Gathering Storm: An Alastair Stone Urban Fantasy Novel (Alastair Stone Chronicles Book 17)

by R. L. King

  In his mind’s eye, Amber’s face swirled away, replaced by the large, spreading bruise on her arm. He hadn’t been seeing things—the bruise had been there. He pictured the sleeve of her brown bomber jacket shoved up to reveal it, and then her arm when they’d shaken hands before she left him at the dealership. The bruise had been there, and then it was gone. Not just faded, either—vanished as if it had never been there.

  Damn…

  He sat up, shoving the covers down. He was sure he’d seen it—that wasn’t the kind of thing he missed. And bruises didn’t just vanish that fast.

  Not on mundane humans, anyway.

  He scrambled out of bed, retrieved his bag, and dug through it to find the sheaf of paperwork from today’s accident. There it was, just as he’d remembered: Amber’s phone number, along with the rest of her contact information.

  He glanced at the clock on the nightstand: a little after ten p.m. That was late to call, especially someone he barely knew. What if she was already asleep? What if she was with Hank? And even if he was right about her being something other than vanilla human, was it any of his business?

  He tapped in her number and waited as it rang, heart pounding hard.

  “Hello?”

  It was Amber’s voice. She sounded puzzled. He swallowed.

  “Hello?” More suspicious now. “Who is this?”

  “Amber?”

  “Who is this?” The suspicion grew firmer, with an edge of anger.

  “It’s Jason Thayer. From today. The accident?”

  “Oh, right.” Calmer now, but still not friendly. “Hello, Jason. It’s a little late to call—is something wrong?”

  He listened for a moment, trying to pick up any rumbling bass tones in the background to indicate Hank might be nearby, but heard none. “Uh—sorry to bother you so late. But I’ve been thinking about something, and it’s been bugging me.”

  She sighed. “Jason, really. If you’re worried about what happened with Hank today, don’t be. I promise, he blusters a lot but he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me. I’m fine. We talked and everything’s good.”

  That was a relief, anyway—assuming she was telling the truth. “Okay. That’s—good. But it’s not what I was calling about.”

  “Well…what is it, then?” Now she sounded impatient, like she wanted to get him off the phone.

  He paused a moment, trying to decide if he wanted to take the plunge. If he was wrong, she’d no doubt think he was crazy. But people had thought worse things about him and he’d survived. “So, today, right after the accident, I noticed you had a big bruise on your forearm.”

  “Yes, and?”

  He could almost see her frown and her furrowed brow. “Well—later, when you dropped me off in Reno and we shook hands, it was gone. Like, completely gone. Like it had never been there in the first place.”

  Long pause. “Jason, come on. That’s crazy. I didn’t have any bruise.”

  “You did. I saw it, clear as day on your arm.”

  “Come on—don’t you think I’d know if I had a bruise on my own arm? You probably just saw a shadow or something. Maybe you saw my other arm later, or I had it turned at a different angle. I don’t know. But bruises don’t just disappear.”

  Jason didn’t reply.

  “Jason?”

  “Yeah. I’m still here.” He didn’t mention that he’d picked up the odd undertone in her voice that he associated with nervousness, if not outright lying. He couldn’t see auras like Stone and Verity could, but part of the training Fran Bartek had given him had been in how to spot subterfuge in people’s expressions, postures, and tones of voice.

  “Are we good? I promise, everything’s fine. There really wasn’t any bruise. I’m fine. I was more worried about you, in that little cracker-box of a car.”

  He wondered what she’d say if he asked if they could get together so he could see for himself, but he didn’t do that. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right. I must have been seeing things. Sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no problem. You getting your car back any time soon?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “Hope the news isn’t too bad. I know I’ve said this too many times already, but I’m really sorry. You take care, Jason, okay?”

  “Yeah.” He tightened his grip on the phone, and the words came out in a flood before he could stop them. “Amber—listen. I think I might know what you are, and if I’m right, I’ve met others like you. I’ve got friends who deal with this kind of thing all the time. So—if you ever need help…” He trailed off, heart pounding harder than ever, part of him aghast at what he’d just said. But he leaned forward, holding his breath, and waited for her reply.

  When she did finally answer, after several seconds’ worth of silence, her voice had an odd edge: calm, but with a definite overtone of controlled anger. “Jason—I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, whether this is some kind of roundabout way of hitting on me, but—knock it off. I told you, I’m not interested, and I mean it. So don’t call me again, okay? Just…leave me alone.”

  The line went dead.

  Jason sat there, staring at the phone. His hand shook.

  He didn’t miss the fact that she hadn’t denied anything he’d said.

  16

  Stone had begun to believe the events in Devil’s Creek and the portal were nothing more than random magical glitches. When two weeks passed and no new odd happenings turned up for any of his sources, he began to think his hypothesis about the whole thing being one of those unexplained incidents that happened with magic sometimes was a valid one. Idiopathic, they called it in medicine, which meant yeah, it happened, but damned if any of us can figure out why it happened. This looked to be just that: idiopathic magic.

  Neither Eddie, Arthur, Verity, Jason, nor Kolinsky discovered anything definitive about other, similar events. His friends from England and Kolinsky didn’t contact him at all, and the only things Verity and Jason (who’d returned from Reno two days late after getting into a fender-bender on his way there) had found was more of the “Bat Boy” style, obviously fake stories. Even Gina Rodriguez, Jason’s computer-wiz assistant at the agency, came up empty.

  “Sorry,” Verity told him one night when he stopped by her place for dinner to help her with her flurry of packing as she prepared to move to San Francisco later in the month. “I wish I could spend more time on this, but I’ve been so busy between Scuro and getting ready for the move, and…”

  And living your life, he thought. He understood completely, though the whole thing was a bit of an adjustment. He’d thought when his two friends moved back to the Bay Area, they’d see each other more often, but between his own busy schedule, Jason hustling to drum up cases for his agency, and Verity splitting time between Scuro, Kyla, Hezzie, and the other Harpies in San Francisco, he was lucky if he saw either of them once a week anymore.

  Ah, well. He had his own things to do. It wasn’t as if he sat around his big old house pining away of loneliness with only Raider for company. He had his work, his research, and The Cardinal Sin to keep him busy, as well as his weekends spent in England helping Eddie, Arthur, and Kerrick put the final touches on Caventhorne in anticipation of its grand opening. Quite a buzz had begun to grow in the magical community now that the date was getting closer. Stone was sure much of it was simply the curious who wanted to get their eyes on some of William Desmond’s rumored magical storehouse of treasures, but scholarly interest was high as well. He was sure Stefan Kolinsky would be one of the first to stop by, probably arranging some kind of private visit so he didn’t have to deal with anyone else. He’d already decided to offer Kolinsky a private tour of some of the areas not generally available in exchange for unspecified future assistance.

  Even with the complete lack of further evidence of magical oddness, though, Stone found himself unable to simply give up and let the matter drop. Events like Devil’s Creek and the glitch in the Chicago portal didn’t just happen.
There was a reason for them, even if he didn’t know what it was. Even if they were one-off events, his curiosity wouldn’t let him go without more investigation into what might have caused them.

  Finally, one Thursday afternoon after he’d finished the lecture for his entry-level Occult in America class a few minutes early and there hadn’t been any questions, he’d leaned against the lectern and regarded the class.

  “So,” he said briskly, “We’ve still got some time before the end of the quarter, but how would some of you like the chance for a bit of extra credit?”

  A murmur went through the hall. Stone didn’t often offer extra-credit opportunities, and when he did, he had a reputation for making them more interesting than the run-of-the-mill research project.

  Good. He had them where he wanted them. He pushed off the lectern and began pacing back and forth across the front of the classroom. “Right, then. Here’s the assignment: this class is called ‘Occult in America.’ We’ve discussed several prominent historical events and individuals, including the Salem Witch Trials, Madame Blavatsky, and the occult influences on early Freemasonry, but all of those were just that: historical. Just because we live in a modern, technological society doesn’t mean there aren’t things out there right now that nobody can explain. Why do you think those ghost-hunting television shows are so popular?

  “So here’s what I want you to do: find me some. Do some research, look at newspapers and other sources around the country. Talk to your friends and family members who live in other parts of the country. I’m looking for unexplained occult-related events, the more current, the better. Let’s keep it confined to America, and I want to see some good research. That means don’t send me anything from the supermarket tabloids, unless you can corroborate it with more credible sources. Obviously you don’t have to prove anything, but I promise, not only will I not give you any extra credit for Bat Boy sightings, I might actually take points away.”

  Laughter rippled, some of it nervous. Since this was an undergraduate-level course, most of these students had only known him for this quarter, and hadn’t learned yet to tell when he was joking and when he was serious. He supposed he’d have better luck if he gave the problem to some of his graduate students, but they were busy on their own projects, and besides, the new kids had the kind of enthusiasm and eagerness to please that might just turn up something unexpected. “Any questions?”

  Nobody had any, so he dismissed them early and gathered his papers. It was a long shot—he could hardly expect a bunch of kids to come up with something several mages and a private investigator missed—but it couldn’t hurt.

  He didn’t have another class until Tuesday, and he was surprised to find a young man waiting next to his closed office door when he arrived there after finishing the lecture. He recognized the kid as one of his students from the Occult in America class, a football player who always sat in the back and didn’t participate much, so he didn’t know his name. “Yes, something I can do for you?”

  “Yeah—I just wanted to drop off the extra-credit assignment.” He unslung his backpack and unzipped it.

  “You found something?” Stone asked, surprised. He’d already glanced through a few papers other students had left with Laura the admin, and so far all of them had been duds—mostly urban legends or haunted-house stories Stone had already heard of. He unlocked the door and motioned the kid inside the office.

  “I think so.” He withdrew a slim sheaf of clipped-together pages from his pack and offered it to Stone. “I didn’t have much luck with the newspapers, but I remembered something a friend of mine said a couple weeks ago. It’s just a rumor, so it might not be enough to get the points, but I figured I’d run it by you anyway.”

  Great. Another urban legend. Stone was beginning to regret giving the assignment, but now that he had, he’d have to deal with the consequences. “Suppose you tell me about it.”

  The young man perched on the edge of the guest chair and indicated the paper. “I’m from Pennyslvania. Little town outside Pittsburgh. When I was a kid, before I settled down and decided to get serious about football so I could get into a good school, I ran with kind of a wild crowd in the city. Some of my old friends are still into some stuff like that. When you mentioned your assignment, I figured I’d ask one of them, since he hears weird shit sometimes. He said supposedly there’s this guy there—he used to live out in the sticks, but the rumor is he suddenly developed some kinda weird healing powers while he was out there.” The kid offered a crooked grin. “Yeah, I know it’s got to be bullshit, but it did kinda sound like the stuff you were lookin’ for.”

  Stone didn’t roll his eyes, but it wasn’t easy. “Faith healing” was almost always pure bunk. Not always—he’d met at least one practitioner who had a powerful healing gift, even aside from Verity, but people didn’t spontaneously develop the ability. “So—what—has this man discovered the church and started holding tent revivals?”

  “No. That’s just it. He’s disappeared. My friend says the word on the street is that he and a couple of his cousins went to the ’Burgh and tried to make money off it—you know, charging people to fix ’em up. But they weren’t too smart, and it wasn’t long before one of the local gangs heard about it. Supposedly they grabbed him and now they’re usin’ him to patch up their own people and makin’ money themselves off him. I don’t know, though. There’s nothing in the papers about it, so all I have is what my friend told me.” He indicated the paper Stone held. “Will that be enough to get the extra credit? I could really use it, Doc.”

  Stone examined the first page of the paper, noting the student’s name: Ronald Cobb. “Well, Mr. Cobb, I’ll have to read it over and let you know. You’ve put in all the detail you’re aware of?”

  “Yeah. There isn’t much, though.”

  “Is the gang named in here?”

  “The gang?” Ronald Cobb tilted his head. “You need that?”

  Stone shrugged. “Details like that add to the verisimilitude. I’m not implying you made this up, of course, but every detail you can supply, especially those that can be independently verified, makes it look better.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll be straight with you, Mr. Cobb—I’ve got an ulterior motive for requesting these stories. I’m considering a new paper about modern-day occult or supernatural occurrences, so I thought I’d combine the chance to offer you lot a bit of extra credit with a research opportunity I might not otherwise have access to. I promise, if I end up choosing your contribution as part of the paper you’ll get all proper credit, but I’ll need to corroborate the story.”

  Cobb looked relieved. “Ah, okay. I get it. Uh—no, the gang’s not named because I don’t know what it is. But my friend probably does. I can put you in touch with him if you want to ask him.”

  “Yes, that would be brilliant.” Stone handed back the paper. “Just add the information to the bottom there. I’ll let everyone who received extra credit know by late next week.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Dr. Stone.”

  As soon as Cobb left, Stone used magic to close the door, then looked down at the paper. The story was almost certainly bullshit—some fanciful tale Cobb’s friend had cooked up to help his college buddy. People didn’t develop spontaneous magical healing abilities.

  They don’t suddenly start seeing auras, either.

  Still, Cobb’s story could explain why no mention of the guy had turned up in the newspapers: if he was some naïve, small-town oaf who mentioned his newfound powers to the wrong people, it would be in those people’s best interest to keep the whole thing under wraps, especially if they wanted to exploit the man’s gift for their own profit.

  He kept a copy of his ley-line map book in his office, so he pulled it down. The presence of a ley line in or near the small town the man had come from would go at least some of the way to making the story potentially believable. It was something to start with, anyway.

  It took him only a few seconds to find the right page, and a few more to pinp
oint Litton, the tiny town a couple hours’ drive from Pittsburgh. “Well…” he murmured. “That’s interesting.”

  Not only did one ley line run through the middle of Litton, but two of them crossed nearby, just as they had in Devil’s Creek.

  17

  Stone was apprehensive about traveling the Overworld again, but the trip, this time to the public portal in New York City, proceeded with no unexpected events. He caught a flight to Pittsburgh, picked up a rental car, and paused behind the wheel to go over what he’d discovered in the last few days.

  He was going to have to do some work this time. When he’d called Ronald Cobb’s friend, a young man named Jamal Fielder, he didn’t have much to add to the story. He said he’d heard it from a friend of a friend, and all he could verify was that the man had supposedly lived far out in some rural area, and had spontaneously developed the strange abilities after a hunting weekend with his two cousins a couple of weeks ago. All three of them had taken off for Pittsburgh to try to monetize his new talent, and that was when he and the cousins all vanished. Fielder said he didn’t know any more about it except that he’d heard a rumor that one of the fringe Pittsburgh gangs, called the Sixes Posse, had gotten wind of the man’s alleged abilities and promptly grabbed all three of them.

  “I think it’s all bullshit if you want the truth,” Fielder had told Stone. “Only reason I told Ronnie at all was ’cuz he said he needed something for extra cred in that weird-ass class of yours. But anyway, that’s all I know and all I wanna know. Even if the story about the guy is bogus, I don’t want nothin’ to do with the Sixes. Those guys are freaks.”