Blood from Stone

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Yes, that was much my reaction, as well.” The old man finished his wine and a waiter was there to refill it soundlessly. He waited until the server had finished and left them alone before continuing. “However, it appears that this is a different sort of stone. Rather than transmuting base metal into precious, it turns inert into active. It gives life.”

  All of Sergei’s warning signals were chiming quietly, not quite at full alert but completely aware and quiver-ing. A magical item that could convey life? You could interpret that a lot of ways, none of them good for them, right now. Wren joked about it, but it was true: Once was an accident. Twice was not-a-coincidence. Three times meant fecal matter was in the air vents.

  “A valuable thing, if it’s true. And they came to you, thinking that you might have some word of it?”

  “And I come to you, knowing that you have a reputation as a man who can determine if something is truth or falsehood.” The old man never asked where Sergei got his information from, and vice versa: it was one of the reasons they were able to do business.

  “There is, to the best of my knowledge, no such thing as the philosopher’s stone.” It might exist. It might not. Sergei knew too much to say he knew everything about the supernatural world, but neither Wren or P.B. had ever even implied that any such thing might exist, not even in the most wistful of wishings. And he had heard them wistful and wishing—mostly about money—many, many times. A stone that might give life…that he would have heard mention of. Sergei was certain of it. So, he could say without any falsehood that there was no such thing as a philosopher’s stone, flesh or otherwise.

  He prayed that was enough for the old man.

  “You’re being cagey. When you are cagey it means that there is something under the words that intrigues you, but you don’t want me to know.”

  Damn. He started to frame an explanation that said nothing, and was stopped by the old man’s laughter. He waved a fork at Sergei, still chuckling. “I have no need for any such stone. I have more money than my advisors know what to do with, and more grandchildren than I can spoil with that money. Wealth and flesh have already been kind to me, I desire no more.”

  The two men looked at each other across the white linen and white china, and neither one of them blinked.

  “I would like to know if such a thing exists, merely to have something to discuss with the good Lord when I go,” the old man said. “You will find out, and you will tell me. And I will carry that knowing to my grave. In return, I give you the names of the men making the inquiries, and the specifics of what they claim. Agreed?”

  Sergei trusted the old man as far as he could throw him, but he could probably throw him a reasonable distance. And this…sounded as though it might be what they were looking for: the names of whoever had coerced the demon who had sent P.B. that letter.

  “Agreed.”

  They raised glasses at each other, and sipped in perfect accord.

  He should have gone directly back to Wren with his information. Should have, and didn’t. Sergei left the restaurant, having turned down the offer of an excellent cognac, and found himself walking up Fifth Avenue, covering ground at a steady pace, moving past casual pedestrians without even seeing them.

  He should be heading downtown, not up. There was nothing uptown that related to this situation.

  Maybe that’s why he found himself heading there.

  Somewhere in the sixties he realized what he was doing, and made a left turn, heading into the green space of Central Park.

  Almost immediately, the change of atmosphere soothed him. He left the roadway and strolled much more slowly along the curving paths. Joggers and the occasional mounted rider went by and while he could still hear the traffic outside, it seemed miles away rather than yards. More than eight hundred acres, all for free, and the last time he had been here purely for pleasure was…

  He couldn’t remember. It had been summer, but he didn’t remember if it was last summer, or the year before, or…

  That had been the last time life was quiet enough to just take a walk for pleasure, no pressing needs or life-threatening crisis.

  And you didn’t have anyone to walk with, then, he reminded himself. Would you change it?

  No. He was not the sort of man meant to go through life alone, no matter what his earlier years had brought him. Much as he’d fought it, Wren, and P.B., and the rest of their insane extended community was his community now, too. Which meant that their problems were his problems.

  The philosopher’s stone. Creating life, not wealth. People would pay well for such a thing. Pay—or kill.

  Sergei felt a sigh building in his chest. It was possible, entirely possible that the information he had in his wallet had nothing whatsoever to do with P.B., or the materials that Wren was set to Retrieve. Possible, but probably not probable. One, two, three things intersecting. There was no such thing as coincidence where the Cosa Nostradamus was concerned.

  “Hey. Partner-man.”

  Sergei felt the pinecone hit his shoulder the same instant the guttural call caught his attention. He looked up and was greeted with the sight of a small, grayish-green figure sitting on a tree branch about a foot above his head. Wild orange hair—a color not found in nature or supernature—spiked madly around the ugly little face, and one thin arm was wrapped around a squirrel, who was watching him with equally bright black eyes.

  It wasn’t the first time he had been addressed directly by a piskie, but it never felt comfortable. Piskies actually liked humans as a species, being one of the few Fatae-breeds who did, but they liked them as subjects for their practical jokes as much as anything else. As a Null, Sergei was well aware of the fact that he had few defenses against those pranks, or anything worse.

  But then, he really only needed one: he was The Wren’s partner-man. The Wren was friends with the demon P.B. And the piskies, for whatever reason, adored P.B. Wren had asked the demon about that once, and gotten a very vague hand-waving shoulder-shrugging response. If Sergei didn’t know the demon better, he would have said that it was embarrassed.

  “Partner-man,” the piskie said again, more urgently. He knew they had individual names, but personally couldn’t tell one from the other. They all looked like Kewpie dolls to him.

  “Yes?” He was cautious, but polite in responding. He really didn’t want any more pinecones—or worse—thrown at him.

  “You be careful, partner-man.”

  “Any particular reason why, or just a general warning?” It could be anything, knowing piskies, up to and including a prank they themselves had planned.

  “Whispers. Whispers in the ground, rising on the wind.” The piskie made a face, as if it couldn’t believe it was saying what it was saying. “Old history, blood and stone. It should have been left in the old world, but it’s coming here. Bad cess.”

  “Could you be a little less obscure?” Sergei couldn’t resist asking, and the piskie grinned, showing small sharp teeth.

  “No,” it said. With an impossible leap, it disappeared into the higher branches.

  Abandoned, the squirrel stared at Sergei for another moment and then, with a scolding chrrruup chrrrruup, disappeared, as well, if not quite so gracefully.

  “Great.” Sergei kept walking, not even bothering to keep an eye out for further interruptions from above. The piskie had said what it wanted to say.

  “Whispers in the ground, rising on the wind.” It sounded like something one of Jimmy’s fortune cookies would say. “Blood and stone.” That had him more concerned. Stones again. Was that the same as the philosopher’s stone the old man had mentioned?

  “It has to be. Coincidence and Cosa don’t go together, never have.”

  He took the sheet of paper out of his pocket, and fumbled for his glasses, putting them on so that he could read the handwritten notes without holding the paper at arm’s length.

  Two names: Rogier Kees and Jef van Deuren. Dutch passports: Dutch nationals, although the first, Kees, had arrived a week
ago from Canada. He had taken a room at the Midtown Hilton. Despite the high-ticket room, he wasn’t splashing money around: the room had been booked using points. Interesting. Van Deuren showed up only the day before, and his room was paid for with a credit card. The two of them met for breakfast each day since then, and then went their own ways. Kees would return to his room and work the phones and computer systems all day, while van Deuren appeared to be making a more direct approach. According to the information Sergei had been given, he was making personal calls to every veterinarian in the city, working a sweep pattern from the Upper East Side across and down to the financial district, asking about any unusual animals treated lately. Specifically, white-furred animals.

  Sergei felt his lips twitch, despite himself. If they were looking for P.B., they really had no clue. A veterinarian? The demon had a massage therapist he saw every few months; Sergei had heard Wren teasing him about that once, but otherwise the entire concept of medical attention was nonexistent. In fact, Sergei wasn’t even sure if it was possible to damage the demon with sheer brute force; his bones were so solid you could drop him out of a third-story window and he’d probably bounce up and land on his feet without a bruise, and any flesh wounds could be healed by a halfway decent Talent. They were crap at healing internal injuries, although he’d never quite understood the explanation why, but mending cuts and breaks was nothing. Even Wren could manage that, and she had trouble applying a bandage properly.

  But they were clearly looking for P.B., and with bad intent. What the demon had to do with the legend of the philosopher’s stone, Sergei didn’t know; it was enough that these Dutchmen made a connection to make him worry. Creating life—or possibly saving life, against the ravages of current? Did they think that P.B. was that stone, that his ability to bond with a Talent…? Possible. Very possible. Damn.

  The demon might be physically tough, but anyone could be killed, if you brought the right tools to the party and he would not go quietly if someone tried to shove him into the back of a van.

  Outsiders, and Fed, and Cosa, oh, my. Bad combination. This might be the one to finally give him an ulcer.

  “Start with the immediate problems and work out from there,” he said, focusing his thoughts. That meant the job they had been hired to do. “If this creator was a Frankenstein of sorts, creating life from random bits, then it might make sense that someone might assume that he had a magical object that allowed him to do this.” The ironic thing was that, according to P.B., Mary Shelley had it right: there was less magic and more science involved, although only if you assumed that it was electricity rather than current that had animated the monster….

  “This dermo makes my head hurt,” Sergei muttered, refolding the paper and putting it back into his pocket and looking at his watch, a wafer-thin gold indulgence that had somehow managed to survive several years of close contact with Wren. “Almost quitting time,” he said, although he had told Lowell this morning not to expect him back at the gallery the rest of the day. “Maybe I’ll—”

  “Sergei Didier?”

  It was nice to know that his reflexes were still what they used to be, even if his eyesight wasn’t quite. The small pistol he had started carrying again—despite Wren’s silent but pronounced distaste—was out and aimed at the speaker by the time the last syllable of his name—horribly mispronounced, Sergei noted in passing, was uttered.

  The sight of his handgun triggered an instant re action—the woman reached into her own jacket, and then froze, as though realizing how that kind of motion could be interpreted.

  “You are Sergei Didier, then,” she said, not moving.

  “I am going to take out my identification, all right?

  Please don’t shoot me.”

  He nodded, alert to everything going on around them, in case anyone else happened to stop by, either to “help” his would-be assailant, or misguidedly at tempt to protect her from the guy with the gun.

  She took out a thin wallet, and offered it to him, letting the flap drop open.

  Sergei sighed, and put his gun away, but didn’t relax or let down his guard. “How can I help you, Agent…

  Chang?”

  “Anea, please.”

  Sergei eyed her carefully. “Agent Chang. Your reason for accosting me in the middle of my walk?”

  She was tall, for an Asian woman. The last name suggested Chinese, but her features made him think Thai, and her eyes, huge and dark, were almost Amerindian.

  Her hair was short, thick, and had interesting reddish highlights in the blackness. And her first name…

  “Heinz 57,” she said, obviously used to people trying to size her up. “Chinese father, Irish-Cherokee mother. Like yourself, proof that the genetic pool works better when stirred regularly.”

  He grinned. She was attractive and sharp, apparently.

  “Please. A few moments of your time.”

  Attractive and sharp didn’t automatically earn trust, especially when they came with a badge.

  “A few minutes may be more than we need. Am I in trouble of some sort? Did Lowell screw up a customs invoice?” He put on his best Important Businessman face, his voice promising dire results for any peon who ruined his afternoon with misfiled paperwork.

  “This isn’t about the gallery, Mr. Didier.”

  “Di-dee-eh,” he corrected her. She took it in stride.

  “Thank you. Please. I would like to ask you a few questions about your other business. And your associate, Ms. Valere.”

  Any pretense of sociability evaporated as his suspicions were confirmed. Agent Chang had been the government sniff Danny warned them about. Idiot, to have made the assumption the agent was male. The fact that Wren and P.B. did the same was no comfort.

  “Genevieve? What has the girl gotten herself into now? I’m afraid that while we are close, I’m not—”

  He stopped. Agent Chang was smiling at him and he got the feeling that she was resisting the urge to applaud.

  “I’m not here to bust you, Didier.” She got the pronunciation right, this time. “Or your partner, for that matter. If I wanted to do that I would not have come alone, or without the appropriate paperwork without which you would be savvy enough to shut me down. I’m not interested in either of you as such, and have no intention of causing trouble.”

  “Officially.”

  She smiled again and shrugged. “Officially, I’m not even in Manhattan.” The smile faded. “That can change, if I feel the need. But I’d rather keep this all…civilized. A mutual friend of ours suggested that I contact you. He seemed to think that we could be of…shared benefit.”

  There was the sound of a pinecone dropping, somewhere behind him. Sergei resisted the urge to look up. He had a pretty good idea what was lurking overhead, and while he appreciated the implicit offer of help, somehow he didn’t think that an aerial piskie attack was going to help matters.

  “This mutual friend…he wouldn’t happen to—” He was about to ask if he had horns and hooves, but stopped himself in the nick of time. Danny wasn’t outed to everyone, despite what it seemed like sometimes. “To be a former NYPD officer, currently masquerading as a pain in the ass?”

  Her smile became a little warmer. “That would be Danny-boy, yes.”

  Sergei relaxed, a little, at the same time making a mental note to throttle the Fatae for his miserable sense of humor. A Fed sniffing around—because that damned faun set her to sniffing! And the bastard had to move them around like chess pieces rather than making like a yenta and introducing them formally. Oh, yes, Danny was going to suffer for this one.

  Although, to be fair, it seemed unlikely he would have agreed to just meet, if Danny had suggested it. She must have been trailing him…how long? Never mind, it didn’t matter.

  “Do you think Uncle Sugar will float us a cup of coffee then, if we’re being civilized?” he said, moving forward, out of the potential range of aerial assault by overanxious piskies, and forcing her to keep her attention on him. No matter who sen
t her, she was still Federal, and therefore to be kept as far away from the Cosa as he could manage. For her own safety, as well as theirs.

  She obviously knew she was being herded, but thankfully kept her attention at ground level, casting a quick and almost-unobtrusive glance around before returning her full attention to him. She wasn’t expecting flying small-and-uglies, then. A fact to remember.

  “I’d rather not sit anywhere we might be overheard, Mr. Didier. And I suspect that you feel the same. So let us continue your walk, by all means. Merely two people joining steps on this lovely day.”

  He suspected mockery, but her almond-shaped eyes were clear and met his gaze without hesitation.

  “You’re leading in this dance,” he said, if less than graciously, and indicated that they should proceed.

  “It has, indeed, been a dance. I have been looking for you for several years now.”

  “I’m in the phone book. Well, the gallery is anyway.”

  “That is only useful if one has a name or an identity to start with. I did not. All I had was—”

  “A photograph,” he said, deciding not to waste any time tap-dancing.

  “Yes.” She took his comment with only a slight hitch in her step, and none at all in her voice. There were fewer joggers passing them by now; only an occasional mother with a stroller, or an older couple power walking. “Although those came later, after I had already developed an interest in, shall we say, a certain number of interesting occurrences, here and elsewhere in the States?”

  “You can say whatever you want,” he told her.

  “Yes. Well, I started looking into those occurrences as part of my day job. You specifically only came into play when a number of eyewitness reports placed you and your companion on location during a number of incidents in which certain branches of the government have a more than passing interest.”

  “Certain branches whose interests you represent?”