. If I’m not back by dinner it’s probably because I had my soul sucked out. Don’t wait up.
Thinking about this, Winter paled. She and Sam wouldn’t fail. Couldn’t fail. It wasn’t just her own life she feared losing, but Blake’s as well. If she died tonight, so did Blake’s chances of being delivered from whatever nightmarish situation he was imprisoned in. Trying to hold this resolution in her mind, use it as some kind of talisman to stave off the fear that threatened to engulf her, Winter set off towards the bluffs; her destination Morningside Cemetery.
Chapter 17
It took her a little more than an hour to reach Morningside’s tall, wrought-iron gates. Mercifully, the carpark was empty – Winter and Sam didn’t need any witnesses tonight
– but part of her had hoped to see Sam’s station wagon. Red scarf or no red scarf, she’d feel a whole lot better once she saw him alive and well again. It was barely past six so there was plenty of time for him to get here. Plenty of time.
The gate creaked softly as she pushed it open, the twin bronze angels mounted on the gate posts stared down at her sightlessly as she passed below.
The cemetery covered the entire hill, rows of tombstones marching down the grassy slope to the cliff’s edge. Beyond the bluff, the ocean was the colour of twilight, dark blue spotted with white caps and bobbing gulls. Winter could hear the waves breaking at the base of the cliff and taste salt in the air. She paused a moment to take in the view, breathing in the sea mist.
Moving into the cemetery, Winter headed towards ‘Pauper’s Lane’, a name she’d overheard two gravediggers discuss during one of her earlier visits. Here was a place where those too poor to afford a tombstone, or those who had less ostentatious ornamentation, were laid to rest. The small cement plaques which all looked the same from a distance were barely wide enough to accommodate the names of those buried below. The dead buried here were robbed not only of life but also of personality, forced to share the same dull concrete slabs, their identity printed plainly. Though it was awful imagining herself buried here, it was almost unbearable knowing that Pauper’s Lane held Blake’s remains.
This was why she’d nominated Morningside as the place to lure Benedict. She guessed there would be less cause for him to be suspicious if she used the lodestone in this location. The Demori had heard her call for Blake before, it stood to reason she would be tempted to make that call again at his grave.
Her eyes jumped between the two inscriptions stamped on the plane brass plates: Unknown Male, Died August 17th, Unknown Female, Died August 17th. Blake and Claudette, brother and sister. She felt a stab of pain pierce the core of her being, her hand going instinctively to the lodestone around her neck.