by Amity Green
I rounded an ornate, bullnose corner to encounter a nook harboring two leather reading chairs and a small writing desk with a lamp. A solitary case stood against the back wall. I read the illuminated sign on the top of the bookcase. The Works of Mr. Christopher Marlow.
“Aw, you had to, didn’t ya?” I told the empty room. I skirted the desk and centered myself in front of a sealed glass case that held my favorite closet play— Dr. Faustus. A replica sat on a shelf beside it. The banter of Faust and Mephistopheles called to me from between the tome’s leather covers. I scanned the pages, reading my favorite monologues. I began walking in search of the cash registers, happy I’d found something cool to take home.
A leathery, scraping sound, then a loud slap popped through the darkened store. I listened hard. Raspy, scratching sounds floated across the tops of the bookcases. An odd sense that I’d read a lot longer than I should have worried me when I looked back toward the front of the store to see it was nearly full dark out.
“Hello?” My call resonated. I wondered if anyone had seen me come in. Maybe the shop owner locked up, not realizing I sat in the nook reading for so long.
Scraping. Tapping. Someone should have answered me.
I followed sounds through the darkened store to an alcove far in the back. I drew in a breath to call out, but a voice from the darkness beat me to it.
“For tonight’s feature entertainment, Jack and Jill shall go up a hill …,” the voice trailed off, huffing with sarcasm.
Whoever recited the nursery rhyme had a seriously bad set of teeth from the sound of things. Creeping forward, I allowed only enough of my face to clear the side of the thick wooden bookshelf so that one eye could focus on who was there.
A gargoyle lay sprawled on the floor on its back, scale-like skin glistening in the dim light. It moved. One leg stretched long with a heel resting on a low shelf, clawed toes thoughtlessly flicking a hardback to and fro against a row of books.
Canine in shape, its head rested on a pillow formed by two folded, segmented wings. Currently silent, the thing touched one talon of a four-digit hand to a forked tongue, moistening the pad to flip the page of the book propped open on its chest. A long tail twitched, then snaked forward to scratch at the flap of a leathery, bat-like ear. The idle leg made rapid scratching motions against the shelf, almost toppling rows of dust-coated books. Relaxing once more, it settled back into its read, lyrical, boyish brogue rhyming out a cadence.
“ … to fetch a pail of water, Jack fell down and broke his bloody crown, and an idiot came tumbling after,” the thing huffed again.
“Psssscht.” A reptilian palm slapped a furrowed brow as it sighed with gusto. “I’m so tired of this rubbish.” Clapping the volume shut, it sent the rejected book spinning on the hardwood, the scarred leather spine coming to a sliding stop against the wall.
I found myself mid scream. I didn’t realize I’d moved at all, but I stood in full view, having stepped from behind the cover of shelving.
The gargoyle shot to its feet in an instant, whirling on me. “Stop!” it snarled.
My scream diminished into a noncommittal, airy, “aaahhh.”
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” the thing spat. Chest heaving, it lowered its arms, wings folding at its shoulders. Bright, silver-grey eyes narrowed on me. “Never, ever, do that again.” After a beat to catch a breath, it stepped away from the wall. “I’m Peter. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The thing bowed in a flourish of spread wings and sweeping tail.
Wobbling, I unwillingly accepted the fact that I suffered from brain overload. I was shutting down, losing it. I’m going to faint, this thing is going to eat me, and there isn’t a freaking thing I can do about it. I gave an ironic snort before I collapsed in my own flourish of pink and blonde on the wood floor.
Chapter 4
“Well, I for one, like her.”
The sound of the man’s voice startled me awake. My fingers felt soft fabric beneath me. The smell told me I remained in the store. Holding still to keep my breathing even, I listened.
“She’s a woman!” a familiar voice said.
“I think she’ll make the perfect addition. She adds contrast to this place.”
“Ezra, can you picture her—”
“Would you rather be a downspout?” the new voice cut in.
“No. I never imagined you’d bring in a female and, well she’s all … soft and fluffy … and … and pink.” The words “soft” and “pink” were audibly accompanied by a fresh spray of spittle. Peter snorted his disenchantment with the situation.
“You seemed charmed enough when you introduced yourself to her. And you have to admit she will liven things up around the store, Peter.”
“Oh yes, she’s a real live one.” Sarcasm dripped from Peter’s words, adding a hiss to the “yes” when it drew out long over his forked tongue. “I didn’t know you planned to keep her.”
I felt their eyes on me. I held my breath, feeling heat building in my chest as I struggled for calm.
“She belongs with us,” the other voice stated. “I’ve a feeling about her.”
“Seems unlikely, to me.” Peter sounded unconvinced.
Very unlikely. I couldn’t have agreed more. Sweat drew cold air against my forehead.
“You’ll learn to appreciate these things. Softness, and pink,” the voice called Ezra stated. “It may be time for you to start reading something other than children’s books.”
“That would be a most welcomed change. How the bloody hell do you expect me to retain sanity when you insist on ruining every book I try to read? There’s not much to do here at night, Ezra.”
One of my shoes fell to the floor with a loud thump. Crap. I could tell they both stared at me again.
“Again, I would reconsider keeping her here.”
“It is done.”
I didn’t like the finality in that statement.
Papers rustled and a single set of footfalls sounded, leading away, followed by the solid click of a door shutting. I chanced a look, but with only one eye open a slit. The gargoyle slouched in an oversized armchair nearby, resting its chin on a fist in an all-too-human posture.
“I know you’re awake over there.”
I kept still.
“You’re soon to wish you’d kept walking.”
The door clicked shut once more. He’d left.
I rolled upright, checking myself quickly. My clothes were all present, save for the one pump which I hastily retrieved. I’d become puffy or something while I slept. The shoe was tight and hard to slide onto my foot but after a couple quick little stomps it was back in place. I stood wavering, lightheaded beside an ornate, cloth covered chaise in an even more ornate room. The whole area was centered around a huge, impeccably tidy, mahogany desk. A tall, rose window centered behind the workstation, candlelight glinting from its many beveled edges. Designed by a gifted craftsman, the rose was a blend of rich purple, blue and finally red at the center, where a scarlet E had been designed into the inner petals.
Ezra. The name Peter had called the other voice.
I took a shaky step toward the door but stopped short when I heard the horrible creaking my heels made when I walked. What now?
Swollen would be a major understatement in describing the state of my feet. Bulging toes fought against neighbors for control over the holes that were meant to show a peek of my neatly polished nails. Relief followed the removal of my shoes. I’d apparently walked a lot longer than planned. Note to self. Wear Chuck Taylor’s next time you go exploring.
Heels in one hand, I padded to the door passing a darkened window. It was a good thing I hadn’t slept the night away. I reached to twist the door handle, embedding the fingernails of my right hand in the solid wood of the door. I yanked them free, sending shards of wood darting to the floor. Enlarged knuckles burned as if my hands had been rubbed down with Icy Hot. Elongated digits were tipped with pointed nails that were foreign, save for being polished with my favo
rite fingernail polish. A button shot from my cardigan, ricocheting off solid wood. I squealed and ducked, covering my head with my arms. The burning sensation spread to my elbows and shoulders as the fabric of my sweater split along the collarbone, leaving bits of knit wool hanging limply from my wrists. The hook-and-eye clasps of my bra popped loudly across my back in unison to the waistband of the matching panties. My skirt slicked across my thighs, revealing a viscous grey-blue substance coating my skin.
“Ewwww!” I inhaled with a sharp snort and screamed. The only thing I could think to do was run.
After bludgeoning the door handle enough it relented, allowing access to the hall outside the study. The corridor was long, displaying huge, floor length portraits of dogs.
“Whu …?” I muttered, staring at the odd choice of the artist. I gimped down the hallway, my feet heavy, like walking with mud caked on my shoes. I ran a serious temperature, with too much heat burning in my chest and face. I desperately searched for a way back out of the store. I launched myself toward the next doorway in the hall, and pounded at the thick wood there. A shiny doorknob landed on the floor with a dejected thump. So much for trying to open the door.
“Please help me!” I yelled, “Somebody open the door!” Wailing again, I balled my fists and hit the door with both hands, sending it crashing open.
Silence. Not even an echo returned my pleading calls. I sniffled, head twitching with hysteric sobs, and began to run as best I could into the dim corridor.
The hall ended, offering the choice of turning either direction. Completely lost, I put trust in a snap decision and continued my flight down the hallway to my left. Incredible detail emerged, contrasting colors and shades of light popping to life, creating an echo of visible, layered dimension to my surroundings.
I slowed, lost deeper in the labyrinthine bookstore, considering the fact that I wore what I ran from. I hiccupped violently, giving in to morbid curiosity.
My hands were no longer my own. Scales covered the skin, reflecting charcoal and grey as I examined them in the lighting under a wall sconce. I trembled on elongated feet bearing claws for toenails, each tip glinting with crackled, pink polish. Muscles bulged within the plated skin of my calves, tapering to boney ankles. The fluid coating my body was drying, leaving behind glimmering, spade shaped scales that connected to form a tough interweaving of plated skin. The skirt I’d adored hung loose around my tapered waist, length abbreviated far above my knees, more of a loincloth than the previous statement of fashion and modesty. My cardigan was gone, apparently falling away completely in my frantic sprint from the study. My camisole remained, blotched with sticky fluid, clinging to a flat breast plate that replaced the curved features of my chest. A slender tail spiraled around my left leg, coming to a point on top of my foot. The tip twitched toward the ceiling.
My legs sort of gave up, sending me to my knees. Something behind me stopped my body from coming to rest on the floor. Huge, curved wings rested atop my shoulders, the boney frames jammed into the carpet behind me, holding my bottom off the floor. I grasped the base of one and pulled it free, repeating the motion on the other side. I sat back, wings stretched alongside me like a runaway kite snagged in a tree.
My hands were more like a raptor’s talons, but the pads of my clawed fingers were amazingly sensitive. I touched my face. My chin jutted forward, forming an elongated jaw that rested under a stubbed nose.
“Aw, God,” I said with a trembling, little girl voice. Knobby cheek bones protruded below my temples. Hair clung in spots, hanging from a ponytail with gel glopped in places. I pulled strands loose from wherever they dried to scales, some plastered to my shoulders. Some of it was stuck in my mouth and other strands were tangled across the top of my wings. When it was finally gathered in one clawed fist, I pulled it forward across a shoulder, letting it fall in a mass of swirling grey strands across my ruined camisole. Tears fell onto my folded knees. I wiped at my abbreviated excuse for a nose. It wasn’t nearly as long as Peter’s had looked when I’d first seen him.
I gasped.
“Peter!” I yelled. The “P” was accentuated by lips stretched across pointy canine fangs. I didn’t know if Peter could help, but being lost, I had nothing else to try for. I leapt to my feet. My wings spanned wide, smacking against the walls of the hallway on either side. A wooden frame splintered when one of the dog pictures crashed to the carpet. I froze.
“Whoa,” I moaned. They were like two, heavy beach umbrellas stuck to my back. Reaching back in an attempt to shove them into place I noticed that when I tucked my arms to my sides, the wings followed suit, furling together on my back with the curled ends sweeping forward to rest against the outside of my calves. My legs shook as I took a hesitant, tucked step forward, learning my stride.
Minutes seemed like days as I wandered halls of the transformed bookstore. I didn’t really care about the contents of the madhouse around me at that point. I needed to find Peter, or the door. Not necessarily in that order.
I found nothing but more books, antiques, and reasons to freak out. I tucked myself against the wall in the next corner I came to.
I cracked inside, covering my face as best I could with clawed hands, and cried. Slumping down the joining walls, I gathering my knees to my chest and rocked in time to my hysterics, soft mourning sounds erupting moment to moment against my will. I tried to reason away why I’d been victimized by something I couldn’t identify. If it was a bad dream, I was far ready to wake up.
Maybe I was being punished for wishing bad things for the Thomlinsons because they didn’t adopt me, too. Was it against some unspoken rule to hate on a nun? Fate and Change teamed up, working together at their finest.
Peter cleared his throat gently but still managed to startle me. I gazed up at his blurry figure through thickened eyelids and pools of unshed tears. Snot ran down my lip. I scrubbed at my face like my hands were erasers. He stepped forward, an otherworldly, winged shadow eclipsing my trembling form.
“What’s happening to me?”
“You’re becoming,” he said, just above a whisper.
“Becoming what?” I snapped tensely at his cryptic response.
“You have to ask that?” Peter held out his claws, gesturing at himself with sarcasm.
“I don’t understand,” I said, averting my face. “I feel like I could throw up.”
“That will pass.” He pulled up close and squatted on his haunches next to me.“You’ll grow accustomed to it.” he offered. It was odd seeing such a beastly body use human gestures to emit calmness.
“I don’t want to!” I yelled back. “Look at me! I’m disgusting. This … slime …,” I spat as I held out a sticky arm.
“It’s already drying,” he said. “Then you’ll just have ….”
“What?” I snapped. “Scales?”
“Scales,” he said, at the same time.
“Nooooo,” I moaned. He sounded too sure of what was going to happen. “I’ve been … disfigured.” I refused to accept the finality in his tone. “This isn’t real. It can’t be.”
“You’ll adapt quickly.” He sighed when his words accomplished nothing more than sending me into a fresh bout of hiccupping sobs. I elbowed the wall.
“Try to stop,” he whispered. Peter crept close beside me and extended an arm over my shoulders and a wing over mine, hugging me tightly beside him.
I grieved openly against his rough shoulder, shaking my head.
Peter held me close, looking down at scales—snakeskin—peeking from beneath the remaining pink fluff I’d worn into the store. His expression kind, understanding shone in his eyes, setting them off against an ethereal visage. I hated to think there was an added amount of pity mixed in.
“Unbelievable,” he mused. “I wouldn’t think Ezra capable of seeing this in you.” He shook his head. I knew he wasn’t really talking to me with expectation of holding a conversation. And I didn’t answer because I was clueless. My brain was fried and I couldn’t stop shaking. I scoot
ed closer to the comforting feel of another person, a stranger that had the world in common with me.
My mind was in replay mode. I fought against it for a long time, twitching as I tried to get the images to stay gone. If I kept watching myself struggling, being tormented and transformed, I might go stark-raving crazy and never recover. Was I already there? I welcomed the lulling effect of Peter’s chest rising and falling, holding out hope that I would wake up in my dorm room, and never remember the nightmare I’d suffered. My last cognizant thought was that I was fairly sure gargoyles didn’t eat their own. At least I hoped not.
Chapter 5
Sunlight warmed my face. A smile tugged at my features. Sunshine was a rarity in London. And that’s where I am … my favorite place on the planet … the museums … theatre … bookstores—
“Crap!” I screamed, shooting to my feet.
Peter’s head clunked against the wall. “Damn,” he growled. He rubbed his temple, blinking in the morning light, grey eyes focusing on me. “Come away from the window, please.”
“Huh.” I patted down my back-to-human hips as I walked toward him. I looked over my shoulder, and then doubled over, looking under my skirt. No tail! My sweater was gone and my heels were still missing, but I was too happy to be myself to care.
“What on earth are you doing?” A man sat against the wall where Peter the Gargoyle had been, an elbow resting on his knee, watching me frisk myself.
“I had the craziest, far out dream I’ve ever had.” I rested my rump against the wall, bending forward with my hands on my knees while my heartbeat thumped wildly in my chest. “I dreamed I turned into a gargoyle!” I giggled, out of breath. I let my head fall limply forward. After a moment, I glanced at the guy on the floor next to me. He was quiet, surveying me.