The Seventh Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “And it’s good that you’re doing it. Passion is a good thing, and I’m pleased at how well you’ve progressed since your apprenticeship ended. The last thing I ever wanted was to produce some sort of clone—one of me is quite enough, I think. If this is something you feel strongly about, by all means don’t let me stop you. I’m just warning you that you’re likely to encounter a lot of resistance, and I’m afraid in this you’ll find me apathetic at best, and on the opposite side at worst.”

  She chuckled, but Stone didn’t miss the tension in it. “Yeah. Maybe I’m not ready to try changing the world yet. Maybe you’re right, and I just haven’t seen the whole story. I think that means I need to make more of an effort to do that, though. You know, get to know more mages. Try to understand better about how things work.” Her gaze flicked to her plate again, then back up to meet Stone’s. “But I want you to think about something. Maybe this is a little bit of a low blow, and I don’t mean it to be—but maybe if there was some kind of governing body to keep mages in line, then people like your grandmother, or Marciella Garra, or that woman who tried to kill you at Burning Man might have been stopped before they got out of hand.”

  “Trin is dead,” he reminded her. “I dealt with her, remember? The others—possibly you’re right. Possibly not. But what about people like Stefan Kolinsky, or Harrison? Do you honestly think if some collection of bureaucrats decided to set their sights on them, it would do any good at all? They’d laugh. Well, all right, Harrison wouldn’t because I’ve barely even seen the man crack a smile, but you get my meaning. The best a group might do, in my opinion, is keep the low-powered talents in line. And we already do fine with that the way things work now.”

  “And meanwhile, this person—or people—are still out there in Portas Justitiæ, and who knows how long it’ll be before they end up sending somebody else to carve up some poor harmless apprentice?”

  Stone drew breath to protest, but then let it out. In that, at least, she was right. He was not much closer to tracking down the people pulling the strings behind Amy Detmire’s murder than he’d been at the beginning, and dealing with Ian had sidetracked him from the task.

  “Fine,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll call Elspeth Crowfeather again, and see if I can locate any other possible similar murders. And I’ll put more effort into working out what the connection to the New Life Church is. All right?”

  “That’s not really what I meant,” she said with reluctance. “But it’s a start, I guess.” Her gaze rose, and her eyes were full of resolve. “This isn’t over, though.”

  “Nor would I expect it to be.”

  As he began gathering up the dishes and carrying them to the kitchen, Stone cast a couple of glances at Verity. His mind flashed back to a few months ago back in England, when he’d discovered the monstrous activities his own ancestors had been responsible for. Would some kind of magical law-enforcement body have been able to stop them? In truth, he doubted it. Perhaps he’d grown too cynical over the years, but if he believed anything, it was that power corrupted—so it was best not to concentrate too much of it in one place.

  44

  When Elspeth Crowfeather still hadn’t returned Stone’s call by the following day, he threw himself down on the sofa with the phone, waited until Raider had settled in his lap, and made another attempt. Once again, he got voicemail. “Ms. Crowfeather—this is Alastair Stone again. I rang you a couple of days ago about the incident with Marcie Zarney. Please—I’m sorry to remind you of such a terrible time, but I have some questions I need to ask you. I promise not to take much of your time, but other lives might depend on what you might be able to tell me.”

  He left his number and hung up, slumping back to stroke Raider. He couldn’t force the woman to call him back. Perhaps he’d need to ask Jason to dig deeper, to see if he could find more—

  His phone chirped.

  He glanced at the screen, and saw the same number he’d just called. He sat up and quickly hit the button to answer. “Yes, hello?”

  “Why do you want to talk to me about Marcie? Marcie’s dead. She’s been gone for years. Let her rest.” The voice was low, flat, and inflectionless, with a long-time smoker’s rasp.

  “Ms. Crowfeather. Thank you so much for returning my call.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to. What happened was in the past, and it should be left there.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “You said lives might depend on what I tell you. Did you mean that, or were you just tryin’ to get me curious enough to call?”

  “I did mean that.” Stone got up and paced the room as he spoke. “I’m in California—in the Bay Area. We’ve recently had a murder here that seems similar to Marcie’s. I wanted to discuss it with you, to see if there might be any parallels.”

  “What do you mean, similar to Marcie’s?” The voice grew suspicious. “Are you from the police?”

  “No. I’m a university professor—I teach occult studies, which is one of the reasons I’m interested in the case.”

  “One of them? What’s the other one?”

  “Ms. Crowfeather, I’m going to ask you a question which, depending on your answer, might sound strange. Or it might not.”

  “Huh?”

  Stone took a breath. “Are you a member of the magical community?”

  There was a long silence. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “If you know what I’m referring to, you’ll know the answer to that.”

  More silence. “You’re not just talkin’ about my coven, are you?”

  “No, Ms. Crowfeather. I’m not. Was Marcie Zarney your apprentice?”

  “Who did you say you were again?”

  “My name is Alastair Stone. I’m a practitioner. That’s why I’m looking into this murder—a friend asked me to do it. The victim’s master.”

  “You’re a—”

  “Yes. The real deal. As, I suspect, are you. Am I correct?”

  The silence stretched even longer this time. “What if I am?” she finally asked grudgingly. “I don’t do that kind of stuff anymore.”

  “You’ve left your coven?”

  “Nah, I’m still in the coven. But I don’t do—the real thing anymore. Not since Marcie died. Mostly I just do social stuff with them these days.”

  Stone chose his next words with care. “Ms. Crowfeather—”

  “Betty. Call me Betty. I don’t really go by that name anymore, except at coven meetings.”

  “Betty, then. Please forgive me for asking you this, but as I said, it could be very important. Did you find Marcie’s body?”

  “Why do you ask?” There was the suspicion again.

  “I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with her murder. Not at all. I just want to know if you perhaps…found something, or received something later, that you didn’t share with the police. A note, possibly?”

  Her gasp was audible over the phone line. “How did you—”

  “Because the same thing happened with the murder down here. The apprentice’s master received a note. Did you get one too?”

  Stone almost thought she wasn’t going to answer, or that she’d hung up. He was about to say something when she grumbled, “I didn’t find Marcie. Couple of the other coven members did. They called the cops—I never even saw her. But they—the coven members—told me her neck’d been broke, and there were crosses and Bible passages and stuff like that spread around her body.”

  “But no note?”

  “I got that the next morning. It showed up tacked to my door—I guess whoever left it did it sometime in the night.”

  Stone stopped his pacing. “Do you still have it? Why didn’t you give it to the police?”

  She snorted. “What the hell good would that’ve done? Not like they’re gonna catch whoever did it.”

  “Why not?”

  Another pause. “I was scared, okay? The note—I don’t have it anymore. I burned it. It freaked me out even having it in the house
. But I remember what it said.”

  “What did it say, Betty?”

  Now, her voice shook. “Damn you for bringin’ this up again. I’ve finally got to where I don’t have nightmares about it. I ain’t much of a witch, Mr. Stone. Never claimed to be. I’ve got a few tricks, and I’m pretty good with herbs and rituals, but nothin’ to write home about. I minded my own business, and only agreed to teach Marcie as a favor to her mom. I never wanted any trouble.”

  “The note told you to give up teaching apprentices, didn’t it? That the same thing would happen again if you did?”

  “How…the hell did you know that? Was that what your friend’s note said too?”

  “Yes. And it frightened her so much she’s decided to go along with it. She told me she’s afraid to take another apprentice, even if she wanted to. Is that what happened to you?”

  “Yeah…” Her weary rasp sounded defeated. “Call me chickenshit if you want, but it’s not like I was doin’ anything important. Nothin’ that mattered if I stopped doin’ it. And nobody’s bothered me since then, or anybody else in the coven. None o’ the rest of them’s real witches anyway. So I guess whoever they are, they keep their word. For whatever that’s worth,” she added bitterly.

  Stone returned to the sofa and resumed his seat, and Raider immediately jumped back on his lap. “Was there any name on the note? Anyone claiming responsibility?”

  “Nah. I’da remembered that. It was just a regular sheet of paper, printed on one o’ those laser printers, and the only thing weird about it was the symbol on the top. I’d never seen it before.”

  Stone described the symbol on Myra Lindstrom’s note. “Did it look like that?”

  She gasped again. “Yeah. That sounds about right. Does—does that mean there’s some kind o’ organization out there killin’ apprentices?”

  “It’s possible. I’m beginning to think so—although it’s odd that they take so much time between murders. It’s hard to make any sort of statement if they’re committing them so far apart geographically and with so much time in between.”

  “Maybe they’re not tryin’ to make a statement,” Betty said. “Maybe they just want to scare folks away from takin’ apprentices, and they don’t need anybody else to know about it.” There was a rustle, almost as if she’d lost her grip on her phone. “Listen, Mr. Stone—I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It was a long time ago, I’m tryin’ to move past it, and you dredgin’ it up again isn’t good for me or anybody. So don’t call me again, okay? I told you what I know, and that’s all I wanna say.”

  “Thank you, Betty. I appreciate your trusting me.”

  “Yeah, well—if there really is somebody out there doin’ such a terrible thing, I hope you catch ’em. For Marcie’s sake. But me, I’m done. They can have what they want, long’s they leave me the hell alone.”

  45

  Ian didn’t call his father back for three more days. When Blake called the first time to ask where he was, he didn’t return her call. The second time, later the same day, he did, but reluctantly.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I stopped by your place twice and you weren’t home. I’ve got better things to do with my time than chase you down.”

  “I’ve been around. Just needed a break.”

  “A break? You mean you haven’t been with Stone?”

  “Nope.”

  There was a pause; he could almost picture her trying to get herself under control so she didn’t rage at him. It amused him. She was so easy to piss off. “Why…aren’t you with Stone?” she asked with careful precision.

  “I just told you. I needed a break. I’ve been doing my own thing for a couple days. Partying up in San Francisco. Exploring.” He didn’t tell her that part of his ‘exploring’ had involved a smoking hot guy he’d met at a club, but he figured that was none of her business.

  “Ian…what’s your problem? You’ll have time to party and screw yourself blind once Stone’s taken care of. Has he tried to contact you?”

  “Nope.” He’d wondered about that—was it because his father was losing faith in his abilities and cooling on the idea of teaching him, or because he was giving Ian his space?

  Another long pause. “Listen. You are not going to fuck up my plan because you’re off screwing around in San Francisco instead of doing what you’re supposed to. I thought you wanted to get back at him as much as I do.”

  “I do.” He thought about his lunch with Verity; it had been on his mind for the last three days, and in truth had been most of the reason why he hadn’t been in a hurry to get back to Stone. He wondered if she had told his father what she’d figured out about him, or if she’d kept her word. He barely knew her, and had no idea if he could trust her. She was, as Blake had said, ‘stupidly loyal to Stone,’ especially if they were sleeping together. Even so, though, he’d felt a connection to her. He liked her, in fact. He wondered if he and Blake could arrange Stone’s death so nobody, not even his closest friends, knew what had happened. He could play grief with the best of them, after all—I just found my long-lost dad and now he’s dead, boo-hoo—and maybe stay friends with Verity once he and Blake called it quits. It was something to think about, at least. Another option.

  “So, what the hell are you waiting for? Call him back. Tell him you missed him and want to get back to magic lessons.” Her tone changed, became more persuasive. “Come on, Ian—it’s not for much longer. I get it—you want to move on as much as I do. The quicker we make this happen, the quicker we can do that. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay. I’ll call him.” He’d have to do it soon anyway—he already knew that. Let her think she was getting her way. She was always easier to deal with when she thought things were going according to her wishes. “Let me get off the phone and I’ll do it right now.”

  “Good. Let me know how it goes. We’re close now.”

  Stone answered on the second ring. “Ian. I’ve been wondering where you’ve been keeping yourself.”

  “Sorry. Just…taking care of some things. I found a place—one of those residence inn things that rents by the week.”

  “That’s fine—we’ll find you someplace better once you’ve decided what you want to do. I didn’t call because I didn’t want to seem too pushy.”

  “No, it’s cool. Do you want to get back to magic lessons? I’ve been practicing some,” he lied.

  “Brilliant.” Stone sounded pleased and surprised. “Whenever you like. Come by this afternoon if you want to—I’m done here, so I can be back at the house by three-thirty.”

  Ian tightened his hand on the phone. His father sounded so eager. Sure he does. He wants to lull you into a false sense of security, so you won’t catch on to what he’s trying to do until it’s too late. He couldn’t let himself forget that. He was playing a chess game here, against someone with a lot more experience than he had. He’d have to examine his every move with care before committing, and above all he’d have to make sure not to fall into the trap of thinking his father cared about him beyond his use as just another pawn.

  “Great, Dad. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Stone’s black BMW was already in the open garage when Ian arrived. He stopped as he got out of his car, looking at the big, forbidding-looking house and the wild land around it. At the insane property values of this area, the place had to be worth a small fortune. Blake had said his father was wealthy—she mentioned he had a big place in England too, and came from one of the oldest of Britain’s magical lines—but he’d never thought about the implications of that.

  When he did now, wondering briefly if he’d end up inheriting all of this once Stone was dead, the thought made him surprisingly uncomfortable. It shouldn’t, he told himself—it would be about time, after all. His earliest years had been marked by poverty as his mother struggled to make ends meet with her low-paying job and the grudging money his grandmother had given her, and his later years, while more financially stable with Bobby in the picture, had been full of
tension, punishments, and frustration. It wasn’t his fault his father had abandoned his mother. Hell, it might have been his father’s fault his mother was dead. Why shouldn’t he get something for all that?

  He’s not dead yet. Worry about that later. He told himself that was why he pushed those thoughts aside—he needed to keep his eyes on the goal—but even as he did, he knew it wasn’t the whole reason.

  The door opened and Stone stepped out. “Ian! Good to see you.”

  He studied the man for a moment as he approached. His father wore his usual faded jeans, a black T-shirt with the logo of some London pub, and athletic shoes instead of his more customary black boots. Ian had noticed from the day they’d met, in the same purely aesthetic way he noticed with any man regardless of whether he was attracted to him, that his father definitely took care of himself. He looked no older than his early thirties, his short, spike-fronted dark-brown hair showed no signs of thinning or graying, and his tall, slim frame displaying a surprising amount of muscle definition for a college professor who spent all his time reading books and teaching students. Stone hardly seemed the workout type, but unless he’d found a way to simulate it with magic, he must be. Ian himself frequented the gym several times a week, a habit he’d cultivated when he arrived in Los Angeles and kept up when he’d started working with Blake. He’d never had trouble finding guys to hook up with, and now he wondered if his father had similar success with women. He certainly had with Verity.

  As he followed Stone inside, he thought about Blake and her dysfunctional obsession with his father. Oh, she had it bad for him—that would be obvious to a blind man, and Ian was a hell of a lot more perceptive than that. He hadn’t quite worked out how she could hate Stone so much and still want to fuck his brains out, but he supposed that was a deeper abnormal psychology lesson than he cared to delve into. He smiled tightly as he thought of an expression he’d heard from one of his hustler buddies back in L.A.: Not my circus, not my monkeys. He had a job to do, and that was where his focus should be. Blake’s snake-pit of a psyche was none of his business.