by Tracy Wolff
“Yeah, well, I know what you can do. I’m the one who was trapped with Gargoyle Grace for more than a hundred days, and I’m the one who remembers every damn minute of it. So listen to me, stop worrying, and just trust your instincts. You’re going to do great.”
His words give me pause, precisely because they aren’t the ones I expected him—or anyone—to say. “What does that mean?” I ask after several seconds pass. “When you say you were there, what does that mean?”
“It means four months is a long time to just stand around somewhere.” He shifts uncomfortably. “We weren’t just frozen in time while you were gone, Grace. You were a gargoyle, and one of the things you spent that time doing was figuring out what that means.”
His words have my hands trembling and my heart pounding triple-time as I realize he knows more about me than I ever imagined.
I guess I thought we were enemies when we were together, but he makes it sound like that wasn’t the case. Or at least, not the whole case.
Did we talk? Did we laugh? Did we fight? The latter seems the most likely, but the look in his eyes doesn’t make it seem like he hated every second. “You remember what I was doing during those months?” I whisper.
For the first time, he looks wary, like he’s afraid he’s said too much.
And I get it, I do. I know everyone is worried that I have to find my memories in my own time, but I just want to know now.
He doesn’t answer my question, but he does say something even more interesting. “You love being a gargoyle.”
Now his words have my palms dampening and my stomach roiling with excitement. “What did I learn?” I ask.
The need to know is a physical ache inside me.
“What can I do?” I ask him.
“Pretty much anything you want to,” he finally answers. “And if you want to prove it to yourself, you could just shift right here. There’s plenty of room.”
“What do you mean? Here here?” I ask, looking around. “Where anyone could come in?”
“I guarantee you, Grace, no one is coming in. You’re the only one in the entire school doing your laundry on a Saturday night. Honestly, I don’t know whether to be impressed or embarrassed for you.”
“Wow.” I glare at him. “That’s a great way to motivate someone.”
“It’s not my job to motivate you,” he shoots back. “That’s your job. I’m the enemy, if you remember correctly.”
“I do remember,” I snap. “And if I didn’t, God knows it would only take a minute with you to figure it out.”
“Exactly.” He looks me over with that cold smile of his that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Now, are you going to do something, or are we just going to stand around here all night while you feel sorry for yourself?”
Those words piss me off more than any others he might have used, and I have to force myself not to scream when I answer, “I’m not feeling sorry for myself!”
He looks me over from head to toe and says, “Okay.”
That’s it. Just a simple okay—and somehow he has me seeing red. “What do I need to do?” I grit my teeth, hating having to ask him. But pride is one thing. Naïveté is another. “What do I have to do to shift?”
“You’ve already got the answer to that.”
“Yeah, but I can’t remember the answer! So will you please help me out instead of just standing there voicing platitudes in my head?” I throw my hands wide in the air.
For long seconds, he looks torn. Like he doesn’t know how much to say. But eventually his need to get the hell out of my head must supersede everything else, because he says, “You told me once that being a gargoyle was the most natural thing in the world for you. Like, you couldn’t imagine how you’d spent seventeen years of your life not feeling it, because it felt like home.”
I roll his words around in my mind, weighing them against everything that I’m feeling now, and they make no sense. “I really said that?”
“You really did.”
How did I go from that to feeling like being a gargoyle is the most unnatural thing in the world for me? Could I really forget that much, I wonder, even as I stand in the middle of the room with my eyes closed and try to look inside myself.
But there’s nothing to see, except the yawning emptiness that has been there all along. “This is hopeless.”
Hudson shakes his head and reaches down to pick up my hands. “You’re trying too hard.” Our gazes meet, and I get lost in the tumultuous blue waves in his eyes. “You don’t have to learn how to be a gargoyle. You are one. It’s a part of you, of who you are. And no matter what—no one can take that from you.”
I feel like he’s talking about more than just my being a gargoyle. “What does that—”
He stops me. “Not now,” he says. “For now, close your eyes.” He waits until I do before continuing. “Take a deep breath, let it out. And reach for that part of yourself that’s hidden. The part you keep a secret from everyone else.”
When I do, I can’t help but see all the different threads inside me, each one a string that leads to a different piece of me, a different person or thing that makes me.
On the plus side, all I have to do is lay hands on the individual strings to realize what I’m dealing with. Bright orange for my love of reading. Soft blue for the ocean. Turquoise for my mother’s laugh. Hot pink for Macy. Black for Jaxon, along with a single two-toned thread that starts as a medium green and keeps getting darker and darker until it fades into black. One look and I’m nearly positive that this is our mating bond, though I don’t know how I know that. Red for my art. Brown for Saturday-morning walks with my father. There’s even a brilliant emerald-green string, almost shimmering, it’s so iridescent. I start to reach for that one, but a voice warns me to stay away from that string. Before I can really give it more thought, I get distracted by a gorgeous cerulean string, which I instinctively know is my mother. A deep russet string, my father. Even an aquamarine string for La Jolla.
The list goes on and on, and so do the colored strings, and I sort through them all—even ones I don’t recognize yet—until I finally find a shiny platinum one buried deep in the middle of all the others.
Instinctively, I know this one is it. My gargoyle.
Not going to lie, I’m a little scared of it and what it can do. But being afraid never got me anywhere, and it’s definitely not going to solve this problem, so I just reach for it, breath held and heart beating way too fast.
The moment I touch it, I feel something resonate deep inside me, kind of like I did with Hudson’s magic earlier. But this is deeper, stronger—a tidal wave where that was just a drop—and I can feel it sweeping over me. Roiling around me. Burying me in its power and its presence.
There’s a part of me that wants to pull back, that wants to protect myself more than it wants anything else. But it’s too late. Everything is crashing in on me now, and all I can do is hang on and wait to see what happens.
It doesn’t take long, maybe a second or two, though it feels like an eternity. It starts in my hands and arms, a heaviness that feels completely foreign and yet completely right all at the same time. Once it reaches my shoulders, it spreads like wildfire down my torso to my hips and legs and feet before finally sweeping up my neck to my jaw and cheeks and the top of my head.
At the same time, there’s a burning in my back, and it scares me a little until I remember—my wings. Of course.
And then it’s done and I’m standing in the middle of Katmere’s laundry room in my gargoyle form—and nothing has ever felt so weird. Really, really weird.
Now that I’ve shifted, I keep holding on to the string deep inside me, but I let go when Hudson tells me to.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as he grins down at me. And, on a side note, can I just say how goddamn unfair it is that I’m short, even as a gargoyle? I mean, I just turned to st
one for God’s sake. Can’t I at least grow a few inches along with the transformation?
“You’re never going to stop complaining about that, are you?” Hudson asks.
“Never!” I answer immediately. But I’ve got bigger things than my height to worry about right now. “Why can’t I hold on to the string?” I mean, it’s no big deal—it’s not like it’s burning my stone hands or anything. I’m just curious.
“Because I’m pretty sure the longer you hold the string, the more like a statue you become. But shifting to right here, to this point, lets you move and walk and fly,” he tells me.
“Oh! So pretty important, then, huh?” I joke, right before I decide to see if Hudson is right.
Turns out, he is. I can walk. I can also dance and spin in circles and jump so hard, I shake the whole floor. And it is absolutely amazing!
There’s a part of me that wants to see if I can fly—I’ve already wiggled my wings and they work—but there are a couple of problems with that. One, we’re inside, and if I can’t stop, I really, really don’t want to explain to Uncle Finn why I’ve either knocked myself senseless or crashed through one of the castle walls.
And two, which is really just a sidebar of number one, I have absolutely no idea how to work these things. I’m pretty sure one day in my Physics of Flight class does not qualify me to operate wings, even if they are on my own back.
Suddenly, I remember the pic Macy showed me and I reach up… Sure enough, there are the horns. Sigh. At least they don’t feel that big.
I don’t know how long I walk and stomp and twirl around as a gargoyle, but I know it’s long enough for my laundry to grow cold and wrinkle.
Long enough for Hudson to give up chasing me and slump down in the corner to watch, a non-sarcastic grin on his face.
More than long enough for my muscles to grow tired and shaky. Turns out it takes some serious effort to move this much rock.
I don’t want to turn back yet, though. I don’t know why or how, but there’s something ridiculously freeing being in this form. I thought I’d feel trapped or weighed down or claustrophobic, but instead I just feel…content. Like I’ve found a giant piece of myself that I didn’t even know was missing.
Eventually, though, I know I have to turn back to my human form. It’s late, Macy will probably be back from girls’ night soon, and I don’t want her to think I ditched her just to go hang with someone else. Plus, I have an early day tomorrow—we arranged to meet on the practice field at nine, and I want to get some sleep, maybe give myself a chance not to make a total fool of myself. Plus, Jaxon will be worried if he thinks I’ve disappeared again.
“Jaxy-Waxy keeps a tight rein on you, huh?” Hudson says, sarcasm back in full force now that he’s used up his decency quotient for the year—maybe even the decade.
I don’t answer him until I’ve changed back to human form—a process as easy as reaching for a bright gold string, which must be human Grace, and willing myself into my human body again. My clothes, which had turned to stone, shift back to cloth as well. “Jaxon worries ever since half the school, and his brother, tried to kill me.”
Hudson yawns. “To be fair, I was trying to kill him. You just got in the way.”
“Wow, I’m sure that makes both of us feel so much better.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t know making you feel better was my job.”
And just like that, I’m totally exasperated with him again. Also very confused. I mean, what was going on in his head earlier, when he burst in here and twirled me around the room like we were best friends or something? And what’s changed to bring him back to his oh-so-un-lovable self?
Not that I’m complaining. This Hudson I know how to handle. The other one completely freaked me out.
“Huh.” Hudson snorts from where he’s leaning a shoulder against the wall. “That’s what I get for being nice.”
“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t do that,” I agree. “It’s not a good look on you.”
“Please. Everything’s a good look on me and you know it.” He emphasizes the point by giving me what can only be described as a “male-model catwalk” look.
I burst out laughing—I can’t help it. And though Hudson pretends to be thoroughly disgusted with me, I’ve gotten to know him enough to recognize the gleam of humor deep in his eyes.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell him when I finally stop laughing.
“Is that an invitation?” he asks.
Suddenly my cheeks are burning and everything feels too hot. “To not be a total douche for the next six hours so I can sleep? Yes. For anything else? Not a chance in hell.” And with that parting shot, I pick up my laundry basket and head back to my room.
“Good. I didn’t want to break your heart anyway.” But he’s whistling as we make our way up the stairs, and it’s only after we get back to my room that I realize the tune is Flo Rida’s “Good Feeling.”
I don’t know why that makes me smile, but it does.
Which is probably why, when I slide into bed a few minutes later, I whisper, “Thank you, Hudson. I really appreciate all your help today.”
There’s a long silence, so long that I would think he’d fallen asleep if I couldn’t see his eyes. Eventually, though, he sighs and says, “Don’t thank me, Grace.”
“Why not?” I roll over so I can get a better look at his face as he leans up against the side of my bed.
“Because,” he tells me, indigo eyes burning hotly with a myriad of emotions I can’t begin to decipher, “if you do, I’m going to do something that you’ll regret.”
58
Always Look on
the Bite Side
“What do you get when you kiss a dragon?” I ask as soon as Jaxon answers his door. I reach up and idly twist the pendant he gave me in my hand. I’ve been wearing it nearly every day since I got back, but this is the first time it’s not buried under a ton of clothes.
He looks at me with sleepy eyes and says, “Nausea?”
“Close. Burned lips.” I hand him the tumbler full of blood I picked up for him at the cafeteria. “Here. Drink up.”
He takes it, a small grin playing around his lips. “Thank you.” Then he leans forward and takes my mouth in a short but powerful kiss. “I think I’ll skip the burned lips and kiss a gargoyle instead.”
“Good plan.” I put my own hot-chocolate-filled tumbler on the table next to his door, then wrap my arms around his neck as I pull him down for a longer, more satisfying kiss of my own.
Jaxon makes a sound deep in his throat as he moves closer. He kisses the corners of my mouth, then drags his tongue along the line of my lower lip before wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. “What about Hudson?” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
“He’s still asleep. It’s why I decided to meet you up here instead of in the foyer.”
“I like the way you think,” Jaxon tells me, even as he turns us so that I’m sandwiched between him and the wall. Then he runs his lips along the edge of my jaw and down my neck until he gets to the hollow of my throat.
“And I like the way you do that,” I answer, tangling my fingers in the cool silk of his hair as I arch against him.
“Good.” He skims lower, nuzzling the collar of my shirt down a little so he can kiss along my collarbone. “Because I plan on doing it for a long time to come. Mate.”
“Jesus. Corny much?” Hudson butts in out of nowhere. He looks as sleepy-eyed as Jaxon, and half his hair is sticking straight up. But—per usual—his sarcasm is absolutely on point. “I mean, seriously. Surely my brother can come up with a better line than that. Or is he just planning on stamping his name on your ass and calling it a day?”
I pull away from Jaxon with a groan before turning to face Hudson, who’s now leaning against the doorframe. “You know what? Bite me.”
“I’d love
to,” he fires back, his midnight-blue eyes burning hotly into mine as he leans in close and shows a fang. “Any particular place you have in mind?”
Out of the blue, a not-altogether-bad shiver makes its way down my spine, which in turn freaks me out so much that I jerk back so quickly—from both of them—that I nearly fall flat on my ass.
“Hey, you okay?” Jaxon asks, reaching a hand out to steady me.
“Yeah, of course. I just…”
“I think I know.” He lifts a brow. “Hudson’s awake?”
“Something like that, yeah.” I bend forward, rest the top of my head against his chest. And whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“Never apologize,” he answers. “At least not for that.” Then he steps back into his room, gesturing for me to take a seat on the couch while he heads toward his bedroom. “Give me a couple of minutes to brush my teeth and get dressed. Then we can go.”
“No hurry. We’ve got time,” I call out as he closes his door. Mostly because I’d planned for us to have a few more minutes before we went down to hang with the others…and before Hudson woke up. Apparently, I should have skipped the cafeteria run. But Jaxon looked so run-down all day yesterday that I wanted to make sure he got something to eat.
“Drink.” Hudson flops down onto the chair facing the couch. He slouches into the seat and stretches his long legs out in front of him, arms tightly crossed. His jaw is clenched. And he sounds pissier than I’ve ever heard him—which is saying something.
It’s also fine with me, because I’m feeling pretty damn pissy myself. “What are you talking about?” I ask flatly, as I have no interest in being cordial right now.
“He drinks, not eats.”
“Whatever.” I glare at him. “And will you please stop eavesdropping on my thoughts!”
“It’s not eavesdropping when you’re projecting them through your whole head like a bloody carnival barker,” he shoots back. “No offense, but it’s pretty hard not to listen. It’s also nauseating as fuck.”