The Cornerstone by Anne C. Petty Page B

bedroll strapped to his bike. In the far corner, a queen-sized mattress and box spring took up a large chunk of the floor space. A card table with a folding chair against the opposite wall served as a desk. His backpack and bedroll were stashed underneath.
    He pulled a Guinness from the fridge, kicked off his boots, and stretched out on the bed with the pillows bunched up behind him, determined to find out if anyone else had felt the tremors. He didn’t have a computer or television, but he’d recently acquired a smartphone as his means for staying connected to the outside world. He powered it on and thumbed through his Internet apps for local news. He didn’t really think he would see any mention of earthquakes and got exactly what he expected. Nothing in his email, either. He took a long gulp from the Guinness and set the bottle on the floor beside the mattress. In the local forums where he was a lurking presence, he also found nothing, except one lone topic posted about an hour ago.
    Hotlanta trembler – u feel it?
    Pulse pounding, Tom clicked on the link and read a brief but astonishing exchange between two forum members.
     
    yeh thought it was an explosion
    i werk at Allnite Pizza. glasses shook n everthin
    awesome where r u
    N Highland got 2 fotos
     
    Where on North Highland? He clicked on the image icon and a grainy photo filled the tiny screen in his hand. A deep crack ran all the way across the street. He clicked and saved the image. There was a second photo, taken less close up so part of the sidewalk and the buildings beyond were visible. Tom caught his breath—clearly discernible in the background was the façade of the Janus Theatre.

 
Chapter 9
    Friday, same night — 1:30 A.M.
     
     
    “Ecce signum.”
    Acknowledged.
    “As master of the buachloch , I bid thee attend me.”
    We are here. We have been waiting.
    Bayard tipped the thermos just enough for a thin red line to trickle over the spiral sun signs cut into the stone a thousand years ago. The blood sank into the rock and was consumed at once, leaving no trace.
    A young one, by the taste. The soul is both bitter and sweet. Give us the rest.
    “All in good time.” Bayard let another trickle wet the top of the stone. “I have questions.” That didn’t begin to describe what was in his mind at that moment. He had much more than questions—call them misgivings, forebodings, suspicions, apprehensions. Things were not right and he wanted to know why.
    We might answer. The voice was nectar-sweet laced with the prickle of venom. What could we offer that the great Christopher Marlowe, acclaimed playwright and master spy, does not already know?
    “Why did the blade seek prey of its own choosing, without my knowledge or agreement?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but wasn’t sure he succeeded.
    The basement was utterly still, the tiles on which he lay cold as a glacier. Seconds turned to minutes…it was as if the stone had gone dead. Bayard allowed a thicker stream from the thermos to coat the surface.
    “Was my question not stated clearly enough?” He might have the patience of that fool Job, but it would do him no good if the banshee refused to cooperate. She was bound to serve the master of the stone, to suspend his death and preserve his life, but she did not have to make it easy.
    Aye, we heard thee. Silence followed.
    She was becoming more recalcitrant lately, and that was the main query that he needed resolved. When she was in this mood, he would have to cajole, and if that failed, threaten. He bathed the stone again.
    “I was told by the previous master of the buachloch, the great magister John Dee, that if I desired, I could speak with shades whose souls have been claimed by the lord of the underworld…is this indeed true?”
    Screechy laughter filled the basement cavern and ricocheted off its hard planes and surfaces.
    Who would ye wish to bespeak, yer worship? Great Lucifer himself? Or perhaps a lesser demon who will