Balance of Power: An Alastair Stone Urban Fantasy Novel (Alastair Stone Chronicles Book 25)

by R. L. King

  What if she was playing him?

  Bugger it, he thought. If he let himself spin off wild speculations like that, he’d second-guess himself into inaction. He couldn’t afford to do that.

  He retrieved his real phone and sent a text: Still up for dinner tonight?

  Her answer came quickly: Sure. I’ve been looking forward to it.

  Brilliant. He realized she hadn’t told him where she was staying; he doubted she actually lived in Sunnyvale. High-end mercenaries didn’t live in Sunnyvale. Where shall I pick you up?

  I’ll meet you there. My place is a mess.

  He smiled. That was an easy way to get around revealing her location to him.

  “You seem preoccupied tonight.” Eleanor tilted her head at him from across the table.

  “Long day, I suppose.”

  “I didn’t think teaching college would be so draining.” She sipped her wine and shot him a challenging glance.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  He’d been watching her surreptitiously throughout the meal, sneaking peeks at her aura when he thought she wasn’t looking. So far, he hadn’t spotted any sign of deception or duplicity. If anything, she seemed amused by their little game, as if she was enjoying putting something over on her former employers.

  She’d done her research, in any case, spending part of the main course telling him a funny story about how the CEO and the lead engineer got sloshed at her tech start-up’s holiday party and ended up standing on the conference table singing “Who Let the Dogs Out?”.

  “Maybe you should add that one to your setlist,” she suggested. “I crack up every time I hear it now.”

  “I’ll suggest it.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  They continued their light banter through dinner, and didn’t drop the act until they were back at Stone’s house, safely behind his wards.

  “Did they give you any trouble when you told them you were unsuccessful?” he asked as they sipped more wine in front of the fireplace downstairs, with Raider curled on the top of the sofa behind them.

  “No. They were disappointed, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t surprised.”

  “But they still think I’ve got the pyramid.”

  “I get that impression. They think you might have taken it overseas. The guy I talked to kind of lit up when I mentioned you’d invited me to your place in England.” She snuggled against him. “So, you were serious about that—you actually have a place in England?”

  “I do.”

  “Is that where you’re keeping this thing?”

  He checked her aura again, but it hadn’t changed beyond showing mild curiosity. “I told you before—I haven’t got it. As far as I know, it’s being sold at auction this Saturday.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. Regardless of whether I’m telling the truth, if I did have it, it’s somewhere your employers will never get their greedy little hands on it. So there’s no point discussing it, is there?”

  “Hey, I don’t care. Your bank transfer came through, so as far as I’m concerned, I’m working for you.” She rolled her head around to face him. “One of my better jobs, actually. Especially the fringe benefits. Speaking of which…”

  “You’re reading my mind.”

  31

  Is everyone in position?

  Stone sent the text from his seat at the end of a row, halfway back along the bank of chairs in the San Francisco auditorium where the auction was being held. He shifted to magical sight again and scanned the crowd in front of him, but aside from the expected baseline anticipation, he didn’t see anything that caught his attention.

  Ready, Verity sent. She was in the back row, where she could watch the remainder of the crowd. People are still taking their seats.

  I’m good, came Jason’s reply. He loitered at the back of the hall, keeping an eye on the double entrance doors where people were coming in.

  Good to go. Amber was the floater; she was stationed in the lobby now, but after the auction began her job was to patrol the perimeter and watch for anything unusual outside.

  I’m set. Blum was near one of the hall’s two side exit doors.

  Good, Stone said. Say something right away if you see anything out of the ordinary.

  If we even know what that is, he thought, glancing up to scan the old auditorium’s high rafters for any sign of invisible or lurking people.

  He had tried to focus on his work for the rest of the week, but the effort hadn’t been much help.

  When he’d called Blum a couple days ago, the detective had immediately agreed to come along and help keep watch, but he hadn’t heard anything about anyone breaking in to the location where the Drummond collection was being stored.

  “That’s good, I suppose,” Stone told him when they spoke again on the day of the auction. “I’m not sure whether it means they’re all biding their time, or they’ve managed to sneak in there and nick the thing without anyone noticing. I suppose we’ll find out soon.” In truth, it didn’t matter either way: if someone had stolen it, they’d soon find out it was a fake. So even if the thieves were from the Ordo, that still didn’t put them any closer to reuniting the two pieces.

  “I’m not sure exactly what you’re planning to do, and that makes me a little nervous if you want the truth.”

  “Yes. Well.” Stone had hoped he wouldn’t catch on to that. “If you do want the truth, I’m not exactly sure what I’m planning either, other than to post our group in various strategic areas and try keeping an eye on as many people bidding on that pyramid as possible.”

  “Okay, but what then? Are you going to chase down whoever ends up buying it? What if it’s not somebody from the groups you’re after? As a cop, I can’t exactly condone snatching somebody off the street. Especially since we both know the thing they’re buying is a fake.”

  “I’m…planning to play that part by ear. It will be useful to identify the players, even if all we do is watch.”

  “I guess. Are you gonna bid on the thing?”

  “I am, yes. I doubt it will fool anyone who thinks I’ve already got it, but it would look odd if I didn’t bid.”

  Now, he sat in his seat next to a large, intense-looking woman, alternating between his magical-sight checks and flipping through the auction program they’d given him along with his bid paddle when he’d registered. There was another large collection before Drummond’s and still another after; the pyramid’s lot number was halfway through the Drummond set. That was promising, he supposed. He hoped the fact that it hadn’t been removed meant the fake was still where it belonged. He glanced at his watch. One way or another, he’d know in about an hour.

  The time passed slowly. The collection before Drummond’s had nothing to do with either the occult or magic—it was a bunch of paintings, sculptures, and other art objects belonging to some wealthy deceased couple from Atherton. Stone paid more attention to the crowd than the items for sale, but it didn’t help much. Clearly, quite a few people in the audience were very interested in these objects, and their auras flared their excitement every time a bid was increased. It was hard to spot auric anomalies among this much background disturbance.

  His phone buzzed with a message from Blum. Don’t look, but the guy two rows back from you in the middle is checking you out.

  It took all Stone’s willpower not to turn around, but he managed. What does he look like?

  Hard to tell from here. White guy, blond hair, wearing a blue sweater.

  Can you see him from where you are, Verity?

  Several seconds passed. The auctioneer droned on with his fast-talking spiel, as all around Stone people raised their paddles to bid on a large, framed oil painting of a pastoral scene.

  Yeah, she finally responded. I see him. He’s not watching just you, but he’s definitely shot a couple glances in your direction. Can’t see his face from here. His aura’s orange, o
nly one that color in the row.

  All right, he sent back. Keep an eye on him, but don’t lose sight of everything else. Jason? Amber?

  Nothing out here, Amber sent back. Pretty quiet.

  Same here, Jason sent. Not too many people coming in now.

  Stone looked at his program. There were still several more items to go in the previous collection. Going to get coffee and see if I can spot Blue Sweater.

  He dropped his program on his chair to indicate it was taken, shot a confirming glance at the woman next to him, then got up and took a quick scan of the crowd while walking toward the rear of the auditorium. He switched to magical sight, and immediately identified the orange aura Verity had mentioned. He couldn’t take more than an instant’s look, but that was all it took to be sure he’d never seen the man before.

  He shook his head at Verity and continued on to buy a cup of coffee from the small concession area set up in the lobby. By the time he returned to his seat, the auctioneer was on the final item from the collection before Drummond’s.

  Here we go, he sent to the group. Eyes open.

  A few people got up and left, including the large woman sitting next to Stone, and a few more came in and took their seats. Stone didn’t need magical sight to pick up the change in the room’s ambient energy—the crowd interested in Drummond’s occult collection didn’t have much in common with the mostly older, wealthy types bidding on the Atherton couple’s conventional art collection.

  A thin woman in a stylish jacket slipped past Stone and took the seat next to him, nodding politely as she went by. He paid her no attention until his phone buzzed again.

  That lady next to you has a two-tone aura, Verity sent. Careful.

  Once again, Stone had to fight the temptation to take a look with magical sight. Instead, he merely turned a little as if scanning the crowd so he could catch a mundane glimpse. She had dark hair, a pinched, pale face, and sharp gray eyes. He didn’t recognize her. She seemed to be pointedly ignoring both him and the man sitting on her other side.

  On stage, the auctioneer began with the first item in the Drummond collection—a life-sized, carved wooden skull decorated with striking primitive artwork. Bidding was brisk, with several people around the room raising their paddles. The auctioneer was about to close the sale when a murmur rose from the other end of Stone’s row. Someone else had increased the bid at the last second before the gavel came down.

  Nobody contested, so the skull went to the late bidder.

  Stone’s phone buzzed again.

  You know who that is? Blum asked.

  No, why?

  That’s Chaz DaCosta.

  He almost said “who?” but then the name clicked. Are you sure?

  Pretty sure. Wonder why a famous magician’s bidding on this junk? Think he knows?

  Stone pondered. Chaz DaCosta was indeed a famous mundane magician—his shows had been featured on cable television, and he had a standing gig at one of the mid-sized Las Vegas casinos. In his act, he was known for being flamboyant and high-energy, with wild costumes and pounding music. He was also known for being a collector of all sorts of odd, magic-related paraphernalia.

  Apparently, a few other people had recognized DaCosta too, judging from the hubbub at the other end of Stone’s row. Even the severe woman next to him glanced in his direction.

  Don’t know. Keep an eye on him, Stone sent to the group.

  It was a good call. As the next few items came up and were quickly handled, Chaz DaCosta bid on most of them—and won every one he bid on. He used the same method every time: waiting until the bids slowed down and then raising his own paddle to swoop in and take the prize. Sometimes, he’d bark a triumphant laugh when he won.

  Stone scanned the crowd with magical sight again, and immediately noticed a few red flashes of frustration he hadn’t seen before. DaCosta clearly had more money to throw around than most of these casual bidders who’d expected to pick something up for a pittance, and it wasn’t sitting well.

  The auction progressed in much the same way for the next several items, with DaCosta winning the bids for all but a few he didn’t seem interested in.

  And then the black pyramid was the next item. Stone tensed, his heartbeat picking up, and focused on keeping his aura under control. Next to him, the severe-looking woman seemed more watchful too. He shielded his phone screen and sent to the group: Heads up. Here we go.

  “Next,” the auctioneer said, “we’ve got Lot 265436, a black pyramid-shaped stone sculpture measuring six inches on a side, decorated with carved symbols.” He indicated the table next to him, where an assistant had brought the pyramid out and placed it on a lighted stand. “We’ll start the bid at twenty-five dollars.”

  As Stone had expected, bidding was brisk and fast. He tried to identify everyone involved, but from his seat he had to rely on his friends to do it. Once, when he glanced over at Blum, he saw the detective surreptitiously snapping photos with his phone.

  The bid was up to five hundred dollars now, and the crowd rumbled with anticipation. So far, nothing in the collection had gone for anything close to that much, or had that much interest. Most of the casual bidders had dropped out by now.

  Other people were craning their necks to spot the major bidders, so Stone felt more secure doing the same thing now. He quickly identified five people vying for the pyramid aside from himself: the severe woman seated next to him; Chaz DaCosta, who had given up his sniping strategy and was looking grumpy; the blond man in the blue sweater; a middle-aged man who looked like someone’s suburban dad, near the front row; and a young, red-haired woman at the rear of the auditorium. Stone also noticed that all five of them seemed as interested in each other—and him—as they were in raising their bids.

  “Five hundred.”

  “Five-fifty.”

  “Six hundred.”

  Stone raised his paddle when the auctioneer called for six-fifty. All around, the spectators were getting more excited, almost like a crowd at a closely-contested football game.

  Finally, it seemed that Chaz DaCosta had grown impatient with the slow pace. He thrust his paddle up and yelled, “Two thousand dollars!”

  The crowd gasped. Surely, that would put an end to this crazy bidding run-up for an obscure and mostly unimpressive-looking gewgaw from a collection that had otherwise generated lackluster interest.

  But no, the woman next to Stone raised her paddle again. She wore an even grimmer expression than normal.

  “Twenty-one hundred from the lady in the sixth row!” the auctioneer called. “Do I hear twenty-two?”

  Blue Sweater’s paddle went up.

  “Twenty-two! Do I hear twenty-three?”

  “Three thousand!” Chaz DaCosta cried. He was looking downright angry now, shooting glares at the other bidders. Next to him, a young man was trying to talk some sense into him. Clearly, he didn’t respond well to having his whims thwarted.

  Stone, who had no intention of winning the bid for the fake pyramid, decided to see if he could throw a spanner in the works and hasten the end of the auction. He raised his paddle. “Five thousand dollars,” he called in a clear voice. He aimed an amused, satisfied smile at nobody in particular.

  The crowd gasped even louder, and he heard a whispered “holy shit!” from a couple rows back. Even the auctioneer looked shocked.

  If looks could kill, Chaz DaCosta would have turned Stone into a fine red mist about this point. Pretending not to notice, Stone glanced at the woman next to him and then back around to look at Blue Sweater and the red-haired woman.

  They were both glaring at him, narrow-eyed and grim.

  “Six thousand!” DaCosta yelled, poking his paddle up like he was trying to puncture a balloon hovering above his head.

  Stone realized most of the crowd—including, most likely, DaCosta—had no idea why such an obscure little item had garnered so much interest. Even if some of them had heard about the break-in at the University, as far as he knew nobody except himself an
d his friends were aware the pyramid had been the subject of that break-in. Blum, who’d been keeping watch on the case since shortly after the theft occurred, had told Stone no one had ever discovered what the thief had been after. The auction people had no doubt catalogued the entire collection prior to the auction and found nothing missing.

  “Do I hear sixty-one hundred?” The auctioneer, clearly aware now that he had no idea where this whole mess was going, seemed to be having a good time with it now.

  The redhead raised her paddle.

  Stone made a show of looking disappointed, as if he’d just realized he’d nearly won a bid he couldn’t cover, and lowered his hand. He didn’t smile, but he wanted to: now, as a failed bidder disappointed at being priced out of the fun, he had every justification to turn around and watch the other bidders. No doubt at least some of them knew who he was, but what were they going to do—tell him to stop looking at them? It wasn’t as if he was the only one doing it. Not even close. The whole crowd was into the spirit of the thing now, living vicariously through this bunch of rich weirdos who’d drop serious cash on some stupid shelf trinket.

  “Sixty-two! Do I hear sixty-two hundred?”

  Stone scanned the crowd. For the first time, nobody else seemed to be bidding. Was the red-haired woman going to get it for that price?

  “Okay, we have sixty-two hundred. Going once! Going—”

  “Ten thousand dollars, damn it!”

  Chaz DaCosta didn’t just raise his paddle this time. He leaped out of his chair, whirling around to glare defiance at the other bidders.

  For the first time, Stone got a good look at him. He was in his late twenties, his pale cheeks flushed with adrenaline, his eyes flashing, his mop of dark hair flopping over his forehead. Instead of one of the trademark flamboyant outfits he wore in his shows, he was dressed in slacks and a leather jacket. His bright-yellow aura was awash in red patches. Whether he knew the pyramid was more than it appeared or merely wished to own every part of Hiram Drummond’s collection that interested him, he obviously had his sights set on winning it.