Bloodstone: Written in Stone

by R. J. Ladon

  “It’s a big spell.” She took the candles and shooed him away.

  Kevin ran up the stairs, opened the curtains, and lifted the window. He pulled the short, stubby candles from the box, taking his time, asking each one if it was a north candle. As ridiculous as he felt asking them, he was shocked when the light blue candle volunteered. The yellow wanted to be south, green east, and pink west. Kevin laughed as he placed each candle, wondering if he was as nutty as Ruby.

  He placed the bowl with water on the floor next to the stone from his pocket. Kevin took off all his clothes, feeling foolish, and poured a circle of salt. He sat back on his heels, waiting for the grandfather clock to chime nine. The open window allowed a cool breeze to caress his skin.

  As the chimes rang through the house, Kevin lit the candles. When the clock became quiet, he stood, with the bowl in one hand and stone in the other, held out from his body like the arms of a scale.

  Kevin called out the spell Ruby picked out for him:

  “With the strength of water,

  With the endless sky,

  With the eternity of earth,

  With the intensity of fire,

  Bring forth the power of protection.”

  The stone and water grew warm. Kevin smiled, pleased that something obvious happened. That pleasure turned to worry as the water steamed. That must be perfectly normal. He squatted and gently placed the bowl on the floor.

  Only by removing the water did Kevin notice the heat and weight of the stone. “What’s happening?” He tried to drop it, but it held fast to his flesh, melting into his palm, disappearing. “No, no, no!” He gripped his wrist as if he could stop it, staring fearfully. The heat felt pleasant as it traveled to his extremities. Kevin relaxed, feeling euphoric.

  The warmth reversed course and pulled itself together near Kevin’s heart. It felt heavy sitting there. The pleasant warmth that enveloped his body grew stronger, building into burning heat. Kevin leaned forward, holding his chest. He tried to scream, but only a moan escaped his lips.

  His eyes watered.

  Air would not come.

  Panic attacked his brain. Run, it told him. He stood. A cord of pain ripped down his spine. He fell. Blackness covered his sight, and his mind became silent.

  Chapter 18

  K ragnor stood, slowly opening his eyes. He reached long and far with each limb. He stretched his wings, feeling his tendons scream with tension. “Focus,” he grunted to himself. He closed his eyes and continued reaching without the distraction of the strange objects surrounding him. Mentally he felt the extents of his body, fingers, toes, tail, and wingtips. He stopped his mental cataloging. Something was wrong, different.

  Kragnor focused on the room and objects closest to him. On the floor were four burning candles and a circle of salt. Some things never change. He extinguished the candles. Too much wood and cloth to leave them unattended. Not that flame would hurt him. No, but other things live in buildings, humans, mice, bats, and insects.

  His eyes adjusted to the starlight entering the open window. Spread around the room were human trappings, furniture, clothing, blankets, and art on the walls. The artwork was strange and flat. It wasn’t made of canvas, paint, and wooden frames; instead, paper and ink were used. Whatever it was, it was starkly different, shiny, and smooth. The smell was wrong. Kragnor sniffed again. No, this place smells and feels wrong. He trembled with misgiving. This is not where I slept last.

  Muffled rumbles filled his head. Thunderstorms? No, it doesn’t sound right, more like the drone of a beehive. Warmth stirred around his legs, and the strange smell intensified. He snorted with distaste.

  The window. He preferred nature to human-made things. Kragnor pulled his wings tight against his sides and back, passing through the narrow pane and onto the roof. Kragnor backed away from the edge, the streetlight, and detection from prying eyes.

  The night air was cool, but here the odd smell was more potent. The air was dirty, like a busy city. Oil and metal ambrosia hung heavy, and the wind didn’t lessen the scent. The insistent rumble continued. He stood on the peak of the roof, rising as tall as his body would allow. In the distance, the white and yellow lights of cars and trucks moved, slithering north. Red lights shifted south. Could this be a fire serpent? Perhaps two, intertwined? The animal didn’t appear natural. It followed the same course and made noises Kragnor never heard before.

  How much did he not know?

  The wooden structure he stood on was small, almost delicate, and the nearest building was set apart, with open space, an old oak tree, shrubs, and grass. There were no tall or bulky structures, nothing to imply city. Still, the greasy odor clung to Kragnor’s nostrils, indicating otherwise.

  The lights from the neighboring building didn’t flicker the way oil lamps or candles did. Yet it seemed as if light filled the entire building. The streetlamps didn’t waver either.

  A young male and female, dressed for chilly weather, walked down the sidewalk arm in arm. They looked at the lower level of the house he stood on. Their faces expressed surprise, followed by wonder. A small thud from behind made Kragnor turn. A lithe shadow dropped from the oak tree. It ran to a nearby house and climbed through a window, a young human female.

  Kragnor looked to the sky. These stars are different, not unfamiliar; no, the viewing angle was different. The last time he saw them, they were bright and beautiful, and the Milkyway splashed across the abyss. Kragnor blinked and grunted. The stars were dull like a thin black cloth covered his eyes. The difference in brightness unnerved him. What happened to make the sky lighter? Did the planet move away from the stars? The idea seemed unlikely, even impossible.

  Three bright blinking stars moved in conjunction with each other. Their movement was against the rotation of the constellations. They were slower than a shooting star, yet more brilliant, rumbling Kragnor’s chest as they approached and passed. Could it be a dragon? With riders who carry lights? Kragnor felt like that was a ridiculous idea, but it was one he could understand.

  Another grumbling sound approached, low and close to the ground, on what appeared to be a road. Two bright lights grew with the sound. The shine was the right height for a horse and carriage, but no horse pulled that fast or made that sound. No light could be that bright. There was no smell of horses. He watched the horseless carriage race past, growling, and vibrating as it went. Red lights chased it.

  The constant rumbling he heard before and the smell of oil and steel made sense. How long did he sleep? He looked to the stars, imploring them.

  He tried to remember the last human city he saw. Paris, yes, that was its name. He scratched his head. What human year was that? He grunted. A small earthy chuckle escaped his lips. What human year was it now? Often, after sleeping for a year or more, it took days to remember the little things. He needed seclusion from all these new and strange objects if he were to focus and remember.

  He needed his home in Ninab, where he could meditate. Where the sounds of mother earth vibrated and where his torans lived. Toran were portals that would take him almost anywhere on the planet. Anywhere, and yet he felt this land was new. His lips pulled back from his teeth, showing a feral grin. He was both afraid and excited.

  Kragnor descended from the roof slowly. The materials that made up the house were soft, like wood and tar. Carefully he moved back into the room, hoping to find the human who resided there and to receive answers. Humans always had answers. They were not always correct. Still, he could learn something, even if it was opinion.

  After slipping through, he pushed the window down. It moved fast and struck the casing. The glass shattered, and many pieces fell from the frame. Kragnor picked up a shard. He rubbed his finger along the edge. Feeling alone and confused, he pulverized the glass in his fist.

  Kragnor closed the curtain. The rod fell off its brackets and lay at an odd angle. He snorted, turning away from the window. Why was everything so fragile?

  Even though he didn’t require heat during the winte
r months, Kragnor noticed a temperature difference between the room and outside. Yet, there was no fireplace. Magic?

  The bed was small, with wooden posts at each corner. Someone important must live here, as beds are expensive. But only a single someone as the bed was too small to hold more than two.

  High on a shelf, as if in a display, were a few books. Kragnor hooked one with his clawed finger and pulled it from its companions. On the leather spine and cover of the book was written, “Lord of the Rings,” in beautiful cursive. English, he grunted to himself. French was spoken in Paris. Could I have moved from France to England while I slept?

  He turned the idea in his mind. France and England are not so far apart that it would be impossible. But with horses and wagons, and then boats, it would take almost a month for humans to do so. He had not slept for more than a day in centuries, especially with the… Kragnor huffed in frustration. His memory flitted away like a moth in the night.

  He carefully opened the book and read the text. It was indeed English, but the language had changed significantly. Human language evolved from year to year, new words added, and old words removed from the vernacular. Some texts didn’t change at all. Religious scriptures often took time to change, if they changed at all.

  Was this text religious? He read more, his mind adjusting to the changes in language. Kragnor decided the book was a legend. It lacked the notations and verses of scriptures. His brow knitted. The changes from the English he knew to this English indicated centuries had passed.

  Centuries. That explained why his memories were unformed.

  Kragnor slid the book back with its brothers. Stone bookends held them in place. The brown and white streaked alabaster seemed to mock him, sitting high on the shelf, silently witnessing. “How did I fail to see you?” he whispered. Kragnor took the stone and cradled it. His finger caressed the smooth glassy surface. “Salutations, young one,” he said softly, more with his mind, than his voice. The stone didn’t respond. It should communicate, but it did not.

  Kragnor focused, pressing the palm of his hand to the alabaster surface. Images of the room fluttered in his mind. He saw himself and then a young man. He refocused, playing the picture back, but the stone’s memory jerked through time. One second the boy was there, then he was, then both gone. Kragnor went deeper into the memories, noticing the same breaks of time throughout. He discontinued the link with the stone and turned it in his hands. Under the glassy surface was a crack that spider-webbed through the entire bookend. He glanced at its twin; it too was broken in a mirrored fashion. Kragnor frowned and huffed his dissatisfaction. The imperfection was probably a beauty mark and selling point to the human who found it. But to him, the splintering break was a hindrance. The stone couldn’t share its memories or communicate properly. He set it back on the shelf.

  Three identically stained oak doors led out of the room. Kragnor selected one and opened it. Sweet odors rolled down a set of stairs. Wood, dust, mice, bats, paper, and old fabrics tossed their smells into the air, enticing Kragnor to join them. Cedar and oak, old, familiar friends. As he climbed the creaking stairs, the treads bowed under his weight. His claws clicked and scratched the surface. He gripped the walls to help relieve the burden on the stairs.

  Kragnor’s eyes adjusted, allowing him to see in pitch dark. Objects, both strange and familiar, covered the room. It was the smell that comforted him, bringing forth memories, long hidden. He smiled, feeling content.

  Here he could meditate.

  Here he could remember.

  He opened a cedar chest, allowing the scent to wash over him. The fabrics inside the chest were old. Under his rigid and unyielding fingers, the clothing tore. Carefully he pulled the items free of their companions and lifted them to his face, breathing in deeply. He pulled the rest out of the chest and laid them on the floor in a rough circle, a nest. Kragnor lay on top and among the fabric. He pulled the open chest closer, tipping it on its side, placing his head inside, breathing in the aromatics.

  He closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember what event led to his emergence here. What was the last thing to happen? He focused on what he last remembered. A cathedral. Oil lamps. Candles. Open-air. Night sky. Stained glass. Metal bars. An urgent summons. A friend. A trick. A trap. Broken trust. Boniface. Francois. Death. Hiding. Courage. Fear. Prison. Escape. Images and thoughts flashed in his mind, but they were unformed.

  Broken thoughts and broken memories, like the bookends.

  Chapter 19

  K evin threw an arm wide and stretched. Clunk. Panic filled his mind. He was in a box. A coffin? He looked down at his body. No, only his head was in a wooden chest. He felt the scurry of little feet running across his body. Four small grey shapes ran into a corner.

  He pulled his head out of the chest and sat up. Cardboard boxes were askew, not the organized rows of the day before as if a small tornado had gone through. Kevin blinked, trying to think. I cast a spell for Ruby, and then I was going to see Annie.

  Annie!

  Kevin stood. When the blankets, fabrics, and clothing fell to the floor, a cool breeze brushed across his skin. He was naked. “Oh, come on. What the hell?” He went to the stairs and noticed fresh scratches on the walls and treads. He reached out, touching the sharp gouge in the stair. His index finger fit into the gaping wound. “Why do I feel like this is a practical joke?”

  The broken window and toppled curtain were evident as the cool air touched his skin. The circle of salt was scattered and kicked around. The candles were snuffed and left on his desk. His closed laptop was not where he left it. “I don’t remember putting those there. Who else was in my room last night?”

  He dressed, found his phone, and stared at the time. Collecting his book bag, Kevin ran down the stairs and found Ruby on the couch. She was sleeping, her naked arm and shoulder hung out of the blanket.

  Kevin shook her awake, holding her blanket in place. “Are you alright this morning? I have to rush; I’m late for school.”

  “Are you late now?”

  “Yes”

  “Then, rushing won’t make a difference.” Ruby yawned and stretched, exposing more skin.

  Kevin turned away, not wanting to see naked grandma bits. He rushed to the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets taking a few granola bars. He jogged to school. Kevin’s thoughts turned inward. He was worried about not seeing Annie last night. She’d probably be hanging out with Tony again. Kevin sighed heavily, then readjusted his backpack. As he entered the school grounds, he realized he ran the entire distance and was not breathless.

  He stopped at the office to get a note for his first class.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  The secretaries looked at him with pleasant smiles. “What is going on, Kevin?” Mrs. Renfro asked. Her black hair was in a bun with five or six pencils stuffed to hold it in place.

  “I’m late; I need a pass to go to psychology class.”

  Mrs. Renfro tsked at him, then smiled. “I don’t think you’ve ever been late before, Kevin. Your mother told us you’re helping your grandmother.” Mrs. Renfro smiled at Mrs. Granger. “That’s so sweet. I hope my grandkids are as good as you.” She handed him a slip of paper. “Here you go, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Kevin said, then slipped out the door and trotted to his class. He opened the door, crossed the room, gave Mrs. Anderson the note, and then took his seat.

  From the moment he entered the room, he felt the stare of Tony and his cronies. Whenever the teacher went to the board to write something, Tony would turn and smile at Kevin. A smug smile. The smile of a criminal. Vin and Chad seemed to be in on the joke. They often nudged Tony and snickered.

  Did Tony know what happened last night? Did he cut scratches in the stairs? Or break the window? Kevin stared daggers into the back of Tony’s head.

  Mrs. Anderson gave an assignment, and the bell rang. Kevin rushed to his locker, dropping off his bookbag. He scanned through his phone and tried to contact Annie. She ignored or block
ed him on every social site. “Damn it!” he swore under his breath.

  Kevin stood in the cafeteria line to grab his food. The room was buzzing with kids talking about an attack on a girl named Bonnie. She was severely injured and ended up in the hospital under police protection. Her father killed the attacker, shooting them with a shotgun. Megan was there and either killed a second attacker or saved Bonnie’s life. Speculation flew. Why was Bonnie attacked? Who was shot? Was her father a hero, or did he shoot Bonnie’s boyfriend?

  Across the room, he spotted Annie sitting with Tony. Not just sitting with him but hanging on him and snuggling into his arm and shoulder. Kevin was disgusted. He walked over and said, “We need to talk.”

  Annie spun around.

  Kevin closed his eyes and shook his head; something was wrong. Annie looked different, like a curtain or mist surrounded her. Annie’s facial features were distorted, maybe even ugly. He backed away.

  “Talk?” She laughed. “No. Look after you didn’t make good on your promise to come over at ten, I went to your house. I looked in your front window. There were candles, and I could hear lovemaking. Hell, I could see lovemaking. I don’t know who you were with, but I bet it was that bitch, Megan.” Annie blinked back tears and pouted like someone kicked her puppy.

  To Kevin, her charade looked fake, staged.

  “You can have her. I don’t need you; I have Tony.” Annie brushed Tony’s face with her hand. “But then again, I’ve always had Tony when I wanted him. Haven’t I, babe?”

  Tony smiled devilishly at Kevin and wagged his eyebrows. Tony met Annie’s eyes. “I’m at your service.” He bowed his head.

  Kevin looked closer at Tony; he too looked different, like he was drunk or drugged. “Are you saying you were with him when we were dating?” He felt betrayed, and yet her revelation didn’t bother him. As if, deep down, he knew. Why didn’t he care?