The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley
routine, he knelt and dropped his chin to his chest. The act grated—always had—but while subservience might not be in his nature, self-preservation was.
The lights flickered, brightened a bit.
His cue.
He rose and mounted the eight steps to the summit. Dread made his body heavy, his movements stiff, as he closed the short distance to the foot of the bed. It was a monstrous thing, the bed. Fit for a medieval king—literally. If memory served, it had been taken from Caernarfon Castle in payment for one thing or another. It had held up well, considering.
The same couldn’t be said of the man occupying it.
With long white hair and nearly transparent skin that alternately wrinkled and stretched over sharp, forbidding features, Idris looked like death. The spells and rituals which had long-preserved his life could no longer do more than the bare minimum to preserve his body.
“Athair,” Cormac said again, and watched Idris’s eyes open. The man’s expression, as usual, was neutral. Blank. Only his eyes held any emotion.
Unsurprisingly, that emotion was disgust.
«You lost it.»
The words, spoken silently, cut through his mind like a blade. He took a slow breath through the pain. “There’s been a temporary setback, yes.”
«Insolence.»
A vicious slap of power snapped his head back.
The world spun. Settled. “The parcel she handed over to the post office in Kirkwall was a decoy. Nothing but tissue inside.”
A good bit of time had been wasted discovering that. Not only had the break-in taken longer than expected, thanks to some protective spells of the local variety, but he’d had to deal with the ones Leticia had placed on the package itself—along with what had to have been at least a half roll of tape.
“I believe she did post the real thing too,” he continued, “but through another means. And much earlier. Morning, probably.”
«To where?»
“The decoy parcel was addressed to her London house,” he said carefully.
Not carefully enough.
«You do not know.»
Cords of rage shot from Idris’s motionless hands to wrap around Cormac’s chest and squeeze. He couldn’t breathe.
“Worthless,” Idris said aloud. The word echoed, bouncing from wall to wall as the room itself began to tremble. “Tell me why I should let you live.”
Cormac hadn’t the breath to respond. Blood trickled from his nose as the room grew even darker. Or maybe it just seemed to. He was near to passing out.
He’d been a fool, thinking he had any chance against his father.
«Culén.»
Abruptly, the cords vanished.
Knees buckling, Cormac grabbed hold of a bedpost, sucked in a much-needed breath. Consciousness returned on a rush, and he came to understand his lingering unsteadiness was due to the room’s continued, temper-driven shaking.
“Leticia McDaniel is missing,” he managed to rasp a moment later, straightening. Perspiration slicked his skin. “There’s no trace of her rental car, and I can’t sense her beyond an isolated point on a road. Violence has been done there.”
«She is dead.»
“So it would seem.” As if he couldn’t care less, he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, then proceeded to dab at the blood on his face. “I intend to leave for London again tonight. I’ve found some new things to try against the protection wards around her home.” He tucked away the soiled cloth.
«And if you fail?»
He shrugged. “Her absence should be noted soon, if it hasn’t already. She was one of their best, and they’ll panic. Mistakes will be made.” And he’d be ready.
«Fools.» The orbs nearest the bed began to brighten, rattling in their holders. «Samhain nears. You will finish this.»
“Of course, Athair.” Or die trying.
He’d be dead, anyway, if he failed.
Triggering the transportation spell, he bowed deeply—and was knocked off the dais by an unexpected lash of power. He landed hard on the floor below.
In the stunned moment before the pain registered, he returned home, the cold marble of his father’s chamber suddenly the Persian carpet of his own, with the old man’s laughter ringing in his ears.
CHAPTER 3
Granite Springs, Oregon
28 October
Thia stared, dumbfounded, at the boxes scattered all over the sidewalk. Beside her, Madame Demetka made a sound of dismay and flew into action, clapping her heavily ringed hands at a growing crowd of pedestrians.
“Everyone, everyone,” she cried, gesturing wildly, her kaftan sleeves flapping like the wings of an angry swan. “The boxes! Please now to get the boxes!”
“No, it’s okay,” Thia protested as people, some looking quite dazed, moved to retrieve the fallen shipment. No one paid her any attention. “Please, don’t trouble yourselves. I can—”
“That one! That one!” Pointing here, whirling to point there, Madame Demetka wove between the people like a tempest of silk and velvet. “No, not yet—you in the sport hat, take that one! Yes, yes, yes. No, the other!”
Thia murmured quiet thanks as the mountain was rebuilt in her arms.
When it was finished, Madame Demetka bellowed to the hastily departing crowd, “Many, many thanks! Many blessings!” Then, turning to Thia, she lowered her voice—slightly. “My sorrow is great. Miri mora, please, you must tell me nothing has broke.”
The woman seemed so distraught, Thia would’ve said everything was fine even if it weren’t. But, considering she’d packed everything to withstand use in a football game, she could say with confidence, “It’s all fine. Thank you.” She moved to go. “I’ll see you when I get back, okay?”
“No, no, sweeting—I must talk with you now.” Madame Demetka reached out a restraining hand, only to pull it back with an understanding nod at Thia’s flinch, and instead took a step closer to say in an amazingly loud whisper, “My guides tell me there will be trouble for you. Trouble this day. Very clearly this comes through.”
Thia smiled. “Trouble, like dropping boxes?”
“You joke, but they do not. Not this time. Oh, maw!” Her hands fluttered in irritation. “They will not tell me more. Not here, they say. I will ask for more details, and meantime, you will be careful. Promise this.”
“Of course,” Thia agreed easily, figuring that after so many years in Los Angeles, she was always careful. Well, careful enough. Granite Springs was a safe town. Odd, at times, but safe.
Madame Demetka leaned in even more, the scent of patchouli almost overwhelming, her face only inches away. Too close. Her features distorted so that all Thia could see were big, dark eyes. Bottomless pools. She’d heard the description before, but never fully understood it till now. She needed to step back, to create some space, but couldn’t seem to move. She felt really strange. A bit nauseous. Light-headed. Was she about to faint? Please, no. She’d drop the boxes again.
Madame Demetka blinked, and Thia felt herself snap out of…whatever she’d snapped into. Though she still felt a little weird. “Did something—”
“Wait one moment.” Hands raised, Madame Demetka tilted her face toward the sky and closed her eyes. A sudden wind