by Ryals, R. K.
"Shhhhhhh . . ."
He is crooning softly in my ear as if I am a child needing soothed. He frightens me. They all do.
"I need you to try and calm down, Em. We're not here to hurt you. I know things are scary. But what is after you is a helluva lot scarier than we could ever be. We're gargoyles, a race of people created to guard against evil. That's the short version. We don't have time for the long. Roach, there, is a specific type of gargoyle. Some of us are unique, have certain powers. Roach's line has the power of invisibility. He's going to get us out of here."
His words are meant to be comforting, an explanation maybe, and still I fight. He moves as he speaks, his words breathless as he works to keep up with Roach and Will while trying to manage me. We aren't in the cubicle anymore, but where we are is beyond me. We are speeding through the hospital so swiftly, the walls and floors blur into one. Occasionally we slow, and I catch a glimpse of the serpentine Roach curling around corners. I am still screaming against Conor's stone hand.
"Hang on, sweetheart," Conor breathes as he pushes through an opening. Wind pummels my hair.
I take in the scene absentmindedly, concrete below my feet, a blue open sky above. It is noon, that time of day when the sun is brutal no matter how cold it is outside. There is no doubt we are on the roof. I thrash harder.
"Damned if you aren't a resilient little thing," Conor grounds out as he tightens his grip before bracing his feet against the roof. There is a loud "whoosh," and we are suddenly airborne. Oh my God! I kick furiously.
"Now is really not the time to keep thrashing like that," Conor points out.
His arms loosen somewhat, giving me enough maneuverability to glance in a direction other than forward. I make the mistake of looking down. My fingers dig into Conor's arms.
"OMMMMMMGGGGGGOOOOO," I scream against his now human-like palm.
I look up frantically only to find myself staring at huge bat-like wings. It is obvious they belong to the man holding me hostage. I scream again before thrashing against his hold. Better to die now. I am definitely hallucinating. Conor's arms tighten again, strong enough to squeeze the breath out of my lungs.
"Sweetheart, at this rate, we are both going to be sore as hell tomorrow."
I think, if I hadn't been pretty sure I was having coma-induced night terrors, I would have been amused by Conor. He is quite the figment of my imagination.
I see the serpentine Roach from the corner of my eye, floating on air currents nearby while more "whooshing" behind marks the vigilant presence of Will Reinhardt.
Roach growls, his reptilian voice hoarse and rumbling.
"Just so you know, that was a very messy Extraction."
Chapter 5
Conor
The girl is a mess. She has calmed down some, the fight draining out of her. Her hair is long and dark, hanging down her back in tangles. There is dried blood everywhere. Her face, if clean, would have been smooth. Her skin seems flawless. But it is her eyes that first catch my attention. They are amber. They are terrified. They are tinged red.
"Try breathing in and out slowly. I hear that helps," I suggest as Emma struggles weakly.
Her eyes roll up, watching me with enough bottled up anger and distrust to take out a small country. The color of her irises keeps dancing between amber and scarlet. It is disconcerting mainly because I know only one kind of creature whose eyes change depending on their level of emotion. And, until recently, I had been intent on killing them all.
Emma thrashes weakly, her lips moving against my hand.
"Calm down, and I'll uncover your mouth."
I am being as patient as I can, but I am getting tired and irritable. The quick, lightning speed flight from France a little after five to a time zone six hours behind, and an unexpected hand-to-hand brawl with three grotesque hellions has taken its toll. Between Will and me, it hadn't taken much to discharge the trio, but I had taken a nice hit to my arm. The electric energy I'd been attacked with had damaged a nerve, and I am feeling sharp, shooting pains down my shoulder and into my back. The girl's thrashing isn't helping.
"Ipoooommmmiii."
She speaks against my hand, her head nodding almost frantically. I am pretty sure she's saying, "I promise," but even if she isn't I'm willing to take the risk. Having two arms to support her is ideal right now. I pull my hand away.
"My mother?"
She whispers it, but I hear it anyway. The question throws me. It isn't the standard first inquiry by people we Extract. Most people make instant "where are you taking me" demands. I respect her concern for her mother. I am extremely close to my own family.
"Sweetheart, your mom is fine. She's safe."
Emma shakes her head, her eyes wide and terrified. Her pupils are dilated. I don't understand her fear, can't comprehend why life in general seems to scare her so much.
"She's not safe. You don't understand. You're killing her!"
She starts to thrash again, and I grit my teeth against the resulting pain. It is getting easier to manage, my body healing it slowly, but it still hurts like hell. My arm loosens as a particularly violent kick causes the muscles in my arm to spasm. I swear as I rush to use my other arm to brace Emma.
"She is safe. S-A-F-E! But you're going to get yourself killed if you don't work with me here!"
Emma quits thrashing, her shoulders suddenly trembling with tears.
"I'm all she has now. My father is gone. She has lived for me after his death. For me! You. Are. Killing. Her."
I don't know how to respond to this. I have seen Emma's records. I know her father died of Lung cancer. I didn't count on her having a close relationship with her mother.
My own father passed away when I was an infant, but while my mother and I are close, she has also given part of herself to her work. It helps her live, gives her a reason to get past the pain of grief. Gargoyles are all about duty and family. We are split between the two. Sometimes I forget how the real world works. Even my closest friends aren't bound completely to their families.
I look down at Emma, at the back of her neck, at the way she reaches up to rub bloody tears from her cheeks. I am a gargoyle. I have the ability to turn to stone, but I'm definitely not made from rock.
"We have people who help the families of those we Extract. She will be okay, Em. I . . . I'll allow you a phone call when I can."
It isn't a promise I should make, but I make it anyway. The words calm her. Not completely, but enough that she becomes reasonably still.
"I'm going insane. I'm dying, and I just don't know it."
She is talking to herself, and it's obvious she thinks she is hallucinating. I can't blame her for that. One moment she's safe inside a hospital, the next she's bear hugging a therapist then being taken against her will by gargoyles. If I was even half mortal, I'd think myself pretty damn crazy too.
"What can I do to make you understand this isn't a dream? You aren't dying. You aren't even sick."
I ask her this softly, carefully. She is like a cornered animal, spitting and snarling until it grows too weary to lash out. But this doesn't mean she's any less dangerous. She doesn't know it yet, but she is powerful. Very powerful.
She tilts her head back, her eyes meeting mine before looking away. She is trying to hold my gaze and can't. But she keeps her head up, and I watch as she fights with herself. She is tall for a girl, her head stopping just under my chin.
"I don't know . . ." she answers. "What can you do?"
The play of emotions on her face is mesmerizing even under the layers of grime. She is so emotional and yet so guarded. I can read every emotion, but I can't for the hell of me figure out what they mean or what she is thinking.
"I'd ask you to trust me, but I figure that's pointless. I can tell you what I am. I can even tell you what you are. The believing it part will have to come with time."
She seems to consider this.
"Y-you said you were a gargoyle. Like those statues on Notre Dame?"
She is
playing along. For this, I am grateful.
"Somewhat. We are creatures created by the Heavens to guard against evil. Our lives are dedicated to this singular cause. Over the years, gargoyles have multiplied. We are family oriented, each family broken down by crests. We marry only our own race. Females take the crests of their husbands. We all serve the cause. We have the ability to turn to stone. Some of us have the ability to change shape, species even, such as Roach. We live a long, long time but we are not immortal. In the end, we are given a choice at death. Pass on or sacrifice ourselves for the cause. The ones who choose sacrifice turn forever to stone on their building of choice. In this form, they can forever communicate with us, to warn us when there is danger in their area. They also ward off evil."
I am being long winded, rambling even, but I need her to understand that we aren't a danger to her. And even this explanation is a condensed version. Gargoyles are complicated. Our lives, initiations, crests, and powers are something that takes years to learn. I still don't know it all.
"It doesn't sound real."
I smile.
"No . . . no, it doesn't. But, you must admit, it's too outlandish to be fake."
She doesn't smile in return, but I feel some of the apprehension in her body melt away.
"You don't know me well. I have a wild imagination."
I laugh at that, and she tenses again. I don't apologize.
"The only thing I know about you is what I've seen on paper. But, I promise, I know more about you than you do."
She frowns, and I know this unnerves her.
"You said I wasn't sick?"
So, she caught that. Good.
"No, you're not. Symptoms like yours are fairly normal for creatures like you. Fever is a given. The phobias I'm still trying to figure out."
She actually manages to tense more. If that be possible.
"Creatures like me?"
"Yes, creatures like you."
"And what would that be exactly?"
I prime myself for her reaction, tightening my arms, preparing to re-cover her mouth if the need arises.
"Hybrids," I answer. "Half-Demon, half-mortal children."
She surprises me again. Instead of screaming, instead of thrashing, she laughs. Laughs!
"Now I know you're lying!" she says, her words broken by giggles. I just shake my head and cock a brow.
"Oh, you'll see, sweetheart. It won't be an easy thing to accept, but you'll be forced to."
She grows still, her face a contorted battle between laughter and thought.
"Where are you taking me?"
Now that is a question I am prepared to answer.
"Right now? My home. It's a close safe haven. After that . . . well, you'll see."
If she thinks she's dreaming, it's the best answer I can give her. If telling her she is a hybrid Demon makes her laugh, telling her about the Acropolis will only result in a nice guffaw.
"And you'll let me call my mother there?"
She isn't going to let me forget my promise. We aren't supposed to allow hybrids contact with family, but I am willing to bend the rules. If for no other reason than to calm her, to force her to view this whole mission as reality.
"I'm not crazy, you know? I'm not weak," she defends.
I have been quiet for too long, leaving her question hanging unanswered between us. I look down at her messy hair, her even messier face. Her eyes are still dilated but no longer red. She won't meet my gaze. She shies away from everything. It seems weak. It looks weak, but I am the one holding her, and I know better. I know what she is going to have to face.
"It would be better if you were crazy. Crazy is easier. But weak? I don't see weakness."
She seems surprised by this observation, and she glances quickly at my face, her eyes staying longer than usual before looking away.
"What do you see?" she asks, her voice low and trembling.
I watch as Roach looks back at us, his reptilian eyes narrowed, his forked tongue shooting out rapidly. He is annoyed. I can't see Will, but I know he is shaking his head. I am such a glutton for punishment. I have always had a thing for wounded animals—a natural urge to protect the defenseless.
"I see a girl about to be faced with the biggest trial in her life. Maybe she will be overcome with the fire this knowledge will bring. Maybe she will burn, but I also see a girl that will rise out of the ashes, stronger. Powerful."
Emma shivers.
"You don't know me," she whispers.
I didn't disagree.
"No, I don't."
Chapter 6
Emma
Conor Reinhardt is charming. He is funny. He is handsome. And he is a figment of my imagination. If he isn't, then I am a hybrid Demon who isn't dying, and he is a gargoyle sent to Extract and guard me. Whatever that means.
After spending six years living under the fear of death, it is easier to believe he is imaginary. Old habits die hard.
"I'm not sure I want to believe you," I say quietly.
It just isn't easy to accept the world can change that drastically in an instant. He is saying that fairy tales are reality. Gargoyles? Hybrid Demons?
"I wouldn't want to believe me either," Conor replies. "But consider this; you have lived with a constant fever for six years with hospital stays and I.V.'s that couldn't reduce your temperature. Do you really think that's any less freakish than flying with a dude that can turn to stone?"
He has a point. But fevers are less frightening than his alternative. I had grown used to fevers. I'd had six years to come to terms with fevers. Six years.
"I can't be a Demon."
Why I say this is beyond me, but the words slip out. Conor sighs.
"It's not as bad as it sounds."
No, it is worse. Demons are terrifying creatures. They are grotesque. They are evil. I read books. And author renditions of Demons aren't comforting. They are horrifying. I am close to hyperventilating when Conor speaks again.
"Some Demons aren't evil. And hybrids are even less prone to being bad."
He is trying to sound reassuring, but I hear the reluctance in his voice.
"You don't sound like you believe that," I whisper.
He is quiet far longer than I feel comfortable with.
"I didn't believe it. At first. But . . . I have begun to see things a little differently recently."
"Recently?"
I am prying, but I feel I deserve any information he is willing to give. If I am imagining this, then it is one very interesting dream. Conor shifts almost uncomfortably, which I think impressive considering we are flying. I close my eyes and count to ten. Counting helps keep me calm.
"I have a friend who is working with a hybrid Demon. She seems to trust him, and I trust her judgment. And there have been others in the past . . . it's opened some eyes, made protectors like me realize that not all hybrids are as evil as their Demonic parent."
I am having a nightmare. I have to be. Demonic parent? I think about my mom, my adopted mom, and I feel tears prick the back of my eyes. She is an amazing mother. She is the only parent I need. She is the only parent I want.
"I'm not a Demon," I say coldly.
Conor's left arm tightens around my waist. His other arm lifts, his hand sweeping my hair out of my face before swiping some of the grime from my cheek. It is a familiar gesture, a gesture he seems entirely too comfortable with. Something tells me he's the flirty type, that he's used to being familiar with females.
"Life isn't about getting what we want. It's about turning the crappy cards we're dealt into a winning hand," he says wryly.
Now he sounds like a therapist. A good one, not one like Helen"Helga" Reed. Good therapists only give advice about things they know about.
"You sound like you speak from experience," I say.
Conor snorts.
"You could say that. Being a gargoyle isn't easy, Em. Sometimes it's easier being the bad guy. At least then, if you screw up, it isn't taken personally. It's just expected. The
lower your expectations, the lower you have to reach for approval. Mortals, even hybrids, have more choices than we do."
"Choices?"
I am getting sucked in.
"Choices," he repeats."About life. Gargoyles are born with our future planned. It's a noble future, and we have regular jobs as well, but it is still planned. We aren't punished for deviating, but we are demoted."
He is definitely speaking from experience.
"And have you ever been demoted?"
I ask this quietly. Even in my quest to know more, I am trespassing. Conor doesn't answer.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. It really isn't any of my business.
"No, it's fine," Conor assures."Yes, I've been demoted."
It is all he says, and I don't ask any more questions. I am tired, and I am still not entirely convinced this whole gargoyle/Demon thing is kosher.
"We're just above my home," Conor whispers suddenly in my ear, and I jerk. Logical Emma wants me to look down. Instinct tells me not to, and even without looking, I can feel the panic attack coming on.
"Deep breaths," Conor reminds me.
I start breathing in and out the same way pregnant women in labor do. It isn't attractive, but it is better than passing out.
"Deeper breaths, Sweetheart. You really don't want to meet my mother while only half-conscious. She's hard to deal with after eight hours of sleep and a whole pot of coffee."
I am practically panting now, my eyes squeezed shut.
"You're not helping," I say through gritted teeth. Conor chuckles.
"The only way to defeat these fears of yours is to face them."
It isn't that I disagree with Conor's logic, it's that I honestly don't want to agree with it. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, my breathing hard until I feel my feet hit something solid. And even then, I still pant like an idiot.
"You can look now," Conor says, his tone laced with amusement.
"You mother is going to love this," Will murmurs as he comes up beside us.
His words, dripping with sarcasm, finally makes me open my eyes. We are on a pleasant street in early afternoon. There are houses spaced a nice distance apart. We are facing a two-level red brick home with a wraparound porch and burgundy shutters. The sun glints off a pool just visible from where we are standing on the front lawn. There is a black Mercedes parked in the drive in front of a closed garage.