by Amy Sumida
“What is happening right now?” I gaped at him. “Who are you?”
Slate let out a huffing sigh. “Fuck if I know.” Then he straightened. “Tell me more about that spell inside you that forced you into taking multiple lovers.”
“The Rooster.”
“Is that what this is?” Slate stood up and leaned across the bar to me. “I'm not going to be a part of your fucking cock collective, sweetheart.” This time, the sweetheart came out sounding more like his brother's bitch.
“Darcraxis killed the spell when we were reunited,” I said evenly. “It's not here, and even if it was, Devon, it can't make men fall in love with me. If it could, I wouldn't have had a problem with Gage; it would have just taken him to replace... you know what? Never mind that; it's none of your business. The spell doesn't force people to fall in love, it just feeds on the love once it's there, and it makes—made—the men feel good about sharing me.”
“Fascinating,” Aaro whispered. “But it's gone now?”
“Yes.” I kept my steady gaze on Slate's burning silver one.
Slate slid back onto his seat. “Then what is this?”
Aaro burst out laughing, and both of us shifted our furious stares to him.
“Look at you two.” Aaro shook his head. “You're both so eager to blame this on magic. The only thing magic can do is make it easier for you to admit what you feel. These”—he waved his hands between us—“feelings burning both of you alive, are real. You need to accept that and deal with it; that's the solution.” He pointed at me. “You have five men who you love and yet, for some reason, you think that's your limit. That you can't love any more.” He shifted his finger to Slate. “And you have blocked yourself off from feeling anything but lust for women for so long that you couldn't recognize something real if it bit you on the ass. What a tragic love story.”
“It's not a love story,” Slate and I said together.
Then we grimaced at each other while Aaro laughed.
“Sure; whatever you say.” Aaro sipped his drink. “But you may want to consider that these 'tingles' you feel aren't magic at all; at least not the sort that you two believe them to be.” He set his glass down, walked over the comatose Binx, and out of the lounge.
I poured myself another shot. Slate shoved his glass toward me, and I poured one for him as well.
Chapter Thirty
A soft knock woke me.
“Huh?” I scowled at the door. “What do you want?”
“Join me for breakfast,” Slate's deep voice said; it wasn't a request.
“All right,” I huffed as I climbed out of bed. “Give me a minute.”
I heard Slate chuckle as he walked away. What was happening between us? Why was I using the word “us?” There was no us. Slate was a despotic zone lord, and I was his unwilling arena champion/club singer.
I stomped through my morning routine and ended it with a splash of cold water on my face.
“Get your shit together, idiot,” I snarled at my reflection. “This is not the fucking Hilton, and he's not your boyfriend.”
I got dressed and wandered down the hall with renewed determination. I would not let Slate get under my skin. Or my clothes. I strode across his office and then down the other hallway and into the dining room. Slate was already seated at the head of the table with a plate full of assorted breakfast food and a steaming cup of coffee. He was absently looking at his cell phone as he sipped.
It was oddly normal.
I took the seat beside him; where another plate waited for me.
“Coffee?” Slate asked as he put down his phone and lifted a carafe.
“Sure.”
“Cream and sugar.” He pushed them toward me.
“What the fuck is happening right now?” I blurted out.
Slate's lips twitched. “What do you mean?”
“Is this how it's going to be?” I waved my hand at the food.
“You don't like waffles?” He asked with a straight face.
“No, I fucking love waffles,” I snarled. “I'm just not sure what these particular waffles stand for. Are these truce waffles? Are they let's-ignore-all-this-bullshit waffles? Are they I-own-you-now waffles? Am I surrendering by eating them?”
Slate started laughing; just a violent twitch of lips at first and then a little chuckle that progressed into an all-out guffaw. I realized how ridiculous I sounded and joined him. When our laughter finally died out, we both had tears in our eyes.
“I-own-you-now waffles?” Slate asked with a grin. “I didn't realize ownership had a flavor.”
“It tastes bitter.” All of my amusement disappeared with the words.
He sighed deeply. “I said some... harsh things last night.”
I lifted my brows.
“I've never been good with the softer emotions,” he murmured; his stare skittering away from mine.
“I didn't cast a spell on—”
“Let's not get into that,” he said abruptly. “You need more clothing that you can wear during the day.” He looked pointedly at my slinky, club dress. “I thought you might like to go shopping.”
“Shopping?” I asked in surprise.
Slate put an envelope on the table and slid it over to me. “That's your cut of the arena bets and your payment for singing at the club.”
“I thought I didn't get this until I was free?”
“It's only a portion of your winnings. I'm making an exception in light of my poor behavior.”
I opened the envelope and looked through it. The Zone must be in America because there were a couple thousand American dollars in it. Holy shit; this was an apology.
“Apology accepted,” I said softly.
“I don't make apologies.” Slate said crisply. “Eat your truce waffles.”
I did; every last bite.
Then Slate took me out into the Zone. Not to sing to a monster or to the beneathers in his club. Not to work at all. Just for pure pleasure.
I stared at the glorious collection of beneathers walking down the zone streets. Skin, hair, and eyes in all the colors of the rainbow. Scales, fur, and feathers competed with silk, velvet, and leather. It was like being on another planet. I could see why beneathers liked living there. It felt comfortable. Perhaps the world would be like this if humans weren't so skittish and judgmental; killing or dissecting everything they didn't understand.
Several buildings were made of stone, but a lot of them surprisingly weren't. There were constructions of steel, wood, and glass crowding the narrow roads. I glimpsed posh neighborhoods behind golden gates with homes that looked more like palaces. I wondered at that; the Zone Lord lived in a stone box attached to his killing theater while the zone residents lived in luxury down the street. But Slate Devon wasn't the sort of man to delight in a pretty house in a pretty neighborhood; he wanted a view of his domain and barracks full of men he could trust.
I slid a sideways look at Slate as he drove; one hand casually on the wheel. He had sunglasses on. They should have been unnecessary below ground. But the cavern ceiling was embedded with millions of lights that could be turned to whatever brightness the Zone Lord wished. During daylight hours, it was as if the sun shone down there. No weather to interfere with it; underground lighting was as dependable as the stone it was set in.
Slate pulled to a stop before a building with display windows showcasing the latest women's fashion. He got out and held my door open for me like a gentleman; nodding to passerby as he did. They all peeked in at me; eager to see who the Zone Lord was catering to. I slid out; taking the hand he offered as I steeled myself against him. You're a prisoner. He's not your friend. Truce waffles are not a thing. Stop being an idiot.
Slate kept my hand; twining his fingers with mine as he led me into the store. I clutched my envelope of money awkwardly. My first purchase would be a purse.
The door had a little bell on it that chimed as we walked in. Both customers and salesclerks turned to stare at us; eyes going from curious to shocke
d. It took all of two seconds before the head sales lady hurried over to us with fluttering hands and parted lips.
“Lord Devon, it's an honor to have you in our shop.” She curtsied to him. Curtsied!
No wonder this guy was so full of himself; he had ass-kissers everywhere. The woman was a nymph; tiny and beautiful with blonde ringlets that fell all the way to her butt. There were real flowers in her hair and her silk dress looked straight out of a Greek myth. A sexy myth.
“Is this your... consort?” She asked hesitantly. “We've been hearing rumors.”
“And now I'm back at court,” I muttered under my breath.
“This is my girlfriend,” Slate said as he jerked me against his side. “Elaria.”
“The Spellsinger?” The nymph's blue eyes widened. “So, the rumors are true.”
“Yep.” I smiled and tried not to turn it into a grimace.
“Welcome to A Slip of Lace, Ms. Tanager,” she said. “My name is Teresa. Is there anything I can help you find?”
“How about we start with a purse?” I waved the envelope at her. “I seem to have forgotten to pack mine.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“Won't your real girlfriends be upset about this charade?” I eyed Slate over my wineglass.
We were at an exclusive restaurant in the heart of the Zone. It was all open-air seating; a lush garden surrounded by rock walls. The entrance was a garden gate and the kitchen was hidden behind a waterfall. A stream ran through the place; right beside our table. Wisteria draped above us and manicured bushes formed privacy walls between the other diners and us. I knew it was exclusive because there were only ten tables in the place and the menu didn't have any prices on it.
“My what?” Slate removed his sunglasses; closing them with sharp movements before tucking them into his jacket. He looked at me curiously.
“Your girlfriends,” I said again. “Won't they be mad when they hear about us?”
“What exactly about our conversation last night gave you the impression that I have a bevy of women?”
“I heard more than one woman that... time... with the... you know,” I trailed off as Slate began to smile.
“I have a voracious appetite.” He sat back as the waiter slid a plate before him; right on cue.
I swear; sometimes it seemed as if the world really did revolve around him.
Slate took a bite and chewed as the waiter set my plate before me and then hurried away. Normally, the lady's plate went down first. Not in Slate's world, evidently.
“I don't have a girlfriend; single or plural,” he murmured. “I have... acquaintances.”
“Wow,” I muttered.
“What?”
“No; nothing.”
“What?” He put some stone in his tone.
I was learning that Gargoyles were good at that.
“You can't even call them friends; that's too close to a relationship, isn't it?” I took a bite. “Your brother was right; you only allow yourself to feel lust for women.”
The chicken was amazing; I enjoyed it thoroughly, along with Slate's discomfort.
“I don't have time for distractions,” he said gruffly.
I looked around pointedly. He'd taken a significant amount of time out of his busy, zone lord schedule to take me shopping.
“You are a part of my work.” He shrugged.
“This is work?” I asked dubiously.
“To your left is Aribella Lane; she owns several fruit and vegetable markets.”
“A dryad,” I murmured.
“To her right is Quintan Gareth; he brings in our meat. And then there's Falcon Harvey; my liquor supplier.”
“Loup and troll,” I said as I looked them over. “You want them to see us together. Why?”
“Word has been circulating about us after our little performances. Those three weren't able to make it to the parties.” Slate smiled at me and it was breathtaking; enough to make the women at the other tables sigh. “I wanted them to see you for themselves; see the strength I have beside me. And see that I'm not concerned about the earthquakes.”
Everything was a tactical move with him. I grimaced; I should have known this wasn't just a pleasant day out.
“I seem to always be on display here. Even when I think I'm not.”
“As am I.” He shrugged. “You should be used to it, Your Majesty.”
I blinked at that. He'd said the title without sarcasm.
“Tell me about Gargoyles.” I set my stare on the chicken, but my attention was on Slate.
Slate cocked his head. “Why?”
“I'm curious.” I shrugged. “I know you can manipulate stone and that you're one of the few Beneather races who evolved on Earth.”
“We were the first higher form of life here,” he said proudly. “Three-thousand years before homo sapiens turned up.”
I looked up in surprise. “See? That's fascinating. Tell me more.”
“How much more?” Slate's smile went wicked.
“All of it.”
“We'll see about all of it,” he murmured. “I'll tell you what I remember.”
“Fair enough.”
“Some beneathers believe that we slunk into the shadows when humans began to form their civilizations,” Slate huffed. “That's not true. They crawled out of the swamp, but we rose out of the volcanoes. Formed in magma; the very blood of the Earth. We've always felt most at home within her embrace.”
I sat back; unable to eat while Slate spoke. His voice was richly melodious; the perfect timbre for storytelling. His lips were nearly as expressive as his words; twitching, pressing together, spreading slowly. His eyes gleamed and his fingers stroked his water glass; collecting condensation in a way that made me shiver. I was enthralled.
“So, it's true that you're fireproof?”
“Rock doesn't burn.” He winked at me.
“But you're not rock,” I argued. “I saw Jago's gargoyle form up close; I felt his skin. It felt like a tough hide, but not stone.”
“No; we're not stone exactly,” Slate admitted. “We have an affinity for it. Our elders believe there is rock dust in our blood and bones.”
“What do you think?”
“When I work with stone, something resonates inside me.” His lips parted slightly and his gaze went distant. “If they're not exactly right, they're close. We are kin to the Earth; born of her body, not of what clings to her surface.”
“Beautiful,” I whispered. “What about the name? I've read a lot of theories but nothing conclusive.”
“Let me guess; the French dragon and the gutter spout.” His eyes glittered like stars.
“Those are the ones. But the way you say them makes them sound like a nursery rhyme.”
“Because both are fiction. 'Gargoyle' is the name we gave ourselves when we evolved enough to care about such things. It was taken from a god we credited with the creation of our race; Gargo.”
I went still. I was betting Slate had it backwards and Gargo had named his children after himself. I knew all about that sort of thing.
“What happened to this god?”
“He disappeared in the way of gods.” Slate shrugged. “Gargo was a religious fiction created by creatures who were too young to understand the world around them. When we wised up, his worship waned.”
“Interesting,” I murmured. I was betting he had that wrong too.
Slate smiled softly. “Do you want to hear about the stone gargoyles on churches?”
“Of course, I do.” I grinned back. “Didn't I say that I wanted to hear all of it?”
“So, you did.” He took a sip of wine before continuing. “Several gargoyles decided that they wanted to live among the humans; they started by working with them. We were beginning to see the benefit of blending into human society. Most of them found jobs that could utilize their stone magic; such as stonemasons. Some of the stonemasons worked on churches. One, in particular, decided to immortalize his image—his gargoyle image—in stone and set i
t on one of the human churches. He thought this was the height of hilarity.”
“It is kind of funny,” I admitted.
“It became all the rage.” Slate rolled his eyes. “Every gargoyle wanted their face on a building. Some became stone masons just to accomplish this, others commissioned working masons to do it for them. Soon, our images were everywhere.”
“That's why no two are alike,” I said in revelation.
“Precisely.” He waved his hand to me in acknowledgment. “They are modeled after real gargoyles.”
“Slate,” a man interrupted us.
I glanced up to see the loup Slate had pointed out earlier; Quintan Gareth.
“Quintan.” Slate shook hands with the werewolf. “This is my girlfriend, Elaria.”
“I've heard a lot about you, Elaria,” Quintan said as he shook my hand. “I haven't made it to the arena to see if they're true yet. Will you be fighting tonight?”
“I've removed her from the roster,” Slate said before I could answer. “I refuse to risk her any further.”
“Wise.” Quintan looked me over. “One should never gamble with priceless treasure.”
I nearly rolled my eyes. Instead, I managed a polite smile.
“But it's a shame I won't get to see you in action,” he went on.
“You can still hear me sing at the Quarry,” I offered. “When will I be singing next, darling?” I looked at Slate with a bright, fake grin.
Slate smirked. “Tonight, sweetheart.” He took my hand and kissed it. “We wouldn't want to disappoint your fans.”
“Of course not.” I barely hid my sarcasm.
“I'll see you at the Quarry then,” Quintan promised. Then he nodded respectfully to Slate. “Enjoy your meal.”
“Perhaps you could behave yourself tonight.” Slate gave me a dubious look; as if he didn't think it was possible.
“No leaping on tables and chopping off heads?” I asked with a pout.
Slate burst into laughter and the others diners stared at him curiously. He ignored them completely; his eyes twinkling long after his laughter faded.
“Leave the chopping of heads to Cerberus,” he finally said. “Come on; I actually have some business to attend to before we head back.”