by R. L. King
As if to punctuate this, the stranger jerked the car to the side of the road, hit the brakes, and threw it into park. “Drive,” he ordered, already getting out. He swayed on his feet, leaning on the hood. “Can’t—”
“You want me to—?” This guy he’d never met before wanted him to take the wheel? Things were getting weirder and weirder.
“You can drive, can’t you?” the stranger snapped.
“Yeah, but—”
“Then do it.” He was already staggering around the front of the car, and when Jason slid over, he dropped into the passenger seat and appeared to pass out, his head lolling against the window. His face was pale and Jason saw tiny drops of sweat on his forehead.
He looked back down the road where they’d just come from, halfway expecting the DMW kill squad to be approaching. Nothing there, but that could change any second. He jumped into the driver’s seat. “Where we going?” he demanded, hoping the stranger was conscious enough to reply.
“Palo Alto,” he said without opening his eyes. “I’ll be all right in a bit. Stay off the freeways, and tell me when you get there.”
Jason nodded. His heart rate was returning to normal now, as was his breathing. This beginning of a physical recovery brought with it the crash of everything that had just happened in the last few minutes. “What the—” he started. “How did—” He couldn’t seem to get out a coherent thought. The enormity of events threatened to overwhelm him. “You—they—”
“Hush now,” the stranger murmured. “Just drive. Let me rest for a bit. I’ll explain when we get where we’re going.”
That was hard for Jason to do, with about a hundred questions whirling around in his mind trying to force their way out. But he kept quiet, figuring he owed the stranger that much for saving his life. He drove instead, concentrating on watching both in front of them and behind and hoping that nobody bothered them. The car, which the logo on the steering wheel revealed to be a Jaguar, purred along obediently; he could feel the power under its hood, ready and waiting if he needed to punch it, but he hoped that he wouldn’t have to. His nerves were about as frazzled as they could be right now—any more shocks, and he was afraid he might just spontaneously combust or something.
Like that kid. That guy touched him and he—
No, don’t think about it. Just drive. Don’t think at all. It’s safer that way.
The stranger neither moved nor spoke for the next several minutes. Jason got the car back to El Camino—he didn’t know the area well enough to navigate all the way to Palo Alto on back streets. As soon as the territory started to look familiar, he ventured, “Uh—are you there?”
The stranger nodded, pulling himself to a more upright seated position. “I’m here. Going to have a frightful headache for a while, but that’s an occupational hazard.” He looked around, getting his bearings. “Ah, good, you made it. We’ll be there in no time now.”
“We’ll be—where?”
Instead of answering, the man gave him more directions. A right turn, and then another half-mile or so of wending their way down narrow, tree-lined streets, and the stranger reached across to trigger a garage-door opener on the sun visor on Jason’s side. “Here we are. Just pull in here.”
Jason did as he was told. The driveway sloped down into a single-car garage under what looked like a venerable, old two-story house. He stopped the car and handed the keys to the stranger, afraid to say anything because once he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Come on,” the man said. He was sounding much more aware now, though still tired. “I’m sure you’ve had quite a night of it, and I could do with a cup of tea—or p’raps something a bit stronger—myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he unlocked a door at the front end of the garage.
Jason followed him up a short flight of stairs. Inside, the stranger removed his overcoat and tossed it over a hall-tree, then led Jason into a kitchen that looked like it didn’t see much use. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning toward a small breakfast bar littered with books, newspapers, and an open phone book. “I’ll have this tea on in no time, and then we can chat.”
Jason perched cautiously on one of the stools. He put his head in his hands and shoved his hair back, feeling very much like his brain was trying to either shut down or fly into pieces.
To distract himself, he watched the stranger as he worked. He’d gotten the age right—somewhere in his early to middle thirties. He was tall and thin, dressed in jeans and a black fisherman’s sweater over a white T-shirt. Jason couldn’t see his face at the moment, but his hair was dark brown and stuck up in untidy spikes in the front.
In a few minutes, the kettle the man had put on was whistling merrily; he pulled out a couple of cups from a cabinet, puttered with them briefly, and set one in front of Jason. “Liquor cabinet’s in the other room,” he said. “Let’s go out there and sit down, and I’ll see about satisfying your curiosity before your head explodes. Amusing as that might be to watch, it would make a dreadful mess and Mrs. Olivera would flay me alive for ruining the carpet.”
Jason chose not to answer this, wondering if he’d cast his lot in with yet another insane person. He did seem to attract them lately. Instead, he picked up the steaming cup and followed the man down another hall into a large room.
“Sit anywhere you like,” the stranger said, dropping down into an ancient leather armchair near one of the room’s softly glowing lamps. “The good stuff’s in the cabinet over there by the fireplace.”
Jason just stared for a moment. He’d never seen a room anything like this, at least not outside of TV shows about people in England or somewhere in the old-money East. One of the four walls was lined with wooden bookshelves, with more shelves taking up the longest wall flanking a large brick fireplace. Every last inch of the shelves was full of books, weird-looking objects (was that a skull?), and neat stacks of old newspapers. More books were piled on the floor near the shelves. Heavy curtains covered a large window on the third wall. The furniture, from what Jason could tell in his limited experience with such things, was old, probably very expensive, and well-worn. The whole place looked like a cross between an old-fashioned library and an antique shop specializing in international oddities. Hesitating a moment, he opened the indicated cabinet, examined the contents, and pulled out a bottle three-quarters full of whiskey. He waved it questioningly at the man.
“Good choice. Dose me up. And sit down before you fall down. You look more done for than I feel.”
Jason again did as requested, pouring a healthy measure into the man’s teacup and another into his own. He put the bottle down on one of the small tables scattered around the room, then finally allowed himself to slump down on the overstuffed sofa in front of the window. It was strange, but now that he was (supposedly) safe and free to start asking questions, it was as if something had shifted his brain into neutral. He didn’t even know where to begin. Every time a question occurred to him, an even better one flitted by and knocked it out of the way. It was like trying to catch fish in rapids.
The stranger regarded him for a few moments over steepled fingers, and when it became obvious he wasn’t going to speak, smiled ruefully. “This is all a bit much to take, isn’t it? Believe me, you have my sympathy. Why don’t I start, shall I? Introductions are a good place to do that, I think. I’m Alastair Stone. And you are—?”
“Uh…Jason Thayer.”
The man gave him a sideways, searching look, but did not comment. “Jason Thayer. Excellent. Now we can stop calling each other ‘hey you.’” Alastair Stone sipped his tea and set the cup down on a side table. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I’ve a few of my own, but those can wait. Or, if you’d rather—” he pulled a pocket watch from his front pocket, consulted it, and returned it to its place. “—it’s late, and I’m sure you’re quite tired. You’re welcome to stay here until
morning, of course. You can—”
“No.” Jason shook his head. “No…I’ll never be able to sleep. I can’t—”
“Quite understandable,” Stone said. “You’ve seen rather a lot of new and baffling things tonight, haven’t you? I’ll wager you don’t even know where to start with your questions. I’ll do my best to answer as many as I can. Just pick somewhere and start, and we’ll go from there. And if you need more tea, or anything else, just let me know.”
Jason took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts for a few seconds, and plunged his mental hand into the rapids. He blurted out the first thing that popped into his mind: “What—what happened to Charles?”
“Charles.” Stone raised an eyebrow. “Was he your friend? Terribly sorry, by the way. If I’d arrived sooner, I might have been able to prevent that. Dreadful waste.” He shook his head, staring down into his teacup.
“Yeah…but—what happened to him? He was running away, and then—” He could feel himself starting to shake a little as the images flooded back into his mind. “They didn’t shoot him—I didn’t hear a shot—but…there was blood—everywhere—”
Stone nodded. “Hmm,” he said after a moment. “I may have to alter my approach. This will be hard enough for you to digest without giving it to you in scattershot bits and pieces. Let’s try this: tell me what you saw tonight.”
Jason contemplated that for several seconds, still trying to organize his thoughts. He poured another healthy shot of whiskey into his teacup (there was more whiskey than tea in there now by a good margin) and took a large swig. “Do you—know me?” he asked at last. “Do you know who I am?”
“Let’s just assume for the moment that I don’t,” Stone said. “Start at the beginning—or at least the beginning of when you got to that warehouse, and why you were there in the first place.”
“I was—looking for my sister. Verity.” Speaking in halting fits and starts, he gave Stone a brief version of his search, culminating in what had happened at the warehouse. “We think they were there, but it looked like maybe they’d left in a hurry,” he finished.
“Any idea why?”
This was all sounding so utterly normal that Jason had almost managed to fool himself into believing that it wasn’t all going to take a left turn into the Twilight Zone any minute now. He hung onto these last moments of sanity like a drowning man clutches at a life preserver. “Well, it wasn’t long before the DMW showed up. They were the gang,” he added. “Dead Men Walking, Charles told me. I guess they’re big around here.”
“I’m familiar with them,” Stone said with a small, wry smile. “Go on…”
“That was about when you showed up,” Jason said. His gaze, which had been roaming around the room without registering anything, locked on Stone. He leaned forward. “What did I see back there? What the hell happened to Charles? What happened to that kid? What did you do to them? Because I know what I thought I saw, and I know there’s no way that could have been what I really saw. Not unless I’m going as delusional as my sister.”
Stone’s expression didn’t change. “What did you think you saw?”
Nearly a minute passed in silence. Something in the back of Jason’s mind was telling him that if he put it into words—if he let it out into the real world—then he would go insane. Normal sane people couldn’t even afford to pretend to believe stuff like what he’d seen.
“Jason,” Stone said, his voice gentle. “I know it’s difficult for you. I’m not going to lie to you—there’s nothing I can do about the fact that none of this will be easy. Might as well have it out, though. I can see it’s not sitting well in there.”
Jason felt his breathing picking up, his heart starting to beat faster. At that moment, finding Verity was the farthest thing from his mind. “He—” he said at last “—the gang dude… he…grabbed the kid…then he pointed at Charles…His hand glowed…” His voice shook as he pictured it again. He suspected that particular image was going to be the main attraction in his nightmare theater for quite some time to come.
Stone said nothing, waiting.
“—he…his…Blood came out of his head. Out of his eyes…” His gaze bored into Stone, begging him to provide some explanation that made sense. Spontaneous catastrophic stroke, long-range sniper—he would have accepted anything that sounded even vaguely plausible. When Stone still didn’t reply, he forced himself to go on: “And he screamed. And…and…” This time he didn’t even make a pretense of putting scotch in the tea. He picked up the bottle with shaking hands and took a swig straight from it.
“And what?”
“And…the kid…The kid screamed too, at the same time. I—I was watching Charles, but…I looked back at the gang guy and…the kid just…disappeared. He screamed, and then there was a flare of light and he was gone.”
Stone’s expression grew grimmer. “Indeed. You’re sure about this?”
“I’m not sure about anything anymore!” Jason’s voice rose, pitching higher than his normal tone as he tried to suppress his instinct to bolt from the room. He didn’t want to hear any more. He didn’t want to think anymore. By sheer act of will, he pushed the instinct down. “I…I’m pretty sure that’s what I saw,” he said dully.
“Okay,” Stone said. “All right. Go on. I think that was about the time I arrived on the scene.”
Jason nodded. He stared at his hands in his lap; they were still shaking. “They—the gang, I mean—I looked at them. They were all…” He took a deep breath and swallowed. “Their faces…they all looked like they’d just—” his eyes flicked up for a second and then back down “—like they’d just had some kind of—freaky orgasm.” He glanced up again, gauging how Stone would react to that.
He didn’t, except to nod. “And then—?”
“And then you showed up. I got in the car. They were gonna throw one of those grenade things at us. I yelled, and then—” He took a deep breath and stepped the rest of the way over the abyss “—and then you—pointed your hand at them and the grenade hit something and bounced back.”
“Right,” Stone said, nodding again.
“And we got out of there.” Jason shrugged, thinking a moment, then added, “Oh—and there was the shimmery thing.”
For the first time, a flicker of an expression crossed Stone’s eyes. “Shimmery thing?”
Jason nodded. “Didn’t you see it? After the grenade bounced back and blew up in their faces, I saw the air kind of—shimmer—over them. Something flew up out of them.” He stared at Stone. All this time the man had seemed to have everything under control and failed to be shocked or even affected by anything Jason had said, which had been strangely comforting. But now— “You didn’t see it?”
Stone shook his head. “No. But by that point my concentration was fairly buggered. Interesting…” He sat back, and his gaze went to a thousand-yard stare for several seconds. Then he switched back on. “Interesting indeed.”
“What’s it mean?”
“No idea,” Stone said cheerfully, shrugging. “P’raps nothing. Might have just been a trick of the light.” He finished his tea and set the cup down. “All right, then. I’m sure you’ve got more questions. Though I’m not sure if you’d be better off without hearing the answers. It’s up to you.”
Jason stared at Stone, realizing he was giving him an out. If he so chose, he could just get up, thank Stone for getting him out of a bad situation, and walk out into the night. He could just pretend none of this had happened. Of course, that still meant he had no idea where Verity was. And the DMW were after him now for sure, so whatever weirdness he’d experienced tonight wasn’t likely to be an isolated incident, unless he just gave up on Verity and took the next bus back home to Ventura. He sensed that he was looking at an open door in front of him, and he had no idea what was on the other side. If he stepped through, it would slam shut behind him—and there would be no going back.
/>
He did allow himself to feel a few seconds of regret before he made the only choice that he knew was available to him. “I have to know,” he said at last.
Again, a flicker of something—was it satisfaction? Approval?—flitted across Stone’s face. “Ask away, then.”
The “blurt now, think later” style of questioning had worked before, so Jason saw no reason to change it now. “What—happened to Charles? How did that guy kill him?”
“Magic,” said Stone.
Chapter Twenty
Jason stared at him, momentarily rendered speechless. If he’d said “pancakes,” or “universal joints,” or “Martian death rays,” the sentence wouldn’t have sounded any more outlandish to him. “Magic,” he said, glaring. “You’re screwin’ with me, aren’t you? A nice fun round of ‘let’s fuck with the crazy guy’?”
Stone’s own gaze was quite steady. “Do I look like I’m screwing with you, Jason?”
Watching his last chance to hang on to sanity slipping away, Jason shook his head. “No. You don’t. And that’s what scares the shit out of me.” He let the silence hang for a long time, then looked back up. “So—you’re saying Charles was killed by magic. That the gang dude—cast a spell at him. Like in the movies. Merlin the Magician and all that.”
Stone chuckled. “Not much like that, no. But I assure you, magic is entirely real, and entirely dangerous.”
“And you know this how—?” Jason wasn’t sure he wanted Stone to answer, and very much afraid he already knew what the other man was going to say.
“I think you’ve already figured that part out, haven’t you?” Stone said softly, leaning forward a little in his chair.
“You’re one of them too, aren’t you? A—wizard or something.”
That got another chuckle. “I prefer to call myself a mage, but yes. I am.”
Oh, shit. Yeah, Jason was firmly entrenched in the Twilight Zone now, and sinking fast. “So—you can—kill people by making blood come out their eyes?” He knew even as he said it that it shouldn’t even make the first page of questions that were busily poking at the inside of his skull, but he spit it out anyway.