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

by R. L. King

  He had to sell it so they didn’t get suspicious, so he called another cab, took it to an ATM, and told the driver to wait while he pretended to withdraw money. In truth, he already had the thousand secreted away behind an illusion in the pocket of his real overcoat, though he never intended to let the Sixes keep it—illusions were versatile things, and he’d gotten a lot better at them since Calanar. If he was lucky and smart, he could find the guy and get him out without ever casting an offensive spell.

  That was the plan, anyway. Whether it would work out that way was anybody’s guess.

  He got back in the cab and directed the nervous cabbie to take him to the address the guy at the bar had given him. This time, the driver didn’t try to discourage him from going there, but merely pulled back out into traffic without a word. It only took a few minutes in the sparse traffic to reach the place. It turned out to be an abandoned shop, with any indication of its former purpose stolen, destroyed, or obscured by graffiti. Rusting bars covered the front window, but the door was clear.

  Still selling the limp, Stone shuffled to the door and tried it, unsurprised to find it open. Looking around nervously, he limped through and stopped just inside. “Hello?” he called in a shaky voice. “Is anyone here?”

  Three figures appeared, stepping from the deep shadows in the room’s debris-strewn corners. All three of them wore ski masks and hooded sweatshirts—no Sixes colors now. “You the guy with the problem?” one of them asked.

  Stone didn’t recognize the voice—it wasn’t any of the guys from the bar. “Uh—yeah. The guy at Morrie’s Tavern told me to come here.”

  “You got the money?”

  “The guy said you could help me—fix my leg.” Stone pulled up his trouser leg to reveal the illusionary wound. “I think it’s getting worse. You have to help me. Please.”

  “You got the money?” the guy repeated, louder.

  “Y-yeah. But I want to see this healer guy first. If you can help me, it’s all yours.” Stone was all too aware that if he were what he appeared to be, attempting to intimidate these men would be about as useful as trying to convince students not to procrastinate on their assignments. If they decided it would be easier to simply beat him up and take his cash, his mundane persona couldn’t have done a thing about it.

  One of the other guys chuckled. “This little fuck’s got some balls. I like that.”

  “Yeah,” said the first guy. “Don’t worry, man. We got the goods. But first we gotta see you got the funds, and then check you out. So let’s see it.”

  Stone pulled out his wallet, looking nervous, and opened it enough to show them the thick stack of bills, then quickly tucked it away again as if afraid they might take it from him.

  They didn’t. “Good, good. Now we gotta check you. You know—make sure you ain’t got any weapons, wires, anything like that. Put yer hands on yer head and stand still.”

  This could get a bit tricky, but nothing Stone couldn’t handle. He did as he was told, raising his hands to the top of his head. “I don’t have anything, guys. Why would I screw up my last chance at getting this fixed without messing up my life?”

  “Shut up.”

  Two of the guys came over and gave him a thorough frisking, including checking his pockets, then stepped back. “Okay, open your shirt.”

  “What?”

  “Do it, man.” The guy sounded impatient. “Gotta make sure you ain’t wearin’ any kind of wire.”

  Once again, Stone did as requested, altering the illusion to make his own trim physique look pale and flabby. “Can we go now? My leg’s killing me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Get yourself back together. And put this over your head.”

  “This” turned out to be a black pillowcase. “Why?”

  The guy snorted. “You’re really bad at this, you know? We can’t have you knowin’ where we’re takin’ you. Just do it before we call the whole thing off and take your money for wastin’ our time.”

  With reluctance—only some of it feigned—Stone pulled the pillowcase over his head. It was thick enough so he couldn’t see anything, and smelled like it hadn’t been washed in months. If necessary he could use a clairvoyance spell to see what was going on around him, but even after Calanar that spell worked better with a ritual. He shuffled back and forth as if his leg was hurting badly and waited.

  Two of the men took positions next to him, each one gripping an arm. “Okay, come on. We’ll go slow so you don’t fuck up your leg.”

  They led him in a different direction, probably out through the back. He heard the slide of a van door opening, and then they settled him into a seat and climbed in next to him. It was hard to smell much past the pungent body-odor aroma of the pillowcase, but Stone detected traces of cigarette smoke, pot, and old pizza. When he shifted to magical sight, he could barely make out three hazy auras glowing around him: the driver and the two men on either side of him.

  The trip to wherever they were going took around twenty minutes. Stone didn’t bother listening for cues to tell him where he was; he didn’t care. All he paid attention to for the duration of the trip was the auras around him, prepared to bring up a shield if any of them showed any agitation. To his relief, all three remained their normal muddy green, yellow and blue hues until the van stopped and the door slid open.

  “Okay, out,” the guy on his left said, gripping his arm.

  Stone followed him out, immediately noticing he stood on gravel now instead of asphalt. He craned his ears for any clues to his location, and thought from the lack of vehicle sounds that they might be outside the city, in the suburbs or even out in the country somewhere. The two men took his arms again and led him up three steps, then opened a door, took him inside, and pulled off the pillowcase.

  Stone blinked, rubbing his eyes and looking around. As he’d guessed, they were inside a house now. It looked like it had been quite impressive at some point in its history, though from the look of things whoever owned it currently didn’t take very good care of it. The room he stood in, probably a living room, had only a few pieces of mismatched furniture, a big-screen TV on the wall, and a series of DVD boxes scattered in front of it. A haze of pot smoke hung in the air. Two more men in their middle twenties lounged on a sofa watching a pornographic movie with an open, nearly empty pizza box and several empty beer bottles on a coffee table in front of them. They looked up as Stone and his escorts entered.

  “We got somebody for Clyde,” one of the men with Stone said. “You guys are cool—just keep an eye out in case anybody followed us.”

  The two on the couch eyed Stone with languid disinterest, then returned to their movie.

  “Come on,” said the man, taking Stone’s arm. “Upstairs.”

  Stone glanced around with magical sight. So far, he didn’t spot any subterfuge or violent intentions in any of the guys.

  “So who is this guy Clyde?” he asked. “Where’d you find him? Is he one of your ga…uh, group?” He made a show of struggling up the stairs, and adjusted his illusion again to add some red in his cheeks and sweat on his forehead.

  “No questions,” the man behind him said. “You ain’t here for questions. Unless you want us to take you and that fucked-up leg of yours back right now.”

  “No, no, I’m sorry. It’s fine. I just want this to be over.” He stumbled at the top of the steps and would have fallen if they hadn’t caught him. They led him into an empty room with a bed, a dresser, and a pair of old easy chairs. The window curtains were drawn tight, allowing no view outside.

  “Just wait here,” the first guy said, and left the room, leaving the second guy alone with him.

  Stone sat down on the bed, wincing, listening to the jangly, bow-chicka-wow-wow music from the porno wafting up through the floor. He didn’t have to wait long before the door opened again and the first guy came back in, followed by a skinny, stringy-looking man.

  “Okay,” said the guy. “Clyde, here’s your latest client.”

  Stone eyed Clyde dubiousl
y. “This is your healer?” The guy had long, unkempt hair, a stubbly beard, and bad skin. His Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, jeans, and scuffed brown hiking boots looked like he hadn’t changed them in a while, and his nervous, twitchy demeanor marked him as obviously scared of something. He looked like a backwoods hick and a tweaker got together and had a baby. A switch to magical sight verified his fear: the guy’s blue-green aura flashed with red patches.

  It also glowed, very faintly around the edges, with the same odd energy Stone had spotted around the old mill in Devil’s Creek, and Cathy Kirkson—a little more orange than yellow, but unmistakably the same general appearance. Unlike Cathy, though, Clyde’s eyes looked normal. Bloodshot and fearful, but normal.

  “What’s the problem, Clyde?” the first man asked. “You look spooked about somethin’. Nothin’ to worry about. Just do the same thing you did all those other times.”

  “Yeah, yeah…I’m gonna need a drink.” His voice was as twitchy as the rest of him, high and reedy.

  “Get the man a beer, Ski,” the first man told the second. Then, to Stone: “You want one?”

  “No, thanks. Can we just do this?” He winced, slumping back. “I think I’m starting to get a fever. Oh, God, what if it’s getting infected?”

  “Chill out,” Ski said. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Go ahead, Clyde,” the first guy said, indicating Stone. “Fix up this guy’s leg and we’ll set you up.”

  Stone pulled up his trouser leg, and Clyde winced.

  “What’d you do to yourself, man? That looks bad.”

  “Can you fix it?” Stone had augmented the illusion again; the “blood” had now leaked completely through the bandage, and he’d added some angry red trails radiating out from beneath it.

  Clyde hesitated.

  Ski shoved him down next to the bed. “Do it, Clyde.” His voice took on a menacing edge.

  “Y-yeah.” He cast Stone a terrified glance, then began undoing the bandage with skinny, shaking fingers.

  Judging from the caked dirt and gods knew what else on Clyde’s hands, Stone was grateful the wound wasn’t genuine. He watched with interest, keeping magical sight up as Clyde got the bandage off and moved his hand around over the area.

  Nothing changed. If anything, the faint yellow-orange glow surrounding Clyde’s aura faded a little. Clyde swallowed, sniffed loudly, and waggled his fingers.

  Stone “helped” him, adjusting the illusion again so first the red trails, then the bloody edges of the wound itself began to recede. After several seconds, his pale, hairy illusionary leg showed no sign of injury.

  Both Stone and Clyde let their breath out, slumping. “Holy…cow…” Stone breathed, feigning a wide-eyed gape of astonishment at Clyde. “How did you…do that? That’s amazing! It’s a miracle!”

  The first guy grinned. “Ain’t it? No time to hang around and marvel, though. Hand over the cash and let’s get you outta here so you can go back home to your old lady. And needless to say, you ain’t gonna say nothin’ to nobody about this. We seen your info in your wallet. If you say anything, we’ll find you. Got it?”

  “Oh, God, yes. I won’t say anything, I promise!”

  “Can I have my beer now?” Clyde’s voice shook, if anything, more than it had before. He was still staring at Stone as if he’d sprouted three or four extra eyes.

  “Yeah, yeah. Ski, get the man a beer. He’s earned it. And you—hand over the cash.”

  Stone pulled out his wallet and gave the man the sheaf of bills, still feigning astonishment. “This is…this is…”

  “I get it. You’re amazed.” The man turned away to open one of the dresser drawers on the other side of the room.

  Clyde took that opportunity to grab Stone’s arm. “Help me, man!” he whispered, barely audible over the music. “I don’t know what the hell you are, but you gotta help me!”

  Stone glanced toward the other side of the room. “What I am? I don’t—”

  Clyde’s grip tightened, and his watery, bloodshot eyes bulged so wide they nearly popped out of his head. “Look,” he whispered with more urgency. “Somethin’s goin’ on here. They’re gonna kill me. I can’t do it anymore!”

  “What do you mean, you can’t—”

  He pointed at Stone’s leg, and when he spoke again his tone was still nearly inaudible, but now strangled with fear. “I didn’t do that. I can’t do it anymore.”

  Stone glared at Clyde in astonishment. “You can’t heal anymore?” he whispered.

  Clyde shook his head with vigor. He was about to say something else when the other man slammed the dresser drawer shut and turned back around. “Okay. Time to go. We—”

  Ski came running into the room, his aura bathed in red flashes. “We got a problem, PB!”

  “What the hell—” The man whirled in his direction, looking past him to the door.

  From outside, the unmistakable crack of gunfire went off, followed by the shattering of glass.

  18

  “Fuck!” PB yelled, wrenching a gun from somewhere beneath his sweatshirt. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “It’s Hammer’s guys!” Ski said, as more gunshots went off and another window shattered. “They musta followed us, or figured out where we were stashin’ Clyde!”

  Clyde, for his part, looked terrified. “Oh, man, fuck, we’re gonna die!”

  “We’re not gonna die,” PB said. “Ski—take Clyde down to the basement. Keep ’im safe—we’re prob’ly gonna need ’im.” Still more gunfire sounded, this time from inside the house. The Sixes were clearly firing back.

  Ski grabbed Clyde’s skinny arm and pointed at Stone. “What about this guy?”

  “Who gives a fuck about him? He’s on his own. Hurry up!” PB swept out of the room.

  “Oh God…Oh God…” Clyde moaned as Ski began dragging him toward the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Stone said. He still had the illusion up, but he now spoke in his normal voice, all the trembling nervousness gone.

  Ski spun back around, looking for the newcomer in the room, but stopped when he saw only Stone. “Who was—”

  “That would be me.” Stone swept his hand, and the gun flew from Ski’s grip and crashed into the wall. “Let him go and get out of here.”

  “What the fuck? Who the hell are you?” Ski dived after the gun, which had landed on the floor near the dresser.

  Stone flung it under the bed, and sent Ski sailing into the opposite wall. “Didn’t you hear me? I said go.”

  Ski, eyes huge and jaw dropping in a terrified gape, scrambled to his feet and took off toward the door.

  Clyde was already on his way there. He’d almost made it when Stone grabbed him in a telekinetic hold and dragged him backward. “Not you, Clyde. We’re getting out of here. I need to talk to you.”

  “What are you?” Clyde demanded, nearly gibbering in his terror.

  “I’m like you—only a lot better at it. Come on—we’ll go out the window and borrow their van.”

  He gripped Stone’s arms with a madman’s strength. “We can’t go out there, man! Didn’t you hear the shooting? We go out there we’ll get blown to fuck!”

  “No, we won’t. I can protect us. But we’ve got to go. Are your cousins here?”

  “How do you know about my—”

  Stone grabbed him and shook him as behind them, the bedroom window exploded and several bullets took chunks out of the far wall. “We’ve got to go, you idiot! Where are your cousins?”

  “Dead.” Clyde’s tone turned bitter as his bloodshot, freaked-out gaze shifted to the window. “Buried out back, I think. They killed ’em right after they brought us all out here.” He bowed his head. “Fuckin’ bastards shot Louie and Pete. Shot ’em, man! Just…killed ’em in cold blood.”

  From downstairs they could now hear loud shouting, along with continued gunfire and the sound of squealing tires outside. “How you gonna get us outta here, man?” Clyde whined.

  “Just come with me, and stay close.
I promise, I can get us out safely. But you’re going to have to answer some questions after we’re out.”

  “What questions?”

  The door slammed open. Two shadowy figures appeared, taking cover on either side of the doorway. Yelling in rage, they aimed a spray of gunfire into the room.

  Clyde shrieked and dived for the floor, but Stone didn’t move. His invisible shield, reinforced with Calanarian power, easily deflected the bullets, sending them ricocheting into the walls, the window, and back out through the open doorway. One hit one of the figures, who screamed and staggered backward, dropping his gun.

  “Come on!” Stone grabbed Clyde’s arm and dragged him back to his feet, which wasn’t easy because he had both hands locked over his head. He wrenched harder and used a bit of magic to launch the skinny man to his feet.

  “Wha—?” Clyde yelled as he suddenly discovered himself upright through no effort of his own. “I don’t wanna—”

  The second gunman apparently had no idea what had just happened, which was reasonable given that he couldn’t see Stone’s shield. He slipped inside the room and leveled his gun at Stone’s head. “Hands where I can see ’em, asshole,” he ordered.

  Stone recognized Ski, who’d found himself another gun. “I don’t have time for this.” More bullets flew pattered along the house’s side, a few finding their way in through the window. This time some of them bounced off the shield. The Hammers’ aim was getting better. “Get out of my way.”

  “I said, hands up!” Ski barked, waving the gun. “Do it before I blow your fuckin’ head off!”

  “Sorry. Didn’t hear me, I guess. Let me repeat: I don’t have time for this.” With a gesture, he lifted Ski off the floor and flung him out through the broken window. The Sixer’s scream rose and then faded as more gunfire went off.

  Stone yanked Clyde up again. “Come on, Clyde. I can force you, but it will make things more difficult. Let’s move.”