Game of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

He shot her a look that was half-sour, half-amused. “Thanks. I’ll have a list of appropriately prima-donna demands on your desk tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

  Stone had to hurry to get down to San Jose once he finally got free. At least traffic wasn’t bad this time of day, and to his amazement he didn’t get pulled over even though he drove most of the way down at over eighty.

  The address Phoebe had given him when he’d called back yesterday to finalize the appointment turned out to be a neat, upscale suburban tract house in north San Jose. As he cruised slowly up the street looking for the correct number, he noted the well-kept yards and late-model cars parked in driveways. This was the kind of area where respectable, upper-middle-class families with good jobs and two-point-five children lived.

  Not exactly the sort of place he’d have expected to find someone like Phoebe—but then again, he had thought she’d sounded like a soccer mom when he’d spoken with her.

  Phoebe’s place was a two-story blue house with white trim. A pair of hummingbird feeders hung from the eaves in front of a large picture window in the front, and a This is Sharks Territory sign leaned against the window’s inside.

  Stone parked on the street and headed up, wondering if any neighborhood busybodies would think it odd to see a well-dressed man coming to call at one-thirty in the afternoon. Amused, he wondered if Kolinsky had ever visited her, but doubted it—somehow, he was fairly sure whoever Stefan got his power from came to him.

  As he reached the door and rang the bell, his heart hammered. He hadn’t been this nervous to call on a woman since he’d been a teenager—and he wasn’t even here for anything romantic. Calm down, he told himself. You’d best get used to doing this—it’s not going to change.

  Yes, but perhaps next time it could be a bit less…suburban?

  Before his snarky interior dialogue could continue, the door opened.

  The woman who stood there definitely extended the “upscale soccer mom” paradigm. Of medium height and slim, she had stylishly coiffed chestnut-brown hair and simple but carefully applied makeup. She wore a trim scoop-neck T-shirt in light blue and artfully faded designer jeans.

  She smiled. “May I help you?”

  “Phoebe, I presume?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m—your one-thirty appointment.” He hadn’t given her anything but his last name, and still suspected ‘Phoebe’ wasn’t really her first. Odd that she’d invite him to her home, where it would be so easy to check if he wished to.

  “Ah, of course. I knew as soon as I heard your voice, actually. C’mon in.”

  He followed her down a hall and into a living room furnished in a tasteful but lived-in style. A few toys lay in an orderly pile against one wall, and a large-screen TV dominated another. “I apologize for the time,” she said, “but I only do my appointments during the day before the kids get home from school.”

  Stone could only nod, trying to control his discomfort. He’d prepared himself for something very different from what he’d encountered; normally, that wouldn’t have bothered him, but when combined with all the tension around having to do this in the first place, he had to quell the part of him that wanted to simply thank Phoebe for her time, get the hell out, and try one of Kolinsky’s other recommendations.

  “Are you all right?” Phoebe asked. “Please, sit down.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Stone took the indicated spot on the elegant brown microfiber sofa. “I’ll have to admit—this isn’t what I expected. And—well—I’m a bit on edge because this is the first time I’ve done this.”

  “Ah.” She nodded knowingly. “I understand. It can be traumatic, I know. I’m mostly used to long-time clients.”

  “So you’ve been doing this for a while, then?” He glanced around the room.

  “Yes. It’s just something I do on the side.”

  She seemed evasive, so Stone didn’t push it. Instead, he took his wallet from his coat pocket. “A thousand, you said?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Thank you.”

  He didn’t miss that she looked relieved he’d brought it up. He supposed it could be a bit intimidating for her as well, with a first-time client. Inviting not only an unknown man, but an unknown mage into her home wasn’t without a risk, even despite a solid recommendation. He handed over the cash. “You’ll have to help me out a bit—I’m not sure how this works, and I don’t want to inadvertently step out of line.”

  “There isn’t much to it,” she said, taking the cash and putting it in a decorative wooden box on the coffee table. She tilted her head. “You’ve never done this before?”

  “Well…” He dropped his gaze, then met hers again. He’d promised himself he would be completely honest with anyone he expected to take power from. “Once. That was how I—”

  “You were a white mage, and whatever the experience was, it turned you black.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if it didn’t surprise her. At his reluctant nod, she added, “That’s not uncommon. Did you kill anybody?”

  He tensed. It wasn’t as easy to admit it as he thought it would be—certainly not as easy as it had been to tell Kolinsky. “Yes.”

  When she didn’t react to that, he said, “That doesn’t concern you?”

  “It happens. I come from a family with a lot of mages in it—a few white, more black, so I’ve heard it. But your story is really none of my business.”

  “Well…” Stone said, taken aback by her nonchalance, “Perhaps not, but I want to make sure you know. I’m a bit concerned about my ability to control my…to control how much power I take from you.”

  She leaned in and gripped his arm. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. I don’t need magic to tell you feel a lot of guilt about what you did. You won’t do it again.”

  “So you’re not—afraid of me?”

  “No. You come well recommended by someone I trust.” She glanced at the clock. “But we’d better get to it. I still need to bake three batches of cookies for the kids’ fundraiser tomorrow, so I need time to rest after our session.”

  Stone let out a breath, trying to slow his heart rate. “Right, then. How do you want to…do this?”

  I’ll just sit here next to you. If this is your first time, you should probably take my hand. Sometimes first-timers grip a little too tight and give me bruises.”

  Stone shuddered. The fear of hurting this woman, physically or magically, remained so strong in his mind that he wondered if he could even do this.

  It’s just like you used to do with Jason, he reminded himself.

  It’s not like that at all. You couldn’t hurt Jason.

  He’d actually considered—for about five minutes, in a moment of weakness—the possibility of asking Jason if he could check whether his “magic battery” ability would still work to provide power now that he’d gone black. The thought had filled him with shame and disgust. After what had happened with Verity, the last thing he would ever do was ask her brother if he could feed off him like some kind of vampire. At least this way, it was an impersonal transaction. Phoebe didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, and they didn’t need to, any more than he needed to know the waiter who served his dinner or the salesperson who waited on him at a shop.

  “Are you ready?” Phoebe asked gently, breaking into his thoughts.

  “Oh. Er—yes. Sorry.” He settled back against the cushions and offered his hand, letting her initiate the contact when she was ready.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said, smiling. She took his hand and squeezed. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Stone took a few deep breaths, closing his eyes to help him focus, then shifted to magical sight. Phoebe’s aura was strong and pulsing, a pleasant sunny yellow. It seemed to beckon him. After what felt like far too long a wait, he did exactly as he did when he used to take power from Jason: reached out with his magical senses, took hold of that enticing aura, and drew.

  Sensations rushed into him along with the power,
filling him up with a nearly indescribable feeling of pleasure—the kind of pleasure a starving man would experience when presented with a banquet. He’d explained the feeling many times before, abstractly, as a “rush,” but that was truly what it was. He never could have understood it before, not without experiencing it. The closest he’d ever come was a couple times during his University days when he’d tried psychoactive drugs to see if they enhanced the magical experience. A bad trip had ended his experimentations, but he’d always remembered the feeling—and this was even better.

  What it wasn’t, though, was the sheer, orgasmic onslaught he’d gotten from ashing Acantha Lennox, from pulling every bit of her formidable well of magical energy—every bit of her life energy—into himself. That sensation had terrified him and tempted him at the same time, the pleasure of it so monumentally perfect that it almost seemed wrong never to experience it again.

  But he couldn’t ever experience it again. That was the point.

  Vaguely, he became aware of a hard squeezing on his hand—so hard it hurt, in fact.

  He snapped back to awareness, horror replacing the pleasure as he saw the strained, exhausted look on Phoebe’s face.

  Oh, dear gods, did I—

  He quickly jerked his hand back, breaking the contact. Instantly, the sensations ceased. Phoebe slumped back into the cushions, her face pale, her eyes closed, her breath puffing in sharp, fast gasps.

  No…no…

  Stone leaped up and gripped Phoebe’s shoulders, turning her around so she lay with her head on the pillowed sofa arm, then lifted her feet to lay her flat. “Phoebe—are you all right? What can I do to help you?” Her strong, pulsing yellow aura had dimmed noticeably, flickering and shadowed.

  For several seconds she didn’t answer. Then her eyes fluttered open and she put a hand to her forehead, swiping the sweat off. “It’s…all right…” she got out between breaths.

  “No. It’s not all right. Let me get you something. I’m so sorry—” Already he was cursing himself. He’d taken too much power! He’d let himself be distracted by the sensations to the point where he hadn’t paid enough attention. If he’d hurt her—

  “Could you bring me…a glass of water?” She sat up a little, but her face still looked pale and drawn.

  “Of course.” He darted out to the neat kitchen (complete with children’s art and sports photos taped to the refrigerator, he noticed), filled a glass, and brought it back to her. “I’m so sorry…” he said again. “I didn’t realize—”

  She took the glass in her shaking hand and downed half of it in three quick swallows. “It’s okay,” she said, with a faint smile. “I’m okay.”

  “I hurt you.” He perched on the edge of a nearby chair. His voice shook almost as much as hers did.

  “No…you didn’t. I’ll…I’ll just be tired for longer than I planned. You must be a strong mage, though. Stronger than I thought. It’s going to take a lot of power to keep you at full strength.”

  He lowered his head into his hands, pushing his hair up in spikes. In his mind’s eye, he replayed her stricken expression, then overlaid it with the terrified one on Acantha’s face right before she’d dissolved into ash. What had he become? “I—I don’t even know what to say to you. This is—”

  “It’s okay,” she assured him again. “I knew the risk. This sometimes happens with first-timers. I promise, you didn’t hurt me. It just means l’ll take longer to get my strength back.” She gave a shaky chuckle. “I guess the kids will have to settle for cookies from the bakery this time.”

  Her words didn’t comfort him. He remained where he was, head bowed, heart pounding. He’d done it, just as he’d feared he would. He’d lost control. Sure, he hadn’t killed Phoebe—it didn’t seem he’d even injured her. But he’d taken more power than he’d intended, and that was unforgivable. “I’m sorry…”

  “Hey. Look at me.”

  He did, forcing himself to focus on her pale face and sunken eyes—what he’d been responsible for.

  “Really, I mean it. Don’t beat yourself up over it. I know the risks when I do this. That’s part of why I charge so much. I know you didn’t mean to do it.”

  He nodded and got to his feet. The worst part of the whole thing was that, despite the guilt, he hadn’t felt this good in weeks. The power thrumming through him had driven off some of his exhaustion and brought a sharp clarity to his thoughts. He felt, he realized, like he had when he’d drunk some of Matthew Caldwell’s alchemical “pick-me-up” elixir last year. “Is there anything I can do to help you? Do you want me to stay with you until you’re feeling better?”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just stay here on the couch for a while and watch TV. I promise, I’ll be fine.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable, not sure if he should ask. “Should I—Do you want me to give you—”

  “Is there an extra charge?” She chuckled. Already a bit of color was coming back to her cheeks. “No, no. It’s all included in the fee. Really—you can go on.”

  He looked at her aura again, and realized she wanted him to go on. “All right, then. I’ll go. Thank you for…being understanding.”

  “You’ll be fine next time.”

  Stone nodded, but didn’t meet her gaze as he trudged past her and let himself out.

  12

  Before Stone headed up to San Francisco that afternoon after his class, he called the tattoo artist Kolinsky had recommended. After what had happened at Phoebe’s, the idea of doing anything to make the energy he’d taken last longer so he didn’t have to face that experience any sooner than necessary had become not only more appealing, but almost a compulsion.

  The line rang a long time before anyone picked up. Stone was about to hang up when it finally clicked. “Hello?” a wary male voice said. Loud heavy-metal music played in the background.

  “Er…” He glanced down at the card Kolinsky had given him. “I’m looking for someone called Scuro.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I was given your name by Mr. Kolinsky. I’d like to talk to you about your—specialty.”

  “Ah. Right. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. He still have the shop in San Jose?”

  “East Palo Alto, actually. But I think you already knew that.”

  “Yeah.” The guy sounded amused. “Just making sure. So you’re interested in my special work?”

  “Yes. I’ll be up in San Francisco this evening—would you have time to talk? Assuming I decide to go ahead with the work, I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah, sure. My appointment tonight cancelled, so I’ve got some time. Nine work for you?”

  This was more like what Stone had been expecting with Phoebe. “That’s fine.”

  “Great. See you then.” He gave Stone an address in the Castro. “Just tell the guy up front that you’re here to see me. I’m a little hard to find if you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

  He made it to the precinct house a little after six. Maurice Timmons was waiting for him. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Stone. I apologize for not being around much—I’ve got several cases I’m working on. I’m afraid I’m going to have to hand you off to Mr. Blum again. I hope he hasn’t been too…irritating.”

  Stone waved him off. “Not at all. Believe me, in my line of work, one gets used to it. I’ve heard them all.”

  “I hope you can find something in Mr. Everett’s papers. Just between the two of us, we’ve got nothing to go on at the moment. And after Ralph Gallegos was found dead with another one of those things in his possession…” He shook his head. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Blum will be out in a moment.”

  He hurried off, and Stone waited in the lobby until Leo Blum came hurrying out.

  “Hey, Doc,” he said loudly. “Ready to commune with the spirit world some more?” He eyed Stone’s suit, which he hadn’t had time to change out of. “You didn’t have to get all dressed up—ghosts don’t care.”

&n
bsp; Stone shot him a dirty look.

  “Sorry, sorry. C’mon, let’s go. I wanna get this over with so I can get back to—you know—real police work?”

  He led Stone to an unused conference room in the back of the station and closed the door. When he spoke again, his entire demeanor changed. He pointed at the table, where several boxes labeled Evidence were stacked. Next to them was a smaller box and a thick file folder. “So yeah, I got you access to everything we found in the locker. Books, papers, photos, everything. And the two chess pieces are in the little box there. Have at it.”

  “Is there any news I haven’t heard yet? Anything odd about Ralph’s suicide? Did they find anything on Frank’s skeleton?”

  “Nope. Suicide looks like a suicide. No other prints in the room except the maids, nothing but his on the knife and the chess piece, and the angle of the slash on his neck is consistent with him cutting his own throat.”

  “And Frank?”

  “Weird as shit, of course—no trace of skin or anything on the bones. They were dried out like they’d been in the desert for years, picked clean. The clothes were normal, and had normal stuff in the pockets. Wallet, keys, that kind of stuff. His wife confirmed it was all his.”

  Stone nodded. That certainly sounded like a dead end, since he’d already determined no magical traces remained in the locker or on Frank’s body. “Did they find the truck?”

  “Yeah, Ralph had ditched it down the street from the motel. Nothing inside except a whole lot of trash. Those guys were slobs.”

  “Damn. I was hoping for more chess pieces.”

  “Yeah, me too. But definitely no more. We checked thoroughly for those.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go take care of a couple things, and I’ll just be in the way hoverin’ around here while you work.” He pointed at the phone on the table. “You find anything, hit nine and tell the operator to buzz me. You want anything before I go?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  Alone now, Stone contemplated the array of items spread before him. There were three Evidence boxes, each sub-labeled with the date and Henry Everett Storage Locker, along with the address.