Game of Stone

by R. L. King

  “Shut up!” he muttered aloud. He reached the car, opened the door, and flung himself inside. As he fired up the engine, he told the voice, It doesn’t matter now anyway. It won’t for a long time, not with the power I have now. We won’t have to revisit this for at least a month—longer if I conserve power.

  True…said the voice. But you’re not going to call him next month. Why don’t you just admit it? You’ll find some excuse and you know it. Tell me I’m wrong.

  He gripped the steering wheel and tramped spasmodically down on the gas pedal, sending a plume of gravel up from the back tires as he spun the BMW toward the open front gate. But even as he hit the button to close it and roared off down the road, he still couldn’t outrun the one thing he refused to acknowledge:

  He couldn’t tell the voice it was wrong…because it wasn’t wrong.

  33

  The warning ward activated halfway through Stone’s Monday-evening department meeting.

  The meetings normally didn’t start this late, but everyone was busy during finals week, and they had to fit them in when they could. Stone, his mind far away, barely listened to the droning speaker going on about upcoming changes to the curriculum for the following year.

  He hadn’t seen Jason again after he’d left the house, nor had he seen Verity. Part of the latter was because he didn’t want to see her for a while—he still hadn’t entirely forgiven her for telling her brother about what had happened, even if she’d altered the story to avoid the most personal bits.

  That wasn’t the main reason he’d been avoiding her, though. The truth was, he didn’t want to talk about any of it yet. He was sure Jason had gone back to Verity’s place that night and told her what had transpired, which meant that now not only Jason would be nagging him to use him as a permanent power battery, but Verity would as well. He wasn’t sure he could discuss that topic yet without snapping at her, and he didn’t want to do that either. None of this was her fault, or Jason’s—both of them cared deeply for him and only wanted to help.

  How could he explain that he found their attempts at help stifling, and that some corner of him couldn’t come to terms with his guilt about craving the rush he couldn’t get from Jason?

  When the buzz hit him, for a moment he thought it was his mobile phone, which he’d set to vibration mode so it wouldn’t disturb the meeting. He went as far as reaching in his pocket to retrieve it before realizing in shock that it wasn’t the phone.

  It was the ward.

  The one around the white figurines.

  He stiffened and quickly glanced at his watch, then at the meeting agenda in front of him. Seven-thirty, and they were only halfway through. At the rate this lot went on, it would be at least another half-hour, probably longer, before they got through the rest—and that was if old Jenner from Linguistic Anthropology didn’t have questions.

  Jenner always had questions.

  The buzzing persisted. He’d tweaked the ward to fire if it detected any magical activity within the vault’s confines—and the only thing currently in there was the figurine set.

  “Dr. Stone? Did you have a question?”

  Stone snapped his head up and focused back on the group. The speaker, Dr. Gregg from the Gender Studies department, was looking at him, and then so were the rest of them.

  “Er—no. Sorry. I—I’m afraid I’m not feeling too well. Will you excuse me?” He was already rising.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better soon.”

  Stone got out of there fast, before anyone else could intercept him. Damn. This time of night it would take him at least twenty minutes to get to the car and drive home, and then he wasn’t sure what he’d need to do next.

  If Kolinsky was correct, the white piece’s activation meant that the corresponding black piece had activated as well, and somewhere some poor sod had succumbed to its influence and was preparing to commit a crime. But even if the two pieces were linked, Stone had no idea how they were linked, and what it would take to locate the corresponding black piece. How long did he have? Kolinsky had suggested it might be as long as a full day, but best not to take chances and risk waiting too long. Kolinsky didn’t know for sure, after all—he’d admitted that.

  Would he need to do a ritual to track the other piece? Was there some kind of connection between them that he could follow without one? He had no idea, and wouldn’t know until he got home.

  Naturally, as almost always happened when in a hurry, every bit of Stone’s environment seemed to be conspiring against him. First it was the knot of students on bikes clogging one of the intersections with some kind of demonstration; once he got past that and out of the campus proper, it felt like every light between Stanford and his house had gone red just to slow him down. It wasn’t true, he knew—it always took time to get anywhere in downtown Palo Alto this time of night—but that did nothing to quell his frustration as the wards’ buzzing sensation continued to distract him. It was nearly overpowering by the time he finally pulled the car into the garage, swept into the house past a startled Raider, and thundered up the stairs to the attic.

  “All right,” he muttered. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  Regardless of his feelings about the matter in general, he was glad now that Jason had forced him to draw the power—if he hadn’t, he’d have been faced with a decision he didn’t want to make, and might even have had to resort to stealing energy to make sure he was prepared for whatever he’d have to deal with. As it was, the comforting power was there when he called for it. He unraveled part of the ward with careful attention, pulled out the box containing the white figurines, and flipped it open.

  To normal sight, the figures looked as they always had: delicately carved, milky-white, each with its different color of gemstone eyes. Stone focused his attention on the three that were still active, shifting to magical sight.

  The third one from the right glowed so brightly against the velvet lining that he almost flinched back from the intensity of it. He removed it from its enclosure, put the box with the remaining the figures back in the vault, and re-sealed the threads of the ward around it. All right, now I’ve got you. Let’s see if I can find your mate.

  He shifted back to normal sight as he carried the figurine to his desk and examined it without the blinding light. Like the others, it had been carved in the shape of a humanoid or animal being—unlike the others, though, this one was a bit harder to identify. It almost looked like some kind of demonic creature, with a goatish head, cloven hooves, and an unsettling leer. Not for the first time, he wondered if the design of the figurine had anything to do with the act it might compel its owner to commit.

  The last one, the one that had incited arson, had been a bird—a phoenix, maybe? That made sense. The one before that, luring Bob Pisani to commit his bizarre thefts, had been a fox. A bit more of a stretch, but foxes were known in mythology as tricksters and thieves, so maybe not.

  But what would a goat represent? Gluttony? Stubbornness? Those hardly seemed to be crimes.

  He peered more closely at it. The carving was stylized, intricate but clearly not intended to be lifelike. The figure’s eyes were a sickly pink, its small horns poking out of the front of its head, its legs covered in what might be a thick coat of fur. The same fur didn’t seem to cover its upper body, though.

  And then he had it. He gripped the figure more tightly as the answer came to him.

  It wasn’t a goat. It was a satyr.

  If the last piece had been a phoenix, it was clear the set wasn’t confined to real-life creatures. And if a phoenix meant arson, than it was only logical what a satyr represented.

  Rape, or some other sexual crime.

  “Bloody hell…” he murmured, opening his hand to stare down at the figure with magical sight again. He had to find the black piece fast.

  He focused his concentration on the little thing. The glow’s brightness nearly gave him a headache, and made it hard to see anything else around it. It was like staring
directly at a high-wattage bulb. How was he going to track this thing if he couldn’t even—

  Then he had an idea: if the light was the trouble, then he’d need to get rid of the light. He closed his fist around the figure again, keeping magical sight up, and took another look.

  That was better. Of course, now his own brilliant purple-and-gold aura got into the mix, so it wasn’t as good as he’d hoped, but at least now his hand blocked most of the painfully bright light, giving him a better view.

  He had to focus for a moment longer, but then he spotted it: a faint, barely visible strand of energy snaking out from his hand and disappearing through the wall to the north.

  “There you are…” he said with satisfaction. The strand was narrow, and he had to concentrate on it to keep it in sight, but it appeared steady and unwavering.

  Was he supposed to follow it? If he did, would it lead him directly to its counterpart? But where was its counterpart? It could be anywhere, if the Pier 39 huckster had sold it to some tourist. It could still be in San Francisco, or it could have flown off to Montana, or New York, or Outer bloody Mongolia.

  Still, though, he doubted it. He thought about what Kolinsky had told him—the pieces were part of a game played by ancient, powerful mages. Tracking spells were notoriously hard to maintain over great distances, which meant that even at the higher power levels these mages probably operated at, they wouldn’t reach out over half the world. Also, more encouragingly, Stone knew the teleportation gateways that allowed mages to travel around the world had only existed for a little over a hundred years, meaning that unless the ancient mages had access to some other travel method, the game was probably intended to be played over a reasonably small area. Sure, “a small area” could still encompass half the United States, but at least he could be fairly sure the black piece wasn’t in China or Australia or somewhere else far away.

  Stone’s tension grew as he considered options. He’d need to hurry—he didn’t have time to sit around dithering about what to do. He had a thread to follow, and he needed to get on with following it. But he couldn’t drive with magical sight active; that would be suicidal, and besides, the thread was so thin it would be hard enough to keep it in sight without having to worry about the car.

  He needed a driver, and there was really only one reasonable possibility.

  He snatched up the phone and punched in Verity’s number, pacing the attic as it rang. “Pick up…” he murmured. “Where are you…?”

  The line picked up and he almost started to speak before her voicemail message played. “It’s eight-thirty,” he said in a rush after the beep. “If you’re home, please pick up. If you don’t get this soon, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  He waited a moment to see if she picked up, then hung up in frustration. Already he decided that he would insist next time he saw her that she get a mobile phone so he could reach her when he needed to, but that wouldn’t help him now.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll do this the hard way, then.”

  34

  You want me to do what?” the cabdriver said, twisting in his seat to get a better look at the oddball who’d just climbed into his rig.

  “You heard me,” Stone said. “Just drive. I’ll tell you where. Expect there will be changes in direction. There’s a hundred-dollar tip in it for you if you do this properly.”

  “But where are we going?” The cabbie, an older black man who looked like he might have been a boxer in his youth, still hadn’t pulled away from the curb in front of Stone’s townhouse.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m playing a…sort of game. Come on, man—time’s wasting. Make it two hundred. Get moving, and head north for now.”

  “Uh…okay. You’re the boss. But I ain’t gonna do anything illegal.”

  “Nothing illegal. Just move.”

  The man grumbled but drove off.

  Stone sat in the center of the back seat, shifting back and forth between magical sight and mundane. He held the white figurine in his lap, tracing the thin ribbon connecting it to the black piece. When the cab began to diverge from the direction the ribbon pointed, Stone instructed the cabbie to make the next available turn. Before long, they were on highway 280, headed north toward San Francisco.

  “You sure you don’t have any idea where you’re going?” the man asked.

  Stone glanced at the hack license displayed beneath the meter. Robbie Wilson, it read. “Mr. Wilson—as I said, I’ve no idea. Just…play along, all right? It’s a sort of scavenger hunt thing, and I’m already behind schedule. I promise, I’ll make this well worth your time. Besides,” he added, forcing a grin, “this has to be more interesting than your usual fares, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Wilson agreed grudgingly, his tone suggesting a strong dose of keep the crazy guy happy.

  As they continued up 280, Stone noticed that the faint, narrow thread emanating from the piece was growing a bit wider and more substantial. By the time they drew near San Francisco, it had grown to the width of a narrow rope, and the glow around the thread was twice as bright as it had been before—though nowhere near as brilliant as the piece itself.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is where things are going to get interesting, and where you’ll earn that tip I promised you.”

  “What do you mean?” Wilson glanced in the rearview mirror at him.

  “We’re triangulating on something. Don’t ask me how—I can’t tell you. It’s—er—part of the game. But we’re going to be making a lot of odd turns soon. Don’t ask questions, just do it. All right?”

  Wilson’s gaze shifted to the meter, which had already racked up an impressive fare. “You better not stiff me, man.”

  “Just keep driving.”

  During the next hour, Stone grew convinced that Robbie Wilson thought he was a well-dressed escapee from some local mental ward. In truth, he’d have thought the same thing if their positions had been reversed, since the directions he gave made no sense and seemed designed to do nothing more than run up the fare.

  Just to be sure, Stone had Wilson continue north up 101 to make sure the thread didn’t take him outside of San Francisco. When, as he suspected, the connection began to fade as they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and continued north, he told the cabbie to turn around and head back into the City.

  “Man, I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to do,” Wilson protested, “but I’m startin’ to think you’re messin’ with me.”

  “I’m not messing with you,” Stone said, distracted as he continued to keep the thread in sight. He pulled out his wallet, removed a hundred-dollar bill, and passed it forward. “Here—an advance on your tip, to prove I’m not a madman. Just turn around and keep driving.”

  Wilson looked dubious, but the lure of an off-the-books hundred swung the deal. “Okay,” he said, taking the money. “I’ll keep going. But you got any idea how much longer it’s gonna be?”

  “Shouldn’t be too much longer. I know it’s in San Francisco now, so it’s just a matter of getting close.”

  Back in the City once more and convinced now that the black piece was somewhere in town, Stone’s triangulation efforts became easier—though they did result in quite a few more odd turns to further unsettle Wilson.

  Stone leaned forward in his seat, peering out the front window as the cab picked its way through the heavy evening traffic. It was after ten o’clock now.

  A couple more turns and they entered the Mission District, cruising down a street lined with abandoned buildings, small clubs, and bars.

  “Turn here,” Stone said abruptly, as the thread once again changed directions and bent to the south.

  Wilson hit the brakes, barely avoiding getting rear-ended by a tailgating Mercedes. “Give me a little more warning, man!” he protested.

  “I think we’re getting close now.” Stone kept his attention focused on the thread, which seemed more volatile than before. It had also grown even brighter. Wherever his quarry was, he couldn’t
be far away. With luck, he might even find the man in his own home or some public place, and it would be easy to get the black figurine away from him before he committed any crime at all.

  “You play some weird games,” Wilson said. “This is a pretty bad area. You sure this is right?”

  The thread changed direction again, turning east. “Turn here,” Stone said. “I think we’re homing in on it.”

  Another turn confirmed it: whatever he was looking for was somewhere in the large block they’d been circling. That was the good news. The bad news was that the block looked even more disreputable than the ones they’d been passing before. It mostly consisted of blasted-out abandoned businesses and small warehouses, relieved intermittently by the glows of bars, nightclubs, and liquor stores. Along the sidewalks, small groups huddled in doorways or lounged near street corners, smoking and watching the traffic. “This is it, I think,” Stone said. “Pull off here.”

  “Here? You kidding?” Wilson’s looked even more dubious than he had before. He flicked his gaze at the rearview mirror again, taking Stone in. “You don’t want to get out here, man. You’ll get rolled for your wallet before you make it half a block.”

  “I can take care of myself, but thank you for your concern.” The thread now snaked diagonally into the middle of the block; Stone couldn’t get any closer in a vehicle. He’d have to do the rest of this on foot. “Pull over.”

  Clearly reluctant, Wilson double-parked next to a clapped-out Ford. “Okay. I really hope you weren’t jerkin’ me around all this time.”

  Stone handed over his credit card and another hundred in cash. “Thank you, Mr. Wilson. That should cover it, yes?”

  “Uh—yeah. For sure.” Wilson turned around in his seat, looking serious. “Be careful. I’m not kiddin’—that’s a bad area out there, especially after dark.”

  Stone was already getting out. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good luck with your game—or whatever the hell it is.” As soon as the door slammed closed he drove off, rather more quickly than he might have, leaving Stone standing on the deserted sidewalk in the middle of the block.