Excerpt: Trapped in Stone

Behind a desk—dark wood again—was a man that had been hardened into perfect steel through his forty-or-so years of life. Originally handsome, Adrien could only appreciate the imposing nature of his appearance. A mane of golden hair was salted with white hair that sometimes blended in, and other times stood up in sharp contrast. His broad shoulders were relaxed back into the high chair matching the dark wood of the desk, affecting an air of confidence that challenged Adrien at a primal level. His grey eyes swept him up in an appraising look, and then dismissed it all in a sideways glance.

Michael sat at an antique sofa off to the side, where the Guardian had shot his glance. Adrien could read a question in them, as well as the contempt. To him the words unspoken read, “Really? You’ve betrayed me for this?”

“You may leave now,” Goddrick said to the driver in a cold voice, “And you too, Michael. We will talk later.”

Adrien wanted to know where Michael would be taken to next. He supposed it would be one of the guest bedrooms, and that there would be someone lodged next to him. Someone Goddrick could trust completely, if it came to that.

“Sit,” the older man said, managing to sound disgusted.

Adrien did as he was told, wincing once again at the pain in his shoulder.

“Ah, you’re hurt,” the cold voice said once more, as if was merely an interesting factoid. He did not apologize for his men. “Listen, Adrien—may I still call you Adrien? I have known you for three years now, ever since you arrived at Dublin out of the blue.” He thought a moment, mind turning inward as if to remember something. “No, before that, even. I’ve known your aunt for much longer, but I think we were formally introduced in that Lughnasadh festival Emilia threw for all of us.”

The cold eyes were on him again, cutting into him like a blade, “I’ve always thought you were a good kid, whatever else you happened to be.” The insinuation there was too clear for him to miss it. But there was an accusation buried within those words as well. It was as if even now, Goddrick blamed him for his son’s sexual preference.
Adrien had to stop himself from reacting to it, and merely sat on the chair in front of the desk, staring impassively at the old man.

“I do not know when it was that you decided to harm that young man, but it doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s dead.” He had come right down to it so quickly that it felt like a blow being dealt with words, but hurting just the same. “As Guardian, I am forced to intervene. You know the Law, and you know I am bound to keep it regardless of who it is I have to punish.”

More words left the man’s mouth, as if he had prepared the speech carefully beforehand and was now forcing himself through the recital. His voice lacked any real feeling. Goddrick was not enraged that he had supposedly killed another man, potentially with the use of magic. He was not ashamed of having trusted him—because he never had quite trusted him, Adrien thought to himself. There was no indignation that he had dragged his only son and heir into this mess or even the accusation that he had done so against Michael’s will. At least not yet.

“Do you have anything to say to your defense?” Goddrick extended the formality, but his tone of voice said all-too-well that whatever Adrien said would be irrelevant.

“Who will try my case? When is the trail going to be held?” He could not help to keep his voice from trembling, and he hated himself for this small weakness. Adrien did not care a whit about trails or judges! His family—My family, oh gods, where are they! Are they alive?

“Trail?” Goddrick said, amused. “There is no trail. This is not a modern courtroom, Adrien. This is not Dublin. I am the Guardian, and I reserve the right to deem any man or woman sufficiently guilty—nay, dangerous—to forgo a trail.”

His voice had been a long, bloodless mockery. It had chilled Adrien to the bone, though he had now mastered himself enough to hide the imminent shiver. He looked at Goddrick in those steel eyes of his for a long moment while he stilled his nerves. Then, a querulous smile broke through his lips as if it was announcing triumph.

“You are not the Guardian here, Henry Malcolm Goddrick!” He could not believed his voice had managed to thunder, actually boom from his throat as if another being had said the words and not he. Adrien could have risen to his feet to accentuate the point, the defiance. But it would have been a wasted, weak gesture. It would have set the man sitting across from him on the defensive and he did not want that. Not yet. For the moment, the shock that flashed on Goddrick’s face was enough.

Then the cold calm had asserted itself upon him again with implacable totality. He regarded Adrien with eyes that exuded the coldness within the man. “She is dead, and so is your mother.”

The words were spoken flat, but under their weight it was Adrien who balked. The careful edifice of courage crumbled under him as his breath caught in his throat and his eyes opened wide at first, and then watered. But he could not allow himself to weaken so quickly! He could not forfeit his life so early in this game.

A deprecating sneer slashed across Goddrick’s face. His eyes read him so closely that Adrien could feel them scrap along his skin, like a razor dangerously close. Adrien blinked once, twice, his eyes returning to their usual shape. But they also hardened like stone, and under Goddrick’s cruel gaze they became a pair of bold emeralds shining out at him. Defiantly.

When he felt he had steadied his voice well enough to speak, he said, “So, they’re dead.”

He knew the Guardian of Dublin was perplexed at this recovery. Goddrick’s face still seemed to be set in waiting for the burst of tears that would soon erupt, no doubt. Adrien did not give him this comfort. He could not, though his heart was knotted up in pain and fury. For a moment, he wanted nothing better than to run out of this damned place and find someone—anyone he knew—to take him to their bodies. To weep shamelessly when he was alone, with them. To tell them he loved them so much he wished he could go into the cold earth with them. But it was futile to think it. He would not give up living now, at least not while this monster seated in front of him pretended to deprive him his birthright.

While Goddrick looked on—and Adrien no longer cared enough to judge his thoughts or even guess at them—he went on in a steadier voice, “Then, unless another successor has been named while I was away, Tara Hill is under my Guardianship.”

He was pleased to see Goddrick flinch at the words, though it was a small tick of his nose and eyes. They seemed to squint and wrinkle, respectively, not in shock but in barely concealed disgust. “I am afraid,” that voice dripped venom, “The Law clearly states a murderer cannot inherit any Guardianship under any circumstances.”

“I am no murderer,” Adrien stated simply, controlling his voice to prevent himself from shouting it out.

“Then Charles Thompson killed himself, I suppose,” Goddrick’s voice was mocking him openly. “And Hayes’ bookstore burned itself down. Of course, you did nothing of the sort!”

“Precisely, I did nothing of the sort,” Adrien repeated, merely stating a fact.

Goddrick stood up abruptly, almost knocking the heavy chair backwards. “You stupid little faggot, listen to me!”

“No, you listen to me!” This time had stood up, matching the enraged man in height and tone of voice. “I am innocent! Innocent!” He pronounced each word with harsh emphasis. The rage was beginning to slip out of his control, and any minute now, yes, he would let lose. “I am the rightful heir of this Guardianship, and you will respect that. You are my guest here, and you will respect me!”

The shouting match was almost over; he could feel the power rocking his bones already.

Goddrick laughed, the dispassionate mask he had worn on his face finally cracking open to reveal him. Adrien saw everything in it he cared to see: not just his suspicions, but his fears were also confirmed. He knew their struggle was far from over.

Then the older man’s powerful arms had swung around and his fist had connected near Adrien’s right temple. It had missed, but he felt the pain shoot into his cheek and face like lightning. The power packed behind the punch had perhaps been enough to shattered the temporal bone. It had landed instead on his zygomatic, and sent him reeling sideways and backwards, crashing against the antique dark wood chairs and down into the floor.

Though he had desperately tried to hold them back, his eyes watered once again and ran. He could feel something else, hot and pulsing, oozing down his face. When his left hand felt for it, he knew he was bleeding. Panic struck him after he realized he could have died. Died and joined his mother and aunt in whatever underworld awaited them. Then, disbelief flooded into him. He could not permit his mind to accept the possibility Goddrick would go this far to gain one more scrap of power.
But it all made sense, did it not? Adrien had thought the Guardian was merely opportunistic, using this tragedy to grab for the Tara Guardianship. But what if he had instigated it? What if he was the reason they—

Through his tears he thought he saw—knew he saw—a smile forming on that inhuman face. The anger moved within him again, and he thought he would not be able to hold it back now. All his restrains had been snapped with the suddenness of it, the realization the bloody crime. That his vision had been frustratingly real. That he had been powerless to prevent any of this. And that this man now sat in front of him with those eyes that lapped up his misery and enjoyed it.

It broke loose, the ground trembled beneath them. He could feel it shifting slowly apart, a gaping maw opening up beneath this office that would soon swallow them into it.

Everything rattled around them, and he thought he saw fear splash into Goddrick’s face the moment he realized what was about to happen. He had begun to move around the desk, his steps as doubtful as a child learning to walk. Nonetheless, he was managing to make progress through the room.

Adrien lay toppled over on the floor still, the tears still burning down his cheeks like heated sulfur, but no longer trembling with the fear and pain of desolation. His body seemed to shake at the same frequency as the earth shook, and he lay stock-still despite the wailing pain of his broken collar bone.

He was vibrating, and soon it seemed he would fall apart like loose earth. But he did not.

The trembling earth was slowly brought to a halt.

Goddrick had reached the door and tried to yank it open like a crazed wild animal trapped in a cage for the first time. It had budged with a creak and then the snap of hinges and wood had sent it crashing open, but it had not been him pulling it anymore. Someone else had thrown it open from the other side, and when he looked out into the hallway to see who it was—a guard, hopefully, he needed a guard—he was faced with an old, old woman leaning on a cane to keep her balance. But he had caught something terrifying in this ancient figure a second before it had once again turned into old Granna Kerrigan. He had glimpsed a goddess taming the earth by the immense, sage power of her will.