House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  “The Y Tair my mother mentioned in her letter?”

  “Yes, the Y Tair, ‘The Three,’ a queen of all three bloodlines—assuming, of course, this is fact and not myth. For various reasons, the families began to cluster into Houses by their abilities. Iron became the most affluent and powerful, in terms of politics and wealth. Intermarriage became a social class issue and eventually an outright taboo, fed by stories of abominations. I believe there is some truth to the tale that mixing the magics is dangerous, but House of Iron capitalized on that fear.”

  I press my lips together. I know there is truth to that tale, but I don’t want to distract her, so I say nothing.

  “Probably,” she continues, “because a witch with more than one type of magic was the only power that could challenge them—especially a Y Tair—Iron decided being led by a queen interfered with their influence.”

  “And they began killing off House of Rose,” I finish for her. House of Rose is dying out because of greed, because House of Iron fears we will produce a Y Tair.

  “Okay,” I say, “I get it that the House of Iron is threatened by us because the Y Tair must be a woman. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be a woman of House of Rose. What about Iron and Stone? Why can’t they produce a daughter?”

  She shakes her head. “They can produce daughters, but the Y Tair, at least according to legend, must carry not just the bloodlines of all three Houses, but the magic of all three. This much is fact—the powers of Iron and Stone only manifest in the males. If a daughter of Stone parents and a son of Iron produced a boy, he would be Iron. Same the other way around. Females can be born to warlocks, but they don’t inherit the powers. It’s only House of Rose that can inherit both the blood and the magic and only in the female line. Sons of House of Rose are normals.”

  She lets that sink in.

  “What you’re saying is that since I’m the only child-producer in the House of Rose, any bearing of a Y Tair is on my shoulders or my daughter’s or granddaughter’s, assuming I have a child some day.” Children, like friends, have never been on my to-do list.

  “Yes, that is correct. But it is a great deal more than just producing a Y Tair.” Her eyes crinkle in worry. “Rose, it is not just House of Rose that is dying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the Houses are dying.”

  “What? Why?”

  She watches me closely. “Our ability to have children has declined over the years.”

  I recall something Stephanie, Jason’s cousin, once told me—Children are so rare.

  A knot of dread in my stomach begins to form. There is something I’m missing. Something critical.

  “Do we know why?” I ask.

  She knits her fingers, her gaze intent on me. “Some of us do. There is a geneticist in House of Stone who has studied it for many years. I don’t know him personally or even his name. Stone protects their identities fiercely, but he sent me copies of his research. His work strongly supports his hypothesis that genetic switches in the male lines determine powers in the warlock Houses, at least in the House he studied, but one would assume that applied in House of Iron.”

  “That makes sense, but I don’t get—”

  “Yes, I know, that conclusion is evident. As I said, women in Iron and Stone do not inherit any of the Family abilities. Neither do sons in House of Rose. The important thing is that those same genetic switches also make childbirth rare. The more the inbreeding in a House, the more difficult it is.”

  I think about this. “Both warlock Houses will die out on their own.”

  “Yes, and House of Rose, as well—that is, if we could recover from having our members exterminated as if we were some kind of infestation. The fact that your mother had two children was looked upon as being a welcome, but very unusual, event.” She plucks at a tealeaf stuck to the side of her cup. “If what you say about your grandmother having an affair with a man of Iron is true, that could explain your mother’s fecundity.”

  “Well, how long did this geneticist think it would take for the Houses to be unable to have children?”

  “He predicts this is the last generation.”

  The meaning of this reverberates like a struck tuning fork. My voice drops to a whisper.

  “What you’re saying is that all the Houses—we—are going extinct.”

  “Yes.”

  My mind whirls, trying to digest this. A whole people disappearing. No matter what kind of people some of them may be, it is wrong. Terribly wrong.

  “Isn’t there anything that can stop it?”

  Her gaze drops to her cold cup of tea and then up to mine. “The only thing that can be done to restore genetic viability is to mix the blood of Iron or Stone with House of Rose.”

  It takes a moment to absorb what she is saying. “You mean the only way to save everyone is for me to have sex with a man from another House and have his baby?”

  “That, I fear, is exactly what I am saying.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The following afternoon, I head south through the cut in Red Mountain. It’s Sunday and I’m off duty. But a police officer is never really off duty. Gun and badge are always present and, with them, the obligation to respond to any felony or emergency. Technically, I could claim overtime for doing actual detective work, but since I’m sneaking behind my partner’s back, I will “forget” to claim it.

  Alice’s recent revelations bounce around in my head as I drive. Could she be wrong? Could she be lying? That seems highly unlikely, considering how much she hates House of Iron. She had to believe strongly every word, because it would take something on the level of annihilation of a race to get her to tell me to sleep with a man from Iron.

  The bottom line is I’m a brood mare responsible for the survival of a race of beings that may or may not be fully human, depending on your definition. My knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. I force a deep breath. Getting angry isn’t going to change anything. I need logic.

  My first instinct stands—that extinction is wrong, akin to genocide—but what would actually happen if they . . . we . . . died out? Humanity would survive, wouldn’t it? Witches can’t heal the world. Iron manipulates people for its own purposes, and Stone is not out there doing anything as far as I can tell. Why not just let nature take its course? Let us go like the dodo birds or the woolly mammoth.

  In the end, the world might be better off without the existence of the Houses. After all, some extinct creatures would pose a threat to humanity if they still existed—flesh-eating dinosaurs, giant crocodiles, rodents, and insects, not to mention my favorite horror, megalodon, a giant shark that ate whales for breakfast. Some things we are better off without. Personally, I could do fine in a world without mosquitoes.

  It is not fair that this responsibility rests on my shoulders. The whole thing is too overwhelming to deal with. I tuck it away to ponder later. One thing at a time, and solving a homicide is at the top of my list.

  Vestavia Hills is a small municipality just south of Birmingham’s city limits. Named for Vesta, the Roman goddess of the hearth, home, and family, the city touts good schools and low crime. GPS guides me right to Laurie Stokes’ apartment door. I knock, but nobody answers.

  Just because the fate of a race of people depends on me, apparently doesn’t mean the world has stopped and everyone is available when I want them to be. But Stokes shouldn’t still be in church, if she goes, which a lot of people do. It’s a well-worn joke that there’s a church on every corner in the South. If that’s not literally true, it’s close enough.

  Stepping to the curtained window, I try to see inside, but the day is too bright. I didn’t call ahead, not wanting to leave a message or give her a callback number. I don’t want her calling the office and inadvertently alerting Tracey that I’m investigating without him. Among my gr
owing list of things I don’t want to think about is how I’m going to handle it when he finds out I’m pursuing leads by myself. There’s a shopping mall not far from here, and I have a story in mind about how I just happened to be in the neighborhood looking for a new pair of shoes and dropped by.

  And the explanation I’ve worked out about why I went to interview Crompton’s wife was that Lieutenant Faraday ran me out of the office the day he was qualifying at the firing range, and I didn’t know what to do. But those tales are in my pocket, to be pulled out only if he confronts me. I’m not volunteering anything. He doesn’t seem inclined to pursue the case. Maybe it won’t come up, at least until I have a handle on what is going on. I need to understand why he lied to me about his connection with the homicide victim, Benjamin Crompton.

  Just as I’m about to give up on anyone coming to the door, Stokes’ next-door neighbor emerges, a man in his twenties. He’s wearing white shorts and cradles a tennis racket in one arm. He closes his own door, starts toward the parking lot and sees me.

  “You looking for Laurie?” he asks.

  “Yes. Have a clue where she might be?”

  He laughs and thumbs over his shoulder. “Try the pool in back. She’s probably working on her tan.”

  “Thanks. How do I get there?”

  This time he points at the sidewalk to my right. “Just follow that around. She can unlock the gate for you.”

  I nod and tread the concrete path around the building. The pool is a decent size, shaped with a stylish left crook to indicate the deep end. The sparkling blue water looks inviting, but it’s not long enough to get in good laps. I promise myself an evening visit to the YMCA.

  Surrounding the pool is a shoulder-high wooden fence. Woods ensure privacy on all sides, except from the windows in the back of the complex. It’s a beautiful sunny day, but only a couple of people are at the pool. One is stretched out spread-legged on a recliner near the deep end, the top straps of her two-piece down, blonde hair spread in wet spikes from her head—Laurie.

  Her eyes are closed. I find my way to the gate. It’s a combo lock. I could jump over the fence, which is only intended to keep out wandering children, but that might be a bit too dramatic an entrance.

  “Laurie?” I call.

  Both occupants look my way. The other person is a middle-aged woman with two kids who are happily splashing in the shallow end.

  Laurie sits up and shades her eyes. Without bothering to replace the straps on her suit, she gets up, holding her top to her chest and walks to the gate. I can see why she caught Crompton’s eye. And, except for a little graying at his temples, I understand why she responded—an older man, secure in his position, her boss. Flattering.

  Why did she kill him?

  “Detective?” she asks quietly. “I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  I’m wearing jeans and a tee shirt that says, “The Police Never Think It’s As Funny As You Do.”

  “Can I come in?” I ask, pointing to the locked gate.

  “Oh, sure.” She opens it and stands aside.

  “I love the sun,” I say, “but maybe over there?” I gesture toward a table with a large umbrella. I want to be able to see her eyes.

  She wriggles the straps of her top back over her shoulders and grabs a towel off the back of her lounge chair, wrapping it around her waist.

  When we’re seated, I ask, “How are you doing?” She has no idea I know she killed Crompton, so I try to put some compassion in my question.

  She sighs. “I’m okay, or I’m getting there. Trying.”

  “Are you back at work?”

  “Yeah, new boss.”

  “Already?”

  “They just named him to the position, but he hasn’t moved in. It’s going to be weird having him there, and he may not keep me as his assistant.”

  “What happens if he doesn’t?”

  “I’ll lose my job, unless they have something else for me. Just back to being a student on a student loan. I come from a rural farm family,” she says. “Nobody believed I would ever make it through college, let alone get into medical school.” Her lips spread in a wan smile. “They already call me ‘Doctor Laurie’ at home.” She waves a hand to indicate the pool and apartment building behind us. “If he cans me, I’ll probably have to find somewhere else to live.”

  “Crompton didn’t leave you anything?”

  She looks startled. “You mean like money?”

  “Yeah, like money.”

  “No. I’m sure if he had a will, everything went to his wife.”

  “Were there any other family members he might have left something to?”

  “Not that he ever mentioned. He told me once that he and his wife couldn’t have children. They tried, but—” Her voices trails away.

  “Have you talked to his wife?” she asks.

  “I have. I agree she’s a little unbalanced.”

  “Benjamin said she was crazy as a loon. I don’t know if that was true or just a line he gave me. Funny, I never even questioned it until after he died. Isn’t that weird?”

  “Death makes us think about things we normally hide from ourselves,” I say, thinking how Alice’s “death” inflamed all my demon childhood memories.

  “Guess so.” She studies her chipped green fingernails. They were manicured and freshly painted the last time I saw her. Looks like she’s been biting them.

  I’m striking out in trying to identify a motive. She’s apparently vulnerable financially. Could someone have enticed her to kill her boss in exchange for something?

  “I’m trying to figure out who might gain from Dr. Crompton’s death,” I say. “Can you help me?”

  “Why? It was an accident.”

  “How could it have been an accident?” I ask, watching her carefully.

  “What do you mean? I thought he had a heart attack, but the rumor is he overdosed from too much insulin.”

  “Didn’t you tell us you prepared his insulin syringe?”

  Her tanned face pales.

  “I do, I mean, I did.”

  “Did you put more insulin in the syringe than was called for?”

  “No!”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m always careful.” Her thumb plays with the tops of her nails.

  “Do you remember preparing it that morning?”

  “Yes, I think. It’s hard to remember, like parking your car in the same lot everyday but in a different place, you know? Sometimes I can’t remember which spot I parked in because it all blurs together.”

  “Try to remember. Step through it, every detail.”

  “I always go to the drawer where he keeps the syringes and open a new one, go to the little refrigerator he has in his office and get out the insulin.”

  “You took the insulin from the refrigerator that morning?”

  “Of course.”

  Lie.

  “You wouldn’t have had some in your pocket you used, accidentally?”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “I don’t carry insulin around with me. Why would I do that?”

  When the autopsy report came back negative for poison, I looked up insulin doses. Stokes must have drawn from a bottle with a higher strength, the one in her pocket. Dr. Crompton was taking a U-40 strength, but the same amount in a U-500 strength could have been deadly.

  “Go on,” I say. “What do you do next?”

  “I pull back the syringe and push it into the bottle to get out the air, then I measure his dosage and push a bit out the tip and take it to him. He injects himself.” She looks lost. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Did he normally check the amount when you bring it to him?”

  She looks down. “He used to, but no, not really. He trusted me.” A tear leaks from her left eye and she brushes at it, automatically wiping unde
r the lower lid to remove any smudged mascara.

  “You think you made the mistake?” I ask.

  “I . . . I don’t know. Are you sure it wasn’t a heart attack?” Her voice is hopeful.

  “The autopsy results weren’t clear, but we’re pretty sure it was an overdose.”

  “Then it was my fault,” she says. This time the tears run freely, and she makes no attempt to wipe them away.

  I lean forward. This is my moment.

  “Laurie, I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth.”

  “I am,” she sobs.

  Either she is a damn good liar or actress or she’s innocent and my visions are crap.

  “I don’t remember,” she says. “I can’t remember that morning. It was just like every morning, and I can’t remember!”

  I give her a moment to pull herself together. A child screams, catching my attention. The boy stands at the pool’s edge, his toes hanging over, body bent at an angle as he works up the courage to jump in. Regardless of the tube around his waist and inflated wristbands, this daring move requires everything he’s got. Other than his perfect skin, he reminds me of Daniel.

  When I turn back to Laurie’s tear-streaked face, she sobs, “How am I going to live with this?”

  I know she wants me to say it was an accident, but I can’t. I saw her pull a vial from her pocket.

  “You can live with it if you tell me,” I try again. “I want to hear your side of it.”

  “He said he was going to leave his wife, that she was unbalanced . . . and that he loved me.”

  “Did you find out he wasn’t going to leave her?” I ask gently.