Blood And Stone
The Atalante Chronicles
Nicholas W King
Copyright © 2020 Nicholas W King
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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.
ISBN-13: 9798616155252
Cover design by: Broken Candle Book Designs
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
To Mom, Sean, and Dad, who never stopped encouraging my imagination.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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 1
Working outside of Tampa can be a pain in the ass. Scenic but a pain in the ass.
The cab came to a stop on Stafford Road at the entrance to a horse farm. Outside the city of Tampa you tend to find larger properties—strawberry farmers, organic food producers, fish farms, and horse ranches, all with plenty of acreage. Usually, when you get to a residence out in the sticks, there are long dirt or gravel paths leading from the street to where people actually live. Some people are considerate enough to live less than a city block from the road. Others take their privacy entirely too seriously.
The cabbie, a string-bean fellow with hollowed out eyes, asked me, “This the place?”
I compared the numbers on the mailbox to the handwritten note I held. “Yep,” I said.
One look at the meter and I blew out a breath. I handed the cabbie a crumbled mess of twenties from one of my trench coat’s many pockets. Unlike some of the other cities I’ve worked in, Florida cabbies don’t have bulletproof glass separating them from their customers. I guess not enough cabbies have died to warrant it.
“Any chance you can chill here?” I said. “I’m gonna need a ride back.” I already knew the answer, but sometimes people surprise you.
The cabbie gave me his best “Do I look like I give a damn?” glare and said, “Sure. Got a hundred for my time?”
I snorted and got out, grabbing my satchel and my cane. The cab drove away. I started walking down the cracked driveway to the main house. If this job actually paid anything, I’d have enough to get my Jeep repaired. Not getting paid for my labors had, at least recently, become an occupational hazard.
“Christ on a cracker,” I said, looking up the curving path. Fences enclosed both sides of the roadway. The driveway I was walking ran parallel to the main paddock for the horses. Flat grass land caught the waning sunset. A lonely watering hole sat about 30 yards from the road, right up against a wooden fence between two fields. A single-story barn sat ahead to my right beyond the two fields. I could hear distant whinnies from the horses.
The main house was about half a mile from Stafford Road. I could see lights on and a few people standing on the porch. Once I got closer, I could see the house slung low, like a western ranch. It wasn’t quite canary yellow; it was bright like a Mali Garnet. The enclosed porch extended from the main door. Half a dozen cars sat on the grass in front of the house. Six people I assumed were the cars’ owners were milling about by the front door.
“Who the hell are you?” asked one of them. He looked to be in his late forties, with a receding patch of salt and pepper hair. His gut stretched his collared polo shirt. What I could see of his arms showed muscle definition, though. It looked like he worked out trying to maintain his physique, but that he was losing the battle. His bullying command presence was bolstered by his height. He had to be nearly six foot five.
I lowered my hand on my cane, exposing the thick knot of wood at the top. Smacking this guy across the face wouldn’t be my first choice, but some people rarely give me a chance to employ other options. I will admit that my cane makes a satisfying thunk when it hits someone. But you didn’t hear that from me.
“I was invited,” I said. From the older man’s expression, I could see I’d failed to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“I asked you a question. I expect an answer.” He closed the distance between us quickly, crossing thirty feet of yard space with his fists balling up. The rest of the people on the porch didn’t move a muscle. They didn’t know me. They had no reason to get in this guy’s way on my behalf.
“Uncle or family friend?” I asked, hoping my question would deflect his anger.
“Uncle,” he answered. He was less than a foot away. His muscles tensed with that surge of adrenaline one gets right before a fight starts.
I smiled broadly. That stopped him cold. It can be disarming, a good smile. Makes people think you know more than they do.
“Alright then, uncle—...?”
“Terry. Terry Masters.”
“I’m Nicodemus. I’ve been invited,” I repeated. “If you want your nephew safe, you’ll get the hell outta my way.”
I stood my ground, which is easy. Terry had me by about half a foot in height, but I’m built like a small freight truck. From shoulder to shoulder, I’m almost three and a half feet across. It makes it hard for me to buy clothes off the rack.
Before he could respond, someone said, “Terry. Back off.”
The voice belonged to a woman in her late thirties. Her hair was chestnut, bleached by the sun, and pulled back in a loose ponytail. It made the worry lines on her face more prominent. The skin around her eyes was puffy and red. Angular features made her more homely than anything else, but I didn’t guess makeup was high on her list of priorities today. She wore a wool sweater, a loose t-shirt underneath, and a floor length skirt, all in earthy tones.
I sidestepped Uncle Terry and walked to the porch. As I neared, I could see that her eyes were jade, similar to mine, though mine boast flecks of black. She regarded me suspiciously. I have to admit I don’t look that great most days. My navy-blue trench coat, which reached to my ankles, had seen better days. The faded South Park t-shirt didn’t help my image. It’s the one with Cartman dressed as a policeman on his tricycle. My jeans were fraying at the keens and the cuffs. I hadn’t shaved for a week; I hadn’t had a haircut in a year. I could tell from her face that she thought me... unkempt.
“You’re Nicodemus Atalante?”
“Ms. Masters,” I nodded and smiled, which I noticed did put her at ease. “Pastor Richards called me.”
“How do you know Malcolm?” she asked. She positioned herself between me and the door to her home.
“We’ve worked together in the past. Similar case.”
She nodded absently, as if my words were barely registering. “Can you help my son?”
“I’ll get the job done. Pastor tell you about my fee?”
That question set something off in Terry. I could feel the back of my head start to smoke. A
meaty hand grabbed the sleeve of my trench coat and pulled. I allowed him to spin me around.
“You talk about money?” he demanded.
I looked down at his hand and back up to lock eyes with him. He had steel-gray eyes, hard and unforgiving. “Take your hand off me,” I said.
“Or what?” he asked. I could see he needed to fight, needed not to feel impotent over his nephew’s state. For a guy like him, not being able to do something is the worst kind of pain.
Part of me knew that I was about to do was wrong. The other part of me didn’t give one damn. I pulled some of the ambient energy of the area into me, channeled it, and pushed that power into my cane. The runes etched into the maple wood flared to life with a verdant glow. I raised the cane and thumped him lightly in the chest.
“I’ll ask nicely,” I said.
I forgot to mention: I’m a wizard.
For a moment, I saw some comprehension on Terry’s face. He regained his composure and looked to his sister-in-law. “Patricia, you’re going to let a witch near your boy?”
“Get the gender right, Terry,” I said, pulling his attention back to me. “Witch refers to women. Call me a wizard, if you have to call me anything.”
Patricia cleared her throat. Somehow, that decreased the growing testosterone in the vicinity. “If he can save my son,” she said, “—then yes.”
Her voice was rigid as stone. Terry stared up at her, back to me, then to her again. He let me go and moved to join Patricia on the porch.
“If you help James, you’ll get your money.”
I hoped she didn’t see me flinch. Her words carried little warmth. Not that I could blame her. “Let’s get to it then,” I said.
Her home, unlike her voice, was the definition of warm and inviting. On the wall opposite the door were dozens of pictures, mostly of happy customers who boarded and trained their horses here. Terry and Patricia led the way. Off to the right of the entrance was the living room, all wood furniture with matching floral cushions and pillows. Beyond that was the kitchen and dining room. Everything looked well-maintained.
To my left were a set of double doors separating a trophy room and home office. There was a gun cabinet. It looked like the only things kept inside were hunting rifles, but there weren’t any animal heads on the wall.
Patricia led me through the living room and around to the back of the house. A long hallway waited for us, walls lined with family photos. A blonde boy, handsome with a goofy grin, took up most of them. He was strapping in the way only teenage boys can be: built but not overly so, tanned from days in the sun, and thoroughly impressed with himself. Near the start of the hallway I could see pictures of a man I presumed to be his father. He had the same square-jawed, wholesome face and sandy blonde hair.
“How long has he been like this?” I asked, scanning each photo as I passed them.
“Three days,” Patricia answered. “Malcolm tried what he could. Then he said I should call you.”
“Malcolm’s good people,” I said. She nodded but didn’t respond. Terry had taken up a position behind me, glaring as if he had heat vision. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me, Terry.”
“A man of God should be here,” he said, contempt peppering every word. “You don’t belong here.”
I would have been offended if it was the first time I’d heard something like that.
Patricia remained silent and led us to her son’s room. The bedroom was spacious. It was plastered with posters for the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team. A shelf on the far wall was covered in trophies, most of them for baseball. The right wall held a flat screen TV. A small shelf sat underneath this. It bore two gaming consoles and two dozen or so games. Against the wall next to the door was a computer desk. A laptop sat in the center of the desk, connected to a pair of monitors.
I set my cane against the wall across from the door. Magical items have an ambient energy field that sets off electronics. There was no need to blow out the kid’s systems while trying to help him.
James Masters was laid out on his bed, bound at the wrists and ankles with thick leather belts. Those were tied to each of the four posts of his bed frame. The skin around his restraints was rubbed raw. His breathing was shallow and rapid. The blond hair that seemed so vibrant in his photos was darkened by sweat and matted to his forehead. A rancid combination of body odor and urine assaulted my nostrils. Patricia and Terry, I imagined, had become numb to it.
“You made it, Nico,” a rich baritone said. I turned to see Malcolm Richards walking up behind Terry. He was wearing a sweat-stained white dress shirt, his crucifix hanging over a loosened tie. His tan slacks were wrinkled, probably from sleeping in them. Dark stubble dotted his broad face. Malcolm had friendly eyes, amber brown with yellow highlights around the edges. There was more gray in his brown hair than I remembered. He kept it cut close and clean, but I could tell it hadn’t been washed for a few days.
“Malcolm,” I said, offering my hand. He shook it with half-hearted vigor. “Three days?”
“I thought I could pull it out myself,” he said, his voice somber. “When I couldn’t, I tried to convince them to call you.”
“When was that?”
“After the first day.” He leaned against the doorframe. It looked like it was the only thing holding him up. “Took some convincing.”
I sighed. “Spirit’s got a foothold now. Usual exorcism won’t work.” I walked over to the foot of the bed and looked down at the boy. A wave of nausea came over me as my vision blurred.
Wizards have Vision, which lets them see things outside the normal range of perception. Mostly I see people’s auras, the spiritual energy that surrounds them. The energy also reflects their emotions. My Vision shows me things that are not of this reality, including spirits and ghosts, that kind of stuff.
The room shifted from normal to a darkened reflection. Color bleached out of the space, turning the blue walls into light gray. Splashes of black ichor covered the walls, oozing down to the floor in chunky rivulets.
In the real world, the boy was on his back. My magical sight showed him curled in a ball, sniveling and weeping. His aura was a ghastly shade of gray, a sign of how terrified he was inside. Along the edges of James’ aura, I could see purple sparks. It looked like a generator misfiring.
What I saw cradling the boy’s body stopped my breath. A figure made of shadow held the boy’s upper body pressed against its form. The masculine frame burned with a kaleidoscope of fiery red and midnight black swirls. Glowing crimson eyes stared up at me. I felt a push of the spirit’s will against my mind.
I closed my eyes and centered myself, steeling my mind against the intrusion. It had been a weak attempt, more of a test than a true attack. When my eyes opened again, the room had returned to normal. I exhaled and felt Malcolm’s hand on my shoulder. There was a quiet hum of energy behind his touch, a reassuring presence of power. It’s been said that faith can move mountains. I haven’t seen a man or woman of any faith pull that trick off. But for protecting oneself from otherworldly spirits, it certainly helps.
I reached into my satchel bag and pulled out a small circlet of metal charms. Each circular charm had a steel bar connecting it to the ring. The charms were carved into odd shapes and symbols. I pressed one of the charms into the sole of the boy’s foot.
“What’re you doing?” asked Patricia. She must have entered the room while I was using the Vision. She was standing close to her son.
“Don’t get too close,” I said. “Last thing we need is the spirit to jump ship.” I went through each charm, letting the metal stay in contact with the boy’s skin for a second or two. There was no reaction of the first seven or eight.
“What are you doing?” she asked again. She sounded more insistent this time, but at least she had taken a step away from her son.
“Gotta figure out what kinda spirit possesses your son.”
Looking to Malcolm, Patricia asked, “Can’t you do anything more, Pastor?”
> Pastor Richards shook his head. “I’ve done all I can,” he said quietly. “Nico may be brusque, but he’s a good man.”
“Exodus 22:18, Pastor,” said Terry. He stood by the door with his arms crossed. He seemed satisfied that he’d won some kind of argument.
Before Malcolm or I could retort, James let out an inhuman shriek. A wisp of smoke rose from the boy’s foot. I looked at which symbol had caused the reaction. The color left my face. My arm hairs stood up as the spirit inhabiting James released a small pulse of energy.
Everything electronic in the back half of the house fried instantly. Putting the charm ring in my satchel, I turned my gaze to James. Spit dribbled from the edges of his mouth. He roared at me. Behind the spoiled-milk eyes I could see the demon staring back at me. It was enraged.
Terry moved much more swiftly than a man his size should. He made a beeline for me. Malcolm got in his way. Terry had the pastor by at least sixty pounds and almost a foot in height. That didn’t stop Malcolm from putting his hand on Terry’s chest, stopping him cold.
“He’s not hurting him,” Malcolm said. “The demon’s been identified and it’s pissed.”
I looked at Terry. “You want to save your nephew?” I said.
Terry heaved a few breaths before curtly nodding. His face was strained with anger.
“Good. Then stop trying to be the asshole who picks a fight.” Turning to Patricia, I said, “Could you hand me my cane, please?”
Patricia didn’t understand my request but she complied. Once she’d handed off the cane, I said, “Tell the people on the porch to clear out. Terry, I’m gonna need you to carry your nephew.”
“Carry him? Where?”
“Where I tell you to go.”
Neither of them looked happy, but they did as I instructed. When it was just me and Malcolm, the pastor looked at me and sighed. “You should try to be more polite.”
I stared into James’ milky eyes. “You should have called me sooner.”
Blood And Stone: A Novel in The Atalante Chronicles Page 1