Except when I glance back, he’s not following me—he’s not even looking at me. His focus is captured by the towering gargoyle statue. Pushing my glasses back up the bridge of my nose, I cough, waiting for him to join me. He continues to ignore my prompts.
“The Nameless Gargoyle,” I say slowly, lowering my voice, and leaning into the creepiness of the story as the rain builds outside. It’s impossible to hide my genuine admiration of this artifact. The exquisite carving greatly exceeds the time of his alleged creation, and the resulting figure is striking and formidable. His silent, nonjudgmental companionship is the best I’ve had since returning to my hometown. “No one knows who sculpted him nor where he originated from before he was in the ownership of Jean Motismo, a magician and supposed warlock.”
The father shifts. “Warlock? Like a witch?”
“Similar. Jean Motismo found some fame in the early sixties, although he was never considered one of the greats. If you examine this gargoyle’s mouth, you’ll see one critical distinction: no drain. This stone was not shaped to be a water pipe, and the method used to carve the gargoyle, as well as the stone itself, predates the middle ages.”
“Is that supposed to be the gargoyle’s great mystery?” He squints at the statue.
I move past him, retreating behind the counter, drawn into the story. “Jean Motismo became obsessed with the gargoyle, featuring the statue in many of his shows. It was said that for the finale, he would bring the statue to life. One night, after performing for friends at their mansion, Motismo’s wife found him backstage pouring a bucket of pig’s blood over it, saying he had to free it… if he didn’t he would be swallowed whole by Hell itself.” I indicate the deeper crevasse of the gargoyle’s wings. “Traces of that blood are still on the statue to this day.”
The father peels his gaze off the statue and turns to me. “Free it for what?”
There’s another boom, another flicker of light. He jerks his hand from the counter where it was inching my way.
“I swear it just moved,” he gasps.
This time, I givehima cocky smile. “Everyone swears that. And it’s not the only thing here that moves.”
He shakes himself. “Right.”
Backing up several steps, he takes in my smile, wincing with disgust at my enjoyment in all of this. Without giving me another glance, thanking me, or saying goodbye, he walks out the door, muttering under his breath.
I lock up for the second time this evening, hoping it’s the last, and try to shake off the whole encounter. Pulling off my glasses, I wipe them on the cloth in my purse. I don’t see much without them, and so my world narrows, time slowing as I reset.
The drum of rainfall sounds against the panes, and it’s then I realize I didn’t bring a jacket with me this morning. Groaning, I put my glasses back on, and hone my gaze on the gargoyle.
“Thank you for scaring him off,” I say, studying his imposing form. Twice my size, even mid-lunge, he’s nearly a foot and a half taller than me, and this close, I have to crane my neck to examine him.
His stony eyes stare partially upward. Those broad features, twisted with determination and rage, draw me in, past his bat-like wings, clawed hands, curved horns, and tail. Grotesquely appealing, the artist that sculpted him knew what he was doing.
Gargoyles were—are—said to ward off evil spirits and demons. Even going so far as to banish bad fathers who are looking for a quick hookup. Unlike any other gargoyle statue in existence, this one appears like it’s actively vanquishing enemies. There is nothing static about the statue, poised mid-strike like he’s about to deliver a death blow.
This is what makes The Nameless Gargoyle’s story far more interesting than most of the oddities in this museum. Jean Motismo not only used the gargoyle in his shows. According to his wife, he had used the statue as a conduit for his spellcraft and dark sorcery, drawing power from demons.
“I know why Hopkins keeps you back there,” I say.
He doesn’t reply, of course. I know I’m talking to a stone. All the same, he’s stood behind this desk for more years than I’ve been alive, watching the museum and its keeper.
“Thanks for all your help,” I add, lifting my hand to stroke one of his wings. This isn’t the first time he’s saved me from customers who step out of line, and these small touches are my way of saying thank you.
The stone warms under my touch. Something stings, and I jerk my hand back. There’s a cut on the side of my finger.
“Shit.” With a wince, I blot the shallow wound with a tissue and turn to the gargoyle, wiping his wing where I bled. “Sorry about that. Don’t tell my boss,” I joke. “I need this job.”
A yawn tears from my throat. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow will be one too. Until Hopkins returns from his trip, I’m the only one here. That means I’m covering all shifts and tours, opening and closing, and cleaning up.
Turning back to the register, I count and collect the money, turn off the lights, and drive home.
As my hands land on the steering wheel, my finger tingles, turning icy cold where I’m cut. Mist rises from the staunched wound, but when I blink, it’s gone.
Chapter2
His Name
Summer
It’sa struggle to fall asleep. The early autumn storm continues late into the night, and the rain pelts against the roof while the wind whistles against the thin walls. I bundle deeper into my quilt and try to drown out the noise.
