by E A Price
Brom grinned, smugly. “I feel lucky that I have found a human mate…”
Tristan rolled his eyes, and his wings shifted impatiently. “Not this again.”
“I have a human mate!” growled Brom.
“Sure,” rumbled Castor, mockingly.
Brom looked like he was going to explode but Drago snarled and everyone silenced. He couldn’t abide anymore of their mindless prattle. Their droning voices was interrupting his thoughts of Martha, so with a look of annoyance he stomped away and left them to their idiotic chatter.
*
“Now there’s a male who needs a mating,” said Grey, when he was sure Drago was out of earshot. No point in saying anything in his presence – the huge, volatile male would always take it the wrong way. Like the time Grey called Annis a cotton-headed waste of space for a gargoyle – Drago went ballistic and tried to pound Grey’s head to a pulp. Completely unreasonable!
“Perhaps that is what he needs,” said Annis thoughtfully.
The others looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged her wings while her pixie-like features scrunched in thought. “Perhaps a mate would ground him and help him process whatever it is that upsets him constantly.”
Twenty-Six arched an eyebrow. “Process?”
Annis’ naturally pink cheeks turned even pinker. “I have been watching a lot of talk shows.”
“Where on this earth would we find a female willing to take him on?” asked Tristan.
Grey snorted. “I can see one right now.”
Twenty-Six looked alarmed before Grey growled and nodded at Ryia.
“Ryia?!” spluttered Castor. “You would put those volatile creatures together? Their mating night would surely destroy the whole house.”
Twenty-Six scrunched her nose in distaste. “Eww.”
“Perhaps it would be good for both of them,” said Annis.
Tristan shook his head. “Perhaps the angry female will incite him to violence more than normal.”
“Or, perhaps mating each other will calm them, particularly if they were to have younglings.”
“I’m not convinced she would not eat them,” sniffed Twenty-Six, stroking her tail.
They watched Ryia thoughtfully for a few minutes. Apparently, Ric had been assigned to her, and she was currently berating him while trying to spar with him. Ric was no slouch when it came to fighting – he was young, strong and skilled – but Ryia was formidable. It wasn’t unheard of for females to beat males in battle. Often females had more dominance than males. It was a general unspoken consensus that Ryia was going to pulverize Ric.
“Should we help him?” asked Annis, wincing as Ryia landed a particularly harsh blow to his head.
“He is young he will bounce back,” replied Grey dismissively.
“Perhaps having Ryia mated would not be a bad thing,” said Castor as Luc intervened in the sparring and Ryia tried to attack him as well. “Unless anyone else wishes to claim her…”
The unmated gargoyles all but looked at their feet. Yes, they had lamented the lack of female gargoyles in the clan, and of course, it was a boon that they had a new one. But that didn’t mean to say that they, in particular, wanted to mate her. The excuses came out thick and fast.
“I am waiting for my true mate…”
“I do not believe we will get along…”
“I am waiting to see if any of my other clan survived…”
“I am not sure I wish to mate at all…”
“I am not ready to mate…”
Twenty-Six gave Annis a double eye roll. Men she tried to communicate telepathically. Annis smiled, though she wasn’t sure she really understood what Twenty-Six meant. Annis had very little experience in romantic dealings with men, and only really with her mate – who to her was absolutely perfect in every way.
Castor looked at Brom. “What about you, Brom? Do you wish to claim her?”
Brom’s large chest inflated to the point where he looked like a muscular beach ball. “I already have a mate,” he roared, “and I am now the father of her young child.”
A matter he had disclosed several times to them over the past few nights, though no one seemed able to believe him.
“Of course you have,” said Tristan, trying not to sound patronizing but knowing he was failing.
“I have!” thundered Brom, his purple cheeks turning red.
Twenty-Six sniggered. “Yeah, you met her down in town, and for some reason, she didn’t go straight to the cops and tell them there was an inhuman buffoon perving on her.”
“I have a mate, and her name is Joely. Our child is called Daphne and…”
“Brom, you have a visitor,” said the very confused voice of Gustave as he approached, swiftly followed by a flame-haired human hauling a smaller version of herself in her arms.
“Brom!” she cried, running to him on wobbly legs.
“Joely!”
Brom leaped towards her and wrapped the two of them in his arms. Joely sniffled and snuggled against him while the young human – who they, therefore, took to be Daphne, giggled and grasped Brom’s horns.
They were attracting attention from everyone. The humans had come out of the house to watch. Drago had appeared. Even Ryia had stopped attempting to maim everyone and everything in sight to watch what was happening.
Still cradling the two females, Brom rounded on the gargoyles with a triumphant look.
“See!” he roared. “I told you they were real, I told you… ah,” he noticed Joely’s look of irritation and stopped, clearing his throat. “What is the matter, my love?”
“Some moron nearly ran over Daphne,” snapped Joely. “She was standing on the freaking sidewalk, and the guy almost plowed right into her. Took ten years off my life.” The anger dissipated and her eyes shone. “I’m sorry, I just… I was really freaked out.”
Brom smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead and then one to Daphne’s. “I am just glad my mate and child are well.”
He gave the other gargoyles a victorious look, flicked his tail and started carrying his new family into the house.
“Thank heavens Martha was there,” said Joely, calming slightly.
Drago seemed to perk up from his usual state of misery. “Martha?”
Joely snorted. “Yeah, she’s Maggie’s cousin and like a prototype for a Stepford wife, but she saved Daphne. Woman’s a damn hero – she really is perfect! Wait, aren’t you going to introduce me?” she asked as Brom hitched her further on his shoulder.
“Maybe later,” he chuckled, “when my clan mates’ eyes return to their heads.”
“Martha,” mumbled Drago walking away.
Daphne waved at everyone from over Brom’s other shoulder, apparently not as affected by her near-miss as her mother.
Grey was the first to drag his jaw off the ground. “Well that does it, if he can find a mate like her then surely Drago can mate as well.”
Chapter Fourteen
Martha ran down the sterile, white corridor. Alarms blared behind her as she fumbled with the key card.
“Damnit,” she hissed as door after door refused to open.
She needed to get out of here.
“Thank you!” she exclaimed as finally one door opened, allowing her through. She slammed it shut behind her
It was an office with a dozen monitors showing various areas of the hospital. It must be the security room, which meant a security guard was bound to return any moment.
Hastily, she scanned the monitors, searching for a way out. She paused as she noticed a man, pacing up and down, worry etched into his expression. He had more lines on his face, and his hair showed streaks of white, but she would know that man anywhere.
“Dad,” she whispered.
Martha jolted in bed, panting and looking around. Warm arms surrounded her.
“It was just a nightmare, my angel,” rumbled Drago.
“But…”
“Hush, just a nightmare.”
She relaxed back against him a
nd sighed as his tail snaked around her leg and his wings folded her in a reassuring and warm cocoon.
*
Martha smiled as she saw Dr. Crawley approach. Her kindly smile, lined face and cotton candy-like hair twisted into an elaborate bun immediately soothed her. Dr. Crawley always reminded her of a genteel grandmother – the kind she always wished she had instead of the vicious old bag she really had. Seriously, Gramma Edith was a nightmare – she trained her yappy little dogs to bite everyone. The mail carrier refused to go near her house in the end. Another reason Martha hated dogs – she’d spent more than her fair share of time balancing on her grandma’s fence while trying to bat her awful little dogs away with the end of a broom handle.
She yawned, and Dr. Crawley laughed as she sat across from her in the coffee shop. Yep, the nap she tried to take earlier hadn’t helped at all. Though, what with saving Daphne and everything, it had been a long day. Now it appeared that she was dreaming within her dreams. If she didn’t find a way to end her sleepless nights, she worried she was going to reach Inception levels of confusion.
“Sorry,” Martha murmured, “and thank you so much for meeting with me. I know you’re busy.”
Dr. Crawley twinkled a smile at her. “It’s fine, Martha. I can’t deny it was a surprise to hear from you, but it is nice to see you again.”
The woman had been her father’s doctor after he was committed. She wasn’t his doctor for long, but she had been kind and had tried to help him. Wanting to know more about her father, Martha reached out and asked her to meet for a coffee. She was surprised and pleased when Dr. Crawley said she had time that day, so Martha had eagerly driven to Portland.
They had met a few times in the intervening years. In spite of her mother’s insistence on trying to distance herself from her first marriage, at Martha’s urging she had persuaded her new husband to donate money to the hospital. They had seen Dr. Crawley at fundraisers over the years.
“What can I get you?” offered Martha.
She had already ordered a hot chocolate and a muffin for herself. Coffee was a no-no - the last thing she needed was caffeine.
“Nothing for me, dear, I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”
Martha nodded. “This may seem silly,” she started hesitantly, “ but I’ve just been thinking about my dad recently and…”
I’ve also been having raunchy dreams of a creature which turned out to be real, and now I think I’m psychic and think my dad may have been psychic too – please tell me I’m not completely bonkers!
There was no easy way to put all that into words and not be committed immediately.
“I’m not sure what else I can tell you,” said Dr. Crawley. “He was my patient for such a short time, and we never even reached a diagnosis.”
“No,” Martha admitted unhappily, feeling foolish for hauling ass to Portland and dragging Dr. Crawley out for nothing. “I don’t know what else you can say.”
After her dream about Daphne had come true – or almost came true – she took a longer, harder look at her dad’s journals. They were filled with his dreams; maybe he started to suspect he was psychic too and started jotting down all his dreams to keep them straight.
She was hoping to find out what her dad had told his doctor after he was committed, but realistically, if he told Dr. Crawley he thought he was psychic, would she really take him seriously or think it worth repeating?
Then there were her strange dreams about her father in the institute. It was possible they were all her own fevered imaginings, but in light of recent events, she was starting to wonder about them.
“The way he died…” Martha paused, unsure how to continue.
Dr. Crawley placed a hand over hers. “Your father was a very sick man, and in the end, he barely knew where he was, but even then it was evident that you meant everything to him. It was important to him to ensure you were protected no matter what. I regret we could not prevent what happened.”
Guilt flashed in her eyes and Martha was quick to reassure her. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up any bad memories for you, but did he ever seem lucid when you talked to him? Like he knew what he was saying?”
“At times,” she replied cautiously.
“Did he… did he talk about his dreams?”
She thought about it for a few moments. “Not that I recall, though it was a long time ago.”
“Of course. It’s just that I found some of his journals and they were filled with descriptions of his dreams. He seemed convinced he could see the future.”
She gaged Dr. Crawley’s reaction, not that there was much to gage. She merely seemed politely interested.
The older woman shrugged. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No, he did suffer from hallucinations. I expect reality blurred with his imaginings.”
“Mmm, yeah. He wrote about all these dreams about monsters with wings and tails.”
Dr. Crawley looked mildly curious at best. “Like demons? He did talk about creatures like that.”
“Really?” blurted Martha, failing to hide her excitement. “In what way?” she asked trying to calm her pounding heartbeat.
“Only that he dreamed of them.” Dr. Crawley laughed lightly. “He used to believe they were coming to take you away.”
She looked at her watch. “I really must be going. I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”
Martha sagged in disappointment. “No, it’s my fault, I don’t know what I was expecting after all this time.”
Dr. Crawley gave her a critical but kindly look. “You look tired and pale, dear.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well recently.” Understatement of the year.
“If you need to talk to someone…”
“Do you think I might be like my dad?”
“That’s not what I meant. If you’re anxious about what happened to your father or about anything in your life, talking to an objective professional may help. I have a number of colleagues I can recommend.”
She saw Martha’s reticence and patted her hand. “Think about it.”
She probably wouldn’t do anything, but still, she said, “I will, and thank you for your time.”
“It was my pleasure. Take care of yourself, dear.”
She left, and Martha stared down at her hot chocolate. That was a waste of time. If her dad did believe himself to be psychic, he clearly didn’t share it with his doctor. She just thought he was nuts – not that him disclosing the belief that he was psychic would have changed that.
Martha still couldn’t quite come to terms with what was happening. Part of her, the rational part, still clung to the belief that her dreams coming true were just a huge coincidence. But then how could she explain Drago? She assumed he was called Drago from her dreams, though she doubted he would have told her his name if she asked.
She had the strangest feeling like she was slowly sinking and there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Maybe she was going crazy, but whatever was happening to her, she couldn’t control it - and she hated feeling out of control.
Martha let out a long breath and tried to remember what her life was like three months ago. Honestly, it felt like a lifetime ago.
*
Dr. Crawley hesitated before she dialed. Maybe the call wouldn’t connect; maybe the number wouldn’t work anymore. It had been nearly two decades since she last used it. She’d kept the number. Kept it in her Filofax – she refused to make the leap to an electronic diary. She kept it as a reminder. A reminder never to do that again. Never to put her own needs before that of a patient. At the time, she’d told herself it didn’t matter. Allen was sick – he’d murdered a man in cold blood. He was either going to spend his life in a mental hospital or prison, either way, Martha would never have got her father back. His life was over either way. She’d thought the girl was young enough to get over it, but she was foolish for thinking that and at the time she hadn’t really c
ared how Martha would feel. She’d done it because she needed to so she could save her husband, Harold, and that was that.
Now, though, Martha was starting to ask questions. Why she wasn’t sure, but the young woman looked tired, and maybe she was starting to worry that the same thing would happen to her.
She didn’t have any expertise in the paranormal. Maybe it was something that could be passed down to children. But whatever it was, she couldn’t risk Martha exposing what she had done. Harold was well, but if he knew the truth, it might give him a relapse. Harold had always been so rigid in his morals; he didn’t really understand the sacrifices you sometimes had to make in order to survive.
Dr. Crawley dialed and held her breath. She recognized the cold voice on the other end of the phone immediately. Even after all these years, she still knew it.
“Helen Crawley? Now, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”
“You remember me!” she exclaimed, thinking that she should at least have had to jog his memory a little.
He chuckled softly. “Of course, you did me a favor, and I did you one. I’ve followed your career with interest over the years.”
The leaden feeling in her stomach seemed to be trying to drag her down even further. “Yes, it’s about that.”
“A little late to back out now.”
“I know,” she muttered, regretting her actions as she had done over and over. “But it’s about his daughter – I mean the patient’s…”
“Martha?” he asked keenly.
Of course, he remembered – why would she have hoped he would forget? “Yes, she wanted to meet with me today, she was asking questions about her father. She suggested he might have been psychic.” There was a horribly long pause on the other end of the phone. “I told her nothing of course,” she added.
“Good,” he said finally. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“What… whatever happened to Allen?” she stammered, hoping that it wasn’t worse than all of her imaginings over the years.
“That really stopped being your concern after you handed him over to me and faked his suicide, don’t you agree Doctor?”