Bloodstone: Written in Stone

by R. J. Ladon

  Kragnor touched the surface, allowing his mind to open, to listen. He pushed the quiet voices aside and focused on the loud, nearly singular voice.

  The machine showed images of the holes it dug and filled. It shared the sounds of humans discussing cars and trucks and massive equipment that moved rocks and soil. Kragnor was impressed by the pictures and words in his mind. Humans have progressed. Two ideas stuck in his thoughts, a flat spinning masonry blade that could cut rock. And a strange substance called dynamite that was placed in the drilled holes, and then the rock exploded, flinging boulders and pebbles everywhere.

  These machines and tools were weapons against his kind. In the past, if a human wanted to kill an akitu, they had to wait for slumber and drop them from a height tall enough to shatter granite. The density of an akitu body often didn’t allow the body to crumble, only crack, and healing happened with time. Kragnor’s body had scar lines from such cracks. Not from attempts on his life but the stupidity of youth. Wrestling and feats of strength were games all akitu partook in.

  He removed his hand and his mind from the metal. A smaller machine sat next to the grand device. It had the masonry blade attached to its arm. Kragnor moved closer, fascinated, poking the flat surface with his claw. It didn’t seem any more dangerous than a sword or ax. Curious, he spun the blade as he witnessed in the metal’s memory, then touched the narrow edge with his fingertip, and it bit into his flesh. A burning sensation started at Kragnor’s finger and screamed up his arm. He was familiar with pain, but this tool sent fear into his heart. It could kill him.

  A vehicle approached, exposing Kragnor in the beam of its lamps. A head appeared, and a bright flash of white covered his body. Instinctively he lifted his wings to protect his eyes.

  “Holy shit! Did you see that? Turn around.” The car screeched to a halt and reversed.

  Kragnor opened his wings and kicked into the air. Within a few beats, he flew above the car, houses, and trees. He inhaled and found the direction of the house that matched the smell of the torn fabric. His wings stretched, encompassing the air and pushing down, Kragnor gained lift.

  The spires of a church caught Kragnor’s eye. He flew closer, landing on the bell tower. The shingles slipped and crumbled under his weight. Kragnor dropped his hand to anchor to the roof. But he punctured through, tearing off the outer layer. He pushed off, not wanting to cause more damage to the building. The tower groaned. Kragnor plummeted to the ground, then opened his wings, stretching them taut, turning the fall into lift.

  Kragnor circled the church, recognizing the cross symbol. It brought back feelings of fear and apprehension. A memory bubbled to the surface, and just as quickly, it was gone.

  On one side of the church was a balcony that appeared to be stone. He landed. The structure took his weight, but it was not the stone he expected. It was like the road, stone but not stone.

  The grounds below the balcony contained a cemetery but no gardens, no statuary, or brethren. Kragnor jumped to the grass, his wings folded behind him, like a cape. There wasn’t a fence or gate around the cemetery, allowing him to walk among the gleaming headstones. To Kragnor, they were jewels.

  These stones laid directly on the earth, level with the soil. They were thin and long. Nothing like the headstones Kragnor remembered, tall, elegant, and beautiful. Still, it was apparent that they were stone.

  He placed his hand on a stone and felt it awaken. “Greetings, my child.”

  The stone expressed confusion, followed by the wonder of ignorance.

  “Hush now, child. I need you to tell me what you have experienced.”

  Following Kragnor’s guidance, the stone shared images of sad human faces staring down at it. Flowers came and went. Grass grew. A chisel and hammer scratched and cut its face. A whirling saw blade cut the slab free from its birthplace. And the blackness and the gentle hum of mother earth. The stone expressed happiness to tell its story.

  “Thank you, child, now sleep,” Kragnor told it. He pulled his hand away and read the date inscribed on the stone. 1912-2010. The years startled him, drawing old memories of Paris to the surface. The last date he remembered was 1298. Kragnor checked more headstones, discovering the most current year was 2025.

  More than seven hundred years.

  He moved around the cemetery looking for weathered stones, knowing they would have seen more. He found a statue. He smiled, but the figure didn’t respond. He touched it, but it was silent. The statue was another object made from particles of stone, sand, and slurry. Kragnor snorted, shaking his head. What happened? Where are the brethren?

  Kragnor listened to the lives of many more stones before he determined the cemetery to be too young to provide useful information. The sun made the eastern horizon glow. Birds began their morning chorus.

  Feeling uncertain and overwhelmed by the time that passed, Kragnor wanted to be back at the house. He didn’t know if the world was safe for an akitu. Kragnor leaped into the air, caught the wind, and flew to the house from the night before.

  Knowing that the house was weak, he landed gently, then entered the broken window. Kragnor crawled across the floor and up the stairs into the attic. He curled up into the nest of familiar objects and smells, pulling them close, enjoying their weight.

  Kragnor’s mind turned and twisted. How could he figure out what happened? Where could he go? A different church or cemetery, an older one. Perhaps a bigger city.

  His mind was filled with stone statues, mausoleums, and headstones. Feeling at peace, Kragnor slept.

  Chapter 24

  K evin opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times. “The attic?” He shoved the objects off his body. Somewhere in the mess, a bell chimed. He sat up, feeling something odd on his head. He reached up and pulled a long strand of cobweb out of his hair. Rolling the web into a ball, Kevin noticed a thin cut on his fingertip, not much more than a paper cut. Wouldn’t be the first time he cut his finger and forgot the details.

  He stood, letting loose the old quilt that covered him. “Naked? Again?” He sighed heavily and walked to his bedroom.

  Kevin racked his brain but couldn't figure out how he got home. The last thing he remembered was trying to find Tony’s house. He looked for his phone but couldn’t find it. It was in his pants from last night. But his clothes were nowhere to be seen. The clock radio read 7:00. He got dressed and left the house through the back door without waking Ruby.

  Kevin ran to Annie’s house then retraced his steps, jogging. A woman and a dog ran on the other side of the road. He remembered the earth moving equipment but little else. He slowed and scanned the ground, looking for his phone. A pile of cloth sat near the corner. The pattern on the fabric looked like the sweatshirt he wore yesterday. Kevin swallowed hard as icy fingers crept up his spine. He kicked at the pile with his foot, moving the clothing aside. Jeans and shoes were underneath, everything was shredded, everything was his. Was that blood?

  He grabbed the clothing, afraid that someone else might find them, and walked home. Kevin squeezed the pockets and found his phone undamaged. Where the sweatshirt and jeans were torn, the edges were bloody. What could do that kind of damage? He rolled his shoulders but felt no stiffness or pain. What if the blood came from someone else?

  His thoughts flickered to the newest movie. Werewolf? The films always show a horrendous transformation, pain, blood, and gore. Each time the human turns to a beast, the beast is hungry and kills. Kevin’s stomach flipped. He ran the rest of the way home. He checked his torn jeans' pockets for any loose change or keys and tossed the destroyed clothing in the garbage can before entering the back door.

  Ruby was drinking coffee at the kitchen table. “Where were you?”

  “Went for a jog.” Kevin wiped his brow.

  “In jeans?” Ruby looked at him sideways. “You must not have gone far. You’re not even out of breath.”

  Kevin laughed at the oddness of the situation and what he wasn’t telling her. Instead, he said, “It was too cold for sho
rts.” He opened the refrigerator and poured a cup of milk. “Ruby, what do you know about werewolves?”

  “I saw the latest movie, and it was awful.”

  “That isn’t what I mean.” He gulped a mouthful of milk and sat at the table. “I mean, like Buddy. Do you know anything about werewolves, like you do gnomes?”

  Ruby looked at Kevin, really looked. “Is there something wrong, Kevin? Are you okay?”

  Kevin drank more, his leg bounced. “I don’t know.” He looked at his hand, holding the glass. “I think I broke my bedroom window. But I don’t remember.” His leg bounced faster.

  “Look at me.” Ruby gripped his forearm.

  He looked up, catching Ruby’s eyes. They twinkled with amusement. “A broken window doesn’t mean you’re a werewolf.”

  Kevin opened his mouth to mention the torn bloody clothing. The scratches in the attic stairway and waking up naked every morning. But he changed his mind. No sense in worrying her until he knew for certain. “I know, I know.”

  “You can check the internet or the library. I don’t know very much about movie creatures.”

  “How about your books?”

  “My books are religious, not mythology,” Ruby said, looking offended.

  “I’m sorry.” He looked down at his glass. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d like to go to the library.”

  “Sure. Would you like to use the car?”

  “No, that’s fine, I don’t mind walking. I need to think.” Kevin finished his milk and set the glass in the sink. He opened the back door to leave.

  “Don’t you want some breakfast?”

  “Nah, I’m not hungry.” Kevin left and walked toward the library.

  He walked a few blocks before he noticed the flashing lights of police cars. A wave of panic washed over him. Did they find a half-eaten body? He broke into a jog and stopped in front of St. Stephen’s Catholic Church. The police were talking to Father Patrick McCobbe, a bald man in his late fifties.

  The cops closed their notebooks, entered their car, and drove away. Kevin approached the priest. “Good Morning, Father.”

  “Hello, Kevin. I haven’t seen you at mass for a couple of weeks.”

  “I’ve been helping my grandmother.”

  “Oh, yes, your mother mentioned that.” Father Patrick watched the police cars disappear. “Come.” He turned and walked to the church. “See there?” He pointed to the belfry. “Vandalism?”

  Kevin squinted. The roof of the belfry was torn and cut, as if a sword-wielding knight attacked it. The brickwork also seemed damaged. Kevin moved his head side to side. “How could someone get up there to do that kind of damage?”

  “I don’t know.” Father shrugged. “There are no stairs to the top of the belfry. That was part of the plan. We wanted to avoid accidents or misplaced ideas.” He rubbed his bald head.

  “I’ve seen a tree fall on a roof and do damage like that,” Kevin suggested.

  The priest shook his head. “I don’t have any trees close enough or tall enough.” Father Patrick pointed to the old trees in the cemetery at the back of the property. The young trees near the sidewalk were barely fifteen feet tall. “What I’m thinking is, the contractor I hired to roof the church did a shoddy job.” He picked up a section of wooden sheathing with shingles attached to it. “But why didn’t I notice that damage before this morning?” He handed the evidence to Kevin.

  The break in the wood was bright yellow-white, not the gray of aged wood. Two parallel marks were on the shingles' surface, and they looked very similar to the cuts in the attic stairway. Kevin put his finger into the slice. It seemed just as thick too. “A bear attack?” Kevin suggested, then laughed.

  “I thought the same. It looks like something attacked the roof. Which only begs the question—why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, what did the roof do to the bear?” Father Patrick slapped Kevin on the back and erupted in laughter.

  Kevin rolled his eyes. “I know that’s a crazy thought. But it does look like claw marks.” He handed the partition of the roof back to the priest.

  Father Patrick took the section. “I have to call my insurance. I’ll check to see if they cover bear attacks and let you know.” He chuckled and walked to the church entrance. The building had a broad set of stairs that cascaded from the double front door, getting wider at the bottom.

  “One thing is for sure,” Kevin mumbled under his breath, “a werewolf can’t fly to do damage like that.” He turned to resume his stroll to the library and noticed the ugly tan AKG car.

  “Hey, Kevin.” Johnny waved Kevin over to his car.

  “Now, that is suspicious. For once, the agency knew what they were talking about when they sent me here. However, I was expecting a young female to be involved.” Johnny pointed to the roof. “Fascinating.” He looked at Kevin as if waiting for the admittance of guilt. “There was an incident on the road near Knoll and Bluff. Someone called 911 and claimed to have seen a demon. He even had a picture. But, of course, it was blurry.”

  Bluff and Knoll? The clothing. Kevin swallowed hard, then composed himself. “Father Patrick and I concluded that a bear got mad at the roof and attacked it. What we don’t know; is why.” Kevin smirked at the absurdity of the earlier conversation.

  “Or,” Johnny suggested, “How he paid the eagle to fly him up there.”

  “Yea, that too. Maybe he was offered a salmon?” Kevin laughed but abruptly stopped when Johnny didn’t join in. “You aren’t serious?”

  “About the eagle and bear? No.” Johnny grabbed Kevin’s shoulder. “If you hear or see anything, please tell me. And I mean anything.” He let Kevin go. “There could be something in it for you.” Johnny jumped into his car and drove into the church parking lot.

  “Oh, gosh, I could get rewarded for turning myself in. I don’t think so.” Kevin continued to the library, convinced that somehow, he damaged the roof and was photographed.

  Chapter 25

  M egan walked out of her bathroom. Her freshly washed hair dampened her shirt. She smelled bacon and headed to the kitchen, mouth watering.

  “Morning Dad.”

  Artem chewed on a strip of bacon as he cooked on the stove. “Eggs are almost done.”

  She sat at the breakfast nook and heaped food onto her plate, hash browns, bacon, French toast, and orange slices. “This looks delicious.”

  Artem placed two sunny side up eggs on Megan’s plate and then his own. “Nikolai and I had a long talk last night.”

  Megan groaned.

  “Why did you hide this from me?”

  “I know you hate it when I have friends. That’s what I was hiding. The attack on Bonnie was unexpected. I’m still not sure I fully understand why it happened.”

  “You’re right, I’m not happy. Friends are trouble. As to why your friend was attacked, she found something she was not supposed to find.” Artem shrugged and placed a large piece of French toast in his mouth.

  Megan nodded. “Yes, but what could possibly elicit such a response?”

  He pointed at her with his fork and shrugged. “We can only guess. You both might still be in danger. For now, we want you to behave normally, go to school, and do your best to avoid this, Annie.” Artem waved his fork around. “Nikolai has his best people digging further, and a few extra to watch your back.”

  Megan fought the urge to roll her eyes. Her father found a way to babysit her. He wouldn’t allow her to visit Bonnie to tell her she was in danger. “Did you find anything on the cuneiform written on the stone?”

  Artem patted his shirt pocket. “No. Every language I tried came up with nonsense.”

  “Could the stone be a hoax?’

  “I double-checked; the pattern appears to be the same as the other stones. If it’s a hoax, it’s quite elaborate.” He tapped his fork on the plate. “I’m not sure who would benefit.”

  “Can I use the computer to try some more languages?”

  “I think we have used all the
languages in the world, including the dead ones. But why not?” Artem placed a hand on Megan’s arm, preventing her from leaving the table with her plate. “After breakfast.”

  Megan snickered, stuffing bacon in her mouth. She hoped to contact Bonnie through the computer and some social media sites but had her doubts. Her dad’s computer only allowed searching of the records and data inside the museum. Maybe she could figure her way through the server and onto the internet, but she was no hacker. Megan finished breakfast, cleaned off her plate, and set it in the dishwasher.

  The doorbell rang.

  Megan ran to answer. She expected a book delivery and hoped this was it. But it was the man from the tan car, Nikolai’s gym, and the hospital.

  The man looked at her, nodded, and said, “Hello, Megan, I’d like to speak to Artem.”

  Megan shifted uncomfortably. He knew her father’s name. Nikolai never shared names. “He’s not here.”

  The man removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. He placed his hands on his hips, exposing the gun on his side. “I know Artem is home.” He paused for a second. “Well?”

  Megan swallowed hard. “Dad!” She knew there was a tone of fear in her voice. She hoped it would warn him.

  Artem hurried down the hall; upon seeing the man, he slowed. “What do you want?”

  “We have given you and your daughter asylum, and in return, we expect cooperation.” The man removed his hands from his hip, holding his hands open before him.

  Artem looked to Megan, “Go.”

  Megan looked to the man at the door then to her father. She went into the kitchen, then snuck into the living room, which was adjacent to the front hall and doorway. She listened and waited.

  “I’m Johnny Conner.” The man said.

  “I repeat, what do you want?” Artem’s voice was cool and collected.

  “Your computer and your house are bugged,” Johnny said.

  “I know.” Artem offered nothing. This was his way. He was required to assist the United States government, but he wanted them to work for it.