Gathering Storm: An Alastair Stone Urban Fantasy Novel (Alastair Stone Chronicles Book 17)

by R. L. King

  “Yeah,” Verity said reluctantly. “That’s true. If it really thought you were causing problems, why didn’t it just tell you why? If it knows who you are, it’s got to know you don’t just give up because somebody tells you to.” She used magic to gather the cartons and carried them to the kitchen. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I plan to chat with Eddie and Ward about it this weekend, and probably go by Kolinsky’s place sometime this week. He said he hadn’t heard anything about the last rift, but maybe he knows something about this ‘scion’ rubbish. It’s worth asking him, anyway, even if I end up having to give him something big from Desmond’s collection to get some answers.”

  “What about Mr. Harrison?”

  Stone hadn’t thought about Trevor Harrison. He hadn’t heard anything from the man since he’d returned from Calanar, and hadn’t tried to contact him. “I suppose I could leave a message with Nakamura and see if he’ll get back to me, but this doesn’t really seem like Harrison’s kind of thing.”

  She drifted back in. “Tell you what, then—if there’s nothing else you can do about it tonight, why don’t we sit down and…enjoy the evening. It’s the one thing I don’t like about moving—it’ll be harder for us to get together.”

  He let her lead him to the sofa, where she snuggled in next to him and drew her legs up. “You’re worth the drive, love.”

  She kissed him. “You know I’m not running away from you, right?”

  He didn’t know that—not completely—but he offered a murmured affirmative. “This will be good for you. Sort of the best of both worlds. Think of it not as getting rid of your safety net, but…dropping it down a couple of levels. Just promise me you’ll be careful with the Harpies, all right? You’re not fooling me—I expect you’ll be involving yourself in their activities quite a lot more once you’re closer.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “And I promise I’ll be careful. I’m not fragile, you know.”

  “Oh, bloody hell, I know that. I’ve always said you’re stronger than all of us, and you’ve done nothing to change my mind.”

  Her aura lit up with pride and pleasure. “You’re the best thing that ever happened in my life, you know. No matter what happens, don’t ever forget that, okay?”

  “I won’t. But I’ll be happy enough to just be part of your life.”

  She smiled, unfolded herself from the sofa, and stood, offering him her hands. “Come on—let me show you that you have nothing to worry about.”

  22

  Stone’s phone rang the following morning, just as he was driving in through his house’s front gate. His mind still occupied with both the rifts and his night with Verity, he pulled the car off the road and got out to pick up the mail, idly answering the phone as he did. “Yes, hello?”

  “Alastair, hello.”

  He stopped, astonished at the familiar voice he hadn’t heard for months. “Imogen. I—what a surprise. It’s good to hear from you. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been very well. I’m so sorry I haven’t rung in so long, but I know we’ve both been so busy…”

  “Not a problem—I should have stopped by to visit you during one of my trips to Caventhorne. What can I do for you?”

  “Well…” She hesitated. “I’ve got some news, and I wanted you to find out directly from me.”

  “What sort of news?” Stone tensed. The last time she’d called him with news, it had been to tell him her father had gone missing. He’d tracked Desmond to a magically warded section of Caventhorne, only to discover him dead in his office.

  She seemed to have caught on to his train of thought, because she chuckled. “Nothing bad this time. Good news.” She paused. “I’m…going to be married, Alastair.”

  Once again Stone went stiff, his hand tightening on the phone. If he’d been stronger, he might have crushed it. “Are you?” he asked with care. “That’s—wonderful, Imogen. I’m so happy for you. You and Clifford finally decided to make it official, did you?” He started toward the mailbox again, picturing Clifford Blakeley’s pleasant face, graying blond hair, and bankerly suit.

  “We did, yes. Neither of us is getting any younger, you know, and he’s made me so happy, especially after Dad died.” She paused again. “We’ll…be sending out the invitations soon, but as I said, I wanted to let you know in person. It’s later this summer. A small affair—just a few close friends. You…will come, won’t you?”

  Stone smiled. “Of course I will, Moggy. You couldn’t keep me away. That’s brilliant. I really am happy for both of you. Please tell Clifford I said so.”

  When she spoke again, her voice held relief, as if she’d been holding her breath waiting for his response. “I’m so glad. Your blessing means a lot to me.”

  “Of course you have it—I told you that before. I want you to be deliriously happy, Moggy. Just send me the details and I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Alastair.” Something lurking around the edges of her voice told him the thanks was for more than just agreeing to attend the wedding. “I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing, then. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Stone put the phone away almost robotically, slowing his steps as he approached the mailbox. So Moggy—Imogen Desmond, his old master’s daughter and his former almost-fiancée many years ago—was finally getting married. He’d begun to wonder if she ever would. He supposed he couldn’t wish for a better match for her: Clifford Blakeley obviously adored her, and if he was a bit…well, conventional...there was nothing wrong with that. After all, lack of conventionality—or at least mundanity—had been what had doomed his own relationship with her. She’d be much happier with Blakeley, a man who was a success in the mundane world while knowing nothing about the magical realm. She could be the center of his universe, in a way she never could have been with Stone. It was what she deserved.

  He truly was happy for her, and wished her nothing but the best, but as he reached the mailbox he couldn’t help feeling the sensation of another half-open door in his life firmly closing.

  He had a lot of half-open doors in his life, he realized. Hell, he hadn’t even thought to tell her about Ian yet. He pulled out the phone again and stared at it a moment, deciding whether he should call her back and share the news about his son, but then put it away. He’d introduce her to Ian when the boy came back to England to meet Aubrey. Maybe they could all even get together for dinner in London.

  He opened the mailbox and removed a stack of envelopes and advertising circulars, paging through them one by one as he walked slowly back toward the BMW. It was the usual stuff—bills, junk mail, sale flyers—and he barely paid any attention to it. The majority would get pitched into the bin without a moment’s glance, as it was every day.

  As he climbed into the car and tossed the junk mail on the driver’s seat, he noticed one envelope that didn’t look like the others. Stark white, it was shaped more like it held a greeting card instead of a bill, and bore neither stamp nor return address. The only writing on the front of it was Alastair Stone in dark green ink.

  He paused before starting the car and opened it. Perhaps someone in the neighborhood had put it there, inviting him to some weekend get-together. It happened occasionally; so far he’d politely declined the invitations, but the residents of the tiny town of Encantada were a close-knit bunch, and seemed to feel obligated to continue in their attempts to include him in their activities.

  Inside was a single, stiff white card. Stone withdrew it from the envelope with growing curiosity. It looked like something Stefan Kolinsky would send, except he recognized Kolinsky’s handwriting and this wasn’t it. Besides, his black-mage friend would go to Walmart in his underwear before he used green ink.

  The card was blank.

  Stone tilted his head, turning it over to examine both sides, then pinching open the envelope to see if he’d missed anything else inside. This was odd. Why would someone bother sending him a blank—

  Ah. Of course.

 
He held the card up again and shifted to magical sight.

  He hadn’t exactly expected a series of lines written in firm, old-fashioned script to shimmer into being on the card’s surface, but it didn’t surprise him, either. He took a quick glance around with the sight still up and saw no sign of anyone lurking nearby observing him, so he turned his attention back to the card.

  It included only a few lines:

  Dr. Stone:

  I hope this finds you well. I regret the need to contact you directly, but I must offer you a warning. It is imperative that you do not continue on your current course of action. If you do, and more specifically if you encourage others to do likewise, your activities could lead to dire consequences. I can say no more, but I hope you will take my words as they were meant. I do not wish you ill; however, if you persist I will be forced to oppose you, and that will not end well for you.

  Best wishes to you.

  —A Concerned Party

  There was no other signature.

  “Bloody hell…” Stone murmured.

  What the hell had he managed to get himself embroiled in this time, and how much larger was its scope than he’d originally suspected?

  He gripped the card tighter, opening the envelope to shove it back inside. He couldn’t wait any longer—it was time to bring in the big guns now. If anybody had any chance of figuring out what was going on with this nonsense, it would be Stefan Kolinsky. The black mage was never around on weekends, but tomorrow afternoon he’d drive over there and see if—

  As he watched, magical sight still active, the script on the card began to fade. In less than ten seconds, it had dissipated into nothingness, leaving the card once again blank. No trace of magical energy remained around either it or the envelope.

  Stone continued to stare at it for several more seconds, but nothing else happened. The card remained text-free, magically inert, and altogether uninteresting.

  “Well…” he said. “That’s brilliant. This message will self-destruct in five seconds.”

  23

  Jason was tired, both physically and mentally, and that hadn’t changed much in the last few weeks.

  He shoved open the door to his apartment and threw his messenger bag on a nearby chair—or at least tried to. The bag hit too hard, slid off, and fell to the floor. The flap popped open, spilling a stack of papers and file folders all over the floor.

  Jason sighed. That was how his life had been going the last few days. Ignoring the bag, he went to the kitchen and got a beer, then flung himself down on the couch without turning on the TV. It was nearly ten-thirty, and if he was smart he’d go to bed and get some sleep so he could get an early start on the morning.

  He’d stayed in Reno for two more days following the accident, waiting for the Ford dealership’s service department to report the extent of the damage and his insurance company to get back to him about whether it would be totaled. It didn’t surprise him when they called back and told him just that—the car had been a few years old on purpose, both to save money and to make it blend in better, and the damage to the front end had been extensive enough to make repairing it more expensive than writing it off. At least Amber Harte’s insurance company wasn’t dragging its feet about paying the claim, but these things still took time and there was no rushing the wheels of corporate bureaucracy.

  He’d thought about calling her again before he left Reno, but didn’t. As potentially interesting as she was, mysterious disappearing bruise or no mysterious disappearing bruise, she’d made it clear in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to hear from him. Unlike too many guys his age, Jason knew there was a fine line between romantic and creepy when it came to pursuing a woman he was interested in, and as much as he’d have liked to talk with her again, he’d decided any further contact in the wake of their last phone call would be teetering firmly toward the “creepy” side. Especially since he was even more interested in finding out what was up with the bruise than he was with taking her out to dinner.

  Though he wouldn’t have turned down the dinner. He wasn’t an idiot.

  He’d finished his case, retrieved a few more items from the Ford, and driven at a leisurely pace back to the Bay Area. After filling out the paperwork back at the office and updating the case files, he’d told Gina only that he’d had a minor accident in Reno and asked her to look into finding the agency a new boring sedan. He wasn’t happy about it, because it meant he’d have to dip into his savings until Amber’s insurance paid the claim, but there was no helping it.

  What he hadn’t done was tell Stone or Verity anything beyond the basic details about the accident. He’d thought about it—considered it fairly deeply, in fact—but ultimately decided to keep the whole situation to himself. Unlike his sister and her former master, Jason hadn’t been born with the pathological curiosity of a whole roomful of cats. Sure, he had more than a standard human share—he had to in order to be good at what he did—but he also possessed the ability to let something go when there was nothing good to be gained by pursuing it.

  In his estimation, the situation with Amber Harte and her disappearing bruise fell neatly into that category. He was certain if he mentioned it to Verity she’d encourage him to go back to Reno, or at least call Amber again, and if he mentioned it to Stone, the mage would probably hop the next plane over there (assuming there wasn’t a magical portal in the area somewhere) and track her down himself. Neither of which would make Jason’s life any better.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if he ever saw Verity or Stone these days. Between his own case load, which had piled up a bit following his unexpected stay in Reno, whatever crazy problem Stone was chasing right now involving weird magical events, and Verity’s move to San Francisco, he didn’t even try pinning either of them down for more than brief meetings. The best he’d done was to get Verity to agree to let him help her move next weekend.

  That wasn’t exactly the way he wanted to interact with her right now.

  He swung his legs around until he was half-sitting, half-lying on the couch and drained the remainder of his beer, debating whether to get up and get another one. Finally, he sighed and stayed where he was, since getting drunk right now wouldn’t solve any of his problems and would only make him feel like crap in the morning.

  A while ago, he’d thought the discovery that Verity was sleeping with Stone was the most shocking thing she could spring on him. But now she was leaving the South Bay for an apartment in a sketchy San Francisco neighborhood so she could be closer to her girlfriend, her job healing for a magical tattoo artist, and her new mentor, a surly, man-hating young witch who brewed alchemical potions. Not to mention the Harpies, the gang of female vigilantes both the girlfriend and the witch belonged to. Some of them had odd magical abilities of their own, and they all ran around at night taking down street criminals and playing defender of the downtrodden. Not, in his opinion, the best bunch for his sister to get tangled up with.

  It wasn’t fair for him to get in her way, of course—as much as he wanted to continue seeing Verity as the little sister he could shield from harm and protect from the world, that ship had sailed the moment she’d run away from her halfway house at seventeen and joined up with the Forgotten. Then, when she’d met Stone, the ship had plowed full steam ahead into that part of the map where it said Here There Be Dragons. He didn’t regret any of this, not exactly, but when he was honest with himself he did wish it would slow down a bit.

  That clearly wasn’t going to happen.

  He grunted, more annoyed at himself than he was with Stone and Verity, and leaped off the couch to gather the untidy pile of papers and folders and stuff them back into his messenger bag. The best thing he could do right now was take a hot shower, go to bed, and try to get a decent night’s sleep. He had another case he needed to get started on tomorrow, and dwelling on things he couldn’t change wasn’t going to help with it.

  His phone rang.

  Great. Now what?

  He grabbed it from the table, e
xpecting it to be either Stone, Verity, or Gina, but he didn’t recognize the number. “Yeah, Jason Thayer.”

  “Jason? It’s Amber Harte. Remember me, from Reno?”

  Holy shit. He dropped back down on the couch. “Uh—yeah, of course I remember you. How’s it going?”

  “It’s good.” There was a pause. “Listen, I hate to bother you this late, but—I need your help.”

  “My help?” His faint frown deepened. Her voice sounded strained. What could he do to help her, though? Did she want him to go back to Reno, after—

  “Yeah. I’m in the Bay Area, and I’ve run into a little trouble. And then I remembered what you said.”

  “What I said about what?”

  Another pause. “Look—I lied to you before. I’m sorry, but I did. You did see a bruise on my arm. Were you serious when you said you thought you knew what I was? And that you’ve got friends who’ve dealt with…that kind of stuff before?”

  Now it was Jason’s turn to pause. “Uh—yeah. I was. What are you doing in the Bay Area? What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “Can you come here? I’m at a motel on Monterey Road in San Jose. I need to talk to you, if you’re willing.”

  Despite his annoyance at the way she’d treated him before, it didn’t even occur to him to turn her down. But that didn’t mean he was going to throw all his caution away. If she was some kind of supernatural being like a shifter, it would be stupid to meet her somewhere on her own terms. “Yeah. Sure, we can meet. But could we do it at a bar or something?”