by Mina Carter
The need to find her filled him, a sharp pang in his chest as he fought back the urge to race out the door and try to spot her out in the street. Quickly, he cut a glance to the clock on the wall.
Ten past six.
In other words, past the end of his shift. Usually he hung around a bit, not talking so much as being around the other staff. Interaction kept him more human and stopped him sliding back into the laconic manner of most gargoyles. Not tonight, though.
He grabbed his coat off the hook behind the kitchen door and was shrugging it on as he passed Frankie at the register.
“Gotta run tonight, boss lady. Catch you tomorrow.”
“Whoa! Someone must have a hot date,” she quipped as he headed toward the door. Hand already on the metal handle, he threw her a small smile over his shoulder as he pushed it open.
He hadn’t missed the small note of wistfulness . . . maybe even jealousy. It was no secret Frankie had a bit of a thing for Gran, his “twin,” but Gran wasn’t fond of humans . . . not even para-friendly ones like Frankie.
Then the warmth and light of the coffee shop was behind him, the cold air and darkness of the night street wrapping itself around him. He paused, looking up and down the street. Which way had his little human gone?
Centering himself, he drew a breath in and rolled it over his tongue. He tasted it, filtering through the myriad of scents to isolate the one he was after. His nose wrinkled in distaste. Seriously, half these humans needed to learn about soap. And deodorant. Good thing they had dull senses. They’d disgust themselves.
Then he caught it. The scent of strawberries and jasmine he always associated with her. Quelling the growl of triumph that wanted to escape the back of his throat, he turned to follow it like some sort of freakish stone bloodhound.
Her scent was easy to follow now that he was locked on. Hands deep in his pockets, he kept his head down as he walked and allowed himself to indulge in a small fantasy of what being on a date with his mystery lady would be like.
He’d dress up, wear a suit, and take her to one of those fancy restaurants humans liked. Buy a rose and give it to her when he picked her up. She’d smile and thank him, the rose in her delicate hands as she grabbed a shawl.
She’d be dressed in something slinky and fitted—a dress that showed off her curves and the breasts he longed to see but had caught only a glimpse of under her jacket and shirt. Heels with delicate little straps around her ankles . . .
A bolt of lust hit him broadside, and he bit back his groan. Crap. He wasn’t even imagining her in lingerie, and already he was rock-hard. He was a goner, pure and simple.
Pulling himself back from his little daydream before he embarrassed himself out here on the street, he concentrated on following her scent. Not a moment too soon either. Halfway down the street, she’d turned into one of the dark alleys between buildings . . . with a male.
Cal’s eyebrows snapped together into a deep glower. Why would she head into the darkness with a man? He’d pegged her as a professional woman . . . just not that sort of pro. Had he read her all wrong? A bad taste in the back of his mouth, he ventured down the alley, wariness rolling through him at what he might find.
He needn’t have worried. As soon as he turned the corner into a sort of courtyard that serviced the businesses around it, the scent of male fear blossomed on the air along with the scent of gun oil. His sharp gaze easily cut through the darkness and read the signs of a struggle written into the dirt and broken asphalt.
She’d drawn her gun here, held it on her . . . would-be assailant? That was the only thing that made sense with the clues he was seeing. Cal’s expression cleared. Then the guy had left, followed by his lady.
He quickly returned to the street with its lights and bustle and picked up her scent going north. Speeding up to a jog, it wasn’t long before he spotted her just ahead of him, her dark hair like a cloak over her shoulders.
His gaze slid down and pleasure filled him as he appreciated the curve of her ass in the fitted jeans. Then a shadow above her caught his attention, and every cell in his body snapped to attention. Crawling across the front of the buildings above her was a soul-sucker demon, its fiery eyes locked onto her.
“Shit . . . no, no, no, not happening, asshole,” he hissed and broke into a run. He hit the corner at an all-out sprint, grabbing the rough brickwork to swing himself around. The scene that met his eyes was one that would haunt his nightmares for years to come.
The demon had the human woman pinned down in the middle of the road, crouched over her with his fanged face hovering mere inches from hers. She kicked and screamed, but the demon held her fast, her blows ineffective against a creature wrought from shadow and malevolence.
Cal saw red. Fury filled his voice as he roared and charged. The demon looked up, surprise in its red eyes a second before Cal slammed into its side with all the force of a freight train. The human might not have been able to hurt it, but he could. Answering the call to release the feral force within him, he let his real form rip from within the mask of a man he wore day to day.
Elation and relief exploded through him as his body grew, bones lengthening and skin toughening to living stone. Wings tore through the skin of his back, tail whipping free as he grabbed the demon and hurled it at the nearest building.
“Mine!” he roared, voice distorted by the heavy fangs that suddenly filled his mouth. There was a reason gargoyles didn’t talk much, and it wasn’t because they’d spent centuries locked into stone. With fangs, a bitten lip or tongue was no laughing matter.
The demon hit the wall with a crack but flipped bonelessly to glare at him. With a snarl, it launched into an attack again, using the wall as a springboard as it tried to get past Cal to the woman behind him. He met it at a run, taloned feet scoring the asphalt as he clotheslined it and slammed it into the ground. Seriously, didn’t these guys watch any MMA?
Clawed hand around its throat, Cal spun in place like a discus thrower and hurled it down the road away from the woman. It didn’t land as far away as he’d have liked, using the shadows that made up its form to stop itself and snapping them out like a parachute to halt its progress. With an earsplitting bellow of rage, it threw a fire bolt right toward them.
Cal yelled a warning, turning and enfolding the human in his arms as he covered them both with his wings. The fireball hit, splashing over his stone skin in a lick of heat that would have seared human skin from the bone.
“Stay down,” he managed, getting a glimpse of her pale, frightened face. Blood tracked down the side of her temple, making his gut clench. She was hurt and looked terrified, but he didn’t blame her. Not many humans survived a demon attack, even a lower level demon like a soul sucker. As a species, humans had no natural defenses against . . . well, pretty much anything. Even brownies and imps could take down humans if they caught them off guard.
“Stay down!” he ordered when she tried to get up, spinning around to take on the demon again as it charged them.
But she didn’t. As the demon slammed into his chest, gnawing on his arm, she danced to the side and threw something. Firecrackers sparked all over its skin, and it screamed in response, pulling its teeth from him and pushing off to go after her.
He managed to grab it by the scruff of its neck, hauling it back against his chest to wrap his arms tightly around it.
“Not helping,” he grunted as she kept throwing whatever it was she had in her pocket over the demon. It tracked her every movement, trying to squirm from his hold with screams of fury and frustration. “Really not helping!”
Finally, he felt something crack within the shadows that made up the creature’s body, and it screamed, dissolving into shadow to stream up and away into the night. Its wails cut through the night sky as it beat a hasty retreat, no doubt worried he’d go after it.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Battling a demon, even a lower level one, was no mean feat. Every part of his body ached, some more than others, particularly where the damned
thing had tried to bite him. All that faded, though, as he turned around to check on the human.
Quickly, he flicked an assessing glance over her, making sure she was okay before meeting her gaze warily. Not all humans reacted well to the sight of a gargoyle’s real form. His brother had learned that to his cost. Rescuing a young woman years ago had resulted in a lynch mob with sledgehammers and chisels. Cal had almost been too late to save him. Gran’s heavy scarring and dislike of humans were permanent reminders not to trust them.
But there was nothing more than curiosity and interest in her dark eyes as she stood in front of him.
“Thank you. You saved my life,” she said softly and then swayed a little on her feet, her skin pale.
Instantly, he was there, his arms around her to support her weight. She jumped a little, small hands curving around his muscled upper arms as she looked up at him. The spark there, the life, reassured him that the demon hadn’t gotten what he’d been after, and Cal breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” she murmured again, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she leaned into him for a second. “I guess I hit my head harder than I’d thought.”
“No problem. I got you,” he rumbled in a voice that even to him sounded like a rockslide. But even that reminder of his inhumanity didn’t make him let her go, a sense of rightness so complete it stole his breath away filling him. He’d never felt anything like it before, not for anyone. Twin impulses, to both protect and possess, filled him, battling for supremacy for a moment before calling a truce. He wanted to do both, in equal measure.
If he were a dragon, he’d have said he’d found his treasure. He wasn’t a dragon, but he knew he’d worship her for the rest of his life. He knew instantly that he’d lay his life down for her in a heartbeat. Worse. He’d kill for her without a second thought, and that scared him more than anything else. The sobering thought had his stone form retreating into his softer human one, and within a few seconds, he was standing in ragged clothing, her still wrapped in his arms.
“What’s your name?” he asked, tilting her head up so he could check for signs of a concussion. Her pupils were even, though, reacting as he turned her face toward the lights above.
“Iliona. Iliona Graham.” Her lips quirked. “Are you going to ask me the date next? I don’t have a concussion. Had enough to know what they feel like.”
He gave her a small smile in return, careful to keep his teeth hidden. His fangs hadn’t receded fully yet—they wouldn’t for another couple of hours—and he didn’t want to scare her.
“Fair enough. I’m Cal.”
“Cal what?”
He shrugged. “Just Cal. Calcite if you want to be formal.”
“Fair enough.”
Frowning, she lifted a hand to her head, her fingers coming away smeared with blood. She focused on them for a second, but then her attention shifted to his knuckles, torn and bloody because he’d shifted back to human too quickly.
“You’re hurt!” Her beautiful eyes, chocolate flecked with caramel, focused on his in concern. “Come with me and let me patch you up. My apartment isn’t far from here.”
Chapter 3
Cal followed her like a little puppy dog, docile and practically wagging the tail he didn’t have in this form. Her delicate hand in his, he’d have followed her anywhere, but still amped up from the fight, he was hyperaware of any threat to her as they made their way through the city streets. Iliona Graham.
He’d heard of her—the crazy human lady on a crusade to help his kind. Well, all paranormal kind. The rumors said she was a bit of a tree-hugging soft touch, but the woman in front of him couldn’t be farther from that stereotype. She was less cardigan and bead-wearing hippie and more leather, jeans, and no-nonsense attitude. Once she’d recovered a little from having a demon attack her in the middle of the road, she’d calmly picked up her gun, checked it over, and holstered it before motioning that he should follow her.
Finally, they reached a tall apartment building, and Cal glanced up over it before she unlocked the front door and led him inside. A quick scan on the brickwork with his enhanced sight revealed no paranormal glyphs. That was both a good and a bad thing. On the one hand, it meant that no vampires had claimed it as a feeding ground nor had any of the local pixie gangs decided it was part of their territory. Not that he cared. Neither scared him, and both would be well advised to stay out of the way of any gargoyle, particularly one that was in protective mode. But no marks also meant the area wasn’t under any sort of paranormal protection. Say what you liked about vamps or werewolves, but both protected their interests from all others.
He looked around as they walked through the lobby, noting the old-style decor and the flowers, freshly cut, on the small table by the door. No security guard. The place must be maintained by a superintendent instead. Not that either would be any good if someone like him wanted inside. The old cage elevator made him shudder, some of his earliest memories just after his creation swimming to the surface before he beat them down and locked them away at the back of his mind. No need to go down that path. Unlike his brother, he’d dealt with those demons years before.
Silence reigned between them as they took the elevator to her level, twelve apparently, but he was aware of her interest. She kept stealing glances at him from under her lashes, studying his face and his body revealed by his torn clothing. That was the problem with alternative forms. If the second was much larger than the first, you could go one way, but not the other without something in the way of a wardrobe malfunction.
“I wanted to say thank you again,” she said as the elevator pinged for their stop, and the doors opened. “I would have been a goner if you hadn’t been there. What was that thing, and why did it spark when I threw iron filings on it?”
It had been iron she’d thrown at it? Cal blinked, surprised and more than a little impressed despite himself. “It was a demon. Lower level,” he replied, pleased to note his voice was nearly back to normal now. More human and less mountain. “Still more than lethal to humans. Probably some paras as well. The iron . . .” He shrugged. “Normally that doesn’t bother demons, more a fae thing. Whoever summoned it could have used fae blood.”
Still hyped up from the attack, Cal swung around with a growl when one of the doors they passed cracked open. But it was just an old woman, reduced to a sliver of burgundy housecoat and one wide, frightened eye. The stench of her fear blossomed in the corridor, and Cal was forced to bite back a rueful smile. If she was terrified by the snarl and a hint of fang, she’d probably pass out if she saw his full form.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Johnson,” Iliona called out, forced cheeriness in her voice and her hand on his arm. At her touch, any anger drained right out of his system like it had never been. The amped-up feeling he always got after a fight was gone. “Just a friend walking me home. Nothing to worry about.”
“Para-lover!” the old woman hissed and slammed the door.
Iliona sighed. “She’s a total pain in the ass, terrified of . . .” Her face flared red, but she carried on. “She’s terrified of paranormals. Thinks you’re all out to murder us in our beds. This is me,” she announced, sliding her key into the lock of the apartment two down from the vitriolic Mrs. Johnson.
“Oh, we have far better things to do with beds, I assure you,” he commented with a chuckle as he followed her through the door. Unlike a vampire, he didn’t need to ask permission, so he ducked through the doorway and then stopped dead.
Her apartment was small and neat, but the large picture windows gave an unrivaled view of the city laid out beyond. It seemed she appreciated it as well, the whole room arranged not to better view the TV tucked away in a corner, but for the view instead.
“Pretty.” His rumble was lower than normal as he followed her through to the kitchen, noting the muted but warm tones of the soft furnishings and the different textures. Everything was gray, or shades of. Warm pewter, soft gray, and charcoal cozied up with subtle threads of gol
d and pink, like veins of precious metals and minerals through rock. The gargoyle in him appreciated the color palette. The man in him wanted to tumble her down to the soft cushions and explore the promise of heaven the curve of her lips hinted at.
Instead, he followed her through to the kitchen like a good little boy. She’d trusted him enough to invite him into her home. He wasn’t about to do anything to ruin such a precious gift. No way, no how.
“Right, come here and let’s have a look at those hands.”
She beckoned him over to the sink, and he did as he was told, leaning his hips back against the countertop as she studied his hands. The skin over his knuckles was all torn and bloody, with the deep bruising across his upper arm and shoulder her eyes kept flitting to in concern.
“I’ll be fine,” he promised as she dabbed at his knuckles with cotton wool and something . . . his nose wrinkled at the smell of antiseptic. It would make no difference whatsoever to him, but he didn’t tell her that. She might stop touching him, and he found he really liked the feeling of her small hands moving over his skin.
“We heal quickly. I only got hurt because I shifted back too quickly. Didn’t give myself time to absorb the injuries before becoming flesh again.”
She nodded, flicking him another glance from under her lashes. “What are you? I mean . . . I know you’re not human, and I kinda think you might be a . . .”
“Go on.” He smiled, urging her to complete her sentence.
“Sorry. I didn’t want to offend you if I got it wrong. From what I saw, I think you’re a gargoyle. I could be wrong,” she said quickly, dropping the wet cotton wool into the sink. Placing a dressing over his split knuckles, she taped it into place with quick, efficient movements.
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted, flexing his hands and smiling. “All better. Now you.”
Stepping closer, he riffled through her first aid kit and started to clean up the small cut on her temple. It had eaten away at him that she was injured, but his sense of smell had told him that it was only a small cut and it was already scabbing over. Dabbing at it carefully, he held her chin in gentle fingers as he cleaned the dried blood away from her skin. This close, the scent of her perfume wound around him, ensnaring him in her spell, and suddenly he stopped, looking down at her.