Scales: Book 1 of the Fate and Fire Series

by Amity Green

  “Peter,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he deadpanned.

  I was silent, slowly coming to a standing position against the wall. “But you were a gargoyle,” I stated. The voice matched the mannerisms from the night before. I crossed my arms over my chest matter-of-factly despite the nagging thought I wasn’t getting it.

  Peter rose to his feet and moved to stand in front of me. “I, most certainly, am a gargoyle.” He nodded solemnly. “And so are you.” There was a no-nonsense tone in his voice.

  I squinted at him. Familiar silvery eyes were lined with thick, dark lashes. Boyish, yet strong features met my gaze. A full, pouty lower lip curled slightly with a small grin. His thick, black hair was pulled from his face in a long tail, part of which fell over a bare, muscular shoulder. A linen vest was the sole piece of clothing on his torso, hanging open across his wide chest. Soot smudged, ratty, calf length trousers hung off his hips, displaying two ropes of tapered muscle descending below the waistband there.

  I gulped, audibly.

  He smiled, making me feel like a perv for checking him out. “Don’t worry, Ezra will likely hand you a big book of something childish, like nursery rhymes, to keep your mind where he wants it,” he said. Without taking his eyes from mine, he pulled a timepiece from the small pocket of his vest. “We have a couple of hours before the store opens. I’m certain Ezra has a room ready for you by now. So we should head upstairs.” He turned toward the hall, disappearing around the corner.

  I was plaster on the wall, feeling faint, as if I stood in a surreal place, looking down at myself from some mystical, veiled plain nearby while my body reacted to my new surroundings. Memories from the last night assailed me.

  Peter rounded the corner to see me standing in the same spot he’d left me.

  I didn’t react to seeing him. Coming up the way I did always lent a majorly tenacious quality when I needed it, but then, try as I might, I was unable to draw on the strength of that virtue. I blinked, trying to clear the feeling that my vision was narrowing.

  “I’m a gargoyle?” There was no way a thing like that could be happening in the first place. The fact that it was happening to me, was the kicker. I’d felt disoriented like that before. Once on the playground I was hit in the face with a soccer ball. I remembered that brief feeling of confusion as my mind struggled to process what had happened. I felt the same way then. My mind struggled, and I attempted to block the ball.

  “Yes.” Peter’s voice cut through the fog in my mind. “More of a gargoyle at night.” He reached for a hand and pulled me along toward the stairs.

  After being dragged through the hall for a moment, I caught up and walked beside him, keeping a hold of his hand. His skin was warm and his grip was tender. Maybe it was the human quality of his touch that helped to keep my mind grounded a bit as I cased each window we passed for a possible escape. We traversed the store and made it back to Ezra’s study. Peter deposited me on the chaise from the previous night.

  “I’ll be back in just a moment, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “You stay put, yes?” He looked at me with distrust, knowing I was ready to bolt.

  Very perceptive. “Okay,” I glanced around the study, wondering which way the front door was. He turned to leave the room.

  “Who’s holding the sign?” I asked. I hated that I’d said anything. It didn’t matter because I’d be gone soon.

  “I’m sorry, what?” He stepped toward me.

  “I don’t get it. If you’re here, who’s out there? Who is holding the sign for the bookstore?” The whole deal was BS and I was ready to hear him talk his way out of that one.

  “It’s not a who, it’s a what, rather. It’s my gargoyle holding the sign during the daylight hours.”

  It figured he’d have an answer. I looked at him with exaggerated doubt. “Really? That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Look,” he sighed, gathering an explanation. “This defies the rational thought you’re accustomed to. I’d wager yours is out there too,” he offered. “It will be at all times now. You won’t realize it, or even feel it, at all. The gargoyles hold a space to mark the transformation from being mortal,” he said, gesturing through the wall to the sign. “They don’t move. They’re more of a representation, really. When a gargoyle is created from the life of a human, a place-holder in time is formed. Created. They’re mere depictions of what we are now.”

  “Did you say ‘from’ being mortal?”

  “Yes. Brilliant. That’s it.” He seemed relieved. “When the transformation took away our mortality, the statues out there were formed to take up the space the mortality consumed. The ability to pass from life to life can’t be removed. That would create an emptiness in time here. Those,” he said, gestured again, “fill the void otherwise created by the change.”

  I considered the information quietly.

  Peter watched me. “You’re quick.” He smiled.

  “You don’t die.” I stated.

  “We don’t die. I’ve been here a very long damned time.”

  There was a silence between us as we let the conversation sink in. I shook my head, not wanting him to think I was that gullible, but at the same time, I realized it made sense.

  “Ezra will likely do a better job explaining. If he’s in the mood. If it’s cloudy I’ll take you out for a moment to look for yourself.”

  “Okay.” I went back to studying my whereabouts, bare feet hanging from the chaise.

  An elderly man appeared in the doorway. My heart was in my throat and I was on my feet like the chaise was laced with electricity. He hadn’t made a sound.

  “Take her upstairs, Peter. She’ll have a good look from there,” he said. He clomped past in a pair of thick-soled black boots, seating himself behind the huge desk. After placing wired spectacles over cataract-greyed eyes, he began examining a short stack of unopened post.

  I eyed the gaunt, elderly man. So this is Ezra.

  “I’d rather see from the sidewalk, if you’d show me out.” I had a plane to catch.

  “Perhaps another time, dear,” the old man said, and opened an envelope.

  “I think just now is perfect.” I held my breath and bit down on the inside of my cheek. Tears welled up again, a show of emotion which was really starting to grate on me, and my face grew warm as I fought the urge to run. I wouldn’t stop until my butt was firmly planted on a jet back to the familiarity of the States, if I could only make it out the door. I hid my shaking hands, clasping them behind my back. “People will worry about me. They’ll start searching. Call Scotland Yard.” I hoped that was the case, wondering if they really did that in London.

  “You needn’t worry about getting word to your Professor. A cheeky postcard was dropped at your campus to stave off any alarm at your absence. He knows you’re fine, well, and bushy-tailed.” Ezra continued to shuffle mail, so nonchalant I wanted to shred it for him. “And going out is not a possibility today. It’s quite sunny outside.” He set his mail aside and looked over the rim of his glasses at Peter briefly, then turned his attention my way. “We wouldn’t want any mishaps, dear girl.”

  “My name is Tessa. I am not your dear girl,” I said, in an exaggeration of a formal British accent. His accent sounded somewhat British, but there was something puzzling, something more to his lilt, the brogue far too deep to be the typical accent of the people in London. “And I love sunshine.” I looked over at Peter, who remained beside the chaise. “Please show me out.”

  Peter shook his head. “Best not right now.”

  “I’m leaving. Now.” I glared at Peter. “And if you don’t lead me to the door, I’ll find a way to bust my way outside.” I’d toss one of Ezra’s cocky, little baubles right through his pretty stained glass. I eyed a fat, squatty candle. I’d finish what someone had tried ages ago and burn the store down.

  “Tessa.” Ezra smiled up at me. “Tessa, I like that. So fitting for one with such … spark, you know.” The old man winked as
if we shared an inside joke. “You can’t go outside today.”

  “Why?” I cried. Hot tears fell. I wiped at them hard, angry at my break down when the guy was only smiling at me. The last twenty-four hours had transformed me into an emotional train-wreck and I loathed the loss of control.

  “Why what?” he asked.

  “Why can’t I leave?” I yelled. “Why am I even here? I mean, why me? I’ll find a way out of this place.” I waved a trembling hand in a quick arc indicating his study. I dropped my hand when I noticed it shaking horribly. “You see this?” I pointed a thumb at my face. “This is what ‘nothing to lose’ looks like!”

  “Why, you ask?” Ezra stepped from behind his desk. “Well, it’s simple, Tessa,” he hissed my name slowly. The man stood quietly in front of us, ridged, lips drawn tight. “Everything happens for a reason.”

  No one moved. I examined his misleadingly feeble appearance. There was no doubt in my mind of his ability to keep order. What I’d mistaken for cataracts was a complete lack of pupils. I wasn’t surprised to see something so completely peculiar at that point. The extreme white of his eyes accentuated the yellowed quality of his uncombed hair and crazy eyebrows. Oddly, he seemed physically well but weathered, his clothes perfectly pressed, right down to his thick-soled boots. Silence claimed the room. I shuddered.

  Ezra’s perky demeanor took over like someone had changed his battery. He tugged at the thick cuffs of his starched, linen shirt and straightened his vest. He smiled at me as though he was my long lost grandfather.

  I gulped. He could use a couple hours of practice grinning at himself in a mirror before he takes that one on the road.

  “’Why’ is very simple,” he said. “Boygoyle,” he gestured at Peter with a thin, dry-skinned hand. “And girlgoyle.” He whirled toward me, smiling like the deranged at an asylum for nut-jobs of equal caliber.

  Peter groaned and closed his eyes for a moment.

  I huffed. Ezra seemed pleased as punch. Peter’s reaction echoed mine. Eyes closed, he rubbed his brow with his fingers, snorted softly with half a laugh, and shook his head slightly.

  “Well no one asked me!” I yelled. “This is … you’re … freaking crazy!” I jabbed a finger at Ezra. “I feel like a science project … like a lab rat. Change me back, right this instant!” My voice was high pitched, squawking. I panted a little.

  “Now dear girl, we can’t always get what we want,” he said, glancing sidelong in Peter’s direction. “Now off with you both. We have a business to run here. I’ll see you both at nine, sharp, ready to work.” He looked straight at me. “Smiling,” he said, without one of his own. He tugged a silver watch from the left-hand pocket of his vest, checked the time, and shot a meaningful glance at Peter.

  Peter caught my elbow and gestured toward the door. I turned to follow him out, but wheeled around to face Ezra once more, ready to tell him off. Words evaporated on my tongue.

  The freak started singing.

  “You can’t always get what you wa-awnt,” he bobbed his head and tapped his fingers in metronome timing. “You can’t always get what you wa-awnt, but if ya try sometimes, you might find ….”

  “That’s quite helpful, Ezra,” Peter growled. He took my elbow, a little firmer, obviously sensing a possible blow up. “Time to go.”

  Moving would concede defeat. Conflicted, I opened my mouth to say something but words wouldn’t come. My whole life, I’d been yanked around, and studying abroad was supposed to enrich my life enough that I found a way out from under other people’s thumbs. Coming to London had only turned up another cage.

  Peter pulled me toward the door, Ezra banging out the beat on his desk, long stained silver hair flopping against his weathered cheeks.

  “You get what ya nee-e-eeed ….” the old man belted the lyrics, then looked at us thoughtfully. “It’s that Rolling Stones’ song.” He smiled a little.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I shook my head.

  “Yeah,” Ezra answered from inside his study. “But I’m not. You can’t always get what you want.”

  I was simply too stunned at his audacity to say another word on my way out. That statement was completely inarguable.

  Chapter 6

  “He,” I said, pointing a finger downstairs, “Is a first class mental case!” I paced a tight line on the hall carpet.

  Peter watched me carefully. “Yes, I can’t argue that. He thrives on irony. In his defense, he’s had a fairly tragic life. But he has an extensive knowledge of every book in this place.” Peter opened the door he’d led me to. “He really is quite brilliant.” He swung the door open and strode across plush carpeting to an oversized window seat, built into the wall around a double pane of aged glass. Sunshine shone through, casting a bright wedge onto the royal blue pad on the bench below the window. “There, you see? We are both out there doing our duty, holding the sign,” he said, beckoning me to stand beside him.

  I strode past a station that held a mini fridge, microwave oven and a coffee pot to a four-poster bed to my right. The thick comforter was quilted in rich beige and pink satin. Matching throw pillows were arranged in an inviting, over-stuffed looking wedge that ran up the cream colored wall behind the headboard. A small, dark wood table stood beside the bed, complete with a reading lamp and a thick, leather bound book. I averted my gaze from the unwanted comforts and peered out the second-story window to the sign below.

  The same, dark gargoyle version of Peter that held the sign the day before rested there, long arm stretched across the bottom of the wood, nearly to the other side of the plank closest to the storefront. Where nothing had been yesterday, a smaller gargoyle crouched against the wall of the shop, sunshine glinting from an outstretched arm holding the other end of the sign under the word “Taberna.”

  The surreal had taken place. I wasn’t able to deal with such a substantial event. I couldn’t imagine myself looking like the stone-faced, scaled representation that rested, dormant outside the window.

  “And why couldn’t we see this from the sidewalk?” I said, continuing to stare at the gargoyles.

  Peter didn’t answer. I traced his gaze to my forearm where it rested against the window pane.

  Warm sunlight washed across the skin of my hand and arm, clear to my shoulder. A network of blackened veins spider-webbed its way across my flesh, growing darker in shade against translucent muscle. I rotated my arm in amazement, eyes widening at the sight of bright, clean bone peeking through sinewy, pale grey tendons and charcoal ligaments in my wrist. I flexed a shaking hand, bringing it close to my face. Once out of direct sunlight, the skin there returned to peachy flesh that covered the inner workings of my hand.

  I wobbled slightly. “What the heck has that freak done to me?”

  Putting his hands on my shoulders, Peter gently lowered me to the cushioned window seat, being careful to keep me from the sun’s rays. He reached above us and released a blind to cover the window.

  “Ezra has a sense about people. And fate.”

  Amazing. Peter said the one thing that I felt in touch with. Fate had it in for me. She had a way of sneaking in to deal low blows when I let my guard down. I could buy Peter’s excuse about how the flighty, bipolar codger downstairs might have seen something in my future that didn’t bode well for me. Stranger things had happened in just the previous night.

  “And now you see,” Peter continued, sitting beside me, “while the sun is up, we look just like we did before.” He searched my face for understanding. I nodded, biting down on my lip to keep it from quivering. He continued. “We work at Librorum Taberna during business hours, helping Ezra with the patrons.” He rose and strode to the small table, retrieving the large book. “At night, we are free to wander this place as our gargoyles. This building is huge, by the way.”

  He approached, handing me the book. “I’ll wager this is a big book of fluffy nursery rhymes. Ezra is in control of what the pages of every book in this place contain.”

  “I was readin
g a bit yesterday and nothing was different in the books I looked through.” I shrugged. Sure, I’d seen some crazy things in the last few days, but I struggled to buy that the whole bookstore, all the historical writing, was gone and replaced by Mother Goose. All that wonderful literature being removed was a sin on any day.

  “It will be different now, trust me.”

  I took the book and flipped the cover.

  “This is Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’. It’s rather thought provoking for the current state of things, don’t ya think?”

  “You’re joking,” he said, and reached for the book.

  I let him take it. He opened the cover, slapped it shut and handed it right back.

  “What?” I looked from him to the leather cover.

  “He must have done that just for me. I asked him to, ages ago.”

  “Asked him what? To change what the books are about?”

  “Yes. I went through a time when I thought I’d lose my wits. I was lonely, and going insane, truth be told. I asked him to change the books. I thought it would help. Mayhap keep me calm. I was young. It was a bad idea.”

  I set the book aside. We could talk about literature some other time. I was beginning to count on Peter to keep me grounded, to try to stay afloat in the torrent of the last day and night. I needed him to stay in the moment long enough to show me the door.

  Apparently, he agreed. He stood and turned to a row of wooden cabinets opposite the bed. Opening the first set of doors wide for me to see inside, he displayed a vanity table with lighted mirrors and a plush stool. The next opened on a student desk with outlets and a lamp to study by. “Go, Vannah,” I said.

  Peter gave me a half-confused look. “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  He continued and the next set of doors revealed a clothes armoire where hung two collared shirts. Peter pulled one off the closet rod and held it out for me.

  I snorted. “I am not wearing that.” Embroidered letters spelled out “Librorum Taberna” high on the left breast. The shirt was, of course, pink.