by R. L. King
The one that caught my eye the most, though, was a larger green sheet, tacked over several of the others. Occult Traditions in Modern-Day America, the header read in bold, flowing script across the top. Below that was a grainy headshot of a slim, handsome man with dark spiky hair and an intense gaze, and below that, the text read:
Join Dr. Alastair Stone
Stanford Professor of Occult Studies
for an illuminating seminar exploring the role of the occult in our modern, technological society.
Something for true believers and skeptics alike!
The seminar was being held in Palo Alto, tonight at seven-thirty.
“Oh, that’ll be a good one,” said a voice.
I spun to find the saleswoman standing behind me. She laughed again. “I’m so sorry! You are a nervous one, aren’t you? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s…fine. What did you mean, ‘that’ll be a good one’?”
She pointed at the flyer. “The seminar. Dr. Stone’s one of the best around—what he doesn’t know about the occult isn’t worth knowing, and he’s supposed to be a really entertaining speaker. I wish I could go, but I’ve got a thing tonight I can’t get out of.”
I studied the flyer again. “There are professors of the occult? At Stanford?” That seemed absurd to me. Stanford was a top-level institution of serious higher learning, not the home of quack mystics.
“Oh, yeah. They have a whole department. A small one, sure, but it’s world-renowned.” She patted my arm. “If you want to find out about the occult, honey, you should go. Dr. Stone doesn’t do talks outside the University very often.”
I made a noncommittal noise. “I’ll…think about it.” I pulled a scrap of paper from my purse to write down the location of the seminar, then snatched a book called An Introduction to Witchcraft off the shelf. “For now, I’ll take this.”
She nodded approval. “That’s a good choice. You’ll like that one.”
A short time later, I sat in a coffee shop two blocks from The Golden Path, sipping a latte and staring out at the people—normal, everyday people, no witches in sight—walking past on the street. I’d been paging through An Introduction to Witchcraft, but it hadn’t proven very helpful. It was mostly divided between a history of Wicca and paganism, an introductory primer on things like finding your magical style, basic spellcraft, and tips on setting up your own magical workspace. Nothing about curses, uses for stolen babies, or anything else that seemed like it would help me.
Frustrated, I pulled the scrap of paper from my bag. I felt stupid. Was I really considering driving down to Palo Alto to listen to some nerdy academic drone on about the mystical world? Despite what the proprietor at The Golden Path had said, I expected the talk would either be deadly dull and scholarly, or else it would be full of nutjobs and strange old women hanging on the professor’s every word.
Still, though, this Dr. Alastair Stone—what kind of name was that anyway?—was an actual professor. He’d somehow managed to convince a prestigious university to give him a job, which probably meant he knew what he was talking about. Maybe if I could get a few minutes alone with him after the seminar, I could explain my problem (or rather, my hypothetical “friend’s” problem) and see if he had any insights. The worst that could happen was that he’d think I was a crackpot, right?
Well, no. The worst that could happen was that he was a friend of Madame Minna. But now I was just being silly.
Fine, then. I didn’t have any other options, so crackpot academic lecture it was. I finished my latte, stuffed An Introduction to Witchcraft back in my bag, and stalked out of the coffee shop.
10
This was a really stupid idea.
I entered the auditorium a lot more tentatively than I usually moved, expecting to find a few scattered weirdos spread out with maximum space between them in rows of mostly empty seats. I’d already formed a mental impression of the kinds of people who’d attend a presentation about the occult and psychic phenomena before I got there, and it wasn’t a flattering one. There’d no doubt be nutty old women smelling of patchouli and covered in cat hair, balding guys with graying ponytails and rumpled army jackets, maybe a few curious goth kids sprawled in the back row.
I grasped my bag and gathered my courage at the doorway: as crazy as coming here was, I didn’t have any other ideas. Even though I kept trying to convince myself I didn’t believe in the occult, maybe this Stone guy might have some practical solutions for how to deal with Madame Minna, to help me get Emma back, to stop the old witch before she hurt anybody else. I’d just find a place near the back where I could sneak out if things got too farfetched.
I stopped in shock.
The place was packed. The auditorium was small, maybe holding fifty people, but nearly every seat was occupied. More surprising, none of the audience members looked like weirdos. Mostly, I saw college-aged men and women—more women than men—some even dressed in fraternity and sorority gear. The remainder of the crowd consisted of perfectly normal-looking people ranging in age from twenties to seventies, again more women than men. Not a crazy in sight, as far as I could tell.
“Welcome,” said a voice to my left. Somebody pressed a folded sheet of paper into my hand. “Please find a seat—the talk will be starting soon.”
“Uh—thank you.” I hurried forward, spotting an empty seat at the end of a row about halfway back, and settled into it. The chubby goth girl in the next seat flashed me a smile and then turned back to her friends.
Still feeling uncomfortable but less conspicuous now that I was seated, I glanced down at the paper. It sported the logo of the South Bay Paranormal Society—a wide-open eye enclosed in a triangle with wavy rays emanating from it in all directions—and included a few notes about the society’s upcoming meetings. The topics made me reconsider getting up and leaving: Ghosts in the South Bay, Mexican Magical Traditions, and Voudoun: Myth vs. Reality. But it was almost time for the talk to begin, so I decided to stick it out, at least for a while. If things got too weird, I could always sneak out to use the bathroom and not return.
I’d already called Lieutenant O’Riley before coming, hoping she’d have some good news about Emma and I wouldn’t have to do this, but no such luck. She assured me they had people working full-time on the case, and was sure they’d turn something up soon, but I didn’t miss her careful, diplomatic tone. They had nothing, and she was trying to tell me in the gentlest way possible that there was a chance they might not ever have anything.
The lights came up on the stage, and a mousy, middle-aged woman in a bright purple blouse came out from behind the curtain to stand at the podium. After a smattering of polite applause, she smiled at the audience. “Welcome, welcome. I’m so glad to see we’ve got such a good turnout tonight. You’re in for a real treat, let me tell you. My name is Junie Bergman, and I’m the president of the South Bay Paranormal Society, which is sponsoring tonight’s talk. Our meetings are the first Monday of every month at seven p.m., in the back room of Harry’s Hofbrau in San Jose. You can find a schedule of our next topics on your program, and I do hope you’ll consider joining us. But enough listening to me natter on—it wasn’t me you came here to see. Without further ado, please join me in welcoming Dr. Alastair Stone, from the Stanford Department of Occult Studies.”
The applause increased, still polite but definitely more enthusiastic.
A tall, slim man strode out, and the applause grew louder. “Good evening,” he called. “Thank you so much for coming. Let’s have one more round of applause for our hosts, Ms. Bergman and the South Bay Paranormal Society, shall we?” To my surprise, his accent was British.
As the crowd obligingly clapped, I studied him. He was a lot younger than I expected him to be, for starters—maybe early thirties at the oldest. The grainy photocopied picture hadn’t done a very good job of representing the real deal. He also wasn’t dressed like I expected an academic to be, in a rumpled suit or a tweed sport coat. Instead, he wore jeans, a blac
k T-shirt with a logo I couldn’t make out from where I sat, and a long, sweeping black overcoat. His dark hair was short in the back and stuck up in uneven spikes in the front. He seemed like he ought to be holding an electric guitar instead of a textbook. I rolled my eyes, my opinion of his academic credentials taking a serious dip.
“Right, then!” he said. He didn’t use the microphone, but he didn’t need to—his voice projected well, and I could hear him with ease even from my spot halfway back. He shot a challenging grin at the crowd. “I think the flyer for this talk mentioned something about ‘something for true believers and skeptics alike,’ so why don’t we start by seeing how many of each we’ve got with us tonight.” As he spoke, he stalked back and forth across the stage, avoiding the podium, stopping every now and then to fix his intense gaze on some individual audience member. “Show of hands—who’s here because they thought this would be a good place to observe nutters in their natural habitat?”
The crowd laughed, some genuinely, some looking uncomfortable as they exchanged nervous glances with their neighbors. Nobody raised their hands, though.
“Well!” Stone appeared amused. “All true believers, then—or else you don’t want to admit you’re the only skeptic in the crowd. That’s fine. I won’t call you out. Me, I’m not going to admit which side of the debate I fall on, but perhaps after you’ve listened to me bang on about things for an hour, you might come to some of your own conclusions. Until then, I hope I can entertain you, at least, and hopefully you’ll learn a few things you didn’t know. Can’t ask more than that for the price of admission, right?” His smile widened. “Oh, right—this is a free talk, isn’t it? So there you go.”
The crowd laughed again, and this time I joined them. The man was charming as hell, and I could already see what the woman at The Golden Path had meant—he was a good speaker. Even if I didn’t get anything from the talk to help me with my problem, at least I wouldn’t be bored. I made a mental note to give Mark a call afterward to see how the kids were doing, and settled back to listen.
I barely noticed the hour passing. Stone moved easily from one topic to the next, sharing anecdotes about the occult in general, specific instances of odd occurrences in the Bay Area, and then related some stories of his travels to investigate modern-day supernatural happenings in other parts of the world. He never used notes; all the while he continued his restless wanderings, back and forth across the stage, sometimes coming to the front and crouching there to settle his attention on one person or another. All around me, my neighbors didn’t take their eyes off him, and it wasn’t long before I got caught up in his spell as well. The man definitely had a gift for working a room, combined with the kind of voice that could make reading the dictionary sound fascinating. At one point, I could have sworn he picked me as the subject of his attention. His eyes narrowed for just a moment, and a faint frown crossed his face, but before I could be sure, he’d moved on. I decided it must have been someone else he’d been looking at—perhaps the girl sitting next to me. From the look of her expression, I was pretty sure her thoughts about him had very little to do with the occult.
Contrary to what he’d said, though, by the time his talk wound down and he once again thanked Junie Bergman and the South Bay Paranormal Society for inviting him to speak, I still hadn’t gotten a solid impression of whether he drank his own Kool-Aid and truly believed in the supernatural, or if he was having a good joke on all of us by implying he might. At some points, the sly twinkle in his eyes seemed to point to the joke, but at others, the sheer intensity of his focus made me wonder.
Now I had to make a decision, though: would I slip out with the crowd, or stay behind and try to get Stone alone so I could ask him about my witch problem?
The choice was almost made for me: as soon as the lights came up and the applause died down, a good quarter of the crowd gravitated toward the stage, where Stone still stood chatting with Junie Bergman. I wished there was some kind of reception afterward, to give me an excuse to hang around sipping wine and nibbling on cookies until he had a free moment, but nobody had mentioned anything about such a thing. I’d either have to get his attention before he left, or lose my chance. I glanced at him, wondering how I was going to shove past twenty-odd college women to get near him.
He was looking at me.
This time, I couldn’t mistake it. His gaze ignored the rest of the crowd and settled on me. When our eyes met, he gave me that same narrow-eyed, thoughtful frown I thought I’d seen during the talk. Then he murmured something I couldn’t hear to Junie Bergman and strode forward to stand on the edge of the stage. The group waiting for him pushed forward eagerly.
He shot me a significant glance, then faced the rest of the crowd. “I’m so sorry,” he said ruefully, deploying his charming smile again. “I wish I could stay here and chat with all of you for the rest of the evening, but I’m afraid I can’t. Boring as it might sound, I’ve still got a lot of papers to grade by tomorrow. I hope you enjoyed the talk, and do consider popping in to one of the Society’s meetings. I hear they’re fascinating.”
Several grumbles rippled through the group, but they caught the hint and slowly began to filter out. I wasn’t sure if Stone had meant for me to stay behind, so I took a seat a couple rows back and pretended to be rummaging through my purse in search of something. If I’d misinterpreted his message, he could just leave and I could go on my way—no harm, no foul.
Eventually, everyone else had headed back up the aisles and out through the rear doors, leaving me alone with Alastair Stone. Even Junie Bergman had left by then, retrieving a large, star-spangled black tote bag from behind the podium and bidding Stone good night before slipping out through the rear curtain.
“You look like a woman with a problem.”
I jerked my head up from my bag, startled. “Uh—”
Stone leaped nimbly down from the stage, his black overcoat’s tail swishing behind him. “You also look like one of our skeptics, though you didn’t admit to it when I asked.”
Suddenly, I felt uncomfortable, alone in the deserted auditorium with him. Up close, his electric-blue eyes were even more intense, and he had a kind of intangible presence that filled the area around him. It was odd—he wasn’t my type, so despite his obvious attractiveness I wasn’t drawn to him sexually, or even romantically, but yet something about him compelled me.
“Well,” I said, with a shaky little laugh, “I guess I didn’t want to be the only one.”
He chuckled. “Understandable. Nobody wants to stand out in the crowd.”
Privately, I wondered about that—he seemed to enjoy it, with his unusual outfit and showman’s manner. “I—uh—don’t want to keep you from your papers.”
“Oh, that was a lie,” he admitted, waving it off. “I had the papers done days ago. You haven’t lived until you’ve read an essay on the Winchester Mystery House from a would-be modern-day Lovecraft. ‘Purple’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. We’re talking ultraviolet.”
I smiled—I couldn’t help it—but then remembered why I was here and felt it fade.
There was the concerned look again. “Is there something I can help you with, Ms.—”
“Huntley. Tamara Huntley.” I swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “Probably not. It was foolish of me to come here. Not that your talk wasn’t fascinating,” I added hastily, “but—”
“—but you’re the sort of woman who doesn’t indulge in anything resembling fantasy,” he finished softly.
“Well…yes. Or at least I thought I was.” Why was this so hard? I knew, of course: admitting something like this to a stranger, even a stranger who taught the occult at Stanford, wasn’t an easy thing for me to do. I had no idea how he’d react. Hell, even after listening to him for an hour, I still couldn’t quite tell whether he believed this stuff or found the whole thing to be a colossal joke.
“I see.” He considered me for a moment, his sharp gaze going unfocused for a couple of seconds, as if he were trying to
scan something past me. “But yet you’re here.” His gaze snapped back in again. “Ms. Huntley, would you like to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee? You can tell me why a thoroughly practical and realistic woman such as yourself came to be at a talk on the occult, and I promise to be an attentive listener.”
I looked at him a little sharply, wondering if he was trying to pick me up—but that was even more absurd than coming here in the first place. Men who looked like him didn’t pick up women who looked like me. “Uh—sure. I’ll be honest—I did want to talk to you about something.”
“That was obvious from the moment I spotted you in the crowd,” he said. “Come on—we can take my car, or you can meet me if you like. There’s a coffee shop not far from here, just up University.”
“I’ll—uh—I’ll meet you.”
He tilted his head, his eyes glittering. They were an unusual shade of deep blue I’d never seen before. “Not having second thoughts, are you? You won’t panic and do a runner on me if I let you out of my sight?”
In truth, the thought had crossed my mind, but his words embarrassed me. “No, I promise. I’ll be there. Even though I’m probably wasting both our time.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” He leaped back up on the stage and retrieved a well-worn leather briefcase from behind the podium. “I’ll see you there, Ms. Huntley.”
11
Even despite my promise, there was a moment after I got back in my car that I wanted to drive off and forget the entire evening. Three things stopped me: first, I’d told Dr. Stone I’d be there; second, I wasn’t in any hurry to return home to my silent house and possibly confront some other horrific message from Madame Minna; and third, as I slid behind the wheel and sat a moment to gather my wits, I pictured Emma’s smiling, laughing baby face. If my niece was still alive, if that terrible old woman had her, I owed it to her to follow up every lead, no matter how farfetched or crazy. I owed it to Susan.
