by R. L. King
“She doesn’t. There’s an elevator. But it’s easier for us to take them. Let’s go to her bedroom first.”
Adelaide’s bedroom was on the second floor, at the end of a wide hallway lined with more family portraits, landscapes, and pastoral scenes. Langley pushed the door open and stepped aside to let them in.
As Stone expected, it was your classic ‘rich old lady’ bedroom: heavy drapes, brocade bedspread, elaborately carved antique furniture. The only things that didn’t fit the decorating scheme were a couple of pill bottles on the nightstand and a small oxygen tank in a rack next to the right side of the bed. A large-print paperback copy of The Cat Who Brought Down the House lay open next to the pill bottles. The drapes were closed. The whole place smelled vaguely musty, with a floral overlay.
Langley came in last and plopped himself down in a chair, looking skeptical. “You wander around all you want with your magnifying glass and your magic deerstalker hat. Me, I’m gonna take a load off.”
Stone got right to it, pacing the room and reaching out with his magical senses to see if anything caught his notice. Nothing did—of course, he was doing his best to be subtle about the whole thing so Langley wouldn’t ask uncomfortable questions. His examination of the bedroom, which included getting down to look under the bed and tapping on various walls, lasted about ten minutes. Then he disappeared momentarily into the bathroom and emerged only a minute or so later. Ethan trailed him, looking like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing.
“Anything?” Langley asked, sounding bored.
“Not a thing,” Stone said. “If she’s hearing voices, they’re not coming from in here.”
“Or—you know—there aren’t any.”
“That too. All right—take me to the east wing.”
Langley seemed eager to get out of this all too intimate space of his old aunt’s. “This way.” This time he took the lead, with Stone following. Ethan once again brought up the rear.
No doubt about it—the house was vast. It took them several minutes to get to the third floor and find their way down another wide painting-lined hallway to the library. “Why does she stay in this place?” Stone asked. He himself was no stranger to large houses, being the owner of a decaying old manor back home in England that he could barely afford to keep one step ahead of collapse, but this one made his place look like a three-bedroom in the suburbs. “Obviously she’s got the money to keep it up, but wouldn’t it be more comfortable for her if she didn’t have to lay in supplies to make the trip from the bedroom to the kitchen?”
Langley chuckled. “Iona adores her, and if she needs to go anywhere she gets pushed around in a fancy wheelchair. Plus, she absolutely refuses to move out. She says she’s got too many good memories here, and she’ll leave when they wheel her out in a casket.”
“I guess nobody does stubborn as well as a rich old lady,” Stone conceded, following Langley inside. “This is the—”
A wave of lightheaded weakness struck him from nowhere. He swayed, reaching for something to grab as he felt himself toppling over.
CHAPTER SIX
It was a cliché to refer to someone moving through a space ‘like they owned it,’ but in the case of the individuals currently holding court at a goth/industrial club called Will to Power in San Francisco, it was true.
They called themselves The Three, and while they didn’t actually own the club or have any idea who did, the manner in which they prowled and stalked its darkened spaces had a way of convincing others to get out of their way—even those who had never encountered them before. More than one hapless club patron, withering under the combined force of their gazes until sufficiently unnerved to give up a desirable table or cede prime real estate on one of the dance floors, was convinced they were vampires. Those who knew better than to believe in such nonsense just rationalized things by deciding that it wasn’t a good idea to mess with all three of them at once. Since they were rarely seen far from each other’s proximity, that was a reasonable precaution.
Currently, The Three lounged at an out-of-the-way table near one of the club’s black-painted walls, watching the ebb and flow of the club-goers and listening to the pounding beat of the band currently on stage. The band was a quartet called IED, and they were doing a good job of living up to their name. The wall of sound was so loud that it was difficult to hear oneself think, let alone carry on a conversation.
For now The Three were silent, acknowledging with a kind of regal grace those who waved or nodded at them as they went by. Most people just avoided them with the same kind of instinct that kept them away from poisonous spiders and large snakes, but in any evening’s crowd there were always those who wanted to curry favor. The Three found this sort of thing amusing. They accepted the free drinks and other small courtesies that came their way with haughty disdain, and if anyone noticed that they never provided anything in return beyond a brief acknowledgment of the giver’s existence, they weren’t brave enough to bring it up.
Ten minutes later, IED finished their set. The frontman yelled something into the mic that might have been that they were going to take a break, then all four hurried off stage and the DJs immediately filled the silence with more pounding music. This was somewhat quieter, though—at least enough that The Three could hear each other without resorting to the indignity of having to shout.
“I’m bored.” Oliver Hargrave said, downing the rest of his drink. His handsome features dripped with contempt. “Let’s ditch this fuckin’ place.”
Trin Blackburn reached out her hand and stroked down his chest with one long black-painted nail. The finger didn’t stop until it had moved below the table and lingered suggestively over the bulge in his fashionably tight jeans. “Patience,” was all she said. “I like these guys. I want to hear their next set.”
Across from them, Miguel Torres smirked. “Get a room, you two.” He glanced up, waved lazily, and immediately another beer appeared in front of him. His own gaze followed the leather-clad ass of the slender, pale young man who’d delivered it.
The Three were not vampires—not in the classic, bite-the-neck-and-drink-the-blood sense, anyway. They’d arrived in San Francisco a year or so ago, blowing in from some unknown location. They never talked about their past, nor what made them decide to move from one big city to another. They attended all the right parties, and were fixtures at all the right clubs, their unerring instincts steering them away from one venue right before it fell out of favor and toward another at the beginning of its rise. If it occurred to them that their interest in a particular club or crowd might contribute toward the ascendance of its star, they didn’t say anything about it. They simply took it as their due.
For the most part, all three of them liked Will to Power. They’d been coming here for longer than any of the other clubs they frequented, long after they’d have given up any other venue as “old news.” There was something about the raw vibe here that turned them on—a constant level of energy that went beyond what they might encounter from the typical dance club.
This made it a great place to hunt.
Not that they had to, of course. Their prey came to them and willingly—if unknowingly—gave them what they sought. After a night here, they never lacked the energy they needed to power the spells and the dark rituals that they performed in the small hours of the mornings after most of the city had closed briefly down to prepare for the next morning.
All it ever took was a smile, a gesture, a quirked eyebrow. There was never a shortage of willing participants. And if these participants walked away from their encounters feeling a little woozy and disoriented—well, that was simply the alcohol, and the afterglow of having been noticed by the Beautiful People.
That was what kept them coming back.
The Three weren’t here to hunt for any particular purpose tonight—they didn’t have anything planned that required them to take on extra energy to power it. That didn’t really matter, though, since it had long ago become a habit that
they indulged on all of their nightly adventures. Why should they be without power, even if they didn’t specifically need it, when there were so many eager batteries around to provide it?
Trin and Oliver watched, amused, as Miguel rose, grinned at them, and moved over toward where the slender waiter stood near the bar. He himself stalked rather than merely walked, every step broadcasting supreme confidence and sensuality. It wasn’t that he was overly handsome—in fact, next to the blond Adonis that was Oliver, Miguel had the look of someone with an eclectic collection of perfect features assembled from several different contributors. They didn’t quite go together properly and, taken as a whole, gave him a predatory and more than a bit creepy look—until he smiled. There were very few people, men or women, who could resist the effect of Miguel Torres’ smile at full wattage.
The waiter was not one of them. Trin and Oliver continued to watch as Miguel initiated a conversation, and only a couple minutes later the two young men had slipped off into a shadowy corner. Only because they knew what to look for could they tell that the waiter’s slumping posture was not due solely to Miguel’s charisma.
“I’ll be back,” Trin said, running the side of her hand along Oliver’s jawline. “You stay here like a good boy, yes?”
“Wherever would I go?” he asked, turning his head to nibble on her finger.
She had barely moved out of sight when a woman detached herself from the crowd where she had obviously been waiting and dropped down into the vacated seat next to Oliver. “Hi there,” she said with a sensuous, alcohol-fueled smile.
Oliver regarded her without reply. He’d seen her around the club on more than one occasion; she was hard to miss in her slinky red dress that left little to the imagination, bright red lips, and over-teased bleach-blonde hair. Her entire look was at odds with the club’s punk/goth/industrial aesthetic, but he figured she must have gotten in by bribing one of the doormen in her own special way.
“Don’t have much to say, huh?” Her voice slurred more than a bit, her blue eyes glittering. Oliver revised his estimate: more than just alcohol was in play here. This woman was blasted off her ass. She reached out and mirrored Trin’s gesture—or would have, if he hadn’t pulled back. Oliver didn’t like it when people touched him without permission. People other than Trin, anyway. Not that Trin cared much about things like permission.
“Something wrong?” she purred. “I’m Angelique, by the way.” She rolled the name off her tongue in a desperate but mostly unsuccessful attempt to sound sophisticated and French. “And you are—?”
“Not interested,” he said, sliding his chair away. If she kept it up much longer, he might consider using her for a little power top-up, but drunken chicks trying way too hard weren’t his type.
She glared. “What are you, a fag or something?”
Oliver chuckled. “Nah.” He nodded at the bar, where Miguel and the waiter were still feeling each other up. “My friend’s the fag. I just have standards.”
“Standards?” She rolled her eyes. “You mean that skinny bitch you were with? You can do better, baby, trust me.” Once more she reached out, this time aiming at his chest in its skintight black T-shirt.
“Problem here, Oliver?”
Both of them looked up. Trin stood there, arms crossed over her chest, looking both imperious and amused.
Oliver grinned. “Nah, no problem. This lady just—got lost or something. I think she thought I was somebody else.”
“Ah.” Trin nodded. She turned to Angelique. “Well, that’s a pretty good idea, actually. So get lost.”
Angelique glared at her. For a moment Oliver thought she might go all spitting-cat and take a swing at Trin, but instead she just rose and leaned down low over Oliver so he had an unobstructed view of her impressively augmented cleavage. Then she produced a pen from her tiny handbag and, taking her time as if oblivious to Trin’s glare, jotted her phone number on a napkin, kissed it to make a moist red impression, and pressed it into Oliver’s hand. “Call me when you get tired of Bitchy-Poo here,” she said, then tottered off unsteadily into the crowd in search of easier prey.
Trin resumed her seat, watching Angelique go. “Did you at least make her pay for her nerve?” She made a careless gesture at the other woman, who suddenly tripped, pitching forward with a shriek into the arms of two drunken young men. Trin smirked.
Oliver shook his head. “Didn’t want to touch her,” he said as Miguel arrived back at the table and sat down. Oliver picked up the napkin with two fingers and looked at it. “She dotted her i with a heart. How fuckin’ sad is that?”
He made as if to toss it away, but Trin plucked it out of his hand and examined it. “Hmm…” Then she smiled a most unwholesome smile as she tucked it into her leather jacket. “I think we can have some fun with this. You two game?”
Miguel chuckled. “Trin, honey, remind me never to get on your bad side.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Langley spun as Stone stopped speaking, his eyes getting big. “Hey, you okay?” he demanded. He grabbed Stone’s arm to stop him from falling, and led him to a chair. “Sit down before you keel over.”
Ethan, looking as weirded out as Langley, clutched the bag as he hung back and waited to see what was happening.
Stone didn’t answer right away. His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat and his breath had quickened as if he had just exerted himself. He swiped a hand through his hair and just sat there for a moment, getting himself together.
Langley squatted down next to him, worried. “What’s going on? You all right?”
Stone nodded. “I—I don’t know what that was. Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Uh—sure. I’ll be right back.” Langley hurried out.
When the two of them were alone, Stone turned to Ethan. “Do you feel that?” he asked. His voice held a strange edge.
Ethan frowned. “Feel what?”
“You don’t feel it?”
“I don’t feel anything. What’s going on? Are you sure you’re okay?”
Stone took a couple more deep breaths. “There’s definitely something going on in here, and Aunt Adelaide is definitely not barmy. I can’t believe you don’t notice it.”
Ethan turned away, looking around the room. After a moment he shook his head. “Sorry, Dr. Stone. Maybe I’m just not far enough along in my—”
Langley picked that moment to come back in. He carried a glass full of water, which he handed to Stone. “You look like you just saw a ghost,” he said, still worried. “You—ah—didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not. Must have been—something I ate.” Stone paused to down half the glass of water in one go. “That’s better. Thank you.”
“You want to keep this up? Maybe we should just go back down and—”
“No, I want to have a look around now that we’re here. Don’t worry—I’ll be fine.” He got up, tested his balance, and stood for a moment just looking around. He had to be careful not to let on to Langley yet—at least not until he figured out how to do it without giving away his secret—but this whole business was spooking him far more than he was showing.
The moment he’d walked into the library, Stone had been hit with a wave of what he could only describe as cold hatred mixed with a kind of unwholesome longing. Something in this house didn’t want him to be here—probably didn’t want any of them to be here—but most of them were too hopelessly mundane to pick up the signals. Aunt Adelaide had probably only gotten a fraction of it, and it had been sufficient to scare her into calling in a stranger to investigate. What was odd was that Ethan hadn’t noticed it either. The boy’s progress in learning magic hadn’t been spectacular so far, but he’d mastered the basics of magical sight over the last couple of weeks, at least.
Stone turned back to his friends. Langley and Ethan watched him warily, like they expected him to go green and bolt out of the room any second. Waving them off, he took a deep breath and began pacing around as he had in Adelaide’s bedro
om. This time Ethan didn’t follow him, instead choosing to remain near Langley. The boy’s gaze followed Stone, but his mind appeared far away.
After a few minutes passed and Stone hadn’t had a repeat of his strange attack, Langley appeared to relax. He sat down in the chair Stone had vacated and leaned back. It was obvious he thought this whole business was a waste of time, but he was willing to humor his friend.
“Dr. Stone?”
Stone paused in his examination of a bookshelf as Ethan spoke. “Yes?”
“I—need to use the restroom. Is it okay?”
“Of course. Tommy, where is—?”
Langley waved toward the closed door. “It’s a bit of a hike, but you can’t miss it. Down the hall, take your first right, then it’s three doors down. I left the door open when I got the water, so you should be able to find it with no problem.”
“Thanks.” Ethan set the satchel full of bogus ‘occult investigation’ gear on the floor next to Langley’s chair and headed out of the room, and Stone resumed his pacing.
“You’re just putting on a show for the kid, right?” Langley said, the light finally dawning.
“What?”
“You know—all this pacing around and poking at things. You’re trying to impress him. Is he one of your students?”
“Sort of,” Stone admitted. “He’s—the son of an old friend. He’s interested in my field, so I thought he might enjoy seeing a bit of it in action.”
“Did you fake the dizzy spell too? For dramatic effect?”
Stone sighed, coming back over. “Tommy—” He almost said more, but this simply wasn’t the time. All he knew was that he would need to come back here, this time with some real detection gear, if he was going to find out anything definitive. And for that to happen, he had to be very careful what he said to Langley. “I didn’t fake the dizzy spell,” he said at last. “I told you, I think something I ate disagreed with me. But let me finish this, all right? Then we can get out of here.”
