by Mina Carter
“You’re some kind of witch, aren’t you?” he accused softly, sure he was right. “I thought you were human at first, but humans don’t have this effect on me.”
She frowned. “What effect? I’m not doing anything.”
“Draining my anger. Bringing me back from my full form like that. The only people who should be able to do that are my creator or a witch. You’re definitely not the asshole who made me, so you must be a witch.”
She shook her head, a slight smile quirking the corners of her lips. “Sorry, handsome. I’m as human as they come.”
* * *
❖
He was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, of any persuasion, human or not.
Bright blue eyes watched her seriously, framed by a face that had to have been carved by a master. Literally. He was like an Adonis or one of the Greek heroes she’d seen statues of. Had he been carved at the same time, or were gargoyles born like humans and then became stone later? She had no idea and bit her lip to stop herself asking. Curiosity killed the cat, but it could be equally dangerous when asking questions about paranormals. Some were secretive and didn’t like questions. It was a case of you were either in the know or you weren’t.
She watched him as he cleaned the cut on the side of her head with a gentleness she’d never have thought possible, not after seeing his other form. Huge, winged and clawed, made of stone . . . she still couldn’t reconcile the image of the stone warrior who’d saved her from the demon with the man standing in front of her.
“So me doing that . . . is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asked, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth. He’d called her a witch, accused her of putting a spell on him. Since at least half witches were of the dark kind, she wasn’t sure how to take that.
“Oh, definitely a good thing.” He smiled as he looked down at her, fine lines crinkling invitingly at the corners of his eyes.
It was hard to tell how old he was . . . he looked late twenties, maybe early thirties, but paranormals rarely aged the same as humans, which meant she was probably off by centuries. His gargoyle form certainly looked medieval . . . insomuch as she knew anything about medieval gargoyles or architecture.
“Why’s that?” she asked breathlessly, totally missing the fact that he’d stopped cleaning her skin but still held her chin in his strong fingers. “Would you have eaten me or something otherwise?”
His lips quirked at her teasing question, and the need to lean forward and kiss him, find out if they were as soft as they looked or as hard as the stone he’d been before filled her. Grimly, she held the impulse in check. Just because he’d saved her from a demon and walked her home didn’t give her the right to jump his bones because she was curious about him and his kind.
“Only in the good kind of way,” he rumbled, turning away to drop the bloody cotton wool he’d used to clean her temple into the sink. She blinked, not sure she’d heard right. Was he . . . flirting with her? But his expression was serious when he turned back around to look at her. She must have imagined it.
“You don’t appear to have a concussion, so you should get some sleep,” he said, deep voice sending shivers along her spine all over again. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d never reacted so strongly to a man before. Ever.
“Uh-huh.” She nodded in response, following him as he left the kitchen. Quickly he crossed to the window, opening it to look up and around. “What are you doing?”
He looked over his shoulder and then closed the window, latching it tightly. “Just checking to make sure everything is secure.” He rattled the firmly closed latch as if to prove his point. “Keep these closed tonight, and put salt over your thresholds, just in case. I don’t think that demon will come back . . . my scent will be all over this place anyway, which should ward it off . . . but if I was you, I’d consider getting a witch to put in some magical protections.”
Iliona nodded. “I can do that. We have a witch on the payroll . . .” After reaching into her pocket, she pulled out one of her cards. “I run a company called the Paranormal Protection Agency. If you’re ever in need of a job, we could really do with someone like you . . .”
His gaze flicked down to the card and then back up to her face. He took it with a smile and tucked it into his pocket. “Not really looking for a job now, but I’ll keep you in mind. Thank you. Now, sleep . . .” he ordered, crossing to the door.
She followed him, feeling a bit like a lost little puppy. The need to keep him there with her in the apartment filled her, and for a moment, she considered faking a faint. Instantly, she felt ashamed of herself. What was she? A shrinking violet from a historical bodice ripper who needed saving all the time?
“Well, thank you again for the rescue. I really appreciate it. And think about the job offer,” she said, holding the door for him as he stepped through. Pausing, he looked down at her, his bright gaze holding her in thrall. It was quizzical, as though he couldn’t work something out, but then he shook his head and stepped through the door with a smile.
“Think nothing of it. Good night, Iliona.”
“Night, Calcite.”
She watched him as he walked down the hall, just in case Mrs. Johnson should burst out her front door and attack him, but the old woman’s door remained firmly closed. He turned the corner, and she closed her own door, leaning against the cool wooden surface to fan herself.
“Fuck . . . me!” she whispered to the room, seeming all the emptier without her large gargoyle visitor. After rooting in her pocket for her cell, she speed-dialed Evie as she crossed the room. She twitched the curtain aside and looked down. Even this high up, she had an excellent view of the street. A small smile crossed her lips. You could take the girl out of the army, but you could never take the army out of the girl.
“What did you do, Illy?” Evie demanded as soon as she picked up the call, her voice filling Iliona’s ear as she craned to get a better look at the front of the building. If she angled herself just right, she could look down and almost see the lobby entrance.
“E! You will not believe what happened tonight.”
The line went silent for a second. “Okay, do you need bail money? Where are they holding you?”
“No, no! Nothing like that.” Iliona chuckled. “I didn’t get arrested.”
“Hmm . . . okay. Then . . . Scott Barratt almost ran you down in his sports car, picked you up, realized you were the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, and now you’re eloping to Vegas?” Evie guessed, naming a film star they both had a massive crush on.
Iliona laughed, standing on tiptoe, her nose almost pressed to the glass. “Nope. Wrong again. I got attacked by a demon.”
“What?” Evie’s shriek almost burst her eardrums, and Iliona snatched the cell away from her ear. “You what? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, honest. Calm down, honey. Seriously . . . remember the hottie from the coffee shop?”
“Yeah?” Evie’s voice was confused. “He was the demon? Son of a bitch, I’ll sue that place for every cent they have, putting their customers in danger like that!”
“No, no, no. He wasn’t the demon. He was following me—”
“Stalker!”
Iliona frowned. “No, I don’t think it was like that. It must have been on his way home or something. But anyway. This demon jumped me, and I seriously thought I was a goner. But then Calcite—”
“This is the demon or the hottie?” Evie wanted to know.
“Calcite is the hottie. Demon didn’t introduce himself. He was too busy trying to eat me. In a bad, totally not good way.”
“Okay. Calcite is the hottie. What kind of name is Calcite? Sounds like geology or something.”
“Ding, ding, ding! Got it in one. Give that lady a prize!” Iliona exclaimed. “Calcite showed up and beat the crap out of the demon. Sent it packing. He’s a gargoyle, E, an actual frigging gargoyle. I thought they were a myth!”
“This is from the woman who has a real-life hag working in r
eception,” E responded dryly.
Iliona shrugged. “Marion’s a doll. She’s only in hag form half the time anyway. The rest of the time we have to fight off bloody headhunters from the modeling agencies.”
“Well . . . there’s gotta be some kind of payoff for the haggishness. So hottie is . . . oh my God.” Evie began to snigger. “Do you think if he got a stiffie, he’d be as hard as a rock? Get it? Hard as a rock?”
“You should be on the stage,” Iliona deadpanned. “Sweeping it. Oh, hold on, he’s coming down the street now.”
A familiar broad-shouldered figure emerged onto the street from the door. Everything paused for Iliona as she watched him. He moved with a feral grace she hadn’t noticed before, as if, because she knew there was more under the human mask, she was suddenly seeing it for the first time. Rather than just a very hot guy . . . she was looking at a paranormal warrior, one designed to protect all those weaker than himself.
“What’s he doing?” E demanded breathlessly. Forget the fancy suits. If she was in the room, Iliona knew she’d have her nose pressed up to the window right next to her.
“He’s just walking . . .” She sighed, wishing she were closer so she could admire the way his ass filled his jeans again. Crap. His clothes had been all torn up by his shift, and she hadn’t offered him any new ones. But then, the only thing she had that was likely to fit him was a hot pink nightshirt. He would rock hot pink. Totally.
“Oh, wait . . . he’s turning.”
Her nose all but pressed against the glass, she was in full view as he turned and looked up. She caught her breath. There was no way he could see her up here, not in the dark. Then he lifted a hand and waved. Heat flared over her cheeks like wildfire.
“Crap,” she muttered, waving back. “He saw me.”
“So?” E demanded. “He’s hot. You’re hot. Please tell me you got his number?”
“I . . .” Oh shit. “I gave him my card?”
The silence on the line was damning. “You gave him your card? That’s it? Sheesh, girl, we really need to up your siren game. Well, at least we know where he works. We can work with that.”
“Yeah, we can.”
Relief and then pleasure rolled through Iliona at the thought. She had a way to contact him. Better . . . she could see him again, even if she had to stake out the damn coffee shop to do it . . .
Chapter 4
He jerked almost awake, his heart pounding as he looked around.
Whitewashed walls surrounded him, their smooth surface leading up to high-vaulted ceilings with small windows at the top. The room was rectangular, longer than it was wide. Hand-drawn charts and diagrams covered the walls. He squinted to bring them into view and then wished he hadn’t. Anatomical charts, showing how the human body was put together . . . and taken apart. A human hand lay on a table nearby, the arm severed midforearm and the sharpness of white bone mocking him. The skin was stripped back, the edges held open by clamps to reveal the muscles and structures within.
He jerked his gaze away, turned, and came face-to-face with a monster.
His blood froze in his veins, and his eyes widened. Carved in stone, a fanged and clawed beast loomed over him, talons outstretched as if to tear his heart out. Huge wings rose from its shoulders, and a whiplike tail was poised like a scorpion, ready to strike.
He gasped and tried to scramble back, but the chains around his wrists and ankles stopped him. Panic rolling through him, he looked down at his hand, masculine but slender and delicate. They were the hands of an artist, or a poet, with long fingers that belonged to a pianist or a painter. No good for breaking iron manacles.
He jerked a look back up at the beast, terror filling him.
“Well, well, well, it seems our little lab rat is awake.” A harsh male voice accompanied footsteps, and he jerked around again with a rattle of chains. A tall, thin man had entered the room from a door he hadn’t spotted before, hidden behind a bench piled high with beakers and tubes, different substances and liquids bubbling away within them.
“Start entry,” the tall man snapped at his companion, a shorter . . . He frowned as he looked closer . . . He couldn’t tell if the creature was male or female or even if it was human.
Small and hunchbacked, tufts of hair grew at odd angles from a bald, misshapen pate. It gripped a notepad in twisted, deformed fingers, blinking myopically through thick spectacles at the page in front of its nose. When it flicked a glance up, Granite jumped. Not only were its eyes different colors, but they were different eyes. One was large and brown, the setting round, whereas the other was pale green, the orbit and bone structure slanted like that of a cat.
“Subject is male, early twenties, and appears free from disease.” The tall man stepped forward to grip Granite’s chin in strong fingers, forcing his face up so he could look into his eyes. “No obvious mental retardation even though the family indicated subject has the mental aptitude of a child.”
He frowned, trying to pull his face away as fear rolled through him. He felt like a frog under a microscope, and shivers rolled down his spine.
“Mental issues should not pose a problem for the experiment,” the tall man continued speaking as he walked away toward another table.
This table wasn’t like the rest. Whereas the others boasted medical and scientific equipment, this one was covered in black velvet. A heavily carved bowl and knife lay on either side of a large, leather-bound tome. Even looking at the book sent fear down his spine. There was something wrong with that book, a shimmer in the air above it, like the evil within was trying to escape. Make itself solid.
The man opened the book, the page marked with a bloodred ribbon. “I will begin the incantation. Note all the subject’s responses,” he ordered his assistant, “particularly as the soul transfer occurs. Once we are successful, we can replicate the procedure and build an army!”
The odd-eyed creature nodded, turning to look at him with focused interest as the tall man began to chant. With each strange word, the tension in his body grew tighter, his breath harder to draw in. Strength fled from him, bled out of his veins by the steady stream of words from the tall man’s lips. He didn’t need the chains to hold him prisoner. His own body did that, becoming leaden and heavy like metal . . .
No, not like metal. Like stone.
His eyes fluttered shut, but he forced them open to take one last look at the man beside the table. They closed again before he could stop them, his breath rattling to a halt in his chest as his heart and lungs stopped. Dead.
But he wasn’t. Snapping his eyes open, he looked at the tall man and his assistant again. He frowned.
Something was wrong.
They were much smaller, and the angle was wrong. He was higher up now.
He looked down, the squeal of moving rock filling his ears, to see the sprawled body of a young man lying dead at his feet.
His clawed feet . . .
And he screamed.
❖
Granite woke fully with a jerk, throwing back the covers and running his hand through his hair. Sitting up on the single bed shoved to one side of the bare room, he looked around with wild eyes until he’d reassured himself that he was in his own room in the small apartment he shared with his brother. Not somehow transported back in time and locked into the moment of his creation.
Sagging backward, he closed his eyes as a shudder ran along his spine. His nightmares were just dreams now, but he had been there, in that room, looking down at the body he’d inhabited moments before. The one his creator had stripped the soul from to make him. Shaking his head, he rolled from the bed and padded barefoot from the room. A quick stop in the bathroom for a piss, and he went in search of coffee, the only thing in the world that made life worth living . . . other than certain substances obtained under cover of darkness. But they didn’t make life worth living. They simply stopped the pain for a short while.
He walked past the darkened window to grab a mug and scowled as he caught a glimpse of his reflect
ion. He was naked to the waist, and his jeans hung low on lean hips. Tall and broad-shouldered, with heavily defined muscles he didn’t need to maintain in a gym, he knew he was considered handsome in human form. Not that he gave a shit what humans thought. Ever.
Waiting for the water to boil, he rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest. A vicious scar ran over his skin, just under his collarbone. The result of an angry mob making poor choices and taking a chisel to his chest centuries ago, it still ached at times, even though the wound had been inflicted on his stone skin. Realizing what he was doing, he hissed in annoyance and grabbed a mug from the cupboard. Still grumbling, he made coffee. Stirring viciously, he threw the spoon in the sink. It rattled in the bottom with a metallic clatter.
Gran leaned his hips back against the countertop and lifted the mug to his lips.
“You fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill you!”
“Don’t you dare, you motherfucker!”
His hand paused midway, the steam from his mug rising to his nose, and closed his eyes. The sounds of screams and violence from next door were nothing new. Not at all. When he and his brother had first moved in, Gran had been alarmed. He didn’t like humans at all, but he was a guardian, created to protect . . . The fact that the guy next door was nearly as big as he and Cal were, beating up on his tiny wife, had triggered all those protective instincts. The first time he’d heard them fight, he’d gone charging out there. Only to have the little witch flip him the bird and tell him to mind his own fucking business. Then she’d hit her brute of a husband with the frying pan, even though he could easily kill her if enraged.