The Seventh Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  He remained where he was, eyeing her with wary caution but no fear. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Somebody who just got you out of a bad situation.” She took a step toward him, then another, moving with unhurried sensuality.

  “What do you want?” His aura still radiated controlled tension; he was ready to run if he had to, but his gaze never left her.

  “Just to talk.” She took another step forward. “I don’t bite.”

  “Tell that to them.” He indicated the unconscious man on the ground, and the dumpster. “Where’s the other one?”

  “Who cares?” She smiled. “He’s gone—isn’t that what you wanted? Come into the light, why don’t you? I want to get a look at you.”

  “I don’t think so.” His gaze shifted to the man again. The one in the dumpster was stirring now, moaning as he struggled back to consciousness and gripped the edge. “How did you do that?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Not yet, anyway. Come on—you’re not afraid of me, are you? I saved your ass, so why don’t you talk to me? You owe me that much. I promise, that’s all I want to do. If I wanted anything else, why wouldn’t I have just let these chucklefucks soften you up first?”

  The boy considered, studying her, and then his posture relaxed. “Yeah, okay. We can talk. But not here. These guys stink.”

  “We’re in agreement there. Come on. My car’s just up the street. We’ll stop somewhere and have a drink, and if you don’t like what I have to say you can go.”

  He approached her, his stride graceful with just a hint of a swagger. His aura belied it—he was still nervous—but that was fine. Letting him think he had the upper hand would make everything easier. She watched him as he passed under the light. The vision from the ritual hadn’t given her much to go on, but the resemblance was indeed strong. The boy was a couple inches shorter, a little less angular, his slim frame buffer—he clearly spent a lot of time in the gym—but his eyes, gray here instead of blue, had the same spark of wry intelligence. He wore an open-fronted shirt and stylishly ripped jeans, his dark hair spiked and tipped with white-blond.

  “What’s your name?” she asked him, falling into step next to him.

  “Call me E. What’s yours?”

  “Call me Blake.”

  “So, not your real name either.”

  “We’re not there yet. It’ll do for now.”

  “So what do you want? What’s a lady like you doing in a dark alley behind a dump like the Calypso?”

  They reached her car, a sleek little Mercedes coupe in ticket-me red, and she hit the fob to unlock the doors. “Would you believe me if I said I came to find you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He swung into the passenger seat with animal grace, and something inside her stirred. He was hot as hell. Seventeen was a little young for her normally, but she could make exceptions. It wasn’t as if there weren’t precedent, after all—and this one was a lot hotter than the last one she’d fucked for similar reasons.

  “Tell you what,” she said when he didn’t answer, leaning in close and fixing him with the kind of gaze that had never failed to get her what she wanted. “Let’s skip the drink. I’ve got better stuff back at my place anyway. No reason we can’t combine our conversation with…other things.”

  To her surprise, the boy not only didn’t immediately agree to her offer, but he actually rolled his eyes in disgust. “Seriously? That’s what you’ve got?”

  Sudden rage gripped her. Who did this twerp think he was, looking at her like that, like she was something on the bottom of his shoe? No man had ever turned her down, especially after Razakal’s ‘improvements.’ “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Now I know you don’t know anything about me. You know what? Stop the car. I want out. Thanks for the save, but I’ve got places to be.” He reached for the handle.

  A flick of her power held the door shut. “Hold on. What’s the problem?”

  He shook his head, his disgust even more evident. “That seduction shit won’t work on me, lady, so don’t waste your time. I’m gay.” His words held a challenge. “Didn’t the club give you a clue?”

  Ah, so that was it. As quickly as it had risen, her rage turned to relief and then amusement. The tension drained from her shoulders and her smile broadened.

  He glared at her. “Do you have a problem?”

  She chuckled. “No, no problem.” She should have figured it out. Now that she thought of it, his manner did remind her a little of Miguel: cocky, sensual, with a kind of liquid quality to his every movement. She hadn’t thought about Miguel in a long time. Had it already been almost ten years since he died? Just another thing he would have to answer for. “I just thought I was slipping, that’s all.”

  “Slipping?”

  “Let’s just say guys don’t turn me down very often. I’m just glad to find out in this case it’s not me.”

  He relaxed a little, letting loose of the door handle. “It’s not you. You’re plenty hot. I just don’t swing that way, you know?”

  “That’s cool. So we’ll skip the after-drink festivities and just have the drinks. And the conversation.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so. I don’t know you, and I still don’t have any idea how you took out those three guys.”

  She nodded without looking at him, guiding the car through the heavy evening traffic toward the freeway. This kid was smarter—and a hell of a lot less naïve—than that whiny little loser Ethan. “I could show you, you know.”

  “Show me what?”

  “How I took them out.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah. Why would you do that? What do you even want with me? Nobody just shows up looking for somebody without a reason.” He pointed at a bright neon sign advertising a Mexican restaurant up ahead. “Pull off here. We can talk at Alejandro’s. The food’s good, and there’s no way I’m going back to your place with you until I know a hell of a lot more about you.”

  She considered forcing it. She could do it easily, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. A few years ago, she would have—back then, having her desires thwarted would have sent her into a stubborn rage—but Razakal’s influence had been almost as good for her as the power he’d given her. She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Sure, whatever. I don’t care where we talk. You’ll want to hear what I have to say either way.”

  “We’ll see.” He remained slumped into the seat until she’d pulled into the lot, and got out as soon as she stopped.

  The place looked busy tonight; a crowd milled in the bar and the lobby, waiting for tables. “Damn,” he said. “Forgot Fridays are this busy. It’ll be at least an hour to get a table.”

  She offered him a snaky smile. “Don’t be too sure. Wait here.”

  A seductive smile at the host—combined with a liberal application of persuasive magic and an illusion moving her name to the top of the waiting list—got them a booth in the back room, tucked away in an alcove. The boy eyed her with suspicion as he slid in opposite her, but said nothing. He ordered a tequila with a defiant glance at the waitress, then settled in and began munching chips and salsa. “Okay. Talk.”

  Once again, she submerged a brief twinge of rage. So the kid was confident, and he had a mouth. Those were good things for what she had planned. “You want to know why I hunted you down.”

  “First I want to know how you hunted me down.”

  “I’ll tell you that—but not yet. Your mother’s Jessamy Woodward, right?”

  The boy went stiff. His hand tightened on his tortilla chip, breaking it into pieces. “What makes you think that?”

  She watched his aura, flaring in red, angry spikes. “Come on, E. You can’t lie to me. Your whole body’s showing me I’m right. Why not take a chance and see where this leads you? Or do you love running from cheap punks so much you won’t even listen to something that might change your life?”

&nb
sp; His eyes narrowed. “She didn’t send you after me, did she? Because there’s no way in hell I’m going back there.” Moving slowly, he began sliding toward the edge of his seat.

  “No. Nothing like that.” She waved him back. “Calm down. You don’t have to run. I’d find you anyway, even if you did, but why would I want to send you back to that sanctimonious bitch and her fuckwit husband? Do I look that cruel?”

  His tension remained, but he halted his progress toward the edge. “So, what then? How do you know my mother?”

  “I don’t. But we’re not talking about your mother. We’re talking about you. And what I might be able to do for you.”

  Their drinks arrived, and he paused for a swallow. “Lady, you don’t want to know how many times I’ve heard that line. Usually from hot older guys. It never means anything. Why don’t you stop wasting both our time and tell me what you want to say. I’ve got to get the hell out of town before it gets back to Jose that I took off.”

  She leaned back with an amused smile. “What would you say if I told you I could make it so you never had to worry about people like Jose anymore?”

  “I’d say you were full of shit.” He nodded toward the parking lot. “That’s a nice ride you’ve got out there, so maybe you’re loaded, but it doesn’t matter. There are always guys like Jose.”

  “You’re cynical for somebody so young.”

  “You don’t last long around here if you’re not.”

  “Okay, I get that. But I’m serious. Aren’t you even a little bit curious to hear what I have to say?”

  He studied her, his gaze sharp and suspicious, and took another drink. “Fine. I’m listening. What can you do for me?”

  “Just be quiet a minute. I need to check something.”

  “Check what?”

  “Hold on. This won’t take long.”

  His suspicion rose, but he continued sipping tequila and munching chips.

  She shifted to magical sight, reaching out to touch Razakal. He was waiting, just as she knew he would be, ready to share his power with her. Normally, this sort of examination would require several minutes and physical contact, but with Razakal’s help it took only a few seconds for her to get a definitive answer.

  When she did, it surprised her.

  Damn.

  She’d have to be careful around this one.

  In her mind, she felt Razakal’s delight. I will speak with you later, he said, and then both his voice and his presence were gone from her mind.

  “Stop staring at me,” E said. “You’re creeping me out.”

  “Sorry.” She relaxed and smiled again. “But it was worth it. You’ll be happy to know I was right—I can help you.”

  “Help me how? Unless you’ve got a thousand dollars to pay off Jose—”

  “I do have that…and more. But you’re thinking small, E.”

  She glanced behind her to make sure the waitress wasn’t approaching, then raised her hand, using her body to hide it from everyone but the boy. Without changing expression, she summoned a nimbus of green flame around it. “Today, that ends.”

  5

  “What?” Stone’s grip tightened on the handset. “I’m sorry—we must have a bad connection. Did you say—”

  “I said, I think you’re my father.”

  “You—must have me confused with someone else.” Stone carried the phone to the couch and dropped down on it. Raider appeared from nowhere and leaped into his lap.

  “I don’t think so. You’re Alastair Stone, right?”

  “Yes…”

  “You live in Palo Alto now, but you come from England?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well…my mother was Jessamy Woodward. She was in England for a college semester-abroad program almost twenty years ago. Do you remember her?”

  Jessamy Woodward?

  Bloody hell.

  A chill ran up Stone’s back, and his mouth went dry. No…it can’t be. It’s not possible.

  It wasn’t possible.

  Was it?

  Images flashed through his mind: a dark-haired young woman with a merry grin; too many wild parties; sneaking back to her cramped little flat in Finsbury Park late at night so her roommates wouldn’t hear them. They’d only been together a couple of months; it had been an intense couple of months, sure, but there wasn’t any way she could have—

  “Dr. Stone?”

  “Yes—er. Sorry.” He narrowed his eyes. No. This was madness. “Listen—I don’t know who put you up to this, but it’s late, I’m tired, and I’ve got no time for this kind of rubbish. Suppose you go back and let them know you gave it a good go, but it didn’t work.”

  The young man didn’t sound discouraged. “Hey, I understand. This must be quite a shock for you. Believe me, it was for me, too. But it’s not a trick.”

  Stone listened carefully, trying to pick out any background noise—muffled laughter, or the far-off sound of a party—that might indicate one of his students was messing with him. It didn’t happen often, but just last year one guy’s fraternity brothers had given his number to one of those shock-jock radio shows. The DJ had tried his best to convince him someone had stolen his car and crashed it into a tree, but it hadn’t taken aura-reading skill to pick out the sly deception in the guy’s voice.

  This time, though, he didn’t hear any background sounds. That could mean one of three things: the tricksters had upped their game, somebody was trying to put him off guard so they could lure him somewhere, or…

  “Suppose you are telling the truth,” he said. “Which I’m not inclined to believe, just so you know. Have you got any proof?”

  “You mean like a birth certificate with your name on it?” He paused, and when he spoke again, he sounded rueful. “No. Nothing like that. Mom didn’t put your name on it.”

  “Why not? I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t have told me, if—”

  “Listen—could we just meet somewhere and talk? I want to meet you, and there’s more I can tell you that might convince you. But I don’t want to do it over the phone.”

  Even though Stone knew encouraging this kind of thing had to be a mistake, meeting in person would definitely be the easiest way to reveal this deception. “Fine,” he said. “It can’t be tonight, though. It’s late, I just got home, and the weather’s frightful. Are you in the area?”

  “I’m staying in San Jose, not far from downtown.”

  “Right, then. There’s a little Italian place near there—Valentino’s, on First Street. I’ll meet you there at noon. I’ll make a reservation for a table in the back, so we can have a bit of privacy.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you there.” He paused, then added, “I’m not trying scam you. I know you don’t believe that, but I’m not. This is a pretty big deal for me too—I wouldn’t lie about it.”

  “We’ll see about that tomorrow.”

  Stone let his breath out in a rush and sank back into the couch cushions, tossing the handset aside. Raider leaped on it, but immediately grew bored when it didn’t struggle. Instead, he crept up onto Stone’s chest and peered into his eyes.

  “What the hell, Raider?” Stone muttered, stroking the tabby’s back. Then, unable to remain still, he got up and began pacing.

  Ian Woodward. Jessamy Woodward’s son.

  His son?

  Part of his mind refused to acknowledge it was even possible, but another part—the logical part—knew it was. Jessamy had been wild, uninhibited—hell, that was what had attracted him to her. It hadn’t been long after his father’s death when he’d met her. He’d been in a tailspin of grief and confusion, nearly flunking out of University because he couldn’t summon the motivation to keep up with the coursework. Jessamy, with her carefree ways and who-gives-a-damn attitude, had been a breath of fresh air, encouraging him to do things the old him—or the later him—would never have considered. They’d only been together for two months when her program ended and she’d had to return to the States, but those two months had been pa
cked full of parties, drinking, sex, even a brief experimentation with psychedelic drugs.

  He didn’t regret it, not completely—it had probably been exactly what he needed at the time, to jolt him out of his black depression and grief—but he never made any attempt to contact Jessamy or rekindle the relationship once she left. Neither did she. His old friends Eddie Monkton and Arthur Ward had saved him from getting turfed out of University and got him back on track, and after that he’d confined himself to more appropriate dalliances until he began a long-term relationship with Imogen Desmond a couple years later. He hadn’t even thought about Jessamy since then—except for that one time at the Dancing Dragon after Desmond died, when Verity had been so amused at the thought of him doing the costume thing with her at that midnight production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. That hardly seemed even to be the same person as he was now, so he couldn’t hold her merriment against her.

  Raider caught up with him when he paused, rubbing against his legs and looking up at him. Stone sighed and bent down to scratch his ears. “I don’t know, mate,” he said. “Even if it’s true, Jessamy—well, she wasn’t exactly a saint, and I doubt I was the only one she shagged back then.”

  Raider said nothing, merely purred and shoved his head into Stone’s hand.

  “Right.” All he could do was meet the boy. He’d know for sure, then.

  But the thought wouldn’t leave him alone as he headed upstairs:

  What if he is my son?

  6

  Two years ago

  Ian didn’t take his gaze off Blake during the entire drive to her place up in Topanga Canyon. He tried not to be obvious about it—stay cool, it’s got to be some kind of trick—but what she’d shown him back at the restaurant had shaken him to his core.

  Because deep down, he knew it wasn’t a trick.

  Blake, for her part, didn’t speak either. She seemed slyly amused by his attempts at pretending nothing was wrong, and he was pretty sure she saw right through them.

  “Nice place,” he said when they pulled into the long driveway in front of a single-story, Spanish-style house set back from the road. It didn’t escape him that it had been at least a mile since they’d passed another house—they were truly alone up here. All the warning buzzers he’d developed from his months on the street were going off: she could have friends up here waiting, and if they killed him, his body would probably never be found. It had happened before, to young hustlers very much like himself. Hell, one of his friends had disappeared a few months back, only to be discovered in a landfill once the guy’s parents had hired private investigators to look into the case. It happened.