The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity), Page 2

  And Finesse would not tolerate any challenge to her superiority. She’d surface eventually. Surely her absence was due to the rise of this last Keeper? It couldn’t be a coincidence. After a period of retreat to lick her wounds and regain her arrogance, the witch-demon of perpetual dark would unleash in search of her enemy, scouring the land like acid rain.

  Maybe this represented Latoya’s final chance to run, consequences go to hell. But if she was caught, they’d never reward her with blessed death. Although she’d given up praying years ago, she pleaded with whatever lax gods still cared that the best part of the twins’ conversation was true: the remaining Keeper was greater than Anathema conceived. And she’d better be ready for the coming battle. Otherwise, Latoya was not the only one damned.

  Three

  There were things dormant in the deep and dank beneath the world’s skin that waited to burst forth like grubs from rotten fruit. I wished I didn’t know. The final black-bound journal lay closed on Bea’s study floor in front of me and naphtha-tinged dust swirled the air, prompting a sneeze. Blinking tears from my stinging eyes, it was hard to say if I cried still or was simply allergic. I’d reached that point of saturation, beyond which no further vile deed provoked an emotional response. I’d never believed it was possible to become immune to depravity, as some claimed society had. Apparently, help on city streets happened by calling ‘fire’ because no one came running for screams of ‘rape’ and muggings in progress often went ignored. I wasn’t sure what I believed anymore.

  Yawning, I stretched out my legs from cross-legged and massaged a cramp from my lower spine. Even though I’d been reading for two hours, it was barely daybreak. Along the short hall to Bea’s room, her bed remained neatly made. All three of my guardians raced the countdown at the jet hangar, preparing for our imminent trip to Louisiana. The Crone would not stay trapped forever. Rest or any other normal activities weren’t a priority on anyone’s agenda.

  I had a different reason to fear sleep: monsters and horror lay siege to my dreams. The unclaimed Stone screamed for its absent mistress, malice infiltrating my mind until darkness threatened to swallow my sanity.

  Smithy wasn’t much comfort. He occupied every second in the basement gym where Hugo instructed him in the art of combat. When Smithy wasn’t thrashing the guy who’d conspired with Seth and nearly got me killed, he collapsed exhausted onto my bed. He’d even fallen asleep at the dinner table with a loaded fork of chicken and leek pie, almost like he was taunting me with an excess of the respite I lacked.

  No one, it seemed, had use for an ill-equipped novice Keeper. I distracted myself these past few days as best I could. Embroidery didn’t appeal, so I’d gone through all three hundred and sixteen biographies twice, each a tribute to a life stolen too soon. My hate-filled legacy. They depicted more ways to die than the most creative mind could list: tumbling down a well and strangling in bucket rope, struck by lightning, trampled by a horse, eaten by wolves, death by childbirth, fallen tree branch, plague or on the point of a sword, and even presumed shipwreck. Bus accident. But I’d seen my parents’ last moments once and that was too much without the pain of print. My heart ached for the suffering of my ancestors. I would not forget them.

  And the story I sought most was missing. None of the victims were young enough to be the little girl with corn-silk hair consumed by fire who visited my nightly terrors. No biography catalogued the demise of a woman so heavily pregnant, her condition showed despite the cremation-pit flames, who curled protectively around her unborn child and her once-living daughter. The smell of burned human flesh permeated my memory and brought up bile.

  Sagging against a wall of journals, I gulped breaths to quell the nausea. The huge chart detailing the Trinity family tree loomed above, squeezing me between my history’s heavy burden and an uncertain future. Crowded by reminders of their awful plight, I needed an escape from this bondage and to run where I chose. What was the point of the Amulet Raphaela had sent if not to shield?

  Breakfast was a couple of hours away. Last I checked, Bea’s cats lounged by the front door. The big, sneaky spies would surely alert my aunt if they discovered me missing. I suppressed the voice in my head enraged by such selfish disregard for those who loved me. It was just a short run, possibly the luxury of a swim. The idea budded and grew in my brain like a vine throttling common sense. How much harm could it do? I never asked to sacrifice my existence for that of a Keeper. Hauling to my feet, I returned the book to its rightful position.

  Out of Bea’s room, I tiptoed the gallery wrapping the first level, cursing a lack of foresight that had me wearing pyjamas. Christmas lights twined about every spare millimetre of railing, even adorning the mesh under the stained-glass cupola. The spectacle was magnificent at night. Mrs Paget loved the festive season and had done the best she could with silver angels and red-berry bush lit by candles. The entire warehouse reeked of cinnamon, a scent that reminded her of her snow-dusted youth cooking yule logs and making mulled wine. How she remembered that far back was the true Christmas miracle.

  Mike, our gold-wire-and-human-bone sculptured Archangel, was particularly merry wearing a large Santa hat jauntily tilted to one side of his diamond-encrusted halo. But nothing improved the shrivelled visage of an Ecuadorian shrunken head. Or my dour mood. If I had to listen to Bing crooning ‘White Christmas’ again, I couldn’t guarantee the ongoing welfare of our stereo.

  Ten minutes later, dressed in black running gear and trainers, I arrived unchallenged in the display hall downstairs, slightly unnerved by the ease of it all. A cap and sunglasses added a layer of camouflage, strapping my chest a compact backpack holding a towel and bikini. My foolish optimism knew no bounds. Guilt gnawed, especially over not asking Smithy to accompany me. But he’d drag out his irritating ‘voice of reason’ lecture in the tone of son-of-a-judge. Hugo wouldn’t be thrilled either.

  Ahead, Cherish sprawled on the landing like a sable rug. His whiskers twitched, forcing a nerve wracking halt by the parade of giant oriental urns until he stilled. Vovo lay on her back next to him, her paws splayed, a creepy sliver of yellow iris facing me from beneath one partially closed eyelid. I almost gave up, but beyond that door, freedom beckoned. I was the Keeper, stealth my forte, surely slipping past a couple of cats was within my ability. At least, that’s what I chanted silently, as I edged forward and up three stairs, trying to forget who owned said cats and why they guarded the door in the first place.

  Sentinels of the warehouse, bejewelled statues Isis and Osiris, disapproved from either side of the door when I finally pressed the button granting escape. The trigger’s click seemed to echo like the report of a pistol. Over my shoulder, Vovo rolled lethargically onto her side. Her glazed eyeball followed me blindly into the street, until the door glided shut. My accelerating skill would please Bea, if nothing else. The relief didn’t feel as good as it should.

  Amping ‘Andalucia’ on my iPod, The Doves drowned out my protesting conscience. I burst from our laneway into the radiance of the rising sun over Sydney Harbour, glorious orange blasting to a brilliant blue sky. Circular Quay roused slowly to greet another Wednesday. The city streets were mostly deserted. I dodged a delivery van bleating its reverse into a tight, cobbled alley then onwards past the owner of an early-bird cafe bar, who’d raised his awning, blearily carting chairs and tables to the sidewalk. The aroma of coffee tainted a light sea breeze.

  A ferry docked at the wharf as I jogged by, professionals disembarking in a jostling herd. In their midst, a woman in a crumpled grey pants-suit slung her laptop bag over one shoulder, dragging a tutu-clad preschooler whose screams drew pursed lips. Smudges ringed her eyes in evidence of the constant juggle. An ordinary dawn in the normal world – a world I was no longer a part of. If I ran hard enough, could I escape this Keeper’s trap?

  The ten-kilometre journey to Bondi beach took under forty minutes, flat out. Turquoise waves lapped the pristine curve, empty aside from surfers and joggers running the concourse. But the
weather turned livid rapidly, as though a chastising shadow had tailed me from the warehouse. Paranoia set in and amplified the pressure to hurry. I’d wash the sweat from my body in the sea and then sprint home.

  Scanning constantly for Anathema members, I hadn’t a clue what they’d look like or why they’d decide to seek me here. Nearby, a squall blew the newspaper from a walker’s grasp and bystanders scrambled to collect wayward pages. My cap whipped away on the gust and I lunged for it too late. Bugger. Poised to take the stairs down to the sand, I heard a familiar sneer.

  “What’s that stink. Did someone tread in something?”

  I sighed, turning away from the precipice to confront the speaker. Tiffany, trailed as always by the twins, Prudence and Priscilla, and enough other followers to hold a convention. The girls’ attention-grabbing swimwear consisted more of string and beads than fabric. Goosebumps stippled their skin. Several of the guys looked like steroid abusers or throwbacks to Australopithecus.

  Their circle of eight tightened, Tiffany scowling from the middle, less than a metre away. I should have been uneasy, but after enduring Seth and his seethers it was hard to take other forms of intimidation seriously. Besides, I deserved whatever I got for defying Bea. I could cope, providing Iffy didn’t try to spit on me again – I was already clammy enough.

  “Lovely to see you again, Tiffany.”

  “You owe me a mobile, little trollop. I demand compensation.” She eyed my Amulet with the avaricious glint of a bowerbird. “That necklace is not altogether ugly, although why anybody would squander rubies that size on you escapes me. Even if they are paste.” She snapped her fingers. “Matt, grab her jewellery.”

  With a smirk on his dim-bulb face, Matt’s meaty hand reached for my neck. I wondered what reward he’d earn for beating up a defenceless-looking girl, or maybe that was sufficient reward in itself.

  Before I had the chance to break any of his fingers, proving not all lone girls were incapable of self-protection, a surfboard eased between us, separating me from the group on the other side. Matt’s arm withdrew like a severed tentacle. The board’s stocky owner, attired in scruffy denim cut-offs and bare feet, rode a skateboard, his wild russet afro tipped gold by the sun. I recognised him: Smithy’s best friend and fellow parkour enthusiast, Jay Hudson. And where Hud went, Bix was sure to follow.

  “Mind your own business and piss off,” Matt said, surprising me with a vocabulary more extensive than grunts.

  “Uncool. Step back or I’ll demonstrate a special use for the pointy bit of my board.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Dud. You’re outnumbered.”

  Bickles cruised up behind Hud, a surfboard likewise under his arm. “Now the ratio is even. And it’s Mr Hudson, or Sir, to the likes of you.”

  Matt frowned, no doubt struggling with maths that didn’t add up. Sporting untidy dark hair and a bushranger beard since prior to the hipster craze, Tyson Bickles was tall, lean and softly spoken, which belied the fact people messed with him at their peril. A thin fidgety Asian girl with a short asymmetric bob balanced expertly at the front of his longboard. She had a very pretty face and hot pink streaks in her black hair. A blue stone glittered in one nostril, a colourful dragon tattoo peeking over the elastic of her tiny shorts to wind around her belly button.

  Hostilities were set to escalate, reflected in the gathering storm. The morning light had a strangely filtered quality, as though a shroud draped the sun, and oppressive thunderheads bruised the horizon.

  “Lookin’ good, Lamb-chop. It’s been too long. How’re ya doin’?”

  “Hey, Hud, can’t complain.” I glanced at Tiffany and her entourage and grinned at him. “Well, maybe a little.”

  He gave her a pointed once-over. “Fair enough. You remember Tyson?” Bickles beamed at me and winked. “And this is his girlfriend, Andie.”

  “Nice to finally meet you, Bear.” She hopped off the board and skipped over to startle me with a quick hug and a waft of floral perfume. I tried not to contaminate her with my perspiration. “Vee never stops talking about you. I know we’ll be great friends.”

  “It’s so sweet, I could puke.” Tiffany glared at the newcomers. “What is it with you and plant life, Winless? Can’t relate to anything that’s not a vegetable?”

  Apparently she hadn’t forgotten our meeting in the Smiths’ front yard, the morning after Hugo welcomed Tate to Sydney, when I’d wasted fifteen minutes trampling their garden in search of a vanished man with a broken neck. Andie’s hand shot into the air.

  “Ooh, I know.” She spun to confront Tiffany. “That makes you animal or mineral. I’m guessing swine, sub-species bush pig. Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?” She returned to high-five her boyfriend. “I nail that game every time.”

  One of the twins giggled, before Tiffany silenced her with a poisonous frown. The beefy guys milling behind Hud’s surfboard flexed their muscles and a shoving match began.

  Tiffany ignored Andie. “You owe me.”

  Smithy’s friends were not the types to back down. They’d consider it extremely poor form not to exact penalty from Iffy and her gang for picking on a solitary victim. A daylight brawl tended to attract attention. I was supposed to remain incognito. Well, I was supposed to stay in the warehouse, but it was too late for that technicality.

  For the first time, I realised what this brief leisure might cost. I should not forget: time was not my friend. More importantly, it was not my guardians’ friend. Their fading grip on life relied upon the limited power of the Keeper’s Amulet. Unless I claimed my birthright that would soon be overcome by the Stone. Tempus fugit and all that.

  And what if Tate had been on the hunt for Tiffany for reasons unknown the night of the judge’s art show, and this encounter had forced me – us – a step closer to Anathema? There were dangers my Amulet could not protect me from. Such as my own breathtaking stupidity.

  Underlying it all, was the niggling absence of Vegas in my mind. By now, he should be shouting his disapproval fit to burst my eardrums. The fact he wasn’t suggested one thing: he was on his way here and then the fun would truly start. I needed to extricate myself, fast.

  “You’ll recall the caviar that stained my eight-hundred-dollar designer outfit. Add that to the dry cleaning of Vegas’ silk suit and we’re up to about a thousand. Your accusations are groundless. Mine were witnessed. Need I go on?”

  “It’s not the same,” Tiffany spluttered.

  “I know. You actually owe me, but I’m willing to let it drop.”

  Hud peered over at me. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. Matt barged Hud’s board, pushing him backwards. “You don’t get to choose.”

  “Who says?” Bickles said, bristling with aggression. “You?”

  Matt pushed again. This time, Hud, whose expression was murderous, applied enough resistance to stop him dead. “Dude! If you’ve dinged my board, I’ll ding you.”

  “Well it’s simple,” Matt explained. The two were almost nose to nose. “Get that piece of shit out of my face.”

  “How about I replace it with my fist?”

  Bickles was obviously preparing to ditch his own board and join whatever fray ensued. I raised my arms in a plea for peace. Positioned at the end of Hud’s fibreglass barricade, Andie piped up.

  “Nice ink, Bear. The red’s really vivid. What do the symbols mean?”

  Her nonchalant attitude to potential fisticuffs proved an immediate distraction for all present. But that was not what grabbed my focus. Only members of the Trinity could see my Deltas. I was certain I’d read that fact pouring over the Keeper’s diary.

  “What are you talking about, you little freak. What tatts?” Tiffany inspected me with a confused scowl. Matt and the forest of towering egos at his rear squinted at my forearms.

  “Only Andie’s friends are permitted to call her a freak. You don’t qualify,” Bickles said.

  Hud grabbed my left wrist and held it higher for all to see. “These tatts. A red triangular frame �
�”

  “Filled with signs that look like hieroglyphs,” Bix added.

  “There’s nothing there,” Matt said.

  “She’s too vanilla for ink, anyway,” one of the twins, who knew which, added with a snooty swish of her long blond hair.

  “Oh I don’t know,” Hud said. “I think Bear’s more caramel mocha. And you’re turmeric, Cilly. You might want to lay off the fake tan. And the poor company.”

  Priscilla’s pouty lips thinned, but beneath the look of dislike I sensed hurt. Had she and Hud been an item at some stage? Insults from people you cared about always hurt the most, even when you were pretending indifference. It was hard to imagine them together. He seemed too casual for someone as tightly laced as Priscilla.

  “Christ,” Tiffany said. “You people are insane. Come, on. Let’s leave the junkies to their hallucinations before we get rained on.” She threw me a scathing look. “Don’t think this is over.”

  I conveyed my concern by shrugging. They moved off towards one of the many eateries across the road, which ran parallel to the beach, making insulting comments about our intelligence and laughing uproariously. Hud let go of my hand.

  “Geez, Bear. What did you do to her? Spit in her cosmo? Tiff hates you worse than me, and that’s some kind of record.”

  “Her phone toured the bottom of the punchbowl at Smithy’s a few nights ago. I may have given directions.” My mind worked furiously. What could their awareness of my Deltas possibly mean?

  “Ahh.” He nodded appreciatively. “That’d do it. Shame to contaminate the judge’s punch, though.”

  “Plus, you stole her man,” Andie said.

  “That’s crap, Andie. Vee was never her man.”

  “True, Ty. Iffy’s always been deluded. Just like pretending not to see your pretty triangles, Bear. That was weird.”

  “Yeah, weird.” I didn’t bother to correct her about the actual weird part: Andie and her friends could see my Deltas.