The Seventh Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “Come on.” Stone was no good with this kind of thing, but he did his best. “Let’s go out front. Is there anyone you can call to stay with you? A friend?”

  She nodded several times and allowed him to lead her back down the hall to the living room. “Y-yes. I can call Ophelia. We do little rituals together sometimes. She’s only a couple of miles away. I’m sure she can—”

  “That’s fine,” he said, cutting her off before she got up a head of steam. “Do you want me to stay here with you until she arrives?”

  Suddenly, she seemed once again to realize she was alone in her home with a man whose presence made her uncomfortable. “No, no,” she assured him. “It’s all right. I’ll be—all right.” She took his hand; hers was soft and trembling. “Thank you for coming. It’s terrible, what you found out, but…at least I know something now.”

  “I’m sorry it couldn’t have been better news.” He took one of his business cards from his wallet, wrote his mobile number on it, and gave it to her. “Please, call if I can be of further assistance. And—” He hesitated, his natural curiosity warring with his desire not to get involved in another puzzle this soon after starting a new quarter.

  As always, curiosity won. “You should probably give that thing in the envelope to the police, but would you mind if I made a sketch of it?”

  “Uh…no, of course not. Do you think it’s…related to…?’

  “I think it could be. I’d like to study it further.” He almost said they might have more information once Amy’s body was found, but stopped himself. It wouldn’t do any good to agitate the old lady any more. And depending on what had happened, Amy’s body might never be found.

  He made a quick drawing of the strange sigil and the X through it. He was about to say his goodbyes and get out of there when he remembered something. “Ms. Lindstrom—”

  “Yes?” She’d been examining something on one of the bookshelves, but quickly turned back.

  “When you called, you mentioned that you thought something might have happened to Amy because you didn’t think it was the first time. What did you mean by that?”

  She swallowed, her hands clutching at each other. “Oh…it’s probably nothing. I just remember hearing about another witch whose apprentice was…killed. It was a few years ago. I don’t think it’s related. I was just…worried.” Tears sprang to her eyes again. “I suppose I had reason to be, didn’t I?”

  “Thank you, Ms. Lindstrom. I’ll see what I can find out. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  On the drive back, he couldn’t put the situation out of his mind. Who would want to kill the apprentice of an innocuous old witch? He didn’t know Myra, of course. For all he knew, she could be sacrificing kittens in her basement, or she’d summoned something that took offense at her activities and decided to punish her by going after someone she cared about.

  But he didn’t think so. He was usually a fairly good judge of character, and after seeing Myra Lindstrom’s home and her ritual setup, he’d stake a fair bit of money on the belief that she was exactly as harmless as she appeared.

  Whether her dead apprentice was as well was another story, though.

  He glanced at his sketch of the sigil on the seat next to him as he cruised back up 101 toward Palo Alto. Tomorrow, he’d do a bit of research—maybe even head home to England and see if he or Eddie Monkton could turn up anything there. Tonight, though, all he wanted was a good stiff drink and a few hours of rest. At least the rain had stopped.

  The phone was ringing as he entered the house. He hurried down the hall, using magic to snatch it from the cradle as soon as he had it in sight. It was after nine now, which meant it wouldn’t be any of his professional associates. Maybe Verity was calling to see how he was doing—but she’d call the mobile. “Yes, hello?” he said, breathless, tossing his overcoat over a nearby chair.

  “Is this Alastair Stone?” The voice was young—late teens or early twenties—male, and unfamiliar. One of his students, perhaps? He didn’t give out his home phone number to them, but it wouldn’t be that hard to find.

  “Yes…who’s this?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Who is this?” Stone demanded again. “It’s late, and—”

  “My name’s Ian Woodward. I think you’re my father.”

  3

  Two years ago

  Ian Woodward wasn’t old enough to be in the bar where he currently lounged, but nobody cared. He had an arrangement with the owner, and in any case his fake ID was good enough to fool anyone who didn’t look at it too closely.

  The place was called the Calypso, and it had something in common with Ian’s ID: it looked a lot better on the surface than it did on close examination. The glitz, neon, and pounding techno music didn’t do much to hide the cheap liquor and out-of-date décor—but then again, most of those who came to the Calypso didn’t give a damn about the place’s aesthetics. They were here for other reasons.

  “Hey, E.” Fernando slid onto the stool next to Ian. He leaned back and sprawled, elbows wide, legs spread, taking up space as he always did. He held a margarita and surveyed the dance floor like he owned the place.

  It didn’t matter where Fernando was—he always carried himself like he owned the place. Taller than Ian but with the same slim, ripped physique, he wore a skintight, blinding white tank top, snug-fitting designer jeans, and a glittering gold cross around his neck. Colorful tattoos adorned his shoulders and chest.

  Ian ignored him, continuing to watch the crowd. It was busy tonight, the dance floor packed tight. The flashing, multicolored lights traced the dancers, picking out a bobbing head here, a grinning face there. The overwhelming majority of them were male.

  “I heard Jose’s looking for you.”

  Ian tensed, his grip tightening on his glass. “Why?”

  Fernando shrugged. “Says you owe him money.”

  “That’s bullshit. I paid him back last month.” That wasn’t completely true, but they’d had an agreement. If things kept up as they had, he’d have the rest of what he owed in a few weeks, tops.

  “That’s not what he says, man.” Fernando made a languid stretch, showing off as a group of men ambled by. “Somethin’ about you doin’ some hustlin’ on the side. I dunno. Not my business. I’m just, you know, passing along the information to a friend.” His smooth voice lingered on the word friend.

  “Shit.” How had Jose found out? He’d been so careful, and the man hadn’t even been in town for the last two weeks.

  “I’d disappear for a while if I were you, kid,” Fernando was saying. “You don’t wanna fuck with Jose and his guys.” He shrugged. “Don’t want ’em to mess up that pretty face of yours, do you?”

  “You’re full of shit.” Ian forced confident disregard into his voice, even though he didn’t feel it. You could never tell with Fernando—sometimes he got a kick out of screwing with the younger guys, stirring them up, but surely he wouldn’t lie about something like this.

  Fernando grinned, dipping his head in his all too familiar hey, I don’t care pose. “Up to you, kid. I’m not lyin’ to you. That’d be pretty shitty of me, yeah? Me, I’d get that hot little ass out of here before he shows up and kicks it.”

  Ian held his gaze for several more seconds. He’d always been good at telling when somebody was lying. He didn’t know how it worked—probably something to do with their eyes or their body language or something—but he’d learned to trust it, and it had gotten him out of a lot of scrapes in the past. “Yeah,” he said heavily. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, man. You take care of yourself.” He was already back to scanning the crowd, like a lion identifying prey.

  Ian slipped off the stool, finished his drink, and considered his options. Jose knew he hung out here, but he hadn’t been here long tonight. If he could sneak out the back, he might be able to get home with enough time to grab his stuff and find someplace new to squat for a few days. Devon had an old couch in his garage—he’d pretty much worn out h
is welcome there, but maybe if he explained the situation he could at least crash there long enough to figure out his next options.

  There wasn’t any neon or glitz in the hallway leading to the club’s rear section. Ian passed several entwined couples tucked into alcoves, followed the smell past the bathroom doors, and pushed open the one leading to the alley. The sign said No Exit Alarm Will Sound, but that had been a joke for as long as Ian had been coming here. The Calypso didn’t have alarms, any more than it had smoke detectors or basic hygiene standards in the shitters.

  The alley was mostly dark. A single light flickered over the door next to an overflowing dumpster, but its closest neighbors were two doors down on either side. Aside from a few parked cars and a pair consummating a furtive drug deal out of the trunk of one of them, the place was deserted. Ian ignored the transaction, setting off in the opposite direction. After a moment the car started up, the sound of its engine receding into the distance and disappearing beneath the faint, pounding bass from the club.

  Ian moved quickly but with confidence. Either Fernando had been messing with him and Jose wasn’t actually looking for him, or he’d gotten out before anybody showed up. Either way, all he’d have to do was exit the alley and walk a couple blocks north, and he could catch the bus back home.

  “Where you goin’, kid?” said a voice.

  Ian stopped as two men stepped out from behind a dumpster ahead of him. He glanced over his shoulder and wasn’t at all surprised to see a third behind him. He recognized the larger of the front pair as Tito, one of Jose’s enforcers.

  A chill ran up his back. This wasn’t good—this wasn’t good at all. “What do you want, Tito?” he asked.

  Tito stepped out into one of the faint overhead lights. He was in his middle twenties, beefy and muscular, with crude prison tattoos poking out of the high collar of his buttoned plaid shirt. He grinned, revealing a gold-capped tooth. “You know what we want, kid. If you didn’t, why’d you take off?”

  Ian shrugged. “Nothing to do with you. Place is dead tonight. Thought I’d look for some action somewhere else.”

  “Oh, I got it.” Tito pulled a knife from his pocket and began methodically picking at his nails with its tip. “Well, hey, that’s cool. Don’t let us stop ya. Just hand over the money you owe Jose and we’ll be on our way.”

  Ian glanced to the side, looking for an exit route in case he had to run. He didn’t know whether Tito or his guys had guns, but he was young and fast and could probably outrun them if it came to that.

  That was a last resort, though. “Look—I don’t have it. Jose knows that. We had a deal, or didn’t he tell you? I’ve got two more months to pay it off.”

  Tito glanced at the man next to him, then shook his head with a clucking sound. “Kid, you got cojones, I’ll give you that. That deal went away when Jose found out you were runnin’ a little side hustle out in Venice. He thinks you holdin’ out on him, and you know how he feels about that.”

  “Come on—I’m not holding out on anybody. I just ran into a little trouble and needed some extra cash, that’s all. You tell Jose he’ll have his money, just like we agreed. Seriously, you guys have no patience.”

  Tito’s expression darkened, and the gold-toothed grin faded. “You got a mouth on you, kid.” He raised the knife. “Maybe let’s see if I can make it a little wider, y’know?”

  The two of them both advanced on Ian, the other one pulling out a knife as well.

  Ian took a step back and to the side, risking a quick glance over his shoulder to see what the third man was doing. Then he flung himself sideways, preparing to sprint away. He’d only get one chance at this.

  The third man was on him before he’d made it three steps. Meaty arms wrapped around his waist and brought him down hard. He caught himself on his hands, barely managing not to smack his head on the gritty concrete, but the man’s weight came down on his back and knocked the wind out of him.

  “Coulda done this the easy way, puto,” Tito said, sounding rueful. “Now you’re gonna find out why it ain’t good to fuck with Jose.”

  The beefy man yanked him up and slammed him into the wall past the dumpster, out of the light.

  Heart pounding, Ian twisted in the man’s grip, lunging forward to bring his knee up between thick bandy legs.

  He didn’t get a very good shot, but it was good enough to stagger the man backward with a loud “Fuck!” He didn’t let go, though, but instead backhanded Ian across the face, driving him back into the wall. Bright stars sprang up as his head hit the uneven surface.

  The other two moved in, rising to fill his view and block out the moonlight.

  Ian forced himself to keep his eyes open—his only chance would be to seize any opportunity that presented itself. If he could manage to wrench himself free even for a moment, then—

  Tito’s sudden shriek of surprise erupted out of nowhere, as something yanked him backward and flung him across the alley into the opposite wall. He hit with a loud crack and slid down.

  “What the fuck—?” one of the other two yelled, spinning to look for the new threat.

  The third man, the beefy one who’d initially caught Ian, kept hold of him but tried to look over his shoulder at the same time. “Tito? What’s—”

  The second man flew into the air like he’d just been tagged with an uppercut from a giant. He shot several feet up, tracing a flailing but graceful parabola into the dumpster.

  Ian saw his chance as his attacker’s grip faltered. Yanking himself from the man’s grasp, he dived to the side, scrambled to get his feet under him, and took off running. His head pounded with pain, but he did his best to ignore it. He could deal with it later. He had no idea who his unseen savior was, but he didn’t care. He had to run. Now.

  Behind him, he heard more shrieks, thuds, and cracks, but he didn’t stop. Whatever was happening to Jose’s men, whatever wrecking crew was taking them apart back there, none of it was his concern.

  Even so, he couldn’t resist a quick look back over his shoulder. What he saw made him skid to an astonished, puffing stop.

  Two of Jose’s men lay on the ground, one crumpled against the alley’s far wall, the other against the dumpster. Neither was moving. The third was nowhere to be seen.

  None of that had caused Ian’s reaction, though.

  A woman stood in the middle of the alley.

  No hulking giant of a man. No wrecking crew.

  Just a single, slim woman, clad in jeans, leather jacket, and high-heeled black boots.

  Back at the Calypso, Fernando had carried himself like he thought he owned the club. This woman stood like she knew she owned the world.

  She took an unhurried step forward into the light, a predatory smile on her sensual lips. “Well, hello,” she drawled, looking him up and down. Her voice was low and purring. She indicated the fallen goons with a contemptuous boot-tip. “Now that I’ve cleaned up the trash, I think you and I have some things to talk about.”

  4

  Two years ago

  Blake could have stepped in sooner.

  Crouching on the roof’s edge across the alley, she had an unobstructed view of all three of the men as they lay in wait, as well as the slim younger one heading unwittingly in their direction. Even without the lights, their auras gave them away: the older men’s anticipatory, the young one’s confident but wary. She saw it all setting up well in advance, and she could easily have stopped it before it began.

  She didn’t do it because it amused her, and she wanted to see what happened.

  She kept magical sight up, studying their auras as they spoke. The men’s were boring: standard orange, pale green, and sickly yellow, all faded and spotted from hard living and drug use. Nothing she hadn’t seen a thousand times before.

  The boy’s, however—his was much more interesting. Dual-toned, with shimmering silver extending nearly a foot out from his body and a vibrant, pulsing purple hugging its edges. It didn’t surprise her, but it did serve as another confi
rmation of her suspicions. She wondered, as one of the big men slammed the boy into the wall, if he’d do anything about it—anything he didn’t expect. It wasn’t unheard of, assuming he’d inherited the Talent. The aura didn’t mean he had, of course. She wouldn’t know that without closer examination.

  A few more moments’ observation convinced her the kid was in trouble if she didn’t intervene. He gave it his best shot and didn’t back down—at least he wasn’t a pathetic little coward—but three big guys with knives against one smaller unarmed one wouldn’t have ended well.

  That was okay. Her predatory smile widened as she directed her power, flinging the first one into the wall with enough force to break bones and tossing the second into the open dumpster from ten feet up. Big men didn’t frighten her. As far as she was concerned, they came in three flavors: the ones to ignore, the ones she wanted to fuck, and the ones who thought their size gave them the advantage. The third group usually provided the most entertainment.

  She narrowed her eyes and watched as the boy took off, seizing his sudden advantage even if he had no idea where it had come from. She could follow him if she had to, but there was no need. Lowering herself to the ground, she clenched her fist and made a jerking motion, yanking the third thug to her and draining him to ash before he could do more than gape at her with wide, terrified eyes. Her nerves sang as the power, the death-energy, rushed into her.

  Damn, that never got old! She was glad she could still do it, even though technically she no longer needed to after her bargain with Razakal. The power was a nice little extra, like a tasty dessert after a satisfying meal. She called to the boy and smiled as he stopped and turned back.