Page 24 of Petrified

We finally know where to wait.

Chapter 8

LEVIATHAN

Going back to the quarry feels worse now that I know the wall may have been judging me.

I stand several feet from the same stretch of limestone where the gargoyle’s trail died two days ago, hands shoved into my pockets so I don’t immediately start touching everything out of habit. Rowan is off to my left, mostly recovered but still moving with a little more care than he likes anyone noticing, while Amand stays farther back near the edge of the loading yard. Both of them know I asked for space, and both of them also know standing alone in front of a wall is about as far from my preferred investigative method as we can get.

After half a minute, I shift my weight and glare at the limestone. “This is stupid. I’m standing in an abandoned quarry waiting for masonry to confess, and somehow that’s our best lead.”

Rowan folds his arms. “You’ve said that already.”

“Because nothing has improved since the last time.” I rock back on my heels again before catching myself and forcing my feet flat against the ground. Every part of me wants to move closer, check the base of the wall, follow the old path of the scent, then circle around and see whether I missed something from another angle.

Amand watches me for another few seconds before saying, “You’re still searching.”

“I’m supposed to be looking.”

“You’re scanning.” He gestures toward the wall when I glance back at him. “Your attention hasn’t stayed anywhere for more than a second.”

I turn toward him enough to frown. “I generally need to look at things if I’m going to find them.”

“That isn’t what you’re doing.” His voice stays calm, which only makes the fact that he’s probably right more irritating. “You’re trying to force something to stand out before you’ve given yourself time to see what’s actually there.”

I look back at the limestone rather than argue. The problem is that he’s describing exactly what I always do. I follow whatever catches first, shift when something else feels wrong, circle back when my instincts pull me in another direction. Most of the time, that constant movement is useful. With this gargoyle, it may be the reason I keep walking straight past the answer.

I force myself to stop. For the first minute, all I accomplish is discovering how uncomfortable it is to deliberately do nothing. My feet want to move. My fingers keep flexing inside my pockets. Every scrape of wind against stone makes me want to turn toward it, and I have to keep reminding myself that I already know the gargoyle isn’t here anymore. I’m not trying to catch him today. I’m trying to understand what I missed.

The second minute is easier. By the third, my breathing starts to slow without me consciously changing it, and the tension sitting high between my shoulders gradually drops. The quarry doesn’t actually get quieter, but it begins separating into pieces now that I’m not constantly moving through it. Wind works through the weeds near the fence. Fine grit slides across the concrete in little bursts before collecting along the bottom of the wall. Somewhere behind me, Rowan shifts and then settles again, careful not to break whatever Amand thinks is happening.

My magic stirs beneath my skin, and at first I assume it’s another restless flicker. Instead, a slow coolness spreads over the backs of my hands. I pull one from my pocket and find pale gray creeping across my fingers, the color matching the limestone in front of me closely enough that I hold it up to make sure I’m seeing it correctly.

Rowan notices the change before it reaches my wrist. “Lev, your hand.”

“I see it.” I turn my palm over and watch the gray continue spreading. This isn’t one of the brief glitches I get when my emotions spike. The transformation moves smoothly over my skin, tiny pits and shallow ridges appearing along my knuckles until the surface begins looking less like flesh and more like stone. “I’m not doing it.”

Amand leaves the support post and comes closer, but he stops several feet behind me rather than reaching out. “Then let it happen.”

I glance back at him. “That has historically been questionable advice where my designation is concerned.”

“I know.” His attention stays on my arm. “This doesn’t look uncontrolled.”

That’s the difference I can feel too. Nothing about the magic is surging or fighting me. It is settling. The gray creeps past my wrist and beneath my sleeve while darker mineral seams appear through it, matching the irregular lines running through the limestone.

I turn back toward the wall and take one slow step forward. When I rest my palm against the stone, the reaction moves through me so fast that I suck in a breath.

My magic folds into the limestone.

The gray spreads higher along my arms, then up the sides of my neck and over one edge of my jaw. Under my palm, the wall stops feeling like one rough surface. I become aware of tiny grooves packed with dust, chipped edges along a shallow seam, faint traces of moisture sitting deeper in the stone where the sun hasn’t dried it completely.

I look down at my hand and almost lose the edge of it.

The pattern in the limestone continues across my fingers with only the smallest interruption. Pale mineral flecks run over my knuckles, and the roughness of my skin matches the wall closely enough that if I didn’t know where my palm was, my eyes would slide past it.

Behind me, Rowan shifts but keeps his voice low. “I can barely see your hand against it.”

I don’t answer immediately. I’m too busy watching what my designation is doing. It isn’t simply changing my color. It’s adjusting to the exact surface touching me, picking up details I wouldn’t have thought to copy consciously.