by S E Holmes
“I’m trying.” He madly worked the controls. “I can’t navigate in the windstorm he’s creating.”
The view on the TV veered wildly, offering glimpses of Tiffany’s shocked face, Riven rolling his eyes irritably and Priscilla. She stood with fists balled, her features set in a look that forecast she didn’t believe the ‘detective’ charade at all. With a fraught swing and a blur of red leather, Quint bashed Buzz against the table. After a wail of tinny feedback, the image went dead.
Andie pressed her hands over her face. “No!”
“What is wrong with you, stupid little man?” Rebel’s voice came faintly through their speakers. There was protracted rustling. “Look. It is just an insect. Wait a minute … Is that?”
Riven spoke. “What type of bee has shiny silver parts?”
The crackling reached a crescendo, and then, nothing. Bea pinched the bridge of her nose so firmly that when she removed her fingers, the skin had blanched. She looked physically robust and renewed by the Ritual, but the slump of her shoulders conveyed defeat.
“He has insinuated himself with the girl,” she said.
“That was fast,” Bickles said. “He must be a real lady-killer.”
“A most unfortunate choice of phrase,” Hugo said. “Grooming this Tiffany will momentarily focus their interest. But they are closer than ever before to their prey.”
“Don’t you dare call Bear prey!” Vee spat.
“I have fears for Priscilla,” Bea said. “She is poised to make trouble for them.”
“And they know about Buzz,” Andie cried. “I can’t even begin to guess the repercussions. Anyone remotely associated with robotics engineering and programming should recognise our work.”
Hud looked over at Winnie, incapacitated and oblivious to the litany of disasters overwhelming her family. No one aired the obvious. What hope was there? If they couldn’t find a way to help the last Keeper, the witch would wrest her Stone back without challenge.
Mrs Paget spoke, “Wipe their memories. All of them.”
“Wait a minute,” Hud said. “You want us to get close enough to those knife-twins to … what? Dabble in a little brain surgery? We just burned down Andie’s house to avoid leaving scent or whatever. Now we’re going to waltz into the seethers’ line of fire?” Hud shuddered and he’d only seen the artificial version. Not a single job on the lengthening list seemed doable.
“Desperate times …” Bea trailed off.
Mrs Paget lofted a small atomiser, plucked from her pinafore pocket. “Concentrated cinnaber. A few sprays to the face and amnesia for the past several weeks will occur. They will forget Tate was ever in Sydney and wake up to find themselves on holiday.”
“We cannot be sure your potions will work on members of Anathema, Grace. They have their own methods of self-protection,” Daniel said.
“Do you have a better strategy, black-hearted maggot?” Fortescue challenged from the sink through the servery, dishcloth in hand. His tone held a warning for Daniel to behave. “Loose ends will unravel us.”
Hugo abruptly chuckled. “If it works, the plan is exceptional in one respect, to add to the obvious. The witch will not appreciate her staff sunbaking during so crucial a period.”
Daniel nodded and joined his friend in laughter. Hud’s suspicion grew; they were both far too relaxed about foolhardy risks that all but painted a giant bullseye for the enemies’ sights.
Twenty-One
These rolling fields were well tended, the fences surrounding them etched with the mark of someone high in the aristocracy or in favour with the king. She knew from the size of the deer and wolf hides nailed out to cure – even one from a huge brown bear – that a man lived in the homestead she now sought. A powerful, virile man. Could she have finally found a worthy coupling, here on this pitiful dung-heap world? Her true love was ripped from her forever, but she craved. Just once, she would remove the precious gift, sate her desire, quench the inferno raging within, and endure her loneliness ever after. Just once, she told herself.
And without his mirror, her husband could not see.
She hummed tunelessly to herself as she neared the abode, the eager squeals of an infant girl inside like needles to her heightened hearing. As she passed, chittering birds fell silent in the trees and the trill of insects ceased. A woman scolded from within, but there was no masculine counterpoint. Finesse grasped these feminine voices belonged to his family, competition for her affection. A pair of fine chestnut mares hitched to a wagon by a well in the courtyard, chewed placidly from feed bags, flicking their tails to swat flies.
She lingered by the gatepost offering entry between two sown fields, wheat flowing in ripe, golden waves under dawn sunbeams. This was a rich, fertile place where her most-hated enemy thrived. Where was the master of the manor? Surely he would not let them travel alone? He would be nearby, tending crops before their journey. Finesse grew weary of walking. She grew weary of many things. She waited, until the door flung wide and his beautiful flaxen-haired wife, heavy with another child, and tiny daughter appeared. The jagged envy Finesse carried always unfurled. Its ravenous snout sniffed an adversary and bared pointed teeth. And the birth of another was imminent. She could sense the tiny spirit writhing to break free – a boy this time.
“Husband?” the exquisite woman called. If she was the equal of her mate, he would truly be something to feast upon. “She waits at the tavern. We are ready to leave, my love.”
His deep voice echoed faintly back from the edge of the forest, behind the house. She started with shock; he sounded familiar. Her excitement mounting, Finesse shrugged her red velvet robe to the ground at her ankles and stepped forth along the path, naked. Not a breath of wind stirred, her inky tresses flowing out behind her as she glided towards the pair. The horses grew restive, front hooves stamping the ground, heads tossing. They snorted and nickered.
Belatedly, the woman looked up, shading her eyes from the glare to squint at Finesse. She took a hesitant step forward, confusion and concern crinkling her brow. The little girl ran mute with anxiety to her mother, the whites of her eyes showing and tears forming. She gripped her mother’s skirts in fat little fists, tugging her back to the meagre protections of their home. Lacking the ingrained excuses and rituals adults relied on to veil them from evil, she perceived the threat faster and tasted terror for the first time.
Stooping to rest a reassuring hand on her daughter’s head, the wife asked Finesse, “Are you hurt?”
She chuckled indulgently. One mare reared, snapping the yoke between her and her partner, before taking off at a wild gallop behind the house. The other, trapped by the cart and remains of the harness, skittered on the spot, her neighs desperate. And then the moment of realisation Finesse cherished most: the woman’s features fell to mimic her child’s fear. She spun, hefting her daughter up one-armed, covering her face with the other.
“Don’t look, Tilly!” she screamed. “Close your eyes, little one.”
She hurtled for the front door, access blocked by an agitated horse that threatened to trample them if they feinted the wrong way. Veering around the frightened animal, she stumbled to her knees in the dirt. The wife made an attempt to get to her feet, but she was encumbered and off balance. Her skirts and bloated abdomen thwarted her. They grovelled and trembled mere paces from supposed sanctuary. Finesse strolled towards them. She glared at the mare and it froze in frenzied whinny, vitality sucked dry.
“Don’t look, my sweet,” the wife sobbed, trying to conceal her clinging child with her body.
But it was far too late. Everyone looked, always. Finesse was stunning to behold. At first. She halted in front of them.
“Look at me,” she cooed.
The wife shook her head, one hand clamped across her girl’s face. Her own eyes were squeezed shut, a single tear leaking down her cheek.
Finesse imbued her voice with unleashed power. The heavens rumbled in the distance. “Look at me!”
With an anguished cry, the
wife’s hand dropped away. The sinews on their necks stood out with the effort of refusing to look, to no avail. Finesse shirked the human costume worn to navigate here and privileged them with her raw, savage glory. The single concession to their demise was the speed with which she stripped a life’s essence. It was fast, but not without agony.
Still, in remote sympathy for his loss, Finesse had chosen to yield to a rare benevolent impulse: she had not torn the flesh from their bones, nor taken pleasure from prolonged torture. They remained whole, if shrunk and withered, mouths blue-tinged and pinched, their bodies stiffened by grey-veined disfigurement. Now, her pursuit could continue without interruptions.
From the forest, hounds bayed a disturbance. Finesse relished the upcoming conquest, for the man would prove worthy certainly. But she did not wish to give the advantage of a warning. Renewing her facade, her flesh glowed, supple and plumped with fresh nourishment, never more desirable. In a flash of motion, she removed the glittering Stone from her finger and placed it in the heavy water bucket, before tipping her prized possession into the well. Water was the only element that weakened their bond.
Ensured of privacy, she hastened in the direction of the howling dogs. Flicking her hand towards the house, she set a spark in the eaves, where flames soon began to lap upwards in the thatch.
Had Daniel surrendered so near to his perished kin? The shame would have swallowed him whole, a bottomless well of self-hatred to fuel his revenge. And I had seen the witch demon’s terrible true form. But by now there’d been so much bad, I felt immune. Murmured voices in the real world hauled me to consciousness through revelry that never took a break.
“She is too mired in the psychic, Vee. You must do something to right the balance or we will not survive Louisiana.”
“I’m all ears, Daniel.”
“A physical counterweight.”
An awkward silence lengthened, before Vee cleared his throat. Groaning, I unstuck sweaty flesh from leather and hauled tiredly upright.
“Bear,” he cried.
“What time is it?”
The three of us were alone in the lounge room, lit by a single corner lamp and the glow of the range hood light through the servery. Daniel leaned against the wall by the door out to the kitchen, observing with hawk-like interest. What could I ever say to him to lessen his ordeal? I would never forgive myself for failing my family in such a way. The mere thought clenched my gut and helped to crystallise what was at stake.
“It’s late. Elevenish.”
I stared over at the boy I loved. He tried to look cheerful, but even in dimness the strain was obvious in his features. If it wasn’t enough that his girlfriend had made a fair attempt at strangling him, he’d still seem drawn. My gaze dropped to his neck where not a mark remained. It didn’t make me feel any better.
I sucked a ragged breath. “Oh, Smith. I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head wearily, expression kind. “Did you mean to kill me, Bear? Was that your intent?”
I puffed up in outrage. “Of course bloody-well not.”
Smithy grinned at me, reaching over to tuck a strand of my hair behind one ear. I knew my appearance was likely a lost cause, but applauded the effort. He didn’t look much better, hair all over the place, t-shirt wrinkled from the extended vigil. We both needed a good scrub and decent sleep.
“I know. You seem a little better?” he asked, hope burning bright in his jade eyes.
I tried to explain. “It’s like being at a heavy metal concert. At first the onslaught is too much, but then your senses acclimatise and you can hang on for the ride. Sometimes the drums crash and the guitars scream and your grip slips. But I guess I’m learning how to hang on.” I shrugged. “Or it might be that I’m numb with Bea’s drugs.”
He leaned in and hugged me tight, burying his head in the nape of my neck. “I had faith in you, Winnie,” he murmured softly. “But it was so difficult, watching you suffer like that and being powerless to help.”
I fiddled with his hair, trailing my hand down to stroke his broad back where perspiration-sopped cotton clung to his taut muscles. Along with the warmth and security he’d always made me feel, I grew more distracted on every show of affection. Any touch provoked in me longing that grew in intensity until, coupled with of all the other offences I battled, my self-control wavered. I needed to master my urges and worried they would surface when ultimate attention was demanded. We couldn’t show a single weakness: I had seen the enemy unmasked.
Maybe this was why the Keepers always stood alone, even separate from those tasked with protecting them. Relationships were a chink in the Trinity armour. Sooner or later, I’d have to let go.
“You know what I think, Smith?” Sitting up, he peered at me from centimetres away, tilting his head in expectation. His right hand rested lightly on my knee and he remained oblivious to my warring mind. I kissed him on the tip of the nose. “You really stink.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re no bubble bath.”
His happiness was infectious. I would cherish every precious moment with him, while I had the chance. “Oh, I’d love a bubble bath right now.”
“Settle for a shower? What about some food? You must be starving.”
I fought a momentary groundswell of inner prattle, digging the leather of the sofa with my nails. A constant dull headache pulsed in my temples, born of the exertion of calming my mind. Smithy lifted his hand to balance me.
“All right?”
“A vast improvement.” The lie came too easily. In the periphery, Daniel narrowed his eyes at me.
“That’s my favourite girl.”
“That’s your only girl.”
“Definitely.” He stood and helped me up, holding on until I gained equilibrium. I waited for the roar of history’s warehouse to subside.
Daniel sighed heavily and peeled from the wall, saying before he turned to leave, “This won’t do. Take action, Vee. Or we’re doomed.”
He stalked out along the mezzanine, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deeply in his pockets as if wishing his hoodie could swallow him. I wondered how he filled his spare moments here, failing to imagine him sleeping in a bed or reading or enjoying any normal activity at all. Self-mutilation and binge drinking weren’t hobbies Bea would condone. Maybe he trained his charming seethers to do tricks. I hoped it was ‘roll over and be dead’.
“What’s Daniel so cheery about?” I asked.
“You mean he has more than one mood?”
“More like variations on grim.”
“Er, how about we wait for an update until after you’ve washed and eaten, Bear? There are things best shared on a full stomach.”
“Why do I get the feeling those things are best not shared at all?”
Forty-five minutes later found us loitering at the kitchen table, clean and with satisfied bellies. The drugs had started to wear off, erasing any optimistic notion that I had a handle on my affliction. A twenty-four hour rave grew louder in my skull, a miasma of images that at first smeared together. A bereft Asian couple leaving hospital, a sobbing little girl between them. A quartet of strapping teen boys lined stoically at a graveside funeral, where not one, but two cavities plunged the earth. A mother rocking her young son in her lap, sitting on the floor in the middle of a greenhouse overflowing with an astonishing profusion of orchids.
A beautiful golden-haired woman in the throes of an overdose, a syringe still puncturing her brachial vein. She was alone in a dingy room crammed with magnificent paintings of nature. Froth bubbled from her mouth and spilled down her chin. Attired in a sparkly red sheath to celebrate Christmas Eve, she sprawled on a ratty divan, her head lolling back as heroin devoured her life force and her eyes glazed over to a pounding acid punk rendition of ‘Joy to the World’.
Only one of the paintings had been hung on the wall over the mantel, fresh flowers and guttering candles in a crowded shrine beneath. The ugly composition was half light and half dark, a fence of sharp dripping
syringes dividing its middle. On the dark side a gaunt figure howled in torment, the hedge of syringes separating the one in pain from a little boy drenched in light. Before the scene faded, the dying woman’s fist unfurled. Sitting on her palm was a crude limestone carving of the inside of a nautilus shell with a leather thong threaded through a hole to form a necklace. She exhaled her last breath and the necklace tumbled to shabby carpet.
Gripping the edge of the table white-knuckled, I grimaced and tried to hold on to anything which made sense, horrified when it eventually did. Ever after, that song brought up bile. Seated next to me, Smithy looked alarmed.
“They’ve all experienced death,” I whispered. “Even though they didn’t know it, the Trinity decimated their loved ones. I decimated their loved ones.”
“What are you talking about, Bear?”
“Andie was one of triplets, very rare. Her brothers died of leukaemia when they were two. Her parents and maternal grandparents have been overcompensating for their loss, ever since. Ty lost both of his parents in a plane crash. Hud lost his father from a freak accident in his hothouse using a poison he’d handled often. All of your friends have paid for Trinity membership by sacrificing family. And they’ll likely keep on paying until that vile wretch is obliterated.”
The emotional cost swamped me, vivid flashes completing each of their stories so I experienced every bit of their suffering in one agonising instalment. I didn’t mention how long it had taken Hud to get over the anger at his father’s foolish negligence, or forgive himself for feeling it. Or that Smith, Andie and Bickles were so in tune with Hud’s personal turmoil, closer in time than theirs. The boys in turn had sympathy for Andie’s survivor’s guilt and her struggles to break free from the weight of duty towards her bereaved parents. Bickles, who’d lost the most, seemed at peace. Except for an all-consuming drive to pay his brothers back for every overtime shift and instance of foregone youth.
Smithy slouched lower in his chair, staring at me. Holding the pain in check, I knew what was coming and avoided his eyes, pretending the plate of éclairs in the middle of the table occupied my full attention. Suddenly, my stomach felt too full and even my light, flowy pants constricted. I wanted to run screaming from the room. I wanted desperately not to be the one to tell him.