Game of Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles Read online

  Nearly a month had passed since he and Verity had returned from England. On the plus side, he’d been right: nobody from his grandmother’s group had bothered them, or even made their presence known. Whether that was because the old woman had finally realized she’d gone too far, they were still licking their wounds, or they’d decided it wasn’t worth pissing him off, they’d left him alone and that was fine with him. Perhaps later on, he’d do some more investigation to see if they’d resumed their activities, but for now he was glad to have them off his radar.

  That didn’t mean he wasn’t plenty busy with other things, though.

  He paused a moment to catch his breath, then hurried out of the portal room and headed to the front before the temptation to curl up among the cleaning supplies became too difficult to resist.

  It was early; the restaurant wasn’t open yet, so the dining room was dark and quiet, but as Stone came through a familiar figure poked her head out of the office. “Alastair? Is that you?”

  He stopped reluctantly as Marta Bellwood came out to investigate. “Hello, Marta. Just passing through.”

  “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” She regarded him with a critical eye. “You look exhausted.”

  “Just busy.”

  “That doesn’t look like ‘busy’ to me. That looks like ‘one step ahead of collapse.’ Come on—I’ve finished in the office, and I’ve got some coffee on. Sit down with me for a few minutes before you go.”

  “Marta, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time—”

  “You do,” she said, with that firm ‘no arguments’ glower that told him she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I’m afraid if I let you out of here without at least one cup of coffee in you, the next time I hear about you it’ll be in an accident report.”

  He thought about protesting, but gave it up. She might be right. If nothing else, he owed it to the other drivers between here and Palo Alto to at least try to wake up before he got behind the wheel. “Fine, fine. If you’ve got it ready.”

  “I do. Just sit down and hold on a moment.”

  Stone dropped into a chair, swiping his unruly dark hair off his forehead and gazing out the front window. This time of morning, the only foot traffic came from people walking by on their way to work; he watched groups of chatting pedestrians passing and wondered if he’d ever be that carefree again.

  “Here we are.” Marta returned with two large, steaming mugs and set one in front of him.

  “Thanks.” He took a long, satisfied sip. Marta knew how he liked his coffee: black as the pits of Hell and strong enough to strip the finish off the inside of the cup. Already he felt himself perking up a bit.

  She watched him over her mug. “I know it’s none of my business, but I’m curious about what you’ve been doing. I’ve seen you popping through the portal at least four times in the last week—and those are only the times I’ve noticed.”

  It wasn’t the first time Stone wished he had his own portal over here, so he didn’t have to answer questions about where he was going. Still, Marta meant well and wasn’t by nature nosy—she was just worried about him. He could see it in her furrowed brow and troubled expression. “I wasn’t kidding about being busy,” he told her. “I didn’t mention it before, but my old master back in England died recently, and left me some things to take care of.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “That’s why I’ve been over there a lot the last few weeks—dealing with various things that need to be done.”

  “Of course—but why are you going back and forth? Why not just stay there until you’ve finished them?”

  He couldn’t explain it to her—or rather, he wouldn’t. “I can’t do that because I’m a black mage now, and I’ve got to finish with the bits that require me to do magic before the power I stole from ashing my secret twin sister fades away” hardly seemed like an adequate explanation, or one he could get away with. “Oh, and I can’t get more power because I don’t want to take it from anyone else unless absolutely necessary,” too. He’d be here all day answering questions, even if he was willing to do it.

  Which he wasn’t.

  “I’ve got things to do at the University, too,” was all he said. “With Edwina gone, it’s just the two of us. They can’t sack me for taking personal leave, but old Hubbard is already glaring daggers at me for being away as much as I already am.”

  Marta’s eyes widened. “So you’re telling me you’re doing—whatever it is you’re doing over in England every day, and then coming back here and putting in a full day teaching?”

  “It’s not for long,” he said, a little defensively. “I’ve almost got everything sorted back home, and then things should calm down a bit.” If by calm he meant can’t do magic any more until you work through your issues with what you’ve become. That wasn’t technically correct: even as a black mage he could still do simple magic like basic aura reading and working the portals using his own power, but anything beyond that would require a fill-up.

  “When are you finding time to sleep?”

  “I get in a few hours here and there—it’s mostly the time zone thing that’s buggering me up. But as I said, it won’t be for much longer. I can deal with it until then.”

  Marta looked dubious. “You push yourself too hard. You have ever since I’ve known you. Can’t you offload some of this on Verity? I thought that was what apprentices were for.”

  That opened up whole new categories of problems, but Stone couldn’t (wouldn’t) tell her those, either. “It’s all right, Marta. I appreciate your concern, but I need to be getting on with it. There’s no helping it. I’ll catch up on my sleep after I’ve got this all sorted. It will be fine.” He finished off the last of the coffee, set the cup down, and stood. “Thanks for the pick-up—it was just what I needed. I’ve got to be going now, though—planning to catch a few hours’ sleep before my class later this afternoon.”

  “And then it’s back off to England when you’re done?” Marta looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead she also stood and picked up his cup. “Take care of yourself, Alastair. I mean it.” She lowered her voice, and it shook a little. “I’ve already lost one person I care about to a senseless car accident. I don’t want to lose another one.”

  Stone tensed. He’d nearly forgotten about that. “I’ll be careful, Marta. I promise.”

  As he left the restaurant and headed out into the cold, overcast day to retrieve his car, he knew she was right. He couldn’t keep this up forever.

  2

  Verity called at two p.m., jolting Stone out of a creepy, unsettling dream in which he’d just drained Mackenzie Hubbard until all that remained of him was his frumpy brown cardigan and a stack of overwrought horror novels. He leaned over the edge of the bed and fumbled for his mobile in his jeans pocket. “Mmm…yes?”

  “Doc? Did I wake you up?”

  He blinked, trying to clear the fog as he sat up. “Er—no. No. It’s fine.”

  “I did. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” he assured her, glancing at the clock. “Needed to get up anyway. Got a class in an hour. What did you need?”

  “Oh—don’t worry about it, then. I was just going to come by later and pick up those last few boxes.”

  “Ah. Right.” She’d moved into her new apartment in Mountain View last week, and had been slowly but steadily shuttling things over there during the past few days. “I’ll bring them by later if you like.”

  The line was silent for several seconds. “Are you doing okay? You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “I’m—I’m fine. Just doing a lot of running around.”

  “I’ll take you up on bringing those boxes by if you let me make you dinner. How long has it been since you had anything but takeout?”

  He almost said “Day before yesterday” until he remembered pub nibbles and too much Guinness at the Dancing Dragon with Eddie and Ward didn’t count. “Er—”

  “That’s it,” she said firmly
. “You’re coming. No arguments. Six o’clock okay?”

  It wouldn’t do him any good to go back to England before midnight anyway. He sighed. “Yes, all right, fine. I’ll see you then.”

  He broke the connection and trudged off to get ready for his class, wondering if Verity hadn’t been right: had he been avoiding her? Between his trips back and forth to England, catching up with work that had piled up at the University, and trying to fit in enough sleep that he didn’t pass out, he’d been letting her magic training slide more than he’d liked. Was it just because he was busy, or was the vague feeling of unease he’d been experiencing ever since they got back more than just in his head?

  He didn’t have time to think about it right now, even if he wanted to. He’d have to hurry or he’d be late to class. It wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks that he’d been grateful he could teach most of his classes in his sleep.

  He pulled up in front of Verity’s apartment building in Mountain View a little after six. It was a small complex in a solidly middle-class part of town near Middlefield Road; she had the second-floor walk-up on the end farthest from the street.

  They’d both agreed it would be better if she had her own place after what had happened, and he’d insisted on paying for it since she was still his apprentice, even if not for much longer. This apartment was a compromise: considerably less expensive than the ones he’d found in Palo Alto, but significantly nicer than the cheaper options she’d found in sketchy San Jose neighborhoods. She’d protested, but this time he’d won. It wasn’t as if paying for her apartment was a strain on his finances—especially not after the fortune he’d inherited from William Desmond.

  He retrieved the boxes from the trunk of his black BMW and carried them upstairs, shifting them to one arm so he could knock.

  She answered right away, almost as if she’d been waiting for him. “Hey,” she said, smiling. In faded jeans and a burgundy T-shirt with the logo of a local coffee place, she looked like she’d recovered completely from their recent ordeal. From somewhere behind her, the aroma of something spicy wafted out. “Thanks a lot for bringing those over. C’mon in.”

  She hadn’t had much chance to fix the place up yet; boxes still stood open around the living room, and the white walls were bare. “Just set them down anywhere,” she told him, pointing in the direction of the others. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Stone stacked the boxes on the floor and followed her out to the kitchen. Things were a lot more put together out here, attesting to her love of cooking. When she’d first moved in, he’d insisted on giving her a housewarming present of a complete set of cookware, which he’d taken her to a high-end kitchen shop to pick out herself since he had no idea what she’d need. She’d protested that he was already doing too much for her, but had finally relented when they’d arrived at the shop. She did insist, however, that he let her cook a few meals a week for him in exchange. He’d happily accepted her offer.

  “So,” she said, looking him up and down as she pulled out silverware and plates, then checked one of the steaming pans. “How’s it going at Caventhorne? You look really tired. Are you sleeping?”

  “When I can.” He took the silverware and began setting the small kitchen table. “Kerrick’s settled in nicely, and I can barely pry Arthur and Eddie away from Desmond’s library long enough to get them to the pub.”

  That was one thing he could be grateful for: switching William Desmond’s massive country home, Caventhorne, from private residence to magical resource center, meeting facility, and clearinghouse for magical knowledge was taking a lot of time, but he’d known just the people to delegate it to. To his relief, they’d all accepted, making his job much easier than it might have been otherwise.

  Kerrick, formerly the head estate steward at Caventhorne and one of Desmond’s most loyal friends and confidants, had refused to leave the family’s employ even after Desmond’s will had revealed a bequest to him of a significant fortune. Since Desmond’s daughter Imogen didn’t require his services and couldn’t convince him to change his mind about leaving, Stone had approached him about taking over the administrative duties at the repurposed manor house. Despite the fact that it would no longer be a private residence, it still required a great deal of maintenance, and Stone knew no one was better suited to command the staff than the man who’d done it for decades already. Kerrick had gratefully accepted the position, allowing Stone to put the day-to-day running of the house out of his mind. It was in the best possible hands.

  That left the magical end of the endeavor. Once again, Stone had known just the people to approach: his old friends Arthur Ward, whom he knew was unsatisfied in his mundane job as a researcher, and Eddie Monkton, curator of the massive London library that contained not only an impressive selection of arcane tomes, but also a storehouse of magical research from all over the world.

  When he’d approached them about it over pints at the Dancing Dragon, even dignified Ward had regarded him in much the same way as a child who’d been dropped off in a toy store and told to go nuts. Like Kerrick, they’d accepted Stone’s offer right away, and ever since then the two of them had been commuting by portal back and forth between the London house (Stone’s now) and Wexley, preparing Caventhorne’s treasures for eventual availability to the world’s magical community. Eddie had extended his role as librarian and archivist, while Ward had taken on the magical end of the facility’s administration. Once again, Stone had left them to it, confident that they’d fulfill their duties far better without his interference.

  Verity brought a steaming dish over and set it in the center of the table while Stone opened the bottle of white wine he’d brought. “Did you ever get the wards worked out?” she asked.

  “Mostly done. That’s been the hardest part—not just doing it, but keeping Arthur and Eddie from finding out why it’s been so difficult for me.”

  “You haven’t told them yet?” She waved him toward the dish.

  “No. I haven’t told anybody yet.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How’s that working? Have you still got power? You haven’t had to—”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I’m still all right for a while yet, as long as I don’t do anything too taxing.” He dropped his gaze, not meeting hers. “What I did—it can provide an immense amount of energy. Especially…”

  “Especially when it’s somebody who started out with that kind of power.” She reached across the table and gripped his hand. “Yeah.”

  They remained silent for a while, concentrating on the delicious shrimp Alfredo. Occasionally, Stone would flick a glance up at Verity; each time he caught her watching him with concern and quickly averted his eyes. She still feels guilty. As much as he’d tried to assure her that she had no reason to, he could see in her aura that she still felt the whole situation had been her fault. He wished he could convince her to the contrary—he’d been completely truthful when he’d told her he didn’t regret turning himself black by killing Anna Canby (Acantha—he still couldn’t get his mind around thinking of her by that name). He didn’t regret it, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat if faced with the choice he’d had to make last month in England. It wasn’t something he would have chosen and dealing with the aftermath hadn’t been easy for him, but what was done was done as far as he was concerned, and now he’d just have to learn to adjust.

  Many mages these days were closer to the black end of the spectrum anyway. Maybe not nearly as far as he’d gone—he wondered if even old Stefan Kolinsky had ever done what he’d done—but it wasn’t as if he was unusual.

  “Doc?”

  He glanced up quickly; she was trying to get his attention, and he wondered how long she’d been at it. “Yes?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?” He covered the fact that he knew exactly what she meant by topping off each of their wine glasses.

  She paused, studying him for a moment before speaking. “How are you going to get more po
wer?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “I could—”

  “No. You couldn’t.” He did look at her then, and his gaze was hard. “No, Verity,” he said, more softly. “You need your power. I’ll—figure something out.”

  “But you’ve got it get it from somewhere if you want to keep doing magic. Why not me? I’ll keep your secret, and it doesn’t have to be much, right?”

  “No,” he said, firm once more. “Don’t bring it up again, Verity.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flashed. “Even if it’s not my fault this happened, I’m still the only one who knows about it. If you want to keep anybody else from finding out, you don’t have any other choices. Unless you want to start taking power from people in crowds.”

  He shuddered at that. He’d been thinking about it a lot over the last month, dreading the day when the massive influx of power he’d gotten from killing Acantha at last began to wane to the point where he’d have to make a decision he didn’t want to make. At the rate he was using power in his activities at Caventhorne, he had maybe a few more days before he’d have to recharge. The thought of leaching small amounts of magical energy from anonymous people at a club, a shopping mall, or a downtown crowd made him nearly physically ill—and tempted him, at the same time. Even though he knew he wouldn’t need much—the energy he could obtain from two or three people would be enough to let him do normal levels of magic for a couple of weeks at least—he couldn’t bring himself to even try it.

  Not with the visions of Acantha dying—wide-eyed, terrified, and screaming before she collapsed into a pile of ash at his feet—playing on near-constant rotation in his dreams ever since he’d arrived back in Palo Alto. He didn’t regret what he did, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. The memory of that exhilarating rush of power, of the way it had made him feel, was still too fresh in his mind.