by S E Holmes
me for an overlong minute, his expression loaded with some challenge I was too exhausted to translate.
“You are tougher than you look.”
“And you look exactly like the wank you are.”
He suppressed a chuckle, shaking his head. “I suggest, little firecracker, you seriously contemplate my offer. It is the best you can hope for. And the act will truly be my pleasure.” He rose from his seat in a single fluid movement, while I hugged the wall. “Unless of course, you decide to grow a spine.”
Finally, he spun on his heel and left me alone. I should have told him where he could stick that spine. The enemy was too strong and I hadn’t even met the main contender. What sort of superpower involved winning at hide-and-seek? And I was even ill equipped for that. I lay idle, staring unfocused at a blotchy patch of mould on the ceiling, dwelling on ways to keep my impossible pledge. I pleaded with myself to get up and do something. Anything.
What was the point? I wished more than ever for proper sleep, the type without rampaging monsters. Nowhere was safe and every path led to a fight with the invincible enemy. An hour could have passed or a minute. But the strangeness of Seth’s reprieve kept bugging me.
He could kill me without delay, why wait? Why waste time leaving me to my own devices. If the last Keeper died, there was nothing stopping the revelation of the Stone. The Crone would then break free with barely a contest. Did he want me dead or was he having doubts? That he’d possessed a Keeper’s name since the beginning and hadn’t revealed it gave me faith Seth wasn’t completely under the Crone’s control.
He’d said I could not triumph, that there was no hope. I wasn’t a fan of ‘no’. And giving in dishonoured my parents’ gift. They’d had belief in me to the bitter end. While my minders were still breathing there must be a chance for their salvation, no matter how slim. I just needed to find the solution I was certain Raphaela had set in motion before she died.
If that wasn’t enough, Hugo was here somewhere, maybe bleeding out while I dawdled. I had to attempt a rescue, redeem some sliver of the body count accumulated by the Trinity down a long, terrible record. I didn’t have to suck blood to steal life. And I’d asked Smith if he was a vampire.
“Fine!” I muttered.
Self-pity could wait. Time for an exit strategy.
I sighed and wriggled around to face the vanity, massaging pins-and-needles from my numb behind. It was best to ignore my aching sternum. If I could unscrew that pipe somehow. But it was fused solid and did not budge. I gave up on that end for the handcuff about my wrist. Was it possible to dislocate a thumb and wring my hand through? Didn’t they do that in the movies? I planted the chain beneath my feet on the bottom ledge of the bathroom cupboard, mashing my thumb against my palm and tugging with every bit of strength in me.
I went at it like a mad woman, only tempered by the need to stay quiet. All it achieved was extra grazes to add to my collection. Moronic, non-factual movies! Seth would return to check on the racket and squash me like a mosquito under a fly swatter. I racked my oppositional brain for a better plan, distractedly picking at the bandage on my wrist.
On closer examination, I finally realised Seth had very deliberately covered my tattoos – the red triangle that Mrs Paget had brought together to disappear. Clearly, this was something he did not want me to try.
First, the wrapping would need to come off. This was surprisingly difficult, the material abnormally adhesive. My flesh pulled as I pried at the edges, made more of a chore when my fingers became sticky from raw weeping scrapes. I’d manage to grip a piece and then it would tear away, leaving a tiny strip between my inadequate nails and hardly a rip in my bindings. At this rate, I’d still be here when the Crone squirmed out from under her rock. The seconds flew by and I didn’t think I could count on Seth’s charity for long.
And time wasn’t just my enemy. I hauled upright with a groan. Seth wouldn’t be kind enough to leave a nice bottle of solvent, or maybe acid, but I searched the cupboard and surface of the vanity anyway. There was not so much as a spare roll of toilet paper. My face stared back at me from the mirror, pale, blood-smeared and tear-stained. My hair was a disaster.
Well, the escape manual didn’t call for a neat appearance. And there was the answer, right in front of me. If only every other problem could be sorted so easily. I wedged my free fingers between the handcuff and my wrist, intending to bash the glass with my forearm. But the chain brought me up short.
I swore softly. Gripping the edge of the basin for balance, I hoisted one leg high and kicked at the mirror. The angle was awkward and my lacking height made it worse, but I was eventually rewarded with a satisfying crunch. Reaching over with the unshackled hand, I picked bits of glass from the spider-webbed divot. Then I carefully levered a long sliver from the frame.
Tapping the big chunk against the basin, it broke with a crack and a tinkle of shards. I selected a small, razor-sharp piece. I’d never been a procrastinator – why put off the inevitable? – yet, what I had to do next was not something a normal person would contemplate. Still, a normal person didn’t have the benefit of extra healing capacities. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt. A lot. The first tentative slice under the bandage was shallow, taking only a thin strip of the fabric. Blood began to drip into the basin.
The timid approach only prolonged the pain. Curling my fingers around the cuff to keep it out of the way, I took a slow breath and dragged the makeshift knife hard along my flesh. I hissed as the glass bit like the deepest paper cut over a larger area. A layer of skin and bandage splatted the basin, but I’d uncovered the central part of the tattoo. Two more hacks revealed the triangle, my wrist a stinging, pulped wreck. I used my t-shirt to dab away blood, until the cotton was so worthy of a slasher flick that not even the miraculous washing skill of Mrs Paget could return it to a wearable state.
If I expected something spectacular on placing my finger within the gory outline of the newly exposed triangle, I was disappointed. Nothing happened. With a sinking heart, I guessed I’d have to remove the covering on my other wrist. Maybe the triangles needed to operate in tandem. Resentment towards my guardians reared again. Seth was right, as much as I hated to admit it, I should know what to do, how to access my inheritance.
Then I recalled the decrepit condition they were in when last we parted and felt mean-spirited and ungrateful. Memory of their plight spurred me to action. Moments later I had a matched set of ruined wrists.
Again, I touched a fingertip inside one triangle. Completely unprepared for the power that pulsed my body, I failed to anticipate the results. The handcuff slid through nothing and bounced to the tiles. Stunned, I broke the connection, lurching back to the corporeal. The walls spun and I could not regain my bearings. I fell to the floor, hitting my head on the lip of the toilet. Splotches of colour obscured sight and nausea clenched my stomach. I vowed not to repeat that a second time.
A vision had flashed on the instant of union. The floor plan of Seth’s cruiser lit up in fluorescent blue three-dimensions. Heat smears told of the whereabouts of the boat’s inhabitants. Aside from me, there were two others onboard. One, pacing restlessly in the topmost salon, the other, prone and unmoving on a bed in the main stateroom, a level directly overhead. The sprawled figure had to be Hugo.
I stood, grabbing for the vanity while the wooziness faded. I was thrilled to discover the door unlocked, pushing it only so far as to pop my head around and double-check the hall was empty. Additional caution couldn’t hurt and I still wasn’t quite persuaded by what had just happened that these were my skills.
I left my jail cell, creeping along an ill-lit deserted corridor of lacquered wood and brass towards the steps located on my mental map – mental in so many ways. Adrenalin zinged my veins and my hands trembled. I had just lost bodily substance, which was utterly surreal. More urgent concerns prevented a lengthy analysis.
What if we were anchored out to sea? Going for Hugo brought me nearer to Seth. And he was stalking the stern, block
ing the only access to a tied-on dinghy at the back of the boat. Clinging to the railing and leaving a blood-smudged trail, I headed up a winding flight of stairs towards the prow. It was difficult to decide if my forehead where I’d collided with porcelain, my chest or my lancing wrists won the prize for most-significant hurt.
Dragging someone of Hugo’s size up another storey if he was out of action seemed an insurmountable task. Yet a clever alternative failed to appear. Desk chairs on rollers weren’t especially practical on a seagoing vessel. The floor above creaked and I froze, eyes glued to the stairwell curving at the end of the hallway. Naturally, Hugo’s door was nearest those stairs, which mirrored the ones I’d already taken. If Seth descended, I would not see him until he was upon me.
After a taut half a minute, I ran on tiptoes the rest of the way, past several doors at intervals, fearing capture every second. Finally, I reached my destination. Miraculously, the doorhandle gave and I slipped into the room.
Hugo was prone on the massive bed, spreadeagled fully clothed on a grubby bare mattress, his four limbs chained to loops bolted to the floor and bedhead. The blinds were drawn, the light scant. Against expectation, he was in perfect condition, not so much as a scratch or a
