 
# THE CRONE'S STONE

The Sacred Trinity Trilogy: Book One

S E Holmes
Copyright © 2011 SueEllen Holmes

Smashwords Edition

Also available:

The Hidden Key (The Sacred Trinity Trilogy: Book Two)

Brink

Dominion

Free short stories and novellas available from www.seholmesauthor.com:

Trouble with Angels

Sleek Comes the Night

Shutter

A Darker Shade of Grey

The Crone's Stone

## Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Frontispiece

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

## One

Junior Deputy-Sheriff Joliet swore as the cruiser stalled and lurched to a stop in a plume of dust far from the murdered woman's house. Davey ground the key in the ignition. The engine refused to turn over. It was midmorning and he was so late, the prospect of further delay pushed him to the border of freaking out.

"Come on. Come on!" He pummelled the steering wheel. "Piece of junk." The air-conditioning gave an anaemic wheeze and stopped working. "Excellent," he grumbled, cracking a window. Cloying humidity seeped into the cabin.

Heat rippled the view over the bonnet where at least ten vehicles zigzagged gravel outside huge, ornately grilled entrance gates. Why had they all stopped here, even the coroner? How would they get the body out? And some of his colleagues were as likely to walk as don a tutu and perform a pirouette, resembling that Disney dance of the hippos. He'd driven as far as he could. Davey undid the seatbelt and reached for the doorhandle, confused by a bizarre mechanical glitch that seemed unanimous.

The car door stuck, obliging a shoulder barge. The vehicle had been in working order when he'd collected it from the auto-pool this morning. With a final disgruntled shove, he spilled out onto the tarmac and staggered upright.

A cloud of bloodsuckers swarmed for the smorgasbord. He'd forgotten repellent and slapped irritably, hitting himself more often than any of the stinging gnats. The allegedly 'cool and breezy' uniform (never believe the packaging blurb) clung like his stalker ex-girlfriend. At least she'd been cool and breezy in the beginning. Ecru had never been his colour. Was it anyone's?

Davey groaned. A long, sweaty hike to a place he didn't want to go beckoned. The monstrous ante-bellum pile crouched on the hill, as though waiting in ambush. Whenever the gossips at the BI-LO mentioned the area they reeled out a load of tripe about the house being haunted. Maybe he should have listened for once and stayed away. But Uncle Horace also waited inside for his manly black, no sugar. Contrary to nattered rumours of vengeful spirits, the threat of a long lecture on Davey's tardiness was very real.

Not for the first time, he wished some other pathetic chump occupied his spot as the newest recruit on the bottom of the St Martin sheriff's office urinal. Was it his fault the coffee order slipped under his windscreen wiper early that morning like an infringement ticket had stretched longer than the cafe queue? Some comedian had ordered a mint julep. Davey had asked anyway, knowing it was stupid. His server with a nose ring and pretty red hair sniped she'd check out back for her "lace parasol, a gentleman caller, oh, and an _1850's recipe_." Everyone in the shop had laughed. Although not so much when Davey loudly requested a "ginger tart" and little-miss-nose-ring promptly called the manager.

And this part of Louisiana was so off-the-known-track, without the police tape draping the bushes by the property's entrance, Davey would still head for the Gulf of Mexico. Even GPS failed out here. To this point, everyone believed the land was unoccupied. Apparently, they'd had to search way back in the records to discover the landholder's title. The victim's name was Baptiste, Raphaela.

Hitching an equipment-packed belt he reached in, gathered the coffees on precariously stacked trays, and kicked the door shut. He wondered for the gazillionth time how Uncle Horace had managed to bully him into a career as a police officer. Davey had just wanted to go to college and teach history, not stare down years before the rest of them trusted him with something other than food and beverage orders.

Now he found himself shimmying through a creepy gridlock of dead cars towards a place with a cruel reputation that spanned centuries. Accidents happened in the vicinity too often: disappearances, drownings, gator attacks, moccasin bites. Voodoo and superstition riddled this part of Louisiana. Maybe, those rumours of black magic and devil-worship had simply got the better of him today.

"Another schmuck fronting the Reaper with surgical gloves and crime tape," he muttered.

His spine crawled, as though unfriendly eyes peered from the cypress and cottonwood shadows. According to a fuzzy satellite image from the coffee-stained incident report back in the car, the dead woman's land was originally a wilderness of greenery and swamp. He'd frowned at the word 'originally', reading it over and over. What had replaced the vegetation?

Davey scanned the scrubby clearing, ancient gnarled trees riddled by Spanish moss guarding what had once been a turning circle. The incessant shriek of insects was like razor wire in his ears. An industrial grinder lay by the gate, required to shear chains heavy enough to tether a tanker. Whatever had happened here, this was no ordinary crime scene. The concrete wall ringing the perimeter seemed better suited to a medieval fortress. He craned to glimpse its wide, barbed top. What on earth was the victim trying to keep out?

The place gave him a serious case of the jitters. It was not too late to hightail it back to the office. Hell! It was not too late to hightail it to college. He was barely eighteen. The whole team had made the trek here anyway. Stimulants aside, they didn't need him. Uncle Horace would just have to deal with the fact that three generations in law enforcement ended the family record.

Davey gingerly navigated the partly open gate via colossal pillars, his lungs deflating. Silence fell. Beyond the columns, a clinging vapour swallowed his legs up to his thighs, the odour of petrol triggering his asthma. Juggling the trays, he fumbled his inhaler from an overstuffed pocket, sucking deeply. In an act worthy of a Las Vegas magician, he gritted a handkerchief in his teeth and tied it about his face with only one hand.

Treading cautiously up the incline, a pothole turned Davey's ankle and several cups tumbled from the trays. It was even more suffocatingly humid inside. He gasped for air, pain lancing his leg. An asthma attack this severe was a rarity since enrolling for swimming years ago. Even with its owner gone, this eerie place managed to repel trespassers. _What_ had happened here?

The fog eddied, his chest spasming in the sulphurous reek. He coughed and retched, rearranging stacks to take an urgent slug from the puffer. Picking up the pace, he tried another diversion by inspecting his surrounds. It was a mistake. Charred trees twisted from the fumes. Now Davey knew what became of the plant life, but wasn't any less baffled. Their blackened carcasses reminded him of that painting of a screaming guy, as if they'd tried to escape skyward.

Ready to flee back to the sanctuary of his car, Raphaela Baptiste's residence emerged from its poisonous shroud and Davey's panic settled to knuckled tension in his gut. Through burning eyes he noticed it was stylish, made sinister by a layer of soot and a moat of pitted craters. Dead opossums, frogs and lizards scattered the burned remnants of front lawn in some sham garden, their state of decay more advanced than possible.

His brow furrowed. Had this devastation been caused by a toxic spill? Yet, the teeming bayou insects were absent, not one pelt boiling with parasites. In fact, he'd not been pestered by a bug at all since breaching the gate. Davey scanned the sky, the only sign of life a falcon circling high overhead.

The house's double doors were thrown wide onto a generous veranda. Davey climbed the stairs and entered, panting as if he'd chain-smoked for decades. Boot prints grimed a floor of black-and-white marble and he tugged the gag to his neck, sidling through officers clotting the art-and-sculpture packed foyer. No one paid him any attention. They massaged the brims of their hats, eyes darting. Whispers followed him: "She's too young. Must be the great-granddaughter..." "Packing stuff everywhere, bubble wrap and so forth..." "There's no trace. Forensics haven't a clue..."

Davey had never witnessed so many nervous cops crammed into one room. Dumping his reduced cargo on a fancy chair, he hoped his colleagues were the glass-half-full types. The brimming cap on Uncle Horace's cup inspired relief. Joliet Senior crawled beneath an antique side table, torch in mouth, the taut seat of his gabardine slacks shined by chair use.

"Sheriff Joliet?" his nephew called.

Uncle Horace lurched upright and walloped the back of his stringy-haired head. The torch clattered to the tile.

"Geez, Davey." He rubbed his scalp and unfolded a rangy frame, hauling to his feet. "A little warning? The ticker's already in overdrive." He halted and stared. "You look awful. You're the shade of a honeydew melon. You didn't fall for the ginger tart trap, did you?" His expression was far too sympathetic. "That serving girl's as pleasant as a rabid cat."

"It's nothing. Just a little asthma." Davey thrust the coffee at him, unwilling to admit the humiliation. His uncle took the cup and leaned tiredly on the tabletop.

"Thanks. You don't have to stay, you don't want. I couldn't abide the lecture from your mother if you keeled over under my supervision." He winked.

Davey's curiosity burst forth. "What happened here?"

"Who knows? Make something up and we'll be closer to the truth. This place is a museum. Nothin's gonna wash out this stink. It's plain unnatural."

"Can I check it out before I leave? Maybe I'll learn something."

Horace smiled at this improvement in attitude and nodded. "You can't miss her. The chief's got his dander up. Just follow the wounded-bull roar. And Davey?" Davey paused and turned back to his uncle. "Don't touch anything, no matter the temptation."

A little credit: he was an academy rookie, not a fool. Davey made his way towards the rear of the house, down a long corridor that ended in a T-intersection. A bustle of activity led the way to an office in the right-hand cul-de-sac. Classy paintings, statues and fixtures jammed every available space. In his admittedly limited knowledge, it all looked worth a bucket.

A sweet, spicy odour eased his lungs the closer he got. He'd expected essence of cadaver. Arriving, Davey froze just inside the doorframe. The furniture cluttered the side furthest from him; an Oriental rug rolled up and pushed carelessly against the rest. A mutilated dead woman sat Buddha-like in the centre of the room, three tall black candles molten around her. Under the blaze of four police spotlights arranged in a square, a glassy prison welded her petite frame in place. She reminded Davey horribly of Spielberg's Jurassic mosquito encased in amber.

Busy investigators failed to eclipse his attention, as if time slowed in a halo about her. She was very beautiful. Gross as it was, Davey couldn't help thinking it. Her big eyes stared a thousand miles, strands tumbling from a messy bun, varnished lips sealed forever, and cream pants carved in resin.

He jerked his focus from her chest, where a bloody cavity peeled her sternum, bone and sinew visible. This tiny woman appeared to have stabbed herself, hands fixed in wilted prayer. But the blade was missing. Davey felt even more confused, amongst a turmoil of other less precise emotions. Such fuss over a suicide? He'd thought this was a murder. If not, a robbery? The burglars weren't so thorough, easily transportable gem-studded ornaments dotting the room. Besides, with all the security they'd have to be Ocean's Eleven.

And every time he glanced away, two triangles, one inside the other, wrought in red crayon, flickered from the ground. They made a frame surrounding her, which was filled with unknown symbols. No matter how hard he tried to hold the image, it vanished the moment he looked directly at the poor dead lady. His intuition squirmed.

"That knife's crucial evidence! And it's an heirloom worth more than my lifelong salary. It was there a moment ago," the chief bawled from his position by a spotlight, his head lit up like a fire siren. "How in the mothering disaster could somebody pilfer it? We can't budge her."

Four officers even more florid than the chief grappled Ms Baptiste's limbs, pulling and heaving with much swearing and no movement. A nearby technician smirked at Davey, as if he'd never seen a corpse.

"You okay, kid?" she asked. "If you're going to up-chuck, take it outside. You don't want to contaminate the scene."

He'd been hunting with his uncle for years and was not the squeamish type. Davey fingered his baton, but didn't have the nuts to utter a comment about the techy's enormous butt matching her mouth. Besides, nausea was not the main problem. Could no one else see that triangle? Or feel the faint throb it emitted? If he tilted his head and didn't stare straight, it luminesced from the edge of his vision.

He rallied to speak. "Hey, excuse me, guys... can anyone see—?" But the words were drowned by an outburst from the chief.

"Use a jackhammer for all I care. Get the whole lot to the lab. And find that damned knife!" The chief barrelled for the door. "Make sure there are plenty of photos," he barked over a shoulder.

Davey scuttled out of the way and tried again, much louder. "Anyone see a drawing on the ground? A red triangle."

"Ah, sir?"

"What, Mumford? What!" The chief lunged back inside, jowls quivering.

"We," the video archivist croaked, "can't seem to photograph the scene."

"I am not an artistic man, Mumford. But even I could capture a few unhappy snaps with that whizzbang equipment the State generously purchases on your behalf. If you're not up for the task, pass it to someone who is, and sign yourself up to shoot pictures of toddlers at the mall. Stop wasting my time."

The mouthy one next to Davey stepped forward. "It's not just Mumford, sir. We've tried on four different cameras and video. The digital frames are black every time. I've taken film, but no promises."

"Guess not." Davey gave up, positive the red triangle existed.

Never again would he disregard the bad vibe yelling, "stay in the car." This tomb should have been left sealed. The chief devoted an opera to his disappointment and all present cowered. Davey didn't catch a word. He slumped against the wall, transfixed by her, a terrible premonition knotting his bowels.

"Track down that unknown caller. Pronto! Goddamn it all to hell."

"You mean the hell aside from this one?" Davey muttered to himself, gnawing his nails to the quick.

He wondered if that Egyptologist fellow, Carter, felt the same on cracking Tutankhamen's crypt, ever after cursing his team to bad luck and death. Someone had cared about the victim, though, and phoned in details. Old Edith, who worked the switch, claimed she'd not heard a man more wrecked by sorrow in all her years. Otherwise, the Baptiste lady would have rested undiscovered for eternity. Davey felt sure she was meant to remain that way, her house a monument keeping its dire secrets. But someone wanted a proper burial for her. Or, thought Davey, to secretly gloat.

## Two

The doddering Languages master, Werner, ripped the tape from Mallory's mouth. She winced and I prayed it was as painful as it looked.

"Better quick than slow," he squeaked bracingly.

I watched over a seething patchwork of heads, balanced on one of the stacked benches at the very back of the huge dining-hall-cum-auditorium. The students of the Albert Einstein Boarding Academy (a gross insult to the great man) had surged in like battery hens, but the excitement of this breakfast surprise kept them on their feet, whooping and hollering. Plates of bacon and eggs, their yokes crusting deserted forks, toast and bowls of porridge, were scattered on long tables lining the space, forgotten and going cold. They were too focused on the teachers' platform in front.

Eating was certainly furthest from my mind. The guilt at ruining my promise to Aunt Bea to behave, undoing months of good work despite the liars and cheats and bullies swarming this place like flies on crap, gnawed at my conscience. I was expected to rise above it all. Right now, the hope I could worm out of trouble took priority.

"It was Winsome. The freak! Daddy will press charges. We're suing the school. There she is!" Mallory jerked her head in my direction, her lips swollen and red. "I was sleeping in my dorm when she barged in and kidnapped me. I woke up here, taped so tight I can barely breathe. It's a federal offence. Call the FBI!"

Her apparent suffocation didn't impede the chest-heaving drama. She was gaffer-taped from shoulders to knees on a desk chair on the teachers' dais. Her partner in crime, Chad, was positioned next to her in identical bondage. The two of them looked like pupae squirming in silver cocoons. Their eyebrows were absent. A sign on his chest announced in large red letters: _Chad blows goat_. Mallory's said: _Danger  – Herpes_. Their mottos inspired peals of laughter as the hall filled.

Principal 'the crow' Bird and the clueless student counsellor, Mr Jenkins, stalked the perimeter in outrage. A smart person would have hidden in her room, but curiosity always ruled my world. Mallory burst into theatrical sobs, not quite as convincing without a swoon. That could wait until the court case. Time to squash my nerves and row my meagre defences.

"Winsome Light, here. Now!" The crow returned to the stage and offered Mallory a comforting pat on the shoulder. Jenkins followed like a dutiful lackey.

The crow's scowl pinned me from across the hall, commanding me to move. The awful woman was a Coco Chanel wannabe, suit buttoned to her throat, unburdened by the trademark cigarette and genuine style. Everyone present swivelled and attention fell upon me like an inquisitor's glare. Old boy Werner waved his Stanley knife with hands as steady as a windsock in a high gale. Chad wriggled away from the blade. He was such a moron! No punishment stole the beauty of the scene. What could they do to me? The threat of expulsion seemed an incentive, if not for my long-suffering Aunt Bea.

I sighed and jumped from the bench. Faces tracked me eagerly as I trudged to the gallows, jostled by kids toned, pudgy and bony. My popularity was on par with vaccinations. I told myself again it didn't matter, that the opinion of my fellow inmates was my least concern.

As I neared, Mallory regarded me with a hateful expression. Her mouth resembled a couple of inflated leeches. I stifled a laugh, breaking from the herd for the stage. The crow willed me closer with a hooked finger, trapping me within the overpowering radius of her Red Door perfume.

"Account for your whereabouts last night, Miss Light. Preferably, the truth."

When would she prefer a lie? Adults – experts at stating the totally obvious, yet missing the point entirely. "I was sleeping. I have a witness." Mallory wasn't the only one who could act.

"A witness?"

"Yes, proof of my innocence."

"Please explain."

"You know, _evidence_. Confirmation that Mallory is puking the standard pile." Yet again, my mouth operated outside the control of my brain. Claps and whistles echoed the hall.

"You are on perilous ground, young lady," she threatened, thin-lipped. "Your great-aunt Beatrice is but a phone call away."

Actually, Aunt Bea was several oceans and a few continents away with me exiled in arctic Austria. Only a thirty-hour journey to Sydney, Australia in her jet. Except for the last six blessed years, we'd been global nomads. I'd been to so many schools in so many countries that I no longer nurtured relationships with my fellow students. What was the point if I was never able to return social invites, which made for a very one-sided exchange.

But surely a little moral support right now wasn't too much to ask? I used to believe teens stuck together. A bugger, that foolish optimism! Sometimes, no matter what I told myself, it really did matter.

"Chablis," I mumbled.

Drilling my hands deep inside my jacket pockets, I wished my alibi hinged on someone other than my roomy. And on something other than blackmail. The only reason Chablis was poised to jump to my defence were the photos I had of her and handsome Professor Ramsteed, both bombed and taking his name far too literally. But as her favourite pastime was posting selfies on any digital medium, she may still change her mind and consider their release on Instagram as flattering.

"Chablis Getty. Come up here, please."

The crowd divided as if Moses himself issued the command. Chablis' family were prime contributors of money to the school. Werner finally triumphed and Chad stretched in his boxer shorts, gazing around with the keenness of a sloth. Tape abrasions and bleeding nicks patterned his naked torso. Werner wielded the scalpel in Mallory's direction. She whimpered convincingly.

"Yes, Principal Bird?"

Chablis – or 'Shabby' to me – flicked champagne hair extensions. She fluttered in knees socks and a blazer, sponging every drop of attention from admirers in the front row. With the crow distracted shushing students, Shabby turned to grin at me. Then I knew for certain the dirt I had on her wasn't enough.

"Can you corroborate Miss Light's whereabouts, Chablis?" The principal's doubt was louder than any answer.

I searched the audience for the tiny blond boy who trembled alone to one side of the assembly hall, his face pale and troubled. His name was Jaime. I'd met him early this morning on my parkour run, which finished with a stolen snack from the kitchens. No amount of hassle for my current jam matched what he'd suffered. I caught his eye and winked, hoping to convey confidence. His chin raised a notch.

"Her story is..." Chablis began, while I didn't dare breathe. "True. Winsome was asleep in her bed. All night. We were woken before the alarm this morning by the noise of trampling feet and kids shouting to come and see this."

Chablis gestured at Mallory and Chad a few metres away, struggling to hold back her obvious amusement. Both the captives were now liberated from their bindings, upright on rubbery legs. To my astonishment, Chablis gave a five-star performance.

"How do you know Winsome did not slip out during the night?" The crow didn't bother to hide her disappointment.

"Lately, she's been screaming and gibbering in her sleep. I can hear her through my earplugs. Some rubbish about someone called Raphaela and devils and strings and stench. Couple of other names..." She wore her thinking face, the same open-mouthed one she used to catch lobbed M&M's. "Billie, I think?" She couldn't help herself and turned to me. "Is he hot?"

Everyone laughed again and shabby lost a few stars. On her mention of stench, a petroleum reek wafted into the hall. It had the undercurrent of rot. I scrunched my nose. Had someone neglected the garbage?

"That's quite enough! Thank you, Chablis. Mr Werner, kindly fetch the school nurse for these two. Mr Jenkins, may I have a word?"

The principal and the counsellor moved off to the back of the stage and put their heads together, finally managing a whole useful brain. Their murmured voices rang too clear above the student babble, which was gaining volume. I'd never really appreciated how acute my hearing was until coming here, where it became increasingly obvious I was privy to things said that others weren't.

Suddenly, another voice competed with Bird and Jenkins. A familiar one from my nightmares, causing a tingle of fear up my spine and a lurch in my belly.

_"Who but the devil pulls our waking-strings! Abominations lure us to their side ..."_

The night-time dread leached into daylight, out in the open for all to see. I blinked back panic. Was this only in my head? Waves of stink accosted my nostrils. I glanced around at the students below and confirmed my worst fears. They looked the same as every other occasion, jaws slack and faces sullen – all clearly oblivious to the poetic taunts.

_"Each day we take another step to hell, Descending through the stench, unhorrified ..."_

A translation from the poet Baudelaire. _The Flowers of Evil_. I'd seen poetry drive students mad before, but not this literally. And I'd developed two psychiatric symptoms too many: voices in my head and smelling the cesspit. I imagined IV lockdown with concerned elderly faces looming to smother me in care. Did they still use padded cells on mental patients nowadays?

"Mallory and Chad were drugged when you found them?" Bird asked Jenkins, dragging me back to reality.

"Yes. The perpetrator used ether to knock them out. It's fast acting, fades quickly and leaves no symptoms. Easily obtained and used. We've only had a brief chance to inventory the labs, but it seems a small quantity may be missing."

The side effects were vomiting and dizziness. Mrs Paget had taught me this in home-school medicinal chemistry when I was seven. And I'd had to scale four storeys of the Science wing and prise a window open from outside to steal it. Technically, it was quite the challenge to obtain. Especially on short notice. It had been a very busy night. I waited, hyper-vigilant, but a couple of fantasy sentences seemed to be the limit of my addled brain right now.

"I do not believe her story, Mr Jenkins," Bird said.

"Mallory's accusations are wild, indeed. She'd have no idea of her attacker if she was unconscious."

"Not Mallory," Birdbrain squawked. "I'm certain Winsome has coerced Chablis into providing an alibi. Is there some way we can swab her fingers or match the handwriting on those signs. Confirm her guilt? You say the theft occurred last night? There'd be ether residue all over her."

"Really, Ms Bird. Don't you mean confirm Winsome's innocence? How could a lone assailant possibly achieve a theft after hours? And then take not one, but two students hostage, in the dark, without alerting a patrolling supervisor? Surely given Winsome's diminutive size, she lacks the physical ability to lug someone of Chad's stature from his bed, onto a chair, down several flights of stairs and so on. I feel this is the act of a group."

How indeed. I was amazed myself that it had been so easy. But I'd discovered the teachers' private elevator early in my second term here. After lifting Jenkins' pass code during one of our completely pointless counselling sessions, it was a small matter to ferry the worms downstairs and wheel them into the dining hall. The only part that proved challenging was negotiating the couple of stairs to the platform.

"Yes, yes! So it seems. Nonetheless, I do not trust her. Her reputation speaks for itself, and not in kind words."

"But what is Winsome's motive for an attack on these two? She is barely seventeen, certainly not the criminal mastermind you imply. She has been perfectly behaved since that initial incident in the laundry room two years ago. We're making rapid progress in therapy."

"The incident whereby Winsome blackened Mallory's eye? As Student Counsellor, you see no connection between then and now?"

"Do you doubt my professional opinion...?"

Bird and Jenkins yammered on. His question about motive was the smartest ever to make the long journey from his solitary neuron to his flapping gums. Even though discounting my criminal genius was kind of insulting, I was grateful he had so little faith in me.

The toxic cadaver smell faded once the creepy voice in my head had vanished. I mentally clung to the peace of 3 am this morning, the best part of my stretch here, while the student collective hung around, watching me with unfriendly eyes. Parkour practice at that hour felt special, like tumbling in nothingness. The dark had an indigo tint, moonlight shafts flashing through arched windows as I sprinted by. I often wished running away was so easy. Even though I'd only lived in Sydney for six short years, forgetting periods in this prison, it was my home and I missed it.

The Academy didn't come close, nested in an Alp-bound castle. But steep stairwells, tangled passages, abandoned cellars, and nooks made it a snap to evade the dorm matron and her cronies, who patrolled the night like walkie-talkie clad Pac-Men. I'd been running for an hour, tearing ever downwards to approach the hotel-sized kitchen on the ground floor. Not usually one for caution, some instinct made me halt just outside the swinging entrance doors, through which an argument eventually became clear.

"Lift him higher, dick!"

"You keep calling me that and you can do it yourself, Mallory," said a sulky male voice.

Mallory and her sidekick – the incredibly hot, incredibly dopey, Chad – up to no good, as usual. I peeked through a round window embedded in the door.

"Stop. Please. It's so cold," a young male voice pleaded. A sliver of light fell across the kitchen floor at the room's furthest reaches. The trio were in the outback rubbish area, a bricked-in dead end housing several dumpsters, unless cross-country skiing appealed.

"Maybe this will teach you to mind your own business."

"It was an accident," their victim said. "I only needed to use the bathroom. I didn't mean to see you. Please, please," he sobbed.

"Maybe we should let him be, Mal? It was only a headjob." The slaps of Chad's arms keeping himself warm echoed around the interior. I pushed through the split door, seeking a hiding spot. The space was large, lined with industrial cookers along one side, cooking benches opposite. Several floor-to-ceiling storage towers filled with dry goods cut the area in half like bookshelves. There was a walk-in refrigerator in one corner containing the white-chocolate cheesecake I raided often. "It is pretty cold out here."

"No one sees me on my knees. Do you hear? No one!"

"I won't tell anyone, I promise! Please, Mallory," the boy begged.

"You'd better forget you know my name, you little prat. Let this be your motivation."

It was impossible they'd be so homicidal as to dump a kid in a waste-filled skip in the sub-zero snow. They preferred public thuggery, a ring of onlookers cheering them on. Digital displays from the stoves added a green tinge to the yellowed light pouring from the bin receptacle, making hiding in the shadows difficult. My every step further inside seemed to disrupt the quiet like a mortar blast.

"I can't get his singlet off," Chad whined.

"Let me go!"

"Just hurry, we'll get sprung."

"He's struggling."

"You cretin, Chad! Do you expect him to undress and jump in himself?"

Chad swore: in this his vocabulary excelled. I snuck as close as I dared, squatting behind tuber-filled bins across from the back door.

"This is dumb, Mal. The kid'll freeze."

"Oh for Christ's sake. We'll let him stew for a few minutes and then dump him inside somewhere."

"Ahh, his motivation," Chad said sagely.

From this position, I achieved a relatively unobstructed view. Stripped of his clothing, the poor little boy's flesh was blue-tinged. He huddled barefoot on chilled concrete, not a scrap of fat on his body and I didn't think he had the luxury of minutes before the cold damaged his fingers and toes. He shivered uncontrollably.

It was at this point I bumped a pyramid of potatoes. Spuds frolicked about like vegetables on a spree. I silently stole one of Chad's tamer words.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

My breath plumed the air. One of them, I could take. Two of them? A trial beyond my abilities.

"You need to stop watching Twilight. It's giving you bad dreams," she snorted. "Is the scary, sparkly fairy coming to make you his boyfriend?"

"Shut up, Mal!"

"Shove him in and we're outta here."

"What d'ya mean? Leave him here?"

The poor kid yelped, cries muffled as the lid moaned shut. They truly were spineless wretches. "Is there someone in the kitchen or not?"

"I'm tellin' you, Mal. I heard something."

"I don't believe you, but you better go and check anyway."

Uh-oh. A huge silhouette blocked the doorframe, torchlight piercing the gloom. He took a step and a potato bounced across the linoleum.

"See?" he called, turning back to Mallory. "Where'd that come from?"

From my crouch, I dived into the large open bin of onions. Chad swung back into the kitchen, while I flattened myself beneath the lip. Moving at all would trigger an avalanche. A Neanderthal shuffle hinted at Chad's closeness.

"Shit. If we get caught, Chad, you kidnapped me and forced me to do it." The dumpster lid ground open. "What am I going to do with a nosey little turd like you?"

_Please don't see me_ , I begged silently. _Please don't see me!_ I squeezed my eyes partially shut and cowered, as Chad's lumpy head appeared and his flashlight framed me in brilliance. Through my lashes, he gawked at me, mere centimetres from my face. But the shade tugged closed and he moved away. Was he blind as well as witless?

"It was nothing," he said.

"Wait ten minutes and then get out. And if you breathe a word of any of this, you're mincemeat. Got it?" Mallory eventually joined him. "Told you no one's here."

Their voices faded along the corridor and I exhaled relief. There was no explanation for my stay of execution. Chad had been stoned the day they gave out mercy and missed his quota. If he'd seen me, I was bloody sludge beneath his Vans. So... He must not have seen me? Strange. His mother – or the thing that laid his egg – might need to get his eyes checked.

I rescued Jaime from his fate as a popsicle for rodents, waited while he showered, and got him back to bed. I'd teach him to fight, buy him some mace for the time being. I could have left it at that. Should have. But anger at the injustice of Chad and Mallory winning got the better of me.

"Winsome! I am talking to you." The crow gripped the arm of my jacket and shook. I glanced down at her fingers and she hastily let go. Smoothing her own jacket, her face was a pinched-lip blend of disgust and lost opportunity like when you open the carton, rather than checking the date, and take a huge whiff of two-month-old milk turned to cottage cheese. "The issue is by no means resolved, Miss Light."

The rest of the school was dismissed for classes. Except for the real culprits, who'd earned the fabulous welts all over their arms.

"My skin's sensitive. I'm having a reaction to the tape," Mallory complained.

If honesty ruled, my biggest regret was not stripping them naked and parking them on the Academy driveway. I so wanted to say, "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." The crow's sermon droned and I tried to look engaged. I rationalised the awful odour of death and decay had been a symptom of ether contamination, not my own psychosis. Inhaling chemicals was a poor excuse for the morbid voice in my head, though.

"I shall leave no locker, bathroom cabinet, sports bag or dresser drawer unchecked in my quest to punish the offender. Rest assured, Miss Light, I will discover the facts."

Screeched hysteria from Mallory announced that Chad had thrown up down the front of her nightie. Chunks of last night's lasagne splattered the floor. From her bilious expression, Mallory looked set to return the favour. It made everything worthwhile, if only for a second.

"Winsome Light!"

My name was sure copping a work-out today. An intimidating man in black commando pants and a tight t-shirt strode across the dining hall, unmoved by snowflakes steaming his form. Werner trotted after him, objecting loudly to unauthorised personnel on school premises. He reminded me of a toothless yapping terrier.

"It's alright, Mr Werner. I am familiar with Mr Hugo," said Bird.

Since when? If the guy was a mountain, he'd answer to Everest. His voice rumbled like a Harley Davidson, his attitude take-no-nonsense. He frowned down at me, bringing an entirely new sort of trouble. He'd materialised to take me home, proving there was plenty of merit in the old phrase 'Be careful what you wish for'.

## Three

"Have you recently consumed salted peanuts, Winsome?"

Damn. I should have had a mint, although sweets were just as incriminating. I took a quelling breath.

"Yes, Aunt Bea."

"In the G5?"

"Correct."

"Salted peanuts in my jet," she huffed, grasping the pearls about her throat. I think she wore them when she slept. "All that dreadful sodium chloride."

I'd smuggled the nuts – which were a crime against good nutrition – onboard from the private airport lounge in Vienna. I'd taught myself pickpocketing and was spectacular at hiding things. If only I could make a career out of it, aside from as a drug mule. Why, oh why, did I not eat them straight away?

Bea leaned forward to rap on the window separating us from the limousine driver, as we sped from the airport. Her auburn bob swished with determination. In front, the Sydney skyline glittered in its evening coat. I couldn't wait to get home to the cats, our warehouse, and the freedom of my new moped. Six months since my last holiday here was far too long.

The chauffeur happened to be the very same walking boulder possessive of acres of muscular flesh who'd escorted me from the Academy thirty hours previously. His manliness had encouraged a trail of drooling, giggling girls through the hallways as they made their way to lessons. Bird was absent for my departure. She couldn't have given me a better farewell gift.

Hugo wore his straw hair jarhead-style, a single bulging biceps harder and thicker than Jenkins' skull. He hadn't allowed me to pack more than my iPod, two books and a change of summer clothes. The rest of my possessions would be sent on. The weird haste dampened the aura of excitement. I was leaving the school, never to return. No one bothered to share the reason.

"Is that hunk _the_ Billie you holler about in your dreams? Mmm, I can see why." I'd picked up Chablis like a tick on the way out of our shared dorm room.

"Haven't you got a class?" I'd asked hopefully.

"Nope. I'm on a free. So, what is he doing with you?"

"We're eloping to Mauritius. He's not a big talker, but he's great with his tongue." I winked suggestively and flounced down the Academy's grand staircase leading to the lobby, where Hugo tapped his boot impatiently. Along with the black-ops camos, he wore a now all-too-familiar grimace.

"Wait!" Jaime barrelled the stairs to join us at the bottom, camera in hand. He offered it to Chablis, who inspected Hugo brazenly. "Please, take a photo of us?"

My ex-roomy hesitated, until I glared at her. "Do something for me, and those files will disappear." I leaned close so Jaime couldn't hear. "You ought to report the dirty old perve."

"Fine!" She snatched the camera and prepared for the shot. "It's broken. The screen's black."

"Nah," Jaime said. "It worked this morning."

I'd taken a couple of excellent shots of Mallory and Chad for him to upload on the Net. Hugo cleared his throat, his annoyance growing. Shabby frowned and directed the camera about.

"That's bizarre. I'll try my phone."

Jaime peeked up at me. "You're really, really pretty in the daylight."

"Well, thank you."

He beamed and took my hand. My Judas face flamed. Mention the slightest embarrassing thing, and my cheeks could guide Santa's reindeer through the bleakest North Pole winter.

"I'll send you and your friends some training stuff. Sign up for mixed martial arts and practice hard, Jaime. Kick their sorry bums any time they so much as breathe in your direction."

He nodded enthusiastically. "Are you coming back, Winsome?"

Hugo prompted me with a growl. "I don't think so," I said. Did he actually growl?

"Winsome?"

"Yes, Jaime?"

He looked at me with little boy puzzlement in his big blue eyes. "How did you find your way back from the kitchen so easily last night? It was dark and we didn't even need a flashlight."

Fortunately, Chablis interrupted, giving the phone a frustrated shake. "Er, not taking any photos today, people."

She saved me from offering the same lame reasons Bea gave when I asked why my hearing was so advanced and I could avoid objects in the pitchest of black. I'd never come close to detection across my many night-time excursions. _Everyone possesses some special talent or other, blahdy, blah, blah._ The weirdness of it twisted my mind in knots, so I opted for denial.

"The screens go blank whenever I point it at you. You're totally unphotogenic, Winsome. Bad Light." Chablis had broken up at her own joke.

The ink-tinted glass separating us in the back of the limousine from Hugo in front rolled down. "Yes, ma'am?"

Replacing the 'o' from his name with an 'e' approximated Hugo's measurements. The same number of vowels captured the extent of our conversation across nonstop travel. We'd forged a bond based on irritation. He appeared to despise questions as much as I hated not getting answers. And he was the only stranger I'd ever seen in Bea's inner circle.

"I made it explicit Winsome was to snack on miso and dried fruit. As her personal bodyguard, under no circumstances were you to leave her. My grand-niece has consumed contraband in your presence against my instruction. Alternatively, Winsome snuck them in your absence. Please enlighten the circumstances precipitating this appalling dereliction of duty, in either case."

Confusing the object of her ire with large words was Aunt Bea's standard attack. Ordinarily, I'd enjoy witnessing a million-kilo guy with a dagger tattoo on his neck and fists as registered weapons crumple under the cool dismemberment of my aunt. Once he'd used a dictionary to translate the threat. Over nuts, of all things. Hilarious! However, something she'd mentioned took my complete attention.

"Bodyguard?"

"Turbulence, ma'am. We encountered windshear conditions and the pilot called for my aid in flying the jet."

" _Personal_ bodyguard?"

"Hmm." She settled back into buttery leather and steepled her fingers, tapping them in a mini Mexican wave. I was fluent in this sign language. Time to intervene.

"I brought the nuts onto the flight and ate them while Hugo was occupied keeping the plane aloft, Aunt Bea. If he hadn't assisted the pilot, we'd still be swimming home. He doesn't deserve to be punished."

Hugo's eyes flickered to me in the rear-view mirror. It topped our list of meaningful exchanges. The engagement would probably be a while away yet.

"I see," she relaxed and smiled. Her small teeth were blindingly white in the murk of the backseat. She squeezed my hand. "We shall overlook it, just this once. I'm sure a repeat lecture on the hazards of excess salt is uncalled for."

There were other pressing concerns. "Um, did you say personal bodyguard? As in _my_ personal bodyguard?"

"We are expecting an extremely important guest in the coming days, Winnie. A bodyguard for you is simply a precaution. Our visitor attracts unwanted attention, and we intend to leave nothing to chance."

The whole thing made no sense. First, this transcontinental yank, and now a guest who somehow challenged my safety? And imagine the spectacle of tracking about Sydney with a gorilla in dark glasses reporting my position via a wrist communicator and roughing up anyone caught glancing at me sideways. Every boy within a fifty-metre radius would sprint in the opposite direction.

"Ohhh, but Aunt Bea. Where will I put him when I'm in public?"

"Really, Winsome, that tone befits a two-year-old. Now, enlighten me about the past six months at school. Leave out no detail." And so I did. "I apologise unreservedly for enrolling you at that den of iniquity," she harrumphed, her slim shoulders squared in indignation. "Imbeciles." Heads would soon roll at the Academy. Compared with my subtle yet infinitely more powerful great-aunt, Chablis' family's reach was short.

Still at a distance from the city, we pulled over to the curb beneath a gloomy concrete archway. Parked in a row before us were two other limousines, identical to ours, and Bea's silver Bentley Continental GT.

"Winsome, you will continue the journey in the Bentley with Hugo."

What in the CIA-witness-protection-programme-conspiracy-theory was going on? "I'm not budging until you tell me what this is about."

Almost the instant the car stopped moving, Bea had the door open and prepared to hop out. She turned back to me with a strange sympathetic expression. "It is time for your education to match your ability."

"What?" My lacklustre grades tended to deny the need for a more challenging curriculum. "Who's coming to stay? The Queen?"

Bea was already out of the car as the words left my mouth. She reached our tiny, ancient housekeeper Mrs Paget and my butler, Fortescue, dapper in his bow tie and vest, who loitered by the side of the road. The trio dipped their heads for a brief conference. I attempted pursuit, simultaneously thrilled to see them, and mortified when Hugo blocked my progress by stepping in front. Where had he come from so speedily? The man was a ballerina in Goliath's body. He planted his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows in challenge. I remained trapped in the car. No doubt, manhandling would occur if I caused a ruckus.

"You wouldn't!"

His jaw set, highlighting the manly dimple in his chin. "Don't make me," he threatened in his finest deep Mufasa.

"You've got to be kidding." I was stuck in a Coen Brothers' farce.

In the triangular gap between Hugo's elbow and his body, Mrs Paget grinned and waved, her puff of white hair and plain shift masking a wiry, eighty-year-old ball of energy. She took the limousine at the head of the posse and drove off into the night. Hugo whisked me so rapidly to the Bentley if I were egg whites I'd have been stiff and fluffy. After a sober nod at me as he strode by, Fortescue replaced Hugo at the vacated steering wheel and followed the others.

To add to the humiliation, my _bodyguard_ made me sit in front next to him as he drove. Apparently, he'd taken Bea seriously and decided to dial up the scrutiny. We were the last to leave after half an hour. Then came another half an hour of tooling around town in stony silence, checking for mystery tails. Surely this was overkill? I was too grumpy to lap up the scenery, hunching in for a mope on the deficient explanations.

There was absolutely no point asking Bea for anything more. A crowbar couldn't prise her lips apart until she deigned to open them. My head drooped. Vibrating glass massaged my forehead, wheels thrumming the verge.

"Where are you?"

The woman laughed, running downstairs from the back porch of a large, elegant mansion. Simple cream pants and a singlet adorned her lithe body, long mahogany hair pulled up in a messy bun. Her amber eyes sparkled with mischief. She seemed in her early twenties and was very beautiful. A solid wall of tall, moss-draped trees circled the house in lined soldiers, a wide expanse of lawn sloping down to wetlands and a wooden jetty.

A vegetable garden, fruit trees and herbs quilted a sizeable area off to the side, chickens clucking somewhere to a chorus of trilling frogs. The woman's land flourished green and abundant, the morning light golden. Her hair shone in the sun; the perfect moment captured from a gentle Southern USA romance.

She halted on the grass, bare feet sinking in its lushness. Her smile faltered as silence chopped the air like a fallen axe, and her expression morphed to fear. She lifted two fingers and blew a short, sharp whistle. Wings whooshed and a peregrine falcon plunged from the sky, alighting on her upraised forearm.

"Find Seth for me, Poe," she urged.

The powerful bird bulleted skyward, the perspective changing to reveal the house from above, obsidian water glistening in patches through the thick canopy. A stone fence the size of the Great Wall of China contained the glorious gardens surrounding the young woman's house in a semicircle to the swamp. Egrets and fowl took flight in panic, bigger, less harmless creatures splashing the sucking depths.

The falcon searched the ground in widening arcs, eventually showing thinned vegetation and a scrawny dirt track meandering beyond the gates of the woman's fortress paradise. A fat hedge marked the outer extremity of her land where dense wilderness ate any sign of habitation.

Abruptly, a man came into view, poised within her boundary on one side of the hedge. He was tall and seemed somehow noble, even at a distance, his longish dark hair whispering in a slight breeze.

"Stay this side of the line where you are hidden. Please," the woman pleaded, seeing through her bird's sharp eyes.

From the other side came frenzied shouts. Poe floated overhead in time to sight a boy in sodden coveralls pop up to slap the surface of a water hole, gagging. His fishing pole sat suspended next to an abandoned scoop net, where a catfish flopped feebly on the bank. The youngster had clearly lost his footing in the effort to snag his catch.

His friend clambered the ridge, frantically jerking a branch to the shore. But his efforts weren't fast enough and the struggling boy submerged again, this time for longer. The man paced the perimeter, plainly trying to decide if he should save the boy or remain within the woman's haven.

"Please, please. Keep inside the line!"

The boy came up gurgling, his flailing arms limp with fatigue. The man paused, and then thrust his way through the hedge, stripping off his shirt while moving in swift, long strides down the embankment. Powerful muscles flexed beneath bronzed skin in the light, his movements sleeker than those of a hunting jaguar. The woman dropped to her knees and sobbed, both hands cradling her belly.

"No. No. We are damned. Our baby..."

He dived in, emerging with the boy moments later, sculling to the edge and hefting them up by tree roots. He hastily checked the boy's pulse, and once satisfied he was still breathing, deserted him to the care of his friend. The man bolted away from the woman's house through the scrub with more grace and speed than humanly possible.

"Poe! Get Billie," she groaned. "We must prepare. The Crone comes for me."

A tortured cry ripped from the man, a sound to rend the heart. "Sorry! I am so sorry, my Keeper," echoed his footfalls. "Stick to the plan. Protect the Stone. I love you, Raphaela."

I gasped to consciousness, spit on my chin and an anvil in my chest. I scrubbed my tired eyes, which felt like a massage with sandpaper. Jetlag had never caused such vivid dreams before. And I knew that beguiling voice: Seth. The man who paraphrased Baudelaire in my dreams was the same man forced to make a terrible choice between protecting his lover and saving a dying boy. My mental disturbance had seemingly reached new heights of detail and I had no idea what weird message my brain was attempting to send.

Hugo observed me sidelong through narrowed eyelids, his brow creased. Headlights briefly illuminated the dark corners of the basement garage. The journey was finally over.

"You are home, Winnie." It was the first time Hugo had addressed me personally, the care in his words more disconcerting than anything else.

## Four

Our warehouse had no designated parking, so we hired six spaces in an underground car park at a short walk along the narrow alley which hid the alcove granting entry to my home. Our only neighbour, Judge Smith, reserved the six spots opposite. It was not Fortescue's British racing green Mini or my beloved custard yellow Vespa that captured my focus as we climbed from the Bentley, my limbs jelly with travel. It was the hulking black custom-built Ducati Monster 696 lurking in the gloom opposite.

My pulse spiked. So the judge's son, Vegas, was in tonight. Unless he was too drunk to ride and opted to be responsible by taking a cab to whatever party or nightclub he planned on hitting later. Although responsibility and Vegas Smith were mutually exclusive concepts. His modified bike, an illegal ride for someone barely eighteen, was a prime example of its owner's disrespect for all things representing authority. I beat the curiosity away. We used to be tight, but were no longer on speaking terms and I refused to waste a moment more on him. I'd already wasted an excess.

"Quit dawdling."

I was too fatigued to argue and permitted the indignity of Hugo's arm firmly around my waist as he hustled me towards the automatic roller door securing the car park. He glared resentfully as the barrier rose ponderously, ducking under to hustle me up the steep ramp and out into the warm embrace of a summer night in Sydney. The briny tang of the nearby harbour was proof I was finally home. I had no chance to appreciate it.

Hugo bundled us furiously along the narrow lane, cobbled by worn sandstone blocks harking back to the days of the First Fleet. The street made a divide between old and new. On one side, veiled behind a fenced-in well-maintained garden of Australian natives, sat the judge's towering glass-and-metal-beam addition to the original brick structure beneath. Opposite, occupying almost an entire block, hunched our building.

Tucked away in a forgotten part of the city, the three-storey edifice was of elaborate Romanesque design. Tall, thin arched windows and rowed circles of stained glass abutted by long columns with squared capitals were reminiscent of Sydney's beautiful Queen Victoria Building. The facade's attractiveness was somewhat lessened by the wire mesh covering every expanse of glass and the thick metallic doors Bea had apparently installed prior to our arrival here.

We reached the inset doorway flanked either side by imposing stone columns, the porch floor tiled in a lovely geometric mosaic. The shadowed portico hid a sophisticated array of security devices, which seemed at odds with the building's colonial exterior. Hugo thrust his face up to the discreet video camera nestled high in a corner to the right, which utilised facial recognition software to permit automatic access. The steel arched door glided aside on well-oiled hinges.

"Is there an emergency?" I asked, a little breathless.

"No talking. Straight to your room."

"What are you? My nanny? And you actually have access to our house?"

This enigma topped them all. He was the first. Ever! Bea had always maintained that the fewer people who knew about the fortune in antiquities she possessed, the smaller was the likelihood of theft or worse. Such as my kidnapping and ransom. The constant paranoia usually provoked an eye-roll from me, but Hugo's presence was a breach of rules that had never wavered over my entire life. It was most disturbing.

We vaulted inside and he abruptly stilled us on the landing, which spanned the front of the ground floor hall overlooking the sunken display three steps down. Hugo turned to face me, cocking his head, hands lightly on my shoulders. My spine zinged. The door sealed with finality at our backs. Would he enlighten me about all the rushed travel and madness? He grinned, a ferocious expression. I shrugged from his grip and took a couple of steps back. One of his hands now rested on the grip of a huge pistol holstered at his hip.

"I am not your nanny or your nursemaid or your fiancé eloping to Mauritius. I owe a blood debt to your benefactors. A life for a life. I am an assassin. If necessary, your mortal shield." He chuckled, a dry, menacing sound devoid of real amusement. "My job is to give my life for yours, should it come to that. I have permission to do _anything_ and _everything_ it takes to assure your safety. Satisfied, Winsome? Have you other questions or topics for debate?"

I readjusted my hanging jaw and gulped, shaking my head. "To my room, then."

"I thought so."

I barely registered our progress through the vast collection space, despite the endlessly fascinating wonders kept there. We ascended the single set of stairs at the hall's end, leading to the first floor gallery ringing the warehouse's central atrium in a rectangle. Inlaid marble of intricate patterns and hues, gleaming polished wood and balustrades that reminded of fine golden lace added to the refined aura of a museum. A soaring stained glass dome painted the atrium in a dazzling kaleidoscope of sunbeams during the day, almost enough to hide the criss-cross of wire hugging its underside.

Hugo shepherded me around to the right, past the kitchen, and onto the wing where my own private suite sat alongside the study-cum-library and then Aunt Bea's private quarters. Fortescue and Mrs Paget's apartments sat directly opposite on the other side of the void, along with two other rooms locked up for storage.

"Okay! No need to push."

This was not the gleeful arrival I'd fantasised about often during long, lonely periods at school. Until I got to my room. Two humongous blurs galloped forwards, yowling with joy. They knocked me flat on the threshold. Bea's hunting cats, Vovo and Cherish. This was more like it!

"Puddytats."

We tussled with a flurry of licking steel-brush tongues, batting paws the size of hubcaps and purrs, as I scrubbed their broad heads. These were no ordinary felines, but some extremely rare breed Bea had imported from lands obscure to take care of the rodents common in our old building. My least tolerable phobia – I could not stand rats.

But Vovo and Cherish were more than up to the task, overkill actually. Nearly the size of tigers, they had wise yellow eyes and black silky pelts. Their claws could easily disembowel a wild boar. They were my most consistent, adored, playful childhood friends.

"Okay, kitties. Let me up."

I sat and felt Hugo's presence behind me in the doorway. An assassin. Oh, it was simply too silly. The prankster messed with my already muddled head. Cherish bared his teeth. Vovo hissed, the fur at her neck rigid. I'd had no idea they were such excellent judges of character. I decided not to believe 'anything and everything' he said.

I surveyed the cream and chocolate extravagance of my room, a magazine-perfect space minus Chablis. No more dorms that smelled of wet wool, desperation and other people's feet. No more evading the barracudas cruising the school in search of prey. No more Mallory and Chad and their pet vulture, Bird.

My gaze roved appreciatively over rows of shopping bags and shoeboxes from designer boutiques lining one long wall beside my built-in wardrobe. As well as the new clothes, Mrs Paget celebrated my arrival with bowls of hot pink orchids on my nightstand and desk. She was a brilliant gardener, although like many of the other mysteries of my existence, I'd never actually seen the hothouse where this occurred.

The excitement of my homecoming finally overcame the weirdness, but before I could revel in it, something tucked in the far corner near the ensuite snagged attention. "No way!" A made-up cot was plonked in a cleared space where my reading chair had been. "I absolutely draw the line. I don't care if you're a Terminator. You are not sleeping in here with me."

Hugo chuckled again, only this time it was genuine. That he was capable of proper mirth came as a shock. I craned up at him to see shoulders the span of the Harbour Bridge jiggling, as if I was the butt of the most hilarious joke.

"Bea," I wailed at the top of my lungs, any delight at my homecoming disintegrating by the second. "Beeaaaa!"

His laughter lessened the intimidation of a military knife strapped at his thigh, in case the gun didn't suffice. "This will be fun. Like a sleepover."

"Oh, now you're using your words?" I said waspishly.

"I'll let you paint my toenails. We can do the quizzes in the Cosmopolitan." He laughed until tears stained his cheeks.

"Honestly, Winsome," Bea reprimanded as she squeezed her way past Hugo. She stepped over me and went to lay a thick white towel on the end of his bed. She fluffed my pillows and used the remote to close the motorised blinds, dimming the brightness of my bedside lamps. "You are behaving like an infant. The gun will be stored in a lock box, if that is your concern. I fail to appreciate the joke, Hugo."

That made two of us. He gathered his composure, swatting moisture from his cheeks, while I wore my best denied toddler pout from where I sat cross-legged on the floor. "Sorry, Ma'am."

"You may wish to rise from there, Winsome, please. You'll create a bottleneck for Fortescue, who's bringing along your tea presently."

Good! At least they'd all be stuck in the hall until I moved. And where did my concerns even begin to begin? Perhaps Bea worried if she left a loaded gun close by I might shoot Hugo. It was a fair observation. As her promises were probably as reliable as her answers to any of my dozens of questions, I gave up. Scraping together my remaining shreds of dignity, I hauled myself upright, smoothed my rumpled shirt and said with a righteous huff, "Thank you, Aunt Bea. But food won't be necessary." Lucky I'd eaten those nuts. "Unless the courtesy of an explanation is forthcoming, I'm going to bed." I would formulate a counter tactic in the morning.

I startled awake to muffled city sounds and the whine of the blinds. "Ahh, you're awake, Winsome. Excellent!" I peered blearily at Fortescue, who placed the remote in its holder by the window across from my bedhead, balancing a breakfast tray one-handed and eyeing me with a raised brow in expectation.

"Things must be real slow if that's how you define excellent." I flung an arm across my face to block the morning sunshine, but it was all too bright, painting the inside of my lids a throbbing red. Worming beneath deluxe Egyptian cotton, I threw the sheet over my head and groped for a pillow to plonk on top.

"Now, now, Mistress Winsome. _Carpe diem_ and all that. We have a full programme to get through, not the least of which is properly welcoming you home." A teacup tinkled against silverware as the platter was set down. I'd already caught a delicious waft of strawberries. "Out you come."

"I hold grave fears for my retinas. The sun in Austria's a candle compared to Sydney's spotlight."

"I _am_ sorry for your distress, Mistress Winsome." He had an aggravating way of ignoring my melodrama. "However, it is difficult to catch your meaning mumbled from under layers of goosedown."

"A guilt trip this early?" I mumbled some more.

Fortescue bustled around noisily, pretending to tidy non-existent mess. "It is almost 9 am. Come along, now. Peanuts and sodium hardly make for sufficient nourishment over almost two days."

My traitor stomach growled loudly. Besides, he'd wear me down with professional cheer and slamming wardrobe doors as he packed away my new clothes. I wriggled from my sheet-bound womb in defeat. At least Hugo was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he was off polishing his pistol or bruising iron in the gymnasium I'd never used in the sub-basement. I sat up, my hair probably resembling that of an electrocuted yeti, and groaned on sighting the garment bags draped over Fortescue's arm.

"I can't believe Aunt Bea dobbed me in for the nuts. Please tell me that is not evening wear."

"Of course it is. Judge Smith is holding an art showing tonight at his penthouse. You will attend with your aunt, chaperoned by Hugo. Your breakfast is served, Mistress Winsome." Fortescue flourished a white linen napkin, draping it across my doonahed lap. "I see your fondness for the Australian colloquial has reached rock bottom?"

I treated this as a rhetorical question. My vocabulary was a topic I ignored with a studiousness rarely applied to homework. Along with the subject of nutrition. The only food endorsed by my minders was so organic it originated steaming fresh from the compost heap and tasted as appealing.

"Would a hug before breakfast be too much to ask, Fortescue?"

"Changing the subject?" He smiled tightly, reaching in for an arm-lock that was so brief it rivalled a nerve impulse. I hadn't even removed my hands from the bedclothes before he snapped back to attention. "Very wily, Mistress Winsome."

"I've learned from the best." One day, I'd scratch that impenetrable outer coating of his and catch a glimpse of the real human being underneath.

"I have a full range of summer-wear for your perusal. Winter woollens will render an unbecoming baked look. Shall I take the liberty of laying something out, Mistress Winsome?"

"Thanks. I really can't understand how I managed to avoid nudity without your assistance at boarding school."

"Oh, dear. Sarcasm – the province of the intellectually stifled. It is beneath you."

"Yes, well, stifled intellect aside. Please, for the love of all that's normal cease with the 'Mistress'. I might be tempted to slip into black leather with spikes and purchase a knotted whip. And Fortescue?"

"Yes, Mistress Winsome?" he inquired earnestly.

I grinned. "If you force me to ask one more time, I'm turning the tables and addressing you as Jerome. Maybe, J-Dawg or Big J. It'd be the perfect title when you accompany me to the S&M shop to help pick out my new studded doggy collar."

Fortescue's mouth twitched at the corner. He tilted his shiny, bald head and regarded me with what I chose to interpret as affection. I wondered idly if he used a buffer of some kind.

"9.30 am sharp, then... Winnie. It is very good to have you home."

"It is very good to be home." Good, but baffling.

He reversed his perfectly groomed and lanky frame out the door, making walking backward seem as natural as any other direction. I'd tried it and ended up with a collection of bruises. Fortescue reminded me greatly of the man who played wheelchair-bound Professor Xavier from the X-men movies, only with less actor's whimsy and better mobility. I reached over to collect the tray from my bedside table and deposit it on my knees, enthusiastically attacking strawberries and yoghurt. While I slurped freshly squeezed juice, I dwelled not so enthusiastically on the coming night's torment.

Chaperoned by Godzilla, how quaint! What an utter spectacle the judge's party would be. And based on previous experience, getting out of going was as likely as world peace. The single saving grace was Vegas' guaranteed absence, which saved me the tribulation of seeing him.

He'd adopted an anti-dress code when puberty first hit. His shocking blue hair clashed with anything not ripped or adorned with chains. Black nails and piercings weren't exactly bow tie and tails. He'd been banned from the judge's events for wreaking finely tuned chaos. Lucky, lucky boy. If I shaved myself a mohawk and dyed the rest of my hair purple, maybe I'd be banned too. It was worth a thought.

"Please, get out of bed, Winsome. We are waiting," Aunt Bea called from the cavernous depths of the warehouse.

How did she always know when I wasn't on task, whether in the vicinity or not? Surely they would not bug my room? Detangling myself from linen, I slid from the bed to mosey over and inspect the contents of the shopping bags Fortescue hadn't unpacked yet. After rifling a mountain of high-end fashion, some of it too expensive to mention, I braved a bikini top, overpriced singlet and board-shorts, probably closer to lingerie in chilly Europe. Getting about in something less than a thermal cocoon would take adjustment and demanded an instant suntan.

Well, this was not strictly true. In contrast to Bea's fair skin and freckles, I had a naturally olive complexion and dark hair, emphasising our distance on the family tree. She'd taken me in after my parents died in a bus crash when I was a baby. I never stopped blessing her intervention and generosity, and for rescuing me from the foster-care system. I threw a hat, a book and my iPod into a drawstring beach bag.

Sun was the first priority on today's schedule. I planned to ride to a beautiful coastal waterhole an hour south of Sydney in the National Park, and read and sunbake and swim in the surf. Alone. I could give Everest the slip in the city traffic. He would never fit on my moped, forced to follow in a car.

I hastily showered and tightly braided my hair, which fell in messy spirals and in this climate, there would be many unruly escapees. It was Friday. How many chores could my minders find for me at this short notice? I prayed Bea hadn't received a shipment of new antiquities to catalogue. When home, I was her first assistant, which was a blessing _and_ a curse.

She was both a collector and a dealer of rare artefacts, some of which were ghastly. Bea's rationale for this career path was to record 'the gamut of human capacity, from the sublime to the depraved'. Apparently, remembering history's evil encouraged a higher appreciation for its opposite: kindness towards others and the betterment of the human condition. Or something. The justification had always seemed a tad woolly to me.

But then the realisation slapped me. My homecoming was as sudden and out of the blue for them as it had been for me. Normally, Aunt Bea's staff performed their duties with unobtrusive efficiency. Never before had I been left unsupervised long enough to smuggle peanuts onto the jet, or come home to find shopping bags full of clothes in my room. Usually everything would be tidied away perfectly before my arrival. Such lapses just didn't occur. And Bea had wanted me home so desperately, she'd had someone else collect me from Austria. Unheard of. What did it all mean?

"Stop procrastinating, Winsome."

"I'm on it, Aunt Bea," I shouted back. "Where's the fire?"

"I may light one under you as an incentive in future."

Concerted thinking could wait until the beach. As I hurried towards the door, I was stopped by a strange noise behind, like the first heavy splat of raindrops on pavement before a true downpour began. I twisted to scan the room, listening harder while edging towards the source on the parquetry at the end of my bed.

"Eww!" Maggots.

A pile of fat squishiness seethed on the floor. I detested insects – anything smaller than my foot – and these horrible little sacs were at the front of the pack. How did they get in here? What were they feeding on? Mrs Paget barely let a crumb hit the plate. Could they have fallen from the bouquets of flowers? An acceptable explanation remained out of reach. It seemed to be going around.

But there was something far more peculiar about the teeming cluster. It rested in a glistening puddle. I clenched my jaw and willed myself to take a closer look. The hair on my arms stood up. It was blood. They wriggled in an oily slick of blood that spread like an oozing wound. I pressed the back of my hand hard against my lips to stop my breakfast from jettisoning.

A sound from the doorway competed for my attention. I spun wildly. It was Cherish, the coat at his neck stiff. He snarled as he crept towards me, baring long white incisors, claws unsheathed, eyes slitted in anger. Muscles bunched beneath his fur. This was no playful adored pet. He'd transformed into a hissing demon capable of gutting prey with one taloned swipe.

Could he see the maggots too? Or was he simply responding to my panic. "This is no time for a pat."

My voice was hoarse as I reluctantly flicked my gaze back to the gory invasion. The usual immaculate span of floor replaced the horror-film scene of ten seconds earlier.

"I don't understand," I whispered.

The vision had been so real. I struggled to still my nerves. Cherish twisted around me, rubbing my waist with his big head and rumbling happily.

I stroked him absently. "Alright for you, you're not going insane."

"Winsome!" Bea surprised me by bellowing.

"Coming." I retreated and angled for the door.

First supersonic hearing, then the smell of carrion in my cranium, now visions. Was I truly losing my mind? Whose blood was it supposed to be, anyway?

## Five

"It has started."

"I know, Grace. I feel it too. How much time do we have?" Bea asked.

So, that was Mrs Paget's first name – Grace. Those three words were unprecedented in my experience, I'd never heard her utter a single syllable. She communicated without the necessity of speech and simply appeared to cater to my whims, almost as if reading my mind. I'd given up on the mystery of how, long ago. Presently, I loitered against the wall outside the kitchen, eavesdropping on the three of them. Learning from mistakes was not my best character trait.

All of our conferences regarding my less than stellar behaviour occurred in that room. It appeared benign enough: a large rectangular space, its longest wall ran parallel to the front of the warehouse, the wall opposite an open breakfast bar lined with cupboards this side and stools on the other in the adjoining spacious sitting room, where we gathered to watch the Discovery or History channels.

A plain wooden dining table and eight matching chairs stood in the middle of the kitchen on an intricately tiled Victorian mosaic floor. The gleaming appliances were all of the commercial-grade stainless steel variety, perfect for people with the top-notch cooking skills wasted on all three of my diet-fixated guardians. There were only so many ways to prepare powdered chlorophyll.

Time to do what?

"Very little," Grace replied. "A week, perhaps two, before we succumb to the Stone's rising influence. The Stone must be claimed or everything we have done over millennia amounts to nought."

"Her skills are accelerating. She is so young for such a life." Fortescue sighed and the wall did not disguise his despair.

Bea continued flatly. "On that, we are unanimous. Winnie's powers will be sorely tested by this catastrophe. I fear her talents will not be enough to counter the coming terrors without the usual means of accessing her inheritance. Raphaela deserves a flaying for blocking the Delta Gate."

Raphaela? I'd heard that name before. But where? And what the hell were these skills and powers I supposedly possessed? I was good at parkour, but fairly remedial at almost everything else. My singing was especially poor, likened to a learner on bagpipes.

"Raphaela chose a fit punishment for her betrayal—"

"How can you believe that, Grace? You are far too generous," Fortescue said. "Winsome must now pay the price for Raphaela's selfishness. She is the only one left to shoulder this burden."

And then realisation dawned. Seth had called Raphaela's name when he ran from her house in my dream. _My_ dream! Were my guardians psychic? Fortescue went on angrily, which was almost more alarming than the content of this weird discussion.

"There is a reason the Keeper stands alone. Benjamin Franklin said it best: 'Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.'"

Bea sighed. "Grace is well familiar with the Keeper's diary, Jerome. It is true Winsome cannot claim the Stone without accessing the Delta Gate, but we must be thankful for Finesse's entrapment within it, at least."

I'd often interrupted furtive whisperings over the years. Much of what I caught seemed to be in this odd code, but this time we'd managed new levels of bizarre. How could they possibly be referring to people who existed in my head? Slouching against the wall for support, I struggled to find an explanation that made any sense.

"Today's reading may provide some small respite," Grace said.

"We cannot rely on the Crone's absence for long. Her imprisonment is temporary. When the occasion arises, we must be selective in what Winsome is told." Fortescue sounded very tired. "And the time of our departure approaches too fast."

"This constant mention of time makes me anxious," Bea said. "After years of cursing its never-ending torture, I would suddenly beg for more. Enoch is struggling to find a way to restore the Keeper's sacraments, and he cannot approach us without revealing his own power in the presence of an unclaimed Stone. Even with Hugo as her protector, Winnie remains in serious jeopardy from all sides. I am terribly afraid for her."

Okay, so I didn't understand a thing they'd said, but didn't need to be a genius to gather it wasn't peachy. Had they received a kidnap threat or something? And just where did they think they were going without me? I'd only just arrived.

"The Stone's poison corrupts her mind. Soon, the visions will become tangible and threaten Winsome physically. Dare I state the obvious?" Fortescue whispered. "What if the Stone remains free and its true owner escapes?"

"Unimaginable," Bea said firmly. "There is no cause for such sentiment, Jerome. We shall not fail Winsome. We will determine her Warrior, and then at least she will not be alone when we are gone." Oh, no. Whatever they were talking about, surely they wouldn't saddle me with _two_ bodyguards? I hadn't yet worked out a way to shake the one I already had. "As for Enoch, it is high time he accepted his culpability in this disaster. He is a hypocrite, who picks and chooses when to intervene, despite his declaration of impartiality. Grace? What could you possibly find to smile at?"

"There has only ever been one choice for the position," Mrs Paget said.

Just then, Vovo padded up the hall, mewling loudly. "Go away," I shushed.

My reaction increased the meow decibels and quiet invaded the kitchen. There was nothing for it, spying wasn't really paying off anyway.

"Good morning." I swanned in, aiming for a demeanour of virtue.

The traitor cat slunk into the room behind me, purring and shameless. Bea was not the gormless Principal Bird; my aunt could detect deceit at thirty paces. I covered any guilt over my eavesdropping by bending to hug Mrs Paget hello. She embraced me as if I was about to embark on an extended voyage, her tiny, bony body trembling. She let go reluctantly and bestowed me with a luminous smile. I peered around the table and my face fell.

"Are you all okay? You look sick!"

"Just a touch of the flu. Nothing to worry about, Winnie. Take a seat, please."

Bea's reassurance wasn't the least reassuring. Overnight they'd sunk in upon themselves; skin stretched taut and papery, eyes hollowed and dull, bodies noticeably shrunken like flowers withering at summer's end. Their flu seemed closer to leukaemia.

Even though the trio combined were probably as elderly as Stonehenge, they'd always radiated abnormal vitality. Currently, they resembled shucked-out cadavers, the walking dead. I hadn't paid attention to Fortescue this morning in my room, but their ill visages took all of my notice now. Opening my mouth to demand they all go back to bed while I phoned the doctor for a home visit, Bea thwarted the appeal. She raised her hand, pushing a cloud of the lavender perfume she always wore my way.

"Please, Winsome. No fuss. We have a lesson planned."

My fears eased, somewhat. I slumped onto my chair. I'd been home for a solitary night! My education couldn't wait? In consideration of their medical condition, I resigned myself to cooperate, belatedly inspecting the strange assortment of articles on the table.

Along with a Japanese tea set, which comprised of a teapot full of vile green tea with lemon myrtle, and dainty cups, sat an unfamiliar golden key on a fancy key chain and a large cardboard box. Bea distributed cups and poured tea for the others, before filling her own cup with unsteady hands. She traditionally performed every act with the scalpel-precision of a surgeon.

"Tea for you, Winsome?"

She knew I didn't drink the horrid stuff unless forced. It was another lapse in a morning full of them: something as rare as Bea's most priceless vellum codex from the fifteenth century written in cipher text. The manuscript was so unique, on purchase she'd had it frozen at minus 36º Celsius for three days to kill any chance of bookworm.

"No, thank you," I replied with strained patience.

The key wasn't necessary. Bea's security measures to protect her invaluable objects meant none of us required them to access the building, relying instead on facial recognition software.

"Well," she said, possibly looking even tenser than I felt. "We've decided to review your security plan."

When your guardian was wealthier than an oil sheik and dealt in rare and highly-sought-after goods, grand-nieces represented a bargaining chip for the criminal element. I was protected with an obsessiveness greater than that of even the most neurotic helicopter parent.

"You will now be allowed to come and go as you please. With Hugo, of course. After fulfilling any task required by me." My budding hope evaporated like a puff of steam from Bea's tea. "And you may have friends visit. After they have been thoroughly screened."

The shock clearly showed. I could not care less about the friends. They were a burden I'd gone cold turkey on after one too many moves. But I'd never had the privilege of inviting people over before. I was tempted to scrape someone up from the street just to test the truth of it.

"Er, what's the task?"

I sensed an enormous catch in this less-than-inspiring deal. Aunt Bea really wasn't the type to miss an opportunity for learning, which always meant homework or an exacting chore of some sort. She nudged the cardboard box in my direction with the very tip of one finger, seemingly unwilling to handle it.

"Go ahead," she encouraged. "Take a look."

I stood reluctantly to part the flaps and see inside. Praying for a puppy, I was instead presented with the troubling whiff of something burning. A fat book in tan leather nestled on the bottom, about the size of a trade paperback and held firmly shut by a buckled belt. The jacket showed wear in places from many years of use, but it was still a fine-looking volume. Next to it rested a long, golden box, filigreed with inset rubies. It had a small padlocked latch. I glanced at the tiny gold key on the ring.

"The diary first, please."

Bea held her breath as I reached in to pick the book up. Fortescue and Mrs Paget gripped the table and leaned forward. I sank back into my chair and Mrs Paget whipped the cardboard box away to give them an unobstructed view. I undid the belt, beneath which sat a raised golden triangle that took up about a third of the length of the cover. The metal was flat and etched with complicated symbols.

The rest of the leather was covered by imprinted pictures that were small, very detailed and hard to make out. They gave the impression of movement. I ran my fingers over them, stopping to feel along what might've been a sword. Closer inspection revealed my error. The long shaft connected to the groin of an evil-looking creature with pointed fangs and slanted inhuman eyes, thrusting out at the world with a glare of pure hatred.

"Oh!" I pulled my fingers away and dropped the horrible text to the table. Similar sickening imagery blanketed the dust jacket – except for the space within the triangle, which remained pure. "What is this? A nasty grimoire?"

I couldn't believe Bea would give me such a study in demonology, in spite of some of the more ghastly pieces in her collection. The book was definitely occult and I shuddered to think of the inner subject matter. Any curiosity about the golden box faded. It might be more of the same.

"It is your new project, Winsome. For today, only the opening pages, please." Bea's face was dour.

"Must I?" I didn't mean to sound defiant, but there was a bad feel about the book. I wasn't keen to touch it again.

"It is non-negotiable." She used a teaspoon to push the diary closer.

Several thoughts competed in my head: confusion, what was so important about this book? And an inkling of dread, quashed by the knowledge they would never deliberately do anything to hurt me. Why was reading it so necessary? Mrs Paget twitched from across the table's divide, looking unhappy. Fortescue was as unfathomable as ever.

No gain in dithering, I took a breath, pulled the diary to me by its edges and flipped the page, trying to ignore the front illustrations. What followed was a bewildering anticlimax, as I silently read from an unadorned page: _That contained herein is for the Keeper of the Crone's Stone and the Sacred Trinity alone. Singly, they stand afore the onslaught and must prevent the unleashed. The Stone can never be returned to its original owner_.

It wasn't a story I knew. And I read. A lot.

Uncharacteristically flustered, Bea instructed, "Read it aloud, please."

A slight breeze ruffled my hair, as I cleared my throat and began the speech. Goosebumps travelled my skin. My voice didn't seem my own, a choir of several women whispering while I completed the words. The kitchen's eerie acoustics hadn't been apparent before. My psychiatric symptoms seemed to multiply faster than fungus.

"The next page, Winsome. Out loud, if you please." Well, I did not please! "Focus, Winsome." Bea admonished in response to my stubborn silence.

I turned to the designated page. It was in the same fancy writing as the last excerpt. I mumbled without enthusiasm, _"Amongst the Faiths it is seldom recorded the mightiest of the Fallen took for himself a wife of ageless beauty and guile. And so the Witch-Demon of Perpetual Dark became Lucifer's only love."_

"Are you joking?" I asked.

"A tad more pep please," Bea glowered.

I sighed and did as ordered. _"Above even him, she was wicked and never inscribed was her true name. She remained unbound by the shackles of his enduring punishment and roamed wherever she pleased across history, bestowing freely of her ceaseless cruelty and sating her tastes too perverse. She called the earthbound realm her home, her favoured recreation mischief most evil against all humanity, her command fiends of the night and their pestilence._

_Mesmerised by charms Lucifer alone found enduringly desirable, her husband fashioned for her a wedding ring of special magnificence in which was set a Stone forged by the fire of infatuation with as much care and affection as one so devoid possessed. Above all else, she cherished this Stone, a token from her twisted and insatiable love, whose wicked intent for humanity outshone even her own, enhancing her power and channelling his hatred. As the sands of time slipped by, her foulness smeared the land, wrought upon generations by their own weak and self-centred desires, exploited to suit her aims. So too, in a moment of inattention, the Stone slipped from her most guarded possession and was lost._

_And to this day, she seeks its return, calamity held at bay by her wanderings._

_Evil goes not unchecked on the plane of flesh and blood. Ever the Watcher stood awaiting the chance to tip the balance and elevate divine justice in the cosmic order. The Heavens opened and fate intervened_  – _The Watcher retrieved the lost Stone. Like a haven in the tempest, peace from the Crone's plague was humanity's reprieve._

_And to this day, she seeks the Stone's return, calamity held at bay by her wanderings._

_Thus, the Sacred Trinity was born. Anointed with gifts Ethereal, the three hold civilisation in their ordained embrace: The Watcher, The Warrior, and elevated above all, The Keeper. Blessed by maternal grace everlasting, the fate of the collected peoples is her province, the love of the world in her heart, the heavy burden of a life's long sacrifice concealing the Stone her existence. Should the Keeper of the Crone's Stone falter, allowing its return to ruin's mistress, the chasm of despair will vomit excrement to scourge all who dwell in blissful ignorance, her vengeance the Apocalypse, and forever happiness no more._

_And to this day she seeks the Stone's return, calamity held at bay by her wanderings_."

Grateful to be rid of it, I placed the diary on the table and rubbed my hands together. "Happy days."

My cheekiness earned me a row of sober frowns. Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget had listened avidly, collectively exhaling in relief at the finish. They seemed to view this fairytale with uncommon seriousness.

I was keen to finish this bizarre lesson and impatient to get to the beach. "So, to summarise: Once upon a time, there was a vile Crone who married..." She married Lucifer, _really_? "Hubby gave her a wedding ring with a specially forged Stone that she cherished above all else. This Crone was truly evil and caused pain and suffering wherever she went on earth." A question popped to mind. "Was she so vicious because her husband was not able to break free of his prison and be with her? And how did they get together in the first place if he's trapped... in hell?"

"She despises our species, who flaunt their capacity to love so freely," Bea said. "She is apart from her husband for eternity, but for a brief window when he summoned her. This separation is their punishment for crimes against heaven, to love each other but not have the freedom to ever be together. He covets her across eternity and she knows he is always watching. Continue please, Winnie, what else?"

"Oh, he must be super pissed she's lost the Stone he gave her as a wedding gift."

Fortescue interrupted. "Super _pissed_? With a vocabulary dependent on such phrases, your proper education has not arrived too soon, Winsome."

"It's great to see you too," I muttered, hurrying on before the lecture had a chance to expand. "This Watcher fellow found the missing Stone and gave it to a Keeper to guard, helped by a Warrior. The Crone has been preoccupied searching down the years and hasn't really had a chance to cause the usual mayhem. I guess her power is lessened without it?"

"Correct, Winsome. However, not only a Warrior and a Watcher assist the Keeper, who fulfils the task of hiding the Stone in seclusion," Bea said. "You will recall the Sacred Trinity from the first reading. The Trinity train the novice Keeper and her Warrior, until she claims the Stone in a ritual that occurs on the death of her predecessor."

"Cool, because it sounds like this poor sucker, the Keeper, needs all the help she can get. This is an interesting story. Where did it originate?"

Fortescue shot Bea a meaningful glance. "It is as old as humankind," she said vaguely. "The Keeper's tradition has continued unbroken for over a thousand years."

"What happens if the Keeper stuffs up and this charmer, the Crone, gets her Stone back?"

"The Crone will first annihilate any who stood in her way. If she obtains the name of a Keeper, both she and her ancestors will be wiped from existence. Nothing would ever challenge the Crone and we can only guess at her wrath and vengeance. Perhaps this time around Hitler would triumph or the Cuban missile crisis end in a nuclear winter."

"You mean with the Stone, she can travel through time? Change our history?"

"Yes," Bea continued. "And much more besides. Through the Stone, she channels the full malevolence of her captive husband."

"Well, the Keeper can hardly be blamed for the Crone's poor choice of husband! Where does the legend say the Stone is presently?"

"It does not, Winnie. Nor will it. Only the Keeper ever knows where the Stone is hidden. It is the Keeper's duty to conceal the Stone for as long as she is alive, before the task is taken up by the next in line. The transfer occurs in a Claiming Ritual just before the preceding Keeper's death, which is the only time the anointed are ever in direct communication."

I squirmed in my hard-backed chair. "What happens if a Keeper doesn't want to accept the job? It doesn't seem like anyone ever asked them."

"An unclaimed Stone remains the greatest peril. Not only does the Stone call to its mistress, the hateful spirit it contains will smother those who thwarted the Crone over millennia by amplifying their own fears. First in the mind and then, these very lifelike visions war with reality, until they eventually manifest to cause actual harm. If not madness first. An unclaimed Stone is a toxic blight that drains life and destroys with spreading malignancy."

"Lovely. I suppose then, it's lucky the Keepers have fulfilled their duties without fail." Bea looked more uncomfortable than she had throughout this entire lesson. Mrs Paget's eyes widened and Fortescue cleared his throat. "This witch-demon seems a bit casual with an item so precious to her. How did she lose it?"

"The legend does not say."

Did I detect a lie? Where on earth had they dredged this myth up from? "Why exactly am I reading this?"

"Trust me, Winnie. Its pertinence will become clear soon enough. Now, that's enough for today. I am sure you would like some time to yourself. To adjust to being home. I ask only that you do not leave the warehouse without Hugo. He is presently downstairs in the gymnasium."

I gazed at Bea, and no matter how much I wanted to escape the cloying attention, her doubtful wellbeing had me stressed. It was as if they wilted before me. I was reluctant to leave them in case of an emergency, a heart attack or stroke. I had never considered losing one of them before. It was ironic. I'd cursed their intrusiveness into my life countless times in the past, but I'd totally taken for granted what having them around meant to me.

"You know, we don't have to go to the judge's party tonight. You really don't seem up to it. I could make dinner and wait on you all, tuck you up in rugs with hot carob and a menthol rub."

"Nice try, Winsome," Bea said briskly. She rose from the table and headed for the door, the others following. "If I am able to attend, given my sinusitis, so are you."

Sinusitis? I thought she said she had the flu. "Well, what about the risk of contagion? Going out is not a responsible attitude to the health of the community."

Mrs Paget sniggered, but cut it short when Bea threw her a scathing look. "Do not encourage her, Grace. I am well medicated and pose no threat to the health of the community." Her tone was wry. "Thank you for your concern, Winnie. Very benevolent."

That purple mohawk seemed my final defence.

## Six

The beach was a bust. All I'd achieved by going was a case of sunburn and new heights in humiliation. Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget disappeared after our meeting in the kitchen and it seemed pointless to fret on my own about their illness. I'd snuck as far as the garage, congratulating myself on my stealthiness. The celebration was premature.

Hugo waited by my moped, arms crossed over his gargantuan chest, wearing wraparound sunglasses, a baseball cap and his standard uniform of black tee and black army cargos, fitting the intimidating stereotype. For the time being, the arsenal was absent or well hidden.

He stoically held open the door of Fortescue's Mini, ushering me inside. His presence atomised the last of my guilt over abandoning my sick guardians. I got meagre giggles watching him cram himself behind the wheel – a grizzly bear shoehorned into a lunchbox. A tank seemed better suited to his vehicle of choice.

"It's not a great idea to laugh at a commando with a knife," he grumped.

It was all downhill from there – and that was from someone who'd had the misfortune of trooping to the beach with three geriatric minders glowing head to toe in zinc, balancing sombreros large enough to shield a soccer team and stadium of fans. A foray into the Australian sunshine was generally regarded the same as exposure to plutonium. If I dared peek from the shade tent an alert sounded and lockdown occurred.

We didn't venture far, only to Bondi. Everest perched pole-rigid behind me as I lay on the sand, blocking the rays and glowering at anyone who breached the ten-metre perimeter. I really put effort into enjoying the glorious day, Children Collide blasting though headphones, while I read _Divergence_. But I looked like some VIP with a security detail, and the attention I drew from other beachgoers had me self-conscious and cranky. Hugo actually pursued me to the edge of the surf when I went for a swim, waves lapping at his boot-clad ankles.

"You could at least have taken off your boots. They're all wet." I stomped back to my towel, the man-mountain in close pursuit. Having a bodyguard was even more tiresome than I'd envisaged.

"I lived in the Kalahari for a year, where scorpions are as common as cockroaches and sandstorms blister the flesh from your bones."

"How scenic. I thought I detected an African accent."

My sarcasm deepened his scowl. Fortescue too, would not be pleased by this return to the lowest denominator. Hugo absolutely refused to rub sunscreen on the places I couldn't reach. We arrived home two hours later, me wretchedly grouchy and sulking for the interim in my room. I was too furious to read or listen to music, lying on my bed, throwing daggers at the ceiling. He let me complete this task in peace, probably lingering outside the slammed door. I began to pine for Shabby and the Academy's sub-zero temperatures, before thankfully nodding off.

Raphaela compulsively smoothed damp strands of hair that clung to her brow, the rest straight and glossy down her back. Her rapidly rising and falling chest revealed someone battling anxiety. Or fear. She paused at the open doorway of a single-engine Cessna powering up on a weed-strewn runway that was hardly an improvement on a dirt track, the concrete surface crumbling and pock-marked.

The airstrip cut a valley through dense tropical palms, its length short enough to reveal a drop-off into a shallow lagoon that shone an impossible, brilliant turquoise in the bright glare. The sun had barely crept from the horizon, lighting tiny scattered islands at various distances out to sea.

In a simple cream A-line dress and gold sandals, she variously fidgeted with the strap of her matching satchel and adjusted large dark sunglasses in the style of Jacki O. Unencumbered as she was by additional hand-luggage, this trip would be short. Despite the early hour, perspiration moistened her tanned skin, which shone golden in post-dawn light. The delay evidently bought her time to change her mind and cancel a flight she seemed reluctant to take.

Clutching the wing strut, she gazed into the jungle for so long it appeared she'd never move. Raphaela startled when the pilot leaned to yell above the whine of the motor through the open door.

"Welcome to New Caledonia, Mary." His accent was French, a treacle complexion sheened with sweat in dark contrast to his white uniform and pilot's cap. "We make Lifou in under half hour... After you get in!" A good natured smile dimpled his chubby cheeks.

"Of course, sorry." She boarded the plane. Taking the chair next to his, Raphaela buckled the seatbelt across her chest. Theirs were the only seats, the remainder of the cabin laden with mail bags, boxes of tinned food, dry goods and other cargo dedicated to daily living.

"I am Jacques." He winked flirtatiously and busied himself getting the plane underway, alternating between speaking over his headset and conversing with Raphaela. They bounced the length of the landing field, gathering speed. Jacques glanced over at her, not bothering to watch where he steered. "Have you journeyed long?"

Raphaela stared ahead at the looming ocean, bolstering herself with arms outstretched on the dashboard. "Too long and too far."

After that, she refused to speak another word in response to his rapid-fire, non-stop chatter in jumbled French and English. Jacques didn't need encouragement or give the impression he was offended by her silence.

He set them down ten minutes later on another small, dazzlingly beautiful island, its airstrip even worse than the one they'd taken off from. A faded red, rust-bucket of a Jeep awaited its driver by a margin of tall grassland that abutted more jungle. The car lacked a roof and the doors were missing. Raphaela disembarked the instant the plane skidded to a halt.

"Look me up if you want some fun." Jacques eyed her retreating back from his open cabin window, as she strode to the car.

"I am not here for fun." She leapt behind the wheel and twisted the key waiting in the ignition. The Jeep chugged several times and finally roared to life with a puff of grey smoke. "And you'll forget me before the dust clears from my trail."

Now that she'd arrived, Raphaela's determination to complete the task was obvious. She sped along a rutted road skirting the island's shoreline, tan dirt billowing in her wake. Twenty minutes later, long after the trail had been eaten by sand, she reached a rickety wooden jetty. The land curved to form a small, well-protected bay. Not a soul had crossed her path since leaving the plane, the sorry state of the road a likely deterrent. Nor had she encountered any signs of habitation in the rainforest opposite the coastline rimmed by postcard perfect beaches.

A silver tinny was tethered to the crumbling pier, its metallic reflection a blinding array of sparkles on the water. She clambered in and motored quietly out towards a huge yacht riding the gentle swell several hundred metres away. Clumps of coral were visible on the blazing white sands beneath crystal-clear azure water.

Switching off the outboard engine before she reached her target, Raphaela allowed the boat to glide its way to a soft bump against the stern of the vessel, next to an inflatable orange dinghy. The main craft was unnamed and unmarked with the usual nautical identifiers, and it was of a large sleek ocean-going design. She tied on and took a deep jittery breath, reaching for the salt-crusted rail to haul onto a platform leading up to the rear deck.

The compact square area, lined either side by stained white leather bench seats, was open to the elements, and vacant of people. Yet, signs of dissolute occupancy were strewn about: empty bottles of overproof rum rolling idly on the floor with the motion of lapped waves, a hash pipe discarded on a sideboard along with drug bags of powder and rotting food scraps, fetid in the stinging heat. The mixing odours of putrid rubbish and stale alcohol crinkled her nose. There was also a large amount of fresh blood, garish against white moulding.

"No," Raphaela gasped, dropping to one knee to inspect the crimson splatter.

She frowned and squinted into the interior. Removing her sunglasses, she secreted them in her bag and crept further inside, nudging bottles with her sandalled foot. Poised on the threshold of the plush, covered salon, she cocked her head and listened carefully, while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Raphaela eventually braved several cautious steps within.

"It was you?" A man's hoarse voice sneered in disbelief. "Setting those _run now_ declarations all over town?"

Raphaela faltered, swallowing hard. "I hoped you'd understand."

Seth sprawled on a high-backed leather chair, swivelling around to face her fully. The armrests were smeared with his own blood that had trickled down his fingers to form two spreading puddles on a zebra-hide rug. Jagged gashes travelled the length of his inner forearms, but the wounds had already begun to scab. A large bowie knife dangled from between two fingers, the blade gleaming wetly. He wore only grubby blue-checked boxers, his bronzed torso rippling with muscles.

"The Keeper, I presume." He barked laughter, slurring to himself, _"To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show, that passion is the paradise below. Satan, at last take pity on our pain._ You must be truly desperate to dare come here."

" _You_ are the great Seth?" Raphaela took three stilted steps towards him. "Usurper of Lucifer's contract, earthbound lover of Finesse, the man who wrested the Stone from the Crone's grip?"

"Technically, all I did was to try and destroy the ring, once she'd neglected to put it back on. Someone else stole the damn Stone." One hand casually twirled the knifepoint down in the palm of his other. "The term 'lover,'" he said, digging savagely at this hand, "implies affection. I have none for the demon-witch. She can rot in the deepest chasm of hell for all I care. Any vile deed I am responsible for was coerced."

"Excuses _and_ self-pity? Clearly, I am on the wrong boat."

"You forgot self-loathing. And now we find ourselves together in this delightful, never-ending, fucked-up mess. _What do you want, Keeper_?" he snarled.

Raphaela strode forward, knocking the knife from his grasp. It clattered across the floor. "I did not deceive the Watcher and shirk my duty passed down across millennia to rehabilitate a drug-abusing, suicidal alcoholic. We have no time for your piteous regrets if we wish to bring the Crone down, once and for all."

"We?" he drawled, eyes panning up her lithe body with a predatory hunger.

Fragile, easily broken bones were visible beneath Raphaela's exotic honey complexion. Standing close to him, the slight woman didn't quail under his crude stare. She reached for one of Seth's injured arms. He shied from her touch and dropped his gaze briefly. She clasped his wrist, unconcerned by the blood smearing her skin. Once his resistance broke, Raphaela continued to raise his arm and closely inspect the mangled tract. Her copper hair swung with the movement. Seth seemed unaccustomed to such gentleness, shifting awkwardly in his chair. His focus drifted back to her, where it didn't stray from her large russet eyes.

"You cannot die?" She peered down at him with undisguised sympathy.

He seemed dazed, the intake of his breath sharp. "Not while she lives. Finding ingenious ways to murder myself does make for a vigorous hobby though."

Raphaela smiled shyly. "You help me and I will help you gain release."

"You offer me death?" His cheeks flushed and he sat forward, bringing the two even closer together. "That is not possible. The Crone is invincible while her Stone exists. Her Stone cannot be destroyed. So, you see, your kind offer is void."

"I think I have found a way. Only one Keeper remains once my time is spent. She will fail without help."

"You punish me worse than the stinking hag, making promises you cannot keep." The hope in Seth's countenance drained and he sat back. He pulled his arm free of her grasp, scrubbing his hand through lank locks.

"If death is what you wish, I shall grant it. I hope to change your mind, however." She spoke briskly. "Come. We must move quickly, before she perceives where you are."

"Wait!" Seth lunged to seize her slim wrist in an odd reversal of moments ago. "Tell me first why you are doing this. What's in it for you?"

She turned back to him. "Must there be something in it for me, aside from ridding the world once and for all of the Crone?"

"If my association with her cult of Anathema has taught me anything, it is that motives are seldom selfless. It is the oldest and the best cliché: everyone has a price."

"Anathema." Raphaela shuddered in disgust. "Their downfall shall be my greatest pleasure. One amongst many, if we succeed." She noticed that he still held her arm, coiling her fingers about his forearm and fixing him with an intense gaze. "My price is a child of my own."

Seth lurched to his feet, scant millimetres between them. He towered over her, his fist tightening to crush her flesh. "That cannot be the price. You cannot ask that of me! The cost is too high."

"Once she claims the Stone, a Keeper is barren. You are the only one with the gift to prevail against the curse," Raphaela persisted, covering her earlier fear well.

"I will not see another child dead because of my actions. I refuse. It is no bargain to bring an infant into a world devoid of loving parents, who are incapable of opposing the all-powerful Crone. And the child could never survive her jealous rage. Nowhere on earth would offer safety."

"I believe, together, we shall provide our child security beyond the reach of the Crone. And given time, maybe even loving parents."

" _What_?" he whispered. He stared down at her with deep suspicion. She stared back, her demeanour adamant. A look of yearning gradually replaced his fierce expression. "How?"

"Come with me. _Trust_ me, Seth. And I will show you. What do you have to lose?" She swept her available arm to encompass his trashed lounge. " _This_?"

Seth realised he still grasped her hard, letting go but remaining close. Pale fingerprints marred her skin in a ring about her forearm. He touched her cheek tenderly with bloodied fingertips. "If you can do even part of what you say, I promise not to kill you."

"Good. Time is of the essence. Anathema are closing in on you and we need to reach Louisiana before the Crone comprehends you are truly missing from her mind's eye."

"You can make me vanish that completely?" Seth still appeared doubtful.

Raphaela smiled, confidently this time. "I am the Keeper. I can conceal anything from anyone." She offered him her hand once more and he took it gladly.

"Up, thank you, Winnie. We need to get ready for the judge's exhibition."

By the time I roused to Bea fussing in my room, evening had fallen. I rolled over and gave her my back, stalling in the hopes of understanding what I'd just seen. My great-aunt's creepy story had contaminated my brain, which wildly embroidered details in my sleep.

But I had to admit these were like no dreams I'd ever experienced. They resembled a movie piecing together a complete narrative in flashback, rather than the disjointed scraps typical of slumber. Or maybe it was the repressed memory of an event I'd observed happening to someone else in the past, which had finally seeped into consciousness. Of course, that was a stupid theory. Why any of this occurred or how it was relevant to me, I could not guess.

This latest episode gave me the start of Seth and Raphaela's story, their first meeting. The middle – shown to me on the limousine ride from the airport to the warehouse – explained how he'd broken cover to save the drowning boy and in so doing, had exposed them both to their enemy. But what of the ending? I knew it would not be a happy one and was beginning to dread to sleep.

Bea rattled purposefully around in the ensuite. "Winnie, please. We do not want to be late."

"It doesn't bother me," I mumbled, pleased at the idea my dawdling would make the night shorter. I dragged myself up and perched on the edge of my bed, rubbing tired eyes.

The witch demon was clearly someone to be avoided at all costs. And I knew the true biblical meaning of the word Raphaela and Seth kept mentioning. It was from Corinthians – anathema: _a thing devoted to evil_. I'd studied a copy of Papyrus 46 from the New Testament in Bea's collection. The pair used it in a weird context though, as if referring to a group or sect.

And apparently Raphaela was the famed Keeper from my reading this morning. Was I _really_ this open to suggestion? The whole thing made me very nervous. I decided not to devote more of my mental processes to a silly fable. There were other problems to manage, like how to get through the torture of an evening at Judge Smith's. I stood with a resigned sigh, heading for the bathroom before Aunt Bea exercised her newly discovered shouting voice.

"Please, Aunt Bea," I begged a short while later, trying to moderate the whine and failing. She fastened a choker of diamonds around my stinging neck in preparation for our evening out, too gracious to comment on my sunburn. "I'll be as tame as a drugged rabbit. Can we just leave Hugo behind?"

"I've requested subtlety. You won't even know he's there, Winnie."

My scepticism was evident in the ensuite mirrors. "Why is a bodyguard necessary at all? You've not received a kidnap threat, or something, have you?"

"As I've said—"

"Yeah, yeah! Visiting dignitary and so forth."

"Mrs Paget will straighten your hair while I dress."

I didn't even earn a rebuke for my rudeness. It was all too weird and if I thought about it for too long, a grinding headache resulted. I was already sufficiently uncomfortable: teetering on stilettos, sheathed in a pale-pink pencil skirt made of satin and split up the back to offer limited movement, topped off with a delicate lace and silk spaghetti-strapped camisole in the same shade. Chiffon frills drifted like feathers with the slightest breeze. The way the outfit clung to my curves, highlighting naked flesh through gauze, did not impress. I wasn't a prude. I simply didn't like to be overly noticed. Bea appraised my front with a satisfied nod and left.

Twisting to catch a view from behind in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I grimaced at material hugging my rear like clingwrap over mangoes. I would have preferred plums. In my opinion, designers of formalwear were the modern equivalent of the Marquis de Sade, shoemakers of anything but thongs, especially brutal. Not that Bea approved entirely of thongs or of most things rubber for that matter. Apparently, this particular colour complimented my skin tone and green eyes, such a consensus too rare to fight.

"You look simply radiant, Winsome." Fortescue surprised me by departing from his standard reserve, as I tottered for the warehouse front door.

There was something different about my guardians this evening; their emotions were showing. Mrs Paget and Fortescue occupied the landing with the cats, smiling like proud parents farewelling me to the graduation ball. Their behaviour was so over-enthused, a pinned corsage and teary speech would not seem out of the question.

We made it across the laneway, regardless of my walking impediment. Bea looked classy in a pewter metallic shift and pumps. She offered the stability of her arm and for a moment, her health seemed improved. But then I realised the glowing charade was the deft use of cosmetics. Hugo's combo consisted of the usual army fashion, gussied-up with a black jacket the size of the circus Big Top.

After a hostile scan of the judge's plants hedging the walkway, as though they could attack at any second, Hugo swiped a keycard through the scanner at the glassed-in entrance to the Smiths' residence. He jabbed the code into the digit pad. Like Aunt Bea, the judge also had many valuable collectables. Other guests had temporary access to his place, but ours was unlimited. The entire bottom floor of the building was devoted to an Olympic-sized swimming pool and I frequently swam laps there.

The judge's son, Vegas, had taught me how to swim – under the watchful gaze of Fortescue, naturally – when we first moved here. I was eleven, he was twelve. Smithy also taught me to fight, stopping the torture by the bullies infesting expensive schools. I'd been expelled on many occasions for defending myself a little too vigorously. And he'd trained me in the urban gymnastics of parkour. It was hilarious leading Fortescue on a race across the streets of Sydney, as he attempted to track us by GPS and follow in his Mini.

"Winsome?"

We'd disembarked from the lift and faced the open penthouse door. The sound of jazz, played on the judge's grand piano, filled the lobby. Bea had been asking me something and I'd failed to reply. I silently chastised myself for thinking about Smithy, forgetting we were no longer friends.

"Sorry, Aunt Bea?"

She forgave my distraction with a wave of her hand as we entered. Hugo tramped off, muttering things like "Nightmare for security" and "Recon."

"Winnie." She peered intently at me. "Promise me something?"

Her sincerity was unsettling. "Anything."

"Stay in the group tonight?"

My stomach growled. What if the _group_ moved away from the buffet? There could be cake, and it may be my last chance for a while to eat something other than bran, prunes and soy curd. There was a reason it rhymed with 'turd'.

"Sure." It was going to be a very, very long night.

"Please keep this on you." She dropped my orphaned mobile (I never used the dumb thing – who would I call?) into my tiny sparkly bag with an expression that forfeited debate. "Ring me at the slightest provocation."

"Aunt Bea, I've been to a trillion of these things and the only real threat is terminal boredom. What's really going on?"

"I must go. I've missed the start of the tour." She adjusted her perfectly aligned dress and assumed a friendly mask. "I don't expect you to follow me around. I know you are not a fan of Nash's pieces."

Some of the judge's paintings originated from the early serial killer period. The photos of detached body parts on silver platters were particularly unsettling. I clenched my jaw against another of Bea's non-answers.

"Just remember, stay close to the crowd near the dance floor where I can find you."

With that exasperating caveat, Bea hurried away to join the well-heeled throng _oohing_ and _aahing_ their way around the exhibition. As I dallied in the foyer I could see about thirty adults, champagne glasses in hand, trickling into the recesses of the spacious suite for the art gallery at the end of a glass-walled corridor to my left. A sizeable patio was visible through the adjacent glass wall in front of me.

To my right stretched an expanse of white marble floor with a pale wooden inset for dancing. The square remained free of dancers, none drunk enough yet to brave it. Tucked in the far corner, an ancient fellow in black tie and tails enthusiastically churned out pieces on the grand piano, despite the fact no one was listening.

Next to me, a sweeping staircase curved to the top level where Smithy's bedroom was located. But I refused to think about that. Muted lighting, water features and refined taste added to the feel of a contemporary five-star hotel.

Several sulky teens meandered from the bar area extending out of sight in an L-shape from the dance floor. The food was located around that bend. I needed a place to avoid trouble and started to cross the lobby. The generosity of a few hassle-free seconds should have put me on guard.

"Back five minutes, Lose-some, and can't wait to stick your snout in the trough?"

Wicked ice-princess, Tiffany, peeled chameleon-esque from behind a column she'd propped against. She was all tall, blonde and synthetically stunning. As beauty was the modern currency, she and her minions, twins Prudence and Priscilla, ruled the world. Her banker father and Judge Smith were long-standing friends. There was no accounting for taste and I'd been forced to tolerate her on several occasions growing up. I attempted to sidestep her, having promised Bea 'forbearance instead of fists'.

Tiffany swanned around to reposition herself between me and the food. She wore a tight little black number showing ample cleavage "You do realise everything you eat goes straight to your thighs. You must pack it away overseas."

Restraining myself was harder than I'd predicted. I didn't want to waste a minute away from the judge's famously generous buffet, given my imminent weaning from the cream, icing and custard of my nightly raids at the Academy. And I was really far too frazzled to take her crap tonight.

"Your dermatologist would insist you stop talking immediately, Tiffany. It gives you wrinkles."

"Neigh-on, Winless. I'd give you his card, but he's not a miracle-worker." Consistent with her typical approach, she took a threatening step closer.

"So I see." Time to outmanoeuvre her. I pretended to trip, grabbed the delicate strap of her bag and jerked. It made a satisfying _snap_ , spilling its innards across expensive Italian marble. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Here, let me help." I bent down and took the opportunity to rummage amongst her make-up and keys.

"You did that on purpose! Clumsy sped."

"You give me far too much credit, Tiffany."

"Whatever. Stop pawing my stuff and get the hell away from me."

I raised open palms in surrender and left her cursing. I'd taken her phone hostage during the encounter and would ransom it later if she tried anything else. One had to get inventive when denied the use of force.

After a speedy departure, I slanted straight by the permanent bar lining one wall. Crisply attired staff were struggling to rebuff the onslaught of adolescents demanding exotic cocktails while their parents were otherwise engaged. A snooker table usually occupied the space parallel, but now held two rowed tables laden with an assortment of goodies. Round tables and chairs were intimately arranged nearby.

I headed for the squishy divan tucked at the very end of the buffet, somewhat shielded by towering carved ice flowers decorating the food tables. Hugo magically appeared and stuck to me like one of those grass burrs that wormed into your jumper and were difficult to pick off. Once I'd gathered a selection of delicacies onto a piece of the judge's good porcelain and sat, he positioned himself directly at my rear.

"Further," I said firmly. He shuffled back a couple of steps. "Further. Remember, subtlety?"

With a grunt of disapproval, Hugo moved until the wall stopped him, where he stood with legs apart and hands clasped in front, ready to sabotage any boy who had the nerve to ask for a life-threatening dance. I toyed with demanding he step out onto the patio. It was all too depressing; yet another evening where the odds of romance vanished to a speck on the horizon. Although, given my abysmal history in that department, this was probably a benefit.

One boy's kissing method had involved dislocating his jaw wide enough to drive a humvee through. I compared the encounter to face-planting a watermelon. Another had viewed my mere presence as a last minute tack-on for an acquaintance at the cinema as an access-all-areas pass. He could've had a career giving medical exams if he wasn't so sleazy. I'd crippled his porn act by fracturing his hand (unless he was ambidextrous), and decided to embrace my inner puritan after that.

Still, the lack of courage on the part of the opposite sex was fairly woeful. Not a single boy ventured into Hugo's glare radius. I eased the disappointment by steadily mowing through three heaped servings of excellent canapés. They put out so much food no one ever ate! I was the only one who dared snub a celery-stick-and-Moet diet. As forecast, the party dragged. Tiffany and her friends circulated the judge's apartment like a pack of dingos picking off campers.

A chubbier girl ran crying for the exit, but I couldn't see a way to step in without breaking my pacifist pledge to Aunt Bea. I got token payback by downloading Dennis Leary's _Asshole_ to Tiffany's mobile and setting it as her only ringtone.

"I'd steer clear of the blinis. Heard a rumour about dodgy salmon." A melodious baritone sounded abruptly in my ear from a cloud of delicious aftershave, his breath tickling my neck from behind. "I see you have the good sense to spend time with the only company worth keeping tonight."

"Huh?" Myself?

Before I could crane for a glimpse, the voice's owner came around and scrunched beside me on the inadequate seat. About my age, he was an absolute dish in a chic grey silk suit and black shirt. I blinked stupidly and wondered what miracle had occurred to gift me this magnificent vision. His hair settled in untouched disarray about his face in a style others paid a fortune for; a lovely sandy brown, tipped blond by the sun. I discerned the brilliance of gold-green eyes and smooth summer-tanned skin. My heart drummed and belly squirmed uncomfortably.

"Move it, bud," Hugo said, encroaching the dreamy boy's personal space.

"You might want to lose the distasteful handbag," he leaned close to murmur. In one swift smooth motion he stood and swivelled. "Back off, Bargeass! This lady's spoken for."

"Do you want me to shoot him, Winsome?" Hugo thundered.

"Make that first shot count. You won't get a second."

The familiar surly tone and the lack of fear twigged. "Smithy?"

"Hey, Bear," he winked down at me, his eyes sparkling. He turned back to Hugo. "You're overcompensating, mate. You know what they say about guys with big guns." He wiggled his little finger.

"It's alright, Hugo. I know him." I waved my bodyguard away.

"The safety's off. Just say the word." Threat radiated from Hugo in waves. Vegas commonly had this effect on people.

"It's okay, really. I'll let you know if I need you." He begrudgingly resituated several paces away. I grabbed Smith's coat and dragged him back down next to me. "Sit, before we draw a crowd."

"Wow, Bear. You have grown up in two years. You look..." Smithy appraised me admiringly. "Mind-blowing. Welcome home." He'd christened me 'Little Bear' when we'd first met, after Winnie the Pooh, and over the years it had been shortened to 'Bear'.

He wrapped me in a close hug with a second wave of shampoo and manly scent. It was a challenge to breathe. Gently releasing me after a prolonged clinch, he sat back. Every female in the room stared at me with unbridled resentment, including the judge's new trophy wife. Brianna had sidled over earlier on the pretext of introductions, but finding me no challenge to her model-like proportions had lost interest quickly.

I shifted uneasily. It wasn't my fault Smithy was beautiful. He got less scrutiny when he was actively trying to stand out with parrot-hued hair, tattoos and piercings. But all that was gone or discreetly hidden. And I couldn't shake how invitingly solid he'd felt when we hugged. I loathed the extra attention his presence drew. My hands fidgeted in my lap. Vegas placed one of his over mine to still them, increasing the venomous female stares.

"How are you, Bear? Words don't cover how unbelievable it is to see you home. Finally." He beamed and perfect teeth amped the wattage, causing a collective sigh in the nearby girls gravitating with a purpose towards us.

"I was fine until the news on potential gastritis. Go away, Smith. I'm not talking to you."

"I believe you're managing so far. And I would have rescued you earlier, but I came in from a run and had to get respectable for your homecoming."

"Who says I need to be rescued? You and respectable do not belong in the same sentence. Besides, you're a magnet for unwanted interest. Here comes Iffy Tiffy and her leeches, no doubt to rope you into ditching decency on the dance floor. Head her off at the pass, and I may be grateful enough to say goodbye when I leave."

"You can't leave. I've got something to show you."

"I wasn't too keen on the last thing you showed me." Adjusting to this new version of a boy I'd known longer than any other person outside my funny little family was also entirely unsettling.

"I'm not the same as I was then. I want to make it up to you, Bear. Please, let's start over?"

## Seven

We'd met on our arrival in the newest of many cities. Smithy and I had forged an immediate and close bond, both odd outcasts, both handicapped by dorky names. His honouring his place of conception and mine because my parents were definitely smoking crack at the time. It was the only explanation, although I didn't like to speak ill of the dead. Winsome Light! What were they thinking?

Vegas Smith's adolescence was more complex than most. After the judge dumped his mother, who ran away to a commune when she lost custody of her baby, Smithy's father traded a series of wives, each getting younger. The current model was spanking fresh and sat somewhere in her mid-twenties.

In retaliation, Smithy held everything the judge did in contempt, disfiguring himself with dreadful haircuts in fluorescent shades and owning the churlish 'emo' attitude. He rode every parent's nightmare motorcycle, was into extreme martial arts and bone-shattering parkour. Once, he got staggeringly drunk and urinated on the shag pile in front of the judge's guests, including two senators and the British Ambassador.

"What happened to you, Smithy? You're not hammered, naked or creating a public nuisance. Are there even enough anonymous programmes in existence for you?"

"Art school. The Judge had his heart set on me graduating in Law and following in the family tradition. Family!" he snorted. "As if that applies. Naturally, I had to disappoint him. If only I'd come up with it sooner. I wouldn't have had to waste years on all that other stupid stuff."

"I'm glad for you, Smithy. Happiness suits you. But I'm still not speaking to you."

He grinned and quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

Having never taken anything I'd ever said seriously, he didn't look set to start now. Circumstances took a considerable turn for the worse when Tiffany reached our spot.

"Don't touch her, Vegas! You'll get scabies or a tapeworm."

Should I have Hugo shoot her? It was very tempting. Possibly just a kneecap.

Smithy's smile vanished. "Retract your claws, Tiffany. I've had it with your drama. I told the judge to stop inviting you to his events, and you wouldn't be here if not for your father's attendance. Apologise to Winsome." His face blazed and he protectively squeezed my hand.

"Don't be angry at me," Tiffany moped. "My phone's missing and I didn't get your calls. You know I'll always text you back."

"I haven't called you. Or messaged you. Nor will I ever again, unless you say sorry to Winsome."

I frowned, addled by Smithy's sudden re-emergence as a butterfly, rather than the slug I'd come to expect. "Don't bother, Smith. I can take care of myself."

Contrary to what Bea believed, I did not need a saviour. At the sound of my voice, Tiffany puffed up defensively. I knew where this was heading. I had to get away, but my aunt was nowhere in sight. Bodies jostling to a slow beat on the dance floor blocked the view. The moody lighting didn't help.

Sensing my desperation, Smith took charge. "We'd better get you out of here before the judge sees you and can't resist dropping another age bracket."

"Truly, it isn't necessary." Smith didn't grasp he was the largest reason for my discomfort. "And Bea would skin your father alive if he so much as breathed at me wrong."

"Vegas," Tiffany pouted. "Come and dance with me."

She sashayed forward, holding her hand out like Cleopatra greeting a kneeling suitor. Smith paid her no heed. He nestled closer to speak softly in my ear.

"You're a pretty big enticement, Bear. I'm not sure anyone could resist. Besides," he sat back and peeked at me from beneath long lashes, "I really want you to be the first to see something."

Reaching over with a wistful expression, Smithy touched the pink enamelled flower in my hair. My cheeks prickled. From the corner of my vision, Tiffany's eyes bulged. She slithered over to the neglected food with a dogged expression, scooped a handful of caviar and hurled it at me. Chilled eggs slimed my bare chest, oozing fishily into my cleavage, dripping onto my skirt and splattering Smith's sleeve. We smelled of beached seaweed on a hot day.

I sighed and stood. Where the hell was the man mountain? Not that I required his help, but he normally adhered to me like superglue. I turned to scowl at him and he shrugged with a smirk.

"You didn't let me know you needed your _handbag_."

I closed my eyes and prayed for patience. "Essence of Beluga. Charming."

I'd copped worse and had learned to pick my fights. With the number of wasted rich kids present this had a tinderbox feel to it. Nearby dancers stopped and gawked, their stillness contagious. We were quickly the focus of onlookers. The twins Prue and Priscilla clapped and laughed from the midst of the group. It was easy to get them enthused; their combined shoe sizes outbid their IQs.

Smith jumped to action, his jaw clenched in angry profile. "Come with me."

Hugo made to follow us. Smithy beckoned Prue over as we cut a swathe through the crowd, saying softly, "See that big blond guy?" He pointed at Hugo. She tilted her head, inspecting the target with a cascade of flaxen locks, and nodded eagerly. "He's a single, straight, multi-millionaire, who loves shopping and Pomeranians. Adores dressing them up in little diamante coats. I'd dibs that special before the stampede."

Her face lit up. Seconds later, the persistent twins and a tittering flock of their friends waylaid Hugo. If I wasn't so busy laughing, I might have felt sorry for him.

"That should keep him occupied for a bit," Smithy said with a satisfied nod.

In the background, someone called, "Hey, there's a mobile in the punch!"

We brushed past Tiffany without a word. Her mortified face revealed our departure together was better justice than drowning her phone in vodka and fruit-pulp. If we weren't enemies before this, the vendetta was now cemented. Smith lightly grasped my elbow and propelled me through the spectators, oblivious of the withering looks I received and the open-mouthed yearning he encouraged.

"How did you know Hugo wasn't bluffing about his gun?"

"You'd never believe me if I told you."

"You'd be surprised by what I believe these days."

"Guns, plural. And two knives. A small-calibre strapped to his ankle and a knife on his other calf. One big military blade under his shirt on his right hip and a large bore canon in a holster at his back, loaded with hollow-points. He also has knuckle dusters, a garrotte and throwing stars in his pockets. The man's a walking munitions cache."

"But how do you know that?"

"Um, I could smell the polishing compound and see he was carrying from the way his jacket fell."

The answer was as watertight as a sea sponge, and from his shifty look, he knew it. We headed up the curvaceous staircase and along the hall, far away from the delightful Tiffany. I thought of a few more questions, but decided I'd had my fill of cryptic half-baked responses for one day and let the matter drop. My existence seemed to have transformed overnight into a giant Rubik's cube. And Smithy didn't seem particularly astonished by my new friend Hugo's hobbies. Or that I'd actually acquired a new friend, of sorts. He guided me into his room and almost kicked the door out of its frame on closing it.

"I can't believe Tiffany did that," he said. "I'm so sorry, Bear. You can clean up in here, while I find you something to wear."

He steered me into his spacious ensuite, and awkward memories of another day two years prior sprang to mind. I'd come home from an evening run to discover an extremely inebriated Smith lying dishevelled in my doorway.

"What are you doing here?" I'd asked him. "Look at the state you're in."

"He's dumped another one, Bear," he hiccupped miserably, reeking of tequila. "I've got a joke for you. How many stepmothers does it take to raise a son?" He paused. "None, if you've got a real mum. Or even a father would do."

"You made that up," I said, as I hoisted him to his feet. "And it isn't very funny."

"No," he said, his arm draped over my shoulder. "It's just the lousy truth. You're all sweaty."

We staggered across the street and I negotiated the security system so we could access his building. "And you're blitzed."

We eventually straggled to his room – somewhere I'd never previously been – and I jostled him fully clothed into his shower, turning on the cold full bore. He refused to release me and pulled me to the floor with him.

"Hey! Let go, idiot." I fell on top of him. The water was freezing.

"You know, Bear? I can't talk to anyone else like I can talk to you. I love you," he spluttered, water streaming in rivulets through his cobalt hair and clumping his dark lashes. "You always take care of me."

I wriggled to get free, but he had me pinned. "Well, aren't I the lucky one."

"I mean it. I really do love you." He stroked my cheek, his breaths accelerating.

My patience frayed and my teeth chattered. "And I mean it. Let me up!"

"You can't go. I'll give you a reason to stay."

Abruptly, he leaned over, clutched me to him and kissed me gently on the mouth. It was wet, boozy, and uninvited, but at the touch of his warm lips my body burst awake. He pulled back, gazed dreamily at me for a moment and then puked in my lap. I'd left for Austria two days later, upset that he'd plied me with alcohol-fuelled lies like any other of his bimbos. I'd thought we were true friends, outcasts sharing the burden of our difference.

Recall brought on embarrassment and hurt that stung worse than my sunburn. Time to make another swift getaway. I managed two steps before Smith reappeared in the doorway, minus his jacket, holding up a man's white shirt.

"Will this do?" He smiled winningly in a clean t-shirt, while I struggled not to notice muscular contours stretching its fabric across his chest. The skinny string bean he'd used to be was well and truly gone. "It'll be long on you. You're so petite."

"Thanks, but I'm going." His new charm didn't fool me. Somewhere buried beneath that scrumptious, polished exterior lurked the old tarnished Smithy. "I'll fix this at home."

"I knew I'd blown it when you didn't respond to my apology flowers," he blurted. "Or the chocolate, or the card and the letter. Bea never let me know when you were home for holidays, either. No matter how much I begged. Give me another chance? Stay. I really need you to see something."

What letter? I didn't know anything about flowers or chocolates. His cheeks were flushed and forehead furrowed, one arm dropping so the shirt dragged along the floor. Maybe this was as awkward for Smithy as it was for me.

"Fine," I grabbed the shirt, refusing to look at him. "Out."

A little later, barefoot and barely dressed, I allowed him to lead me to the judge's private gallery in an upper-floor loft. Smithy's father's less-than-savoury taste contaminated these walls too. Indescribable monuments littered the hall made out of random bits of garbage, rusted metal and plastic.

"You're not seriously showing me your etchings, are you?"

"Not in the way you think, Bear. I'm on my best behaviour."

"Hmm, that's a dubious pledge."

A plain white plinth stood in the farthest corner, inconspicuous amongst its gaudy neighbours. No brass plaque or any other inscription announced the artist's name. Upon it, a small marble mermaid reclined, about the size of a man's palm. The lovely figure's head rested on an upthrust arm, one half of her body draping land. Her tail floated on water expertly rendered in stone. Starfish and tiny shells decorated her long wavy hair, her round breasts were faultless and her charming face was serene, her eyes shut. Vegas led me over to her, indicating with a silent nod I should pick the sculpture up. He seemed unusually jumpy.

"Isn't she special? Bea will want to buy this." I made to go downstairs and fetch my aunt, forgetting my less-than-respectable, gossip-provoking outfit. "Why is she stuck back here? She's the best piece the judge has ever brought into your home."

Vegas still gripped my elbow. "It's not for sale. The judge wouldn't have it here if he knew about it."

"Why not? This one little figurine pardons the judge for years of abuse with the rubbish he calls art."

He laughed. "I made it for you, Winnie. My first sculpture." Just as I didn't used his first name, he didn't normally use mine. I stood there dumbly. "Consider it a token of affection from a boy with blue hair for not flinching when you were out in public with me. And for being the best, never-critical, most-special friend through all the years I made a mess of things. Thank you, Bear."

I fought the desire to tear up. He embraced me and tenderly kissed the top of my head. Holding me in the warm cloak of his arms he muttered, "I've really missed you. You should check your emails once a millennia."

My mind tried to catch up to the pleasure coursing my body. I was fairly convinced this new intensity to Smith's reaction towards me was no drunken pass. I wasn't sure how to respond. Of course, I should have known any second of peace was bound to be short-lived.

"Thank God, Winnie," Bea raced into the room, stopping just inside the doorway. "There you are."

Vegas and I broke apart, me cupping his wonderful gift in my hands, feeling exposed and ill at ease. Her timing was wretched. A disgruntled Hugo glowered over her shoulder. Taking in the scene, Bea's face went slack with an emotion that seemed closest to guilt. She had to be the one who'd hidden Smithy's messages. He mumbled sheepishly about an 'overreaction' as more people converged from the search she'd no doubt orchestrated. It was all very humiliating.

"Have you received a death threat or something, Bear? I've never seen Bea so uptight. And that's saying something."

I sighed. "I honestly don't know. It could be my state of undress."

Tiffany pushed to the front of the group, the twins dutifully in tow. They sidled towards Hugo, who stepped away. I swore under my breath, earning a sharp glance from Bea. Her hearing was better than that of a lynx.

"Vegas, bay-bee. I've been looking everywhere for you," Tiffany crooned. She seemed happier now Smithy seemed to have pulled his infamous vanish-the-clothes act and I was just another of his disposable one-nighters.

Bea edged further inside the room, rudely giving Tiffany her rear. Thin-lipped with her arms crossed, my great-aunt was thoroughly scary, but it wasn't aimed at me. Did I really seem so inept that I needed another person to jump to my defence? Well, I wasn't up for some silly territorial quarrel. I'd had my fill of merriment and food. My over-full stomach compacted my lungs, probably needing a litre of antacid. Smith hovered so closely I could detect the warmth of his skin.

"Thank you for the mermaid. She's absolutely lovely." I had to get on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. Bea, who was doing a fabulous job of not demanding an explanation for my lacking an outfit, threw a hostile glare at Tiffany. "Shall we?" I asked, gesturing in the direction of our warehouse.

"Bear," Smithy said. "When will I see you again?"

"I'll be around." Bea and Hugo trailed in my wake out the door.

Tiffany wore a conquering smile when I passed. Her groupies shot poisonous glances at me for exiting with a potential ex-boyfriend, but Hugo looked entirely relieved to be going. I felt a bit wrong for deserting Vegas with the buzzards circling, but was confident he could handle himself. Strangely, our departure was not the grateful end to another chore, his teasing heat still warming my flesh and begging me to stay.

## Eight

We left the building for the path, hemmed in by a wall of native foliage. I lagged behind Hugo and Aunt Bea, dazed by the whirlwind engulfing my life. Suddenly, an arm shot through leaves from the other side of the hedge, shackling my wrist and dragging me through. I yelped in surprise as I disappeared via a lattice of vicious, scratchy twigs. My captor clamped a hand roughly over my mouth and shoved a stun gun hard into my ribs, triggering the charge.

The deviate's body was tight against mine and I didn't appreciate his groin butting the small of my back. I fought and wriggled, smashing the stone mermaid where I estimated the attacker's nose to be. He yelled as I hit my mark, bone splintering beneath the force. I knew I'd broken some of my fingers along with his face, as agony streaked the nerves of my knuckles.

He punched my side repeatedly, winding me with the stun gun. Yet, despite the savage pain, the voltage didn't have much impact. The plastic parts of the stun gun crackled and bubbled, melting to the skin of the kidnapper's hand. A sizzling bolt ricocheted up his arm and over his whole body. He bellowed and released me, a shadow contorting in pain, and tried in vain to shake the molten blob from his fingers. I cradled my middle and battled to draw a breath, watching in mute horror. Swearing and stumbling over tree roots, he wore a balaclava and dark clothing perfect for an ambush.

Then Hugo barged between us. He lifted the man from his feet, and with one mighty rend, snapped his neck. I would never forget that crunch as long as I lived. My attacker slumped to the judge's flattened garden and Hugo spat on his limp form with a fierce growl of hatred.

"Reap what you've sown in the Devil's embrace. Enjoy the infernal underworld, rancid grub."

The whole episode took seconds, but time always slows for the worst events. A wail built from deep in my bursting chest. One minute I was walking along in my own safe, little world, the next, I was mugged and a witness to murder. It felt like I'd been tipped upside down. Bea materialised behind us. She was hardly taken aback by the dead stranger at her feet, not even wasting a prolonged glance. The night air filled with the pungent liquorice odour of crushed plants.

"Anathema? So soon," she said.

Buried somewhere in my mind, I'd heard Seth mention that name. But I was too busy trying not to vomit to care. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at the corpse.

"This scourge on our doorstep is no coincidence. Did you do this, Hugo?" Bea's eyes narrowed in the gloom.

Of course he did. Who else could have done it? I was incapable of snapping a green twig, let alone someone's vertebrae.

"He killed him," I stuttered and shook. "He killed him!"

The two of them ignored me. Not a speck of what they said made sense, as Hugo offered my aunt an explanation.

"I did not lead him here. He is a scout, yes. But the rule is never to engage a prime target, once found. I think he's gone rogue. Anathema will be rudderless without their priestess. It is not ideal, but could be far worse. He is here for someone else. I am sure this was merely a crime of opportunity, Beatrice." Hugo spoke as though describing the weather. Had he even broken a sweat?

"A most unfortunate _mere opportunity_ ," Bea said. "I have never been a fan of coincidence." She pivoted to me and clutched my shoulders. "You must touch him, Winsome."

"Pardon?" I croaked.

"Like this." She placed two fingers on her forehead between her eyes, kneeling to reef the mask off. I battled to look anywhere but at his exposed face.

"He's dead!" My heart jumped spastically between my ribs. "I am not touching him."

"You must do as I say. Touch him, before we are caught out here."

Dazed and sickened, I kept the dead man in my peripheral vision and bent to do as I was told. I could not avoid a glimpse of his limp hand, a scorpion tattoo prominent between his thumb and forefinger. The skin of his face was still warm and I fought to keep down my canapés. Was she ensuring my fingerprints were printable, so I took the blame? I could not believe this of her and felt ashamed for even entertaining the idea.

"Excellent. Come along, Winsome. We must get you home and into a bath before the shock sets in."

I considered pointing out how far beyond shock I'd gone, but my lips refused to cooperate. Hugo picked me up and I was too stunned to object. We would all go to jail: one for homicide and two for aiding and abetting. Could I complete a Genetics degree in prison? My mind veered wildly from one inane topic to the next. Our lives were ruined. Should we concoct some sort of cover up? Conspiracies never succeeded on TV.

"The police will come. What are we going to tell them?" I asked.

"Trust me, Winnie." Bea's tone was the gentle one she used when I had a fever as a child. "It will be fine. I know it doesn't seem so, but there will be no repercussions. Hugo has saved your life, and more besides, from an evil man. We should be extremely grateful."

Gratitude was not amongst the emotions pinballing my insides. What conflicted, crazy, blasé message was Bea sending me here? Where was the sanctity of life, 'do unto others', 'love thy neighbour', 'burn in hell for this sin' outrage?

Sure, my rib axed when I tried to inhale. My fingers throbbed. I had scratches and bruises to rival a boxer, and I was frightened and utterly ignorant as to the reason for the weirdness throttling my days like red algae. But one overriding thought kept intruding: Aunt Bea had sanctioned murder. _My_ Aunt Bea!

## Nine

I tossed and turned violently all night. In his nook, Hugo snored softly, occasionally mumbling unhappily. How could he sleep so well after what he'd done? I expected assassins to at least pace a little after a kill. He'd clearly had practice – how many times had he done it? And Bea had chosen him as my security! Were there no candidates more suitable for the job?

All the certainties I'd formed about my guardians shrivelled to nothing. They were suddenly strangers capable of acts I could not grasp. Consciousness lost to coma around 3 am when exhaustion and stress finally pulled me under. Snippets of my dreams and the story Bea had made me recite from the diary merged and warped in a horribly vivid montage, until I could no longer distinguish between what I'd lived and what was fantasy.

"Finesse?" I rolled over groggily. "Seth." Someone took hold of my hand, two slabs sandwiching mine.

"You are safe. He cannot find you here. And she is trapped."

I sculled up through quicksand, eventually waking to early morning gloom. "What are you doing, Hugo?" He'd pulled a chair up to my bed.

"You had a bad night. Very understandable," he snorted ruefully, patting my hand. I noticed he wore a gold ring on his right index finger that had 'L&H 4ever' engraved on its flat, diamond-shaped surface.

"You killed someone."

"I did."

"What is Anathema? Bea mentioned them last night." I didn't tell him that name had appeared my dreams, as well.

"Not what, who. They are..." He paused, searching for the right phrase. "What would you call them? A cult. A sect devoted to self-gratification, no matter the cost to others. They worship the Crone and do her bidding."

The Crone? The surreal experience of having others speak of Bea's yarn and my fantasy as though they were real happened too regularly for my liking. And the so-called witch-demon _was not_ real. It was not possible. _Was it_? Before I could scrape up the gumption to ask, Hugo shot me a question.

"Are you familiar with the legend of Faust?"

"He was a man who sold his soul to Mephistopheles, the Devil, for extra years of life to do with as he pleased. When the time came to surrender his soul for eternity, regret overwhelmed. Those extra years on earth were worth dust through his fingers compared to what he'd given up. The story is an allegory for the price we pay for taking shortcuts to get what we want, instead of earning it."

"You are clearly very well read. The price we pay," he said. "And sadly, it is usually not ourselves who pay. Those we love bear the burden for such failings, such greed and laziness." His jaw clenched and he was still for a long time, before the words finally ground out between his teeth.

"In South Africa, my father was a great military man, a jet pilot and a legendary soldier. When I was a little boy, I wished more than anything to follow in his footsteps. But I was born small and sickly and short-sighted like my fragile mother." This frail, flawed image did not gel with the specimen before me at all. "Growing up, I committed to the most arduous training regime, building my body and gaining strength. It was not enough. The Air Force elite commands perfect vision, they refused me."

Hugo released my hand and slumped back in my reading chair. He was normally so rod-straight, this sagged defeat forecast his sorrow more than any words. I hauled myself up and wedged the pillows against my bedhead.

"My blindness extended far beyond any problems I had with seeing. Anathema track those they consider prime for exploitation. They offered me my greatest dream: to be the world's best gladiator on the most hazardous of missions. All I had to do was perform tasks on demand without hesitation or conscience."

"But could they fix you physically?" Was this another fabrication? Another story meant to teach me some obscure lesson? "How is it impossible one moment, and then possible the next?"

"Yes, that should have been the obvious question," he laughed mockingly at himself. "Barely out of impetuous youth, greed for my promised prize stole common sense. Their deal as a mercenary for hire in exchange for physical rebirth didn't seem so bad. And Anathema delivered, once I signed their pact in blood."

"In your actual blood?"

Hugo nodded. "I thought it a silly bit of symbolism at the time. Never did I dream they had such power over any who signed up, that they could be so _evil_."

"It worked?" I asked incredulously.

Maybe Anathema were a sect of genetic engineers, who'd tailored a growth serum for Hugo using blood from the page. This explanation was beyond sci-fi, but the other option, the supernatural one, was too incredible to contemplate. Confronted 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 assailant 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 was a tiny female dog. Swearing: the insult of the unimaginative. I waved through the glass. She aimed a gobbet of spit at me that got the window, there being no caviar available, and then stomped off along the path.

I repressed the things she'd told me about Smithy. Surely, after everything he'd said last night, dirtying himself to such a degree was not on. What other explanation was there for her presence? I resolved to embrace the calm Zen philosophy and be the immovable mountain. I would get lost in some overdue exercise and not obsess on things I could not control. It was the best approach for every aspect of my situation.

The pool occupied the entire ground floor, deep blue tiles and lazy spirals of steam beckoning. Music pumped, the salt water a balmy temperature as I breaststroked my way through my fifth lap. Something brushed my toes. The pool was laser cleaned, so vacuum hosing wasn't likely. I stopped, floating in the deepest section, and squinted down. Circling on the spot, there was just a clear expanse of tile. I was so sure I'd felt something, but I was utterly alone. Great! My hallucinations had gone tactile.

I resumed swimming, progressing not more than two arm rotations before a firm hold on my ankle alerted me to the presence of a comedian. I spun to share that I didn't get the joke and was abruptly wrenched under, the pressure on my foot real and unbreakable. Unprepared for immersion and out of breath, I choked on a mouthful. The water burned my throat and blocked my nose. My traumatised airway protested and I kicked out with all my strength, clawing upwards for the shimmering surface as it steadily receded.

Towed to the bottom of the pool, I would surely drown without even sighting my killer! I stopped thrashing to yank at my pinned leg. Even though my goggles were full and my eyes stung, I stared through a blue haze directly at the place of the vice-grip and nothing anchored me. Yet, I could not get free.

Hysteria took hold and I fought for my life, windmilling my arms to no avail. The pressure to inhale gained urgency and would be impossible to resist for much longer. The glittering dome above made a pretty tomb, my oxygen-starved brain supplied. White lights bloomed in my vision and my head throbbed. I could not stop my from gulping in death, just like a fish on dry land. Liquid flooded my lungs.

My ankle fused in its invisible shackle. It hurt where I'd rubbed it raw and I was so tired. Time to let go and enjoy the bursts of colour and the euphoria that filled my mind. The peace consumed...

## Ten

And suddenly, so did the pain – an agonising weight on my chest that jarred my ribcage.

"Breathe, Winnie. Breathe!"

My chest was thumped repeatedly. No! Take me back to the other place, the tranquil one decorated with rainbows. It was so cold here and I forgot to do something essential. It nagged at me.

"Oh man, Winnie!" A frenzied voice. "Come on. Breathe!"

Ah, that was it. I'd forgotten to inhale. I tried to suck as much air as possible in a single breath. And gagged, expelling a bucketful of the judge's expensive pool water. It spewed from my mouth and nose, as I writhed on hard tiles coughing viciously. My eyelids flew open in time to see Smith hovering millimetres from my face, eyes shut and lips parted, ready to give mouth-to-mouth.

"Whoa," I rasped. Apparently, water was not meant to travel down the trachea. I spluttered and retched, weakly batting him away. "Surely two women in a twelve hour period is greedy. Even for you, Smith."

"Thank all that's good!" He gathered my sodden form to his broad chest. I was aware of his muscles and bare skin against my cheek, even in my less-than-optimal state. "What the hell happened to you," he shouted, squashing me to him. Talk about mixed messages.

"Easy. I nearly just died."

"Yes. I was privy to that."

"Stop yelling, it's my lungs that are injured, not my ears."

"Well?"

"Er, cramp?" I lied. Mentioning weirdness out loud just seemed to confirm the lunacy infecting all I did, so sharing was out of the question.

"I had to lever you from the floor of the pool. You wouldn't come free. It was bizarre, like you were fixed to the bottom. And..." He gaped at my leg. "You're bleeding."

He shrugged off his soaked shirt without dislodging me. It was suspiciously already unbuttoned. He blotted the blood with the costly fabric. His tailor would have an aneurysm. Any soreness lessened with his touch, but I should not think this way. Vegas had another girlfriend. Of sorts. He was obviously partial to wolverines. His loyalty remained questionable, so I resisted being sucked in, regardless of the courteous way he acted. Zen: Mountain!

Meanwhile, I grappled more with not ogling Smithy's body than with determining the origins of my aquatic bondage. It was clear: I'd had an out-of-body experience due to a soon-to-be-discovered brain tumour. Neurosurgery would be required and I would be bald for a while, which would be frosty in the winter, but then beanies were fashionable right now.

I dragged my eyes from his amazing washboard tummy, working to disregard firm curves begging for the touch of unhurried fingertips. The physical impact he had on me was similar to plummeting over a sharp drop. I would not give in to the temptation of his closeness. Even if he hadn't chosen someone else, mental patients made poor girlfriends and I could not inflict that upon him.

"Maybe you should lie down."

"Maybe we should see if I can sit on my own?"

Smithy gingerly let go of me, his hands extended to catch me in case I collapsed. He shuffled backwards on his bum in sodden undershorts decorated with jellybeans. He shook the water from his hair. Watching this was a reward beyond measure. I thought about making a habit of nearly drowning – or even better – of finding ways to drown Tiffany without earning a murder rap. I stayed upright. He removed his hovering hands.

"Whoa!" It was Smithy's turn to take a breath. He blinked and averted his eyes to inspect the adjacent wall, swallowing hard. "Um, you might want to..." he flickered a hand in my direction, "make an adjustment."

I looked down. Oh, how I envied my A-cup sisters! The macramé Fortescue purchased in lieu of decent swimwear had crawled apart, leaving transparent cotton suctioned to me like wet t-shirt night at the pub. My cheeks flamed red, igniting my anger. There would be consequences for my tenuously employed butler!

"Do something, for pity's sake, Bear. I still have peripheral vision."

"If you do not keep your eyes fixed on that area over there for the next two minutes, you will be living without them. Clear?"

"Crystal," he said gruffly. I tramped over to my towel, dried as much as possible, and attempted to readjust the stubborn strips of Lycra. "Do you need a hand? Or two?" Smith aimed for witty but achieved hopeful.

The hide! I clung to the riled facade so as not to say _Yes, please! As many hands as you want_. "If you dare act on that dumb saying of yours, 'I'd rather ask for pardon than permission,'" I mimicked, "I will tell Bea!"

"That's harsh. You made me sound like Goofy."

"Goofy is as goofy does. Just pretend that crack in the wall is Miranda Kerr. Naked."

It was a low blow, objectifying a member of my own sex like this. But I needed the ordeal to be over, to run and hide in my room. After giving Fortescue the roasting he deserved.

"I'd rather it was you," he said, so softly, I almost didn't catch it.

It was the last straw. He was turning into his father, chasing an assortment of women at any given time. I would not be a party to it. The man from my fantasy did not share himself about like a song on LimeWire.

"I'm going." I double-wrapped myself in the towel. It was all I would be leaving with – my dignity remained by the pool. "Thank you for saving me."

"I was joking, Bear. Have breakfast with me? You can wear another one of my shirts," he said. "I didn't really see that much. Are you sure you can walk?"

I could probably also raid his collection of lacy bras from some past fling. I hobbled out of the judge's building before his son could make further appeal. Dripping wet and fed up, I crossed the alley into the warehouse, firmly ignoring mysterious, vanishing crime scenes.

My head hurt from more than just a near-drowning at the hands of an invisible assailant. I grappled with so many unexplained dead ends that defied logic; I could no longer distinguish reality from illusion. Had I been attacked last night? Had Hugo really committed homicide? There was not a shred of evidence.

Big deal if I fantasised some guy called Seth, who whispered poetry at me in the night. There was most likely a dumb Freudian interpretation about sexual frustration or teenage hormones run amok. It would definitely get worse since the breathtaking vision of Vegas in sopping shorts branded my brain. I limped towards Bea through the maze of display cabinets. She wore white gloves and was holding a dust brush as she knelt at the foot of a giant, winged skeleton tall enough to project three stories into the atrium void.

"I demand to know who Seth is."

She removed the gloves and secreted them in the voluminous pockets of the pinafore she wore over her clothes. Her cats stretched nearby, cleaning themselves. Normally, she rose with a well-oiled ease that would turn other sixty-year-olds green. But today she struggled to her feet, gratefully accepting my hand and leaning heavily upon me.

"Mike's not sick is he?" I asked. It seemed an increasingly commonplace affliction.

"No, just routine maintenance. You are out of bed early, Winnie."

She completed work on our statue Mike. Skilfully made of pinned bone (mostly human), reinforced by a fine tracery of golden wire, he crouched on a huge slab of ebony granite in the exact middle of the collection space. Poised with every joint straining, he partially spread enormous ribbed wings as if about to tear the bonds of the material world and blast into the heavens.

One outstretched arm punched the air, elongated by a gold sword studded with sparkling diamonds. On his brow perched a gold circlet, diamond-encrusted spines projecting from it – his halo. Empty orbs yearned skyward, his death-head's leer a caution to all sinners. The avenging Archangel Michael, who threw Satan out of the Garden of Eden, watched over us. He was one-of-a-kind and priceless.

"I couldn't sleep. I had to check..."

Aunt Bea knew what I'd been up to already, I was certain. "Of course you did. We'll fix that ankle first. The occasion has arrived to open the golden box." I scratched at my wrists. They were suddenly itchy. "Something wrong with your wrists?"

"Probably just a heat rash." A funny one isolated to two identical red patches. "You didn't answer my question. And you weren't surprised at the mention of that name, which tells me it's familiar to you."

"I do not deny I know that name, Winsome. You have always been exceptional at spotting untruths, less so at unravelling the intent behind them. And your questions will be answered in intricate detail in due course. But for the moment, you are bleeding all over my nice clean floor. We do not wish to make more work for Mrs Paget."

The four of us eventually met in the kitchen. Again. I'd showered and changed into a playsuit and sandshoes. Fortescue placed a bowl of brown sludge and a glass in front of me, filled with something that resembled radioactive slime.

"You must eat something, Winsome. Keep your strength up. Stewed fig and black-quinoa compote with wheatgrass juice."

"Mouth-watering."

It was the truth. There was often a surge of saliva before vomiting. The Keeper's diary rested nearby on the table – innocent looking until closer inspection. Its fiendish partner sat next to it: the stunning golden box, flattish and as long as my forearm. I wasn't deceived by its appearance; something harmless wouldn't require a lock. That Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget refused to handle either item did nothing to lessen the foreboding.

Their faces were solemn. Oddly, no one demanded an explanation for my ankle, which was bandaged and resting on its very own chair. My throat grated as if I'd swallowed a fistful of staples. It seemed trundling home with peculiar wounds was now the norm. Added to my skirmish in the bushes last night, I was forging a new, utterly undesirable battle habit.

The anticipated blow-up with Fortescue had also been a fizzer. He'd taken one look at the bandaids-and-twine arrangement that failed so spectacularly to operate as a one-piece and been mortified. He didn't buy it. He had never seen it before and declared it an abomination, throwing the swimsuit in the bin. It was a hunch, but to me Mrs Paget looked especially devious. Poker would never be her game. But my hypothesis lacked a plausible motivation. Why would she buy me something so revealing?

I simply refused to think about Vegas. If I was at all honest with myself, he had actually behaved faultlessly at the pool and I was jealous Tiffany had been with him in a way I would secretly like to. But being honest with myself called for maturity, which was in lean supply. So, I continued to project my anger and humiliation onto Smith instead. It was for the best. I did not want to get my heart crushed by a manwhore.

Bea cleared her throat. "The time has come to open the box."

"How is this an education, exactly? Aunt Bea?"

I kept my tone light but had difficulty hiding my growing irritation. Mrs Paget's gaze slid towards Bea. In other circumstances her eyes glittered with mischief, but I could not help but notice how watered and rheumy they were. Fear swirled in my gut; their declining health was definitely not symptomatic of the flu.

"In. Due. Course," Bea said.

Distracted, I let them keep me in suspense. I pulled the box towards me and snatched the key, fiddled with the lock until it popped, held my breath and opened the lid. A dagger with an odd wavy blade was embedded in red velvet, etched with the same symbols as those on the triangle in the diary cover. The ornate handle was gold and studded with rubies of myriad size. The knife looked very old, very valuable and very sharp. I stared at its point.

"Is that..."

"Pick it up, Winsome."

"Blood?"

I stretched out my fingers and touched the rust-coloured stain. As I did so, my consciousness jerked from the kitchen to another place altogether. I found myself in a large, windowless office that flickered dimly by candlelight. It was a well-appointed room with stylish furnishings and a rug rolled out of the way on the floor. Bare shelves with dust-free voids of various shapes and glassed cabinets, their doors partly open, spoke of ornaments and artefacts recently cleared and sent elsewhere.

There was a diagram on the ground – a triangle – drawn in red wax. The same ornamental knife from the kitchen rested in the middle. A woman stood off to one side grasping the very diary I'd read aloud from yesterday between her shaking hands. I knew her from my dreams. Raphaela. She faced away from me, but it was clear she was in a bad state.

Her thick chestnut hair, once pinned up, had come loose and hung in stringy clumps down her back. Her light pants and sleeveless top were grubby and stuck to her body with perspiration. She was barefoot. Raising the diary – my diary – to her forehead, she pushed the golden triangle on the cover against her brow.

"Come to me now, Enoch the Watcher. I call on you, in this my last hour."

And before I'd blinked, a slight man in a black suit and tie appeared in a flash of blinding light. He was so utterly bland, his features so average that he seemed deliberately designed to blend in, able to come and go without ever attracting notice. He would not be recalled in a police line-up, witnesses unable to describe him for an identikit drawing. It was a convincing camouflage.

His voice echoed in my head. _"Your time is now, little one. You are no longer the Keeper-in-waiting."_

"Oh, Enoch. What have I done? I've ruined everything! I saw what they did to Billie. My Warrior is dead because of me."

"Do not berate yourself, Raphaela Baptiste. Your Warrior fulfilled her pledge with honour. We have time, yet." He spoke softly, nearly inaudible, but of course I heard him clearly in my mind.

"There is only one Keeper left," she said, the words rushed. "I was so selfish! So lonely. It was a single moment of weakness after four hundred years of steadfast service. I wanted a baby and he could give me one. I didn't think I would really fall in love with him. I didn't think he could fall in love... with me."

Such a misery-tinged admission there never was. That ominous word 'Keeper' again, which had popped up more than weeds lately. Well practised at avoidance by now, I ignored the diary reading that clamoured for recognition.

"Don't hurt him. Finesse," Raphaela spat the name as though a mouthful of spoiled food, "forced Seth to reveal my whereabouts. Forgive me, please."

"I give you the gift of Celestial Blessing to soothe your sorrow and conquer the coming trial. My forgiveness was already yours. Be at peace, Raphaela."

And suddenly I perceived the most glorious and magical sight of my life. Enoch the Watcher showed his true self. He erupted in white flame, growing too large for the room and his suit to contain. A wheel of fire writhed about his huge torso, his massive multiple wings, and the glowing bright eyes that covered every millimetre of his powerful body. But the inferno did not consume him.

He shimmered and changed like a mirage in the desert and I had to concentrate on keeping him in my mind or he slipped from view. He was as luminous as the sun and his incandescence filled every particle of my being with a joy so intense that, if I never had an emotion again, this would be enough. And then he turned and gazed directly at me. It was impossible, as his face never left Raphaela, like he could see in all directions at once.

"I will be with you soon, Winsome Light. Be safe, my child."

I had no time to examine anything else as the enormous, angelic spirit of the Watcher departed and in its place stood the ordinary man once more. He'd shared telepathic knowledge, calling his physical body Enoch Smalls, Solicitor and executor of the upcoming will for Raphaela Baptiste, who was about to give her life for the supposed sin of wanting a baby. His job, among many, was to oversee the transference between the old and the new Keeper. I still stubbornly denied what this meant. Raphaela straightened with renewed energy.

"Was any affection Seth displayed towards me real, Enoch? Or did he trick me in order to do the Crone's bidding?"

"You awoke a love in Seth he thought he had lost forever. You are carrying his child."

"It is a girl." I sensed she did not need affirmation. "Well this is for the best then," her voice caught. "I wouldn't wish the Keeper's fate on anyone."

"Are you determined to follow this path?" Enoch said, his doubt poorly disguised. "For the first time in my reckoning, the future is unclear. Only one Keeper remains after you. We would try to conceal the infant."

"This is the only way forward, Enoch. I am Keeper until my end, and the Crone beholds the Trinity closer now than since the loss of her accursed possession. My daughter would never be safe. That wretched witch would hunt her down, stopping for nothing. Wherever _she_ goes, love dies." Raphaela forged on briskly. "My hope of a child was a dream unfit for harsh reality. I should have known. I am responsible now for the greatest danger we have ever faced. The occasion of my own death has been too long coming."

"So be it."

"Have I doomed the new Keeper?" she whispered. "The very last of us."

"Her path is more winding and difficult to read than any before. I do not know."

She offered Enoch the diary and it disappeared in a twitch of his finger. He grasped her hand. "Courage, Raphaela. Your sacrifice is unheralded in my vision. I cannot distinguish the outcome of your actions."

"I know this is the right thing to do. I just know." She nodded goodbye.

And then, Enoch was gone from the room. Raphaela moved quickly now, determined. She stepped through the gap in the triangle to sit cross-legged on the floor. Taking care not to dislodge the contents within, she withdrew a lighter and lit the black candles that sat outside the red wax, beginning a soft chant. I could not make out the language. With a red taper, she completed the complex designs of the triangle, closing the breach, and snapped the crayon in pieces.

Constantly murmuring, she daubed the dagger's blade with clear fluid from a vial, tipping the remnants over herself and crushing the glass in her palm. A sweet smell invaded the space. Blood trickled from her hand but she continued the ritual undaunted. Raphaela sprinkled ash within the triangle and broke the saucer it had come from. Carefully, she hid the dagger in the V of her legs. And then she visibly calmed herself, and waited, the incantation never ceasing.

Her patience was soon rewarded. Or penalised. A sinuous black vapour slipped under the office door, gaining momentum. Writhing tendrils of mist coiled on the air, until they solidified into a teenage girl of such startling beauty she halted breath. She wore a tight, red, patent-leather dress that revealed her magnificent voluptuousness. Shiny black stilettos enhanced the length of her shapely legs. Silken black hair tumbled down her back, falling below her waist. Her skin glowed, her complexion flawless.

I was transfixed by the youth of her face. Try as I might, I could not drag my focus from her alluring almond eyes, as black as night, and rimmed with lashes long and thick enough without mascara to stir envy. Her full lips were as luscious as models in magazines. But the perfect smile that stretched her mouth on sighting Raphaela was as cold as ice, and did not reach those entrancing eyes.

## Eleven

"The Keeper! We meet at last."

The beautiful newcomer's girlish voice resonated like tinkling bells. She managed a cultured facade even while clapping excitedly, as though applauding an opera. Raphaela persisted with her chants, sweat running down her face and plastering locks of hair to her cheeks.

"You have done your job well. Up to a point. Remind me... Running and hiding is your way, isn't it? The coward's route. Where are my manners? I am Finesse Apollyon. You know the origin of that last word. Biblical Greek for 'the Destroyer'. Poetic, don't you think? Oh, and I brought a guest. I hope you don't mind?"

I wanted so much to save Raphaela, to reach out and brush away the annoying strands, but I was only a fleeting observer of this past horror. The girl called Finesse spun lightly, swinging an ebony curtain of hair, more graceful than a dancer. The door opened to her silent command. She gestured with one hooked finger and the figure of a man flew through the gap, catapulting across the room. He smashed into a glass cabinet, shards raining down and slumped to the ground against a far wall. He made no noise and I doubted he was conscious.

"Oops," Finesse giggled. "Overdid the entrance! A bit theatrical, aren't I?" Although Raphaela did not falter in her chanting, her face contorted in anguish. "Over here, mongrel. At my feet, although that privilege is more than you deserve."

Finesse's musical voice somehow amplified her vicious actions. She skewed her head and the limp bundle slid back across the room to a halt by a pointy-heeled black shoe. Unimaginable torture bloodied and bruised the man, his clothes ragged. But as I watched in mute horror it became clear: he was the sublime mirror of Finesse. Adonis to her Aphrodite. They were possessive of the same dark glamour in all but one aspect: his wide boyish eyes slowly opened, bluer than the Mediterranean Sea. I'd never had a full view before, and his beauty sucked the air from my lungs in a single glance.

I started with shock – Seth was young, maybe the same age as Smithy. He stared at Raphaela with ancient sadness and longing, a sharp contrast to his youthful appearance, and mouthed, "Sorry, I love you," through badly split and swollen lips.

"I see there is no need for introductions. Traitor meet betrayer. Pathetic pair you make." Finesse ground her stiletto into the back of Seth's outstretched hand and his jaw tightened. He was clearly unwilling to provide her the satisfaction of hearing his pain.

"Now, down to business at last. Where is my Stone?"

She slashed the air with a finger and a jagged gash ripped the man's chest from shoulder to hip. Blood rapidly spread the once-white front of his shirt. Raphaela's distressed voice increased in volume.

"Leave her, Finesse," he gasped. "She will never tell you where the Stone is. No matter what you do to me. And I welcome death."

She laughed and bent down, clutching his shirt in her fist to raise him close. "Silly, naive, hopeful, Seth!" She slapped his face to punctuate every word and then propelled him forcefully to the floor. "Whoever said anything about dying? No martyred end on the horizon for you. _Non placet_. Your penance is to live forever by my side, doing my bidding as always. Only now, we add pining for another lost love to spice up proceedings. No second chance at fatherhood for poor discontented Seth. A thrilling climax."

He grimaced in confusion. Finesse watched him curiously, her face gradually lighting up. "Oh, it is too precious. You didn't know about the life squirming in her belly."

"What?" Seth risked a glimpse Raphaela's way. Tears streaked her cheeks and she conveyed her apology to him with pleading eyes.

"Yes, my dear Seth, your whore is with child."

At this, his control crumbled. "No, no, no. Kill me, please! Please. Take me instead."

Finesse tisked. "Hmm, begging. You know how arousing I find that. But I like to linger over such things and there is no time presently. Where's the fun without the suffering? We'll save it for the celebrations. My Stone, thieving harlot."

Raphaela's chanting reached a crescendo, her throat rough with exertion. She glared at Finesse with bottomless hatred. And suddenly, her voice boomed out as though from the heavens, a separate disjointed strand echoing about the room, even as her lips continued the incantation.

"I have opened the Delta Gate. Come to me and receive your prize."

It was an order, impossible to disobey. Finesse's arrogance vaporised, replaced by an expression of disbelief. She stumbled towards the triangle. Awareness dawned as she failed to fight the summons, shaking her head.

"No! You can have Seth, blubbering little liar. I don't want him. I discharge him from my service."

_"Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin!"_

Raphaela's smile was triumphant as the words tumbled forth. Seth sagged to the ground in a faint, sapphire eyes no longer seeing.

"Come to me," Raphaela sneered with loathing. "To me."

Finesse stumbled inevitably towards Raphaela's trap. She attempted to back-pedal, waving her arms uselessly in search of a solid anchor, before reaching the tip of the red-wax triangle and teetering on the edge. The dagger materialised between Raphaela's hands. Her invocation ended with an unyielding declaration.

"I. Did. Not. Steal. Your. Stone. Join me in oblivion, repugnant hag!"

Finesse snarled – a deep, otherworldly sound. Then, she overbalanced and one foot slipped inside the triangle. The candles blew out, wrapping the two women in a dense haze. With all her might, Raphaela plunged the knife through her own heart. Finesse collapsed and dissolved into a column of pitch smoke.

Raphaela used the last of her failing energy to open her mouth and suck the evil mist into her body, as blood poured from the gaping hole in her chest. There was a ghastly howling moan and the furniture shook. A sulphurous reek tainted the air. Raphaela's lips slammed shut, followed by a crackling noise, as though plastic shrivelling in flames.

A pearlescent shell travelled over her and, at its completion, Raphaela sat encased in a cage of her own making, imprisoning Finesse within. A thick silence descended, interrupted only by the quiet sobs of the broken boy.

"No," he whispered. "Why? Why did you not tell me? _WHY!_ "

My eyes flew open with the sound of his anguished scream ringing in my ears. I surged upright from the kitchen floor of the warehouse. I did not recall falling down.

"Raphaela. Seth!"

I glared wildly about, clutching at my sternum. I had to work to steady my frantic breathing. Bea prised my hands from my chest and Fortescue handed me a glass of water. Mrs Paget hovered in the background, looking petrified.

_"Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin."_ Aramaic. The ancient language from the time of Jesus. I wasn't aware I understood it. "It means, 'You have been weighed in the balance and found wanting'."

"Indeed," said Fortescue.

" _Non placet_. 'It is unpleasing.' Latin," I added.

My butler nodded. Okay. I was speaking in previously unknown tongues, an unlikely diagnostic marker for a brain tumour. Or epilepsy. A spiritual awakening? Psychedelic chemicals in our tap water? Visitations from aliens?

"What's happening to me?"

The self-pity was impossible to hide. I could not bring myself to raise my head. I knew what I would see. A semicircle of kindly faces, committed to feeding me crumbs of information, when they knew. Yes, I was sure Bea or Fortescue or even supposedly mute Mrs Paget could eliminate my ignorance and explain the whole thing in a way that made perfect sense. They were conspirators in the plot to drive me mad. I would never have believed it of them. I picked myself up off the floor and made sure to keep my gaze lowered, cultivating a view of the floorboards.

"I'm going for a walk. And under no circumstances is Hugo to tag along."

The irritating mobile phone was thrust into my hand. But still I did not look up. No one spoke a word as I made my leave. Plodding down the stairs, Mrs Paget's panicked voice drifted behind.

"Bea, Seth is no longer shackled to Finesse. He is loose and able to act of his own free will."

"Yes, and he is grieving for Raphaela. Heaven knows how he will choose to wreak vengeance. We must guarantee he does not remain at liberty for long."

_Whatever._ Even the combined attempts of the cats failed to improve my dismal frame of mind, as they trailed me through the collection. To lighten the burden all I had to do was recall the harmony of Enoch. This I refused. Remembering any aspect of my latest delusion only reinforced my fear of insanity.

For hours I trudged the streets of Sydney, immune to the sparkling harbour with its coat-hanger bridge and zipping white-flag yachts. The vibrancy of the Rocks Markets on a Saturday afternoon, the majesty of the curvaceous Opera House, the free jazz at sunshine-drenched Darling Harbour held no fascination. Nor did I admire the centuries-old sandstone architecture, which mixed agreeably with modern buildings of glass and steel.

Teasingly exotic food aromas wafted by, neglected. Likewise Bea's increasingly frantic voicemails. The journey took me bodily from the strange events of that morning – of the last few days – yet thinking forced the actions of my guardians under the microscope. They were the security I'd clung to across the crazy, nomadic years of my childhood. If I'd flown with a commercial airline and earned frequent flyer miles, I could travel to Neptune by now. So what if I was alone? Bea often said "While we're alive, we belong to each other, no matter the distance between us."

_While we're alive._ I'd always thought it an odd way to begin a saying. I guess it encouraged an appreciation of every next breath. She'd been on the planet long enough to track its entire surface, so I thought she knew best. The three of them were always with me to buffer the worst of the outside world, though they'd never exactly been unreserved in their affection.

Aunt Bea showed her devotion in more proactive, less fuzzy ways. She took paralysing vengeance on any who slighted me. If I couldn't handle a persecutor and finally fessed-up, her wrath froze the sun. She made certain those involved were transferred to Afghanistan, or at least that's what I believed when they were never heard from again. And unlike Tiffany's father, who intervened on his daughter's behalf at her every whim, most of the people Bea punished deserved it. Their exile spared other victims as well.

But even this had ceased in the last year and I'd fended for myself. Since we'd settled in Sydney, I'd believed the erratic, roaming phase was over. But my minders kept more secrets than imaginable and I got no closer to finding out why.

The city I loved began to feel strangely hostile, spurred by an irrational sensation that I was watched. There was nothing to inflame the suspicion, yet all around me the impenetrable shadows appeared to breed monsters in the dying light. I began to hear things.

A surge of skittering legs and thrumming wings seemed to pursue me, as if thousands of crawlies amassed just beyond my range of vision. I spun several times to catch sight of them, and was relieved to find nothing there. But every time my vigilance wavered, the sinister vibrations gained volume, close enough to swallow me. By the time I reached my neighbourhood, the atmosphere of palpable menace goaded me to sprint towards home.

Once, I thought I glimpsed a streaking black shadow with glowing eyes pacing alongside me and the dread eased. But it returned when the fake Vovo disappeared. As dusk fell, I pelted down the alleyway concealing the entrance to the warehouse, panting hysterically. Nothing could lift the depression. And smothering fear. Or so I thought.

## Twelve

Smithy sprawled on the warehouse doorstep, wearing a wide smile. He looked utterly at home, like it was the most natural circumstance to wait outside on someone's porch for their return. My heart unexpectedly soared. Speech deserted me as I plopped down next to him.

My palms were sweaty from more than the sprint, and I was nervous around him in a way I'd never been previously. I pondered why he was not off chasing Tiffany for the weekend. With a lasso and an electric cattle prod.

Vegas took a fortifying breath. "I bring offerings for angry grizzlies. One returned Kasabian CD. You left it in the pool room. Good choice, by the way. 'Underdog' is my favourite. And your party dress, dry-cleaned and caviar free."

My hand trembled as I took the CD case. He noticed, eyes narrowing with concern.

"Are you alright, Winnie? You look kind of hassled."

"Been running... Out of shape... Defibrillation required," I convincingly gasped.

"Hmm." He raised eyebrows, familiar with my exercise rituals and well practised at spotting my fibs. "Say the word and I'm ready to resuscitate you."

"Yes, I think you've tried to show me that trick."

"No tricks, I promise." From behind his back, Smithy offered a small bouquet of palest pink wild roses tied with a ribbon. I could smell their fragrance from where I sat. "Failing the medical intervention... will these help?" He wore a puppy-dog expression. "They match the clip you had in your hair last night. Forgiven for this morning's, er... whatever it was?"

"Thank you." I received the flowers, burying my nose in them for a brief, heady sniff. "They're beautiful. And it wasn't your fault I was dressed like a pole dancer. I'm sorry I blamed you for it." My clothes draped a large duffel bag on the step beside him. "Going somewhere?" I hoped not.

"Um, I've got a bit of a domestic situation. Can't really go home, so I'm bunking at my sculpture studio for the time being."

"Rubbish. You can stay with us."

"Ah, yes the porch. Very inviting." He patted the tile.

I couldn't really blame him for the sarcasm. He'd never been allowed inside before and had given up asking years ago, after months of nagging me had failed. Domestic situation?

"All of a sudden, I'm permitted play-friends."

"A breakthrough. Of course, most people manage that from about six years old."

"Clearly, we're not most people." He was about to discover just how different our lifestyle was and I prayed a close-up would not prove too eccentric. "Grab your stuff. It shouldn't be painful. Just a little screening test, and then you'll be in." I rose and began the security procedure, staring up into the video camera.

"Screening?" he said dubiously, eyeing the equipment. "Winnie, wait. Before you initiate Code Orange and access the Pentagon, I want to ask you something."

He closed the gap between us to stand in front of me, bathing me in his warmth, the chiselled shape of him tantalising beneath his t-shirt. He smiled uncertainly. My stomach did flip-flops.

"Come to dinner with me tonight?"

I'd been out to eat with him a million times – usually without the need for all the handholding formality. I shrugged. "Sure."

His discomfort mounted. "I'm not certain you get what I mean. I would like you to come to dinner with me on a..." he seemed to struggle for a suitable phrase. "On a proper date. You know. Impressive clothes, tiny portions of edible colour arranged on large white plates. Shoes." He trailed off with a pained expression, staring down at his bare feet. Smithy wore shoes as regularly as a solar eclipse.

"Ohh." Yes! Excellent. Most definitely. "Sure." My flushing cheeks probably buried my attempt at coolness. I turned away and used the diversion of electronics to hide the evidence of my excitement. "But what about Tiffany?"

"Tiffany?"

I peeked at his face over my shoulder. He seemed genuinely puzzled. The way his nose crinkled was very attractive. I felt idiotic, like some jealous battleaxe asking a husband to justify his whereabouts the night before.

"I ran into her as she left your building this morning. She was wearing the same clothes as last night. She said you'd had a... very nice time."

"Conniving cow. The last time of any description we had was about a year ago, and it was anything but nice. She probably fell asleep on my bed waiting for me to show up," he said angrily. "But I'm off the sherbet now, and without excessive alcohol, it'll never happen again. I've been avoiding my bedroom. If I had found her there, I would have booted her out."

His tone was such a mixture of fury and earnestness, there was no doubt he meant what he said. Perfect. Now, if I could simply refrain from dumb hallucinations or other abnormal behaviour for one precious evening. I was about to ask what was wrong with his room, when Vegas bent down and whispered in my ear.

"So, you still want to come out with me?"

I gulped and abandoned any desire to seem sophisticated. "Absolutely!"

"And the initial topic of conversation will be why you were dressed like a pole dancer. It's a look I'm quite partial to."

I turned to trigger the eye scanner. The bolts anchoring the door slid open and for the first time since arriving in Sydney all those years ago, I ushered my best friend into my unique home. Not for the first time, its beauty entranced me. Our living quarters took the upper floor of the two levels above the street.

Three other floors descended into the earth, used for storage and restoration; the lowest a murky basement I'd never been game enough to explore. Claustrophobia was another of my fears. When I left my room, I could look down from the balcony's edge to the ground floor devoted to Bea's extensive permanent collection, the large entrance hall dotted with glassed display cases of varying sizes, sealed and environmentally controlled to protect the fragile, archaic contents. Embedded lights responded to the weight of passing feet, illuminating the specimens within.

We had a full T.rex skull and the fossilised snout of a Spinosaurus. There was a jade cauldron from the Shang Dynasty, around 1000BC, used to hold the hearts of their enemies. Nearby was a painted cartouche from Nefertiti's tomb and a parchment fragment of 'Alf Layla wa Layla' – _The Arabian Nights_  – from the tenth century, amongst many other treasures.

Cherish and Vovo slunk towards us like sinuous black shadows through the hall. Cherish emitted a deep rumbling growl and Vovo hissed loudly, baring her teeth. Evidently, she had not been out policing for Bea and I'd been dreaming on my feet, yet again.

"I was under the impression keeping panthers in suburbia was illegal. I trust Bea has a permit?" Smithy's features showed amusement, but having known him so long, I detected an undercurrent of anxiety. He would happily scale a ten-storey building or outrun a bus. Cats on the other hand, were not his forte. "I'm allergic."

This was an overreaction; he was fitter than a triathlete. "Relax. Probably best if you do not move. They're Bea's hunting cats."

"What do they hunt? Bull elephants."

I grabbed his hand. "You are being a sook. They're just checking to see if you're okay to be here."

"And if they don't approve?" The cats circled us. Smith stood at attention.

"You might make it to the door with your spine intact if you run very fast."

"You can forget a career as a social worker."

It was over before it really began. After their initial wariness, both cats padded up and casually sniffed at him. Cherish dropped to the floor and rolled over for a belly rub and Vovo pushed her head under his hand for an ear scratch, her throat humming.

"See. They like you."

I knelt to scruff their glossy fir, while watching Smithy's reaction to our house. Freed from the feline scrutiny, his eyes roved across the collection, widening when his focus came to rest on Mike. He scanned slowly upwards, awestruck.

"You live in a museum?"

"Better. Bea and Fortescue had to find punishments every time I got kicked out of school. So they would put me to work here, cataloguing or preparing artefacts. I know just about everything there is to know about this stuff."

I could never have guessed the thrill of finally sharing my secret existence with anyone. Let alone with someone I cared for as much as Smithy. And he was a keen listener. I led him down the stairs and into the collection proper, providing commentary like a tour guide as we went.

"That's a fragment from a rare manuscript of the Koran, written in Cufic script, from about the eighth century." Smith nodded avidly and pointed to another display case.

"That's a gold and jade unguent box from Tutankhamen's reign, around mid-1300BC. He was the son-in-law of Queen Nefertiti, only nineteen when he died, many thought murdered. But recent scientific tests suggest he died of an infection from a broken leg, gained during a chariot race." On I babbled, until we halted at Mike's ossified feet.

"Can those be human bones? And real diamonds?"

"Yes and ditto. In the Middle Ages when mortality rates were high they ran out of room to bury all the corpses, especially during the Black Plague. They had to get a little creative with the remains and so bone sculptures to celebrate the dead evolved, known as _memento mori_. Mike here is a fairly spectacular example. And he is decorated with about fifteen million dollars' worth of diamonds."

"This place is truly amazing, Bear."

I was happy Smithy enjoyed the sights, yet I was antsy now. We were about to pass into the more sinister section. It was impossible to access the upper level living areas without daring what I called 'the gauntlet of horror'. Smithy's visit was going so well, I really didn't want to freak him out. I'd learned to ignore this stuff early in the piece. The cats twined around our legs, pleased by the doubled affection.

"I don't suppose there is any way you would let me bring you through this section blindfolded?"

"Now I'm way too intrigued not to look."

"I'm positive you've been told, but it bears repeating. You are a smartar—"

"Uh-ah." He wagged a disapproving finger, laughter lighting his face. "Bea would have your tongue. And anyone who calls me smart knows it has nothing to do with my arse."

"Why are you the only one allowed to say 'arse'?"

"Because it's mine and I don't want people taking liberties. Lead on."

From what I'd observed of Smithy's behind, not taking liberties would indeed prove a challenge. I was about to extinguish the playfulness. Best do it quickly.

"Etzel's war hatchet." I gestured as though on a ghoulish game show.

"Attila the Hun?" He grimaced. "You have the axe of a barbarian who murdered his own brother?"

Nothing escaped him; he was obviously a student of history. I gave a mechanical nod. "An Apache scalping blade. The Pear of Anguish. The Maiden of Nuremburg..."

It was an upright, person-sized structure in the shape of a stylised woman – a bloated round body with a half-sphere on top to fit a head. It resembled an Egyptian sarcophagus, which split down the side and opened on hinges, wrought in thick metal so the screams from within would not reach the world outside. Lethal spines protruded into its cavity.

"An iron maiden? An implement of torture."

The spikes were designed to pierce non-vital body parts when shut, keeping the sufferer alive inside for as long as possible. The misnamed maiden was not all we had. I continued, pulling him with me on a course via the least offensive objects.

"The garrotte, otherwise know as the Spanish chair. It was used in that country up until 1975 for capital punishment." It was a vertical pole with a borehole positioned at the rear of the person's head to affix them to the attached seat. "This one is extremely old. A wet noose went around the victim's throat, strangling them as it shrank. Or the executioner would jab a spike through the opening in the back, puncturing the accused's brain stem. It was supposed to be a more accurate and humane way of despatching criminals. Of course, aiming was often imprecise."

"Of course." A fault line appeared in Smithy's upbeat mood.

I found myself wondering again how many people had died on the chair and for what crimes. But we had so many gruesome artefacts, such speculation lead to bodies piled higher than a crematorium, a hideous record of atrocity and intolerance. It was why I sleepwalked through this section most days. With a look of relief that he'd finally found a seemingly harmless object, Smith gestured at a plain, tan leather book. I hated to ruin his optimism.

"That's an original copy of _Malleus Maleficorum_. In English it's called _The Hammer of Witches_ and was used to guide trials during the Roman Catholic Inquisition. This text is second only to Hitler's _Mein Kampf_ in regards to the number of innocent people who were executed on the basis of its warped message."

"I'm almost afraid to ask. What in Hades is that?"

I so wished we could have avoided this whole spectacle. "A heretic's fork," I mumbled unhappily. Two sharpened double-pronged forks were looped, one up, one down through a leather collar. "The Inquisitor would use it to extract a confession. One fork sat under the chin, the other rested on the chest to painfully extend the neck."

"Why on earth does Bea collect these types of things?"

I considered letting the question hang. But Smith waited with a look that said he wouldn't allow such an easy dodge. "It's Bea's philosophy that if humans are reminded of their hatred and prejudice across history, we'll work harder to rise above and strive to become the enlightened species she thinks we can be."

He frowned his doubt. "I'm feeling more nauseated than enlightened."

I couldn't blame him. Fortunately, Mrs Paget appeared at the bottom of the stairs as we approached. She beckoned to Smithy impatiently with a welcoming smile and I was never more grateful to see her.

## Thirteen

Unfortunately, as we crested the top step onto the landing, we hit the impenetrable barricade of Bea, Hugo and Fortescue. Aunt Bea tightly clasped her hands in front – a familiar cause for pessimism – made more ominous by the fact Fortescue gripped her shoulder in restraint. Hugo scowled at Smithy and in return he muttered "Wanker." Just spoon the two of them into a room for instant hostility, no need to stir.

Bea smiled warmly at Smith. "Good evening, Vegas. Lovely to see you again. Jerome will show you to your room and help you settle in."

"Ah, thanks. I really appreciate you putting me up, Aunt Bea. But... how did you know?"

Damn it. They'd been watching on the monitors. I felt like a specimen in a lab and pleaded silently that they'd at least had the decency mute the volume.

"You are a tad encumbered for brief visit," Bea said. Fortescue smoothly shepherded Smithy away. He looked over his shoulder at me and shrugged bemusement. "If you could assist, Grace? I'd be grateful. Thank you."

Mrs Paget frowned and hurried after them. I recognised this strategy: separation from the herd in readiness for an assault. "Regrettably, I see no alternative than to ground you, Winsome. Hugo will prevent you from wandering."

"What the hell for." I'd never endured this approach to discipline: it didn't usually work with nowhere to go. Until now. "Not answering the mobile? Welcome to the world of the oppositional adolescent."

Outwardly, Aunt Bea seethed. But even in my mounting fury, I discerned an odd staged aura to the whole display. She was normally cooler than Iceland, no matter my mess-ups, and over the years these had been far worse than not pressing the receive button. It was as if they strived to get me safely out of the way, rather than teach me a lesson for disobedience. Were they jailing me in the warehouse?

Inquisitiveness competed with my anger. What were my guardians really up to? It all seemed so extreme for a single guest. I'd evolved a healthy resentment towards this stupid visitor, who'd turned my state of being inside out. If it was anyone less than Johnny Depp, maximum whinging would ensue.

"Go to your room immediately, young lady."

"You're the one telling lies. You should go to your room!"

I stomped away along the balcony, but not before glimpsing Bea's distraught features. I tried to slam my bedroom door hard enough to snap the hinges, but Hugo, hot on my tail, thwarted the arc. I threw myself onto my bed, even denied privacy for a tantrum. He dropped onto the edge, the action bouncing me on the mattress. I suppressed the strongest urge to ask for his biggest gun.

"You don't have to sit in my lap. Where am I going to go? I need a permission slip to use the blasted toilet. Or are you to accompany me in there, as well? Help me to wipe my bum?"

I pointedly gave him my back. Feeling a bit sorry for Hugo, I secretly acknowledged this gig was no promotion. In the mirrored door of my wardrobe, he shook his head.

"Patience is not your strong suit. If you insist on behaving like a baby, you shall be treated so. Although, a hefty pay rise would be necessary in order to wipe your bum."

My sympathy dissolved. "Your job is to shadow me. Speaking is not required."

I planted a pillow over my head. Whoever formulated the Zen philosophy probably lived in an isolated shack with well-trained llamas, never having to endure the irritations of day-to-day. It was easy to channel immovable mountains with no one monitoring their every twitch or relaying impossible stories with frightening conviction. And they probably didn't have visions so real it was as though you were there or an audience waiting to dissect said visions.

All I wanted was a simple, perfect evening with Smithy. Was it so much to ask? Why would Aunt Bea offer unprecedented freedom and then wrench it away? It made no sense at all, rather a cruel game. I'd stand Smithy up, probably alienating him for good. I imagined Tiffany rushing the engagement announcement in the society pages. I had to admit, they would have cute children. A stab of hurt brought tears to my eyes, but I hastily blinked them away.

"When you finally understand the actions of your minders, the shame for this treatment of them will seem unbearable. It might fade over time. Of course, time is a luxury they do not have."

I sat up and glared at him, barely refraining from belting him with a pillow. "Is that advice meant to help?"

"Have you given no consideration to how your attacker came to be in the exact right spot last night?"

"Fluke? A crystal ball? Cyborg tracking system? Perves are known to lurk in the bushes – it comes with the territory."

"Such an opportunity would demand an extended stay in the bushes. Your impertinence galls me, Winsome."

"And your self-righteousness pisses me off. I am the one nearing jagged rocks without a beacon! Feel free to switch on the light at any convenient moment, preferably before I'm broken against the cliff face."

Sure, it was overly theatrical, but excessive frustration does that. He grinned. "You insult an assassin who can crush your windpipe as easily as breathing out. You would get on well with my sister, Latoya. She has a big mouth and is fearless to the point of idiocy. She is also partial to teenage hysterics."

"Give me a break, Hugo. Please."

He sighed. "Every event that transpires in your world is due to a cascade of decisions. Some your own. Some those of others making their impact. These colliding outcomes form a web of intricacy that seems random, but is not."

"What's that supposed to mean? Why is it even relevant?"

"Patience." Oh, how I hated that stupid word! "The best way to conceptualise it is by tracing the movement of millions of molecules bouncing off each other in a never-ending series of actions and reactions. The trick is to follow the course of a single atom."

"Sounds like chaos theory. The flapping of a butterfly's wings in the Amazon triggers a tidal wave across the other side of the world. I always thought that was ludicrous. And what you describe is contradictory. Chaotic, yet predictable."

"The mind is limited in the patterns it can hold and decipher. You must suspend disbelief if you are to navigate these strange waters. The networks I am talking about are cosmic in their breadth. They spread across human history, too huge for all but the most powerful and hypersensitive psychic to follow."

"If your story sounded less like science fiction, I might have a slim hope of believing. _Again_ , what's this got to do with anything?"

He quirked an eyebrow at my rudeness and resumed speaking. "When particular individuals seal their deal with Anathema, a change sometimes takes place. They become what we term 'Bloods', short for bloodhounds. It is like any other talent. Some people are well endowed, some slightly, some not at all. Very rare members can hunt the strands of this energetic web to their source like an explorer journeying to the most important upstream branch of a river. These Bloods are highly valued because they can alter choices to suit Anathema's aims before a target even makes the decision."

"By granting someone their deepest desire? Just like Faust?"

"Yes. A desire or desperate need that can only be gained by Anathema's means in exchange for unquestioning service. If you can grasp a person's intent before they choose, you can manipulate the unwary and lead them into temptation more readily. Each step heralds a certain path, a certain future. A Blood can anticipate and hijack this potential to Anathema's advantage."

"Are you telling me that Tate is a Blood and he's here tracking a potential target?"

"Was. Tate is no longer here."

I forcefully swallowed that unpleasant imagery, but as usual curiosity got the better of me. "Which target?"

"My guess is someone at the judge's party is in trouble and ripe for the harvest. Insurmountable debt, an illegal habit or disturbing urges, unacceptable to the normal person in the street. Or maybe just the simple wish to make one's father proud." His face was so sad. "Tate was here to make an offer that, as they say, could not be refused. You were simply a chance fringe benefit. But Tate's presence has cost your guardians dearly. Others will follow."

I concentrated on the angle that seemed the most logical. "Surely not everyone is so easy to corrupt, so greedy."

Hugo stared at me and I understood belatedly that my slur about such weakness could easily apply to him. If anything he said was remotely true. "Oh, Hugo. I'm sorry—"

He raised his hand to stop me. "You have nothing to apologise for. It is true. I was greedy and I let it destroy everything I hold dear to me."

"Go on," I said, even though my tolerance for more tall tales waned.

"The vulnerable are trapped in Anathema's world before they even know it. And likewise, those most resistant to the lure are discovered, the good and pure of heart. The enemy. It is why you are surrounded by implements of torture. Waves of misery radiate from these foul objects. This negative aura counteracts the positive energy given off by virtue."

Stone, pah. All this talk of Anathema and Stones and Crones proved to be the worst series of cryptic lessons Bea had ever set for me. And virtue was the last thing on my mind at the moment. What really concerned me was how to sneak out for my date with Smithy. Hugo must have sensed my wandering mind.

"Pay attention, Winsome. This is critical for your survival. Bloods can sense others with their same talents. I was the ultimate Blood. My choices, and Tate's, will lead Anathema to you. So far, they have not infiltrated Sydney. They prefer old cities with long histories and much to exploit. But they will come. They hunt you especially now—"

I interrupted. " _Me_? What for?" Did they aim to recruit me into their cult?

Hugo shook his head, as though he'd said too much already and wasn't willing to share further. "They cannot sense you within these walls. You must stay inside, Winsome, to stay alive."

The door flew open. "Hugo. Quickly!" At Fortescue's insistence, he vaulted up and headed out, turning back to me briefly. "Listen to your heart and feel the truth of what I have said. Stay inside, Winnie." And then he was gone.

What a load of codswallop. Bea had been excessively vigilant for years without proof. I rushed to the door and peeked out a crack. Fortescue and Hugo conferred at the entrance to the kitchen.

"The cats are uneasy. What do you think, Hugo? Has he found us?"

"He is slippery and demands the utmost stealth to track. It will prove exceedingly difficult."

"There is no choice. We cannot leave him free to do as he pleases in Sydney."

"That is true, Jerome. But can we leave her? Can we trust her to obey?"

"Winsome has never before directly challenged Bea's authority."

"If she leaves this sanctuary, she is at risk from more than just Anathema."

"We are well aware of that. In any case, Hugo, there is no choice if we are to capture him and eliminate the most immediate threat. I have faith in Winsome. I cannot believe she would disobey Bea."

There was a first time for everything. I was sick of all the gibberish and refused to listen to any more baseless warnings. Where had I put that annoying phone? I found it discarded on my bedside table, next to my treasured mermaid, and texted Smithy to meet me outside my door in half an hour. I showered and dressed in record time, before my conscience raised the alarm, wearing a short white swing dress with a black-ribbon drawstring halter-neck and black detailing on the hem. The flowing, slippery material begged to be fondled.

The matching black heels were so perilously high they gave Sydney's Centrepoint Tower a complex. Fortescue deserved a trophy for shopper of the year. For once, my hair cooperated without undue product or fuss, spiralling down my bare back with no hint of frizz. My principles sparked up as I crept across my room. This was Bea I deceived.

Any doubts were hastily gagged on making the balcony. Smith waited with his elbows propped against the railing, making an art of casual leaning. Upon first sight of him, my tummy plummeted, my skin tingled and an unfamiliar spark ignited within. He wore jeans and a designer shirt that fitted nicely over his broad, incredibly buff chest. I inhaled his mouth-watering cologne and burst into flame when his lips spread into a wide smile on my appearance.

"Winnie." Smithy's eyes wandered over my figure to alight on my face. "You are beautiful."

A short while later, we were intimately seated at the most stunning restaurant in my experience – including one at the Eiffel Tower. Except it wasn't a restaurant. It was Smithy's sculpture studio: a glass-walled cube balanced over a sliver of sand, hemmed by lapping water that glittered with a thousand points of vibrant light. It nestled in a secluded cove, reached via sheer steps carved from a crag between hilltop mansions.

"Are you sure that's safe?" I'd asked on sighting narrow stairs that wound down the cliff.

Only a weathered wooden handrail that looked like it might give way at any moment provided support. Peeking over the cusp, I envisaged the long plunge to jagged rocks below if I tripped.

"Don't worry, Bear. It's perfectly stable."

"Alright for you to say, you're not attempting motion on stilts."

Confronted by my anxiety, Smith solved the problem and piggybacked me down. I carried the plastic bag of Thai food that had been delivered by a boy on a moped as we hopped from a taxi in the street above. The descent with my extra weight gave him no trouble; he was as agile and powerful as a mountain goat. The friction of Smithy's lithe muscles beneath my hand as I clung on enticed.

"This was my mother's studio," he explained, when we neared the dark building along a wooden-planked path. "It's the only thing of value the judge has given me. He wanted me to use it as a sailing shed, but I've put it to better use."

"I didn't know your mother was an artist."

He set me down on my feet and moved behind me, putting his hands over my eyes to guide me forward with his body. I enjoyed the feeling of him against me and hoped revealing his surprise would take a while.

"Voila."

## Fourteen

Smithy removed his hands from my eyes, rustling around in the gloom until the lights switched on. My jaw dropped. Spaced evenly around the studio's large back room were huge slabs of white marble in various stages of completion, graceful sculptures writhing free of solid stone. The statues appeared alive in the changing shadow. Big round fans in the walls filtered air, and winch-chains on runners looped from the ceiling.

"This is the dust room. Where I do most of the chiselling." In a cleared space in the middle of the hall, an expertly wrought, life-sized marlin fought the lure over a churning sea. "My third commission, worth fifty thousand dollars. The judge's grudge against me being an artist doesn't seem to have anything to do with money. I'm making more than my trust fund pays and he still hates my career choice. I can't figure it out."

He led me through a sealed partition, which cut the cottage in half. We passed through the front room, which held a sitting area and kitchen, and onto an enchanting veranda that spanned its girth. I was too awestruck to speak as he seated me at a tiny square table and two chairs squeezed together, overlooking a curve of beach. A breeze blew the scent of star jasmine through my hair and moistened my skin with a briny mist. We were still in the city and I could hear the faint passage of distant cars, but I felt an infinity away, without a care. Only the whisper of beach scrub and splashing waves disturbed the peace. And my fluttering nerves.

Smith clattered around in the kitchenette, flicking on the stereo and fetching us drinks. We would eat in the glow of lights twining the veranda frame that twinkled like bubbles in pink champagne. Designed for romance, I thought, stifling jealousy over how many other girls he must've brought here. It made me feel less special.

He joined me and we sat in silence for a time, absorbed in the view of a passing dinner-boat. We brushed arms at the slightest movement, afloat in a dazzling aquarium made perfect by the glowing orb of a full moon so low, I could pluck it from the deepening sky.

"Smithy, this is amazing," I blurted. "You are a genius."

"Aw, shucks. I wouldn't go that far." But his face lit up at the compliment.

I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer. "Are you able to tell me about your mysterious domestic situation? You don't have to if it's private."

"As if I'd ever keep anything from you? You're the only one I can be myself with, Winnie."

His sincerity triggered a wave of happiness. I smiled, suddenly shy, and he reached over and pressed my hand. His tender expression clouded.

"Step-mummy Dearest decided to trade down." My features remained gormless. "She suggested we take our relationship to the next level. I was in favour of the previous level – the one before we'd been introduced."

He met my stubborn stupidity with a loud sigh and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "Brianna's been trying to ambush me for weeks. That's why I've been sleeping in the pool room. I was a bit worried when I went upstairs after you left this morning. I was distracted and forgot to lock the bathroom door when I had my shower. I've been so careful lately. She stripped down and hopped in. It wasn't pretty. People such as Brianna aren't used to the word 'no'. Honestly, I didn't get any unwanted come-ons with all my piercings and dyed hair. Or wanted ones for that matter." His gaze locked on mine. "Tiffany and her are enough to drive me back to it."

"Your father's new wife tried to seduce you. I'm sorry, Smithy. The poor judge. Will you tell him?"

"Adorable Winnie, always defending the underdog. The judge will find out soon enough. Brianna wants it all. His money and power, and a little toy boy on the side to stroke her ego. She's not much different to just about everyone we know. Greedy. Ruthless. Selfish. A moral vacuum. Hey, I'm pleased your leg's better."

My miraculously healed ankle was an issue best skirted. Not a scratch left after I'd returned from my walk around the city: another perplexing episode. He didn't seem overly surprised by my special healing capacity.

"Thanks. Is that why you've changed? You don't want to be like any of them?"

"I don't want to be anything at all like Brianna or Tiffany, especially not the judge. That's one reason. I was becoming a rich-kid cliché. I started to dislike who I was. And then..." he paused. "I can't explain the other bit right now, but I will, Bear. When the time is right."

He looked at me with a strange wistfulness. Fantastic! More puzzles. I tried to conceal my discontent and tamp the burning desire to know what on earth he was talking about. I could do nothing about the other desire smouldering inside.

"Oh, man. You're not a vampire are you?"

"Nothing so common," he laughed. "Enough about me, we've wasted too many years on my crap. Why are you home from school? Not that I'm not ecstatic, but I thought you had another two years there?"

"It's an enigma. Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget are being very secretive. Apparently, Bea wants to continue my education herself. At least I won't be bored to sleep. They gave me some fib about boarding school being too easy and failing to engage my apparent intellect. My academic progress is blatant evidence against this."

The rest of the evening flew by, too fast. I was almost tempted to tell Smithy about my recent mental dysfunctions, but didn't want to deflate the mood. He served my food and attended to my slightest need. The conversation turned to fun topics and we laughed and reminisced about silly things we'd done together. I could not believe how great it was to be with him. How easy. How much I missed having him in my life. Nor could I believe the new electric intensity between us that made me jump at the tiniest tickle of my skin against his.

"This is a great song." He amped up the volume via remote. Powderfinger's 'Think It Over' put his speakers to the test. "Come on, let's dance."

He dragged me, protesting, from my chair. "Have you seen these shoes?"

"Don't worry. It's not our feet we'll be moving."

He made a show of rearranging my hair so he could run his hand down the groove of my spine to rest at the small of my back, giving new meaning to the word sizzle. He pulled me close and we swayed rhythmically on the spot, while he sang softly in my ear. At the song's end, he wrapped me tightly in his arms for an overlong minute.

"Nice," I squeaked. "But turning blue from lack of oxygen."

"Sorry." He helped me back to my seat.

We shared a tub of cookies-and-cream ice cream; Smithy fed me from his spoon. "I'd forgotten how much you can eat. Where does someone as delicate as you put all that food? Is Bea starving you or something?"

"That would be a mercy." He squinted inquiringly. "You've never tasted wheatgrass juice. Sort of like blended garden clippings." With a shock, I realised our guest would be joining me in the culinary wasteland. "My advice is to gorge whenever you eat out."

"Ahh. That explains it. I was astonished watching you attack the buffet at the judge's party last night. What an appetite. Makes a nice change from girls who nibble like rabbits."

"I thought you arrived late! You watched me?" Great. He'd seen me stuffing my face with embarrassing enthusiasm.

He looked only slightly remorseful. "Me and every other male in the room," he said, scowling. "I guess I should be grateful for Bargeass. He spared me the effort of keeping them off you. Actually, I'd been there for a while. It took me some time to get up the nerve to come over. You know, after the way things were left before you jetted off overseas." I cleared my throat, blushing at the phantom sensation of his mouth against mine, hard to forget despite the passage of time.

Smithy gazed at my face, chewing his bottom lip. "Just as I finally grew a pair, Brianna practically tackled me. I wasn't going to turn up at all, but Mrs Paget phoned me out of the blue and told me you'd be there."

Smithy came to the party especially for me? Mute Mrs Paget used a telephone? The headlines kept coming. Mrs Paget matchmaking! She'd really made up for lost time in exercising those vocal cords. It was a jarring reminder of my illicit presence here.

Surreptitiously checking the glowing face of Smithy's diver's watch, I was horrified by the advancing hours. I did not want to go home, especially with his latest revelation rippling warmly through me, but Bea and the others would be frantic with worry. How could I get us out of here swiftly without offending him?

"Er, it's time we should be getting back."

"You have a curfew?"

"Something like that."

"I recognise that cagey expression. What have you done, Bear?"

"Technically," I grimaced, "I wasn't supposed to leave the warehouse."

He swore for a bit. "Brilliant. You've dragged me into your sorry rule-breaking. They won't want me to stay if I lead you astray."

I chuckled uncomfortably. "You're a poet as well as an artist?" His lips pressed together in disapproval. I hurried on to prevent the deserved tirade. "They're off somewhere with Hugo. If we leave now, we'll probably beat them back and they'll be none the wiser."

"You kill me, Winsome. Now we'll both be in the septic tank. I only just managed to crawl out. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm trying to be responsible."

"Oh, right. A tad disingenuous from the guy who was the prime reason I spent my early adolescence driving Bea to distraction."

His features stayed cranky. "I have to ask you something before we go, and it might sound a bit strange. Okay?"

I hadn't recovered from Mrs Paget's conniving yet, I didn't think I could deal with more weirdness. I nodded warily.

"Have you heard the name Billie Kho?"

"No..." I hesitated. Could it be the same Billie I shouted about in my sleep? But I only had Shabby's word for that anyway – hardly a trusted source. And I refused to have another person, no matter how cherished, dabbling in my private nightmares. "No," I repeated, more firmly.

Smithy had stopped listening. He peered overhead at the sky. "We have to get out of here," he said suddenly. "Now." I looked up in confusion. "Come on."

He yanked me to my feet. One hand secured my waist, and with no effort spared to clean our mess from dinner or lock up, he practically carried me back through the studio and out the other side. It was a tribute to his strength I didn't tip over, my feet barely skimming the ground.

"Cripes! What's wrong?"

He'd gone pale, like someone who'd seen his own death. "You'll never make it in those shoes. Take them off, Winnie."

"What? Why? Not until you tell me what this is about."

He pointed up at the moon. A dense black smudge blocked its shine, many specks flying together in a massive flock. It wheeled and turned, as if seeking something, only to disappear eventually against the darkness of night.

"Flying foxes," I shrugged.

The throng must have been high; I couldn't hear the usual chorus of squeals and chatter. Smith knelt and hastily undid the straps of my shoes.

"Trust me. Please, Winsome. They are not flying foxes. And you do not want to be outside when they find what they're looking for."

Apparently it had been too much to ask for one superb night, free of the creeps. "Can't we just stay here?"

I would use his phone to call Bea and smooth things over with maximum grovelling. Tell her we'd been held up by swarming... whatevers. She was bound to believe such an unlikely excuse.

"Glass won't keep them out. Quick," he urged, as I stepped out of my footwear. "We have to get back to the warehouse."

I hardly had time to collect my stilettos, before he towed me across the wooden-planked path at a testing pace. In front, the cliff face loomed, impossibly high, the stairs almost vertical. Smith leaped up the first few steps with amazing ease, but doubt consumed me. Could I scale death-defyingly slim treads at night and in haste? Smithy hurdled ahead, frantically dialling a cab and swearing about poor reception.

It was abnormal. Without paying attention or using his hands for balance, his progress was faultless. Meanwhile, I scrabbled on all fours in the dark. The heels looping my wrist by the straps were a distraction and banged my arms. My fingers chafed on rough rock, making my already short nails jagged, and I painfully stubbed my big toe, which throbbed and added to my mounting discomfort.

Smith glanced over his shoulder, already far ahead. "Oh, Bear. I'm sorry." He turned to descend but froze on the spot. "Stand still," he called tensely. "They're above us."

I heard the rhythmic beats of many wings overhead. "What's above us?"

"Shh!"

I paused, stuck to the spot like a gecko, minus the grace. My muscles trembled and burned. He exhaled as the so-called flying foxes moved on, and recommenced his descent with a trickle of grit and pebbles. Several larger chunks of rock broke free, one bouncing onto my forehead and more scratching my shoulders as they plummeted.

"Ow! This is stupid, Smith," I madly blinked dust from my eyes, getting angrier by the second. "Stay there. You'll bring the cliff face down on me."

"It's completely stable. This track has been here for decades without slippage."

Several ominous cracks split the air to make a liar of him, followed by a bubbling tumult of sound. Above Smithy, a wall of shale began to slip down the hillside, gaining speed and bringing with it random boulders.

"Winnie," Smith yelled, scrambling towards me. "Stop imagining things. Calm your mind."

"Duck," I squealed, as a huge rock bumped and spun straight for him. Terrified, I flung away my shoes and crawled as fast as possible, with debris pelting down on my head. I squinted up, the slope seemingly steeper by the second, coughing and spluttering. "Help," I croaked.

I'd lost sight of Smithy in the billowing storm of dust. Scant handholds beneath my fingers liquefied and disappeared. I began the descent on an avalanche of rubble, flailing desperately for anything solid. What began as a stairway with a rickety handrail carved almost perpendicular in the hill became a rumbling mass of shards that fell like stalactites speared from the heavens. All the angst I'd suppressed about this track's reliability on the way down to dinner burgeoned into frightening reality like an atomic cloud.

"Hold on, Winnie," I heard Smith shout.

I would have been happy to obey, but there was a disconcerting lack of anything to hold on to and I felt myself shoved away from the hillside on a roiling tide of gravel and begin to fall. Abruptly, a muscled forearm thrust through the pall of grit, joined by the rest of Smithy as he plunged for me, apparently tethered to thin air. Impossibly, he barrelled into me, flipping us both upright. The impact threatened to burst my innards, forcing the breath from my chest. But the sheer absurdity of his acrobatics couldn't be true. He sprang onto slipping earth with me securely in his arms and launched us in great unimpeded bounds up the slope.

It didn't matter. I suddenly realised none of it was fact. Vegas hadn't dived to certain death in a bid to save me. I was in the midst of another vision, probably spasming in the gutter with froth at my mouth, eventually rousing to a red-strobed ambulance, an anxious ring of strangers and cringing mortification at my loss of control in Smithy's presence.

I relaxed and let the hallucination run its course. It wasn't real. In it, Smith was a superhuman alien. We finally rocketed over the rim onto the street, skidded to a stop and he cautiously set me down. Given the action occurred in my head, I was not surprised to see he hadn't raised a sweat or sustained even a tiny scrape. He was convincingly dirty though, his hair dust-logged.

"Ah hell, you're all banged up and bleeding." His face screwed up while he examined my injuries with soft hands under the watery corona of a streetlamp. "It's too hard to get a taxi at this time of night. Can you run, Bear? I know it's a lot to ask, but those things aren't likely to give up. We won't be safe until you're home."

"Sure." I could manage a pretend race from 'those things'. None of it was real anyway.

## Fifteen

We'd run together often, both students of parkour. But to do it properly demanded attention to detail, especially when mapping the swiftest course. Safety was usually a prime consideration, but any hint of personal wellbeing was absent on this frantic dash. Smith bulleted us through the streets, never slowing as he checked behind and above for unnamed pursuers. My bare feet suffered because there was no chance to avoid broken glass or bruising stones as we blew past, the hurt as real as birth or death or any other actual event I imagined sane people experienced. This surely was the most authentic fit I'd had yet.

"I'm so sorry, Bear. We can't slow down. They've spotted us. Run!"

He shepherded me in front of him. The quite evening suburb of leafy trees and outraged dog-walkers, scurrying aside for the two idiots ramming through them, gradually gave way to the traffic noise, diesel fumes and jaundiced fluorescence of the city proper. Saturday night revellers cursing such drug-fuelled madness replaced their more sedate neighbours. We streaked for the highway, which carved a moat teeming with mechanical monsters between us and the warehouse.

And then I heard them. A vast cloud of flapping wings whooshing and diving close on our heels in assault, their eerie caws gaining. Crows – omens of death and bad luck. Thousands upon thousands of the big, sharp-beaked birds that seemed hell-bent on one purpose. To annihilate us! I had never seen so many as the numbers I glimpsed over my shoulder – they obscured the moon's glow. Their shrieking clamour deafened.

"Crows? From where?" I said, hysteria tinged.

"They are not crows. Don't stop, Bear."

Adrenaline shot through me and I careened out into the road, barely missing a horn-blaring screech of wheels, my heart thumping loudly in my ears. If not birds, then what?

"Hey! What are you doing, you lunatic."

Racing onwards, I glanced behind to see Smithy raise his hands in apology at the car's hood, earning another riled bleat from the horn when he dashed after me into two lanes of traffic. Lucky it was fairly sparse at this time of night. He took the lead to weave the clearest path ahead, which involved springing over the cement barricade in the middle.

"Don't stop, Bear!"

Despite the fact we played chicken with lumbering semi-trailers and nimble sports cars, whose drivers were too distracted by hands-free headsets for quick evasive manoeuvres, I really didn't need the encouragement. In my periphery, the lead attackers swerved from the heights on the offensive. The swarm scattered when a truck loaded with shipping containers ploughed through their midst, so close behind it skimmed my dress and the gust from eighteen rumbling wheels whipped hair across my eyes as I made the verge. The howl from the semi's airhorn punched my eardrums. A tall noise-reduction wall finally signalled the end of the freeway, the concrete facade decorated with impressions of wattle and gumnuts.

"Oh, God. More climbing," I wheezed.

"I'm right here, Bear. You can do it."

Smith linked his hands and I placed one brutalised foot within so he could hoist me up onto its face where the bumps and divots provided a surprisingly good scaffold. Several big black birds slammed recklessly into the wall next to me in an exploding hail of meat and feathers. And fur and talons and fangs.

"What are they? What do they want?" I screamed, scrambling up and over, my arms slippery with spattered gore. Couldn't anyone else see them?

"Winnie, focus on me. You're making them worse," Smith bellowed from below.

I dropped to a deserted residential lane on the other side, lined with cars parked almost bumper to bumper. Finally off the highway, there wasn't time for relief when a creature loomed into view like a hunting eagle with talons extended, gliding straight for me along the valley of vehicles. I lunged between two cars, the tips of its wings fanning my cheek as it missed me by a millimetre.

Terror pulsed through me. Up close, it was like nothing I'd seen before. They were hybrid beasts from hellish realms: wings a mix of leather and feather, beaks rowed with spiked teeth, claws with spines longer than my fingers and malevolent red eyes. Half nightmarish bat, half otherworld vulture to feast on my flesh. The more scared I became, the grosser and more frightening were their mutations.

The lone one flapped back around to join more of its brethren crowding the mouth of the street. On reflex, I launched upright to lash out as it flew by, connecting its solid body with a thud and a shriek. For a figment of terror, it seemed particularly sturdy and my attempt hardly punted the horrid creature from its arc.

Hoping the rest didn't possess such initiative, I observed them amass to circle in wait while I cowered in vague safety, flanked by a station-wagon's tailgate and the grill of a Toyota four-wheel drive. The back window of the wagon had one of those stick-figure 'my family' transparencies on the lower right, a twiggy girl in a tutu mocking me with normality. If only.

Bent double to stay concealed behind the row of cars, Smith slipped from the wall and ran along the path fronting parallel terraces to scrunch in next to me. "The stalemate won't last." He peeked over the roof of the wagon at the growing horde. His look was calculating. "Get your breath, we need to make another run for it."

I stared at him, fear-stricken. "You can see them, right?"

He reached over to pluck an ebony feather from my hair and show it to me, the quill a grisly clot that turned my stomach. The feather gave off the strong stench of carrion.

"I see them."

I offered him a feeble smile. "Well, at least I have a witness. Maybe even a friend to join me in the loony bin. Did you spike my lemonade with magic mushrooms?"

"Yeah, because this has really made the night a hoot," he snorted. "A special memory."

"I'd probably watch the sarcasm around Fortescue. You can't make me go back out there, Smith."

"Winnie, you must listen to me." He gently took me by the shoulders, gazing intently at me with those lovely green eyes. "The longer you stay here, the worse it will get. Don't ask me how I know..." Smithy crinkled his nose in confusion – the expression I found irresistible. "I just do. I'll distract them."

"No. Let's phone Bea to come and get us."

Smith put a finger over my lips to still my objection, shuffling to swap sides so that he was nearer to the road. Evidently, we wouldn't last long enough for rescue. His fingertips lingered along my jaw. "Wait for my count of three. Go low and stick close to the gardens in front of those terraces so they can't get a clean angle. Do not stop. Keep running."

Alarmed, I looked over at the path and the scant cover of the tiny patches of land with their scrappy, broken-down fences and scrawny weeds. In that second of inattention, Smithy was out and darting up the centre of the road towards the horrid pack of fiends, waving his arms and bawling at the top of his lungs, "Come on, bastards. Here I am! Ready, Bear? One."

The flock's interest immediately zeroed in on him and they spiralled high to retake bombing formation. "Great," I muttered.

Not only had I sucked Smithy into my psycho-world, the spectres were poised to consume him. I gulped and took several sharp breaths in preparation for the dash, ignoring my burning, bloodied feet. Was this truly happening? What if I just lay down and took a quiet nap right here on the asphalt, and waited for this to fade so I could finally wake clammy and afraid, yet secure in my own bed?

But the pain, the dread, the bursting lungs all felt so terribly real and I could not shake the conviction that those things would devour me too. If I gave them the chance. Oddly, I had unfounded faith Vegas would come through this unscathed. He stood with his feet planted as the malignant cloud dropped to swarm him. Seeing him vanish into a murder of crows, I very nearly broke into hysterical laughter at the expression. I couldn't watch or I'd have a heart attack.

"Two," he cried out.

I pivoted on the balls of my objecting feet, rising from my crouch and slipping to the corner of the wagon. I fooled myself that if I didn't look their way, they wouldn't look mine. But a roar from Smithy and a volley of indignant squawks drew my focus. From a thick knot at their core, several creatures burst off in wayward trajectories. They tailspun into others, bringing a glut crashing to earth where they burst like blood-filled sacs in the middle of the street.

With acrobatic skill he jumped high into their midst, plucking several more from the air and flinging them to carve a void as other assailants lurched out of the way. His efforts succeeded in ramping their ferocity and he swore. I thought this may be my cue.

"Three!"

The vortex tightened around him and I scurried from my rabbit hole, feeling every bit as helpless as a fleeing hare. I made it all the way along the road, where the paltry cover of terraces abruptly ended. Turning right at the corner, I stopped, whispering Smithy's name. From my spot hugging the grimy brick wall of the last yard, I peeked out for a better view of the street, to where it seemed the night had swallowed him whole and everything else. I edged beyond the wall into smothering silence.

"Smithy?"

It was stupid to waste the chance he'd provided, but who left a loved one behind? And here, in the midst of my lunacy I clung to that fact more assuredly than anything else in this slippery reality. The sudden realisation that I loved Vegas Smith gave me strength and heightened my angst for him.

"Smithy," I shouted.

Almost at once, his yell gained volume as he materialised from inky nothing and ran for me at full tilt along the road, a boiling horde snapping in his wake. "What's wrong with you! Run!"

I took off. We dodged madly, as they rammed into the buildings above, showering us in gore. Smith swatted them at my rear as we ran, pounding any from my direct line. A stubborn pursuer evaded his grasp and lunged at my scalp, closer with each pass. Talons abruptly gripped my shoulder in needles of shooting agony, dagger teeth snapping at my cheek.

"Get off." I almost choked on pain and revulsion.

Reaching up, I grabbed the brute by its slimed snout. Its claws gouged my bare skin when I yanked it off, tossing it forcefully to the ground. My energy drained rapidly and I had no will to check if my attacker survived. I could not keep this up. We neared the alleyway, hurdling obstacles and dodging startled party people, but I knew I wouldn't make it. My feet were raw as the last of the adrenalin deserted me, taking my final strength with it. My shoulder pulsed with fire.

Sensing my weakening endurance, Smith jammed up behind and circled my middle, swinging me round to throw me over his shoulder like limp celery. He didn't miss a step. It was inconceivable, but he sped up and blazed into the alleyway. Abominations missiled from the sky squealing their fury.

"The door! The door," I cried.

He would not be able to open it. The biometrics detected abnormal stress and locked. My current state qualified as off the chart. We made the recessed entrance. Smith raised his face to the video. The seething mass darted by, unable to halt their progress in the narrow valley of buildings, wings punching air. He set me down gently, aware of my injured feet and giving his back to the alley so I was protected.

The facial recognition worked with leisurely disregard. Several tenacious fiends bombarded the porch, but the angle was beyond them, their impact raining an explosion of feathers. Only a couple made it inside as we finally tumbled through. With the intuition of predators, Bea's cats were ready. They leaped forward, gleeful about the unexpected sport, making short work of the intruders, and creating a dreadful mess that would not please Mrs Paget.

I slumped to the floor, panting with exhaustion. It was also necessary to ease the pressure on my soles that I guessed felt similar to strolling in a lava flow. Butchered avian tissue clumped my ruined dress. If they were avian at all.

"That actually happened. Right?"

Panic threatened to overwhelm. Smith knelt by me, his own clothes decorated in an abattoir. He gestured at Vovo and Cherish on their haunches mincing carcasses, crunching bone and grinding sinew with wolfish disregard. They were just crows.

"Normal birds," I gasped. "I thought..."

"You thought right, Bear. And since when are crows lethal? It may be time to throw normal out the window." He stroked my cheek with a troubled frown and tenderly picked me up, cradling me in his arms like a baby. "First aid, first. Talk later."

I was too shattered to argue about his method of conveying me, but not too shattered not to argue. "Kitchen. Talk now. Preferably, with Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget present. They know. I know they know what's going on."

I was not explaining myself properly, but could be pardoned after what we'd endured. I had multiple wounds to prove it. Smith on the other hand, seemed extraordinarily unperturbed by tonight's escapade.

"And, what's more... Why do you look like you're taking a refreshing turn about the park, rather than lugging me after a race for our lives from Frankenstein's kamikazes? How did you know about them, anyway? If we go back tomorrow, the trail to your studio will be there, solid and uncollapsed. Won't it?"

"You're not very heavy, Winnie. And I will not discuss a thing until I've dressed your wounds." His hold loosened on my shoulderblade, as he slyly inspected the slick on his palm. I turned to see. "Don't look."

Smithy's fingers sprung into a fist, but I'd glimpsed enough slicked red to know the wound was bad. Dripped blood advertised our path through the display. His face was ashen.

"It'll be okay. You're going to be okay." It sounded like he was trying to reassure himself as much as me.

"I _need_ answers."

Silence was his response. If I knew only one fact about Vegas Smith, it was that he was more pigheaded than Bea and Fortescue put together. I gave up for the moment and snuggled in to enjoy the ride, in spite of the hurt lancing my shoulder and radiating down my arm in excruciating waves. What I didn't count on was the overwhelming fatigue. I'd walked kilometres on top of the evening's unplanned athletics with blood loss and shock thrown in. My eyelids drooped, despite my intentions to drill my guardians until they yielded the truth.

"Winnie! Thank the Lord." A barrage of footsteps and exclamations of relief met us at the bottom of the stairs. My teeth began to chatter.

"She is wounded," Mrs Paget cried.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Bea. I didn't know Bear wasn't allowed out."

"We shall discuss it later, Vegas. Thank you for getting her home. Fetch me some vitaver, Jerome. Hurry. Before the poison sets in."

"The Stone's hateful influence grows. We are running out of time, Bea."

"I know, Grace."

I must have passed out, only to rally briefly. I heard Smithy groan as if from a great distance, "So much blood."

"Do not lose faith, Vegas," Aunt Bea promised. "It takes more than this to fell a Keeper. Quickly, Grace, the vitaver."

A strong peppermint liquid hit my tongue and seared my throat, the heat spreading my flesh. Words blurred foggily in my mind and darkness slowly descended. I struggled to stay awake and listen.

"What is vitaver?" Smith asked. "Keeper, I've heard before."

"Vitaver is a restorative Grace brews from an ancient recipe. It hastens healing. As for what a Keeper is, it will all become clear when Winnie wakes. You have proven yourself the Warrior, Vegas. In the morning you shall both receive a full account. She will need you now, more than ever, since Hugo's departure."

"Er, okay. Speaking of which, where is Tiny?"

Fortescue replied, his voice strained, "I fear something untoward has befallen him. Hugo failed to return at our behest. The cats have lost the trail of our most feared enemy, only below the Crone." Bone weary and confounded past endurance, I drifted away into blackness.

## Sixteen

Yet, it was not the velvety oblivion of sleep. The night echoed with an odd scraping that dragged me back to full consciousness.

"Go awaayyy," I complained, groggy with fatigue.

The annoying scratching went on. Fortescue bringing breakfast already? I rolled over, triggering a dull ache in my shoulder. With utmost resentment, I dragged myself upright and groped to switch on the lamp. Muted lighting battered my eyeballs and it took a minute before I could focus without splotches in my vision.

On checking, my door remained firmly closed and my room empty of pushy butlers. Rats in the rafters? Where were the cats? The digital glow of my clock showed 2.30 am.

The sound came from the corner of the ceiling nearest my wardrobe. It must be a mother of a rat. I squinted in that direction, not sure what I was seeing. A pink stain seeped rapidly outwards across the plaster, as if the roof was bleeding. Alarm zipped up my spine. Not again!

Surgical wadding crinkled when I moved, which spoke of an actual wound on my shoulder and the weird truth of what I'd experienced earlier in the evening. I'd never heard of tactile hallucinations that inflicted real injuries. But if such mental torment was even vaguely possible, what was I in for now?

Yanking the sheets to my nose, I twisted the heavy cotton in tight fists, entranced by this latest nightmare dredged from my darkest fears. But secretly I knew: these were not fears conjured by my brain alone. The fabric of my existence was warping beyond the accepted; something other-worldly wished me harm. The hideous discolouration began to throb, bulging towards the floor. I tried to convince myself it was truly all in my mind, I would ride it out and have myself committed tomorrow. But I no longer believed that lie.

"Bea?"

Trembling, I began to hum 'The Pursuit of Happiness', a habit I'd picked up when I was younger and struggling to ease the anxiety over starting at another new school – distraction by music. But my petrified dirge didn't do Kid Cudi justice. And this experience was so much worse than whispers behind hands and Third-grade stares.

"Someone," I called with rising hysteria.

The sodden roof sagged and broke open, giving birth to a skinless head that writhed its way through. The skull was about the size of a wolf's and similarly elongated to accommodate a ragged hole crammed with long yellowed fangs. Where its eyes should have been were bloodied cavities. Instead of relying on sight, the demon sucked air moistly through slitted nostrils, apparently dependent on smell to guide it.

"Anyone!"

A repulsive body disgorged, and with it the stench of the morgue. It was totally flayed, the absence of skin revealing gnarled sinew and leathery muscle, stippled by rot. I tasted bile. My humming intensified. The creature clung upside down. Front facing the floor, its hook-tipped wasted limbs jutted backwards, piercing thick plaster at impossible angles. The rift in the roof grindingly sealed, caging us together. It paused and swivelled its head a full circle in response to my fevered humming, then cocked it to the side. I shut up, too late. Clearly it also possessed a good sense of hearing.

Quivering violently, its abdomen split open, spilling entrails onto the ground. I could do no more than blink, frozen by horror and nausea as the steaming bowels congealed into a double of the original demon with a sickening squelch. The first creature stayed where it was on the ceiling, while the second struggled to its feet on the floor. Its looks didn't improve on standing, hunched over and stringy and even less tolerable now much closer to me. About the size of a small man, it stank. Ugly beetles and centipedes oozed through the mummified gristle of its form. Those teeth and claws looked exceptionally sharp, made to rip and tear. The grotesque twins snuffled eagerly, twitching their heads to test the surrounds.

Without taking my focus from them, I desperately fumbled objects on my side table for something that would suffice as a weapon, finally gripping the polished marble of my mermaid. The sculpture had saved me from a pervert, why not a fiend? Ferocious growls and splintering wood reverberated out in the hall. Vovo and Cherish unleashed their full might against my closed door. I could almost feel the shaking of the frame when the cats ran and repeatedly pounded into the oak barrier, howling in frustration.

They were too far away and I was out of time. Even if my aim was perfect, I only had one shot and had to choose which of my two enemies to target. Both beasts' full attention lasered in on me, like they sensed my intent, and each of them scuttled with murderous speed towards my bed. I let lose with an ear-shattering scream, launching from the sheets to hurl the mermaid with all the force I could muster at the one on the ground as my door flung open.

Events of that awful instant seemed to occupy hours. In three long strides, Fortescue rushed into the room wearing a nightshirt and a fearsome expression, the cats surging around him. Strangely, I had the chance to notice his purple socks and white knobbly knees before flying stone impacted the creature's forehead. The monster on the ceiling screeched in fury and shuffled closer to me as its twin faltered backwards, violently shaking its head to free the stone lodged in the spongy flesh between empty eye sockets.

My mermaid flew sideways to shatter one mirrored panel of my wardrobe. Glass cascaded to the parquetry, my best hope of resistance bouncing out of reach under my bed. A riled snarl twisted the jaw of the creature I'd hit. All the defensive strategy had achieved was to make the wretched thing angrier. Now sporting a hole of pulped tissue in its forehead, it jumped up onto my mattress. I cowered against the bedhead, nowhere else to go.

"Not on my watch," Fortescue declared, heaving a spear with such anger-fuelled power it crunched through the thing's backbone and burst out of its ribcage, skewering a desiccated pulsing heart.

Vovo was on the creature in an instant, dragging it down and out of sight at the foot of my bed. Cherish jumped into the air, his paws hooking into the one on the ceiling and hauling it to the floor. The fracas was punctuated only by unpleasant ripping noises. Fortescue trusted the cats with the rest of the job and gazed searchingly at me.

Tears tracked his cheeks and his bottom lip trembled. "I deeply regret this is happening to you, Winsome. Do not fear, I shall get help."

Then he swiftly backed out of my room, taking the cats with him. Don't leave me with those things.

"Fortescue come back! Please. Don't leave me all alone," I whimpered, closing my eyes and resuming Kid Cudi. After what felt like years, a voice rose over my humming.

"It's okay, Bear. You're not alone. I promise. I won't leave you alone ever again."

I stared unseeing. Smithy hesitantly walked towards me from the doorway with upraised palms. Glancing down, I sat board-stiff in bed, my hands tangled in the sheets and fingers locked as if in rigor mortis. He edged closer, pausing by my side. I came back to myself, dazed and shivering.

"I'm going to get in there with you." His tone was soft, like that of a rescuer pacifying the survivor of a car crash.

"On the floor... anything?" I whispered.

"There's nothing there."

"No spear?"

He carefully surveyed the floor and shook his head. "No spear. You were screaming at the top of your lungs. In between bouts of..." His expression suggested I might be unstable, capable of sprinkling fairy dust and befriending unicorns. "Humming."

I looked at Smithy properly for the first time since he'd entered, realising it would be far more unbalanced to let him into my bed. He was in nothing but boy-leg undies, not saturated and clinging like the jelly-bean pair of earlier this morning, but surface-of-the-sun hot just the same. I missed his blue hair. Things were so much simpler when he was a marauding, obnoxious menace.

Bea would probably call the police if she saw us like this. There would be a restraining order. And rightly so! On his feet, barely dressed, Smith was spellbinding. My eyes devoured him. He'd hit the gym a great deal by the looks of it, defined muscle on a fit, lean frame with tennis-player legs from all the running. His lightly tanned skin outdid that of a Brazilian surfer. I considered throwing caution to the wind and requesting he turn on the spot to display the behind view. What the heck? He already thought I was unhinged.

Unhinged – that reminded me. Dreadful monsters haunted my room in another impossible episode that so garishly mimicked reality. As a padded cell beckoned in a few hours, I decided to risk Bea's outrage. I could blame the impropriety of a semi-naked boy in my bed on my unfolding psychosis.

"I'll stay on my side. I'll just hold your hand."

He slipped between the sheets. With exaggerated care, he moved close enough to prise my fingers apart, pushing me further down the mattress and chastely tucking the sheet around my shoulders. One of my arms remained on the cover. He lay on his side with a virtuous distance between us and placed my hand in both of his.

"Better?" he inquired earnestly.

"Is it true Hugo's missing?"

"Yes. He'd didn't return from their hunt for... someone."

I hadn't been acquainted with my bodyguard very long, and found him a pest often, but there was something endearing and so lost-kitten (maybe lost lion-cub) about him beneath the I-can-kill-you-with-one-glance demeanour. I wanted him here, safe with us; not out in a hostile night filled with beasts, real and imaginary. My focus wandered to the wardrobe, the central pane of mirror that should be there, gone. The floor was littered with broken glass.

"It's my fault, isn't it?" The implications extended far beyond my paltry teenaged understanding. "Hugo told me... _No_ , he begged me to stay inside. But I didn't believe anything he said. It feels like I'm breaking apart, like I should be carted away to a lock-down ward in the asylum."

"You don't need to go to the psych ward, Winnie. And whatever's going on, I don't think you're to blame."

"Really?" I sucked an unsteady breath, staring at the ceiling and not at all sure the alternative to insanity was an improvement. "Bea's telling me impossible stories that can't be real. Yet all these horrible things keep happening, bleeding from my dreams into reality."

My anguish forced him to do the only decent thing, his resolve crumbled and he moved across no-man's land to hug me, the length of his body pressed against mine. He was so warm and glorious, his skin so silky. Bea would have a cardiac arrest and I couldn't guarantee Fortescue had run out of spears.

"It's not just happening to you, Bear."

I gazed over at him, a fear more intense than any I'd experienced so far creeping up my spine. Smithy did not belong in this mess. He stretched out fingertips and lightly brushed the tears from my cheeks. His words came out in a torrent.

"I wanted so much to tell you at dinner, but I didn't want to scare you off. I don't want to lose you again, Bear. These two years, I've missed you more than words can say. When you left, I did everything I could to contact you straight away. But Bea wasn't so obliging. She said you needed time on your own, almost as if they isolated you on purpose. I thought it was my fault and you didn't want to speak to me. I couldn't blame you after how things ended."

Relief and an infinitely stronger emotion swelled my heart. It was a struggle not to melt into Smithy's comforting embrace and forget everything else, but I needed answers that couldn't wait any longer. I braced myself up on an elbow.

"Tell me everything."

He took a deep breath, talking fast as though trying to purge a toxic burden. "Yesterday, after I'd dealt with Brianna, I wanted to come and find you, but you were so angry after the pool incident I thought I'd let you cool down for a bit." He grimaced at the memory.

"To kill time, I went to the gym and then for a run to clear my head. It's weird, but I felt wired all morning, sort of like I could sense danger coming. I initially put my jitters down to your almost drowning. I did the black diamond run, knowing it would take all my concentration." Black diamond was radical, lots of rooftops and hardcore actions that demanded unremitting skill. "You know the cellar?"

It was the only obstacle I refused to negotiate on a parkour course. A sheer drop down the facade of a three-storey building using a drainpipe to slow velocity, onto a narrow ledge of brick that wrapped its girth, followed by a somersault down another three storeys into a skinny cellar alcove, where momentum forced an immediate run up and over the lip of the alleyway. There was no room for error.

"I hate that part."

He nodded ruefully. "For some reason, I passed out in the middle of the first leap. Took a six-floor tumble into the cellar. I woke up who knows how long afterwards, praising good luck I hadn't broken my neck. Anyway, while I was out of it, I went somewhere else. A swampy place, hot as hell with insects the size of crows."

"Crows," I shivered. My shoulder improved rapidly, but the recall of our flight from those birds stayed vivid and the mental scars would take much longer to heal.

"Sorry." Smithy leaned over to cup my face between his hands, brushing a stray hair behind my ear with his thumb. "I shouldn't have mentioned crows." He pressed reassuring lips against my cheek.

I yearned to exaggerate the weakling angle, so intense was the pleasure, but he needed his mouth to answer my questions. I filed this approach for future reference.

"It's okay," I said reluctantly. "Go on."

He released me and lay back on his side, punching his pillow until achieving the right firmness. "The thing is, the blackout was not so much a dream as really _being_ there. I felt the heat. Heard the crickets calling. I could smell decaying vegetation." A troubled frown creased his brow.

It was not a look I was used to seeing on Smithy. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"You mean aside from the obvious?" I raised my eyebrows impatiently. "I don't want to go through it again. But you have to see it," he said softly.

Before I could query what he meant, Smithy started to describe the scene and my wits rebelled. There were too many common threads. The details were too exact a match to be coincidental. Any hint of rationality spun away when I tried to account for our shared perceptions.

And I couldn't shake the idea, no matter how ridiculous, that what we saw had actually transpired. And as he relayed it – Smithy's voice transported me there, just like the touch of the bloody knife blade that had sent me from the warehouse kitchen to Raphaela's office during my last lesson with Aunt Bea.

In his vision, there had been a statuesque black woman in her early twenties with cropped white hair, pacing edgily at the main entrance to a grand plantation mansion. Billie. I was fairly certain I knew the identity of the house's owner – fragile, mahogany-haired Raphaela. I could feel Smith with me the whole time, as if we were actors on the same stage.

An impenetrable wall of ancient, moss-draped trees encircled the perimeter of her large property, the forest running to wetlands that stretched as far as the eye could see at the back of the residence. From a briefly glimpsed overhead perspective, there were only two points of access. Rear to the building by boat at the solid wooden wharf or entry along a pitted driveway that disappeared through dense bush for quite a distance. Eventually, the road emerged and passed through a fortified gate, the single breach in a thick wall ringing her boundary. Dissecting a wide expanse of cleared grass, her driveway ended in a turning circle at the front steps.

It was late afternoon, the thin light slanting down in green-tinged rays through a canopy of leaves. The woman stalked up and down the length of the veranda along the house's front, clearly expecting company. The reception would not be hospitable. She wore combat fatigues and a singlet, armed to the teeth with varied guns and knives. A vicious scimitar, as tall she was, with long blades jutting either end at opposite angles was propped against the stairs.

She jumped to the lawn, holding a small box dotted by a series of switches. Arrayed behind her on the porch stretched an armoury of startling variety. Flamethrowers, automatic machine guns, grenades and more. There were also throwing stars that glistened with a coating of flammable oil. This information swirled my brain with unalterable certainty.

Billie was a formidable opponent, incredibly muscled, her bearing one of military efficiency, coiled to unleash deadly force at will. Her skin shone with sweat in the humidity. The sun finally slunk below the horizon and the woman lit several hurricane lamps on the porch. They barely cast a glow beyond the zone of her patrol; the rest formed a solid curtain of blackness.

Bugs teemed the meagre illumination in grating chorus. Abruptly, their racket ceased, morphing to an eerie rustle as thousands of dead insects snowed from the sky like volcanic ash, carpeting the corona around the lanterns. Whatever was coming sucked the life from all before it. The woman spun towards the road, straining to see and hear. She knew what to expect and she was prepared.

The stillness erupted – a tumult of tightly packed bodies marching through the forest towards her. Hidden by the murk, they jeered and grunted, the sounds unlike any animal known on earth. She waited. The cacophony increased as her enemies closed in. Still she waited. Branches snapped and cracked like gunshot under a battalion of stomping feet. How could one fend off a multitude?

Billie waited and waited, until it seemed as if her enemies were on top of her. Then she kissed the tiny crucifix about her neck, and let loose with her surprise. She flicked several switches on the box in her hands. The crescent-shaped lawn lit up under dozens of floodlights hung from the trees, revealing drifts of insect shells, mummified wildlife and shrivelling grass. The sprinklers spurted awake to douse the huge black-skinned demons forming a blockade five-deep beyond the trees. The distinctive petroleum odour of napalm spread on the air.

These were not the emaciated specimens of my nightmare – their single purpose was to fight. Half a body taller than the tallest man, their hides were plated by knobbly, armoured skin, horned skulls combined with lethal tusks thrusting from bottom jaws. Long, thickly roped arms tipped by jagged meat-ripping talons ploughed the ground when they moved. They were the ugliest, most dangerous-looking things I'd ever seen. Those at the front stared greedily with red eyes at the lone soldier and opened fang-lined maws to roar in ear-shattering unison, flinging drool far and wide.

The woman wore a flamethrower belted over her shoulder. She deftly swung it around and ejected a stream of fire. The creatures contorted and crackled in the conflagration, their battle screams cut short in a stench of charred flesh. Foliage ignited, adding to the blaze, but for every ghastly opponent she crisped, another took its place.

Defiant snarls mingled with the squeals of the burning. Once the flamethrower was spent she tossed it aside. Billie triggered explosives buried about the clearing from her electronic box, each blast a deafening shower of soil and torn flesh. The numerous demon corpses vanished where they fell, cratered land and piles of grey dust the only residue of their demise.

It was obvious from the beginning the gladiator would not win. Her enemies were simply too many. She lobbed grenades, and when none remained, turned to the guns, emptied magazines littering the ground. I realised with dread that Billie's brave efforts were little more than a stalling tactic across the long night. This was a deliberate sacrifice aimed at buying Raphaela the time she needed to prepare for the coming of the Crone.

The battle finished with hand-to-hand combat. Billie's spinning blades scythed into the horde like threshers through wheat. She was a phenomenal fighter; mixed 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 stuff 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 minor wrestle, he took possession of the remote and dialled it down. Damn. Now I really had to face the music. Smithy yawned loudly and stretched, cueing that I could not stall forever.

"That was the best night's rest I've had in ages. Well, after all the screaming and humming." He smiled expectantly, waiting for me to explain said screaming and humming.

"Six hours of sleep is hardly refreshing. Ten, maybe." I took a large bite of Danish, although it proved a challenge to choose between the yummy custard and the boy. "Can't talk, eating," I mumbled through food, working to put off breaking the spell until necessary. As an added bonus I was free to discreetly gawk while he talked. I should have chosen a skimpier gown for him.

"Well, I'll tell you the rest of my story then, shall I?" Smithy looked guilt-ridden; it was plain even as he hid behind his coffee cup.

"There's more?" I gulped, hoping for a denial.

The same misty expression I'd seen on several occasions lately scudded his features. "Promise you won't get cranky?"

"You used to say that every time you did something I wouldn't like."

He visibly steeled himself. "My hours of waking have been getting longer and longer. I can't sleep now for more than four hours at a stretch, sometimes fewer. But I don't feel tired. In fact, I can't burn off all the energy I have. And believe me, Bear, I give it a good crack. Today is the first time in months I haven't been jumping out of my skin." It was almost the only way he could wear less.

"None of the parkour regulars can keep up with me anymore and I've gone through about five personal trainers. They all quit once they discovered they're not fit or strong enough to coach me. One of them got real snippy when he couldn't up my weights any higher, suggested I sign up for the Olympics."

He wasn't boasting. He seemed as bewildered by this revelation as I was. "I work-out for hours and it doesn't make a difference. I don't get fatigued. I've never told anyone this, but I don't need to use the studio winch on blocks of marble anymore. If I can get my arms around them, I can pick them up. And, if I hurt myself, I heal so fast it's unnatural. Just like you do."

"Wow. I'm not angry. I'm impressed."

I truly was. And scared. Smithy scrutinised me, anticipating a comment. When I failed to speak, he beckoned me closer. He slid the robe from my shoulder and prised the padding from the injury, his fingers caressing my skin in delicious spirals. His face was close enough to mine that I could taste the powdered sugar on his breath.

"Perfectly healed. Not a scratch."

He readjusted the robe and tossed the bandage into my bin by my dresser. The disappointment when he moved away was surprisingly intense. It was disconcerting how yearning for his touch dominated anything else, especially considering the creepiness invading my days evidently infected his too. He misinterpreted my frown.

"That's just the start of it. Be patient with me, Winnie. I'm better at sketching stuff than describing it with words. Telling you this is the hardest thing I've ever done." He rifled his hair. "It probably started around the time you left, so slowly in the beginning I barely noticed. I know it sounds crazy, but I think it's all connected. My tattoos began to fade and no amount of touch-up brought them back. The ink just failed to stick." He shrugged. "And dye wouldn't take to my hair anymore."

How could there be more? Hadn't there been enough?

"The first time I obliterated my parkour buddies on a run was the morning after I had the earliest vision of you. A year ago at school in Europe." His eyes explored my face. Unable to digest his words, I remained stubbornly blank and he hurried on. "One night as I was falling asleep, this amazingly clear image of you leaving the grounds of an Austrian castle came to mind. I've never seen anyone more forlorn. I honestly thought about hopping on a plane and coming to take you home."

The pain of those memories stirred awake. After the first year of abject despair at boarding school, I accepted once and for all I was there until the end of my education. It took some time for my coping skills to kick in. In the here and now, I'd lost my appetite, even for cake, and placed the half-eaten Danish on the saucer in my lap.

"Pathetic, huh?"

"No." He grabbed my hand, holding fast. "You had a special place when it got too much, the hassling and the bitchiness. The loneliness. That git Jenkins treating you as though you were mentally retrograde. What a muppet. If only he had a clue how you spent your free hours."

I clung to that aspect of his story because it was the only part I understood. I'd found my sanctuary through desperation. When the weather herded students indoors like so many cattle in a pen, outside of the Academy became my only escape. The sympathy etched on Smithy's lovely face made me feel even more pitiful, no matter how much he denied it.

"I've never seen anyone wear so many clothes."

"I detest the cold."

"You'd been hauled over the coals by your bungling principal for something." He stared off, as though looking into my past. "You trundled from the school and headed up the mountain. I guessed it was the change of seasons, winter forming patches of snow on the ground and ice crystals hanging from the trees in the forest. It was rough going and I worried that you'd slip. But you never did.

"It was the weirdest thing, Bear. It was so real! I could hear you breathing and smell the pine resin, hear the calls of migrating birds overhead, feel the frigid air on my skin. Or maybe I was feeling it on yours, who knows? I spent a lot of time thinking my drink was spiked at dinner. I can tell you what you were wearing, how your hair was, even name your perfume. It was like I was there with you. Booze dulled the reception, if that's what you'd call it, so I stopped drinking in the months after."

I blinked in surprise – funny how this last titbit snared my focus, perhaps because everything else was too enormous and slippery to grasp. "You gave up drinking because of me?"

"I gave up drinking _for_ you." He smiled tenderly and removed my neglected breakfast plate to my nightstand, tucking the sheets about me and getting comfortable on his side, his head propped on an elbow facing me.

"You came to a rocky outcrop that sat high over the valley. The view was spectacular. It looked like a Christmas card, the little village below was all snow-covered roofs and flickering lights. It's where you did most of your thinking, perched on that rock. Over time you brought a thermos and music with you, sometimes food or a book, and it seemed to me that finding your place signalled the turning point in your depression. What happened? Why did you change?"

It felt odd to be the object of such interest. No one usually asked me questions about myself. I answered uncertainly, hoping I didn't sound as self-absorbed as all those kids at the Academy who rattled on blindly, as if their yawn-worthy lives deserved the Nobel Prize for fascinating.

"I decided not to be a victim. Bea says we belong to each other despite the miles between us. It's true. I've always been loved and treated as special. I came to feel sorry for some of the kids around me, raised by a series of nannies. Their parents viewed them like trendy collectable trinkets or worse, runners in a boasting marathon. They were far more alone and alienated than me. All their acting out was just attention seeking, trying to fill the void."

"That's big of you, Winnie. I saw those kids. A couple of them made Hannibal Lecter seem tame. That Mallory, what a hellhound. But watching you handle them..." He beamed, clutching my hand harder and bending to brush his lips across my knuckles. "Ingenious guerrilla warfare," he murmured.

My cheeks prickled and I knew they were the same shade as a stop sign. "I should have found better ways to deal with bullies than by retaliating with their own weapons." I gently extracted my hand. "I'm the worst hypocrite."

His stubborn expression said he didn't agree and he snatched my hand back. His eyes twinkled with respect and my blush deepened.

"On weekends you trekked by train or bus to libraries, museums, art galleries. I topped Art in the HSC because of the things you showed me. You shopped and went sightseeing, to obscure little places off the usual tourist maps. I got to travel Europe without even leaving my lounge room. The judge worried I had a neurological condition or a drug addiction. I could sit still for hours staring into space, watching you. He'd come home sometimes and I hadn't even bothered to turn on the lights."

"So you've been stalking me?"

He smiled. "Never even set foot in the same country as you. But you did have a stalker over there. You weren't alone, Winnie. You were never alone."

"Oh, what?" I scoffed. It was easy for him to say, while he'd been over here in the sunshine with friends, family and the freedom to be who he was. I placed his hand over my heart, my tone mocking. "You were with me here, the whole time?"

He laughed and scooted closer. "As much as I wanted to be, no. Not quite, anyway." His face fell. " _He_ was. I guess for the entire two years, shadowing you wherever you went. I was so envious that he got to be near you—"

"What are you talking about? Who got to be near me?" Please, not that Seth character. He was a recent affliction.

"Hugo. Sipping short black coffees and reading the _Afrikaner_ , while you traipsed up and down Italian alleys. Up a tree with binoculars when you went running in the woods. Flitting from statue to statue in the Louvre, like some crappy secret agent in a B-grade film. Need I go on?"

So that explained how Bird was familiar with Hugo. My mouth hung open, this new disclosure the height of... annoyance. Yes, that was the emotion – extreme irritation. Relentless eyes spying on me! I was used to being monitored at home, but I believed I'd gained a modicum of privacy at boarding school, of all places. I was tired of being wrong.

"Well, this has been a lovely little chat," I said, my temper rising. "We've discovered that spying on me is not just a favourite pastime of my guardians. You watch me. Hugo watches me. And you watch Hugo watching me. How do any of you get anything done?" I glared at Smith, feeling horribly violated. "And what perspective do you see me from, Smith? In the mirror?" Dare I ask? "In the shower?"

"No. I've never seen you indecent! Not counting this morning's exceptional outfit." He grinned, but dropped it hastily at my scowl. "Mostly I look outwards, as though through your eyes. If I want to, I can pan around and see your surrounds."

"That includes me."

"But—"

I wasn't appeased by his protests of innocence. "I just have to take your word for it? That you've never peeked." It felt as though he'd pawed through my underwear drawer or spy-holed my bathroom.

Smith struggled to explain. "Okay. I could if I chose to. But I don't and I won't. I swear, Winnie. I've only ever seen you do things that make me realise how incredible you are. How self-contained, independent and brave. You never back down. You're not afraid of people who aim to intimidate."

"Flattery is not going to distract me. I want your blood promise you haven't peeked, nor will you ever!"

We hadn't made such a pledge since our early teens, but that didn't mean it wasn't the highest show of loyalty and honesty I could think of. Even so, I wasn't certain I trusted him. The memory of Tiffany yesterday morning kept flashing my mind, telling me how 'hot' things got, even though her word was as valued as spent toilet paper. But this new Smithy was a person I'd only recently met, and the force of my feelings for him had me out of sorts and mixed up.

And now, our relationship was completely unbalanced and not in my favour. He knew everything about me from these past two years, yet I knew almost nothing about what he'd been doing. Maybe he was in cahoots with Hugo, who told him about my loser existence at boarding school. But that explanation depended upon mutual communication and the dislike Smith had for him was real, or I was a normal person.

In the last few days, the ground supporting my orderly, manageable world had turned to quicksand. My own perceptions and judgements were totally unfaithful.

How could I rely on anyone else's?

## Eighteen

"A blood promise it is."

Smithy leaped out of bed, the action so smooth and athletic I was gobsmacked, and ran to the bathroom to return with a razor. He snuggled close and I offered him my thumb, intensely aware of the friction of our flesh. Parts of my body flickered pleasantly, harder and harder to ignore. He made the cuts and we pressed, Smithy enclosing our thumbs in his other hand. The strength of his gaze seized my lungs.

"I swear on everything precious to me that I have never, and will never, look without your permission. If your life is in jeopardy, all bets are off."

"Hey! I didn't agree to that."

He peeled his thumb from mine. "You know, at the start, the jealousy towards that bastard, Hugo, was so bad. I could only get a glimpse of you when you were seriously stressed. The visions didn't happen a lot. I had to wait for them, yet he was with you constantly. It didn't seem fair.

"Then the rollercoaster started. Why did Aunt Bea feel the need to appoint a guardian gargoyle for you? Aside from a few bullies, whose butts you kicked as easily as blinking, where was the risk? Finally, it occurred to me. Maybe you were in some kind of danger. After those early months, I gradually became grateful Hugo was there, keeping you safe. I can't describe the relief now you're home, where I can take care of you."

I was over being coddled, pulling my hand completely free of his grip. Who gave a hoot when they'd shipped me off to boarding school and I really craved the comfort of a friend?

"Poppycock," I snapped. "I don't bloody need all this security. Bea's going senile if that's what she thinks. And I don't want you to take care of me! I am not a toddler."

Competing with the anger, the rash on my wrists grew worse and stung like Chinese burns. I rubbed my arms against my thighs.

"Winnie. What have you done?" Smith, who apparently never missed a thing, grabbed my hands and turned them over for a clearer view of my inner wrists. "You got tattoos?"

On each was the faint outline of a triangle, positioned so one of the points tipped to my fingers. I had seen this design before – frames filled with odd symbols – the triangle from the front of the diary. The same blood-red triangle Raphaela died in. Abruptly, Bea popped her head around my bedroom door, which stood ajar.

"I am pleased to dispel the rumour of my senility, Winsome. Less happy because it means you truly are under threat. If you would both get dressed and meet me downstairs without delay, I'd be most thankful." And then she was gone.

"I hate it when she does that." I began to scoot to the side of the bed, both eager and hesitant to discover what truths they'd finally share.

"Winnie, wait."

I turned back to Smithy. He beckoned me closer and I crawled over. His cheeks were pink and he looked edgy. "I, um, think we need a better way to make a pledge."

Considering this for a moment, I nodded and lay against the bedhead. "Okay. As long as it involves less pain, not more."

He wriggled up from his flat position to face me, delicately adjusting my robe so I was fully covered. We were almost nose to nose. If only I could nip into the bathroom and clean my teeth, run a comb through my fuzzy, sleep-mussed hair, but there was nothing I could do without ruining the moment.

"I think that's possible."

"What did you have in mind?" I croaked, my pulse accelerating.

His turquoise eyes gazed dreamily into mine, the longing clear in his expression. Shimmying to wrap every bit of me, his arms secured me to his chest and legs entwined mine. And then it truly hit me. Where I was: in my bed next to a dazzling boy, who seemed to genuinely care for me, two flimsy layers of cotton the only barrier to his tantalising bare skin. After all the recent pain and fright, desire seemed the most incongruous reaction, brighter because of the tense circumstances, like a ray of sunshine after weeks of rain.

Bubbling attraction electrified the air between us. He cupped my face and slowly traced a path along my jaw, the fingers of one hand coming to rest beneath my chin. He brought his mouth down to mine so slowly I had plenty of time to take in his long lashes and notice the flecks of amber in his irises. The anticipation was so sweet, I ached for the moment of contact. I almost couldn't breathe.

"I have waited so long to do this properly," he whispered.

He moved to feather his slightly parted lips against mine, so softly at first it tickled. His eyes closed. I reacted automatically, trailing my fingers up his spine until my arms wrapped about him. I folded myself harder into his warmth, rubbing his strong back, one hand tangling in his hair. I lightly followed the contour of his mouth with my tongue, hungry for the experience, enjoying the sweetness of him and conscious of our skimpy outfits.

The pressure of our kiss increased, mouths a little wider, lips caressing urgently. It was the most tender lingering sensation that made me yearn for more. Heat blistered through my body, our inhalations shallow. I flattened myself closer, tugging the robe apart to trace the sensuous ripples of his bare chest. I did not want to stop, greedy for every bit of him. He abruptly pulled back.

I gasped at the interruption. "Why are we stopping?"

"Geez, Bear! I didn't expect you to be so... so great at it, straight away." Completely flustered, his shoulders heaved and he struggled for composure.

Should I be insulted or complimented? "Why didn't you think I'd be good?"

My enthusiasm fizzled. Removing my hands from his torso, Smith placed them in my lap and pulled the robe about himself, lashing the belt and knotting it for good measure. "Well, you know. You haven't had much experience."

"And how would you know?" I had a bad feeling about this.

"Well, I told you. I get flashes of you when you're agitated."

Holy mother! I warped from bliss to mortification at the speed of light. "Well I'm spectacularly agitated now! How many angles are you getting this from?"

"It doesn't happen when I'm actually with you. And it wasn't my choice to see it. You with another guy. Believe me. My punching bag copped an extra work-out." His expression merged exasperation and awkwardness. "Making-out for you seemed boring, an experiment or a chore." I couldn't dredge a grain of sympathy and glared at him.

"Luckily, it was only twice and you ended it quickly. That lowlife in the movie theatre got what he deserved. I would've broken more than his hand." He glowered mutinously. "But I want your first time to be something you remember forever, something special. Not a backseat grope with a clueless schmuck who's too dumb to appreciate the beautiful girl he's with."

I'd never seen Smithy so indignant. My face slackened from glare to stare.

"I want you to want it to be with me. And it'll be my first time not drunk-out-of-my-mind and thankful not to remember in the morning. My first time with someone I actually want to be with." He squared his shoulders, gathering courage as though preparing to dive from a tall cliff. "My first time with the only girl I've ever loved."

Smith gulped, watching me keenly, while hope blossomed on his divine face. It was not difficult to let the last two sentences wipe out everything I'd endured since arriving home. The joy overwhelmed and I took a deep breath, ready to share how elated I felt.

"Winsome, please. Time is of the essence."

Bea sounded desperate, her voice a distant echo from somewhere in the warehouse below. Alarmed, Smithy jumped from the bed, hurrying towards the door. "We'll talk later. I'll meet you in the corridor as soon as I'm dressed." He smiled over his shoulder. "You'd better get dressed too, or I won't be able to concentrate on anything other than you. I have a feeling what comes next is very important."

I sighed once he'd jogged from my room. I had that same feeling too and the understanding brought on black despair because once the facts were out, I could not deny the horror of what was coming anymore.

Avoiding shards of broken glass from my shattered wardrobe mirror, I skirted to my drawers on the opposite side of my room to rummage my hidden stash of clothes banned by Fortescue. I'd had to rescue my favourite lucky t-shirt from the bin on several occasions, its motto: 'Get Funked'. I really needed all the luck I could get. Hugo's abandoned cot ran along the wall, forlorn without its owner. It was weird I had so quickly accepted his presence, after my initial complaint. I wished again that he was here.

Donning a daggy pair of drawstring shorts, I dawdled on the edge of my bed slowly lacing moth-eaten Converse sneakers. Their original red suede was now scuffed and faded. Picking my way over crunching glass, I shunned my reflection in the bathroom mirror and cleaned my teeth. I pulled my hair back in a messy bun. I'd never had to dress up for Smith and wasn't about to start. Now there was even less point, given that he could sweep in on me via psychic CCTV at any opportunity.

Then I wasted more time opening the window shades. A bleak grey sky emerged to signal an imminent downpour, the weather matching my mood. With no further excuse for delay, I eventually made my way to the top of the stairs, where Smithy loitered in boardies and a singlet, the embodiment of beach-bronzed Aussie male splendour. He inspected my t-shirt approvingly, his eyes lingering to read its message. I sucked in my tummy.

"Maybe later." He winked and captured my hand in his.

We descended the steps into the collection hall in silence, my palm sweaty in his, neither of us brave enough to speculate on what came next. Smithy grimaced as we skirted a collection of thumbscrews in a lit display case, heading for Mike in the central space. Up ahead, partially obscured by the slab of granite forming our angel's plinth, Mrs Paget and Fortescue could be glimpsed lurking by two golden Doric caducei framed in a cross on the landing wall, just inside the entrance.

These were the staffs carried by ancient ambassadors, the entwined snakes and wings of Hermes now a symbol for medicine. Double full-sized onyx statues of Isis, Egyptian goddess of children, and her husband-brother Osiris, god of the afterlife, guarded either side of the door. Ritual chalices were shelved in upright display cabinets, which made a parade heading up to the steps.

"As Brigadier General for the Royal Regiment, Fifth Battalion, I exercise my right to carry a bayonet." Fortescue's voice floated our way.

Mrs Paget grunted permissively. "In that case, I'm bringing my slingshot."

Bea appeared from a side corridor, sliding a bullet cartridge into the gun she carried and chambering a round, before tucking it away in a holster strapped to her waist. Smith and I gave each other incredulous sideways looks as we approached. The cats paced up and down at the door.

"Please do not start, Jerome. A bayonet is rather conspicuous on modern city streets. And if you insist on dragging out one of those moth-eaten uniforms, I really shall follow through on my threat to burn them. I feel a slingshot is redundant, Grace, given the revolver belted beneath your vest."

Fortescue sniffed. "It is alright when you wish to gallivant about with a crossbow, Beatrice."

"Oh, for goodness sakes. This, from someone with a collection of axes. Besides, that was two hundred years ago in Lithuania. Crossbows were considered a fashion accessory back then."

Mrs Paget cleared her throat in warning as we appeared. They were all dressed in dark, comfortable clothing, fit for stealth. I pretended I'd heard and seen nothing. I could not begin to guess what Smithy pretended. We cleared the collection and joined the five of them.

"Ah. The lady of the hour. Show us your Deltas, Winsome." What the hell was a Delta? Fortescue's lips pursed when he spotted my t-shirt. "That horrid top seems to be a boomerang. It has a habit of resurfacing, despite the fact I've thrown it in the garbage. Several times."

"I guess it's magic," I smirked.

"A sense of humour in times of strife is one of you most redeeming qualities, Winnie." Aunt Bea smiled at me, her face haggard and deeply etched by new lines. Silver streaked her crimson bob.

I looked in horror from one to the other. This close, they were all visibly withered, lacking flesh to fill out their skin, which suddenly seemed three sizes too big. Old age ravaged their previously spry bodies, Mrs Paget's spine so crooked that she was forced to peep up from a hunch.

A chill froze my blood. "What has happened to you? How can we stop it!" Smithy stepped closer, his gentle touch at the small of my back. Tears flooded my eyes. In the scant span of two days they were rushing abnormally quickly towards death.

"Winnie," Bea said gently. "No one lives forever." The grief consumed me and I could not speak. "I am sorry for the subterfuge of the past few days. Some things are better learned through experience rather than talking."

I wanted to call an ambulance, not hang in the foyer speaking in riddles. But whatever affliction wreaked havoc on my guardians' health did not seem the kind of thing handled by normal doctors. It was an altogether unnatural scourge. Mrs Paget and Fortescue came down the stairs and stood with Bea in an expectant half-circle around Smithy and I, their faces united in compassion – compassion targeting the two of us. That in their suffering they reserved pity for us was alarming. And I could no longer hide behind false ignorance and denial, forced to finally confront my suspicions. Dragging in a breath to still my nerves, I broke the silence.

"Please tell me what this is all about."

Bea's gaze did not waver from me when she said, "Grace?" Mrs Paget shuffled forward, reaching out both of her hands, palms to the ceiling. It took only a moment for me to understand what she wanted. I lay my wrists with the tattoos upright in the curve of her frail fingers. Bea continued, "Do you remember who a Keeper is, Winsome? What she does?"

I nodded apprehensively. Smithy peered down over my shoulder, watching Mrs Paget keenly. He radiated the clean smell of floral soap and the ocean, his strong presence the single familiar and reassuring aspect of the drama engulfing my existence. I could not shake a sense of mounting doom. "The Keeper hides the Stone from its owner."

"Yes," Bea said. "But a Keeper's true strength resides in her ability to conceal _anything_ that promises to benefit her enemies."

Mrs Paget peeked up at me with a loving smile. Slowly, she rotated my wrists together until the tattoos met. As soon as the triangles made contact, she flickered and blinked out. Just like that, she vanished completely.

I yelled unintelligibly and jerked from her hold, lurching rearwards into the iron wall of Smithy. Scuttling to the side, I put some distance between myself and all of them, glaring from one to the other and battling not to hyperventilate. Mrs Paget had returned to view once I'd pulled from her grasp. Smith stared at me, his mouth agape, which appeared to be the only reaction he could muster.

"It can't be real!" Gulping, I forced the words out.

"I wish that were so, Winnie." Bea gazed at me with infinite kindness, which somehow made everything worse.

I pointed at her accusingly, backing farther away. "It's not real. _Please._ Tell me it's not real."

Hitting a tall gilt chalice on its pillar, the lot rocked perilously before settling. None of my guardians had moved a muscle to catch the priceless cup, which spoke volumes on their priorities right now.

"You cannot deny your birthright, Winsome. No matter how all of us want it to be otherwise, you are the Last Keeper of the Crone's Stone," Fortescue spoke softly, his brow puckered.

"And you're the Sacred Trinity," I whispered, not sure whether I should laugh hysterically or run screaming into heavy traffic. Which meant Smithy was... But there was only so much one fraught mind could take.

Fortescue cleared his throat. "Beatrice, _tempus fugit_."

She nodded at him. "Yes, Winnie. Like you, we are the only ones who remain. And if we do not fix your predecessor's mistakes with utmost alacrity, I fear disaster will befall us all."

She beckoned me closer, but I maintained my stance. My heartbeat pounded too loudly and a cold sweat beaded my lip. Who were they, really? Who had I just become? I wanted to rewind time to a week ago when my biggest issues were avoiding Mallory and staving off frostbite. This new trouble was too huge a departure from normality. My mind spun, unable to gain traction on the truth of my aunt's words. I knew the three of them weren't lying to me this time and I had seen, or rather, _not seen_ , Mrs Paget with my own eyes. But the experience tore a rift through rationality, fracturing all I'd ever held sacred.

Did stars still twinkle in the heavens or had they ripped free to rain down on the earth like plummeting comets? Would the sun rise tomorrow and set beyond the horizon at day's end as it always had, or would the moon take its place? Accepting the significance of my heritage shredded logic so that I'd never fully trust myself or anyone or anything else ever again. Demons roamed the globe, dressed in everyday clothes, forging hell-bound bargains with the unwary. An enemy more foul than any I could conjure stalked our wake in figure-hugging red leather. In a matter of seconds, the world had become a more wicked place, a place in which it was impossible to fathom my new role. My unfortunate birth had sealed my fate.

I wasn't ready for any of it and never would be. Strangely, admitting to myself that such a point of preparation was unlikely to eventuate was calming. Fighting destiny was futile, so I opted for my default coping mechanism: box each problem separately and deal with a little piece at a time. Who knew Mr Jenkins' advice to compartmentalise would end up so useful? I regained a tenuous grip on my mental faculties, although my spasming lungs and heaving stomach were slow to get on board.

"What can we do?" Smithy – ever the pragmatist – asked Bea.

"Hugo is a loose canon. If he has been taken by Anathema, then our situation is dire. The warehouse would no longer offer camouflage and we must flee. We have to locate him as quickly as possible."

"Let us go after him." I don't know what I expected after the ominous announcement. Thunderbolts? Lightning. Shock and awe? But nothing seemed different. My voice sounded the same, if croaky and distraught. "You stay and rest. Recover, get better," I begged.

"Come here, Winsome." Bea spread her arms wide.

I ran into her embrace, burying my face in the nape of her neck and working hard to stifle a sob. Her bones were so fine and brittle beneath my grasp. She hugged me tightly, enveloping me in lavender scent, aware in her usual instinctual manner that what I needed most was human contact. Enough had been said. After all, what good could more information achieve? Of course, no one ever heeded my opinion and I was often wrong.

"You cannot venture outside until you've claimed the Stone." Bea ruined any slight comfort. The prospect of claiming stones or other mystifying upcoming ordeals were best pushed to the very deepest, dankest nook in my warehouse of boxed problems. "Unless we find a way, the Stone's evil influence grows and seeks you especially, the embodiment of those who have thwarted its mistress across centuries. Your fear becomes real, feeding the demons that inhabit Finesse's nether world. They are attracted by terror, increasingly stronger and able to break the barriers between dimensions. You must remain calm, Winsome. And think only happy thoughts."

"We'll stay indoors," Smith said firmly. "I know where."

_Happy thoughts?_ Unbelievable! "No! I can't let you go out like this."

The cats howled, their pacing furious. Mrs Paget tenderly extracted me from Bea's embrace, getting up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. It seemed extremely poor form to fight someone so fragile. She gestured for Smithy, who circled my waist in an unbreakable loop. I glared at him over my shoulder. "We can't allow this!"

His expression twisted in remorse. "We have no choice."

The urge to oppose my imprisonment was strong, but Bea would disapprove of such a loss of dignity. In any case, there was no possibility of a successful mutiny against their unified front. I sagged in Smithy's hold.

"We would not leave you defenceless, Winsome. Remember, the Crone is not the only one who is powerful."

With an encouraging nod, Mrs Paget moved away to complete arrangements for their quest, while I battled that stubborn queasy sensation and pondered what dubious power I possessed. So far, it had been doggedly absent and I couldn't foresee an occasion during which it would suddenly manifest. Mrs Paget's disappearing trick didn't seem an act I'd been responsible for. In any case, I didn't think I could do it again. I didn't know how.

"You are not merely a Keeper, if such a one can be referred to as 'mere'. You are the last, Winsome. We feel certain you will be most special," Fortescue said. He added, "Not that you aren't already."

He winked, before turning to the task at hand. Fortescue actually winked, which attained a new level of bizarre. If that was even possible in these circumstances.

"All you need to know is in your diary on the kitchen table. I encourage you to read it thoroughly," Bea said.

On the platform by the front door, Fortescue and Mrs Paget hefted large hikers' backpacks containing who knew what, readying to leave. Her tiny body was swamped, the pack towering over her stooped form. Reed thin, Fortescue barely withheld an arthritic groan at the weight of his burden. In response, I barely withheld a scream of frustration at their obstinacy.

"Oh, and Vegas? I have conferred with the judge." Aunt Bea shouldered her own pack, knowing better than to refer to the man in question as Smithy's father. "He is under the impression you and Winsome have taken a getaway on a yacht in the Whitsundays to celebrate her arrival home. It is not a misapprehension of which I felt obliged to disabuse him."

"Thank you, Aunt Bea."

He wore the bemused look of one who'd come to doubt all he'd ever held true. Or possibly, he wrangled with Bea's last sentence. She firmly clasped Smithy's hand in both of hers, gazing over at me.

"I love you, Winsome. Please be careful. I cannot emphasise this enough: do not leave the warehouse."

"I love you too, Aunt Bea." I nearly cried with the force of feeling. "You be more careful. Bring yourselves and Hugo back, safe and sound."

And then the doors glided open. My guardians hobbled from the warehouse after the cats. Out into a sinister day that tainted my future in ways I could never begin to imagine, and promised to steal every person I'd ever loved.

## Nineteen

"You can let me go. I won't run after them," I said flatly. The absence of my minders left me in despair. What if they never returned? The cool of the huge hall dimpled my flesh and I shivered.

"We'll find a way to fix what's wrong, Winnie. I promise." Smithy's grip relaxed and I squirmed free, pivoting angrily to confront him.

"You'd better find that way fast, or it'll be too late for Bea and Fortescue and Mrs Paget." My voice hitched. "You should have agreed with me, Vegas." I prodded the hardness of his chest. He didn't raise a hand to stop me, taking small rearward steps on each shove. "We could have argued together against their going out on this mad mission to find Hugo. They're sick and elderly! What chance do they have in a confrontation?" Had Anathema come to collect their wayward assassin? Or did my guardians face some other ill-defined threat?

Smith visibly wilted. "Bea says my task above any other is to protect you and keep you from harm—"

The warehouse proximity alert burst awake to drown him out. We both stood transfixed by the door's shiny facade, as if live cobras might writhe from the exterior at any moment. Metal seemed too puny against shadowy supernatural forces. I shuddered to think of tiny Mrs Paget on the opposite side, totally exposed and helpless.

"Come on." Smith snatched my wrist, before I could act on instinct and dive for the door. He dragged me bodily behind him through the collection.

"You're overreacting, Smith," I yelled above the bleat of the siren, striving to believe my own fib. It was that or panic, which was obviously a sub-par option. "Vagrants sometimes shelter in the entranceway." I jogged to keep from tripping. "Or mistake it for a urinal."

He grunted sceptically and kept us barrelling through the obstacle course at a rapid pace. We reached the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"Surveillance suite. To check for _vagrants_."

"I know where it is, Smith. I can walk on my own."

"Fine," he said, thin-lipped.

He pressed himself to the wall at the base of the stairs, indicating I go on up ahead so he could block any attempt at escape. We would need to work on those trust issues.

The small surveillance suite was on the same floor as the apartments, furthest from the kitchen and in the corner of the balcony opposite the entrance. I stomped inside, pursued by an even grumpier Smith. We seated ourselves in front of a bank of monitors, which showed both the exterior and interior of the warehouse from different perspectives.

I flicked the alert off and blissful silence ensued. Resetting the alarm from the console desk, Smith remotely panned the camera that covered a small section of street surrounding the porch and recessed doorway.

"See," I said with a tone of satisfaction. "Empty."

He ignored me and leaned in close to the screens, rewinding and slowly forwarding the footage from a few minutes earlier. We watched my guardians' progress a short distance along the alleyway, the cats streaking ahead, before their images simply faded. I blinked in confusion. Rain pelted down, whipped in gusts funnelled by the buildings. Maybe the summer storm had tricked my senses.

"Did you see that?" I asked Smith. "They just sort of vanished."

My qualms returned. Maybe Mrs Paget had actually tricked me with some type of optical illusion? It was a desperate grab at a last splinter of reason. I was unable to submit entirely to the truth Hugo had told me to seek in my heart. Yet now my hyper-aware perceptions: sight, and hearing, and navigating easily in a pitch-black warren of hallways made sense.

Hugo had known what I was. The... _Keeper_. That fact had probably put him in terrible danger when he'd gone searching for me. I could not deal with the consequences – whatever foul thing happened to him was my fault. Even worse, my reckless disobedience had compelled my guardians to follow him out onto the forbidding streets.

Smithy nodded in reply without breaking focus, irritably pushing blond strands from his eyes. I yearned to be more like him, sitting there assessing the situation, ready for action without obsessing over matters he could not change. Shadows seethed in the falling gloom. The relief my guardians had at least made it safely from whoever had triggered the alert was short-lived. The more I squinted, the more alive the abnormal blackness became. It was as though a fist unfurled and flexed at the extremity of my vision.

Smith stiffened. "That's the silhouette of a person."

He pointed, tracing an outline on the screen. The smoky blob was tricky to make out in the grey drear, but could have been a hooded individual hovering at the edge of the camera's range.

"It's a tad warm for winter sweats at this time of year. We're stressed out and imagining things," I reasoned, frantic in my opposition.

Smithy swivelled to me in his chair. This was not the carefree boy I'd come to know, whose characteristic response used to be an indifferent shrug.

"Why are you making this so hard, Bear? Whoever's out there, they aren't known to us and shouldn't be loitering around your front door. Do you really believe the timing is a coincidence? I think we're in deep trouble."

I agreed with him, but said instead. "You don't want to know what I believe." I didn't want to believe it, either.

As soon as Smithy's attention left the blurred image, it immediately clarified. A face stared up at me from the display, more distinct in this instant than the first time I'd seen him crashing to a halt on the floor of Raphaela's study. In the actual flesh, he was even more rapturously beautiful. Time stretched again, suspending the second until it seemed like minutes.

"Seth," I breathed.

"I am coming for you, Keeper," he sneered. A yell of shock strangled in my throat. How could he possibly know where we lived?

His arctic blue eyes entranced. His gaze probed my deepest secrets until a blush crept the length of my body. With it came goosebumps, most obvious through my stretched t-shirt. I reflexively crossed my arms over my incriminating chest. Slithery fingers fondled and taunted, a furnace inside blazing against my will. If Smith was sensuous lay-me-down-in-a-big-brass-feather-bed, Seth was brute passion take-me-against-the-wall-of-an-alley. And then he was gone as suddenly as he appeared, his image replaced by true static. Time snapped back like elastic.

Grabbing me by the shoulders, Smithy loomed close. "Him?" I nodded weakly. "How does he know where you are?" He echoed my silent question, his jaw clenched. "I knew we shouldn't have trusted that bastard Hugo. We need weapons."

"Seth sided with Raphaela. Finesse tortured him. Surely he's not a threat to us?"

"Maybe not us." Smith looked at me with loaded urgency. "You. Where do your guardians sleep?"

He yanked me from my seat and carted me physically out the door, one arm wrapping my waist. I was rapidly tiring of this mode of transport. But Smith's concern also triggered deep shame, weakening any resistance I could muster.

Seth touched me in ways he shouldn't, yet how was I to blame? How could I fight him when he hadn't even been in the room? His weapon was lust from a distance and he wielded it with perfect precision. The occasion to read that diary had long since passed. I needed to get hold of it and find out exactly who or what we were dealing with.

The passage we negotiated housed Fortescue and Mrs Paget's rooms, jutting towards the front of our building at a right angle from the entrance below. "Straight ahead, the third and fourth doors along."

While we trundled past two storage rooms, sealed doors keeping the worst of Bea's gruesome collection safely hidden, Smithy fumbled through the Velcro pocket of his board shorts, wrenching out my mobile phone.

"Is that where they keep their guns?"

"What?" I yelped. "Before today, I didn't even know my guardians had any. And do you know how to use one without accidentally shooting a kneecap?"

A thought nagged just beyond my awareness. Something to do with weapons, but what? He propelled me along, waving the phone up high like the Statue of Liberty.

"I'm calling Aunt Bea. She has to know he's here." He banged the mobile against his thigh, waving it angrily about some more. "No signal," he muttered. "The same as last time at the studio." Smithy shoved the phone back in his pocket. "We're on our own."

"It could be the storm?" I said with slim hope.

"Have you ever been in your minders' rooms?" We stopped outside Fortescue's thick wooden door, shut fast, and he peered down at me.

"Uh-uh. When I was seven years old, I accidentally got locked in the portable sensory deprivation chamber and almost suffocated. It's why I'm claustrophobic. So ever since we've had rooms that I'm restricted from because they contain dangerous items." And other rooms I refused to visit because of my fear of enclosed spaces beneath tonnes of crushing earth.

Smithy nodded triumphantly. "That's exactly where they keep their guns."

Thoughts scrambled in my head, a single desperate hope popping to the forefront. "Seth can't get in here. We're okay if we stay inside."

"I'm not taking any chances. And there's definitely one place Fortescue told me to go to if we were ever threatened. But I'm not hiding you down there unarmed." Down? My tummy constricted. He smiled grimly and flourished his hand like a game show host. "Lead the way, sulky-pants."

I turned the knob, reefing open the door with false bravado. "I'll show you sulky-pants."

"Not your best outfit. I prefer the pink lacy version."

"Funny," I said.

"Not trying to be funny, just honest."

I offered a disparaging "Hmph." to cover my blush. We stepped through into the gloom, delaying in the doorway as our vision adjusted. My curiosity ignited, temporarily overriding any worries about wolves on my porch, or loved ones at risk, or descents below ground.

Fortescue's apartment made a lie of every opinion I'd ever formed about him. Instead of monk-like austerity, my butler favoured visual overload. His rooms were decorated with intricately embroidered tapestries lining three walls; utterly astounding copies of famous paintings, finely wrought in richly coloured thread.

Smithy gaped as he circled the hangings, barely pausing long enough in his search to check off their titles. I knew the artist in him was craving a chance to linger. The fact he didn't was a more telling sign of our dire situation than anything else.

"Rubens, _The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus_. Titian, _Sacred and Profane Love_. Michelangelo, _The Creation of Adam_. Delacroix, _Algerian Women_. Others I don't recognise. Who could have done these? They're masterpieces."

Encased manuscripts of unknown origin adorned the fourth wall, in languages and scripts I'd never seen. University testamurs lined one side. Two were post-doctoral degrees from Oxford – Ancient Languages and Medieval History – and one from MIT in Metallurgy.

"Smart," Smith said. "Massachusetts Institute of Technology is one of the best in the world. I have a couple of friends on scholarship there."

The furniture was old, of dark cherry wood, the cushions and covers in maroon velvet. Smith pulled out drawers, rifling the contents. Ancient books lay open on the floor and scattered across bedside tables. A violin rested on a stand with notations for a complex composition I could not identify next to it. A sitting room and bathroom led off from the main living area.

"Winnie, behind the walls."

Smith pressed his face against a narrow strip of plaster next to an ornate armoire. The tapestries hung out from the wall on brackets, making a cavity at the rear of Fortescue's bedhead. I tentatively peeked behind an arras. The beauty shielded the viciousness hidden at their backs. Double-edged axes, barbed spears, razored discuses, swords, daggers and blades of infinite description competed for the prize of most barbaric.

"Will one of these do?" I asked.

Smith lifted an eyebrow, moving to rummage hastily through the wardrobe. "You expect me to hack Seth to death with an axe?"

"No!" Of course it was a spectacularly stupid question. "I don't know what to expect. I'm new at this." And that thought about weaponry tried to resurface again, stubbornly just out of mental reach.

"Ditto. His cupboard is full of old military uniforms in vacuum wrapping."

I joined Smith. Some were so antique, they looked as though they'd collapse on contact. "They can't be Fortescue's, surely? I mean, I know he's old, but... Why has he got all these gross weapons?"

He looked over at me with a grimace. "Maybe he likes collecting torture stuff too?"

The sitting room was far less fancy than the outer bedroom, with a well-worn leather recliner occupying a corner, a remote control on the armrest. There was an expensive high-tech stereo built into one wall devoted to an extensive collection of jazz and classical. I used the remote to click on the stereo and a song called 'Danse Macabre' by Camille Saint-Saëns lit the digital display.

"Moving on." Smith began to steer me from the room to the sounds of playful flute and lilting deep-throated cello.

"Wait." A lavishly carved buffet sat along a wall just inside the door leading to the outer area. Decanters cluttered its top, next to a silver tray and three delicate short-stemmed glasses. I popped the cork on one bottle and sniffed in the heady aroma of cinnamon and berries. It was strong stuff, my eyes watered. "I didn't even know he drank."

"I could do with a stiff one right now."

We headed out towards Mrs Paget's suite, and I grew more disappointed at myself with every step. "Smithy, how could I be so blind?" I said bitterly. "How could I live with people I love and have no clue about who they really are? I don't feel like I know them at all."

He glanced at me with sympathy as we arrived at her entrance. "It's usually a fairly standard modern attitude. We're all so wrapped up in our own deals, we forget to really see anything else." Smithy stepped closer and draped an arm across my shoulder to give me an affectionate squeeze. "Or pay attention to anyone except ourselves. But in your case?" He shook his head, reaching to push open the door. "Who'd ever believe you live in a den of aging assassins? Let alone the other stuff. Don't blame yourself for trying to hang on as tight as possible to normal, Bear. Shall we?"

I sighed. The adrenalin of Seth's appearance had faded and I began to question if it had really happened at all. All this rushing about seemed silly when the real issue was how to help Bea and Fortescue and Mrs Paget. Surely, there was some way to fix their condition.

"Do we have to, Smith? Seth's assault on the warehouse seems fairly sluggish. I need to read that diary and see if there's a way to stop my guardians' accelerated aging."

"Reading can wait until we're in the safe room." His sympathy evaporated. "That douche is lulling you into a false sense of security before he pounces. Now, stop procrastinating and help me find a gun."

Douche? Smith's vehemence seemed out of proportion to what we knew of Seth. Did he somehow understand what Seth could do to me from afar? The shame amplified. And we were back to guns.

"Silly," I mumbled. "Can you even kill... whatever he is with a gun?"

"No idea. I'm improvising," he said in a strange tone that immediately grabbed my attention. I followed his gaze over the room from the threshold.

The refined, flowery decor of Laura Ashley celebrated Mrs Paget's green thumb: wallpaper, bedspread, cushions, curtains, all dotted with tiny pastel blooms in rainbow colours. The room was jammed with beautiful orchids, a hothouse of perfume and vibrancy. But that was not what had him stunned.

I cautiously pushed further inside, following his gaze. Lining the walls or propped on shelves were glass-fronted, fat frames containing dried plants, seeds and beans, all neatly labelled in tiny handwriting.

"Mrs Paget favours poisons," he said.

"Poisons?" I frowned. "How do you know they're not exotic food ingredients? Mrs Paget loves to cook."

"Oh, they're exotic all right. But it would be better to go hungry if she made you something with this lot. Take that one." He pointed to the picture-box over my right shoulder where globes of tiny, white stellate flowers were pressed on black paper.

"Pretty. Looks innocent enough."

He made his 'oh really' face, which meant I was about to seem very dumb. "Hemlock. Coniine extracted from that species was used to execute Socrates."

"Ahh," I nodded for want of a better response. "Well, it's still pretty. I suppose death by toxin's not worse than Fortescue's preference for dismemberment."

Smithy made a funny little choking sound. Recipes of a far more lethal type than I was used to cooking with Mrs Paget were scrawled in white crayon next to their preserved source. I listed them out loud, moving from one to the next along the wall over her dresser.

"Oxalic acid from boiled rhubarb leaves. Five kilograms of leaves yields twenty-five grams to cause death. Remind me to steer clear of her rhubarb pie. Atropine from belladonna, colchicine from the meadow saffron."

Tucked next to the macabre display, she had degrees in Biochemistry, Computer Engineering and Medicine. Like Fortescue, she had a lounge off her main bedroom. It was set up as a study with a state-of-the-art network of computer towers.

"They have their own internet hub," Smithy said. On the other side of the room now, he inspected shelves of powders, crystals and colourful liquids in catalogued jars or stoppered bottles, no doubt waiting patiently until the release of their deadly secrets.

"It would be easy to conceal their digital signal across the web," I said.

He cleared his throat. "Do you know, if you combine nitric and sulphuric acids with glycerine, it makes nitro-glycerine? A very unstable explosive." Smithy perused labels. "And that nitre, sulphur and naphtha were used to make Greek fire in the seventh century? It's so flammable, anything it touches goes up nearly instantly."

"No. More to the point, how do you know?"

He squatted to search under Mrs Paget's bed, his reply slightly muffled by the thick quilt. "I'm useless at chemistry, except for bronze casting. In senior Science I was responsible for two explosions and the Hazmat boys had to evacuate the building so many times when I attended we were on a first-name basis." His head popped up over the side and then the rest of him. "A call-out to my high school became known as a Code Vegas. I can also name Bea's gun and the calibre bullets it uses."

I stared at him. "They don't teach that at art school."

"Billie," he said. "Everything she ever learned about combat or weapons filtered into my brain as soon as she died. Like a Matrix download. Poisons too."

Smithy had acquired unpractised talents, similar to my own sudden aptitude with ancient languages. Mrs Paget's genius on the other hand, was well evolved.

Our gaze held across her pretty, killer room. "Anything else I don't want to know, but should?"

"Just that I have a very bad feeling, one that's getting worse every minute. It looks as if Bea's the boss of weapons invented after the Dark Ages. Come on. I need to get you to safety."

A snide voice in my brain asked _safety from whom_? My minders were as dangerous, if not more so, than any of the strangers they'd warned me about when I was a little girl.

## Twenty

I lagged Smith as we looped back around to my wing of the warehouse, past the kitchen, a right turn by my room and the study and then on to Aunt Bea's in the front corner for more unpleasant revelations. For once, I yearned for a soothing cup of tea and the chance to sit at the kitchen table and reflect, to try and get my head around it all. It was a lot to ask of weak tea, but we didn't stock horse tranquilisers.

Stalking ahead, he turned and threw his hands up in frustration. "Winnie. This is not a Sunday tour of the real estate. Right now, Bea and the others are risking themselves to keep you safe. The least we can do is toe the line from our end. Do I really have to carry you?"

The stand off took place on the veranda outside Bea's room. I didn't appreciate his tone, self-pity at the craziness of this new existence getting the better of me.

"Maybe this is all easier for you to accept, Smith. You've been astral travelling in my life for months. Wouldn't you be shocked too, if the judge turned out completely different to what you'd always assumed?"

How did other teens spend their Sundays? Not ransacking their homes for weapons to defend against ill-defined devils, I bet. Not scared witless because their family was decaying before their very eyes. My voice rose as stress threatened to tow me under.

"Everything and everyone I know, including you, is suddenly an alien."

"Believe me, having a new stepmother every other year is alien enough. Especially when some of them are more appropriate as sisters." He took a step towards me, palms raised. "Try and concentrate on the present. Keep calm, Bear."

"You keep calm," I yelled, thoroughly over it. "Who made you the boss, anyway?"

"The voice of reason."

" _Reason_?" I scoffed. "That particular friend of logic and common sense flew out the window a while ago."

Smith rolled his eyes to the heavens. "We really don't have time for this. Can we just delay the nervous breakdown until we get below?"

"How many times must I remind you? I'm claustrophobic. Going below will promote the nervous breakdown."

Outside, the downpour broke loose with a deafening roll of thunder that rattled the windows. We both flinched. He looked at me from beneath long lashes with pleading eyes and I relented. It was hard to reconcile his man's physique with the fretting boy before me.

With a put-upon sigh, I said, "Bea's room it is, then."

He gave me a cheeky grin, swinging the door wide. "I need to remember that trick."

"What trick?" I scowled at him.

"The one where I get my way without further argument."

I cuffed him over the ear as we entered, peering around curiously. He flicked the lights on. Illuminated by stark white fluorescence, the space was bare, more like what I'd imagined for Fortescue. A single bed sat unmade and almost an afterthought in the centre of the functional space. A long workbench, its top lined with felt, took up one wall to the left. On it rested dozens of guns, some dismantled for cleaning, others sitting in cases next to boxes of ammunition. The air smelled of polishing compound and chemicals.

"Bingo." Smithy strode over to busy himself sighting down barrels and examining rounds, taking his time with selections, while I wandered.

She also had an assortment of high-tech bows and arrows mounted over the gun table on brackets. The other two walls to the right held open shelving that extended to the ceiling. Trays of yellowing bones, fixing jars containing what appeared to be floating human organs, and other specimens I dared not study, were jammed across every spare millimetre. Aunt Bea's room resembled a police ballistics lab, or maybe the Anatomy Department, far more like an industrial workstation than a space for relaxing in.

Her qualifications were treated with even greater disregard than Fortescue's, stacked haphazardly on a chair in the corner nearest a door which led to other rooms along a short hallway. At least she'd bothered to have the degrees framed. I picked each up in turn, all from Oxford University: Archaeology, Forensic Anthropology and Religious Iconography. Gun club medals were scattered on the floor, firsts in a range of events. Bea was a sharp shooter, a sniper.

Smithy sidled up next to me, pockets bulging with the butts of two pistols that dragged his boardies low on his hips. I was too disgruntled to notice the exposed sliver of firm tanned belly – much. He'd also collected a nasty looking modern crossbow for good measure, arrows jutting from a quiver slung over his back.

"That looks spectacularly practical in an enclosed place." I snorted and shook my head. "I hope Seth's prepared to stand still while you take aim."

He blithely ignored the mockery. "I would've thought one of the most harmless things we could do was check out the bedrooms of a bunch of nice oldies. I'm used to being mistaken, but this? Bea has an AK-47. And let's not mention the body parts. Why the old bones? They're not fossils, are they?"

"You just mentioned the body parts." I stooped to take a closer look at several pieces that rested on black velvet in sealed glass cubes, which occupied a cleared position on the middle level of tiers. "These are human. One's a hyoid bone that's snapped in half. It's the little bone in the throat that moves when you swallow. The other is a jigsaw of reassembled cranium from an infant."

I didn't have to explain the baby's death was not gentle, as Smithy's face contorted in horror. Another dreadful artefact, only this one was strangely personal. I felt an intruder on something meant to stay private.

"The remains are charred, like the bone has been cremated. These in particular have been very carefully preserved." He gazed at me quizzically. "Mrs Paget's been teaching me Medicine for years and my great-aunt's profession is keeping old things in their best condition. I just had no clue of the wider purpose."

"Who would have, really?" He glanced down the corridor leading to a parlour. "Bugger. So many rooms. This place is a maze."

"We've come this far, there's no way I'm not going all the way. Besides, you've got what you came for." And then the thought that had been trying to emerge finally hit me. "Guns are useless against Seth anyway. So are all weapons, in fact. I remember now. He told Raphaela that he'd been trying to do himself in for years. Nothing works while the Crone lives."

"Yep," Smithy answered casually, inspecting his fingernails. "Is it really necessary to check Bea's bathroom?"

I glared at him, which seemed to be the main reaction he got lately. I was not entirely sure he'd earned it, just trying to do his best under testing circumstances, but I was too addled for nicety.

"Why the wild-goose chase, then?"

"Winnie, I'm not so stupid to think a mortal weapon can kill the right-hand man of the Crone. That would be just too easy." He stared back at me, unabashed. "But Bea and Mrs Paget and Fortescue went out armed, so at least some of our enemies can be neutralised with a gun. I aim to be prepared for every circumstance. In any case, bullets will cause Seth pain and slow him down." He looked like he'd enjoy that possibility. "I suppose there's no point demanding we hurry downstairs? We've already wasted so much time."

"Not even if you give me those lost-puppy eyes."

At the end of the hall, we stepped through into a cosy library filling three walls with small, unmarked books bound in black leather. Some of them were falling apart with age. Another wall was completely taken up by a huge chart, the written detail packing its surface so dense and miniscule, two loupes on chains swung from the roof either side. Pressing one of the magnifying glasses to heavy fabric, Smith bent to inspect the chart's content, his back to mine.

Meanwhile, I pulled an edition out at random and gingerly turned the delicate pages, scanning snippets of neat cursive writing in red ink that had faded over the long expanse of time. I blinked in disbelief as the book's meaning became clear.

"These are biographies. Fanny Montgomery. She died in 1632 of tuberculosis. It's so sad, she was only fifteen."

Replacing the first, I got on tiptoes to select another. I heard Smith inhale sharply and started to turn in his direction. His hands were upon my shoulders, ushering me forcefully back along the corridor to Bea's bedroom before I could fully comprehend what was happening. The little book flung out of my grip and tumbled to the floor, where the cover ripped from its spine.

"Hey! Cut it out."

"You don't need to see anything else," he said. "We're done here."

I narrowed my eyes over my shoulder in accusation, trying to twist from his grasp. "What don't you want me to see?"

"Trust me, please," he pleaded. "It's for your own good."

"I'll be the judge of that." I wrenched free, exploiting the fact he'd rather release me than risk a bruise.

Smithy groaned. "I'm the son of a judge. You don't think I'm qualified?"

"You really think keeping me in ignorance is the best approach?" I challenged.

He grudgingly shook his head. I collected the little book from the floor and returned along the hall to stop in front of the chart. He followed, joining me to take the book from my hands, before carefully reassembling it and replacing it in the gap on the bookshelf.

By the time he stood next to me, I was already busy scrutinising what was obviously an intricate family tree extending back to 900AD. The vast stretch of centuries up to the present was noted in minute script along one side. At its top, three names glittered in gold leaf, distinct without the need of magnification: Isadore, Rose and Dexter. The title 'Order of the Sacred Trinity' rested above Rose and Dexter. Isadore, their sister, was circled in red ink. I peered down at the legend across the bottom, and then back up to apply the key.

"Isadore was the original Keeper. She was present at the beginning. Rose and Dexter started the Trinity. All the rest are descended from these three. It's so staggering, I keep thinking I'll wake up."

"Yeah, when the psychiatrist comes to change the drip," Smith muttered unhappily.

Applying the lens, a name in spindly gold caught my attention. "Fanny." She was there, her lifeline cut short. In fact, after scanning more names at random it became clear: all the lifelines were remarkably short. "Not a single person lived to see their thirties."

"High mortality was the norm back then," he said without conviction.

"Maybe, but this death toll is pretty ruthless."

I bent closer and inspected entries in turn, each bearing an inscription noting how the person died. Everyone was despatched in a grisly, agonising way.

"No, it can't be." Until that point, I hadn't really understood Smith's reluctance for me to see this chart.

I pulled away and rubbed my eyes, then returned to the impossible name that had riveted my focus through the jeweller's glass. From the perspective of my measly seventeen years, Fortescue had always seemed ancient. But even my exaggerated estimate would not have placed him at over seven hundred years old.

"Can this really be true?" I fixated on Fortescue's entry, as if a hard gaze could generate a proper explanation.

"Apparently the old boy was around when Saint-Saëns made the top forty."

"Fortescue had a wife," I said. "She died in 1405 during childbirth and so did the baby. Her name was Anna. He wasn't even born into the Sacred Trinity. Anna was one of Rose's kin."

"No good can come of this, Bear. Let's just go downstairs."

But I was mesmerised. "Here's Aunt Bea. Beatrice Lumiere born circa 1470. Some of her relics are younger than she is."

"We ought to go easy on them—" He quickly swallowed the rest. I knew he could not finish that sentence because it ended in my fragile, beloved guardians crumbling to dust and blowing away on the slightest breeze. "Bear?" I turned to him. "Do you think your minders fade as the Stone grows stronger? Like the process keeping them young is now in reverse?"

I shrugged, hoping that if I didn't admit his theory out loud, it might prove false. Chewing my lip, I returned to the chart.

"Bea also had a husband. Vincent. Killed in the Thirty Years' War." I searched for Mrs Paget and had to go way back. "Grace. Approximate birth year 1113. Her proper name is Grainne and she's been in this almost from the beginning. Married Arthur Paget in 1282. He died in 1303 of an infected wound from a farming accident. None of them ever remarried."

"That's a long time to be without anyone," Smithy said gently. "Okay. Curiosity satisfied. Let's go!"

I followed the inevitable train of thought. "They are the only three remaining from the Order of the Sacred Trinity. And Fortescue is the single outsider to have survived his connection to the family." The full implications hit home. These weren't strangers, individuals without any connection whatsoever to me. This was _my_ family tree. "Association with me is a death sentence!"

"Winnie." Smithy edged closer. He held out his hand. "Please."

"No, get away from me." I batted his hand to the side. "I'm bad for your health."

There were two more names I had to see. Taking a deep breath for courage, my focus dropped to the bottom of the history. There, in ink less oxidised than any others, were the names of my parents, alone on their own line.

I had to touch, and kneeled to reach, just as Smith lunged to snatch my hand and stop me. But he was a tad slow and my fingertips made contact. Together, momentum carried us into the final minutes of the lives of Shiloh and Isaiah Light. Smithy's shout of "No!" echoed in my ears as we were yanked into the past once more.

The young couple were seated at the front of a beaten-up vintage coach with bench seats, its only passengers. Dressed in well-worn jeans and the scuffed hikers' boots of perpetual travellers, canvas duffle bags rested at their feet. In their early twenties, the girl was closest to the open window. She stared towards a hilltop on her right, the boy next to her.

Both wore frowns ingrained by constant worry. She had my wild, dark curls tied in a scrap of red ribbon, and he had my eyes, in the exact same shade of green. They squinted through glass at the fading glare of sunlight cresting the horizon, as if searching for something. Seeing them for the first time, my belly constricted with yearning. I'd never before missed having parents.

Idling at the bottom of a short, steep rise, the bus jutted straight across double lanes from a T-intersection. The driver clearly suffered a momentary blank, his head swivelling either side in indecision as dusk fell. He could take the hill or skirt fields of scraggly brown grassland in the opposite direction. They were in the middle of nowhere, not a stray cow or tumbledown shack in view, just the occasional withered tree in distant silhouette.

A low rumble cut the silence, growing rapidly louder. And I knew what would happen. I wanted more than anything to pull from the vision, but once in its mental vice, the choice to follow until the bitter finale was already made. She looked back at him, reaching to lift a small locket from beneath her threadbare jumper. Of plain silver, it was not an expensive piece, but the reverential way she handled it told me that this was their most treasured possession.

Gently clicking it open, they stared at the tiny image within. A sleeping newborn cocooned in a blanket decorated by embroidered sky-blue bunnies filled the oval frame. Bea had a photo just like it on the sideboard in our TV room. My parents and I had shared that picture, at least.

"She'll be okay," he said in a low, soothing voice. "Our little girl is with Bea."

"That's what I'm most afraid of," my mother said. "No matter how skilful, the Trinity are too few against the Crone and her servants. Who can remain standing in the face of such bottomless spite?"

"I believe in Winsome." My father's answer was resolute. "She will prove the very best of us."

With a look of sorrow, his wife closed the locket. "You are right, Isaiah. I should not lose faith. I just wish I could have held her one last time."

They tightly clasped the locket in layered fists. My father reached over to slide the window shut, before wrapping Shiloh in a hug with his spare arm, and they huddled together, foreheads touching and eyes squeezed tight, no longer bothering to watch what was coming for them.

Was that why I wasn't with them where I belonged? My parents had somehow anticipated their deaths and ensured I wasn't at risk. I'd always believed I had survived the crash, that Bea had taken me in after. This was an assumption she'd never bothered to correct. The facts told of a deeper, more slippery motivation at work that inspired in me deepest dread.

But overriding all else as events converged was despair for everything my parents had lost. Like my ancestors who'd suffered an untimely end, they were so young. I gritted my teeth and swore blackest vengeance upon the foul creature to blame, and any who chose the Crone's side. Over the lip of the hill, roared a white tow-truck. The coach driver belatedly wrangled the gearstick in a panicked grind of cogs, attempting to put his bus in reverse.

The distance was not so great that the headphones and closed eyes of the joyriding youth at the wheel of the truck were not obvious. I saw his acne-scarred cheeks and a muddy-brown fringe combed to one side, his exposed eyebrow pierced by a barbell. His seatbelt hung limp and neglected by his shoulder. I couldn't help willing him to look up, despite the certainty this was history and had already come to pass. Some other-worldly influence ensured that he wasn't vigilant. He tapped the dash in frenetic rhythm to whatever song had doomed my parents, piloting his missile in oblivion.

Until it was too late.

On some impulse the youth finally attended to the road, eyes snapping wide when he sighted the immovable obstacle blocking his path. He clutched the wheel and stomped the brake. The truck careened onwards in a plume of screeching burned rubber. The bus driver finally managed to get his vehicle in reverse, inching back for the safe haven of the road where he should have been from the outset.

All his effort achieved was to better align his human cargo with their onrushing fate. The impact made a thunderous boom that rolled over the barren land, the truck's engine ripped from its mount to breach the cabin and crush the youth's body from the top of his hips to his knees, his mouth a stunned 'O' at the fatal twist his day had taken.

In response to the abrupt halt, the top half of him whiplashed ahead, pounding his forehead onto the windshield hard enough to leave a bloody, cracked star. He was thrown back into his seat and with a final huff of breath, his eyelids slid together, never to part again. The tinny bleats issuing from headphones skewed about his neck, now competed with the pinging of traumatised metal and glass hitting the asphalt in a shattering cascade. The radiator hissed and the stench of baked oil filled the air.

Bile flooded my throat. The insult had only just begun for my parents. Images of the carnage within the coach were relentless and, although it was futile, I clamped my hands over my eyes. The collision speared the bus from its wheelbase, flinging it onto the side. Carving a bounced, spinning skid along the road, a fountain of shrieked sparks trailed its wake.

The interior landscape was utterly wrong, like a camera lens recording from a crazy tilt. The driver had died instantly, half his face caved in. Belted to his now-horizontal seat, he flailed violently on each jolt of his vehicle meeting the road's resistance, blood spatter decorating the roof. Unrestrained, Shiloh and Isaiah didn't fair so well.

Confronted by the extended brutality of their end, my senses finally recoiled. The curtain descended for a blessed period of nothingness, but not before a final lingering image of wreckage strewn far and wide. A red ribbon fluttered across the paddock on a whirl of smoke.

I woke flat on my back, staring overhead at a ceiling of flaked cream paint. It took several moments to reorientate myself, the awful truth of my parents' death bringing a wave of grief. Sitting up, a ragged howl rose up my throat.

Next to me on his knees, Smith cupped his head in his hands, murmuring, "I didn't want you to see that." Strangely, my foremost thought was relief he hadn't impaled himself on those stupid arrows when we fell. He raised his head and peered at me. "I'm so sorry, Bear."

I failed to choke back a sob, melting into the comfort of his extended arms. "You tried..." I hiccupped, burying myself against his chest, "—to stop me."

But any solace was all too brief. The proximity alarm flared to life for the second time that morning, and no matter how desperately my imagination conjured a lost pizza-delivery boy, there was no denying the reality of an intruder on our doorstep.

"We're out of time," Smith declared, his voice turned to steel.

## Twenty-One

We were up and sprinting before the tears had dried on my cheeks, vaulting down the stairs for the elevator tucked beneath their base in the creepy section of the display. Smithy kept himself bodily between me and the front door the whole dash, his expression of dogged seriousness forecasting the gravity with which he viewed this latest threat. I was less certain; that barrier to warehouse entry was thicker than any I'd ever seen. Of course I was scared, but without successful facial identification, there was no way it would open. And if our caller _was_ Seth, hadn't he actively defied the Crone? Maybe he was on our side.

"Why don't we just see who it is and ask what they want?" I panted in between the blasts of the siren.

As we rounded on the lift, Smith shot me a dark look that implied he wouldn't dignify such lunacy with a response. Still, we really had no idea exactly who Seth was or the extent of his power. Smithy gripped my wrist in one hand. With the other, he jabbed the brass-plated button repeatedly, using far more force than required. The lift began its lethargic ascent with a moan.

"We should take the stairs," Smith yelled over the racket. His cheeks were flushed with stress.

A more crucial task leaped to mind. "We need that diary." I refused to leave it abandoned on the kitchen table. "Bea said it was important."

Now his expression was murderous. "Bear," he warned, tightening his hold on my wrist and pounding the button with added venom. "Come on," he yelled in frustration at the tardy lift.

An experimental tug of my arm was met with brute resistance. "What difference does one more minute make? He can't get in!"

"You don't get it, do you? Our enemies shouldn't even know we're here. That could be a horde of Anathema knocking at the door."

I began a concerted effort to liberate my anchored wrist, squirming and pulling. "We need that diary!"

"It can wait, Winsome."

Above the incessant alarm, Smith sounded like an irate father. The elevator arrived, doors finally lumbering apart. He huffed relief and tried to hustle me inside. One look at the cramped box I'd managed to avoid for six years, its walls shrinking, sent my claustrophobia into overdrive. As he stepped within, I gave a desperate jerk to extract my arm from his clench, stumbling rearward. The siren abruptly stopped, the haunting melody of Fortescue's 'Danse Macabre' floating down through the foyer hall.

_"Packed in our brains incestuous as worms_

_Our demons celebrate in drunken gangs ..."_

My eyes went wide. "Oh, no."

Fear animated Smithy's face, his arm reaching for me in slow motion. The lift doors promptly slammed, locking my saviour behind a solid wooden barrier.

"No!" I heard him roar, unleashing a barrage of futile kicks against the doors.

_"Scorpions, buzzards, snakes ... this paradise,"_

"He can't get in, he can't get in."

I chanted over the rising clamour of violins, variously banging on the stubborn lift doors and jimmying my fingers into the tight gap of the central seal. The lights sputtered out, darkness enhancing the off-kilter creepy music.

_"Of filthy beasts that screech, howl, grovel, grunt_ —"

"Smithy!" I screamed, as that familiar smooth voice caressed my mind with its toxic message.

_"In this menagerie of mankind's vice ..."_

"Smithy, Smithy. Please," I cried, my insides contorting with terror.

Smithy swore furiously on the other side. If I had just listened to him! I berated myself for being so idiotic, wishing he'd heeded my advice and collected one of Fortescue's axes instead of looking for guns. This was punishment for my oppositional behaviour and I deserved it. Vegas didn't: he'd been trying to protect me and I'd made it difficult. If I got the chance, I'd never stop telling him how sorry I was. He could expect undying obedience from this point forward.

"It is time we met Keeper. Do not make me wait." Seth's commanding voice rang through the hall, more menacing because of its cultured British accent which I'd never noticed in our dream encounters.

Of its own accord, my body twirled around like an automaton, arms suddenly pinned by invisible bonds. My legs were rigid and my feet hovered centimetres above solid ground to commence the journey in the direction of the foyer entry. No matter how I tried to fight, my limbs were no longer in my own command.

Panic swamped me and sweat trickled my forehead. What had seemed an impenetrable barricade to the warehouse minutes before now became wretchedly flimsy. Seth dictated my movements from a distance like a remote-controlled toy. He'd trapped my Warrior with startling ease. What other superhuman abilities did he possess?

Smith's hammered blitz faded as I levitated through the collection. I passed our archangel Mike, but his vacant orbs searched the heavens. He would not be delivering trivial humans from their own stupidity today. My thoughts skipped about erratically. I did not have the Stone. Was Seth aware of this? I would be of no use in finding it! What if it wasn't the Stone he wanted. What else?

Gritting my jaw, I flung my head from side to side, praying to connect with something that would render me unconscious to no avail. I accidentally bit down on my bottom lip and tasted blood. So close, now.

Onward between rowed Ming and Quing Dynasty vases, past two imposing Czar Nicholas I cream-and-crimson urns from Russian Imperial Porcelain on pedestals at the end of each queue. And then I glided up three steps onto the landing where the carved animal visages of Isis and Osiris stared ahead with impassive disregard. What use were gods and angels if they refused to come to the rescue?

The ghostly music stopped. And finally, the most ominous sound of all. From this side, the bleep of facial recognition activating echoed loudly, and the doors swung wide on their automated mechanism. My pulse stuttered to a momentary halt, fright keeping my eyes riveted on the growing scene beyond. The storm raged, rain blasting inwards to plaster wet hair across my face and obscure vision. Leaves swirled on wind squalls and I blinked madly in a vain effort to sight my enemy, goosebumps stippling every millimetre of my flesh.

Still, I could not move. He must be somewhere close by to exert such influence. And then, as if on prompt, a figure congealed from the grey drear. Despite his hand spanning the distance between us, he remained an indistinct creature of shadow and fog. I flinched when a disembodied, manly knuckle lightly wiped blood from the bite in my bottom lip. Without further warning, a vaporous mist circled my waist in an impossible embrace. I was heaved out onto the street.

Bands of tight fabric constricted my wrists and velvety blackness covered my eyes. We were swiftly in motion, blowing through the city like a tornado. This was not a known type of transport. There was no engine's whine, no rough transference of a limp hostage, banging doors or pinballing in the boot of a speeding car. I travelled slickly and silently. One minute, I felt cocooned in a strange swirl of liquid shadow; the next, the heat and hardness of his powerful body became uncomfortably apparent. He seemed to pulsate between solid and ghostly. I considered struggling when he next materialised. The intention was short-lived.

"Do as I say or it will not go well for you."

All I had to do was comply with his wise request. He was not asking much and it was for my own safety. But there were questions to be answered. Weren't there? Why were we outside? I wasn't allowed outside. Dread clamped my throat around a scream.

As if in response to the turmoil, he murmured hotly in my ear, "Listen to me. _Listen_." His fascinating voice lulled me to a dreamy stupor. I'd been stolen seconds ago. But I couldn't remember from where. I belonged to him. I would stay with him forever.

"Sleep, little girl. Let the darkness take you."

## Twenty-Two

I found myself in a dimly lit, rectangular room. At the furthest end from me, an alcove of three shelved walls showcased a breathtaking array of literature, a grand elaborately carved desk nestled in the library's cosy niche. On the desk sat a small silver tray, a decanter and two glasses. I stood at the other end, where a fire crackled merrily in the grate at my back, my bare feet sinking into the pile of a thick, burgundy rug.

A long, gossamer gown clung to my figure when I moved, its nude shade perfectly matching my skin. Looking down, I realised I was naked beneath, and felt very exposed. The filmy material did nothing to maintain modesty. My hand went to my hair, curls somehow piled on top. The room was empty, but I could not drag my attention from the door to my left at the halfway point of the longest wall, which was covered by rich crimson-and-gold flocked wallpaper.

I willed myself to go over and try that ornate brass knob, to check it was locked. Maybe I could jam a chair underneath it. My feet refused to move. What was the point anyway? I didn't have a key or a suitable chair. Making a dash for freedom didn't even enter my mind. A cool draught forced me closer to the warmth of the fire and I sank to my knees, still rapt by that door.

Something was very wrong, but I could not decipher the cause. Memories trickled away when I tried to concentrate, replaced by a void of confusion. Was I drunk or drugged?

And then the handle softly turned. My heart thudded like a sparrow trapped behind glass, riveted as the door swung slowly inwards. Seth slipped into the space, moving with leonine grace.

Up close, he was obscenely attractive. The type of man whose charisma sucked the oxygen from a room when he entered, slowing time, as all who looked upon him stared with open-mouthed envy and awe. People would fall over themselves to please him and bask in the privilege of his favour for even a fleeting moment. His magnetic pull was abnormal.

"On our knees a little early, aren't we? We haven't yet been formally introduced." His eyes roved slowly over my body and I didn't have enough arms to cover myself properly. "Although I dare say the view is delicious."

I blinked briefly up at him, too scared to stare for more than a nanosecond. He gazed back at me with a captivating smirk. The glimpse was ample, his magnificence scalding me. He wore jeans and nothing else. Bliss budded deep inside without my say-so. He seemed fully healed from his ordeal with Finesse I'd seen in my visions – not a bruise or abrasion marred his glowing tawny complexion. A little over six feet tall, when not doubled over by a noose around his neck, his physique was formidable.

He radiated an addictive charm, a masculine appeal so enticing as to be impossible to resist. I dared not appraise his face for longer; there was trouble enough in the rest of him. I kept my attention on the mat, squared my jaw and swore I would not yield to his allure. Unfortunately, any oaths I made were disposable as he addressed me in a quiet, cultured tone that was a symphony to my ears.

"Did you like the poem?"

"A version from Baudelaire's _Flowers of Evil_ ," I mumbled, not wanting to, 'To the Reader'."

" _Folly, depravity, greed, mortal sin invade our souls and rack our flesh; we feed Our gentle guilt, gracious regrets, that breed Like vermin glutting on foul beggars' skin._ A perceptive assessment of humanity." His voice grew softer and sadder. "I did not expect you to be so like her. Look at me."

My lips pressed thin with the exertion of resisting. I laboured not to extend my neck and bring my face upright. I would keep my eyes closed. I would not look at him. On both counts, I failed miserably.

"Oh!" I could not help exclaiming upon sighting his angelic features.

Any offensive I planned faded away; he was so breathtakingly gorgeous. His straight lustrous hair, cut longer around his face, shone in shades of chocolate. His lips were full and inviting, his cheekbones wide and high, his nose regal. But his eyes fascinated above all else. I could not tear mine away. His were the most startling, fathomless blue that twinkled in the light. I was hypnotised, entranced by a cobra.

Seth glided over and knelt to face me. "Except for the hair."

He reached out, pulling a pin from the bun and my hair tumbled down my back. He uncurled a strand next to my cheek. I would combust under the intensity of his lingering stare. I forgot to inhale until he let it go. The view of his carved chest, muscles tensing with motion, his chiselled stomach, a hint of dark fuzz trailing his belly to the low-riding stud of his jeans, moved my focus down to a place they should not. Denim strained over tight thighs. He smelled divine.

"Hers was long and straight, lighter than yours. She was very lovely too."

He feathered my cheek with the side of his thumb. If touching my hair short-circuited my lungs, this level of intimacy torched me to ashes.

"Your eyes though... As virid as Egyptian jade. Stunning."

I froze, insensate and unable to repel his advances. My mind was disturbingly blank, filled with an insatiable need. Every compliment he gave was exquisitely flattering, eroding my flimsy resistance. What reason was there to resist? He placed a hand on my chest and gently shoved me flat to the floor, dropping to lounge next to me. His face was so close to mine, I could see sapphire flecks in his cornflower irises.

"Tell me your name."

An angry chorus of women's whispers swept through my mind. Ignorant as I was, I grasped the innate truth: an enemy could never have my name. It was the key to dominating a Keeper, just as the acquisition of our enemy's name was the key to controlling her. No. He leaned in, his lips at my earlobe. His hands lingered over my body to arrange me like a splayed butterfly. He rolled onto me, propped up on elbows, his legs between mine. I desperately swerved from awareness of his arousal. It was forbidden. I was meant for someone else. I defied the urge to touch him.

"Tell me your name."

No. My body burned like blown embers, delicious flames licking below. This was wrong. I shook my head dumbly.

"I will make you tell me. And when you are under my influence, I will compel you to give the festering witch her Stone. She will murder us both and we will grieve no more for those lost. It is a favour to you, my gift. She can scour this tick-infested squat for all I care. Call it timely population control. Once we are gone forever, it will not matter."

I listlessly moved a hand to press my temple. An out-of-place clatter accompanied the action. His lips imprisoned mine and he kissed me roughly, one hand behind my neck, pressing my face to his, the other at my waist, but heading south.

"Tell me your name," he said gruffly, on surfacing. I quivered beneath him, gasping for air. "Do not fight me. Give in to your want and we can experience pleasure beyond heaven. A final indulgence before I die and am released once and for all from this torturous hole."

My every atom ignited, ravaged by the wildfire of his unquenchable yearning. I drowned in him, his scent, his honeyed words, his passion so unrestrained I felt he'd never had another girl. His hand tickled my thigh, slowly bunching the folds of my skirt, fingertips sparking against bare skin to make me jump. Reflexively, my arms circled him. But that incongruous metallic jangle stopped me. What was that sound?

"Yes, that's it." He reached around and positioned my hand at the small of his back, within teasing reach of his tight bum. "Tell me your name."

_Winsome_ , my brain supplied, losing control. My lips trembled and I weakly willed them to be silent. He writhed against me, grinding rhythmically until white heat ignited, tingling from my toes. His hand reached the concavity of my ribs beneath my breast, the hotness of his skin a delectable contrast to the coolness of the night air on flesh no longer covered by fabric. A moan came from the distance, maybe my own, and I almost abandoned any pretence of refusal.

"Give yourself to me. Tell me your name."

How could I not choose Seth? Lust swamped me.

_"Goddamn it, Bear!"_ I mentally heard Smithy shout.

"Tell me your name."

"Wake up, Dumpling." A cranky yell, this time in the real world, brought me to full understanding. "Make the right choice!"

In Seth's dream-state, one hand flew to my head with more clanking. The other grabbed for his trespassing fingers. No! "Get out of my mind," I shrieked. "I am not yours!"

I roused with a start, blurry and disoriented. Alone, I lay on a blanket, which failed to stop the chill from the cold tiles beneath seeping through. My clothes, damp from a trip through the rain, clung to me and made the chill worse. My teeth started to chatter. Was this real? Fortescue hadn't presented with spirulina and goji berries, as he usually would when I woke.

A long chain, handcuffed to my wrist, snaked from an open vanity attached to the drainpipe within. That was the clinking I had heard! I jerked my arm to test the strength of my bond. The metal links rattled noisily in the confined area, the steel bracelet unforgiving. Even though it kept me restrained, I blessed the sound that had saved me from certain disaster.

Water lapped rhythmically in time to the steady rocking of whichever prison this was. It took a while to grasp the sensation was genuine, not a figment of my overstimulated imagination. I was on a boat! How much time had passed since my capture? Not long enough for my clothes to dry, at least. I groggily took in my surroundings. I was in the head: nautical speak for the bathroom.

I'd been on plenty of luxury cruisers; the more ostentatious of Bea's associates used them for networking. This closet was probably an amenity for staff, located deep below the waterline and not showy enough for a wealthy patron's use. An absence of throbbing motors confirmed we were stationary. But for how long? And where was the enemy who had humiliated me to such an extent? The disgrace over what Seth could so easily force me to do was far worse than any threats of my slaying by the Crone.

I eased myself upright, cramped muscles protesting, and rubbed warmth back into my aching limbs, while inspecting my jail with more awareness. About three metres by two wide, there was a shower cubicle of beige tile to my right and a washbasin opposite with a mirror above. I rested my back against a narrow expanse of wall facing the toilet. Next to it was a sturdy door. It was locked, no doubt. The length of chain stopped me from crawling far, but stretching out to my fullest extent, I tried the handle just in case. It didn't budge.

Repositioned at the wall, I lifted my arms to inspect the thick gauze snugly winding my wrists. Odd. What was the purpose of these bandages? Was Seth concerned I'd chafe? But that was ridiculous. Besides, I only had a silver cuff on one arm, not both. I gulped an involuntary laugh, unwilling to give him a reason to investigate the hysterical status of his prisoner. As soon as I turned my focus to him, the scratching of a key in the lock happened instantly.

It was Seth, this time the actual version, not a phantom to besiege my brain.

I averted my eyes, concentrating on my sneakers framed by a square of tile at the base of the toilet. My pulse stampeded and my palms were clammy. He seated himself on its shut lid with a rustle of denim and I pulled my feet up close, hugging my legs. His bare feet encroached on my restricted view; even this limited bit of him appealed.

"We have established you are not completely without defences, Keeper."

He was less than a metre away. From beneath my lashes, I peeked up his jean-clad calves at bloodied, torn knuckles resting on his knees. The true Seth had evidently been in a nasty punch-up. Considering his advanced healing capacity, the fight must have been recent. Seeing him hurt was most satisfying.

Seth spoke, that rich tenor overloud in the confined space and triggering fresh anxiety. "Are you curious as to how I penetrated your security?"

I was, and made the mistake of looking into his face with raised brows. I gasped, but not because of his beauty. One cheek was marred by a puffy, eggplant bruise. The shape of a diamond indented its centre, where a familiar ring bearing the engraving _L &H 4ever_ had left a mark. The force of the blow had swollen the eye above shut.

Hugo had attacked Seth and broken his cheekbone, bless him. But if Seth had won the clash, I hated to guess what Hugo looked like. If he was still alive. Yet, I'd heard him shout, loud and clear... And somewhere close enough for me to heed. Hugo was definitely on this boat. Once in awareness, the certainty would not fade. It gave me a new purpose and a reckless disregard for my true danger.

Seth smiled that smug smile, sprawling on his throne. Palm to his face, he swept his hand from the bottom of his chin to his forehead. Hugo's likeness suddenly shimmered where Seth's had been a moment previous. My jaw dropped in dismay.

"All the better to trap the unwary. Transformation is another of my many skills."

How would I ever trust my eyes again? He passed his palm back down and his true visage reappeared. Then the bastard did it again, displaying a new portrait. This time, the mask was almost too hazy to identify. I squinted until recognition struck. It was a poor rendering of Smithy.

"No," I yelled. "Leave him alone."

"He is rather prominent in your head," Seth purred. "Shall I take his name in your stead?"

"If you find it so simple to raid my thoughts, why don't you just _steal_ my name. Why bother with the porn act?" My cheeks burned, which amplified my anger.

"Isn't it obvious?" Seth chuckled, using Smithy's mouth. "Fun. You are a little firecracker, aren't you? And your sexy squirming and groaning suggests anything but an act."

"Unlock this thing." Blushing furiously, I rattled my chain. "And I'll show you fireworks. Coward."

"You'll need to do better than that, if you want to insult me. Do you know nothing of your heritage?"

"Thanks to your betrayal of the woman you were supposed to love, there's no one left to teach me."

How about that for an insult. His jaw twitched. I wondered what would happen if I goaded him to rage.

"Whatever have the Trinity been doing all these years?" he said reproachfully. "A Keeper's name is her most cherished secret, accessible only from her own sweet lips." He lingered over the words 'sweet lips', using Smithy's voice. I wanted to vomit.

"The baby was a girl. Did you know? How could you be so disloyal to someone who tried to save you?"

"You judge matters you can't possibly understand," he snarled.

I told myself to shut up and stop baiting him, but the grief over my parents spilled out. "It's a fairly simple choice: don't disclose Raphaela's location or save your own skin by telling that monster all you'd learned." He blinked at me, as if I'd reached over and slapped him. "She loved you."

"Let us talk about the one you love. Or are you too gutless to tell him how you feel? _Your_ boy. Have you let him taste you in the dark? Has he peeled apart your layers with his tongue, little girl?" In the guise of Smithy, Seth moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Have you offered him your innocence for a quick hump in the muck?" Seth's tone was savage with anger. "No, still pure? A rare trophy. If you like, I'll spare you the indignity of dying a virgin."

"Stop it!" I couldn't stand the words spewing from this awful imitation of Smithy. And the reminder of him made the guilt acute. I missed Vegas badly, even the bossy, over-protective version. Seth warped what should be special, so it seemed worthless and vulgar. "Keep your grubby tricks to yourself. You're a fiend who knows nothing of love."

"Have you not heard, Keeper? Didn't Hugo tell you? Love is trade, good for a cheap bargain. And he sold his sister for less than cheap. We all have our price, even your special boy."

"What of _your_ crimes? How much did your soul go for?"

"I never had a soul. Like you, I was damned from the moment of my birth." He was Seth again, no longer taunting, but regarding me with an arctic stare.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," I said, refusing to look at him anymore. I dropped my chin to my chest where I was determined it would remain.

"I would never have broken cover had I known what was at stake," he spat. "Keepers are more deceitful than even _her_. You lie and pretend and make promises you have no intention of ever upholding. You peddle death like a plague. The world would be better rid of you completely. If I return Finesse's cursed Stone, she will wipe us _all_ from history. No misery can touch one who has never existed. That will be my reward."

Suddenly, I understood. Raphaela had broken him when she'd hidden the truth of their child. He wanted revenge for what he saw as the ultimate treachery. And he was hell-bent on taking it out on me.

My head rose. "How many Keepers have you known to make claims about all of us?"

"Insolent, aren't you? Have you not been taught respect?"

Wow, the guy who held me hostage took offence because I was being rude? "Respect is earned."

"It is the least you owe me." Seth leaned in close, glaring at me. My lungs seized and a cold sweat pooled along my spine. "I'll tell you my greatest secret. Something the mistress of woe doesn't even know." I gulped. Sharing such a secret implied he didn't believe I'd be around to pass it on. "I was there when the first of you started this hell. I was there when that thieving bitch, Isadore, stole the Stone from Satan's whore and cursed the whole lot of us."

My ancestors triggered this? _We_ were responsible. Had Aunt Bea lied to me or didn't she know?

"Seth!" he snorted. "Most wretched of all. Named for the Egyptian god of storm, Finesse's mortal lover." He rambled on, momentarily forgetting me. How? How could I get out of here? "Almost as mighty as the Crone herself, of unparalleled evil. Endowed with deathly charms. Do you know little keeper, that if you stare into my eyes, you are mine forever to do with as I please?"

His speech took on a hypnotic quality. Apparently he hadn't forgotten me at all. He bent so that his lips brushed my ear, the warmth of his breath ruffling my soggy hair. Paralysed by his touch, I avoided his eyes at all costs. But of course, it was far too late. Combined with the spell of his voice, that gaze would cripple me. I was stupid to provoke him.

"Are you scared, little girl? You should be. I will have your name."

Seth's tone dropped an octave. In the periphery, ribbons of shadow seemed to branch out behind him. I risked a glance and regretted it. As sinuous as inky snakes, the shades undulated along the wall, others squirming up over the ceiling. The bathroom filled with a horrible harsh rattle. I was petrified by the thought of what would happen if those things touched me, hunching into a stiff ball.

"With a single word I can tell your heart to stop beating. Or break open your sternum and pluck it out like a quivering oyster from the shell."

He sat back. Raising his palms to the level of his broad shoulders, he pressed them together as if in prayer. Gradually, Seth spread his hands wide along the length of his forefingers like the opening pages of a book. The loop of my arms broke and my legs parted of their own accord, revealing the front of my t-shirt. Focus glazed, he reached over and trailed two fingers down the middle of my chest between the rise of my breasts. He tapped my sternum and then began to push.

Those terrifying serpent-like things rippled faster across the walls towards me, their grating cacophony filling my head. I scuttled rearwards, but barred by the wall, had nowhere to go.

"Seth," I gurgled. "Seth, stop."

Agony radiated from the pressure of his fingers digging for my heart. I clasped his wrist in both hands and pushed back, attempting to wedge my feet against the toilet to gain leverage. But I was too short and the act bought me closer to him and his writhing spectres.

"I am the witch's enforcer," he said in a trance. "Anathema's highest, most feared Captain. Do you like my pets? We call them the _seethers_. You don't want to let them under your skin."

"I'm not Isadore. I didn't steal it." I choked out. "I don't know where the Stone is! I've never even seen it."

His weight increased and I felt as if my lungs would explode. Oily tendrils crossed the mirror and penetrated the shower recess, almost at the wall I pressed against now. They would be on me in seconds. Desperation gave me another idea. Rocking on my haunches, I pinioned one foot on the floor and kicked at his arms with the other. They were bands of steel.

I changed tactic. Aiming for his face, I planted a mighty thrust with the sole of my sneaker on his broken cheek. He grunted, snapping backwards, and the heaviness on my chest immediately released.

We both slumped to our former positions, noisily sucking air. Thankfully, his fiends vanished. I stared up at him. He seemed shocked by his own actions, as if he'd spontaneously let go of control, compulsively running his fingers through his hair. The man was seriously unstable. There had to be a way to escape. What had Mrs Paget said before she left the warehouse? It must have only been hours ago, but seemed like days.

"None of my _grubby tricks_ surpass your foul talents, little leech," he murmured. "Your special gift for genocide. And of course, self-righteous hypocrisy."

Genocide? "What are you talking about?" I rasped, battling the white-hot throb in my chest. I kept my hands balled in fists by my sides, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me hurt.

He narrowed those dazzling ice-chip eyes at me. Somehow, the more time I spent in his company, the less attractive I found him. Tilting his head he asked, "Could it be that you truly do not know what you are?"

I had the strong impression my current ignorance was a blessing. But I was so sick of operating blind. "Tell me. I have to know."

Seth peered at me, the faintest tremor of sympathy crossing his features. If that didn't make my stomach drop, nothing would.

"Keeper, you don't know what you ask. You offer me a better way to torture you than anything I could contrive."

Why could I never shut my mouth?

## Twenty-Three

"You harvest years from anyone born into the Trinity. But not from the core members, who are immune. Providing, of course, the Stone is not free to destroy this fragile balance."

Seth looked far less fierce, like his passion for the hunt had dissolved. He imparted the information flatly. I wasn't sure I understood. Although interrupting seemed a poor idea, I had to ask.

"Who are the core members?"

"Your ignorance is breathtaking." He looked at me with disdain. "The core is made up of the only ones left, of course. The most powerful feed off the lives accumulated to extend their own survival. As things stand now, those years slip fast through the hourglass. Raphaela has trapped the Crone in the Delta gate, blocking your single access to the Keeper's full inheritance. You cannot perform the claiming ritual. The Stone is beyond your mastery now. Its unchecked power grows, draining the strength of the feeble Trinity."

So Smithy was right about the poisonous Stone killing my guardians. Unless I found a way to claim that accursed Stone, and quickly, they would certainly die. Despite the evidence, I just could not believe Raphaela had damned her family in such a way. She seemed to be trying to give us an advantage, to help us when the outcome looked bleak. Not corner us with no way out. Given I was all that stood between the Crone and victory, a smart, experienced Keeper would have put in place a contingency plan. Surely?

Or was I just naive and desperate? It was so hard to think with him hovering over me, aggravated by my tender chest, which had settled into the dull clout of a ten-pound hammer. Why didn't Seth simply wait until the Stone eventually revealed itself? I'd be done for then, without presenting an obstacle. This whole kidnapping thing seemed off kilter compared to what I'd seen in my visions. His last words to Raphaela before he ran from her home echoed back to me, "... Stick to the plan. Protect the Stone."

That other word 'Delta' had surfaced again and I wished I'd taken the opportunity to ask Fortescue about it at the warehouse. Really, in hindsight I wished I'd taken the opportunity to do many sensible things, none of which would lead to this ordeal.

"What does _harvest years_ actually mean?" I asked.

Seth grimaced. It was kind of comical on one so striking. "I cannot believe I am tasked with educating you."

"Someone has to."

Evidently, he agreed. "Every person on the planet has a destined death date. When an ancestor of the original Triplicate dies early, the remainder of their years pass to the Trinity vault. It is like a bank of time, allowing the most potent Trinity members to drawer upon the deposited wealth and thwart the aging process. Thus, a select few live far beyond their own death dates. It is necessary to correct the imbalance between good and evil that the Stone brings to this natural plain. Those best suited to the fight, live. The rest... fail to endure. It is lucky you come from fertile stock."

I nearly gave in to the urge to punch Seth. Instead, I stared at the beige-flecked tile, ignoring the discomfort of the freezing floor. The consequences of this knowledge settled like a yoke upon my shoulders.

"Otherwise, the limited lifespan of the Crone's enemies would end the contest without her lifting a finger. For she is animated by a far stronger, otherworldly force and cannot die while her Stone exists. The cosmos it seems, does not favour a monopoly."

How many years had my parents sacrificed to the cause? If their true death dates were around the average mortality of eighty years old, the amount left over from dying in their early twenties was about sixty years each. Shiloh and Isaiah were taken before the bloom of youth had faded because they weren't strong enough.

And because their daughter was a parasite, a bloated tick feasting on the dismal fates of others. Their dreadful deaths plagued my mind. I pressed my hands hard against my temples, until white spots appeared. Fanny had drowned, probably alone in a filthy cot, the fluids of infection swallowing her lungs. Fortescue's wife and their baby, Mrs Paget and Aunt Bea's husbands, that chart was huge and filled with hundreds of names.

How could I live with what I was? The infernal years would stretch out endlessly, each a testament to the murder of an innocent. That is, if I survived Seth's games. How did my guardians stand the noose of blame?

"I should be called the reaper, not a Keeper," I whispered. "I don't want this."

Seth had offered me a way out. But what happened then, to those left behind?

"Welcome to my world. Anathema have awaited this day, to return the Stone to Mistress Apollyon. When Finesse shatters her bondage, her wrath will be immeasurable. She will devastate you and yours like the coming of the Apocalypse. The Crone will have her way with history. None of you will ever have existed... after she has played with you at her leisure."

"And if I fight?" I asked half-heartedly.

"A Keeper's talents are stealth, subterfuge, concealment and – if push comes to shove – evasion. Not ideal for confrontation."

Seth appeared to enjoy tormenting me. Smithy had been right not to trust him, regardless of how Finesse had treated him. I wondered why Raphaela had put her faith in the Crone's enforcer. He wasn't invested in helping her, and by extension us, at all.

"You are too _weak_." He forged on. "It is clear the Trinity have failed you, keeping you blind and untrained. You are doomed, little Keeper, and nothing stands in her way." I scowled, irritated that my guardians had left me so vulnerable. Yet, hadn't Mrs Paget told me I was not completely powerless? "Do I detect the seeds of rebelliousness budding on that pretty face? We must do something about those delusions of competence."

"You really know how to flatter a girl."

"I don't need flattery to get everything I want." The smile he gave me was so luminous it had to be genuine.

I wasn't fooled. "You should be on the stage."

After a prolonged, withering look, he bent to me and began to trace a tiny circle on the top of my knee with his forefinger. I recoiled as far as the wall allowed, horribly engrossed as he stopped and floated his fingertip millimetres above my skin.

At first, it seemed as though nothing happened. But as I squinted, tiny black tendrils the width of hairs wriggled across the gap. I tried to jump away, but Seth simply shook his head. My body went rigid again. Still attached to him, they began to penetrate the fleshy part above my kneecap. At first, they felt like a lover's caress, soft and tickling. Little by little, pinpricks jabbed until a thousand stinging needles centred in one spot.

"Please, inform me how you intend to fight when you have no clue of what you're up against. How long do you think it would take me to learn all of your secrets? Your name?"

I ground my teeth against the onslaught. My knee quickly turned a disgusting mottled green-grey, black lines branching under the surface in tunnelling capillaries. The stench of rotting flesh invaded the air – my rotting flesh! They travelled outwards like the bigger ones that had infiltrated the bathroom earlier. Every vicious strand was a boiling sear, ripping muscle. I silently chanted it was all in my mind until the tide of agony became too great.

Inching my face closer – the only mobile bit of me – I stared straight at him, speaking through gritted teeth. "I'm used to bullies. Do your worst." The defiance took every ounce of energy.

God it hurt. My head lolled to the side. I stifled a whimper, a tear squeezing onto my cheek. Seth would not win: I swore not to scream. _He played with my head_. An excruciating burn raced for my ankle and thigh and I'd happily pass out soon. If I wasn't at his mercy now, that would seal the deal.

Trapped in a perfect storm of pain, a blur of names filled my mind listing all who'd gone too early, laying waste to my past and blighting my future. Bea, Mrs Paget, Fortescue and Smithy weren't to blame, nor was I. We needed to survive. Who else would wreak vengeance for the lives stolen? Awareness crystallised into a hard knot of resolve.

"I told you before," I said, mentally testing the boundaries of his hold. The pain eased slightly and gave me strength. He deemed me pitiful. I'd prove him wrong. "Get out of my brain."

His torture ended abruptly, the relief intense. I blinked moisture from my eyes and peeked at my leg. Aside from goosebumps, the flesh was unmarked. Seth regarded 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, blocking 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 bruise. Hugo's good health made no sense. I'd seen Seth's messed-up knuckles and damaged cheek. Did he not bother to fight back? Horror welled in my throat: had Seth unleashed his seethers on Hugo?

I ran over, shaking him gently. "Hugo."

His eyes opened and he focused blearily upon me. "No, Dumpling," he slurred. "You should not be here. You must run. Fly away from this place, while you have a chance."

Had Seth's sorcery done this or was Hugo just dazed? "Not without you. I won't let him hurt you again."

"You are powerless against his charisma and he will have his way. He has not laid a finger on me. I think I am drugged, that is all."

I did not dwell on that confusing detail, following the chains to their point of anchorage on the backboard and floor. Steel plates were affixed to each, the links themselves heavy and impossible to break. Hugo's cuffs were as secure as mine, fitted but not cruel. Given his power, I could not fathom why Seth needed restraints at all. Maybe they were how the psycho got his recreational kicks. Hugo wasn't going anywhere without keys.

"Think, Hugo. How can I get you out of here?"

"You cannot, nor should you," he croaked.

There was a jug and cup on the nightstand by the bed. I poured some out and sniffed at the liquid; it seemed to be untainted water. I cradled Hugo's head in my lap and brought the cup to his lips, holding him as he drank. When he was done, I resettled him on the pillow. His features were slack and clammy.

"Thank you. You must be very careful outside—"

"I can't leave you here, Hugo!"

He continued, working hard to form his words. "Animals sense the Stone's evil. It shrouds you and challenges their instinct to survive. They see you as a threat and will do anything to eliminate the hazard, driven to frenzy. And your mind grows increasingly defenceless and susceptible to fear. Water insulates you from the effect. Not dry land, where the Stone's power is prime. Once off the boat, do not stop for anything." The speech seemed to have stolen the last of his reserves. "Go, Dumpling. I mean it, leave me. As quick as you can."

We both heard soft footfalls. Statue-immobile, I was too scared to breathe as Seth made his way back to my cubicle. Hugo lost the fight against the narcotics coursing through his system, his eyelids slipping shut. I slapped his cheeks as forcefully as I dared. He roused dully and shook his head.

"Go," he mouthed, giving my hand a squeeze before succumbing to coma.

My heart tore as I ran from Hugo, abandoning him to the Crone's enforcer. I felt small and pathetic, an absolute failure. Nothing I did made an iota of difference. None of my promises were worth the breath I wasted on them. I staggered out into the hallway and up more stairs, tears clouding my progress. I had no energy left for a swim, and if we were too far from shore, defeat was the outcome. Bursting into the aft salon, I soon discovered my mistake.

The boat was not on the open sea.

## Twenty-Four

The cruiser we occupied was by far the largest of several flashy sea-craft I could see nearby. It was moored in a strange steel shed the size of two football fields, suspended out over water.

The industrial olive-green walls dipped below the waterline, a salt-rimed ring marking the tide. A wet-berth of four floating concrete gangplanks jutted at right angles from the shore, facing towards two huge roller doors, which I estimated led out to the ocean. Three vessels were tethered in their own floating rectangular docks – Seth's cruiser, a Riva speedboat and an enclosed sleek catamaran designed for fast ocean travel.

The short jetties converged on a wide pier that ran the length of the shore. On my right in a corner L-section of building stood a dry dock where boats could be hauled up a ramp for hull maintenance. Barrels of marine fuel, coils of rope and other supplies were neatly arranged on the landing. And that was where I caught sight of the door embedded in the towering metal wall that led who knew where.

I hesitated, unwilling to desert Hugo, but aware that if I wasted time finding a way to help him, I'd damn myself. I vacillated in Seth's lair, blood trickling from my arms onto the zebra-skin rug of the main salon as the guilt-laden seconds ticked by. The hide was already stained by splotches I did not wish to examine.

_"Bear! Quit stalling and get the hell out of there."_

Smithy bellowed in my mind and whether I'd imagined him or not I clung to his psychic command. I didn't care where that door went as long as it was away from here. Immediately, I despised myself for such selfishness. Seth was conveniently absent, which only served to make me more fraught. I'd left clear evidence of my escape all over his boat.

I ran out through the covered gallery via white leather benches to the very back of the cruiser, where three stairs dropped to the jetty. Vaulting from the boat, I sprinted along the pathway which joined the broader wharf and headed for the dry dock. I was too panicked to glance behind and see if Seth had come up on deck. There was no cover, nothing to hide behind.

If that door to the outside was locked, I was done for. Although, I was probably done for anyway. I had no clue as to my location. Seth had looked into my eyes, which meant access to my thoughts at his convenience. And given what Hugo had said about hostile nature, what other things lurked out there ready to pounce? But I could not think about Hugo or I'd turn around and go back for him. At last, I reached the ramp and scrambled up onto solid land. Still, Seth had not made an appearance.

The cavernous hangar echoed loudly with the thunderous sound of a downpour on the tin roof. Great. I had to flee through a hurricane. Dashing up the gentle slope into the alcove, I was surprised to discover the door barely hanging shut on a loose hinge, the lock ripped from the jamb. I pummelled it ajar and it was whipped away on the gale that blasted me like Thor's hammer. I did not stop to ponder my good fortune.

The door led onto a gridded platform. Half a dozen stairs ran down to a lower walkway, which was suspended just above the water's edge. There was no supportive railing on the exposed side of the staircase. I barrelled downwards, icy sheets of rain instantly drenching my clothes.

My eyes stung and I could hardly see in the murky afternoon light that better resembled night. The soles of my sneakers slid and I lost my footing, tumbling many stairs to the bottom. I landed hands thrust out, skinning one shin on the toothed edge of the tread. Hitting the slope, I rolled a few haphazard metres, until straggling reeds and a margin of stinking black silt stopped my progress.

I righted myself with a groan. Foul sludge that reeked of grease and rotting seafood soaked the seat of my shorts, blood from my gouged shin mixing with mud.

"Eww, gross." I shuddered.

In front of me, there was a hole in the wall the size of a tractor tyre, where salt had corroded the cladding. Bending forward slightly, I squinted to peer through at lapping brackish water that stretched under Seth's wharf. Something scurried in the cave-like black. I had no desire to establish what. Crabbing rearwards, I tried and failed to avoid attracting the creature's attention.

A huge brown water rat poked its nose out, a putrid dead fish clamped between blunt, yellowing teeth. Rats were my greatest phobia. They never ceased to remind me of Bea's simplest, yet most hideous implement of torture – a copper bowl with a depression for hot coals on top. The bowl was overturned on a victim's stomach, and underneath it went a starved rat. As the embers glowed, the bowl heated downwards, forcing the trapped animal to eat its way through the victim or perish.

Confronted by the dogged survival instinct of rats, I always felt less somehow: as weak as Seth claimed I was. Everyone had a caving point, despite what we believed about ourselves, how brave and tough and enduring we thought we were. I hoped Seth never found out about mine. Simply seeing that copper bowl would crush any illusion of loyalty I had for my family.

The horrid rodent paused on its haunches, piercing me with beady pink eyes. Dropping the carcass, it bared fangs and let out a high-pitched squeal that sounded more like the scream of a baby. I didn't need further encouragement to start moving.

Leaping to my feet, I scrambled desperately up the slippery bank, which graduated from sodden mounds of sand to large dunes dotted by scrubby thickets of beach grass. The storm raged, rain nearly horizontal on the ceaseless wind. I battled to make headway against howling gusts and impossible terrain that was strangely vaguely familiar.

Ahead loomed the highest ridge. If I reached the top, a wide view of the surroundings might help me decide which route to take. I tucked my head down onto my chest and thrashed upwards. All the while, the creeping sensation I was being followed refused to abate. Seth and his wrigglers had made me paranoid. Phantom tingles awoke in my knee and I stumbled up the steep incline. Reaching for a clump of grass to gain purchase, the blades were razor-sharp. I earned a nasty slash across my palm.

"Oh, for crying out loud. Cut me some slack," I shouted at the wrathful sky.

In response, a faint noise gathered volume over the gale. A volley of rabid squeaks. My skin crawled and I didn't dare look behind. I must not surrender to fear. Toiling onwards, the summit seemed further away with every plunge of sand-filled shoes. A dull roar behind snapped my head around to search for the source.

Above, a passenger jet climbed steadily skyward. Suddenly, I knew exactly where I was. This was the Kurnell Peninsula, the only remaining dunes within spit of the city and the airport. Seth's marina was scarcely twenty kilometres from my home, tucked in an isolated part of Quibray Bay. Scanning the horizon, a twinkling contingent of planes circled in the rain-hazed distance. Across the bay, the oil refinery blazed with multi-coloured radiance. The road had to be over the rise. There were no welcoming lights sparkling along the shoreline below, the single source a bulb over Seth's staircase. I realised too late that stopping to get my bearings was the height of stupidity.

A roiling wave of ugly grey and brown bodies, huge and swollen, surged up the hill. Rats: well fed on the litter of the harbour, the size of daschunds. Hell! They probably ate small dogs for a snack. Their eyes rolled back in their heads, red-rimmed, fangs exposed to tear me to pieces. They shrieked their hatred, oblivious of the downpour.

I abandoned the sham of self-control and scrambled for the peak. Seth could have me and murder me in whatever fashion he chose. Sobbing did not aid my ability to see. Wet clothes intensified the slog and two legs were a clear disadvantage. The horde of screeching beasts gained ground and numbers. They would be on top of me as soon as I breached the summit.

Over my shoulder, Seth's boatshed stood impassive. He was nowhere to be seen and I was soon at the mercy of a gnashing tide of undulating terror, growing too huge to fight, their claws lengthening scimitars, their teeth those of raptors. I tried to leash the fear, aware now it made things worse, but I was bone-tired and running on empty. Finally breaching the miserable hill, I saw the road cutting a valley through this wasteland. Were I not about to become mincemeat for my worst phobia, I could have walked out.

I sank to my knees. Where was Seth? Why hadn't he come for me? Perhaps he was observing, watching as the fiends finished me off and spared him the trouble. I covered my eyes with my hands and waited for the inevitable pain. They crashed into me with a ferocious grunt and I was airborne with the collision. Tumbling down the other side of the dune, they refused to let go as I bumped and cartwheeled, my eyes fused shut. I heard a loud snap – possibly a rib – and rolled to a tangled heap at the bottom.

"Too slow."

Before I could get my bearings, I was yanked up and towed towards the road. Language cruder than a trucker's cursed my the lack of speed as I was abruptly flipped over someone's wide shoulder encouraging a scream at the sharp pressure on my rib. There was only one person I knew with such a comprehensive store of expletives. The elation dulled the agony spearing my lung with every jolt.

"Smithy," I wheezed into his scapula, as he sprinted through the wilderness.

A quick crane of my neck revealed that we'd thankfully left the rats far behind. My Warrior was fast.

"What took you, Bear?" he asked, clearly hurt. "I've been waiting so long."

"Waiting?" Conducting a conversation from this position was quite taxing. "How did you know—?" He gracefully hurdled a bush, hardly breaking stride. On landing, the breath expelled from my lungs with an audible _'ughh!'_

"Sorry. Long story short, the cats tracked the whereabouts of Seth's hideout earlier. He wasn't around. There was only one other place your guardians thought he'd be, much to their horror. The original plan was to corner him here, but Fortescue thought it too risky on his turf, especially once it all went to hell and they guessed Seth had you. Your butler's a wily old coot. He came up with a better plan."

Across the dash through several kilometres of dense scrub, Smith's powerful athleticism never waned. It was a slightly nauseating and rugged way to travel, but I did not care. This amazing boy had come to save me.

"They had no idea he'd actually approach the warehouse. Or be so bold as to take you. When I found out they'd been so blasé about your safety... It was probably worse than an argument with the judge." Smith and his father fought so ferociously, we sometimes heard them across the alley.

His breathing remained at an even tempo while we ran, his strong heart beating in time to each bump of my head. We finally emerged by the road. He gently set me down next to his idling bike, propped on its stand in the middle of the asphalt, and began to examine me with his eyes and quick hands.

"So much blood, Winnie," he breathed in horror.

Smithy softly probed my ribs. Ticklish, I flinched.

"It looks worse than it is." I held up my wrists to show him. "See? Already healing."

"Fuck," he spat venomously. "I hate that prick more than I hate the Crone."

I thought of all the ways Seth had hurt me and shuddered to envision what his mistress could do. "That's because we haven't met her yet."

He fixed me in a steely gaze. "I trust you gave him hell... _little firecracker."_

The joy of Smithy's arrival collapsed like a pricked balloon. Mortified, my mouth fell open and I rallied a lame apology. But what was there to say? Smithy had seen what occurred on Seth's boat: me writhing and moaning around on the floor in my best rendition of a rapper's groupie. If I didn't hate myself before, his distressed face cemented it now.

"Smith," I pleaded, "I wasn't sticking up for him..."

He'd already turned from me and busied himself unzipping a large backpack that leaned against his Ducati, tossing the contents into a pile. I wanted to say sorry, needed to pour forth excuses and explanations, but it might make things worse. And I was too cowardly to admit even to myself, let alone aloud, that Seth's touch stoked a fire inside impossible to quench.

The disgrace was so acute, I leaned against the bike lest I fall down. Smith was by me instantly. He raised my face with a forefinger beneath my chin. His thumb stroked my lips, concerned eyes searching mine to make it infinitely worse.

"Are you okay?"

I bleakly shook my head. "Hugo is trapped back there. We have to help him."

"No, we don't." He released me and bent to grab a pile of leathers. "The only thing we _have_ to do is get you inside to safety."

"I'm not going anywhere without Hugo."

"You have a cracked rib. Are you going to be okay to hang on? Do you need something for the pain?"

"I'm fine." The stabbing in my side had lessened and I could inhale, but my fury peaked. "Hugo is not fine. He's drugged and helpless. Smithy, we have to go and get him."

"Put those on, please," he said, offering the thick motorbike leathers. "We need to cover you up, as much as possible. Stop the beasties from getting you."

I couldn't argue with that and accepted the clothes. Hastily dragging off my sneakers, clods of sand dropped to the pavement. I buckled up knee-boots that were at least two sizes too big, and a heavily padded jacket which fastened under my chin.

"Please, Smith."

I felt even shoddier, making it hard. He was just as bedraggled as I was. His biker's gear stuck to every part of him, squelching when he moved. On his haunches, he rifled the rucksack for a growing assortment of items that he neatly arranged next to him, hair slicked back and droplets clumping his eyelashes.

"Listen to me, Bear." Smith glowered up at me. "I was wrong not to let you read that diary. Then, I wouldn't have spared a second getting you downstairs to safety and far from that wretch, rather than rummaging the place for useless guns. Number one, his stare entrances and I have no defences until you shut him down by claiming the stone. Once he sets eyes on me I'm toast for good. He can butter me whatever way he sees fit forever. Do you understand? Best I could do was make sure the door to the boatshed was easy for you to get through. Number two, Hugo can rot back there for all I care. How do you think Seth knew where you lived? Hugo is a traitorous bastard who deserves his punishment, not your pity." His tone was unyielding and furious. " _You_ are most important to me, _you_ take priority. I'll beg if I have to, please do as I ask."

He was more precious to me than anyone and he didn't require sorcery to make me feel that. My love for him overwhelmed. Smithy had never once broken his word to me across the years of ratbaggery. If he said he'd be there, he was. Drunk and stumbling or otherwise. If we planned a day together, he never failed to show, whether grounded and in trouble already, invoking the judge's wrath for the trivial return of going on a run with me. I never understood what he got from our relationship. It was so one-sided. I couldn't even invite him home for dinner. Beneath all the boozed-up bravado, emo camouflage and colourful language was a boy of steadfast integrity and genuineness. He deserved infinitely better than what I was giving him.

"What do you want me to do?"

He gave me a quirked smile, his warmth shining even in this dismal place. Collecting a helmet, he rose and thrust it at me. "Put that on."

While I did as asked, Smith strode in a large circle around us with a squeeze-bottle in each hand, spraying an oily liquid as he went. He flicked open a Zippo and tossed it into the fluid on the ground. It didn't seem possible that it could ignite in the bad weather, but high flames sprung to life and we were immediately at the centre of a fierce, bright perimeter.

"Don't get too close in this wind. You're banged up enough without burns. You've really given those healing advantages a work out."

Smithy shook his head ruefully, returning to tenderly lift me under the arms and seat me on the back of his bike. He put my boots on the rests, making sure my feet were secure.

"We don't have much time. I can hear Mickey and friends arriving. Can you reach Seth in your mind?"

_"What?"_ I could not see properly through the visor's dark tint and wrenched it open.

"Everything will be okay." He reached out and lightly touched my cheek, where not an hour before, Seth's fingers had rested. His hand slid to his side and he chewed his bottom lip. "You need to trust me."

He slapped my visor closed. Horrid squeals reached us on the wind, one minute fading, only to blast closer with another gust the next. They narrowed the gap. And this time, by the sounds of it, the rats hemmed us in. The blazing wall burned lower, finally extinguishing in the rain. Through it, row upon row of deranged eyes.

Smith squashed his own helmet on and mounted the bike. "We can communicate via intercom." His voice crackled over the speaker. He reached behind for me and positioned my arms around his waist, squeezing my hands between his. "Hold on with all your might, Bear."

I tightened my grip about his hard belly as he bumped the bike from its stand and brought it vertical. My nerves were so taut, I felt they'd sever and unravel my control at any second. "Why aren't we moving?"

He toed the gear and revved the engine, holding the bike steady as the wheel spun. The circle of fire burned lower, almost guttering out, a mass of fangs and claws waiting on the threshold. The rats would soon break through and still we weren't in motion. Smithy fidgeted one-handed with something in front of us, but I could not see properly through the tinted perspex of my visor. It was all I could do not to bawl at him to hurry the hell up!

"Let's make sure we get the attention we deserve," I heard him mutter.

He tossed an object ahead in the darkness. There was a succession of low _whumps_ and then massive fireballs eclipsed the night, incinerating an opening through the shrieking rats. Smithy launched the bike and we bulleted into the inferno. The motor wailed as he redlined through the gears.

We crunched over charred remains of dead rats, squishing any living ones that got in the way. The stench of burned fur and flesh almost made me throw up in my helmet. Ash rained from above and putrid soot clung to our clothes. Survivors swarmed in our wake, wildly hurling themselves at us as we sped past. They bounced off the thick leathers, unable to gain a hold with their teeth.

_"Stay. Please_." Seth's unspoken plea almost unseated me. His regret was plain and my heart swelled with sympathy.

"We have to go back. Seth's all alone."

"Make him follow," Smithy ordered.

He accelerated, pushing the bike to its blinding maximum down the long, twisting road. The wind whistled around us in the lessening storm and he made no allowances for the greasy conditions.

"How?"

"I don't care how. Just do it!"

I thoroughly deserved his anger. A confusing whirl of questions and emotion crowded my head. Surely Smithy realised Seth aimed to kill me? We wouldn't have a hope of outrunning him, even with a head start and Smith's exceptional riding skill. I fought the drowning need to give in to the death wish and go back to Seth. But not because Smithy asked, because I wanted to. My lack of devotion was inexcusable.

"Don't you understand what he can do to me? I should not be anywhere near him."

"I heard you in the bathroom, Bear! Every excruciating bit of it. It's all I can do not to turn around and go and kill him with my bare hands. I don't care what he can do to me. But I have to stick with the plan. And so do you."

I withered with self-loathing, my traitorous heart a worthless, dried-up grape. My behaviour had cut him so deeply; it was plain in his voice.

The landscape gradually transformed. Rolling dunes were replaced by industrial complexes behind barbed-wire fencing and then huge, contemporary houses fronting Botany Bay. Streetlights became more numerous, highlighting the drizzle in a rapid series of yellow haloes as we blew by. In the distance, I just made out the misty, rainbow lights of the city, getting closer.

"Bear." After an interminable absence of words, Smithy's voice was soft over the speaker. " _Do_ you trust me?"

"Yes," I mumbled, too agonised by guilt to say more. I could not stand the thought of hurting him.

"Please encourage Seth to pursue you." This obviously cost Smith a great deal, but for some reason it was critically important our enemy chase us.

So be it – I would find a way, just to please him. "Okay."

I adjusted my body to Smithy's as we leaned low through turns, barely slowing our breakneck pace. He didn't obey stop signs or traffic lights. I procrastinated, one moment reluctant to call for Seth, the next shockingly eager. Feeling this way was obviously not normal: who in their right mind would voluntarily draw near those awful seethers? Something else nagged at me.

Why wasn't Seth already hot on our tail? It would have been piteously easy for him to recapture me back at his boatshed or at any point since our escape, yet there was no sign of him, as if he'd lost interest. I supposed this should be a good thing and ignored the stab of angst brought on by his indifference. How often did people who'd successfully fled from a captor turn around and rashly taunt them? Surely, he'd be suspicious of such an absurd bargain. I spoke in my mind anyway, feeling like some swindler psychic.

_"Seth?"_ I waited. _"Seth."_

_"Keeper,"_ he mentally drawled. I shrieked in shock.

"You owe me a hearing aid," Smith grouched. "I presume that means the arsehole is in the vicinity?"

_"Oh, he's not very friendly, is he?"_

_"Y-you ..."_ I stuttered. _"Don't you want to kill me anymore?"_

_"As we're in the mood for negotiation. How about I kill the whole lot of you? Starting with him."_ The stakes were too high. _"I'll even throw in a bonus. That treacherous backstabber Hugo's head delivered on a platter for you."_

Hadn't Hugo all but tied me up in a bow and delivered me to Seth? Shouldn't he have earned a pat on the back for a job well done? My confusion deepened. The thought of Seth anywhere near Smithy, should we fail in whatever mad strategy this was, threatened to shatter me to pieces.

I whispered through the intercom to Smith. "Please tell me we will not get caught."

"I swear on my life," he answered fervently. "I will not let you get taken."

I noticed the subtle distinction in Smithy's response. If he was so unsure of success, why were we baiting Seth? How could I decide what to do when I did not understand why I was haggling in the first place.

_"You have five seconds,"_ Seth barked.

"Promise," I murmured. "But don't swear on your life."

"I promise," Smithy said.

_"Fine."_

Seth's triumphant laughter echoed in my awareness. _"See you soon,"_ he said cheerfully, voice thick with implication.

"He's coming," I whimpered. "Go faster!"

Go slower, begged my deceitful inner voice. Arghh. I was going mad. It was like being torn in two. Euphoria competed with fear. We streaked through the streets, a virtual torpedo. The Sunday evening traffic became denser too, as we approached the city. And somewhere behind, Seth travelled in his vaporous state like silk on the breeze, unimpeded by such obstacles as buildings.

Smithy easily nipped and dodged through the flow of cars, to the alarmed blares of other drivers. No matter the velocity, as he bled every ounce of speed from his high performance machine, I was positive it wasn't sufficient. Ordinarily, I would have found the trip exhilarating. Every time I'd asked to ride with Smith, Bea vigorously denied permission. If only she could see me now.

The feeling of unease refused to dissipate, worsening with every metre we took towards home. What would happen if we actually made it to the warehouse? Seth seemed supremely confident he would win and didn't appear to be the type to lose too often. I scanned behind most of the trip, my body contorted to the rear.

"You know, we'd be far more aerodynamic if you would relax a bit and hug me closer, instead of impersonating a scarecrow. We've only got two blocks to go."

Smith's complacency worried me. Usually about this point in the movie, the hero got shot.

"Shhh, you'll jinx us." I smacked his helmet.

_"Well, well, look who it is. I can see you, Keeper."_

"He's behind us, he's behind us."

Smith swerved impossibly across four lanes of traffic to descend in the wrong direction down an on-ramp. The big motor whined in protest as we shot through one red-lit intersection after another, violently weaving, and missing oncoming cars by the barest of margins. Low-rise semi-industrial complexes gave way to skyscrapers that crowded midtown like giant trees as we headed towards Circular Quay and The Rocks.

_"Bit of a daredevil, isn't he? I can see why you like him so much."_

Seth was clearly keeping pace, no matter Smithy's efforts. Where was he? I looked behind again but couldn't see him.

"He's speaking to me again. I can tell he's caught up."

"Have a little faith, Bear. We're not done yet." I couldn't trust my ears; I thought Smithy actually sniggered. "Excellent. Get snug against me. Head down. Hang on!"

I whipped my head out to the side to check what excited him. Up ahead, a semitrailer had ponderously entered the crossroads we hurtled towards. Smithy didn't falter. He also didn't decelerate. The truck blocked access to our laneway, lumbering past too slow. At our current rate, we too would pass into the beyond – the eternal beyond, in a tortured mass of steel and blood at the shattering moment of impact. The 'hang on' bit came naturally; Smithy wore me like a second skin.

_"Oh, he wouldn't! Does he care about you at all?"_ Seth couldn't disguise his disbelief.

_"Shut up! Leave me alone."_

"Here we go!"

Smith disengaged the gears, slipping the bike into neutral and we began our glide towards imminent death. At least it was quieter. With my eyes squeezed shut, I felt the bike tilt almost horizontal and slide bumpily along the tarmac, clinging with my knees as metal screeched. If we made it through alive, I would throttle Smith for this! Bea was right, of course, motorcycles were dangerous! Especially with him at the handlebars.

I couldn't help it, my eyes flew open just as we veered under the trailer's carriage in a trail of sparks. The whole event seemed to take an eternity, but before I could blink Smithy planted his ground-side foot to shove the bike erect with a grunt. The engine growled back to life. After a tight corner, we fishtailed into our alley, streaking along its length, straight past the warehouse.

And straight by the weirdest scene of my very weird life.

## Twenty-Five

When we reached the far end of the alley, Smith slowed the bike and pivoted us to face back the way we'd come. It had finally stopped raining.

"You'll want to see this," he said. "Take the helmet off for a better view."

I mutely complied, my lips pressed thinly as I bent to place the helmet on cobbled pavement. He turned to me with his helmet still firmly on and received a murderous scowl. The critique of his stunt work would be highly negative. He put a finger against my lips, his voice muffled.

"Just watch. There'll be plenty of time for shouting at me later."

He swivelled back to observe the action unfold. I wrapped my hands around his chest and he took them in his. I peered over his shoulder, to appraise the unlikely picture. Midway along the alley, at the doorway to our warehouse, stood Fortescue, ramrod straight with his back to us in the middle of the road. He held a long, ornately carved pipe to his mouth, as though about to blow a trumpet.

Half a metre in front of him, kneeling on one knee, the other at a right angle for stability, was Bea. She aimed a wide crossbow. Usually, a bow was held in the vertical plane of the body, but hers was oriented parallel with the ground. She aimed towards the mouth of the alley where Seth was likely to appear. Two arrows were fixed wide apart to the drawstring, both pulled back in readiness to fly. Thin ropes dangled from each arrow and pooled in a heap on the ground.

Stranger still, was Mrs Paget. She hung in a climbing rig from the side of an abandoned five-storey office building at the alley's entrance. It was the sort of equipment used to winch a floating yachtsman to the safety of a chopper. Around her waist, she wore a worker's belt with assorted flasks held in place by leather holders, and high-tech goggles that made her look like a large bug latched to the wall. All of my minders wore small earpieces by which to coordinate the offensive. The whole strategy had clearly been devised to trap Seth – with me as the lure. I didn't know how I felt about that.

Vovo and Cherish slunk out of the open warehouse door towards Smithy and me, coming to sit like sentinels, one either side of the Ducati. They were not purring now, their gold eyes vigilant, tails twitching alertly back and forth. Smithy's apartment building was already in abnormal darkness, as was our warehouse, which was the only other occupied building in proximity. The streetlights went out, one after the other, plunging us into murky black.

I could feel Seth's arrival, my skin tingling. He solidified from billowing white mist to hesitate at the entrance of the lane, apparently sensing something was not right. Smithy reassuringly increased his grasp of my hands.

_"Where have you gone, Keeper?"_ Seth's haughtiness faltered.

I held my breath, hoping he'd venture closer, not turn and flee. After several tense moments, we heard Seth walk further down the alley to within shooting range. My guardians were ready for him. Mrs Paget threw down several vials at once. There was a loud bang and flashes like welding lit up the night. Liquid showered Seth and thickened to encase him in a clear resinous substance, presumably to stop him from returning to his vaporous state. Fortescue puffed a breath into his blowpipe and before I could blink, the dart hit its target. Seth reflexively slapped at his neck.

Simultaneously, Bea released her arrows and the ropes attached to them whipped a shiny, silvery net through the air. Seth swayed and lurched backwards as the mesh hit him and weighted arrows arced back around his body, wrapping him snugly. He collapsed lethargically to the road. The streetlights flickered on. Everyone jumped to action – except for me – I stood stunned, my jaw on the floor. Our cats prowled an impatient circuit about the Ducati, my bum still planted on the passenger seat.

Mrs Paget nimbly rappelled down the wall, detaching her climbing gear and collecting any evidence such as broken flasks from the street. She offered me a cadaverous grin, and then joined Fortescue where they both disappeared into the garage. I heard the roar of Bea's Bentley starting up below and then the car itself appeared and purred towards the end of the alley.

Smithy, who'd finally removed his helmet, strode purposefully over to Seth. He roughly hoisted the big youth up in a limp bundle of netting, heading for the warehouse entrance as if toting no more than a handbag. I realised belatedly this was probably not ideal for Seth's ongoing wellbeing.

Bea rushed over and pulled me into a smothering hug. "I am so sorry, Winnie. We will never jeopardise your safety like that again! Quickly, inside now. We don't want any more unwelcome visitors. The cats are a bit agitated."

A loud thud from the warehouse doorway took our attention. "Is that truly necessary, Vegas?"

"Whatever do you mean, Aunt Bea?" Smithy grinned tightly and banged Seth's head hard against the stone portico for a second time. "He doesn't fit!"

"Okay, you've had your fun," I said.

"Oh, I haven't even started."

Bea hustled me forward while she reasoned with Smithy. "That may well be, but this doorway congestion prevents our entry. If you don't mind, I suggest we move inside. Fortescue and Mrs Paget are waiting for you in the car. You also need to hide the bike, until we can dispose of it. The false plates were a smart idea, yet I suspect the police have not ignored your efforts. Please."

"I will not leave Bear. The others can retrieve Hugo."

"The major threat has abated, for now. Please! Adhere to the arrangements."

He scowled and knowing him as well as I did, was poised to argue. But the moment the cats began hissing, Smith stepped inside. Skittering claws and squeaks could be heard amassing in the shadows. If anything, city rats were nastier than their water-bound cousins. Without the need of extra encouragement, I brushed past Smith, Bea corralling us along. The impending demise of Smithy's beloved bike sucked. The machine was an extension of his character. It seemed a precursor for what was to come, a mere hint at potential casualties.

"I'm sorry about your bike."

"It's just a material possession." He shrugged and gazed at me. "There are far worse things to lose."

The door clanged shut at our backs; its thick reinforced bolts slid into their housings. I was no longer reassured by that solid sound, knowing how easily Seth had breached our security. And it signalled the demise of my freedom. Now, the likelihood of venturing outside unscathed mimicked the horizon – a mythical destination that moved away with every step you took towards it.

"I am not going anywhere," I declared.

"Good," his eyes lingered on mine. "I don't want to have to hunt you down. Again."

Smith would forgive me. He had to. I could not do this alone. "You know I was compelled. It wasn't my choice?"

Seth stirred in his arms and Smith's expression turned to stone. "Did he compel you to enjoy it so much?" he whispered through clenched teeth.

"You must get him into his cell and join the others. Do not dally, Vegas." Smithy glowered again at Bea, but did as she asked. He slouched off through the collection to take the stairs below, no doubt fighting the urge to crush his cargo anaconda-style.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to leave Seth with Smithy?"

"For the record, I am quite tempted to allow Smith free reign with the insufferable villain. Perhaps I should also offer Jerome some much sought after practice with his rusted bayonet."

We trailed Smith's course, departing upstairs for the bedroom wing as Vegas stomped to the depths with a fading volley of bangs and bumps that gave me savage satisfaction.

"What about the judge? He would not have missed all that commotion in his alley, surely?"

"He's in Bermuda with his latest wife. She won the door prize at our ladies' luncheon. Serendipity, don't you think?"

My eyes narrowed as we entered the kitchen. I had never been happier to see this room. "Aunt Bea, did you rig your own raffle?"

"Winsome. That would be dishonest." Her hand went to her pearls in mock dismay.

Wow. I already knew they were a shifty lot, but who could have anticipated to what extent? I shook my head. "Did Hugo really betray us to Anathema?"

"It is a guess, but I believe Hugo attempted to insert himself between you and Seth. Although I won't rule out punishment for not informing us of what he was up to."

Gratitude washed over me. After all Hugo had said about the tragic loss of his sister, Latoya, there was simply no way he'd stoop so low as to help those mongrels. He'd sworn allegiance to us, and I had never for a second lost trust in him.

"We still have some protections, don't we?" I would not move house again, even if Finesse and her slavering minions fell upon us in droves.

"We are far from defenceless. However, it is very late, Winsome. Explanations can wait until first thing tomorrow. We must get you cleaned up. You are a wreck and frankly, barbequed rat is not my favourite scent." Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Not to mention, I have never envisaged a day where motorbike leathers constitute acceptable attire." She gestured towards my room. "Mrs Paget has laid out fresh clothes for you." My face fell, I did not fancy a morning conference in the kitchen dressed in hotpants and a boob tube.

"Never fear. Jerome and I have readjusted Mrs Paget's view on particular matters. She will refrain from outfitting you like a playboy's mistress and let nature take its course." Did my aunt have ESP? What did nature have to do with anything? "You are not an incubator," Bea muttered to herself, frowning.

"Thank you," I said dubiously. I had the vaguest impression that Mrs Paget was trying to prevent Raphaela's future from becoming my own, but could not quite articulate how.

"My pleasure. A couple of other issues. First, I suspect you must be famished. Would you like Fortescue to order a pizza on his return?"

Somehow, it just didn't appeal. "Do we have any veggie soup?"

Bea smiled approvingly. "Of course. And we've made a bed up in your room for Vegas. We'd prefer you not sleep alone for the time being. Do you have any objections to sharing? I know how you value your privacy."

She raised an eyebrow. I cleared my throat and tried to look thoughtful. "I guess it's for the best. Besides, you've never worried about my privacy before, why start now?"

Bea was not fooled. "Hmm," she managed. "I cannot tell you how relieved and overjoyed I am to have you back. Fetch me when you are dressed. There is a task you must complete before you go to bed."

As I turned for my room, it was impossible not to see how much she'd aged. Yes, that was the correct word. Aunt Bea's hair had turned white at the roots and her skin clung to the jutting bones of her cheek, long creases tunnelling from her hooded eyes and the corners of her puckered mouth. Her clothes sagged on her emaciated frame.

My minders weren't sick; they grew older with each frail pull of breath. Raphaela's authority declined, and with it any hope of thwarting my guardians' advancing decay. The Keeper's inheritance demanded I claim the wicked Stone and assert my influence, ahead of its rightful owner. Swift self-sacrifice was the only way to save them. But the Delta gate was blocked. How?

_Singly, they stand afore the onslaught_... At my bedroom door, I called across the gallery on the verge of tears. "Aunt Bea?"

She popped her head around the kitchen doorframe, face anxious, a tea canister in her hand. "Yes, Winnie? What is the matter?"

"Tell me five things about yourself that I don't know."

She blinked in confusion. "Five things?"

"Please."

"Let me see. Five things," she mused, stepping out onto the wraparound mezzanine. "I play the cello. I am a chocolatier and a master fencer. I was born in Marseilles, France. Before you came along, I filled the tedium of my endless days by embroidering masterpieces. After the death of my adored husband, Vincent, my life was a desert. Until you, Winsome. I will not leave you, unless forced. I believe those facts overstep your quota." Her expression was kind. "Now, I insist you shower and change. Preferably before Grace arrives home and is compelled to bring out her homemade perfume. It gives me intolerable hayfever."

"Thank you." Her imminent departure from my life may be beyond her control. This knowledge simmered between us, neither of us willing to render it real by giving it words. "Aunt Bea?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you make me some chocolates one day?"

She smiled. "I would do anything at all for you, Winnie. I promise. Even risk diabetes through sugar and couverture overload."

I quietly closed my door. If Bea and Mrs Paget and Fortescue lived, they would insist on staying with me. As the Keeper, I became responsible for anything bad that happened to them. The toll was too high, the 'ifs' multiplying beyond what was acceptable. My resentment towards Raphaela diminished. I understood her lapse, why she'd done what she had and risked us all to stave off loneliness.

A Keeper protected those she loved by standing alone. Bea's saying 'three can keep a secret if two of them are dead' proved very accurate in our context.

I dragged myself into the bathroom. After scrubbing myself raw and shampooing twice to remove the scum of fried rat, I regrettably inspected the floor-to-ceiling mirror while towelling dry. My body was a patchwork of bruises, long scabs forming up both arms where I'd taken to myself with the glass razor and another deep gash crusting one shin. But it was my dazed air of hopelessness that was most obvious in the reflection.

On my bed, Mrs Paget had left cropped cotton pyjama pants in dainty floral with contrasting ribbon and a matching sunny yellow, lace-trimmed singlet. I tied up my damp hair out of the way in a scarf. The pretty brightness made no dent in my depression. Nor did the dismal schlep for the kitchen, minus an attentive butler. Smithy and the others had been gone too long, amping my worry and emphasising my looming sense of isolation.

"You look lovely, Winnie. That is far more like it." Bea gestured from the railing down the stairs at the rickety elevator. "You must complete the initiation alone. I know you do not relish enclosed spaces, so the cats will accompany you to the basement."

"Do I have to?"

She nodded wearily. "You need not be afraid. I am hoping this exercise will help bring you closer to the Keeper's power and help fend off Seth. There is only one rule. Do not deviate. Once you have finished the obvious, retrace your steps and come back here immediately. I have not forgotten your disobedience by breaking curfew to have dinner with Vegas, Winsome," she said sternly. "I mean it this time, return without delay."

"Alright, Aunt Bea, I promise."

I made for the lift to the lower levels. Vovo and Cherish materialised next to me, sauntering inside the tiny, cramped box with soothing purrs. Sweat dampened my forehead as soon as I stepped inside and prodded the down button. The walls pressed in and I toiled to keep my breathing even. Wooden panelling replaced the obligatory mirrored wall, sparing me evidence of my cowardice. I examined the intricately carved and polished interior.

This distraction turned out to be a bad choice, as every section was filled with the same grotesque demons as the Keeper's diary. Only these were larger and in convincing bas-relief. They writhed and leered, poised for me to lose my nerve and trip up, so they could pounce and tear me limb from limb. I closed my eyes and waited for the telltale dip in my abdomen signalling the ride's interminable end. The doors finally trundled apart. All my fears evaporated the minute I caught sight of the astonishing vista before me.

## Twenty-Six

I faced a long, wide hallway, well lit by sweet-smelling lanterns that gave off a buttercup glow. Their perfume was instantly recognisable from Raphaela's sacrificial ceremony in the study of her Louisiana mansion. A floor of highly lacquered wood revealed an intricate jigsaw of symbols from the border of the Delta triangles. Black volcanic glass walls polished to a mirror finish created the illusion of empty space and were supported by sculpted bronze and gilt columns spaced evenly along its length. The high, curved roof was spectacularly frescoed like the Sistine Chapel, but the subject matter was more akin to the fiendish depths of hell.

On my left-hand side were many carved doors. On the opposite side, prominent midway down, was a huge swinging double door with split halves of a golden Delta forming a handle in the centre. Without realising I'd even left the lift, I found myself standing in front of this entrance. The cats paced behind, coming to sit, one at each of the broad pillars that framed the doors. This place had the feel of consecrated ground.

I wavered, conscious that some kind of enduring commitment lay over the precipice. It was the difference between watching the rollercoaster and hearing the screams, or being the one strapped in and screaming. Well, fear of speed had never been a problem for me. I reached out and pushed the golden triangle ajar.

The corridor resonated with the whispers of past Keepers, four women's voices united as one: an outpouring of love and friendship as they welcomed me home. The triangle separated from apex to base when the doors swung and I made my way into a large round room with a domed ceiling. Lanterns hanging overhead flared into life, negating the need for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.

This room was inconceivably ancient and unadorned in comparison to the hallway, yet beautiful in its earthy simplicity. Rough-hewn bricks of phosphorescent rock sparkled like crystal, rainbow specks of reflected light dancing in the lamp flames. Embedded in the floor, which continued the pattern of interconnected symbols from outside, was another golden Delta triangle.

This one took up most of the floor's surface area and sat underneath a thin transparent layer. It was big enough to clearly discern the cryptographs crowding the inner frame. The signs reminded me of Egyptian hieroglyphs, telling a story with stylised pictures.

The Delta glowed brighter with my approach. Three embossed metallic discs the size of dinner plates sat outside its perimeter, halfway along each side and flush with the parquetry. The entire scene was eerily familiar; it mimicked the arrangement Raphaela had died in. The bronze caps that rested on the floor were situated as her black candles had been. They melted away when I neared, allowing me to peer through into submerged white-lit bowls.

I knelt to look. Suspended within the container closest to me was the ritual dagger, its wavy blade now sparkling and free of blood. I crawled around to the next glistening orb; it held a ruby-encrusted golden goblet. The last was a set of old-fashioned scales, also gold and decorated on its stem and base with red gems. The Keeper's diary could have enlightened me as to their function, but I'd neglected to bring it.

As if in response to my unspoken query, a shaft of light shone from above to illuminate a circle within the triangle. I gazed upwards and noticed an oculus in the dome, a sun-drenched round opening submerged beneath a multi-storeyed building, which spot-lit the Diary floating overhead. On a hunch, I reached for the book. It hovered into my open palms.

A disbelieving little voice nagged in my head, telling me I'd finally shattered reality with this fantasy. Or was it a horror story? But I could not let negative thoughts intrude; I'd never succeed otherwise. Attending the diary in my hands, it fell open to a page entitled: _Objects of the Sacred Trinity_. The print read:

' _There are six principle articles. The Scabior Blade, for protection. The Chalice, for sight. The Balance, for truth. The Irons, to hold. The Amulet, to shield. The Sceptre, to bind. Each confers power in accord with the requirements of the Sacred Trinity. Together they form the Keeper's Key, to open.'_

Most uninformative. And someone couldn't count. There were only three articles present, the blade, the cup and the scales. As if sensing my discontent, the diary soared back to its airborne position like a spurned bird, disappearing as the light beaming via the oculus faded.

"Same to you," I muttered.

None the wiser, I knew where information on reversing my guardians' disintegration could be found. My skin prickled with apprehension – it was time to visit Seth. The main barrier was the fact his location remained a mystery. Disobeying Aunt Bea yet again was as appealing as barbequed rat, but I had a hunch that demanded I break my pledge of a hasty return. And forced the disappointing admission that keeping promises wasn't my best trait. I left the chamber with no clear direction in mind, glancing up and down the long corridor. Cherish and Vovo got to their paws from their vigil in front of each pillar, stretching placidly before slinking towards the elevator.

Six other doors lined the wall facing the chamber's entrance. I knew Seth was not behind any of them, as if the intimacies – and the horrors – we'd shared forged a bond drawing me to him. It was not until I focused my attention to the right, at the end of the hallway opposite the lift that an anomaly caught my eye. Instead of a door, a plain white plaster alcove stood there, hung with delicate white mesh that fluttered on a faint breeze from within. Sunshine flickered behind the netting. It looked like no jail I could imagine, but I knew instantly this was the place.

The cats paused almost at the lift, hissing their disapproval when I turned from them towards Seth's new residence. They refused to accompany me further along the way. I reached the arch, my breathing erratic. The floor warmed my bare feet and the scent of frangipanis permeated the air. I cleared my throat and searched for somewhere to knock.

"Enter." That memorable voice sent a panicky wave through me.

I hastily dropped my fist and strove for a shred of self-discipline. Delaying while the jumpiness settled, I prayed his hold over me was neutralised by incarceration.

"I hope you didn't change your mind." Seth suddenly smiled alluringly at me from behind the sheer fabric.

Could beauty blind? I'd mistakenly believed his influence over me would be absent while exiled here. He was thoroughly relaxed and casually attired, wearing a light pair of three-quarter pants and an unbuttoned, sleeveless shirt that hung open and exposed a chest worthy of Michelangelo. He chuckled smugly on catching me gawking and beckoned me in, vanishing into his room.

His nonchalance bothered me more than I could stand, sparking the single weapon I possessed. Fury. I reefed aside the flimsy material and stalked across an expansive, modern apartment, too hell-bent on punishing him for amazement.

"Hey, you!"

Seth turned in slow motion, surprise evident in his stance. I steamrollered him, shoving as hard as I could and using the momentum to follow through and punch him in the gut. He expelled a gust with a slight _"Oof"_  – not the agonising groan I'd hoped for – and reeled backwards a couple of steps. He righted himself prior to hitting the deck. Damn! I wish I drove a real steamroller, or maybe a crane with a wrecking ball.

"You'd better have answers for me or I'll let the cats in, and they're immune to synthetic charm."

"I am not permitted to touch you. You, however, may handle me in whatever manner you see fit. That was not what I had in mind."

"I don't care one speck about what's in your depraved head. I want you to tell me how to claim that forsaken Stone with Finesse trapped in the Delta. My guardians are dying and you're going to help me save them."

"I cannot."

"I know Raphaela had a plan. And I know you are fully informed of what that plan is." I rolled my fists and adopted a fighter's stance. His lips thinned in suppressed amusement and he raised his hands.

"I surrender. I cannot help you as you ask, because the witch sets the agenda. She must find her way out of the trap Raphaela set for her. You must be ready to claim the Stone when that happens. But that does not mean I cannot help you at all. Come, sit. We shall discuss it in civilised fashion, not as brawling savages."

_Civilised?_ This guy was outrageous and lacking any appreciation of irony. The muscles along my jaw ached from clenching them and my nails dug into my palms.

"I don't have time for a polite chinwag. Especially from someone who only hours ago used me as a mattress and threatened to suffocate me with sex."

I should not have said it. As soon as the utterance breached my lips, those memories surged back. Traitorous hormones danced a smouldering Latin beat in my belly. I would have an intercom installed, so we could converse without ever having to be in close quarters. I refused to be disloyal to Smith and grounded myself with the memory of him leaning against the banister outside my room, the night he took me to dinner. Was that truly only last night?

Seth's expression turned serious, possibly even understanding. "Please, follow me. I have something that will help."

I followed Seth, looking at my surroundings properly for the first time. My capacity for utter amazement still had scope. Seth's cell was a better prison than my wildest fantasies could invent – and they'd been working overtime recently.

Impossibly, we were in a large, glass-walled apartment sparsely decorated by sleek white furniture, the white walls only interrupted by paintings of the avant-garde school. The Picasso looked suspiciously real and therefore, priceless. We headed across an open-plan expanse of pale-blond polished floorboards and out onto a shaded terrace which ran the length of the room. Glorious crimson flowers draped from the eaves.

The villa perched on a lushly gardened hill, overlooking a private beach that hugged a shimmering bay. The midmorning view stunned me, with iridescent water meeting cerulean sky as far as the eye could see. Two wide white-leather sunlounges were oriented to take advantage of the spectacular cove, which reminded of a Greek Island.

"Sit, please. Make yourself at home."

Seth busied himself at a wet bar, tinkling glasses and preparing appetisers – the perfect jailbird host. I sank onto one of the recliners and stared in awe at this parallel reality, too dazed by the island-in-a-basement concept to concentrate on Seth or the task I'd set myself of saving my guardians.

"Enoch's very good, isn't he?" Seth inquired conversationally, as he carried the tray over and deposited it between us on a side table.

He must be the last of our group: Enoch was the Watcher. "You've seen him?"

"He roused me on arrival and requested I choose my ideal lockup. Of course, I thought it was a joke. He showed me otherwise by delivering all I asked. I certainly felt foolish for doubting him."

"Enoch did this? He's here in the warehouse?"

Seth spread his muscled arms wide in proof and sighed happily. He was not the same menacing enemy from the boat, who chased Smithy and me through the streets with deathly intent. The same cold beast set upon negotiating with our lives as bargaining chips. It almost seemed as though he didn't remember his vow to murder me. Was he schizophrenic?

His shirt wafted open in a stray gust, revealing more of his chest and nailing my attention. I jerked my focus away and silently raged at myself. I had to stay on my guard. He was a conniving manipulator, not to be trusted.

"I merely have to think it, and whatever I desire is at my fingertips. Enoch even managed to provide my favourite liqueur, which was made at a monastery that no longer exists. The recipe was lost some time in the thirteenth century. Would you like to taste it? There's nothing else like it on earth."

Alcohol plus Seth equalled the dumbest equation ever. "I don't drink. I'm underage," I replied primly, although it seemed odd to think of the normal rules here.

"Just a small one, then." He poured two glasses.

Why did no one respect my opinion? "Most people don't indulge in the morning."

"Allow me to oblige."

Seth clapped once. The sun sank beneath the horizon and twilight set in. White lights twinkled through the flowers, enclosing us in a soft haze. The rising moon reflected off jewelled water. A warm wind tousled Seth's hair, and suddenly it felt as though I was a swooning maiden stuck in a sappy Mills & Boon novel.

"Are you still uncomfortable?" he asked. Seth could tell? I hated to be that obvious. "I have food if you're hungry." Seth indicated the tapas plate he'd prepared. I found his composure in the face of my wretchedness annoying. "Music."

Speakers nearby piped Bach. He leaned in close and placed a long-stemmed glass of syrupy claret liquid into my hand, pressing my fingers about it. I shook so badly it was all I could do not to snap the fragile stem in two. Around him, my thoughts split apart and scattered like rays through a prism. He stretched out on his recliner and sipped his drink, watching me reflectively over its rim.

I felt exposed under his rapt gaze. I took a large swallow for something to do, nearly slopping the drink down my front, and tasted a heady mix of cinnamon and berries, which burned and made my eyes water. Fortescue had the very same drink upstairs in a decanter on the buffet in his private quarters. Calming heat spread through me. I took another gulp. It was delicious. I drained the glass.

Seth laughed. "I thought you didn't drink?" I thrust out the glass for a refill. "Okay, but just one more. It's strong. You won't be able to come here alone if Enoch thinks I am hazardous to you in any way. I'd rather spend time with you unsupervised." Said the spider to the fly.

"Just one quibble." The liquor instilled boldness. It could get people in a lot of trouble if they drank too much. "Weren't you the one who wanted to do me in? The one who used those awful seether things on me?" At least he had the decency to look aggrieved. "Raphaela sent you here for protection, didn't she? That bit I've figured out. But I can't understand how you trying to kill me fits with her plan. Or how instructing that Tate dick to assault me helps anything. And why you didn't lay a finger on Hugo. I'm curious as to the reason."

Seth stared at me speculatively. "You are clearly more intelligent than you at first seem."

I glared at him. That sounded like an insult, but my booze-fuelled brain was fuzzy. Something about not judging a book by its cover sprang to mind, but he continued before my lips and sense could coordinate.

"I mean no disrespect. I merely comment on your youth and lack of experience. And your utter absence of enlightenment regarding your own history."

"Thanks to you, I've been a bit busy for a spot of light reading. Besides, 'age does not bring wisdom, knowledge does,'" I tersely cited Bea.

"You really are a little firecracker. You remind me of someone I used to know, long, long ago." His expression turned to stone. "Despite your low opinion of me, I would never point Tate in the direction of a child. He was odious in the extreme and I am thrilled Hugo despatched him, even if his death was too easy. I wish I had killed him myself."

Seth fumed silently. When he eventually looked back at me, his face softened. In that moment he was the saddest-looking person I had seen in the whole of my measly teenage existence. I yearned to comfort him, but was fortunately spared the effort when he snapped his fingers and a folded newspaper materialised in his lap.

"When Hugo fled the Anathema fold, his loss was a blow indeed. For he was a better Blood than all others, and could find potential members – and potential enemies – with unfailing accuracy. Recruitment is not my skill."

I shivered involuntarily, well familiar with his talents. Heat burned my cheeks, the alcohol making me uncomfortably warm.

"My radar is for those intending to break their contracts. I am perceptive to betrayal and responsible for its punishment. I detected Hugo's desire to defect before it formed in his mind, before Raphaela rescued me. He and I had been carefully plotting our departure together for a long time. But our aim was self-preservation. Raphi provided us with a better reason, to make amends for all the wrong we have done. Plus of course, the slim chance to triumph once and for all against the Crone."

"You and Hugo? Together."

"Of course. Hugo and I have been firm allies for years." He put his empty glass on the table and settled back against the headrest of his sunlounge, peering at me with that intense look that made me feel as if none of my secrets were safe.

"Once the witch was trapped by Raphi, it was a simple matter to rendezvous here in Sydney. Unfortunately, Hugo has been on the run from Anathema for several years. Tate was tasked with hunting him. There is a huge bounty on Hugo's head and others will follow. Regardless of how well he is shielded by the Trinity, Sydney is no longer a secure place for you, little Keeper." He contemplated me for an overlong moment. "But then, until you vanquish your enemy, nowhere is safe."

## Twenty-Seven

Before I digested this latest headline, Seth plucked the newspaper from his lap and bent close to thrust it under my nose. He was too near for my tolerance and I scooted as far back as the seat would permit. The paper was folded to reveal a short article in a foreign language.

"Portuguese?" I squinted.

"Yes. Look at the picture."

Accompanying the text was a grainy close-up photo in black and white of a corpse's hand. The skin was mottled by rot, but a scorpion tattoo was clearly recognisable between the thumb and forefinger.

"You know to whom this belongs?"

That image had been branded on my brain forever. "Tate," I said, surprised by the hatred in my voice.

"I shall cut to the chase and summarise the contents for you. _'Lisbon. A body was discovered Saturday morning on the border of the Tejo estuary and the Cacilhas dry dock, its only distinguishing feature the pictured tattoo. Further identification has been hampered by extensive animal interference, water damage and advanced decomposition_.' Etcetera and so on. This small justice has been far too long coming for our vile colleague. And only other members of Anathema will ever realise its significance. Tate shall remain just one more John Doe, languishing in the morgue." He tossed the paper aside and poured himself another generous drink.

"How on earth did his body get there? Hugo killed him here, just outside our warehouse."

"You, young Keeper. Hiding and subterfuge are your supreme skills, particularly against anything that risks exposing the Trinity. Your touch can transport an enemy far from wherever you are."

"What?" I said, my jaw dropping. Fortescue would not be pleased by this latest rudeness. "You mean, _literally_ move someone from one place to another? Like..." I snorted a laugh. "Teleportation or something?"

He nodded, as if such a skill was akin to playing soccer or sketching well. "Under certain circumstances."

For the moment, I couldn't really contain my incredulity enough to grapple with anymore circumstances, certain or otherwise, and forged on. "So Tate tracked Hugo to Sydney and followed him to the party? Why attack me? Bea said that our crossing paths with a member of Anathema was too big a coincidence."

"Anathema attracts the nastiest of predators, whose urges are outside ordinary behaviour. The Crone is tolerant of their habits, providing a member does not earn undue attention. You were exceptionally unlucky to encounter him. That is all."

The clipped dismissal seemed very suspicious. I remembered Hugo gave a slightly different reason for Tate's presence, the night of his disappearance when he explained the role of Bloods to me. Something about tracking a potential Anathema recruit who was attending the judge's exhibition. I wondered if Hugo and Seth's conflicting accounts revealed a lie or were just another example of Chinese whispers. Seth didn't seem inclined to pursue the matter further and I tried another approach.

"You aligning with Hugo, trying to flee Anathema and the Crone, wanting to defeat her. And loving Raphaela..." Beneath the relaxed countenance, I glimpsed a flash of pain. "It all begs the question. Why murder me? Are we on the same side or not?" No matter how he answered, I knew I would never trust him.

Seth's brow creased. "I... lost control. I allowed my feelings of hurt and betrayal to colour my decisions. Raphaela didn't tell me we were expecting a baby. If it wasn't for Hugo trying to stop me as soon as I arrived in Australia, trying to divert me back to the plan..." He let the statement hang, battling to regain his poise.

"I was originally aiming to let the Trinity detain me at the warehouse by surrendering. But I can perceive you so strongly. Even as we sit here, your company exerts a strange influence that at once reminds me of Raphi, and is also utterly foreign. I was not expecting this force of emotion, which hit me on first setting foot in Sydney. The recall of my love's loss was still too fresh, the agony too raw. As soon as Hugo clapped eyes on me the night before I was due to throw myself on the mercy of the Trinity, he understood there was something very wrong and the plan had gone awry. In a wrath, I was forced to restrain him."

"Because he realised you'd decided to use me to convince the Crone to kill you. By whatever means of persuasion the situation demanded."

"You have no reason to ever put faith in me, no reason to believe a word I say. Keeper know this, I will never turn on you again. I pledge my loyalty to you and will honour the memory of Raphaela until the end."

This was not the sneering, superior enemy I was familiar with. The boy before me was vulnerable and remorseful and I had no clue if he was acting or genuine. Or if I was a gullible idiot.

"Forgive me, Keeper, please." He entreated softly.

"The end... Whatever _that_ brings," I mumbled unhappily.

I slumped back and sipped my drink, lost in a tangled web of terrible thoughts, thankful the alcohol dulled the impact he had on me, at least. I was no nearer to saving my guardians from their horrid fate.

He peered keenly at me, sitting upright and breaching the gap spanning our chairs. "I wish to tell you something and I hope you understand its import." He reached for my hand but dropped his on seeing me cringe. "No one has ever challenged me while under the influence of the seethers. Never before, over a countless record of foul misdeeds. You have more courage and ability than you think."

"It's not brave to fight to survive. It's instinct. Just ask the rats. Tell me, Seth, that you and Raphaela contrived a way to help the Trinity. They don't have much time left."

"You will need to touch me." Seth raised his hand, as though readying for an arm wrestle. "Enclose my hand in the Delta gate."

Distaste was evident in my hesitation. "Contact with you hasn't been such fun. I can still smell the stink of my own rotting flesh."

"I promised not to hurt you again. I meant it. If you rely on any part of all I have said, I pray this be it." He chuckled and shook his head. "And you have now denied me twice, a novel experience. Remember Keeper, a proverb from my youth eons ago. 'There be many a slip, 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"

"Er, most illuminating," I said, uncertainly.

He was poised with his hand suspended, eyes twinkling bluer than the water below us. "We must be hasty," he explained patiently. "Enoch grows restless for an audience with you."

_Sometimes it's tougher to look than to leap_. Smithy had taught me this saying during parkour lessons, so that fear did not prevent me from jumping. Looking down from a height was never the best idea during a run across rooftops. Before I could dither, my hands shot out to grab Seth's and I pressed my wrists together. I'd finally worked out that the Keeper's gifts existed between these special tattoos.

My mind rushed into a strange emptiness that flowed and whispered, pinpoints of light swirling to occupy the entirety of my awareness, as if I'd stepped into star-filled space. A small object gained shape from nothing and hurtled towards me, hitting me in the chest with such energy that I rocked the chair backwards upon returning to myself on Seth's veranda. The wind was knocked out of me.

He fanned me with the newspaper and held the reviving drink to my mouth, as I struggled to regain my bearings. I wondered if accessing my so-called power would ever be easier and less disconcerting. Seth dropped the apple-sized parcel into my hands. I could not help but notice he'd been reluctant to handle it, gingerly pincering the bow of string between fingertips.

"A gift from Raphaela. Take it as an offering of my allegiance." I'd hardly recovered from my trip to the void, when I was abruptly reefed up under the arms. Seth herded me unceremoniously through his stylish apartment for the door. My stomach boiled and the beginnings of a titanic headache hammered my skull.

_"What are you doing?"_ I all but screeched.

"Enoch's patience wanes. I do not wish to cross him by keeping you here too late. I would like it very much for you to come back here to my island paradise, rather than the punishment of a yurt on the Siberian tundra."

My grit-coated tongue was good for one last question. "Why did Finesse keep you?" I gave him a sidelong glance. He stumbled; it was odd from one so graceful.

"I resemble the one who forged her Stone, as he appears to her," he said with great weariness.

"You... look like _Satan_?" Of course, saying this aloud was so completely ridiculous, I nearly succumbed to hysterical giggling.

"Few say no to an offer from Finesse. Her terms are undeniably appealing. She will grant one's deepest desires. Fame, wealth, beauty, power – people are extremely predictable – in return for lifelong vigilance and servitude. Those who refuse her, do not outlive her wrath. But I was not granted the choice in my own downfall. I am the embodiment of the witch's only love. I was forced to do her bidding due to a random resemblance to her husband."

Pity for him overwhelmed me. What dreadful misfortune: a life obliterated because he was as dazzling as Lucifer, god's most favoured angel. Well, until pride got the better of him and he took a tumble from heavenly heights. We slowed at the filmy curtain and Seth spun me around to face him. The floor teetered precariously.

"I have no right, Keeper, but would ask you for one favour on your return."

Seth gazed fervently down at me. He was too intimate and I froze.

"Uh, uh, um," I said, feeling ill and unsteady.

"I will be presumptuous and take that as a yes." He smiled widely. "Not that you do not look very fetching, but on our next meeting, please leave your hair out."

With that, he gently expelled me into the hallway. A couple of grumpy cats paced on his doorsill, their greeting for me not remotely welcoming. Although they were pleasant in comparison to one immensely irate Smithy storming down the corridor towards me.

"Bear," he yelled. The volume split my aching head like a cracking egg. "You disobeyed Aunt Bea and jeopardised yourself with that knuckle-dragging mouth-breather. After all he did to you. Why?"

Aiming to stabilise myself against the hallway wall, I found thin air instead and flailed briefly. I swayed until re-establishing my balance. When I was eventually game enough to move, I tripped into Smith's arms on the first step. He scrutinised me, glowering.

"Oops." Hiccup. "You shouldn't be here."

"Are you... _drunk_?" His eyes narrowed incredulously.

He'd showered and donned drawstring pyjama pants, and his hastily towelled hair was damp and sticking out in all directions. He smelled mouth-watering, of the sea and spice. My free hand automatically wandered over the honeyed skin of his chest, warm and smoother than polished Tasmanian oak.

Hiccup. "Nope." I tried to focus on his divine, if glaring, face. "Nice jammies."

"Fortescue lent them to me. I didn't bring any. I don't usually wear them."

My head swam and my legs were wobbly. I could pull it off if I didn't speak too much, but I had to know. "What do you usually wear to bed?"

"How is that in any way relevant?"

Smithy had never been so boring. Walking presented an unavoidable challenge. I clutched the parcel Seth had given me and squinted towards the lift. The distance seemed marginally less testing than scaling Kilimanjaro. The jostling cats were bound to trip me up, and the floor was topsy-turvy.

"Stop that." He grabbed my fingers, which had been idly circling his belly button. "Honestly, gone for less than an hour and look at the state you're in. A bumbling disaster!"

"I prefer multry sphinx."

"I should never have left you. Especially as you see fit to enjoy cocktails with a psychopath."

"You couldn't come with me. We had cocktails, you're only allowed mocktails." I was really witty. I giggled. And swayed a bit more.

"Nothing about this is funny. You're making no sense. Tell me why you did it, Bear."

His tone of profound hurt finally penetrated through the boozy haze and I felt ashamed all over again. "Instinct."

I held out my hand and showed him the parcel. The motion unsettled me and I began to tip sideways. The parcel slipped through my fingers and tumbled to the floor, bouncing ahead of us. Smith grappled me back into a vertical position, scooping the lost parcel up on the way past as we trundled for the stupid, padded-cell elevator.

"It's midnight. You're going to have the worst case of the bed-spins."

"Oh, my lovely hypotwit, how many times have you had bed-spins?"

"Don't you mean hypocrite?"

"Not necess... essss... ness... No. And you're not one to judge about drinking too much. Go the judge. Get it?" I was just too humorous. Who put that wall there?

"Stop laughing. Here, let me get a better hold." He slipped a firm arm about my waist and walked me gingerly to the elevator. "Let me know if you feel sick. You look a little green."

Ooh. Now he mentioned it, I did feel squeamish. If I chundered inside, would the lift be out of order for an extended period? It was seriously worth consideration.

"Smithy, guess how I resist Seth?" There were far too many S's in that sentence and my tongue was four sizes too big.

"You're slurring."

We stopped and he pushed the button to call the lift. Smith peered warily at me, clearly wrestling with curiosity, his lips pursed in disapproval reminiscent of Bea. He heaved a sigh and gave up, facing me while holding me steady with both hands.

"How?"

"I think about you. The very first time I saw you in the garage. Your hair was bright pink and your t-shirt had holes in it. You were the grouchiest kid I'd ever seen. But you were still beautiful. You didn't laugh at my name when Bea introduced us."

He grinned, despite my disgrace. "You took your shoes off and walked over to me barefoot. Your feet got filthy in seconds. It looked odd with your expensive designer dress. You hopped right up next to me and sat on the bonnet of the judge's new Merc, greasing the fender. Bea was furious. I thought you were an angel. You didn't laugh at my name, either."

I gazed longingly up at him. "I love you."

He rolled his eyes and laughed. "If I've learned only one thing from the judge, it's never believe the inebriated. Tell me again when you feel better." Smithy hugged me tight. "As the only straight one here, however, what I have to say counts. I love _you_ , Bear."

Then, in affirmation of Karma from two years ago in his freezing shower, I threw up all down his front.

## Twenty-Eight

A short while later, during which Smithy showered and changed into a full set of pyjamas this time, I lay in a foetal position on my bed with my thundering head in his lap. A towel draped Smithy's knees and a bucket rested on the bedside table, just in case. Although the only thing left to bring up was bile.

"I'm really sorry, Smithy," I mumbled for the umpteenth time from my prone position. "I don't know what's come over me. I swear I only had two little glasses. How can anyone do this on purpose? It's no fun at all!"

"Don't sweat it. We're even now. Besides, I've endured much worse from people I like far less. And drinking's not always about fun. It probably affected you so badly because you hadn't eaten. Never drink on an empty stomach."

He minimised movement so as not to provoke my rebellious stomach. The room slowly revolved and my mouth felt as though I'd eaten a fistful of sand.

"Do you think you can stay awake long enough for us to suss out what this package contains?" His fingers peeled open to reveal Raphaela's gift. Wrapped in brown paper and tied by string, it was the size and shape of a large green apple. Oddly, the comparison made me think of the Garden of Eden and I hoped it wasn't a bad omen.

"There'll be no sleep until the urge to hurl subsides. I've never felt so ill. I thought sea-sickness was bad."

Bea stalked into my room, giving me a disdainful onceover. "Just desserts, Winsome. I hope this teaches you never to accept illicit substances from strangers! You are fortunate there is no chance presently to deliver a lengthy, very timely lecture on disobedience. You can expect it at the first opportunity."

Mrs Paget and Fortescue filed in at her rear. "In Winsome's defence, Bea," Fortescue said. "She was not to know the drink Seth gave her was cinnaber."

He dragged my desk chair closer and offered it to Mrs Paget, who gratefully sunk from her feet, Fortescue himself remaining staunchly upright behind.

Bea perched stiffly on the end of my bed. "Jerome, it does not matter whether the item in question is a puppy or boiled lollies. I would have thought Winsome grasped the concept of stranger-danger long ago."

I hated it when they talked about me over my head like I was a two-year-old. But who had the energy to complain?

"What about if the item in question is a parcel from Raphaela, whom I've never met?"

She ignored my cheek with a cranky huff. "Not to mention contradicting instructions to come straight back after the Temple, once the initiation was complete. When Enoch arrives, I am considering requesting he leave Winsome with an instructive hangover."

"I'm already far too familiar with hangovers. Thanks." I moaned to stress the point.

Bea was aghast. "Has my faith in you been so misguided? Since when did you become an expert on the effects of alcohol?"

I would have rolled my eyes, but feared the movement might cause a shooting sliver of misery. "Not _my_ hangovers. I've seen Seth's lifestyle in visions. He seemed perpetually under the weather." Smithy bristled on hearing his name and I hastily moved on. "And I guarantee I will never drink again. I'm aiming to conserve my only remaining brain cell and avoid cirrhosis of the liver."

"I bet that's not the only thing he wanted to show you," Smithy muttered. "Fortescue, what did you say that scumbag forced Bear to drink?" Pointing out this was not technically true and I'd been a willing consumer was definitely the wrong fact to share with any of them, especially Smith.

"Cinnaber," said Fortescue. "It is made from an ancient recipe that soothes and bestows acceptance in those who are naive to its use. Individuals who regularly partake gain clarity of thought, but only at very low doses. High doses result in total amnesia, higher still – paralysis. Mrs Paget keeps stills for our personal supply. She is a master distiller of potent liqueurs from recipes lost to antiquity."

Mrs Paget shrugged modestly. I knew why Seth abused cinnaber, trying in vain as he was to forget his tortured past. And to the numerous suspect dealings of my ever-surprising minders, we added illegal alcohol production. They were bootleggers. I wondered where they kept the vats.

"Winnie was at his mercy. He could have made her believe anything he says or forget everything he does?" Smithy asked, outraged. "He should be jailed at the bottom of the deepest sea trench and that still wouldn't be far enough away. Here's an idea, what about the moon?"

"Calm yourself, Vegas. Seth can do no damage to Winsome or anyone else while restrained in my artifice," said a mild, yet authoritative voice.

I begged to differ and had the DT's to prove it, which was probably another observation I should keep to myself. Enoch stood framed in the doorway. He was even more nondescript in physical reality, wearing the same immaculate black suit and plain tie. If I looked away, it was impossible to recall the shade of his hair or the colour of his eyes – his features were so utterly indistinguishable.

"Bear has defences you do not, Vegas. She will not sustain a lasting bewitchment. However, we must not let him in your head," Enoch said. "He has come too close already, even if through Winnie's eyes."

_"Pardus maculas non deponit,"_ said Fortescue.

"The leopard does not change its spots," I translated.

"Gold star, Winsome." My butler was delighted his worst student of European languages, who could faithfully swear in several tongues but mangled anything more demanding, had developed a new talent for Latin.

Enoch wasn't as easily impressed. "Seth can be a threat, but I beg you not to view him as the enemy. Of all of us, he is the direst victim of Finesse's machinations. He deserves our compassion. Our true rivals will make themselves known soon enough."

I did not need to see Smithy's face to know this advice would earn a sulky pout. Bea straightened, her countenance as hard as diamonds.

"Are you Enoch 'the blind and inept' Watcher?" she asked softly. "Seth and Raphaela cavorted under your nose for undetermined years. You did nothing, despite the obvious threat to all the Sacred Trinity has stood for across centuries of sacrifice. The time is nigh for you to pick a side, Enoch. I will not have my grand-niece jeopardised further by your equivocation."

Ouch! Bea was more furious at him than she'd been at me for my intoxication.

Mrs Paget turned to Enoch. "I concur." Fortescue nodded once, firmly.

Sighing resignedly, Enoch braved their united hostility and entered my room, coming to stand at the end of my bed. Without breaking eye contact with any of the others, he gave me a sad smile. It was as though he had five faces. The throbbing pain in my head and nausea instantly lifted.

"As I have asserted in the past, I am not infallible. Raphaela's skill grew beyond my capacity to see. I cannot observe your path at all, young Keeper. From this point forward we are not forewarned by my prediction."

Bea massaged the bridge of her nose. "It appears you really are Enoch the blind. Can you monitor the whereabouts of the Crone, still?"

"Her activities will always be my purview. I fear the occasion for hiding has passed. You, Winsome, must find a way to best her, or we are all condemned."

"No pressure then," I said.

"I may not be able to predict the future, but I can sense the other Bloods descending on Sydney like a biblical pestilence," a voice rang from the doorway.

"Hugo." I leaped out of bed and ran to hug him. He was solid and broader than a huge redwood, looking none the worse for his ordeal. "I'm so glad you're safe."

He returned the embrace with gusto, almost snapping my spine. "It is wonderful to be back, Dumpling."

"You've been keeping secrets from me, Hugo."

A guilty look appeared on his face, as I crossed back to bed and snuggled against Smith. They exchanged a grudging nod. Bea's set expression indicated she was not done with Hugo's account of events. He loitered in the doorframe, keeping his distance, and sensible enough to realise no amount of muscle would protect him from what he had coming. I did not envy him a night spent in interrogation with my enraged great-aunt.

Smith dropped the parcel into my palm with a loaded look. As soon as he did so, whatever was inside sent a hum through my veins, a tingle of vital, pulsing energy up my arms. Unburdened by a hangover, I could feel the power speaking to me, almost as clearly as I often heard the whispers of past Keepers in my mind. The message was one of urgency and... incompleteness, as though the contents were missing an essential part.

"Shall we open Raphaela's gift?" I tugged at the string, eager to understand the puzzle within.

Mrs Paget gasped at a hint of gold, as I peeled away layers of paper. Everyone's gaze turned to her shocked but excited face.

"It cannot be," she said, as the final layer came free. Nestled within the wrapping cupped in my hands like an open flower, was a triangular trinket box made of gold and studded rubies, covered in the now familiar repulsive demon carvings. "To shield."

Smithy leaned closer to ask in an undertone, "Keeper's motto, or something?"

I shushed him and spoke directly to Mrs Paget. "The Amulet?"

She nodded vigorously. On its top was a Delta, the central area within the triangle free of engravings. The box seemed to be hollow, but I could not find a way to open it. I gave it a couple of experimental twists and tugs, but it was a wasted effort.

I inspected the trinket box in minute detail. There had to be a secret catch. There was not a sound in the room, the tension palpable. I rubbed the smoothness inside the triangle on top, clasping the bottom and pushing my thumb into the middle. There was a _chink_ as the inner part sunk inwards and a split travelled around the top to form a lid that could be pried free. Rotating the cap, it came off in my hand, a thick wedge of folded parchment underneath the rim. I set the sheaf aside on my doona.

Inside were two red-velvet lined compartments. Mrs Paget impatiently thrummed her fingers on her knee. One section held a small piece of petrified bone, so worn by time that I could not determine its species or anatomy of origin. The other section contained a pendant. Pulling it out, I held it up for all to see: a heavy rope spun from gold with a downward-pointing triangle the size of my palm. Inside the triangle dangled a large, round ruby.

"The Amulet indeed," Bea said, astonished.

Smithy's face clouded. "Er, not to sound remedial, but what does having the Amulet mean?"

"At the moment, we are only truly protected from exposure by our enemies if we remain within the defensive wards of this warehouse," Bea explained. "We have never before, since the very first Keeper was charged with guarding the Stone, been so vulnerable to its corrosion. Because there has never been a gap in the Keeper's mastery over the Stone, the line has remained unbroken for over a thousand years. This Amulet shields us and allows freedom of movement outside, until Winsome can recover her birthright and master the Stone in a sacred Claiming Ritual. The Amulet's power also provides a temporary solution to the problem of our waning health."

Enoch continued. "Not only that, but without your predecessor, Winsome, there can be no transference of powers from the ancestral line. Raphaela was your only access to this history and talent. We must find another way to conduct the Ritual."

"How, Enoch? How did she find the Amulet?" Mrs Paget said. "It was lost, along with the other two articles."

"The answer is of utmost importance. I shall find out what I can. We may need to send one of you to Lafayette to search the grounds of Raphaela's house."

We lapsed into silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Smithy's hand reached for mine, his heat reassuring.

"Winsome, you must wear the Amulet to activate its power."

I had never been partial to Snoop Dogg's bling, nor to jewellery capable of puncturing my chest, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I reluctantly placed the long chain over my head and watched in amazement as it shrunk to a dainty size and twisted so the V sat comfortably between my breasts. It was actually very pretty. The Amulet vibrated and grew so warm that I feared it might burn me.

"Bear," Smith murmured. "Look."

We stared at my minders. The years fell away from all three of them, so fast that within several blinks they stood before us with unbowed backs, strong bodies, plumper complexions and features glowing with relief.

Bea smiled broadly. Her fingers, which were no longer crooked with arthritis, smoothed her lustrous auburn bob. "I have not before so thoroughly appreciated never having to dye my hair."

Enoch prepared to depart, addressing me. "The Amulet will not come off unless you deliberately remove it." I had no intention of ever taking it off, if the Keeper's jewellery could buy Bea and Mrs Paget and Fortescue enough time to fix this mess.

"And Winsome, you are Raphaela's sole beneficiary. She left her entire estate to the last Keeper. The paperwork awaits downtown at Bea's offices. Do not delay. There is much to do and little time, before our enemies gather in Sydney. Let wisdom and providence guide you."

"Wait."

"Yes, Winsome?"

"If the Amulet's protection is fleeting, how long do we have?"

"You have a week or two before the effects wear off and your guardians' physical condition returns to this extent of deterioration."

He blessed us all with a flash of brilliance and then was gone. A week? So little time! Enoch's final message was only for me; the words echoed despairingly in my mind. _"Singly they stand afore the onslaught. Guard your heart, Winsome. The Keeper stands alone."_

Bea rose. "At first light tomorrow, we shall outline our strategy for Louisiana. It will be a tricky endeavour, given Anathema no doubt crawl the surrounds of Raphaela's property on the hunt for their mistress. It is time for you both to begin your training."

She kissed Smithy and me on the cheek, before Mrs Paget took her turn to do the same and then left the room with Hugo. He blew me a jaunty kiss on the way out and Smith scowled murderously. In reply, Hugo blew him a kiss too. Surprisingly, Fortescue lingered to hug me hard and gruffly shook Smith's hand prior to joining the others. Aunt Bea paused briefly in the corridor, her finger raised in reprimand.

"I mean it. Sleep only." She shut the door.

"I can't believe Aunt Bea trusts me to do as she says. After all the rules I've broken."

"She doesn't trust you, Bear. She trusts me." He winked and I burst into laughter, getting comfortable in his arms.

"We're in serious trouble, if you're the yardstick for reliability." I played with a button on his pyjama top. "You never did tell me what you usually wear to bed."

His eyes twinkled with mischief, fingers caressing my cheek. "Nothing."

"I'd like to see that," I said. He didn't stop me as I traced the chiselled contour of his chest and undid the top button.

"I rest my case," he said huskily. "You're the on who's going to get us into serious trouble, Bear."

It was true. _Us_. Enoch's words flashed my brain and I pulled my hand away.

Smith frowned, clearly disappointed. "What's wrong?"

"A Keeper stands alone, Vegas. I'm a danger to all of you. Once I've claimed that Stone, I'll have to go."

He appeared genuinely bewildered. "Go where?"

"I don't know. Away from you, away from Bea and Mrs Paget and Fortescue. Away from anyone who'll get hurt."

"Bear, how many schools have you been kicked out of?"

_"Pardon?"_ He didn't seem to be taking my decision to leave at all appropriately. I'd expected a heated objection and was more than slightly miffed. I tried to put distance between us, but he just scooted closer.

Smoothing my cranky brow with his fingertips, he said gently, "Humour me. Please."

"I lost count after exhausting all my fingers."

He smirked, the feel of him a temptation difficult to fight. "And how many laws, regulations, curfews, municipal ordinances, public offences, heavenly virtues, sins and so on, have I broken or committed?"

"Well, we'd have to line up everyone who lives in the warehouse, including the cats, count all their fingers, toes and collective limbs and it probably still wouldn't be sufficient."

"You didn't have to agree quite so enthusiastically." He hurried on in response to my dark expression. "Do you remember when the judge threw that cocktails-and-grovelling session for his uptight legal leeches? We mortified him by sabotaging the DJ and moshing to The Prodigy's 'Smack My Bitch Up'."

"I thought it was Marilyn Manson. The judge's junior clerk quit. He must've been more the Hillsong type."

We'd pogoed wildly about beneath the banner advertising the evening's theme: 'Twenty-five years maintaining political correctness in the courts'. After a few too many, Judge Bennet had thrown off his suit and joined us on the dance floor, tie about his forehead, gigantic, hairy pot-belly jiggling over his Y-fronts.

"How about the legendary Ruby Tuesday incident? Man, that still cracks me up."

We'd exploited my horrific lack of singing talent at one of Bea's relic auctions at the Sydney Museum. These evenings were always packed with pretentious bores in tuxedos and tiaras. Smithy played piano as I stepped to the microphone. It was highly amusing as everyone pretended to enjoy my performance – optimistically likened to beating a bag of possums – because Bea had made a generous bequest to the museum. She'd pronounced it the highlight of the evening.

"Yes, and? Aside from the fact we've been complete brats over the years. No prizes for guessing why the judge often locked himself in his study with a bottle of brandy."

"The judge has no one to blame but himself. He could've taken up racquetball, rather than boozing and womanising with generation why-not. Hell, he could have even got ingenious and taken up parenting. I'll never understand why he fought so hard for custody, maybe just to win, competitive wan—"

"Moving on," I broke in. I had sympathy for Smithy's predicament, but this was not an opportune moment for an extended dissection of his father's many failings.

"Yeah, sorry. More importantly for us, my point is this: since when do you or I follow other people's rules? I have no intention whatsoever of abandoning you. I don't care if Satan himself orders me away. I am not going. A Warrior doesn't stand in the distance behind the one he protects. A true Warrior stands close, in front. And that's where I will always be.

"And, I think you'll find Bea, Fortescue and Mrs Paget are not going AWOL, either. They've put a lot of energy into securing this place. No where's safer for you to be. This is a completely novel phase, what with Raphaela deviating from the Trinity programme and you being the Last Keeper. It we fight, and your guardians think we must eventually, we do it together."

His unwavering faith touched me deeply. Of course, I didn't believe it would be so easy to contradict traditions enforced over centuries. "Thank you, Smithy."

He held me tight and stroked my hair. "Since I've banished foolish ideas of you running away, what do you want to do now?"

"I'm going to read every single one of those histories in Bea's study. I want their stories fresh in my mind, so I will never forget the lives the Crone has taken. She'll pay for the loss of each of them," I said resolutely. It was a bugger, that foolish optimism.

Smith cleared his throat. "That's very admirable, Bear." He hooked a finger beneath the strap of my singlet, sliding it aside to feather his lips across my collarbone, triggering a shiver of pleasure deep inside my belly. "But I meant what would you like to do right this instant?"

He peered up at me with a seductive glint in his opal-green eyes. I grinned and bit my lip, feigning thinking. "I'm not sure we properly investigated that new way of making a pledge without bleeding."

Across the world, Horace Joliet of the St Martin sheriff's office sat alone in the dining nook of his mobile home, an empty shot glass and a quarter-full bottle of whisky in front him. His loaded police revolver rested next to the bottle, free of its holster in readiness for cleaning. Normally, he'd never have had the gun out of the safety locker with bullets in the chamber, but there was no one here now that he had to protect from an accidental shooting.

He was not usually a drinker, but the bourbon had no effect, even though he'd lost count of how many he'd swigged. He'd left his sister, May, up at the house a few hours ago. Heavily sedated, she had finally succumbed to sleep.

Horace unscrewed the cap on the polishing compound and poured another double nip of whisky, which he gulped half-heartedly. What was the point? His nephew, Davey, was dead and gone and no amount of alcohol-fuelled forgetting would change that. His funeral of earlier that day had passed in a blur of disbelief. The asthma that had dogged the kid throughout his childhood, but seemed to improve in adolescence, had returned with a vengeance for one final slap-down.

The doctors were at a loss how to help him. Despite the most advanced treatments and a gargantuan effort by the emergency room staff, they'd failed. Horace would never shake that last desperate image: the medical team bustling him and May out of the way to swarm Davey where he'd lain on a narrow hospital cot, tubes snaking from his arm and oxygen prongs in his nose.

He'd thrashed, blue and choking, his hands pawing futilely at his neck, eyes wide beyond fear. Before the doctors and nurses could react, his throat had collapsed and rejected the breathing tube with a powerful malice.

And Horace instinctively knew the truth, his gut contorting over the knowledge. That godforsaken Baptiste place had contaminated Davey, infiltrated his system like those South American worms that penetrated flesh and ate a victim from the inside out. But he hadn't listened when his nephew tried to broach the subject on that first day, driving back to the station from the weirdest crime scene he'd ever witnessed.

"Did you get a feeling out there, Uncle Horace? A really bad one?"

"It's just a crime scene, son. You're just a little spooked because it was so bizarre. We had to chisel three feet of concrete and use a motorised lift to get the poor woman out of her own house. And I'll be damned if I can explain why Forensics can't get a single photo."

The worst of it was that Horace had lied. In all his years investigating death and mayhem, he'd never been more unsettled, his intuition screaming to flee the Baptiste crypt and not stop running until he was several states over. But after so many mistakes and wrong turns in life – two divorces, a bankruptcy that forced him into a trailer on his sister's farm – he no longer trusted himself and had ignored the warning. He heard it now, though. Bullhorn-loud and laughing at his arrogance.

His head lolled and he let the grief flow, tears dripping down his nose to splash onto the formica of the scarred tabletop. It was all his fault. The kid had wanted to teach, but instead he was browbeaten into joining the force by an uncle's pride. And the lack of an heir to carry on the policing tradition. Davey would have made a great teacher too. He had a way with youngsters and a contagious passion for history.

Instead, like the good kid he was, he'd yielded to the emotional blackmail and joined the sheriff's office, signing his death warrant. Horace didn't know if he could live with the guilt. Consistent with the many poor decisions he'd made, it was too late for a bandaid fix now. The gun reflected a jaundiced lustre by lamplight. Horace reached for it, stroking his thumb across the grip. He jerked his hand away. There was no answer there.

May had suffered enough with the early loss of her husband and now, her only son. She needed him. He sat back, disgusted in himself for the lapse. Time to brew some strong, black coffee. And then Horace realised that was the last thing Davey had brought him that awful, fateful morning. He resolved never to drink the stuff again.

Something warm trickled down his upper lip and he swiped irritably at it with the back of his hand. His forearm came away bloodied. Squinting in surprise, pain pulsed his temple. He leaned forward to cup his fingers beneath his nostrils.

"Ah, crap."

Blood pooled into his palms, both hands inadequate to capture the flow.

_Pick up the gun. Make the pain stop_.

What? He blinked repeatedly, the mild effort causing untold agony. His head felt like it was cleaving in two, vision turning red like fire-tinted cellophane over a torch. Pain wracked his flesh.

"What the hell?" The sound of his voice sent nails through his brain.

_Shoot yourself_.

It hurt so much. Desolation was a voracious cancer eating the town these past days. Why fight it? He and his colleagues – anyone who'd set foot inside the Baptiste place – they were all dead anyway. He knew that for sure.

The pitiful corona of the forty-watt bulb overhead seemed to highlight the blood streaming from his nose to swirl with his tears on the bench top. He lifted his arm, alarmed to discover the cotton of his shirtsleeve leaching blood that spread more red as if ink on a blotter. A river of it seeped from his pores and spilled forth over the cruddy fake marble. He grabbed his Sunday suit jacket – only the best for Davey – draping the seat next to him. Balling the coat, he mopped frantically. Blood smeared wide across the table's surface. The gun beckoned.

"No," he groaned.

He tossed the coat to the floor, dragging himself upright from his seat. If he could just make it to the phone, get away from the weapon, get someone down here. He didn't want to die alone.

_It's all over anyway. You'll bleed out, the pain will be unendurable_.

As soon as the words stained Horace's perception, the torture coursing his body increased. He bent double on rubbery legs, gripped the edge of the table and waited for it to pass. But it would not. And beneath, in his direct line of sight, lay the gun.

May Joliet overdosed two days after her brother was found shot dead. Horace was seated in his pressed Sunday-best suit in his pristine dining nook with no outward sign of the bloodbath ordeal of his last hours. Aside from the wall at his rear, painted by brain matter and bits of skull shattered by the close range explosion of a bullet. No one ever could have predicted that the stoic, tough, career cop, Horace Joliet, would abandon his grieving sister, to whom he was unflinchingly devoted. The poor woman had discovered her brother's body, frozen in purpling rigor mortis. The tragedy of it even silenced exclamations of 'I told you so' from the gossips at the BI-LO, who'd warned repeatedly about the evil stain of that Baptiste ghost house.

But the Crone's wrath was not so easily sated. Her time for vengeance drew near.

If you enjoyed this book by S E Holmes, please visit www.seholmesauthor.com for more of her work. Thank you for reading.
