by R. L. King
CHAPTER THREE
“What do you mean, you can’t find him?” Stone got up and went back to his desk, his grip on the phone tightening.
Verity shot him a questioning glance, and he shook his head. She nodded, mouthed we can talk later, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
“He was supposed to attend a function tonight—very important, not something he’d ever miss without letting someone know. Kerrick called me earlier tonight to ask if I’d seen him, but I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks.”
Stone leaned back in his chair and remained silent for a few seconds. This was something he hadn’t expected—the old expression about if it rains, it pours certainly seemed to be dominating his life of late. First the whole situation with Brunderville, then Verity returning, and now hearing from Imogen from out of the blue like this? Apparently the universe had signed him up for a very busy winter without his permission.
“All right,” he said. “All right. Calm down—it’s probably nothing. Perhaps he got called away at the last moment by something urgent and didn’t have time to inform anyone.”
Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. William Desmond, his old master and mentor, was as predictable as a precision timepiece. If he said he would be somewhere at a certain time, you could safely wager exorbitant amounts of money on his presence. While it was faintly possible he might miss or be late for some informal commitment if something urgent arose, if Imogen was correct about the function being important, the likelihood of his being a no-show without letting anyone know approached zero.
“How much did Kerrick tell you? Who was the last person to see him, and when?”
“He hasn’t seen him since early yesterday. He was going to take the portal from the London house to Caventhorne, but he was to be back by this evening to get ready for the event. It was some sort of important dinner, from what I understand.”
Stone pondered. It was essentially impossible, especially for someone of Desmond’s ability, to take a “wrong turn” in a teleportation portal. They were calibrated to take the traveler from point A to point B, and the trip itself was usually nothing more than walking through a foggy tunnel. To go from London to Wexley, where Desmond’s country estate was located, wouldn’t have taken more than a few seconds. Stone himself had made the same trip dozens of times in the years following his apprenticeship. And now that the Evil weren’t plaguing travelers anymore, there wasn’t even any danger that he might have been waylaid during the brief journey.
That probably meant one of two things: Either he had calibrated the portal to take him somewhere other than Caventhorne, or he had never entered it at all.
“Okay,” he said. “What do you want me to do? Shall I come over there?”
“Would you?” she said, and he couldn’t miss the worry in her voice. “I hate to inconvenience you—I’m sure you’re quite busy—but you’re the only one I know other than Dad who has access to the portals at the houses.”
“What about—what was his name again? The latest apprentice?” Stone hadn’t spoken with Desmond in quite some time; he knew his old master had taken another apprentice a couple years ago, but he hadn’t kept up on his progress.
“Dad let him go a few months ago. He wasn’t living up to expectations, apparently. And besides, as far as I know, you were the only one he ever allowed permanent access to the restricted parts of the houses.”
Though he’d never given it much thought, that didn’t entirely surprise Stone. He had always been Desmond’s favorite apprentice, and after the apprenticeship had ended, he’d become a valued colleague in magical research. From the earliest days of their acquaintance, Desmond had always treated him more like a surrogate son than a magical collaborator. “All right, then. Give me a couple of hours—I need to take care of a couple of things and get down to the portal. Where shall I meet you?”
“Can you come to the London house?”
He stood. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” More softly, he added, “It will be all right, Imogen. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s turned up by the time I get there.”
“I hope you’re right.” She didn’t sound convinced. A long pause, and then, “Thank you, Alastair.”
He found Verity downstairs, puttering around in the kitchen. “Everything okay?” she asked.
“Not sure yet. That was—an old friend from home. I need to pop over there and check on something. Would you mind looking after Raider? I doubt I’ll be gone more than a day or so, but it could be longer depending on what I find.”
“Sure, no problem. Anything I can help with?”
“No. Thank you. It will probably turn out to be nothing.”
Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer; clearly she was curious, but wasn’t going to ask. “Okay. I got this. Raider and I will get drunk and throw wild parties while you’re gone.”
“Brilliant. See you in a day or two.”
Stone’s mind was troubled as he drove down to Sunnyvale to take the portal to his home in England.
He didn’t see William Desmond often these days; both of them were busy with their own pursuits, and ever since he’d moved to the United States their collaborations on magical projects had gradually tapered off until, a few years back, they’d bowed to the inevitable and given up trying to coordinate their increasingly packed schedules.
That also meant he’d had no particular excuse to see Imogen.
It was better for both of them, he supposed. They’d come a long way from the day ten years ago, when her reluctant admission that she didn’t think they had a future together due to his obsessive focus on magic had led him to leave England and take the job at Stanford. They’d remained dear friends—Stone almost always remained friends with his numerous exes, but Imogen was different. Even if he agreed—and he did—that marriage between them probably would never have worked out, she’d still been his first real love. He didn’t think Desmond had ever truly gotten over his disappointment that his favorite apprentice and his beloved daughter hadn’t worked out.
A Passage to India, the restaurant on Murphy Street in Sunnyvale that housed the Bay Area’s only teleportation portal in its basement storeroom, was busy when Stone arrived. Marta Bellwood, the owner and the only one at the restaurant who knew about the portal, appeared caught up in assembling a complicated take-out order for a family of five, so she merely waved a greeting as he swept by on his way to the back.
It would have been easier, he thought as he did the necessary adjustments on the shifting, glowing portal to point it at his destination, to travel directly to Desmond’s posh London residence—as far as he knew, he was the only one other than Desmond himself who had the authorization to do so—but he chose not to. If Desmond had taken the portal somewhere, there was a chance, if he didn’t disturb it, that he might be able to determine where he’d gone. It was a long shot, but if Desmond had truly gone missing, he wouldn’t dismiss any potential leads.
That meant, however, that he’d need to use his own portal—the private one located beneath a crypt in his family’s cemetery—and drive up to London, since the trains wouldn’t be running that late.
He barely noticed the trip through the portal—ever since the Evil had been mostly vanquished and were no longer relentlessly searching for a way into the world, the necessity to clear the head and suppress any strong emotion was no longer an issue. It was still creepy, no doubt about it, but travelers nowadays almost never had to worry about being devoured or driven insane on their way to their destinations.
In less than five minutes, Stone stepped into the small, familiar room on the other side. He quickly cleared the calibration so the next traveler to use the Sunnyvale portal didn’t have a straight shot to his own, then hurried out through the crypt and across the cemetery to the house. He hoped he could get out without disturbing Aubrey, though h
e’d have to leave a note since he’d be taking the car.
No such luck. As he approached the large carriage house/garage and opened one of the swing-up doors, a light switched on in the apartment above it. A moment later, Aubrey appeared in the doorway carrying a flashlight in one hand and a rifle in the other. As soon as he spotted Stone, his expression of flinty suspicion turned to one of surprise. He quickly lowered the rifle. “Sir! I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Aubrey—I didn’t know I was coming myself until an hour or so ago. I’ve got to go up to London, so I’m taking the car.” He pulled the cover off the little black MG convertible he used to get around when he was home.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Aubrey tilted his head. He looked like he’d hastily thrown on a coat and trousers over his pajamas, his hair in disarray under his favorite old flat cap.
“Not sure yet. Imogen called me—she says she can’t find Desmond, and he’s missed some important function tonight. She wants me to see if I can locate him.”
“I see. Will you be staying? Should I prepare your room?” His tone sounded hopeful, and once again Stone felt guilty for not spending more time in England. He knew Aubrey enjoyed the solitude of having the house and grounds to himself, but nonetheless missed their master.
“I’ll let you know.” Stone fired up the little car. “I’ve no idea what’s going on yet. I’m hoping he’s already turned up and I can head back home tomorrow, but—” He shrugged. “I could call, but I’m here now. Might as well pop by and see Imogen.”
“Yes, sir.” Aubrey stepped out of the way and watched as Stone drove out.
He arrived at William Desmond’s posh Kensington residence an hour later. A doorman he didn’t recognize let him in, and he swept up the stairs with the confidence of many years’ familiarity.
“Alastair!”
Stone glanced up to see Imogen coming down to meet him. “Hello, Imogen. Sorry—got here as soon as I could.”
He took her in with a quick glance. Even though it was now nearly one a.m., she was neatly dressed in her usual elegantly casual style. She’d cut her hair a bit shorter since he’d seen her last; it framed a face that, even though she was in her middle thirties now, still maintained its pixieish, ageless quality.
She hurried forward and enfolded him in a hug, which only emphasized the fact that he was a head taller than she was. She stood on tiptoe and brushed a quick kiss across his cheek, then stepped back, her warm brown eyes troubled. “It’s so good to see you, Alastair. Thank you so much for coming.”
“It’s good to see you too. I take it he hasn’t turned up yet?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. But I hope it turns out to be nothing, and we can just catch up a bit before you go back home.”
“I’m sure it will,” he assured her. “Come on—tell me what’s happened, and I’ll see if I can help.”
She led him into the familiar sitting room where he and Desmond had spent countless hours discussing topics both magical and mundane. Even after all these years, the place hadn’t changed: the antique furniture, priceless art objects, and fine, old-fashioned décor gave it the same classic, out-of-time style it had had since Stone was an apprentice, and probably well before that. “Would you like something? A cup of tea? A drink?”
Stone couldn’t miss the tension in her, even without looking at her aura. “No. Thank you. I’ll take you up on that after we’ve found your father. Is Kerrick here?”
“No.” She perched on the corner of antique settee. “He’s gone to Caventhorne, thinking Dad might have gone there.”
“But he hasn’t?”
“Not that he can find. But then, you know how big that place is. He’s got the whole staff looking for him, but—”
But if something’s happened to him, it could be hours before they find him, Stone mentally filled in. Assuming he’s even there. She was right. Caventhorne Hall, Desmond’s “country house,” was a vast, rambling mansion on an enormous parcel of land in the Hertfordshire area, an hour or so north of London.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me everything. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this.”
She took a couple of deep breaths, her gaze unfocusing as she gathered her memories. “Kerrick rang me around eight,” she said. “Dad was supposed to attend some sort of important dinner thing tonight, here in London. It was to start at half seven. Kerrick was expecting him home by six to get ready, but he never arrived.”
“What did Kerrick do at that point?”
“He rang Caventhorne to see if he was there—if he was running late on some magical thing he was working on, he might have gotten ready there and come through the portal back here. But none of the staff there had seen him either.”
“Is it possible he might have gone straight there? To the function, I mean?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s what Kerrick thought too, so he rang the venue where it was being held and they hadn’t seen him. They were quite concerned—and a bit put off—that he hadn’t shown up.”
“Can you tell me anything about this function? Was it magical, or mundane?”
“Mundane, Kerrick said. Some sort of charity organization. Dad contributes to a lot of different charities and foundations. It was a fundraising dinner.”
“So nothing unusual?”
“No. He attends those sorts of things at least a couple of times a month. He was to give a speech, or present something—I’m not sure. But that’s why they were particularly concerned when he didn’t show up.”
Stone began pacing the room. This was definitely unusual behavior for Desmond. Like his old associate Stefan Kolinsky back in California, William Desmond was a creature of habit. “I assume there’s no direct way to contact him—he doesn’t have a mobile phone, does he?”
Imogen chuckled. “Dad? Hardly.”
It was a long shot, but Stone had already known the answer. Desmond’s homes, both this one and Caventhorne, could have been used without alteration as the sets for period dramas from early in the previous century. The only concessions to modern conveniences were the ones the staff needed to do their jobs.
“All right,” he said. “Let me take a look around. If I don’t find anything here, I’ll take the portal through to Caventhorne and check there. Let Kerrick know I might turn up, will you?”
“Of course.” She stood. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Not really. It’s late—try to get some rest, if you can. I promise, I’ll let you know what I find.”
She nodded. For a moment she looked as if she might say something, but then gave him a faint smile. “I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon, and he’ll be cross about all the attention he’s been getting.”
“Quite probably,” Stone agreed, though privately he wasn’t so sure.
Imogen hugged him again. “Thank you, Alastair. We really should get together more often. I’ve missed you.”
“We should,” he murmured, returning her embrace. They stood there a moment, perhaps a bit longer than strictly necessary for a hug between old friends, and then he pulled back. “Right, then. Let me get on with this, and perhaps I can stay and have breakfast with you and your father tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It often surprised Stone that William Desmond had never, as far as he knew, given anyone else access to the hidden areas in both his London home and Caventhorne. He had no idea how old Desmond was, but he knew he’d been neither the man’s first apprentice nor his last. Even though several of those other apprentices hadn’t managed to live up to Desmond’s exacting standards sufficiently to pass his rigorous course of study, Stone knew of at least two others—one before him and one after—who had. Despite that, Stone himself had been the only one of that elite group for whom Desmond held a high enough regard to not only continue working with him
after the apprenticeship had ended, but also to give him full run of the two locations where he conducted his magical research.
Not to mention trying his level best to encourage a relationship between him and his daughter. Stone was sure he’d never tried that with any of the other apprentices, either. Desmond was by no means a demonstrative man—Stone had never, in all the years they’d known each other, even seen him crack a smile—but it hadn’t been difficult to pick up his approval when the two of them, four years apart in age, had discovered each other shortly after Imogen had turned eighteen. He’d never said anything, never pushed as Stone and Imogen had fallen into a sort of easy, natural relationship; Stone assumed he figured they would eventually marry, since they seemed so perfect for each other, so effortlessly happy together, that anything else was unthinkable.
He’d been as broadsided as Stone himself had when Imogen had called things off. Oh, she’d been as kind as possible about it, without a doubt, and almost certainly as unhappy as Stone had been. But as loath as he was to admit it, she’d been right with her reasons: his first love—and the most important thing in his life—had always been magic, and she, as a mundane, hadn’t felt she could fit properly into a future with him.
So they’d gone their separate ways, after a couple failed attempts by Desmond to convince them they were making a mistake—Stone fleeing to the United States to take the job in the Occult Studies department at Stanford, and Imogen throwing herself into her studies and her career after discovering the mundane man she’d begun a relationship with had been cheating on her. She’d never married, seeming content with her work, her friends, and her social activities.
Since then, they’d fallen back into a comfortable friendship—sort of the ultimate expression of Stone’s habit of staying amicable with his failed relationships. What they had now was what might happen if the heat of passion had been burned away, but instead of destroying the fragile thing inside, the heat had tempered it, made it stronger. They saw each other a couple times a year, usually at Desmond’s place for dinner parties, though over the last couple years both of them had been so busy that they hadn’t been able to coordinate schedules. Seeing her tonight made him realize he’d have to change that—he’d missed her more than he thought.
