Chapter Four
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 reflection. 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.
He would never understand humans. Ever. Weird as fuck.
After wandering into the living room, he dropped onto the sofa, sprawling as he reached for the remote and clicked the TV on.
“And in other news, the statue smasher has been at it again. This morning the remains of another statue were discovered in the city center, this time on the steps of the Institute of Art and Design. At first, it was reported that the statue was in fact an art installation authorized by the institute themselves, but they have denied any knowledge or involvement. This is the latest in a string of similar incidents across the city, all involving statues carved in what experts say is an antiquated style, more akin to that used in the Middle Ages in Europe. Such art pieces these days would fetch hundreds of millions of dollars, leading to speculation that these are black-market art deals gone wrong.”
Gran snorted as he took a swallow of his coffee. Black market deals gone wrong—yeah right. The statues were all in a style he was familiar with, that any gargoyle in the city would instantly recognize.
The key in the front door preceded his brother’s arrival, and Gran flicked him a glance up as Cal walked into the room. Anyone looking at them would be forgiven for thinking they were twins. Identical in looks and build, the only thing that set them apart was the vicious scar across Gran’s chest. But they weren’t related . . . not in the way humans understood anyway.
Instead of being brothers in a biological sense, they were something far closer—a matched set. A pair of gargoyles created to be mirror images of each other, carved to adorn the sides of a church in a shitty little village that no longer existed. Thankfully. But even though their church and the village they protected were long gone, the bond between them hadn’t been . . . would never be . . . broken. Cal thought it was luck. Gran knew better. There was a darker truth behind their creation, one he never intended to let his “brother” find out.
“You’re late,” he grunted and then sniffed the air. Despite the fact their other form was stone-based, all gargoyles had excellent senses of smell. “You have blood and perfume on you. Why?”
Cal shrugged as he walked through to the kitchenette. “Stopped a woman from getting attacked by a demon on the way back. Had to make sure she got home safely.”
“You reek of human,” Gran grunted. His brother was a soft touch. No doubt he practically put the woman to bed after making sure she didn’t have any boo-boos. “Make sure you take a shower. I don’t want you stinking up the place.”
Cal didn’t reply, not in words anyway. After flipping Gran the bird over his shoulder, he poured himself a coffee and downed it in one go. He walked back through the living room, and Gran frowned as he headed for the window. He yanked it open and stepped onto the ledge.
They were only on the tenth floor, but still, for anyone else, stepping onto the four-inch ledge would be cause for concern. A fall to the unyielding concrete below would be most likely fatal for most species.
“Where are you going now?” Gran demanded, not bothering to move himself from the couch.
“None of your business,” Cal growled back, his voice dropping to the rumble of stone on stone as he shifted to his other form. Then, with a last lash of his whiplike tail through the window, he dropped from the ledge into the darkness of the night beyond.
She’d been rescued from a demon last night by the hottest guy she’d ever seen. And for once it wasn’t a dream.
Iliona smiled to herself as she approached the office. The PPA had grown exponentially since she’d opened it as a one-room office above a café in one of the shadier parts of town. Now they had an entire ground-floor suite between a guitar shop and a gym in a much better area. It meant she didn’t constantly need to be on her guard when opening or closing for the night. Requiring one of her own staff on site with her all the time did nothing to inspire confidence that she knew what she was doing in the world of security and personal protection.
She turned the corner and headed toward the office. The lights were already on, which meant Marion, the agency’s receptionist, was already on duty. Iliona smiled again, feeling the tightness between her shoulders ease. She still couldn’t get used to having staff do all that sort of stuff for her, but Marion was an absolute godsend. Wonderful with the customers and excellent on the phone, she was also an administrative whiz.
Even better, from Iliona’s point of view, Marion was a hag. A real one. As such, she could speak to those who sought the agency’s services but who weren’t comfortable speaking to a garden-variety human like Iliona. She was the first to admit, she hadn’t believed Marion when she’d come for her interview because a hag was the last thing Iliona had expected the beautiful slender blonde to be. Seeing her expression, Marion had changed then and there. That, along with her résumé and experience, had made Iliona hire her on the spot.
Sweeping through the door, though, she was met not with Marion’s usual chirpy “good morning” and smile, but a gimlet-eyed stare—which would scare the bejesus out of even the most stalwart—and a sniffle.
Marion was in hag form, with a look of utter misery on her face.
“Oh hell, hon, what happened?” Iliona asked, closing the door behind her and heading over to the reception desk. After dumping her purse on the floor, she reached out and enfolded the younger woman in a hug.
“D . . . d . . . date last night,” Marion hiccupped, pulling back to wipe at her eyes with a gnarled hand. Usually she was her younger self at work, but if she got worked up, she couldn’t control the change, and the hag came out.
“I thought everything was going well—” She cut off, bursting into tears again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .” she sobbed.
Oh shit, she had a bad feeling about where this was going. Iliona reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. “It’s okay, hon. Take your time.”
Marion wiped her eyes and then blew her nose, hiccupping again. There was ugly crying, and there was hag ugly crying, but Iliona didn’t care. Marion was more than just an employee. She was also a friend.
The other girl took a deep breath and nodded, strawlike white hair scratching over bony shoulders. Her neat shift dress hung off her normally curvy frame. Misery in her eyes, one clouded over with cataracts, she whispered, “I thought it was going well. He was from my gym. Seemed nice. But turns out it was a dare . . . his friends were there. All they wanted to do was see me change and laugh at me.”
“I’ll kill them,” Iliona declared, fury bursting through her. Men could be fucking assholes at times. “What’s his name? I’ll go break his fucking kneecaps. See him squat in the gym then . . .” she growled. “It’ll be straight-leg deadlifts with his ass in the air all the way.”
The corner of Marion’s lip quirked and then curled until finally she gave a little cackle of laughter. “He’d be a prime candidate for the president of silly walks,” she added.
“Exactly!” Iliona grinned back. “He’ll have to resort to putting string on his pants so he can pull them up or wear skirts instead.”
“Oh my God!” Marion snorted, her tears drying up as amusement filled her eyes. “He was talking all the time about his kilt.”
“There you go then,” Iliona declared. “He obviously knew what was coming and decided to be prepared. I’ll just go get my bat.”
“No . . . no need.” Marion reached out to put her hand on Iliona’s arm. “The guy was a complete ass. I see that now—”
She broke off as someone walked past the window in front of reception. “I can’t let anyone see me like this,” she squeaked, her face paling.
“Go. Ladies’ room. Now,” Iliona ordered, waving the younger woman off. “Sort yourself out. I’ll deal with the front desk until you’re ready to face the world.”
“Thank you!” Marion called out over her shoulder as she scuttled off into the back. Iliona smiled at her retreating back and settled herself behind the reception desk. It wasn’t like she wasn’t used to it. Automatically, she reached for the pile of mail on the corner of the desk and started to go through it.
The bell on the door jangled merrily as it was pushed open. Iliona looked up, a practiced smile already in place, as a large bouquet of flowers walked through it. Her smile fell as she recognized her ex’s signature “screwed up” selection of lilies, pink roses, and baby’s breath. She’d received them as regular as clockwork when she and Kenneth had been together. Pity he’d never understood what he’d done to need to send the damn things in the first place. Instead of trying to figure it out, he’d used flowers as relationship Band-Aid.
But what was the asshole doing sending her flowers? They’d been split up for months.
“Can I help you?” she asked, recognizing the uniform of the legs under the bouquet as belonging to a local floral delivery service. Sure enough, a face appeared around the edge of the flowers.
“Got a delivery for Ms. Graham. Can you take it?” the guy asked, offering a small smile. It was the fake I’m at work so I must be nice smile of those perpetually under time constraints. Knowing he likely had more flowers in his truck than he had time to deliver in his shift, Iliona nodded.
“Sure thing. Just pop them on the desk. Where do I sign?” she asked, adding a scribble to the pad that was shoved under her nose. The guy was gone almost before her pen left the page.
Sighing, she looked at the bouquet with a frown and then plucked the card from the cellophane. Sure enough, the small envelope bore her name in Kenneth’s chicken scratch. After opening it, she read quickly.
Really sorry how things turned out. I’m in town for the weekend. Perhaps we can hook up and chat about old times? Ken.
She snorted, dropping the note in the bin. Old times indeed. That was Kenneth speech for a booty call. So not happening.
The door rang again, but this time it wasn’t a delivery or a client. Iliona’s smile grew wider as Cooper James, the operative who managed all their nightclub security teams, walked in. Tall, dark, and handsome, he was also Marion’s man crush. She’d been watching the two of them flirt around the watercooler for weeks.
“Hey.” He smiled as he spotted Iliona at the front desk, not quite quick enough to hide the flash of disappointment in his eyes. Iliona hid her grin, noting to herself that it was at least fifteen minutes before he was due to start work. Long enough for a quick chat in reception maybe?
“Hey yourself.” Her smile broadened as she nodded toward the flowers. “Surplus to requirements, but you could be a doll and make Marion’s day if you like . . . some jerk decided it was fun to make fun of her last night, so she’s upset.”
“Motherfu . . .” The flash of anger in Cooper’s eyes warmed Iliona’s heart, as did the speed with which he strode over to take the flowers. “Where is she?” he demanded. “Is she . . . ?”
“In hag form? Yeah. She’s upset.”
He nodded, the tiny muscle at the corner of his square jaw jumping. “I’ll deal with it. Thanks, boss.”
“No worries . . . cheers, Coop. You’re a darling.”
The phone rang. She waved Coop off as she answered, watching out of the corner of her eye as he disappeared through the door to the corridor. She could just see the door to the bathroom from where she was sitting, dealing with the caller—a random cold caller looking to sell them brownie insurance—quickly. With dragons on staff, they didn’t need brownie insurance . . . they could just toast the little assholes.
Through the glass she watched Coop knock on the door to the ladies’ room, saying something to the woman inside. After a moment, the door opened a crack, and Marion peeked out warily. More words from Coop, but Iliona couldn’t hear them from here. Whatever they were, they were good ones. The right ones. Marion’s body language became more relaxed, and she opened the door more. She was nervous, stepping out in front of the handsome man in her crone form, but her eyes remained fixed on his face as he stepped in closer to cup her lined face. As Iliona watched, a small smile curved Marion’s lips and then blossomed.
The effect was instantaneous. As Marion’s smile widened, her form changed. The stoop in her back disappeared as she stood up straighter, her curves filling out the dress. Her hair went from lank and white to full and bouncy blonde curls as the wrinkles on her face eased and the years fell away.
Coop said something else, bending his head to claim her lips, and Iliona had to bite back a cheer. She sighed happily. That was magic right there in front of her eyes. The magic of love. Smiling to herself, she handed over control of reception to Mandy, who had just arrived in a flurry of excuses for being late. Iliona just smiled, telling her not to worry as she headed to her office, skirting quickly past the happy couple, who completely ignored her existence.
Walking into her office, she sat down and cast a glance over her desk. Files were lined up in neat piles, each an active case she was working on. After logging on to her computer, she scrolled through her emails for her operatives’ updates. At the moment, she was dealing with a team of werewolves and a lone wolfwere watching a local warehouse for illegal activities. At first she’d thought they were dealing in contraband magical items, but it was looking more and more likely that they were manufacturing drugs, if not on the premises, then at least somewhere close. Quickly she replied to the team leader, ordering him to continue surveillance to be sure. If it was drugs, though, she’d need to hand it over to the local police department. If it wasn’t magical or paranormal, it wasn’t in their remit. Technically criminal investigations weren’t in their remit, but they were getting more and more cases that required them to step into that area.
After catching sight of a familiar name on an email, she opened it and read quickly. Jared Stone was one of her main operatives but could be a total pain in the ass. He got out of it by being a complete and utter charmer. He flirted with anything that moved, even Iliona, and had made no pretense he’d happily spend a few nights in her bed. Given the guy had the morals of an alley cat, she’d never taken him up on his offer. It didn’t take her long to check his expense report. Nothing out of the ordinary . . . not for Stone, anyway.
Her next email took more reading. Zane was another of her wolves, a team leader rather than a solo operative like Stone. His team was running security for a big-name fae rock band on their current tour. Seemed they were having a few issues with some stalkers . . . she almost smiled at that. Zane was a scary-ass SOB . . . she wouldn’t like to run afoul of him.
Emails done, she sat back and flicked on the news channel, listening idly to the reports as she started to read through her files. A little while later, the words of a news anchor caught her attention.
“And in other news, the statue smasher has been at it again. This morning the remains of another statue were discovered in the city center, this time on the steps of the Institute of Art and Design. At first, it was reported that the statue was in fact an art installation authorized by the institute themselves, but they have denied any knowledge or involvement. This is the latest in a string of similar incidents across the city, all involving statues carved in what experts say is an antiquated style, more akin to that used in the Middle Ages in Europe. Such art pieces these days would fetch hundreds of millions of dollars, leading to speculation that these are black-market art deals gone wrong.”
She looked up at the screen. She’d been hearing about the statue incidents for the last couple of days, and it had struck her odd from the get-go. What about it was triggering her interest? She didn’t know, but something was. A frown creased her brow. Gargoyles were originally statues, weren’t they? Perhaps she could ask Calcite what his thoughts on the reports were.
As soon as the thought hit her, she was already standing, grabbing her purse on the way to the door. It was about time for a coffee anyway, and she really should thank him again for his help with the demon last night.
Yeah, right.
She just wanted to see her handsome rescuer again.