The Stone of Shadows. R. A. Finley

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      The Stone

      of

      Shadows

      R.A. Finley

      This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      The Stone of Shadows.

      Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Finley.

      All rights reserved.

      Published for the internet by eBookit.com

       www.eBookit.com

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author.

       www.HickoryTreeBooks.blogspot.com

      ISBN: 0-9893157-1-1

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9893157-1-5

      print ISBN: 0-9893157-0-3

      Book Design by R.A. Finley

      Cover Design & Artwork by R.A. Finley

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      First Hickory Tree Publishing Edition

      To my parents, who once sent me on a grand adventure

      with the understanding that it would end up in a book.

      The Stone

      of

      Shadows

      The shell must break before the bird can fly.

      Alfred Tennyson

      CHAPTER 1

      Meginland, Scotland

      24 October

      Perched atop the ferry terminal, Cormac ruffled his feathers against the wind’s knifing chill. The sky above the small harbor town was already thick with gray, the sun only a vague memory behind the storm blowing in from the North Sea. Dusk was hard on its heels, soon to mark the end of another wasted day.

      Bobbing in almost overwhelming frustration, he let loose a series of squawks. The sharp winds would shred the sounds before they could cross the street, let alone pass through the glass of the hotel’s dining room window, so he didn’t worry they might alert the woman seated on the other side. Not that it would matter if they did. She was far from stupid. She had to assume he was close.

      Alert to her every move, every expression, he watched her lift her spoon to take a slow, untroubled sip of chowder. Exactly as she’d been doing for the past forty minutes.

      He squawked again.

      Why so long? He’d first assumed she was taunting him, flaunting her inaccessibility by seating herself where he couldn’t help but see her. But even allowing for how this much-aged Leticia tended to linger over her food, this was ridiculous.

      He figured she was waiting for someone—considering what was at stake, perhaps several someones. Yet, so far, no one had joined her and she’d showed only a passing interest in anything beyond her food and what appeared to be a guidebook. The other diners—the few he could see, at any rate—might as well not exist. The pedestrians, the cars in the street—none of them received more than a casual glance. Cormac, a lone raven on a rooftop, didn’t rate even that much.

      Which didn’t mean anything, of course. She wouldn’t give away the game by showing a particular interest. Leticia McDaniel was an experienced player. She knew the stakes, knew he had no choice here but to win.

      He watched her take yet another mincing spoonful of soup, then dab absently at her mouth with her napkin. He could feel his frustration working its way to anger, threatening his control over his altered form. The emotions of a man (or near enough to one) did not fit easily into the body of a bird. He flapped his wings to expel some of the inner tension. Too many hours spent watching, waiting. He didn’t look forward to dealing with whomever Leticia might’ve called for help, but at least it’d be something. He’d had enough of the woman’s tricks, of lost opportunities and wrong turns. Enough of being left behind.

      Wind gusted sharply and he crouched low, dug his talons into the grooves of the roof tiles. Hard to believe this had all begun but a few weeks ago.

      His house had felt particularly empty that evening, the reality of his life too present to be ignored, so he’d walked the not inconsiderable distance to the village. He’d taken his time about it, admiring the rural landscape beneath the setting sun, relishing the feel of the land he’d chosen for himself—and that Idris grudgingly allowed him to inhabit. The woodlands of oak and ash, the rain-swollen brooks, the soft breeze that rustled the drying grasses beside the road and carried the rich scent of peat smoke.

      The Oak and Thistle’s mullioned windows had glowed in welcome, and as he’d approached its red-painted door, he’d stepped aside to allow several people, laughing as they wrestled for a lighter, to stumble out. With them came the din of lively conversation and someone’s earnest but questionable attempts on a fiddle.

      He remembered taking hold of the door only to remain standing at the threshold, momentarily caught between the solitude from which he’d come and the potential of the evening ahead: a few drinks, some good-natured arguments with the gents over some sport or another, a little flirtation with the ladies. For a few hours, at least, he’d expected to forget himself. But no sooner had he stepped into the bright, crowded warmth than the summons had come and he was back to being Idris Cathmor’s errand boy.

      No choice, no say whatsoever over the course of his life.

      He supposed Leticia didn’t consider she had a choice here, either. It was a shame she was involved—and not just because she’d proven herself to be tough competition over the years. No, it was a shame because he’d enjoyed that competition up to now. Enjoyed her whimsical, often playful nature and the challenges it presented. But there was nothing enjoyable about this. She was running him ragged, forcing him into near constant use of disguise-craft, frequent spellwork, and shifts to raven-form with little chance to replenish the energies each depleted. He’d reached exhaustion days ago—which was more than a little humiliating, considering Leticia was full human and eighty if she were a day. She ought to be the one exhausted, the one terrified of failure. Yet there she sat, for all appearances content, confident in her victory.

      With good reason, he had to admit. The wards she’d erected around the hotel were some of the best he’d seen. To get through them, he’d need a lot of supplies and a lot of time. The latter was out of the question, and as soon as he left to collect the former, she’d leave. He couldn’t risk letting her out of his sight. Not as long as she had the relic.

      Several blasts of an air horn sounded in the distance as a North Isles ferry approached the harbor. Storm-wrought swells had the large ship bobbing like a child’s toy on the channel’s dark, foaming water. He watched for a moment, studied the curtain of rain that tracked the ferry’s path. Figured he had about a half hour before he’d have to seek shelter or resign himself to a good soaking.

      Was Leticia waiting for the ship? Its being twenty minutes behind schedule might explain why she’d lingered so long at the window.

      She couldn’t expect to sail on it tonight; this was its last run until morning. She could be waiting for someone on board, he supposed. Chances of that were slim, given that the ferry was coming in from the outer islands—but, then, “slim chance” was Leticia’s weapon of choice, and one she wielded with enviable ease.

      The ferry pulled alongside the pier with a belch of diesel exhaust, the opening note of an industrial symphony that was hell on the heightened senses of Cormac’s raven form. Clanking metal,