The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity) Read online

  THE HIDDEN KEY

  The Sacred Trinity Trilogy: Book Two

  S E Holmes

  Copyright © 2015 SueEllen Holmes

  Smashwords Edition

  Also available:

  The Crone’s Stone (The Sacred Trinity Trilogy: Book One)

  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

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  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 Perri
er 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 n
umbered 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.