Stone and Claw: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  Stone and Claw

  Alastair Stone Chronicles Book Fifteen

  R. L. King

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

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  Books by R. L. King

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 by R. L. King

  Stone and Claw: Alastair Stone Chronicles Book Fifteen

  First Edition, September 2018

  Edited by John Helfers

  Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, except by agreement with the vendor of the book. If you would like to share this book with another person, please use the proper avenues. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  The smell was the worst, Viajera decided.

  Everything around her, from the hot asphalt of the streets to the swirl of discarded food wrappers to the people passing by as she sat in the taxicab, smelled too strong, too ripe, too—foreign.

  She wouldn’t have thought it would be such a problem—after all, they had streets and trash and people where she came from, even though she avoided all three whenever she could—but suddenly it threatened to overwhelm her.

  This had been a bad idea.

  No, she told herself firmly. It was the only idea. Her sources had been clear, and sure of themselves: this was where it had gone. Whoever had it—whoever had stolen it, or sold it, or hoarded it in some vile collection somewhere—they were here.

  And it was here. Somewhere.

  And she had no idea if it would remain here. If it left this area, if it got shipped off to some far-flung location overseas, she might never find it again. Her resources weren’t limitless.

  No, as distasteful as it was, she’d need to do this.

  The taxi stopped at her destination, double-parking next to an old minivan, and she hesitated a moment before paying the driver and getting out. How did people live in places like this? San Francisco was supposed to be a beautiful, cosmopolitan city, but she had a hard time believing that from her current surroundings. All along the street she saw neglected buildings, overflowing garbage receptacles, homeless people shuffling along or huddled in doorways, cars stuffed into every available space. As soon as she opened the car door, the smells hit her like a wall.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself. Your comfort isn’t important. Do what you came here to do.

  The shop was sandwiched between a vacant space and a Moroccan restaurant. The sign over the door read “Antiquities for the Discerning Connoisseur,” except some of the letters were missing. She couldn’t see inside: the picture window was piled high with haphazard junk, and a shade covered the door.

  She consulted the planner in her bag again, where she’d listed several potential locations she’d discovered. This was only the second she’d tried since arriving in the area. The first had been a bust: little more than a junk shop catering to tourists.

  She stepped inside. A harsh bell jangled on the door, and the street smells of garbage and gasoline and hot asphalt were replaced by dust, heavy aftershave, and just a hint of wood rot. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the low light, and she immediately picked out the stocky form of a man behind the counter in the back. There were no other customers.

  “May I help you, my dear?” the man called.

  Viajera continued scanning the shelves as she walked toward him. Of course she didn’t expect to see it sitting there among the old dolls and fake skulls and questionable pottery, but stranger things had happened and she couldn’t afford to take chances. “I’m looking for something.”

  “We are all looking for something, I think.” His gaze crawled up and down her body, and a slow smile spread over his face. He was shorter than she was, wider, and considerably older, with fussy round glasses, slicked-back dark hair, and more tufts poking from the open front of his lurid Hawaiian shirt. She couldn’t identify his accent. Now that she was closer, she had no trouble picking out the alcohol adding to the shop’s ambient aromas.

  She sighed. She didn’t have time for this. She described the object of her search, showing the man a sketch she’d made, and watched him closely for any reaction. If he’d seen it, she’d know.

  “May I?” he asked, reaching out for the drawing. He wore rings on every finger except his thumb. When she offered it to him, he touched her hand as he took it, trailing his damp fingers along hers.

  She didn’t shudder, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Hmmm…” He studied the drawing a moment. “Well, now—I think this might be your lucky day, pretty lady. I think I have seen this.”

  He was lying. Everything about him, from his scent to his tone to his expression, told her that. “You have?”

  “Yes. I think someone brought it in just the other day.” His gaze flicked up and settled briefly on her face before traveling hungrily downward. He glanced toward the door, then moved around the counter. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll try to remember where I put it.”

  She nodded toward the sketch. “You have this.”

  “Yes, yes.” He moved past her, trying to brush against her as he came around the counter, but she deftly shifted out of his way. “This way. I am so happy I can help you. It isn’t often I get such a lovely lady in my shop.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” she told him. “And I see you’re almost ready to close.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry. I never lose anything in my shop, and I’m pleased to help you. It is my greatest joy—helping my custo
mers find the things they seek. Sometimes even things they don’t know they want.” He leered again, peering at the shelves as he slipped up the aisle toward the front of the shop.

  Viajera tensed, but not with fear. She thought she knew what would happen next. It had happened to her before, more than once. Perhaps one day his type would learn, but she doubted it.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “But I need to be going soon.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I understand.” He poked at one of the shelves, pulling out an old wineglass, examining it, and then putting it back. “No, no, that’s not it. I know I left it near here somewhere. If I could only remember—” He brightened, as if he’d just had an idea. “I know! I have just put some coffee on. It’s an exotic blend I get from a friend—most of my customers find it quite…stimulating. Perhaps we could sit and have a cup, and that will help my memory.” He rolled his eyes ruefully. “I am not as young as I used to be. Sometimes I need a little help.”

  “No, that’s all right.” Viajera was done playing games with this pathetic little man. Every moment she remained here was another moment the object she sought might be even now leaving the area. “Thank you so much for your help. I should be going.”

  “Oh, please, don’t leave yet!” The man moved faster than before, circling around her to reach the door first. He fumbled behind him. “You brighten my shop with your beauty.”

  Viajera didn’t miss the click of the lock engaging, but didn’t show she’d noticed. “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say. But I need to go. Please excuse me.”

  His expression changed. His kindly smile went sly, and something in his eyes went hard. “Please, not yet. Don’t you know it isn’t polite to lead someone on and then disappoint him so? Let me find this item for you so you will be happy, and then perhaps we might discuss a…trade?” Once again, his lecherous gaze lingered on her figure.

  Now she smelled something else—something more primal—as her senses heightened. He was between her and the door, and there didn’t seem to be another exit from the shop.

  “Get out of my way,” she said. Her voice never rose from its normal pleasant calm.

  “I think not,” he said in the same tone, but his eyes never left her. “You need a lesson, I think, of why it’s not wise to promise what you aren’t willing to deliver.”

  Viajera’s heart beat faster, blood pounding through her limbs, energizing them. “I’m only going to tell you once more. Get out of my way.”

  “Or what, my dear? What will you do?” His words held a challenge.

  She took a step forward. When she spoke again her voice was different: lower, deeper, traced with a warning, purring growl. “Or I’ll rip your skin from your bones and feast on your flesh.”

  She saw her glowing golden eyes reflecting in his round glasses, and behind them his own grew wide and terrified as he got a good look at her.

  “Uh—uh—” he stammered, scrambling sideways. “You—what—”

  As soon as he no longer blocked the door, she calmly flipped the catch to unlock it. “Thank you,” she said, once again casual and pleasant, and the glowing reflection in his glasses faded. “I can’t say it was a pleasure doing business with you, but at least I can cross one more shop off my list. Have a good evening.”

  She left him there, stuttering and terrified, and exited the shop. As she did, she smiled as yet another scent joined the existing olfactory cacophony: the strong, sharp smell of fresh fear-urine.

  Good. Perhaps he’d think twice before trying that again.

  Her amusement faded with each step, though. She still hadn’t found what she was looking for, which meant she’d have to implement the most difficult and risky part of her plan. She’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but at this point she had no other choice.

  She hoped her resources were as good as they claimed, because it looked like she was going to have to test them.

  1

  Endings are never easy.

  Alastair Stone stood in the upstairs study of his downtown Palo Alto townhouse, gazing out the window at the late-morning light shining into the microscopic backyard. In all the time he’d lived in the house—over four years—he’d never once set foot out there.

  The study was empty now, another bare room like all the others. He turned back around, leaning on the wooden sill to regard the lighter spots on the carpet where his desk, his overstuffed sofa, and his ratty leather armchair had stood. He’d already boxed up the books from the shelves with Verity’s help, and carefully wrapped and packed the collection of odd items sharing space with them. The prints on the walls were all gone, once again leaving lighter spots behind.

  I probably could have been a better housekeeper, he mused. Never did get ’round to hiring someone. Suppose that will need to change.

  The study would be the hardest to leave. It had been the heart of the house for him—even more so than the locked and warded sanctum in the attic. One’s magical workspace was a profoundly personal thing, of course, but by necessity all of them essentially had variations on the same theme: circle on the floor, shelves holding reference books and ritual components, wards to keep the curious from investigating and the errant project from escaping. One’s study, on the other hand, was as individual as one’s fingerprints—or one’s aura. Over the years the place had developed an energy all its own—comforting, steady, conducive as much to research as to the many hours he’d spent slouched in his old chair, plinking aimless melodies on the battered black Stratocaster he should probably think about replacing now that he was in a proper band. Some guitars looked like his because they had character, but he couldn’t claim the same excuse: he’d picked it up in a secondhand shop a few years back because he had no idea whether he’d stick with it or not. He supposed he’d earned the right to find a better one. Not a new one, though—new instruments had less character than his old used one did. When he got some time, he’d see about poking around a few high-end shops in London and see if he could find one that spoke to him.

  Not literally or anything, of course. That would be too strange even for him.

  Chuckling at the thought of a talking guitar—knowing his luck, he’d get one that argued with him about set lists or critiqued his technique—he left the study and drifted toward the door leading to the attic ritual space. It was open, revealing the narrow stairway up. Perhaps inspired by Trevor Harrison and his unexpected mechanical skills, Stone had tackled replacing the heavy metal door himself, after searching around in the garage trying to remember where he’d stashed the original one. His thoughts flitted back to the day when he and Jason had installed the metal door, soon after he’d moved in here. Jason had done most of the work then, but this time Stone had managed the job on his own. It felt strangely satisfying.

  The sanctum was the only other part of the house he’d completely packed up, since the place was a furnished rental and most of the furniture remained with it. Verity had helped him with this too, making sure all the magical gear was properly boxed and labeled in ways that wouldn’t arouse any suspicion from the movers.

  The hardest part had been removing the circle, which he’d painted on the floor. Fortunately, he’d perfected a spell that separated the paint from the wood, so all it took was some effort and a little buffing to eliminate any evidence of mystical goings-on. The wards had been relatively easy to dismantle; they were formidable, but he’d built them himself so unmaking them was a much simpler process than it would have been if they’d been someone else’s work.

  He stood in the center of the room and turned slowly in place, taking in the empty space. Why was he so sentimental about this place, anyway? He didn’t get sentimental. It wasn’t as if he were leaving his rambling mansion back home in England.

  A knock on the door startled him from his thoughts.

  “Doc?”

  “Yes—up here.”

  Light footsteps, and Verity Thayer appeared in the doorway. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. Just—
reminiscing a bit.”

  She began pacing the room, pausing to look out the window. Like him, she wore a T-shirt and faded jeans. “Lot of good memories here.”

  Behind her, Raider stalked with tentative furtiveness, glancing at Stone every few seconds as if confused about why he wasn’t being evicted. Normally, the rangy tabby wasn’t allowed in the ritual room, so naturally it was a source of constant curiosity. He amused himself sniffing in corners, determined to get in as much exploration as he could before the humans caught on and kicked him out.

  “Indeed there are,” Stone said, watching the cat fondly.

  “Well, you’ve got the place for a while longer, right? You can always come back here if you need a fix.”

  “No…no, it’s time to go. Are the movers ready?”

  “Yeah, they’re taking the last few boxes out to the truck.”

  “Good, good. I suppose we should get going, then.”

  He still wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided so suddenly to move into the house Adelaide Bonham, a wealthy former client, had bequeathed him. He’d expected it to be a slow process, taking a few things over there every now and then, remaining mostly here at the townhouse for the next few months as he gradually accumulated enough furniture to fill its much larger spaces. The new place, located in a tiny, secluded town called Encantada only a few miles from Stanford, was more than twice as large as the townhouse: three stories, with a detached three-car garage and nearly an acre of land surrounding it.