by R. L. King
The item on the table could wait—he would leave it under wards just in case (once again, he was nothing if not careful) but he had his priorities. With one last thought to how his former apprentice would respond to the news, he set about his grim task.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Stone, moving with deliberate calm, closed the journal and stared down at its cover without seeing it.
His body felt numb, chilled, dead. His heart pounded. A dull, throbbing headache had begun to bloom at the base of his neck some time ago, and by now it had worked its way to the top of his head. His hands, flat on the table on either side of the journal, seemed not to be his own.
He needed a drink.
Hell, he needed the whole bottle.
The only thing that stopped him was that he didn’t know whether Aubrey was still puttering around the house, and right now the last thing he wanted was to see anyone.
He stared at the book again. Such an innocuous thing—the type of journal that could be purchased from any upscale stationery store. Brown leather binding, faded a bit from age—did he write this just after he’d done it? Before he forgot the details? Heavy, lined pages with gold edges. Dark blue endpapers, free of adornment or writing. Had he visited a shop, pored over the offerings and carefully selected just the right one?
The right journal to write his account of how he’d killed Stone’s father and arranged the car accident in which, up until a few minutes ago, Stone had believed he’d perished?
Stone lowered his head into his hands, pushing his hair up into spikes as he tried to squeeze the headache into submission. It didn’t work.
His body thrummed with energy. He wanted to get up, to walk, to run out of the house into the night until he didn’t have to think about any of this any longer. That wouldn’t work, though. You can’t run away from your thoughts—he’d learned that on numerous occasions. You could drown them with enough alcohol, but unless he wanted to leave the room and risk encountering Aubrey, that wasn’t going to happen.
He picked up the journal again and riffled through the pages, catching a word here and there. Desmond’s handwriting was so confident, so neat, so precise, even when he was writing these horrific things. Had he forced himself to remain calm while he was writing? How could he have done that?
He killed my father. He lied to me, for all these years. He let me think it was an accident.
His mind went back to those days, remembering the chaos that had followed after the two policemen arrived at the door of his small apartment near the University. “We’re so sorry to have to tell you this,” one had said. It had been a woman, he remembered—middle aged, kind, no-nonsense. “But there’s been an accident.”
Those simple words had been the beginning of a lot of things: Stone’s grief, his lack of concentration that almost torpedoed his grades that term, and the police investigation, which had finally concluded that Orion Stone had driven off the road in a remote area, perhaps due to exhaustion or inattention. His body had been badly burned enough that a definitive answer wasn’t possible, but not enough that they couldn’t get a positive identification. They found no evidence of foul play, and closed the investigation shortly afterward as a tragic accident, but nothing more.
Stone had never entirely believed that, but he had no way to prove otherwise. He’d questioned Aubrey at the time, but the grief-stricken caretaker hadn’t even known Orion had left the house. That wasn’t unusual—Stone’s father felt no obligation to report his comings and goings—but it was unusual that Orion was out driving on a remote road south of London at such a late hour. Where could he have been going?
With a sting of anger and renewed grief, Stone remembered fleeing to London to discuss the situation with Desmond. He couldn’t remember how his master had responded—sympathy for his loss, certainly, but he hadn’t noticed anything more. Of course he hadn’t: he wouldn’t even have thought to look. The idea that this beloved mentor would have killed his father would never have entered his mind.
Stone gripped the journal until his fingers dug into the leather cover, rage filling him. His thoughts clattered ineffectually in his head, unable to settle. He felt as if he didn’t do something, his body would simply fly apart from the stress of remaining still. With an inarticulate growl, he flung the journal across the room. It hit the door, fluttered open, and hit the floor with a loud thump.
Something white slipped out and landed next to it.
What? Stone leaped up and crossed the room, snatching up the small object. It was a single, folded piece of paper he must have missed when he’d riffled through the journal’s pages. He unfolded it. What else could Desmond shock him with tonight? He wasn’t sure it was possible as he focused on the note.
Alastair,
Once again, I hope and pray that you will find it in yourself to forgive me in time for what I have done. I honestly do not know whether I killed your father or whether he was already lost when he arrived for our meeting—there will never be a way to know that. But I have carried the guilt for my subsequent subterfuge over the years, and it brought pain to me every time I was in your presence. I hope you will understand that my intent was twofold: to spare you the pain of something you could not have affected, and to keep the promise I made to your father, ill-advised as it might have been.
Along with this journal, I have instructed my solicitor to give you a key. It opens a concealed and warded room in my study at Caventhorne, accessible through the third shelf from the top on the north-side bookcase. There, you will find the object your father brought to me on the night he died. I do not believe it to be magical in nature, but use care nonetheless. I have been mistaken before.
W. D.
Stone clutched the letter in his nerveless hand, took several deep breaths, and glanced toward his desk where he’d left the key. Desmond had kept this strange object all these years, hidden behind wards even though he had no reason to believe it was magical? Why had he done that, rather than merely destroying it? And, more importantly, was there any chance Stone himself could get any answers from examining it? It was a long shot, but right now he had to do something to work off his restless, angry energy or he would go mad.
He was ready to grab the key, wrench the door open, and run out to his portal so he could head up to Caventhorne and examine the object when another thought hit him so hard he had to put his hand on the wall to keep from sagging to the floor.
He bent, snapped up the journal and paged through it until he found the part where Orion had described where he’d obtained the object in the first place.
He said he’d gotten it from “them.”
From the ones who had “taken his son.”
The ones he’d had to “get him back from.”
Bloody hell, he’d almost forgotten about that part, submerged it in his anger over Desmond’s actions and his father’s needless death. What had his father been talking about? Who had taken him? From the sound of it, this had all happened when he was a baby. Someone had stolen him from his home, and his father had had to find him and get him back?
Why had he never heard anything about any of this before?
Why had his father kept such a secret from him?
Desmond had made his ill-advised promise to his father, so if he felt he had to keep that promise, he couldn’t have revealed anything.
But his father could have—except that his father was dead, of course, and beyond revealing anything at this point.
Stone dropped the journal and clutched his head. It was pounding hard now, throbbing along with the beat of his heart. He couldn’t deal with all this now. It was all too much to bear all at once. He needed a drink, and he needed it now. He didn’t care anymore if Aubrey was still lurking around out there somewhere. It didn’t matter. He’d retrieve a bottle—or two—of something, bring them back here, and drink until he couldn’t remember any of this anymore. Hell, until he couldn’t
remember anything anymore. Tomorrow was another day. Everything he’d read in the journal had happened many years ago—it would keep for one more day until he was better equipped to deal with it.
Moving with deliberate care now, he picked up the journal, tucked the two notes inside it, and locked it inside his desk drawer along with the key. Then he left the study.
The hallway outside was dark, the house quiet. Stone paused to listen for a moment and heard no signs of movement. It was quite late by now; perhaps Aubrey had returned to his spacious apartment over the garage for the night.
He was halfway down the stairs when his overstressed brain finally put two and two together. He stopped, gripping the railing so hard his hand flared with pain.
His father was dead, true, and couldn’t tell him anything about what had happened all those years ago.
But his father wasn’t the only one who’d been here at the time.
Anger filled him again, driving away rational thought. Was everyone in this accursed house keeping secrets from him?
Without further thought, he dashed down the stairs and out through the front door. A steady, sleety rain fell, but he paid it no attention. He ran across the front of the house to the garage, thundered up the single flight of stairs, and pounded on the door. “Aubrey! Open the door!” he yelled, not caring in the slightest if he jolted the old man out of a sound sleep. Right now, somebody else could have a little mental stress. He’d had quite enough for the night, and he was sure it wasn’t over yet.
After a moment he heard sounds from inside the apartment, then footsteps hurrying toward the door. It flew open, revealing Aubrey standing there in his pajamas and slippers, robe half-on, eyes wide with fright. He stared at Stone in disbelief, then past him as if expecting something to be chasing him. “Sir? Is something wrong?”
Stone fought to keep himself under control, but failed. “Yes,” he snapped. “Something is wrong, Aubrey. Something is quite entirely wrong. Let me in, damn you.”
Aubrey stepped aside automatically, gaping at him in shock. “Sir? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stone yelled. He’d given up any pretense of control by now. He stood in the middle of Aubrey’s cozy living room, panting, disheveled, dripping from the rain. He had no doubt his eyes were blazing like some kind of mad thing.
“Tell you—what, sir?” The caretaker eyed him with wary attention, as if wondering if he might attack at any moment.
“You’ve been keeping secrets from me, Aubrey.” Stone began to pace around the room, then whirled on the old man again. “You’re not going to do that anymore. You’re going to tell me everything. That is not a request.”
Aubrey still looked confused. “Everything, sir? I don’t—”
“You were here when I was born.” Stone stalked to him and gripped his shoulders, looming over the shorter man. “You’ve got to know what happened! Something happened when I was a baby—someone took me, and my father had to get me back. You were here, Aubrey! What the hell was going on? What happened? I’m not leaving here until you tell me the truth!” His voice pitched louder until he was almost shouting.
To his surprise, Aubrey’s expression of fear dropped away, replaced by one of relief. The worry was still there, but he no longer looked as if he expected Stone to concussion-beam him through the nearest wall. “Oh, thank God, sir.”
Stone blinked. That wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. “What—?”
“Thank God,” Aubrey said again, shoulders slumping. “I’ve been carrying this for so long—I’m so glad I can finally tell you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Stone stared at him in shock. What did he mean, ‘I can finally tell you’? “Aubrey, what the hell—?”
“Sir…I’m so sorry. Please—sit down. Let me get you a cup of tea. I promise—I’ll tell you what you want to know. At least as much of it as I know myself. I’m so sorry…” he said again.
“I don’t want tea!” Stone resisted Aubrey’s efforts to steer him toward a chair. “I want the truth. The whole story. Now.”
Aubrey swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. I promise. I’ll tell you. But I’m afraid I will need a cup of tea. Are you sure you won’t—”
“Fine, fine,” Stone snapped, nerves jangling. “Fix me a bloody cup of tea if it will make this go any faster. But hurry up. I’ve exhausted my patience for the evening. Finding out nearly everyone who matters in my life has been lying to me can tend to do that.”
Aubrey turned away, looking stricken. “Yes, sir,” he murmured. “I’ll make it quick.” He headed toward the kitchen.
Stone paced, stoking his anger as he walked. What the hell was going on? This morning, before he’d headed to Terence Atthill’s office to hear the details of Desmond’s will, everything had been in the process of settling down. Sure, he was still grieving the loss of his mentor, but he’d gotten back to work, resumed his routine, and even begun to cope with Verity’s absence. But in the space of a few hours, everything had gone insane again. In the time it had taken him to read through Desmond’s old journal, he’d found out that Desmond, his father, and even Aubrey had been keeping secrets from him, lying to him. Why? Did they all think him so fragile that he couldn’t cope with whatever had happened so long ago?
The thought made him even more angry. By the time Aubrey returned a few minutes later with a tray bearing a teapot, two cups, and a plate of light crackers, he was barely thinking straight. “Are you finished playing domestic?” he demanded, and made no effort to remove the snarl from his voice. “Can we get on with it now?”
“Yes, sir.” Aubrey showed no signs of offense at Stone’s words; in fact, he looked nothing but miserable. He offered the tray and, when Stone took the cup, sloshing some of the tea over the edge in his haste, he gestured toward a chair. “Please—sit down.”
Stone flung himself down, barely keeping the remaining contents of the teacup where they belonged. He fixed a cold glare on his caretaker. The depths of his anger and sense of betrayal showed clearly in his disregard of the man’s obvious distress. He didn’t give a damn if Aubrey was distressed. He could join the bloody club. “Talk. What did you mean, you can finally tell me?”
“Oh, sir, I can’t even begin to say how sorry I am. I’ve wanted to tell you, for many years. But I couldn’t.” Aubrey lowered himself with care into the chair across from Stone and took a sip of his tea. His hand shook.
“Why couldn’t you?”
Aubrey looked at his hands. “Because I was under a magical oath, sir.”
Stone snapped his head up. “What?”
“It’s true. I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t capable of telling you. The oath prevented me from speaking of it.”
“What oath?” A cold sensation crept through Stone’s body. He gave up any pretense of caring about the tea and set the cup down on the table in front of him. Aubrey was under a magical oath? Those were rare and difficult to manage—most people wouldn’t submit to them, because the strongest ones remained in effect until their conditions were met, even after the person who had cast them had died. Stone had read about them and knew the theory of how to cast one, but he’d never done so—and now this was the second one he’d encountered in a single day. “Who was responsible for this oath?”
“Your father, sir.” Aubrey’s voice sounded beaten, exhausted.
“When was this?”
“Shortly after you were born. After—what happened.”
Stone stared hard at him. “Why now, then? Why can you tell me now when you couldn’t before? My father’s been dead for years.”
“Yes, sir. But that wasn’t the condition of my release from the oath.”
“What was, then?”
“You had to ask me about it, sir.”
Stone’s gaze sharpened, and he tensed. “I had to ask you?”
>
“Yes, sir. That was the condition. Your father…felt that the knowledge would only distress you, unless you were actively seeking it. So he made me swear an oath that I wouldn’t speak of any of it unless you asked me first.” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Bloody hell…” Stone clenched his fists in his lap. His thoughts flitted back to the conversation he’d had with Verity in the graveyard—the one where he’d told her he hadn’t taken the time to show any interest in his family’s history, always figuring he’d have time for that when he was older and less busy. “So all these years…”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Well—I’m asking. Tell me. Everything. Who took me? Why? What did they want?”
To his surprise, Aubrey’s face still showed misery. “I can’t tell you everything, sir, because I don’t know everything. I wish I could. But—” he added before Stone could protest, “—I do know a fair bit. Enough that I think I can tell you most of it.”
Suddenly, Stone’s exhaustion rose. His anger ebbing away, he slumped in his chair and gripped its arms as if hanging on to a lifeline. “Tell me what you know,” he said, his tone as weary as Aubrey’s. “Tell me everything you know. Start at the beginning.”
Aubrey didn’t answer right away. When he at last began to speak, he stared into his teacup and didn’t look at Stone. “The beginning, sir…I suppose that would be your mother.”
“My mother.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about her? She left, didn’t she? My father would never speak of her. He said she had…mental issues and deserted him after I was born. He said she fell into some kind of addiction and died shortly after.”
“He… That wasn’t what happened, sir.” If possible, Aubrey looked even more miserable. “He told you that…so you wouldn’t ask questions about her when you were young. I think he always planned to tell you the truth later, when you were older, but—”
