Necessary Sacrifices Read online

  Table Of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BOOKS BY R. L. KING

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alastair Stone Chronicles: Book Twelve

  NECESSARY SACRIFICES

  R.L. King

  Necessary Sacrifices

  Copyright © 2017 by R.L. King All rights reserved.

  First Smashwords Edition: December 2017

  Editor: John Helfers

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Want to be notified when the next Alastair Stone Chronicles novel will be released? Please sign up for the mailing list by going to http://www.alastairstonechronicles.com. We’ll never share your email address with anyone else, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alastair Stone felt their gazes on him.

  They tried not to show it, of course—a discreet glance here, a bolder one when someone thought he wasn’t looking—but even though he kept his own attention fixed straight ahead, he could sense them nonetheless.

  It was hard to miss them.

  Of course they’d be looking. That was all they could do, after all, since asking questions would be too rude even for the most inquisitive among them.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. On any other drizzly Wednesday afternoon in the first week of the quarter, he’d be teaching a class, sitting in his office dealing with the usual stream of students wanting to add or drop one of his courses, or doing his best to feign interest during some interminably dull department meeting.

  Instead, he stood next to a somber, suit-clad Mackenzie Hubbard and his equally subdued wife in the second row of pews at Stanford Memorial Church, watching the officiant deliver a eulogy for Edwina Mortenson, his longtime colleague and fellow Occult Studies professor.

  The service was surprisingly well attended for a woman who’d been primarily known for her prickly personality and standoffish habits. Stone wondered how many of those occupying the pews were here not because they’d known Mortenson and wanted to pay their respects, but rather to satisfy a morbid curiosity regarding the horrific story leading up to this moment.

  He didn’t care—either way, they were here, and they wouldn’t get anything from him.

  In the front row, Mortenson’s sister Catherine stood with a couple of friends, sniffling into a handkerchief. Stone had never met her prior to earlier that day; she was a few years older than Edwina and bore a strong resemblance, though she occupied a far more conventional niche than her sister, who had preferred dramatic jewelry and new-age styles. Catherine was the only one whose questions Stone would have readily answered, but she hadn’t asked. Perhaps she felt she was better off not knowing the details.

  Next to him, Hubbard’s wife Barbara gently squeezed his hand. He glanced at her, and she offered him a faint, sympathetic smile. He nodded once, accepting her comfort. He wouldn’t have chosen to do what was coming, but Catherine had asked him to, and he certainly owed Mortenson this much.

  At the front of the church, the officiant had finished her eulogy. Stone wasn’t sure what denomination she was, if any; Mortenson had never discussed her religious affiliations—if she’d even had any. But the dark-haired woman wore a long, flowing gown and had spent most of her time sharing her thoughts about how joyous it was that Mortenson had become one with the cosmos and was now free to explore all the spiritual pathways unavailable to those still bound by mortal flesh. When she got to the part about how Mortenson would now be part of the magic she’d always believed made up the universe, Stone gripped the back of the pew in front of him so tightly his hands shook and his knuckles whitened.

  Perhaps if he had trusted her more, looked past her dour exterior and given her a taste of what she’d so clearly craved, he might not be here today.

  But you’ll never know now, will you? he thought bitterly.

  The officiant wrapped up her words with a prayer asking that the Universe and Mother Gaia enfold Edwina Mortenson into their arms and share with her all the knowledge and enlightenment she’d sought in life.

  When she finished, she looked up and met Stone’s gaze. “And now,” she said softly, “one of Dr. Mortenson’s colleagues from the Occult Studies department would like to say a few words. Dr. Alastair Stone.”

  Barbara squeezed Stone’s hand again as he slid out of the pew and walked with deliberate calm to the front of the church. Spread out on the altar behind the officiant, a riot of colorful flowers sent by fellow faculty and students overflowed the edges and covered part of the floor; in the center of it all was a large framed photo of Mortenson wreathed in more flowers. They’d found a photo where she was smiling, with a bright sparkle in her eyes; the smile lit up her plain, round face and gave her a certain dignified beauty.

  There was no casket, of course, because there was no body. They couldn’t even cremate her, since her mortal remains lay under thousands of tons of rock in a collapsed mine tunnel two hundred miles away.

  Stone paused, fist clenching in front of his body where the assembled crowd couldn’t see, before mounting the stairs. When he reached the top, he didn’t stand behind the pulpit, didn’t use it, like a lectern, as armor between himself and the crowd.

  Instead, still standing at the top of the steps, he turned to the congregation. Feeling oddly exposed and vulnerable in his severe black suit, he swept his gaze over them for a moment before beginning to speak. When he did, his voice held none of its usual sardonic amusement; instead he spoke plainly, simply, projecting as he did to be heard in his lecture hall.

  “When I first met Edwina Mortenson about ten years ago,” he said, “I’ll say to my dismay that we didn’t get on very well. It was my fault, mostly: I’d just arrived here at Stanford from England, and I was just the sort of brash young idiot who thought he knew everything. I thought I had nothing to learn from someone like Edwina, who took our subject so seriously. I didn’t bother to get to know her as more than a colleague for a long time—and that’s something
I regret now.”

  Almost unconsciously, he began pacing back and forth across the stage; he found it nearly impossible to talk without moving, especially when he was this uncomfortable. He shifted for a moment to magical sight, letting his gaze range out over the group. Their attention followed him as he moved, their auras subdued and curious. No doubt many of them were speculating about what had happened in the cave, since Stone had been the only one with her when she died.

  “Let me say this, though: Edwina Mortenson was one of the most dedicated professionals I’ve ever met in my life. Her knowledge of her subject was amazing, and the joy she got from passing that knowledge on to her students was something I had nothing but respect for. It’s no secret that some of us perhaps don’t take things as seriously as we should—it’s easy to grow complacent, to go through the motions while losing the sense of wonder that drove us to love what we do.” He deliberately didn’t look at Mackenzie Hubbard as he said this. “Edwina, though—Edwina never lost her sense of wonder. Even surrounded by skeptics, she never wavered in her belief that there’s something else out there. Something wonderful. In the later years of our acquaintance, I grew more and more to respect that. Even when we didn’t entirely see eye to eye, she was always passionate, professional, and a loyal friend and colleague.”

  He paused a moment, looking over the crowd again. He recognized several fellow professors, as well as students from her classes, both past and present—many of whom were his students as well. “I’m not going to take up too much of your time today, but I just wanted to say this in closing: I’m very glad I had the opportunity to know Edwina Mortenson, and I’m certain that, in whatever corner of the cosmos she’s exploring now, she’s absolutely found the magic she was looking for.”

  As he finished, he ended up in the center of the stage again. He stood there a moment longer and regarded the crowd, hands at his sides. There were so many other things he’d wanted to say: to talk about how she’d helped him connect with the terrified cat he’d brought into his home; to recount bits of the ill-fated trip to Brunderville to film the Other Side paranormal reality show, a trip that hadn’t been entirely unpleasant until everything had started going so terribly wrong; and above all, to apologize to all of them for not being able to do more to save Mortenson, even though he knew there was nothing he could have done.

  He and Mortenson hadn’t been best friends. They probably never would have been, even if she’d survived Brunderville. But what might have changed between them if he had given her a glimpse of the real “other side” instead of letting her believe he was nothing but a cynical skeptic?

  Those were the kinds of questions that had been keeping him awake at night ever since he’d returned two weeks ago. He’d never have the answers to them, but that was a small price to pay when compared to Mortenson’s.

  He descended the steps and resumed his place in the pew, his head high and his jaw set. Barbara gave him a brief hug, and Hubbard, looking uneasy, glanced sideways at him and then turned his attention back to the officiant, who’d called one of Mortenson’s graduate students up to speak.

  Stone listened to the remainder of the service in tense silence, and remained at the subsequent reception only long enough to offer his sincere condolences to Catherine and her friends. Perhaps it was cowardly of him, but he had no desire to answer anyone else’s questions. He was fairly sure Mortenson would have forgiven him.

  He wondered if he’d ever forgive himself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Doc? You here?”

  Stone straightened in his chair, where he’d been sitting slumped over a magical text he’d spent most of the afternoon trying to focus his concentration enough to read. “Up here.”

  A moment later, Verity Thayer appeared in the doorway. She eyed him critically. “You okay?”

  It was a fair question. He still wore most of the suit from the memorial service earlier that day, the tie hanging loosely around the open neck of his no-longer-crisp white shirt, and he made no effort to hide the dejection in his aura.

  He shoved the book aside and ran a hand through his hair. “Been better,” he admitted. “But I’ll be all right.”

  She took a seat on his old leather sofa, tucking her legs under her like a cat. She wore faded jeans, a black hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves shoved up, and black socks; she’d apparently left her boots downstairs. “The memorial was rough, huh?”

  “It was quite lovely, actually. I got out before anyone cornered me to ask questions, so I suppose I should count it as a success.”

  “Yeah, but even so, it’s never easy to lose somebody you care about.”

  “No…it isn’t.” He closed the book with a decisive snap and finished the last of the pint of Guinness he’d been nursing for the past hour. “How about you? What have you been up to today?”

  “The usual. Job hunting. Apartment hunting.”

  “Any success?”

  “Not yet. It’s really too bad Marta’s not hiring right now—she told me I could have my old job back in a heartbeat if she hadn’t just hired a new cook last month. But don’t worry—I’ll be out of your guest room soon enough.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not bothered if you aren’t. And I must say I could get used to you cooking again.”

  “I do that anyway,” she pointed out. “Though I guess it does make it easier when I’m right here.”

  Stone had to admit it was true. Because Verity’s move back to the Bay Area at the beginning of the year to resume her magical apprenticeship with him had been more sudden than either of them had expected, they’d agreed that the best thing was for her to stay in the guest bedroom at his townhouse until she could find a job and a living situation she could afford. Even with him paying half her rent—as her master, he considered it his obligation—the area was expensive, and finding a suitable place had taken longer than she’d hoped.

  He hadn’t been happy about it at first—as a private person well used to his bachelor ways, he’d had enough trouble adjusting to Raider, the cat he’d involuntarily acquired last summer, let alone a human roommate. That, and while he normally didn’t give a damn about what anyone else thought, as a Stanford professor he was aware that an unmarried man his age living with an attractive twenty-one-year-old woman was bound to set a few tongues wagging. Especially since the number of different women he’d dated over the years had already given him a bit of a reputation among his colleagues.

  Surprisingly, though, the two of them had settled into a routine with an unexpected lack of drama. With Stone away at work every weekday and Verity splitting her time between apartment- and job-hunting and doing whatever magic homework Stone assigned her, they usually only saw each other during the evenings, which were mostly taken up with magical training sessions. Raider loved her, and Stone, who normally lived on takeout he picked up on his way home from work and considered making toast without burning it to be an accomplishment, couldn’t deny the benefits of having someone with Verity’s love of culinary experimentation around.

  Stone tilted his chair back. “Have you given any more thought to what you’d mentioned before, about training to become an EMT?”

  She looked at her hands in her lap. “Yeah. I just…don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.”

  “If it’s a matter of money for training, I told you, I would—”

  “No,” she said quickly. “That’s not it. You’ve already done plenty for me, and I appreciate all of it. But…”

  “But…?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Verity,” he said gently, dropping the chair back down and coming over to sit at the other end of the sofa. “You never have to keep anything from me, if you don’t want to, for fear of what I might think of you. I thought you knew that by now. If you’ve changed your mind—”

  “No,” she said again. She sighed and looked up at him. “No, it’s not that. I haven�
��t changed my mind. But after Vegas…”

  “Ah.” Stone nodded. He’d wondered if that might be the problem. Ever since she’d returned from Las Vegas, where she and her brother Jason had gone to track down a missing man, she’d been subtly avoiding anything connected to healing magic. That hadn’t been difficult; she’d long ago surpassed Stone’s meager talent in the area, so he had nothing more to teach her. “I suppose this wouldn’t be a good time for me to trot out my standard ‘magic is a tool’ lecture again, would it?”

  She gave him a faint smile. “I don’t think it’ll do much good,” she agreed. She stretched out her legs and leaned back. Raider, who’d wandered unnoticed into the room, leaped into her lap. “I think it’s just something I’m going to have to figure out on my own.”

  “Fair enough. Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like until you work it out, so don’t worry about that. You can—”

  The phone rang.

  “Excuse me a moment.” Stone gestured, and the phone flew over to him. “Yes, hello?”

  “Alastair?”

  He recognized the voice instantly, even though he hadn’t heard it in over a year. “Imogen.”

  Verity made as if to get up, but he waved her back down. Why would Imogen be calling him now, after all this time? And—he did the mental math without conscious thought—so late, too? It was after eleven in England.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Alastair. Did I interrupt anything?”

  “No, no. Of course it’s no bother. What can I do for you?”

  The line crackled with her long pause, but when she spoke, her words came out in a rush. “I didn’t want to call you, but there isn’t really anyone else I can call. It could be nothing, but—”

  “Slow down, Imogen.” Stone tensed as he picked up on the unease in her tone. “Tell me what’s happened, and I’ll help if I can.”

  Another pause. “It’s Dad. We—can’t find him. I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”