Stone Temptation (Gargoyle Marked Book 1), page 1
Contents
1. Luke
2. Asher
3. Luke
4. Asher
5. Luke
6. Luke
7. Luke
8. Asher
9. Luke
10. Asher
11. Luke
12. Asher
13. Luke
14. Asher
15. Luke
16. Asher
17. Luke
18. Asher
19. Luke
20. Asher
21. Asher
22. Luke
23. Luke
24. Asher
25. Luke
26. Asher
27. Luke
28. Luke
29. Asher
30. Luke
31. Asher
32. Luke
33. Asher
34. Luke
35. Asher
36. Luke
37. Luke
38. Asher
Follow Me Some More!
Also by Richard Amos
About the Author
Copyright © 2024 Richard Amos
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover by Vanesa Garkova
ONE
Luke
My day began with cornflakes and theft.
I would’ve preferred a lie-in, or a lazy morning listening to my jazz records.
Maybe tomorrow.
With the cereal now fully digested, I parked my car in a layby on a country lane, preparing to make myself invisible for the theft part.
Worry snaked through me as it always did in these situations. I popped a strawberry fondant cream in my mouth to help.
Those chocolate-covered wonders always made things better, cavities be damned.
“I can do this,” I told myself in the rearview mirror between deep breaths.
I gave myself ten seconds, doing the whole hippopotamus thing as I counted down.
Upon reaching zero, watery-like magic rippled across my body, removing my reflection from the mirror, confirming a successful vanish.
As long as nothing startled me, I’d be able to hold onto the illusion.
You can do this.
After a few more deep breaths, I got out into the bitter, early December air, heading toward the village of Periwinkle.
What a miserable, overcast day. The gray clouds smothered the sky with no break in sight, my winter clothing barely keeping the cold away. My invisibility didn’t hide my footprints, so I kept to the edge of the path, avoiding the wet and pulpy leaves, going for strong mouse energy.
Becoming a thief wasn’t ever on my agenda. I fell into it a year ago when I received my invisibility power. It opened up new possibilities, giving me access to a variety of magical methods in my quest to help my brother.
Always for you, Finn…
I took a narrow path away from the road, cutting through fields. A canopy of dead trees bent over the only path into the village, sleeping in winter’s embrace.
God, I hated winter.
I passed two dog walkers gossiping about a man called Jim and his terrible poodle. A cluster of sparkly, purple motes wafted past my face.
I lived in a world where humans literally breathed in magical motes every day. The glittery, indestructible particles of many colors had been around since the dawn of time, released from the bowels of the earth through mote vents scattered around the planet. There was one on the northwestern tip of my town, Brinecrest, located on the southern coast of England, and ten miles south of Periwinkle.
Motes endowed humans with magical properties, like my invisibility. Some of us, like me, were mote enchanters, able to harness the energy of the motes to make potions or charms, all with the right magical touch.
Years ago, enchanter power was much greater, history books filled with tales of great mote enchanters and their magical prowess. Nowadays, a decent level of skill is rare. My potions often turned to mush, my charms useless. The magic of the motes was a tricky beast to tame. Any talented enchanters were quickly snapped up into awesome jobs, often to support the gargoyles—our stony protectors.
My weaknesses didn’t stop me seeking out magical solutions to save Finn from a monster’s curse. There were plenty of scrolls and books to steal, along with special filtering equipment. And outside of being a robbing bastard, I kept trying to find a better enchanter for help. Of course, I’d had as much success as a chocolate teapot, but cold shoulders wouldn’t deter me.
Nothing would.
Never give up.
The path curved to the left, passing a dog poo bin and an information board detailing the local flora and fauna. Another dog walker approached with a black Labrador. I kept my distance, quickening my pace, the dog more interested in the verge than me.
Phew.
The sooner this was over, the better.
Over the past three years, I existed between grief and hope. I mourned Finn yet remained hopeful for his return. He wasn’t quite dead but wasn’t here with me either.
A memory flashed through my mind, echoes of that night at Crab Cove sending a hundred barbs into my heart.
Finn’s face, his screams, the utter hopelessness…
I shut it down.
Not this. Not now. Tumbling into a depressive state would only ruin the morning.
I reached the quaint village of Tudor houses, flower boxes, and suffocating charm. Because of the local no-vehicles-of-any-kind rule, everything was eerily quiet, far too perfect.
The sooner I got out of here, the better.
I passed a duck pond in the village square with no ducks but plenty of orange motes hovering across the surface like fireflies. Only the postman and a few residents were braving the weather this Saturday morning.
At least there weren’t any monsters around.
The freezing wind blew harder as I crossed the square, face frozen in place as if I’d been hit with a dozen doses of Botox.
What a shame my invisibility didn’t come with central heating.
Avoiding becoming an ice pop, I passed through an archway into a shopping arcade behind a DIY shop, ducking into a tiny alleyway beside a bookshop to catch my breath.
George’s Books. I was finally here, ready for my five-finger discount.
After extensive research online, taking me into some nefarious corners of the web, I’d discovered George, the owner, possessed a collection of extremely rare and illegal magical books in his basement. One of those tomes allegedly contained a recipe to brew a wishing potion.
Dangerous. Scary. The possible key to saving my little brother.
There were so many questions surrounding this recipe. Like had anyone else tried stealing it? How was George even allowed to keep it? And why would there even be a record of it online? Okay, so the information hadn’t been easy to find, but it seemed both ludicrous and overly hopeful.
Doubt tried to catch my attention, getting a swat for its troubles.
Screw the questions.
Screw the doubt.
Embrace the possibilities.
Oh, I’d been embracing them every second of the day, my insides dancing an excitable tango. If I could wish Finn out of his predicament, then my life would be back on track. Pain lifted, happiness back to shake my hand, and Finn there for me to bear-hug every morning.
If I couldn’t brew the potion myself, I’d find an enchanter to help me. This was the best piece of intel I’d received in ages. A sweet taste of hope.
I began counting down from thirty, readying myself for the next move and unwrapped another strawberry cream, letting it slowly melt on my tongue.
To complement my invisibility, I’d learned to pick locks. I carried some guilt over that because I really didn’t want to be Robin Hood without the giving-to-the-poor part. But then Finn suffered every day, so he was the good part to complement the bad.
Guilt could go take a kick to the family jewels.
I fished my metal lockpick from my coat pocket, making short work on the shop’s locked back door at the end of the alley. George was open for business but my invisible backside strolling through the front door would only arouse suspicion.
Slip in the back, creep down to the basement, steal the book, thank you, goodbye.
A much better plan.
Door unlocked, I opened it wide enough for me to slip through, gently closing it behind me.
Clutter surrounded me, the room made of wood paneling and wonky shelves was super dusty and chaotic. Stacks of yellowed paperbacks filled almost every space, really crammed into those shelves. Cobwebs clung to the single lightbulb above my head, a hazardous path cutting through piles of boxes between me and another door.
Someone needed to sort his back room out.
Carefully, I navigated past the boxes, stepping out into the main shop. It was just as haphazard wit
Any customers with dust allergies beware!
George, an older man with wisps of white hair and a ratty tweed jumper, sat at the desk, writing something in a ledger. A small radio beside him played classical music.
On my right was another door leading to a tiny kitchen and two sets of stairs. One going up, one going down.
Probably extremely creaky.
Hmmm. How to do this? My power didn’t bless me with feathery grace to avoid creaky stairs. I’d learned that all by myself.
As if by luck, two customers came in, the entrance bell ringing. Straight away, they both fired questions at the old man, taking him away from the cash desk. He vanished between two bookshelves with the women.
Now was my chance. I crept to the stairs, taking my time, testing each step on my way down, keeping light of foot.
Adrenaline helped keep the lid on my fear, my chest a jungle of knots.
You can do this.
Eventually, I reached the bottom of the stairs without any creaky incidents and enjoyed the flutter of relief in my chest, only for it to tighten up again.
The same messiness of upstairs greeted me, but a lot more cramped, dusty, and kind of smelly, like pipe tobacco rolled in wet paper.
The ceilings were low, the floorboards squeaky. A house spider scuttled past me, disappearing into a tiny black hole of arachnid creepiness.
Best place for it.
I took my time navigating the basement, constantly on the lookout for any indication of the book’s location, scanning the shelves, keeping vigilant for any sounds from the stairs.
An area at the far end of the basement finally brought my painfully slow exploration to a stop. Thick metal bars guarded a recess filled with more books, the gate locked.
I rolled my shoulders, checking behind me for any potential stalkers. No old man, no one else here but me. I examined the cage for potential traps or alarm systems, finding nothing.
A wave of unease halted my next step. This had all gone far too smoothly. What if the rug was preparing to be yanked from under me? Life enjoyed throwing curveballs, after all.
A valid point, yes. But what if I turned back now and left behind an actual cure for Finn’s soullessness? A real cure. I’d hit so many dead ends, failing to save Finn too many times over. This might change that. I couldn’t just walk away because of nerves, because of doubt.
Never give up.
Fear might humble me, but it also served as a stumbling block for progress. Sometimes, hope required a leap of faith.
For you, little brother…
Five minutes of jiggling my lockpick later, the cage door opened. No consequences, only the metallic squeak of its hinges to signal my success.
Gingerly, I moved into the cage, eyes scanning the spines of the books.
What was Wuthering Heights doing down here? Mis-shelved? A mask for some deadly charms?
As I went to take it, I spotted what I’d come here for a few books over, worn sliver letters on a blue leather spine.
The Possible Impossible. God, what an apt name.
I bit my bottom lip, scratching at my face as my stomach flipped. It really did exist. This really could be the end of this nightmare.
Oh. My. God.
I moved closer to it in a daze. Pinched myself to check I wasn’t dreaming, that this was life tossing me a friendly curveball.
This was really happening.
Countdown time. From ten to zero.
I reached out for the book when I hit four, my fingers brushing the spine. I paused, counting down the rest of the numbers, then grabbed the tome.
This is where life officially changes. For the better this time.
As soon as I pulled the book from the shelf, I realized my mistake.
The book was plastic.
“What the—”
The door slammed shut. I jumped back with a yelp, dropping the book, my invisibility crashing. Red light flooded the basement, turning it into a dark room.
Crap.
Trapped like a rat, riddled with panic, I’d have to wait for my power to recharge before using it again.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
Apart from a dagger sheathed at my hip under my coat, I was unarmed. Helpless for the most part. My fists weren’t the fastest in the world, at least when it came to fighting.
What do I do? What do I do?
Use the damn lockpick!
Oh. Yes.
Trying not to panic, I slid it into the lock, receiving a nasty electric shock for my trouble. The lockpick hit the floorboards with a loud clatter, my fingertips stinging from the spark. I sucked them, going out of my mind with fear.
No. No. No. I wasn’t letting this defeat me.
I scrambled for another way out, for any hint of an exit. Checked every shelf to discover all the books were plastic—including Wuthering Heights.
This would teach me for being so damn gullible.
Footsteps. Laughter. The old man appearing with a gun in his gnarled hand, aiming it at me.
“Look what we have here,” he said, voice cracked with age. “I wondered when my trap would pay off.”
“Trap?” I tried for unbothered, but my voice was too high with fear to sell it.
He came to a stop before the bars. “Let me guess. You read about the wishing potion, didn’t you?”
Bastard. “You can’t keep me in here.”
“Which means yes.” His thin nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “I knew someone would fall for it eventually. There are plenty of stupid people in the world. But think about it, son. Would there really be a recipe of such power in some old man’s bookshop?”
No need for him to rub salt in the wound. “What do you want?”
He grinned, revealing rows of yellowed teeth. “How did you get in here? What power did you use?”
As if I’d tell him.
“Invisibility?”
A twitch in my face gave the game away.
Stupid face!
He nodded. “Interesting. Tasty. I knew my trap would snare me a powerful morsel.”
Oh, dear. Not good. “Tasty?”
His smile could wither flowers. “Yes, son. Yes.”
“Stop calling me son.”
“I’ll be honest with you,” he said, ignoring my demand. “You won’t be seeing the light of day again. You’ll be in my belly. Humans with interesting powers make the tastiest meats.”
My stomach churned. “Fuck it.”
“No swearing, please.”
“What do you mean by tasty meat?”
“Exactly that, son. Human flesh is a fine delicacy. And it’s been so long since I’ve fed. About ten years.” He moved closer to the bars. “Look at me. Look at this weathered face, these hands, these eyes. I’m fading, I’m starving. I’m dying. Would you believe me if I said I was twenty-five?”
A year younger than me? “Is this some sort of joke?”
“No, son. No. I’ve been twenty-five for a hundred and thirty years. Rapidly aging across the last decade.”
Uh-huh. “Are you a monster?” I asked, taking a step back.
“If I were, I wouldn’t be so confident about eating you, would I?”
Painfully true.
Seventy years ago, the motes became more chaotic, adding monster creation to their repertoire and building a whole new species as if plucking them from humanity’s wildest imaginations, drawing upon our nightmares.
The initial round of monsters slaughtered thousands across the globe, coming close to wiping humanity out. That was when our stony guardians stepped in to save us. The magical weavers of the species infused every human with constant protection from the monsters, making us untouchable, sparing us from extinction.
Unable to break our protection, monsters tried to scare or trick their victims into giving it up willingly. Sometimes they even tried a seductive angle but were mostly unsuccessful these days.
George was a different type of monster.
“I’m cursed.” The old man’s face flickered with sadness. “I didn’t ask for this. I may as well be a monster.”
Was I supposed to sympathize?
“But eating you makes me twenty-five again.” He held the gun with both hands, completely unsteady.
“You’re not really twenty-five, though.”
“Jealous?”
“Of what?”
We both shimmered green with gargoyle magic, reminding us we were safe from monsters. But not the human variety.
