House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  She nods and releases her hold.

  “Are there any more guns in the house?”

  “No.”

  I spin back to Tracey.

  He holds his upper arm, but blood is pulsing out, fast. I fumble for my phone and drop Crompton’s gun into my purse. Aftershock of adrenaline is making my own hands shake, but I key in 911.

  “Officer down,” I say, giving the address. “It’s 10-24. I have the suspect in custody. Need medics and ambulance. Fast.”

  Tracey shakes his head. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Shut up and lie down, Lohan.”

  When he does, I put my hands on top of his and add pressure.

  “Valinda, get me a towel or a long piece of cloth!” I twist to make sure she is responding, but can only see a heap of silk kimono billowed on the floor. She’s fainted.

  Great. No help there. I swallow. Blood still coming. Not good. He’s bleeding out! I feel myself panicking. No time for panic. Think. I know direct pressure is number one. Next priority is slowing the bleeding.

  “Do you carry a handkerchief?”

  “Yes, back pocket.”

  “Roll toward the bookshelf.”

  As soon as his back pocket is accessible, I lift one hand from its position over his and grab the hanky with it, keeping pressure on the wound with my other hand. He rolls himself back, and I work the cloth beneath his hand. It quickly soaks through.

  His face is growing pale. He’s going to pass out soon. Damn. “I think we need a tourniquet.”

  What do I use?

  His shirt is too difficult to remove without releasing pressure. My assessment ends up at his big feet.

  “Take off a shoe,” I say.

  Tracey’s eyes are unfocused.

  I am not letting you die. I’m not.

  “Your shoe, Lohan,” I order, putting a sharp edge in my voice to get his attention. “Kick it off. The one closest to me.”

  He fumbles one foot to the other, wedges his toe in the back of his right heel and pushes down. The shoe hangs halfway off his foot.

  “Can you raise your knee?” I ask.

  He does, drawing the shoe closer.

  Keeping one hand pressing on his arm, I reach over, knocking the shoe aside, and strip off his sock. Not sanitary, but it’s not going on the wound. It wouldn’t fit on the bulge of his triceps. I go for the area right above it. Fortunately the sock stretches. I have to release the wound to tie it, and blood spurts out between his fingers. A thick pool of red stains the carpet.

  “Tracey, press down, damn it!”

  No response. His hand drops away. Panting, I put my knee on the wound, using my weight to apply pressure. As quickly as I can tie a knot, I put both hands back on the blood-soaked handkerchief.

  Valinda moans and sits up. “What have I done?”

  “Get up,” I snap at her. “Go to the front door and open it. Bring the paramedics here. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” she says, sniffling. “I can.”

  “Then do it!”

  The blood flow seems to have slowed, but Tracey’s eyes are closed. I wish to God I remembered how often you’re supposed to loosen a tourniquet. But stopping the bleeding is the priority. His life is more important than losing his arm, right? Where are the damn paramedics?

  From his hospital bed, Tracey looks at me, his normally clear gray eyes dark, dilated, I assume, with opiates. How much would it take to affect a man from House of Stone? “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  He turns his head to survey the fresh bandage on his arm.

  “Is that it?” he asks sleepily.

  “It nicked an artery,” I say. “You almost bled to death. They had to stitch it and give you blood.”

  He gives me a weak smile. “I’m not easy to kill.”

  I’ve heard that claim before from Aunt Alice. Witches and warlocks apparently do heal faster than normal folk, but unfortunately not Wolverine-fast.

  “And,” he adds, “I’ll be damned if I will exit because of a deranged woman who probably couldn’t hit the side of a dinosaur.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask.

  “You mean at Crompton’s house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Umm. Gun. Woman in kimono. Getting my shoe off for some reason.”

  “Sock tourniquet,” I say.

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “I meant about the note in Crompton’s office. Do you remember it?”

  “Sort of. You got it?”

  I check over my shoulder to make sure the door is closed. We lucked out that we got a private room. The semi-private ones were all full. Pulling the note from my purse, I read it aloud.

  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.

  “Interested in mineral commodities,” Tracey says, “has got to mean someone from a House.”

  “That’s the way I read it. What about, ‘He gave me a line, but I refused.’?”

  Tracey reaches for a glass of juice by the bed on his right and winces.

  I snatch it before he can try again, delivering it into his left hand. “Looks like men of Stone feel pain,” I say.

  “Most definitely, but I can’t stay in here.”

  I hold up my hand. “Before we fight about that, what do you think Crompton meant by, ‘He gave me a line, but I refused.’?”

  “‘A line’ is something my Family says to refer to the power of Iron. It means someone from House of Iron tested him by giving a ‘suggestion’ he didn’t take.”

  “Thereby learning that he was immune and therefore House of Stone.”

  “Right.”

  “Then that person, who I’m betting is Angola, ‘made him’—he saw Crompton watching him. Angola may have been seeking information about who held the keys to the data base.”

  “And,” Tracey says, “Angola planned to manipulate and then kill whoever that turned out to be. He might not have known it was Deon Segal at that point.”

  I sit back. “Angola knew no one would suspect magic at play, except someone from Stone, and when Angola stumbled on Crompton and discovered he was immune to House magic, he knew he had to be eliminated before Crompton figured out what was going on.”

  “Makes sense,” Tracey says. He shifts on the hospital bed, careful not to jostle his arm. “What we have is hardly evidence, though. Can’t get an arrest warrant on brilliant logic, especially one that involves our ‘Families.’”

  He’s right, of course, but I don’t like it a bit.

  Tracey rubs his chin and considers me. “It would be handy if we had a vision of Angola’s next step.” He makes it a question with lifted brows.

  “Unfortunately, doesn’t work that way,” I say. “If I tried right now, assuming I got something, it would probably be what you’re having for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “In that case, our first priority is to protect Segal.”

  “I told him to get a random hotel room and stay put.”

  “You think he did?”

  I start to tell him I have House of Iron blood, and I used Iron magic to ensure that he did, but the words won’t come out. They feel dirty, making me no different from Theophalus, Angola, or Jason.

  Jason. Angola works for him. I can’t pretend Jason’s hands are not in this. Alice has been right all along.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The fact that Jason has his hands in the murder of two people and the planning of a third makes me nauseous. Maybe that is the real reason I woke up sick. Maybe my subconscious has known it all along. How could I have ever trusted him? And yet here I am meeting him again at the same place in Five Points.

  A vertical li
ne between his eyebrows mars the perfection of his face. This man requires no magic to lure women into his life or his bed, but no matter what he looks like, how simple to just touch someone and whisper in their ear.

  I can do that too.

  The thought startles me. It’s the first time that the idea hasn’t scared the bejesus out of me. What if I had been brought up believing I could use magic on others without ethical qualms? Did Jason believe that? Did he believe making suggestions to people was no different than using personal charm? Did he travel the world “sealing” deals for Iron with a clear conscience?

  I don’t even know what it would have been like to be part of House of Rose. Healers can’t just run around . . . healing everything. I try to imagine what would happen if word got out about what Alice could do. Scientists would want to study her. Religious nuts would want to saint her, but worst would be all the desperate who would come, begging for healing for themselves or their loved one. How could anyone choose whom to help? How to bear the burden of all those you didn’t? Could you have even a semblance of a life?

  “Rose?” Jason says. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking about something.”

  From his slightly surprised look, I imagine he’s not used to someone being distracted around him. It’s amazing that I could be, with the drumbeat of magic between us. Am I learning to push it aside or ignore it, like an overpowering smell or noise that saturates nerve endings to the point where they can no longer fire? I do have a lot on my mind.

  I stuff all the questions into a mental box. I need to focus.

  “Did you find out anything?” I ask.

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I confirmed we do have a major interest in Fe, Inc. and a piece of the pharmaceutical company you mentioned, ZQ.”

  My hands tighten around my cup. “Tell Angola to back off.”

  “Angola?”

  “You remember him.” My sarcasm makes him flinch. “Your chauffeur.”

  “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Is he a member of House of Iron?”

  “Yes.”

  I study his face. Now he looks distracted. Is he lying?

  “I have evidence Angola has killed a man and probably a woman too.”

  “What evidence?”

  “A note describing him.”

  “Someone saw him killing a man and a woman?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Suddenly my “evidence” seems weak. I have a note describing Angola—how many pony-tailed men in House of Iron can there be?—talking to someone at UAB. Outside the context of our theories, it sounds pretty lame.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “Look, this is not amusing. I’ve acted against the interests of my House for you twice now. What else do you want of me?”

  “I want the truth.”

  We are staring at each other. Maybe “glaring” is a better word.

  “Angola is not a killer,” Jason says. “Or is it me you believe is behind this?”

  “I don’t know what I believe, except that everything I have found points to Angola, and he works for you.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  My cell plays the intro to “A Space Odyssey.” I glance down. It’s a text from Alice, a reminder—crap. The home visit for custody of Daniel!

  I practically run up the front steps. I meant to come home early and help clean. I googled how to prepare for a home inspection visit, but didn’t have a chance to tell Alice or help her prepare. Things have just been happening so fast.

  Alice always locks the doors. I try it before getting out my keys. If the DHR social worker is already here, the door will be open. Alice wouldn’t have locked it behind her. That would give the impression we didn’t live in a safe neighborhood. If it’s locked, I’m not late.

  I take a deep breath and turn the handle. The door opens.

  Heart sinking, I step quietly inside.

  Tanya Melbourne sits on the sofa. The TV is off. Good. That was on the list. The living room is spotless. Bless her heart, Alice has her best china tea set out on the table with an empty cup waiting for me.

  Bless her heart. That is something Becca would have said. My throat tightens.

  “And there she is,” Alice says lightly. “I told you she would be right along.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say, trying to catch my breath.

  “It’s okay,” Melbourne says. “I was just getting to know Ms. Gideon.”

  I swallow. “Um, yes, Irene’s pretty much part of the family.”

  “So she was telling me.”

  “She’s wonderful with Daniel,” I say. “He loves her. He calls her ‘Gran-gran.’”

  “Yes, he’s told me.”

  “Is he okay?” I ask. “Is he in a . . . good place? I mean, are they taking care of him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I was a foster child too.” I catch Alice’s eye. She twists her fingers together in her lap, evidence of her own nervousness, despite her airy tone.

  “That is,” I say, “until I was adopted. My foster family adopted me.”

  “I saw that in your file. You were raised in a military family.”

  “Yes.”

  “You traveled a lot?”

  “Yeah, we were stationed in different places in the US, mostly in the South, and once in Germany.”

  “Must have been tough being bounced around like that. Hard to make friends.”

  I just nod.

  “Can I get you some tea, dear?” Alice asks me.

  “Um, no. No thanks.”

  “It’s very good,” Melbourne says. “I’ve never had tea with fresh mint before.”

  “Have you looked around the house?” I ask her.

  “Yes. It’s larger than it looks outside. Ms. Gideon—”

  “Please, call me Irene,” Alice says.

  “Irene showed me the room that would be Daniel’s room. She says she cooks for the family.”

  I give a weak smile. “Yes, but I can cook—”

  Alice lifts one brow.

  “Tuna casserole anyway, but Irene is way beyond me. We have vegetables at every meal. That is, except breakfast.” I sound like an idiot.

  I take a breath. “I’m sorry if I sound like an idiot. It’s just because . . . well, I never thought I would be a mother, I mean, that I would want to be a mother, but Daniel—” I take another breath. “Daniel has come to mean a great deal to me, and I want, we want, to give him a home.”

  She studies me. “I understand that, but I’m hesitant to put him back in the house where such a horrible event occurred.”

  What can I say? Would he see his mother in a tub of blood every time he passes by that bathroom? What kind of nightmares would I have if my family’s house had not burned down, and I had to live in it without them?

  She stands. “I’ll get back to you with the judge’s decision.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  After Tanya Melbourne leaves, Alice and I sit quietly in the living room. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I found out about how to prepare for a home visit.”

  “Do you think I don’t know how to google? I’m not a complete antique.”

  “Uh, I mean, you never seem to spend any time doing that.”

  “Well, I don’t, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”

  I forget she is a scientist.

  “Sorry,” I say again, shifting in my seat. Something isn’t right. “Where are the cats?” I ask.

  She purses her lips. “I put them all downstairs in the unfinished part of the basement. I didn’t want Ms. Melbourne to think I was some kind of eccentric old cat person.”

  “I don’t know that it’s going to make any difference.�
�

  “You don’t know what her decision will be,” Alice says, playing with her teacup.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious that Melbourne doesn’t think Daniel should come back here.”

  “She’s not the judge.”

  “But she’s writing the report. The judge will be heavily influenced by it. And what if they find other family members?”

  “That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?”

  I think on that. “Maybe, but maybe not. What if they’re alcoholics like Nora?”

  “Nora was severely depressed.”

  “Is that supposed to be better? For all intents and purposes, she abandoned him.”

  “She brought him to a place where she knew he would be cared for by people who cared for him. She stopped drinking. She did her best.”

  “I could have done more to try and get through to her. I looked at her as a drunk, even when she wasn’t drinking. I knew nothing about her or her life, really. I should have persuaded her to get help.”

  “I tried,” Alice says. “She wouldn’t go. You can’t make a person get help who doesn’t want it, and magic couldn’t heal the kind of wounds she had.”

  “God, how is Daniel going to overcome this?”

  “You did,” she says. There are tears in her eyes. “Even after what happened to your family, even though I sent you away. You are that strong. Daniel is strong too.”

  “I had a family, a loving family, Alice. You gave me that opportunity. If . . . If I knew Daniel had that for sure, maybe that would be best for him.”

  “He should be here with us,” Alice says. “I’m not sending another child away.”

  “Becca needs him,” I say, “but is that fair to him? That shouldn’t be a burden for a five-year-old to carry on his shoulders.”

  “He’s almost six and he needs her too,” Alice says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He loves her just as she is. He’s taken her on as his responsibility, and he needs that, especially right now. He should have a focus outside of himself.”

  My cell phone rings. Reluctantly, I pull it from my purse. I’d forgotten to turn it off as the web instructions recommended for a home evaluation.

  The call is from Deon Segal.