Stonecast tsc-2

by Anton Strout

  We arrived at the bookcase that concealed the one thing that had survived the original building’s collapse—my great-great-grandfather’s old alchemical workshop.

  I reached behind a copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame on the top shelf to activate the pressure plate against the back wall, but, to my surprise, the bookcase was already clicked free from its swivel locking mechanism.

  “This door shouldn’t be open,” I said. “That’s the point of it being secret.”

  Rory looked at the unfinished section of the basement along the other wall. “Maybe one of the workers triggered it by accident?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve changed enough workers in and out on this project. I switched them out every few weeks. No single one could have known enough about any one aspect of the project to open this door.”

  “Let’s check it out,” Rory said, dropping her dance bag on the floor. “Cautiously, of course.”

  I pressed against the bookcase, sliding it over to reveal the black stone door behind it, finding it ajar as well. I put my hand on it and willed the heavy stone to move as I breathed out the old country’s words of power. It yielded, and the two of us entered the room beyond, the light spilling in behind us, allowing us to make our way easier as we went.

  Carved-stone markings bearing the winged Belarus sigil adorned the walls of the cavernous circular space, rising up to a dome high above, but it was the lower part that sported tables, chairs, and counters built into the walls that we had to step through carefully. I checked the glass-covered cabinet built into the far side of the room, inventorying the array of my great-great-grandfather’s alchemical mixes within it.

  As Rory and I stepped to the center of the room, she stopped and pointed at the cobblestone floor beneath her. “You fixed it,” she said. “That giant ball you summoned, protecting yourself from Alexander’s defenses when we first found this place.”

  “Yeah,” I said, recalling how I had needed Stanis’s help to extract me from it. “I’ve been training myself to feel Alexander’s signature in his stonework. It helps that his magic in here had gone untouched for so long. It’s still strong here, which made it easier to wrap my will around it.”

  “Aww,” Rory said, all baby-voiced, “somebody’s been giving magical hugs, wrapping their will around things again.”

  I pressed my sense out into the rest of the room, holding a finger up to my lips. “Somebody’s definitely been in here,” I whispered. “I can feel it.”

  I let my connection to the whole space take control, letting it run through me. Something felt . . . off. I moved around the room, reaching out with my will, seeking out whatever felt different, which led me toward the large glass case of alchemical mixes.

  “What is it?” Rory said, joining me. “Has someone been stealing from the liquor cabinet?”

  “Has,” I said, focusing in on a dead spot on the wall just to the other side of Rory, standing by the glass cabinet. “And is.”

  Rory stepped in front of me to look at the spot, then turned back around to me. “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Shh!” I said. “The walls have ears.” I pressed my will toward the stone there, oddly finding no connection with the spot. I focused in, staring hard to find what my will could not. “Ears . . . and eyes.”

  “What?” Rory asked, starting to spin back around to it, but I was already reaching out to pull her away from the spot.

  The stone did indeed have eyes then, and they went wide at my mention of them. A section of the wall impossibly peeled itself away from the rest, and although the stones kept their shape, the movements and outline of the figure rushing for the door were distinctly human.

  I reached out to the stone creature with my will but found no connection to it. I pressed my power past the figure, grabbing at one of the stone tables along the wall, sliding it across the floor to block the creature’s exit path. Unprepared, the figure slammed into the moving table, falling forward, then over it, landing on its back on the floor. Rory and I closed on it as the creature—burdened by its own weight—struggled like a turtle on its back to right itself.

  “Shit,” a male voice called out from it, and the stone of its skin began to transform. The rock seemed to melt away, fading to expose a twentysomething man with a mess of dirty blond hair and a knee-length brown coat. Now free of his stone form, the man righted himself, scurrying to his feet. He eyed the two of us with darting suspicion, then reached in his jacket and pulled a glass vial free from it, tossing it at our feet.

  It shattered, and Rory danced out of its way, but I wasn’t quite quick enough. The stone beneath my feet softened like clay, and I sunk into it, my boots slowly disappearing out of sight. Try as I might to pull them out, my feet would not come free.

  Rory stood dumbstruck for a moment before shaking herself out of it and turning to our foe, her eyes dark. “Don’t worry,” she said to me out of the corner of her mouth. “I got this.”

  This drew a chuckle out of the stranger. “Do you, now?”

  In response, Rory rushed him, jumping up onto the stone table that separated them and kicking him square in the chest. He fell back, tumbled over, and landed on his hands and knees, letting out a pained laugh.

  “I guess you do at that,” he said, struggling to stand up. “Fast, aren’t ya?”

  “The fastest,” Rory said, jumping down from the table, keeping after him.

  “We shall see about that,” the man said, producing another vial, like a magician drawing his wand. He flicked the top off this one, causing Rory to instinctually jump back from him, but instead of throwing it at either of us, he chugged the dark yellow liquid within it. The man doubled over in pain, giving Rory an opportunity to close with him, but when she did, he was standing up straight again, waiting for her.

  Rory grabbed for him, but the man—now moving with more than human speed—evaded her, circling around behind her.

  “Look out!” I called to her, but by the time Rory spun to face him, the man had raised a closed fist to swing at her. I waited for his flash of a blow to strike her, but it never came.

  He swung, but the man stopped his fist mere inches from her face. “Nighty-night,” he said. He opened the hand, palm facing up, and blew across it. A fine, white powder rose off it, engulfing Rory’s entire head.

  She sneezed from within the cloud, blinking with heavier and heavier lids until they closed, and she slumped to the floor of the guild hall, her head cracking against the stone.

  “Rory!” I cried out, but there was no response.

  The stranger blurred past me, heading back to the glass case.

  “What did you do to her?” I asked him, afraid.

  The man ignored me and helped himself to a variety of my great-great-grandfather’s vials and tubes.

  “What did you do to her?” I shouted this time as I lunged for him, but with my feet stuck as they were, all I managed to do was send a sharp pain through my right ankle.

  “Don’t worry,” he said with the hint of a cocky smile on his lips. “She’s not dead. Just sleeping.”

  That was a relief, but it didn’t quell my desire to smack the smile off of his smug face. Realizing I was wasting my anger, I tried my power at the stone surrounding my feet again, but it remained unresponsive. I turned my frustration to something I could manipulate—the stone table I had slid across the room. Using my mind to pull it apart brick by brick, I fired them one after another at the man, but his speed helped him avoid my barrage as he continued pillaging the cabinet.

  He turned to face me, waggling a fistful of tubes in my face.

  “Thanks for the supplies,” he said, and had the audacity to wink at me before turning and speeding out of the guild hall.

  Outraged and trapped as I was, I jumped straight up, hoping to at least come out of my sinking shoes, but only managed to send sharp pains through both my ankles this time, which also unbalanced me. I went down hard on my ass, and, despite what I perceived as a lot of padding to it, I felt the
stone slam hard up against my bones, which took all the fire out of me.

  Anger gave way to humiliation as I lay there, hurt, but all of that went away as my mind cleared and my thoughts turned to Rory, lying not more than ten feet from me, still unconscious. I needed to check on her . . . and where the hell was Marshall? With the stranger gone and my wits somewhat calmed, I reached out with my hands to the stone encasing my feet.

  The stuff was impossible to grab ahold of, both solid and malleable at the same time, almost like trying to grab handfuls of quicksand. Using my will, I worked it around in my head, which also tried my patience in the process, and I once more felt my control over the stone returning as the effects of whatever the stranger had done to it faded. The rock gave way to my spell and thoughts, and I pulled my feet free, my boots covered in a thick black powder of stone.

  I ran over to Rory, careful not to twist my ankle on any of the broken bricks of the floor as I went to her.

  Movement in the doorway caught my attention.

  “Don’t start the party without me,” Marshall sang out in a singsong voice. “Surprise!” He stepped into the room smiling, holding a large tray stuffed with an array of food. When he saw me kneeling beside Rory, the smile vanished from his face.

  “Marshall!” I shouted at him. “What the hell took you so long?”

  “I told you I had to pee,” he said in a quiet voice, looking worried. “Then I thought I’d surprise you with some snacks while we went over our notes and stuff. So I raided your fridge. I washed my hands first . . .” His words trailed off for a moment as his mind worked to process what he was seeing, his eyes fixating on Rory’s fallen form. “Is she okay? What happened?”

  “Someone was down here,” I said. “In here. Now help me.”

  Marshall dropped his tray, full of drinks and assorted snacks, on the main stone table at the center of the room and ran over to us. Falling to his knees. “Can we move her?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t want to make anything worse.”

  The two of us quickly looked her over. There were no visible signs of damage, but that didn’t mean jack.

  Marshall moved closer to her, and I reached out a hand to push him back.

  “I’m not going to touch her,” he said, hurt. “I just want to try something.”

  I let go of him and nodded, waiting.

  Marshall leaned forward, hovering over Rory’s head, mere inches from her face. “Rory,” he whispered. “I drank the last of the milk and used the last of the toilet paper . . .”

  Our friend remained lying there, unmoving, and I was already reaching for my cell phone. I wasn’t sure how I was going to explain to paramedics that my friend was under the influence of some kind of Sandman dust, but I could worry about that later.

  Marshall grabbed my hand before I dialed, then leaned even closer to Rory’s ear this time. “Aurora,” he said, singing it out long and slow, like a nursery rhyme.

  Rory’s hand shot straight up, grabbing him by his neck meat, choking him. Surprised, I let out a small yelp and fell back from the two of them. Marshall tried to pull himself away, but Rory had him in a grip so tight he couldn’t escape.

  “Don’t,” she said, eyes still closed, “call me . . . Aurora.”

  Marshall’s eyes turned to me, and he wrapped his hands around her arm. “Yeah,” he croaked out. “She’s fine.”

  When Marshall couldn’t break her grip, he reached out to me and placed my hands around hers. Despite our joined effort, Rory’s grip still held tight, but after a minute or two, we managed to pry her thumb away from the front of his throat, and Marshall managed to slip free, falling back on his ass.

  He scrabbled to his feet as he cleared his throat and rubbed his neck, moving to the tray he’d brought in on the table at the center of the room. Rory, still out, lay there with her hand still up in the air as if still clutching Marshall.

  “Awesome,” he said, his voice raspy. He grabbed a bottle of seltzer off the table and took a deep swig, clearing his throat. “I think she’s sleep strangling. Just what you want in a roommate.” He walked back over to the two of us and stopped, just standing there looking down at me. “You’ve got my back, right?”

  I nodded, but warily. “Sure. Why?”

  “Just remember you said that,” Marshall whispered, then upended the bottle of seltzer into Rory’s face. It poured down on her, and her eyes shot open, her glasses doing little to protect them. Her mouth opened, too, and the carbonated water ran into it, causing her to choke and sputter.

  Marshall was already stepping away from her, but Rory—prone though she was—launched in a defensive reactionary mode. Her legs whirled out toward him, catching Marshall behind his knees, knocking him back onto his ass. His head bounced off the stone floor once, and it was his turn to lie there, eyes open and groaning.

  Rory sat up first, swallowing. Marshall was a bit slower, clutching the back of his head when he rose. “I think that’s enough concussions for one day,” he said, pulling his hand away and checking for blood. Luckily, it came away clean.

  Rory hopped up onto her feet, staying squat. She wobbled forward, and I caught her before she could fall on her face.

  “Easy, now,” I said.

  “Where is he?” she asked, looking around.

  “Long gone,” I said. “I mean, did you see how fast that guy was moving?”

  Rory nodded and stepped away from the hold I had on her.

  “Your intruder was superhuman?” Marshall asked from his place on the floor of the guild hall.

  “Yeah,” Rory said as she stared death at him. “And where were you, by the way? You might not have helped in a fight, but maybe I could have got the drop on him while he was beating on you.”

  Marshall pointed to the tray. “I was being a good friend,” he snapped, looking back and forth between Rory and me. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t expect you two to get attacked in your own home.”

  He had a point, and I did my best to let go of any anger I felt building up in me toward him.

  “Sorry, Marsh,” I said, offering him my hand, helping him up. “We’re just a little on edge. There was a stranger in not only my home, but this space, which I consider sort of sacred.”

  “What did he look like?” Marshall asked.

  “Stone,” I said. “At first, anyway.”

  “Like Stanis?”

  “Not quite,” Rory chimed in. “When Lexi pulled me out of harm’s way, the first good look I got of him, he was sort of . . . a chameleon.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. He was blended with the stone of the wall, but then he sort of . . . morphed.”

  “Blond hair, hipster-tousled, this long brown coat he kept pulling vials out of . . .” Rory trailed off, her eyes growing darker behind her glasses. “I really can’t wait to hurt him.”

  “I need to ward this place,” I said. “Ever since the building collapsed—when we thought Devon died—I suspected this new place might need it, but this clinches it.”

  “Can we at least do that later?” Marshall asked. “I brought snacks and my notes from the other night’s experiment that we really should go over. I promise I’ll help you ward the place later.”

  “Since when do you have magic powers?” Rory asked.

  “I don’t,” Marshall said, holding up a single finger. “Yet. But I could learn.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said, heading over to the tray on the stone table. I picked up one of those mini Pac-Man cheese wheels from its little net bag and peeled the wax off it. “But you’re right. We should first do what we came down here to do. I also wouldn’t mind plotting out some real defense around here.”

  As pissed as I was, I had to admit it was a little exciting to have met another person who—albeit under shifty circumstances—also had some prowess with alchemical transformation. Maybe after we beat him senseless for a bit, I might be able to talk shop with him. That is, if he dared show his face again.

  It seemed li
kely. After all, as far as I knew, we were the only place in town he could “shop” for what he was coming here for in the first place.

  The three of us settled in at the main stone table, arranging books from the old library as well as my notebooks and Marshall’s Monster Manual, each of us working for a long while in silence as we snacked.

  Eventually, Rory let out a sigh as she went through the pages of one of my great-great-grandfather’s Moleskine notebooks.

  “I miss having a gargoyle around,” she said.

  “Me too,” I said, flipping through my notes to the ones I had made after the unstable brick-man incident the other night. If I judged my Spellmason prowess by that particularly calamitous experiment, I was a long way off from making any sort of animated stone army. And it was hard to imagine any of them replacing the singular soul-filled Stanis.

  “Me three,” added Marshall, and without another word, each of us set to our reading in the hopes of figuring just what the hell I was still doing wrong.

  Six

  Stanis

  Living in constant pain as I simply hung from the two spikes driven through my wings had been difficult at first, but there had been the revelatory moment when the pain no longer mattered.

  My body should have ached hanging from chains in the center of the cargo hold, left with just the tips of my clawed feet to support my weight, but all sensation had left my form by then. Even the shaft of light coming from the nearby machine—ultraviolet, they had called it—was barely noticeable, even though it continued to transform part of me into solid stone. When someone shut off the beam, the stone turned back to stoneflesh, the burning pain rousing me from my delirium.

  A figure moved among the shadows beyond the light around me, unrecognizable until I heard the voice. The stranger had returned.