The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity)

By S E Holmes

Be careful what you wish for. Winnie’s arrival from boarding school to sunny Sydney, thrust into the sinister world of the Crone, was further from an uplifting homecoming than she could imagine. As the last Keeper of the witch-demon’s stolen possession, Winnie must hide the poisonous Stone, exposed and vulnerable until she does. And her enemy is poised to break free, her swarming followers on the hunt. Legend forecasts the final chapter nears, heralding the Stone’s triumphant return and the obliteration of the feeble, ailing Trinity who’ve stood in their way for a thousand years. But allies exist in the most unexpected places. For the first time in millennia, the Sacred Trinity are recruiting. Satan’s mistress is coming to take back what’s hers and just maybe, Winnie will be ready. This is no fairy tale. (Second Sacred Trinity, First: The Crone's Stone)

• Language: English
• Publisher: S E Holmes
• Release date: Feb 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310362682

S E Holmes

The fact the real world is not as appealing as the ones I create was obvious in kindergarten when I ran away from school to have a chat with Santa, triggering a police search. My imaginary friend, Wendy, who often came in handy to eat my peas, generously took the blame.

Book preview

One

Benji jerked from his doze, size twelve Nikes crashing to linoleum from the desktop. An incongruent screech had penetrated his headphones. Like a shovel dragged across stone, the scraping echoed along the hallway from the walk-in freezer. He gripped the edge of the desk in one white-knuckled fist, yanking the headphones to its cluttered surface. Absent the distraction of Suicide Silence his tension pulsed to awareness. He’d diligently ignored that sound since the start of shift. How was it audible through a thick, stainless steel door with screaming guitars in his head?

Night-shift at the St Martin morgue was like slipping into a creepy time warp, but it had never worried Benji in the past. He’d impressed the jocks with their muscles and prissy girlfriends when he’d ushered them through on dares to see who could stomach the most gruesome cadavers. And of late, there’d been an influx. At five bucks per view, Raphaela (according the toe-tag she wore as a necklace) topped the show. She sat crossed-legged under a sheet in the corner of the cold room with a bizarre chest wound and her toffee-apple shell.

Dim light flickered, the electricity on the fritz despite attempts to uncover an electrical problem. God only knew getting caught in the dark down here would mimic the sunless surface of Pluto. Maybe he was just more edgy than usual because this morning the janitor’s terrier, by all accounts a tough little critter, took a frothy-mouthed fit and died abruptly. The dog’s carcass set as concrete stiff as a taxidermied pet right in front of poor, dumbstruck Larry.

Benji picked a zit on his chin until his thumbnail came away bloody, brooding over how any idiot could believe a dead woman was to blame for all this. Whatever this was, exactly. Found upright in a queer triangle of melted black candles, it didn’t help that police couldn’t get pictures of anything related to her murder. Conflicting accounts spread, none of which seemed to resemble the facts. Conspiracy freaks put about the crime scene was devoid of evidence, as though vacuum-sealed. It was all so much cock-and-bull.

The gossips lathered over the fact Forensics couldn’t sample her strange coating; it solidified harder than any natural substance. And wherever the corpse went, misfortune and sickness followed. So far, the Chief had suffered a stroke and now lay in a coma. Several deputies endured wacky accidents, one involving a chainsaw, or died of nasty, unusual diseases, decimating the local constabulary. Even the Coroner wasn’t spared and he only drove her back. Benji worried he was at risk, but just couldn’t get his rational mind to commit. Tonight might just do the trick.

Not to mention recent acts of vandalism in the refrigeration units: bodies dumped on the floor, rotting in the frozen temperature and stinking up the place something terrible. Copious formaldehyde couldn’t halt the decay and Ban-Odour didn’t dent a reek worse than skunk that saturated his hair and clothing and refused to wash out. Lucky his girl was away at school. He’d need an ocean of aftershave even to wave ‘hello’.

Almost midnight – the witching hour. Benji squirmed in his seat. It sure was peculiarly warm in here. Several technicians later and still no explanation. The equipment hadn’t failed and the back-up generator wasn’t triggered. Teen vandals and boredom were blamed (when in doubt, an adult’s best excuse). Their mysterious ability to cause putrefaction at sub-zero conditions went quietly overlooked. His supervisor’s bow-tie quivered below an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball, as he tried to justify why mourners were obliged to opt for closed-casket funerals, loved ones oozing like rotten bananas, chunks of flesh missing.

The powers-that-be decided the best deterrent was a tall, stringy, eighteen-year-old nerd, who wore glasses thick enough for bulletproofing and considered wrestling a packet of foil-sealed nuts a test of physical endurance. Benji could tolerate the grisly stuff and unpleasant smells. He’d have to, if he wanted to make it as a trauma surgeon. But no one said anything about unexplained noises that penetrated his state-of-the-art, insulating headphones like a nail gouging his mind. It magnified and vibrated until he could take no more. What was it? He pressed his hands to his head and rocked like a frightened kid.

The morgue’s supposed to be spooky, he muttered, more for the comfort of a voice than with any authority. Lily-liver.

This place, with its Cajun voodoo, was rife with superstitious nonsense. Lately, Grandma had taken to wearing a gross necklace of gnarled hen’s feet, clutching his jacket with knobbly fingers whenever he ventured out to rave about the awakening of the ‘demon seed’ and the ‘abyss of despair’. Perhaps it was time for a dementia check.

Right now though, Benji sided with the fervent believers. He regretted ridiculing his grandmother for her kooky leanings, deciding never again to be caught without the Obeah charm she’d made for him that languished in his bottom drawer at home. Even the powerful talisman of Gran Bois to usurp all bad luck and evil was useless trapped by pine.

The shriek grew in his brain demanding, ‘Come take a peek, come take a peek!’ With hours remaining on this shift, he had to investigate. Choking back dread, he collected a torch from a side drawer, tucking an extra in his back pocket in case. Hefting the janitor’s crowbar from his locker for good measure, the weapon failed to reassure. Baseball in gym demonstrated beyond doubt his arm action suited nothing more demanding than ‘Go Fish’.

He didn’t want to walk that corridor. He didn’t want to see.

Misgivings burst into full-blown jitters and Benji finally acknowledged he was scared witless. He retired to the desk, procrastinating. Should he phone Larry? The awful grating had to be something harmless and easily explainable like a trapped racoon or rats in the wires. He even hoped for bored youth messing with him. But this was the morgue, its autopsy suites sealed tighter than a drum to safeguard evidence and prevent biohazard contamination.

He scrambled for an explanation. There simply had to be one. Benji knew nothing could get in here. Nothing! And the cringing, ceaseless rasp didn’t sound like something trying to get in. It sounded far more like something determined to get out.

‡

Two

Latoya knelt behind the bar to restock the fridge with Perrier Jouet – a champagne costing more than she earned in a month. It was early morning, London barely stirring, and she had only recently seen the last of her guests from the club. Another crowded night in the land of pretend, she thought bitterly. What patrons became inside these walls was far removed from drab existence; the most outlandish or disturbing desire a reality. But the promises were worse than empty when dawn brought with it a return to the dull everyday.

At least the evening had been incident free. Simply fulfilling her duties as Hostess of Halcyon, the world’s most exclusive establishment, often proved hazardous. This was Anathema’s home base, the cavernous hall a tribute to the luxury of bygone eras: Ancient Egypt, Constantinople, French Baroque. The multistorey compound was a mish-mash celebrating decadence, difficult to locate and impossible to enter without the privilege of an invitation. Real gold glittered in the ivy coiling around towering marble pillars, semi-precious gems embedded in the ten-metre bar front replicating scenes from the Kama Sutra.

But anyone who knew of this place knew of its owner. No one would dare steal so much as a linen napkin.

Footsteps neared, heated voices echoing from behind a secret alcove hidden by an Adam and Eve statue in serpent-twined, naked embrace. The origin of the argument from the depths of Anathema headquarters meant only one thing: Finesse’s devotees came her way. Latoya shoved her discarded heels under an empty liquor box, regretting her choice of a sequined cocktail dress. Lucky there wasn’t much of the sparkly fabric.

She dropped to her side on the floor and froze, her back pressing metal-mesh trays of tumblers and hanging bubbly flutes. Hypervigilance was the best defence since her brother, Hugo, had vanished. What she wouldn’t give for a repeat of his last words to her and a different decision: "Come with me, Dumpling! We must flee now, before it is too late."

And too late it was, for she’d stupidly ignored his plea. Her wild-eyed reflection stared back at her from the glass doors of rowed refrigerators. All the enemy had to do was check over the bar to spot her. Her stomach clenched.

You let him escape and now the trail is ice cold.

It was not I, sister, who cruised his cell like some cheap whore. He probably picked the keys from your pocket. Or from beneath your camisole.

I did not hide the keys in so obvious a spot! she snarled. And I was the one in favour of dropping Seth into the catacombs after his betrayal.

Latoya ignored the rubber matting digging her thigh, hoping the evil twins believed the place deserted, that they wouldn’t seek a drink at this hour. She’d neglected the first rules of survival here: don’t wear perfume, don’t choose jewellery that jingled, don’t stand out. No bloody sequins! In the likely event of hiding, don’t give their extraordinary perceptions a single clue to your whereabouts. They called themselves Riven and Rebel.

A liar and a tramp. The brother sniggered.

Paper peeled from another of the numerous chocolate bars he consumed daily, announcing their arrival in the lounge adjacent the bar. Since first sight of him, Latoya had lost her stomach for confectionary.

Spare me your insults, Riven. The punishment targets us both. And let us not forget your sadistic obsession with blondes. Hypocrite.

He grunted in reply and chewed noisily. If they found her, Latoya couldn’t imagine the outcome. Their tastes made ‘perverse’ a child’s party. A chill seeped her bones, not just from the stone floor. The willowy, bleach-haired twins were more of the psychopaths who clustered about Finesse’s blinding-bright orb like so many barren satellites. More lunatics to be avoided at all costs in this idiot’s paradise.

Latoya had spent many a harrowing night evading the worst of them – Malachi. The insane oaf cared not at all about the public venue or the demands of her job running the place. She often came close to neutering the creep with the knife strapped under her skirt. Her missing brother had taught her how to wield the blade and throw it at distances. She practised until her accuracy never failed. Second chances didn’t occur around here. Why didn’t she leave with Hugo when he tried to steal her away?

How was she to know he wouldn’t return? She didn’t think she’d endure for very long against the monster Malachi’s lechery. Especially with their mistress indisposed and unavailable to keep her nasty rabble in check. He’d thought it all part of the game when she’d tossed her absinthe in his face, laughing heartily as the wormwood burned, probably getting off on the pain. The only slight consolation was Tate’s desertion, rumour implying he was gone for good.

Maybe Hugo’s final act of brotherly love had been to despatch Tate. She hoped the bastard had suffered. In tandem with Seth, her brother was a crusading knight on a mission no longer concerning his baby sister. Despite their abandonment, she missed Hugo and Seth so much. Guzzling an increasing volume of over-proof spirits couldn’t numb the ache of their loss. A cramp seized her shoulder. She resigned herself to wait until she was found and the trigger pulled.

It does not matter how Seth wriggled from the snare. We will be blamed, Rebel said, her voice low and husky for a woman’s.

Latoya stopped breathing when she heard them take stools at the bar. The duo faced each other in the gilt-veined mirror behind top-shelf booze. Either one of them might easily glance the wrong way. If they noticed the half-unpacked boxes she was doomed. Still, the Destroyer’s disapproval was something to be feared, even by those who usually inspired fear themselves. They were clearly rattled.

Are you certain he’s not dead?

Seth’s life is connected to Finesse. He lives as long as she does.

"But where is our Priestess?" he murmured.

That her highest minions could not locate Finesse gave Latoya slim hope. Rebel tapped her nails impatiently on the bar top, black-and-gold manicure flashing. She was better at false bravado than he.

The Almighty’s absence is temporary and provides us a chance to redeem ourselves for failing to recover Seth, and for losing Hugo.

What do you propose we do, sister? Seth is too skilled and slippery for any of us. Perhaps Hugo possessed the ability to track him … The traitor! Riven’s hatred was obvious, not masked by his thick Eastern European accent. I will take my vengeance slowly when he is cornered and fillet him like one of Papa’s hogs.

Latoya’s pulse spasmed, the threat to her dear brother’s life ramping her misery. She didn’t care they’d exact penalty for his crimes from her. They’d have to catch her first and she’d learned to run very fast. Malachi’s depravity was only outstripped by the horrid twins, their elfin looks belying unmatched viciousness and a love of death at close quarters. They enjoyed watching the light fade from their victims’ eyes at the intimate point of a stiletto.

Set Malachi loose with his hounds. Tate met a sticky end. It is too blatant to be coincidence. I sense Hugo the betrayer’s hand in this. Pitiful amends for his little sister’s woes. And where one defector is, so too, the other.

Where is Hugo’s juicy cherub? She’ll be skulking around here somewhere.

The leather of his barstool squealed, cold mercury-grey killer’s eyes scanning the hall for prey. She imagined herself safely blanketed by the dark.

Where are you my little toy? he cooed, sending icy dread up her spine. Such pretty white hair.

Focus, brother! Take that mad leer from your lips. This is not the time.

Latoya’s teeth began to chatter, so loud in her skull they’d surely draw attention. She clamped her jaw shut and willed herself still. If she survived this, she’d dye her hair blacker than night as soon as she made her room.

You believe it true? That Keeper bitch bested our Mistress?

Dead Keeper. And no, I do not. The mighty one is invincible while the Stone remains whole. We live, her power coursing our blood. I have a feeling, brother. We are close! Legend forecasts the ultimate chapter has commenced. There are no Keepers left, aside from this last. Her days of hiding are numbered and she cannot win a war against Finesse.

"I am not so sure. Maybe … the One is on their side."

Blaspheme, she hissed. "You forget who is on our side. I perceive the Stone’s power building. It will soon reveal itself and we must be ready. Prepare to travel. Tell Malachi to pack. I am sending him to Louisiana where Seth’s road ended."

I do not favour releasing Malachi, let alone with his murdering beasts. He exercises no control over his urges or his mongrels. Will he follow orders if we free him?

Your quibbling wears on my nerves, she said, her tone soft and menacing.

We cannot afford another lapse. Tate’s indiscretions brought too much attention. If this goes wrong, our Mistress’ wrath will incinerate all, save none. Riven couldn’t conceal his apprehension. "What if this last Keeper is stronger than imagined?"

Must I report you for treason?

No! His mirror-image raised long, pale fingers in appeal. They reminded Latoya of the spindly legs of a creature that scuttled from lightless cracks. Never, Rebel. I am just nervous when things seem too easy. I shall trust your confidence in Malachi.

Good. Let us put this disagreement behind us and talk no more about that foul Keeper spore. We begin the hunt at Tate’s last sighting. According to Quint, it’s Sydney, Australia.

Shame about Hugo’s little girl. It would have been a pleasure to say goodbye.

We shall return triumphant, and then you can do as you please.

Latoya suppressed a shudder. Running was pointless and they revelled in the chase. The siblings dismounted their chairs and headed back towards Adam groping Eve for their quarters upstairs. Trembling on the floor long after they’d gone, she fought tears. Malachi and the twins’ departure gave her peace for a time, which should bring relief. But they journeyed to hunt her brother and Seth, their patience renowned. What Riven and Rebel couldn’t achieve with their own occult methods of tracking, the oily sycophant Quint solved with electronic wizardry.

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