He smiled and wiped her cheek. “You haven’t seen the monster in me yet. There’s a dark side to everyone, human or otherwise. You just have to look beyond the shadows if you want a halfway content life.” He let her hand go and began to dress.
She reached for her borrowed robe. “Is that what you do with Nicholas?”
Damian grinned. “Nick is…a special case.”
“Is there any warmth in him? Anything human left at all?”
Damian kissed her cheekbone, high up by the corner of her eyes. “You know there is. You heard it last night.”
Riley caught her breath. “You knew!”
Damian smiled. “I suspected. You just confirmed it.”
Riley winced. “I am never, ever going to play chess with you. Ever.” She tilted her head. “Do you mind that I listened?”
He shook his head. “But you heard Nick give me his trust. I ask you to do the same.”
She drew in a breath. “Oh, Damian…you know how hard that is for me.”
“I know.” He picked up her hand and placed it on his chest, spreading her fingers. “Don’t say anything now,” he told her gently. “Sometimes just saying the words is the hardest part—like telling someone you love them. Loving them is easy, telling them you love them makes you break out in a cold sweat. For now, simply let me protect you and your interests and do what I have to do. Don’t fight me, Riley. Do you think you can do that much?”
She bit her lip. “I suppose.”
He nodded. “That’s all I ask.” His hand smoothed over the back of hers. He smiled at her. “You reached for me. You honored me. I will not forget that. I will always be here for you. Do you believe that?”
“Yes.” She did. Absolutely.
“Good.” His smile grew warmer. He let her hand go. “How does coffee sound?”
“Heavenly!” she confessed. “How did you guess?”
“Your mother was addicted to it.” He glanced at the clock over the fireplace. “Why don’t you shower and dress, and I’ll take you to the bistro on the corner. Then we’ll kick Nicholas out of his sulk. We need to speak to the sculptor.”
“That was what I said we should do,” Riley pointed out, sliding off the table.
“I know,” Damian agreed. He patted her backside. “Hurry up. The longer you take, the longer it takes to get your coffee.”
“And just how do you plan to kick Nicholas out of his sulk?” Riley asked, curious.
Damian pulled a cell phone out of his jeans pocket and hit a speed dial number, and waited for Nick to respond.
Riley heard Nick’s gruff response from where she stood three feet away.
“Riley’s had an idea that seems better than yours, Nick, so I’m following up on it. We’re going to visit the sculptor, Fábio Natan. He’s got a studio in that arts barn on Greenwich Street. If you’ve finished pouting, you can join us.”
He disconnected the call and pushed the phone back into his pocket, without waiting for Nick’s response.
Riley scrubbed at her mouth, trying not to smile. Then she gave up and just tried not to laugh. “He’ll kill you,” she told him.
“He can’t,” Damian pointed out. “He knows this is a good move, so he won’t even be mad.” He considered. “Not for long.”
Chapter Nine
The arts barn was a huge building that impressed even Damian when he saw it. “Natan must have won grants and subsidies to afford a studio here. I can’t believe carving gargoyles pays this well.”
The corrugated-iron-sided building looked like an aircraft hangar, with tinted glass panels at the top of the twenty-foot high walls, which ran for a hundred yards. The iron was painted an ochre brown, and Soho Arts Barn in Art Deco lettering ran across the length of the building. In smaller letters, only three foot high, was written “enter here” and a big arrow curved toward a small man-sized door that would have been overlooked otherwise.
Riley adjusted her coat over her shoulders again. The katana hanging from the reinforced lining tended to pull down the left front. She suspected she would get used to this, but for now, it was awkward and made her feel like a criminal. The carbon knife was also tucked away in the lining.
She had emerged from the bathroom in time to see Damian pack a switchblade into his jeans and a short-handled knife into his boot. The knife in his boot was compressed carbon. He had weighed up a flat, short sword before reluctantly returning it to the umbrella stand and opening the apartment door to usher her out.
Now he stood looking at the arts barn across the road with a frown.
“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” came a low voice from behind them.
Riley turned, barely startled. She had recognized Nick’s voice immediately, even at the low pitch he’d given it. He was standing at the mouth of the alley behind them, his arms crossed, leaning against the wall of the building.
Damian glanced at Nick, then back at the arts barn. “You’re thinking of the night Peter Grey died. That was a warehouse. Not even close.”
“But it’s an interesting juxtaposition of circumstances, all the same.” Nicholas straightened and stepped between him and Riley. “I didn’t appreciate the summons, even if the idea is sound.”
Damian kept his gaze on the barn. “You wouldn’t have come here any other way.”
“You brought her along, though. That was stupid.”
“You can’t keep her wrapped up in cotton wool.”
“I’m standing right here, guys,” Riley reminded them.
Nicholas glanced at her. “You should be back inside the warded apartment where it’s safe. I don’t suppose you’ll return there now, will you?”
“As this was my idea?” She laughed.
“You’re not ready,” Nick said flatly.
“Never will be if you don’t let me out,” she returned.
“And you will never get to protect a single soul if you’re dead,” he snapped.
She flinched, but managed to keep the reaction from showing on her face. “We’re just going to talk to the guy, Nick. What’s eating you? That this was my idea? Or that it wasn’t yours? Or that I’m doing something that you didn’t specifically tell me I could do?”
Nick grimaced. “Will you, just for once, listen to me and not argue every single point?”
“She wouldn’t be Riley if she did,” Damian said softly. “She’s like Tally. You couldn’t push Tally around, either, and that’s what you don’t like about this.”
Nick thrust a hand through his hair and sighed.
Riley stared at him, her mind working hard. Her heart, too. She was like her mother? She had known from both their initial reactions to her appearance and from Damian’s photo that she looked like her mother, but her appearance had always been such a negative thing that this had not struck her as being a particularly joyful piece of news.
But to know that she was like her mother in other ways, in the way she acted, in her doggedness—that was different. If she was even a little bit like the great Natalia Connors…well, it brought a small glow of comfort to her. It also brought home to her in a very real way the truth of her heritage, that Natalia Connors really had been her mother.
Riley let herself enjoy the warmth of the thought for a moment. She leaned into Nick, who was glowering over Damian’s pronouncement, and pushed at him with her hip. “Ah, just accept it, Nick,” she said, with a teasing note. “Who knows? You might get to like it, having a bossy bitch who doesn’t just roll over at your every command.”
She saw his eyes narrow a little. Then Nick moved more quickly than she could follow, for her back was suddenly bent over his arm, her torso stretched, his hand in her hair as he pulled her head back to extend her neck back, back, back, so that her face was lifted up to look directly into his. His blue eyes looked directly into hers, unblinking.
“There are certain commands of mine you will roll over and obey without pause or question, Riley Connors. Accept that.” His voice played along her spine like fingers over piano keys.
She swallowed. “Let me up.”
“Please.” Nick’s face hovered just above hers.
Riley could feel her attention narrowing down to just Nick’s eyes. Locking in. Being caught. He was doing it deliberately. “Let me go,” she whispered helplessly. “You know you have me cornered. That’s unfair.”
In a move that made her dizzy, she was abruptly put back on her feet. Nick held her steady until the dizziness past, and she realized that the expression on his face was bitter. “You’ll have to find a better card to play than that,” he told her. “Life is unfair, and nothing will change that, not even you.” He let her go, his hands dropping away like she was an unwelcome parcel.
Damian was watching beyond Nick’s shoulder, and Riley focused on him, confused and hurt. What had she done to cause that flood of bitterness in Nick?
Damian shook his head, the slightest movement, and she understood that she should not probe the matter now. She turned to face the barn across the street once more, her insides churning with the swiftly changing current of emotions moving between them. She couldn’t seem to keep up. There was too much she didn’t understand.
“Natan lives here as well as working here?” she asked, striving for a normal tone.
“With this much square footage? I would,” Damian replied.
“The man will be at home then, won’t he?” Nick said and stepped onto the road, barely pausing to look for traffic.
Riley plunged into the traffic after him, Damian following her, and they weaved through the cars and jumped onto the narrow sidewalk running beside the barn together.
Nick didn’t pause. He strode straight over to the small door and cranked on the handle. The door opened without resistance.
Damian went first, looking around carefully. Nick pushed Riley in after Damian, then closed the door behind him.
Inside was an empty foyer, with a bare, unpainted concrete floor. It was about eighteen feet square. The walls were painted soulless white and were unadorned. It was as if all the zany art effects had been used up by the exterior painting and there had been none left over for the foyer.
Three doors led off the foyer and each had their own intercom system next to it, and a nameplate over the intercom. The one on the immediate left was Natan’s.
Damian pressed the buzzer on the intercom, his other hand in the pocket of his coat.
After three minutes there was no answer, so he pressed again, this time holding the buzzer down for a good ten seconds.
They waited another thirty seconds.
“Who is it?” came the annoyed demand.
“I’m from the gallery,” Damian said, speaking loudly. “I have the new pro—” And he stopped speaking, dropping his finger from the intercom.
Nick pulled Riley away from the door, pushing her firmly to one side. He stepped up to the edge of the door himself, flattening himself against the wall to one side where Natan would not see him at first when he opened the door.
“What are you doing?” Riley demanded.
“Talking our way in,” Damian shot back.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she sighed. “You’ve forgotten basic human psychology.” She stepped back in front of the door, undid her coat, swiftly unfastened the top buttons of her cardigan, and ducked under Damian’s arm. “Let me talk,” she told him.
“What—” he began, but then the door opened.
Natan was a very short man in his mid-forties. He had a badly receding hairline. What hair he did have, though, grew as a wild and long fringe around the back of his head. He had a drop-away chin and very large, round brown eyes that looked permanently startled. Even so, they still widened when they saw Riley.
She smiled. “Hi there! We’re from the gallery.” She dropped her voice down a little, making it nice and throaty. “We came to pick up your bio for the new program.” She blinked her eyes at him and titled her head.
“What program?”
“The new one?” She put her hands on her hips and cocked one hip, jutting it forward. “They didn’t tell you? That just figures, doesn’t it? They didn’t tell me until this morning!” She giggled, and recalled the name from the manager’s office she and Damian had broken into yesterday. “Mr. Sandford thinks your profile hasn’t been brought out enough, so he wants to redo the programs. Build you up more. We need your new biography. A longer one. You’ve got one, right?”
Natan’s gaze ran over her, lingering on her cleavage. She could see him dismiss her as harmless. Coupled with the use of Sandford’s name, and the appeal to his ego, it packed away his defenses completely.
Natan glanced at Damian.
“This is Damian, my driver,” Riley explained, relegating Damian to a subservient role in Natan’s mind.
Natan stepped aside. “Come in.”
Riley felt Damian’s hand stroke the back of her neck. A quick touch, then it was gone.
She stepped in, Damian following. Nicholas stepped around and through the doorway, and Natan frowned. “Who are you?”
“This is Nicholas, my bodyguard,” Riley explained. “A girl can’t be too careful these days.” She beamed at Natan. “You understand, don’t you?” She pushed her chest out at him.
Natan nodded, although he looked wary. “Sure,” he said slowly. He stepped backward, rubbing his hands on his grimy tan trousers. “Well, the computer’s over here. I can print off the long bio for you.” He turned and headed for a computer desk against the wall.
The studio was an unfinished portion of what must have been an original aircraft hangar. The raw concrete floor was still unpainted and in places, the concrete was stained with old oil stains from aircraft and vehicles. The iron walls were unlined. Brand new steel heating pipes and outlets hung overhead, blasting heat into the space below, and looked oddly silver and shiny in the old space.
The big studio was dotted with massive hunks of stone that Natan was working on. Each was at various stages of development, and step ladders stood beside each, as well as portable working lights to shine upon the areas where Natan was working.
There was a bed and small fridge, computer desk and microwave to one side. The living quarters.
“While you’re doing that, could I ask a couple of questions, too?” Riley tapped Nick on the shoulder and pointed to the book open on the table next to her hip. The ancient illustration showed a gargoyle in full flight, and the gargoyle was drawn in fine detail. She nodded toward the nearest carving. The gargoyle taking shape was a replica.
Natan was bent over the laptop on the desk. “Like what?” he asked absently.
“Like, how did you meet Azazel?” Nick asked.
“Who?” Natan asked, still working the computer.
“The man who gave you this book, who told you to carve gargoyles,” Riley said.
“The demon who brought them to life,” Damian added.
Natan’s head jerked up. He looked at each of them, one after another. “You’re not from the gallery,” he said at last.
“Where’s Azazel?” Nick said. “Where did you meet him?”
“Who is Azazel?” Natan said. “And what do you people want?” He stepped sideways, but Nicholas moved faster. He reached over and picked up the phone and shook his head as he disconnected it from the wall.
“It’s the real name of the demon that brought your creations to life,” Damian told the little sculptor. “What name did he give you?”
“Jeremiah.” Natan swallowed. “He…is a demon?”
“What did he tell you he was?” Riley asked.
“He said he was a wizard. Like…” Natan sighed. “Like Gandalf.”
“You have to stop carving the gargoyles, Natan,” Riley told him. “You have to stop giving Azazel his raw material. You know what he is doing with them, don’t you?”
Natan blinked. “He brings them to life. So what?”
“He gives an old foe of humans’ life,” Nicholas corrected. “Have you not been following the news? These creatures feast on hum
an flesh. The police have been searching for a serial killer that you created, Natan.”
Natan flinched. “There’s no evidence to connect them with the murders. Nothing.”
“He knows,” Damian said softly.
Natan looked away.
“You have to stop,” Riley repeated.
“Why should I stop?” Natan flared, rounding on her. “Why? Six months ago I was living on the street! Now look at me! Now I’m somebody! Now I have cash in the bank. Now I have a bank account to put the cash in! People respect me! I’m making money hand over fist all because I can copy a picture out of a book and create the same thing in stone. Why on god’s green earth should I stop?”
“Because people are dying, Natan.”
“People die every day,” he said flatly. “My stopping won’t change that.”
Riley stared at him, horrified.
Laughter sounded from behind them and they all spun around to face the source.
From behind the half-completed gargoyle nearest Natan, a man stepped. He was in his late thirties, and had longish hair that brushed his collar, and midnight-blue eyes. A strong jaw. He was a handsome man, with wide shoulders and a determined set to his chin. He seemed familiar to Riley. “Isn’t that shockingly practical for a creative?” he said.
Both Damian and Nicholas stepped closer to her, bracketing her.
“Azazel, aping Carson Connors is just going to piss me off even more. You have to know that he and I never got along,” Nick said. His hand rested inside his coat.
The man smiled, showing even white teeth. “I thought I would show a pleasing disposition. The woman, here, has never had the honor, after all.” He nodded to her.
A shiver ran down her back. This is not my father, she reminded herself. But now she knew where she recognized him from—Damian’s photo and from the mirror she looked in every day. Her father’s eyes were like her own except in color.
“You’ve raised the original six, Azazel. Your work here is done,” Nick said. “Why are you still here?”
“I knew you would stop by to see Natan. How else would I pick up your trail?” Azazel shrugged. But his gaze flickered toward Riley, and it seemed his eyes glowed hot and red just for a moment.
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