House of Stone

by R. L. King

  “I didn’t know my dad owned so much land,” Ian said as the little contraption bumped and jounced along a narrow dirt path through a thick patch of trees.

  Aubrey chuckled. “I’m not so sure he knows himself, sir.” He gestured around the area. “I can’t remember the last time he’s come out here, as far as I know, at least. He used to wander the grounds quite a lot when he was a child, but—”

  “But he’s not a wilderness kind of guy,” Ian finished.

  “Er—no, sir. Not really.”

  Ian could sympathize with that. During his travels, some of the guys he’d met had been into that kind of thing, and had convinced him to accompany them on several excursions ranging from afternoon hikes to his recent backpacking trip in the wilds of Romania. He’d been a good sport about them—especially the Romanian trip, since Mihas had been smoking hot and great in bed, even if the bed was a sleeping bag in an old tent—but he couldn’t deny the truth: he was, at his core, a city boy. He liked the bright lights and frenetic energy of nightclubs and bars, the intrigue of narrow, shadowed alleyways, and the cultural diversity of museums, art galleries, and concerts.

  “So why does he have all this land if he never wants to do anything with it?” he asked, as Aubrey slowed the cart to point out a family of deer barely visible through the thick foliage.

  “It’s part of the estate, sir. This place has been in the Stone family for generations.”

  “Huh.” That was something else Ian had no real experience with. He’d spent most of his early childhood years in a tiny, shabby two-bedroom apartment with his single mother. When she’d married Bobby Tanner, her new husband had moved the family to a much nicer and more spacious two-story home in Winthrop, Ohio, and when Ian had finally had enough of Bobby and run away at sixteen, he’d had to make do with a series of less-than-homelike places that sometimes included friends’ couches when he’d been particularly down on his luck. He’d seen luxury—plenty of it—during his time as a street hustler, attending hot parties nearly every weekend and going home with everything from actors to studio executives to buttoned-down bankers and lawyers who would have died before admitting they’d sought out his services. But all of it had been temporary, and he’d never dreamed of attaining that standard of living on his own.

  And now, here he was tooling around the vast grounds of an English country estate with its caretaker, a man who’d been in his father’s family longer than his father himself had. Life was funny sometimes, that was certain.

  “So…” he ventured once they were moving again. “What do you do with it? Do you have to take care of all this land? That seems like a big job for one guy. Especially when Dad doesn’t even care about it.” He didn’t mention the fact that Aubrey was clearly getting on in years; the man had the healthy, robust look of someone who spent a lot of time outside doing physical work, but he still had to be at least sixty.

  Aubrey chuckled, the deep lines around his eyes crinkling. “I enjoy it, sir. I find it very peaceful out here. Your father isn’t fond of carefully tended gardens, so mostly we just leave it wild. I drive around once a week or so checking for signs of problems, but aside from that, it doesn’t require a great deal of care.”

  “Problems?” He nodded in the direction of the house. “I’d think you’d have more of those inside. That house has got to be haunted. Before I would have been joking, but knowing Dad…”

  “No, sir, I can say with certainty that I’ve never seen a ghost inside the house. I’m more likely to encounter poachers or squatters out here, honestly. I occasionally see the leftovers of their abandoned camps, and now and then I have to encourage them to go on their way.” He patted the stock of the shotgun he kept next to him in a specially designed holder.

  Ian wondered if Aubrey had ever needed to actually shoot anyone, but didn’t ask. “So, no ghosts? That surprises me. With all those generations living in the house, you’d think somebody would have stuck around.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. Your father tried to explain it to me once—he said that the magically talented, for whatever reason, rarely leave ghosts, or ‘echoes,’ as he calls them. And since the house has been occupied by magically talented men for at least six generations…”

  “Well, yeah, but there had to be a lot of people who weren’t magically talented too, right? Wives, other kids, servants—this place must have had more servants back in the day.”

  “True,” Aubrey admitted, then shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir—I wish I could tell you thrilling stories of hauntings and other eerie happenings, but the truth is, at least as long as I’ve been here, the place has been fairly…well…mundane. At least as far as ghostly presences are concerned.”

  Ian didn’t answer, and the caretaker finished his loop around the grounds and headed back toward the house. As he passed the low wall separating the small cemetery from the field leading back up toward the house, Ian pointed at it. “Still getting my mind around the fact that our family has its own graveyard.”

  Aubrey nodded. “Unlike the grounds as a whole, your father does spend time there when he’s home for more than a day or so. I think he finds being surrounded by his ancestors comforting, in a way.”

  “He didn’t seem too comforted when he told me about them. He said they were a bad bunch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Aubrey said, looking uneasy. “I suppose many of them were, from what he’s told me. At least his—well, yours too, of course—direct ancestors, starting with your great-grandfather. But there are other family members and staff buried there as well.”

  Ian couldn’t quite understand why household servants would want to be buried in a cemetery with their masters—he supposed a lot of his ideas about how rich Brits interacted with their household staffs weren’t exactly based in reality—but once again he didn’t ask.

  Aubrey pulled the little cart up in front of the main house. “Here we are, sir. Let me just put this away and then I’ll come in and get dinner started. You’re free to wander about the house and grounds as you like, of course—the areas your father prefers to keep closed are behind wards, so you needn’t worry about accidentally going somewhere you shouldn’t.”

  Ian leaped out. “Thanks, Aubrey. Seriously, though—no need for you to cook dinner. I can entertain myself if you’ve got things of your own you want to do. Or we could just order a pizza or something.” He shot a glance toward the house’s imposing façade. “Do they even deliver pizza out here?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. There’s a place in the village that’s quite good, actually. Or we could go into the village if you like. I trust you’ve never visited a genuine English pub?”

  Ian chuckled. “Nope. But that’s okay—if you don’t mind, I think I’d rather just stay here. The pizza sounds good, though. Don’t cook for me, unless you want to for yourself. And anyway, please don’t feel like you have to keep entertaining me just because Dad said so.”

  “Of course not, sir.” His eyes twinkled. “Just between you and me, I rarely do anything just because your father says so—but that said, our intentions usually align fairly well.”

  “You’re quite a guy, Aubrey—pretty much nothing like I expected, to be honest.”

  “Indeed? And what did you expect, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Ian considered. “I guess I thought you’d be more…formal. Stuffy, even. Kind of like Alfred in the Batman comics.”

  “Well, I’m glad you don’t consider me ‘stuffy,’” Aubrey seemed amused by his words. “And in any case, I’ll take your comparison to Alfred as a compliment, though I doubt I’ll live to see the day when your father goes gallivanting about London in a skintight bat suit.”

  “Hell, I haven’t even known Dad very long and I already doubt that would be the strangest thing he’s ever done.”

  “You’re quite likely correct, sir. If you’ll permit me just a bit of sentimentality, though, I’m very glad your father’s finally brought you here. I was beginning to think there would never be another Stone in the fam
ily.”

  “Well, you never know.” Ian waved at the cart. “Anyway, don’t let me keep you.”

  Aubrey shot him an odd look, almost as if wondering if he were being dismissed, but then nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll put this away and then ring Mama Giovanni’s.”

  By the time the pizza arrived and Ian and Aubrey had polished it off with pints of ale at the scarred kitchen table, the sun had gone down. They chatted about neutral topics over the meal, but as the caretaker gathered the remains into the box to throw them away, he said reflectively, “I wonder how your father is doing tonight.”

  Ian lounged in his chair, finishing off his pint. “He went to a wedding, right?”

  “Yes, sir. But…not just any wedding.”

  “Oh?”

  “Imogen Desmond is the daughter of your father’s master, William Desmond, who passed away last year.”

  “Oh. Right. He did mention something about that.”

  “I’m not sure he would have wanted me to tell you this, but he didn’t ask me not to. He and Imogen were to be married themselves, several years ago.”

  “He mentioned that too, but he didn’t say much more about it. What happened? Did her father not approve or something?”

  “Oh, no, sir. To the contrary.” Aubrey retrieved a damp cloth and wiped down the table. “Mr. Desmond considered your father to be the closest thing he had to a son of his own. He felt his daughter and your father were a perfect match, and actively encouraged their relationship.”

  “But…it didn’t work out?”

  Aubrey shook his head ruefully. “No, sir. I won’t go into the details—I don’t even know them all, since your father never told me—but from what I understand, Miss Desmond, who isn’t magically talented, felt your father cared more for his magical studies than he did for her. She broke it off. Quite reluctantly, to be sure, but she did. That was the catalyst for your father deciding to take the position at Stanford and relocate to the United States.”

  “Wow.” Ian had wondered for a while what would have caused Stone to leave all of this to move halfway around the world, but he’d never have guessed the true reason. “But…now he’s going to her wedding? He stayed friends with her after she dumped him?”

  Aubrey’s eyes glittered, and his smile was gentle. “Your father loves Imogen Desmond deeply, and he always will. He understood and respected her concerns, and came to agree with her that they wouldn’t have been a good match. But yes, they’ve remained dear friends for all these years.” He turned away, returning the rag to its hook. “That doesn’t mean I expect he’s having an easy time of it tonight, though.”

  “Yeah…I guess I can see that. It’s too bad Verity had something come up so she couldn’t go with him. It probably would have been easier with her there.”

  “He’ll be fine, sir.” His tone changed, growing more brisk. “Are you staying for a while? I expect your father will want to show you more of the magically warded areas of the house, his library…”

  “We’ll see. I haven’t actually started my formal magical training yet. I’m still getting used to all of this. Remember, I’ve only known I’m a mage for a couple of years now. It wasn’t like I grew up my whole life expecting it.”

  “True enough. That must have been quite a shock for you.”

  “Yeah…in more ways than one.” Ian had no idea how much Stone had shared with Aubrey about the circumstances of their meeting, and suddenly he had no desire to go into it himself. That could lead to a very long conversation of the type he didn’t want to have. He glanced out the window; the sun was well on its way down now, wreathing the overgrown gardens behind the house in shadows. “Listen, Aubrey—I hope you won’t mind, but I’m a little tired. I think I just want to go up to my room for a while.”

  “Of course, sir. It’s been a long day, and I’m sure your father has some things planned for tomorrow.”

  I’ll just bet he has, Ian thought. It was probably driving his father crazy, knowing something mysterious waited under the house and being prevented from exploring it. He wondered if Dad would head back down there immediately when he returned that night, or if he could manage to wait until morning.

  “Can you find your way back to your room on your own, or do you need me to show you?” Aubrey was asking.

  “I’m fine. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for everything—the tour, and the stories about Dad’s childhood…I feel like I know him a little better now.”

  Aubrey beamed. “I’m so happy to hear it, sir. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to come by. My flat is above the garage.”

  “Got it.” Ian vaguely remembered his father pointing out the large, free-standing former carriage house when they’d arrived, as they walked past it from the graveyard toward the house. But he didn’t think he’d be giving Aubrey any calls tonight. He wondered what time his father would be home.

  He did head back toward his room, mostly so he wouldn’t arouse Aubrey’s suspicions, but he didn’t intend to stay there. Already restless, he once again regretted agreeing not to go into London.

  You can put up with it for one night, he told himself in disgust. After everything his father had done for him—got him away from Trin, saved him from being sacrificed to some extradimensional demon, hell, even trusted him enough to give him a hefty bank account and set him loose to travel the world without (much) protest, the least he could do was tone down his hunger for constant stimulation and settle down until tomorrow. Maybe he might even stay around for a while if Dad wanted—with the understanding that he wouldn’t be spending his nights lurking around the drafty old mansion like some kind of vampire hermit.

  He made a detour on the way back to his room, stopping by the library—at least the part of it that wasn’t downstairs behind wards—to look for something to read. He used to like reading when he was a kid, preferring lurid horror novels and action-adventure stories with a hint of the gory supernatural. All that had changed after his mother had married Bobby Tanner, though: Bobby had considered such books “ungodly” and cleaned out Ian’s small library, tossing the books in the fireplace and forbidding him to bring more of them into the house. He’d still done some reading at the school library, but gave it up after he’d run away to Los Angeles.

  Stone’s library didn’t include any horror novels or supernatural thrillers. In fact, most of the books were old and didn’t look as if they’d been removed from the shelves in years—some possibly before Stone was born—and the remainder appeared to be scholarly volumes on cultural anthropology and world occult traditions. Many of the others were histories, biographies, a few ancient encyclopedias, and a whole lot of tomes about magic. Ian examined the shelves with magical sight, not surprised he didn’t find a hint of arcane power anywhere among the stacks. He was sure the good stuff was in the warded library.

  Still, he supposed it couldn’t hurt to get a bit of grounding in magical history, even if it was from mundane sources. Eventually he’d have to settle down and start studying magic in earnest. Despite his words to his father earlier in the day, he knew if he was to get anywhere with his powers, he’d have to do something other than compare notes with an eclectic group of students who weren’t much farther along than he was. Sure, he got plenty of useful and interesting techniques from them—probably ones his father had never even seen—but Dad was right, he needed a solid background. Just…not quite yet. Maybe he’d think about it in a few months, when he needed a break from seeing the world.

  He selected a couple books and carried them upstairs to his room, where he kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bed. There wasn’t a TV set in here, or even a radio. Now that he thought of it, Ian didn’t remember seeing a TV anywhere in the house, not even in the massive great room downstairs. If he hadn’t seen Stone’s place back in the States, with its full complement of modern electronic conveniences, he’d have wondered if his father was going for some kind of Hogwarts aesthetic here. Maybe they kept the home theater hidden away somewhe
re behind closed doors, to maintain the place’s old-fashioned appearance. In any case, if he was going to spend any time here at all, he’d have to convince Dad to let him add a few modern upgrades. He grinned as he cracked open one of the books and an imaged flashed in his mind: Aubrey, back at his apartment over the garage, kicked back in a sleek leather chair watching his big-screen TV with full surround sound and Dolby stereo.

  Yeah, probably not.

  The house was quiet, with only the occasional call of a far-off bird and the skreek-skreek of crickets breaking the silence. It sounded strange to Ian, who was used to being surrounded by sound: the electronic hums of devices, the soft hubbub of distant voices, the rumble of traffic and trains. He wondered whether, if he opened his door, he could hear Aubrey puttering around downstairs, or if the caretaker had already left. He decided there was no point in checking, since it wouldn’t change what he did.

  He switched on the bedside lamp and began to read, but soon found his mind wandering. Damn, this stuff is dry. If this was the kind of thing his father would expect him to be reading in order to learn magic, he could already see potential problems.

  Trin, as bad as she’d been, had never made him read anything. All the techniques she’d taught him had been face to face, with her showing him how they worked followed by a few practice sessions to make sure he’d gotten them down. True, she’d only taught him what she thought he needed to know—hell, she hadn’t even told him of the existence of the teleportation portals, let alone instructed him on their use—but she’d been a good teacher. He couldn’t deny that.

  Dad was a good teacher too, patient and great at explaining complex concepts in a way that made them easy to understand. Ian sometimes regretted that he couldn’t simply apprentice himself to his father, but even their brief time together had convinced them both it wouldn’t be a good idea. Dad had promised to find him a teacher when he was ready, but made it clear he’d have to decide that on his own.