by S E Holmes
martial arts with weapons on turbo-charge. Somersaulting into the pack, she swivelled the tip of her javelin to hack heads and limbs. But she was outnumbered, and eventually overwhelmed.
A huge fearsome demon ran in to gore a wide smile across her belly with serrated tusks, thrashing its head back and forth and shredding Billie’s singlet. Next to me on my bed, Smith issued a guttural shriek, curling over, his face flushed and an arm wrapping his middle.
“Smithy?” I cried, but could not break the trance’s hold.
The warrior howled in agony, splitting her scimitar in a practised twist. It came apart and she synchronised to thrust one blade through its eye and another stab to its sternum. The beast vaporised in a swirl of cinders.
From the rear, another beast lumbered in to drag razor talons across her back. Billie dropped a blade, clutching at her spine. Smith thrashed violently in unison. She struggled to fight on, but the blood loss from constant attacks soon took an irreversible toll. The slayed woman fell to her knees, an agonised moan escaping her lips.
Trapped in her suffering, Smithy writhed beside me in a pool of sweat, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. But there was nothing I could do to shake from the vision, which clouded my mind until its course had run.
Cradling her stomach where the guts oozed through, Billie now haemorrhaged freely from a gash at her neck. Just as the merciful end was upon her, the frenzy halted, an alley parting in the demons’ midst. A figure appeared. It was the girl who’d tortured Seth in front of Raphaela. The girl who’d been turned to smoke and sucked into Raphaela’s body as she died – Finesse. She glided with silken poise in red leather, an artificial frown of regret not lessening her stunning beauty. Her shoes remained immaculate despite the dirt and her heels did not sink into the ground.
Seth stumbled behind her in a zombie state, dragged by a rope fastened so tightly about his neck the skin was rubbed raw and weeping. The tether was not necessary. Finesse twitched a finger and he sprawled on his stomach into the muck next to the woman.
“The great Warrior, Billie Kho,” she cooed joyfully. “Although death may dim the legend! Did you enjoy the show, Seth? I don’t mean to be critical, but it did go on. I like the climax though.” She aimed a rib-cracking kick at Seth’s side. There was a loud snap and she chuckled. “Does that count as a comment? Not very original, I’ve heard it before.”
Billie gurgled as she inhaled, her breaths getting fewer and fewer. She struggled to speak. “Go … inside.”
“You dare issue orders? I admire your spirit at this late hour.” Finesse chuckled smugly, as though she was the only one who understood an insider joke. “See what happens to those who defy me?” She lifted Seth’s chin with the tip of her shoe, his expression desolate. “No matter how far you run, no matter where you turn, I am there. Even on boats in the middle of the sea.”
Billie rallied to speak and Finesse pulled her stiletto away. Seth’s head dropped and she placed her foot on the back of his neck, compressing his face into blood-sodden soil. He coughed feebly, but didn’t resist.
“The Keeper … awaits.”
Finesse bent over Billie, gripping her cross on its chain to tow her upright. The Warrior’s head lolled on her ruined neck.
“Still a believer, Billie? Tut, tut. There is only one God and he is not yours.”
Finesse yanked, the chain broke and the cross came free. Billie slumped to the dirt, her shoulders convulsing. After a second, I realised she was laughing even as the life left her body.
“She will give—” Billie exhaled slowly and breathed no more.
Finesse flicked the crucifix to the ground and pressed it into the mud with the sole of her shoe. Her grotesque guard of honour clapped and hissed.
“The feeble Keeper will finally yield my Stone and every thing you have ever done will be for nothing!” she spat contemptuously. “I will hunt the tattered remnants of the thieving Sacred Trinity to the ends of time.” Finesse was jubilant and offered a winning smile unequalled by any supermodel.
I blinked as the images faded. Smith gasped awake, spluttering, “God, I hate her.” He hauled to a seated position, blood dripping from his nose onto my quilt. I scooted over and grabbed a wad of tissues from my side table, leaning in to clean him up.
“That’s the end of Raphaela’s story,” I said.
“Not a happy one because this is no fairytale,” he replied, his voice muffled from beneath balled tissue.
Seventeen
The next time I laid eyes on Fortescue, he was carrying out his traditional breakfast duties rather than tossing spears with absurd skill. He politely cleared his throat. I heard the clatter of a laden tray set down on my bedside table, too peaceful to open my eyes and make sure. The unmistakable aroma of coffee contradicted the idea. The warehouse hadn’t stocked that particular brew since Noah floated the Ark. Plus the blinds weren’t ascending to flood my room with unwelcome morning sunshine. I nestled into a cosy ball, my head supported by a wonderful pillow – one that wrenched itself swiftly upright. I was tipped unceremoniously onto the mattress.
“Fortescue!” A mortified choke issued next to me.
Uh-oh! I remembered the events of last night too late and worked to get vertical, finally opening my eyes. My gaze switched from Fortescue, standing by the window with well-trained aplomb, to Smith sitting rigidly beside me in bed, his expression that of a rabbit in the fox’s lair.
“There was nowhere else to sleep.” Smithy glanced over at Hugo’s abandoned cot. Looking back, he said defensively, “You didn’t specify!”
What a rare and treasured sight: Smith rattled. It was too amusing watching him battle embarrassment. Give him a cliff to jump off and it was no big deal, but an intruding butler and he went to water. I swore one of Fortescue’s eyebrows trembled with humour. And it was much better to focus on that than the reason for Smithy’s presence under my doona.
“Smooth!” I said. He shot me a furious glare, his tousled hair charming and sticking up all over the place. “Is there any news on Hugo, Fortescue?”
“Sadly no, Winsome. We are expending all efforts to find him.” I could tell; even in the dimness of my room he looked exhausted. My worry for his health sprung back to the fore, competing with concern for Hugo. “I’m a big girl now, I can manage breakfast in the kitchen. You need to go back to bed, Fortescue.” It was a plea with little hope, but I had to try anyway.
“Nonsense, Winnie! It is my pleasure to serve you. The day I am unable to fulfil my duties, is the day I am in my grave.”
His choice of phrase sucked. I changed the subject. “What’s on the menu this morning?” “Freshly squeezed orange juice, custard and almond Danish, summer fruit salad and … coffee.”
He frowned in reproach. Honestly! I could noodle around in bed with Smithy barely clothed, but mention coffee and the condemnation was rife. Smith observed this exchange with mute curiosity, hiding his bare chest behind a raised sheet.
“Clever!” I leaped out of bed to stop Fortescue from serving us. “Bribing me with food. Maybe to distract me from demanding to know the truth about what’s going on around here?”
“Your guest will be hungry after your strenuous evening.”
Who cared if I’d spent the preceding years famished for something other than alfalfa sprouts? It was unbelievable Smith and I had fallen asleep after all that we’d shared last night.
“Nice deflection. Fortescue, did you wear purple socks to bed last night?”
“I am in the habit of donning woollens for slumber, it maintains the circulation. Please inform me, Winsome, if you wish to shop for yourself. Bordello lingerie is not my purview. In any case, let us maintain appropriate decorum!”
Huh?
“W-Winnie!” Smith gaped up at me. “What are you wearing?” He grabbed the first thing to hand, a pillow, and stumbled out of bed to shield me. “Fortescue, could you please find me a robe for Bear? And possibly run me a cold shower,” he added, under his breath.
That vitaver stuf
f they made me drink must have really ironed me out. I guessed Mrs Paget had cleaned me up and dressed me for bed. I looked down to confirm that the wardrobe terrorist had struck again. The Pussycat Dolls were more demure than me in my cropped lace singlet and tiny matching hipsters in hot pink, a marked deviation from my usual t-shirt and shorts that fell below my knees. Fortescue narrowed his eyes at Smith’s generous expanse of bare skin.
“Perhaps two robes are in order.”
A brief time later, with modesty restored – Smithy very suave in one of my cotton dressing gowns that barely spanned his chest – Fortescue left to discuss Mrs Paget’s role in my transformation into an exhibitionist with Aunt Bea.
“You have half an hour. And then, disclosure,” were Fortescue’s ominous parting words.
We ate breakfast in bed, me using the cover of a stuffed mouth to avoid speaking about current affairs. Pretending this was the average morning of a girl getting to know someone she hoped would take their friendship further helped me cope, if only temporarily. The worry that Smithy wasn’t the one girl type surfaced, and along with it the likelihood he’d prefer to date someone sane. Who could blame him? I’d prefer to be someone sane. I used the remote to switch the stereo on, and my favourite playlist of the second blasted Santigold’s ‘Disparate Youth’ to life.
“Must it be so loud?” he nearly bellowed.
“Yes!”
After a
