by Jenna Grey
Books One and Two of the Stones of Power Series
HELLSTONE
&
MAELSTROM
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Text and cover image copyright 2019 by Jenna Grey. All rights reserved.
Contains adult themes, strong language and scenes of a violent or sexual nature.
TRIGGER WARNING: Some readers may find some of the material in Chapter 12 disturbing if they have an aversion to snakes and spiders. I’ve put a skip button at the beginning of the sequence, so that readers can jump to the end of the section if the wish. It doesn't affect the continuity of the story.
Note: This book was originally published as Mr Fountain’s Magical Finding Service, but has been heavily rewritten and republished as Hellstone.
OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
The Tamarei series:
Tamarei, Book One: Coming of Age; Tamarei, Book Two: Dark Gods; Tamarei, Book Three: Caranthus; Tamarei, Book Four: Feast of Fools; Tamarei, Book Five: Avenging Angel; Tamarei, Book Six: Twilight of the Gods; Book Seven: Fallen Angel; The Sorcerer’s Tale; The Guardian of the Gate; Blood Rites; Finding Gideon.
The Faerie series:
Book One: Faerie.
Book Two: The Glass Mountain.
Book Three: Wilderling Wood.
Book Four: Witchfinder.
Book Five: The Shadow King.
Book Six: Dragonstone.
The Fortunata series:
Fortunata, Book One: The Lightning Struck Tower; Fortunata, Book Two: Deus Ex Machina; Book Three: Lord of Misrule.
Miscellaneous:
The Whisperer
A letter from De Sade
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE HELLSTONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BOOK TWO MAELSTROM
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Book One of the Stones of Power series
Hellstone
Jenna Grey
HELLSTONE
CHAPTER ONE
Polly placed the small bouquet of roses on her grandmother’s grave with the greatest of care, making quite sure that she didn’t crush any of the delicate petals. They were a deep red, her grandmother’s favourite, but it was quite late in the year, and most of the blooms had already opened their petals to reveal their hearts to the sun; the bright freshness they’d had in high summer was gone now, and she knew these blooms wouldn’t last long.
She knelt back on her heels for a few moments, enjoying the last lingering rays of the September sun. It was quiet and peaceful here beneath the great oak tree that kept her family’s graves in pleasant shade. Her grandmother was buried next to her parents and grandfather now, just as it should be. Polly only wished her Uncle Elias was buried next to them, the deeper, the better. If someone gave her a shovel, she’d be happy to help him on his way.
“I will make him pay for everything he’s done, Nana. One day I will make him pay,” she whispered as she turned to leave.
She stood at the cemetery gates for a moment deciding which way to go. Left took her home and right took her to the village; she hesitated for a moment and then turned to the right. The thought of going home right now made her stomach churn. She’d left her uncle with bitter words this morning. He’d taken a photograph of Polly’s parents from the living room mantlepiece and stuffed it into a drawer without so much as a by your leave; perhaps even he was capable of feeling some guilt for past crimes, and seeing their photograph there was a constant reminder of what he’d done. One thing was certain; he was going to be in a foul mood for the rest of the day, well, even fouler than usual. Her best bet was to keep out of his way as much as she could. Yes, she’d go to the local shop and buy herself some biscuits and cakes to keep in her room, emergency rations, so that she didn’t have to go downstairs to raid the larder if she got hungry in the night. Her uncle always seemed to know when she was leaving her room, always seemed to be there at the foot of the stairs waiting for her, ready to pounce on her like a pantomime genie and scare her half to death. Hunger had stopped her sleeping more times than she could remember because she’d been afraid to go down to the kitchen to get herself something to eat. She had to get away from him somehow, get away from him before she met with a fatal accident. She just had no idea how she was going to escape.
The little corner shop was empty, apart from the proprietor, Mr Argeli. Polly had never had the temerity to ask Mr Argeli his country of origin, but she thought it must have been somewhere exotic, judging by his heavy accent. He was a kind man, always there with a pleasant smile as she walked through the door – and not just because she spent an embarrassing amount on junk food. His tiny terrier, Muffin, bounced up to her and played tag with her heels, giving excited yaps, obviously happy to see her.
“Ah, Pretty Polly,” the shopkeeper said, with a grin. “You are looking very lovely today.” Polly blushed, used to Mr Argeli’s compliments; she got one every time she walked into the shop, and true or not, it always brightened up her day. She knew she was quite pretty in an unelaborate sort of way – no make-up or hair dye, just a kind of ‘what you see is what you get ‘pretty. Her dark brown hair was a little out of control, true, a shoulder-length bush that looked as if it needed to be beaten into submission, but generally, she was happy with the package God had given her. She looked down at her flowery summer dress, a little crumpled from where she’d been kneeling by the grave, and tried to smooth out some of the creases.
“You go to see your grandmama, today, yes?” he asked, as she helped herself to an armful of instant heart attack and dumped the packets on the counter. “You miss her very much.” Polly nodded and added an extra packet of chocolate digestives to the pile. She had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.
“More and more as each day passes, but I know I’ll see her again one day.” Mr Argeli gave a wistful sigh.
“She was a lovely lady, so lovely; we miss her too...” He hesitated, rearranging the Crunchies to fill the hole that Polly had left in the display. He looked up then, and Polly saw just a hint of awkwardness there. “How are things at home?” he asked.
Polly grimaced and tried to make a joke of it, but she knew that he saw through her bravado.
“Uncle Elias is making it pretty obvious that I’m only there under sufferance – a charity case.” Mr Argeli gave a sagacious nod.
“No luck finding a job?” he asked.
Polly sighed.
“Not around here. I think I’m going to have to move into one of the big towns and see if I can get a flat or something. I don’t think I can stay there much longer.” Mr Argeli thre
w his hands up and said:
“I would let you come and stay here, gladly, my dear. Mrs Argeli would be very happy for you to stay, but we have my mother staying with us, and there is no more room.” “Oh, that’s kind of you, but I need to find somewhere away from the village. I’d always think he was there, looking over my shoulder,” she said.
He hesitated, then said, “Forgive me if I should not ask this, but didn’t your grandmama leave you any money? She surely didn’t leave you with nothing?” Polly couldn’t answer him for a moment, a sudden ball of misery tightening her throat and making it impossible for her to speak.
“Nothing.”
Mr Argeli shook his head, his expression one of bewilderment.
“But I can’t believe that. I know how much your grandmother loved you, and how much she... well, what she felt about your uncle. She would never have left everything to him.” Polly should have been surprised that Mr Argeli knew so much of her business, but she wasn’t. It was a small village and in a place like this everyone’s business was public knowledge sooner or later.
“I’ve been telling myself that ever since she died,” Polly said, “but the fact is, he has a will that makes him the sole beneficiary, an old one, yes, but it’s quite legal. I can’t argue with that.” Mr Argeli shook his head again, tutting out a sigh.
“But surely you can appeal against it?”
Polly shrugged.
“I went to see a solicitor, and he said there isn’t much I can do. It’s all legal and above board. I just have to accept it.” “That is so wrong. I am sorry. You do not deserve this,” he said, patting her hand across the counter.
Polly helped him pack her far too many munchables into the carrier bag and hoped she had enough money to pay for them.
“Can’t be helped,” she said, rummaging in her purse and finding a ten-pound note and lots of loose change – that was her pocket money blown for the week. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should say any more. “I keep thinking that the will might be hidden somewhere in the house, that it slipped down behind something, or grandmother put it in some secret place. I’ve searched and searched – when Uncle wasn’t around, of course, but nothing.” Mr Argeli’s ever-present good humour slipped away, and his expression was suddenly intense, all traces of humour gone.
“You should get out of there as soon as you can, Polly. It’s not a good place for you. There’s talk in the village about your uncle and none of it good.” Polly gave a tremulous nod.
“I know. I will, as soon as I can. If you hear of any live-in housekeeper jobs in the area, keep me in mind, will you?” His smile had returned, and Polly managed a smile back.
“Have a look on the board outside,” he said. “I think my wife put some new cards in yesterday. There might be something there for you.” Polly nodded her thanks.
“I better get off. I have to get dinner. Thanks for... well, just thanks,” she said.
She picked up the overfull carrier bag and made for the door, turning to the little display case to the right of the entrance. There was a collection of postcards and scraps of paper with advertisements and wanted ads pinned inside. She scanned through them, but there didn’t seem to be anything there that would be of any interest. There was a room to let, but the rent was outrageous; the only job vacancy was for a plumber’s mate. With the best will in the world, Polly and spanners did not a happy partnership make.
She was just about to turn away when one of the cards caught her eye.
She read it once, then again, and after the fourth time, she decided that it had to be a practical joke.
Have you lost something precious? Given up all hope of finding it again? Then why not try Mr Fountain’s Finding Service? For a very modest fee, I can locate any missing item for you. Satisfaction guaranteed or no fee.
There was an address underneath: Mr Fountain’s Magic Emporium, Clanger’s Lane, Little Tidmouth.
The card was very tattered around the edges and faded from prolonged exposure to sunlight, the writing hardly legible. It was written in real ink, not ballpoint pen, and had browned and faded with age. It was in an elegant, cursive script, the sort they used to teach in schools a hundred years ago.
It had to be nonsense of course; how could anyone find something just by using some kind of supernatural power? But the more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Didn’t the police use psychics to find missing children? It suddenly became a wonderful possibility. She knew the will was somewhere in the house; if she could only find it. Polly stood staring into the glass of the window until she couldn’t see the card any more, just her own slightly misty reflection.
“Polly Nightingale, you bloody idiot,” she muttered, laughing at her own gullibility and flushing a little with embarrassment. She turned, still shaking her head, to walk back home.
Gaunt House fitted its name perfectly. Bleak, desolate and grim. It was on the outskirts of the village, standing entirely on its own in a vast, overgrown piece of woodland that reached right to the front door. The overhanging trees made it constantly dark inside, the sun only ever entering one room on the east facing side – Polly’s room. That made life here bearable. Her grandmother had threatened to have some of the trees close to the house cut down; their presence made the place damp and chilly, even in summer, but she’d never been able to bring herself to call in the tree surgeons. There was a ring of old tree stumps in the wooded grounds and Nana had always told her that a coven of evil witches had used it as their meeting ground in the long distant past. The existing house was about a hundred and fifty years old; before that, an old wooden house had stood on the site, owned by Polly’s great, great something or other. It had mysteriously burned down one night, and the thirteen people gathered there all burnt to death. Polly knew her grandmother believed what she was telling her, but Polly thought it sounded a bit far-fetched if she were being honest. Her grandmother had whispered secrets to her about hidden chambers under the house, where witches used to gather in days long gone, to hold their dark rites. That was in the days when witches could still be hung for practising their craft – after a horrific spell in the torture chamber forcing a confession. According to her grandmother, these creatures were the darkest of dark, true servants of the Prince of Hell. There were even rumours of human sacrifices, missing newborns, and mysterious disappearances back in the mists of time. Polly thought that had to be nonsense.
She stood on the front doorstep and braced herself, her key trembling in the lock.
“Pull yourself together, you idiot. He’s just a stupid old man who likes pretending he’s special.” She tried her hardest to open and close the door without making a sound, but the old hinges complained alarmingly every time the damn thing moved an inch. Polly winced as they groaned their protest at having been disturbed, the sound loud enough to be heard throughout the whole rambling edifice of a house. She mumbled an expletive under her breath and hunching her shoulders tip-toed inside, as if that was going to make the slightest bit of difference now.
Her uncle was there, lying in wait for her; he seemed to appear from nowhere, Mephisto, rising from some hidden trapdoor and looming up in front of her. She startled and dropped her bag, scattering packets of biscuits all over the floor. She scuttled to pick them up, ramming them back in her bag and backing away from him a little so that he no longer invaded her personal space. He had a habit of doing that – moving so close to her that she could feel his breath on her shoulder. It never failed to give her the shivers.
Elias Gaunt was a tall, bony man, Gaunt by name and gaunt in appearance; he reminded her of a coat hanger, all bent, wiry angles, elbows and knees – or a spider – those horrible Daddy Long Legs that ran too fast towards you across the floor.
“Ah, there you are my dear, I was beginning to get worried,” he said, retrieving the escaping packet of biscuit crumbs and taking a long stride towards her. She snatched them from him and took a step back.
“I went to put some flowers on Na
na’s grave,” she mumbled, stuffing the broken packet back into the carrier bag.
He gave her one of his smiles, looking for all the world like a shark that had just spotted a swimmer’s leg.
“So sweet of you, I’m sure she appreciates it.”
Polly knew that he didn’t really give a damn; he had shown supreme indifference to his mother’s funeral arrangements and hadn’t even visited her grave since the funeral. He’d given her a pauper’s burial, even though he’d inherited all of her money. Polly had raided her savings to at least give her grandmother some lovely flowers and a decent church service, but she had been buried in one of those horrible chipboard coffins covered in dark red baize. Polly would never forgive him for that, never. She looked up into her uncle’s sanguine and rather cadaverous face and tried to smile, but it refused to come to her lips. He just stood, staring down at her from his elevated height, rubbing his hands together and making her feel as if she were something he’d found smeared on the bottom of his shoe.
“I thought I’d cook some salmon for dinner – is that okay? I got a couple of nice steaks from the fishmongers – they were a special offer,” she said, trying to edge her way around him.
“That would be wonderful, my dear. You’re such an excellent cook.” Although his words were pleasant, there was something rancid about them, like congealed fat or spoiled meat. “I have some friends coming around tonight – there will be thirteen of us all together. Perhaps you could make some sandwiches for us, some light refreshments? I can see you’ve bought plenty of cakes and biscuits there – how thoughtful of you.” Polly tried not to frown her mistrust. He was being far too nice to her.
She forced the words she desperately wanted to say back down and gave him a pained smile.