Chapter Three

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 gold 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.

“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 reception,” 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 . . .