by R. L. King
An Unexpected Truth
A Novella in the Alastair Stone Chronicles
R. L. King
Contents
Author’s Note
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
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Books by R. L. King
About the Author
Author’s Note
An Unexpected Truth takes place after The Madness Below and the novella Boys’ Night (Way) Out.
Copyright © 2020 by R. L. King
An Unexpected Truth: A Novella in the Alastair Stone Chronicles
Edited by John Helfers
Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics
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.
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1
I once took a writing class, back when I was in the halfway house. I guess they thought it might help us work through whatever was bothering us if we wrote down our thoughts. Mostly it wasn’t very effective, because the majority of the kids there were suffering from things that no amount of scribbling in a journal had a chance in hell of touching.
Anyway, one of the things they taught us was that it was the worst kind of cliché to open a story with a dream.
The hell with them.
I promise, if I ever decide I want to try writing the Great American Novel, I’ll remember not to start it with a dream. But this isn’t a novel—it’s my life. And that dream scared the crap out of me.
At least I’m not starting this with “It was a dark and stormy night.” Partially because it wasn’t.
Okay, enough screwing around. In case you can’t tell, I’m trying to avoid talking about the damn dream, but that’s not going to get me anywhere either.
I dreamed I was back in the halfway house.
I haven’t done that in a long time—years, in fact. It’s hard for me to believe sometimes that I’ve been away for almost five years now, and when I wake up in a cold sweat one warm, early-spring night, at first I don’t believe it.
It was that real. I could smell the ever-present funk of old socks, hear the low, grinding drone of the refrigerator downstairs in the kitchen and the muffled moans and sobs of some of the other inmates (sorry, residents), see the walls with their peeling, patterned paper. I was seventeen again, unable to trust my own mind, convinced something was broken in my brain that they’d never be able to fix, and terrified that something deep within this place—both my head and the house itself—had gone very, very wrong.
“V?”
Kyla’s voice pulls me out of the dream. She rolls over to face me and touches my arm. “You okay?”
How do I answer that? I have no idea if I’m okay. I’m still not sure everything in the last five years hasn’t been a property of my mangled imagination, and I’ve never left the halfway house.
I look at her, at her eyes glittering in the faint light that shines in through the window. Without even thinking of what I’m doing, I shift to magical sight. It’s as natural to me as breathing now, and if I’d been thinking straight, I’d realize that, more than anything else, should have confirmed that I’m not seventeen. Her deep blue aura sparks with the red flashes of concern.
“Sorry...” I mutter. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Bad dream?”
I don’t know how to answer that. Calling something this vivid a “bad dream” is like calling a T-Rex a “lizard.” It’s weird—on the surface, the content wasn’t that bad. It’s not like I dreamed about being chased by a chainsaw-wielding zombie or walking into class stark naked.
It’s not the content, it’s the idea.
I check the time on my phone on the nightstand—3:35 a.m.—and do the mental math with the same lack of conscious thought as I shifted my sight. Eight hours ahead. It will be after eleven in England.
He’ll be awake.
I swing my legs around and sit up. “I need to make a phone call. Go back to sleep. It’s okay.”
“V, come on. If you had a bad dream, let’s talk about it.” She reaches out to gently take my arm, trying to pull me back into bed.
She can be so sweet sometimes. People think she’s so gruff and hard-edged, but I see a side of her she doesn’t let most other people see. That’s one of the things I love about her.
But this time she’s not the one I need to help me.
I pat her hand. “It’s okay. Really. I’ll be back in a little bit. Go back to sleep.”
She sighs. “Who are you going to call at—oh.” Her hand drops away from my arm and she rolls back over. “Okay. Yeah, I get it. Go ahead.”
“Kyla—”
“Go on. We can talk later if you want.”
I hear the hurt and frustration in her voice and it slices through me. But I know from past experience that nothing I say will change things at this point. Even if I stay, it won’t matter.
“Okay...” I say softly. “Back soon. I really am sorry I woke you up.”
She grunts and rolls over.
I take the phone with me and go out to the front room, where I plop into my oversized armchair under the window, curling my legs under me until I’m comfortable. Not for the first time, I think I might like to get a cat of my own. I miss Raider.
He answers on the second ring. “Verity! This is a surprise. Isn’t it the middle of the night there? Is something wrong?”
As always, his voice lifts my mood. I know it sounds hopelessly sappy, but Alastair Stone has got the sexiest voice of anybody I know. He could read the phone book to me in that British accent of his and I’d love every minute of it.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say. “I know you’re getting ready to leave soon.” He’d just left the U.S. a couple days ago, taking the portal through to England and hiding out at his drafty old mansion in Surrey long enough to account for a mundane plane trip. Soon, he’ll be leaving for Romania for some university-sponsored research trip.
“You never bother me. You know that. Is everything all right?”
Now, listening to his voice over the phone line, I feel stupid for letting the dream get to me as badly as it had. “It’s really nothing. I just dreamed I was back at the halfway house. It…scared me, I guess. It was so real. I woke up sure that everything from the last five years hadn’t really happened.”
No reconciling with Jason. No finding out I have magical talent.
No meeting you.
He pauses, and I can almost picture his expression as he thinks over what I’ve told him, and its implications. Finally, he says, “It wasn’t all a dream. Verity. I promise.”
“I know. I know that now. And it’s pretty stupid to call you halfway around the world to tell you about it.”
“It absolutely is not.” He sounds almost indignant. “I’m glad you called. If nothing else, it means I get to hear your voice one more time before I head out later today. Are you going to be all right now?”
“Yeah. I am.” I think about Kyla, back in the bedroom. Is she already asleep, or is she silently fuming in there? “Thanks, Doc.”
“For what? I didn’t do anything.”
I chuckle. “For being in England, so I can call you without waking you up. Because that would be even more stupid.”
“Well, then, you’re quite welcome. I’m delighted my travel plans have proven so convenient for your needs.”
His voice is dry and amused, but I can tell he’s serious. “I’ll let you get back to it. Have a safe trip. Bring me home a souvenir, will you?”
“Yes. I’ll be certain to bring you an ancient ritual object. A cursed one, if I can manage it. I’ll smuggle it home in my carry-on bag.”
“Can’t wait. Just don’t let Raider knock it off the table before you can give it to me.”
As I hang up, I’m smiling. The last bits of the terror from the dream have burned off, just as I’d hoped they would.
Kyla’s asleep when I get back to the bedroom—or at least she wants me to think she is. Her aura tells me otherwise, but I don’t push it. Sometimes it’s best to let these things settle a bit.
2
Kyla’s gone when I get up, but I find a note on my kitchen table: Let’s talk tonight. You make dinner, and I’ll bring wine and chocolate cake? Love, K.
I smile. To anybody else that might sound like an unreasonable request, but she knows how much I love to cook. She also knows how much I love wine and chocolate. I wonder, not for the first time, if I should just ask her to move in with me. It would make sense: my apartment is quite a bit bigger than hers, and it’s right down the hall from Hezzie’s, so at least three of the Harpies would live within easy distance of each other.
Well, two and a half, anyway. I don’t consider myself an official Harpy yet, even though the group accepted me as one of their own a long time ago. I’m pretty sure they consider me an official Harpy, so I’m not sure why I don’t.
Anyway, maybe that’s what Kyla wants to talk about tonight. She’s dropped a couple of hints that she’d be willing to move in if I asked her, but so far I’ve held off. I can’t really explain why. It’s not like Doc ever comes up here to spend the night. Usually when we’re together, it’s at his place down in Encantada. He knows I lust after his kitchen nearly as much as his body.
I spend the day puttering around, cleaning the apartment and running down to the corner market for spaghetti ingredients. Kyla, aside from being the leader of the Harpies, works as a motorcycle mechanic at a garage over on Mission, so she’s away most days. My job helping Scuro with healing clients at his magical tattoo parlor only takes me away three nights a week; I’m amazed sometimes at how lucky I am that I decided to go along with Doc when he got his own tattoo last year. Scuro took one look at the healing I did for him and offered me a job on the spot. Now, I make a good full-time living on what’s essentially a part-time job, leaving me plenty of time to pursue my alchemy studies with Hezzie.
That’s what I’m doing when Kyla comes in a little after seven, using the key I gave her. She appears in the doorway of the spare bedroom I’ve converted into a lab, knocking softly so she doesn’t startle me.
“Oh, hi.” I carefully put my work aside and glance at my watch. I lose track of time sometimes when I’m working.
She wrinkles her nose and smiles. “How can it smell so good out there, and so bad in here?”
“Well, just be thankful I didn’t switch the preservation potion and the spaghetti sauce.” I wipe my hands on my heavy apron, pull it and my goggles off, and head over to kiss her. “How was your day?”
“Sweet. Some rich dude brought his tricked-out customized Harley in. I don’t get to work on those very often.”
I sneak a peek at her aura as she turns away to return to the front room. It looks clear now, with no sign of red patches, which is a relief. I’ve been a little stressed out all day, thinking she’s still pissed at me for last night. “Perfect timing, by the way. The spaghetti’s almost ready.”
“I’ll wash up. Open the wine?”
A bottle of red wine sits on the table next to a pink bakery box from The Sweet Tooth. By the time she returns, I’ve got two glasses poured, a steaming serving dish of spaghetti in the center next to a plate of garlic-cheese bread, and the box (I peeked—it’s a delicious-looking chocolate cake with decadent icing) on the kitchen counter for later. I even lit two candles for a centerpiece, after reminding myself there’s no cat here to knock them over.
Kyla drops into the chair across from me, sniffing appreciatively. “Damn, V, I envy your cooking ability. I can barely microwave a frozen dinner without burning it. You’re good for me.” She pats her trim waistline. “Maybe not for my girlish figure, though.”
I laugh. “Seems like I collect people who can’t cook. I could teach you, though. It’s not that hard, really. I even taught Doc how to make a couple simple things, and he burned water before I met him. If I can get through to him, you’ll be a snap.”
Her expression clouds, and so does her aura, but she changes the subject quickly. “Good day? No more problems with nightmares?”
“Nope, nightmare-free. And I think I’m about to make a breakthrough on my new alchemy project. I’ll have to check with Hezzie tomorrow, but it’s looking good.”
“Awesome.” She concentrates on her food for a while, dishing up a big helping of spaghetti and chowing down like she hasn’t eaten all day. I’ve been nibbling as I cook, so I go slower, watching her fondly. It always makes me happy when people enjoy the food I’ve made. I’ll probably turn into one of those old kindly grandmas when I get old, bustling around urging everybody to eat until they explode.
We’ve finished the spaghetti, the bread, two glasses of wine each, and we’re working on slices of chocolate cake when Kyla leans back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “That was great.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.” I tilt my head at her, sensing she has more to say. “Something up? I keep getting the impression you’ve got something on your mind.”
She hesitates, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Kyla’s usually even more straightforward than me—the only Harpy who has her beat for bluntness is Greta. “I guess there is, yeah. I wanted to talk to you about something. But first, I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” I look around, but don’t see anything I’ve missed before. “What kind of surprise.”
“Close your eyes.”
“Kyla—”
“Just do it.” She’s got a big smile on her face—bigger than usual. She’s up to something.
“Okay, I’ll play along.” I squinch my eyes shut and face her last known location expectantly.
“Hang on a second…I’ll be right back.”
I hear her footsteps on the wood floor; the slight creak tells me she’s in the living room. Then she approaches closer.
“Okay,” she says. “Hold out your arms, but keep your eyes closed.”
I have no idea what she’s up to, but I reach out with my palms facing up.
She settles something across my arms. It feels like a box made of thin cardboard, and it’s heavy for its size. “Okay, you can open them now.”
There’s a brown box lying across my arms. It’s maybe two feet long, a foot and a half wide, and eight inches deep. I frown. “What’s this?” For a second I get nervous: is it some anniversary I’ve forgotten? It’s definitely not my birthday…
She laughs. “Open
it, silly.”
I put the box in my lap and slowly pull the top off, a thrill of anticipation running through me. What could it be? I seriously have no idea.
When I see what’s inside, my breath catches in my throat, and the thrill of anticipation changes to one of delight. “Oh…Kyla…”
It’s a black leather biker jacket, thick but buttery soft, very similar to the one I already have—with one exception. She’s folded it so the back is facing up, and I’m looking at a large patch featuring the profile of a haggard, witch-like woman with a beaked nose and a pointy chin. Her hair, made of flames, blows out behind her. Above the patch is a rocker that says HARPIES, and below it another one says SAN FRANCISCO.
“Kyla…” I whisper again, dragging my gaze up to look at her.
She’s still smiling. “Like it? I had to sneak into your closet to get your size, so I hope it fits. Try it on.”
I pull it out of the box, stand up, and slip my arms into it. As I expect it fits perfectly, like she hadn’t just checked my size, but actually measured. “It’s…beautiful. But—”
“But what? It’s about time you became an official Harpy. You’ve been running with us for a long time now, and your magic’s made things a hell of a lot easier for us. I’ve already talked to the others, but we still need to have a formal initiation ceremony.”
I don’t even know what to say. I run my hand along the soft sleeve, a lump forming in my throat. “I love it, Kyla. I love you. Thank you so much.”
She waves it off, obviously as affected as I am but pretending not to show it. “Like I said, it had to happen sometime. But I’m glad you like it.”