Hard as Rock

by Stephanie West

  Meline pulled out the family research she and her father had compiled, and sat down at the dressing table doubling as a desk. She smiled wistfully at her dad’s notes then frowned. It had been a year, and only now was it really sinking in her parents were gone. She always pictured them puttering around some retirement community on the coast, bemoaning the early bird selection at the local clam shop. But they hadn’t even made it to retirement. And what made it worse was the cops never learned what caused the car accident.

  Her gaze went to the translation of her umpteenth great-grandfather’s journal.

  That’s the reason I’ve got the heebie jeebies.

  Nicolas’ life story began with a colorful tale of his voyage across the Atlantic. Most days the weather forced him below deck, where it was overcrowded, and dank from the sea, not to mention dark, since they couldn’t light a single candle for fear of fire. It sounded absolutely miserable, but fascinating at the same time. Then the story turned positively bizarre once he arrived in Quebec.

  My ancestor was insane, she mused, recalling Nicolas relating how he met the devil atop Notre Dame. The thing had two sets of horns, like you’d see on a yearling goat. Its long tail reminded him a cat, though hairless. And its massive wings were leathery like a bat’s, equipped with talons that could fell a charging boar in one swipe. It went on and on. Nicolas was so descriptive she honestly believed him, and was a tad frightened.

  Come on now, be fair. Her ancestor probably wasn’t any crazier than anyone else. He lived in a time when people commonly believed demons and witches walked among them. Fine, Nicolas was super imaginative and could probably give Mary Shelley a run for her money.

  Meline shook her head as she dismissed her ancestor’s ramblings, grabbed her toiletries and a t-shirt then headed for the bathroom. She needed a long, hot shower after driving most of the day.

  And since I’m on vacation, I’ll use that new body wash I packed and stay in till I get all pruney and the bathroom fills with steam, she decided as she stripped. Maybe I’ll get up early and try that crepe place I saw for breakfast. Meline did a happy dance, hoping they had blueberry crepes as she waited for the water to heat up.

  roc

  From the neighboring rooftop, Roc watched the brunette shut the bathroom door. She’d been in there for several minutes when he decided to get a closer look. He spread his wings and launched into the air. The third-floor dormer window jutted out from the roof, giving him the perfect place to land. He touched down without a sound and crouched to covertly check out her room.

  Awesome. Roc smiled, hearing the shower running in the bathroom.

  He panned the room and instantly spied a pile of papers on the dressing table. From this distance he saw what looked like old script but couldn’t make out what it said. As good as his eyesight was, he needed to get closer. If he was lucky, they’d tell him what Nicolas did with the sigil. There was just one thing standing in his way—he smirked at the window.

  “They really are begging me to break in,” he scoffed as he examined the shoddy old window latch.

  Roc pulled out the pocket knife he kept handy, then slid the blade between the two sashes and lifted the simple drop latch. He swung open the window and froze. The shower was still running, so it wasn’t fear of being discovered halting him; it was the waft of lavender nearly bowling him over. It was so strong he was instantly transported to his last night in France, when despite the danger, his sire took his mother to see the lavender fields one last time. There was also something else about the scent filling the room, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Roc shook his head and shoved aside the distraction as he crept inside.

  As he passed the bed, Roc noticed the woman’s purse. He rifled through and pulled out her wallet. Roc bypassed the cash and credit cards. He may have survived and even thrived liberating things from those who thought they owned them, but he wasn’t a common thug.

  So, who are you, descendant of Nicolas?

  He flipped open the flap exposing her driver’s license. Roc grimaced as he took in the brunette’s picture. Meline Lauber of Connecticut wasn’t homely, but she was just, well, nondescript. Not really the kind of broad he tended to go for. Blondes seemed to attract his attention more often than not. The ones with full pouty lips and smoldering smokey eyes. This skirt looked a bit somber, not jovial, like the ladies he attempted to woo in the pubs. Then again, the women he got lucky with were probably giddy because they were smashed. It wasn’t like he was a total lech. If he tried, he could coax a sober woman to his bed. Unlike a purebred of his kind, his mug wasn’t hopelessly tragic. It was the rest of him, the horns, tail, and wings that complicated matters. And since he wasn’t a priest, liquor was the social lubricant assuring he didn’t have a perpetual case of blue balls.

  Roc shook his head. He hadn’t fished out Meline’s license to see if she was suitable for his serial monogamy hall of fame. He grabbed his phone and took a shot of her address just in case she got away from him, then moved on to what brought him here in the first place.

  “So, Nicolas, what did you have to share with the world?” he quietly mused as he scanned the papers on the vintage dressing table. He never realized the old Frenchman could write, let alone decided to pen the story of his life.

  Nicolas’ script was on the left-hand side, the English translation penciled on the right. Not that he needed the translation to read it. You didn’t live four centuries without picking up a few languages, Khargal included.

  His old friend started off his tale lamenting the harrowing voyage over sea. Roc shivered recalling a similar trip as a boy. His was made so much worse since he’d been forced to hide with his sire amongst the farm animals in the dark, smelly hull of the ship. He flipped the page, continued skimming then paused, his eyes widening.

  “What the hell?” Roc groaned when he reached Nicolas’ frightening description of Petronus. A sense of disappointment filled him as he read further. All this time he considered Nicolas a friend, but the way the man spoke of Petronus, he wasn’t so sure now.

  Who cares what he thought? Just look for mention of the sigil. He flipped the page and kept reading.

  His head popped up when the knob on the bathroom door creaked. He’d gotten so caught up reading Nicolas’ tale, he hadn’t heard the shower cut off.

  Shit!

  Roc dropped the page he was reading and leapt for the open window like his tail was on fire. He just made it through the opening when Meline rushed out of the steamy bathroom.

  “Oh, no! They’re everywhere,” he heard her declare.

  Roc landed on the roof beside the window and listened to her scramble to collect the papers his flapping wings and hasty departure sent flying.

  “You gotta be kidding me. How did this blow open?” she huffed, sounding confused, while fiddling with the window latch before closing and locking it again.

  It took a while for her to turn out the lights. When she finally did, he crept around the dormer ledge and peered in at the woman curled up in bed, her back facing the window. He waited forever, watching her breathe, just to be certain she was asleep.

  “Let’s try this again.” He’d only gotten through the first several pages of Nicolas’ journal.

  Going back in was a risk, but it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d snuck into a room while someone slept. His Khargal lineage wasn’t good for much, but it had blessed him with some skills. Roc eased the latch up with his knife as he watched Meline for movement. He slowly swung open the sash, retracted his wings and ducked inside.

  Son of a bitch, he cursed when he noticed the dressing table was empty. Of course she put everything away.

  He turned to scowl at her and noticed her shoulder bag propped beside the bed. That had to be where she put the journal. As he crept toward the edge of the bed, her phone pinged on the bedside table. Meline groggily groaned and rolled over. Roc dropped and hugged the floor as she grabbed the cell.

  You gotta be fucking kidding me!


  He cursed the light the device cast, hoping she didn’t glance down at the floor as she tapped on the phone. Khargals had a lot of skills, but disappearing into thin air wasn’t one of them. He could change color to blend into the wood floor, but a lot of good that would do since he was wearing pants. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of threads that changed to match his skin, like some purebreds owned.

  Roc relaxed when Meline sleepily shoved the cell back on the table then closed her eyes and seemed to drift off again. As he studied her peaceful expression, he noticed she wasn’t half bad looking, cute really. The photo on her license hadn’t done her justice at all. Meline wasn’t a buxom blonde, but she also didn’t have the kind of manufactured beauty that came from a bottle. She had the thickest eyelashes he’d ever seen. No doubt she was dreaming already the way they fluttered against her pink cheeks. Faint light streamed in, haloing her long brown hair that was tousled on the pillow. The way she still smelled of lavender and that unidentifiable compelling scent added to her gentle allure.

  A feeling Roc never felt when breaking into a place crept over him—guilt. Meline was innocent and obviously not pretentiously rich like the people he usually targeted.

  It’s not like I’m going to steal her journal. I just want a peek. He had to find the sigil. The thing was dangerous.

  A problem occurred to Roc as he was arguing with himself. There was a chance Nicolas’ journal wouldn’t reveal what he done with the family heirloom. He’d never find out all she knew if he just took her briefcase and left. It would be better if he could both see her research and pick her brain.

  Roc sighed. This was becoming complicated. He needed to come up with a plan. Roc crept toward the window but paused when Meline shifted. He glanced back to find her eyes still closed.

  “Stealth frog,” she mumbled.

  His hand flew to his mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. What the hell is she dreaming about?

  “Is that so. Tell me more,” Roc whispered, unable to resist. He really had to know.

  “Sliced pickles,” she dreamily rambled.

  Roc snorted before he could repress it. I gotta get out of here before I wake her up acting a fool.

  He swiftly headed out the window and shot up above the cloud cover where the moon shone bright. It was barely autumn, but in Canada it was chilly at night, especially at this altitude, not that it affected him much. It was actually a nice night, made better by this promising discovery of Meline.

  He was still grinning like an idiot at her goofy rambling when he dove toward his penthouse condo and landed on the balcony. Roc shook off the moisture that collected on his wings before retracting them and heading inside.

  “Little John,” Roc called out as he stepped into the living room.

  “Very funny, sir. Your allusion to Robin Hood never gets old,” John commented, wearing a dry expression as he entered the room.

  John was his butler, but besides taking care of his home, the Englishman researched the antiquities they liberated. Roc considered him a friend and partner in crime, trusting the man with almost everything.

  He lured John away from an unappreciative employer while doing a job several decades earlier. Being a proper butler, the loyal-to-a-fault man balked at first. Then again, he probably took exception to the fact Roc had broken in. However, as soon as Roc informed John his employer was into human trafficking, the man was more than willing to shift loyalties. And the rest was history.

  “Come on, John, don’t be so stiff. You know you like the nickname,” Roc teased.

  “Indeed, sir. May I take your coat?”

  Roc chuckled seeing the slight smile contort John’s serious mien. As much as the man tried to repress it, John liked the work they did and the money it made them.

  “No. I’m not wearing one,” he replied, not the least bit concerned John might see his wings, tail or horns. John was blind, an attribute that made their friendship easier.

  Roc grabbed the brim of his hat and effortlessly flipped it onto the side table by the wall. It landed upright, ready to grab on his way out. Roc glanced in the mirror and smoothed out his bad case of hat head. If it weren’t for his damn horns, he wouldn’t have the extensive hat collection. Even though he usually kept them cut short, they were still a noticeable nuisance.

  Don’t bitch. At least you got your mother’s looks. He cast his reflection a cocky grin then scowled. Well, at least you don’t look like you’ve been beat with the ugly stick, he furrowed his sharp brow.

  On good days he was glad to be hybrid. With the right clothes he could go out at night and mix with the fringes of society. But sometimes it chafed, not being Khargal or human, but some aberration in between.

  “That museum curator is going to drive me mad. I assured him everything is in order for the gala tomorrow night but he’s still hounding me to meet you,” John commented with a slight huff, which was about as angry as he got.

  With all that happened this evening Roc had forgotten about the benefit. He’d donated a Bosch painting to the Quebec art museum along with a small fortune. However, his motives weren’t altogether altruistic.

  “I’m sure you’ve got it handled.”

  “Indeed, sir. And you are certain you don’t want me to look deeper into any of the patrons on the guest list?”

  “If you want,” Roc chuckled at John’s eager and slightly maniacal expression. “If you find anyone who needs to be brought down to size, by all means, add them to our watch list. More than anything I thought this would be a good excuse to get out.” And be himself for a change. “But now I’m debating if I have time to fool with it.”

  “Ah, yes.” John grimaced. “Pardon me for prying, but have you had any luck locating your father?”

  Roc smiled at his sympathetic old friend. John didn’t know all the dirty details, but he’d related how Petronus basically abandoned him and now it was imperative to find his grumpy old sire.

  “Don’t worry about it. No, I’ve not heard from good old dad, but I did find a lead. I located the granddaughter of his friend Nicolas.”

  “That’s wonderful, sir.”

  “Yes.” Roc grinned, recalling Meline’s sleepy ramblings. “I’m going to meet her tomorrow.” Well, he planned to follow her.

  “During the day?!” John asked, sounding uncharacteristically surprised.

  “Yes,” Roc countered with a sarcastic smirk even though John couldn’t see it. “I can meet a woman during the day.”

  “Good for you, sir. Should I give you an afternoon wake up call, so you don’t miss the gala?” John gave him a cheeky wag of his bushy brows before taking off for the kitchen.

  “It’s not like that,” Roc hollered after him. This wasn’t a booty call. “That’s it, I’m not bringing women home ever again. You could pretend your hearing’s not heightened because of the whole blind thing.” The man’s hearing was almost as good as a Khargal’s.

  “I’d have to be stone deaf not to hear all that screaming,” John commented over his shoulder.

  “They do get kinda loud.” Roc puffed up his chest. The ladies had no complaints at all.

  “I was talking about you, sir,” John snorted.

  “Classically trained butler, my ass,” he muttered under his breath.

  “I heard that.”

  3

  Meline

  “Thank you for your time. This has all been very interesting,” Meline commented to the lead archaeologist as she finished scribbling notes as fast as she could.

  She wasn’t being sarcastic. As nerdy as it was, she was truly excited seeing the ruins of the building her ancestor built with his own two hands. It made her feel like a part of something larger, not just Meline the travel agent who’d never been anywhere. And yet ever since she woke up she’d been in a weird mood. The harrowing walk back to her hotel after dark and the things in Nicolas’ journal had polluted her dreams with shadowy dark figures. It didn’t help that when she awoke the damn window had blown open again.

&nbs
p; This city’s haunted. It has to be. That was the only explanation. She’d made doubly sure the window was latched before going to bed. She even tugged on it and it refused to budge.

  “If the damn thing’s open when I get back to my hotel, I’m changing rooms,” she mumbled as she left the excavation site then shoved aside her paranoia.

  Meline took several pictures of Champlain’s monument, then boarded this weird ride called a funicular. It was basically a glass elevator that descended the steep hill to the lower city like an escalator. The view of the river from the glass box was impressive. She got off the fancy elevator and gawked at the old stone buildings and narrow cobblestone streets as she toured the city, making a giant circle.

  Halfway back to her hotel, that funny feeling of being watched struck her again. Meline casually pretended to look at the scenery as she attempted to determine who was making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. There were a handful of couples, a family, and a few lone tourists milling around, but no one seemed to be covertly staring at her. Meline shook her head at herself and continued on.

  It was easy imagining what the city was like hundreds of years ago because it seemed barely changed. People probably bustled about the narrow streets much like they did now. Although they didn’t have cars. That kinda killed the mood.

  She was peering through the window of a shop when she noticed the reflection of a guy with a buzz cut, wearing jeans and a souvenir t-shirt across the street. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he’d been one of the people in the crowd the last time she got the funny feeling. Meline casually walked into the store and pretended to shop. After a few minutes she wandered out, relieved to see the man had moved on.

  I really need to get a grip, Meline laughed.