House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  “Who found her?” Tracey asks.

  “Same neighbor. He came over to borrow a spatula, and the door was unlocked. He said he knew she was home and opened it to call to her. That’s when he saw her on the floor.”

  “Have you got a time of death?”

  “Medical examiner put it roughly between 2 and 5 p.m. The body wasn’t touched until the paramedics got to her, but she was obviously a goner, so they didn’t move her.”

  “Any other evidence?”

  “Nothing. Evidence tech made a thorough sweep. No signs of struggle. He tried to pick up some prints, but Miss—” He checks his report. “Miss Stokes kept a pretty clean house.”

  “Gloves?” I say.

  Young nodded. “Could have.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “That’s the thing that makes us think she knew him or her. There were no signs of forced entry anywhere. She let him in.”

  “How many shots?” Tracey asks.

  Young touches his forefinger to the back of his head, his thumb extended. “One shot.”

  Tracey frowns. “Doesn’t sound personal.”

  “Professional job. Nothing taken that we can determine, though. Office said her name was flagged by Birmingham.”

  Tracey nods. “That’s right. One of our cases.”

  “You think there’s a connection?” Young asks.

  “Might be,” Tracey replies. “Or maybe just a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe too much in coincidences.” Young scratches the side of his nose.

  “Me either,” Tracey says.

  “What’s the connection?”

  “Two weeks ago Benjamin Crompton, a professor at UAB, was found dead in his office. We thought it was an accidental insulin overdose—” Tracey stops and looks at me. “At least I did. My partner had it pegged as a homicide from the beginning.”

  I feel my cheeks flush at the compliment, but I can’t confess that I cheated because I “saw” what had happened in a vision.

  Young gives me a curt nod.

  “The puzzling thing,” Tracey continues, “is that the person who gave him his dosage should be the prime suspect in Dr. Crompton’s death too.”

  Young looks expectant. “There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” he mutters.

  “Yeah, there is,” Tracey says, “That person is lying on the floor of this apartment along with parts of her brain.”

  As I follow Young and Tracey down the hallway, I can see part of her twisted torso on the floor. Only a few hours ago, she was alive, grieving Crompton’s death, trying to figure out what her future would be. Now she is nothing but a cold corpse. Why?

  When I’m in full view, I focus on the body and draw on the living-green, hoping for a vision of what happened. The energy comes with the familiar warm golden flush, but I see nothing. No visions, just a neat small pool of blood on the beige carpet.

  “We need to talk,” Tracey says as we leave the scene. “I’ll meet you at your house.”

  “Not the best place for a private conversation.”

  “Just want to leave your car. I have somewhere else in mind for the conversation.”

  “Okay.”

  He follows me to Alice’s house, and I leave my city-assigned car in the small driveway in the rear and slide into the passenger side of his car. We are cocooned in quiet while he drives. Fine by me. There’s enough going on in my brain to kindle a small explosion.

  To my surprise, he takes us down 20th Street and south on Highway 31, turns up the south side of Red Mountain and pulls into the parking lot of Vulcan Park. From his pedestal above us, the Big Man looks down over the valley that cups the city, while showing his bare backside to us and to the communities to his south.

  This is where Team Rose—Becca and me—started the hike down the north side to the hidden old mine entrance. It was the beginning of the series of events that led to a hollowed out “room” in an old mine far below us, an iron chair, and a madman of House of Iron.

  Speaking of mad men, Tracey suggests we climb the stairs to the statue’s lookout. There is too much competition in my soul not to meet that little challenge. As the world’s largest cast-iron statue, Vulcan, Roman god of fire and the forge, weighs in at 100,000 pounds of iron and stands fifty-six feet tall, but that neglects to mention the 122 feet of pedestal he stands on. The Big Man is lit from below. Against the dark sky, he does look like a god, a burly, bearded gray god in an iron leather apron, holding aloft a spear he is forging.

  “Won’t it be locked?” I ask. “It’s well after open hours.”

  “Got that covered.” He produces a flashlight and a key to the tower. Once inside, he flips the deadbolt on the beautiful old-wood door. “I promised I would keep all the doors locked.”

  “Fine by me. It’s creepy enough to be in here.”

  Inside, the flashlight beam illuminates floor, walls, and stairs overlaid by the same prized white Alabama marble that graces the interiors of many older buildings, including the ceiling of the Lincoln Memorial and the U.S. Supreme court. A little fact I picked up on a tour to Washington D.C. with my father. The marble continues for the first few landings of the stairway. I run my fingers over the smooth, cool surface, wondering if there are any Houses that can call forth the magic from marble.

  But by the time we climb the 159 steps and reach the viewing area, which is at least three quarters of the way up the pedestal, all thoughts about anything have left my mind, and I’m grateful to step out onto a metal grate walkway that wraps the pedestal. Temperatures have dropped and the wind is fierce.

  Outside on the landing, Tracey leans against the beautiful wooden door. Despite his weight, he has to give it a hard shove to close it. The lock on this one is on the outside.

  “No need to lock this one.” Tracey says.

  I look down at the grated floor. “It’s a long way down if you dropped the key.”

  Heights are not one of my fears, and I love the breathtaking view. We move around the circular platform. Below, to our right, the lights of downtown glitter. To our left is the flat rooftop of the museum. The only structures higher than we are, besides the god himself, are the TV towers. Behind and above us, Vulcan looms. From our position, only a portion of his anvil is visible.

  The palpable presence of a massive amount of iron, even though we are far above the ground, jacks me on alert. Until a crisis point during the Ordeal forced me to open a channel to the power of iron, I had been unaware of it, just as I had been unaware of the living-green all around and beneath me until Alice showed me how to reach it. But now that channel to iron is open, and that is dangerous. I can draw from either magic, but they don’t mix without disastrous consequences. Tracey has no idea he is standing next to a potential ignition switch to a conflagration.

  Except for us, the platform is deserted. Actually, the park is closed, and I’m not sure how or why Tracey had a key to the locked door, but it’s exhilarating to be up here with the jeweled lights of the city sparkling below us. Wisps of clouds tease the pitted cream face of a full moon. No sound other than the constant whining of wind reaches us.

  Tracey backs up to the outer sandstone wall of the pedestal that supports Vulcan and sits. I do the same, though the chiseled blocks of stone are hardly a comfortable backrest, and wait for him to say whatever it is he brought me here to say.

  “This is a special thinking place for me.”

  “I have one of those.” For me it’s the woods or in front of my easel in the sunroom of my house.

  “I haven’t been honest with you, Rose.” He is not looking at me, but at the city below. His face slips from moonlight to shadow with the passing clouds. His big hands clasp his knees.

  I think he is maybe finally going to tell me why he lied about having a biochemistry class with Dr. Crompton, but I’m not prepared for what comes out of
his mouth.

  “I am House of Stone.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Iam House of Stone.

  The implications of what Tracey just told me reel in my head. I can’t seem to get any of them to settle into a coherent thought. Wind whistles past the round stone column at my back. Vulcan stands silent above us, intent on the spearhead in his hand.

  Tracey gives me time.

  Finally, I say, “Then you know—”

  “That you’re House of Rose. Yes, of course.”

  Of course.

  A section of my hair whips across my face. My spinning mind stops at an odd place.

  “At Alice’s graveside,” I say, “you knew those people who came and put roses in her grave were from House of Iron.”

  “I never met any of them personally, but I’d seen a photo of Jason Blackwell. I recognized him and figured the others with him must be from his House.”

  “How long have you known . . . about me?”

  “I knew you were in the city when you first touched the rose-stone. Everybody felt that.”

  Alice had told me the same thing. Somehow, when I found the rose-stone and touched it, vibrations spread out like an earthquake, alerting all members of the Houses. My hand starts to reach for the stone pendant where it rests against my chest, but I think better of it. Can I trust Tracey? He has lied to me. Theophalus Blackwell wanted the rose-stone badly enough to kill for it, presumably to stop the possibility of a Y Tair having it or using it. I know nothing about House of Stone or their motivations. They could feel the same way.

  “Am I some kind of witch advertisement walking around?”

  He snorts. “No. I would never have guessed who you were. After we were alerted that you were alive and close, we started searching for you. I wish we had been able to keep you out of Iron’s hands, but we would have had to kidnap you ourselves to do that.”

  I stiffen. “Was that on the table?”

  He looks directly at me. “Yes, to be frank. It was discussed. The stakes are that high.”

  “But—?”

  “It was decided that would warp who we are as a people. It was not an easy decision.”

  My mouth is a tight line.

  “Put yourself in our position. What would you be willing to do to save an entire race of people?”

  That hits too close to home. “I don’t know.”

  His look changes. “Sometimes personal decisions based on values are not . . . easy ones.”

  I change the subject. “How did you know a person from House of Rose had found the stone? What if someone from another House had touched it?”

  “The stone doesn’t ‘react’ like that unless the person touching it is a particular line of House of Rose.”

  “A line?”

  “Yes.” He puts a hand on my arm. In spite of the chill wind, it’s warm. “I keep forgetting that you weren’t brought up on House lore.”

  Jason had said much the same thing. And Alice—the only thing she’d said about a “line” was that the secrets of the rose-stone were only passed down through the eldest daughters and that she wasn’t in that line. I was. I am.

  “I didn’t know anything about magic until I came to Birmingham. You’re saying everyone—all the members of the Houses—knew when I touched the rose-stone, but not who I was?”

  “Correct, but we soon did.”

  “How?”

  “We set up observation on Alice,” Tracey says. “She was the last living member of your House. Where else would you go?”

  So simple. House of Iron had probably done the same thing.

  “The only thing that raised doubts was that you had a legitimate police interest in Alice Rhodon. But you confirmed your identity when you showed up at Iron’s Hallowed Eve celebration, bold as a she-lion with the rose-stone on your neck.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Historically, the party is a celebration involving all the Houses, but ever since we realized Iron’s intentions of wiping out House of Rose, Stone members don’t attend. We have kept our identities secret for the past two hundred years. Our purpose is to protect House of Rose.”

  “For your own survival.”

  “That’s fair. It’s at least a major reason. If the cabal in Iron intent on killing off House of Rose realizes our intent to protect you and counter their purpose, they might decide we also need to go. In fact, they might decide that anyway, but are focusing on House of Rose for the moment. For the record, we also think eradicating a group of people, whoever they are, is immoral.”

  “How did you know I was at the party and wore the rose-stone?”

  “We have an inside source.”

  “Who?” Jason?

  He grins. “I don’t know, detective. We have cell groups with different information and I’m not privy to that.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “Probably not. Why do you ask?”

  I want to say because I don’t trust you, but instead I test his assertion that House of Stone wants to protect me. “I think it’s important for my survival to know if anyone from House of Iron could be trusted.”

  “A point.” He rubs his chin. “I can tell you that it is my impression that the source of inside information on Iron is not a warlock. Their loyalty to House is fanatic and beaten into them from an early age.”

  “A woman then. Or a servant?”

  “Possibly.

  “That would get complicated if someone from Iron used their power and asked them.”

  “Precisely why we have cells and hidden identities. The information source—”

  “Spy.”

  “Yeah, the spy wouldn’t be able to give enough information to hurt us. The contact goes through layers.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me who you were, and why are you telling me now?”

  He smiles. “Rose, you never saw a question you didn’t like.”

  There are so many of them. And answering one seems to give birth to another, like bubbles in a boiling pot.

  “You got any answers I might like, Lohan?” My reply comes out sharp. I’m not happy. I don’t like being lied to or not being told things I need to know.

  “Some answers, perhaps,” he says.

  “Give them a shot.”

  “You asked three questions at once. I’m going to start with the last—why I’m telling you who I am now.”

  I say nothing, my lips pressed together, my back tight against the bumpy stone wall. The wind has started to work cold fingers under my thin tee shirt. Seeing me shiver, Tracey takes off a light jacket he wears to hide his shoulder holster and offers it.

  I start to refuse because I’m angry, but I take it and put it on. It’s way too big, the sleeves would hang almost to my knees if I were standing, but it helps cut the bite of the growing wind.

  “I’m telling you who I am now because of Laurie Stokes.”

  “Go on.”

  “If I had listened to you, she might be alive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tried to tell me Crompton’s death was a homicide. I thought it was just because it was your first case.”

  I scowl.

  “Or maybe,” he says slowly, “I didn’t listen because I didn’t want it to be a homicide.”

  “Because you knew Crompton?”

  “Yeah. Partly.”

  I look up at him and repeat what I have already confronted him with. “He was not your biochemistry professor. He never taught biochemistry.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  I’m looking at his face, though I can’t see his eyes. Dark clouds have moved in from nowhere and shut out the moonlight.

  “Who was he, Lohan?”

  “Why do you always call me by my last name?”

 
“Don’t avoid the question.”

  He hesitates. “He’s a relative, but it doesn’t matter. He was Family. He was House of Stone. I didn’t want to drag up anything that might expose us.”

  I let that settle. But I’m not ready to just swallow it. Was it truth or a way to cover another motivation?

  “You said you knew Jason was House of Iron?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know who you are?” I ask.

  “That I don’t know, but I doubt it. My House is very reticent about ‘coming out,’ and I stay out of politics as much as possible.”

  I take a breath. “House of Rose is pretty much extinct, except for me and—” I clamp my mouth shut, appalled at almost giving away Alice’s secret. “I guess there is no ‘and.’ I’m it.”

  “That’s why you’re so important . . . or one reason, anyway.”

  I can’t read his expression in the dark, but his last words seemed layered with meanings. He leans toward me and brushes the hair from my eyes.

  “What about my last question?” I ask.

  “Remind me?”

  “Why did you keep this from me?”

  “I don’t know you well, but I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t tolerate ‘being protected.’”

  At least he has that right.

  The wind now brings the tang of an approaching storm, loosening more of my hair from its clip. A flash of lightning and thunder crack close on its heels prompt us to our feet. I’m pretty sure a lightning rod exists somewhere on the statue, but I don’t want to be near when it gets tested.

  Before we can get to the door and the stairwell, I hear a definite ping off the metal railing and my first thought is hail.

  “Get down!” Tracey shouts, sweeping his arm around my shoulders and pushing me down.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Tracey’s body slamming into me like a truck sends me cheek-down onto the metal-grating floor of the tower platform just below the Vulcan statue. I gasp for breath at the impact.

  “Damn it,” Tracey says in my ear. “Get up. We have to move.”