- Home
- Ainsley Shay
The Complete Set
The Complete Set Read online
The Statues Trilogy
Ainsley Shay
The Statues Trilogy - The Complete Series Copyright © 2018 by Ainsley Shay
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Statues Trilogy - The Complete Series is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Edited by: Dragonfly Editing
Cover by: Covers by Christian
The Statues Trilogy - The Complete Series / Ainsley Shay.—1st Edition
For my Emma, Katelynne, and Lew Lew
Also by Ainsley Shay
THE STATUES TRILOGY
Prison of Statues
Adelina’s Curse
The Carving Witch
ECHO RITUALS
Iridescent Moon
Moon Gift
THE FORBIDDEN
Delicate Thorns
Jagged Feather
Iron Petals
UNDERWATER ISLAND
Shore of Graves
Nether Tears
RUNES UNIVERSE
Timeless Souls
After the Curtain Falls
Contents
Prison of Statues
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Adelina’s Curse
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
The Carving Witch
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Afterword
Available now on Amazon
Iridescent Moon
Don’t Miss Out
Also by Ainsley Shay
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prison of Statues
Book One
1
I’m told my eyes are gray, colorless even, like everything else in my world. To me, they’re nothing special—just another shade of dull. Just yesterday, a woman at the coffee shop told me that my eyes were the most distinctive shade of gray she had ever seen, “They’re almost silver,” she said. I smiled and thanked her, but what I really wanted to tell her, “There’s nothing unique about gray. Trust me, I know.”
I put the eye liner back into the makeup bag, took out the mascara, and replaced it as I imagined the dark goop running down my face in a river of inevitable tears. Giving up on my makeup, I turned away from the mirror. I tried to coax myself into believing that I could get through today, that I was strong enough to survive the beast that clawed at my heart.
My phone alarm vibrated on the counter. Fresh tears cascaded down my face.
It was time to bury my father.
From the moment I received the call on Friday I felt like my insides had been put into a blender. If I hadn’t been so selfish and went to the local high school instead of the fancy art school three counties away, I could have been there for him. I honestly didn’t know how I drove the few hours back to my hometown, Gradywoods, without wrapping my car around a tree. Even with all the tears and pain as proof, it all seemed so unreal.
Not only was there the raw grief with its talons slicing through me, there was the guilt. Guilt had one job: to never let you forget that you fucked up. I would never forgive myself for not returning my dad’s call, or for him dying.
I pulled out at least ten tissues from the box on the back of the toilet and opened my purse to stuff the wad into it. My breath hitched in my throat, and I paused in the silence. I stared at the piano key. It was like an old bone resting on the bottom of the bag. For the hundredth time that day, I lost it. Would the tears ever stop? I dropped the purse and everything spilled out as it hit the ground. Pressing the wad of tissues to my eyes, I slid down the door until I was on the floor. The piano key lay a couple of feet away from me. I reached out, snatched it up, and held it to my chest. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this,” I chanted through sobs and clenched teeth.
Before I realized what was happening, I was pulled into a man’s arms. The scent of patchouli wafted around me. Through my cries, I hadn’t heard Mr. Yves come in. “You can do this. You can do this. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered in his gruff Italian-accented voice that always held a hint of gentleness.
“No,” I said, as I gripped his shirt and cried onto his shoulder, “I can’t.”
“Shhhh...” the old man said. “We will do this together.” He helped me to my feet. Once I had my balance, he let go of me, bent down, and replaced the items to my purse. “Come, let’s go.” He guided me to the door, and we walked down the narrow staircase to his car.
With the piano key still clutched in my hand, I slid into the passenger seat.
Mr. Yves hollered to the guy, “We’re closed today, but will re-open tomorrow.” The hooded man nodded, and walked away.
Fat raindrops fell on the windshield as Mr. Yves settled into the driver’s seat. He laid his hand over mine. “Iris, there is no easy way to get through this, but I promise, you will.” My father’s words echoed in my head, no matter what seems to be hopeless now, with time, it will be healed, understood, or made right.
Deep down, I knew they were both right. But, in my head another word bared its ugly snout, impossible. I wanted to scream until the grief and guilt retracted their claws from my heart.
Without looking at Mr. Yves, I nodded. I knew his heart also ached. Mason Thorn, my dad, was like a son to him. When I glanced sideways, I saw that he was biting the worn spot on his lip where his pipe usually rested. I also knew it was for no reason other than he wanted to be strong for me. We were all each other had left in this big bad world. He put the car in gear, pulled away from the curb, and headed toward the cemetery.
The windshield wipers swished back and forth in a winner-less battle against the rain. I tried desperately to breathe while consciously shutting down my mind to all the racing thoughts of my father. I concentrated on the colorless trees as they blurred by. I thought of the last time I went to the cemetery; it wasn’t for a funeral, but a dare. I had been stupid to accept it. But, if spending the entire night in the graveyard alone would impress Denny Lithgow, then I was doing it. Snow, real name Morgan Snowhill, my best friend, had been against it. But, I didn’t back down, I had done it. And, it didn’t get me any closer to having a date with Denny. Today’s challenge would make sleeping in the cemetery look easy.
The old cemetery looked deserted as we drove through the iron gates into the mouth of the dead. About a mile down the grass road, I saw a small group of people standing underneath a canopy of oaks: the town’s Reverend, Snow, a few friends of my dad, including Ms. Nethers. Ms. Nethers was the old woman who lived next door to us. She was the one who found him lying dead at the foot of his grand piano.
Mr. Yves parked behind the other cars. My heart pounded as I opened the door. The scents of fresh dirt and rain wafted around me. I stepped out. The heel of my shoe sank into the wet dirt, but I hardly paid attention as I watched the mourners take notice of me. The creased lines in Ms. Nether’s face deepened when she saw me. Through the thin parting in the small crowd I glimpsed the coffin. The pain in my chest could not have hurt worse if my limbs were torn from my body. I fell to my knees and retched.
Mr. Yves was at my side in an instant. He helped me to my feet and handed me his handkerchief. As I stared at the handkerchief, I didn’t know whether to first wipe the sour spittle from my lips or the mud from my knees. Without thinking, I cleaned the dirt from the piano key clutched in my fist.
Snow rushed toward me and wrapped her arms around me. Together, the three of us walked toward the surreal and nightmarish scene under the tent. The improbability of the situation had me in an inescapable straight jacket.
I was thankful Mr. Yves had arranged everything. We’d decided not to have a viewing, only the funeral with a closed casket. I didn’t want to see my dad in a suit he never wore. I wanted to remember him in his jeans and t-shirt, and his messed hair.
Along with Mr. Yves and Snow on either side of me, numbness helped me through the Reverend’s kind words, rehearsed verses, and prayers. My grip tightened on the piano key, the ivory digging into my hand. The Reverend beckoned me forward. A bouquet of flowers rested atop the casket. I closed my eyes and kissed the piano key. Then, reluctantly, I laid the bone-like key on the bed of petals and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I turned and fell into Mr. Yves’ arms. His chest rose and fell with silent sobs that matched my audible ones. In the distance, a shadowy movement caught my eye, and I eased out of his arms. My gaze easily found the figure leaning against a tree at the edge of the cemetery. I wiped my eyes and tried to focus on the person to see if I recognized him. His hat shadowed most of his face. From this distance, about fifty feet away or so, I didn’t think I’d ever seen him before, but he was too far for me to be sure. He looked to be in his early twenties. He gazed in our direction, but he wasn’t watching the funeral, he was staring at me. It was odd and unnerving. I slowly turned back to face the Reverend. Suspicion and angst temporarily replaced the pain in my chest. Rain pelted the tent, and the noise drowning out the Reverend’s final prayers.
Hesitantly, I looked over my shoulder expecting to see the stranger right behind me, but he hadn’t moved. His lips curved into a shameless smile. An eerie coldness crept through my entire body. I wanted to look away from him, knew I should turn around, but I was bewitched in the grip of curiosity. He slowly lifted his finger to his lips as if to say, “Shhh…” With fluid grace, he tilted his hat toward me, turned, and walked into the woods.
“Why don’t you come by the store tomorrow?” Mr. Yves suggested. We sat in his car outside the bookshop. Earlier in the evening, he had arranged a small gathering at his house after the ceremony. Even with the supportive company and comfort food, the event had been dreadful and seemed to last entirely too long. Although appreciated, I had begun to detest each person’s condolence and their reassuring hug. Each embrace only seemed to hammer in that my father was dead.
Mr. Yves turned in his seat to face me. “Look at me, Iris.” I tore my gaze from the thumbnail I had been abusing and looked at him. “I’m not going to let you stop living.” He touched my cheek. His smile was warm, and it reached his sad, glossy eyes. Today had been the hardest day I had ever had to live through, and still, I knew I was fortunate to have this man in my life.
Snow leaned into the front seat. Having known her as long as I had, I was not surprised when she answered for me, “Don’t worry, Mr. Yves, she’ll be there. I’m staying here tonight, and I’ll drag her there by her hair if I have to. Not that there’s much to grab, but I’ll get her there one way or another.”
It wasn’t worth an argument, and I didn’t have the energy for one. I just nodded. Mr. Yves hugged me goodbye and told me to call him if I needed anything. I heard his car pull away from the curb when we reached the top of the stairs.
As I put the key into the lock, the door pushed. I knew I had been in a state of confusion when Mr. Yves and I left earlier, so I wasn’t sure if he had closed and locked the door or not.
“You must have been in some rush to get out of here,” Snow said.
“I don’t think we left it like this,” I whispered. My head swam with confusion. The hollowness in my stomach caved in on itself, and I wanted to vomit again.
Before stepping over the threshold, I scanned the small kitchenette and beyond the hanging drape dividing the bedroom from the living room. A few things were out of place; the cupboards were open, the couch cushions had been tossed, the things that had been in my suitcase were scattered on the floor. Cautiously, I took a step forward.
Snow grabbed my hand. “I’ll go.” She didn’t wait for my response before walking into the apartment ahead of me. It took her all of ten seconds to check the bathroom and the closet to make sure whoever had been there wasn’t there any longer. “They’re gone now,” Snow yelled over her shoulder. “What the hell happened in here?”
I stepped into the apartment. The air felt stiff and smelled damp and aged; not the scents of shampoo or vanilla, as it had when I left. I turned on the lamp. When Snow looked at me, her expression was a mix of confusion and wanting to kick someone’s ass. She was in her don’t mess with my best friend mode; a mode that always had good intentions, but on more than one occasion got her into trouble.
“Why would someone want to break in here, there’s nothing even worth stealing?” Snow asked as she fixed the couch cushions and sat down. “I mean you’re lucky Mr. Yves left you a roll of toilet paper.”
&n
bsp; I was as baffled as Snow. “I have no idea.” Snow took her phone out of her purse. “Who are you calling?”
“Ah, who do you think? The police.”
Echoes to Ashes (The Immortal Trials Book 1)
The Complete Set