The Seventh Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “Yeah, I guess it does.” Ian sounded disappointed and dejected at his failure to grasp what was apparently a simple concept.

  Stone gripped his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone’s different. You’ll get it, I promise.”

  But he didn’t get it.

  They tried for another half-hour, with Stone suggesting everything he could think of to help Ian break through whatever barrier was preventing him from progressing. He explained it several different ways, tried to get Ian to concentrate on his own aura instead of Stone’s, and even had him lie down on the floor and took him through a guided meditation designed to relax him even further. But no matter what he attempted, Ian steadfastly failed to spot even a faint auric glow around himself or Stone.

  “I give up,” Ian said at last, disgusted. “Maybe I don’t have what it takes after all. Maybe you were wrong about whatever readings you took.”

  In truth, Stone had begun to wonder if that might be true, but he didn’t see how it could have been. He’d done a thorough examination, and he’d stake his life that he hadn’t gotten it wrong. The potential was there, but somehow Ian couldn’t access it. He struggled to keep his own frustration under control; it wouldn’t help Ian if his teacher admitted to being as stumped as he was.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I promise, we’ll get this sorted. Let’s call it a night for now—we won’t make any progress if you’re frustrated—but give me a day or two to look into some possible reasons why this might happen, and we’ll start fresh then. If nothing else, I’ll try you on some other technique and we’ll come back to magical sight after we’ve built up your confidence. How does that sound?”

  Ian shrugged, and didn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, fine.”

  “Ian—”

  “It’s okay. You’re right—I’ll get it. I just feel bad that I suck at it after you said I had this great potential.”

  “You do not ‘suck,’ Ian. Everybody learns at his or her own pace. And I have to remember you never had any inkling any of this existed. Perhaps you’ve got some sort of mental block about it. I had that issue with my previous apprentice, regarding another kind of magic. We got past it eventually, and I’m confident you and I can get past this. If you really want to learn, I’ll make sure you do it. That’s a promise.”

  Ian gave him a faint smile. “Yeah. Okay. I do really want to learn it.”

  Stone saw him out, and watched him walk toward his car. He didn’t miss his slow pace, or the demoralized slump in his shoulders.

  “I’ve got to back off on him,” he told Raider as he closed the door and headed back inside the house. “Something’s going on with him, and I’ve got to take care. I don’t want to drive him off because I’ve built up his hopes and can’t live up to my promises.”

  Raider offered him a green-eyed stare of surprising sympathy, but otherwise had no suggestions.

  29

  Jason called back the next day. “Rivera’s getting out this afternoon, but I doubt you’ll be able to talk to him today. He’ll probably be hanging out with his family when he gets home, so there’s no chance to get him alone.”

  Stone remembered the man had a wife and two grown children, and Jason was probably right: after he got released from jail, they’d probably all converge on the house, especially given that Rivera wasn’t allowed to leave it except to go back and forth to work. “I need to do this without looking suspicious, which means I can’t waylay him on his way to work or something. The police will notice the tracker isn’t moving.”

  “I did a little poking around. The wife works too, which means unless he goes right back to work tomorrow, he’ll be alone during the day. That might be the best time. It’s still risky if the cops come by, but I can’t think of a better chance. You sure you don’t want me to come along?”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I don’t want you getting in trouble so soon after you’ve started your agency. Besides, I expect there’ll be a fair bit of magic involved, so best if I handle this one on my own.”

  “Yeah, okay. But be careful. I don’t want to be bailing you out of jail.”

  Stone had no classes on Friday, which made it easier to enact his plan to talk with Joseph Rivera. He sat in his car, parked across the street from Rivera’s small, single-story home in east San Jose. He’d been watching the place for nearly an hour; a potent disregarding spell made the black BMW blend in with the rest of the neighborhood’s older and humbler vehicles, and a disguise amulet altered his more distinctive appearance into that of a young man in a white T-shirt, jeans, and athletic shoes.

  He’d been sitting in the car pretending to read a book, watching the ten-year-old gray Taurus parked in the driveway next to a battered old work truck with Climate Masters Heating and AC Services on the door. Half an hour had passed so far as he waited for Rivera’s wife to leave for her job as a home health aide. Jason had told him as much as he could find about her schedule, but apparently it was somewhat variable so he couldn’t be sure exactly when she’d leave. The worst case would be if she took time off so she could stay home with her husband, but Stone had to take the chance that wouldn’t happen. He needed to talk to Rivera as soon as possible and try to get through that magical oath.

  He was surprised to see no reporters or other media outside the house, but he supposed they didn’t have time to stake out the homes of every accused murderer in the area. He knew from Jason that the police hadn’t released many specific details about the crime yet—including the part about the symbol carved into Amy Detmire’s back. With that out of the equation, the murder looked a lot more “normal”—if any murder could ever be called “normal,” anyway—and therefore of less interest to the media beyond initial reports. Still, Stone knew it would be best to do this as quickly as possible, since the press had ways of ferreting out such details and he’d never get near Rivera if the house became the center of a media circus.

  With little else to occupy his restless thoughts during his stakeout, he kept returning to Ian. He’d tried calling the boy yesterday afternoon, but the call had gone to voicemail. When Ian had returned it later that day, he’d seemed even more reticent than usual. “I still want to do this,” he’d said. “But give me a day or so, okay? I need to take care of a few things if I’m staying up here for a while. I’ll call you.”

  Stone couldn’t very well argue with him, so he’d agreed. The whole thing made him uneasy, though—the last thing he wanted was for his son to feel inadequate, or that he was disappointing his father, because he couldn’t catch on to magic as fast as expected. He wanted to tell Ian that, but before he could figure out way to do it that wouldn’t sound trite, lame, or awkward, the boy had ended the call.

  He heard a car door slam and glanced up quickly, realizing he hadn’t been paying attention to his quarry. The Taurus now had an occupant—a stout, dark-haired woman—and after a moment its engine rumbled to life. She remained in the driveway for a few more seconds, then pulled out and drove down the street.

  Stone didn’t waste time. He waited five minutes to make sure Rivera’s wife didn’t return to retrieve some forgotten item, then exited the car. He cast a disregarding spell on himself as he did; he’d been working on a stronger version since he’d gotten back from Calanar, and now it was almost as good as true invisibility. Anyone looking would still see a person, but they’d immediately ignore him as merely part of the neighborhood’s uninteresting background scenery.

  Joseph Rivera’s house looked similar to the rest of the small, single-story residences along his block. It had peeling beige paint, a shabby shake roof, and a small, scrubby yard bounded by a chain-link fence. The curtains on the front picture window were closed. Stone looked around for any signs of movement, but saw none save for a single vehicle that drove by and passed without slowing. The whole area had the aspect of a community doing its best to hold itself together despite the growing crush of poverty and the encroaching threat of crime.

  Double-checking his illusionary disgu
ise one last time, Stone hurried across the street and up the walk to Rivera’s front door. A quick spell flipped the door lock, and a moment later he was inside.

  He stood in a small living room, mostly neat except for a pile of magazines and newspapers on the coffee table, and a wadded-up blanket at one end of the overstuffed sofa. The TV was off, but Stone could hear the faint sounds of music coming from down the hall. He crept toward it and ended up standing in front of a closed door. He drew a deep breath, then pushed it open.

  Joseph Rivera sat at a desk on the other side of the room, and turned at the sound of the door. He looked much the same as Stone remembered him from the interrogation, except now instead of jail scrubs, he wore gray sweatpants, socks, and a 49ers T-shirt. His hair was disheveled as if he hadn’t combed it, and he hadn’t shaved. A black strap with a small black box attached encircled his left ankle. Despite all this, he didn’t look stressed.

  He did look startled, though. “Who are you?” he demanded, leaping up and glaring at Stone. His gaze shifted downward, perhaps trying to spot a gun or other weapon. When he didn’t see one, he grew bolder. “What are you doing in my house? Get out!”

  “Calm down, Mr. Rivera.” Stone employed his American accent, which he’d been working on periodically, both on his own and with Verity. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

  “Talk about what? How did you get in here? Get the hell out before I call the cops.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted any more contact with the police. In any case, I wouldn’t try it. I might look like I don’t have a weapon, but you don’t want to find out whether that’s true.”

  Something about Stone’s words, or perhaps his tone, seemed to unnerve Rivera. “What do you want?”

  “As I said—just to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened to Amy Detmire.”

  “Who?”

  Stone narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me you don’t even know the name of the young woman you killed?”

  Rivera’s body went tense. “Oh, man—are you one of those reporters? I already told your boss I don’t want to talk to any—”

  “I’m not a reporter, Mr. Rivera.” Stone shifted to magical sight, trying to spot any signs of the oath hovering around the man’s aura. It was a little easier without the glass in the way, but not much. He hadn’t even been certain about what he’d seen before—it had been more of an inference, based on the way Rivera’s aura had moved around as if trying to avoid something. Like illusions, magical oaths were designed to be very difficult to spot—nearly impossible if you didn’t know they were there in the first place. Hell, Aubrey had had one active for all of Stone’s life and he’d never noticed or even suspected it until the caretaker told him about it. Once again, he wished Verity were here; she’d shown a definite aptitude for delicate aura-based magic. He was good at it—better now, post-Calanar—but she possessed an inherent touch for the work that he couldn’t match.

  Ah, well—he was here and she wasn’t, so he’d have to work with what he had. “I want to talk about Amy Detmire,” he repeated. “And also about the New Life Church.”

  Rivera went pale. “What about them? I didn’t kill nobody—I already told the cops that.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I’m fairly sure they don’t believe you any more than I do. The question I have is this: did you do it on purpose, or did something compel you to do it?”

  The man remained silent, his gaze never wavering.

  Stone knew it wouldn’t be wise to remain here long. Someone would almost certainly show up or call, and he couldn’t afford to be caught. “Let’s get right to it, Mr. Rivera, shall we? Did someone tell you to kill Ms. Detmire?”

  “I have nothing else to say about that. You’re not going to trick me. I told you—I didn’t kill anybody. They’ve got the wrong guy.”

  Once again, Rivera’s pale-blue aura didn’t behave the way Stone expected it to. If the man had killed Amy, he would expect it to billow with agitation, spiking red flares as Rivera became increasingly uncomfortable. If he hadn’t killed her, the agitation would still be there but of a different variety. Neither of those things happened; instead, his aura seemed to shift as it had during the interrogation. There was no mistaking it this time: it looked as if it were trying to compensate for something, similar to a sound filter trying to block out certain frequencies.

  Stone had seen enough magical oaths to recognize one now. That was how they worked—the effect varied depending on who had cast them and the specifics of the particular agreement, but the bottom line was the same: as long as the oath was in effect, the subject could not reveal whatever secrets it was designed to conceal.

  He decided to take a chance, since he was confident his disguise was strong enough it would take a mage of at least his caliber to penetrate it. “I don’t have time to debate this with you. I think you know why I came in here with no obvious weapons.”

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But this time, both his posture and his aura belied his words.

  “You don’t like witches, do you, Mr. Rivera?”

  “Witches?”

  “Tell me about the New Life Church. Why do you meet in abandoned buildings? You’re doing more than a little Sunday-morning sermon and potluck brunch after, aren’t you? What do you know about something called Portas Justitiæ?”

  At the sound of the name, Rivera went even paler. “I—” He took a step forward. “Listen—I’m warning you. Get out of here. I don’t have to talk to—”

  Stone raised his hand and used magic to shove Rivera back into his chair. “Sit still, Mr. Rivera. I’m going to get my answers.”

  Rivera’s eyes were huge now, but surprisingly he didn’t look frightened. Instead, they blazed with passion. “You’re one of them!”

  “One of what?”

  “Witches,” he spat. “Abominations. Unclean things.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Rivera—let’s not get insulting. I had a shower just this morning.” He took a step closer. “Let’s have a closer look at you, and see if I can—”

  “Begone, evil spirit!” Rivera traced a complicated pattern with his hands, then held them up, palms toward Stone, as if trying to ward him off. “I call upon the power of the Lord to protect me from this foul abomination!”

  Stone paused for a second to see if anything would happen. He’d seen precedent, after all; was Rivera like Grace Ruiz, who actually did get results with such calls? When nothing did, however, he shrugged. “I’m afraid you’re on your own. Let’s not make this difficult.”

  It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that whoever had placed the oath on Rivera had done a better job at it than Stone had expected—at least good enough that it would take him a long time to carefully pick it apart. That wasn’t good.

  Oaths were a bit like wards in microcosm: in both cases, there were two potential ways to break them. The hard way was to dismantle them, one thread at a time, until they unraveled. The simpler way was to brute-force through them. Unfortunately for Stone, the hard way both took more time than he had and, in this case at least, probably more skill than he possessed. It didn’t matter how much power he had—the most intelligent person in the world couldn’t perform delicate brain surgery if he hadn’t been trained for it.

  That left brute force, and an even worse potential problem: the risk of doing permanent harm to Rivera’s mind. A person’s aura was inextricably connected with his fundamental being—his psyche, his personality, his soul. Magical oaths manipulated that connection. That was how they worked, and why they were so effective. Any kind of magic directly affecting the mind was some of the trickiest and most dangerous around, especially without specialized training. If Stone did this wrong, he risked destroying Rivera’s mind, driving him insane, or even killing him.

  He hesitated, studying the man as he held him there in his chair. Yes, he was a murderer—Stone had no doubt about that. He’d killed Amy Detmir
e, and he’d obviously known what she was. But did that give Stone the right to take this risk?

  Verity had more training, courtesy of her time studying with Edna Soren. If he left now, he could call her and ask her to come down and help him. He didn’t want to cut her alchemy retreat with Hezzie short, but sometimes the world didn’t leave you too many choices. Leaving meant he’d have to risk not getting another chance to find Rivera alone. That was the—

  In the chair, Rivera made a strange, strangled sound.

  Stone quickly focused back on him, and went stiff.

  The man’s face had gone dead white, punctuated unevenly by blotchy, livid patches. His eyes bulged, his tongue darted in and out of his mouth, and fat drops of sweat poked out from his forehead. His terrified gaze was locked on Stone, his hands alternating between scrabbling at his throat and reaching out as if for help. A darker patch appeared and spread at the crotch of his gray sweatpants.

  “Mr. Rivera?” Stone leaped from his chair and hurried to Rivera, gripping his shoulders and switching back to magical sight.

  Bloody hell.

  Rivera’s aura was alight with red, obscuring the normal light blue almost completely. As he watched in shock, the red grew brighter and crept inward until it touched the man’s body. Rivera bucked and jerked in the chair, a bubbling pink froth appearing at his lips.

  What the hell was going on?

  Rivera’s desk was next to a window, and Stone caught a movement through the open blinds. He jerked his head sideways in time to see a shadowy figure dash across the street and disappear.

  Literally.

  He didn’t round a corner, duck behind a tree, or jump into a vehicle. One second he was there, in the middle of the street, and the next he was gone.

  Rivera gripped Stone’s arm, dragging his attention back. The man’s bulging eyes pleaded with him to do something—anything.