by R. L. King
The image of Clifford Blakeley came to him suddenly, and he wondered what Desmond had truly thought of the man. Stone had interacted with him a bit more over dinner that evening and found him a pleasant conversationalist with a sly, gentle wit, who clearly held Imogen in high regard. He’d seemed innocuous enough—almost boring, in fact. But perhaps that was what Imogen wanted: someone she could share a quiet, happy, drama-free life with. She certainly couldn’t have gotten that with Stone, and he knew of few people who deserved happiness more than Imogen Desmond.
The brief twinge of jealousy was out of character for him, but that was all it was—a twinge. If she cared for this man, if he loved her and treated her well, then that was all that could, or would, matter to Stone. He’d made his choice, as well as his peace with it, years ago.
He looked down at Desmond’s face again, wishing he’d had at least one more opportunity to talk with his old master before he’d died. Even though he knew it was absurd, he found himself wishing Desmond had left an echo behind, a ghostly form to help provide some answers. But it was unlikely to happen: in the first place, Desmond had almost certainly died of natural causes, and people who did that almost never left echoes. In the second, for whatever inexplicable reason, those with magical talent almost never did either, regardless of their cause of death. It seemed as if it should be the opposite: strong-willed and deeply connected to the supernatural world, those with the Talent should be able to hold on and leave a part of themselves behind if they wished, but Stone had never heard any stories of practitioners’ echoes remaining to communicate with those they’d left behind. Perhaps there was some other way they could deal with unfinished business, if they had any—Stone supposed he wouldn’t know until he died himself.
He closed his eyes briefly, then reached down and touched Desmond’s still, cold hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” he murmured, so softly he could barely hear his own voice. Then he turned away to head back down the aisle toward the front door.
A figure sat in one of the pews, near the back.
Stone tensed a little, then relaxed. Desmond had a lot of associates—whoever this was had probably decided to sit quietly until Stone had finished his reflections before paying their own respects. He was sure others had been trickling in throughout most of the day, in a steady stream. It was a bit late now, sure, but that didn’t mean the newcomer had any less right to be here than he himself did. He continued his unhurried pace toward the door.
The figure rose as he approached. He couldn’t get a good look in the dim light, but as he got closer he saw it was a woman. Tall, slim, and dark-haired, she wore a conservative dark blouse and skirt under a long, elegant coat. Stone nodded politely to her as he approached.
“You’re Alastair Stone, aren’t you?” she asked as he drew even with her.
He stopped, stiffening. “I am.” Turning back, he studied her in more detail. She looked to be in her early thirties, pale and quite attractive with bold, angular features. Every line of her clothes, hair, and makeup were immaculate. He risked a quick glance at her aura: a solid, brilliant gold. “Do I know you?”
“We’ve never met.” Her voice was low and pleasant. “But you were William Desmond’s apprentice. His favorite apprentice, from what I’ve heard.”
Stone narrowed his eyes. This woman was clearly part of the magical community, and her accent marked her as being somewhere from the Northwest, but he’d never met her before. He was certain of that—he’d have remembered her. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Ms.—”
“Canby. Anna Canby.” She stepped out from between the pews. “I’m sorry—I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. It must have been quite a shock.”
“Thank you. It was.” He studied her a moment. “Were you a friend of Mr. Desmond’s? I don’t believe he ever mentioned you.”
“An acquaintance. My grandmother was an old associate of his.”
“I see.” There was something unusual and oddly familiar about the woman, but Stone couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “You’ll be attending the service tomorrow, then?”
“Oh, yes, of course. But please—don’t let me intrude on your grief. I assume you’ll also be attending the gathering tomorrow evening?”
“I will, yes.” If any question had remained in Stone’s mind about whether Anna Canby was part of the magical community, her words had mostly dispelled it. While it was possible someone might have invited knowledgeable mundanes to the gathering, it was unlikely. In British magical society, far more than in its American counterpart, mundanes—even those fully aware of the existence of magic—weren’t usually included in these sorts of events.
“Perhaps we might have time to speak further then.”
“Perhaps we will.”
“It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Stone. I look forward to it.” She inclined her head to him, then moved past and headed up the aisle toward the bier.
Stone remained where he was until she reached Desmond. He stayed a moment longer, watching her tall, straight figure as she stood in front of the casket, and then left the building. As he set off at a slow, contemplative walk, scanning for a cab, it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked Anna Canby who her grandmother was—and she hadn’t volunteered. He’d have to ask her about it at the gathering.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
William Desmond’s funeral was as Stone had expected it to be: dignified, traditional, conservative, and lacking in any sense of ostentation. Anyone who might have happened by the cathedral as it was occurring would have been forgiven for assuming some important state figure had died, as the hundreds of mourners in attendance, all clad in somber black, included in their numbers representatives of the United Kingdom’s highest echelons of business, financial, political, and academic spheres.
Stone, who’d had little involvement by choice in anything but Desmond’s magical activities, scanned the crowd in amazement as they took their places in the pews. He’d suspected Desmond’s influence ranged far and wide, but he’d never before seen tangible evidence it was true.
Naturally, the magical community was well represented in the congregation as well. They were easy to spot, but only if you knew what to look for. They gathered in small groups throughout the church, little islands of people some of whom perhaps weren’t dressed in quite the same level of conventional styles as the mundane mourners. Stone recognized many of them: his friends Arthur Ward and Eddie Monkton; Lavinia Bromley; Walter Yarborough, who was to have been his original master until his own under-aged magical experiments had forced a change of plan.
He himself sat in the front row, in the area reserved for family. Imogen had insisted; apart from Desmond himself she no longer had any blood family, so she’d selected hers from among those closest to both herself and Desmond: Stone, Kerrick, a few of the other longtime household staff members, and of course Clifford Blakeley, who looked somber and conventional in his black suit and dark gray overcoat. He sat on Imogen’s right side, with Stone on her left.
Verity, in her elegant black skirt suit and understated makeup, sat on Stone’s other side. He almost hadn’t recognized her when she’d joined them in the front room at the London house before leaving in the limousine—the dignified ensemble gave her a look of maturity and sophistication he’d never seen before.
Stone watched in silence with the others as the service progressed, standing when directed and remaining quiet and respectful during the prayers. He had no idea if Desmond had been religious in life (it was another of those things he’d never asked, not considering it his business), but he wasn’t at all surprised that his old master was being sent off with full, traditional Anglican ceremony.
Next to him, Imogen remained stoic and collected—she didn’t cry, though she also didn’t pull away when he gently squeezed her hand to offer his support.
So there it was. T
he end of a towering, multifaceted life that still had so much to offer the world—both magical and mundane. If Stone felt any emotion at all to go along with his grief, it was a sense of unfairness, that it was too early for Desmond to be taken from their midst.
As he followed the crowd out of the cathedral and waited for the car to be brought around, he couldn’t help thinking it was simply wrong for such a mundane, everyday cause to have felled such a larger-than-life figure. Imogen had taken him aside two days ago and informed him that the autopsy results had come back, and the authorities were satisfied that the cause of death had been a sudden heart attack. Nothing sinister, nothing insidious—no enemies or assassinations or foul play. His body had simply betrayed him, something that could have happened to anyone, mage or mundane.
Perhaps the faint green energy Verity had discovered had been something—or perhaps it had been nothing, a simple artefact of dying in a place so suffused with different sources of magical energy that some bleed-over might naturally have occurred. He supposed he’d never know now. Even if he wanted to investigate further, he had no leads, no clues, no traces to follow. As much as he hated the thought of leaving any suspicion, no matter how remote or unlikely, unexamined, that was exactly what he’d have to do. The only thing that would come of pursuing it was his own continued unease and agitation. All he could do now was watch to see if anyone unusual appeared to benefit from Desmond’s demise—if he would even have the chance to discover such information.
Verity touched his arm as they left the cathedral and stepped into the light midday rain. “You okay?”
“Fine.” He unfurled his large black umbrella and held it over them, noting that Kerrick had already done the same thing for Imogen and Blakeley.
She watched the traffic. “Will there be some kind of graveside service?”
“Yes, tomorrow. He’ll be interred at the mausoleum at Caventhorne, of course, and the service will be quite small—just family and staff. And us, of course.”
Arthur Ward and Eddie Monkton, both looking somber and clad in severe black suits and overcoats similar to Stone’s, approached. “All right, Stone?” Eddie asked.
Stone nodded. “Thank you both for coming.”
“Such a shame,” Ward said, shaking his head. “You’ll still be coming to the gathering tonight, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Good, good. We’ll see you there.” He indicated something beyond them with a hand. “I think that’s your car.”
The black Mercedes glided silently up and stopped at the curb, and a liveried driver got out and opened the door for them. “Tonight, then,” Stone told them.
Verity climbed into the car. Stone was about to follow when he happened to glance behind him, at the still-large crowd of mourners waiting for their own transportation to arrive. He was surprised to see Anna Canby—he hadn’t seen her in the congregation, but that hadn’t been unusual since there’d been so many in attendance and it wouldn’t have been seemly for him to crane his neck around taking in the sights during the service. She stood a short way down the street, in the middle of a small group of black-clad women. Most of them were within a few years of Anna’s age, but one, a tall but stooped figure in a formal black dress and shawl, appeared to be quite elderly. He wondered if she was the grandmother Anna had mentioned the previous night, and shifted to magical sight to examine the group. Like the rest of the crowd’s, their auras lit up in various colors, but he noticed nothing unusual about them: none were double- or triple-hued, nor noticeably impressive.
“Doc?” Verity called as the women’s car, a gleaming black limousine, arrived at the curb and two of the younger ones began helping the old woman into it.
“What? Oh—sorry.” He quickly got into their own car. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”
When they were settled and the car had rejoined the stream of traffic, Verity leaned closer to Stone. “What kind of gathering is this tonight, exactly? Does it have something to do with the funeral, like a reception or something?”
“No. The reception is where we’re headed now—it’s being held at a hall near the London place, so everyone can show up and pay their respects to Imogen. No, the one tonight is all our lot. As I mentioned before, they don’t often find themselves in the same town, so when they do—for a funeral or some other major event—someone usually sets up a gathering so we can all get together, compare notes, and catch up on news. I’m sure the mood will be a bit more somber than usual because of Desmond, but that’s not the point of the whole thing.”
She looked intrigued. “So I’ll get to meet a bunch of British mages?”
“Yes, and possibly even some from outside the UK. It’s being held at another country estate just outside London, and it will likely last well into the night.”
“It’s not like a party, is it?”
“No—well, perhaps a cocktail party, but a formal one. You’ll find we do things quite a bit more formally here than in the States—at least in magical society. It’s mostly very traditional, especially with the older crowd.”
“Not a problem. I picked up an outfit you haven’t seen yet that should work out fine.” She looked out the window, watching the gray drizzle. “I feel a little guilty about it, but I’m looking forward to going.”
“Don’t feel guilty. This is an excellent opportunity for you to meet a lot of mages you wouldn’t normally get to meet.”
“Yeah, I know, but—” She looked at her hands in her lap. “It seems wrong to enjoy a party when you’ve lost someone so close to you.”
He gripped her arm and forced a small smile. “Verity—I’m telling you, it’s fine. I’m dealing with it. It’s a terrible thing, and of course it’s affecting me. But it’s either this or mope in my study and drink too much, and I’d rather not do that right now. So we’ll go, and I’ll catch up with old friends while you’ll perhaps meet some new ones. Who knows—you might make some contacts who will help you in your magical career.”
“I’ll never turn down the chance to do that,” she admitted.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They left from the London house that evening. Blakeley and Imogen had taken his car to their charity event, so Stone and Verity had the use of the Mercedes limousine, along with the driver. Stone waited downstairs, gazing out the window into the dark street, until Verity showed up. “This okay, Doc?” she called from the doorway.
He turned, and almost did a classic double-take. “Er—” was all he could get out at first.
Verity barely looked like herself—or, more precisely, she looked like a different version of herself. She wore a short, body-hugging black dress of some subtly shimmering fabric, sleeveless but with a high, old-fashioned neckline that somehow managed to look more sensual than the typical plunge. Her normally spiky hair was sleek and swept back; she still wore her usual dramatic goth makeup style, but she’d adjusted it so it looked less spooky and more commanding. Rounding out the ensemble were black stiletto heels and the silver magic-focus bracelet Stone had given her for her recent birthday.
“You look—great,” he said, forcing himself not to stare. Then, more lightly, he added, “I barely recognized you.”
She laughed. “I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that. So you’re saying you don’t think I look great normally?”
“Er—”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “It’s okay, Doc. I know you’re not used to me looking like a girl. You look great too, by the way.”
He wore a tailored dark gray suit in a somewhat old-world style, in respect for Desmond, with a more formal version of his usual black wool overcoat draped over his arm.
“Are you ready, then?” he asked, before he said anything else that would embarrass him later. Despite how his words had come out, they hadn’t been wrong: he had barely recognized her. Throughout their association as master and apprentice, her most commo
n style of dress involved ripped jeans, leather jackets, and combat boots. The only exception was when she went clubbing, when she donned a black leather miniskirt and torn fishnets to go with the rest of her goth ensemble—an outfit that made her look at the same time feminine and overtly powerful, like a dominatrix. Tonight, just as she had during the funeral in her formal skirt suit, she looked completely at home in this more mature role, like she had been born to it. Stone wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
“Yeah, let’s go.” She seemed amused by Stone’s reaction, but didn’t comment further on it as they left the house.
Their destination was in St. Albans, about half an hour outside London to the north. They rode through the town itself and up a narrow, winding road bounded by low stone walls, past a series of meadows and small, shadowy groupings of trees too small to properly be called ‘forests.’ A few minutes later, the lights of a large house came into view up ahead, with numerous other cars heading in and out.
“You have a lot of rich friends, don’t you, Doc?” Verity asked, taking the place in. “Aren’t there any mages in England who don’t live in spooky old manor houses?”
“Of course—most of them, in fact. Some will be here tonight. But you have to remember, magical society is a bit different in Britain. We still don’t have any sort of governing body, but you might say we’re a bit more…organized. Talent tends to get noticed, and cultivated. So anyone with magical ability who was born in less affluent circumstances doesn’t tend to stay there.”
She pondered. “But there’s still the class thing, right?”