Equinox (Augarten Book 1)

by Charlie Godwyne

  I laughed. "No, I mean—you said we had karmic ties, and that's why you wound up as my guardian angel, instead of someone else's. Who was I to you?"

  His eyes slid to mine, not giving anything away. "Who do you think you were to me?"

  I considered that. "I bet I was your pet dog, following you around everywhere. I'd bite anyone that got near you. I bet I made it hard for you to make friends. Maybe you taught me how to tell who was nice."

  He pursed his lips, an unreadable expression on his face.

  I shrugged. "Am I close?"

  "More like my pet guppy," he said with some snark.

  I gaped. "A fish? Really? But that would mean so many lives ago—"

  He pinched my nose, hard.

  I grabbed his wrist. "Ow ow, I'm sorry."

  He let me go and rustled my hair, indeed like scratching a dog behind the ears, then disappeared.

  The next day, during meditation, I asked, "Why does Solomon say you have to shout to get through to me?"

  Ian gave a half shrug. Does it really matter?

  "I don't want you to have to yell at me." And I didn't like that Solomon could hear what was meant for me. Though if anyone had to overhear, I guessed having Solomon be that person was better than anyone else, besides maybe Florian. Strange that Florian prayed to an angel every day but did not overhear Ian speaking to me. I wondered whether that was a conscious decision on the angel's part, and if so, why he would allow Solomon to hear his voice, but not Florian. Or whether it had to do with the reason Ian could not go near Florian.

  "That's easy, you just have to listen. Especially now. Tell me: what is different, Gabriel? Tell me what the thing is that you are supposed to notice in this situation, right now."

  A chill ran through me, bringing me back to my meditative visualization near the front gates at Augarten, with the painted wings. I looked directly at the Watcher statue. "There's a crack in his left shoulder."

  "Yes."

  "What happens if he shatters?"

  "You die, and you leave this incarnation behind."

  The air stilled. What? "I don't want to leave. Please, Ian. I want to stay with Florian. He needs a strong partner, and I want to be his stalwart." Not to mention this newfound love with Solomon, so precious and young.

  Ian clenched his jaw, but I wasn't finished.

  "I want to grow old with him, to show him that he deserves to be loved and cared for. I want to keep him safe, to live a simple, happy life by his side. I want to hold him in old age, and when he passes on, I want him to die in my arms, at home, safe and loved. I want to live. I cannot leave him now. Either of them."

  He smiled at me. "That's a beautiful goal, if you ask me."

  "That's why I want to know who I am, or at least who I was," I demanded. "I'm tired of being just half a man for them."

  The angel charged at me and seized me by the shoulders, shaking me hard. "What about anything you just said requires you to know who you were before? None of this requires memories!"

  "B-but I am an empty shell. I've only been alive for a few months. How can I be a real partner to them if—"

  Ian let out an enraged growl and disappeared.

  A knock at the door. "Gabriel? Are you in there?"

  I lurched up, stumbled to the door, and wrenched it open. "Andrea. What time is it? I think I passed out while meditating." My heart hurt like crazy. Ian had actually shouted at me.

  Andrea burst out laughing. "Oh, my dear man. Someone has played a trick on you. Go wash your face and head over to the Buchingers. They called."

  Mortified, I apologized and rushed to the mirror over my kitchen sink. In impeccable calligraphy, of a style impossible to accomplish on human skin—not to mention a forehead—was one word in fine black ink:

  Idiot.

  Scrubbing the fantastic calligraphy off my face took some time. I showed up at Buchinger Buchhandelung with my forehead swollen and scraped raw. I looked ridiculous.

  "Ah, Mister Saint Leopold." Mr. Buchinger came out from the back, then stopped short when he saw me. "Are you hungover?"

  "No, sir. My friend thought writing something on my forehead while I slept might be funny."

  Mr. Buchinger smirked, twitching his bushy salt and pepper mustache from side to side. "Well, then. The semester term papers are coming in, so I could use some help. Just the university and graduate theses for now. It's when the Gymnasium students slam binderies with their pre-scientific papers in January that I'll need real help. They bombard us at the absolute last second, don't even know what they want, and they're stingy because they want to skimp some of their allowance for a burnt latte that costs eight Euros at a tacky global chain. Despicable."

  "Yes, sir."

  He got me set up in front of the printer. I had a queue of documents to print, all small reports of thirty or so pages. These were the cheaper projects that weren't expensive to fix if I made a mistake, considering I had only been helping him for a few weeks. I was to gather each report and pair it with the type of coverboard the customer had requested on their order form. Once Mr. Buchinger checked everything first (he did not trust me yet), I could proceed to binding them: metal clamps or plastic spirals, bradded folders or ringed books. Anything requiring pages grouped in signatures had to be sewn in our machine and watched over by the master, and therefore was Mr. Buchinger's domain. Of course the hand-sewn books were the classiest of them all, but no one wanted that for school reports.

  I watched him as he handled the machine, then glued the stitched signatures. It was a fascinating process, and the results were absolutely profound. Mr. Buchinger made it look far too easy. Whenever I breathlessly complimented his work, he groused that his skills were a result of doing nothing but sewing books for the last forty-five years. Such statements were usually followed by gruff remarks under his breath about his jet-setting son who traveled the world on business for a multinational banking firm.

  "Mister Saint Leopold?"

  I snapped out of my reverie to find a twenty-something-year-old exact male replica of Mrs. Buchinger. "You must be Alfred."

  He laughed and shook my hand. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

  "The pleasure is all mine. And please, call me Gabriel."

  "Gabriel, got it." He scanned the table covered with stacks of freshly-printed reports. "How's it going, working here? Since I hadn't heard a word of complaint yet from Pa, I thought you hadn't started."

  I scratched the back of my neck. "I have so much to learn."

  "Ma tells me you eat her corn casserole like it's manna from heaven." His expression showed no small lack of confidence in my sanity. "You realize you don't have to push yourself to be nice to her?"

  I struggled to follow his meaning. "I enjoy Mrs. Buchinger's cooking very much. I'm grateful she gives me leftovers."

  Mrs. Buchinger always explained it away by saying she came from a large Catholic family and frequently cooked more than she and Mr. Buchinger could eat at home. I had a suspicion this was her way of getting around the charity issue—she framed it as me helping her out by not letting the food go to waste. As a result, I had been able to save some of the cash I'd received working the gardens at Praterstern, even after topping off the rent with Andrea. In just a few more weeks, I would complete my suit payments to Anne and Sarah.

  Alfred nodded at the walls lined with shelves. "So, do you like books?"

  "I love books."

  "Oh, good. I love cell phones."

  Alfred scanned my clothes—that were probably his old clothes—with some perturbation. "Well, Gabriel, great to meet you. I suggest you stay a long time. Ma loves having someone to cook for, and with Pa, no news is definitely good news. I hope it works out."

  "Thank you."

  I returned to the printer while Alfred searched for his parents in the back. I suggest you stay a long time…I thought about my meditations, with the crack in the terra cotta statue, in the Watcher. I'd been feeling lightheaded for weeks, as if I were disintegrating slowly. No
t to mention the fainting spells at Augarten. I closed my eyes and focused on Ian. Are you sure all I can do is eat?

  Eat as much meat as you can. Sleep inside the wards. Ignore the Watcher. Don't think about it. Stay grounded.

  But the crack is growing, right?

  "Ma!" Alfred shouted in the back. "You need to feed him more—he's emaciated! And Pa, if you don't buy him a set of clothes this week, I'm taking your credit card and doing it myself. How was I to know you were giving my old clothes away to someone twice as tall as me—he looks ridiculous!"

  I threw myself into my work, so embarrassed I thought my face might burst asunder. Ian laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Coinciding with the cracked terra cotta statue, my ability to stay conscious increasingly came into question: not only dizziness, but the fainting spells got progressively worse. Solomon and Florian were beyond worried.

  That said, Ian no longer had to shout in order to speak to me when I wasn't in a meditative state, but with that thinning of the veil between us, I felt like I was falling apart. Ian had become increasingly grumpy, which I concluded reflected his concern.

  One morning a few days later, after a late night working for Mr. Buchinger, I woke up feeling terrible. Sitting up in bed, I closed my eyes and tried to evaluate what was wrong. I'd been sick before—just a cold at the start of winter, probably caught it on the trams. This wasn't in the same genre. I tried to meditate, but my physical discomfort kept me from getting into my normal visualizations. And the worst part—Ian could not be reached.

  Borrowing the telephone in Andrea's office, I picked it up and struggled to pull the number I needed from my memory. After a long moment, I dialed Solomon's cell phone, my hands shaking.

  It rang and rang before I realized he must be at his dishwashing job. Then the tone beeped for a message.

  "Hey Solomon, uh, it's Gabriel. I, um…I'm feeling a bit iffy, even inside the wards. I'll head to Florian's and see if he has an idea of what's up. Talk to you later."

  The streets were quiet. The days had grown shorter as winter strengthened its hold, and as I crossed the second district, my footsteps seemed to echo in the sleepy emptiness of the early morning.

  A sign posted on the door of the Schöner Himmel caught my eye. I scanned it absently, then paused with my hand on the door handle when I realized what it said:

  In memory of those who died in the Paris terrorist attacks on November 14-15, 2015.

  I checked my watch; that was ten years ago, today.

  I rushed into the shop.

  "Morgen, Gabriel." Florian's eyes were puffy, like he had been crying.

  I longed to dash behind the counter and hold him, but there were already customers about. "You should have told me yesterday."

  Florian put my shot on the counter and bid me to sit at the bar. "I thought I would be okay. I've been through this anniversary nine times already, after all. Anyway, how are you?"

  "I feel like garbage."

  Florian narrowed his eyes at me. "Do you think you're coming down with something?"

  I shook my head. "I'm not sure I could explain it."

  I wondered whether these were the warning signs I did not catch last time. If I would blink and wake up inside a tree again. But I didn't want to scare Florian when he was dealing with enough already today.

  He smiled tenderly and put his hand on mine.

  "Stay a while and relax. Let me keep an eye on you here until Mr. Buchinger shows up to work."

  Conceding, I settled in at the bar. A customer came in, an old Jewish man I'd seen around in the district. Florian bustled to make his mélange.

  "Master Schwarz, I never noticed you had a tattoo."

  "Oh, this?"

  I looked up. His left arm was so off-limits, I'd never gotten a good look at it.

  "What language is that?" the old man asked.

  "This is Breton, a Celtic minority language spoken in northwestern France."

  A shudder ran through me.

  "Oh dear, I see." The old man leaned over to have a look at the tattoo. "How do you pronounce it?"

  "Wyt ti efo fi o hyd," Florian said. His pronunciation was beautiful, and it sounded similar to Welsh.

  "You are always here with me," I said before I realized. My voice sounded strange. "Why would you mix ashes into the ink of your tattoo like that?" Ashes? What was I saying?

  Everything stopped.

  "Gabriel." Florian froze, alarm in his voice. "This…I used his ashes, yes, but how do you know that? I know I never told you."

  I stood so quickly, I knocked my cup to the floor with a crash. Throttled by the sound, I flew out of the shop before Florian could stop me. Stumbling down the street, I somehow made it to my apartment at Augarten. The pit in my stomach swelled to a writhing mass, torturing me from within. After locking myself into my room, I collapsed on the bed.

  The only thing I had to do was stay put until Solomon came. Solomon would help me figure this out. But every second I begged my angel to come to me and he did not appear, I felt more and more out of control. These indeed were the warning signs to the nightmare wherein I disintegrated and left the men I loved, and I was helpless to stop it.

  Sleep. Maybe I could sleep until Solomon got here. That way I wouldn't move around, since I felt like someone else was playing with me, as if I were a puppet on strings. I schooled my breathing and started to drift off, but all too late I realized that as sleep pulled me under, that something that lie in wait for me was gaining more and more power. I panicked and tried to wake, but my body followed its own orders, cycling me down into unconsciousness.

  I blinked, and it was night.

  Sitting up, I stared out my window at the completely darkened sky. Somehow time must have passed—the whole day—yet no one had come to check on me. That didn't make sense. For the first time I could remember, I felt terrified to be alone. It was as if I could not control myself. Indeed, it felt like I was possessed.

  A crow swept up to my window and tapped on it, then spoke. "Come take a walk in the garden."

  I nodded, not of my own accord. "Yes. I should go see Augarten."

  When I opened my door, an invisible force tried to keep me in. Then I felt the familiarity to the magic, and heard the gentle, soothing words of prayer. I pushed against Solomon's wards, like a child trying to convince a revolving door to go faster. The wards finally gave with an audible pop. All kinds of alarm bells rang in my head, but I paid them no heed. Outside, I walked down the gravel path barefoot, my movements jerky, the soles of my feet cut and bleeding and very, very cold.

  One moment I was dripping blood across the garden, and the next I was at the tree where Solomon had found me the first time, on my knees and digging. I felt a strong sense of alarm from the tree. It was telling me to stop, over and over. My fingertips split from clawing at the dirt, yet I dug with a mad intensity. Those words on Florian's tattoo swelled in my mind. You are always here with me. Somehow, I already knew what I would find in the ground. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. I was summoned and would return the way I had come, from that which I had come.

  Half a meter down, I hit a wooden box. Lifting it out, I recognized the ornamentation as Celtic and opened the lid to see a cloth bag filled with white ash. Against my will, I ripped open the bag and jammed my hand in, overwhelmed by the need to absorb them—no—to be absorbed by them. The ashes changed to glowing magic, the box to a cauldron. What had been white powdery remains was now the same pale gold ether that had leaked out of me back when I had touched Florian's tattoo. Reason fled. I let out a wild scream, gripping the urn in both hands. Shards of bone cut into my palm, more real than my own bones, the powder more real than my own skin, like I was some sort of imposter in the living world.

  I yanked my hand out, and as the ashes fell, the golden, etheric substance dripped from my fingertips and fell also. Immediately, I felt faint. Dropping the urn, I collapsed on the ground. Only then did some sense return.

  "I'm sor
ry," I said to my tree. "I don't know what came over me."

  I'd wanted to learn my truth, so that I could live alongside Florian and Solomon as an honest man, but I had ignored the warnings of others, and now I would die for it. Ian!

  "I don't need to know the truth," I pleaded, bargaining for my soul to come back to me and stop dripping out of my fingertips and pooling around me on the ground. "Let me stay with them. Please."

  My back arched off the ground in agony. My chest oozed the golden liquid into a hazy cloud above me. I screamed in terror and clutched at it, but the ether no longer obeyed me. The darkness of Augarten was not simply the backlit glow of my dream vision, but an off-black shimmering with the arm of the Milky Way galaxy stretching overhead. I tried to reach for that sky, to tug my soul back into my rib cage and bid it to stay with the men I loved, but my body wasn't listening to me anymore.

  Cloven hooves stepped toward me from down the path. I gasped at her approach, even as my heart gave one final beat of farewell, and my last breath drifted from my dying lungs.

  Augarten bent down and poured the cauldron of glowing magic over my head, a baptism, an infusion of the self I had been longing for since the beginning.

  "Wait," I pleaded with her. "Please let me stay."

  She hmfph'd at me.

  As the last of the golden ashes fell, Augarten spoke with the voices of trees. "Now, sleep. You have returned that which you took from me."

  "Augarten!"

  She turned. In the dark of night stood a blazing white fire. Florian.

  His energy that had always been suppressed now burst asunder in all directions, his hair flying back as if a gale wind swept him. He held his hands out to her, beseeching. "Please, stop. Please don't take him. I will do anything."

  "Anything." Augarten laughed. "You are the one who gave him to me in the first place. Take him if you can."

  Florian gave me to her? What? How?

  Augarten stood over me like a mother protecting a young child. My body lost its bones, and I couldn't move. I tried to stand, tried to do something, anything, but I had no control and my angel was nowhere to be found. Florian approached Augarten carefully, and when she did not move to stop him, he sank to the ground, wrapped his arms underneath me and took me from her. As soon as she stepped away from me, however, my body bled through his arms like I was made of liquid. Florian whimpered, cradling me against him. I pooled into his lap, my soul screaming the words I longed to tell him every day for the rest of my life: I love you.