Game of Stone

by R. L. King

  Henry Everett. Never heard of him. He pulled a notepad from his briefcase and jotted down the name, intending to check it out later. He also made a note to ask Blum if they’d found any of Everett’s friends.

  He opened the small box and removed the two chess pieces, setting them on the table in front of him. Side by side, it was even more obvious that they came from the same set but otherwise didn’t resemble each other: while both were crudely carved, Frank’s looked vaguely reptilian in design, while Ralph’s was shorter, squatter, and resembled an angry ape. As Stone expected, magical sight revealed that neither showed any sign of leftover energy.

  It felt good to be able to do magic again without having to worry about its effect on his remaining power. He’d forced himself to put his guilt about Phoebe out of his mind and concentrate on the job at hand—but that job became a lot easier with his brain and body energized from the fresh influx of power.

  After giving them a thorough examination, he put the chess pieces (I need to stop thinking of them that way, he admonished himself. Clearly they’re not chess pieces) back in the box and pulled the folder to him.

  It was filled with photocopies of eight-by-ten photos. He took a quick glance at each one, sorting them into two piles as he did. Most were shots of the crime scenes, with various views of the interior of the storage locker, the motel room, and Frank’s and Ralph’s bodies. Stone set aside the ones specifically focusing on the circle and the chest in the storage locker, as well as the close-ups of the two small figurines. He’d ask Blum for copies of these before he left.

  The only other thing of interest in the folder was Frank’s autopsy report. As Blum had reported, the man’s bones had been completely desiccated—even the marrow inside had been burned free. The medical examiner who’d performed the autopsy had no speculation about cause of death—all she’d written in that space on the report was that the bones’ condition was consistent with a sudden extreme heat, like a flash fire. But, she noted, even such a thing would be unlikely to have completely obliterated all the soft organic matter and left only the bones.

  In layman’s terms, she was stumped.

  Stone didn’t care so much about how Frank had died—all he cared about at the moment was that he knew magic had killed him, and it was related to something inside the chest. But the cops had examined the chest thoroughly and found no hidden compartments, no other items they’d missed at the scene—nothing, in other words, that might have provided a clue about Frank’s last living moments.

  “All right,” Stone murmured aloud, “Let’s have a look at what was on your bookshelves, Mr. Everett.”

  To his disappointment, however, the items from Everett’s shelves proved every bit as benign and unassuming as it was possible for magic tomes and research notes to be. Stone examined the contents of each evidence box in turn, barely noticing when Leo Blum popped back in to check on him. “Just call me when you’re done,” the detective had said, and left again.

  When Stone came up for air again, another hour had passed—it was nearly eight o’clock. With a frustrated sigh, he repacked the last evidence box with the remainder of the books and papers, then picked up the phone and asked the front desk to buzz Blum.

  “This is useless,” he said, waving toward the boxes when the detective came in.

  “You didn’t find anything?” Blum slumped in the chair, gripping a mug with Shh, No One Cares on it. He looked like he could use a cigarette, or a stiff drink.

  “Not a damn thing. Mr. Everett, apparently, was one of the most unassuming—I might even say dull—mages I’ve ever encountered, at least according to what he left on his shelves.”

  “What was it?”

  Stone shrugged. “Note about rituals for things like finding objects, making simple alchemical mixtures, that sort of thing. Accounts of some of his travels. A lot of it isn’t even magical at all. The books are the sort of thing you’d find in any moderately talented mage’s library. None of them are rare, old, or dangerous in the slightest. I even riffled through them to see if he’d left anything inside, but all I found was an old postcard from his mother and a recipe for peanut-butter cookies.”

  “What about the circle? You get anything else now that you’ve looked at it longer?”

  “Not really. I was right—it wasn’t meant to do anything but discourage anyone from investigating the chest. Which still makes me wonder how Frank was able to do it, but for now I don’t have any new theories.”

  “Fuck.” Blum glanced up quickly to make sure Stone didn’t object to his profanity, then sighed. “So we’re still nowhere on this.”

  “Not quite. Can you get me copies of these?” He passed over the photocopies he’d set aside.

  “Oh, those are all for you if you want ’em. Take whatever you want. Just don’t let ’em get around, y’know?”

  “Is it possible to get another set? I was planning to show them to a couple of colleagues. They might be able to turn up something about these figurines.”

  Blum finished his coffee, made a face, and plunked the mug down on the table. “Okay. I guess it’s the best we got. I just have a feeling if we don’t get somethin’ soon, this one’s gonna end up getting tossed into the ‘weird and unexplained shit’ file and swept under the rug.”

  “I’ll do my best to make sure that doesn’t happen, Detective.” Stone stood; it felt good to stretch after sitting in the same place for two hours. “If you don’t mind, though, I need to be going—I’ve got some other business in town before I head back home.”

  “Sure, Doc. Gimme a minute and I’ll run another set for you. And thanks for the help. Lemme know if your friends come up with anything.”

  13

  It took Stone a while to find the address Scuro had given him for his tattoo shop. Driving in San Francisco was more frustrating at night than it was during the day (if that was possible), and the shop was halfway down a narrow one-way side street in the Castro district. Stone had to circle the block twice before he even spotted the address, and the closest parking he could find was a small garage two blocks away. By the time he made it back to the shop, after rebuffing the aggressive advances of several panhandlers and junkies on the way, it was a little after nine.

  He paused a moment, looking the place over. An unassuming little shop in an old building, it was sandwiched between a liquor store and an Ethiopian restaurant. The tinted front display window made it impossible to see anything inside. A purple neon sign in the window read Chiaroscuro Body Art Designs, with a neon yin-yang symbol below it. Stone tried to imagine Stefan Kolinsky ever stepping into a place like this, and decided that, like Phoebe and the other energy donors, his friend had probably paid Scuro enough to come to him. He wondered how much it would cost him to get the same consideration.

  On a hunch, he switched to magical sight and took another look. Several more symbols blossomed above the door. They didn’t mean anything—clearly they were intended to be decorative—but at least now Stone knew he had the right place. He pushed open the door and walked in.

  Inside, loud metal music blared. He stood in a small reception area with a counter, a few chairs arranged around a table piled with magazines, and a water cooler. The walls were lined with images, mostly standard tattoo designs like big cats, buxom barely-dressed or naked women, and Japanese and Chinese characters. Stone looked around for a bell or some other way to announce his presence, but saw none.

  Before he could decide his next move, a beaded curtain behind the counter rustled and a tall young woman with purple hair came out. “Help you?” Her expression as she studied him in his tailored suit suggested she thought he had wandered in by accident.

  “Yes. I’m here to see Scuro.”

  Surprise flashed across her pierced features. “Yeah? Okay, sure. Have a seat and I’ll go get him.” Before Stone could reply, she disappeared back through the beaded curtain.

  He didn’t sit down, but instead paced the small waiting area. He ignored the well-thumbed magazine
s—mostly back issues of Tattoo, Inked, and Easy Rider—in favor of the art on the walls. Most of it seemed fairly generic and clichéd, the kind of stuff a drunken university student might stumble in and request on a dare from his buddies. The exceptions were a series of photographs on the back wall, depicting customers showing off their much more elaborate custom art.

  “You like ’em?” a voice said behind him.

  He turned. A handsome Asian man who looked to be in his late twenties stood watching him. He wore a black tank top that showed off both his slim, muscular physique and the extensive tattoo work on his arms, shoulders, and chest.

  “Very impressive,” Stone said. “Are you Scuro?”

  “The one and only.” Scuro looked Stone up and down with obvious approval. “Come on back, and we can talk about what you want.”

  Stone followed him back through the beaded curtain and past several cubicle-like spaces where other artists were working on customers. The strong smell of antiseptic soap hung in the air, incongruous with the metal music and surfaces covered in flash art.

  Scuro opened a door in the back and walked inside. When Stone followed, he was surprised to sense the faint buzzing of a ward as he crossed the threshold.

  “Have a seat.”

  The room was large, and seemed to be divided between an office on one side and a tattooing area with a lounge on the other. Stone sat in one of the chairs near a the desk, which was cluttered with artwork.

  Scuro dropped into the leather chair behind the desk. “I can believe Kolinsky sent you. He’s the only other one besides you who shows up in a suit.”

  “He actually comes here?” That was a surprise.

  “Not anymore, but he used to, sometimes. Usually I went to him. Anyway, we’re not talking about him. Let’s talk about you.” He continued to eye Stone with undisguised interest. “Nice suit, by the way. You have that custom tailored?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Nice. So—what were you looking for?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly, to be honest. I’ve recently had a—change in my magical status, and Mr. Kolinsky tells me you have ways to help me retain magical energy more efficiently.”

  “That’s what I do. You just need to tell me how far you want to go.”

  Stone tilted his head. “I…beg your pardon?”

  Scuro grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. “Well, you can do anything from a simple design to a full-body piece. It’s up to you. It’s just a matter of how much you want to pay, how much energy you want to manage, and what your pain tolerance is.”

  Stone hadn’t thought about any of this. “Well—Mr. Kolinsky showed me some of your work on his forearms, but I think I’d rather go with something more easily hidden, if that’s an option.” He indicated the suit. “This isn’t exactly my normal outfit. I had an…event today.”

  “Got it. Sure, you can do whatever you want. He didn’t start with his arms anyway—it’s really better to start a little closer to the heart to get the best bang for the buck. If you decide you want to go further later, you can work your way out from there.” He studied Stone again. “You look like you’ve never been in a place like this in your life. Am I right?”

  “Guilty,” Stone said with a chuckle. “Am I so obvious?”

  “Well…yeah, to be honest. But that’s okay. Everybody’s gotta start somewhere. Me, I’d suggest you start with something small on your chest. Easy to hide under normal clothes, close to your heart, and doesn’t take too long to do.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.” Stone tried to hide his discomfort. He still didn’t like the idea of adding anything as permanent as a tattoo to his body, but then he thought about Phoebe’s stricken, pale face again. “How—does it work? Do I need to come up with a design?”

  “Nope, we work together on that. I scan your aura, take a few energy readings while you’re casting, and come up with something that will work best with your unique physiology.”

  Intrigued in spite of himself, Stone leaned forward. “Indeed? That’s fascinating.”

  Scuro laughed. “There we go, now he’s interested. Should have known—you’re one of those scholar types, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty once again.”

  “Well, I can sort of explain to you how it works, but not completely. A lot of it is more art than science—instinct, you know? I assume Mr. Kolinsky told you about the way I work?”

  “He said you had…a particular and specific talent with this sort of thing.”

  Scuro nodded. “Yeah. I’m shit with most magic, but when I’ve got a pen or a tattoo gun in my hand, that’s when I’m in my element. I’m not humble about it—I’m the best, outside of a couple artists in Asia.” He leaned back, lounging in his chair with the air of a relaxed cat. “So, what do you say? You want to go for it? Oh—I warn you, it won’t be cheap. You get what you pay for, and like I said, I’m the best.”

  “That’s not an issue. I’d like to get started as soon as possible, actually. When is your next available opening?”

  “Well—if you want to do it all on one day, it’ll take an hour or so for the readings, another couple hours for the design, and two or three for the inking. I can fit you in early next week, if you want. Say, Monday night at nine? I don’t do days.”

  That would mean he’d likely have to take Tuesday off. Time to see if Martinez was serious about taking more time. “If that’s the soonest, then yes.”

  Scuro flowed gracefully up out of his chair. “Okay, then. Let me grab a few readings now so I can make sure I’ve got the right materials on hand. You’re okay with pain, right?”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine. I know it’s going to hurt.”

  “You might have heard inking hurts. It does. But that’s normal inking. This is different. It’s gonna hurt like hell, because I’m not only injecting ink like a regular tat. There’s a psychic component too—that’s what makes it work. I just want you to be ready for it—as much as you can be, anyway. I’ve seen bigger guys than you cry like babies and beg me to stop. You might want to bring somebody along for moral support.”

  Stone briefly wondered if Kolinsky had been one of those, but decided that couldn’t have been possible. “I’ll be fine,” he said again.

  “Suit yourself. No refunds, though, if I get halfway done and you can’t take it anymore.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Oh—and if you’re interested in hiding it, I can also make it so you can do that. Maybe even from magical sight, if you’re good enough. Only time it’ll show up is if you want it to, you get knocked out, or you’re casting.” He picked up something from his desk, tossed it back down, and grinned again. “Costs more, though—and hurts more, because it adds about an hour to the process. Up to you.”

  “Absolutely,” Stone said, relieved. “I can endure a bit more pain not to have women asking me uncomfortable questions during…intimate moments.”

  “Women. Damn.” Scuro’s grin widened. “So much for my next question. And I was gonna offer you a discount, too.”

  “Sorry,” Stone said, chuckling. “I’m afraid I’ll just have to pay full price.”

  “Ah, well, can’t blame a guy for trying. Monday at nine, then.”

  14

  Stone stopped by Kolinsky’s shop a little before noon the next day. “Had lunch yet? There’s a new Japanese place over on Hamilton I’ve been hearing about. Sorry I didn’t send an engraved invitation, but I’m buying, so—”

  “Thank you, Alastair. I accept.”

  “You know, it would be much easier to contact you if you’d get a bloody phone. I resisted getting a mobile for a long time, but I’m finding it quite convenient.”

  “You are assuming I wish to be easy to contact,” Kolinsky pointed out. With methodical care he organized his papers and closed his roll-top desk.

  “Yes, well. I’ve got some things I’d like to chat with you about. I suspect I’m going to be down quite a few favors by the time I’m finished, but I’m prepared for that.�
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  He didn’t say anything else about it until they were settled into a back booth at the little restaurant. Stone was glad he’d made reservations—apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d heard about its reputation. He let Kolinsky choose the wine and waited for the waiter to take their orders before he spoke. “So,” he said. “I talked to Scuro last night.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I’m going back up there on Monday night. Just getting something small for now. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “I think you will find it to be a good decision.”

  “I think so too.” He sighed, staring into his glass as he swirled it. “I don’t suppose Phoebe got back to you.”

  “Of course not. Anything that might have transpired between the two of you is none of my concern.”

  “It…didn’t go so well.”

  Kolinsky’s eyebrow rose. “Oh?”

  Stone shook his head without looking up. “I didn’t hurt her—just tired her out more than I’d planned. Lost control a bit, took too much power. I felt terrible about it.”

  As always, Kolinsky’s black eyes showed no judgment. “It does happen, especially the first few times. I would not be overly concerned about it. Do you see now that it won’t be possible for you to lose control and kill without intention?”

  “I suppose I do—but still. The way she looked…so exhausted and pale…I scared her, Stefan. I scared myself. She told me it was fine, but I could see it in her eyes, and her aura. I don’t want to risk doing that again.”

  “It is a choice you must make for yourself,” Kolinsky said. “But I know you, Alastair. You could no more give up magic than I could. You will find a way to cope. I have confidence in you. And it will become easier each time, as you grow more comfortable with your own requirements.”

  “I hope you’re right.” He raised his head and met Kolinsky’s gaze. “Anyway, that’s not why I asked you here. I need your help with something else. Something a bit less…personal in nature.”

  “And what is that?”