The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

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СКАЧАТЬ into the wall opposite, her cry of shock morphing into one of pain. Belatedly, his hands registered the feel of her. The thin, light bones.

      He’d forgotten, for a moment, that her appearance was no illusion. That she was no longer the woman he’d met all those years ago. Leticia McDaniel had grown old.

      As she crumpled, her knees buckling, fingers scrabbling on the rough, vine-covered bricks, Cormac wrenched the satchel from her arm—pulling her entirely off balance—and ran. Above the hard pounding of his steps, he heard the slap of her hands on the pavement, her soft moan. He kept running. Regret served no purpose. He would not look back.

      Nearing the alley’s exit, he reached into his coat pocket, found the chip of stone he’d taken from the Bishop’s Palace, and triggered the spell to send himself there, several circuitous blocks distant. Far enough to prevent Leticia from reaching him in time—even if she were able.

      He arrived at the ruin in the span of a blink and, disoriented, let his head drop forward and his eyes close. He used his Sight to make sure he was alone. Tourists would’ve been asked to leave hours ago, but a guard or caretaker could still be poking about. Worse, there could be someone else like him—someone up to no good. But his search turned up no other presence. He allowed himself to relax a little, to turn his concentration toward breathing slow and deep while his body adjusted to its new surroundings.

      Icy wind, the crest of the storm, swept into the roofless Great Hall to cut through his clothes as if they were nothing. His muscles constricted, forcing a painful shiver. He opened his eyes. The dizziness had passed. The world remained steady. Jagged-topped stone walls beneath a pale sky.

      Feeling exposed to more than just the elements, he crossed to the tower. He was almost certain there was no danger imminent, but when he went through the satchel, he might disturb or inadvertently destroy whatever magic was masking the relic’s power. Should someone—Leticia or an unknown—sense it and come calling, he wanted to be somewhere more defensible.

      Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he walked and various aches asserted themselves. He’d not done his body any favors today. His ability to take raven form was a natural talent, one of the odd gifts from his mother’s side. But as with all magic, it wasn’t without cost. The trick was in balancing such costs with the potential gains.

      He adjusted his hold on the worn leather satchel, his mood lifting. What was inside more than made up for the past weeks.

      Would Leticia forgive him if she knew his reasons? He hoped so. Theirs had always been a friendly rivalry.

      Friendly, as in...friends? His foot caught on an exposed piece of the original slate floor.

      Nonsense. To think he and some upstart, impetuous slip of a girl—no, an old woman now. He didn’t bother finishing the thought. It didn’t matter.

      Ignoring his complaining joints, he jogged up a set of modern steps leading to the tower’s entrance. What was past was past. Over. No good ever came from looking back. He ducked under the lintel of the open doorway and turned left into the windowless dark of the base of the tower stairs. The enclosed air of the winding passage was thick with the prickly scent of cold, wet stone. He began to climb, sweat beading on his skin despite the chill.

      What did he know of friendship, anyway.

      By the time he reached a tiny alcove, his lungs and muscles burned—one more sign he’d been pushing himself beyond his limits. After he handed over the relic, though, he’d be able to get all the rest he wanted and then some. He’d be free to go anywhere. Do anything. A dangerous, tantalizing warmth began to build in his chest, and he could have kicked himself for indulging in such hopeful thinking.

      Hope, for all of its pleasures, was a weapon. One which could cut deeper than any other, especially when wielded by such a master as Idris Cathmor. Everything depended on the man upholding his part of the bargain, and nothing in their mutual history gave any assurance he would. Quite the contrary, really. But it wasn’t as if Cormac could’ve refused.

      At a small alcove, he took a moment to catch his breath. Autumnal twilight shone through a tiny window, blearily illuminating the remnants of a bird’s nest scattered upon the ledge. He set Leticia’s satchel down on them. This place was secure enough—although, admittedly, his unwillingness to face another climb factored heavily in that estimation.

      As did impatience. With an unsteady hand, he unlatched the satchel’s single clasp and reached inside.

      He pulled out an odd collection: the guidebook he’d seen through the window; a packet of tissue; several eyeglass cases; a toffee-covered biscuit, fuzzed with lint and half-wrapped in a paper napkin. The detritus of an active, chaotic life, he thought, a smile tugging at his reluctant lips. Folded pamphlets for sightseeing tours. The folded receipt from the post office and the packet of stamps. Smooth pebbles he’d watched Leticia collect days earlier on Papa Stronsay while the wind had whipped strands of silver hair out from under the scarf tied about her head.

      Though she’d bent down to investigate whatever objects happened to catch her eye, she’d moved with the caution of asking too much of old bones.

      He’d noticed it then. He’d known it in the alley. Yet he’d shoved her without concern.

      There was nothing for it now—and it was ridiculous that his thoughts had gone there again. Time was wasting, the Oak and Thistle awaited, and…and he wasn’t finding anything remotely like a relic. His fingers combed through the remaining jumble with increasing agitation. This wasn’t right. His heart beat a tattoo of anxious denial. The relic had to be here.

      It had to be.

      He overturned the bag, dumped everything. Coins rained, some bouncing out the window, others pinging their way down the stone stairs. Papers fluttered, settled in the shadows at his feet. His breath catching, he shook the bag. Nothing. He thrust his hand inside, felt only cloth lining and grit. Biscuit crumbs. Sand from Papa Stronsay.

      Nothing more.

      His head spun, the world going ass over teakettle as reality’s cold wave thrust him towards a bleak, rocky shore. His fingers shook as he unfolded the paper from the post office.

      She’d played him for a fool, after all.

      

      Lettie still couldn’t believe she’d pulled it off. But she had. Tricked him right and proper and given herself the time she needed to get away.

      Her hands clutched the steering wheel too tightly, the pain in her bones reminding her why she’d essentially retired to Oregon and set up shop years ago. She was far too old for this kind of thing. The tires hit another chuckhole, jounced her back in the seat.

      She quickly leaned forward again, her chest nearly against the wheel, her eyes straining as she tried to peer beyond the uselessly short beams of the headlights. So far, she’d caught no sign of the tiny harbor where a fishing boat and its well-compensated captain waited. But it couldn’t be too far. The island wasn’t that big.

      Softly, she directed a curse at the cheap rental car, although in fairness, she knew where the blame more properly belonged: her own aging vision and the careless absence of her distance glasses. Cormac had the latter now. He had all her glasses. When she’d tucked necessities into her СКАЧАТЬ