Bloodstone: Written in Stone Read online

  Bloodstone

  Written in Stone

  By: RJ Ladon

  Three Ravens Publishing

  Chickamauga, GA

  Copyright © 2020 by R. J. Ladon

  Published by Three Ravens Publishing

  [email protected]

  160 Park St. Chickamauga, Ga 30707

  https://www.threeravenspublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, contact the publisher listed above, addressed “Attention: Permissions” to the address above.

  Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Credits:

  Bloodstone Written in Stone was written by R. J. Ladon

  Cover art by Dawn Spears www.dawnydawny.com

  Bloodstone Written in Stone by: R. J. Ladon, 1st edition, 2020

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-951768-11-9

  Dedicated to all my friends and family

  Who provided encouragement, support, and threats (you know who you are)

  In Memory of Judith and Alex

  Chapter 1

  T he bars fit snugly over Kragnor’s shoulders, pinning his wings against his back. There wasn’t enough space to leverage the metal apart. For four days, he hadn’t found a weakness in the forged steel. Others around him were also trapped in six-foot crates, unable to do more than turn in place. The past two days, more caged akitu were added to the damp, dank room. How many more? Kragnor was unsure.

  Soon they would be destroyed by the will of Pope Boniface. They were to be heated over the flames of a blacksmith’s forge until the metal of their cages turned white. Then the cell and akitu inside were to be quenched in the coldest water available. Kragnor didn’t know if his body could withstand the sudden and explosive change in temperature. He suspected that even if he survived, the pain of a million cracks would be excruciating.

  Akitu were considered demons by the Catholic Pope. All Boniface needed to see were the horns, wings, and tails to know they were evil. With his divine influence, he demanded the faithful to destroy or capture all akitu. The culling began in the daylight hours while akitu slept. Some were tossed from their perches on tall buildings where they shattered on the ground. Others, too ancient to be killed by a fall, were pressed into cells in their slumbering state.

  Kragnor opened and closed his fist, flexing his fractured forearm. It was healing. A wrestling match with friend and mentor Basal caused the damage. He grunted, frustrated with his predicament. A healed fracture would help little if he were to die tomorrow.

  A man in brown robes entered the room, an oil lamp hanging from one hand. Kragnor caught his scent: Friar Francois. He had worked with the man in the past, teaching him languages and the time before human history. A time that Pope Boniface insisted didn’t exist. Kragnor snorted. He’d liked Francois until recently. Until he was deceived and captured by the man in brown robes. His lip curled into a feral snarl.

  He heard the growls from the other akitu in the room. “Betrayer!” someone shouted.

  “Please,” Friar Francois begged. “I was forced to comply with my Pope. Under penalty of death.”

  “How many akitu died in the name of your God, of your Pope?” asked a female. “How many of our bodies lie beneath or within Notre Dame’s construction?”

  “That is why I have come. This madness needs to stop. I cannot free your bodies, but I can free your souls.”

  “Catholic nonsense!” An akitu growled behind Kragnor.

  “No!” Francois pulled something out of his leather pouch. He held it high for everyone to see. It looked like a smooth river stone with cuneiform writing etched on one face. “Basal helped me prepare these vessels for your souls. For your freedom with akitu spells.”

  Basal was an ancient akitu, perhaps the first of their kind. Kragnor thought he died or escaped the Pope’s culling.

  “If Basal is here, bring him before us,” someone requested.

  “I dare not. If anyone saw Basal…we both would die.”

  Cries of discord and disbelief broke from the other akitu.

  “Please, I must save at least one of you. Will none of you trust me?” Francois sounded like he might cry. He, too, was desperate. Perhaps, guilt ate at him.

  “I will do it,” Kragnor said. The others grew silent.

  Friar Francois moved to stand before Kragnor’s cramped cell. The human held a green and red bloodstone, offering it to Kragnor. “What do I do?” he asked the Friar, whispering with trepidation.

  “Touch it. The spells were already cast.”

  “Then what?”

  “Your soul will enter the vessel, and your body will turn to stone as if you were sleeping.”

  “How do you know?”

  Francois showed Kragnor an onyx stone with cuneiform etched on it. Life pulsed within. “Basal went first.”

  Chapter 2

  M egan Petrov studied the boring wooden mannequin that stood before her; it barely looked human. She saluted then struck her defenseless opponent with the rattan practice sword, first to the head, then the leg, then a twist to smack the waist. The sound of rattan on wood echoed through the empty gym.

  “Excellent, Megan.” Nikolai tapped the wooden mannequin with the rattan sword in his hand. “Again.” His English was perfect, but his Russian accent was thick.

  “When do I get to fight a real person?”

  “You fight me every day.” Nikolai was a tall, strong man, topping six foot two and two hundred pounds. “I’m a real person.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. The blade in his hand swept in front of his face and torso like a shield. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Let me clarify, when can I fight someone other than you?” She blew her sweaty brown hair out of her eyes. Megan was half his size and weight and, when it came to experience, she had far less to draw upon.

  “When you can strike the pell without fail, blindfolded.” Nikolai narrowed his eyes. “Again.” He tapped the mannequin impatiently.

  Megan repeated the kata-like exercise. Head, leg, waist. Head, leg, waist. She felt her body fall into the rhythm. Her breathing relaxed. Head, leg, waist. Head, leg, waist.

  She closed her eyes. Her body kept the beat and time. Head, leg, waist. She felt her body move out of place, and she became uncertain of where her strike might land. She adjusted her positioning and swung again, head, leg, nothing. Her swing went wild. She stumbled.

  She snapped open her eyes. Nikolai was against the wall, near the mannequin, but not close enough to move it. “What happened?”

  “You lost confidence in yourself.” Nikolai frowned. “You second-guessed your footing, and you readjusted what didn’t need adjustment.” He shook his head, disappointment written on his face. “This is why you can’t hit me. You are too busy fighting yourself.”

  Megan lowered her weapon. He was right. “Can we stop for the day?”

  “Nyet. It’s not good practice to stop a lesson on a sour note.” He tapped the mannequin. “You will continue until I say you are done. Open your senses, reach out, as I taught you. Trust yourself. You have more than sight at your disposal.”

>   Megan frowned but nodded. “As you say, Weapons Master.”

  “Again,” Nikolai commanded.

  Megan inhaled fully then exhaled, willing her body to function like a finely tuned instrument. She addressed the mannequin and began the three-strike dance. Megan settled into the horseman’s stance, keeping her joints loose, and let muscle memory control her movements. In her mind’s eye, she turned the boring wooden frame into a monster’s likeness, including fur and curved horns. Megan closed her eyes, imagining the beast held a rabbit, gripping it with sharp claws.

  Desire to save the helpless rabbit sharpened her senses. Megan saw each hit, felt the face, leg, and waist. Each strike rattled the weapon in her hand, numbing her palm and wrist. Still, she continued striking that imaginary terrifying face and hulking body. With each hit, Megan felt a little stronger, faster, and confident. A growl rattled deep in her throat. She would become a whirlwind of death.

  “Enough!” Nikolai commanded, breaking her focus.

  Startled, Megan stopped and turned to the sound of his voice.

  “Very good. You did twenty in a row, perfect. You may hit me yet.”

  Megan bowed to Nikolai. “Thank you, Weapons Master.”

  “Run five miles and go home.” Nikolai nodded to the track that wrapped around the outside of the vaulted room.

  Megan bowed again. “Thank you, Weapons Master.” She held her smile and waited for him to turn away. It’s unwise to smile with confidence or pride in front of Nikolai. He would give her more to do.

  Around the outside of the training area was a two-lane track. Running there was more enjoyable than the treadmill, even though the only view was gym equipment, the boxing ring, and Nikolai.

  Megan loved running. She could think while her feet pounded the cork-covered track. Mentally, she set the pace to light exertion to work out the kinks from training, then let her mind wander. The last time Megan imagined a bully, she did very well on the shooting range. With the addition of a helpless victim, her reaction felt more potent, more powerful. Nikolai often instructed her to visualize to improve her skills. Did he intend for her to turn the pell into a rabbit-wielding monster?

  Her mind moved to other instructions during the school day. Megan received a math and science assignment to finish for the next day. The English teacher assigned a long-term English paper for the following week. Bonnie was required to work with her on the project. Megan enjoyed spending time with Bonnie during school hours, but her father wouldn’t understand after-hours fraternizing.

  Artem never allowed Megan to have friendships because they were unnecessary and dangerous. “Friends can be duplicitous, and you will let your guard down around them.”

  He felt the same way about phones, forbidding the devices to leave the house. “We can be tracked and hunted with a phone.” He often lamented the discontinuation of the landline. Even though Megan never saw signs of danger, she kept her phone connected to the scrambler when talking to anyone, even Bonnie.

  Megan finished her run and headed to the showers. The locker room was small, with thirty lockers and two private bathing areas. After drying off, she put on her school clothes, loose-fitting jeans, and a sweatshirt, including a light jacket with special weapons. Hidden in the seams were six-inch steel needles. They worked as both lock pick and shiv.

  She threw her sweaty gym clothes in her bag. On her way out, Megan passed Nikolai and a male client. “Good night Nikolai,” she said.

  Nikolai nodded in return. “Come back Wednesday after school.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Smith is willing to teach the intricacies of wiring.”

  Megan inclined her head in greeting. There had been many “Mr. Smiths” teaching skills at Nikolai’s gym. She studied this Mr. Smith. He held his shoulders square, his posture was good, and defined muscle was visible under his too-tight tee-shirt. He was confident, maybe too confident, probably ex-military. “I will ask Father.” She left the building without glancing back.

  Wiring to ex-military could be anything from installing a bomb or setting up security to preparing snares and setting traps in the field. Her father would know if the training was worth attending.

  The “gym” Megan attended was an unassuming building outside Avalon’s city limits. Nikolai owned the building and trained a select few people, all of whom were much older than her. She seldom saw the other students, only their vehicles. Megan climbed into her small blue Honda, one of two cars in the lot.

  Nikolai and Megan’s father, Artem, had a partnership many years ago in Russia. Megan never knew what exactly it entailed, other than the Russian mafia was involved. Nikolai came to America a few years after Artem acquired asylum with the United States government.

  From an early age, Artem insisted Megan received the best training possible, and in his eyes, only Nikolai would do. Megan didn’t remember when her training started. It seemed as if she always practiced with swords and guns.

  Chapter 3

  K evin Arkis unslung his backpack, setting it in the grass at the edge of the sidewalk. He leaned forward, kissing Annie Brown’s strawberry flavored lips lingering on the subtle taste. He pulled back, grasping her free hand. “I’ve got to go. Tonight is my first night at Grandma’s.”

  Annie’s pixie-cut blonde hair gave her an innocent appearance. “I’m actually dating a boy that has moved out of his parent’s house.” She giggled, bounced on her toes, then looked up at Kevin through long lashes.

  Kevin’s heart raced. “I didn’t move out. Grandma needs help.”

  Annie bit her bottom lip, pouting. “Don’t ruin my fantasy.” She toyed with the purple crystal on her necklace, adjusted her bookbag, and backed toward her front porch. “My door is always open.” Annie jerked her head to point at her second-floor bedroom window. She blinked her long lashes coyly. The cape cod style house had windows dormered out over the roof. Filigree enhanced, wrought iron posts supported the porch roof, perfect for climbing.

  He felt his heart flutter. “I will if I can.” Kevin watched for a moment as Annie disappeared into her house. He swung his backpack onto his shoulder and walked to Grandma’s.

  Annie lived in an upper-class neighborhood. Her house had a few acres of property that butted up to the Turtle River. All the homes along the river were expensive, opulent, or had many acres. Some residences had all three.

  As the streets moved away from the river district, the housing turned moderate to reasonable. On the far southern end of Avalon were inexpensive new family homes and a couple of trailer parks.

  Kevin and his family lived a dozen blocks from Annie in an older neighborhood that was a mishmash of architectural styles. His parents owned a ranch style home while his grandmother, who lived behind them, owned a craftsman. Their backyard shared a fence and gate.

  Kevin opened the front door, stepping into the living room. Grandma sat on the couch, watching her favorite talk show. Rapscallion, the big white tomcat, lay beside her. Her shoulder-length bobbed hair was dark with a few streaks of silver. She wore jeans and a red sweatshirt that said, ‘World’s Greatest Grandma.’ She smiled at Kevin. “Good, you remembered.”

  “Of course, Grandma, how could I forget?”

  “Grandma? Grandma?” She scowled at him with feigned anger. “Enough of that. If we’re going to be roommates, you will call me Ruby.” She smiled. “It’ll be nice having a man in the house again.”

  Grandpa Joe died unexpectedly five years ago when Kevin was thirteen. Shortly after his death, Grandma was diagnosed with the early stages of dementia. She was put on medication right away, which helped maintain her freedom for those years. However, recently, her doctor identified her habit of seeing and forgetting things in the evenings as Sundowners. Her daytime behavior seemed unchanged.

  Kevin nodded absently. The idea of calling Grandma by her first name was strange. He climbed the stairs to his new bedroom. He slept in the room countless times in the past as a guest. Now, it was his to decorate as he saw fit. His backpack was placed near the ol
d wooden desk, a remnant from when his father was a child. The posters, books, blankets, and clothes were all his father’s. Most of them were outdated, but some things were popular again—posters with iconic video games and movies decorated the room. When Kevin was a kid, he thought they were ancient. Now, he had new respect, a fondness, for the retro images.

  Kevin studied the old oak dresser and sighed involuntarily. He needed to move his father’s junk out to make room for his clothes and games. The bed was quickly covered with clothing as he set out items to organize. Kevin eyed the underwear and socks, wondering if they shouldn’t be tossed, or maybe burned. He shrugged, not caring either way. From inside the closet, he grabbed the few remaining gaudy shirts, adding them to the pile.

  He opened the attic door, the third door in his room. The stairs creaked underfoot, but Kevin continued in the hope he would find a box or empty wardrobe to toss the clothes in. Cedar, mothballs, and mouse droppings created an ambrosia that permeated the lofted room, reminding Kevin of long-lost summers exploring his grandparent's house.

  Four windows allowed enough light to see. Books, shelves, cabinets, tables, blankets, and boxes stood in organized rows. Everything was stacked in an orderly fashion and marked with words or symbols. Some of those symbols were runes, while others represented planets and the zodiac. Grandma organized her belongings with the signs of Wicca, her religion. While Kevin didn’t know what the glyphs meant, he avoided some boxes due to the symbol's shape. Was that symbol for Taurus or the image of Satan?

  Sheets covered furniture and full-length mirrors along the back wall. Absently he wondered if any of the mirrors had special powers. He decided against removing the sheets, just in case. Kevin checked a few unmarked boxes, but everything was full. He sneezed from the haze of dust motes and grime he kicked into the air.