by S E Holmes
the tribulation of seeing him.
He’d adopted an anti-dress code when puberty first hit. His shocking blue hair clashed with anything not ripped or adorned with chains. Black nails and piercings weren’t exactly bow tie and tails. He’d been banned from the judge’s events for wreaking finely tuned chaos. Lucky, lucky boy! If I shaved myself a mohawk and dyed the rest of my hair purple, maybe I’d be banned too. It was worth a thought.
“Winsome! Please, get out of bed. We are waiting,” Aunt Bea called from the cavernous depths of the warehouse.
How did she always know when I wasn’t on task, whether in the vicinity or not? Surely they would not bug my room? Detangling myself from linen, I slid from the bed to mosey over and inspect the contents of the shopping bags Fortescue hadn’t unpacked yet. After rifling a mountain of high-end fashion, some of it too expensive to mention, I braved a bikini top, overpriced singlet and board-shorts, probably closer to lingerie in chilly Europe. Getting about in something less than a thermal cocoon would take adjustment and demanded an instant suntan.
Well, this was not strictly true. In contrast to Bea’s fair skin and freckles, I had a naturally olive complexion and dark hair, emphasising our distance on the family tree. She’d taken me in after my parents died in a bus crash when I was a baby. I never stopped blessing her intervention and generosity, and for rescuing me from the foster-care system. I threw a hat, a book and my iPod into a drawstring beach bag.
Sun was the first priority on today’s schedule. I planned to ride to a beautiful coastal waterhole an hour south of Sydney in the National Park, and read and sunbake and swim in the surf. Alone. I could give Everest the slip in the city traffic. He would never fit on my moped, forced to follow in a car.
I hastily showered and tightly braided my hair, which fell in messy spirals and in this climate, there would be many unruly escapees. It was Friday. How many chores could my minders find for me at this short notice? I prayed Bea hadn’t received a shipment of new antiquities to catalogue. When home, I was her first assistant, which was a blessing and a curse.
She was both a collector and a dealer of rare artefacts, some of which were ghastly. Bea’s rationale for this career path was to record ‘the gamut of human capacity, from the sublime to the depraved’. Apparently, remembering history’s evil encouraged a higher appreciation for its opposite: kindness towards others and the betterment of the human condition. Or something. The justification had always seemed a tad woolly to me.
But then the realisation slapped me. My homecoming was as sudden and out of the blue for them as it had been for me. Normally, Aunt Bea’s staff performed their duties with unobtrusive efficiency. Never before had I been left unsupervised long enough to smuggle peanuts onto the jet, or come home to find shopping bags full of clothes in my room. Usually everything would be tidied away perfectly before my arrival. Such lapses just didn’t occur. And Bea had wanted me home so desperately, she’d had someone else collect me from Austria. Unheard of! What did it all mean?
“Stop procrastinating, Winsome!”
“I’m on it, Aunt Bea,” I shouted back. “Where’s the fire?”
“I may light one under you as an incentive in future.”
Concerted thinking could wait until the beach. As I hurried towards the door, I was stopped by a strange noise behind, like the first heavy splat of raindrops on pavement before a true downpour began. I twisted to scan the room, listening harder while edging towards the source on the parquetry at the end of my bed.
“Eww!” Maggots.
A pile of fat squishiness seethed on the floor. I detested insects – anything smaller than my foot – and these horrible little sacs were at the front of the pack. How did they get in here? What were they feeding on? Mrs Paget barely let a crumb hit the plate. Could they have fallen from the bouquets of flowers? An acceptable explanation remained out of reach. It seemed to be going around.
But there was something far more peculiar about the teeming cluster. It rested in a glistening puddle. I clenched my jaw and willed myself to take a closer look. The hair on my arms stood up. It was blood. They wriggled in an oily slick of blood that spread like an oozing wound. I pressed the back of my hand hard against my lips to stop my breakfast from jettisoning.
A sound from the doorway competed for my attention. I spun wildly. It was Cherish, the coat at his neck stiff. He snarled as he crept towards me, baring long white incisors, claws unsheathed, eyes slitted in anger. Muscles bunched beneath his fur. This was no playful adored pet! He’d transformed into a hissing demon capable of gutting prey with one taloned swipe.
Could he see the maggots too? Or was he simply responding to my panic. “This is no time for a pat.”
My voice was hoarse as I reluctantly flicked my gaze back to the gory invasion. The usual immaculate span of floor replaced the horror-film scene of ten seconds earlier.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
The vision had been so real. I struggled to still my nerves. Cherish twisted around me, rubbing my waist with his big head and rumbling happily.
I stroked him absently. “Alright for you, you’re not going insane.”
“Winsome!” Bea surprised me by bellowing.
“Coming!” I retreated and angled for the door.
First supersonic hearing, then the smell of carrion in my cranium, now visions. Was I truly losing my mind? Whose blood was it supposed to be, anyway?
Five
“It has started.”
“I know, Grace. I feel it too. How much time do we have?” Bea asked.
So, that was Mrs Paget’s first name – Grace. Those three words were unprecedented in my experience, I’d never heard her utter a single syllable. She communicated without the necessity of speech and simply appeared to cater to my whims, almost as if reading my mind. I’d given up on the mystery of how, long ago. Presently, I loitered against the wall outside the kitchen, eavesdropping on the three of them. Learning from mistakes was not my best character trait.
All of our conferences regarding my less than stellar behaviour occurred in that room. It appeared benign enough: a large rectangular space, its longest wall ran parallel to the front of the warehouse, the wall opposite an open breakfast bar lined with cupboards this side and stools on the other in the adjoining spacious sitting room, where we gathered to watch the Discovery or History channels.
A plain wooden dining table and eight matching chairs stood in the middle of the kitchen on an intricately tiled Victorian mosaic floor. The gleaming appliances were all of the commercial-grade stainless steel variety, perfect for people with the top-notch cooking skills wasted on all three of my diet-fixated guardians. There were only so many ways to prepare powdered chlorophyll.
Time to do what?
“Very little,” Grace replied. “A week, perhaps two, before we succumb to the Stone’s rising influence. The Stone must be claimed or everything we have done over millennia amounts to nought.”
“Her skills are accelerating. She is so young for such a life.” Fortescue sighed and the wall did not disguise his despair.
Bea continued flatly. “On that, we are unanimous. Winnie’s powers will be sorely tested by this catastrophe. I fear her talents will not be enough to counter the coming terrors without the usual means of accessing her inheritance. Raphaela deserves a flaying for blocking the Delta Gate.”
Raphaela? I’d heard that name before. But where? And what the hell were these skills and powers I supposedly possessed? I was good at parkour, but fairly remedial at almost everything else. My singing was especially poor, likened to a learner on bagpipes.
“Raphaela chose a fit punishment for her betrayal—”
“How can you believe that, Grace? You are far too generous!” Fortescue said. “Winsome must now pay the price for Raphaela’s selfishness. She is the only one left to shoulder this burden.”
And then realisation dawned. Seth had called Raphaela’s name when he ran from her house in my dream. My dream! Were my guar
dians psychic? Fortescue went on angrily, which was almost more alarming than the content of this weird discussion.
“There is a reason the Keeper stands alone. Benjamin Franklin said it best: ‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’”
Bea sighed. “Grace is well familiar with the Keeper’s diary, Jerome. It is true Winsome cannot claim the Stone without accessing the Delta Gate, but we must be thankful for Finesse’s entrapment within it, at least.”
I’d often interrupted furtive whisperings over the years. Much of what I caught seemed to be in this odd code, but this time we’d managed new levels of bizarre. How could they possibly be referring to people who existed in my head? Slouching against the wall for support, I struggled to find an explanation that made any sense.
“Today’s reading may provide some small respite,” Grace said.
“We cannot rely on the Crone’s absence for long. Her imprisonment is temporary. When the occasion arises, we must be selective in what Winsome is told.” Fortescue sounded very tired. “And the time of our departure approaches too fast.”
“This constant mention of time makes me anxious,” Bea said. “After years of cursing its never-ending torture, I would suddenly beg for more. Enoch is struggling to find a way to restore the Keeper’s sacraments, and he cannot approach us without revealing his own power in the presence of an unclaimed Stone. Even
