Threshold

by King, R. L.

  Stone, eyebrow raised, showed the man his driver’s license and scrawled his signature on the indicated line.

  “Who’s that from?” Verity asked as Stone and Jason came back into the kitchen.

  Stone shrugged. “No idea.” He looked the package over with a critical eye. “No return address, postmark, or anything.” Setting it down on a nearby table, he slit it open with care, his curiosity piqued now. Eyebrow raised, he withdrew a fine notebook bound in featureless black leather.

  “A notebook?” Jason asked, confused. “That’s it?”

  Stone didn’t reply. He flipped it open; the pages were filled with handwritten notes and what appeared to be mathematical formulas, scrawled in black ink in a bold hand that looked like its author was making a valiant effort to be legible, but not succeeding very well. On the top of the first page, and obviously in the same hand, was a date: two days ago.

  “Wow,” Verity said, looking over Stone’s shoulder. “Whoever wrote this, they make Daphne’s notebooks look like they were typed.”

  Stone still didn’t answer. He flipped through a few more pages. Not many had writing on them: perhaps twenty or so. He stared at them in silence for a long time, flipping back and forth between them in seemingly random order. Then, suddenly, he sagged in his chair, his face going pale. The notebook slipped from his hands and hit the table, rattling the wineglasses.

  “Al?” Jason leaned forward, grabbing his shoulder. “You okay? What is it?”

  “He’s alive...” he whispered. “Bloody hell, he’s alive.”

  “Who?” Verity demanded.

  Stone pointed at the notebook. “Do you know what this is?”

  “No idea,” Jason said, getting impatient. “Maybe you could tell us?”

  “These,” Stone whispered in a tone of near reverence, “are instructions. Just the bare bones. He didn’t give me all of it, not even close. But with time and research—” He looked up at them. “Remember I said I didn’t think he was a black or a white mage, or anything in between?”

  Jason’s eyes widened as he caught on. “You’re kidding. But how did—”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

  “But I thought you said nobody could—”

  “I know what I said,” Stone cut him off. He took a deep breath. “But clearly I was wrong, wasn’t I? Or at least—there’s something about our friend that makes normal rules not applicable.” He made a brushing-off gesture, as if that weren’t important, then picked up the notebook again. “But—this. This is the beginning of how he does it. He’s showing me where to start.”

  He looked at them again, appearing with reluctance to drag himself back to the real world, and shook his head in amazement. “I think…he’s thanking us for doing what we did—and letting us know he’s alive. And...I think he’s—challenging me. To see if I can get anywhere with what he’s given me here.”

  Verity looked down at the notebook. “I don’t get it,” she murmured. “How can he—”

  Stone shook his head. “Don’t ask me. And I’m not about to ask him. I think he’s made it fairly clear we shouldn’t contact him again. I doubt we’d be able to, honestly. But what he’s given me—it’s just the tip of the iceberg, the entry point for years’ worth of study. If I can make sense of even the smallest bit of this any time soon, though, it might just help us if the Evil decide to get up to their tricks again. And I’ve no doubt they will—probably a lot sooner than we’re hoping.”

  Jason and Verity saw no reason to argue with him about that.

  Epilogue Two

  Las Vegas

  Sirens split the night, interrupting the peace of an unassuming, middle-class Las Vegas residential neighborhood. People stood around outside in their nightclothes, watching as bright flames tore upward as if reaching to ignite the stars. All around them were police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances, their lights adding red and blue to the white headlights of cars and the yellow of the sodium vapor streetlights. Emergency personnel scurried around carrying hoses, taking reports, helping the injured. The sounds of radio chatter crackled over the hushed conversations of knots of nearby residents.

  “Did they get out?” one older woman asked her neighbor. “Oh, God, they’re not still in there, are they?”

  The neighbor patted her hand and shook her head. Tears streamed down her face. “Nobody’s come out. I talked to one of the policemen—he said they think it might be a gas explosion. They never had a chance, poor things. They’re trying to contain it now so it doesn’t spread to the other houses.”

  The first woman looked down at her hands. “How horrible,” she murmured. “So soon after their little boy was involved in that terrible kidnapping, too...And now the whole family...just...gone.”

  A police car rolled past them; they didn’t even look up from their conversation. At the wheel was a young man in an LVPD uniform, driving slowly and watching the scene as he picked his way past the people and vehicles.

  Nobody noticed the small figure in the back seat, his eyes glittering with malevolent intelligence as he watched his former home burn.

  Acknowledgments

  These Acknowledgement pages are all starting to look alike, but I can’t help it that I have a bunch of really awesome people who help me out in various ways to make my books better! As always, first thanks go to Dan Nitschke, the world’s greatest supportive spouse. Then there’s Mike Brodu, picky beta reader extraordinaire, for his comments and suggestions (even though I didn’t take them all, especially with regard to a certain character!) There’s my fantastic editor, John Helfers, who as always comes through to point out to me where I’ve gone wrong. There’s Glendon at Streetlight Graphics for hitting another cover out of the park. There’s Mary Decker and Marty Costello for lots of helpful information about West Virginia and help with cop stuff. And there are all my friends and fellow indie authors on Facebook, Twitter, and locally, for ongoing encouragement and good thoughts.

  And once again, because this is super important: big thanks to everyone who bought Stone and a Hard Place and The Forgotten. I’m grateful to every one of you, and I hope I can continue to entertain you.

  Author’s Note

  As with The Forgotten, some readers might notice that this book is listed on the copyright page as “Second Revised Edition.” Once again, this is because The Threshold was available for a while as Part 2 of a trilogy (of which the third book was never made available). This version has been rewritten, edited, revised, and generally tweaked to make it better.

  This version includes a few new pages, and several pages from the previous version have been deleted. It’s not as different from the original as The Forgotten was, but I think it’s a stronger, tighter, and better book.

  You might be happy to hear that this is the last of the “Revised Editions,” by the way. All subsequent books in the series are new and haven’t seen the light of even brief previous publication.

  About The Author

  R. L. King is an award-winning author and game freelancer for Catalyst Game Labs, publisher of the popular roleplaying game Shadowrun. She has contributed fiction and game material to numerous sourcebooks, as well as one full-length adventure, “On the Run,” included as part of the 2012 Origins-Award-winning “Runners’ Toolkit.” Her first novel in the Shadowrun universe, Borrowed Time, was published in Spring 2015.

  When not doing her best to make life difficult for her characters, King is a software technical writer for a large Silicon Valley database company. In her spare time (hah!) she enjoys hanging out with her very understanding spouse and her small herd of cats, watching way too much Doctor Who, and attending conventions when she can. She is an Active member of the Horror Writers’ Association and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and a member of the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers.

  You can find her at rlkingwriting.com and magespacep
ress.com, on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AlastairStoneChronicles, or on Twitter at @Dragonwriter11.

  Read on for a preview of

  The Source

  Book 4 of the Alastair Stone Chronicles

  Coming Soon!

  Prologue

  Darla Beecham cursed under her breath when she heard the cheerful tinkle of the bell at the diner’s entry. Tossing aside the rag she’d been using to wipe down the counter in the kitchen, she glanced up at the wall clock: Ten fifty-five p.m. Five minutes to closing.

  Hell, José had already departed, with the food all put away and the grill spotless as usual. All Darla had to offer latecomers now was old coffee, a few decrepit-looking pastries, and the dusty display of candy and gum at the register. Who came to a diner in the ass end of nowhere at 10:55 on a Wednesday night? She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a customer this late, hence José’s early exit.

  She sighed, straightened her uniform, and marched into the dining room area. Maybe she could get rid of them. Nobody wanted lukewarm coffee and stale bear claws. “Welcome to Maxie’s,” she said, forcing a welcoming tone into her voice. “What can I—” She stopped.

  Two people stood just inside the doorway: a man about thirty and a boy of perhaps nine or ten. Both wore unremarkable traveling clothes, and through the glass door behind them, Darla spotted an equally unremarkable four-door car parked close. The man looked around, taking in the diner’s interior, but the boy’s eyes fixed on Darla as soon as she made her appearance. There was something disquieting about his level scrutiny.

  “Uh—” She struggled to get back on track, focusing on the man. “Can I help you? We’re just about to close up, but I’ve still got coffee—”

  “Coffee’s just fine,” the man said, smiling. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and steered him to the counter, where they both sat down. “And a Coke for my son if that’s all right. We won’t keep you long, but it’s been a long drive and we need a little break.”

  Darla nodded, relaxing. The man’s eyes and smile were friendly, and the boy wasn’t watching her anymore. Long drive for sure, she thought. The diner wasn’t exactly on the main tourist route, they didn’t get much traffic ever since the Denny’s had opened up next to the freeway six months ago. They mostly stayed open for the locals, most of whom were in bed by now.

  She bustled around pouring coffee, then retrieved a can of Coke from the cooler and placed it in front of the boy with a glass of ice and a straw.

  “Thank you,” the man said, smiling again. “Don’t worry, we’ll be out of your hair in no time.” He picked up his coffee cup, then set it back down again. “Son, I left my wallet in the car. Can you go grab it for me, please?”

  The boy nodded, hopped off the stool, and left the diner. The bell tinkled again in his wake.

  Darla busied herself with her last few cleanup tasks, but always kept an eye on the man. She’d been a waitress here for a long time; she felt like she had pretty good instincts for the ones she should be afraid of, and this guy wasn’t one of them. In fact, he had that clean-cut look that suggested ‘public servant’—a fireman, maybe, or an off-duty cop. Even so, though, it was better to be safe when she was alone. She thought about making an obvious call to her boyfriend to let him know she’d be home soon (she didn’t have a boyfriend, and had lived alone with her cat Biff for as long as anybody could remember) but dismissed it as silly. After all, the guy had a little boy.

  Just as she was wondering where the kid had run off to, he returned, dropping a worn brown leather wallet down next to his dad and re-mounting the counter stool. He poured Coke into the glass and watched Darla. When he caught her watching him back, he smiled. He had a nice smile, like his dad.

  She left them to their drinks as she took a last swipe at the counter with the rag and tossed it into the laundry bin. The only thing she didn’t do was count out the register; even though the two looked harmless, there was no point in tempting fate by waving money around. She glanced sideways at them: the boy sipped his Coke and the man had just finished his cup of coffee. “Anything else I can bring you?” she asked, hoping very much that the answer was no. If they left now, she could just make it home in time for the beginning of the Late Show.

  The boy smiled at her. “You’re scared of us, aren’t you?” he asked in a conversational tone.

  She frowned. “S-scared? Of course not. Why would I be scared?”

  His smile changed. “You should be, you know.”

  Something froze on the back of Darla’s neck as she tensed. “Oh? And—why is that?” she asked, edging herself toward the register. Clem, the owner, kept a loaded revolver under the counter in case of robbery. They’d never had a robbery, though. She wasn’t completely sure the gun was loaded, or even if it was still there. “Are you planning to rob us?” She glanced at the man in the hope that his son was just playing a little joke, and Dad would set him straight.

  The man smiled too, now—the same strange smile as the boy. Both of them appeared to be enjoying Darla’s fear. He shook his head. “No, ma’am. We’re not planning to rob you.”

  He reached into his coat. Darla dived, but he was faster. “I wouldn’t try to reach any guns,” the boy said as the man leveled a pistol at her. “I don’t think that will work out too well for you.”

  Oh God . . . She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself, staring in silent terror at the gun pointed at her chest. Her gaze shifted toward the parking lot as she hoped somebody—anybody—would come by. If they weren’t planning to rob the diner, then— “Wh-what are you planning to do?” she asked. “R-rape me? In front of your son?”

  Again the man shook his head. “No, ma’am. As I told you, we just came in here for a little break and a little sustenance.”

  “And you’ve had it,” she said. “Please—please go. Take the money. Take whatever you want. But please don’t hurt me.”

  The boy’s smile widened. His childish voice held a decidedly non-childish tone. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s a request we won’t be able to grant.”

  Nobody heard Darla’s screams for the next hour. She didn’t make it home in time for the Late Show. When José the cook showed up early the following morning to get ready for the breakfast regulars, he was shocked to find firefighters picking through the charred and water-soaked remains of the diner. He was even more shocked when he spotted the sheet-wrapped form, oddly shrunken, being wheeled toward a coroner’s van parked discreetly off to the side of the scene.

  Did you enjoy The Threshold? If you did, please consider posting a review where you purchased this book or on Goodreads letting folks know what you thought!

  Thank you so much, and I hope to see you back again for The Source, book #4 of the Alastair Stone Chronicles!