House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  “I’ve missed you,” Jason says.

  I look away from the intensity of his gaze and remind myself why I asked him to meet me. Tracey and Alice would have been appalled that I am with him, but I don’t care. Tomorrow, the last person in the research trials checks in. I have only a few hours to save Segal and zahablan.

  “I need to know some things,” I say.

  “Yes, you do.” He reaches over and lays two fingers lightly on my wrist. My breath catches.

  “We should not fight what is between us,” he says. “The magic pulls for a reason.”

  Ordinarily, I would have brushed off such a statement, but after my conversation with Alice, and now Tracey, I’m wondering if there is truth to that. Alice insists that the survival of our “species,” if that’s what we are, is dependent on genetic mixing of the Houses. Could the intense sexual attraction between Jason and me be about that? Nature designed hormonal surges to stimulate the sex drive, whose ultimate purpose is genetic, the survival of our genes. Perhaps this is the magical kin to that drive. I don’t feel that pull with Tracey, but who knows why the hormones kick in “attraction vibes” for some people and not others? I make a mental note that the hormones’ choices are not always wise ones.

  I’ve never felt this kind of desire for anyone. Half of me resents the manipulation and the other half wants to mate with him right here and now on this table. That’s just the truth. I close my eyes for a moment to find my self-control.

  “That’s not what I need to talk about,” I say.

  “But it is. Why are you fighting this? Rose, you are a beautiful person, inside as well as outside. I respect you, and I desire you more than I have desired any woman in my life.”

  I can easily imagine how hearing such words from someone like Jason Blackwell would spin any woman. My head is certainly spinning at full tilt. I pull my hand away and stow it along with the other one in my lap. He doesn’t know I have House of Iron blood. Some instinct keeps me from telling him or Tracey.

  “Listen,” I force myself to say, “maybe later we can talk about desires, but there are things going on that have to be dealt with first.”

  He leans back. “Then I must console myself with being close to you . . . for now. What is so important, il mio amore?”

  “Are you familiar with a company called Fe, Inc.?”

  He shrugs. “It’s one of many holdings of my Family, but it is local, in the U.S. I pay little attention to business acquisitions here. My focus is overseas.”

  “What do you do, anyway? Besides play the rich playboy?”

  He smiles, “I enjoy that role, true, but I also travel for the Family, making connections.”

  “A little touch here and there to smooth business?” I ask.

  His face hardens and he leans forward. “Rose, you must understand that our abilities are as natural as breathing to us. They have saved us countless times throughout history.”

  “And made you quite rich.”

  “Yes, that too. Money is part of security, is it not?”

  I don’t want to go down this road. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to criticize you or—” I start to say “your Family,” but it’s my House too. “Jason, I’m going to be blunt.”

  He throws his head back and laughs.

  Annoyed, I wait for him to stop. “What’s so damn funny?”

  “Oh, il mio amore, when have you not been blunt? It is one of the things I adore about you.”

  I flush, not sure if it’s from embarrassment or his freedom in speaking his heart . . . or his lust. I looked up il mio amore. It means “my love.” He may think me blunt, but perhaps he is more honest than I, who cannot or will not speak of my own desire.

  Desire is not love. I hold that between us like the early Christians used the symbol of the cross to ward off evil.

  He smiles and lifts both hands skyward. “Ask me whatever you wish.”

  “I’m investigating a murder that revolves around the testing of a drug. The funding for that drug is coming through a company called ZQ Pharmaceuticals.”

  He shrugs, smiling. “This means nothing to me.”

  “One of the major stock holders in ZQ Pharmaceuticals is Fe, Inc.”

  The smile fades abruptly from his chiseled face. “Which my Family owns.”

  “Owns and controls,” I say.

  “You believe the Family had something to do with this murder?”

  “Seems a distinct possibility, and we believe there are other people imminently at risk.”

  “I see. What do you want from me?”

  “I want your help.”

  He cocks his head to the side, exposing it beyond the shadow of the umbrella. Sunlight plays in the gold of his hair. I pull my gaze from the glimmer back to his eyes, which doesn’t help my concentration one bit.

  “You also want to know if I am involved,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “The answer to that is ‘no.’”

  I nod slowly, not sure I can believe him, but dead certain I want to.

  “And how exactly do you want my help?”

  “I want you to find out if anyone in your . . . Family is behind this.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Ten minutes before my alarm goes off the next morning, I wake in a panic, bits of dream world clinging to my reality. All I can remember of it is that I was digging into the floor of Benjamin Crompton’s house, uncovering pieces of debris and odd pieces of his past that were important, but I couldn’t figure out why.

  And I’m running out of time to figure things out. This is the day that the last patients in the zahablan trials check in. Segal is supposed to start checking the data. If he does, that is when the killer will strike. Theoretically, I’ve made sure he won’t start doing that, but I have the feeling my efforts at using Iron magic is like a cheesecloth—full of holes. According to Jason, the effects wear off, but I have no idea how long that will take or if it is dependent on how I did it.

  If House of Iron is involved, it means someone could have influenced Laurie Stokes, “suggesting” she give Crompton the insulin from her pocket and then forget about doing it. In order to ensure that memory never resurfaced, the real killer got rid of the only witness, Stokes, as he plans to do with Segal once Segal has tampered with the database. Then the zahablan trials will be a failure, and whatever the private lab produces will have a clear path to a new patent and profits. All the companies that make diabetes-related products will keep their profits, at least for several more years. And Deon Segal will be as dead as Laurie Stokes and Benjamin Crompton.

  We have to find the killer before that happens. What have I overlooked? I go back over everything, unwilling to get out of bed until I have a plan. There must be something.

  There is nothing besides calling Jason and hoping he has something.

  A sudden wave of nausea convinces me I have to get up before I throw up all over my sheets. I stumble to the bathroom. Am I having psychological morning sickness? That’s just great. Practice pregnancy. Just what I need. I’m allergic to even the idea of being a mother. Is this about getting Daniel back or the thing about being a mother to the race of witches and warlocks? Or something I ate?

  “I’ve got Becca,” Alice calls from upstairs. “You go on to work.”

  I close my eyes in gratitude that I don’t have to face that today. Coward.

  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, I know why I dreamed of digging in Mrs. Crompton’s house. As soon as I determine I’m not really going to be sick and can safely exit the bathroom, I call Tracey.

  “Morning,” Tracey says with a yawn.

  “Lohan, I have an idea. It might be nothing, but meet me at Benjamin Crompton’s home. You got the address?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get there.”

  Tracey i
s waiting when I pull up.

  “You must have been up early,” I say.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “This is the last day we have.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t sleep. I keep going over everything, hoping something we missed will jump out.”

  “Me too.”

  “Why are we here?” he asks.

  “I had a dream.”

  “A vision?”

  “No just a dream, but I think it might have been my subconscious telling me what I missed.”

  “And that is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Rose, sometimes you are infuriating. I am the senior officer here, you know.”

  I give him a quick grin and stride up the sidewalk to the front door.

  With a loud sigh, he follows me.

  Mrs. Crompton answers the door in the same silk robe she wore the day I was there.

  “You’re back,” she says and eyes Tracey suspiciously.

  “Yes, ma’am. This is my partner, Detective Lohan.”

  “Did you find out who killed Ben?” she asks.

  “We’re working on that.”

  “It was the aliens,” she says. “I’m sure it was them, but I don’t know what he did to make them angry.”

  Tracey scratches his chin.

  “You may be right,” I say. “May we come in and talk about it?”

  “Of course.”

  We follow her into the living room. She waves at the chairs, but I don’t sit.

  “Mrs. Crompton, we’ve hit a dead end in the investigation, and we need your help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “When I was here before I asked you some questions, but what I didn’t ask was whether your husband kept any notes or papers from the office here.”

  “He worked in his study. I haven’t moved anything.”

  “May we take a look?” I ask.

  “He was a private man,” she says, staring at Tracey.

  “It’s important. Someone’s life may depend on what we can find.”

  She turns back to face me. “Well, of course, if it is that critical. Go look.”

  She leads us to a study in the back of the house overlooking her well-manicured garden. I can’t help thinking how different it is from Alice’s chaotic mixture of herbs, vegetables, and flowers.

  Tracey starts investigating the contents of the desk. I’m drawn to the bookshelves, giving them a quick scan. Most appear to be in the field of microbiology and biochemistry, along with a shelf of classic literature. I recognize a few of the titles.

  A rosewood leather recliner faces the window. On a small table beside it lies a beautiful, wood-carved pipe with an ivory bowl, a leather tobacco pouch and a book, The Tao of Pooh. Curious, I open it at the bookmark. A line is highlighted in yellow marker.

  . . . A Weakness of some sort can do you a big favor, if you acknowledge it’s there.

  I regret not knowing Benjamin Crompton. He must have been an interesting man. His weakness, I suppose, was trusting someone, specifically Laurie Stokes.

  Tracey is shuffling through the papers he has found in the desk. I attack the filing cabinet.

  “I have no idea what I’m looking for,” Tracey says. “Can you give me a hint?”

  “I would if I had a clue,” I mumble. “Just keep looking.”

  An hour passes.

  “This is ridiculous,” Tracey says. “I’ve looked through every piece of paper in every drawer. I don’t understand but five words. It’s all technical papers.”

  “Zero here, too,” I say, and plop down in the big chair next to the pipe.

  “It was worth a shot. It’s not like we have anything else to go on.”

  “Other than that connection with Iron and ZQ Pharmaceuticals,” I say.

  “A coincidence?”

  “No. It explains too much.”

  “Like how Laurie Stokes was ‘convinced’ to kill a man she seemed to care about?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “And how the killer expects to influence someone like Deon Segal.”

  I’m gratified our thoughts have traveled the same path, but I can’t let go of the feeling that we’re missing something.

  “Something happened that made our suspect feel like he needed to off Crompton in the first place,” I say.

  “You think Crompton suspected something?”

  “It’s just a theory, but according to Laurie Stokes, a lot of people spread out over the UAB medical community were participating in this research in some way. Crompton and Stokes were the only ones targeted, other than Segal, who holds the key to the results.” This is a repetition of what we already know, but I’m hoping by repeating it and bouncing it off Tracey, something new will emerge.

  “Those are the only three that we know of,” Tracey says.

  “We know why Stokes was killed.”

  “We think we know. And only if a House was actually involved.”

  “Assume it was House of Iron. What made Crompton a particular target?”

  Tracey shrugs. “He is . . . was House of Stone.”

  “Which means our killer couldn’t influence him by means of magic.”

  “But why would he need to? Crompton wouldn’t be privy to the data on the trials. That’s why they call it a blind trial.”

  “Something made him a target, and we’re missing it. Crompton was a smart man. If he figured out there was a possible scam going on, he would leave a clue if he could.”

  Tracey looks up at me. “But if he suspected House of Iron was involved, he couldn’t make that known to outsiders.”

  “Yeah, like explaining to Lieutenant Faraday that we need surveillance on an alley because I saw a vision where a man gets killed there sometime in the future.”

  Tracey rubs his chin. “I agree that Crompton would let others in his House know about it, at the least.”

  “What if it didn’t rise to that level? What if it was just something that didn’t seem right to him? Or what if he did, but there wasn’t enough info to do anything about it? What would he do?”

  “Without real evidence, I don’t know what he could do. Even my father wouldn’t make a complaint against House of Iron under those circumstances.”

  “Even your father?”

  “He’s head of House of Stone.”

  “Oh.” So the president of the City Council is a warlock of House of Stone. I wonder who other influential House members might be. I suspect they extend into places deep into the political structure of the country, perhaps the world, especially House of Iron.

  “Stay focused, Lohan. What would Crompton do?”

  “He’d want to leave a clue. It would have to be something subtle, meant for someone who knew he would hide it.”

  “A member of House of Stone.”

  “Probably. That’s your area.” I spread my arms. “See anything that would jump out at you?”

  Tracey stands and slowly turns 360 degrees, twice. He steps to the bookshelf and examines two cut amethyst bookends, picking up each one and setting it back. Dropping his hands to his sides, he heaves a frustrated sigh. “I don’t see anything unusual.”

  Unusual. Something is tickling my subconscious. Something about books. I again scan the heavy volumes lined up at attention along the bookshelves. Nothing. Then I do the same thing Tracey did, scrutinizing the whole room. My gaze falls to the copy of The Tao of Pooh beside the chair. It’s amusingly different from the other books on his shelf. Why is it out? Is it just what he was reading? The bookmarked page said something about acknowledging your weakness and making it your strength. Maybe “weakness” in this case meant the “lesser” thing—perhaps like Winnie the Pooh in the company of technical and classical literary works? I move closer to the shelf that displays his h
ighbrow taste, running my finger along each title.

  A thin paper edge stuck between Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities and Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo catches my attention. I pull it out—a paperback copy of The Te of Piglet, obviously the companion to the book by his chair. I ruffle the pages and a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor.

  I bend to pick it up. Tracey moves behind me to look over my shoulder. It’s hand written and dated a few weeks ago. In fact, it was two days before he died.

  It reads:

  Today, I saw a man I suspect might be interested in mineral commodities. He gave me a line, but I refused. Later saw him talking to a researcher involved in Z trials. Slim, dark, ponytail.

  My heart dives. Slim, dark, ponytail. There is a man of House of Iron who fits that description—Jason Blackwell’s driver, Angola.

  Behind me Tracey says, “What the—?”

  Then the unmistakable crack of close pistol fire and a grunt from Tracey. I whirl to face a gun and the woman wielding it.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Tracey is down on one knee. Crompton’s wife holds a pistol in both trembling hands.

  I step between her and Tracey, holding a palm out. My free hand dives into my purse, grasping the butt of my gun and lifting the muzzle so it points at her, but I don’t draw it. “Mrs. Crompton.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Valinda,” I say gently.

  Slowly, her gaze moves from Tracey to me.

  “He’s one of them,” she says in a loud whisper. “I can tell. One of the aliens.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll make sure he is locked up.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Just give me the gun so no one else gets hurt.”

  “It belonged to Benjamin,” she says. “He told me I was to use it for my protection if one of ‘them’ came into the house.”

  Wrong group of aliens.

  I take another step toward her and close my hand over hers, pushing her arm to the side across her body. “Give me the gun now,” I say, my voice firmer.