by S E Holmes
by so many converging, inexplicable accounts, my screaming brain groped for a hint of reason.
“In a very short period, I was stronger and faster and better than anyone who dared take me on. I grew one foot almost overnight. No one could beat me in any trial of physical stamina. I mastered every type of weaponry or war machine with ease and very little endeavour.”
Questions mounted, absent a single adequate answer. Or even one that didn’t demand complete suspension of disbelief. Ill-defined fear chewed at my gut. If I believed him, other shadowy facts would solidify like a huge boulder on my head to flatten sanity. I wanted to shout at him to shut-up, but I had to know and let him go on.
“Years passed. I made a meteoric rise in the military. I didn’t hear from Anathema for a long time and had almost forgotten the poisoned bargain I’d made. And then, they reappeared making small, innocuous requests. At first.”
“You did what they asked?”
“Without hesitation, in the beginning. Of course, before long their demands were not so easy or nice. But by then, the receiver of their generosity is mired in Anathema’s sordid world. They document every deed done and use the evidence against any who try to break the contract.” Hugo pressed his lips in disgust.
“That a being such as the Crone existed seemed the stuff of nightmares. Anathema inhabit an underworld where normal living fades and their rules become a way of life. I didn’t believe their threats, thinking I could handle whatever penalty they threw at me – even jail for my crimes. When I first said no to an order, I learned the truth of their ways too late. For no one ever denies Finesse. There is never a second chance. And so, they exacted compensation for my disobedience.”
“What compensation, Hugo?” I sat forward. Finesse was the Crone to Raphaela’s Keeper, both magical beings that everyone I knew implied walked this very earth. Preposterous as that was, last night I had experienced Anathema’s vileness up close and personal. Finally, I hit upon the idea they were a brain-washing cult whose teachings Hugo still genuinely accepted as true. I wondered if my guardians had been members. “What did they take?”
“My baby sister, Latoya.” His eyes glazed with pain and shame. They were a startling grey-blue, hard to ignore once noticed. “My father called her his little dumpling. My mother was long since dead, and the loss of his cherished daughter destroyed him. A once robust man driven to death by despair. Anathema corrupted Latoya beyond recognition and it is my fault. She is alive, but in their clutches not what I would call living.”
“I’m so sorry, Hugo.” Did I truly want to know the answers anymore? “That awful man last night in the garden? You recognised him before Bea removed his balaclava.”
“No disguise hides them from me. Tate,” he spoke the name as though it was acid on his tongue. “He took her first, when she was thirteen.” It was all he needed to say. “I cannot save her. I have tried and failed, many times. But I will give my life for the innocent life they stole. Nothing will ever be enough to erase my sins. All I can do now is fight on the right side.”
“The right side? What do you mean?”
“The rest is for your minders to impart, Winsome. I have already said too much. Sleep now. Be at peace. I will watch over you and keep you from harm.”
He presumed harm was only physical. “Hugo?”
“Yes?”
“Are you wearing contact lenses?”
He snorted. “I have twenty/twenty vision. I threw my glasses away the moment the signature dried on Anathema’s agreement.”
I mustn’t have appeared convinced. He pulled a wallet out of his pants, extracting a battered photo folded in quarters and carefully unfurled the paper, an act I suspected he’d performed many times. He offered me the sepia image of a scrawny boy of about ten and a pretty white-haired girl, a couple of years younger. She gripped his arm for all she was worth, grinning adoringly at him. Despite the slight build, the boy wore Hugo’s face. Reflected in the lenses of the thick spectacles he wore was the faint outline of a man.
“My father took this. That’s me. And Latoya.”
Hugo retrieved the photo from me, reverentially slipping it inside his wallet – a faded moment of happiness tainted forever by sadness. He sighed deeply, patted my hand, and discouraged me from further talk by getting comfortable in the chair and closing his eyes.
I let my mind drift in nowhere for a while, until Hugo quietly left to carry out his mysterious morning duties. It was still too early for Fortescue to bring breakfast, but my guardians were abnormal crack-of-dawn risers. I needed to hurry if I was to beat them out the door.
In the stark reality of day, last night’s events blurred. I tumbled from bed, heading for my bathroom while gingerly fingering my traumatised ribs. The pain seemed too minimal. Lifting my singlet, unforgiving ensuite lighting over the mirror revealed a vague yellowing smudge that should be the shade of an eggplant. I squinted in confusion.
The occasion had arrived to go and check for proof with my own eyes. If I wasn’t arrested immediately as an accomplice then I’d take a nice long swim in the judge’s pool to ease the tension. I didn’t expect to encounter an obstacle before leaving my room. Fortescue was a retail prodigy, but this time, he’d made an outfit mistake. I didn’t fancy doing laps in boardies, but rifling drawers, I could not find any decent swimwear, strips of fabric functional only for lazing by the pool, and barely that!
Boardies and a white tee offered camouflage. And a strategically arranged towel, just in case. Perhaps the slip-up was due to Fortescue’s illness. Once dressed, I tossed goggles, a cap, a motivating CD from Kasabian and my swipe card in a tote, and crept downstairs.
I did not stop to appreciate the artefact collection or check for new additions as I usually would. It was odd to evade my guardians and the cats so easily; this had not happened before. I skulked out, the door shutting at my rear. My optimism was short-lived. The door clicked ajar again behind me, the ensuing soft conversation loud to my ears.
“No, Hugo, stay. We must let her go this time.”
“But, Mrs Paget, it is too treacherous for her to be alone and unprotected!”
“Winsome needs a chance to process events. She is not alone, help is nearby. This test is not for her. Or you.”
“For him?”
“Yes. For him. One of many.” I paused in the middle of the alley, the rising tide of hidden meanings making me scowl.
“She will get hurt.”
“The risk is unavoidable. A test is essential to establish the bond.”
“He is a snivelling, arrogant pup, too young and immature for this great task. He will cower in the face of the trials to come.”
Mrs Paget’s tone ended the discussion. “I am certain he will not falter. Love is the strongest bond of all.”
“That is what I always believed. Until I learned otherwise,” Hugo said bitterly. “It is for sale like everything else.” The doors clicked shut once more.
Avoiding close examination of their words, I limited my focus to the chore at hand. Mr Jenkins called this “compartmentalising,” the only useful thing I’d ever learned at the Academy. How to be a more efficient delinquent by ignoring distractions or scruples in order to thoroughly finish the job. A job at least one of my guardians endorsed.
It was another fine Sydney day, the breeze soft and sky streaked pink by the rising sun. The expected cordon of police tape and official cars lining the block were absent. I reached the garden, rallying my acting skills. Maybe the investigators had caught a fleet of taxis? I barged through the trellis, memories of the stinging splinters and cuts from last night hurtling back. And yet, I lifted my hand and wriggled perfectly unbroken fingers.
I stood in the vacant clearing and stared at my arms in the glare. Not a scratch, no bruising around my wrist. And no sign of a dead man. I spent fifteen minutes scouring the area for a body and came up blank. There was not so much as a trampled succulent. I burrowed back out onto the path, preoccupied, and headed for the entrance. Could an assailan
t with a broken neck get up and walk away? Zombies seemed a popular choice in fiction. If there was some logical explanation, I could not find it.
“Well, well. Aren’t you looking … stumpy. Communing with your friends the plants, Win-none?”
Tiffany strutted down the path towards me with a superior smirk, still in the same clothing as the night before. Her hair was ruffled, lips rubbed free of the prominent red lipstick she favoured. She exaggerated the fact she was taller and had to look down at me.
“Shame you didn’t stay last night. Vegas really is a great dancer, especially the slow songs. Things got so hot!” She dramatically fanned herself.
I rolled my eyes. All the ranting and hair tossing caused my neck to go out in sympathy. I continued past her, stubbornly mute. My indifference set her off and she went for the kill.
“I did him last night you know. And he was great! As if Vegas would ever go for a motherless little letdown like you!”
I entered the code and was about to swipe in without comment, when spite got the better of me. “You didn’t pay top dollar for that boob job did you?” I looked at her over my shoulder with my head at an angle. “They’re kinda lopsided.”
If I shoved her face first, she’d probably bounce right back up again like one of those punch-a-clowns. The card swiped and I was inside. But the door didn’t hiss closed fast enough to shut out Iffy’s yell that I
