by Tamsin Ley
Sticks and Stones
Khargals of Duras
Tamsin Ley
All characters in this book, be they alien, human, or something else entirely, are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, situations, or events are entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any form or by any means without explicit written permission from the author, with the exception of brief quotes for use in reviews, articles, or blogs. This book is licensed for your enjoyment only. Thank you a million zillion hearts and kisses for purchasing.
Digital Version
ISBN-13: 978-1-950027-07-1
Copyright © 2019 Twin Leaf Press
Cover design by Tamsin Ley
All Rights Reserved
Introduction
A thousand years ago, a Khargal scouting party left Duras, only to crash on a planet called Earth.
Injured and outnumbered, the stranded Khargals hid among stone effigies and observed the slow evolution of the planet’s primitive inhabitants. With no means of returning to Duras, they watched from their shadowy perches and faded into legend, becoming the mythical gargoyles.
Until today. Long after any hope for rescue had died, the distress signal has finally been answered.
It's time to go home.
Sticks and Stones
What's worse than being stalked by a gargoyle?
Falling in love with one.
After her father's illness exhausted her family fortune, Angie's made it her mission to hold onto the home that is the last piece of her heritage. But when a mysterious man makes an offer on the life-sized gargoyle in her garden, she quickly discovers her property holds more than sentimental heirlooms. Beneath its stony facade hides a world where legends are more than mythology, and ancient stories have roots from beyond the stars. The stone sentinel that's guarded her family for generations is not only alive—
He's a sexy-as-hell alien who can't leave well enough alone.
Sten’s ship crashed on Earth centuries ago, and he has watched Angie's family for generations, sworn to protect his deceased friend's bloodline. He never understood what could drive a Khargal to break the Prime Directive and fall in love with a human, let alone procreate, but Angie makes Sten consider things beyond mere duty. She's resourceful, funny, and her smile is enough to melt a statue's heart.
And now she's in danger.
Unaware of her alien ancestry, Angie has no idea what's at stake. With enemies closing in, Sten is forced to break the silence he's maintained for centuries. Can he convince this stubborn human she belongs on another world? More importantly, can he convince her she belongs by his side?
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Glossary
More Khargals of Duras
Sneak Peek of Rescued by Qaiyaan
VIP Club
Acknowledgments
Also by Tamsin Ley
About the Author
1
Angie was up to her elbows in potting soil when a man’s voice forced her to turn around. As the owner of one of Old Turnbull’s historic houses, she was expected to be pleasant to tourists, even when they trespassed on what was clearly private property. She took a calming breath and pasted a smile in place. A man with salt and pepper hair and wearing an expensive business suit was running his palm along one of her life-sized gargoyle’s wings.
“Can I help you, sir?” She didn’t bother to brush her hands clean as she moved toward him. Tourists in the historic ghost town seemed to get more entitled every day, and while she appreciated the boost they created in the local economy, it sucked living in one of the most prominent landmarks.
“Just a moment, if you please.” He didn’t look at her, just moved closer to the statue, one polished shoe crushing the marigolds edging her garden bed.
The gargoyle had garnered more than its share of attention, but never as rudely as this. In the form of a perfectly sculpted man, at first glance it could be taken for a crouching Adonis with wings. But closer inspection revealed the wings to be more like a demon’s than an angel’s, with claws at the upper joints and tips. The figure also had small horns buried in the hair curling over his temples and a long tail tucked against the back of one leg. Angie wouldn’t have been surprised if the statue’s fisted hands had claws. Her father had once said it’d been guarding their family for generations. If only it could defend itself against this creep right now.
Scowling at the man crushing her heirloom flowers, she cleared her throat. “Sir? This is private property.”
With obvious reluctance, he pulled his attention from the gargoyle and reached into his breast pocket, producing a business card. He held it out to her. “Winston York the Third, dealer in rare antiquities.” As she accepted the card, his gray eyes flicked over her stained jeans and plaid button-down shirt. “I’m interested in purchasing your statue.”
Without looking at the card, Angie pointed to the sign on the tall, wrought-iron fence surrounding her yard, hoping the guy would take a hint that he was unwelcome. “In case you didn’t notice, this is a historic site. The statue belongs to the house.”
“Then I’d like to buy the entire property.” He turned his gaze to the Victorian style brick building with its covered wrap-around porch and small turret. The scrolled trim needed new paint and one of the windows on the upper level was still boarded up after a spring storm had dropped a tree against the house, but she’d been forced to funnel her limited funds into fixing the roof. Even so, it was in far better condition than the rest of Old Turnbull. Her home was no Frank Lloyd Wright, but the antiquities dealers and national historians always seemed to be knocking on her door.
York finished his perusal and arched a brow at her. “You are the owner, correct?”
That’s it. She was done being polite; the ladies at the Historical Society could go jump in a lake. “I am. But I don’t recall putting up a For Sale sign.”
A condescending smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Everything is for sale. How does ten percent over market value sound? I’ll have an assessor here tomorrow.”
Looking at York’s slick suit and manicured fingernails, she was reminded of her father’s stories about the mining town during the boom, when big investors had moved in to buy out all the little claims. The house was one of the few pieces of her heritage she’d managed to keep after her dad died.
Her chest grew tight thinking about her father, and she shifted her focus back to the moment. Just who did this York fellow think he was? The asshole hadn’t even bothered to ask for her name.
Taking a step forward, she stood toe-to-toe with the man, eyes level with his. “This house is my home, Mr. York, not some fixer-upper for you to buy and flip. It’s not for sale.” She thrust the card back into his suit’s breast pocket. “Now please remove yourself from my property.”
His gaze dropped toward her chest. Great. If this guy turned full creepster on her, she was going to shove her garden trowel up his ass. But his focus lingered at the hollow of her throat where her mother’s antique pendant hung.
She pulled her collar closed and stepped around York toward the gate, motioning for him to leave. “I have work to do, so please move along. I’m sure you’ll find other things to interest you in town.”
Y
ork narrowed his eyes, and her whole body tensed. She’d never been to a big city, but this was how she expected someone felt just before a mugger grabbed their stuff. Slowly, he readjusted the hem of his suit jacket. “My apologies if I’ve offended you, Miss—?” He stepped through the gate and paused on the cracked concrete that had once been a sidewalk, looking at her expectantly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“You didn’t ask.” She pushed the gate closed, gritting her teeth against the nails-on-the-chalkboard screech. Getting the rusty hinges open again in the morning when she left for her shift at the diner was going to be interesting, but she wanted to make her point.
“Ahem, well, again, my apologies. I hope you will reconsider. I’ll have my lawyer draw up papers and send them over. I’m sure you’ll find my offer more than generous.”
She met his gaze between the bars. “And I’m sure you’ll find my refusal just as firm.”
Turning on her heel, she stalked back to her pots, feeling as if her gargoyle’s gaze followed her with pride.
Angie lay stiff beneath the covers, unsure if the sound she’d heard was a dream or her half-stray cat, Sally, getting rowdy with the dust bunnies. She was used to the creaks and groans of the old house, and usually slept like a rock, but she could swear she’d been woken by the awful sound of her gate hinges. Exhausted from a long day in the sun, she didn’t want to get out of bed to check. The sound came again. Definitely the hinges. Ugh. Was that York guy back to fondle her gargoyle? The statue was too heavy to steal, but if that asshole was crushing more of her flowers, she might just shoot him.
Slipping from beneath the covers, she set her bare feet onto the chilly hardwood floor and tiptoed to the open window. The honey-almond scent from the bed of heirloom night phlox wafted in on the night breeze. Her bedroom was in the turret, its leaded glass panes overlooking the garden. She sometimes liked to just sit up here and admire her flower beds and the monstrous yet strangely sexy gargoyle that dominated the foliage.
She squinted over the shadows of flowers and leaves. The moon was a mere crescent hanging low in the sky, but she knew right where to look to see her gargoyle’s broad shoulders.
The space there was empty. She rubbed her eyes, pressing her nose against the glass. Where was he? The darkness must be playing tricks on her.
A creak and a thud came from downstairs. She jumped, twisting away from the window and pressing herself into the heavy damask curtain. Was someone inside? Turnbull had zero crime, and she’d never worried much about locking up. They didn’t even have a police station, relying on the county sheriff for the few incidents that arose. If she called 911, it might be an hour or more before someone arrived.
She tiptoed to the shelf where she kept her father’s old rifle. Her father’d taught her to shoot from an early age, and the gun was loaded in case a bear or mountain lion decided to come sniffing around. She hadn’t fired it since she’d bought it back from the pawn shop a few years ago, and she hoped she didn’t have to tonight; blood on her carpet and holes in her walls were the last thing she wanted.
Hoping to chase the intruder off, she moved down the narrow hallway to the stairwell and called, “Whoever’s down there, I’m dialing 911.”
Breaking glass tinkled in the parlor, and a man’s voice said, “Oh, shit!”
Oh, hell no. What’d just broken? Maybe she’d rather shoot the bastard after all. She’d been buying back heirlooms as she could afford them and the few things she’d managed to acquire were precious. The sound of something heavy toppled below. “Fuck,” she muttered. Clenching her teeth, she started down the stairs, not bothering with the lights. She knew every inch of this place, and right now, darkness was her friend. “You’d better leave now! I have a gun!”
She rounded the corner, heart in her throat. Against the dark backdrop of the parlor windows a huge silhouette of a man lunged toward her. Before she even thought about it, she fired, the stock slamming painfully against her shoulder and driving her backward. She’d forgotten what the kick of a rifle felt like, and the report left her ears ringing. Had she hit him? It took her a moment to reorient herself and bring the weapon back up. God, she hoped she didn’t have to shoot a second time.
To her relief, the door to the porch wrenched open and whoever had been inside fled into the night.
“That’s right, asshole!” She took a few steps after him but was forced to pause when her bare foot met broken pottery. Dammit, that better not be from her curio cabinet. She backtracked and flicked on the light switch.
The sight of her ransacked parlor was sickening, but that’s not what froze her in place; across the collapsed remains of her Queen Anne sofa lay her gargoyle.
And he was getting blood on her carpet.
2
The man lying sprawled across her parlor floor couldn't possibly be her garden statue. She had to be dreaming. Callused feet crunching unharmed over the broken China, she stepped forward for a closer look at his speckled gray skin. The facial features were the same she’d looked at since childhood, the same well-sculpted chest, abs, and limbs. But his wings were spread, not pulled close to his body, and he was no longer crouching. In fact, he was spread-eagle, exposing parts of his body that had been hidden before. Very male parts. She licked her lips. Her imagination in this dream was obviously overcompensating; he was huge.
Her gaze traveled from his crotch to his blood-coated chest and the flutter in her belly shifted to concern. Statues didn’t bleed, but a jagged hole had appeared just below his ribs and blood spilled onto her vintage area rug even as she watched. One wing twitched, and she jumped back, breath catching. He really wasn’t a statue. He was alive. But if she didn’t stop the bleeding, he might not be for long.
She grabbed one of the decorative pillows lying on the floor nearby and knelt beside him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d even had to use a bandage, and right now, “apply pressure” was about the only thing she remembered from her first aid training. Shoving the pillow against the wound, she pressed the fingertips of her free hand against his throat, searching for a pulse.
Cold, hard stone met her touch.
She frowned and ran her hand up to his ear and over the detailed strands of his hair. Everything felt as hard as stone, just like always. How the hell was he bleeding? Curious, she pulled up the pillow to look at the hole in his chest. Blood welled out of it like a geyser and a bullet emerged, plunking to the floor.
She sucked in a breath and reached for the bit of metal, holding it between two fingers. Shock and awe had taken away any scrap of revulsion that might’ve remained inside her. This was the slug from her rifle, all right. But it had entered the statue as if puncturing flesh, not shattering stone. She returned her gaze to the hole in his side—or what had been a hole. Although painted crimson with blood, the stone was as smooth as if the injury had never happened.
The bullet fell from her shaking fingers and she let out a slow breath. Squeezing her eyes shut, she muttered, “You can wake up now, Angie.”
But when she opened them again, nothing had changed. It seemed she was trapped here. Trapped in a nightmare. “This isn’t real. You don’t have to be afraid.”
She squared her shoulders and looked around the shattered remains of her parlor. Since her father’s illness and death had forced her to sell off most of the valuables, she’d been buying back pieces as she could afford them. She’d had nightmares before about losing or breaking things, but never quite this vivid or extensive. Not only were the sofa’s legs broken under the gargoyle’s weight, her curio cabinet was open and several Hummel figurines lay smashed on the hardwood floor. The box with her grandmother’s China in it had toppled and spilled.
Over the acrid smell of gunpowder and blood, the heady scent of night phlox drifted in through the open door. Did dreams include smell? She couldn’t recall. Rising, she moved toward the door and flicked on the porch light, gazing into the darkness of her garden. The night air was cold across her skin, re
minding her autumn was just around the corner. Outside, everything was as she remembered, right down to the freshly turned soil where she’d tucked in some strawberry runners earlier today. Except her gargoyle was definitely missing.
Looking over her shoulder, she examined the sprawling gargoyle taking up most of the parlor floor. How heavy was he? Maybe she had super human strength in this dream.
With a steadying breath, she moved back to the parlor and crouched at the thing’s shoulder. Placing both hands under him, she tried to tilt him upright; he was immovable. Fuck. Now what?
A moth fluttered in and bumped around the light fixture overhead, one more intruder in a dream that felt too real. Scowling, she stalked to the open door and slammed it closed hard enough to rattle the house. Turning, she placed her hands on her hips and stared at her beloved Queen Anne sofa, its splintered wood legs scattered and stuffing leaking from the cushions. That piece of furniture had returned to its rightful spot in her parlor less than a month ago and had cost her almost an entire paycheck. God, when was she going to wake up? She was exhausted—could you be this exhausted in a dream? And there was so much to clean up. The vintage carpet was sticky with drying blood, not to mention the gargoyle itself.