“Benji,” I moaned, rousing to a series of grinding cracking sounds and a hail of debris scattering the floor.
Squinting through a billowing haze, I took a moment to recall what had happened before witnessing Benji’s hardship. Seth carried me in his arms, spreading his feet for balance in his prison’s collapsing doorway. His expression was fierce, and I wriggled to break free. Beyond, broken stucco littered the warehouse alley, more chunks cascading from the edifice to shatter in puffs of grit upon hitting the ground. Shreds of curtain whirlpooled on ebbing gusts.
The dust settled gradually to reveal Aunt Bea and her cats halfway along, behind her Mrs Paget and Smithy, unified in hostility. Bea’s down-thrust arms formed a barrier keeping Cherish and Vovo, who paced and snarled, in check. The Keeper’s diary rested at her feet.
Seth dared several cautious steps into the hallway so far as a clear area, before gently placing me down. He stepped back with his hands raised, a fact lost on the cats, who surged forwards on the attack, spitting and hissing with their fangs bared and talons unsheathed.
“Ne’re tigers. Superb!” Seth mumbled.
What? Smithy outran the cats, reaching me before they unleashed a razored barrage. Coughing and retching, I struggled to coordinate my tongue. He dropped to his knees, gathering me to his chest and lightly pinching the bridge of my nose. Smith was well familiar with first aid for head punches.
“Did he hit you? I’ll kill him!”
“Stop,” I wheezed, reluctant to glance over my shoulder where claws tearing flesh and the ripping of fabric were met by grunts of pain. “Stop.”
In the sudden quiet, broken only by Cherish’s low growl, I observed in freeze-frame dismay as Smithy lifted his head to evaluate Seth coldly. This was not happening. Too late, I fixed my hand over my boyfriend’s eyes, swivelling to glare at Seth whose thighs and torso were marred by gaping wounds, his pants a torn a wreck.
“Don’t!” I yelled at him.
The moulding to his home was completely demolished, a hint of black marble beneath before the warehouse returned to full clarity. The cats coiled in readiness either side, their lips pulled taut to best display sharp incisors as long as my forefinger. His retreat blocked by a wall of cardboard, Seth gazed openly at Smithy for an infinitesimal moment. This was all it took. I did not want my precious boy entranced forever by Seth, his will captive.
“Vegas?” Seth knitted his brow in concentration. “No, that is not right.” He shook his head. “Smith? Wrong again. Yes, now I have it! Vee,” he said.
Smith burst to his feet, wrenching me with him. My hand jerked from its hold and I swayed on wobbly ankles.
“Only my friends call me that!”
Seth could not hide his astonishment. “Brother,” he whispered, his eyes wide with wonder.
“O-kay,” Smith said lamely, anger deflating.
“Seth … Daniel, no.”
“What did you call me?”
“I know you. I know who you are and what the Crone did to you. To your family.”
Aunt Bea’s sharp voice preceded her down the aisle, then the rapid clip of her heels. “What is the meaning of this?”
Smith grappled me erect before I could fall and I was grateful for his strength. “Our enemy is almost free. Bea, give Seth … no, Daniel, the diary.” Her expression said I might be mad. “Please!”
Daniel remained in the wreckage of his cell, his mouth working soundlessly. Even in my mind, I could no longer address him as ‘Seth’ – the witch’s name for her pet. His family torn from him, that bereft man was who I saw. He’d become human to me, not just our vile enemy’s tortured enforcer.
Bea approached him. “Hold out your hand,” she commanded.
He did so and she rested the journal across his palms. We all waited with breaths held as he reverentially accepted the Keeper’s diary.
“Raphaela told me much of the Keeper’s Ledger, but I have never set eyes upon it. Should an enemy handle it, their skin blisters.” He gazed at me in awe. “What miracle is this?”
Smithy groaned and rolled his eyes over my shoulder. “He couldn’t look like Moe the bartender, could he?”
“Welcome to the Sacred Trinity.” A better initiation awaited the Crone’s leisure. Blood dried in my nose, its coppery taint a reminder of Benji. “We must go to Louisiana, now. Raphaela had a ward. If Anathema are there already, she’s at risk.”
“And a risk to us,” Smithy said.
“There’s another in the line of fire. We need to try and save Benji, wherever he is.”
“Forget him. He’s already dead.” Daniel spoke softly, turning the diary over and over and flipping through the pages.
I shrugged from Smithy’s embrace. “I don’t care how you’ve done things in the past. We don’t leave anyone exposed. We don’t leave anyone at the witch’s mercy. No one.”
I looked to my Aunt for support. Several steps to my right, Bea cleared her throat and smoothed her dress, glancing at Mrs Paget whose face was uncharacteristically stern. Both of them seemed poised to disagree.
“We need to return to the warehouse and review our circumstances. I’m sure Daniel …” she nodded and offered a thin smile, “could do with a change of clothes.”
“Please,” he whispered. His cheeks flushed with shame. “Don’t call me that. Seth is the name I’ve earned.”
“Winsome feels otherwise,” Aunt Bea said. “And I expect the rest of the Trinity to do so, too. Now, time runs short. Let us not dally.”
“You three go on ahead. Smithy and I have to take a quick trip.”
“Are you pursuing a career as a comedian?” Bea asked, her face incredulous.
“Laughter wouldn’t go astray right now,” Smithy muttered, provoking a scowl from my aunt and a muffled giggle from Mrs Paget.
“Smithy’s friends can see my Deltas because …” How could I utter the truth without sounding overly dramatic? “Well, because they’re worthy. The Trinity is recruiting. We need help. You must trust what I say, and we’re running out of time.”
“What? We can’t hijack anyone else into this carnival of the damned.”
“I don’t like it either, Smithy. But I don’t think we have a choice.” My urgency swelled with the knowledge that the boundaries of the Crone’s prison stretched thin. Soon, she’d slither out into the daylight and I must be ready. I gripped his hand and began to drag him from the alley, heading for the Mini. “Come on. We’ll argue in the car.”
“Winsome?” Daniel called out.
My shoulders slumped. What now? I spun back to the little group, who loitered awkwardly at the dead end, Bea’s cats eyeing him like they would a cornered mouse. If he set a foot wrong there was no doubt of the consequences. Daniel’s gaze was unyielding as he spoke.
“Anathema are here, in Sydney. Their foulness stains the air and I am never wrong about such things.”
“They’d better bring their A game,” Smithy snarled.
“They never play otherwise. I should know. I trained them.”
“Great. Simply outstanding.” Smith jerked me along, his grip crushing.
“I do know how to walk!” I yanked my arm from the vice – another throbbing limb to add to the rest – stomping after him.
“Sorry,” he grumbled.
If the guys in my life tried to ‘protect’ me much more, I’d be too bruised to move. My stomach growled discontent at missing breakfast, but who had a moment spare for a normal activity like eating? Just as we reached the caged Mini, an alarm rang out.
“Now what?” Smith groaned.
We about-faced and moments later stared at the surveillance screens. I turned the alarm off and reset it, awaiting Bea. The monitor revealed Judge Smith pumping the buzzer to her formal offices in the high rise at the end of the lane by which we’d gained entry here. His gazed up into the frame with a determined expression.
“What’s he doing home from the Caribbean?” Smithy did not sound pleased.
“This is an unforseen complication.” My aunt peered over my shoulder at the freeze-frame image. Mrs Paget, Daniel and the cats lingered at her rear, none of them seeming comfortable with each other or the unfolding situation. “An octopus couldn’t plug the leaks we’re sprouting,” Bea grumbled.
“We don’t have to respond,” Smithy said. “We’ve got more urgent things to attend to.”
“Vegas,” Bea said gently, “for better or for worse, he is your father. We cannot simply dismiss him and cause needless worry. A guardian’s distress for a child is the most horrible feeling. I should know.” Bea smiled tiredly at me and I smiled back, ashamed all over again for upsetting the people I cared about most with my casual attitude. “We can at least spare half an hour. The jet needs further loading, in any case.”
“I thought as much,” Smith relented. “How do you want to handle it?”
“I’ll meet him and address his concerns.”
“Should we come?”
“That is up to you, Vegas.”
He chewed his bottom lip. “Probably. But we’ll hide until we know what the judge is about. Winnie and I are supposedly in the Whitsundays. Maybe he thinks his postcard got lost in the mail and he’s just after news.”
More likely, our presence at Bondi this morning was noticed. I cursed myself once more, painfully aware that I could not undo the damage, no matter how hopeful Smithy seemed.
“Grace, take the Bentley. I’ll catch a cab back to the warehouse. Finish preparations for our trip and we’ll review events on my return.”
Precisely fifteen minutes later, Bea buzzed Nash Smith into the luxurious conference room, all Chesterfield leather and polished mahogany. We listened from behind a screen on a track that divided the space, tummy-down on plush wool carpet. Several tasteful pieces advertised my Aunt’s trade in antiquities: a matched pair of lesser Ming vases, a fragment of rare parchment behind gilt-framed glass, the petrified skull of an early hominid embedded in stone in a case.
“What a lovely surprise, Nash. How was your holiday?”
The judge was a suave, youthful man with waves of ginger-blond hair, a natural tan and a trim physique. He played tennis and windsurfed. When not drowning his sorrows about his wayward son, his hazel eyes glittered at some private joke. Charmingly self-deprecating with a cutting intelligence that didn’t bode well for anyone not firing on all cognitive cylinders, he was the youngest ever to make it to the bench, and still only forty-two. I’d always liked him, despite his Casanova leanings. A fact I didn’t repeat often around Smithy.
Bea and Nash traded pleasantries for what seemed like hours. It was a sign of Bea’s anxiety she joined the judge in a cognac. Smithy poked me in the ribs. I stifled a giggle and glared in warning. He blew me a kiss and I wished it was for real. It was so rare to slob around like this.
“Another tag and release,” Nash said, in answer to Bea’s query about his early return. “Brianna took a particular shine to several of the cabana boys. I left her to it. She can purchase a nice new apartment to match her fresh tan with the divorce pay-out.” Our tickle fight ceased. Smithy’s mouth dropped open. He held up spread fingers and mouthed, “They only lasted five months.”
“I’m so sorry, Nash.”
“Rubbish, Bea. The only thing to be sorry about is my inability to learn from my mistakes. And an appalling history of forgettable liaisons. Other people collect trophies.” He chuckled. “My cabinets are populated with certificates of divorce. Of course, if one chooses the wrong seeds, weeds are likely to grow. Reaping what you sow, etcetera.” He didn’t sound sad about Brianna.
“We all have weaknesses, Nash. No one is perfect.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Beatrice. However, I suspect the girl is responsible for the inexcusable act of repelling my son from his own home.” Now, the annoyance was easy to detect. “It’s high time I pruned some of my less admirable habits and concentrated on what is important. I pray it’s not too late. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I have rather a conundrum regarding Vegas, and am hoping you can shed some light on the matter.”
Uh-oh. It didn’t seem he was interested in holiday snapshots of parasailing or scuba-diving.
“Naturally, I’ll do what I can,” Bea said.
The judge went on to explain there was a message on his answering machine from a Constable Davis relating to a street-racing incident involving a bike that closely resembled his son’s. Nash had the police report and supporting evidence couriered over almost as soon as he’d arrived home that morning.
“There are discrepancies in the paperwork I find most confusing. The video is next to useless, obscured by digital noise and horrendous weather, except for one clear shot capturing the number plate and the driver from the back. It’s not registered to Vegas, but his bike was custom-fitted, unique. I’m sure it’s the one in the scene.”
“Wasn’t Vegas’ bike stolen?” Bea asked, so convincingly innocent she deserved an Academy Award.
Mrs Paget had inserted a fake backdated report into the police files, her skills in IT just one aspect of her advanced talents. Smith’s poor bike was in wrecking yards spread across three jurisdictions.
“Well that’s the problem, Bea. The stolen vehicle report had Vegas’ bike taken sometime in the morning, two days before the video.”
“Am I missing something, Nash? I don’t see the problem.”
“Vegas and I had a heated argument one afternoon in the garage – a day after the supposed theft. I remember the date well. I was home early, an uncommon event due to the unexpected completion of a long-running trial. I distinctly recall Vegas taking off on his bike. So, you see, it could not have been stolen on the date recorded.”
Bea didn’t miss a beat. “Perhaps, the report is in error, a mistakenly transcribed detail. What was the day of the traffic infringement?”
“The episode occurred the day Vegas left with Winnie for the Whitsundays.”
I heard her chair creak as Bea sat back. “Well, that settles it. Vegas was out of the state during the period in question.”
“Hmm, the thief must have stolen his bike leathers also. Or bought two identical sets. And he had a pillion passenger, although difficult to make out – the individual was so swaddled in bike gear. She was small with long dark hair though, that much was discernible.” The judge’s tone changed from speculative to eager. “Are you absolutely certain Vegas and Winsome made their flight? I could double-check with the airlines? Call the yacht company?”
Next to me, Smithy’s eyes widened in alarm. I raised my brows in query.
“That won’t be necessary, Nash. Fortescue flew them up himself. I’ve not seen Winsome since she left. However, we have spoken on the phone. My niece assures me the water is balmy, the sky blue and a yacht in the tropics with Vegas everything she could wish for.”
Bea’s voice was firm, aimed at preventing further discussion. The judge continued heedless, now sounding adversarial.
“How odd.” Suddenly, I understood perfectly what he was doing. Vegas trapped me the same way, often. It was a common interrogation technique, revealing withheld facts slowly to tangle the evasive in their own lies. “You see, there’s another strange piece of the puzzle. I had a chat today with one of Vegas’ best friends, Jay Hudson. He saw my son and your niece at Bondi this morning.”
Things were unravelling fast. Smith slapped his forehead and swore silently. At this point, I thought Bea might even forgive him the lapse. I heard the judge’s chair squeak in an echo of Bea’s challenge and then silence, which stretched uncomfortably. Ice tinkled as water poured into a glass. Finally, Bea spoke, her words clipped.
“Allow me to summarise. You don’t believe our children are holidaying. For some reason, they’ve travelled back and are gallivanting about town?” There was a pause for confirmation and then Bea continued. “Say for argument’s sake, that is the case. What do you propose their motive for such deceit is, Nash? And I must say, their efforts at secrecy are rudimentary.”
That last was a barb directed at me. And given the trouble my run had caused, well deserved.
Nash snorted. “It’s been obvious from the beginning, Bea. My son is in love with your grand-niece. Hud thought they were preparing to leave the country. Said Winnie looked particularly unnerved, slightly ill. Judging by her state of health, Vegas has gone and gotten her pregnant. We need to find them. Let them know we’re here to help. It shan’t be too difficult to track them down. If they’re eloping, I want to be at the wedding. I trust I have your support in this, Bea.”
I would have given my entire inheritance, helicopter included, to see the look on my great-aunt’s face at that moment. Smithy clamped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders jiggling hysterically.
We waited together in the conference room in stormy silence until Bea was satisfied the judge had left the suburb, her fingers tapping the tabletop with such force I thought she’d leave divots. Finally, she rose and swept from the office. We scrambled to keep up. In the elevator, the dam containing her ire finally burst.
“Meddlesome … Nosy … Busybody,” she fumed. “I’ll have Hugo shoot that blabbermouth, Hudson! Better still, cut out his tongue. Of all the occasions for the fool of an idiot of a man to develop a paternal conscience.”
I’d never seen my refined, elegant Aunt lose it like this. She muttered, “Casting aspersions … unable to supervise my own progeny … insinuations of moral turpitude.” The lift pinged and the doors parted. We stepped out into the stylish foyer, Bea twirling to confront me.
“Tell me, Winsome. At what age were you fully cognisant of the female reproductive system?”
“Er, seven.”
“And at what age where you thoroughly versed in contraception?”
“Umm, seven.”
“Precisely,” Bea declared, as though closing the deal. “No niece of mine would find herself accidentally impregnated at such an age.”
“But it’s nice the judge expressed concern and affection for his son. Don’t you think, Aunt Bea?” I tried to douse the inferno.
“Of course, Winnie.” She tugged at her pearls and alarming visions of us scrambling to collect rolling beads when the string broke leaped to mind. “I’m very happy for you, Vegas. But really, of all the improbable scenarios at the most inopportune fulcrum. It’s as if providence is conspiring against us!”
“No disrespect intended, Aunt Bea, but this time my father’s conclusion is actually more rational than the truth.”
“Touché, Vegas,” she conceded wearily. “Except for considerations of physiology. It would need to be the Immaculate Conception to have advanced so in one week.”
“Call me Mary because it would also be a virgin birth.”
This miserably humiliating fact was a testament to our packed schedule, not for want of desire. Smithy’s brow furrowed as he choked back laughter, unaware of the painful truth. I’d decided to spare him. The stupid topic of children had arisen more in the past day than ever in my life, as if I needed a constant reminder of what I could never have. Someone, somewhere, had a ‘kick’ button aimed squarely at my behind and they weren’t averse to pressing it.
