by S E Holmes
On my level, the ground was pearlescent black and everywhere mosaics of vibrant ceramics and semi-precious stones. Erotic statues dotted the space and to my right, a wide expanse of clustered tables and chairs in front of a long bar that sparkled with pornographic images. Chandeliers of stunning beauty and intricacy hung from a ceiling embedded with twinkling points of luminance that duplicated constellations.
The individuals here were not the same shabby, downtrodden lot that entered. In Finesse’s fantasy land they were who they wished to be, perfect, adored, sophisticated … happy, if only for a night. It must have been torture to leave this mirage and go back to their dreary, disappointing lives. This was the witch’s web, only here, the victims volunteered.
I searched for Daniel, but there were too many people to get an unobstructed view. Scaling the lewd colossus of a naked woman writhing with a serpent, I jumped up onto a chandelier. Below, he waded across the dance floor, brushing off advances from mesmerised women, his long coat flapping and his chest bare. A knife glinted in his hand.
He headed towards the wall of light, where I noticed for the first time a discreet metal staircase spiralled up to a narrow gangway, the single access to a concealed door in its surface. She was there. I could feel her essence radiating like a queen wasp, its stinger poised to insert flesh-eaters into the belly of the unwary. Behind my veils, I felt numb. This lack of proper fear was no gift. It was too easy to imagine a nice exchange of her Stone for my boy and an easy parting. But a happily-ever-after would never be her reward.
Blocking access at the bottom of the stairs were two bouncers. These looked far more sinister and skilled than the hired muscle in the alleyway. Their angular faces were hard as they tracked Daniel’s approach. I filtered all distraction and listened to their exchange.
“The tarnished golden boy,” hissed one. He punched Daniel in the stomach. “I’ve wanted to do that, and more besides, for centuries.”
Daniel’s jaw flexed upon absorbing the blow. “Rufus. Dante. If you’d care to remove yourselves, we can avoid the hysterics.” These were Finesse’s personal bodyguards, their loyalty to Anathema unshakable.
The other stepped forward, produced a baton and cudgelled Daniel forcefully to the side of the head. “And miss the main event?” Daniel swivelled back to them, his cheek gashed.
“Who’s got your back now, lover boy? No Priestess to hide behind.”
His fingers curled into white knuckles. It was their only warning. Before I could draw breath Rufus was flying through the air and Dante received a chop to the larynx, grasping futilely at his collapsed throat. He blinked in shock and fell sideways with a weird gurgling noise. Rufus crashed into a brawny marble soldier with a shield and an erection in place of his lance – the lust of battle? It toppled over, clearing a path of revellers, and pinned him with a mighty crash and a geyser of shattered stone. Nearby dancers slithered out of the way, barely heeding the spasming leg poking from under rubble. Disinterested masks still firmly in place, they continued jiggling.
Daniel shook his head. “Never did mind your training. Less talk, more action.”
He became vapour, took to the air and looped, rocketing towards the crystal screen. At the last second, he gained form, his body a bullet that smashed the edifice in a waterfall of splintered glass. Club members, finally shaken from their stupors, moved in earnest as one heaving mass. Shards ricocheted and yells rang out. Any who did not stay on their feet were trampled in the bottleneck at the stairs. I quashed the guilt of neglecting the injured and dived to the next chandelier, entirely focused on Daniel. He somersaulted to his feet on the other side, unmindful of his shredded coat and slashed skin.
This private space was smaller, a rectangular half-a-football-field, but even more ostentatious. A three-stringed quartet played in the back left corner. Waiters serviced tables lined either side, with hardly a pause on the intruder’s arrival. The party of fifty were genuinely beautiful and cosmopolitan, nubile bodies on display as Finesse held court from a huge, black-velvet day bed, a central island separated by a moat of floor. Latoya slouched behind the divan, gripping a silver tray upon which rested champagne on ice. No one seemed the least surprised by a man tumbling to an upright halt in their midst, the cluster of ten standing around Finesse sipping cocktails and anticipating an escalation of the entertainment.
“The prodigal son.” Finesse clapped slowly, her grin spreading in tune with the applause of her lackeys. Her voice was no longer the childlike version, rippling with threat. “You’re sullying my floor, Seth.”
She reclined in a diaphanous scarlet gown that left little to the imagination. Propped next to her and unmoving, Smith was clad only in his boy-leg underwear. Like Daniel, the witch could dematerialise at will, and it seemed she was capable of transporting others in her supernatural form. Even in my state of remove my heart stuttered at the sight of him. His eyes were closed. Every millimetre of his skin was purple and yellowing from a savage beating. Scorching hatred raged through me. I would make her pay for what she’d done to him and the price could never be high enough.
“I’m sorry, dearest. I’ve already employed a replacement. There’s nothing left for you here. Cute isn’t he?”
She pinched Smith’s cheek, slapping him until he woke. There was no gleam of recognition for his Warrior-in-arms, planted not six metres in front. He stared blankly through Daniel, like a tapped-out junkie. That’s when I saw authentic-looking track marks dotting his inner arms, fresh over scarred. What had she turned him into? Even if I succeeded in his rescue, would I ever get him back from the brink of whatever cliff he teetered upon? Panic constricted my lungs. I envisaged a hundred leisurely ways to kill her.
Five minions scooted closer to Daniel, brandishing guns, the more flamboyant with nunchaku and throwing stars. That they outnumbered him did nothing to diminish the quiet menace radiating from Daniel. In any case, one particularly muscled specimen was hard to take seriously, garbed in pink leather shorts, a dog-collar and cowboy boots. Several less-confident members of the entourage inched backwards, surreptitiously seeking an exit. Or maybe they were the brains of the bunch.
A single metal star razored the air. Without much effort, Daniel pinched it from its trajectory and deftly flung it back to lodge in its owner’s neck. He frantically tamped the arterial spurt with both hands, redness leaching to trickle between his fingers.
“Mistress,” he choked out.
She watched in fascination as the stream slowed to the rhythm of his dying heart, the colour fading from his face. He gasped like a gutted fish, eyes widening in horror. Too late, he appreciated how foolish was the bargain he’d made with the devil. He keeled over and she bent forward for a final view, sipping daintily.
“It’s lucky I love red,” Finesse purred, after a final lingering glance at his spent existence pooling on the floor. She raised her glass for a refill and Latoya poured over her shoulder, her eyes imploring Seth to flee.
“My pretty little turtle dove, do stop mooning over your brother’s boyfriend.” Finesse didn’t turn back, aware without seeing. “I’ll be forced to inform Tate. Oh, wait. Weren’t you responsible for his demise, Seth? We’ll have to find a replacement,” she said sweetly, the tip of her tongue moistening her full, scarlet lips. Latoya blanched, the magnum nearly toppling before she regained balance.
“Always grubby,” Daniel muttered.
At the same moment as the gathering, I saw what he dragged from his coat and held up. Pinless. An androgynous couple in matching zebra skin suits and striped Mohawks gave each other sidelong looks, hastening to retreat. He bowled the grenade under Finesse’s settee. What the hell was he doing? It detonated in a second with a bright flash and an ear-shattering bang.
Trays clanged to the floor, spilling drinks and smashing glasses. Stunned partygoers clamped hands over their ears and staggered for a series of doors about the perimeter, none of which were unlocked. They were rats trapped in the witch’s maze.
She stood, dragging Smith up wit
h her and jabbing a manicured nail at Daniel. “If you break my club …”
The ceiling shook and her skin undulated, the real thing inhabiting Finesse’s skin writhing to break free. Desperate to reach Smith, I landed on the walkway railing, a strange current fizzing my veins. The ground trembled and glass rattled. Daniel pulled out another grenade.
“This one’s the real deal.”
He’d deserted Smith. He was here to liberate nobody, rather to blow us all to kingdom come. Still, I kept wishing Daniel might spring some ruse, that he was keeping some miraculous strategy until the last possible moment. Otherwise, I’d been a spectacular fool to trust him. Another blunder on my part, only this one would get Smithy killed.
Finesse towed Smith by the hair, distancing herself from the madman in her midst. Only two resolute groupies stuck with her, shepherding their mistress as they fired wildly in Daniel’s direction. He retaliated one-handed with the revolver he’d collected. The rest of her people ran for cover with arms over their heads or dived to their bellies behind tables and chairs. Bullets pinged indiscriminately and I worried Smith would get hit. Yet I failed to generate a plan that wouldn’t make matters far worse. I could stop them all by holding up the Stone. I could betray the Trinity, my family, everyone I cared about to save the one I loved most.
“Do not push me, Seth.”
“Kill me then. Come on,” he said, waving the grenade. Was this his suicide mission, Smith collateral damage? How could it be true? He’d pledged as my Warrior. “Kill me, beast!”
“Be still.” Her minions stopped shooting, glancing about nervously. Finesse frowned. She faced Daniel across the wide room. “You risk intrusion here to have me kill you? A request you have proven pointless across millennia. You know the answer. What has changed?” Finesse dared a wary step towards him. “What are you up to, my earthly paramour?”
“Don’t call me that,” Daniel snarled. “Let’s see how long five seconds feels.”
He pulled the pin and hurled the second grenade. Time dripped like cold molasses, the bomb curling a lethargic arc through the air. I launched for Smithy. In a twitch, Daniel revealed his true purpose. The knife he wielded was the Scabior Blade, stolen from the Trinity temple. I should have known he’d try to use the weapon for himself. If I’d been paying attention, I’d have seen one of my articles was missing. I’d have heeded his suspicious behaviour. He flung the Keeper’s knife at Finesse with liquid speed. But she was quicker, twirling to use Smith as her human shield.
“No!” I screamed.
Daniel froze in place on hearing me. His jaw hung and his eyes roamed the room. Poised at his rear, I had a horrifying aspect of the knife plunging to the hilt in Smithy’s shoulder. He was barely cognisant, only standing by virtue of the witch’s grasp. I let them see me, smiling grimly from the gaping entrance to her chambers. At once, the witch perceived the Keeper.
“If you want your Stone, take it from me.”
On the extended palm of my hand, sat the glimmering, multifaceted orb. Her irises blazed siren red with insatiable greed. She lobbed Smith aside as if crumpled paper and leaped for me.
“Found,” she growled in an otherworldly voice. Chandeliers shook and the ground quivered. “After so long!”
“Not quite yet.” I flickered from sight.
“Where?” the thing shrieked, her head jerking in search. Her fingers elongated to onyx talons, blobs of oily residue leaking from beneath her nails. Droplets hit the floor, blind stringy worms on the prowl for a host. Her remaining followers, who’d grovelled prostrate in worship, scrambled from their Priestess’ spawn. “Where?”
In the lull, Latoya had wrenched the knife from Smithy’s body. He swooned and tottered, but I flew to his side and grappled his wrist before he hit the tiles. His skin was burning, yet his lips puckered blue. His eyes rolled back in his head. On touching him, the Crone’s poison seething his form throttled my ability. I used the remnants of my waning Keeper’s power to propel Smith from this awful place to the safety of the Delta Gate.
Sending him away was the most I could manage before Finesse was upon me. My astral ties were tauter than spider’s silk, strained to breaking. If they severed, my consciousness would drift in nothing forever, my body mouldering away in an abandoned Louisiana shack. We would lose. Of course, as things stood, winning seemed unlikely.
Her fingers gouged my shoulders, able to touch me, corporeal or otherwise. She spun me to face her, greasy smears coming alive and sidewinding my t-shirt for my bare upper arms. Coal fronds squirmed in her flaming orbs. I swatted at the sticky fluid, which only served to spread it and contaminate my hands. Staring at my palms, two leech-like streaks raised snouts to drill my flesh. I slammed my hands together between us, too afraid to look once more. White hot shards blasted my nerves, blotches dancing across my field of view. I must not pass out. I must not lose control of my traveller self.
“I know what fears cower in mortal hearts.” Finesse’s voice was a caress. She stroked down my arms and brought pressure to bear, peeling my hands apart like flimsy pages of a book. It was not a story I wanted to read.
“Kill me and you’ll never retrieve your Stone.” The words came out in a tremulous squeak.
She giggled, a now familiar signal for pending violence. “Little pet, I don’t think you understand how this works—”
“Mistress, a gift.” On my periphery, Latoya flittered nearer. She presented Scabior handle-first for acceptance.
Finesse scowled irritably, crushing my hands in her grip. “Not now.”
Latoya took no notice and barged into our shared space. “The Keeper’s blade.”
The witch clenched her jaw, readying to give a lesson on minion etiquette. Next to me, Latoya flipped the knife to grab its handle and, whiplash-quick, stabbed Finesse in the side of the throat. She leaned in close. “May it take your black soul.”
Simultaneously, she raised her leg and kicked my hip, jerking me from my captor. I skittered across the floor into Daniel’s embrace. Hugo’s sister managed two swift strikes before the Crone’s monstrous true self ripped into being with a roar of wrath. Shreds of red gossamer fluttered like feathers.
Daniel shook me so my bones rattled and my teeth slammed together, his expression furious. “Why are you here? Get out, now! Before it’s too late.”
I glared at him. “It’s already too late.”
He pivoted as if spinning a discus and heaved me airborne back the way I’d first come. The weird buzzing hum that I struggled to place grew louder. I could not guess if Daniel relinquished the brake on time or if events kicked back into normal gear on some other cue. The grenade finally hit the floor and bounced once, the eyes of the startled collective upon it as it skidded a course beneath Finesse’s divan. And then, after the longest five seconds of my life, it finally blew.
Thirty-Two
Hud started awake, sitting up and running his hands over his stubbly scalp. He’d been dozing with his head in the crook of his elbow on the kitchen table. Daylight streamed the mezzanine beyond, sparkling off the skeletal archangel’s silver tinsel necklaces draped like hibiscus leis. Christmas seemed irrelevant and this regular summer day mocked the horrid events of the last twenty-four hours. Hud hoped with every molecule of his being that Bear was faring better in Louisiana than they were in Sydney.
He’d sent the rest to bed at dawn, there being no point in all of them hovering around and watching Mrs Paget die. The old lady was bleeding out internally, while he hung idly by and did nothing useful whatsoever. He’d never experienced such a brutal sense of failure. This was no mere university exam or cliff dive. He’d cupped another person’s life in his hands and allowed it to slip away.
“The blame is not yours,” Mrs Paget murmured. Choking back a sniffle, he placed his hand gently over hers. She opened her eyes and gazed at him with a kind smile. “It is my time. After so long …”
“Please, please let me call an ambulance.”
Her stomach was bloated and fi
rm to the touch, filled no doubt with litres of her own blood. She must be in terrible pain.
“Jerome?”
The lady was the most obstinate individual he’d ever met, aside from Bear’s butler. “He’ll recover. He’s already trying to clean things and serve us. We’re going to gaffer tape him to his bed.”
She laughed wincingly, pausing to rally what was left of her strength. “I have—”
Her cough gurgled and blood bubbled from her mouth. Hud mopped it with a clean swab, fretting over her dwindling pulse. He put his ear to her lips to catch the message.
“A gift for you. Or maybe, it is a curse, I do not know. But for better … or worse, I have chosen to take you as my heir. My bequest will not return to the Trinity, but pass on to you instead.”
“Listen to me, Mrs Paget. We will get you to a hospital. Just hang on. Do you hear me? Promise me that you’ll hang on,” Hud’s voice cracked.
He felt as though she had been with him all his life, guiding him from the wings. The grief would tow him under and he found himself incapable of letting her go.
Mrs Paget’s fingers twitched beneath his. “I should have felt privileged to have you for a son.”
Her tiny body convulsed, her gasps declining. She smiled up at him, the most tranquil, contented look he’d ever seen, and her eyes slipped gradually shut. Her hand circled his, clinging hard. A vitality more forceful than he’d ever imagined surged through him in a stinging tide. Flashes of Mrs Paget’s enduring life accelerated at light speed through his mind: as a carefree child twirling in her father’s arms, she had inherited his blonde ringlets; screaming as the bodies of her plague-ridden village were burned and with them, her entire family; years as a self-imposed recluse at a monastery until discovered by her husband to be; the agony of his loss. The myriad joys and sorrows of her stretched existence battered Hud, an ordeal of emotion he’d not known possible.
Slowly, the sensation changed as Mrs Paget came to terms with her role and dedicated herself to centuries of concerted study. Hud absorbed her wealth of skills and learning: degrees in Chemistry, Medicine, Computer Engineering and Botany. He knew the complex, ancient brewing recipes for her liquors and the darker secrets of her poisons and explosives. He could now match it with the sous-chefs of Europe.