The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity)

by S E Holmes

  Desperation guiding my hand, I twisted it an entire revolution. The wild scene in front of me fell away, replaced by a bewildering array of vistas expanding and overlapping like many plays watched at once. The narratives telescoped into hazy futures not realised, swirling tunnels of possibility that shared an aspect in common: me. Specifically, me dying in countless ways in this cursed club, on this very spot.

  I concentrated on a story at random, and in reverse, was granted the answers to my self-pitying questions. Had I stayed wrapped in Raphaela’s drapes, Smithy would have died at the hands of Malachi. Daniel would have been taken hostage and I would have sped here after Smithy’s killer in blind grief and wrath, into the open arms of my expectant enemy. After all, Finesse ruled desolation and the bereaved were predictable.

  Following more and more alternatives, each climaxed in disaster. In some, the world burned, in another ash blanketed cities and towns and nothing moved. The silence was so profound it was earth-shattering. Only the rebellious path I chose offered hope.

  Were these awful pictures merely what might come to pass if I did wrong, lessons in potential history from which I was supposed to learn? Or were they true portals into multiple outcomes that I could manipulate at will? And what terrible consequences would befall if I fiddled with events as yet unformed? For I was sure, if I messed up, what transpired would be permanent and terrible. No wonder the articles had been lost: some power was too dangerous to wield no matter how well-meaning. I no longer believed they were accidentally missing, they’d been hidden on purpose.

  Hurrying now, I sought the thread showing me what had actually occurred back at Raphaela’s mansion, speeding through events until I faced my trance-induced self in a shack in the middle of a swamp. Any other time, I’d stumble over the weirdness of seeing myself from the outside, as strangers did, and how different that view was to the version I experienced. There was only so much observable in a mirror.

  Presently, I was too busy wrestling with the puzzle of getting my body from Louisiana to London, wishing I was one of those people who could whistle at glass-cracking decibels instead of producing a spit-flying raspberry. Poe, who’d been keeping vigil from the windowsill, turned suddenly and looked intently in the direction of my ghostly, non-present self. It seemed not just cats had the gift of cross-dimensional sight.

  “Poe. Wake me up.” He soared to my shoulder and nibbled my ear. I remained inert. “Bite me!”

  I’d used that phrase often, but not literally. Poe obliged, chomping my earlobe with his sharp beak and drawing blood. My physical self roused sluggishly from the meditative stupor, opening her eyes without seeing. Was I always that dopey? Taking the initiative, my hawk gathered the strap of my singlet in his talons and flapped heavenward, attempting to drag me to my feet. Eventually, he succeeded in guiding me up and moving me in the leaden manner of an automaton to the side of the shack ‘closest’ to the portal I’d opened. Roosting on my twin’s shoulder, he waited, gazing across the eons at me with liquid amber eyes.

  “Right,” I mumbled. “Where is the instruction manual when you need it?”

  Pocketing the Key, I opened my arms in mimicry of hugging myself, and imagined two hands spanning the breach to penetrate the stilt-bound shack and take hold. If this did not work, I was out of ideas. Too eager, I lunged and my arms passed through my other self. Poe chirped his irritation.

  “Not helping.”

  Recalling Bea’s instruction on mental discipline and patience, I gritted my teeth. Of course, those tutorials had happened in a nice safe warehouse minus a rampaging Crone and a grenade-wielding, revenge-driven lunatic in a collapsing building. How much time had I wasted? What tragedy would I discover on my return? Even at this emotional distance, my heart thumped the tempo of diminishing seconds.

  I steadied my breathing, closed my eyes and reproduced the sensation of my brief existence in that shack: the smells, the temperature, the sounds, the dread, every perception that formed the reality. For a moment, I vacated London, my stride bridging continents and oceans. In a single step, my astral consciousness reunited with my tangible body and we merged whole on the other side of the globe, far away from futility in the face of unending hate.

  Did I owe Daniel my loyalty? Or anything? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to stay, to remain in that pitiful, stinking shack that now seemed a haven. He’d betrayed Vegas, serving his own needs rather than those of greater purpose. For the second time in as many weeks, he may get me killed, obliterating millennia of Trinity dedication and worse besides that I could only envision in my darkest nightmares. But I’d sworn from the beginning not to leave anyone behind.

  People were imperfect and messy and complicated. In his shoes, could I swear I wouldn’t do the same to avenge the ones I’d lost? And to ease the all-consuming guilt of having failed them so completely. I sighed, trying to overcome the fatigue and prepare for what came next. If that was ever possible.

  “Are you ready, Poe?”

  The buzzing at my thigh peaked and before my resolve lapsed, I spirited us back to the hell of Halcyon. My hawk soared to what was left of the rafters, surveying the demolition with a superior gaze. The Key fell quiet, the loop snapping shut, and time kicked back to its normal rate. The real me now lingered on the gangplank entrance to Finesse’s party chamber, exposed and vulnerable. I had too little energy left for Keepers’ tricks of concealment.

  From the interior of her sinking palace, the monstrous Crone beheld my abrupt appearance, hunger and rapture warring in her glare. One arm was raised to bestow the killing punch, the other suspending Daniel over the chasm by his neck. His face turned blue in her throttling grip, his fingers digging at her claws and feet kicking the air. Even as he was about to receive his greatest desire, he fought to survive.

  “Crap,” I muttered.

  “The Keeper!” she screeched in vicious triumph, propelling Daniel over the precipice and letting go with a deliberate flourish. “Give it to me, maggot thief.”

  I could do zilch for Daniel, trusting he’d find a way to save himself. It was what he was good at, after all. Stupidly I delayed here against every instinct to bolt because, no matter what he had done, I could not leave him to her. Insight triggered a smile. I was just as stubborn as my minders.

  “Is this what you want?”

  The Stone glimmered above my fingers, revolving for her avid scrutiny. There was a charcoal bruise on my upraised palm where her icky little worms had been that started to itch. But I could not think about that. Finesse was mere metres from her lost possession, yet the occasion of her sudden good fortune with so little effort made her wary. The beast sniffed the atmosphere, eyeing me, while I worked hard to stop trembling.

  “A Keeper who so readily yields is no Keeper at all. What are you up to, scrawny speck?”

  “I’m showing you mine. A trade.”

  She shrunk and returned to her earthly body, naked and perfect amidst the ruins, which really didn’t help. “Why should I trade when I can take?”

  “What’s my name? Go on, say it. Take your jewel from me.”

  It was a hunch, but one that had solidified with unshakeable resolve. The witch would not have it all her own way at these, the end of Trinity days. That just seemed too unfair. Why else would articles missing for centuries now be in reach? Why else would the hoarded skills of every Keeper be at my disposal? I was the last of my kind and would not go down without a fight. Latoya would never know, but I would honour her memory and make her proud. Finesse scowled, her plump, cherry lips working soundlessly.

  “You don’t know my name, even though I stand before you.”

  Raphaela had altered our abilities and with them, the Crone’s myth. Our secrets remained buried whether that foul creature ransacked our thoughts or not. In my mind, a susurrus of my ancestors’ voices rose in jubilation. But I could not join in their celebration, restraining my fear by dogged exertion. Finesse had only shown us a tiny portion of her capacity, and despite the fac
t I provoked her, I did not want to see her full might. It was enough to sow the seeds of doubt.

  “I don’t need your name,” she snarled.

  “Things aren’t functioning the way they should anymore. Why is that, do you think? Daniel’s leaving with me.”

  Finesse looked confounded. “You risk yourself for the one who betrayed your mate?”

  “It’s a trade, not an explanation.”

  “I will slay you and my treasure will come home to me.”

  At that instant, a seismic shift hit me with such force I staggered and almost lost my footing. But the tremor did not come from the ruined building. It struck at my core, at the very essence of my being, a crushing wave of pain and anguish so pure I gasped and clutched at my heart, flailing for something to anchor me lest I crumpled to the ground. My eyes welled with tears. I could not draw breath, I could not find my equilibrium.

  “Well, well!” Finesse gloated. “The rickety three-legged Trinity stool now teeters on two feeble legs.” She clapped and performed a lurid jig, all the more obscene given her nudity. “Oh, your downfall will be far more fun than even I could conceive.”

  I was hyperventilating, my knees jelly. Mrs Paget. No. No. No! The notion of death, so omnipresent in the Trinity realm, had been abstract to this point. No training or discussion or trite philosophy could brace me for this overwhelming tide of sorrow that would surely tow me under. The black door of eternity parted to reveal our fragile mortality, a mere spark in the vast scheme of the universe. But the greatest of us took only an iota to carve a lasting impression. I would never see her sunshine smile ever after.

  Finesse revelled in the misery scudding my features, in the shuddering anguish bowing my body. Taking advantage, she edged closer around the hole in the floor. My hand cupping her suspended orb drooped, its glow flickering. I must get control of myself. I must endure. But beloved Mrs Paget was gone and the Crone could not tear herself from my distress.

  The emotional tone of the flood began to change. I almost gave it away in a frown of shock and confusion, but kept my face locked in grief. A surge of release and joy soared through me. And then the strangest feeling that Mrs Paget was not truly departed, she had merely undergone a metamorphosis and become something else. Someone else, not diminished, different.

  Shine for me, Winsome.

  I could never deny Mrs Paget a request and would not start now. I’d give this fight my all to the last breath. Dredging resilience from a place I’d thought spent, I quashed the sorrow of Mrs Paget’s passing.

  “We’re not done yet.” I raised my hand, teasing the horrid creature with her stolen rock. “Do your worst. But you’d better make it your best because we’ll be blocking you at every turn.”

  The Crone’s hands snapped into fists, crazed by my abrupt recovery. Launching herself at me, she met an obstacle. Daniel had crawled up the side of the crater and, at the moment of her leap, seized her left ankle. With the last vestiges of his strength, he dragged her kicking and screaming over the cusp and threw her down.

  I ran to where his fingers dug splintered flooring, the rest of him hanging over the side in dark, empty space. The injured groaned from under piles of rubble, several Anathema disciples scurrying towards the hole in search of their mistress. Poe took exception to their interference, swooping to harry and peck them back to the border of the shelled-out hall, night sky visible through patches of missing ceiling. Now and then, a pillar would topple, taking with it chunks of Finesse’s club, raising clouds of dust and debris. The place would not stay vertical for much longer.

  Daniel looked up at me with open disgust, tributaries of black pulsing the arteries of his neck and temple, smudged in with bleeding lacerations. Tarry streams crawled through the whites of his eyes. I knelt, wedging myself against exposed rebar that was anchored in a large boulder of concrete.

  “Are you so eager to surrender?” he asked through a clenched jaw, his agony obvious.

  “Smithy was not yours to sacrifice,” I countered angrily. He was questioning me? “Give me your hand.”

  “Do not touch me! I am contaminated. You are most important. The rest of us are expendable.”

  “You’re wrong. We’re in this together. Give me your hand.” A gigantic form took shape in the murky depths. Her shriek sliced the night. “Hurry!”

  He let one hand go, dangling now by the fingers of his left hand. Peering down, he said, “She comes.” Then, his cornflower irises pierced me with their intensity. “You must flee this place.”

  “Fine. Give me your hand and we’ll go together.”

  Another furious shriek echoed and the uneven whoosh-flap of broad wings. Two pinpricks of glowing red drew larger. Poe glided loops overhead, chirping frantically. Daniel groped in the breast pocket of his tattered coat, bringing out another grenade and pulling the pin between his teeth. He grinned and let go of the spoon, his remaining fingers releasing one by one.

  “Arsehole!” I yelled.

  “Do not come back for me.”

  I sprang for him. He shoved himself from the side, somersaulting backwards and diving head first to meet dragon-Finesse as she struggled to unfurl her wings to their full width in the narrow funnel. My fingers brushed the sole of one boot. The club would not survive another blast, but I was a statue of disgrace, my effort at rescue pointless. There was a huge boom, a discharge of molten flame boiling up the tunnel. At the last second, a blinding flash of white eclipsed everything. And then the vacuum.

  Thirty-Four

  Odd. I sat on a park bench in the middle of a tiny, leafy courtyard; a cobblestoned square tucked inside two jutting wings of a shambling Gothic church. As far as I could tell, we were still in London. Nearby, Poe perched on the low bough of a silver birch, preening himself. Scabior rested in my lap, so too the oilskin cloth secreting the Key. Cutting gusts blew strands of hair across my cheek. In light clothes from Louisiana, I hunched over shivering and miserable.

  “That was rather a clever trick,” said a mild voice from next to me. I turned to spy Enoch, his form sharpening into view next to me like a photograph in developing solution. He wore his standard Men-in-Black suit, his hands folded on his knees. “She won’t be fooled again by that Stone illusion. You did not show her the real version.”

  “How did you know?”

  I dug the nail of my left forefinger into the hot, stinging sore on my other palm. The matching set resembled stigmata and I wondered if the witch had done it deliberately, some scripture reference to a fruitless struggle and the ultimate downfall. With morale so low, maybe I was just being melodramatic. Daniel was lost, Smithy hung in the balance, I had no idea where Bea or the judge were, Latoya had died … Mrs Paget. Her resurrection was not a likely privilege. I had no faith things in Sydney were going any better and we hadn’t even reached half-time. It was too easy to sink beneath despair.

  “The demon’s Stone is an item of great power. Had Finesse not been so intent on punishing Daniel, she would have perceived its absence.”

  He handed me a long scarf from out of nowhere. It was inadequate against the cold, implying we wouldn’t be here for long. I wrapped it around my neck and balled my hands in soft, white mohair, as much for warmth as to stop picking.

  “You are becoming adept at manipulating the barriers between dimensions.”

  “Yeah,” I scoffed. “Not so adept that the Crone couldn’t grab hold of me when she chose to. Latoya, also.”

  Saying her name out loud brought a lump to my throat. Poor Hugo. It was hard to determine who was worse off, those taken or those left behind to grieve their loss.

  “Your abilities are intimately tied to your energy and concentration levels. If you lose focus, she gains the upper hand and is able to overcome your veils. It is her power to force your presence, and thus all in the vicinity can touch you as she can. I hope as you grow stronger, the witch-demon will not succeed at forcing you to do anything at all against your will.”

  Right … well. That success depended
on my focus was not worrying in the least, I thought sarcastically. Let alone confusing references to dimensions and barriers, which I’d had little idea of manipulating even as I apparently did so.

  Speaking of worry. “Where’s Vegas? Is he okay?”

  “Close by. But I warn you, Winsome, prepare yourself and do not expect too much. He has been through an ordeal, as is her specialty.”

  He needn’t have bothered with the caution: any expectations I may have had were well and truly derailed. “I want answers, Enoch. And before you give me your ‘objectivity’ spiel, remember that not choosing a side is often the same as choosing a side.”

  He gazed up at the moonless heavens, a dome of faintly twinkling stars overcome by city light. In the ghostly dim, his face was as white as bleached bone.

  “She is like most humans, seeking love after her own fashion, hoping to avoid rejection.”

  “She was once that ragged little girl? Someone hurt her very badly.”

  “So long ago, even she has forgotten.”

  “I pity the little girl, but not what she’s become.” His defence of her angered me. “Plenty of people suffer at the hands of others, but don’t take revenge on the whole of humanity. At some point we must all grow up and let the past go. We have to decide who we wish to be now.”

  Mrs Paget had taught me that, and Bea and Fortescue. Vegas, too. Their unconquerable courage never wavered, in spite of all they’d sacrificed over so long.

  “Perhaps that is wisdom. Or perhaps, Winsome, it is the presumption of one who has never experienced torment wrought by those who are supposed to love and protect you. Especially when young and vulnerable.”