B00JX4CVBU EBOK Page 3

  Brooke sat up. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘So that’s when I spun around and, using a little bit of power, made stuff from the shelves fly at him. Then, no other choice, I blew out the doors and made a run for it.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Celeste, ‘damn, damn, bloody damn.’

  Ember bit her lip. ‘I know Celeste, I know. But I was trapped. Trapped in the same building as a Skorn. Possible Skorn.’

  Ember knew Celeste was concerned about the Skorn, but she was probably just as worried about the girls’ secrets being exposed. Without their disguises, their fells, people would start to talk about the five sisters who lived by themselves in the large old manor. If it was one thing the girls didn’t need, it was attention.

  ‘Chloe,’ said Celeste, ‘have you come across anything like this? Skorns with those sort of powers? I thought they were sort of spies, on the lookout for people like us.’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘I’ve never read anything like that. Skorns are just people infected by Scathers …’

  ‘Scather zombies,’ said Brooke.

  Chloe didn’t even smile. ‘Yeah. We’re not even sure if their main purpose is to sniff out Vordenes or whether that’s just a by-product of having the spirit of a Grimshade creature inside you. I’m not even sure Skorns can see through fells. If they had too much power we’d be able to sense them.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Ember asked Celeste.

  Celeste stood up. ‘We go Skorn hunting that’s what. You, me and Chloe. Brooke, you stay here with Skye.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Brooke, ‘Why don’t I get to see some action? Make Ember stay home, it’s her turn to look after Skye.’

  The little girl now sat cross-legged watching the conversation closely. Ember gave her small smile.

  ‘I don’t mind sitting this one out,’ said Chloe. ‘Talking about Scathers made me remember something I’d read in one of Great Aunt Rhea’s journals. Something about the Ring.’

  Celeste sighed. ‘We’d all love to find our Ring Chloe. We’ve been waiting most our lives, haven’t we? But there’s a time and a place, and this …’

  ‘But it’s important, Celeste. Really. I’m going to talk to Aunt Lani about it too.’ Chloe pointed to the small chapel on the other side of a low stone wall, the home of their aunt.

  Ember looked in the direction of the chapel and said softly, ‘She may not be much help, Chloe. She’s getting worse. Yesterday I found her lying on her back in the vegie patch. When I asked what she was doing she said she was learning Vegetablese.’

  ‘She’s gone a bit nutty, yeah,’ said Chloe, just as quietly. ‘But she’s still our Aunt Lani, and our only living connection to our other Aunts, Granny Ira and all that. Like I said, it’s important.’

  Celeste put her hand on her forehead and nodded. ‘OK, fine. Brooke, you’re in.’

  Brooke punched the air. ‘Woo! Gonna go skin some Skorn scum!’

  As one, the other three sighed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time Turner escaped all the commotion at the supermarket. After standing around with a dozen other customers for an hour, and finally giving a statement to the police and then talking to a reporter, he wanted nothing more than to get home.

  Chaucer Street was a narrow road, tightly packed with rows of 1950s semi-detached houses, each fronted with a minuscule front garden. The inhabitants on this street seemed to be having a little war in trying to outdo each other in elaborate letterboxes. Turner passed a small castle, a football, a miniature pillar box and his favourite, the ceramic mermaid sitting atop a rock-like letterbox at number 6.

  Carl, an exuberant border collie, met Turner half way down the street. Carl belonged to Mr Holt, Turner’s landlord, but unlike his owner, Carl always met Turner in a frenzy of enthusiasm.

  Turner bent down to ruffle the dog’s thick black and white coat. ‘Hello Carl. How did you get out, huh? Cheeky dog.’ In answer Carl gave a small bark and danced around Turner, his tail wagging vigorously.

  Turner reached the gate of number 8 and not for the first time, shook his head at its small rusted metal letterbox. The house itself looked just as unloved. Heavy curtains were drawn across all the downstairs windows—windows in a desperate need of a wash—and weathered white paint peeled in scabby patches from the house, revealing the red brick underneath.

  Old Mr Holt knelt in his tiny front garden, and muttered to himself as he stabbed away at a flower bed with a garden trowel. Turner had been hoping to get up to his flat without running into the man, but no luck. In a blur, Carl ran through the gate behind Turner, and straight over the top of Mr Holt’s freshly turned soil.

  ‘Get off there, you bloody mutt!’ said the old man and flapped his hand at the dog.

  Thinking this was a great game, Carl ran in a circle on the tiny patch of lawn, stopped with his head down, tail wagging frantically and barked happily.

  Mr Holt threw a small clump of dirt at the dog. ‘Stupid animal. No food for you tonight!’

  Taking advantage of Mr Holt’s attention being elsewhere, Turner was just about to slip through the front door.

  ‘You! Boy! Don’t think I don’t see you.’ The old man pointed his dirty trowel at Turner. ‘I’ve told you about that loud music of yours at night. Thump, thump, thump.’

  ‘It’s not music, Mr Holt. It’s just games. On the computer.’

  The old man squinted. ‘Music, games, it’s all bloody noise to me. Next time I hear a peep out of you after six o’clock I’ll double your rent.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Double!’ said the old man. He laughed, which became a wheeze and ended in a rasping cough.

  ‘OK, OK. I’ll keep it down.’

  The stairs emitted a staccato of chalkboard squeaks as Turner trudged up to his flat. Tomorrow he was going to start looking for a new place to live. Wilby wasn’t a big town, but he was sure he could find something better. Some place with a nicer landlord. He’d pay double for that.

  *

  Turner stood in his small kitchen and tossed a piece of macaroni into the air above his head.

  He squinted. ‘Super power activate.’ But it hit his head on the way down, before joining its pasta brothers on the white tiled floor.

  Turner sighed, grabbed the small brush and shovel from under the kitchen sink and swept up the dropped macaroni. He emptied the pasta into the rubbish bin. How had he been able to dodge all that flying food at Tesco’s? It all hinged on that young woman … if that’s what she was. It seemed everybody else was under the impression she was an eighty year old lady. But he was certain the girl he’d spoken to was the real deal, and the old lady was some sort of magic mask. At least he hoped so, because there was something about her that made his stomach do little flip flops.

  From across the living room Turner looked at his bedroom door, held up his hand as if stopping traffic, and said, ‘You shall not leave!’ He hurried to the door and turned the handle. It opened easily.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said.

  A scatter of little taps came from his front door. Thinking it would be Mr Holt ready to growl at him some more, he hesitated at first. But after another volley of knocks, these ones louder, more insistent, Turner sighed and opened the door. He let out a small ‘Oh!’ of surprise when he saw it wasn’t the old man, but the horrible Mrs Winslow from the supermarket. Turner winced. This close she really was revolting. A red rash covered one side of her neck and fell away into the crevice of her double chin. And it looked like she’d robbed a homeless woman for her cardigan and dress.

  ‘Oh hello, Mrs Winslow. You startled me. What can I do for you?’

  The old lady’s eyes narrowed, her nose twitched. ‘Hello again, Mr Conlin. After all that hullaballoo at the shops I just needed to clear a few things up, and I couldn’t do it while those police and nosy reporters were around.’ Her fat cheeks tightened slightly. ‘Going to invite me in?’

  If that was a smile she certainly needed some practice. He glanced at her eyes
before looking away quickly; they were stony, almost lifeless.

  Turner shivered slightly. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Uh, no sorry. I was … just about to take a shower … or, no, yes, a shower.’

  Mrs Winslow gave a phlegmy grunt. ‘Fine, it doesn’t matter. I just have one or two questions for you. When you spoke to Mrs Ashton and mentioned her dragon, what did you mean?’

  Turner rubbed the back of his neck. He noticed Mrs Winslow place one hand in her large handbag. He decided then and there whatever the scary woman asked he wouldn’t tell her the truth. There was no way he was going to give her anything. At all.

  ‘I … was having fun with an old lady, that’s all. I’m a mean bastard like that.’

  Behind her thick rimmed glasses her watery eyes narrowed even more. ‘Are you? Are you really?’

  ‘Yup. Biggus prickus they call me. I was just teasing the old woman.’

  ‘And what did you make of the … events at the front of the store?’

  Another lie: ‘It was a mini earthquake. Everybody said so, right?’

  The fat old woman looked like she was chewing the inside of her mouth. She slowly looked Turner up and down. Her hand shifted in her bag. ‘I don’t think you’re telling me …’

  She stopped and looked around at the noise of a door opening somewhere in the house. A moment later heavy footfalls indicated someone coming up the stairs. Mrs Winslow patted down her dress, turned quickly and left. Turner saw with relief it was Derek.

  From the top of the stairs Derek watched the old woman thump down to the ground floor and slam the door as she left. He looked over at Turner. ‘Whoa, mate! Is that the kind of company you like to keep?’

  Turner gave a weak laugh and invited his friend into his flat. He’d never been so happy to see the scruffy nut.

  Derek sat down heavily on the sofa, his arms stretched across the back. ‘Saw you on the news, matey. They showed a photo of you in the report. You’re bloody famous. Mini earthquake? In Wilby?’

  Turner slowly closed the door. ‘What? Oh … yeah. It was loads of fun.’

  He decided against telling Derek that it was the girl again. The magic girl. The ‘delusional perception.’ Turner never liked lying, but he liked being called a liar even less.

  ‘Not much of an earthquake then. Didn’t feel anything down the road.’

  Turner grabbed a couple of cans of cola from the fridge, handed one to Derek and sat down with a deep sigh.

  Lie time. ‘It wasn’t a big quake … if that’s what it was. A stack of food fell down near me, and the police and reporters wanted to know what I knew.’ Turner thought of the girl. ‘Which wasn’t much. They kept me there because that fat old lady you passed in the hall said I was a terrorist.’

  Derek spluttered cola over the coffee table. ‘Oops. Sorry. Terrorist? You? You’re the wimpiest bloke I know!’

  ‘Ha ha. Thanks.’ Turner grabbed a cloth from the kitchen sink and wiped up the mess on the coffee table. Derek watched him with a large grin.

  Turner sat down next to his friend. ‘Anyway, after they checked the CCTV footage and couldn’t see me planting any bombs or anything, they let me go.’

  ‘So what was Mrs Boombah in the hall here for? You and her hit it off? Wink, wink.’

  ‘Ugh. No, really, that’s gross.’ But Turner couldn’t help smiling. ‘Maybe she wanted to see with her own eyes whether my place looked like a terrorist’s.’

  Derek looked around. ‘It does kinda look like a bomb went off in here.’

  Turner had seen Derek’s flat above the computer shop. ‘Ha. You can talk!’

  Derek scratched the side of his short beard. ‘Well after all that, how would you like to go down to the pub for a few ales? Get your mind off things.’

  His friend had no idea how much Turner wanted to get his mind off things. ‘Sure, we can do that …’

  Derek took a noisy slurp of his cola. ‘Cool. Make sure you’re wearing the same clothes as you were on the telly.’

  ‘Oh I see, you’re just using me for bait.’

  Derek smirked. ‘Yep. Me and my mate the TV star. We might get lucky tonight.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard.’

  *

  It was evening. The lights in the Tesco car-park shone down on what looked to be three plainclothes policemen. They ducked under the blue and white police tape strung across the entrance, and strode up to the now dark supermarket.

  Brooke came to a halt next to her sisters in front of the store. ‘You know what I’d like to do one day? Wear a fell of a bloodied clown and walk down High Street.’

  Ember didn’t know if her sister was trying to be funny, but she wouldn’t put it past Brooke to try that stunt. ‘I could see that. And instead of a red nose it could be all broken and bloodied.’

  Brooke gave a lopsided grin. ‘Oh yeah! Good idea. And I could …’

  Celeste let out a sigh. ‘Stop it you two. What are you, sixteen again? This is serious. Ember, you met this possible Skorn. Can you picture him in your mind and see his vapour trail?’

  The sister’s stood in front of the supermarket: three men in suits. A stray fast-food wrapper tumbled past them.

  Celeste took another look around. ‘Stand close you two, touch hands.’

  Brooke and Celeste stepped in closer to Ember and touched the backs of their hands against hers. Almost immediately Ember felt her power increase, just as it always did when the Vordene touched. Ember closed her eyes.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ asked Brooke.

  Ember shut her eyes tighter. ‘Hang on, I’m concentrating.’ She pictured the young man, remembering not just what he looked like but the way he moved, the sound of his voice, the essence of him. When she opened her eyes she saw it: his vapour trail, the after image of his aura. It lit up the inside of the front of the supermarket near the checkouts—he must have mooched around in there for a while—then like a giant luminous snake it streamed out of the store, curving across the supermarket car park to a side street.

  ‘This way,’ said Ember, and strode off across the empty car park. She had broken the contact with her sisters but could still see the blue sinuous glow of the young man’s vapour trail. To cross the road they had to step through it, and although she had passed through many, she had never felt anyone’s vapour trail before, and strangely, perversely perhaps, as they were supposed to be tailing a monster, it felt … fresh and clear. Nice.

  *

  Turner and Derek were drunk. After a couple of hours in the Hog and Horse trying to forget the day’s events, Turner had put away too many pints. And he was sure Derek had knocked back more than him. They weaved across Kerr’s Park, near the centre of town, their shadows long and black, their breath coming in clouds in the cool evening air.

  Derek was playing the ‘leg game’ where he would yell ‘legs!’ whenever he remembered he had legs. He had just made it up five minutes earlier and both men thought it was the best game ever invented.

  ‘Legs!’ Derek yelled. ‘Legs!’ They both laughed so hard they almost fell over.

  Turner held up finger, and said solemnly, ‘I’m gonna make …’

  ‘Legs!’

  ‘Shush. I’m gonna … what was it … oh yeah … I’m gonna code a game about your game an’ I’m gonna call it …’

  ‘Legs!’

  Turner stopped, wobbled slightly and poked his friend in the chest. ‘Howdja know?’

  Abruptly, Derek spun around, and using the sides of his feet, kicked an imaginary football in Turner’s direction. Turner kneed the ‘ball’ up into the air and bounced it off the top of his head.

  ‘Goal!’ He held up his arms and spun around. ‘Shwaaaa! The crowd goes crazy!’

  Derek jumped on Turner, spinning him around and almost knocking him over. ‘Champions! Legs!’

  When their unsteady spin came to an end Turner saw them. Three men in suits stood in front of the goals on the opposite side of the ground, watching them. The light from behind the goals lent the men sinu
ous shadows. None of them moved.

  He grabbed Derek’s shoulders and pointed him at the men.

  ‘What the?’ said Derek.

  ‘Hey mateys,’ said Turner, ‘we don’t want any trouble.’

  Wait. Turner squinted and leant forward. No, not three men, but three young women. And the one on the left was the girl from the supermarket.

  Turner began to walk towards them, arms outstretched. ‘My girl from Teshcos!’

  Derek grabbed his friends arm. ‘What are you doing, you silly bugger? They look like cops.’

  Turner heard the girls talking. ‘They’re drunk, Celeste. Just drunk.’

  ‘Well I’ll put them to sleep them then.’ The girl in the middle raised her hand. Turner frowned. What is she doing? There was a thump next to him as Derek fell to the ground with a grunt.

  Turner knelt down next to his friend, and shook his shoulder. ‘Derek? You alright, mate?’ Derek let out a large snore.

  After a couple of attempts, Turner stood up, and walked halfway to the girls. ‘Whatcha do to my mate Derek?’

  Turner’s Tesco girl said, ‘It didn’t work on him.’

  The middle girl said, ‘Plasma cage.’ The three girls raised their hands. ‘Now!’

  There was a flash so brilliant Turner covered his eyes with his arm. When he looked again, he stood inside a large dome of white light, alive with lightning that danced across its inner surface, it crackled loudly and made his hair stand on end. Instinctively, Turner flinched, ready to be blown to bits, but after only a second or two it dissipated, leaving him untouched. Turner looked down at his body. Yep, arms, legs, all there.

  ‘Ish … is that all ya got?’ he yelled, and raised his hand. ‘Thou shalt not move!’

  He saw with glee he had indeed frozen the girls. Two of them struck rigid with their arms outstretched and hands up in the same gesture Turner had just used on them. He approached them once more, stepping with drunken deliberation over the smouldering line of grass where the edge of the dome had been.

  When he reached the immobile girls at the goal he said, ‘Can’t move huh? Old Turner’s got some powers up his trousers … I mean sleeve …’ He looked thoughtful for a moment and leant in close to the frozen shocked face of the Tesco girl. ‘I do mean trousers as well y’know.’