Core of Stone

by King, R. L.

  That was all beside the point now, though—time to get down to business. He scanned the blackjack pit until he spotted an empty table, and headed toward it. The dealer, a young black man with a thousand-yard stare suggesting he’d welcome anything that would poke his dull shift out of the doldrums, fanned and re-fanned his cards across the electric-blue felt surface of the table with practiced ease.

  Stone sat down on the centermost of the seven padded stools arrayed around the half-moon-shaped table. “Evening,” he said.

  “Evening, sir,” the man replied. Like the other dealers, he didn’t wear the Obsidian’s black blazer, but rather a crisp white shirt with a silk tie the same color as the table. His nametag said ANDRE.

  Stone glanced at the discreet sign off to the right: the table minimum was twenty-five dollars. He put three hundred-dollar bills in front of him and waited.

  Andre took the money, spread it out so the overhead cameras could see it, then counted out twelve green chips. He pushed those across the table and shoved the bills down a slot with a plastic tool.

  Stone put the first chip on the square in front of him and Andre dealt the cards. Ten seconds later, Andre swept the chip away after he’d turned up a jack and ten to Stone’s nineteen.

  “Going to be that kind of day, is it?” Stone asked with a grin.

  A cocktail waitress, clad in a uniform that was positively tasteful compared to some Stone had seen on his last trip, came by and asked if he wanted anything to drink. He ordered a Guinness and put out another chip. Ten seconds later he’d lost that one, too.

  Andre, at least, had the good sense to look sympathetic.

  “I’m a bit rubbish at this,” Stone observed. In truth, he didn’t care whether he won or lost the money. The play was just something to keep his hands busy.

  He won the next hand, lost the next two, and then won three in a row. For the next one, he put out two chips, one obviously meant as a tip. He won with a twenty.

  “Thank you, sir,” Andre said, holding up the tip winnings for the camera and then putting the chips in his shirt pocket.

  Stone nodded. “Say, Andre…” He put out another chip.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m wondering if you might help me. Last time I was here, a few months back, I spoke with a man named Trevor Harrison. I’m not sure what his position is, but I think he’s some sort of big deal here. Have you heard of him?”

  Andre finished the deal (Stone lost) before he answered. “Yes, sir, I’ve heard of him. But I don’t think he’s here.”

  Stone frowned. “Not here as in off for the day, or as in ‘no longer with the hotel’?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. I’ve only been working here for a couple of months. I’ve heard his name mentioned, but I’ve never seen him.”

  “Hmm.” That wasn’t good. “All right, then—what about Mr. Nakamura? He was sort of…Harrison’s personal assistant, I think. Is he still here?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know.” He nodded toward the empty spot on the table.

  “Sorry, sorry…” Stone shoved another chip out. His stack was dwindling now; with luck (the right kind) he could get the information he was looking for before he had to buy more. “Well… if I wanted to find out if Mr. Nakamura was here, how would I do that? I’m only in town for a day or two, and if he is, I’d like to say hello.”

  The dealer nodded toward the far side of the casino. “The public business office is over by the cage. I’d start by checking there.”

  Stone hit his twelve, got an eight, and stood.

  Andre turned up an ace to go with his displayed ten.

  “I think that’s about enough of that,” Stone said ruefully, getting up. He picked up his small stack of chips except for one, which he pushed toward Andre. “Thanks for the information.”

  The Obsidian’s public business office hid in plain sight behind an unobtrusive gray door near one of the main casino cages. Stone tried the door, half expecting it to be locked, but it swung open easily. He wondered how many cameras were recording him as he did it.

  Beyond was a large reception desk blocking access to the double doors behind it. The Obsidian’s logo took up most of the wall behind the desk, and a young woman in a black blazer sat behind it. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Nakamura.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Good. He is still here, it seems. “I don’t,” he said. “But I think he might want to speak with me, if he’s around. Could you let him know I’m here? My name is Alastair Stone.”

  “I’ll check, sir. Please have a seat.” She waved him toward a small grouping of chairs just inside the door.

  Stone sat down, watching her as she picked up the phone and made a call. Once more he tried concentrating, but not even a flicker of an aura shone around her as she spoke to someone. He did notice a slight look of surprise cross her face, though. She jotted something down on a pad below Stone’s line of sight, hung up, and looked across at him. “He says he’ll be happy to see you, Mr. Stone. He asks that you meet him in the Obsidian Club in fifteen minutes.”

  Well. That was easier than I thought. “Thank you,” he said, rising, and quickly made his exit. Maybe now he’d get some answers.

  Chapter Seven

  The Obsidian Club was a small, exclusive lounge overlooking the main casino, all black leather and chrome and understated blue lighting. Its dimly lit space was about half full, but Stone had no trouble spotting the man seated at a tiny glass-topped table, staring out over the pits.

  The man rose as Stone entered, and smiled. “Dr. Stone. So good to see you.” He offered his hand.

  Stone shook it. “Likewise,” he said.

  “Please, sit down.” Nakamura resumed his seat and regarded Stone with a mixture of courtesy and curiosity. He was a young man, perhaps late twenties, trim and pleasant-looking, with perfectly cut black hair and a more upmarket version of the classic Obsidian blazer. “I must say, I was surprised when Ms. Dell told me you were here.”

  “Yes, well, it was a bit sudden,” Stone said. “Didn’t know I was coming myself until yesterday.” He sat down in the swivel chair across from Nakamura.

  “You’re well, I hope.”

  “Well enough, I suppose.”

  “And your two friends? Are they here, too?”

  “No, just me this time,” Stone said.

  “They’re not—”

  “They’re fine. But my reason for being here doesn’t concern them.” He looked around, taking in the crowds down below. “Thought you might like to know—the Evil’s leaders are gone.”

  “Really?” Nakamura’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  “Gone. Probably dead, or disrupted, or whatever it is you call destroying those bastards. But no longer a threat, in any case.”

  Nakamura was silent for a moment, then said, “Is this related to what happened at Burning Man recently?”

  So, Harrison didn’t pick mental slouches for his assistants, either. It made sense he’d know, though: Las Vegas wasn’t that far from the site. Hell, it wasn’t out of the question that Nakamura might have been there himself.

  “It is,” Stone replied. “They tried to use a spirit to summon a portal, and quite a lot of ley lines to stabilize it. But that didn’t work out for them.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  Stone shrugged. “Me and…others. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Of course, Dr. Stone. If it’s within my power, I’m happy to.”

  “I need to talk to Harrison.” He watched Nakamura’s face carefully as he said it.

  He needn’t have: Nakamura didn’t try to hide his disappointed expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That, I can’t help you with. I wish I could.”

  Stone leaned i
n, still watching him. “You do know he’s still alive, right?” He remembered Nakamura’s guilt when they’d left town: after they’d all flown out to the abandoned military base where the Las Vegas portal had been hidden, an Evil soldier exiting one of the survivalists Harrison killed had managed to possess Nakamura without any of their knowledge. He’d been the one to shoot and nearly kill Harrison.

  Nakamura nodded. “I do.”

  “He contacted you?”

  “Once. Shortly after the…incident. But not in person. And I’m still not entirely sure I believe it was him.” His gaze sharpened. “I didn’t understand it then, Dr. Stone, and I still don’t: how could he be alive after what happened? You said he went into that portal and it disappeared.”

  “I don’t know,” Stone said. “But I’m certain he is. Clearly, he’s got some tricks up his sleeve that none of the rest of us know about. But it’s vitally important that I talk to him. Are you sure you don’t have any way to contact him? Nowhere you could leave a message where he might see it?”

  Nakamura shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he said. “I’m sorry, Dr. Stone. As I said, I wish I knew. How do you know he’s alive?”

  “He sent me some…information,” Stone said. “Not long after I got back to the Bay Area. Information that no one else would have been able to fake.”

  “I…see.” He looked as if he was trying to decide whether to say something.

  “What is it?” Stone asked, leaning forward again.

  Nakamura shook his head. “Nothing. As I said, I don’t know where he is. It’s…possible he’s not even on Earth, actually.”

  Stone stared. “Not on Earth?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t really discuss his magical activities with me. But a couple of times in the past, he mentioned things that made me believe that he travelled to…other places.”

  Stone nodded. That could explain a lot, actually. Of course there were other dimensions—the Overworld was the most widely known of them among magical circles, the Evil obviously came from somewhere else, and Harrison’s magic appeared to draw its power from a third, so it made all kinds of sense that still others, possibly an infinite number of them, existed out there. And if that were true, and Harrison knew how to reach one or more of them, that might have explained how he’d escaped the Evil’s home turf after the portal closed.

  It still didn’t explain how he’d done it, though, since as far as Stone knew—and he made it his business to know these things—no one had ever travelled between dimensions without using a pre-constructed portal or gateway. Harrison had been gravely injured and hadn’t taken any components with him beyond the crystal needed to complete Stone’s ritual, so there was no way he could have constructed one on the fly.

  It sounded like Trevor Harrison was an even odder—and more powerful—duck than Stone had initially suspected.

  Not that any of this helped with his current problem, though. He sighed and stared down at his hands.

  “If I might ask, Dr. Stone,” Nakamura said, “Why do you need to contact him so urgently?”

  Stone looked up. “Where’s Tarkasian, by the way?”

  Nakamura seemed startled by the abrupt change of subject. “Gone,” he said. “He left a couple of months ago. Of course, after the incident we couldn’t let him resume his stage show, and he didn’t want to anyway.”

  “Are you sure it was safe to let him go? Did you keep tabs on him?” At this point, it was unlikely the Evil would even try to re-occupy Tarkasian, and even less likely that he’d let them, but Stone’s interactions with the young mage had left him with the impression that Tarkasian didn’t have the strongest of minds when it came to resisting temptation or persuasion.

  “We could have tried to prevent him from leaving, but given that he’s a mage and none of us are, without Mr. Harrison around it would have been difficult.” Nakamura shrugged. “But I don’t think he’s a threat. I keep a private investigator on retainer to keep track of him. Right now, he’s in New Jersey. He’s started up an act at a small club in Atlantic City.” He paused, and when Stone didn’t say anything else, he repeated, “Why do you want to contact Mr. Harrison, Dr. Stone?”

  Stone eyed Nakamura with a gaze so intense that the man shifted in discomfort. Once again the irony of the situation struck him: he wished he could read Nakamura’s aura so he could tell whether he could trust him, but if he could do that, he wouldn’t need to trust him. “I need him to tell me why his magic’s buggered me up,” he said at last. “And how to fix it.”

  Nakamura’s eyes narrowed. “I—don’t understand.”

  “I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this.” Unable to sit still any longer, Stone got up and began pacing the small area in front of the table. “The reason I know he’s alive is when he contacted me, he sent me some notes—the beginnings of how his magical style works.”

  “His…magical style?”

  Stone nodded. “I don’t know how much you know about magic, but there are different styles. Different…approaches. I thought there were only two that humans use, and a lot of variations on them. But apparently there are at least three, because Harrison uses the third. He gave me the starting point to learn it.”

  “And…did you?”

  “Yes. A start, anyway. I’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s out there. But at Burning Man, the situation got so desperate that I took a chance and used it to try to disrupt what the Evil were trying to do…and it worked. Harrison’s magic worked when mine didn’t.”

  Nakamura didn’t move, and his expression didn’t change. “I…see,” he said again. “Then I don’t see where the problem—”

  “The problem,” Stone said, making no effort to keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice, “is that using so much of that magic has burned out my ability to do any more. I don’t know if it’s temporary or permanent, but it’s been nearly a week since I got back from the hospital in Reno and there’s no sign of it returning. I need Harrison to do whatever the hell he does, and let me know whether it’s coming back.” His jaw tightened. “So if you have even the faintest clue about how to get hold of him, I’d appreciate it if you’d get on with it.”

  Nakamura looked truly sympathetic, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I really am. I have a few things I want to ask him myself, if I knew where he was. But nobody’s seen him since back when you shut that portal down. I have no idea if he even intends to ever come back.”

  Stone dropped back into the chair across from him and scrubbed at his hair with both hands, fighting to keep the despair and the pain at bay. Harrison had been his last chance. As talented as she was proving to be in healing magic, Verity wasn’t far enough along in her training to be of any help. Madame Huan had already told him she couldn’t do anything, and if she couldn’t, then none of his colleagues in England would be able to either. Stefan Kolinsky might have some ideas or be able to find some, but Stone wasn’t ready to reveal such a weakness to him. Not yet. If more time passed with no sign of the magic returning, he might change his mind. But not yet.

  “All right…” he said, barely more than a whisper. “All right.” He looked up. “I’m staying here at the hotel. Room 742. All I’m asking you to do is try. If you have any ideas, no matter how farfetched, please try them. Will you do that for me?” He hated himself for sounding like he was begging, but at this point grasping at any straw available was more important than keeping his pride intact.

  Nakamura nodded, but he still didn’t look convinced. “Of course I will. I’m just telling you—don’t be surprised if I’m not successful.”

  Stone got up. “Thank you,” he said. “All I can ask you to do is try.” He turned and trudged out of the bar.

  Back out in the casino, he made no effort to hurry. Suddenly, just like that, it was over. Harrison was, as Jason would say, “in the wind,” and Stone had no way to
find him. His last hope, that Nakamura would somehow know where he was, had just crashed and burned. Sure, maybe the man might be able to turn up something—but even if he did, it wouldn’t be tonight. And as long as Stone was being brutally honest with himself, Nakamura didn’t strike him as a particularly proactive sort. He had no stake in this, so there was no reason to put himself out trying hunt Harrison down. That, and if he’d wanted to find his old boss for his own purposes, he’d had months to try it, which meant he’d probably failed before this.

  If Harrison didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be found. Certainly not by a mundane personal assistant.

  Or by a newly mundane and increasingly desperate ex-mage.

  Despite his slow pace, Stone’s heartbeat increased. Suddenly he was exhausted, but his limbs thrummed with pent-up energy and frustration.

  He had no idea what he wanted to do. He considered his options, all of them equally distasteful.

  He could call the airport and see if he could catch a flight back to San Francisco, but by the time he packed up and reached McCarran, he doubted many planes would be leaving so late. And he’d still have to get back to Palo Alto once he landed.

  He could go up to his room, fall into bed, and wait for morning. He had no illusions that he would sleep.

  He could spend the night at the tables, playing more blackjack or roulette or even joining the herds of zombie slot players as they pulled lever after unending lever in the pursuit of a windfall that would never come.

  He didn’t want to do any of those things.

  As he exited the casino and paused, contemplating his next move, something caught his eye. He stopped and glanced sideways toward a bank of buzzing, flashing slot machines, most of them occupied by tourists intent on their mind-numbing tasks. He hadn’t seen anything; it must have been—

  No—there! A small, slim figure, its head poked out from around the far end of the middle of three rows. When Stone turned to get a closer look, it ducked back behind the machine and lost itself in the crowd.