Necessary Sacrifices

by R. L. King

  What stayed my hand was my own sense of profound guilt. While I have never stated it plainly during our many years of association, I am sure you are aware that I hold you, and our association, in the highest regard. From the time you entered my life as my apprentice, I have always considered you the son I never had. As you will see from the contents of this volume, I grew to have perhaps more reason than you might have known to regard you as such. I hope I succeeded in providing a productive and positive influence in your life. I also hope that, after you have read what I have written here, you will find it in yourself to forgive me for what I have done. If it is any comfort to you, you must know that not a day goes by that I do not regret the necessity of my actions, even after so many years have passed. Every time I look at you, the memory returns anew, and I once again find myself wondering if any other resolution was possible. I fear, though, that it was not—and I hope you will see it that way as well.

  There is nothing more I can say. You must read the account of what occurred and make your own judgment. Once again, I hope you will forgive me, if only for your own peace of mind.

  William Desmond.

  There was no date.

  Stone stared at it, hands still shaking. He read it over again, stunned.

  Desmond had done something he’d regretted for years? Something that he despaired Stone might never forgive him for?

  Before he turned the page, he sat for a moment in speculation, trying to imagine what it could possibly be. Was it something related to Imogen? Something in their magic studies? He couldn’t think of anything. Sure, Desmond had been a bit pushy about trying to play matchmaker between him and Imogen, but he’d never reached the level of needing forgiveness. And as far as the magic went, Stone couldn’t remember anything they’d ever done together that had even a whiff of impropriety or guilt. Desmond was always adamant about rigorous standards and careful attention to detail during any magical procedure.

  So…what, then?

  He glanced up and used magic to close and lock the door. Despite telling Aubrey he didn’t want to be disturbed, he wouldn’t put it past the caretaker to try bringing him some refreshments or a fresh cup of coffee, and he didn’t want to be interrupted. He regarded the door a moment, then ran a hand back through his hair and let his breath out.

  Whatever this was, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to see it—once again, the feeling struck him that if he read what Desmond had written, his life would irrevocably change again. But that didn’t matter—he could no more put the book aside without reading it than he could give up practicing magic.

  He slid Desmond’s note to the edge of his desk and turned to the journal’s first page.

  This time, there was a date: around twenty years ago. Stone flipped through quickly; about half the pages were filled. All the entries were handwritten, obviously by Desmond. He flipped back to the first page and began reading.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Twenty Years Ago

  Caventhorne Hall

  Wexley, England

  “Sir?”

  William Desmond looked up from his research to see Kerrick standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, sir, but this came for you, and the man who delivered it specified it was most urgent.” Looking apologetic, he held up a sealed envelope.

  Desmond glanced at the office window. It was late—nearly ten p.m.—and outside, the wind whipped driving rain against the side of the house with ferocious intensity. Hardly a night for messengers to be out and about. “Did he say who sent it?”

  “No, sir. He left immediately upon delivering it. And—” Kerrick shifted his feet, looking even more uncomfortable. “I—I’m afraid I can’t even remember what he looked like, sir.” He came forward and laid the missive on the desk. The simple white envelope bore no decoration or writing.

  Hmm. Kerrick was normally a highly observant man. The fact that he could not recall the messenger’s features suggested magic was involved. “Thank you, Kerrick. That will be all.”

  “Of course, sir.” Kerrick made a slight bow and departed.

  Desmond closed the door, then studied the envelope. He turned it over; there was no seal or sigil indicating who might have sent it, and magical sight revealed nothing. Finally, he withdrew a letter opener and slit the envelope, shaking out the contents.

  A single, stiff white card fell into his hand. It contained only a brief note, in an unfamiliar hand:

  Mr. Desmond,

  I am in desperate need of your aid in a matter of great urgency and utmost privacy. If you are willing to hear my plea, please name a place where we can meet alone, preferably as soon as convenient. I hope you will forgive the imposition, but I can think of no one else who can help me.

  I beg you, Mr. Desmond, whatever you decide—do not reveal this communication to my son.

  Orion Stone

  Below the signature was a telephone number.

  Desmond tensed, his hand tightening on the card. Orion Stone? His apprentice’s father was asking for his help? This was odd indeed.

  He had met the elder Stone on only one occasion, when he had sought a meeting with Desmond in an attempt to persuade him to take on his magically precocious fifteen-year-old son as an apprentice. He recalled the meeting, which had taken place four years ago, as clearly as if it had been yesterday: Orion Stone had appeared then much as his son was beginning to look now at nineteen: tall, thin, dark-haired, with a restless intensity and a burning intelligence to drive it.

  Desmond had been adamant in his refusal at the time to accept such a young student as an apprentice, but Orion Stone had managed to convince him to give his son a trial. He’d promised that Desmond wouldn’t be disappointed—and he had been correct. Though the beginnings of their master-apprentice relationship had been rocky, Desmond never denied the fact that the boy’s prodigious talent and insatiable hunger for knowledge, combined with Desmond’s own tutelage and discipline, had led to a mutually beneficial and highly successful relationship. That relationship had persisted even after Alastair had worked hard enough to finish his apprenticeship a year early, at eighteen. He’d begun University recently and thus they didn’t see each other as often as they had before, but Alastair still found time to return to Desmond to collaborate in magical research whenever possible.

  Orion Stone had never once attempted to influence or affect the course of his son’s apprenticeship. In fact, after he had secured Desmond’s promise to give Alastair a trial, he had removed himself from the situation completely. He’d assured Desmond that he would abide by whatever conclusions or decisions he might arrive at, and if Desmond determined that Alastair’s talent or dedication weren’t sufficient to continue the apprenticeship, Orion wouldn’t interfere. He’d kept that promise—more so even than Desmond had expected. The two of them had had no further contact after that initial meeting one stormy afternoon in London.

  Desmond looked at the card again. Now Orion was begging for his help, claiming no one else would do? This was a strange and troubling development, and even more so because of his plea not to reveal the contact to his son.

  Still, Desmond considered only a moment before reaching for the telephone on his desk. If nothing else, his curiosity—every bit as strong as his apprentice’s—wouldn’t have permitted him to ignore the request. But aside from that, this man was the father of someone who’d become one of the most important people in Desmond’s life. He could do nothing else but try to help.

  He dialed the number on the old-fashioned phone, and waited as it rang.

  After only two rings, someone picked up. “Yes, hello?”

  Even after all these years, Desmond recognized Orion Stone’s voice. The stress in it came through even over the phone line. “Mr. Stone. This is William Desmond. I received your message.”

  “Mr. Desmond. Thank you so much for returni
ng my call so quickly.” The stress was still there, but now it was mixed with relief.

  “I will admit that your message intrigued me,” Desmond said. “Although I am not certain how you expect I can help you.”

  There was a long pause. “It is…a long story, and difficult to explain. Best if it be done in person. I wonder—would it be possible for us to meet somewhere, privately?”

  Desmond hesitated. At their last meeting, Orion Stone had seemed a steady, calm, even somewhat cold individual, who maintained an iron control over himself at all times. Even when he had entreated Desmond to take his son as an apprentice, he’d never resorted to passionate pleas or emotional appeals. Now, though, the man sounded as if he were teetering on the ragged edge of collapse.

  “Mr. Stone—are you all right? You sound ill. Perhaps a physician might—”

  “I assure you, Mr. Desmond, a doctor would be no help to me. My problem is…magical in nature. Please, sir—I know we barely know each other, but my son speaks quite highly of your abilities, and of course I’m well aware of your reputation. Would you meet with me so I can explain my difficulty?”

  Again, Desmond noticed the stress in Orion’s voice; in fact, it seemed if anything to be increasing. He considered for only a moment. “All right, Mr. Stone. All right. I will meet with you. Would tomorrow be—”

  “Sir—I know I’m asking a great deal, but—could it be tonight? I don’t—I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself under control. Something is terribly wrong, and I think it will take powerful magic to set it right—if it’s even possible to do so at all.”

  Desmond glanced at the window again. The storm had quieted, but the rain still fell steadily. Going out tonight—and alone, from the sound of it—would be a considerable inconvenience, but now he was intrigued. What magical difficulty could Orion Stone have succumbed to, that he needed help so urgently? “Yes, all right. Tonight, then.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Desmond. Thank you. Is there a place we can meet in private? Someplace magically secure, where we won’t be seen together?”

  This conversation was growing ever stranger. If Desmond didn’t know better—and in truth, he couldn’t be sure at this point that he did—he might be concerned that Orion Stone was trying to lure him someplace with nefarious intent in mind. But that was absurd—the two of them barely knew each other, and by everything Alastair had said about his father, Orion’s feelings regarding Desmond didn’t extend beyond gratitude at what he’d done for his son.

  He thought a moment, then said, “I have a small property at Godalming, a short distance outside London. It’s currently unoccupied, and somewhat remote. Would that do? I can reach it in perhaps an hour.”

  “Yes, yes, that would do nicely. Thank you, Mr. Desmond.”

  Desmond gave him the address and directions for how to reach the property. “I will leave now. If you arrive first, don’t attempt to enter—there are wards around the house.”

  “Of course. Thank you, sir.” Orion’s voice was breathless, shaking. “I’ll leave immediately.”

  Desmond hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. Then he rang for Kerrick. When the man arrived, he said, “I’ll be doing some research for the rest of the evening in the concealed part of the house, so don’t be alarmed if you can’t find me.”

  “Of course, sir.” Kerrick didn’t seem at all suspicious—Desmond spent a great deal of time in areas no mundane could reach. “I’ll retire for the evening, then, if you’ve no further need for me.”

  Desmond waited until he left, then stood. He hated lying to Kerrick, but there was no helping it this time.

  He retrieved his heavy overcoat and umbrella and took the portal to the London house. This time of night, most of the house’s small staff were already asleep in their rooms, so it wasn’t difficult to get to the garage without anyone seeing him. He didn’t like this sneaking around—especially in his own home, where it didn’t seem as if he should have to—but he thought it best if no one saw him leave. Whatever Orion Stone needed, it had better be worth all this effort.

  He thought about taking a cab, but that would mean revealing his destination to a cabdriver. Even if he used illusionary magic to change his appearance, that probably wasn’t a good idea if he was trying to maintain secrecy. Instead, he headed to the garage and took the black Mercedes sedan. He didn’t speculate about what Stone’s problem might be—there was no point, with such little information. The best he could do was to get there and deal with it as quickly as possible.

  Traffic grew sparser once he got out of London. By the time he passed through the small village and traversed the narrow, tree-lined road to the property only forty-five minutes had passed, but already he spotted the dark shape of a car parked in front of the house. He shifted to magical sight, examining the car and the area, but saw only the single figure seated behind the wheel. Desmond narrowed his eyes as he looked: there was definitely something wrong with Orion Stone. The man hadn’t been lying about that. His dual-hued aura, normally a strong, deep blue tinged with silver, roiled with red patches arcing back and forth over his body like a tiny localized lightning storm. He’d never seen anything like it before.

  He pulled the Mercedes up behind Orion’s car and switched off the lights. Immediately, the other car’s door opened and Orion emerged. He wore a long overcoat but no hat, and didn’t carry an umbrella. His left hand clutched a leather bag. He hurried to Desmond’s car.

  “Mr. Stone,” Desmond said. “I hope I have not kept you waiting long.”

  “No…no—I’ve been here only a few minutes. I’m so grateful to you for coming.”

  Desmond didn’t miss the tremors that rippled through his body, nor his hand shaking on the handle of the leather bag. “Come—let’s get inside out of the weather and you can explain your problem. I hope I can help you.”

  “So do I—I’ve nowhere else to turn.”

  Orion followed Desmond as they passed through the wards, and Desmond used magic to open the door. The house was small by his standards but still spacious; they entered through a carved wooden door, crossed through a foyer where they took off their coats, and arrived in a cozy sitting room. The heavy drapes were drawn. A faint musty odor hung in the air, indicating that the place had not been occupied in quite some time.

  Desmond switched on a light. “Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?”

  “I—yes, thank you.” Orion didn’t sit, though. Still clutching the bag, he paced the room like a nervous, skittish animal, pausing to verify that no slit existed to allow anyone to see the light through the drapes.

  “You needn’t worry about being seen,” Desmond said. “The wards include an illusion that makes the house appear unoccupied.” He poured a healthy shot of Scotch into a glass and offered it to Orion, who took it with a shaking hand and immediately swallowed half of it. Up close, he looked even worse than Desmond had initially thought. He remembered their initial meeting, where the man had impressed him with his severe elegance, but there was nothing elegant about Orion Stone tonight. His face was pale and blotchy, his eyes sunken, his normally neat hair in disarray. Tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Despite the fact that he wore a fine suit, something about him suggested disorganization.

  Desmond decided to address the issue directly. “Now then,” he said briskly. “Perhaps you might tell me about this problem of yours.”

  Orion turned away from the window. Now, he clutched at the handle of the bag with both hands, gripping it spasmodically as if fearing he might drop it. “I’m afraid, Mr. Desmond,” he said, his voice shaking.

  “Afraid of what?”

  He held up the bag. “Of this. Of what I think it’s doing to me.”

  Desmond sharpened his gaze. When he’d examined Orion with magical sight, nothing in the bag had shown up as unusual. “What is that, Mr. Stone? What have you got in there? May I?”

&
nbsp; Orion jerked backward, fear showing in his eyes. “I—I can’t…”

  “Yes. You can.” Desmond spoke louder, with authority. “Give me the bag, Mr. Stone. I can’t help you if you don’t allow me to examine your problem.”

  Orion hesitated again. “Before give it to you, I must have your word on something.”

  “I cannot promise that without knowing what it is.” Desmond held his hand out for the bag.

  “It’s imperative, Mr. Desmond. You must give me your word that you will reveal none of this to my son.” Trembling, Orion took another step backward. His gaze, haunted and glittering, never left Desmond’s face.

  Desmond blinked. “Your son? Does this concern him?”

  “Indirectly.” He paused, clearly gathering his thoughts. “Indirectly…” he repeated. “But…he doesn’t need to know. You must give me your word. Please, I beg you.”

  Desmond rubbed at his forehead, torn between wanting more information and wanting to examine Orion before whatever was afflicting him got any worse. Already, the man looked more stricken than he had when he’d arrived only a few minutes earlier. “Does this affliction of yours put your son in any danger? If so, then I cannot—”

  “No,” he interrupted with some urgency. He was shaking harder now. “No. He’s not in danger. Not…not anymore. Not if you help me.”