Stone Cold Lover

by Christine Warren

  She gathered herself into a crouch, keeping her legs under her so she could move fast if she got the chance. Up, down, sideways, through a dimensional portal, she didn’t much care which direction at the moment. The only way that mattered was away. Leaning forward, she reassessed the situation.

  She could see the man lit by his aura of twisted menace standing in front of an alcove approximately twenty-five feet ahead of her and to the right. The gargoyle loomed between them, offering Fil a decent amount of cover for the moment, but she knew it wouldn’t last, especially if the lunatic took another shot at her.

  Part of her wanted to pretend that the man had blasted in her direction with some kind of weapon, like a pistol or a sawed-off shotgun—or a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, given the crater in the windowsill—but she knew better. A couple of quick glimpses of that nasty light swirling around him told her that the only thing the crazy man had attempted to harm her with was magic.

  And wasn’t that just a kick in the teeth?

  Of all the special abilities Fil had glimpsed in the auras of the people she met, she’d never seen anything quite like this. She’d never seen energy used as a weapon before. She hadn’t known it was possible. Ella’s abilities might have been the closest to this stranger’s, but whatever Ella had, she’d never discussed it with Fil, and it had always appeared to come from inside her somewhere, as if it were woven into the fabric of her being. This man’s aura was rooted inside him, but like some kind of invasive plant species it grew out of control the minute it pushed past the surface. It twined around him, feeding not on the faint bits of rust-colored light that surrounded him, but on the darkness.

  The wrongness of it seeped into Fil’s bones and made her shudder. She had to get out of here. If the loon kept circling, she might be able to seize a second’s worth of opportunity. Gathering herself into a desperate ball of fear and muscle, she prepared to make a break for it.

  “Naughty, naughty, stubborn little mousy. If I can’t charm you out, I suppose I’ll have to harm you out. Ha!”

  Instinct sent her flying, helped along by a hefty shot of adrenaline. She leapt not back under cover but forward, throwing herself out of the firing line of the man’s next bolt of malevolent energy. She could almost swear she felt it singe the soles of her boots before it blasted off the corner of the gargoyle statue’s enormous pedestal.

  And then the world shifted, because the statue suddenly stopped being a statue. In its place stood a seven-foot-tall stone-skinned warrior with a spear in his hand and fire in his eyes. The creature spread his wings and let out a bellow that knocked Fil straight onto her ass and made the crazy stalker across from her scream like a little girl.

  Hm, Fil thought hazily as the world went a little bit fuzzy, I wonder if they’ll let me have paints and canvas in the psych ward?

  Chapter Two

  Danger!

  His senses screamed a moment before the sleep left him, and in that instant he battled fiercely against the immobilizing chains of the magic that forced his slumber.

  The helplessness tormented him and confused him. This was not the way he woke. He recalled other stirrings, remembered the gray haze of sleep, followed by the instant rush of awareness, the way he sprang into motion almost before his vision cleared. That was the way a Guardian awoke, with an explosion of power and might. This slow and agonizing slog toward awareness would kill him; and with his death the Darkness would grow even stronger.

  His hearing came back first, what seemed like an eternity before the fog that clouded his vision began to dissipate. He could make out the sound of a male voice, thick with glee and evil, even while the words eluded him. He didn’t need to understand to recognize the Darkness in them. It poured from the male like the thick stench of sulfur, fetid and cloying, the mark of a dedicated servant. But he could smell nothing darker, nothing like the charred rot of the truly demonic.

  If none of the Seven had appeared to pose a threat to humanity, why had he awoke? The nocturnis, those who served the Darkness, could be dealt with by the Guild; they didn’t require a Guardian to intervene. Something was not right here.

  Awareness began to rush back. He began to see shadows through his hazy vision, and his hearing returned to full acuity. Now he could detect the faint stirring of breath and cloth somewhere very close to him, on the ground below his feet. He drew a breath and smelled something fresh and sweet, entirely at odds with the stench of evil that surrounded the male voice.

  Spar frowned—for he was called Spar, he remembered now, fourth among his brothers—and inhaled again. It was female, he realized, female and human, and when the bite of fear came to him, he knew it was in danger.

  “Naughty, naughty, stubborn little mousy.” The evil one spoke, his voice screeching with a madness that drove Spar to fury. “If I can’t charm you out, I suppose I’ll have to harm you out. Ha!”

  At once movement flashed from two directions, and Spar’s vision cleared in time to see a bolt of defiled magic blast from the hands of the nocturnis. It grazed the edge of his pedestal and impacted the wall behind with a quaking boom. At the same time, a blur of motion, all dark clothing and moon-bright hair, dove away from the very point of impact and tumbled hard into the adjacent wall.

  Without thought, Spar roared his battle cry and sprang off his perch into the air. His wings spread, muscles stretching for the first time in centuries, and he could feel their tips brushing the walls of the confined space. Spear in hand, he hovered just below the ceiling and saw the wave of terror and hatred flow across the nocturnis’s features.

  Good. The man should tremble and cower in the face of a Guardian’s rage. A single human, no matter how much power he drew from the Darkness, was no match for one of the warrior protectors in the midst of his battle frenzy.

  The nocturnis might be outmatched, but Spar still expected him to put up a fight. He almost looked forward to dodging a few futile spells cast in his direction, but instead of going on the defensive, the corrupt human screeched something in the foul tongue of Dark magic and flung a hand out in the direction of the dazed female.

  Spar bellowed in outrage, the sound nearly drowning out the shocked cry of the female human. He saw how she raised a hand to protect herself, but the nocturnis’s spell would not be denied. It blasted into her palm with a burst of muddy-red energy that made the woman’s pale skin glow as if lit from within. Spar could see muscles and veins and the tiniest, most delicate bones he could ever have imagined for a chilling instant. Then the light went out, and the female hissed as if she’d been burned.

  Rage welled within him, unexpected but undeniable. Only a worm would seek to harm a woman when a warrior stood before him in challenge. Of course, Spar should expect no better from a minion of the enemy.

  He drew back his spear, prepared to skewer the rodent where he stood. The cry stopped him.

  “Is that a fucking bomb?”

  The female had clutched her injured left hand to her chest, but her horrified gaze was fixed on the nocturnis and the strange bundle the man had withdrawn from beneath his robes. The item meant nothing to Spar, who saw a messy handful of colored wires, metal, and plastic, but the expression on the female’s face told him she perceived it as a threat even before the word bomb registered. He understood this word. Even if the Guardians had never used so cowardly a weapon, he had lived centuries enough to have witnessed the destruction such things could cause.

  “Hierophant wants the Guardian smashed!” The servant’s cry rang with madness, and Spar could see the sick fire of it in his eyes. “Should have smashed the cold, cold stone. But the mousy made me forget!”

  Hands fumbled with the misshapen bundle until an ominous click sounded and the pale green face of a digital clock began to glow.

  “Holy shit!” The woman scrambled to her feet, her gaze darting between the minion’s bomb and the Guardian warrior hovering above the floor. “I did not sign up to die tonight, damn it, and I refuse to wind up a feature on the morning n
ews. I am outta here!”

  Spar had had centuries to study the ways of humanity. He had, after all, been created to protect them from the Darkness; but in all his long existence, he had never witnessed a member of the race behave with quite so much foolish courage. Without an instant of hesitation, the small, fair-haired female tucked her head, rounded her shoulders, and launched herself straight at the cultist and his destructive device.

  She might very well have gotten herself killed. Should have gotten herself killed, he reasoned even as he found himself diving after her. She reached the madman a moment before Spar’s arms closed around her, and the force of her tackle knocked the nocturnis off his feet. The man went stumbling into the nearest window ledge, and the device in his hands tumbled free to skitter across the marble floor. It landed near the base of Spar’s pedestal with a series of sharp beeps and the rapid flashing of green lights.

  The female in his arms shouted an oath and attempted to free herself from his grip, but Spar was having none of it. He held tight even as her tiny hands beat frantically against his chest.

  “Let me go, you giant idiot! That thing’s about to blow!”

  The high-pitched squeal of the cultist emphasized the truth of that prediction. Somehow the bomb’s timer had been accelerated when the nocturnis had dropped it. Detonation was imminent.

  “Hold on,” he growled. There was no time for anything else.

  He had no way of knowing how powerful a weapon the cultist might have devised, but he gathered it was strong enough that it had been expected to shatter his immobile form into rubble. It was a cowardly, dastardly plan to destroy an enemy in such a vulnerable state, but it might actually have worked. Locked in his sleep, a Guardian had all the vulnerabilities of the stone form he resembled. Fortunately, something had awoken Spar before the plan could be carried out. A fully awoken Guardian was one hell of a lot harder to kill.

  Before he had even finished his warning to the small human, he had drawn her hard and tight against his chest and dragged her down to the floor with him. Folding himself in around her, he shielded her with his body and wrapped them both tight in the shelter of his wings.

  His feathers hadn’t even settled before the explosion shook the foundations of the building.

  Spar had his eyes closed against the potential debris, but he heard the deafening boom and felt the initial shock wave buffet him in a blast of scalding air. Shrapnel, some from the bomb, some from the destruction of the room around them, thudded and pinged off his wings and the bits of stony hide it managed to penetrate. He smelled the sharp tang of burned feathers, chipped stone, and blood, as well as something bitter and chalky that he assumed was the explosive itself. It filled his head and coated the back of his throat, and he rumbled his displeasure.

  In his arms, the female had frozen like a startled deer. He could feel her heart pounding against her breast, could smell her shock and terror. It sparked something inside him, something fierce and protective and somehow different from his basic drive to perform his duty. This feel wasn’t about protecting humans; it was about protecting this human, and to do that he needed to get them out of this space and away from the nocturnis. Quickly.

  He didn’t pause to think. He simply opened his eyes to the gaping hole in the building’s ruined wall and launched himself into the night. As the cool air rushed over him, rustling the tips of his feathers, he heard the wail of sirens and the hoarse cries of humans hurrying to the scene of destruction.

  Whatever they decided to make of the blast site and the cultist who had devised it, Spar didn’t care. He had the human in his grasp. Getting her to safety was his first priority. After that, he could start asking questions. For example, who in the name of the Light was she?

  And how had she awoken him from 250 years of sleep?

  * * *

  They’re coming to take me away, ho ho, hee hee, ha ha, to the funny farm …

  Fil hummed the words in her head and clutched hard at the thick muscles currently holding her suspended over the streets of Montreal. Since it would be her new theme song, she supposed she might as well start practicing. Insanity, after all, was the only way to explain the events of the last thirty minutes.

  Raging insanity, in the case of the final five, because that was how long ago she estimated an impossible animated work of art had swept her up into its arms and launched itself into a flight path she felt certain had not been cleared with Nav Canada. Because wouldn’t that be an interesting filing?

  Nav Canada, this is Gargoyle One. We are ready for takeoff from l’Abbaye Saint-Thomas l’Apôst. Please confirm.

  Roger, Gargoyle One. You are third in line for departure. Begin flapping at twenty-to-twenty-five wing beats per minute.

  The snort escaped without her permission, puffing against the smooth, stone-textured skin under her cheek. If she was going to lose her mind, at least she could maintain her sense of humor about it. That might help her adjust to the secure ward they’d likely place her in. She could giggle her way between her doses of medication.

  Provided, of course, that this really did turn out to be a hallucination. Fil supposed she shouldn’t discount the possibility that she had in actuality just been kidnapped by the statue of a monster come to life. It wouldn’t be the only strange thing that had ever happened to her.

  The strangest, sure, but after you grew up being able to see when a person’s words didn’t match the intentions in their energy, you learned to keep an open mind. So if she had landed in the clutches of the bogeyman, she might still end up as table scraps in some sort of demonic landfill. You know, after the fiend had finished sucking the marrow from her bones.

  Either way, she could think of at least a dozen ways she’d rather spend the next few years of her life, and they all hinged on her being alive. As well as in full possession of all her mental faculties.

  At the moment, those faculties had begun to warn her about a change in altitude. She had barely enough time to squeak and clutch harder at the one in charge of those things before she felt a gentle bump. The sensation of motion halted, and her boots touched the ground beneath her. Followed closely by her jeans-clad ass when her knees buckled, her legs refusing to hold her up in the face of systemic shock.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Fil looked up reflexively. Above her—way, way above her—a surprisingly human voice emerged from the face of what looked like a monster. Admittedly, the voice rumbled about an octave below bass and managed to make James Earl Jones sound like a soprano, but it spoke easily and fluently and not at all like a slavering beast. In fact, something inside her relaxed at the sound of it, releasing at least a little of the tension that had her tied in knots that should have earned some Boy Scout his merit badge.

  Of course, that still left a whole boatload of tension.

  Fil shook her head. “I’m not hurt. I might very well have lost my ever-loving mind, but physically I’m just peachy.”

  Despite the cold damp seeping into the seat of her pants, she realized she spoke the truth. She felt fine, not as if she’d been caught in the middle of a bomb blast at all. Her legs still resembled limp rubber bands, which was why she hadn’t bothered trying to get to her feet yet, but she couldn’t detect so much as a scratch on the rest of her. Somehow, she didn’t think she could chalk all that up to the protective characteristics of worn jeans and a battered leather jacket, either. The figure that loomed above her deserved the credit.

  “You protected me from the explosion,” she said, frowning up at him. “I should be asking you if you’re hurt, not the other way around.”

  The creature made an impatient gesture. “I am unharmed. Such a paltry attack caused no more than a few minor abrasions to my hide. A Guardian is designed to withstand much worse.”

  “A Guardian? Is that what you are? I’d have gone with figment of my imagination, personally, but I suppose you’d be the expert.”

  Fil shivered, and thought vaguely that chills were one of the symptoms of shock. T
he fact that she might be going into it proved somehow reassuring and terrifying at the same time. On the one hand, if she could experience shock, she might not have lost her mind, which meant that everything she had just experienced was real.

  On the other hand, it meant everything she had just experienced was real; and that in turn meant that she was currently sitting on the ground in the middle of a field having a conversation with something that should not even have existed.

  Holy hell.

  “I am one of the seven Guardians of the Light,” the not-figment confirmed. When he hunkered down on his beast-like legs, she could see the serious expression gracing his stern, inhuman features. “What I am curious to know, however, is why you have awoken me from my slumber, little human, and in what manner you were able to accomplish it.”

  Fil snorted. “You’re asking me? Buddy, I’m not even sure I know my own name anymore, so I am not the girl to go to for answers. You’d get more out of that tree over there.”

  “You are injured.” The creature scowled and reached out with a surprisingly gentle claw to lift her face to the light. “Where is your wound? How badly does it pain you?”

  “I told you, I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”

  “Are you? What about your hand?”

  The reminder caught Fil off guard, and the throbbing sensation in her palm that she’d almost forgotten returned in a rush of hot discomfort. Great. She’d been happier when her subconscious had blocked out that feeling in favor of more immediate concerns.

  Not that having a limb feel like it had been stung by five thousand angry bees was an easy thing to forget, but a lot had happened in the last couple of hours. Fil had been a little preoccupied with flying over the city sans airplane to worry about a flesh wound, until her erstwhile rescuer brought it up again.

  She recalled seeing the maniac in the robe turn on her when the gargoyle confronted it. Throwing her hands up to shield her face had been pure instinct. She hadn’t known what the bastard had planned, but after the havoc he’d already wreaked in the chapter house the bolt of Dark energy shouldn’t have surprised her, especially when she had so many other surprises to contend with.