“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.
