Heart of stone, p.14
Heart of Stone, page 14
“Of course I’m sure…Well…I’m sure I didn’t tell anyone.” She swiped at her hair with a perfectly manicured hand. “This is awful. I’d never have even shown it to you if I’d thought something like this would happen. Please—just give it back to me. I’ll…I’ll destroy it.”
He patted her hand. “That won’t help. They know it exists now. I’ve got it hidden somewhere very safe, where they’ll never find it. And I have to admit, this has gotten me more curious than ever to find out what it’s all about. I’d like to keep it a bit longer, if you don’t mind.”
“You…said I was in danger too. You’re saying they know about me?”
He nodded. “They do. I feared when I got away from them, they might try to find you. I tried to call, but you didn’t answer your phone.”
“The meeting went late, so I spent the night at my place up in the City,” she said. She stared at nothing for a moment, as if taking in the enormity of it all. Then she scooted over and tried to pull him close to her. “What do we do?” she asked. “We—” She stopped when he winced at her touch, and pulled back. Her eyes narrowed again. “You’re holding something back, aren’t you?”
“No. I—”
Gently, she reached out and pulled up the bottom of his shirt, and gasped at what she saw. “Dear God…” she breathed. “What did they do to you?”
He bowed his head and didn’t answer. He didn’t resist as she gently pulled the shirt up the rest of the way and slipped it off, and once again stared in shock. “It’s all right…” he said, but his voice held no volume. “Deirdre, it’s all right.”
“It’s not all right. You should be in the hospital. At least have a doctor look you over. Come on—I’ll take you—”
“No.” More firmly, this time. “Really. I’ll be all right. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Should have seen it last night.
“This is what they did to you before you got away from them? How many of them did you say there were?”
“Two.”
“Did you call the police? Can you describe them?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t get a good look—all I saw was that they were big. A lot bigger than I am. And there’s no point in calling the police.”
“Why not? Maybe they can catch them. When did this happen? How long ago?”
Her frown cut him. Already she was unraveling his lies, and suddenly he was too exhausted to continue them. “I barely got away from them,” he mumbled, sinking back into the couch cushions.
“What? What do you mean?”
“It was luck…that was all.” He didn’t look at her; couldn’t look at her. “They…I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t fight them, Deirdre. I got lucky—did something they didn’t expect long enough so I could run away like a coward. I couldn’t do a damned thing to stop them. I was bloody useless.” He hated the way he sounded, hated what he was saying. He hadn’t wanted to tell her any of this, so why was it all coming out now?
He truly expected her to get up and leave, or at least to regard him with the kind of disdainful disappointment she no doubt felt for him now that she’d seen his true colors. Behind the mask, behind all the charm and the sarcasm, this was all he was. And now she knew it.
He didn’t expect her to take one of his hands in both of hers. “Come on,” she said gently. “I know you feel rotten right now, but none of that. This is all my fault for giving you the stupid thing in the first place. Come on. Let me help you.”
“Deirdre—”
“Shh.” She stood and stepped back. “Lie down. That’s an order.”
In spite of himself, he had to smile. “Forceful…I like that…”
“Good, because I’m about to take your pants off.”
He swallowed. “Much as I’d enjoy that, I don’t think…”
“I just want to get a look at you, silly. Stretch out.”
He did as he was told, and she carefully removed his jeans. When she got them off, she spent several silent seconds taking a long look at him. “My God,” was all she said.
“Listen,” he said, “it’s not important. None of this is serious—it will heal. What’s important is that they know about you, and I don’t want them to hurt you.”
She sat down carefully on the edge of the couch. “They won’t hurt me. I’ll be careful. I’m always careful. I don’t go places alone at night.”
Stone sighed. “It might not be enough. You didn’t see them, Deirdre.” He closed his eyes, his perverse mind serving up more visions of what the two hulking men would do to her if they cornered her somewhere.
“I have a gun,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know how to use it, too, and I’ve got a permit to carry it. I’ll keep it with me whenever I go anywhere. Will that make you feel better?” She perched on the edge of the couch and gently stroked his chest.
He shivered. Suddenly he felt very exposed—and very warm—lying there on the couch in only his shorts. Despite the fact that his body ached, his head pounded, and he was sure he was getting a fever, her touch and her closeness affected him as they always did. “Deirdre—”
“Shh,” she whispered. She moved her hand up to stroke his jawline, and smiled as her eyes glittered. “I like the stubble. The look works for you.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Deirdre, please. I—” He shook his head. How could he tell her how he felt? He’d thought she would get up and leave, and yet here she still was.
“Shh,” she said again. She looked him up and down once more, and her smile widened. “I’m not so good for you right now, am I?”
“You’re always good for me. I want you…” he said, his voice husky. He hadn’t realized it, hadn’t even thought about it, until she was sitting there, so tantalizingly close to him. But now, despite all his aches and pains and exhaustion, it was all he could think of. “I want you so much right now…but…I don’t think…”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I want you too. You know I do. But I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get you healed up, and then I’ll give you a workout. I promise. But for now, let’s make sure you have what you need.”
“I need to figure out why those men want that book,” he said. He used a little surreptitious magic to pick up the old throw he had at the foot of the couch and pull it up to cover his lower half. “If I know that, I might be able to figure out who they are.”
“There’s time for that,” she said. “When you’re feeling better. Now, what else can I help you with?”
In the end, she cleaned up some of the scratches and cuts he hadn’t done a very good job on, got him a bowl of soup and a Guinness, and went upstairs to retrieve a spare comforter from his linen closet.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” she asked as she arranged it around him. She was back on the edge of the couch again. “I can call in and tell them something came up…”
“No,” he said, stroking her hand. “I’ll be fine. Seriously—I’d rather you see me a bit more at my best, when I can be more…entertaining.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she said. “Okay. But you have to promise to call me if you need anything.”
“I promise.” Of course, he had no intention of letting her play nursemaid, but she didn’t have to know that. “And you must promise to be careful. Stay with other people, and keep your security system on. And please call me now and then to let me know you’re all right, or if you see anything suspicious. Anything at all. I expect I’ll be dead to the world for a few hours today, but leave a message. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come over to investigate.”
“I will.” She kissed him. “I’ll see you soon.”
The door closed behind her. He settled back, already feeling like some important part of him had left with her, leaving an empty spot. He tried to concentrate: he had so many things he needed to think about now, such as who his attackers were, why they seemed to be nearly immune to magic, and why they were after Deirdre’s black magic grimoire. Such as why Deirdre’s grandmother was in possession of a tome of such power in the first place. Had she been a mage? Was there some connection between her and the attackers, or someone who knew them? Was there some specific bit of content in the book that they were looking for, or did they want the whole thing? Had they been sent by someone else to retrieve it? If so, by whom?
He drifted off with these questions still spinning uneasily in his mind.
“Help me…Please…Oh, God, help me!”
At first he couldn’t see her face. He ran toward her, but no matter how fast he ran, he didn’t get any closer. He yelled her name, but it was lost on the whipping wind. Around her, hulking figures circled: looming, muscular, naked things, too big to be human. They stalked her as she stood in the center of the circle, their faces leering, their hairy, grasping hands reaching for her…
And then he was no longer on that dream-treadmill, unable to get any closer. Running as hard as he could, he reached the edge of the circle. He grabbed one of them and tried to pull him backward, out of the leering ring, but the thing turned to him with a mocking grin on its slope-browed face and slapped him backward with no more effort than it would take to bat away an annoying fly. He fell hard, skidding to a stop. Inside the circle, her screams rose. He still couldn’t see her face.
He scrambled back up, throwing himself at them again, battering his fists against their broad backs, trying to break through their ranks. They only laughed at him, shoving him this way and that. They had thick necks and tree-trunk legs and massive bulging biceps, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, reaching for the terrified figure inside the circle who darted this way and that, desperate for escape. Her screams kept pace with her rising panic, as one or another of them caught her and pulled her in.
“No!” he yelled. Every now and then he’d get a glimpse of her face, wide-eyed and horrified. Sometimes it was Deirdre’s face. Sometimes it was Lindsey’s. He redoubled his efforts to get past them, flinging himself down and trying to dive between their legs, or to slip between a pair of them as they surged forward, but each time they rebuffed his increasingly desperate attempts with no effort of their own.
They never spoke, only laughed and grunted and leered. They hardly appeared to even notice him except to mock his ineffectual attempts. Another one lunged, big body coming down on top of the screaming figure. For a moment, he saw her face—she was Deirdre now, and she was looking, not at the hulking male creature on top of her, but at him—and her expression was accusing…and disappointed.
And then she turned away from him.
She closed her eyes for just a moment, and then the rest of them moved in and she screamed.
He snapped awake, his heart pounding, his hands gripping the comforter so tightly that he’d ripped little holes in it. Rage rose, then faded with the shreds of the dream. He sank back down and let the out the breath he’d been holding in a rush.
He must be out of it—usually his dreams weren’t that obvious.
In fact, that one had been so literal it was very nearly insulting.
Except for the fact that it had done an uncomfortably good job at encapsulating how he was feeling right about now. Maybe his subconscious had figured out that his brain wasn’t running at full capacity at the moment, so it had better serve up the message in easily digestible form so he didn’t miss anything.
He sat up, shivering, and pulled the comforter around him. He didn’t have time for this. If he had any hope of figuring out who the men who’d attacked him were, and making damned sure they didn’t come after Deirdre, he’d have to answer the question of why they wanted the grimoire.
He gritted his teeth, picked up his clothes from where Deirdre had left them on the coffee table, and began pulling them back on.
Chapter Thirty-Two
He reached A Passage to India in the middle of the lunch rush. The spicy aromas of the various Indian dishes, which normally made him hungry, now made his stomach squirm uncomfortably. He swallowed hard and plunged forward through the dining room.
Marta looked up as he swept past, and her eyes widened. “Alastair?”
“Not now, please, Marta. I’m in a hurry.” What he didn’t say was that he was afraid if he stopped, he wouldn’t start again.
“But—”
“Please,” he said again. Without stopping, he continued past her and headed down the hallway toward the portal door. Marta followed him, but only as far as the door itself.
He paused a moment in front of the portal. He shouldn’t be doing this. Every ache in his body, the shivers despite his heavy overcoat, the gray exhaustion weighing him down, told him it was a bad idea. But every time he was tempted to stop, to turn around and head back home to the comfort and solace of his warm bed and his wards, new images of Deirdre and Polo Shirt and Leather Jacket spurred him on.
The grimoire was his only lead, and he knew he was close to cracking it. If he waited, who knew what might happen? And if it happened because he chose to coddle himself, he’d never be able to look in a mirror again.
It was a little after eight p.m. in Surrey, already dark as he emerged from the crypt near his house. At least it wasn’t raining tonight. He moved as fast as he could (which wasn’t very fast); once again, he’d prefer not to run into Aubrey because it would mean a lot of long explanations he had neither the time nor the energy for.
He almost made it. He would have, except that he tripped on the steps leading up to the front door and dropped to his knees with a grunt of pain. As he dragged himself back to his feet, he heard the snik-klunk of a rifle behind him.
“Stop right there,” said a cold voice. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
Stone sighed. “Aubrey. It’s me.”
“Sir?” The voice went from implacable to astonished. Footsteps on gravel, and then the old man was next to him, crouching and setting a lantern down next to him. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were coming, or I’d—”
“I didn’t tell you I was coming,” Stone said. He got back up and turned a little away from the lantern, hoping if he stayed out of the light, Aubrey might not notice his current state. “I just need to take care of a couple of quick things. No need to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble. It’s good to see you. Let me get you some—” His eyes widened. “Dear God, sir! What’s happened to you?”
“Long story,” he said, waving him off. “I don’t have time for this right now. I’ll be down in the magical library. We’ll have to chat some other time—this is rather urgent.”
“But—”
He already had the front door open and was heading inside. “Sorry, Aubrey. I know I’m being rude, but I feel rather ghastly right now and I know my energy won’t last too long. I need to get this done right now. I promise you—I’ll be fine.”
He knew Aubrey wanted to protest. After all, the man had known him since he was born, and had seen most of his dodges and excuses. “Listen—if you want to help, could you put together a plate of something for me? Just leave it on the table at the end of the hall by the cellar entrance, and I’ll get it when I have a break.” He stopped, turning back with an encouraging smile. “And then go back to whatever you were doing. Please, don’t let me interrupt you. I was trying to get in without you seeing me, but—” He spread his hands.
Aubrey regarded him for a long moment, then sighed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He spent two hours in his magical library. The grimoire was there, right where he’d left it, undisturbed. That didn’t surprise him. Only one person had ever managed to breach the library’s wards, and he’d retuned them since then to be both more sensitive and more deadly. He’d liked to have spent longer, but wisdom eventually prevailed: if he left now, he’d still have the energy to get back through the portal and drive home. If he waited too much longer, he couldn’t count on that.
Aubrey, good old Aubrey, had left him a covered plate including a large sandwich, a shiny red apple, and a glass of iced tea, counting on the frigid temperature of the unheated wing to keep it cold. He paused to devour it, taking the fact that he was ravenously hungry as a good sign. He carried the plate to the kitchen when he was done; Aubrey was nowhere to be seen. After scrawling a note (“Thanks, Aubrey. See you soon—maybe during the spring break. I’ll call you. A.”), he left it on the counter and headed out.
When he got back to A Passage to India and emerged from the portal room, he sneaked out the back door to avoid Marta. He wasn’t proud of it, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone else. He waited until he was on the road before allowing his mind go back over the discoveries he’d made about the grimoire to keep him engaged on the drive home.
He hadn’t cracked it yet, but he was closer. He thought if he could manage to make it back there for a few more hours, he’d get it. The thing definitely contained a series of spells and rituals. It was written in an ancient ciphered language used thousands of years ago by mages who wanted to keep their research secret from those who would persecute or exploit them: clergy, the aristocracy, or powerful merchants who would steal their work and sell it to other mages. He hadn’t gotten any specifics yet, but the spells and rituals all seemed to be related to the pursuit of power, immortality, and youth. As far as Stone knew no modern mage had access to such spells—he’d certainly never heard of any such thing—but magic in the old days had been both more potent and more widely practiced than it was today. While he doubted any of these spells would work properly, and he certainly didn’t intend to test them since they all required human sacrifices of varying horrific degrees, neither could he rule out their validity.
This time when he got home, he checked the wards, and was relieved to find no disturbance. He was even more relieved to find two phone messages from Deirdre, both informing him that she was still fine and asking him to call her when he woke up to let he know how he was doing. He noticed the one from Jason was still there too; he’d have to call him back, but not today.
