Heart of stone, p.7
Heart of Stone, page 7
Her eyebrow crept up. It was one of the many things he found irresistible about her: she was the first woman he’d ever met who could do the single-eyebrow raise. “Is that so? Wait, let me guess: you’re really the janitor. Or you work in one of the dining halls as a lunch…er…laddie.” She tilted her head, then reached out and playfully ruffled the front of his hair. “I can’t picture you in a hairnet, but maybe that’s why you have such trouble making it stay down.”
“Either of those would be easier,” he said. “Actually, I didn’t lie: I just didn’t tell you the whole truth. My department is part of Cultural Anthropology. But it’s a bit more…specific than that.”
“Specific.”
He resisted the urge to tug at his tie. “My subject is only under that umbrella because they couldn’t figure out where else to put us. I teach Occult Studies.” He watched her closely for a reaction.
“Occult Studies.” She considered that a moment. “So, things like the Salem Witch Trials, and ghostly visitations, and that kind of thing?”
“That and more, yes.” He waited.
She smiled, and it lit up her face. “How fascinating! Why didn’t you want to tell me that?”
He stared at her as he let himself relax, his nervousness ebbing away. Was that it? Just like that? Suddenly, he felt foolish for making a big deal of it. He’d been holding on to so much subconscious dread of how she’d react to the news that the relief hit him like a physical sensation. Of course she wouldn’t be like the others—how could he ever have expected she would be? “You’d be surprised at how many people find it…off-putting.”
“Oh, Alastair…” She reached out to straighten his tie, and let her finger trail down the stiff white front of his shirt. “I’m not most people. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”
“Oh, yes…” he said, and his voice was husky. Suddenly the car’s interior, comfortably warm before, was oppressively hot. “Suppose we just skip the party, then, shall we?”
She laughed. “No way. I want to spend the evening watching you trying to dodge rich ladies who want to have their way with you for donations.”
“It’s not nearly as amusing as you make it sound.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” With a smile and a final tweak of his tie, she added, “And then, after I’ve decided you’ve suffered enough for thinking I’d run away when I found out your real job…we’ll go back to my place and find out what really goes bump in the night.”
Chapter Sixteen
Stone had to admit it: as venues for holding a meet-and-greet fundraiser for the Cultural Anthropology department went, the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum in San Jose was one of their more inspired choices. The last couple of these he’d attended had been held at more conventional locations (the one last year was at the Mountain Winery in Saratoga) but this year, apparently, Occult Studies had had some input into the decision-making process.
The museum itself was only part of a complex that included an auditorium, a planetarium, a meditation labyrinth, and numerous winding paths that led past Egyptian sculpture and gardens. It wasn’t generally open this late, but tonight all the lights along the paths were on, giving the place an otherworldly beauty.
“This is nice,” Deirdre said as they followed the signs toward the museum. Other guests, clad in tuxedos, dinner jackets, and colorful cocktail dresses, lingered along the path; one older couple had paused to investigate the museum’s life-sized outdoor game of Senet, an ancient Egyptian pastime. “Have you been here before?”
“A couple of times, yes.” He didn’t tell her about the library, tucked away in a building down a narrow path to their left and probably one of the few things not open for the party. It had surprised him when he’d first visited a few years back: it was one of the area’s more impressive repositories of research material pertaining to the occult and the supernatural. Not only did it include numerous books and papers on the subject—some of them very old—that weren’t duplicated in Stanford’s libraries, but Stone had discovered that several genuinely magical tomes resided on its dusty shelves. After he’d chatted with the librarian (she was mundane, but remarkably knowledgeable on the subject) and determined himself that none of the magically active material posed any danger, he’d started sending some of his graduate students here to conduct various bits of research. “If you have any interest in ancient Egypt, you might find the exhibits interesting.” He grinned. “And if you don’t, they’ll have plenty of good food and liquor. That’s one thing I’ll say for our department: they don’t skimp on trying to impress the benefactors.”
They rounded a corner toward the front of the museum. Beyond it, a walkway stretched out to the street, lined with an honor guard of more Egyptian-style statues. Several people milled around in front of the tall columns flanking the brass-clad front door, chatting, glasses in hand. Stone nodded greetings to them as he and Deirdre passed, noting with amusement how every one of the men’s gazes followed her and barely seemed to notice him.
He was glad he wasn’t the jealous type, or his anxiety level whenever he was with her would spend most of its time pegged to the maximum. This was a new experience for him—he’d dated his share of beautiful women over the years, but none as stunning as she was. He planned to make it a point to stay near her, not because he was worried she’d stray from him, but because some of these rich old donors could get a bit pushy with their attention. Two years ago he’d nearly had to pry one of them off his date when he’d cornered her in a side hallway with a drunken, long-winded story about how his wife didn’t understand him.
Inside, dim light and soft music had transformed the museum into an inviting space for socializing. Two galleries opened out on either side of the large reception desk, and a short flight of stairs led up to the second floor. A few more guests mingled in couples and small groups.
“Welcome,” the smiling woman behind the desk said. “The bar and buffet table are upstairs in the area between the galleries. Please enjoy yourself, and feel free to check out the exhibits.”
“The bar,” Stone said as they mounted the stairs. “I know this lot—that’s where the action, so to speak, will be.”
He was correct: as they reached the second floor, it quickly became clear that the majority of the guests were here. He estimated perhaps fifty people—mostly couples, mostly older—sipping drinks and drifting from one bit of Egyptian antiquity to the next. The low murmur of conversation or someone’s amused laugh occasionally rose above the music, but so far things remained fairly civilized. Nobody had had time to get tipsy yet. It would come.
He’d just accompanied Deirdre to get a drink when he heard a voice from behind them: “Dr. Stone!”
“Here we go…” he murmured so only Deirdre could hear him.
Her eyes sparkled as she squeezed his arm in support.
Dr. Edwina Mortenson, head of the tiny Occult Studies department, stood there with a smiling woman who had to be at least seventy-five. “I’m so glad you made it,” Mortenson said with a smile that didn’t make it anywhere near her eyes. Around sixty, she wore a loose-fitting, caftan-like dress that swirled around her stocky frame, and had upgraded her usual abundance of bangle bracelets and mystical pendants to a single golden cuff with a gleaming blue gem on her right wrist and a sparkling golden pentacle necklace with a similar gem at its center. Her long, steel-gray hair was swept back into a soft bun, and her earrings were tiny claws clutching pearls.
She indicated her companion with a sweeping gesture. “This is Mrs. Feeney. She’s recently moved into the area, and she’s eager to find out more about our program. Mrs. Feeney, this is Dr. Alastair Stone. He’s the newest member of our department, and quite the star when it comes to occult happenings. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to give you some insight on your recent experiences.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Feeney beamed. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Dr. Stone!” She clutched a half-full wineglass in one bony hand, but reached out the other to pluck his hand into her grip.
“And I you, Mrs. Feeney.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, afraid he might break it otherwise. He nodded toward Deirdre. “This is Ms. Deirdre Lanier.”
“Oh, a pleasure, a pleasure,” Mrs. Feeney said, barely acknowledging Deirdre with a brief, vague nod before returning her attention to Stone.
“I’ll leave you in Dr. Stone’s capable hands, then,” Mortenson said, with a sideways glance toward Stone.
He shot her a thanks a lot look as she edged away.
It took him nearly fifteen minutes before he could politely disentangle himself from the chatty old lady, who wanted to discuss the possibility that her late husband might be haunting his beloved golf bag. She also suspected he was trying to communicate with her by moving around the objects on his desk, which she hadn’t touched since his death. Deirdre watched with amusement as Stone offered a few charming but noncommittal tips on ways she might determine this on her own, and gently declined her invitation to visit her at her home to check the situation out for himself. He only got away because he finally excused himself with the lie that he’d promised to meet someone else in another gallery and it wouldn’t be polite to stand them up.
Deirdre chuckled as they headed off. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”
“Did you think I was?” He rubbed the back of his neck and took a long drink. The event photographer passed them, pausing to snap a couple of shots before disappearing into the room Stone and Deirdre had just left.
“I thought you might be exaggerating,” she said, eyes twinkling. She looped her arm through his. “I mean…I find your accent irresistible, but I had no idea you had such a fan club.”
“Oh, hush,” he said in mock annoyance, but he was smiling. Normally he found this sort of thing tiresome, but as was often the case lately, Deirdre’s presence improved his mood significantly. He hadn’t missed the fact that Mrs. Feeney had cast a few mildly vexed glances at Deirdre, as if she wished the younger woman would get the hint and find something else to do so the two of them could speak privately. “Come on—let’s go top up our drinks.”
“Who was that other woman? The one in the blue dress? She left before we could get introduced.”
Stone sighed. “That was Dr. Edwina Mortenson. She’s sort of the head of our little department, although with only three faculty members, we don’t really need one.”
“She doesn’t like you, does she?”
“Not in the slightest.” He grinned. “Not that I care—which is part of why she doesn’t like me. Don’t be fooled by that airy hippie demeanor—that woman can be a dragon lady of the first order when you get on her bad side.”
Deirdre examined a collection of scarabs and other carvings in a glass case. “This sounds like a story. Why are you on her bad side?”
“Oh, it’s not so bad anymore, really—we’ve come to a certain understanding over the years. Mostly, we stay out of each other’s way unless absolutely necessary. She’s good at her job and she likes all that administrative rubbish that bores me senseless, so I appreciate that. But she—” He considers his words. “—she believes.”
“Believes? In the occult, you mean?”
He nodded. “Tarot cards, psychometry, spirit visitations, vampires—the whole bit. She’s convinced there’s a secret world out there just beyond what normal humans can see.”
“And you aren’t?”
“I keep an open mind,” he said, shrugging. “But mostly, I’m fascinated by the ways humans have integrated the unknown into their worldviews. Edwina’s one of those serious types—she thinks I don’t give the subject its proper respect.” With another grin, he added, “Plus, she’ll never admit it, but she’s jealous because my student approval ratings are orders of magnitude higher than hers.”
She moved in closer, her warm body pressing against his. “I’m not surprised,” she murmured.
He swallowed. She was so close now that he could smell the fresh floral scent of her hair, and the faint hint of alcohol on her breath. He shifted to magical sight and wasn’t at all surprised to see the familiar red glow hovering around her aura—and was sure it was around his as well. Once again, a nearly overpowering sense of desire swept over him. “Deirdre…”
“Hmmm?” She leaned over and planted a light kiss on his jawline.
He didn’t trust himself to answer.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “I saw on the map as we came in that there’s a scale-model Egyptian tomb around here somewhere. That sounds fascinating. Want to go look at it? It will be a nice break, and then you can get back to your admiring old ladies.”
He should stay up here, with the rest of the crowd. That’s what he was supposed to do—schmooze with the donors, charming the ladies and entertaining them and their husbands with anecdotes about the supernatural. But all the previous years, he’d barely stayed an hour before finding an excuse to make himself scarce. Tonight, with Deirdre at his side, he felt he could ride out the whole evening if he had to. If he took a little break now, what would be the harm? “Right, then,” he said. “I’m all yours.”
The “tomb” was down a flight of stairs off one of the galleries on the first floor. It consisted of a passageway that appeared to be carved out of rock, and opened out into a chamber lined on all four sides with hieroglyphs and Egyptian-style paintings of day-to-day life. Electric lights fashioned to look like wooden torches provided dim illumination, and a massive, closed sarcophagus on an elaborate bier served as a centerpiece. Currently, the chamber was empty.
“This is nice…” Deirdre said, examining some of the hieroglyphs. “Can you read any of these?”
“Sorry. Ancient Egypt isn’t really my area of expertise.” He remained close to her, looking over her shoulder. The scene depicted the goddess Isis and her beloved, Osiris. He nodded toward Osiris. “He didn’t come to a good end, though—he ended up being cut into pieces, and Isis there had to go ’round gathering them up.”
“That’s true love,” she said, gripping his hand more tightly. She glanced around as if verifying that they were still alone, then turned her attention back to him.
Warmth washed over Stone again. He wondered if she felt his hand trembling in hers—or if hers was doing the same thing. The wave of desire, even stronger than before, hit him so hard his knees weakened. He let go of her hand and gripped her shoulders with gentle intensity, leaning in closer to her. She leaned in to meet him halfway, her lips seeking his.
He pressed her back against the wall, eyes closed, mind and body on fire, as her arms snaked around him and one hand reached up to bury itself in his hair. Visions came unbidden to his mind: picking her up, laying her across the sarcophagus, and—
Someone cleared their throat behind them.
Stone jerked, startled, and stepped quickly back, whirling to see who had come in. The overwhelming sense of desire ebbed away as he spotted a familiar figure—a fiftyish man in a rumpled dinner jacket and baggy pants. “Hubbard. Er—how are you?”
Mackenzie Hubbard, the other member of the Occult Studies department faculty, stood with his wife in the entrance to the chamber. Hubbard eyed Stone with a sly expression, and his lips quirked into a smile under his large, salt-and-pepper mustache. “All right. Sorry to—interrupt.” His gaze moved to Deirdre, and his eyes widened.
“Quite all right,” Stone said briskly. “Deirdre, this is Dr. Mackenzie Hubbard. He’s the third of our little band of miscreants up at the University. And his wife, Barbara. This is Deirdre Lanier.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Hubbard said. He wore an odd expression, intense and a bit stunned, and his gaze had not yet left Deirdre. “So, Stone here convinced you to come and rub elbows with the old and rich, did he?”
“Mac!” Barbara Hubbard said, shocked, hitting him lightly on the arm with her clutch bag. She was about Hubbard’s age, plain but cheerful-looking. A bright glittery starburst pin added a touch of whimsy to her conservative gold cocktail dress. She smiled at Stone. “Don’t mind him, Alastair. He didn’t want to come tonight.”
Stone knew that to be true—Hubbard hated these kinds of shindigs even more than he did, and made no secret of the fact that he’d much rather be home working on his writing. He’d been complaining about it just a couple days ago at the most recent department meeting.
“Well, I hope he’s at least showing you a good time,” Hubbard said, ignoring his wife’s admonition.
“Oh, he certainly is. I’m pleased to meet you both as well,” Deirdre said. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and her arm slipped through Stone’s.
Hubbard remained fixed on Deirdre. For a moment, all of them just stood there, at a loss for anything to say. Barbara glanced sideways at Deirdre and her expression clouded as she looked away.
“Well,” Hubbard said abruptly, as if finally realizing he’d been staring. “We’ll leave you two alone. Come on, Barb—I need another drink.” He took his wife’s arm and hustled her out the other side of the chamber, glancing back once over his shoulder.
As soon as they were gone, Deirdre burst out laughing. After a second, Stone grinned. “Well…what was awkward,” he said.
She brushed a quick kiss across his lips. “I think it was funny.” Stepping back, she took his hand. “We should go back upstairs, though, before anyone else catches us. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“It would be worth it,” he said, but he let her lead him out toward the stairs. The wave of desire had passed now, leaving behind amused affection. Deirdre really was a good sport. “Did you see the way old Hubbard looked at you?”
Her arm slid around him. “Don’t worry, love. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I’m not worried. But I’ll bet he’ll be getting an earful from his wife when they get home. I thought his jaw was going to end up in his lap.”
