Stones of Power- Hellstone & Maelstrom Read online

  “I’d better get on with dinner,” she said, through pinched lips, and picking up the bag, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Polly’s uncle was a man of strict routine. He always demanded his meals at a certain time, on the dot, and if she were late by even a few minutes, he would give her one of his raised eyebrows, which was his equivalent of a slap around the face. She hated herself for allowing him to intimidate her so easily, but just one look from him and she withered like a week-old flower. He had never hit her, or even shouted at her; he didn’t need to – in some ways, she would have preferred that. It was just quiet psychological intimidation, the suggestion that if he ever did do anything to her, it would be something terrible. Her grandmother had always been a little afraid of him and had broken off contact with him years before, just after Polly’s grandfather died. Polly wasn’t even sure they’d exchanged Christmas cards in the intervening years. It was only after her grandmother’s death that her uncle had turned up on the doorstep, claiming his right to the estate as her closest living relative. It didn’t seem to matter in the eyes of the law that Polly had been living with her grandmother all of her life and that this was her home. Polly was pretty certain that her uncle had used some kind of trickery to establish his claim, but he got everything, apart from a few personal possessions.

  She decided to make salmon encroute, as it would stretch the two small pieces of salmon a bit further. Her uncle was right when he said that she was a good cook, she was, and she loved cooking, which is why a live-in housekeeper’s job, working for some sweet old octogenarian would be a wonderful solution to her present dilemma. Thinking about it, there were a lot of old people’s homes in the area – perhaps she could see if any of them needed staff. Yes, she would do that first thing tomorrow.

  She suddenly thought of that silly card in the shop window – The Magic Emporium, Clanger’s Lane, although she had no idea why; the thought had suddenly popped into her head. It was such a ridiculous advertisement. But hadn’t her grandmother been able to do that? Polly remembered that once she’d lost her favourite doll and had wailed the place down. Nana had just given Polly one of her bright, twinkling smiles that made the world a wonderful place to live in and told her to go and look down at the bottom of the garden. There was Mimsy, right as rain, wedged into a flower pot, although Polly would swear she hadn’t left her there. Her grandmother had told her that the fairies must have put it there as a joke. The same sort of thing had happened too many times for it just to be pure chance. Wasn’t it possible that this man really could do what he claimed he could do? Little Tidmouth was only about twenty minutes on the bus; she could be there and back in no time. What on earth was she thinking? There was no will to find, and she was being ridiculous. But, even as the thoughts sped through her head, she knew that she wasn’t being ridiculous, her grandmother would never have left her penniless. Somewhere in that house, there was a will that would put everything to rights. She put it out of her mind for the time being – there was a tediously long night to get through, and wishful thinking wasn’t going to get her through it.

  The meal turned out well, which meant, at least, that she wouldn’t get one of her uncle’s raised eyebrows accompanied by the ‘you did your best, dear’ comments. This time he managed a smile as he looked down at his plate; she even got a ‘Well, that does look nice, my dear.’ She got out while the going was good.

  As soon as she’d done the washing up, she went straight upstairs to her bedroom, which was the only place in the large old house she could get away from her jailer. Her Hobbit-sized room was right at the top of the house, on the third floor and up several winding staircases. She had her own en suite bathroom, which was really an old closet made over into the semblance of a bathroom. The bath was so small she had to sit with her knees tucked up to her chin, but it did mean that she didn’t have to leave her room at night. For that, she was so very grateful. When her uncle had his friends round for their obscene parties, she could lock herself away, put on her headphones, and drown them out with the loudest music she could find.

  Her uncle’s guests wouldn’t be arriving until much later – the first of them never turned up before 10 pm, and the gathering would go on all night. They spent the whole time in her uncle’s study – a huge room that covered half of the ground floor. It had been her grandmother’s drawing room when she was alive, but as soon as her uncle moved in he had appropriated it and turned it into ‘his study’. She was never allowed inside, but she had seen it through the partially opened door on a few occasions, and it was full of occult paraphernalia – the usual accoutrements used in the darker kind of magic. Polly really didn’t want to know what they got up to at these gatherings, but as the door was always locked and the walls thick enough to keep most sound in and out, she was never likely to find out, thank God. If they wanted to strip naked and sacrifice virgins, let them get on with it. Ignorance was bliss as far as she was concerned.

  At 9.45 she went downstairs to get the snacks ready for the descending horde. She sacrificed the packet of chocolate biscuits, which had miraculously remained intact, and found an old pack of pink wafery things in the cupboard which were about six months past their sell-by date. She spread them out on the plate to make them look more generous, but it still looked as if the rats had been at them somewhere along the line. The sandwiches were cucumber and economy salmon paste, cling filmed to keep them alive until there was a lull in the proceedings. It was enough for them to nibble on between the sex and the bloodletting – not that she’d ever seen them bringing anything that looked even vaguely like a sacrificial offering into the house. There had been a distinct lack of clucking and baaing. She left the makings for tea and coffee – no way was she going to serve the buggers, as if she were the hired help – they were quite capable of boiling a bloody kettle for themselves. That done, she turned to go back to her room… … and walked straight into Dalbert Winchard. He was only an inch or so taller than Polly’s five-five, and she practically bumped noses with him as she collided with him. She gave an ‘eek’ and stumbled back a couple of steps, her heart missing a beat. The obnoxious little man reminded her of a frog, or Dr Crippen, the wife murderer; he was balding, his bulging eyes made ever more bulbous by the thick glasses he wore, and his breath was so foul it hung around him like swamp gas. The last time Polly had collided with him, he’d grabbed hold of her and tried to stick his hand up her skirt. She had wriggled free, but the expression on his face had made her very afraid, “Oh, sweetness – guilty conscience?” he asked, with a green-toothed smile. She got a face full of fetid breath, which made her want to gag.

  Polly wanted so much to come back with some witty remark, something that would stun him into embarrassment, but instead, she just lowered her face, mumbled a ‘sorry’ and stepped around him, scurrying back to her room. His laughter followed her, its echo bouncing around the walls.

  Back in her room, Polly snatched the cushion up from her bed and pummelled it with her fist, imagining it was Winchard’s face. She accompanied this with a string of expletives, which impressed even her, and felt better once she’d finished.

  “Wank Head,” she concluded.

  Once she’d calmed down, she began to wonder what Winchard was doing there. Over the last few weeks, he’d been paying regular visits to the house, and he and her uncle had cloistered themselves in her uncle’s study. They were definitely up to no good. She’d mentioned Winchard’s visits to Mr Argeli in passing, and he hadn’t even tried to hide his concern.

  “You must watch that man,” he said. “He is very bad man. I hear stories about him. He hurts girls.” She didn’t really need to be told that. She was well aware of what he was capable of, and she would make sure she never let him get too close to her when they were alone.

  She heard the other members of her uncle’s ‘meditation circle’ arrive a few minutes later, slamming car doors and making a general racket as they entered. There was the sound of chatter and laughter downstairs in the l
obby; a cacophony of theatrical ‘Oh hello, darlings’ and ‘oh, don’t you look wonderful’. It made Polly want to gag.

  There were seven men and six women in her uncle’s ‘circle’, although she was pretty sure that it was a coven, even if it wasn’t one in the true sense of the word. They had started meeting just before her grandmother’s death and Nana had made it quite clear what she thought of the sorry lot. “Black magicians all,” she had said. “And all bound for Hell.” A few minutes after they’d arrived it went quiet, and Polly knew that they had all disappeared into her uncle’s study to do whatever it was they did in there. She was pretty certain it wasn’t discussing the price of electricity or who was going to win Britain’s Got Talent this year.

  Polly grabbed a book to read: The Voyage of the Dawntreader and settled down for a few hours peace and quiet. The night dragged, and she went to bed early, having securely locked her door and jammed a chair behind it for good measure. She heard the horde leaving at about four in the morning, making far too much noise, then her uncle’s bedroom door closed and she gave a sigh of relief. She snatched what little sleep she could, still feeling troubled for no specific reason.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Polly went down at seven the next morning to clear up the hall outside the study, where they congregated and chit-chatted, knowing full well that it would look like a war zone. It did. The whole room stank of stale tobacco, body odour and alcohol; Polly looked around at the devastation and groaned. There was an empty litter bin, surrounded by a minefield of discarded cigarette packets, tissues and other litter, scattered all over the carpet. She muttered heartfelt expletives under her breath as she cleared the mess away and tried to get rid of the cigarette ash and biscuit crumbs from the carpet. At least she didn’t have to worry about her uncle showing up – he would be out for the count until at least three in the afternoon. Good, it would give her a chance to do everything she needed to do without interference.

  Polly was just about to turn and leave when she spotted something glittering from beneath the small occasional table; she almost missed it as it was at the back, hiding in the shadows. It was an earring, rather large and gaudy – a silver fish skeleton that moved when she wriggled it. One of the guests must have lost it. She popped it in her pocket to give to her uncle when she saw him.

  Chores done, she walked down to the village to replace the tea bags and coffee the greedy sods had used last night; they had finished up the whole lot, and she’d not even had enough to make herself a cup of tea.

  The fresh air seemed to blow away the feeling of discomfort that had dogged her since last night. She had no idea why she was feeling so uncomfortable; she hadn’t heard anything untoward in the night, no screams, no chanting or demonic voices. Perhaps they were just discussing the meaning of life and solving all the world’s problems. Unlikely.

  The corner shop was empty, apart from Mr Argeli who was stacking shelves, with Muffin helping – well, helping himself anyway, to a packet of rich tea biscuits.

  “Ah, good morning, Polly. You have eaten all of those sweeties already?” he asked, laughing.

  Polly gave him a grin back.

  “No, I just need some tea to go with them,” she said, picking up teabags and a jar of outrageously expensive coffee and putting them on the counter. She paid and was about to leave when she stopped and said, “There’s a card in the window...” “You found a job there?” he asked, looking pleased.

  Polly shook her head.

  “No, it’s the faded old one, advertising a finding service – Mr Fountain’s Finding Service. I think it’s been there quite a time. I wondered if you knew anything about the person that put it there. Do you remember them putting the advert in?” Mr Argeli scratched his bald head thoughtfully.

  “Not at all, I’m afraid, maybe Mrs Argeli put it in for him. Is it important?” Polly shrugged.

  “No, not really. I was just curious, that’s all. Thanks.” The sheet of A4 paper tacked to the front of the counter suddenly caught Polly’s eye. It was a ‘missing’ poster, showing the very grainy photograph of a teenage boy, perhaps 16 years of age. Mr Argeli saw her looking at it.

  “Ah, yes, very sad. He has been missing for two days, and there is no sign of him. They think that maybe he has gone to one of the big towns – there is nothing here for youngsters. They disappear all the time.” Polly looked down at the boy’s photograph, and a dreadful wave of unease washed over her. Timothy Baird. He was a pasty-faced boy, and there was a certain insecurity about him, something in his eyes that made her feel that he was one of life’s victims; he radiated vulnerability. He certainly didn’t look like the kind of boy that would grab life by the throat. It looked as if it had grabbed him and had him in a stranglehold. It just didn’t feel right that this boy would go to the city to find a new life there.

  “Probably,” she replied, but the feeling of unease didn’t go away. Then she saw what was dangling from his ear. A fish skeleton earring, identical to the one she had in her pocket. She felt a terrible fear overcome her. It was just a coincidence, wasn’t it? It had to be, didn’t it? One thing was certain; she was never showing that earring to her Uncle.

  “Are you all right, sweetheart? You’ve gone very pale,” Mr Argeli said, a look of concern on his face.

  “Oh, someone just walked over my grave,” she said casually, forcing out a hard-won smile.

  She bought another couple of bars of chocolate to eat on the bus and left to make her way along the road to the bus stop to catch the Little Tidmouth bus.

  Little Tidmouth was only a short bus ride away, and it was a pleasant ride, or at least would have been if she didn’t keep seeing that boy’s face floating in front of her eyes and that fish earring, taunting her. The trees still held their leaves, and the sun was shining brightly, not fiercely, but warm enough to make the glass hot, and she welcomed it. She was looking forward to the trip, and even if this Mr Fountain couldn’t help her find her grandmother’s will, he might be able to do a Tarot card reading for her, something, anything to give her some idea of what the future held for her. Her uncle never got out of bed until the afternoon after one of his gatherings – she’d be able to get to Tidmouth and back easily before he crawled out of his coffin.

  Polly knew of Clanger’s Lane, although she’d never actually been there. It was a narrow little alley rather than a lane, comprised of small gift shops and odd little businesses that could hardly have thrived in its rather shabby confines. The tiny lane was empty, no sign of life at all, and it made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. She really wasn’t sure what she was doing here anyway, except that for some reason it seemed imperative that she came.

  ‘The Magic Emporium’ was tucked in the middle of the alley, between a rather grubby looking art supply shop and a book shop, whose window contained the tattiest and most uninviting books Polly had ever seen. The front of the emporium was hardly prepossessing – lots of rather uninspiring and dusty ceramic dragons and wizards in pointy hats and long robes. There were some books that were wrinkled and browned with age and several large cobwebs, desiccated occupants still clinging onto them. This was beginning to look like a terrible idea. But, she was here now, so why not? If she could get a Tarot reading, it would be worth the trip, and she did rather like the look of the little purple dragon that was smiling at her from the front of the window.

  Polly pushed open the door, and there was the tinkle of a bell – it felt... welcoming. The moment she stepped inside, she felt something, although what that something was she had no idea. Polly had always known that she’d inherited some of her grandmother’s psychic abilities; she could read people’s auras if she applied herself and could tell almost instantly whether or not she could trust them. It made life so much easier. She’d never consciously cultivated her abilities; truth be known, she’d done exactly the opposite, but she could still sense things that other people couldn’t ‒ she was undoubtedly feeling something now. Could there really be magic in this place? She stepped insi
de and drank in the wonderful aroma; it smelt of age and mystery. If she concentrated she could separate the layers: incense, something sweet, and underneath was the scent of old paper. There was a kind of mustiness about the place, as if it had fallen asleep many years ago, and no-one had bothered to wake it up again. Polly could well believe that this place hadn’t seen a duster, or a customer, in several years. There didn’t seem to be anybody about, so she idly gazed around, expecting for someone to come through from the back, warned that there was a customer in the shop by the sound of the bell.

  The shelves were the same as the window, a collection of mystic paraphernalia, but it all seemed quite harmless – new age rather than occult. There were the usual crystals and candles, all dusty and faded with age, some small statuettes of unicorns and other sundry mythical creatures. Polly turned to see the shelves of old books, row upon row of battered linen covers containing untold treasures. She would love to have spent some time rummaging through them; she was sure there would be wonderful things contained within their pages, but now wasn’t the time for idle browsing.

  “Ah, can I help you, my dear?” the voice asked from behind.

  Polly turned to face the man that had spoken and blinked at him. He was in his sixties and was what some would call ‘a fine figure’ of a man, straight-backed and well built. She suspected that when he was younger, he would have had considerable physical strength and been quite handsome. He wore a shabby suit, clean, but obviously well lived in; his shirt collar looked crumpled, his tie a little skew whiff, giving Polly the instant urge to straighten it for him.

  “Can I help you?” he asked again. He gave her a bright, warm smile, which totally disarmed her. Polly knew instantly that she liked this man. She smiled back, an involuntary response on her part.