Alastair Stone Chronicles Box Set: Alastair Stone Chronicles, Books 1 through 4

by R. L. King

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Mom asked. She pulled up her blanket a little more, even though the room wasn’t at all chilly.

  “I’ll probably piss him off.”

  She gave him a fond smile. “You might—but I think your natural charm will win him over.”

  Ethan ducked his head, looking away. She was his mother so she had to say things like that, but he didn’t think he possessed very much in the way of natural charm. He didn’t think anybody else he knew thought so, either. “Well, I’ll work hard anyway. I want this, Mom. I really do.” He closed the book, got up, and bent to kiss his mother good night. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I’m going to be a mage. The thought settled in his brain as he headed down the hall toward his bedroom. In the back of his mind he was already doing the things Stone had showed him. Before he knew it he’d be casting spells, slinging magical energy, and never having to worry about anyone disrespecting him again. It was going to be great. He could get along with anybody for that kind of payoff.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stone spent his next few evenings and the breaks between his Occult Studies courses preparing lessons for Ethan. He called Yarborough (making sure to conveniently “forget” about the time zone difference) to let him know he’d agreed to take the boy on, and Yarborough had been so grateful he hadn’t even complained about being roused from a sound sleep.

  Sunday night he took Megan out to Emilio’s, a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in Los Gatos they’d discovered a couple months ago. “What’s the occasion?” she asked while they dawdled over after-dinner drinks.

  “Been neglecting you, haven’t I?”

  She grinned. “You do that all the time. You must be feeling guilty about something else. I can always tell. Wait, don’t tell me—it’s your Little Brother, isn’t it? You’ve bonded, and you’re planning to adopt him.”

  “You’ve found me out.” He finished his drink and set the glass down next to hers. “You’re half right, actually. It is about Ethan. I’m going to be working with him for a while. Doing some—tutoring to help him catch up with schoolwork he’s missed. Mostly in the afternoons, so you shouldn’t see much of him, but I figured I should warn you in case you drop by and find a strange young man hanging around my townhouse.”

  She nodded. “Just as long as you haven’t found yourself—what do you Brits call it?—a bit on the side? I don’t share. Not even if he’s smoking hot and built like Brad Pitt.”

  He chuckled. “I’m all yours, my dear. You’re already more than I can handle.”

  Megan rolled her eyes. “So what’s he like, this kid? Sounds like he’s had some trouble.”

  “He’s a bit adrift, I think. His mum fell ill rather suddenly, so not only is he dealing with all that, but all his plans got buggered up, and he’s had to scramble to figure out what he wants to do with himself.”

  “I take it his dad’s out of the picture?”

  “Died when he was a child.”

  “Poor kid. Well, I hope you can do something for him. Let me know if there’s any way I can help out with anything.”

  He grinned wickedly. “Well—I think I can handle his stress. Think you can handle mine?”

  “How about we go back to your place and find out?”

  Ethan was waiting on the doorstep of Stone’s townhouse when he pulled his black Jaguar into the garage Monday afternoon. “How long have you been here?” Stone asked as he came around to let him in.

  Ethan shrugged. “Not too long.” He wore jeans and a Cyberpope T-shirt, and carried a backpack slung over one shoulder. “I wasn’t sure how hard it would be to find the place. Mom’s letting me use the car since she doesn’t drive anymore.”

  “Good, good.” Stone waved him in. Inside was a short hallway with a staircase on the left and rooms opening out on three sides. “Today we’ll get started in my study upstairs, since we won’t be doing any of the practical stuff that might get messy yet. Did you read that book I gave you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?” Stone asked, glancing back over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs.

  “Kinda dry, but interesting, I guess. I didn’t know mages had been around for so long.”

  Stone chuckled. “Dry is a good way to put it. Bloody boring is even better. I’ll be honest with you—the whole history end of the magic thing was never one of my favorite topics. I’m much more interested in the here and now—magical artifacts, rituals, spellcasting—using magic.” He pushed the door open. “Have a seat there on the couch.”

  Ethan did as he was told, glancing with interest at the large, old-fashioned wheeled blackboard wedged between an ancient leather chair and one of the walls of books. Nothing was currently written on it.

  “So,” Stone said, leaning against the edge of his desk. “Before we get into anything too deeply, a few questions. How’s your mum, by the way?”

  “Not so good.” Ethan sighed. “She almost had to go to the hospital this weekend, but Mrs. Hooper—that’s her nurse—was able to get her settled down.” He looked up at Stone, an odd light in his eyes. “Dr. Stone, can magic...heal people?”

  “Ethan—” Pause, then softly: “No. Not the way you think. There are mages who can heal injuries, if they catch them soon enough. But we can’t do anything about disease.”

  “So there’s no—like—alchemy? Magic potions?” It was clear he’d had this on his mind for some time. His tone clutched at anything he could grab.

  Stone shook his head. “No, not really. Not the way you’re thinking, anyway. There are some of us who dabble in that sort of thing, but I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head who has anything approaching expertise nowadays. And even then, most magical concoctions are more for dealing with things like increased concentration and minor injuries. They wouldn’t work on something as serious as whatever your mum’s got.” He regarded the slump-shouldered boy for a moment, then added, “I’m sorry, Ethan.”

  “No, it’s okay. I just—” He looked up, steeling his expression. “Let’s just get started, okay?”

  “All right, let’s. I need to set you up with some more books to take home, so—” Glancing around the room, he directed one hand at one shelf and the other at another, gesturing as if conducting an unseen orchestra. One by one, three books sailed from their places, glided across the room, and settled neatly on the couch next to the wide-eyed Ethan. “There you go. The first one is an intro text—I’ll give you a bit of the intro today, but that’s more in depth. The second is theory. It won’t make much sense to you now, but just start familiarizing yourself with the concepts and terminology. And that third one there, the small one, is sort of an exercise book. Formulae and such. Lots of math. That one’s a stretch—if you’re feeling ambitious, read the theory book and the formulae in the exercises and see what you can come up with. I don’t expect much from you yet, but it’ll be nice to see what you do with it.”

  Ethan seemed to only have heard about a third of what Stone had said. “I still can’t quite believe I’m…gonna learn to do that,” he said in a hushed tone, waving his hand around to indicate the path the books had taken.

  Stone grinned. “That and a lot more, if you listen to me and keep up with your studies. But I’ll reiterate: we aren’t going too fast in the beginning. I want you to have a good grounding in theory before you start doing the more interesting bits. It’s sort of like learning to play sport: you have to build up your muscles before you get started, or you’ll hurt yourself and set back your progress. You might learn faster from another teacher—a lot of them are rather slapdash nowadays, sad to say—but you won’t learn more thoroughly. So be patient. This is a journey, not a destination. Got it?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced up. “I don’t have to call you ‘sir’ or anything, do I?”

  “You do, and I will turn you into a frog,” Stone said. “Now, then. Sit back, stop thinking about levitating young ladies’ skirts up, and start listening.”

&nbs
p; “I wasn’t—”

  “You will.” Perching back on the edge of his desk, he asked, “So—do you know what the difference is between black magic and white magic?”

  “I—uh—White magic is good, and black magic is evil, right?”

  “Sort of. Though ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are pretty simplistic terms when it comes to magic. It’s entirely possible to do ‘good’ things with black magic, and ‘evil’ things with white magic.”

  “It is?” Ethan was clearly confused.

  “Very much so. This is an important distinction—probably one of the most important you’ll learn.” Almost unconsciously, he got up and began pacing around the room. “The difference between the two is how they’re powered. Tell me: if you wanted to zap someone with a lightning bolt, would you use black or white magic?”

  “I’m gonna get to zap people with lightning bolts?”

  “Stay focused,” Stone ordered. “Answer the question.”

  “Uh—black magic, I guess.”

  “Wrong answer. It was a trick question. You can zap someone with a lightning bolt using either type.”

  “So—I’ll be able to do both?”

  “You will—but you won’t want to. Not for long. Not unless you want to give yourself over to black magic in fairly short order, in which case tell me now so we can call this whole thing off before we get too far in.”

  “Why won’t I want to?”

  “Because,” Stone said, walking over to lean on his desk, “White magic is powered with your own energies, and with specially designed items that you construct to contain and store those energies. At its best, it’s more subtle than black magic, more permanent, and much more powerful in most areas. If you want to build a magical portal, or put a permanent enchantment on a place or a person, you’d use white magic.”

  Ethan nodded, taking it in. “Should I be taking notes or something?”

  “Not yet. I’ll drill this bit into your head so much that you won’t be able to forget it. This is fundamental stuff.”

  “Okay, so—what about black magic?”

  “Black magic is powered by the energy from others. It’s ultimately a very selfish, very visceral form of magic. Its power lies mostly in more transient sorts of spells, like those you would cast in a magical battle.”

  “But—wouldn’t I want to—”

  “Get into a magical battle?” Stone raised an eyebrow. “So—when was the last time you were in a physical fight?”

  Ethan shrugged. “It’s been a while,” he mumbled. “And I didn’t start ’em.”

  “Precisely. Ever shot someone with a gun? Stabbed anyone?”

  “No!” He sounded shocked.

  Stone nodded. “Well, there you go, then. Magic is dangerous, especially the kind designed to injure living things. You know how when you start to learn martial arts, they tell you all that rubbish about your body becoming a lethal weapon? That you should only use it in self-defense? Well, with magic, it’s true. And it’s damned important that you realize it as soon as possible. I’m not going to teach you those kinds of spells—not anytime soon, anyway. Certainly not during the first couple of years of your apprenticeship. By then you might well be back with Walter, and it’ll be up to him to decide whether he wants to. If you come along well in your studies, I might end up showing you something nonlethal that you can use to defend yourself should the need arise. But the point is, magic isn’t about hurting people. Not for white mages.”

  “So, you’re a white mage, then?”

  “I’m—sort of pale gray. It’s hard to actually practice magic and stay completely white. But that’s the other thing you’re going to need to know—black magic is addictive. It’s like smoking, or drugs, or liquor: the more you use it, the more you want to. I’ll tell you right up front that black magic feels good to cast. There’s a rush to it. But the problem is, you get to where you need more and more of that rush to get the same feeling. And every time you use others to gain power, you—” he cast about for the right words, “—well, ‘corrupt your soul’ isn’t quite right, but you get the idea. You make it so it’s harder and harder to do white magic, and eventually you can’t do it at all.” He fixed his gaze on Ethan. “So, I’m telling you right now—don’t let yourself be tempted. That’s why we’re taking this slow. Unless you plan on making a career as a serial killer, everything you should want to do with magic, you’ll be able to do with the white variety. Understood?”

  “Yeah. Except the part about—what did you mean when you said that you ‘power white magic with your own energy, and black magic with others’? How does that work?”

  “Just like it sounds. Think of it this way: white magic is like running a race. When you’re done you’re tired, but you’ve accomplished something on your own. Black magic is like having someone carry you on their back and run the race for you. You still get the same result, but instead of you getting tired, the other person does.”

  Ethan’s eyes widened. “So you mean—you literally take power from other people? Like—you drain their energy?” He shuddered. “That sounds like something out of a horror movie.”

  “And it is, essentially,” Stone agreed. “Some black mages have hangers-on that agree to supply them with power in exchange for—well, whatever. Money, influence, sex, whatever they want. Those mages are at what I call the ‘dark gray’ end of the spectrum. As long as they don’t do any permanent harm to their ‘batteries’ and the fools are willing, then there’s really not much that can be said about it.”

  “That’s—disgusting.” Ethan leaned forward on the couch, staring at Stone. “People actually let them do that? Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “It tires them out for a while—how much depends on how powerful the spell is. Sometimes it kills them, if the mage loses control. That doesn’t happen often with willing participants, but I’ve heard of cases where it did.”

  “And so, white mages do this to themselves? So you get tired when you cast spells? That doesn’t seem very useful, either.”

  “White magic isn’t really designed for casting quick harsh spells. We focus more on longer-term things, rituals, permanent enchantments, that sort of thing. But we can do it if we need to. And if we know ahead of time that we might need to, we can build items that will help take up some of the heavy lifting. But if you’re caught unawares, yes, you’ll have to watch yourself and make every spell count, because you won’t be able to cast many before you exhaust yourself.” Stone pushed himself off the desk. “But look at you—your eyes are glazing over. Don’t hesitate to tell me that I’m boring the socks off you. I’ve been told that I love the sound of my own voice, and I can’t really put up much of a defense.”

  Ethan chuckled. “No, it’s fine. It’s just a lot to take in, is all.”

  “Best to get used to it. Before we’re done, I’ll be filling you so full of information that you’ll be dreaming in magical formulae.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Stone was in his office at Stanford late one afternoon a couple of weeks later when there was a knock on his door. He glanced up, curious. This wasn’t during his normal office hours, and the building that housed his office was far enough off the beaten track—Occult Studies wasn’t exactly a prestigious subject around these hallowed halls—that people didn’t drop by without a reason. “Come in,” he called, pushing aside the stack of student essays he was reading.

  The figure that shoved open the door wasn’t a student. “Hey there, you old fraud,” he called, erupting into the small space like a tousle-headed force of nature. “Long time no see!”

  Stone grinned. “Tommy! How are you?”

  Professor Thomas “Tommy” Langley taught Medieval History (which meant he had digs in an only marginally nicer end of campus than Stone did). He was a little older than Stone, about twice his width, and often joined him on sporadic weekend pub-crawling excursions. Stone hadn’t seen him in a few weeks though, and figured he must be busy with his course load.

  Langley shrugg
ed, dropping down into one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Wondering what you’re doing here, actually,” Stone said. “It can’t be that you want to invite me out drinking, because you’d call for that. It would take something much more important for you to actually drag your carcass up here in person.”

  “Can’t I just have missed you?” His grin got bigger. “I mean, come on, Al—you know I’ve always had a thing for tall, skinny English guys.”

  Stone glared. “Damn it, don’t call me ‘Al’.” Sighing, he slumped back in his seat. “So, really—what are you doing here? You didn’t drag yourself all the way up here just to invite me pub-crawling, did you?”

  Langley shook his head. “Nope. Believe it or not, I’ve got a problem that demands your uniquely strange set of skills.”

  “And what set of skills would that be?” Stone asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “You know—the way you’re always going on about all that spooky stuff.” Langley wiggled his fingers in “ghostly” emphasis.

  “‘That spooky stuff’ is kind of what I do here,” Stone reminded him, wondering where this was going.

  “Exactly. Which means you’ve got expertise. That’s important.”

  “Why is that important?” Stone spaced the words out slowly.

  Langley spread his hands. “Okay. So I’ve got this aunt. She’s almost ninety. Rich as Midas. Lives in an ancient, enormous house way up in the Los Gatos hills with her caretaker lady and seven or eight part-time staff. I visit her a few times a year. She’s sweet as they come, but—well—a little dotty, if you know what I mean.”