Homecoming: An Alastair Stone Urban Fantasy Novel (Alastair Stone Chronicles Book 23)

by R. L. King

  Still, the words hadn’t faded. Briefly, he thought about trying to subvert the invitation’s intent: the way it was worded, if he spoke the sentence, he’d bind himself in a magical oath not to discuss it with anyone else. But what if he discussed it before he spoke the words, and then agreed to attend? At least that way somebody would know in general terms where he was if he disappeared.

  That might not be a good idea, though. He’d never heard of anyone binding an oath to a written statement like this—if it was possible and not merely a bluff, some heavy-duty magic was required. Heavy enough that they probably had ways around such obvious end runs.

  He could simply ignore the invitation. It was a viable option. If somebody was trying to lure him into a trap, he didn’t have to cooperate.

  But…what if it wasn’t a trap?

  What if it was a genuine invitation from some powerful entity?

  The time has come for certain truths to be revealed.

  What truths? Revealed by whom?

  Whoever this shadowy person was, they knew him well enough to know words like that would be like catnip to his legendary curiosity.

  Damn.

  He’d have to make a choice, and he’d have to make it soon.

  It could be a trap, or it could simply be that whoever had sent the message didn’t want to reveal their identity. A lot of mages were like that.

  He sighed. So much for a few quiet days home in England. The Universe had obviously got wind that his life had quieted down, and taken it as a cue to toss another spanner in his works.

  Make up your mind. Are you going to take a chance, or spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been?

  He wasn’t exactly a magical lightweight these days, after all. If it did turn out to be a trap—for example, the mysterious man from Colorado and Wyoming trying to get back at him—he had resources few people knew about. Unless Harrison was behind the invitation, he had that ace in the hole. And this hardly seemed to fit Harrison’s straightforward, minimalist style.

  He looked at Raider, then at the invitation, then took a deep breath.

  Here goes. Let’s hope my curiosity doesn’t end up biting me in the arse.

  Speaking clearly and distinctly, he held up the card and said, “I accept this invitation.”

  Instantly, more text appeared at the bottom of the card. Written in the same style as the rest, it displayed an address in San Francisco. All the text remained for another fifteen seconds, then slowly faded again, leaving the card as blank to magical sight as it had been to normal vision.

  Stone hastily pulled his notebook from his pocket and wrote down the address—or tried to. It seemed as if everything was going fine, but when he looked at it again, only illegible scribbles appeared on the page.

  “Okay,” he said, getting up. “Guess I’d better make sure not to forget that address.”

  He’d recognized the area if not the specific address, and it surprised him. He’d expected something high-end: perhaps Presidio Heights, or the Financial District. Instead, this address placed wherever he was going in the middle of Haight-Ashbury, definitely known more for its funky, counter-culture vibe than anything posh.

  He hurried upstairs to his laptop and started to plug in the address, but ended up typing garbled text.

  “Damn. That’s getting inconvenient.” It was impressive, though—he was certain now that whoever was behind this, they had some serious magical punch.

  There were always creative ways around such things, though. He tried again, this time entering a number near the target. The oath might not let him zero in on the specific spot, but he didn’t think it would stop him from getting near it.

  When the map popped up he expanded it, curious about whether the nearby buildings were restaurants, private homes, or some other kind of businesses.

  The area was what he’d expected: takeout eateries, smoke shops, yoga studios. He chuckled at the thought of meeting one or more powerful, mysterious mages at a yoga studio. “Sorry,” he told Raider, who’d jumped up on the desk. “That’s where I draw the line. I do not wear yoga pants for anyone.”

  Raider stuck his rear leg up and licked his flank, as if to demonstrate he was probably far better at yoga than Stone was anyway.

  On a whim, Stone located the exact address of the yoga studio, determining it had to be next door to his target. “Aha,” he said, peering at the little buildings. That meant it was the vegan restaurant. He typed in its name and hit Search.

  The vegan restaurant’s address was two numbers down from his target.

  So the target was between the yoga studio and the vegan restaurant—except there wasn’t anything between the two. They were next-door neighbors.

  The number he was searching for—or would, if the oath hadn’t prevented it—didn’t seem to exist.

  That actually surprised him less than the general location.

  It couldn’t be that easy, after all.

  “Okay,” he said closing the laptop and leaning forward to stroke Raider’s head. “They want to play it mysterious, I’ll play along. Let’s get you something to eat, and then I’d best figure out what to wear to this little soirée.”

  31

  He gave himself plenty of time to get there. Between the usual rush-hour bumper-to-bumper traffic on the freeway and the general insanity of trying to get anywhere by car in San Francisco, he didn’t intend to take chances. This didn’t seem like the sort of meeting you wanted to be fashionably late for.

  Precisely at nine p.m., the invitation had said.

  It turned out to be a good thing he’d been cautious. The freeway traffic was worse than usual due to three separate accidents, and several streets near the Haight were blocked by some kind of bicycle-based demonstration. By the time he found a parking garage, put a disregarding spell on the BMW, and jogged the half-mile to his destination, it was five to nine.

  His map study had been correct: there were the yoga studio and the vegan restaurant. The former was closed, the latter doing a brisk business. As Stone watched from across the street, several groups entered and exited through a door with so many flyers taped to it that it was impossible to see inside. Every time the door opened, faint folky-sounding music wafted out into the street.

  He double-checked the addresses. He’d been right: the two bracketed the nonexistent one that was his destination, with only a narrow alley, too narrow for vehicles, between them. He looked up, thinking perhaps his target was one of the upstairs apartments above the businesses, but didn’t see any other numbers. There weren’t even any mailboxes at street level.

  Hmm.

  Shifting to magical sight, he examined the area. Nothing stood out, aside from the vibrant, multicolored auras of the restaurant’s customers and the other groups of laughing pedestrians strolling by. The street was busy and crowded this time of night.

  He checked the time again: 8:58. He didn’t have much time to figure it out.

  Perhaps the alley was where he was supposed to go—maybe there was some tiny building at the end. He pulled an invisible shield around himself and darted across the street between a double-parked taxi and a VW Bus trying to creep around it.

  The alley was barely six feet wide, and seemed primarily to be there as a place for the restaurant to toss its trash. Only a single light near the street provided faint illumination, revealing a colorful mural painted on the yoga-studio-side wall. The other side was lined with dumpsters and boxes, including one that looked like it might be a homeless person’s nest. Idly, Stone looked for any Forgotten symbols, but didn’t see any. He hadn’t seen any for years.

  He looked at his watch. Nine p.m. precisely.

  Showtime, ladies and gentlemen. Your move.

  He shifted to magical sight and looked around.

  Near the rear of the mural, something glowed. Stone was certain it hadn’t been there before.

  Slowly, his shield still up, he walked closer. He had a strong suspicion he knew what he was going to see. />
  One of the mural’s painted doors now had a number on it: the address he’d been seeking.

  Stone didn’t hesitate, even though anybody who might have been watching would think it odd for him to try to open a painted door.

  They would probably think it even odder that the door swung open easily.

  Feeling rather like Alice about to take a trip down the rabbit hole, Stone stepped into the shadowy space and closed the door behind him.

  The space was fully dark. So dark it almost hurt his eyes as he tried to pierce it. “Hello?” he called.

  “Continue moving forward, please,” said a disembodied voice. It sounded male, soft but authoritative. He was certain he didn’t recognize it.

  “Bit dark in here.” Stone didn’t move. He raised his hand and summoned a light spell.

  The spell flared around his hand, forming the familiar small ball of illumination, but it didn’t behave as it should have. The darkness around Stone remained complete, the little ball lighting up only the area directly around his hand.

  “Continue moving forward,” the voice repeated in the same unruffled tone.

  What else could he do? He supposed he could turn around and leave—assuming the door was still there and he could still get it open—but he also found this whole affair fascinating. He wanted to see where it ended up.

  “Fine. Your party.” He doused the light spell and took slow, careful steps forward. He didn’t think his unseen hosts would steer him into a pit, but there was no point taking chances.

  He lost track of how far he walked. The passage, he discovered when he tried to extend his arms, was barely four feet wide. The walls felt like scarred wood, the floor like concrete, and the air smelled faintly of dust and pot smoke. There was no sound except Stone’s slow footfalls and his soft breathing.

  Perhaps five minutes had passed when the voice spoke again. “Stop, please.”

  Stone stopped. The passage didn’t seem any different here than it had before. He stretched his arms in front of him, expecting to encounter a wall or door, but felt only more empty space. “This is a lovely evening you’re showing me, but do you think perhaps we could get to the next bit soon?”

  “Someone will touch you now. Please do not resist. No harm will come to you.”

  “Wait, what? I didn’t know this was to be that sort of party.”

  From behind him, a pair of hands gently gripped his shoulders.

  He almost jerked away, almost spun around to try to see who had managed to get so close to him without his knowledge, but before he had a chance, the hands dropped away and the figure withdrew.

  “What the hell was that?” he demanded, then fell silent, surprised.

  It was still as fully dark as it had been before, but around him, the space now felt different. Larger.

  What was going on?

  “Welcome, Alastair,” said a familiar voice.

  The lights came up to reveal Stefan Kolinsky.

  32

  Stone stared.

  It might not be polite, and it definitely wasn’t nonchalant, but he couldn’t help it.

  The room was perhaps twenty feet square, and in no way looked like the sort of room you might find behind a yoga studio in the middle of the Haight. The carpet under his feet was plush, the walls paneled with exotic, polished wood, lined with candle sconces. A set of heavy curtains were drawn closed at the rear. There were no visible doors. The place was the picture of the sort of ultra-wealthy, old-world good taste that didn’t often appear in the modern era. William Desmond would have been comfortable in this room.

  Stone took in all of this in a quick glance, because most of his attention was on Kolinsky. “Stefan…”

  The black mage sat behind a long, rectangular table covered by a deep-red linen cloth with folds that draped so perfectly they might have been in a high-end decorating magazine. He was dressed much as he always was, in his meticulous, old-fashioned black suit. His expression was almost unreadable, but Stone detected a hint of anticipation.

  “What the hell is all this about?” he demanded, gesturing at the room. “Are you behind this charade? Why did you drag me all the way to San Francisco when I could have come to your shop? Is this your way of getting back at me for all those times I got you out of the shower or whatever?”

  “Please, Alastair—sit down.” Kolinsky nodded, and a carved wooden chair appeared on the other side of the table.

  “Not until you tell me what this is about.”

  “All will be revealed. That is the purpose of this meeting. Please.”

  Stone hesitated, then sighed. He’d come all this way—he might as well see the thing through. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved, annoyed, or nervous about Kolinsky being behind this. On one hand, the black mage had never done anything against him, but on the other, this wasn’t his style.

  He strode over, pulled out the chair, and sat. The table was wide, and his chair was in the middle of one of the long sides, facing Kolinsky and the closed drapes. Kolinsky sat directly opposite him.

  “Big table, for just the two of us. Will there be more party guests?”

  “There will.”

  Instantly, three more figures shimmered into view, seated along the same side of the table as Kolinsky.

  “Bloody hell…” Stone murmured. Things had just become a lot more interesting.

  One of the figures, directly to Kolinsky’s right, was Madame Huan.

  She offered a smile when his gaze fell on her. “Good evening, Alastair. It has been a while. I hope you’ve been well.” She wore a formal, high-necked gown of dark-green silk, with a simple string of lustrous pearls. Her shining black hair was tied back in a neat bun.

  What the hell was going on here?

  “Madame Huan.” Stone didn’t say ‘it’s your fault it’s been this long,’ but he couldn’t help thinking it.

  To gather his thoughts, he looked at the other two at the table. He didn’t recognize either of them.

  The woman on Kolinsky’s left was slight and pale. She had ash-blond hair swept off a high forehead, narrowed eyes, and a direct, no-nonsense gaze. Her severe, elegant, and obviously custom-tailored business suit would have been at home on the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

  The man on Madame Huan’s right was tall, with broad shoulders, dark brown skin, and graying temples. He wore a navy-blue suit in a style more modern but no less expensive than Kolinsky’s. His unblinking, golden-brown eyes had not left Stone since he’d appeared, and his stern expression had not budged.

  Stone shifted his attention back to Kolinsky. He realized suddenly that, with him sitting alone on one side of the table facing the four of them, this felt like some kind of tribunal. “Would someone like to tell me what’s going on here? Am I on trial for something? Did I break some unwritten rule of the mage code?” His mind returned to the portal, and what he and Harrison had done in Colorado. Had he pissed someone off for closing it? Had the blond man reported him?

  “No,” Kolinsky said. “You are not on trial. Forgive us for summoning you in such a cryptic way, but…others insisted.” His gaze cut briefly to either side.

  Stone guessed he wasn’t talking about Madame Huan. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage here. I know two of you, but perhaps some introductions might be in order for the others?” He shot challenging glances at the unknown man and woman.

  Kolinsky seemed to be in charge, or at least he was the one doing most of the talking. “Of course. Dr. Alastair Stone, may I introduce my…colleagues.” He nodded at the woman. “This is Thalassa Nera.”

  Stone’s insides went suddenly cold. He might not recognize the woman, but he definitely recognized the name. “Bloody hell, Stefan.” Last time he’d encountered this woman, she’d nearly killed him. He still had occasional nightmares about plummeting toward the ground from her seventy-fifth-story penthouse in New York City.

  Thalassa Nera gave a thin, brittle smile.

  Kolinsky raised a hand. “You need not be concern
ed, Alastair. Ms. Nera and I have…reached an understanding. You are in no danger here. I give you my word.”

  “As do I,” Thalassa Nera said, though she looked perhaps a bit as if she regretted it.

  “This,” Kolinsky continued smoothly, indicating the black man to the right of Madame Huan, “is Morathi Ababio. I am certain you two have not met. He has traveled far to attend this meeting.”

  “I am pleased finally to meet you, Dr. Stone,” Morathi Ababio said. His voice was deep, rich, and pleasant. Despite his unsmiling expression, he seemed amused by the proceedings.

  “Er…I wish I could say it was mutual, but since I haven’t got a clue who you are, I’ll settle for saying I’m pleased to meet you now.” Stone looked around, wondering if anybody else would be joining the party.

  It appeared not, though. He sneaked a glance at Madame Huan, who was smiling. She looked like a proud mother watching a beloved child giving a performance.

  “Let us begin, then, if there are no objections,” Kolinsky said.

  Stone wanted to say something. He had a lot of objections to being dragged here—wherever here was, because he was fairly sure they weren’t in the back room of the yoga studio anymore—without any information about why. But he remained silent. Sitting here under the scrutiny of these four powerful mages, it didn’t seem the appropriate time for him to let his usual sarcasm have free rein.

  Not yet, anyway.

  When no one else objected either, Kolinsky nodded once and faced Stone. “As was stated in the invitation, we have asked you here tonight to reveal certain information to you.”

  “Yes, I got that bit.” He scanned the group. “This is about the rifts, isn’t it?” He said it before he thought about it, and was surprised the oath didn’t prevent it. Apparently the rifts’ existence and purpose were common knowledge among this group.