Mortal Imperative: An Alastair Stone Urban Fantasy Novel (Alastair Stone Chronicles Book 24)

by R. L. King

  Mortal Imperative

  Alastair Stone Chronicles: Book Twenty-Four

  R. L. King

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

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  Books by R. L. King

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by R. L. King

  Mortal Imperative: Alastair Stone Chronicles Book Twenty-Four

  First Edition, December 2020

  Edited by John Helfers

  Cover Art and Design by Gene Mollica Studio

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, except by agreement with the vendor of the book. If you would like to share this book with another person, please use the proper avenues. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  The first time it happened, he brushed it off.

  He had a lot going on in his mind. Many simultaneous projects—research, spell design, historical study—progressing at once. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have books and other research material lying open in multiple rooms of his massive old home, waiting for him to return to them as if he’d never left. Sometimes days, or even weeks, could pass between times when he revisited a project, and in every case all it took was for him to take a quick glance through the material. That would always bring it back instantly to his mind.

  Always…until recently.

  He had been researching some ancient magical techniques, using tomes he’d bought for a pittance from a fool in Estonia who’d had no idea what he had. After he’d properly preserved them, he’d left several of them open on his heavy wooden study table in one of the upstairs chambers, waiting for his return. The servants knew better than to touch any of them, and gods forbid he’d ever allow any pets or children in his home. Too chaotic, both of them.

  He swept into the room, intending to study a particular passage in one of the larger books, which he’d left on a stand in the middle of the table.

  It wasn’t there.

  He stopped, staring at the space, clenching his fists. Then he roared for his household manager.

  The man was panting when he appeared in the doorway, his face wreathed in fear and confusion. Several strands of his normally perfectly-combed, graying hair hung loose over his forehead. “Yes, Herr Richter? Is something wrong?”

  Elias Richter stabbed a long finger toward the table. “There was a book here, Felix. Did you move it?”

  Felix’s expression shifted from confusion to mild offense. “Of course not, sir. I would never move one of your books. I certainly know better.”

  Richter ground his teeth. Felix did know better. The man, a mundane from a magical family who was well familiar with his odd and rigid rules, had been with him for over twenty years, and never once had he even shifted any of his employer’s collection a few inches to the side to make room for something else, let alone moved it from wherever Richter had left it.

  “Call the staff,” he snapped. “Gather them all. Now.”

  Felix, looking unsettled, hurried to comply.

  Twenty minutes later, Richter paced in front of all of them in the dining room like a drill sergeant reviewing his troops. There were fifteen of them in all—housekeepers, cooks, maids, groundsmen, the mechanic who kept his cars running smoothly, and his personal valet—all dressed in their formal, spotless uniforms and looking at him in as much confusion as Felix had.

  Richter studied them, magical sight active, examining their auras. All of them shone bright and clear, with only a few faint red flashes indicating their apprehension. He was a good employer, as long as they remembered their place and did their jobs diligently and well. But all of them knew of his temper, too, and the potential consequences of angering him.

  “One of my books has been moved,” he said crisply, stopping to face them. “It was in the upstairs study in the north wing. I had left it on the table, open on a book stand. It is not there now. Which of you moved it?”

  The servants exchanged glances. The fear in their auras increased a bit, but nobody’s flared. They all looked back at Richter and said nothing.

  “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “One of you must have done it. I will be forgiving if the guilty party admits it. Mistakes do happen on occasion—someone must have forgotten the rules.” That was unlikely. The newest staff member, one of the maids, had joined his employ over two years ago.

  When no one answered, he pointed at the senior housekeeper. “You. Did you move the book, Wilma?”

  “No, sir,” she said instantly. “I would never move one of your books. I know better.”

  This time, her aura didn’t budge.

  Richter let his breath out. He could feel all their eyes on him, not meeting his gaze directly but watching him for any signs of sudden, explosive anger. They all remained with him partially out of loyalty, partially because he paid them very well—but also, he was sure, because they feared what he might do if they tried to leave his employ.

  He swept his gaze along their straight line, settling for a second on each face, then narrowed his eyes. “All right, then. None of you will admit it, which I find disturbing. But I will give you a final chance. I will leave the study unoccupied until this evening at nine o’clock. During that time, if the guilty party returns the book to its place, there will be no further repercussions. If it is not returned, however, I will subject each of you to a magical examination you will not find pleasant, until I have identified the culprit. That person will not only lose their position, but I would not like to think about what other fate might befall them. Do I make myself clear?”

  The staff exchanged glances again. All of them nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” Wil
ma said.

  “Dismissed.” Richter waved a languid hand at them all. “You stay, Felix.”

  They filed out, moving slowly enough to preserve their dignity, but quickly enough to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. In less than a minute only Felix remained, standing at calm attention in front of Richter.

  “This is a conundrum, Felix,” Richter said, pacing. “I’ve read all their auras, and none shows any sign of guilt.”

  Felix didn’t answer.

  Richter wheeled on him. “You’ve got something on your mind. Say it.”

  “Sir—”

  “Say it, Felix.” His voice took on a dangerous edge.

  Felix swallowed. “Sir…is it possible—even remotely so—that you might have…misplaced it?” He met Richter’s gaze as if bracing for impact. “You have so many projects going at once, perhaps—”

  “I did not misplace it,” Richter snapped. He quelled the urge to sweep his hand and send the man crashing headfirst into the nearest wall. Good servants were hard to find, and Felix’s loyalty was unquestioned. “Someone moved it, and if they know what is good for them, they will make it right.”

  “Yes, sir.” Felix bowed his head. “I hope they do. Forgive me. May I return to my duties now?”

  “Yes, go.” He waved dismissal, and the man hurried out.

  Richter watched him go with an unwholesome smile. He knew what he’d told the staff, but if they trusted him, that was their problem. He’d never been forgiving of any transgressions against his rules among his people. Only two had ever broken any of them, and they had disappeared without a trace. He’d told the rest of the staff that they’d quit and moved on, but he didn’t think they believed him.

  Best if they didn’t believe him. It would help keep the rest of them in line.

  He hurried up to the study. It took only a few moments to put simple wards on the door and the room’s only window, designed to immobilize anyone other than him who attempted to enter. Whoever had moved his book, if they tried to rectify their error, would be held like a fly in amber until he returned. And whoever it was—up to and including loyal old Felix—would find out why it was unwise to disobey him.

  He deliberately stayed away from the north wing until after nine, giving the transgressor the full allotment of time to reveal him- or herself. At nine-fifteen he hurried up the stairs, alight with anticipation. Who would it be? Wilma? One of the chefs? Ruta, the comely young maid who’d made awkward attempts to flirt with him? Who would he find stuck in the doorway, waiting in growing terror for him to arrive?

  No one was there.

  The doorway was as empty as it had always been, the door standing open to reveal the study beyond.

  Richter stopped, frowning.

  None of them had come? He was so sure one of them would.

  Perhaps the fear had been too much for them. Perhaps the guilty party would attempt to flee the house.

  No matter if they did. Even if they did leave, he could still find them.

  He strode into the room, looking around. Everything was just as he’d left it. All the other books and scrolls he’d left on the table were still there, and the empty bookstand still stood in the middle of the table, as if mocking him.

  How dare the staff try to get away with this? He would call them all together again, take them from their leisure time, discover which, if any of them, had fled. He would—

  He had been scanning the room as his anger grew, raking his gaze across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining two of the walls. He was about to turn away when something caught his eye.

  Hurrying to the shelf, he snatched the item from where it was shelved halfway up the wall. He gripped it tightly in both hands, staring at it in shock.

  How could this be?

  How could his missing book be right there on the shelf?

  He shifted to magical sight. No sign of any energy swirled around it.

  Had one of the servants returned it earlier?

  But that was impossible. His bookshelves were all enchanted so no one but him or someone he designated could remove or place anything on them. Richter had a precise, highly personal system for arranging his books. It wouldn’t have been possible for one of the staff to return one of them there.

  He paused in the center of the room, still holding the book. He paged through it, barely noticing the contents, and then closed it again.

  No one had entered the room since he’d placed the ward.

  No one could have reshelved the book.

  That left only one answer: that he’d done it himself, and forgotten about it.

  That was absurd, though. He never forgot anything. He prided himself on his well-ordered, disciplined mind, where every thought had its precise location, and every action was undertaken with utmost care. He never did anything without intent.

  But yet…here he was. And here was his book, right there on the shelf, where no one else could have put it.

  He let his breath out and resettled the book on the stand.

  Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps he needed a break. As much as he was loath to admit it, he wasn’t a young man any longer. There was no shame in needing a bit of rest.

  He didn’t say anything more to the staff about the matter, and of course none of them ever brought it up.

  The second time it happened, a growing fear began to gnaw at the back of his mind.

  A month had passed since the incident with the book, and life had returned to normal in the household. The only concession Richter had made to perhaps needing a bit of rest was to cut his current projects from six to three, prioritizing the most important ones over the others, and curtailing some of his travel in favor of remaining closer to home. It was a workload that would have broken most men half his age, but compared to what he was accustomed to, it felt like a holiday.

  He often stayed up late working on his projects, preferring the still silence of the night to the busy bustle of the day. Now, at nearly two a.m., he sat at his desk examining a scroll that contained the instructions for an intricate ritual he had been planning to modify. It was something one of his associates had sent him, and which he had not found the time to study until now.

  He pored over the complicated diagrams, committing them to memory, already beginning to turn them over in his mind to look for ways in which he could bend the ritual to his needs. With barely a thought he summoned one of his books from the shelf, intending to check a reference that might prove helpful in his efforts.

  He pushed the scroll aside and opened the book, paging through it until he reached the section he was looking for. Perhaps if he used the technique described in these pages, he might be able to…

  He blinked in surprise.

  He couldn’t remember the diagrams he’d just looked at, less than a minute ago.

  He snatched the scroll back and looked at it again. Of course. How could he have forgotten that? It was simple, really.

  His hand shook as he held the scroll. He had forgotten them, though.

  That might not have seemed odd to anyone else, but Elias Richter had a superb memory. It was one of the things that had made him such an exemplary mage for nearly a hundred years. Mages’ minds were trained and sharpened throughout their apprenticeships, and any who wanted to excel at magic were careful to continue honing this ability. Raw magical talent was a valuable resource, but at least for the type of formula-based, mathematically-precise magic Richter practiced, a sharp mind was perhaps even more important.

  He looked at the scroll again. The diagrams still made sense—it wasn’t as if he was staring at them and seeing nothing he understood, like a first-year mathematics student looking at an advanced calculus text—but he found he was having a harder time than usual keeping the images fixed in his mind. They seemed to drift away as soon as he took his eyes off them, unless he concentrated hard on keeping them in place.

  I am merely tired, he thought, but the tiny, clawing feeling in the back of his head did not ebb away. I should
get some rest, and try this again tomorrow. Felix is right: I work too hard.

  He closed the book, rolled up the scroll, and trudged from the room.

  This was nothing, and worrying about it would do nothing but make it worse. Fear was for lesser men than Elias Richter.

  The third time it happened, he called his personal physician.

  Dr. Johann Albrecht had been with him even longer than Felix had. Richter didn’t visit him often; he kept magical healers on retainer to deal with any minor injuries or afflictions he or the staff might suffer, but as he grew older, he recognized the importance of maintaining his body. Mages lived longer than mundanes, and Richter was perhaps one of the oldest mages around, but their physical forms did fail them eventually. It was one of the few things magical science could not reverse, no matter how many mages tried to do it.

  So far, Richter’s attempts at magically extending his life had not panned out. The last one, using an ancient black-magic ritual and the university student his loyal associates Lane and Hugo had kidnapped out from under Alastair Stone’s nose, had been thwarted by Stone and his cronies. Richter still burned with anger at him over that, but he was nothing if not patient. He had more important things to do with his time than chase after Stone. When the time came, he would be ready.

  He hadn’t tried anything else since then, mostly because his attempts to procure more reference material of a similar type had failed. It wasn’t every day that a malevolent tome such as the one Stone had destroyed turned up. He had feelers out, of course, but so far none of them had come back. His most successful attempt in the last three years was when he had learned through his shadowy channels that somehow James Brathwaite, the supposedly long-dead master of necromancy and former high-ranking member of the Ordo Purpuratus, had resurfaced in the body of a woman named Miriam Padgett.