Game of Stone

by R. L. King

  “This is Verity, my apprentice,” Stone said quickly. “She offered to be moral support, though I think she’s more interested in watching you work.”

  “Ah. Interested in body art?” Scuro asked her.

  “Yeah. I want to get some work done someday.” She was looking at the photos of the custom work, and casting glances at Scuro’s own tattoos. “These are beautiful. It’ll be a long time before I could afford something like that, though.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. Anyway, come on—I’m all set up for you.”

  He took them back to the room where he and Stone had talked before. When he opened the door, both Stone and Verity stopped and stared in amazement.

  The room had been transformed. Where before it had been a fairly ordinary space containing a desk on one side and a lounge on the other, now the lights had been lowered so far on the desk side that it was no longer visible except as a dim shape in the darkness. Meanwhile, the lounge was enclosed within an intricate magical circle drawn by someone with obvious and significant artistic talent. The center of the circle included a large open space that held the lounge, a stool, and a tray of instruments that looked almost surgical. Flickering lit candles and glowing crystals in stands surrounded its perimeter. The whole scene had a certain macabre beauty, ominous but compelling. The heavy, medicinal smell of antiseptic soap hung in the air.

  “Wow,” Verity said.

  “Yeah. Took me most of the day to get that done. Helps channel the magic into the work, though, so it’s worth it.” Scuro motioned Stone over, then waved a hand and the lights came up in the desk area. “C’mon—let me get a few more readings from you. Just sit down right there.”

  Stone took the indicated chair, while Verity settled on a nearby sofa to watch.

  Scuro rolled his own chair until he was sitting directly in front of Stone, so close their knees were only an inch from touching. “Okay, this won’t take too long. Just sit still, and if you’re masking anything, don’t.” His gaze fuzzed out, a clear indication he had shifted to magical sight.

  Stone did the same thing, watching Scuro’s aura as he worked. The artist focused in on him, moving his hands around Stone’s upper body. As he did, his dark-violet aura shifted and deepened in its intensity.

  This part went on for nearly half an hour. Every five minutes or so Scuro would turn to his desk and make a note on a scrap of paper, then spin back and return to examining Stone. “Okay,” he said. “Now I need to you to cast something. Give me a weak light spell.”

  Still using magical sight, Stone raised a hand and summoned a faintly glowing globe of light around it.

  Scuro’s aura shifted again as he focused more deeply and made more notes. “Okay, now levitate something on my desk.”

  Again, Stone did as instructed, lifting a mug full of pens while continuing to watch the artist’s aura. Whatever Scuro was doing, it was fascinating to observe but impossible for Stone to classify.

  “One more. I need you to do something that’s difficult for you.”

  “That would be invisibility.”

  “Go for it. Keep it going until I tell you to stop or you can’t hold it anymore.”

  Stone cast the invisibility spell, which he’d always found hard to maintain since his apprenticeship days. After a minute he already felt his body growing tense, and after two minutes he was shaking. “I can’t—”

  “That’s okay. I got it. You can drop it now.”

  Relieved, Stone let the spell fade, still panting a little from the exertion. He hadn’t tried an invisibility spell since he’d gone black, and was somewhat disappointed to discover that it wasn’t any easier. His shoulders slumped as he slouched a bit in the chair.

  “Good, good,” Scuro said. “Okay, I think I’ve got what I need here. It’s gonna take me a little while to finish the design, and then we can get started. Go ahead and watch if you want, so you can see what I’m doing. Have some water, too.”

  Stone did want to watch, and so did Verity. They stood back out of Scuro’s way and observed as he sketched, referring occasionally to his notes as he worked.

  The process, Stone had to admit, was fascinating. As he watched the complicated design take form, he could see using magical sight that Scuro was incorporating bits of the readings he’d taken. Ultimately, he was designing a highly personalized bit of artwork that encapsulated what he’d learned of Stone’s essence. Startled, Stone realized about halfway through the process that what Scuro was doing was quite similar to something a Forgotten man he used to know, a man his friends called “Frank the Scribbler,” had done when he’d created a drawing that had allowed Stone to magically search for an individual he’d never met. The process was different, but the end result had many similarities.

  When Scuro finished and held up the completed piece, Verity whistled in amazement. “That’s beautiful,” she said.

  It was. Roughly circular in design and about four inches in diameter, it combined some of the standard symbols used in hermetic magic with a collection of custom touches—jagged points, triangles, complex bits of pseudo-Latin phrases, and other bits Stone had never seen before. Although Scuro and Stone had only interacted for a couple of hours today and during Stone’s last visit, the piece seemed to epitomize his personality in graphic form: his curiosity, his drive, his intensity, his cynicism—even his humor. It was hard to explain in words how it did that, but nevertheless it had. Even inked on a piece of paper the thing glowed to magical sight, and Stone immediately felt drawn to it as if it were already a part of himself. “Impressive indeed.”

  “Told you I was the best.” He stood and waved toward the circle with the lounge. “Shall we get started? Just slip off your shirt and get comfortable. Verity, let me get you another stool so you can watch.” He grinned. “You can hold his hand if he screams.”

  Stone sighed, but did as directed. He tossed his T-shirt on the sofa, stepped into the circle while taking care not to disturb any of its lines, and settled himself on the lounge. Despite the beauty of the design Scuro had created, he still had reservations about this. Once again, a quick mental image of Phoebe’s stricken face drove them off, though.

  “Okay,” Scuro said as he pulled on a pair of gloves and began preparing his tools and inks, “last chance to change your mind. Once I start, trust me, you’re not gonna want me to leave the design incomplete.”

  Stone wondered if the artist had picked up his hesitation from his aura. He glanced at the tool table, which glowed with magical energy. “Let’s do it,” he said firmly.

  “That’s the spirit.” Scuro patted Stone’s shoulder, then leaned in to begin.

  “You don’t use a stencil or anything?” Verity asked. “Or draw it on first with a pen?”

  “Don’t need to. That’s part of my talent—once it’s on the paper, it’s fixed in my head, and my hand. The flow of magic is as important as the actual ink design. Watch with magical sight—a lot of people think it’s pretty cool.”

  Stone took a couple of deep breaths and tried to relax. He was certain that Scuro had been exaggerating the level of pain the process would generate, but nonetheless he didn’t think having someone digging a needle around in his skin for three hours would be pleasant. He could endure a little pain, though—he could do it for Phoebe, and for anyone else he’d end up taking power from in the future.

  Scuro, it turned out, had not been exaggerating.

  Stone started to notice it about fifteen minutes into the session. So far he’d been lying back, watching the dancing energy with magical sight as Scuro’s tattoo gun buzzed over the upper left side of his chest. The pain was there but not too bad, like a series of bee-stings, and so far his meditation techniques were handling it well.

  Slowly, though, it began to get worse, going from bee-stings to cat claws to poking needles. By the time another thirty minutes had passed, Stone was having a hard time remaining still. Every stroke of Scuro’s gun felt like the artist was plunging a knife into his skin. Worse, the
sensation wasn’t mere physical pain—that would have been bad enough, but each stroke seemed to drive another bright nail into his soul. It was one of the strangest, and most unpleasant, feelings he’d ever experienced.

  “Doc, you okay?” Verity’s voice seemed to come from far away.

  “I’m all right,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

  For a moment, the pain lessened as Scuro drew back the tattoo gun. “You sure?” he asked.

  “You look pretty pale, and you’re shaking,” Verity said.

  “Just get on with it,” he ordered, his eyes still shut.

  He felt Verity squeeze his hand and then pull away. A moment later she was back, pressing a cold bottle of water into his hand. “Here. Drink this.”

  “Do it,” Scuro said. “We have a long way to go yet. Take a little break.”

  Gratefully, Stone sat up and downed the water, then ran his hand over his forehead. To his surprise, it was bathed in sweat and so was his hair.

  “You’re doing fine,” Scuro assured him. “Just relax. We’ve got all night to finish this.”

  Stone lay back again and handed the empty bottle to Verity. As agonizing as the process was, the thought of dragging it out for several more hours was worse. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  “You’re the boss.” Scuro glanced at Verity, who shrugged, and then began again.

  The next two hours were excruciating. Stone endured, more by sheer cussed willpower than anything else, because he didn’t want to have to come back again some other day and do this all over again. The poking knives became slashing knives, and the psychic pain increased until it seemed Scuro was methodically shredding everything that made him human. He was certain blood ran freely down his chest with each renewed slash, but couldn’t bring himself to check.

  He managed not to scream, which he took as a victory, but by the time Scuro pushed back and declared the design finished he’d passed out briefly twice, his whole body was bathed in sweat, and his skin, pale normally, had gone so white he looked more like a statue than a living man. At least he didn’t have blood running down his chest, as he’d feared. Only a few drops remained around some of the thicker lines.

  All the while Verity sat next to him, letting him grip her hand until he heard her wince, then he refused to do it any longer for fear he might break her bones. Each time he cracked his eyes open her expression was the same: worried, fearful, but full of resolve and determined to be there for him. He’d never admit it to her, but he was glad she’d insisted on coming along. Male pride aside, he wasn’t sure he could have handled this on his own.

  “There,” Scuro said, satisfied. His own forehead was dotted with sweat; he grabbed a nearby towel and swiped it across his face. Clearly, this process had taken its toll on him as well. He produced a mirror and offered it to Stone. “You made it. Take a look.”

  Stone, his hand still shaking, held up the mirror and examined the finished piece.

  If possible, it was even more beautiful than the version from the paper. He could see why it had taken so long: every line, from the broad strokes to the more delicate detail work, had been drawn with the skill of a master. The whole thing appeared to have been done in black ink to normal vision, but when he switched to magical sight it lit up with a rainbow of brilliant colors. As he continued to watch, it seemed almost to move on its own. Even the angry redness around all the lines barely detracted from the thing’s otherworldly beauty.

  “That’s…amazing,” he breathed.

  “Told you I do good work.” Scuro seemed pleased at the compliment, however. “Go ahead and try hiding it. It’s set up to sustain an illusion spell.”

  Stone didn’t feel much like doing magic at the moment, but he used a bit of power to generate the illusion. The tattoo faded until no sign of it remained—though he could definitely still feel it there, burning into his skin. He shifted again and winced as it returned. “How long is this going to hurt?” he asked.

  “Few days. I’ll give you a sheet for how to take care of it.” Scuro’s normally cheerful expression turned serious. “And I’d advise you to follow it. I don’t know if you know what happens to fresh ink when you don’t take care of it while it’s healing, but it’s ten times worse for magic ink. You don’t want that kind of infection, trust me.”

  “I wonder…” Verity was peering at Stone’s chest, studying the design and the redness around it. “I’m really good with healing—is there anything I can do?”

  “Hmm…” Scuro considered. “Never thought about that. Don’t see why not.”

  “I couldn’t hurt anything?”

  “Nope, not if you do it right.”

  She swiveled back to face Stone. “You want me to give it a try, Doc?”

  “Sure, if you like. I wouldn’t mind not feeling like someone’s poking me with knives for the next few days.” He lay back on the lounge.

  Verity leaned in, focused her concentration, and held her hand flat over Stone’s chest, about three inches away from touching. She closed her eyes and began murmuring to herself.

  After a few moments, Stone noticed the pain begin to lessen. It didn’t recede entirely—it still felt like a bad sunburn and she didn’t even touch the psychic component—but it was a damn sight better than it had been before she started. When she pulled back and lifted her hand, he saw that almost all of the redness had faded to a faint pink.

  “Nice work,” Scuro said, studying it with obvious approval. “Hey, you want a job?”

  She grinned. “Already got one and the commute would suck, but thanks. Is that better, Doc?”

  “Much. Thank you.”

  Scuro insisted on putting a bandage over it, and then made a point of gathering together everything that might have any of Stone’s blood on it into a small heap on the stainless steel tool table he’d been using. “Go ahead and take care of those, so you’ll be sure.”

  Stone was impressed. His mind on other things (like pain), he hadn’t even thought about the fact that he’d shed a reasonable amount of blood during the process. Good mages never left any fresh blood lying around. As he used a quick spell to neutralize it, he noticed the paper on which Scuro had initially drawn his design.

  It was blank now.

  Kolinsky had been right about this guy—he was a rare talent.

  He swung himself around to the edge of the lounge, hesitating to make sure he wasn’t going to faint. He felt much better now, after Verity’s ministrations, and was once again grateful he’d brought her along.

  “Thank you,” he told Scuro. “You do beautiful work.”

  “No problem. If decide you want more later, just come on back. Bring her with you, though,” he added, nodding toward Verity.

  Verity was silent as they walked back along the dark street toward the car after paying Scuro (Stone had tipped him handsomely on top of the substantial cash payment) and leaving the shop.

  “Are you all right?” Stone asked.

  “Yeah. Just…thinking about how horrible that must have been for you.”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t fun, but it’s over now. And if it does what it’s meant to do, it was worth it.”

  “You didn’t see you. I was really worried there for a while, especially when you passed out. You still look pale.”

  “Verity…” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not ever again. I’m still not sure how I’m going to bring myself to take power again. Not after what happened with Phoebe.”

  She gripped his hand. “You will. You’ll have to. You can’t give up magic. And remember, if it gets too bad, I’m always—”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I told you before not to bring it up. I’ll—figure something out. At least I’ve got a while now before I have to. I suppose I can always come back here and have more work done.”

  She said nothing, but as she walked along next to him, she didn’t pull her hand away.

  He didn’t either.

  19

&n
bsp; Stone was glad he’d had the foresight to take the next day off. He slept badly—even after Verity had taken most of the edge off the tattoo’s pain, it still burned enough to keep him awake, and what little sleep he managed to get was haunted by images of life-sized versions of the black figurines chasing him through a forest of bizarre inked dragon-creatures. It was well after dawn that he finally managed to get to sleep, and he didn’t drag himself out of bed until nearly noon.

  An indignant Raider faced him as he opened the bedroom door; he’d closed the cat out of the room last night since his favorite sleeping spot was on Stone’s chest. “Sorry, sorry,” he told him. “Can’t be helped. Perhaps I can buy you off with a bit of leftover lamb stew, yes?”

  Once again, he was surprised Blum still hadn’t called. At least it seemed the figurines, if they were still planning to incite more mayhem, allowed themselves a bit of a breather between incidents. This added to Stone’s theory that the first two in the storage locker had been activated out of their programmed order, but it still made him nervous. Without the corresponding white set, the increasingly violent acts could occur anywhere, and he’d have no way to anticipate them.

  Perhaps Kolinsky had come up with something. He wouldn’t have left a phone message, of course, but he’d been known to deliver handwritten notes, either by formal messenger or just left on Stone’s porch or at his office. A quick call to the department office up at Stanford verified that no such missive had been delivered there, and Stone found nothing on the porch but a hang-tag on the door from a new pizza delivery place. He stuck the tag in his back pocket and grabbed the mail, which he’d forgotten to pick up yesterday.

  He sorted through it as he walked back to the house, quickly glancing at each as he looked for Kolinsky’s familiar stiff, formal envelope with an old-fashioned wax seal.

  Nothing. Damn.

  He’d just closed the front door behind him when he spotted the bottom envelope in the stack. It was slim and bore the return address of a law firm in San Francisco.

  Curious now, he tossed the rest of the stack onto the breakfast bar and opened it.