The chrysalis key, p.1
The Chrysalis Key, page 1
The Chrysalis Key is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and locations are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2021 by E. P. Bali
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This first edition published in 2021 by Blue Moon Rising Publishing
www.ektaabali.com
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ISBN ebook: 978-0-6452939-2-0
Paperback: 978-0-6452939-3-7
Hardcover: 978-0-6452939-4-4
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Cover design by Carly Deep
Interior images by Daniel Mazur
Chapter images by Connie Dragon
Book Design by E.P. Bali with Vellum
If you would like to “read-a-long” The Chrysalis Key with me, I have made a Podcast to go along with the story! There is a sign up page at ektaabali.com/thechrysaliskey
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Every day for 10 days I will send you a podcast episode where I give commentary on the story, interesting facts and behind the scenes info on the novel. We discuss 5-6 chapters at a time.
I’ve had so much fun putting this together for you, and I can’t wait to see you there!
—Ektaa
There are stories that demand to be told. They are written on sleepless nights in lonely parts of the world. They are written with blazing, hasty fingers by the light of a mobile device. They are written through grief, through ecstasy and through the grey void of nothingness. This story is such a story. And it was written from my heart to yours.
Contents
Prologue
1. Henry
2. Henry
3. Hugh
4. Melanie
5. Julia
6. Aiden
7. Henry
Chapter 8
9. Henry
10. Henry
11. Henry
Chapter 12
13. Henry
14. Henry
15. Julia
16. Henry
17. Hugh
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
20. Henry
21. Melanie
22. Hugh
23. Julia
24. Henry
25. Aiden
26. Henry
27. Beatrice
28. Henry
29. Aiden
30. Beatrice
31. Julia
32. Melanie
33. Hugh
34. Henry
35. Henry
36. Henry
37. Deagon
38. Hugh
39. Aiden
40. Melanie
41. Julia
42. Hugh
43. Henry
44. Sangria
45. Aiden
46. Henry
47. Beatrice
48. Henry
49. Deagon
50. Henry
51. Henry
52. Hugh
53. Aiden
54. Melanie
55. Julia
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by E. P. Bali
Prologue
It was midnight as the officer hurried down Marrow Avenue. The darkness shrouded him, hiding his lithe movements from all possible prying eyes. Except, that is, for the pair of eyes that followed him.
Malhaven Manor towered above, a black mausoleum, its stone gargoyles leering down at him. It was like every other manor on Marrow Avenue: imposing Grecian pillars and black rendered brick.
He slipped through the huge, wrought-iron gates, and up the wide drive to the oak front doors. Doggedly, his pursuer followed and crouched behind a manicured bush by the gates. He watched as the officer pulled the thin, silver chain hanging by the manor door. A clanging sounded within, and after a moment, the door opened, a dim yellow light spilling out onto the stoop.
“Can I help you?” frowned the butler, a portly man with wiry grey hair.
The officer pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket and held it up for the older man to see. His lined face paled as he read the first line. Silently, the butler stepped back, pulling the door open with him.
The officer stepped lightly inside and continued towards the sweeping, black marble staircase.
“Sir!” the butler protested. “If you just wait—”
“No need,” the officer replied crisply. Tucking the paper back into his jacket he jogged swiftly up the stairs.
On the second floor sitting room, he called her name. Down the hallway, a door opened, and his charge strode out in a flowing, black dressing gown. She was willowy and proud with the thick hair and pink cheeks of her condition. She was as pale as the moon and just as lovely with silver eyes that were presently fixed on him. The robe made a thin shield around her large pregnant belly.
“So you have come for me.” Her soft voice held a quiet power, and it stirred something within the officer that he pushed down immediately. She placed a hand protectively on her stomach.
“Beatrice Malhaven,” he announced formally. “You are charged with the illegal use of black magic. I have a warrant for your arrest while you await your trial.”
The words hung between them, a hangman’s noose swaying in a cold wind.
She squared her shoulders and closed her eyes for a single, broad moment. It stuck with him, those silver eyes. There was something scorching in them he could not name. Something primal, beautiful, and savage. But he did not let his mind linger on it. He had a job to do. One of many tonight. He clenched his jaw.
“Will you come easily, or will it be a fight?” Words he had said so many times, yet tonight they felt flat and dry in his mouth. He knew her answer before she gave it.
Her eyes were bright as she swept her arms out wide, silver magic swirling in front of her. “I will not come with you, officer.”
He responded quickly, putting his hands together in a spell that made his skin crawl. His Power surged within him, dark and violent. He separated his palms, and a black ball of potent energy fizzed and crackled madly, demanding permission to devour. His nostrils flared, fighting to control the movements with his mind. He met Beatrice eye to eye. Something deep inside him wanted to plead with her. Wanted her to stop this.
“Don’t make me do this,” he said through gritted teeth.
Her magic swirled powerfully in front of her. As she gazed at him, her face softened for half a moment and then became stone. “I will not be a prisoner,” she hissed. “I will not be a victim like those before me. I will not let anyone harm my children.” The silver haze pulsed, and all at once, it changed, turning a violent shade of red.
This was a battle of skill. Of Power. Of wit. The officer had fought this battle many times before, but this woman was something else entirely. The force of her Power shook the floorboards. He could feel the rage of it vibrating in his bones. The most powerful sorceress for five dimensions in any direction was commanding a change in the very matter around them. He knew there was only one way around it. And it was the black ball in his hands. He had prepared for this. He knew what to do.
“So be it,” the officer said, feeling a movement behind him.
“No!” A side door slammed open, and an old woman swept out, her face a mask of anger and fear.
At the same time, someone behind the officer cried out, “Stop!”
The officer was out of time. With all the force of his Power behind him, he hurled the death spell towards the pregnant sorceress. It soared straight through the red haze of her magic, and hit her in the chest. She staggered backwards. Her eyes widened, her mouth opening in a small gasp. She clutched her chest with a white fist and teetered on the spot. The older woman reached her, breaking her fall as she toppled onto the wooden floorboards.
“My child!” the older woman screeched, clutching her daughter. “What have you done?”
A large hand snatched at the officer’s arm. “What are you doing?” exclaimed a familiar voice.
The officer tucked a silver vial into his jacket pocket as he whirled around in surprise. “What are you doing here, JJ?”
“Stopping you!” the taller man cried. “I—I knew you were up to something—” his voice faltered.
“You shouldn’t be here,” said the officer flatly, shaking off his grip.
But the voice of the older woman slammed into them, making them turn back to the two women on the floor. One lifeless and white, the other shaking with rage. Her weathered face wet with tears, she lifted a shaking finger enveloped in smoking silvery magic. And when she spoke, her voice boomed, her Power making the matter in the room tremble.
“May woe follow your footsteps,” she rasped. “May you know my pain as your own. May you be powerless to protect your lineage from slaughter.”
The officer felt something twist within him, like a snake coiling around his bones, but he ignored it. The room sighed when the old lady dropped her hand. The officer turned back around dismissively, his eyes dull. “Go back to head office, JJ.” He roughly pushed past the taller man and hurried out of the sitting room and down the marble steps.
The taller man stood frozen, whi
As the officer ran out of the manor into the night, he remembered the woman’s face in the seconds before he killed her. He couldn’t put a name to it, but the primal look in her eyes would haunt his soul for the rest of his days. He did not know it then, but he would see that look in another’s eyes before his time was done.
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Back in Malhaven Manor, the old woman laid her hand to rest upon her daughter’s cheek. Somewhere in the manor, a sweet chiming rang. She let out a short, humourless laugh.
“It’s too late for you to leave, Captain,” she croaked to the man. “He’s here.”
1
Henry
There are a number of ways to hide a memory, should one ever wish to attempt such a dangerous thing.
Memories can be hidden in boxes. Many a lacquered wooden box have been stowed away in the far reaches of old cluttered wardrobes for just this reason.
Memories hidden in water ebb and flow with the tides of time. They can remain intact but move as they please and can be difficult to find, such that even their owners can have trouble retrieving them.
And then there are the memories that are etched into bone. This is the most secret and reliable way to hide a memory. For even if a mind and body are shattered or lost to disaster, bone remembers and bone knows. Bone etchings are immortal.
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If Henry Jolt knew of the secret memory his grandfather kept hidden in the wardrobe of his room at the rickety Breakfast Creek nursing home, everything would have turned out differently. He would probably, in fact, be dead.
Luckily, as it stood on that Wednesday afternoon, on the cusp of an Australian summer, Henry had no idea about this secret—and neither did anyone else.
Eight members of the Jolt family gathered together that day, and unbeknownst to them, a match was about to be struck. And the spark that resulted would set off a chain of reactions that would put them all in very grave danger.
It was a Jolt birthday party, and Henry, along with his aunts and cousins, had gathered to celebrate Cousin Caleb’s birthday at the nursing home where he had been living for the past year. A warm breeze floated in from the open window, bringing with it the nutty sweet smell of eucalyptus and the humid promise of rain.
Henry perched on a plastic chair in a corner with his father and younger brother Arnold, watching as Caleb’s mother unboxed a large vanilla cake decorated with creamy blue swirls. The elderly residents seated about the room oohed appreciatively, leaning forward in their plastic party chairs, reserved for just such an occasion.
Caleb’s mother fussed behind a table laden with all obligatory sausage rolls and lamingtons while family members pottered about, talking in low voices. They ate mini frankfurters and scones with jam and cream, casting awkward glances towards the motionless birthday boy.
Caleb sat at the corner of all things on a motorised mobility device, lovingly draped with gold tinsel. He had been positioned facing the window, away from the table full of party food that he could not eat. He had been handsome once with mischievous grey eyes and artfully tousled black hair. But now, he had the look of a young man who wanted to be swallowed by the earth. The darkness beneath his eyes were shadows that spoke of heavy memory, his sallow skin a reminder of the absence of any light within him.
He was far too young to be housed in a nursing home, but here he was, and nobody spoke about it. Today he turned nineteen.
Arnold, who was twelve, offered Henry a chicken nugget in the blue metal claw that made up his right hand. Henry ruffled his brother’s dark hair, picked the nugget from his claw, and threw it into his mouth, surveying the room.
Amongst the scattering of the elderly residents, everyone from the Jolt side of the family, except for Uncle Jakobe, was present. His grandad had three children. Henry’s dad, Danilo, Doctor Aunty Anthea, and moody Uncle Jakobe. The last was never spoken about, though, as he had been estranged from the family since Caleb was a boy.
“Where’s Grandad?” asked Henry to his father. “Everyone else is here.”
“You know how he is,” Danilo Jolt murmured, taking a swig of his low-carb beer. “Locked up in his room, I expect.”
“Let him stay there, dear,” croaked the elegant old lady with a purple scarf from next to them, lamington half way to her mouth, “He’ll ruin the party.”
The dark old man seated next to her nodded solemnly in agreement. “It’s for the best, son.”
Henry gave them a smile that was closer to a grimace while his father blinked dully around the room.
“How’d you get all the coconut off that lamington, Clementine?” asked Arnold suddenly. He was staring at the old lady. Henry raised his brows as he saw that her lamington did indeed have all the shredded coconut neatly removed.
“Meticulous study and expert precision,” Clementine winked at both boys and happily bit into her lamington.
“I’ll just go check on grandad,” Henry said, hastily getting off his plastic chair. “See if he’s wants any party pies. They’re his favourite.”
His father and Arnold nodded absentmindedly, and Henry left the recreation room.
The truth of it was that no one really liked Henry’s grandad, Deagon Jolt, who had become the glum recluse of the nursing home. Henry thought of him as the male version of Helga Pataki from the cartoon Hey Arnold that he’d watched to annoy his brother after school. Only Grandad didn’t keep a shrine in his closet, as far as Henry knew.
Henry walked down the carpeted hallway towards the residents’ quarters and found that the door to his grandad’s room was open.
“Grandad?” Henry stepped cautiously into the tiny room, wondering what mood the old man was in today. The shutters, as usual, were drawn tightly shut, and an old lamp on the bedside table cast a heavy yellow light around the room. Deagon Jolt was placing a black box into his wardrobe, one hand tightly gripping a wooden walking stick.
“Ah Henry,” he grumbled, glancing up. “Never get between an old man and his secret box.”
Henry let out a short laugh as he watched his grandfather close the wardrobe and hobble over to his orthopaedic bed, sitting down with a long, pained groan.
“Are you coming to the party, Grandad?” Henry asked, toeing the faded red carpet.
Deagon gave him a very unimpressed look. “Absolutely not!”
Henry didn’t know what to say to that. But his grandfather’s eyes went bright with a sudden thought.
“Did Jeffery Beaufort come?”
Deagon’s old, very dementia-ridden friend had not, in fact, come to the party as he was probably busy waving his cane and yelling at passers-by from his front porch, but Henry was saved from telling his grandad this because someone rushed up from behind him and interjected.
“I found them, Mr Jolt! Oh, sorry.”
It was a round-faced Indian girl dressed in a loose, black poncho, a large sticker with the word ‘Volunteer’ plastered across her chest. She waved a pair of worn tartan slippers in the air and had stopped short when she saw Henry. He recognised her from school, she was in the year above him.
