A Clean Break
An Alastair Stone Chronicles Story
R. L. King
Alastair Stone expected his motel room to be far below his usual standards.
What he didn’t expect was to have roommates.
As soon as he used his key in the rattling lock (no high-tech card-swipe locks for this place) and pushed open the door, several small, fast-moving forms scurried beneath the bed like a crowd of six-legged teenagers whose party had just been busted by somebody’s parents’ untimely arrival.
The lingering odors of stale beer, pot smoke, and old urine rounded out the scene’s charm.
Stone paused in the doorway, reconsidering his decision.
It’s not like you’ve got a lot of options. This was the last room at any price available in a fifty-mile radius. And it’s only for one night.
He edged over the threshold, careful not to touch anything yet.
If there were cockroaches, there were probably bedbugs too, and gods knew what else.
He summoned a quick spell, sending an invisible wave of magical energy through the space.
He couldn’t do anything about the rest of the dubious amenities, but at least he could make sure his was the room’s only living presence for the night.
He dropped his bag on the sagging bed next to a stain shaped like Texas and was girding himself to investigate the bathroom when his phone buzzed with a text.
Settling in okay?
His apprentice, Verity. This whole thing was her fault, and she wasn’t even here yet. Define “okay,” he texted back.
You know. Fancy penthouse suite, Jacuzzi, hot and cold running spooky groupies?
Not…exactly.
Problem?
He glanced at the rusted bars on the window, which looked a lot more substantial than the rickety lock on the door.
It wasn’t Verity’s fault the downtown San Diego luxury hotel where he was supposed to be staying had made a mistake on his arrival date and wouldn’t have his proper room available until tomorrow. No, everything’s fine. Just tired.
I’ll let you go then, and see you tomorrow. Thanks again for letting me tag along. I’ve always wanted to do SD Comic-Con. You have to introduce me to the Blood Offering people.
Verity, twenty-one and goth-adjacent, was far more excited about Blood Offering, a soapy new TV series about angsty vampires and other sexy supernatural creatures, than he had been.
She’d been the one who’d convinced him to accept the invitation to serve on one of the show’s panels at the convention, leveraging his position as a professor of occult studies at Stanford.
Ever the realist, he suspected the offer had been due as much to his relative youth, good looks, and British accent as his formidable academic credentials, but Verity had wanted to go, and he couldn’t think of a good reason to turn her down.
Until now, anyway. He idly zapped a wayward cockroach that had eluded his last spell, and sighed. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be
Doc?
He realized he’d stopped typing, leaving her on cycling dots, but that was suddenly the last thing on his mind.
A translucent figure had just drifted through the wall next to the old TV with the Sorry—Out of Order sign taped to it, crossed the room, and slipped out through the opposite wall.
The phone buzzed again. Doc? You still there?
The figure had disappeared, and didn’t seem inclined to return. Stone hadn’t even gotten a good enough look at it to determine whether it was a man, a woman, or a stray cloud of smoke creeping in from the potheads next door.
Must go, talk tomorrow, he tapped out, and shoved the phone in his pocket before she could reply.
He stood in the center of the room, shifting his perceptions to allow him to view the magical realm. He’d seen the figure only from the corner of his eye; if it had been nothing more than spillover from the potheads, nothing would show up.
Wispy trails of energy, already fading, appeared along the path the figure had taken. Stone could barely make out the faint, flickering red traces before they dissipated like steam.
Well. At least whatever it is, it doesn’t want to share my room.
Normally, a potentially supernatural event like this would have piqued his considerable curiosity.
But not tonight. He was tired, the room’s AC didn’t appear to work, and he was debating whether he wanted to brave the shower—and whatever potential biohazards it might promise—long enough to cool off.
Any spectral visitors would have to take a number and get in line.
His room was at the end of the second floor, about as far from the stairs as it could be while still in the same building.
He trudged along the cracked walkway, trying to decide whether to venture out in his rental car or settle for the sketchy mini-mart next door.
It was already fully dark, the only illumination coming from a few occupied rooms, the two functional lights in the parking lot, and the flickering neon Sunbeam Motel—No Vacancy sign out by the street.
Even the pool directly below, drained dry with the weathered Closed for Repairs sign on its gate indicating this wasn’t a recent condition, was dark.
He still hadn’t made up his mind what he wanted to do when a sudden sense of unease took hold of him. Almost a feeling of being watched, even though neither magical nor mundane sight revealed any nearby auras. He hesitated, looking around, then shook his head in disgust and kept walking.
To his right, between two rooms and set well back from the walkway, a heavy chain-link gate spanned a six-foot opening.
A substantial lock held it closed. Stone didn’t remember noticing it on his way to his room, but he’d been far too busy grumbling about his situation to be in much of a noticing frame of mind at the time.
He’d have walked right past it this time too, except as he approached it, the feeling of unease intensified.
He shot a quick glance through the gate. Just his luck tonight, he’d interrupted some clandestine criminal transaction, or a couple of furtive lovers in the throes of a quickie.
But no concealed figures lurked in the shadows. Stone released his held breath in a combination of relief and annoyance.
Parked in an unlit concrete alcove was what looked like a large maid’s cart—the kind the housekeeping staff employed to wheel their gear around as they went about their daily chores.
It had a sizable central hamper for used towels and linens, several brooms and mops poking up from all four corners, and various bottles, jugs, and rags hanging from hooks along both sides.
Good one, Stone. Spooked by a maid cart. Perhaps getting a drink wasn’t the best idea after all if he was letting such things get to him. Maybe he should just go back to his room and try to sleep. Tomorrow, this would be all over.
Still…that feeling was coming from somewhere. And the cart did look rather sinister, crouching behind the gate like a dangerous beast someone had locked away.
Wait—had it just moved?
He stared hard at it for several more seconds, but it remained still and silent.
Of course it didn’t move. Seriously, you muppet, stop acting like an idiot and get some sleep. He shifted to magical sight and scanned the alcove, half expecting the cart to burst through the gate and try to tear a chunk out of him.
It didn’t do that, of course, because it was a maid cart.
It did, however, pulse with the faint traces of the same flickering red energy he’d seen earlier, trailing behind the wispy figure in his room.
“Hey! What’re you lookin’ at?”
Stone, fully focused on the traces, jerked back like a kid who’d been caught flipping through a dirty magazine and dropped the sight. The red energy vanished. “What?”
The front desk clerk, the same hairy, wifebeater-clad sod who’d so smugly docked his credit card for three times his room’s normal rate earlier (“Hey, it’s Con, dude, take it or leave it”) stood a short distance away, watching him through narrowed eyes.
“What’re you lookin’ at?” the guy repeated. “You some kinda weirdo?”
Stone considered and discarded several sarcastic replies. Replying would mean he’d have to engage with this man. What did he care what was going on with the creepy maid cart? It wasn’t his problem. He’d be long gone by tomorrow morning.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just heading back to my room.” Yes, the drink could definitely wait until tomorrow night, when he could enjoy it in more appropriate surroundings.
“Yeah. Good idea. I wouldn’t suggest wanderin’ around. It ain’t always so safe around here after dark, y’know?”
Stone didn’t think he’d sleep very well, and he wasn’t wrong.
Even this close to the ocean, San Diego still got swelteringly hot in late July, and the AC unit did little more than rumble ominously without producing a shred of cool air.
All he could manage were brief, uncomfortable dozes, to the point where he’d just about decided to bag the effort in favor of catching up with some reading.
That was when he saw her again.
This time, she—and it was definitely a she—stood at the foot of the bed, watching him. Even to his mundane sight in the darkness, she was clearly visible.
Stone sat up slowly, afraid he might startle her with any sudden movements. She looked more substantial now, and less wispy. “Can I help you with something?”
She didn’t react, but it was obvious she was aware of his presence. She remained where she was, motionless, as if waiting for something.
Stone sat up a little more and took her in.
She was a young woman, middle twenties, with plain, weatherworn features and long hair drawn back into a ponytail.
A utilitarian maid’s uniform covered her slim form.
The two most remarkable things about her were her eyes, burning with a combination of anger and pleading, and her neck, torqued to the left side at a sharp and obvious angle and tilting her head into a position that almost suggested deep contemplation.