I roll my eyes and lean in front of her toward the pot on the stove, smelling her soup before facing her again. I steel myself for her lecture and inquisition.
My aunt takes in a deep breath and with her gemstone-ring-covered fingers, smooths her hands down the front of her lavender dress—her favorite. Unlike my mom’s modern style, Lunette prefers the old-world look of the medieval style, bell sleeves and all. Mischievously, she plays with her long braid, which falls over her shoulder and has lilacs woven into the design.
“Are you hungry, dear?” she asks, fluttering over the stove, the crescent-shaped charms hanging off her metal belt clanking against it with each of her movements.
“Always.”
I watch as she spoons her soup into two waiting bowls and hands them to me. Without argument, I take them over to the small table as we take seats across from one another.
“Biscuit?” She waves a basket filled with the warm, buttery bread under my nose.
I sit back in my chair and pin her with a look.
“What gives?”
My aunt’s eyes widen. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Since when do you make homemade biscuits? Or honey-lavender butter?”
She bats her lashes at me innocently. “I’ve always loved a buttered biscuit.”
“Here we go.” I groan because Lunette can make anything sound sexual.
“Are you telling me that you don’t need your biscuit buttered, Llughnassad?”
“Aunt Lunette,” I scold. “My biscuits are fine.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fine is not a proper term to describe biscuits. I would hope that you would use a descriptive term, such as mind-blowing or earth-shattering.” She studies me. I squirm under her gaze. “Perhaps Gage doesn’t know what he’s doing?” she whispers.
My mouth drops open. “Gage knows what he is doing. I can assure you of that.”
“Is that so?” she challenges.
“That. Is. So.”
“Interesting,” she hums.
“What is?”
“Even with his otherworldly gargoyle good looks, and panty-dropping smile”—her eyes twinkle with appreciation—“I’ve always thought that Gage would be an inept lover.”
“What?” I practically screech.
“I have,” she confirms.
“Well, he’s not,” I grit out of a tight jaw. “He is very competent.”
Her lips twitch at my exasperation. “It is obvious the ladies love him. All that dark, tortured, sad, mysterious swagger of his. And, well, I’m sure he’s knowledgeable and quite skilled at the art of seduction and foreplay, with those long, perfect fingers he has—”
“Your point?” I growl, cutting off her rant.
“He’s emotionally unavailable.” She falls silent.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“For some, that might be hard to overlook when he’s . . . buttering their biscuits.”
I don’t answer her, because she’s right.
And it hurts.
My heart clenches.
Damn her. She throws me a knowing smirk.
“Never underestimate the power of the heart, Llughnassad. Especially when it comes to matters of the physical. Both are vital.”
“Can we stop talking about this?” I groan. “Please?”
Amused, she shakes her head at me. “Shall we discuss the weather instead?”
“Why have I been summoned to the magic dimension? For a Gage lecture?”
“You’re just like your mother. My sister is no fun either. Always straight to the point.” She pouts. “You’re all . . . stressed and wound up tighter than a virgin sucking on a pickle.”
My lips part. “What the hell does that even mean?”
Lunette lowers her tone. “Your bad temper is why you need a skilled sexual partner.”
I press my fingers against my temples because getting her to focus is impossible.
She moves my hands away from my head. “All right. Listen, the coven is worried.”
My brows furrow. “About my sex life?”
“No.” She shakes her head, laughing.
“Then what are they worried about?”
“You’re spending quite a bit of time in the mortal realm.”
I exhale. “I’m needed there.”
“You were needed there,” she challenges. “Eve Collins is now safe.”
“For now,” I argue. “Besides, there is nothing to worry about. I’m . . . fine.”
“There is that word again,” she points out.
Lunette tilts her head to the side, watching me thoughtfully. Ignoring her, I focus on my soup.
“Tell me, Llughunassad, do you enjoy being a sorceress of the Black Circle?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“A simple inquiry.”
“Yes, of course. I love being a sorceress. And a part of this coven.”
“Good.” She nods firmly.
I stare at her. “Good? That’s it?”
“Well”—she sounds guilty—“that isn’t the reason why I’ve asked you here, dear.”
I pin her with an annoyed look, which just makes her giggle at me. My aunt can be flaky at times. There are days it’s hard to follow and keep up with her trains of thought. “I’m losing what little patience I have today,” I warn.
Her keen gaze settles on mine. “Your mother has visited with Mammon.”
I sit forward. “What?”
My father Mammon is the demon of greed. And his brother, my uncle Asmodeus, is a power-hungry demon lord. After my mother naïvely fell in love with my father, she discovered his high-level demonic rank within the underworld. As a high sorceress of white magic, she wanted no part of the cursed dark magic that flows through his veins.
Honestly, Mammon didn’t care about my mom all that much. She was a simple trophy. Another conquest.
To be fair, he is a demon.
He doesn’t care about most things.
When my mother found out she was pregnant with his child, she brought me to her home here in the magic dimension, where I was hidden and raised under the protection of the sorceresses of the Black Circle, and allowed only to practice white magic.
My mother and the coven feared the pull to the dark arts would be too much of a draw, given my father’s demon blood ran through my veins. Because I look exactly like him, they were concerned that his bloodline was stronger than Mom’s, that I wouldn’t be able to resist. It wasn’t until recently that I knew who my father was or that I was allowed to visit with him. My mother and the coven forbade it until I was strong enough to fend off the allure of the dark arts. This is why it’s surprising my mother has been visiting with him, alone.
“Your mother shares a”—she stops, searching for the right word—“deep spiritual connection with your father. It is through that connection that she learned of Asmodeus’s dark promise and threat. Therefore, she gave me this message to give to you directly.”
I study my aunt, considering her words.
Given their bond, if my mother were to tell me herself, Mammon would know. Whatever this secret is, it must be bad. Bad enough for Lunette to tell me.
“It’s cloaked. Mammon isn’t able to decode it, yet.”
“What is it?” I ask.
Lunette pushes my soup toward me, her eyes dropping to it, signaling me to do the same. When my gaze falls on it, the steam swirls and images begin to run over the top of the liquid, playing out like a movie.
My lips part as I try to decipher their meaning.
Once they dissolve, my eyes meet Lunette’s.
“Holy shit!”
“Language, dear,” she reprimands.
“That is—”
“Something Gage needs not know,” she finishes.
“I can’t keep this from him,” I argue.
“You must, Llughnassad. Per the coven’s vows.”
“Why would Mom want me to know this if she didn’t want me telling Gage?”
“Knowledge is power,” she counters cheerfully.
“This, changes . . . everything,” I exhale.
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” I repeat.
“It certainly will ripple the balance between the divine and the demonic.”
“And once again, the gargoyle race will be in the middle,” I lower my voice.
“It would seem so.”
I sit back and stare at my aunt, who looks relaxed.
And oddly intrigued by my reaction.
It’s then that realization hits me.
“You know that I can’t keep this a secret from Gage.”
Her eyebrows lift as she feigns surprise. “Do I?”
“He is a protector and needs to know this, as the leader of the Paris clan.”
“Well then,” she draws out. “If he needs to know as a protector, a leader.”
I frown at her poor acting skills. “Mom never wanted me to know, did she? She told you in confidence and you’re telling me because you know I will run to him with it.”
My aunt holds back a smirk. “I have no idea what you’re babbling on about, dear.”
I narrow my gaze at her. “Even if it breaks my coven oaths, he needs to know.”
She dips her chin and winks. “So you’ve said, on repeat.”
“So then.” I inhale. “Between us, I am going to tell him.”
Shrugging at my response, she sips a spoonful of soup.
“You won’t tell Mom that I know? Or told him?”
“Really, dear. Do I ever?”
Smiling at her antics, I shake my head.
Aunt Lunette has always kept my secrets.
Every single one of them.
“Thank you. For telling me.”
“Go raise hell, Llughnassad. Literally.”
3
Irish Wind
GAGE
With a cupped hand, I protect my cigarette from the harsh Irish wind. Once it’s lit, I draw in a long, smoke-filled inhale. Nicotine helps calm my nerves, and it keeps away the ball of heaviness that embedded itself in my chest earlier. It gifts me a fleeting moment of false peace. Soon, the dark shadows of loss and guilt will return. They always do.
Leaning against what’s left of a stone wall, I slowly release the heavy cloud of smoke between my thinly parted lips as I look out onto the rolling green hills of County Kerry. While I reside in the city of Paris, I’ve always loved the greenery the countryside of Ireland offers. The breathtaking views in front of me are a stark contrast from the piles of rubble and destruction behind me. Memories of what was once Domus Gurgulio Castle.
It’s a shame the London clan and I destroyed the fortress when we dismantled the Royal Gargoyle Council of Protectors. It was an under appreciated piece of old Irish architecture that withstood centuries of the Irish winds, weather, warfare, and turmoil. And yet, like everything else that surrounds me, the reasons for the broken remains are ancient history. Forgotten, like the castle ruins and deceased council will soon be.
“Teresta sit lem antende nóm.” A familiar voice commands my attention.
I inhale, agreeing with the statement, here lie those who have no names. A reference to the dead council members made in our native language, Garish, an old form of Gaelic.
“Beh chan-por-tas ad ílem ai ánte des-ter-múr,” I respond.
“I hope you’re right.”
“Always am.”
“Justice better have been served upon their admittance to the underworld,” the voice says. “I hope they choke on every sulfur-filled breath they take down there.”
Dipping my chin, I tilt my head toward the three gargoyles walking toward me. For anyone else, the St. Michael brothers might be an intimidating and unnerving sight. For me, seeing the London clan—the royal family—is nothing more than a harsh reminder that I’m now a gargoyle who has been welcomed back into their sacred protector order.
A clan leader with a renewed sense of purpose.
A being who should count my blessings.
Or so I’ve been told.
“Gage,” Asher says my name in a dominant, authoritative voice.
“Asher,” I mutter, trying not to sound like a miserable prick.
King of the gargoyle race or not, formalities with Asher St. Michael and his brothers aren’t my thing. Too much has happened. Keegan and Callan follow closely behind him, vigilant as they approach me. Asher jerks his blue eyes to mine in an entertained manner.
“I’m guessing you won’t be taking a respectful knee?” His lips twitch.
“Why would I?” I ask around my cigarette.
“I am king now.” He shrugs in a blasé manner.
“King or not,” I taunt. “You’re still a lovestruck idiot who almost blew up the world.”
“Says the protector who walked away from his own oaths for love,” he counters.
Asher and I both smile devilishly at our easy banter and friendly digs. Truth is, we’re both idiots when it comes to love and protector oaths.
“None of us should be throwing stones,” Callan remarks. “Especially you, Gallagher.”
I smirk, amused at the connotation, given who we are. “It’s nice to see you all think I’m still the bad guy. The traitor of the gargoyle race and almighty London clan.”
Asher sighs. “The Paris clan did almost disappear because of your own personal crusade to destroy your existence, and your desire to disassociate with us,” he reminds.
“And yet.” I step closer. “Here I am, leading it again. At your appointment.”
“Funny how fate works. Yeah?” Asher bites back.
“Enough.” Keegan blows out a heavy exhale.
“He started it.” Callan points at me.
“We are centuries-old gargoyles.” Keegan sighs. “Let’s act like it.”
“Some of us act more mature than others,” I mumble, and Callan narrows his eyes.
“We have responsibilities and a race to oversee and lead. Together,” Keegan states.
My jaw clenches.
I hate the way the St. Michaels still look at me.
Like I’m a haunted stranger to be pitied, instead of a once-revered friend—a brother. And yet, nothing will change what their father, Garrick, and mine did.
What they took from me—Camilla. Nothing will ever make her death right or forgotten. Every time I look at them, I’m reminded of that.
“And children to protect now,” Callan adds.
“How is your new son?” I haven’t seen Callan since the baby was born.
“He . . . is a girl,” he sulks.
My brows pinch together. Is he insulting the baby, or did he actually have a girl? For months, all Callan talked about was his soon-to-be-born son, Thor. Sounds like Callan and Abby had a baby girl. Not a bouncing boy. God, I love that. Karma is a cruel bitch.
I push off the wall toward them. “So he is a she?”
“Yep,” Asher replies for his younger brother with a wicked grin.
“Thor is now Serena St. Michael,” Keegan jumps in.
Callan frowns. “Stupid X chromosomes. And my lazy Y swimmers.”
I grit my teeth, trying not to laugh. “That’s—”
Asher and Keegan don’t hide their enjoyment at all this. A girl in the London clan. Well, she’s screwed, with them overprotecting her.
“I’m not sure whether to say congratulations or offer you my condolences,” I admit.
“Me neither,” Callan exhales. “Guess we’ll decide which one when she starts dating.”
“We’re letting Serena date?” Keegan questions.
“Like hell we are,” Asher growls. “With our luck, she’ll bring someone like Gage home.” His gaze meets mine unapologetically. “You know what I mean,” he brushes off.
A tense silence crackles around us at the insult.
I don’t reply.
I’m unbothered. Asher is right; I’m not the guy you bring home to your family. Or have kids or a future with.
Keegan j
erks his chin toward the rubble behind me, changing the subject. “Got your text accepting the project. Thanks for doing this. We appreciate your help.”
Before all this protector shit happened, I graduated from the École des Beaux-Arts, the most prestigious art school in Paris. It was where I was assigned to safeguard Camilla as her protector. She was enrolled in the Academy of Painting and Sculpture at the art school. I was registered in the Academy of Architecture. After we graduated, I opened several architectural firms and art studios in Europe. The rest, as they say, is history.
She died.
I kept the art studios and firms open—all except one.
The pang of sadness from earlier creeps back in.
Some days I carry her death with me better than others. It’s apparent today is not one of the good days.
There aren’t many.
“What do you think?” Asher looks behind me at the castle’s ruins.
“I think turning this pile of shit into an academy for gargoyle protectors is a good idea. And with Henry Davidson heading it, it will be a successful legacy,” I reply.
“How long until your team can have it up and running?” Asher inquires.
“About a year or so.”
Asher nods. “The sooner, the better, yeah?”
“Agreed,” Keegan adds.
“Especially since all protector rights and claims decreed by the former council have been revoked. And we aren’t reestablishing another council,” Callan adds. “This will give us a new generation of loyal protectors who are equipped to guard against immorality.”
“I appreciate that you guys felt me worthy of this project.” I try to sound sincere.
Asher tilts his head. “You are family, Gage. Our brother. Without you, this clan and I—” He pauses. “Well, this brotherhood has been lost without you. Protecting Eve reminded me—us—how important you are to our family. And while you may be reckless, you’ve never broken a vow to me or a rule of royal conduct. That weighs heavily in your favor, with me and with my clan.”
My shoulders droop in both defeat and understanding. They’ve pulled me back in. Whether I like it or not.
“I owe Eve’s life to you,” Asher whispers.
“Is that what this project is?” I ask.
Dark Paradise: A Revelation Series Novel (The Revelation Series Book 6) Page 3