The Keeper

by Natasha Mostert

  There was something about the light today that was dreadful. The light coming through the window of her studio was like the light you encounter in a nightmare—a kind of insane, colourless light that hurts your eyes. Mia pressed her forehead against the glass pane and squinted at the frail tendrils of swimming, shifting fog.

  Her hands were cold. Her eyes felt dry and tearless. For a moment she thought of Nick, still sleeping in his warm bed where she had left him. It bothered her that she had difficulty envisaging his face. No matter how hard she concentrated, whenever she tried to visualise his features they would dissolve.

  On the glass pane in front of her, her breath was condensing into a grey patch of moisture. With the tip of her finger she traced the outline of a word: Dragonfly.

  She knew who he was now, his identity was clear, but as she stared at the watery letters she realised she was unable to think of him as the man who had become a part of her life during the days of summer. That man had been a friend; an almost lover. The man who would be hurrying towards her right this minute was an intruder and a destroyer. A killer.

  He would be coming here, believing his identity still to be a secret. Good. Combat was about treachery and deceit as much as about courage and skill. His ignorance would be to her advantage.

  The letters on the glass pane were disappearing, only the D still standing bold and strong. Shivering, she turned away.

  It was chilly inside the room. She rubbed her arms, drawing comfort from the soft jersey fabric under her fingers and from the whiff of fugitive scent clinging to the fibres: Molly’s perfume, faded but not gone.

  Outside in the garden, the gate creaked.

  She stiffened. Holding her breath, she waited. She had left the front door ajar for him.

  There was the scrape of shoes at the threshold and she sensed him strongly. Suddenly he was standing inside the studio door, peering into the shadowed room.

  ‘Mia?’

  • • •

  ‘Mia?’

  There was no answer and if it weren’t for the open front door he might have thought the house to be empty. But then he walked into the studio and in the split second before she stepped out of the shadows he sensed her presence. His sense of her was clear, unambiguous, dazzling—like flames chasing the night, like snow falling into black water. Beauty and darkness.

  And then he saw her.

  She was dressed in a black body stocking that clung to her like a second skin. It covered her arms down to the wrists, hugged her throat chastely. But the left side of her body was exposed, the suit cut away. She moved her arm and he caught a glimpse of the pale hollow of her armpit; of the lovely figure flowing in shades of blue and purple colour onto her hip. The Keeper’s tattoo.

  He stared, breathless.

  She moved again, and again he had that tantalising glimpse of skin.

  ‘Let me look at you.’ His voice was no more than a whisper.

  She did not respond. Her eyes were watchful and her face was so pale. He was reminded of that moment when they had faced each other for the first time across a garden square filled with the sound of rustling leaves and the sigh of rain. Her eyes had looked into his unseeingly, but she had had this same air of watchful stillness, as if sensing an energy disturbance and the gathering of forces. She had looked wild and beautiful and foreign.

  ‘Please. Show her to me.’

  For another moment she hesitated, but then she turned her body sideways and lifted her arm, allowing him to see the tattoo fully.

  ‘Ah.’ He felt the sweat burst through his skin. His excitement made him feel dizzy.

  ‘Will you let me touch you?’ He walked forwards slowly and stretched out his hand. His fingertip brushed the incalculable softness of her skin. As his fingers traced the outline of the inked image, he felt the roundness of her breast, the surprising heat underneath her arm, the smooth coolness of her hip.

  She let her arm fall to her side and turned to face him. As if of its own volition, his hand moved behind her head, his fingers burying themselves in her silky hair. Her eyes stared into his unblinkingly; her lips were slightly parted.

  What is the greatest desire? With one hand he tilted her head up to his. His other moved across her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, her stomach. She was completely quiescent under his fingers, her body still. Light within, a golden pulse filling her veins. He could take it from her right now. If he wanted to…

  Her lips clung to his: soft, so soft…

  Searing pain skewered through his body: a red flame. She had slammed the tips of her fingers into his side, angling upwards and underneath his ribs. Her fingers were rock hard and his surprised brain suddenly realised that her hands were wrapped for combat. Gasping for breath, he doubled over. Without any hesitation, she swung her elbow viciously across his face. He managed to slip his head to the side just in time to take the edge off the strike, but the pain where her elbow slammed into his temple was still excruciating and it felt as though his eye had exploded. As he touched his fingers to his injured face, she moved cat-like past him.

  He lowered his hand and straightened. She had placed distance between them but she was clearly not going anywhere. She had adopted a fighter’s stance, her intentions unmistakable. The slight figure behind her in the mirror mimicked her movements like a malevolent ghost.

  No! She knows! She knows who I am!

  He blinked, his brain still fighting this sudden realisation. For one horrifying, hallucinatory moment it seemed to him as though her features were blurring and he saw the faces of other women, other Keepers. A rank of warriors marching through the veil of time.

  Her face snapped back into focus. Her eyes were black as night, her mouth set.

  • • •

  He was recovering. The blank surprise had left his eyes. She knew she should move in immediately, but she had to know.

  ‘Why?’

  He gingerly touched his hand to his face.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘You owe me that at least.’

  He sighed and as he lowered his hand she saw blood on his fingers. Her elbow must have split the fragile skin above the eye.

  ‘Do you know the story of the two kendo masters who were both skilled at catching birds with their bare hands?’ His voice was casually conversational.

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, confused and hostile.

  ‘One of them was the greater martial artist. He managed to catch the birds without harming them in the process. The other master always ended up with a dead bird inside his fist.’ He shrugged. ‘Like me.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I didn’t want those guys to die, Mia. I admired them greatly; they were my friends. In my heart I’m a thief, not a killer. If I could have stolen their chi from them without causing them harm, I would have. But I’m clumsy. When I touch… I kill.’

  ‘And you don’t care.’

  ‘I do care. But in order for me to gain life, there has to be death. That’s simply the way it is. I needed what they could give me.’

  ‘Chi.’

  ‘With you it is a healing touch. Wai chi. The chi transfers from you to the other and it is nourishing. With me, it works the other way round. My touch draws their chi to me. I need it—the way a patient needs a blood transfusion.’

  ‘You’re not a patient. You’re a vampire!’ She swallowed hard, tried to moderate her voice. ‘Why fighters?’

  ‘Fighters have chi like lightning. And the dojo is a contained, self-referential space. Like a laboratory.’

  A laboratory. She felt like slapping him.

  ‘Why these men in particular? Did you just throw a bunch of names into a hat?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He seemed genuinely affronted.

  ‘So how do you decide?’

  ‘You go after the ones with the biggest heart—they have the strongest chi. All fighters have courage. But I’m looking for someone who won’t quit: the fighter who’ll stagger out of his corner even though
he is badly hurt and knows he has already lost.’

  ‘Like Nick.’

  He was quiet.

  She felt a coldness in her stomach. ‘You fattened up Nick, didn’t you? Like a calf to the slaughter. You helped him gain his highest potential and then you moved in when his chi was at its strongest. During the fight, he was already dying. You had already taken from him what you needed during that last spar.’

  Still he didn’t respond.

  ‘Nick is going to die, isn’t he?’

  ‘We are all dying.’

  ‘Can you stop it? Can you reverse the strike?’

  ‘Dian Xue cannot be reversed.’

  Her heart shuddered and she breathed lightly, trying to control the pain.

  ‘I can’t let you leave here.’ She spoke slowly. ‘I can’t allow you to go out and kill again.’

  Snapping her arms into guard position, she turned her body sideways, minimising the area open to attack. His face tautened and almost immediately his gestures followed hers and they started circling each other.

  The floor space was limited. Before his arrival, she had pushed the two benches in the studio against the far wall to free up the room as much as possible, but this was still going to be close combat with little chance of escape.

  Her heartbeat had speeded up tremendously, she could hear the blood rushing in her ears, but she was breathing cleanly through her nose and she was moving with intent. The previous time they had fought, she had allowed her thoughts and fears to interfere with her focus—he’s bigger than me… I am afraid… he’s hurting me—thoughts cluttering her mind, keeping her from attacking cleanly or defending with purpose. Her mind had turned against her body and had caused her movements to be hesitant.

  Not this time. This time she would do as Chilli had taught her. Stay in the moment. Use his own power against him. And above all: stay off the ground. She did not have the grappling skills nor the upper-body strength to defeat him if he took her down.

  He suddenly moved forward with that slithering, breathtaking speed she remembered from their last encounter and entered her zone. Entry and setup. She recognised the technique: it was a fundamental attack movement—stepping in and following up with a short-distance, powerful straight punch and she could feel his internal energy projected at her with stunning intent. She side-slipped but he kept up the attack, advancing immediately once again. His fighting style was as before—linear and highly aggressive. He was invading her space constantly, trying to get her off balance, his hands leading his movements: chopping, whipping, grabbing. This was yang energy—constantly advancing, never retreating.

  If he was going linear, she would go circular. Her mistake the last time had been to allow him to dictate her rhythm. In response to his forward movements, she would use spinning motions, evading him. Fight like the wind and get out of the way. He could not impose his power on her if she did not accept it. Be like water and, if need be, yield. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers like steel. Instead of trying to tug free, she slipped back round to his outside, using the motion of her pivoting body to free her hand.

  But she was starting to feel overwhelmed by the continuous pressure and when he made a sudden, vicious sweep to her ankle her mind cringed. Suddenly all she could think of was of that moment during their last encounter when he had almost snapped her Achilles heel like a brittle twig.

  No. She breathed in through her nose. Stay in the moment.

  She knew his weak spot. His right knee. For a moment she flashed back to the time she saw him stumble. Keep it to yourself, OK? Don’t tell Nick or he’ll take advantage of me next time we spar. As she had answered: Your secret’s safe with me. She hadn’t forgotten.

  And suddenly, she had her chance. He struck at her, but she rocked back from the hips and he over-reached, allowing himself to become unbalanced for a split second. She felt the shift in his energy and stepped forward fluidly, blocking his attacking arm with her left. But, unlike the last time, she did not tense her arm, and even as she felt the force of their limbs connecting she allowed his energy to pass through her own body and across her shoulders, down her right arm and all the way into her right palm. As she pushed her palm towards his face, she visualised not the point of impact, but a point in space beyond his head.

  The hilt of her palm smashed into his jaw. The power with which she connected surprised even herself. His head flipped back and he made a soft grunting sound. The next moment, she kicked a roundhouse into his weak right knee, using her full body power, feeling the power surging from her hips, the energy travelling in a straight line from the grounded foot of her supporting leg.

  He did not go down, but his leg swayed.

  She went in low, slamming her shoulder into his solar plexus and hooking her foot round the ankle of his weakened leg. He went down like a tree.

  She moved her foot until it hovered just above his Adam’s apple and he stiffened, his entire body tense. If she were to project all her energy at him right now, bringing the full weight of her leg down on his throat, she would kill him. He stared up at her, eyes rimmed with white.

  Could she do it?

  A memory, vivid as a wound, flashed into her brain. Sun on her skin, a blue sky, glimmering wings skimming luminous water. Her body shuddering with pain. His hands cradling her bloody foot, then jerking the shard of glass from the soft flesh. Tender violence.

  She hesitated. With lightning speed he grabbed her ankle and pulled her leg out from underneath her. She slammed to the floor and the next instant he was on top of her, crushing her body beneath his.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Touch a butterfly and you may kill it. The oils from your fingertips will loosen the fragile wing scales and damage the veins that circulate the blood, and even the strong muscles of the butterfly’s body will not be enough to compensate. He had been taught this lesson by his father after picking up a small tortoiseshell nymphalid and fatally damaging it with his fumbling little-boy fingers. He had felt sorry and distressed as he looked at the maimed insect crumpled in his palm. But even then, he recognised that if he ever found himself in a similar situation, he would reach for the butterfly again. The love of beauty is a dangerous prayer.

  She was weeping. Her head was turned to the side and her eyes were closed, the long lashes forming perfect dark crescents but the tears pushing through unrelentingly. He touched her cheek, which was glistening wet, and in his mind came a refrain: Don’t cry, Mia. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  ‘Why?’ Her voice was hoarse, barely audible. ‘Why haven’t you killed me long ago?’

  If only you knew how close I’ve come. If only you knew how often. Draining you of your energy would be the biggest prize. I have never been more aware of it than right now, right this minute, as you lie beneath me and I sense the meridians inside your body: rivers of energy, rapids of light…

  A wave of nausea suddenly swept over him and he clenched his jaw.

  ‘Nick.’ She looked up, the line of her brows pulled down in grief. ‘Why Nick, not me? Why?’ She suddenly screamed at him, pushing her palms futilely against his chest. ‘Answer me!’

  Such a temptation. I can’t bear it.

  She fell back again, her body sagging. ‘I am so tired,’ she said. ‘So very tired.’

  For a moment he closed his eyes and wondered at the breathtaking speed with which one can travel from happiness to despair. Less than an hour ago he had walked towards her with a hopeful heart and the world had seemed right in every way. The man who had set out this morning had been happy. The man who had set out this morning had been deluded. For so long he had lied to himself that delusion had become truth; truth, delusion. He had convinced himself he would be able to defy his own nature and keep his hunger in check, but the feel of her light-pulsing body beneath his made him realise he was still that boy with the grasping, destructive fingers. A destroyer. A killer. She would never be safe from him.

  There was a metallic taste in his mouth. He couldn’t risk the feel of
her soft body any longer. Pushing himself away from her, he got to his feet. She slowly followed suit, moving hesitantly as though she was hurting.

  They faced each other.

  ‘Nick is fine.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, her face slack. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nick is fine.’ He realised his hands were shaking.

  ‘You never gave him blacklight.’ Her voice was a whisper. He could see she was not giving herself permission to hope yet.

  ‘No.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘I had every intention: it was all set up for that last spar. And then… I didn’t.’

  It was dead quiet in the room. Her face was a mask of shock. No joy, only disbelief.

  ‘This has been the best summer of my life. You, me, Nick. I think… I think I had this sentimental dream… the three of us living together for the longest time.’ He shrugged. ‘Stupid. I wouldn’t really have been able to share you with Nick. When I found out the two of you were lovers, I felt such anger.’

  He stopped. Cold sweat burst from his pores.

  ‘You know he will never really accept you for who you are, Mia. Nick is not your true mate. He will always be uncomfortable with your world. There’s a part of you he doesn’t know. Sadder, still: he doesn’t want to know.’

  The nausea gripped him again. ‘I know you.’

  But the way I want to love you is the way I want to hurt you. Time to face the truth: I can never trust myself around you, sweet Mia. Keeper. Your very name spells temptation. One day I will touch you and I will kill you.

  He looked into her vulnerable face and the knowledge of his own weakness filled him with such despair, he could hardly breathe.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Her voice was hesitant.

  He did not answer. In his mind came glimpses of journeys still to be travelled and a stir of echoes urging him onwards. It was all ahead in the future, waiting for him: moments of passion, visions of beauty, glimmering hours strung together like a tightrope without end. He saw himself walking that tightrope with the hourglass frozen in time, the flow of sand arrested. Life without end. How could he deny himself? It was his destiny.