Anton Strout: Stonecast

“Shut it,” I spat out. “You know that Hendrix didn’t learn guitar in a day.”

“True,” Rory said, “but then again, a guitar doesn’t threaten to kill you or crush you in quite the same way an animated pile of bricks does.”

“Trying to concentrate here,” I said, pressing my mind against the resistance of the creature once more. I latched onto it, but whatever was in there wasn’t giving up control in any hurry.

Marshall arrived beside us, the sounds coming from him making me wonder if he was having an asthma attack. Between that thought and Rory’s previous comments, my concentration was lost, and I snapped. “Yes, but at least Hendrix could go into a guitar shop and take lessons. He could go to guitar school. Hogwarts doesn’t exist.”

“Hey,” she said, raking her blade in sparks against the brick golem. “We used to wish there to be magic in the world, and we got it.”

“I’m not asking for much,” I said. “Just some real instruction. A Dumbledore, a Snape . . . Hell, I’d even take a Trelawney right about now.”

The creature knocked Rory’s blade away, swinging its rough, thick hands.

“Don’t say that,” Rory said, backing up a little, scrunching up her face. “Don’t ever say that. Trelawney, really?”

I shrugged. “In a pinch, sure. Not ideal, but—”

The air of the alley erupted into a flurry of tiny, leathery wings like those of a bat, but unlike a bat, these things had arms and legs to go with their sharp, tiny teeth.

“Stone biters,” Marshall shouted.

“Not these guys again,” Rory said, taking her pole arm and waving it about us in an attempt to drive the tiny creatures off.

Marshall, who smartly stood well out of harm’s way from the golem, flipped open his blank book to a page where the winged creatures were already sketched out. “Your great-great-grandfather had them listed, and this appearance confirms it—they’re drawn to magic in stone, not just stone itself.” He made a quick note in his book.

As Rory continued waving her pole arm around, most of the swarm dispersed, save one especially flittery, shrieky one that dashed through the air in a tight circle around the golem. The tower of bricks seemed to be just as annoyed with our winged friend as we were. With the spirit in it distracted, my will found an opening into my creation’s body, flooding forward into the brick as whatever resistant spirit within vacated it.

“I have it!” I shouted, unable to contain my glee. Rory saved that kind of reaction for finding the sleekest, sexiest pair of shoes, and for Marshall, it was a decadent dessert, but my delight came from stopping brick monstrosities.

“Thankfully, the spirit realm hates whatever these winged things are as much as we do,” I said.

The words were barely out of my mouth when Rory dashed forward and threw herself into the air toward the flying creature.

“Wait!” Marshall called out, but it was too late.

Rory’s pole arm was already coming down fast on it, the tip of the blade driving straight through the center of its chest, pinning its tiny form to the wall of the alley. It let out a tiny screech that drove into the center of my brain, but in seconds, it was all over for the little beastie. Rory pulled her blade free from the wall, scraping the remains of the creature off the tip of her pole arm with the toe of one of her combat boots.

Marshall walked over to her, clutching his book against the pocket of his X-Men-logoed jacket. “Thanks,” he said, annoyed, rolling the creature onto its back with his own shoe, his face losing what little color it had.

“Sorry,” she said with a complete lack of sincerity, and walked back over to where I stood.

He flipped open the sketchbook once more and began drawing. “I wanted to get this creature right,” he said. “And now—thanks to Miss Stabby here—I’ll have to work around the damage she did to it.”

“A simple ‘thank-you’ would suffice,” Rory fired back. “Would you prefer it gouged one of our eyes out so you could get its good side? Why are you even doing this anyway? Half this stuff is already cataloged in Alexandra’s great-great-grandfather’s secret library.”

Warm thoughts of the comfy couches on my favorite floor of the Belarus Building filled my head for a moment, until my arguing friends snapped me back into the moment.

Marshall looked up from the sketch, shooting his roommate a look. “A Monster Manual of my own will come in handy,” he said, defensive. “Trust me.”

“Easy, everyone,” I said, speaking up, trying to hold the brick man in my sway.

Though Marshall and Rory excelled at fighting like a married couple, I didn’t need them breaking the link I had just reestablished with my animated creation, but given the sudden, wobbly nature I felt radiating out from the brick man before me, I was already too late.

“Shit!” I said, fighting to hold it together. I rushed my will forward hard into it, which only made it more unstable at this point, and given the distraction, I could do little more than watch my creation fall apart brick by brick until there was nothing left but an inert pile of red bricks at my feet. “Dammit!”

“Sorry,” Marshall offered. “But that’s one way of stopping it before it could rampage any further.” He flipped to the front of his book, making a note. “That’s experiment 247. No bueno .” After that, he flipped back through his book and started to sketch the dead creature.

Rory disassembled the pieces of her pole arm, wiping the blade down last, and when she was done, I helped her slide the pieces back into the art tube on her back.

“That went really well, Lexi,” she said, turning to face me.

Given the results of our evening, I was poised to tell her to stop being a jerk, but there was actual sincerity in her eyes. “How can you be saying that? Look at it!”

Rory adjusted her glasses and pushed her blue bangs off her forehead as she caught her breath. “First of all, it was a full-human-sized creature,” she said. “You’ve never done anything that big before.”

“That’s what she said . . . ?” Marshall snickered while still drawing away.

“Shut it,” Rory said. “I’m trying to be constructive here.”

I kicked one of the bricks, watching it topple off the pile. “I appreciate it,” I said, “but it was still a failure.”

“Also,” Rory continued, not giving up, “it certainly stayed animated longer than anything else you’ve done.” She pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. “It was nearly a half hour. Even if it wasn’t in your control all that time, it still held together. Nothing’s lasted that long except Bricksley.”

I was ready to argue, but the mention of my little walking brick and his smiling drawn-on face brought a smile to my own face instead. “No fair invoking the cute,” I said. “I only hope he’s not tearing apart anything back in the art studio. We ran off in a hurry.”

“Whatever,” she said, slapping me on the shoulder, squeezing. “I’m chalking this up as a success.”

“You do that,” I conceded. “Still, none of my creations come even close to equaling—” In my frustration, I found I couldn’t even say his name.

“Stanis,” she said, sliding her arm fully over my shoulder. “I know. We’ll get there. Slow and steady wins the race and all.”

“You still haven’t heard from him?” Marshall called over to us, his head still down in his notes.

Rory glared at him. “Marsh! Don’t ask that.”

He glanced up from his book, his eyes full of hurt. “What? I’m sorry I’m not up on all the details of your lives. I’ve got my own life. I’ve got the store, my games . . .” He pointed at the creature on the ground with his pen. “You know, this gross little thing to draw . . .”