Heart of Stone

by Christine Warren

  “Is everything all right out here? I thought I heard someone shout.” Bea’s voice was like a chorus from the heavens in Ella’s ears.

  Quickly, she shifted from behind Stanley’s taller frame until she could see her boss standing in the doors that led from the back hall onto the terrace. She flashed a smile she knew lacked a certain sincerity and used her free hand to gesture to the man still holding her in place.

  “I admit I got a little bit of a scare from Mr. Stanley here,” Ella said, her voice tight but determinedly cheerful. The last thing she wanted was some kind of nightmarish scene involving lodging a complaint about the lecher’s behavior, or even worse, filing some sort of assault charge with the city police. “I didn’t think there was anyone still here but you and me. He startled me.”

  Bea’s dark gaze moved from Ella to Stanley, making note of the tiny details her keen eyes would never miss, like the way the man gripped Ella’s arm, the disheveled wrinkles in her cardigan, and the bright red hue of Stanley’s left ear.

  The assistant museum director raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. “The two of you certainly startled me,” she said. “I knew you were out here, of course, Ella, but I was afraid you might have hurt yourself.”

  “No, no. I haven’t been hurt, just shaken up. Actually, I was just offering to show Mr. Stanley to the front doors. I know you locked up when the last of the guests left, and I didn’t want him to think he was trapped.”

  Stanley frowned and released Ella’s arm to straighten the lapels of his evening jacket. “Béatrice, I think you should know what really happened here. I—”

  Bea lifted a hand and firmed her lips. “And I think you should know that we’ve been acquainted for more than five years now, Patrick. I understand very well what happened here, and I honestly don’t think it would do anyone any good if we discussed it further.”

  Stepping aside, she gestured toward the ballroom doors. “Now, seeing how late it is, please allow me to walk you out. Tonight was a wonderful success for the museum, and I’m certain Dr. Lefavreau will express his gratitude to you the very next time he sees you. Shall we?”

  Ella watched as Patrick Stanley weighed his options. She knew his pride was wounded, not to mention his eardrum—for the sake of her lifelong desire not to be sued, she just hoped she hadn’t ruptured it—and any man as arrogant as he was couldn’t possibly be happy about having his plans thwarted.

  She also didn’t doubt he was surprised to have his incipient lie about being the injured party in any circumstances involving her burst like an overinflated party balloon. She could practically see his desire to scratch the itch caused by her refusal to cooperate with him, and Bea’s untimely interruption.

  If the man hadn’t just attacked her, she might even have been moved to sympathy.

  Or at least morbid humor.

  At the moment, though, she just wanted him gone and a little time alone to get a hold of herself. The aftermath of the adrenaline flood in her system had started her hands shaking, and her mental shields needed a serious tune-up, but there was no way she was taking her eyes off Stanley until she knew the man was locked firmly on the other side of the museum’s heavily carved wooden doors.

  After a long moment of crackling tension, Stanley admitted defeat. Sort of.

  He gave Bea a curt nod and stalked across the terrace, pulling out his cell phone on the way. “I’m suddenly more than ready for this evening to be over. My driver will pick me up out front. Let Lefavreau know I’ll be calling him in the morning.”

  Stanley focused on his phone as he composed some sort of text message, so he missed seeing Bea’s eyes narrow at the threat.

  By the time he glanced up, the woman had mustered a sharp smile and waved him forward. “I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to listen to whatever suggestions you have for the museum’s future. Ella, I’ll lock this door as well.” She glanced back at Ella. “You head on home now. Mr. Stanley and I will leave by the front door.”

  Ella caught the final hate-filled glare the man shot her way and could just imagine what kind of suggestions Stanley would make tomorrow; first would be firing the museum’s gift shop manager, but she’d have plenty of time to worry about that later. After she got a hold of herself.

  Left alone, she felt the tension drain from her in an abrupt rush, leaving her dizzy and weak-kneed. She needed to sit for a minute and remind herself how to breathe.

  Carefully, she crossed to the far side of the terrace to perch at the feet of her favorite work of art in the museum’s entire collection. Its familiarity and looming presence comforted her, made it possible for her to think and be and regain her balance.

  Affectionately known by the staff as Sir Arthur Conan Gargoyle, the enormous sculpture crouched atop a pedestal of polished black slate, its furious gaze trained over the rear of the building as if daring any evil spirits to attempt a breach of its domain.

  Too bad it hadn’t noticed Patrick Stanley.

  Technically, the statue was a grotesque, not a true gargoyle. Sir Arthur had been carved from a single block of dark French limestone sometime around the beginning of the eleventh century. Because he was solid through and had never been intended to channel rain water away from the sides of a structure, he couldn’t be correctly called a gargoyle, even though his appearance brought the term to mind as soon as anyone laid eyes on him.

  Standing erect, he would have easily reached seven feet tall, and the spread of his huge, batlike wings would likely have tripled that. He had horns like a ram curling backwards from his broad forehead, and thick, lethally sharp claws tipped each of his fingers, as well as the eerily prehensile toes on his raptorlike feet. He wore a frozen snarl on his chiseled features, exposing long fangs beneath curled lips.

  What had always fascinated Ella about the statue, though, were the contradictions the artist had carved into the fierce predatory beast he had sculpted. His face didn’t look like the face of an animal. In spite of the faintly flattened nose and the threatening fangs, Sir Arthur appeared remarkably human, more like a fallen angel than like a devil. That impression drew support from the exquisite detail of the cherubic curls adorning his head, clustered around the base of his horns and even dipping over his forehead. His cheekbones gave him the look of a warrior king, and despite his thickly muscled tail, the bulk of his physical attributes painted him as more man than animal.

  Ella liked to think the artist had seen him as she did—a fierce guardian, willing to battle evil on its own terms, determined to protect his charges against any harm.

  From what Bea had told her, Ella knew that the sculpture had a long and slightly murky history. Obviously French in origin, it had likely adorned the battlements of some abbey or castle for centuries before making its way to England during the Enlightenment, and subsequently along a convoluted trail that had finally delivered it into Western Canada.

  Everyone who caught a glimpse of it marveled at its condition, for nearly a millennium of exposure to the elements had smoothed away remarkably few of the details that made it such an impressive work of art. The museum’s director had supposedly gloated for weeks after acquiring it a couple of years ago, and frankly, Ella couldn’t blame him.

  It was not only her favorite piece in the collection, but also her favorite sculpture in the world. And if there was something almost alive about it, something that made her sixth sense prickle and tested her resolve to remain always in control, she was happy to ignore it for the chance to simply stare at its angles and curves. She never tired of looking at it.

  Hence, all the ribbing she took about being in love with Sir Arthur. The comments might have bothered her, if she hadn’t dated infinitely worse male specimens.

  If Bea hadn’t interrupted a few minutes ago, she’d have become way too closely acquainted with another one. Suppressing a shudder, Ella closed her eyes, blocked out the memory, and focused on regaining her composure.

  It took a few seconds for the quiet sigh of inhale and exhale to deepe
n and relax, and another minute before her hands could fully register the cool, smooth texture of the slate at her sides. When she felt normal again, she tilted her head back to gaze up at the underside of the statue’s sharply angled jaw.

  “You know, that pleasant little scene never would have happened if you’d been doing your duty,” she griped half-humorously to the silent guardian. “You’re supposed to repel evil. Talk about lying down on the job.”

  With her chin up and her eyes on Sir Arthur’s corded throat, Ella never saw the shadow moving toward her, never heard the footsteps approaching. But she did hear the loud crack of reality fracturing all around her.

  Along with the stone shell of a suddenly very animated inanimate gargoyle.

  Chapter Two

  He had slept for so long that he nearly forgot what the world sounded like. A human scream, however, jarred him back to consciousness.

  One moment he crouched poised on his pedestal, frozen in the same position he had occupied for more than a thousand years, and the next, he heard the crack of stone as he lifted himself to his feet.

  Kees—that was his name, he remembered—shifted and flexed muscles too long unused. With a half beat of his unfurled wings, he launched himself into the air above the human, landing easily a few feet in front of her. Between her and the evil now attacking her.

  For some reason, the woman only screamed louder.

  Kees ignored her. All his attention focused on the man moving toward them. The darkness of the terrace didn’t bother him; he’d been designed to see in the night as clearly as a human saw in the day. More clearly. He had no trouble making out the rage-twisted face of the attacker, or the dark, pitted blade of the dagger the figure clutched in one fist.

  Damn cultists never cared properly for their weapons.

  The man darted to the right, trying to skirt around Kees to reach his target, but gargoyles had a lot more “around” to them than most creatures. With a shift of his shoulders, Kees spread his wings and used one sweeping motion to send the attacker through the air. Also unlike gargoyles, humans tended to land with a splat.

  This one added a thud, then lay still. In the battle between the stones of the terrace and his skull, the stones had predictably won.

  Turning to the woman whose screams had woken him, Kees examined her curiously. Her distress should not have been enough to penetrate his magical slumber and draw him back to consciousness. Only the threat of great, demonic evil unleashed on the mortal world should have done that.

  So what was he to make of this ordinary human?

  She was smallish, the way humans always looked to him, though he judged her even smaller than most, barely a couple of inches over five feet. Her features were soft and even, her lips bow-shaped, her hair light brown and fine. Skin fair enough to glow in the moonlight framed eyes wide and gray with no hint of blue or green to muddle their purity. And in that moment, they stared at him in pure, frozen terror.

  Lifting a hand, he stepped forward. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Even to his own ears, his voice sounded harsh and coarse from centuries of disuse. It rumbled out of him like the growl of a primitive beast, and he cursed himself when her expression filled with panic.

  “You are safe with me.” He took another step, wincing when his thick skin scraped across the terrace like stone on stone. He had regained movement, but he still retained his hard armored shell. It would take a while longer for his skin to soften to something more natural. “I mean you no harm.”

  Briefly, he let himself hope that her silence and stillness meant she intended to listen to him. He had sensed the magic in her; he knew she couldn’t be ignorant of it in the rest of the world. If he could ask her a few questions, she might be able to tell him how she had woken him, what battle he needed to fight.

  Then she spoke, and his hopes plummeted.

  “I have to wake up,” she muttered to herself. “Why can’t I wake up? This is a nightmare. It can’t possibly be real. None of this can be happening. Maybe if I pinch myself.”

  Kees watched, half-impatient and half-confused, as the woman lifted a hand to her opposite arm and twisted a fingerful of flesh.

  She yelped and stared up at him. “Holy shit. I’m not dreaming, am I?”

  In spite of her words, her eyes did have a glazed appearance. Perhaps the man who had attacked her frightened her more than Kees had thought?

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the still-unconscious human slumped where he had landed. He really hadn’t been much of a threat. Then Kees recalled what he remembered of humans from his last awakening and bit back a sigh. Some of them did seem to be as cowardly as field mice.

  “No, this is no dream,” he growled, scowling down at her. He needed to know why he had woken and would prefer to waste no time in finding out. For that, he needed the human awake and aware. “This is, however, a serious matter, and I require answers from you, human. How did you awaken me? Where is the creature I must slay?”

  “Slay?”

  Her squeak even sounded like the noise a mouse might make. Kees sighed. Aloud, this time.

  “Where is the threat, human?” he demanded. When she only continued to stare, he stepped forward once more only to see her expression blank and her jaw drop open. Like the animal he’d compared her to, she scurried backwards and watched him as if he’d grown cat’s whiskers and a hungry expression.

  He made a concerted effort not to swish his tail.

  “As I have said, I am no threat to you,” he sighed, reading her disbelief in her wary and still dazed appearance. “Come, I will prove it. Take my hand.”

  He reached out to her, not even noticing the way his thick, razor-sharp talons caught the moonlight and glinted, looking almost liquid in the silvery light. Almost like they’d been coated in blood.

  But the woman apparently did notice, because her next squeak turned quickly into a full-fledged scream, and she nearly fell over her own feet as she scrambled away from him.

  Damn it, he didn’t have time for this.

  Muttering a curse, he closed the distance between them in one long stride and seized the woman’s arms in a careful grip. He intended nothing more than to stop her from fleeing, but perhaps she misunderstood, because the moment that his rough skin touched her, she raised her hands and blasted him with raw magic.

  * * *

  I have. Lost. My. Mind.

  Ella’s first thought upon realizing she was about to be attacked for the second time in one night seemed perfectly reasonable to her. What other explanation could there be?

  She should have been safe inside the secured confines of the museum property—at least once Patrick Stanley had been escorted from the premises—because she should have been alone. A man with a knife certainly shouldn’t have emerged from the shadows and come gliding toward her like a slice of walking evil.

  Most of all, though, she should not have just witnessed a thousand-year-old statue springing to life in her defense, because things like that simply didn’t happen. Not in the sane world. Statues didn’t move, they didn’t fly, they didn’t knock would-be muggers unconscious, and they certainly didn’t speak to people who had not just slipped over the edge into the land of certifiable lunatics.

  Therefore, Ella had lost her mind.

  Simple, really.

  She was almost ready to close her eyes, click her heels together three times, and head back to Kansas when the statue turned away from her unconscious attacker and held out a hand.

  “I won’t hurt you,” it rumbled.

  As if it wasn’t a freakin’ gargoyle!

  Him, her impertinent mind quickly corrected. Even with the scrap of fabric masquerading as a loincloth covering up the evidentiary bits, the statue was unquestionably a him. Male. From the top of his horns to the tip of his tail.

  Horns!

  Tail!

  Panic robbed Ella of her voice, so that all that emerged of her intended scream was a strangled, high-pitched chirp. Her heart formed a knot
in her throat, and her eyes goggled, staring helplessly as the monster in front of her leaned forward, cutting off the light, the sky, the world, until all she could see was him. Chiseled features, sharp fangs, and eyes like pools of starless night sky.

  She nearly passed out.

  Fortunately, she caught herself before the edges of her vision could go more than a bit hazy.

  Ella had no intention of being the dumb blond girl who got eviscerated before the end of the first act. Not only wasn’t she blond, but she was also not dumb, and she was not helpless; and if she found herself almost as scary as she found her present situation, at least she knew that this time, she wouldn’t be hurting any innocent bystanders.

  Fifteen years ago, Ella had sworn to herself never to open this door again. She had slammed it shut and mentally nailed it over with stout boards. What was inside it, what was inside her, had never brought her anything more than fear and pain, but tonight, it might just bring her freedom.

  Turning her head away from the sight of the monster who threatened her, she clenched her teeth, braced herself, and reached for the door handle.

  It slammed open with the force of a Category 5 hurricane.

  Ella tried to steel herself against the screaming. Now she could close her eyes. Now she had to close her eyes. She couldn’t watch what would follow.

  It didn’t matter how many times she told herself that she had no choice, that it was her life at stake, that it wasn’t like the last time. Last time had been an accident. She hadn’t known what would happen, hadn’t even recognized it when her control snapped and her world ended. Then, her loss of control cost her everything. This time, she had nothing left to lose.

  If she could have stepped out of the stream of energy and run screaming, she would have, but since the badness flowed straight through her, all she could do was to wait for the monster to let her go, and pray that it happened fast. Then she could start forgetting. Again.

  She knew her mind replayed the echoes of old screams, and she concentrated on blocking those out. She frowned when she realized that without the memory-screams, the room sounded oddly quiet. The waves of energy created a rushing sound in her ears, like a constantly incoming tide, but nothing sharp or shrill rose above the steady whoosh. No one was screaming.