Stoneheart Trilogy, Book One, The: Stoneheart (The Stoneheart Trilogy)
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A city has many lives and layers. London has more than most. Not all the layers are underground, and not all the lives belong to the living.
Twelve-year-old George Chapman is about to find this out the hard way. When, in a tiny act of rebellion, George breaks the head from a stone dragon outside the Natural History Museum, he awakes an ancient power. This power has been dormant for centuries but the results are instant and terrifying: A stone Pterodactyl unpeels from the wall and starts chasing George. He runs for his life but it seems that no one can see what he’s running from. No one, except Edie, who is also trapped in this strange world.
And this is just the beginning as the statues of London awake…
This is a story of statues coming to life; of a struggle between those with souls and those without; of how one boy who has been emotionally abandoned manages to find hope.
Sphinx.” George looked at the Gunner. The Gunner nodded. “That’s how things work with them.” “But I’m terrible at riddles.” The not-nice Sphinx smiled. At least, George thought it was the not-nice Sphinx. Since Edie arrived, it really was becoming harder and harder to tell them apart. “Then you won’t get an answer; and you can go away and take your glint with you.” “She’s not my glint.” “You can take her away anyway.” George saw a look in her face, a flash of malice, a spark of the same
blood, split knuckles, maybe even broken bones. He knew he didn’t mind. He knew in a place that was closer to wanting than knowing that all this was likely, and all this was okay. His fist was the size of the dragon’s head. His fist was not made of granular stone. In the microsecond before impact, he realized he didn’t know what this would feel like. He realized he was going to break his first bone. He felt more air on his gums as his grin rictussed wider. He didn’t feel the impact. He heard
short bursts, so as not to waste a second. George tried to shake sleep from his head. He looked up at the Clocker. “Okay. Hours ago, then. You weren’t there.” The Clocker coughed apologetically. “Yes. Was. Ghastly trick. Hid. Rather, made you not see me. Again, apologies, etcetera.” His free hand whirled and curlicued as if trying to trace a giant watch spring, or maybe conjure the impression of a host of etceteras from the air in front of him. Then it returned to the offer of a handshake.
snapped his fingers. “By the hand that made you, Gunner, all the bullets!” The Gunner tore a small pouch off his belt and held it out. The Walker looked inside. “And the ones in your gun, Gunner. All the bullets, none hidden, and swear it by the hand that made you.” The Gunner looked sick. He broke the revolver and upended it, holding the cylinder between finger and thumb with a dainty kind of disgust as he dropped the bullets out of their chambers into the bag in the Walker’s hand. “Swear
hands gripped her and held her out in front of the beast’s face, and she saw what had grabbed her for the first time. She saw the head of the Minotaur. Forehead like an anvil. Big sledgehammer snout. Tiny angry eyes. Sharp curved horns sweeping out and up in an evil, man-gutting curve. And behind the horns, behind the flattened ears, a gargantuan hump of hunched, impossibly muscled back that loomed over her like a dark mountain. She felt blackness seeping back in on her brain, and knew she