by R. L. King
Before he left the room and headed back out, he crouched next to Desmond’s body and took one last look at it. This time, he pulled his focus in tighter; he wasn’t looking for an aura this time, but for any hints of magic lingering around the body.
He saw nothing.
Stop it, he told himself, getting back up and swiping an angry hand through his hair. He’s died of a heart attack or something. Stop looking for monsters when there aren’t any.
But monsters would have been easier to cope with.
Monsters would have been a fitting end, at least, for a towering figure like Desmond. More fitting than betrayal by his own failing body.
Stone paused in the doorway, wanting to leave but not wanting to, gripped by a rare, overpowering indecision.
Nothing he could do here would be what he wanted. All the options available to him were equally undesirable.
Best to get on with it, then.
He emerged into the dead-end hallway to find it deserted, lit only by dim sconces along both sides. The house was quiet, peaceful, undisturbed. It seemed wrong, somehow, for it to be so normal when its master and driving force lay dead behind its concealing walls. He paused a moment, steeling himself for what he had to do.
At least he wouldn’t have to tell Imogen quite yet.
He found Kerrick in one of the sitting rooms near the main hall, dusting some objets d’art with the half-hearted manner of a man whose mind was far away from his current task. His posture held a tenseness that a quick look at his aura confirmed.
“Kerrick…” Stone said softly, not wanting to startle him.
Kerrick jumped, just a little, and spun. When he spotted Stone, the tightness in his shoulders relaxed a little. “Sir. It’s good to see you. Miss Desmond rang earlier and told me you were coming.”
It sometimes amused Stone when he thought about it, how many father figures he had who weren’t his actual father. Kerrick, who was probably in his middle sixties these days, about the same age as Aubrey, had graying hair now and his tall figure was a little more stooped, but he remained as attentive, alert, and kind as he’d been on the day when he’d helped a nervous fifteen-year-old boy adapt to an unexpected early apprenticeship with the stern and unyielding force of nature that was William Desmond. It probably wasn’t true that Stone wouldn’t have made it through his apprenticeship without Kerrick playing “buffer” between his impatient, too-smart-for-his-own-good teenage self and the traditionalistic, draconian Desmond—but no doubt about it, Kerrick had made his life easier in countless ways during those three years. By the time Stone had successfully proven himself to Desmond and shifted easily from student to valued colleague, Kerrick had become every bit the trusted friend and advisor to Stone himself as he was to Desmond. Stone suspected Desmond had trusted Kerrick more than any other living person—himself and Imogen included.
And now he had to tell him Desmond was dead. “It’s…good to see you too, Kerrick.”
Kerrick was a mundane, but he clearly didn’t have to look past Stone’s expression to catch on that something was wrong. “Have you—had a chance to take a look around, sir?”
He inclined his head.
Kerrick froze. “Sir…?”
“I found him in his office, in the restricted area. It appears to have been...natural causes.”
“Oh, dear Lord…” Kerrick paled and the duster slipped from his hand. He swayed, gripping the edge of a nearby sofa to keep from falling. “Oh, my dear Lord…”
“I’m sorry, Kerrick,” Stone said softly. He hurried over and took Kerrick’s arm, leading him around and helping him to sit on the sofa. “I’m so sorry…”
Kerrick’s gaze came up, glittering with unshed tears and insane hope. “Are—are you sure, sir? Absolutely sure? There wasn’t any chance—”
“No.” The single word was gentle, but certain. “No, Kerrick. His aura was…gone. I’m not sure how long it had been, but my guess is perhaps a few hours.”
“Dear God…” Kerrick moaned again, clasping his hands in his lap. “I thought—surely something must have come up to draw him away—something urgent—”
“I’d hoped so too.” Stone didn’t sit; he didn’t think he could. Right now, he was brimming with nervous, angry, frustrated energy—he wanted to do something, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t fix this. All the magic in the world couldn’t fix this.
Finally, he settled for gently gripping Kerrick’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and hurried out to Desmond’s impressively stocked liquor cabinet, where he returned with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. He poured one and offered it to Kerrick, who was still staring at his hands in his lap, his thin shoulders trembling.
“Thank you.” Kerrick accepted it and took a tentative sip. He swallowed, took another, then set the glass down and pulled himself up straighter. “There are…things that must be done, sir.”
“Yes.” It tore at Stone to see the man visibly getting himself under control because he had to. He was the head of the Caventhorne staff and Desmond’s closest mundane advisor, and Stone knew he took both of those jobs more seriously than anything else in his life. It was down to him to handle the details, and he would do it to the best of his ability, putting emotions aside until he was no longer needed. “Stiff upper lip” might be a British stereotype, but as with many stereotypes, it did have some grounding in reality.
Kerrick drew a deep breath. “You say—you found him in the restricted part of the house?”
“Yes.”
“He—can’t be found there, sir.” He looked uncomfortable, and said it almost as if it might be a revelation to Stone, but Stone was glad to hear him say it. It made this one thing, at least, easier.
“No. He can’t.”
Kerrick contemplated his glass and didn’t look at Stone. “But…none of us can enter that area. I assume the wards are still in effect?”
“Yes.”
“Can you…break them, sir?”
“Given time, yes. But it would take a lot of time, and could be potentially dangerous. I may not need to, though.”
“What’s the alternative? If the rest of us can’t get inside, then you would have to—”
Stone had already been thinking about that. “I could bring him out, yes. But I’m not sure that’s the best idea either.”
“Why not?”
He poured himself a glass of the Scotch and took a sip, pacing. “The police will have to be involved.”
“I’m…afraid so, sir. I don’t see a way around it, unless you were to do something—well—magical.”
Stone shook his head. “I won’t do that, for several reasons.”
“Why not?” he asked again. His expression suggested he didn’t think it was a good idea either, but he was forcing himself to consider all possible alternatives, no matter how distasteful.
“First of all, it’s disrespectful. William Desmond was one of the finest magical minds of this century—and probably the last one too, not to mention someone we all held deep respect for. To have him simply disappear without a trace doesn’t do proper honor to his memory, regardless of the inconvenience it might cause those he’s left behind.”
Kerrick nodded miserably. “All of that is true, sir.”
“Second, it could put you, the rest of the staff, and Imogen at risk. Whenever there’s a suspicious death, the police look first at the family and close associates. Especially…” He trailed off, not even wanting to pursue the thought.
“Especially…?”
He took another sip, a bigger one this time, then indicated the house. “Mr. Desmond was obviously quite wealthy, and naturally Imogen—and almost certainly all of you on the staff—will be beneficiaries of a least some of that wealth. Even if he’s left most of it to his various charitable causes and holdings, the amounts involved will surely be enough to shine s
uspicion upon all of you if Mr. Desmond were to suddenly disappear.” Guilt clawed at him for even mentioning such a materialistic thought in light of the horrible circumstances.
Kerrick looked stricken. “Sir, none of us would ever—”
“Of course you wouldn’t. I know that, and you know that. And naturally the police will quickly come to the conclusion that none of you had any involvement. But there’s no point in raking your names through the muck of publicity if it’s not necessary.”
“No…I suppose not.” He looked down again, staring into the remains of his drink. “But…then what are we to do, sir? We can’t simply leave him—”
Stone sighed. “No, we can’t do that.” He didn’t want to say his next words, because exposing them to the air would make them real, and would mean he’d have to do the last thing he wanted to do right now. But he glanced at Kerrick, at the stiff set in his shoulders and the way he was forcing himself to remain as calm as possible and deal with the situation—
How could Stone do any less? “But what we want isn’t the important thing here, is it? It’s not our decision to make.”
Kerrick closed his eyes. “Of course you’re right, sir.” He made as if to rise. “Shall I—”
“No, Kerrick. I’ll—I’ll do it. I’ll take the portal to London and tell her in person. She deserves that.” Suddenly, even though his body clock was still telling him it was late afternoon, he was exhausted.
CHAPTER SIX
When Stone stepped out of the portal back at the London house, he didn’t leave the room right away. All at once, the enormity of Desmond’s death came crashing down on him like a physical weight. He stumbled the few steps to the wall, put his back against it, and slid down until he was sitting on the cold marble floor.
How did he tell a woman—a woman he still loved, if he were being fully honest with himself—that her father had not only died, but that his body was currently resting in a section of his home that neither she nor anyone else, apart from Stone himself, could enter? The news in and of itself would be shock enough, without forcing her to make decisions that, in a sane world—in her own mundane world—she’d never be called upon to make.
His disjointed thoughts returned once again to the first day he’d met William Desmond, at age fifteen. He remembered how the man had seemed to fill the room with his sheer presence, the kind of presence that dominated every situation he encountered. Physically, Desmond had been tall but not overly so; his voice had been deep, resonant, and commanding, but never loud. He never had to be loud, because people around him unconsciously picked up the message that he was someone worth shutting up and listening to.
Stone had been terrified of him initially, dazzled by his reputation, afraid of stepping out of line and destroying his chances of studying with the finest teacher in Britain. It wasn’t long, though, before that terror grew into healthy respect, admiration, and an overwhelming desire to live up to this man’s exacting and unwavering standards. Even many years later, when Stone’s magical talent had far surpassed those apprentice days, he still found himself standing up a little straighter, conducting himself with a bit more decorum in Desmond’s presence than he did under normal circumstances.
In some ways, the two of them had not been close: Certainly, Desmond was not the kind of man one might go down to the pub with for a few pints, nor was he the type one might share a heart-to-heart talk about one’s deepest secrets with. Every conversation with Desmond, from the most esoteric magic discussion to the most informal of intimate dinner parties, had been fraught with hidden meanings, unspoken assessments, and an ongoing sense of evaluation. He was, in short, the sort of person whom Stone should have found annoying, pretentious, and a perfect target for his trademark brand of sarcastic ego-popping.
Except that every bit of what William Desmond presented had been authentic. The man didn’t have an ounce of conceit, pettiness, or snobbery in him—he simply was what he was, and Stone had quickly spotted this even as a teenager. He’d been the sort of man one had wanted to live up to, and in many ways he had filled a role that Stone’s own often-absent and emotionally distant father had never managed to inhabit. Desmond, in Stone’s triumvirate of surrogate father figures, had occupied the classic traditional paternal role: stern, authoritarian, a little remote, but also unquestioningly proud of what his ersatz son had accomplished.
And now he was dead, and Stone had to break the news to his real child.
This wasn’t something he could put off, or stall. Every moment Desmond remained where he was would make what they’d have to do more difficult.
Stone hauled himself to his feet, stood a moment to make sure he had himself under control—he owed that to Imogen—and left the room.
He found her in one of the little sitting rooms, dozing on a sofa. A cozy lamp burned on the table next to her, and a book lay open in her lap. For a moment he could only stand and look at her, a wave of feeling that was half love, half despair ripping through him with surprising force. Once he woke her up, everything in her life would change. It was the kind of power he would have given anything not to have.
She must have sensed his presence, because her eyes flickered open. When she saw him, a gentle smile drifted over her face for just a moment, but then she quickly swung around and leaped up. “Alastair. What time is it?”
“After two.”
“You’ve come back? You didn’t find him, did you?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he crossed the room to the sofa where she’d been sitting. “Sit down, Imogen, please.”
She didn’t sit. Terror flashed across her eyes and then she was next to him, gripping his hands. “Alastair…? Something’s happened. Tell me. Where’s Dad?”
“Imogen…” He sat down himself, gently pulling until she at last perched next to him.
“Where’s Dad?” she demanded. “You found him, didn’t you? Where is he?”
“He’s…at Caventhorne.”
“Is he all right? Was he injured somewhere?”
He squeezed her hands. There was no easy way to do this, and it wouldn’t be any kinder to her to draw it out. “Imogen…I’m so sorry. He’s…gone.”
Her eyes widened, her hands tightening on his until they were nearly digging into his flesh. “Gone? You mean he’s…dead?” The last word came out in a whisper.
“I’m so sorry, Imogen. I wish I could tell you anything else.”
She swallowed, her face still and deceptively calm. “What…what happened? Where—How—?”
He didn’t flinch at her grip. “I think it was sudden. I found him in one of his offices, in the warded part of the house. I’m not a physician, obviously, but it looked like natural causes. I didn’t find any evidence of hostile magic.” He spoke softly, fighting to keep any hint of shaking from his voice.
“Oh, my God…” She came into his arms then, burying her head in his shoulder, but she didn’t cry. “Dad…”
He stroked her back, silent and steady, until she was ready to speak again. There were things that needed to be done, certainly, but this wasn’t something he would rush.
After a few moments, she tilted her head back to look up at him, eyes glittering. “Does Kerrick know? Has he—called anyone?”
This, in a way, was going to be harder than telling her that her father was dead. “Imogen…please sit down. There are…things we need to discuss. Decisions you need to make. I’m sorry to bring this on you now—it’s horrible, I know, and I’m so sorry…but there’s no helping it.”
She frowned, letting him steer her back over to the sofa. “Decisions…? What decisions?”
He took a breath, gathering his thoughts and his resolve. He might have thought this would be harder to explain to a mundane, but that wasn’t strictly true. Despite his lack of magic, Kerrick had worked closely with Desmond for many years. He might not understand the intricacies of magic and how
it worked, but he’d lived in proximity to it for long enough that he had no trouble comprehending its effects.
Imogen, on the other hand, had actively avoided any contact with the magical side of her father’s life. It had been, after all, the main reason why she and Stone hadn’t married despite all other indications pointing to a long and happy partnership. Because magic passed along gender lines and her mother had been a mundane (something Stone had always thought odd for someone as thoroughly invested in magical culture as Desmond, but he’d never asked), Imogen had not inherited even a shred of her father’s prodigious power. She didn’t resent this fact—she and Stone had discussed it at length over the years—but she had never been able to shake the disappointing (and probably true) notion that her father would have devoted far more time and attention to her had she been a son—or, more specifically, a son with magical talent.
She’d managed to avoid it completely over the first years of her life, since her mother had divorced Desmond when Imogen was very young and Imogen had gone to live with her, raised as a mundane in the same wealthy boarding-school life that Stone himself had been. It was only when her mother had died and Imogen had gone to live with her father again that things had become once more strained.
Still, even despite all that, Stone had no doubt that Imogen adored her father, and he had certainly adored her. He wasn’t adept at showing it, but Stone knew it was true. That was why he’d been so pleased when it appeared she and Stone would get together, and so disappointed when it hadn’t worked out.
What all of that meant now, though, was explaining what needed to be done and why would be by nature both difficult and painful, and once again there was no helping it.
“As I told you,” he said gently, “your father is in his office, in the warded part of the house. But he can’t be found there.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“A lot of reasons. The main one is that nobody can get through the wards, so it’s physically impossible. But even if it weren’t—even if I figure out a way to break the wards to allow the authorities access—I’m quite certain, and Kerrick agrees with me, that your father wouldn’t have wanted anyone…unauthorized…in that part of the house. There are too many potentially dangerous things there. Too many things that could raise uncomfortable questions.”