by R. L. King
She’d use him, and he’d use her. The way of the world, in other words. Anybody who thought otherwise was either an idiot or a hell of a lot more powerful than he was.
“Yeah. Okay. I’m in.”
Her grin wasn’t snaky or sly this time, but looked genuinely pleased. “Great. Okay, then—step into the circle, and let’s get started.”
12
Stone called Eddie Monkton in London. It was late there, but his friend still returned his call in less than half an hour.
“What’s up, mate? Ready to do some more research on your family ’istory?”
“No—not quite yet. I need you to look up an organization for me, and get back to me with whatever you find about them.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“They call themselves Portas Justitiæ. Don’t know if it’s one nutter, a small group, or some kind of larger organization.”
“Sounds religious.”
“Probably is—or at least has some connection to it. The apprentice of one of the minor talents over here turned up dead, and they’re claiming they did it. They sent the girl a symbol three days before she died, and another one, along with a note, to her master. Apparently the same symbol was carved into her back when they found her. Hanged.”
“Can you send me copies of the symbols?”
“Yes, I’ll send them along. Thanks, Eddie. How are things coming at Caventhorne?”
“Getting close now. This is taking a hell of a lot longer than any of us expected—every time we think we’re done, we turn up some problem or other we have to deal with, or discover another collection of books and papers ’idden away in a closet somewhere. You know ’ow it is.”
Stone did. He’d been popping over there on weekends several times over the past few months, helping out where he could, and he’d seen firsthand the vastness of William Desmond’s collection. “I’ve got faith in you. Let me know what you find out.”
He hung up, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Now it was time to make the call he didn’t want to make. No choice, though. If something really was going on, his reluctance wasn’t a valid excuse for risking anyone else’s life. Stroking Raider with one hand, he punched in the number of the San Jose police department, and got himself transferred to the right extension.
“Flores.”
Stone immediately recognized Captain Mark Flores’s gruff, no-nonsense voice, even though it had been more than a year since he’d last heard it. “Good afternoon, Captain Flores. This is Alastair Stone. You probably don’t remember me, but I assisted you with an investigation a couple of years back, involving some gruesome murders and Detective Johnny Cheng.”
Silence hung on the line, followed by a sigh. “Yeah, I remember you, Dr. Stone. Hard to forget. Though I must say I hoped I’d never hear from you again.”
Stone didn’t hold that against him. The whole Archie affair had been creepy enough for someone who knew what was really going on; for the mundanes who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—acknowledge its supernatural underpinnings, it had to be downright unsettling. “I hoped never to have to contact you again. But we don’t always get what we want in this life, and I think we might be able to help each other.”
“Go on…”
“You’ve got a murder case—a young woman named Amy Detmire.”
Another sigh. “I’m not even going to ask how you found out about that, Stone. Though I have to say, as soon as I heard your voice I wondered if that might be why you were calling.”
“Why is that?”
“How much do you know? And I lied: I am going to ask where you heard about it. Because if I’ve got a leak somewhere—”
“No leak. Ms. Detmire was an associate of an acquaintance of mine—a Ms. Myra Lindstrom.”
Stone heard shuffling papers. “Yeah—the old lady who reported her missing. How do you know Ms. Lindstrom?”
“She has a tangential connection with the local occult community. I have a bit of a reputation for dealing with situations like this, so she called me to see if I could help her.”
“And could you?”
“I’m afraid not. She showed me the symbol that had been left with Ms. Detmire—and apparently the one carved into her body.”
Flores’s tone grew suspicious, and a lot more guarded. “Okay, now I know you didn’t hear the part about the body from Ms. Lindstrom, because nobody told her that.”
“No, I didn’t. I have a contact in the San Francisco police department, someone I recently helped with a case up there. Detective Leo Blum.”
“I know of Blum. Good guy. Got promoted recently, after that business with the bomber on that bay cruise boat back in July.” He paused. “Tell me you weren’t connected with that…”
Stone didn’t answer.
“Goddamn it. Why can’t life just make sense?” Another loud sigh. Apparently Stone had that effect on him. “Okay. Okay. That info was confidential, so Blum shouldn’t have been giving it out. But yeah. The symbol carved into the vic was the same as on the note Ms. Lindstrom gave us. So what’s it mean?”
“I don’t know yet—but I’m convinced there’s some occult involvement.”
“Stone, you think everything has occult involvement.”
“Have I been wrong so far, Captain?”
Flores was silent for a long moment, which Stone took as a ‘no’. Finally, the captain said, “So what do you want from me? Why are you calling me?”
“To be honest? I’d like to take a look at the crime scene. And fairly quickly, if possible.”
“So you can do your psychic thing?”
“Yes. I know you don’t believe it, but—”
“Look. I’ve got too much on my plate to deal with this. I’m late for a meeting. We’ve already released the scene, so I can’t stop you from going there.” He gave him the address. “Knock yourself out. If you get any good psychic rays, just—call and leave me a message.”
Stone took a quick shower, changed clothes, and was preparing to head back to San Jose to look at Amy Detmire’s murder scene when his phone rang again. He recognized Jason’s number. “Hello, Jason. How is Columbus?”
“Hey, Al. It was good. I’m back in town now, though. The seminar ended yesterday afternoon and I got the info I needed for the case quicker than I thought, so I flew back earlier today. What’s this little project you want me to look into?”
“It can wait. If you’ve just got back, you—”
“Nah, it’s fine. With V still out of town and Kelsey visiting some friends down south, I don’t have much else to do today.” Kelsey was the paralegal he’d been dating for the last couple of months.
“Fair enough. I’m looking for information about a woman named Jessamy Tanner, née Woodward. She died sometime in the last couple of years, at age thirty-seven.”
“Uh—okay. Can you give me anything else to go on?”
“She probably lived somewhere in the Midwest. I don’t know much about her—I used to know her many years ago, but lost touch. Last I know, her family was in Ohio. She was married to a man named Bobby Tanner, and she has at least one child, named Ian Woodward. He’s around nineteen.”
“Okay…writing all this down. I’ll see what I can come up with and get back to you. I don’t suppose you want to tell me why you want this info?”
“Not really. Not yet. I’m…trying to verify something. Depending on what I find out, I’ll either tell you the story or write it off as nothing.”
“Uh…yeah, okay. I’ll look into it. You in a hurry?”
“Don’t neglect your paying cases for it, but quick would be good, yes.”
He hung up and gazed down at the phone in his hand without seeing it, then pulled out the scrap of paper with Ian’s number on it. Should he call back? He still didn’t have any definitive information, but Ian had said he’d return to Los Angeles tomorrow if he didn’t hear from him. Did he dare let him slip away again, or was he playing right into the boy’s hands? Or, more likely, those of whoever was pulli
ng Ian’s strings?
“I don’t know, Raider,” he said, stroking the cat’s back. “This could all be some elaborate charade, arranged by someone trying to get back at me for something. I still can’t believe Jessamy had a child and didn’t tell me about him.”
Raider had no advice, but even as he said it, Stone pictured Ian’s face, his manner—and most importantly, his blazing, dual-toned aura. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen an aura like that without magical potential. It could be bad: it could mean the boy was a mage, and that was part of the scheme.
But it could also mean Ian was his son. For the last six generations, the bloodline had grown stronger with each subsequent male mage. The Talent had never skipped a generation like it did in most families, which meant it had to be particularly potent. Could Ian Woodward be the next in that progression—the seventh Stone?
He was already nineteen, which meant if he did have magic, he’d be starting his apprenticeship late. Like Amy Detmire.
Hell, if someone was killing apprentices, was there any way they could find out about Ian before the boy even knew himself?
Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself angrily. He doesn’t even know about magic yet. How would they know?
Still…if Ian was his son, he owed it to him to discover whether he had magic—and if he did, to help him learn to use it, before it got him into trouble in unexpected ways.
He looked at the paper scrap again, and tapped in the number before he changed his mind.
It rang several times, and then a familiar voice came on. “If you’re calling, you know why. Leave a message.”
Damn. “Ian? It’s Alastair Stone. Listen—I’d like to talk some more, if you’re available. Are you free tonight? Let me know.”
He hung up and tossed the phone on the couch. Raider eyed him with sympathy from the coffee table, but had nothing further to say on the matter.
13
Two years ago
She lounged half-seated on her bed, looking out the window. On the nightstand next to her were bottle of vodka and a half-full glass; she held the stub of a joint between two lazy fingers. The clock next to the bottle read 4:35 a.m.
Razakal shimmered into existence in the chair across the room. He wore a shiny black shirt and dark gray slacks, both exquisitely tailored as usual. A golden stud glittered in his left ear. He was smiling.
“You look like you just got laid by about five hot chicks in a row,” Blake observed, sitting up straighter. She wasn’t worried about the boy hearing her, even if he decided to go sneaking around instead of remaining in the bedroom she’d given him. The conversation wasn’t occurring aloud, and nobody else could see Razakal.
“You’ve done well,” he said.
“Didn’t I?” Her predatory smile widened. “That went a lot better than I expected. He’s a smart kid, suspicious as fuck, and he’s got a lot of power he doesn’t know anything about. I thought he might catch on.”
“How would he?” Razakal lounged back in his chair.
It was true. Blake’s mind returned to the ritual, going over it with a sense of satisfied relish, reliving it in her memory as she knew Razakal was as well.
The boy had stepped into the circle as she’d asked, but stopped before he reached the center. “What is this?” he asked. “What are we doing here?”
“If you’re going to be my apprentice,” she told him, “we need formalize the agreement.”
“Formalize? How? Why? Isn’t my word good enough?”
She smirked at him. “Come on, E. I know what you’ve been up to. You might mean well, but you’ll understand if I don’t trust your word quite yet. For all I know, you’d sell your own mother out for a hundred bucks. I’m taking some risks by taking you on as a student, so you can’t blame me for wanting a little assurance.”
“Assurance about what?” His gaze moved around the circle, taking in the odd symbols and drawings.
She could tell by the way it fuzzed out that he was using his sight again. “That you won’t bail on me and go find somebody else, or reveal the secrets I tell you to anyone else. Look,” she said, with impatience and a hint of menace, “do you want this or not? I know a lot of people in the magical world—if you fuck with me, I can make sure nobody else will touch you. I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but you’re acting like a scared kid. Trust me—I’m not asking you to give up your soul or your firstborn child or anything.” She spoke smoothly, and the lie caused not even a ripple in her aura. “Just to give me your word you’ll follow my magical instruction and won’t take off on me halfway through the training. Because if you make me waste my time, I won’t be happy. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m unhappy.” She grinned. “Come on, kid. Let’s not make this weird. I’m telling you—it will be fun.”
He hadn’t even noticed the subtle persuasive magic she’d used, weaving it through her words to make them even more compelling, playing on his fears, his hopes, his already-growing fascination with this strange new world he’d barely had a taste of. That was one of the things Razakal had taught her: there was no need to use a sledgehammer when a simple screwdriver would do the job just as effectively. An adjustment here, an adjustment there—that was all she needed to make.
Even so, he still resisted. “What am I agreeing to? Exactly.”
Damn, he’s got a strong mind. That’s good, though—he’ll need it for what he’ll be doing. “Nothing complicated. You promise you’ll see the training through and won’t go looking for other teachers, that you’ll follow my instructions as far as magic lessons go, and that you’ll keep my secrets and not reveal the existence of magic to other people. And I promise to teach you how to use your magic, to let you know any risks you might be taking, and to support you during your apprenticeship.”
“Risks?”
“Sure. Magic’s not completely safe, kid. Might as well get that out of the way right now. Shit happens. Things go wrong. But don’t worry—I’m good, and as long as you listen to me, I won’t let you get in over your head.”
He considered that, still studying the circle. “And support?”
“Yeah. That’s traditional—masters support their apprentices. You can live here if you want, and I’ll give you money for other necessities. You don’t have to work if you don’t want to—and don’t worry, I know what necessities are.”
His sly smile mirrored hers; he knew what she meant. “How long is this agreement for?”
“Normal apprenticeships are four years. But let’s say two for now. We can re-evaluate at the end of that, and we can both decide if we want to keep going or if you want to look for somebody else.”
She saw him hesitate, and knew why. For someone his age, two years was an eternity. She patted his shoulder and ramped up the persuasion. “Trust me—it’ll go fast. And the training won’t take all our time. I wouldn’t do it if it did—I have too many other things to do, so no way in hell I’m devoting my whole life to training somebody. You’ll have plenty of time to party.”
Still he hesitated, but she could see she had him. “So…” he said slowly, “you’re sure you can teach me this?”
“Absolutely certain. You picked up the sight a hell of a lot faster than anybody I’ve ever seen. You’ve got this. I promise.”
He glanced one last time at the circle. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Excellent.” In her head, she felt Razakal’s approval, and his anticipation.
When she performed the ritual, she made sure to speak English when stating the conditions she’d told him about. He agreed to each readily, looking her in the eyes as he did so.
The rest of it, though, came in a combination of Latin and Razakal’s unearthly language, which he fed into her mind and she repeated. To the boy, it would sound like nothing but strange chanting, but she watched the growing magical energy swirl and writhe through the circle, intertwining their bodies. She and Razakal observed with satisfaction as he began to sway, getting caught up in the
ritual without even realizing he was doing it. And when she called for a response, stating the unfamiliar words clearly so he could repeat them, he did so without question.
Yes, he had a strong mind. But he also had no experience with magic and what it could do. In truth, she wasn’t even sure he completely believed yet.
He would, though. He would.
They finished with a blood oath, both of them making small slices in their fingers and joining their blood as she chanted the final words and Razakal’s approval swelled until she felt it might burst free of her body.
And then it was over—the candles snuffed out, the crystals dead, the bones and hunks of herbs and plant matter expended to ashes. She felt Razakal’s presence recede as she took the boy’s shoulders and offered him a fierce grin. “That’s it,” she said. “How do you feel?”
He shrugged. “No different.” His eyes narrowed. “It was a nice show, but when do we get to the magic part?”
She laughed. He didn’t remember anything. She’d been concerned he might, as tough as his mind was, but he didn’t. “Tomorrow. Get some sleep—we’ll start whenever we both get up, as long as it’s after noon. I warn you—I don’t do mornings.”
Razakal rose from the chair. “I should have taken him right there. So much power…”
“Down, boy,” Blake said. “I know he’s your toy, but you promised I could play with him first.” Once again, she pictured the hated face, imagining the horror, the betrayal, the anguish when she used her bait to lure him in and then sprang the trap. He’d never see it coming, she knew it.
“I did,” he agreed grudgingly. “But my patience is not infinite. You would do well not to forget that.”
“I get it.” As she forced herself to do periodically, she warned herself to be careful. He might allow the disrespect to pass unnoticed—but as she’d learned painfully on a couple of previous occasions, he might not. You could never tell with him, either. “Look,” she said, pacing the room and gesturing with the remains of her joint, “I got him. He’s bound and sealed, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s yours. All I’m asking is that you keep your agreement, and let me…borrow him for a couple of years. Besides, think of it this way: look at the power he’s got now, completely untrained, and then think about how much better he’ll be when he’s truly come into his abilities.” She flashed him a sly grin. “He’s just a pile of ingredients now. Let me make him into something really tasty for you.”