Courage

by Taylor Longford

  "Close your eyes," he commanded, his big wings working against the maelstrom like black oars steering a boat up a waterfall. "Breath through your nose."

  "Right," I shouted, following his instructions exactly because there was so much dirt and grit swirling around. I just hoped there wasn't something bigger swirling around in the mix. Like an tractor, for instance. Or a mobile home. Because if we connected with something like that, it would definitely sting.

  We hurtled through the air. I couldn't tell where we were going, exactly, but I got the impression we were cutting out a wide arc. After several seconds, I couldn't feel the rain of gravel anymore, so I assumed we were working our way in the right direction.

  "Rage," I squeaked against his chest. "We're flying."

  "That's right," he snickered, and loosened his hold on me to something less than a death grip. "You can open your eyes now. But don't look down."

  So, of course I looked down. And found that he was just being funny. Because we were speeding along at maybe fifty miles an hour…about three feet off the ground. Then I peeked over his shoulder to find the tornado, which was traveling merrily on its way, carving a path of destruction through the fields, fortunately in a different direction than we were traveling…and spitting out every single post we'd set over the last week.

  I sucked in some air, which made my lungs real happy because I hadn't done much breathing in the last three minutes. And once I was getting some oxygen again, I looked around for the horses. But Courage had already found them and was heading in their direction. Amazingly, the two mares had already returned to grazing. Which just confirms my long-held belief that horses have short memories. And they never run any farther than they absolutely have to.

  When we reached Princess and Molly, Courage put me lightly on my feet. But he didn't let go. Not right away. Instead, he tugged me against his chest and held me.

  I didn't for one minute think he was stroking my hair because he liked me. I was sure it was more of an I'm-glad-to-be-alive reaction and I'm-gonna-enjoy-every-minute-of-it-with-whoever-happens-to-be-handy sort of thing.

  But even knowing all of that, it was great to feel like I mattered to someone besides my family. It was nice to think that somebody cared—maybe even a little desperately—whether I lived or died.

  Not that I'm the sort of person who can't take care of herself. I totally can. But it was sure nice having someone else watching out for me. So, I kinda basked in the feeling of his arms cradling me. I stood there with my ear pressed against the wild bang of his heart and the unsteady lift of his chest.

  "Rage," I finally said, still a little breathless, my lips moving against his bare skin. "Y-you have wings."

  "Aye," he murmured. "As it turns out, I do."

  "I've been working with you for a week. Why do I not know about this?"

  A shrug lifted his shoulders. "I guess it just never came up."

  "Never came up?"

  "Well, you have to admit it's a hard thing to work into a conversation."

  I took a deep, steadying breath. "Truth or Dare," I croaked.

  "Okaaay," he answered cautiously.

  "What the heck are you?"

  "Can I take the dare?" he asked.

  "I want the truth," I insisted.

  "How come it's okay for you to switch from the truth to a dare but it's cheating when I do it?"

  "Rage," I growled. "What. The. Heck. Are. You?"

  His frame caved a bit in an okay-I-give-up sort of way. Then he started talking. "I belong to an ancient breed that once shared the earth with humans. But most of us died off over the last eight hundred years. Along with my cousins and brothers, I'm the last of my kind."

  "Aaand?"

  "I'm a gargoyle, Lissa."

  Chapter Six

  "I knew it," I whispered. "I knew you were more than you seemed to be. I knew there was something different about you."

  "You're…not afraid?" Courage asked tentatively.

  "Should I be?"

  "There are a few things you'll need to get used to," he said in a tone that suggested there were a whole lot more than a few things. "But I'd never hurt you."

  Okay, so that sounded good. I could work with that…as soon as I got used to the fact that the guy had wings. "Maybe we should go check the fence line," I suggested, thinking that it would be easier to deal with the bizarreness of the situation if I was doing something normal.

  "Maybe we should wait a little longer and make sure it's safe," he countered as his arms tightened around me.

  "That's a good idea too," I answered, and snuggled into his smooth chest a little more deeply. Because it felt so good in his arms. And he smelled so wonderful. Like nothing I can even describe. He just smelled like safety and strength. And earthy. And very male.

  "Your hair is wonderful," he murmured, his breath moving the silky strands.

  "It's probably my best feature," I agreed.

  "You're wrong," he whispered close to my ear. "Your mouth is your best feature."

  I sighed because that just wasn't true. I didn't have those full, kissable lips that guys always go for. And with his words, reality began to sink in. We had left the realm of this-guy-is-trying-to-be-nice-because-we-just-survived-a-tornado and we had entered the realm of this-guy-is-acting-weird. I planted my hands against his chest and gave a little push.

  He didn't budge. Not an inch. I tilted my head back so I could make eye contact and let him know I wasn't fooling around. I found him studying my mouth like it was the most fascinating thing on earth. And as I watched, his lips drifted slowly towards mine.

  "Why are you so determined to kiss me?" I asked, putting a halt to the slow drift.

  His gaze locked on mine. "Well, I've never done it before so I'm not sure I can explain. But I think you'll understand once we get started."

  "You've never kissed a girl?" I asked, surprised. Earlier, he'd said that girls were always nice to him before his accident so I assumed he'd taken advantage of that situation somewhere along the way.

  He rolled his shoulders in a brief shrug. "Should I have? I'm not more than fifteen or sixteen."

  "Oh," I muttered, stalling. "Well, I just thought this might work out better if one of us knew what we were doing."

  "I think I can figure it out," he said with typical male confidence.

  "Oh. Okay," I answered, chewing furiously on my lower lip. "Should I close my eyes?"

  "If you like," he replied. "I think most people do. And it might be easier if you can't see my face."

  "You mean because of your scars? But half of your face is perfect," I rambled on, not making much sense when you think about it because the scarred side of his face was covered. But at that point, I was jittery.

  "Then perhaps you only need to close one eye," he murmured as his mouth drifted closer.

  I gave him a wry look and closed my eyes, lifting my face up to his.

  His lips touched mine and I lost track of time as I fell into the warm pull of his mouth. The seeking slide of his lips was a gentle quest that roughened with each heartbeat and inevitably ramped into a rush of hunger. My spine curved beneath his hand as he reeled me into the heat of his muscular frame, my body burning where it pressed against his. I was swept into a whirlwind of sensation that twisted through my system and settled somewhere between the heavy thump of my heart and the delicious storm that pulsed just beneath my belly button, his kiss the answer to every need in life…all packed into the time that his mouth covered mine.

  "What do you think?" he finally asked, his breathing rough and uneven as his lips rubbed softly against the corner of my mouth.

  "I think I'm beginning to understand," I answered throatily.

  "Understand what?" he murmured.

  "Why people kiss," I whispered.

  I felt his smile as he nuzzled his nose into my cheek and I could see how kissing could quickly develop into risky business. Because right now, I felt like I'd do anything to feel that way again—the way I had felt when
he kissed me. That I'd give him anything without him even asking for it. It didn't even matter anymore than he might be dangerous—that he was quite probably dangerous. Those kisses of his were just plain addictive.

  And I knew I needed to avoid those kisses at all costs. At least for now. Maybe until I was eighteen…or more.

  Pushing gently against his chest, I stepped back and stared at the large stretches of black leather that spread on either side of his shoulders. And as I watched, his wings folded back down into the vest that was so familiar to me. I could see now that the ridges I had thought were decorative leatherwork were actually the bones that framed the structure of his wings. The bones must have been extremely flexible because they wrapped across his chest, around his back, then in front again, the tips meeting just below his abs.

  "You are…amazing," I breathed.

  But Courage was frowning down at the fist he'd made with his hand. A tiny drop of liquid curled from the top of his knuckles and made its way down to his wrist. The thin line of color gleamed iridescent in the sun, a beautiful shade of indigo streaked with green.

  "Is that…normal?" I asked, searching his face.

  "Nay," he answered thoughtfully as he turned his wrist and studied the phenomenon. "It's…not the right color."

  "Not the right color?" I exclaimed. "But otherwise, it's normal to have stuff leaking from your knuckles?"

  He pulled in a deep breath and closed his eyes like he was struggling for control. "Pretty much," he said when he finally opened his eyes again.

  "Really?" I questioned him. "Because if that's normal, there's a lot I need to learn about your kind."

  "Perhaps you're right," he answered.

  And over the next few days, I learned a lot about gargoyles. Courage told me they run in packs and can turn to stone—and back—as long as they have access to direct sunlight. A single ray flickering across their big toe is enough to do the trick.

  Their wings are made of a material similar to leather—but thinner and lighter—which folds down into a very attractive vest that's warm in cold weather but is porous enough to keep them cool in summer. The bones in their wings are called spines. They're strong but weigh almost nothing. And they're incredibly flexible, of course, as I pointed out before.

  As for their history, it turns out that Courage and his pack were trapped between the walls of a house in England for eight hundred years and had only recently been released from their dark tomb. The guy who found the gargoyles shipped them to America but before the last three could reach their destination, the shipping van crashed and caught fire. The boys were separated during the blaze but Courage hoped to eventually catch up with them along with the rest of his family.

  "I'm assuming the rest of the pack reached their destination," he told me. "But I don't know where that is. All I can do is stick close to the crash location and hope they're looking for me."

  And I had been right all along about Courage being dangerous, but not in the way I'd imagined. Because gargoyles have a deadly poison running in their veins. And when they need to use the venom against their enemies, barbs shoot from their knuckles to deliver the poison. That was the stuff I saw leaking from his knuckles after the tornado. One or two blows could kill a man, turning him to stone forever. But he said it would take a much smaller dose to affect a girl my size so he warned me I must be very careful of his barbs.

  That was one of the first things he told me. But I had to dig for most of the other information. "Why do you make me work so hard to find out about you?" I asked him on Thursday morning at breakfast.

  He was slow to answer. "We could talk all day about how we're different," he said. "But I'd rather talk about how we're the same."

  "The same?" I exclaimed.

  "Aye," he argued quietly. "We've just spent nine days together and you didn't even know I was a gargoyle. We must have something in common."

  "Well, we're both humanoid," I admitted.

  "Thanks for giving me that," he responded in light rumble of laughter.

  "We both have ten fingers and ten toes."

  "Aye."

  "But you have wings!"

  He made a face as if he thought that shouldn't mean too much. "We both like working in the fields," he pointed out. "We both like spaghetti. And we should probably both get to work and start replacing those fence posts…for the second time."

  So, we spent the rest of the week rounding up our fence posts, which were scattered hither and yon across the property. The wire was a total loss—a tangled mess that couldn't be reused. But we managed to find enough posts so we didn't need to send Kellen for supplies until we were ready to string wire again.

  But even though Courage didn't think there was any reason for us to act differently, my life had changed. And things were never gonna be quite the same. Because I'd never been on a twilight flight before…in the arms of a gargoyle.

  One evening, Courage took me out across the ranch to see the rune we'd cut into the grass several days earlier. When we reached the right field, he spiraled up almost to the clouds so we could get the full effect. We could see the whole ranch from up there—the house, the stock scattered across the property, the network of dirt roads that snaked across the land. But the rune was killer.

  "We did a good job," I told him.

  "Aye," he agreed.

  "Do you…do you think your family would approve of this?"

  "What do you mean?" he asked, his wings stroking the air as we hovered in place.

  "Do you think they'd approve of this flight?" I asked, tentatively. "Or the fact that I know you're a gargoyle? Do you think they'd approve of me?"

  He pulled me close and touched his lips to my cheek. "My family will adore you," he said softly.

  I just hoped he was right. I mean, they were gargoyles. Did they even approve of humans? But I wouldn't know the answer to that question until Courage was reunited with his family.

  On Sunday, I got ready for church and met Courage downstairs for breakfast. He did that double-take thing again when he saw me like he had done the week before when I wore a dress. I just rolled my eyes even though I didn't mind him acting that way. Not one bit.

  But as he dished out the scrambled eggs, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd be so interested in me if he had his looks back—if his face were to heal. Did he think he couldn't do any better than a plain girl like me? Because that would be kind of sad for both of us.

  He was dressed for church—black slacks and white shirt, the scarred side of his face covered with clean bandages.

  "We haven't tried to do any healing since Monday," I pointed out as we finished up the dishes together. "Why don't we put some aloe on your face this morning before church?"

  "Let's not bother," he said. "I think you were right about the magic. It isn't going to work."

  "But we only tried once while I was wearing the bracelet," I argued, hating that he was giving up.

  "Once should have been enough to have some sort of effect," he said, leaning back against the counter.

  "Nothing happened?"

  "It's strange," he murmured, his gaze drifting to my hair. "You're very red. And very nice. You should have a lot of power to heal. I can't understand why my face didn't get better when you put your fingers against my skin."

  I studied the toes of my white leather flats. "Well, it was a long shot to begin with. And I don't truly believe in the sort of magic you were hoping for. But I wanted to heal you. I wanted it to work."

  "I know," he said softly, and pulled me into his chest. "I know you did your best."

  I rested my head against the steady beat of his heart and let him thread his fingers through my hair. And for the next several moments I didn't worry about why he liked me—or if he was only pretending to like me. I didn't wonder if everything would be different if he wasn't scarred.

  It just felt good to be close to him.

  Of course, all of that came to a screeching halt when Kellen banged down the stairs and into the kitc
hen. He was just looking for something to eat before he drove us to Limon but he seemed surprised to me find in Courage's arms.

  Kellen lifted a finger and flicked it at us. "Should you be doing that on a Sunday?" he asked.

  A rush of heat crept into my cheeks. "Doing what?" I asked, and backed away from Courage.

  "Doing what a good Christian girl shouldn't be doing on a Sunday," he shot back as he headed for the table with a bowl in one hand a box of cereal in the other.

  "It was just a hug," Courage pointed out, bracing his hands on the counter behind him while he smiled across the room at my brother.

  "Okay," Kellen conceded, shaking the cereal into his bowl. "But let's just make sure we keep it friendly. After all, it is Sunday."

  "Got it," Courage drawled. "Only friendly hugs on Sunday." He shot a quick grin at me then excused himself to go find his tie.

  "What was that all about?" I hissed when I figured Courage was safely upstairs and out of earshot.

  "Nothing," Kellen said lightly. "I just don't want to see you get attached to someone who won't be around for long."

  "So, let me get this straight," I said. "You don't want me to get hurt?"

  "Something like that," he answered with an offhand smile.

  I didn't know what to say. It was so out of character for Kellen to act that way.

  "Just be careful," he said softly, and poured the milk on his cereal.

  It was nice to think he cared…even if it didn't last very long.

  Because when we got out of church after Sunday School, my suddenly-concerned-big-brother was nowhere in sight. We hung out in the parking lot for five or ten then headed down the road to kill some time at the local diner. The building used to belong to a big pizza chain, its once-red roof painted a really unappealing shade of green. I don't know why they couldn't have left it red. Maybe the pizza company wouldn't let them.

  Inside the crowded restaurant, we made our way to the back of the place and slipped into the only booth that was available. The place was packed and I might have been surprised to find an empty booth…except that I knew exactly why it was unoccupied. It was Jedediah's booth—the one he'd reserved for himself and his pals.