The Seventh Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “Could you tell me what sort of questions?”

  “I—” She sniffled and stared down at her lap. “They wanted to know how long I’d known Amy, what sorts of things she did for me, when I’d last seen her…” She sniffled again and plucked a tissue from a box on the table. “And then…”

  Stone wanted to hurry her along, to get to the point, but he resisted the temptation. She was obviously grieving.

  “And then…he asked me if I knew anything about Amy being involved in the occult.” Her watery gaze came up to meet his.

  “Did he?” Stone asked, surprised. “Did he say why he wanted to know that? I assume Amy wasn’t forthcoming to mundanes about her…activities.”

  “No, of course not. As I said, he wouldn’t give me any details, but I got the impression that when they found her, there was some kind of occult connection.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said that both of us were interested in that sort of thing—astrology, Tarot cards, spiritual visitations…the kinds of things mundanes sometimes get involved with.”

  Stone thought about the crossed-out sigil Myra had given him the night before. The situation with Ian had driven it from his mind, and he hadn’t had any time to research it further. “They didn’t suspect you of anything, did they?”

  “No…no, I don’t think so. I looked at their auras, and they both seemed calm and businesslike. A little…disturbed, though. Whatever they saw, I got the impression they hadn’t seen anything like it before.” She swallowed. “I gave them the paper—the one you made a copy of last night—and told them she’d shown it to me.”

  Stone nodded. “Did they make anything of it?”

  “It didn’t look like it, but they seemed interested. They said they’d investigate further, and if they had any more questions for me, they’d give me a call.” Her hand shook, rattling the teacup, and she set it down on the table. “I was so afraid they’d want to search my house, and find the ritual room. Even though they wouldn’t know it was really magic, of course, it would be…difficult to explain.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “No. They—I don’t think they suspected me of anything, thank God. Imagine thinking I would do anything horrible to dear little Amy. I loved that girl like my own granddaughter.” She dissolved into tears, pushing her round glasses up with the tissue and mopping at her eyes. “I’m sorry—”

  “It’s quite all right, Ms. Lindstrom. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Stone made as if to rise. He wasn’t sure what he could do—or how much he wanted to do—to investigate Amy’s death. Depending on what happened with Ian, not to mention the beginning of the quarter at the University, he might be quite busy enough going forward without taking on another project. But if there was occult involvement—

  “Dr. Stone?” Myra’s voice sounded tentative, her gaze still focused on him as she too rose from her perch.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s…one other thing.”

  He frowned. “Oh?”

  “Something I didn’t tell the police. I…couldn’t. But it’s why I called you again.”

  When he didn’t answer, she picked up her small clutch purse from the sofa next to her. She withdrew a folded sheet of paper and offered it to him. “I…found this taped to my door this morning. If I hadn’t gone out to get the newspaper, the detectives would have found it when they arrived.”

  A little frisson of dread ran up Stone’s spine and settled at the base of his neck. He didn’t take the paper at first, but instead shifted to magical sight and examined it. Aside from the troubled, pale-yellow aura around Myra Lindstrom’s hand, he saw no other indications of magic or unease. He plucked it from her hand and opened it.

  At the top was another symbol he didn’t recognize, different from the one left at Amy’s home. Beneath it were only a few lines, printed with a laser printer:

  Heed these words, abomination Lindstrom:

  Sorcery is an affront to God. Indoctrinate no more acolytes into your blasphemous ways, lest they suffer the same fate.

  You will receive no other warning.

  Portas Justitiæ has risen anew. Beware.

  ~ Maleficos non patieris vivere ~

  “Bloody hell,” Stone murmured.

  “It’s…got my name on it.” Myra’s voice trembled. “Have…you heard of these people, Dr. Stone? What do they want? I never learned much Latin…”

  Stone continued gazing at the note, shifting back and forth between magical and mundane sight. “I’ve never heard of them,” he said at last. “‘Portas Justitiæ means ‘The Gates of Justice,’ or more likely ‘The Gates of Righteousness,’ since the note refers to God.”

  “And that other part, there at the bottom?” She leaned forward.

  “It’s from the Bible—it means ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

  9

  Ian met Blake at a bar in Campbell. “So,” she said, as he joined her at her tiny, secluded table in the back. “How did your meeting with dear old Dad go?”

  “You were right. He’s exactly like you said he would be.” Ian lounged in his seat, stretching out his legs and draping one arm over the back. “Arrogant asshole. Full of himself. Doesn’t trust anybody.”

  She chuckled. “Well, he’s got cause, when you think about it. Did he believe you?”

  “I think he was starting to, but he didn’t want to. I could tell that.”

  “Of course he doesn’t want to. If he finds out he fathered a brat, he might have to take some responsibility for something, for once in his miserable life.” She shrugged. “Although, the way he fucks anything with a pussy, it’s a wonder he doesn’t have a whole flock of little bastards running around out there by now.” She regarded him with a sly gaze. “What do you think, Ian? Do you want a bunch of half-siblings?”

  “Not really. One’s enough.” He wondered sometimes what had happened to Mikey. With his mother and father both dead, Ian supposed the kid would end up with his grandparents, but he’d never checked. It wasn’t his concern anymore, and a drink or two usually took care of the occasional twinges of guilt about his involvement in the situation.

  “So what’s the next step? You said he was starting to believe you. What happened?”

  “He got a call from some friend who needed help. Said he’d call me after he’d dealt with it.” He mirrored her sly smile. “I could tell at the end he was coming around. I could see it in his aura.”

  “He didn’t catch on that you were watching, did he?”

  “No. I’m good—you know that. I could tell he was checking me out, though, trying to find something. I figure next time we get together, he’ll want to look even closer so he can be sure I’m really his son.”

  Blake shrugged. “Let him. He needs to convince himself before we can go forward. If he doesn’t believe you, he’ll never trust you.”

  “Yeah, I got that feeling.” Ian let out a sigh and gazed into his drink.

  “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “Hell, no. I wanted to do it today.”

  She chuckled. “Patience. I get it. Believe me, I do. But it’ll be a lot sweeter for both of us if you wait. Trust me. He barely knows you yet—give that a chance first. It’s always better if it means something.”

  She was right, of course. It wouldn’t be easy for him to go on pretending, especially after he’d met the man in person. For almost two years now, Blake had been telling him her stories, showing him her proof—she never expected him to simply believe her—and preparing him. When Stone had appeared from seemingly nowhere in front of his table today, he’d almost slipped.

  Almost.

  But he hadn’t, because that was what he was good at. Even better than Blake, if truth be told. He wondered if she knew it. He didn’t tell her, because that kind of thing set her off and it wasn’t worth it. She didn’t like to think about how he was growing in power and skill—growing so fast he might have already surpassed her own.
He’d take what he needed from her, do what they both wanted, and then it would be time to move on. To use what he’d learned to make his own way. He wouldn’t need her anymore after that.

  He wondered if she knew that, too.

  “I should go,” he said, finishing off his drink and standing. “I’m sure he didn’t follow me, but even so we should be careful. I wouldn’t put it past him to do some investigation.”

  “Oh, he will.” She leaned back, showing no signs of preparing to leave. “Doesn’t matter, though, if he does see us together. He’ll never recognize me. Not now. He’ll just figure you’re meeting some chick at a bar. Did you tell him you’re queer yet?”

  “Nah. None of his business.”

  “Yeah, good call. Doubt he’ll take that well.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t give a damn what he thinks.”

  The sly smile was back. “You should at least pretend to…for now.”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll play the part. I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He turned to leave, then stopped and faced her again. “I’m not stretching this out too long, okay? I get that you’ve got history with the guy, but I just want to get it over with and get the hell on with my life.”

  She patted his arm with a manicured hand. “Don’t worry. It shouldn’t take too long at all, once you’ve got him convinced. And like I said—it will be sweet. You’ll see.”

  Razakal appeared across the table from her less than five minutes after Ian had departed. The bar was nearly deserted this time of the afternoon, but of the few customers scattered around the tables, nobody seemed startled—or even, in fact, to notice—that a tall figure had materialized from nowhere into an empty chair.

  “You could just walk in like everyone else, you know.” She glanced down at her arms; her tattoos flowed around them, crawling like curious snakes.

  “I am not like everyone else.”

  He hardly matched the prevailing, casual-California style dominating the area. Physically, he was tall but not imposing, slim and elegant, dressed in a fine black suit. He had chiseled, handsome features, a smooth, bald head that shone in the faint overhead light, and long-fingered, graceful hands. The only unsettling bits about him were his eyes, which shifted between pits of blackness and flickering flashes of red.

  “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know. Fucking showoff is what you are.” She knew she was pushing it and supposed she should stop at some point, but she was giving him what he wanted. He could put up with a little shit in exchange.

  Even so, she wasn’t a fool. “Things are going well.” She glanced at the door where Ian had departed. “He’s getting cocky. Thinks he’s outgrowing me. Outgrowing us.”

  “We can use that to our advantage.”

  “Well, yeah. Of course we can. He has no idea what he’s up against, and as long as we keep it that way, things will be fine.”

  “They will be fine even if we do not keep it that way.” His voice was low and resonant; it barely rose above a whisper, but she had no trouble hearing his words. Most of what she heard was inside her head anyway. “You do not fear him, do you?”

  “Fear?” She snorted. “Why would I be afraid of a kid? Especially after what you’ve given me, and what I’ve done to make sure things go the way we want. He’s got a lot of power—more than I expected—and he’s smart and stubborn. But he’s still a kid.” Her wolfish smile returned as she met his gaze. “And it’s not like I haven’t been preparing him for this for almost two years. Don’t worry. He’ll do the job.”

  “You had best hope so. I have been patient with you so far. My patience is not infinite, and my hunger grows ever stronger.”

  There they were: the flashes of red around the infinite, endless black of his eyes. A faint, involuntary shudder ran up her back. “I know. Don’t worry—I won’t let you down. You know it’ll be worth the wait.”

  “I do indeed. That is why I have permitted you such a long leash. See that you don’t take advantage of my generosity.”

  She bit back a sarcastic reply, and instead only nodded. When all was said and done, she owed him a lot—and from past experience, she knew he never intended to let her forget it. “I’ve got this. Give it another month, two tops, and we’ll both have what we want.”

  His smile made her most predatory one look mild by comparison. As he faded from view, it was the last thing to disappear, like some kind of malevolent Cheshire cat.

  That and his eyes, with their burning gaze.

  She shivered and downed the rest of her drink.

  10

  Stone had uncharacteristic trouble keeping his thoughts under control as he drove back toward home. Two equally compelling subjects competed for his focus, and every time he settled on one, the other would poke its way in with more questions he couldn’t answer.

  This business with Ian is more important right now. Could it be true: could the young man be his son? Even after meeting him face to face, he couldn’t be sure. Evidence pointed strongly in that direction: the marked resemblance, the dual-hued aura, the photograph of him and Jessamy from their days in London. Sure, all of that could be faked—if someone who knew who and what he was truly wanted to convince him he had a lost son, they’d know they had to make it look very good to have any chance of fooling him—but the more he thought about it, the more something deep inside him became convinced it wasn’t a con. If Ian really was his son and his mother had kept the circumstances of his birth from him, it made sense that hidden information might only come to light following her death.

  So Jessamy was dead, then. He didn’t feel any particular grief over that, other than the abstract sort you might feel when you hear a long-ago acquaintance had passed on. It had been twenty years since he’d known her, and both of them had long since gone their separate ways. But still…a twinge of guilt and regret tugged at him as he remembered their brief, intense relationship. She had been good for him, even though she probably hadn’t known or cared how much. All she’d been concerned with was having fun, letting loose as much as possible before she had to return home to her stifling life in the States. He wondered if she’d have been better off if she’d found a way to remain in England instead of going home.

  I could have helped her with that, he thought with some bitterness. And if I had, perhaps I’d have known my son, and had some hand in raising him.

  Stop it, he told himself. He still wasn’t sure Ian was his son, and until he was, there was no point in speculating about what might have been.

  What he needed to do was get more information—do some investigation of his own.

  He pulled out his mobile phone and hit a number on his contact list. He got voicemail, as expected, but that was fine. “Jason—Stone. Listen, I know you’re busy, but if you get a chance, I’ve got a little project I’d like you to take a look at. Nothing major, just looking up some information about someone. Ring me back when you’ve got a few minutes.”

  He put the phone back in his pocket and drove on. There was no point in calling Verity and taking her away from her week studying with Hezzie—this wasn’t something she could help with yet. Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her about Ian until he had more definitive information.

  When he reached the Peninsula, he made a quick detour to drive by Stefan Kolinsky’s shop to see if he was there. He wasn’t, and a sign on the door behind the wards indicated he was away indefinitely. That’s all right, Stone thought as he got back in the car. I’ve been relying on him too much anyway. That, and if Ian turned out to be his son, he wasn’t sure that was the kind of information he wanted to reveal to his information-broker friend quite yet.

  Without anything else to go on, his mind drifted back to the situation with Myra Lindstrom and her apprentice. The thought of the young woman’s death had troubled him before, but not overmuch: even mages died in perfectly mundane ways, and if Amy Detmire had been as mild-mannered and relatively inexperienced in magic as Myra had implied, it was entirely possible she’d had
an accident, been killed in some bit of random violence like a mugging gone wrong, or experienced some other regrettable but unremarkable mishap. Sad, certainly, but not something Stone needed to involve himself with. Sure, there’d been the weird sigil Amy had received at her home, but he’d had no indication the two were connected.

  All that had changed with the discovery of the note left on Myra’s door.

  Portas Justitiæ—The Gates of Righteousness. He’d never heard of them before. They sounded like some sort of religious organization, especially when combined with the Biblical quote on the bottom of the note. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  It sounded like somebody had it in for mages—but that left a lot of unanswered questions. Was this an isolated incident, or could it be repeated? Was this really an organization, or just some nutter acting alone? Whoever they were, had they identified Amy Detmire as a true mage, or simply found out somehow that she and Myra Lindstrom had an interest in pop-occult subjects like Tarot cards and astrology? They’d clearly known about the connection between Amy and Myra, but had they known the former was the latter’s actual apprentice?

  Mind still spinning with these thoughts, he drove through the gates at the Encantada house, parked in the garage, and pulled out the note as he strode back toward the house. He’d asked Myra for it and she’d given it to him readily, mirroring his doubt that the police would have much chance of tracking down the killer if the murder was indeed magical in origin. The first thing he’d need to do is find out more about it.

  He got a cup of coffee and carried it upstairs to the study, with Raider twining between his legs. “I think life is about to get interesting again,” he told the cat as he sat down as his desk.

  Detective Leo Blum got back to him right away after he left a message with the desk sergeant at his precinct house in San Francisco. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “How’s it going? Or do I want to know?”

  “Hello, Detective. I need a little help. I know this isn’t your area of jurisdiction, but I wonder if you might get me some information about a recent murder in San Jose.”