Read Online Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) by Lesley Woodral - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lesley Woodral
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comical, but its bulging eyes and gaping mouth were terrifying. It brought forth faint memories of his dreams of his grandfather. The bullfrog armor was similar to the armor worn by the General that he saw die in his dreams.
Stepping beyond the silent guardian, Brandon moved out of the vestibule's shadow and into the warm glow of a desk lamp. The lamp sat on the edge of a tall center counter, behind which sat an old man, watching Brandon as he entered the store. He was easily the oldest person Brandon had ever seen up close, his wrinkled skin as fine as parchment and his white hair standing in an almost comical tuft on the top of his mostly bald head. But his gaze was hawk like in its intensity as he studied his visitor. Brandon felt himself measured and weighed by that icy glare, but couldn't guess at what value the old man put in what he saw.
"May I help you, young man?" The tone was clipped, cool to the point of rudeness, but it didn't put Brandon off. Instead, for no reason that Brandon could fathom, the sound of the old man's voice reminded him of his father. It somehow made him feel safe. It was something like the magic surrounding Highgarden, but even stronger.
Brandon said. "You knew my father, didn't you?" He wanted the words back as soon as they tumbled from his mouth. He had no idea what made him ask such a question of a stranger. A man he'd never met before. The old man couldn't possibly know who Brandon was talking about. He didn't even know who Brandon was. Just a crazy kid, poking around in his shop when he should've been at school instead.
The old man laughed, a soft snort of amused surprise, and rested both hands on the counter before him. He smiled as he said. "I knew your father well, Bran. I dare say, I knew him better than you ever did. Or ever will." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Tapping the end of his nose with a slender finger, he said. "But you still haven't answered my first question, boy? How may I help you?"
Brandon struggled to respond, to order his thoughts which had scattered like a child's Legos kicked across the bedroom floor. The old man's words had knocked open the locked door to the room in his mind where he'd so carefully locked away all of his memories of his mother and father. He'd hidden them away in a tiny chamber, much easier to cope with all of the other horrors around him if he didn't have to keep remembering that they were dead and gone, but the door was open and he was terrified to realize just how much of them he'd kept hidden away.
A flood of memories, images and sounds and smells, seemed to attack him all at once. His dad, teaching him how to swim in their pool back home. His mom, helping him with his homework, even as she prepared dinner. The way his dad would take off his glasses and polish them while giving one of his many lectures about all the opportunities that Brandon had that he never did as a boy. The touch of his mom's fingers as she adjusted the collar of his shirt before letting him leave for school.
So many memories. Good and bad. A flood that was impossible to stop once freed from their prison. Turning away, Brandon dipped his head in an attempt to hide the sudden tears. He said, his voice rough with emotion. "How did you know my dad? Who the hell are you?"
"Can you not read, boy?" The old man gestured toward the front of the store, at the reversed letters in the front window. "My name is Goldman. You are standing in my store, my repository for all that is weird and terrible. And sometimes wonderful." He narrowed one eye at Brandon and waggled a long finger at his face. "And, as to your first question, I knew your father when he wasn't much older than you are now, when he first came to Matheson. A strange quiet young man. A man with secrets, much like yourself."
Brandon grunted and wiped at his face as he turned and asked. "What secrets are
Stepping beyond the silent guardian, Brandon moved out of the vestibule's shadow and into the warm glow of a desk lamp. The lamp sat on the edge of a tall center counter, behind which sat an old man, watching Brandon as he entered the store. He was easily the oldest person Brandon had ever seen up close, his wrinkled skin as fine as parchment and his white hair standing in an almost comical tuft on the top of his mostly bald head. But his gaze was hawk like in its intensity as he studied his visitor. Brandon felt himself measured and weighed by that icy glare, but couldn't guess at what value the old man put in what he saw.
"May I help you, young man?" The tone was clipped, cool to the point of rudeness, but it didn't put Brandon off. Instead, for no reason that Brandon could fathom, the sound of the old man's voice reminded him of his father. It somehow made him feel safe. It was something like the magic surrounding Highgarden, but even stronger.
Brandon said. "You knew my father, didn't you?" He wanted the words back as soon as they tumbled from his mouth. He had no idea what made him ask such a question of a stranger. A man he'd never met before. The old man couldn't possibly know who Brandon was talking about. He didn't even know who Brandon was. Just a crazy kid, poking around in his shop when he should've been at school instead.
The old man laughed, a soft snort of amused surprise, and rested both hands on the counter before him. He smiled as he said. "I knew your father well, Bran. I dare say, I knew him better than you ever did. Or ever will." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Tapping the end of his nose with a slender finger, he said. "But you still haven't answered my first question, boy? How may I help you?"
Brandon struggled to respond, to order his thoughts which had scattered like a child's Legos kicked across the bedroom floor. The old man's words had knocked open the locked door to the room in his mind where he'd so carefully locked away all of his memories of his mother and father. He'd hidden them away in a tiny chamber, much easier to cope with all of the other horrors around him if he didn't have to keep remembering that they were dead and gone, but the door was open and he was terrified to realize just how much of them he'd kept hidden away.
A flood of memories, images and sounds and smells, seemed to attack him all at once. His dad, teaching him how to swim in their pool back home. His mom, helping him with his homework, even as she prepared dinner. The way his dad would take off his glasses and polish them while giving one of his many lectures about all the opportunities that Brandon had that he never did as a boy. The touch of his mom's fingers as she adjusted the collar of his shirt before letting him leave for school.
So many memories. Good and bad. A flood that was impossible to stop once freed from their prison. Turning away, Brandon dipped his head in an attempt to hide the sudden tears. He said, his voice rough with emotion. "How did you know my dad? Who the hell are you?"
"Can you not read, boy?" The old man gestured toward the front of the store, at the reversed letters in the front window. "My name is Goldman. You are standing in my store, my repository for all that is weird and terrible. And sometimes wonderful." He narrowed one eye at Brandon and waggled a long finger at his face. "And, as to your first question, I knew your father when he wasn't much older than you are now, when he first came to Matheson. A strange quiet young man. A man with secrets, much like yourself."
Brandon grunted and wiped at his face as he turned and asked. "What secrets are
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