by R. L. King
House of Stone
Alastair Stone Chronicles Book Eighteen
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
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
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Books by R. L. King
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by R. L. King
House of Stone: Alastair Stone Chronicles Book Eighteen
First Edition, June 2019
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
Darkness.
Stillness.
The air smelled of age and neglect.
His eyes snapped open, but it didn’t matter: the dark was so complete it was almost a tangible thing, pressing against his skull. His eyes burned with it, dry and unaccustomed to being open; he almost felt them scratching against their gritty sockets like old sandpaper as he shifted his gaze back and forth to no effect.
His breath caught in his ruined throat, hitching gasps trying to pull any air into his lungs from within the cramped, sealed prison.
His hands tried to scrabble at his sides, to find any purchase, any way out, but he was weak. So weak. He felt the accumulation of dust under him, but couldn’t even raise his arms. The prison’s walls touched his shoulders.
His body didn’t seem to want to work properly. His diaphragm fluttered, his lungs refusing to inflate as he continued to gasp for the air that wasn’t there.
Or was it? How could he be awake if there was no air? Where was he? What was he doing here? Who had put him here?
The thoughts, the memories, didn’t come. Not right away. His brain was long out of practice for any kind of thought. His mental impulses zipped around, unformed and chaotic, flashing images across his mind’s eye too fast to comprehend. When he tried to grab one, to pin it down long enough to study it, his effort got him nothing more than splintered fragments.
His fists clenched involuntarily, long nails digging into fleshless palms, gathering the dust and then releasing it again. Inside his chest, his long-dormant heart fluttered once again to life, beating a faint, weak, and disorganized rhythm.
When the thoughts finally did begin to come, when his erratic memories began to knit together to give him a clearer picture of what was happening here, his first response was rage. What had they done to him? How had they done it? That part wouldn’t come yet, but it didn’t need to. He didn’t need the details. The exact methods they had used to accomplish their aims didn’t matter, but only that they had accomplished them.
He didn’t even try to pierce the darkness pressing in on him. Not yet. He could do it, he knew, but it would take time. Probably quite a lot of time. The processes, now that something had started them again (what had started them? He had no idea, but at this moment he had no intention of questioning it) were not fast. Especially not given what he suspected they would have to accomplish. He had no idea how long he had been here, but he did know it had to have been a very long time.
That was fine, though. He was patient. He could wait here in the dark for his strength to return. For his power to return. He could already feel it trickling in. Then, he could remove himself from this place and set about determining where—and when—he was.
He closed his dry eyes and relaxed his thin, weak arms. He was vulnerable here, but he was also safe, shrouded in his hidden cocoon. As long as no one found him before he was fully restored, he had no need for concern.
A small, cold smile crept across his sunken features. No, he would have no need for concern.
Certain others, however, would not be so fortunate.
1
Alastair Stone wasn’t psychic in the way most of the world defined the word, but when his phone buzzed one lazy Thursday afternoon in mid-June, something told him he wouldn’t like what he heard when he answered it.
He put aside the book he’d been reading in his Encantada study and picked it up, noting the familiar number. Maybe his premonition wouldn’t end up being true after all. “Yes, hello, Verity.”
“Hey, Doc. You busy?”
“Not really. What’s up?” He glanced around the office, at the untidy stacks of books and papers around him. In truth, “busy” was a relative term. He’d arranged it so he wasn’t teaching any regular classes for the summer quarter, only a couple of one-shot evening seminars in July, intending to use the time to catch up on some research for a couple papers he was trying to finish. Raider perched on top of one of the book stacks, primly licking his front paw and watching Stone with sudden interest.
Her long pause renewed his apprehension. “Well…” she said slowly, “Unfortunately, I have some bad news.”
Ah. So he was right. “What sort of bad news?” He leaned back in his chair, and Raider immediately hopped down from the book stack and settled in his lap.
“Well…” she repeated, definitely sounding uncomfortable now. “I…won’t be able to go to Imogen’s wedding with you.”
He tensed. “Why not?”
Imogen Desmond, daughter of his late master William Desmond, had called him to announce her upcoming wedding to Clifford Blakeley a few weeks ago, and the invitation had arrived a couple weeks after that. Verity hadn’t been invited specifically—it was to be a small, intimate affair with only close friends and family—but Stone’s invitation had included a plus-one along with a handwritten note from Imogen suggesting he ask her to accompany him. Not exactly protocol, but then again, Imogen had never been much for proto
col when it didn’t suit her.
“I’m sorry…” She sounded miserable. “Believe me, if there was any way around it, I’d be all over it. But Jason’s got a case and he needs my help with it. It’s a kidnapped child, only four years old, and Jason’s certain he’s in terrible danger. So far the cops are pretty sure he’s in Texas, but they’re afraid the kidnappers will try to smuggle him into Mexico. We need to go there so I can do a ritual to find him before that happens. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
Stone’s sigh mirrored Verity’s. The wedding was on Saturday evening, and they’d been planning to take the portal to the Surrey house tomorrow afternoon. It was highly unlikely she and Jason could fly to Texas, finish their business, and get back in time for her to make it, even if everything went perfectly and they found the boy right away. “I understand,” he said. “Of course you’ve got to help if you can. Be careful, both of you.”
“I’m sorry, Doc. If there was any other way around it—”
“No, no, it’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.” What could he say? No, you could find the child, but you should risk letting him die because I need you here to help me cope with my first love finally getting married? No. Besides, it wasn’t true. He’d come to terms with Imogen’s upcoming wedding a long time ago, and spending a few hours in a formal suit helping her celebrate her happy day was the least he could do. Even if he had to do it alone.
“Absolutely,” he said again. “I’ll call you when I return, and you can tell me all about it. I’m sure you’ll find the lad right away.”
“Yeah.” She still didn’t sound convinced. “I’m sure we will. I don’t think there’s any magic involved, so it should be an open-and-shut thing. Thanks, Doc. Please give Imogen and Clifford my best.”
“I will.”
He hung up and tossed the phone back on the desk, looking down at Raider in his lap. “Well, mate,” he said, scratching the tabby’s head, “I suppose I should get on with it, shouldn’t I? No reason to hang about here.”
Raider purred, but said nothing.
Stone didn’t need to pack much, since he kept a full wardrobe at the Surrey house. Aubrey had phoned a few days ago to let him know his suite had been opened and aired, but apologized that he might have to deal with some slight inconveniences such as noise and dust.
“I’m having the workers in as you instructed, to begin evaluating the east wing for renovation,” he’d said. “It’s bloody difficult to get on their schedule, so I had to take what I could get. They’re starting in the cellar, in the area where the floor was buckling.”
Ah, yes. The east wing. It had become a bit of a shared joke between them over the years. That part of the house had been closed off practically as long as Stone could remember; it suffered from a collection of minor problems, none of which ever grew serious enough to require immediate attention beyond occasional basic repairs, but when taken together they made that entire section undesirable for use as living space. Aubrey checked through its rooms every couple of weeks to make sure the windows were still in place, the doors hadn’t stuck shut due to shifting, and the roof hadn’t sprung any leaks, but all in all they’d both been content to leave it alone since the cost of renovation would have been far more than the modest trust fund covering repairs and Aubrey’s salary could have handled.
That had all changed when William Desmond had died and left Stone a fortune in addition to the entirety of his collection of magical books and artifacts. One of the first things he’d done when he’d received the funds, aside from giving Aubrey both a substantial lump sum and a significant pay raise, was to earmark a large portion for repairs on the rambling old mansion, starting with the east wing. He’d given Aubrey access to the account and set him loose, asking him to handle arranging the various contractors and scheduling the work. The caretaker was far better at that sort of thing than he was, so Stone had instructed him to do what was necessary to get the place back up to presentable shape. He only wanted to be consulted for aesthetic matters when necessary, unless anything threatened to get too close to the magically hidden parts of the house.
He knew exactly the area Aubrey was talking about, where “the floor was buckling.” It was a section of the cellar even less frequently checked than the upper portions of the wing, largely because it was bloody creepy down there. Aubrey went down only once every couple of months, reporting back that it was still as full of spiderwebs, grime, and dark shadows as it always was. It was only during his last check that he’d discovered something had shifted enough to cause a large crack in the stone floor, indicating that there might be a problem with the wall holding the whole thing up. He’d described the problem to Stone and the renovation efforts had immediately switched from the upper floors to the cellar, since sticking doors and broken windows didn’t matter if the whole wall was about to cave in.
Stone had assured him the noise and dust wouldn’t be a problem, since he probably wouldn’t be staying long enough for it to make a difference. He might pop up to Caventhorne after the wedding, but he didn’t plan to spend much time at the house.
As he finished tossing the few items he’d need into his overnight bag before heading down to Sunnyvale to take the portal, his thoughts turned, as they often did lately, to Ian.
It had been nearly two weeks since he and his son had last spoken, beyond a few hasty texts with vague reports of his current whereabouts, and a month since they’d met face to face when Ian had popped back to the Bay Area for a couple days through the portal before heading off to join some mage friends on a backpacking trip in Romania. Since then, his messages had come from various parts of Europe, Africa, and the Far East, where from the sound of things he’d spent most of his time soaking up the nightlife. They’d made tentative plans to meet in England at some point, but so far those plans hadn’t solidified beyond “sometime soon.”
On a whim, Stone pulled out his phone and punched Ian’s number. His last location had been somewhere in Greece, which meant it would be the middle of the night where he was. Ian was even more of a night owl than Stone, though, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
It rang several times. Stone was sure the familiar, flippant voicemail message would come on any second, but then a blast of high-energy music issued from the speaker followed by a muffled, “Hello?”
“Ian. It’s your father. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.” He didn’t really hope that—at this moment, he didn’t care too much about what he might have interrupted.
“Uh—oh, hi, Dad. Hold on.” More muffled sounds. Stone thought he heard another male voice, and then the music dropped to barely audible. “Something wrong? You don’t usually call this late.”
“I thought I might find you awake if I called now.” Stone forced his shoulders to relax; he hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying in them. “Are you still in Greece?”
“Uh—yeah. Athens. I’m at a club right now.” He sounded sober, at least, which was something.
“Well, I won’t keep you long. But I want to ask you something.”
“Go for it.” In the background, the male voice spoke again, but Stone couldn’t make out any words. Ian’s own muffled voice sounded, then cleared. “Sorry about that. What do you need?”
“I’ll be heading to England tomorrow, to attend a wedding on Saturday night. And I’d like you to meet me there.”
There was a pause. “Meet you…there? In England? You want me to come to this wedding?”
“No. I want you to come to England. We’ve been discussing it for some time now, but both of us keep putting it off for various reasons. I want you to come tomorrow, so I can show you around the house and the portals, and introduce you to Aubrey. He’s been wanting very much to meet you.”
Another pause.
Stone tightened his grip on the phone. “Ian—this is fairly important to me. I won’t keep you long—you can head back to Athens or wherever else you’re going after the weeke
nd. But unless you’ve got something important planned for the next couple of days that you can’t postpone, I’d appreciate it if you’d make the time for it.”
He realized he had a bit of an edge in his voice, and quickly squelched it. Ian wasn’t doing anything wrong—he was doing exactly what Stone had empowered him to do, by introducing him to the worldwide public portal network and setting up a healthy bank account for him to use while he traveled. Blaming him for wanting to see the world and have a little fun after his oppressive, abusive childhood and uncertain teen years as a runaway street hustler should be—and in fact was—the farthest thing from his mind.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t impose a little parental suggestion now and then.
“What do you say? Will you come?”
The answer came faster this time. “Yeah. Of course I’ll come, Dad.”
More stress evaporated. “Excellent. Thank you, Ian. Just come through the London portal. I’m leaving now—suppose we meet tomorrow morning. I’ll have to show you my private portal at the Surrey place—it’s a bit tricky, so I want to do that before you use it. I can show you the house tomorrow before I head off to the wedding, and perhaps you and Aubrey can catch up a bit during the evening.”
