House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  “I see.”

  “I thought if you were there—”

  He grins. “Sure.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I’ll go. I get it.”

  I let out a sigh of relief and give him a grateful smile. That wasn’t so hard. Now what could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We stand on a long pier behind The Wharf, a multi-building, multi-level shopping mecca in Orange Beach, Alabama, staring up at the sleek Iron Fist. She rocks in the gentle stir of the Intracoastal Waterway, a narrow band running north of, but roughly parallel with the Gulf of Mexico shoreline. It’s only midmorning. I’d declined Jason’s offer of a private plane. If I desire a quick exit, I want my car handy. Actually, it’s Alice’s car. I’m not supposed to drive my city vehicle beyond the city limits, unless it’s for a case. Moving up to Homicide didn’t merit me a better car, so I’m still driving the ragged-out one from Burglary. Not complaining; it has four wheels, though I’ve had to put it in the city shop on more than one occasion. Regardless of rules, I wouldn’t trust it to drive the five hours to the coast. We left after work last evening, a Friday, and stayed at a cheap hotel to give us a full day.

  The Iron Fist is the biggest yacht in sight. Daniel’s mouth hangs open, and Becca’s smile makes the five-hour drive already worthwhile. She wears a yellow, wide-brim straw hat tied with a white scarf, white Capri pants and a yellow-and-white striped shirt with long balloon sleeves. It took her days to pick out the outfit, something Becca-before-the-Ordeal would have thrown together without a thought. I made sure she had every inch of her fair albino skin covered in sunscreen. Daniel too. His pink skin grafts are very susceptible to burning.

  I was surprised at Nora’s quick acquiescence to my bringing Daniel. She showed no interest in coming herself, for which I’m grateful. Watching out for Becca and Daniel is more than enough on my plate. I don’t trust Jason or his family, but Alice confirmed Jason’s claim that water interferes with accessing power for members of any of the Houses.

  Worried that the wooden pilings holding up the pier would provide a conduit that bypassed the water’s anti-magic effect, I tried to access the living-green as soon as we stepped onto the pier, to no avail. If I could have pulled the smallest bit, we would all be piling back into the car and heading home, despite the disappointment for Becca. But I do feel a vague itch, as if the living-green is there, but out of reach.

  A familiar figure striding down the long, narrow pier catches my attention, his hair tossed by a breeze and glinting in the sunshine. Designer glasses hide his eyes. Not that I can tell designer glasses from a drug store brand. I’m just assuming. The Blackwell family, Alice tells me, is worth more dollars than I could count in my lifetime.

  A shorter man follows a step or two behind him, a darker presence to Jason’s bright gold. Something about the way the man moves implies law enforcement or military. A bodyguard?

  I spent most of my life as a military brat, and I know a military bearing when I see one. When he gets closer, I recognize him as the “bouncer” at the All Hallows Eve party Paul and I attended at the Blackwell mansion last year. The party where Aunt Alice “died” in the kitchen.

  Even though we are on the pier, I position myself between Jason and Becca. She hasn’t released Daniel’s hand since we piled out of the car. Despite Alice’s assertions and my own experimentation, I cringe when Jason shakes hands with Tracey, stepping close to make sure he doesn’t whisper something. That’s all it takes when a member of House of Iron touches a victim and draws on iron ore to fuel his power. A little whisper in a banker’s ear, a stockbroker, a policeman—it doesn’t take long to spin a web that touches government, finance, or politics. I realize I have no idea how far those webs extend. The only hitch is that normally Iron’s influence wears off with time. Unless they blow out someone’s mind, as Theophalus did with Becca.

  Jason looks miffed when he sees Tracey. “I had not expected a fourth person.”

  I shrug. “We can go home if you’d like.” I ignore Becca’s stricken look. Tracey doesn’t flinch.

  “No, of course, it is fine,” Jason recovers smoothly. “The chef will adjust.”

  But there is no doubt he resents Tracey’s presence and would like to know what our relationship is.

  “This is my driver, Angola,” Jason says, introducing the man behind him. “And a good man on a boat.”

  “Angola?” Tracey says. “Like the country in Africa?”

  “Yes, precisely,” the man replies in an accent I can’t quite identify. “My mother’s homeland.”

  If his mother was African, the light coffee of his skin implies his father might have been Caucasian. His dark hair is bound at the nape of his neck into a short ponytail. Equally dark hairs stubble his cheeks. I suspect he is one of the unlucky men who need to shave more than once a day to keep a beard at bay. On another man it might be unkempt, but on him, it’s a rugged, sexy look, if a bit effeminate.

  Jason leads the way onto the Iron Fist. Tracey follows, extending his hand to Becca for balance. Daniel ignores the offer. “I can do it,” he says.

  I’m up after Daniel. Angola follows.

  “Welcome aboard,” Jason says.

  Daniel gives him a salute, which he returns, not a hint of a smile on his sculptured face.

  “Very pretty,” Becca whispers in my ear, meaning Jason, and I can’t help a smile and a surge of hope. She is getting better. Maybe I have not done something awful with this excursion.

  On board, we meet two other crewmembers. The first is a man my age, deeply tanned with short brown hair, dressed in white slacks and a white sleeveless tee.

  “This is Lawrence,” Jason says. “Our pilot. Rest assured you are in good hands.”

  I can feel Lawrence’s gaze giving me the once over as Jason introduces the others—Nate, an older man with a thick mustache, who is chef and bartender, and a young man in navy blue shorts whose name I don’t catch, but I assume he is the one who handles things like ropes and anchors.

  Jason gives us a tour, and I’m impressed in spite of my determination not to be. The top deck is less than a quarter of the boat’s length and is crammed with equipment in what is obviously the pilot’s domain. Huge antennae rise on either side of the exterior. The next level down contains a beautiful stateroom with seating around a fully stocked bar, a large table, and lounge area. Behind that, a modern kitchen gleams with stainless steel. Even I, who live from refrigerator takeout to microwave, can see that it’s efficiently organized. Behind it is a narrow hall with two guest cabins that share a bathroom. Everything is spotless. Even the engine room gleams.

  Last on the tour is the master bedroom, framed in rich oak paneling. It’s twice the size of my room at Alice’s house and dominated by a king-sized bed covered in a red satin spread. The bed looms in my perception. I’m grateful that the same water barrier that separates me from the living-green douses the electricity between Jason and me.

  Sliding glass doors open from the bedroom onto a small private area of deck. We climb a short set of stairs, emerging onto a wider deck in the boat’s stern to find the boy in shorts has untied us from the dock. Jason waves us into comfortable chairs, and the Iron Fist glides smoothly out into the channel. Behind us, the concrete bridge of the Foley Beach Expressway arcs across the waterway. We head into the morning sun, which is subdued enough to look at full on. On either side of the waterway, tall pine trees green the banks. The day is perfect. As we move forward at a stately pace into the first bay, the sun plays behind the clouds before emerging to sparkle the languid water with silver coins.

  To my surprise, Angola appears with a tray of Bloody Marys and lemonade for Daniel. The drinks are works of art, sporting sprigs of celery, lime and pink boiled shrimp curved around the large glasses’ edges. He offers one to me. I hesitate and glance at Tracey. “You driving, Lohan?”

 
“Only if he can make me a virgin one of those.”

  “Of course,” Angola says.

  I pluck the glass from the tray. It tastes as marvelous as it looks.

  The day unwinds with the luxurious feeling of having cast off worries with the ropes that tied us to the dock. The waterway wends along, in no hurry to find the sea.

  Jason turns to Becca. “Would you like to fish?”

  Her eyes light and she nods.

  “Do you know how?” he asks.

  She curls her bottom lip under her front teeth, thinking. Trying to find memories? Oh Becca, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t let you come with me that day when we found the entrance to a secret tunnel, you would not be like this.

  Jason waits, though I can see he is not used to being patient. Finally, Becca shakes her head, and Jason baits her hook. He has been respectful of his promise not to touch anyone. It’s amusing to see him try to teach Becca to fish without brushing her. She doesn’t notice, intent on holding the pole the way he shows her. He gives one to Daniel too and is rewarded with a wide grin. The two stand, Daniel’s shoulder to Becca’s hip, manning their poles, busy and happy doing, as far as I can tell, nothing.

  The Iron Fist’s sleek hull glides through water browned from recent rains as we slip through Wolf Bay. Houses pepper the southern bank on our right, but on our left, as far as we can see up into the bay, the land is green and pristine, with occasional strips of white sand. Then the waterway narrows again, and houses appear on both sides of the channel.

  I bask happily in the intermittent sunshine, sipping my drink.

  “How long have you known Rose?” Jason asks Tracey. His tone is casual, but everything about Jason is intense. This interrogation is no different. I’m grateful again for the muting of fireworks between us. Not something I want to endure or let Tracey see. Tracey Lohan sees a lot. That much is obvious, even in the short time we’ve worked together. He’s also a liar, I remind myself.

  “We met a few months ago,” Tracey replies.

  “In the police department?”

  “Yep. We work together in the Homicide Unit.”

  Jason nods. I suspect he is not surprised. I have the feeling he knows a lot more about me than I’m comfortable with. Admittedly, the threshold for that bar is not very high.

  The Fist moves into a curve of land that Jason informs us is Bay la Launch.

  “There’s something here I want to show you,” he says.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jason stands beside me at the side railing as the Iron Fist heads slowly toward the north shoreline. “Barber Marina,” he says as we approach a couple of dozen yachts docked in parallel lines.

  None of the boats are as large as the Fist. The lengths of pier extend out into the bay in a maze-like channel, forcing the boats to idle coming into or leaving the area. Just beyond the first bend, something I can’t identify rises from the water. It’s not quite big enough to be a yacht, but there are two pieces of it, one larger than the other.

  Jason points at it. “Daniel, come look at this.”

  “What about my fish?” Daniel asks, looking at his pole.

  I smile. There is no fish on his line, but he is certain there will be.

  “Put it down,” Jason says. “The fish won’t mind. I want you to see the Lady in the Lake.”

  With a frown that reflects his reluctance to trade the possibility of catching a fish for looking at a woman, Daniel sets the pole down and joins us at the side rails. Becca, as always, follows him.

  “Where?” Daniel says in a bored tone that quickly turns into a “Wow!”

  As we get closer, the fuzzy objects in the water near the wharf resolve, and I laugh at the whimsy. It is indeed a lady in the water. “Lohan, come see this.”

  Tracey rises from his chair like a bear aroused from hibernation and lumbers to us. “What is it?”

  I point.

  “Well, bless my buttons,” Tracey says.

  “Bless your buttons?” I laugh again, this time at the incongruity of the expression coming from his mouth. “Where on earth did that come from?”

  He smiles and shrugs. “A great aunt who grew up on a farm. She saved it for the real shockers.”

  The “lady” in the water is clearly visible now. A serene, dark-haired giant, she sits in the bay as if it is a bathtub. Only her head, the top of her chest, and her knees are visible.

  Even Becca is entranced. “Who is she?”

  I’m again surprised when a complete sentence comes out of her mouth. It’s so unremarkable, no one else notices, but it’s sweet music to my ears.

  Jason is clearly pleased at his audience’s reaction. “She’s the Lady in the Lake.” He tilts his chin to indicate the forest beyond the marina. “There are more wonders back there, if you care to get off for a while and find them.” He looks at me and I know the unspoken question—And if you trust me on land.

  “Yes!” Daniel shouts.

  I hesitate. I do not trust him on land or myself with him on land.

  “Yes,” Becca echoes.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Why not?” Tracey asks. “Why wouldn’t we want to see more wonders?”

  Trapped again. I narrow my eyes at Jason, demanding without words that he keep his agreement not to touch anyone. He gives a barely perceptible nod.

  Lawrence negotiates the narrow channel skillfully. The boy in shorts appears and ties us off, and the six of us climb into a van, obviously left here for this purpose. Angola drives. I sit in the van’s far back row, as far from Jason as possible. Our first stop is to view a huge black metal spider, which Daniel pronounces “cool.” Becca shrinks against her seat in horror. We quickly move on.

  Nothing but pine trees grow on either side of the road, tall trees planted in precise rows that allow an unhindered view into their depths. Normally, Alabama forests are invisible beyond the first layer of foliage, as plants crowd each other for every available drop of sunlight. The state is ranked in the top five in terms of plant diversity. But here, between the soldier rows of pine trees, years of needles have layered the ground, preventing other growth.

  In their depths, we do find treasures, strange treasures. Jason has us leave the car and leads us to replicas of ancient Chinese warriors. At another stop, Daniel and Becca are delighted with a life-sized Stegosaurus and immediately clamber onto its back. Without being asked, Tracey, the tallest adult, moves into rescue range should either slip among the horned wedges of Steggie’s back. Angola waits for us in the car. He is apparently one of those servants who believe in staying out of sight unless needed.

  It’s the first moment that Jason and I have the space to exchange a private word. The electricity between us resumes as soon as he moves within “range.” The hum of it increases as he steps closer, careful not to touch me, even though, as members of the Houses, our powers don’t affect each other. But our magic feeds what crackles between us, as if we are the negative and positive ends of an electromagnetic loop. “I want you to know,” he whispers, “that I felt the same about you, even on the boat.”

  My mouth tightens. “In your dreams, Jason Blackwell. My life is complicated enough. You promised to leave me alone after this.”

  If anything, the blue ice of his gaze grows more intense. Maybe not being able to have something flames his interest.

  “I got you!” Tracey says, snatching our attention. His big hands have scooped Daniel from a precarious position on the dinosaur’s sloping back.

  We pile back in the van and visit Tyrannosaurus rex, where Jason announces lunch. I look up at the intimidating colossus. This is another extinct creature the world can do without. I pull my hair up, twisting it into a long ponytail to let a breeze cool the back of my sticky neck. The fate of the Houses is something I have relegated to the back of my mind, but it emerges, full bloom,
in the face of T-rex’s giant head and gleaming jaws. If the dinosaurs had continued to dominate Earth, would humans have evolved and survived? The Houses have abilities—like this creature has enormous, razor teeth—that give them advantages over normal people. If the Houses persist, will humans survive them? What right do I have to determine the world’s fate?

  In the shadow of T-rex, Angola spreads a quilt and produces food from the back of the van. I’m expecting fried chicken or ham sandwiches, but it’s fried shrimp and oyster po’ boys with icy fruit punch. Daniel is too excited to eat more than a bite and keeps jumping up to touch the dinosaur, maybe reassuring himself it isn’t real.

  When we’ve finished, I try to help Angola clean up, but he waves me away. “It is faster if I do it myself,” he says with a stiff smile. I notice he does not look at me, but shifts his eyes aside when I get close. I’m not used to this. Men look at me. It’s subconscious. They just do. I don’t normally notice, but Angola’s lack of interest triggers my attention. I observe his precise motions and the way he watches Jason’s every move. A servant’s anticipation? Or something more?

  I can’t help an inner laugh at the way my mind flickers from the fate of the world to whether a man is gay. Minds are fickle things.

  When everything is back in the van, we head toward the marina. A white gleam in the woods catches my attention.

  “Saved this one for last,” Jason says.

  We must have passed it on the way to Tyrannosaurus rex, but I was sitting on the far side and didn’t see it. Jason opens the door for me. Curious, I ask, “What is it?”

  He only smiles. “I think you will recognize it when we get closer.”

  This time Angola accompanies us. After a walk of about 100 yards, the path spills out into a clearing, and I can’t help a gasp. Before us, in an unmistakable pattern, is a ring of huge standing stones.

  “Stonehenge,” I say in an awed breath.

  “Yes,” Jason says. “Not real stones, but it’s to scale. It’s known around here as Bama Henge.”