Scales: Book 1 of the Fate and Fire Series

by Amity Green

  “Why not? Mine are plain white,” he said.

  “You can have the pink ones, too.”

  Peter ignored me and continued flipping open doors. On a low shelf sat my backpack.

  “Hey! My bag.” I walked to the cabinet and greedily snatched my pack. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Peter checked his watch. “The store opens in about forty-five minutes. There is a full bath and toilet at the end of the hall,” he said as he opened the last cabinet door.

  “Wow,” I admitted. “He thought of everything didn’t he? How did he get all this out of my dorm room?”

  “He has odd means of making things go in his favor. Best not ask.”

  I sifted through hangers of my clothes from the dorm. All my shoes were neatly arranged on a cedar rack. My shower bag rested atop a stack of towels and facial cloths. A quick inspection of a small set of drawers within turned up my underwear and sweats, along with my stash of tampons.

  Peter stared my neatly folded bras and panties. He pulled his eyes away and looked at me. Something a little different sparked in his eyes. “I’ll be back in half hour to get you.” He tossed the words over his shoulder on the way to the door. When he heard no response, he turned toward me.

  Facing being alone in my room was scary. Without Peter with me, reality would strike and I’d lose it. “So, this is it? I … am just here now?” I asked, praying for a last admission that he knew a way out. I bit down on my cheek to stop my chin from quivering. I’d become a complete, emotional marshmallow.

  He gave a stern nod.

  “I need to get word to my professor that I’m okay. He’s got to be worried sick about me by now.”

  “Ezra sent a very persuasive postcard.”

  “I want to send my own.” If someone was going to lie to my professor about my well-being, it was going to be me.

  “Write a letter and I’ll post it for you. Ezra has envelopes in his study so include the postal address on your note. Don’t try to seal it up. Ezra will want to read it or it won’t make it out of the store.” He gave a nod to punctuate the importance of his words. “And keep it brief. No details about where you are. Just tell your professor that you’re okay and will write more later. A ‘not to worry’ type of thing, yes?”

  “I get it, Peter.” Of course Ezra would want to read my letter. But it was better than not contacting Professor Douglas at all. The thought of possibly never seeing him put me over the emotional edge. I was losing what little grip I had on my life to the bookstore’s vice-like grasp. I had to take charge. Had to get out and find normalcy.

  “What about what I want? How will I ever do the things I want to do? I mean I have no one waiting for me in the States, no family, and it sucked and all, but …,” I clamped my mouth shut. It was a bit of a lie, omitting Brea like that, but I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to know about her, considering recent events. I missed her painfully. And besides, I’d developed a plan for my life. “I want to be a British Literature teacher!”

  “I know how you feel,” he offered, trying to calm me.

  “How can you say that?” I asked through tears. “You can’t possibly know how terrible I feel right now.”

  “Well, Miss British Literature Teacher Wannabe,” he sneered. “You’re not the only one with a tragic past, you know. My first word was ‘sweep’. You must be familiar with the works of our poets, since you’re willing to attempt to make a living teaching about London’s history.”

  I eyed him doubtfully. “Now you’re telling me you’ve been alive since the early eighteen-hundreds?”

  “Born in seventeen-eighty-nine, sold in seventeen-ninety-two,” he stated flatly.

  Peter being alive for a couple centuries seemed to fit the theme of unbelievable happenings around the bookstore. My studies and discussions with Professor Douglas taught me about the horrible life of a child born into labor in England’s Industrial Age. If he was telling the truth, Peter was lucky to be alive.

  “I’m sorry, Peter,” I said quietly. I didn’t know if I wanted to apologize more for my anger earlier, for my disbelief, or for the torment he might have endured as a child. “I really am.” I was an idiot. He’d been so calm, trying to console me and I’d repaid the favor by yelling at him. “Please, please help me out of here,” I begged.

  “Stop this. Now.” His words were ice.

  I sniffled and forced myself to get a grip.

  “Be ready in half hour,” he said, and shut the door firmly behind him.

  I had no intentions to.

  Waiting for time to go by tortured me but I did it by shoving all the most important belongings I could into my backpack. There was no one in the hall when I opened the door five painful minutes later, wearing jeans and my running shoes. Anxiety made sneaking through the halls difficult, but I somehow made it to the sales floor, turned the deadbolts and opened the door. The bard’s bells chimed like a siren, setting me off. I burst onto the sidewalk, empowered, owning my right to be outside the realm of the bookstore. Ready to test the theory that Librorum Taberna was the source of my transformation, I peered up at the gargoyles holding the sign as I crossed beneath the plank. I would outrun the old man. If Peter ran me down, it was going to get loud and messy.

  Sunshine, warmth, the sounds of nearby traffic and the aroma of blossoming flower boxes greeted me as I cleared the storefront. Two steps into liberty, so did Ezra.

  “Stay back,” I warned. “I’ll scream and draw a crowd.” Everyone would think him a freakish, dirty old man. Not the case, but I wasn’t the one who started dealing low-blows.

  “You want people here?” he asked, gesturing behind me. “There comes a couple, just now. We’ll do this together, you and I,” he said nodding. “Let us see if they like a skinless girl. Show them what you’re made of.” He narrowed his eyes.

  I glanced over my shoulder, looking past long strands of my grey hair. A pair of ladies took their time window shopping but came our direction, and behind them more shoppers approached. The shops inside the Court would open within minutes, calling in droves from the outer streets.

  Turning back to Ezra, I cringed inwardly as more people appeared down the sidewalk behind him. Tendons and sinew flexed in my hands as I tightened my grip on the shoulder straps of my backpack.

  Ezra stepped aside, gesturing with his head toward Charing Cross Road. A mom with a toddler in tow poked at a cell phone with the thumb of one hand. Baby blue eyes peered up at me, growing wide as the couple neared. I panicked.

  “The Tube Stop is not quite two blocks down in the Square, just past all these people.” Ezra said, barely above a whisper.

  Two seconds spanned incredibly while scenarios ran in my mind. The tiny child was too young to speak, just learning to walk. He wobbled nearer on novice feet, continuing to stare, eyes taking in my monstrous appearance. His mom would look up and shriek any moment. I glanced at the impossible distance between me and the end of the court. Leicester Square bustled lively beyond. I drew in a shaky breath, bracing myself for the scream headed my way as the woman took the remaining steps toward the terror waiting when she saw me.

  The little boy stopped, gazing at me. His mommy looked down at him, cell phone still propped at eye level.

  My heart lurched. A selfish act would cause such everlasting harm. I would change lives for the worst, starting with the two approaching. Then others that followed. I would scar them.

  I gave up my freedom with a shaky sigh. My life was officially trashed for good, owned by Fate, and there was no way I could scare people that badly. I’d likely be caught and dissected in a lab somewhere if I did try to run.

  “Step into the nook, child.” Ezra nodded toward the shaded alcove in front of the bookstore. I walked to the safety of shadow, sunlight giving way to humanity, just in time.

  The mother bent, scooping up the little boy. She placed a quick kiss on his cheek, nuzzling a giggle from his neck. He smiled at me with blind trust in the innate good in people, skinless and see-t
hrough, or flesh tone like he and his mommy, alike. I smiled at him, strangling a sob. Ezra pulled the door open and I ducked inside.

  “You did this to me.” My words sounded lifeless, like an echo from my heart. I turned on him. “Change me back,” I demanded.

  “I can’t.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said through grit teeth.

  “Even if I could I wouldn’t. I’ve made my choice.”

  “I’ll get you back for this,” I vowed. Raw hatred dripped from my words.

  “I hope one day you shall.” Ezra wasn’t smiling, either.

  I scoffed, glaring.

  “What’s going on?” Peter called from the stairs. “I was just by your room.”

  “Tessa will be back up shortly,” Ezra said, keeping his white eyes on me.

  I glanced at Peter. He looked at the bag on my shoulder, down at my running shoes and right back up to my face. There was betrayal in his eyes. He didn’t look away, his gaze saying many things like, “Idiot, you could’ve been seen,” or even more guilt inducing, “You were leaving me, too.”

  Humiliation aside, at least I’d proven I wouldn’t cow down. Neither of the guys should expect me to just hang out, to stand by and be victimized. Pride blended with defeat. I focused on the stairs and didn’t take my eyes off them, even when I felt my shoulder glance off Peter’s arm as I went by.

  * * *

  Tessa’s Journal-July 1— This has been the longest two days of my life, easily. I never knew it would be possible to feel more alone. I am trapped. I can’t leave. I am trapped. I can’t leave … I am trapped. I can’t leave ….

  Fate still owns me and does with me what she pleases. It’s compounded by what happened in Austin. I wanted my brother so badly. I’d wanted freedom. I feel like I’ve done a lot of growing up.

  I have to find some little piece of good in life right now so I’ve been thinking a lot about it. My mind always returns to Peter. I feel like an ass for saying what I did. And an idiot for trying to leave when he warned me. He tried to be nice and offer friendship and I screwed it up. He seems like a decent person, but I can’t shake the feeling that this all just isn’t right, and he’s a part of that.

  I’m still struggling to wrap my head around the fact that he’s been alive for centuries. It’s odd how recent events have inspired me to believe such things are possible.

  Side note— that means Ezra’s been around at least that long.

  Chapter 7

  I was in no hurry to go to work at their store when I put down my only salvaged pen and journal. But I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I’d earn Ezra’s trust and I would find a way out. I had to go along with my new lot in life for the time being. The thought was oddly calming. I saw it for the blessing it was.

  Spirits slightly bolstered by a hot shower, I emerged from my room wearing the collared shirt I’d been given, my favorite jeans, and my running shoes since I was sure I would be on my feet all day.

  Talking with the store’s patrons helped to keep me on an even keel, and I quickly began to enjoy watching Peter interact with them. He was quick to smile, and despite the fact that he was only allowed to read what Ezra decided was safe, Peter was proficient with the reads in the shop. Best of all was the way he allowed boyish charm to radiate throughout whatever task he worked at. As nice as it was to talk with people and work with Peter, I found myself dreading nightfall each time I checked the clock.

  Ezra showed up that afternoon, meeting us with a smile. He handed over my iHome (a gift Brea and her family gave me as a graduation present), three spiral-bound notebooks and a new package of pens.

  “Thank you,” I said, tentatively.

  “You’re welcome, dear girl.”

  I bit back the urge to lash out at him for attempting to endear me. “Ezra, my laptop is missing from my bag. Do you know where it is?”

  “I have it.” He pulled a set of keys from his vest pocket. “The notebooks will have to do, for now. Once you’ve done things to earn my trust, and it will be a long time from today, we’ll talk about your use of the Internet here at the store. It’s secured so you won’t find any on the iPod.”

  I swallowed the urge to protest, realizing his offering of my music and the writing utensils were likely Ezra’s version of a peace offering. He was trying, at least, to make me feel better. Or to continue to keep me. I nodded my response and handed over my letter to Professor Douglas.

  Ezra read the scant lines I’d written. “I’ll get this on the way in the morning,” he said, and strode toward the back stairwell.

  I guessed that meant he approved and was sure I wasn’t calling out for reinforcements or staging a coo. “What, no ‘goodnight, dear girl?’” I taunted, hating my ability to sound friendly. I needed to gain his trust, then I was out of there at the soonest opportunity.

  Peter snorted a small, sarcastic laugh.

  Ezra glanced over a shoulder with a smile. “You and I are going to get on just fine.” He winked and continued on his way.

  I doubted that. He’d done unforgivable things to me. And even more grating was the fact that he acted like what he’d done was forgivable somehow. I didn’t know if I was capable of that.

  “Shall we close it up for the day?” Peter asked.

  I followed him to the entrance. As Peter flipped the “Open Please Come In” window card to read “Please Call Again at 9,” I gazed out to the wooden sign above the sidewalk in my beloved Cecil Court. I’d never look at it the same again.

  Our gargoyles were statuesque in the gloaming.

  “What do you think?” Peter asked. He nodded toward the gothic things grasping the plank.

  I couldn’t tell him what I really thought. I fought the urge to bolt out the door each time it opened, and take my chances in the elements. Whether he wanted to talk about gargoyles or rainbows, that wasn’t going to change. I considered his gesture for a moment. Maybe focusing on one element in a series of unwanted changes hid some genius. Fostered some sanity, perhaps.

  I sighed loudly. “Better to hold a sign than be a downspout, huh?” I answered, and made an “O” with my lips.

  He laughed, and made his lips round, as well. “No … this just isn’t me either,” he said, bending the words as he kept his lips in an imitation spout.

  I stared at him in wonder, a little jealous of his ability to balance horror with humor. We stared out the window in silence for a moment, taking in the beauty of the London evening through a thick pane of glass.

  “It’s about time to change for the night,” he said.

  “I’m going to my room.” I pulled my gaze from the beauty of cobbles and flower boxes at twilight. “I just need some time to let this all gel, ya know?” The feeling of my flesh morphing while I waited to become something foreign would never set right with me. I harbored the hope it wouldn’t happen again, somehow knowing I would be disappointed.

  Peter nodded. His gaze rendered understanding, making part of me want to drag him along with me, to have him to cry against. To comfort me as I came apart.

  I held it together and walked away. I’d dealt with disappointment by finding resilience in myself in the past, and I wasn’t going to quit trying then.

  Chapter 8

  The day my flight left Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, I’d spent the morning at Brea’s house, having breakfast with her family. We joked about me meeting a nice English boy and never returning to Austin. Although Brea smiled when she told me she was happy for me, she choked back tears. We hugged like sisters.

  I’d have given anything to go back.

  I awaited nightfall, a murderer without pardon.

  Part of me still didn’t believe it was really going to happen, but I changed into a gargoyle again like I expected. There had been a place in my heart that held out hope I would be saved at the last moment, some part of the universe stepping up and admitting it was just messing with me. That I was still human and would never look like that again.

  Dar
kness took the day. The change began. Just like deranged clockwork.

  I turned out the light in my room while my body mutated. The severity of the transformation was too excruciating to watch and feel at the same time. It took a while before I got up the courage to turn on the light.

  I examined my serpentine countenance in the large vanity mirror. The surreal feeling was back. Sadness gazed at me from receded eyes that were the only visible part of my body remaining unchanged. Thankfully, seeing familiarity there reminded me of me. But the rest of the reflection was a complete 180 degree flip.

  I tried to think up one word that would sum up my appearance as a gargoyle. Demonic? I tilted my head in the mirror. No, not evil, I decided. I was too “puppy-dog” like for that. I opened my puggish snout to display pointed fangs shining white against the dark purplish smoothness inside my mouth. But absolutely wicked, for sure. I wiggled my upturned nose.

  I trying for some semblance of normalcy in my freak show of a new life. I lit one of the travel candles I packed for the trip to London so the light aroma of sweet jasmine scented my new bedroom. Lorde’s “Tennis Court” thrummed low from my iHome’s speakers. I found my mini fridge stocked with fresh fruit and snacks, and after a considerable amount of crumbled failure was able to set a portion of a raspberry tea biscuit inside my mouth, chew, and swallow. I stuck out my forked tongue in the reflection, moving the two tines separately. There were dark similarities between that and the fork in my life’s road. The thought pulled at my heart, my chest growing tight. What the heck did I have to return to, anyway?

  Professor Douglas was still there. He’d been so great helping me get ready for the trip. I’d been scared I wouldn’t be able to go. I loved remembering the day I’d gone into his office to talk to him about studying abroad. He was sitting at his desk when I burst through his door. I’d plopped into the oversized armchair adjacent to him and he’d spun in his chair with the usual, warm, paternal smile I was accustomed to.

  “Sorry.” I’d smiled back. I had to. I loved the man. “Did you get my email?” I’d asked him.