by R. L. King
Stone glared. “What is it with you and Stefan, anyway?”
“Stefan?”
“Yes. Maybe you know him by a different name, but it’s obvious you know each other. You were like a couple of bloody spitting cats at Caventhorne. So how do you know each other, and why are you enemies?”
Aldwyn gave a thin smile. “Ah. Yes. We are not enemies. We merely have…differences in personal philosophy.”
“Is that right?” Stone gave himself a moment to mull that over; once again, if Aldwyn spoke truth, it meant another piece of the puzzle of Stefan Kolinsky had fallen into place: the man was at least two hundred years old, and probably even older than that. He’d suspected it by the way Kolinsky had referred to the previous rifts—almost as if he’d been present the last time they’d been here—but Aldwyn’s words supported the hypothesis.
“How do you know him, if I may ask?” Aldwyn’s eyes narrowed. “Did he seek you out?”
“Seek me out? Why would he do that?” When the man didn’t answer, Stone shook his head. “No. Quite the contrary, in fact: I sought him out, shortly after I moved to the United States ten years ago. A…mutual friend put us in contact.”
“I see.” Aldwyn rubbed his chin. “I wonder if that is true. No,” he added quickly, “I am not accusing you of lying—merely speculating about the circumstances. He is subtle, and adept at getting what he wants. He is also not to be trusted.”
Stone snorted. “Look who’s talking.”
“It’s true,” Aldwyn said mildly. “And you would do well to believe me. He is treacherous, and adept at manipulation. If he has set his sights on you, it is because he wants something from you.”
“He wants a lot of things from me. And I from him. We have an arrangement, and it’s proven fairly fruitful over the years.”
“He is also good at playing…the long game.” Aldwyn gave a small, amused smile. “Take it as a warning from one who has far more connection to you than he does: even if you have associated with him for years, at some point he will spring his trap and ask something of you that you are not willing to give. And by that point it will be too late.”
A brief tingle ran down Stone’s spine. How much did he really know about Kolinsky, when it came down to it? But all he said was, “Suppose we drop the conversational song-and-dance, and you tell me exactly what it is you want. Why did you bring me here? Where is here, by the way?”
“I have secured…premises.” Aldwyn smiled thinly. “I hardly thought you would respond favorably to my making a claim on our home in Surrey.”
“Bloody hell…” If this man was truly his ancestor, that was something Stone hadn’t thought about before. He narrowed his eyes. “That’s good, at least. I think you might have a more difficult time of that than you might suspect.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But in any case, I make no claim on our ancestral estate. I am not without my own resources, I assure you.”
“You’re also good at changing the subject. Where are we?”
“I won’t tell you that at present. Not until and unless we arrive at an understanding.”
“We’re not arriving at any understanding. If what you’re telling me is true—and I’ve no idea how it could be—you’ve got a lot of things to answer for.” He continued pacing. “You were going to tell me how you and Stefan know each other.”
Aldwyn studied him from the chair, only his eyes moving. “No. I don’t think I am. Not now. I don’t believe you’re ready for that knowledge yet.”
Stone whirled away from him, going stiff with frustration as he glared at the painting on the wall. Here it was again. Why, suddenly, were half the people in his life treating him as if he wasn’t strong enough, mature enough, or otherwise ready to hear some great truth of the universe? He’d long suspected—every mage worth the name did at some point—that there was more out there in the world than even current magical study could account for, but why was it all coming up at once?
“Look,” he said without turning back. “If you aren’t going to tell me anything and you don’t intend to hold me prisoner here, you might as well send me back now. I’ve no plans of joining up with you, regardless of how many lost magical techniques you dangle in front of my nose.”
When Aldwyn didn’t reply, Stone did turn to face him, wondering if he’d angered the man and preparing to defend himself. But his ancestor merely sat in his chair, watching Stone as if examining a particularly intriguing new specimen. “Well? Don’t you have anything to say?”
Aldwyn made another tiny shrug. “What do you want me to say? I don’t intend to force you. In truth, I didn’t expect you would accept my offer now. All this must be quite overwhelming for you, and I’m not even certain you believe I am who I claim to be yet. No matter. There is time. You cannot hide yourself from me, and if you should wish to contact me, I will know.”
“You’ll know. So you’re planning to spy on me, then? Again, that might be more difficult than you think.”
“We shall see.”
“In any case, don’t hold your breath. I won’t be changing my mind.”
Aldwyn’s only response was the same faint, enigmatic smile. Stone noticed it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Are we done here? Because I’ve got quite a lot to do and I’d like to be getting on with it.”
“Of course.” The older man stood. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Alastair. It is comforting to know that our family line has persisted in such a satisfying way, undiluted by the taint of mundane blood. I hope we can meet again, even if you don’t choose to accept my offer. In even my limited time in this new and fascinating world, I have already seen that power like ours is rare and fading, but that doesn’t have to be so.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Be well, young one.” He gestured in Stone’s general direction.
It was all Stone could do not to flinch and raise his shield, but he did neither. Instead, he looked over his shoulder, back toward where the painting had been a moment before. Instead, the familiar swirling pastel of the portal floated, hovering a foot off the ground.
Stone didn’t bother asking how he’d done it—whether it had been a powerful illusion or some even more potent bit of magic—but he did narrow his eyes at Aldwyn. “How do you even have a portal here? I didn’t even think they’d been discovered yet when you were here last.”
Aldwyn’s thin smile grew a bit wider. “You must specify your destination,” he said. “Unless you intend to return to your Surrey home.”
“So you aren’t going to tell me.”
Aldwyn didn’t answer.
Stone sighed. “Fine, then. Do as you like. I don’t care.” Of course he did care and he was sure his ancestor knew it, but right now all he wanted was to get away from here. Questions could come later.
He examined the portal. It seemed no different from those he was familiar with, except that the destination calibration was hidden. If Aldwyn was telling the truth, it was pointed at the mausoleum in Surrey, but he couldn’t see that. Tentatively, he reached out with his mind and attempted to change the destination; it worked as expected, and this time, he could see he’d done it correctly. As far as he could tell, the portal was now pointed at A Passage to India in Sunnyvale.
“I will get my answers, one way or another,” he said.
“No doubt. I know little about you yet, but I can already see that your curiosity and persistence are both formidable. Until later, then.”
Stone refused to let Aldwyn see his reluctance to step into the portal. For all he knew it could be pointed anywhere, and it took a leap of faith to enter it. But enter it he did, without looking over his shoulder.
Inside, the same foggy tunnel spread out in front of him, with the familiar, far-off darkening that indicated the exit at the other end. He paused a moment, trying to sense the oddness from before, but he couldn’t. Everything looked and felt exactly as it had the hundreds of other times he’d traversed the portal without i
ncident.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “Just get on with it.” He didn’t want to admit the encounter with Aldwyn had spooked him, but it had.
He started walking, first taking slow and tentative steps and then, when nothing happened, increasing his pace to a steady stride. He didn’t run, as much as he wanted to—there were still dangers in the Overworld, and even though they were rare, they were still drawn to unusual activity. Slow and steady, he repeated to himself like a mantra.
When he reached the end and stood before the dark gray, doorway-shaped exit, he stopped once again. He looked around him, then raised his shield. He felt foolish doing it, but better foolish than dead if the unexpected occurred.
Drawing a deep breath and holding it, he stepped through the portal.
Instantly, the familiar scents of curry, old boxes, and cleaning products surrounded him. He let his breath out in a whoosh and dropped the shield, embarrassed now that he’d made such a big deal of the whole thing. Here he was, safe and sound in A Passage to India’s hidden storage room, exactly where he’d expected to be. What did he think, that Aldwyn would teleport him into deep space or something?
Before he left, he examined the portal. Normally, when someone traveled through it, the calibration would remain set to the previous destination until it was cleared. One of the first things drilled into novice portal travelers was to immediately clear the calibration as soon as they arrived at their destination—which was particularly important if the origin had been a private portal. Most of those had additional safeguards to prevent or intercept unauthorized travel to them, but it was still best to cultivate the habit early on.
This time, the calibration didn’t exist.
Stone studied it a moment longer, curious but not surprised. The portal remained as pristine as the day it was created, pointed at nothing. A traveler stepping into it now would encounter only a sort of fog-shrouded vestibule without a corresponding exit point, and would need to step back out to set it to a destination. So either Aldwyn had immediately cleared it as soon as Stone had stepped through, or else the man had access to different—and better—techniques regarding the care and maintenance of portals than Stone was aware of.
Not bad for a guy who’d awakened from a two-hundred-year sleep less than two months ago.
The storeroom door opened, startling him from his thoughts. He was about to raise his shield again when the familiar figure of Marta Bellwood appeared in the doorway.
“Oh!” she said, jerking back. “I didn’t expect to see anyone—Alastair? Is that you?”
Stone relaxed. “Hello, Marta. Sorry. Doing a bit of woolgathering in the portal room.”
“Oh, quite all right. The place is closed now, I’m afraid. I’m just tidying up a bit in here before I go home.” She grabbed a box from a stack lined up along the side wall, then eyed him curiously. “Are you all right?”
That was a damned good question, considering what he’d just been doing. “I—Yes. I’m fine. Right as rain.”
She didn’t look as if she entirely believed him, but finally nodded. “We should chat sometime. I don’t get to see you very often anymore.”
“We absolutely should. But…perhaps not tonight.” He hadn’t told her yet about his own portal project, which had stalled for now due to lack of time to work on it. He flashed her a jaunty wave and quickly left the storeroom before she could say anything else. He already knew his next destination, but he couldn’t do anything about that until tomorrow.
Right now, a good kip with Raider was calling him—just after he checked in on Verity to see if she’d looked into Blum’s Oakland situation yet.
15
The surgical waiting room at Highland Hospital in Oakland had been taken over by fearful, stressed-out Harpies.
They’d started out in the main waiting room, swarming the nurse’s desk and demanding answers, and ended up where they were after another harried but kindly nurse had taken them under her wing and directed them to a quieter place.
What they didn’t have yet, though, was news, and Verity could barely keep herself still with the stress of it all. The other Harpies weren’t doing any better. They paced the small room like a collection of anxious cats, darting glances at the closed door. If sheer willpower could have brought a doctor in to give them an update, it would have happened long ago.
Verity’s heart pounded harder every time she went over the nightmarish scene at the Arena. After Greta had gone sailing over the rail to crash-land onto a group of fans far below, the crowd in the area, both in the upper section and the lower one, had panicked. Their panic had touched off the next groups over, and for a few moments it looked like the place would have a full-scale stampede on its hands. In the dark with little concrete information, talk of “terrorism” or “bomb threat” flew through the place like wildfire.
Verity didn’t wait for the other Harpies. She’d already been levitated; as soon as Greta went over, she pulled up an invisibility spell and shot over after her, trying to find a place to land that wasn’t occupied by the seething crowd and scanning the area for Greta. She’d already put the two attackers out of her mind—at that point, getting to her friend was the highest priority. She had no idea if she’d get the opportunity to try a magical healing, but she’d only have a chance if she could get close.
She couldn’t get close. Even employing a little subtle magic to push people out of the way wasn’t enough, and she ended up having to back off to avoid getting trampled. They brought the lights up fast, hustling the band offstage and making the announcement for everyone to calm down. There were no terrorists present, no bomb threat, just a medical emergency that would only get worse if people didn’t stop panicking and exit the venue in an orderly manner.
It didn’t help much, but at least Verity stopped hearing increasingly freaked-out speculations about what was going on. The security guards took charge, ushering people out as efficiently as they could manage. They tried to direct Verity out too, but she refused to go. “She’s my friend,” she protested, pointing toward the place where Greta had fallen. “I’ll stay out of the way, but I’m not leaving.” Finally, they gave up on her and moved on.
The emergency personnel standing by at the Arena arrived on the scene quickly, shoving through the crowd and yelling for people to get out of their way. Verity still hadn’t spotted Greta, lying on the floor between two rows, before the medics showed up and the crowd started waving them down. To her horror, it appeared several other people were injured nearby as well—either from Greta landing on them or from getting trampled by the crowd.
Before she could push against the tide of people and get to Greta, the medics were already surrounding her. “I know her,” she called to them, looking around for the other Harpies. “Let me see her.”
“We’re doing everything we can to help her,” one of the EMTs told her. “You’ve got to stand back, please.”
Jittering with stress, guilt, and frustration, Verity could do nothing but comply. What else could she do—tell them she had magic powers and might be able to heal the patient if they’d let her try? Yeah, that would go over well. Worst of all, she didn’t even know if she could heal Greta. With the EMTs and other crowd members surrounding her, she couldn’t even see her friend’s aura. For all she knew, Greta could be dead.
By the time the other Harpies had found ways down to the lower section and located Verity, the ambulances had arrived. Most of the concertgoers had been ushered out by now, leaving the security guards and several policemen guarding the area where the emergency personnel worked over the victims. At this point, there was no chance of getting near Greta. Verity caught a glimpse of her as they lifted her on to a gurney and whisked her out: pale, bloody, a rigid cervical collar immobilizing her neck. She was still alive—her faint medium-blue aura still flickered against the darkness—but Verity had no idea how long that would remain true.
Two hours later they stalked the waiting room at the hospital, waiting for new
s that wasn’t coming. The last thing they’d heard, shortly after they’d arrived, was that Greta was still alive and currently being evaluated. It had taken the Harpies a while to get to the hospital—first they had to find out which one Greta had been taken to, and then find transportation. By the time they arrived, Verity didn’t need to see auras to tell how stressed they all were. She turned away, staring out the window into the night, and tried to drive down the guilt. Greta hadn’t even wanted to do this. She’d only come out of a sense of loyalty. And now look where that had gotten her.
She could die.
“She’ll be okay. She’s tough as fuck,” came a soft voice from behind her.
Verity turned to find Kyla standing there. Her girlfriend’s jaw was set, but her eyes were understanding.
“I wish they’d just tell us something.” Her voice shook. “I wish I could get to her. Maybe I can—”
“I know,” Kyla whispered, rubbing her back. “I wish you could too.”
The only news they’d gotten so far was from the reports playing on the waiting room’s small TV. Already, every local network had picked up the story, reporting that at least a dozen people had been injured when a fan had plummeted down from the upper section and landed on the crowd below. They didn’t have specific information about anyone’s injuries, except that two people were in critical condition, others were under observation in local hospitals after being either landed on or trampled in the ensuing panic, and several more had been treated and released on scene. Finally, after hearing the same report for the fourth time, Verity had used magic to lower the volume. Nobody else had objected.
She clenched her fists and didn’t look at Kyla. “I told them to go over there,” she muttered. “I spotted magical traces, and all I thought about was getting to them as fast as possible. This whole thing is my fault. If I hadn’t seen the magic—”
“That’s what we were there for. Don’t blame yourself. Like I said, Greta’s tough, and you know as well as I do that she never does anything she doesn’t want to do.”
