Chapter Five

Gran woke with a bad attitude and a headache.

Nothing new there. He often woke with a headache. With his nightmares, there was just one way for him to sleep . . . A little gab before bed ensured he didn’t dream. His dealer called it rock, thinking he was being funny. Gran had never let him in on the fact it was actually rock. Gabbro, to be precise. Volcanic rock mixed with copper sulfide for a little extra kick. It would have killed any other creature, but for a being made of living stone? He could probably bathe in raw magma and it would just warm him through to the bones.

But despite the fact it gave him dreamless sleep, he woke up with a headache equivalent to that after a three-day bender for humans. So he was more than surly as he clattered through the door at the back of Frankie’s for his shift.

“That amount of noise,” Frankie called from the front of the shop. “It has to be Gran. Be a sweetheart and clean down table four. Would you, darling? Just had a party leave and it’s a bit of a mess.”

He didn’t need the note in her voice to know she wanted to add “asshole customers who couldn’t keep the food on their damn plates,” to the end of her statement, something she would never say when they were open. Ever. No matter how much she wanted to.

And he agreed with her, grabbing a cloth and a spray bottle as he passed the front desk. Table four looked like it had had a family of pigs sitting at it rather than a bunch of humans. Scratch that, he decided, surveying the mess. Pigs were cleaner. Anything was cleaner.

Without batting an eyelid, he piled the mugs and plates onto a tray and set them on an empty table before wiping down. Some particularly stubborn chocolate frosting resisted him but was no match for the power of lemon cleaner and gargoyle elbow grease. He nodded to Frankie, not making eye contact as he passed the front counter on the way to the kitchen. He knew she was interested in him, could smell it in the air, but while pretty and curvy, she was human.

He didn’t trust humans.

Loading the dishwasher, he kept half an ear out for the goings on in the main shop. Just because he didn’t like to talk a lot and didn’t trust humans didn’t mean he didn’t like to listen to them talking. It was soothing in a way, the sound of humanity and life . . . a far cry from the church roof he’d spent most of his life perched on. A shudder rocked his shoulders at the memory, and he set the dishwasher off with its load.

“Just heading out to the wholesalers, chickies!” Frankie called out from the front counter. “Won’t be long. Be good. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Gran nodded, hearing Holly answer from within the shop. The sound of the young girl’s voice brought the tiniest curve to his lips as he checked the baked potatoes in the oven to make sure they were well on track for the lunchtime rush.

Humans he was wary of, apart from Holly. Barely twenty, she’d started working at the shop the same day he and Cal had, and both were protective of her. Small and quiet, she wouldn’t say boo to a goose and often worked as much overtime as he and his brother did. Gran suspected she didn’t get to see much of the extra money, though, her father waiting for her after each late shift.

“And don’t fucking spill it over me this time, okay?”

The harsh male voice filled with anger made Gran lift his head sharply, all his instincts going on alert. The smell of burning filled his nostrils, and the acrid smell made him shake his head to get rid of it. They were just memories, nothing more. Holly’s voice reached him as he moved closer to the kitchen door.

“Of course, sir . . . I’m very sorry.”

He reached the door that separated the kitchen from the shop as Holly started to load a large coffee onto the tray in front of her. On the other side of the counter was a large male with a scowl on his face as he watched Holly’s every move like a hawk. Gran immediately categorized him as an asshole. It was easy to tell the girl was nervous, and glaring at her like that wasn’t going to change anything.

Besides, he could see what was going to happen before it did. The guy had ordered a large coffee, and Frankie’s only served coffee in mugs, tankards, or what she affectionately liked to call buckets. The trouble was, when filled, even the regular mugs were difficult for little things like Holly and Frankie to lift. Sure enough, as he watched, she caught the bottom of the huge mug against the edge of the tray and a single dribble trailed down the side.

“I knew it!” asshole snarled. “Get me a manager! You’re fucking useless!”

“I’m so sorry,” Holly panicked, the mug clunking down and sloshing more over the side as she grabbed for a towel to clean up. “I’ll get you a new one if you like?”

“I want to speak to the manager, and I expect my coffee to be free,” the asshole carried on, obviously enjoying himself immensely.

Gran’s lip curled back as the sound of conversation in the shop morphed in his head to the baying of angry voices. He stepped forward.

“Just cut her some slack, would you? She’s only human.”

The guy turned on him, recognition glinting in his eyes before he snarled. “Don’t you understand customer service, asshole? I’m the customer, so that means I’m always right.”

The gleam in his eye, one of hatred and anger, sparked the ever-present flicker of rage in the center of Gran’s chest into life. An inferno that remembered the looks on the faces of a crowd with pitchforks and murder in their hearts. When the guy stepped forward threateningly, Gran reached over the counter and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him clean off his feet.

“Ackckckck . . .” he gasped, trying to claw at Gran’s hand to get him to let go. Gran tilted his head to the side as he watched the human go red and then purple. Holly hung off his other arm, shouting something in his ear, but he couldn’t hear her . . . he was too locked in the past where men like this had come after him with hammers and chisels. Perhaps if he squeezed just right, this worthless creature’s flesh would ooze out between his fingers. His hand started to tighten to test the theory when a small hand touched his arm.

He stopped dead, blinking as a calm voice broke through the fog in his brain.

“Put him down, Cal. Please?”

The fact that she’d called him by his brother’s name would normally have flipped his switches in all the wrong ways, but it didn’t. Something about her voice was calming, and he slid a look sideways, the resistance in the movement warning him that he was dangerously close to sliding into his stone form. Beautiful dark eyes met his, concern in their depths.

Not looking away, he lowered his arm enough for the guy to get his feet on the ground. At her smile and nod of encouragement, he released his grip. The human male staggered back, hands around his throat as he gasped for breath.

“You . . . you . . . you’ll regret this!” he ranted when he stopped choking. “I’ll have the police on you. I’ll press charges!”

The woman at Gran’s side snorted, bringing the asshole’s attention to her with a snap. “Look, buddy,” she said, her voice no-nonsense. “I saw the whole thing. You were the asshole who triggered a gargoyle’s protective instinct, so it’s totally on your head.”

“He assaulted me!” Faced with someone he obviously thought he couldn’t bully, the human started to whine.

“You were a jerk, and you made a threatening gesture toward the waitress. According to article three seven five of the Paranormal Entities Employment Act, any protector or guardian type paranormal employee may not through direct or indirect action allow another employee to come to harm,” she quoted. “So he was doing his job. Want to argue? I can give you the name of a good lawyer. You’ll need one because Frankie’s Coffee Shop retains Brooks and Bourne.”

The human went pale and backed off a few steps.

“Total misunderstanding,” he muttered, avoiding looking at Holly or Gran. “Cultural differences, totally my fault. Won’t happen again.” With that, he turned tail and practically ran from the coffee shop.

“Oh my God, thank you!” Holly whispered, looking over at their savior. “I had no idea about that statute . . . What was it? Three seven five?”

The woman shrugged and grinned. “No idea. Made the whole thing up to get rid of him.”

Holly gasped, and Gran felt a small smile begin to pull at the corner of his lips.

“Smart,” he rumbled. “He believed it. And the lie about the lawyers.”

He knew Frankie didn’t have a lawyer on retainer. Even if she did, there was no way she could afford Brooks & Bourne.

“Lie?” She lifted an eyebrow, amusement shining in her dark eyes, and he was caught. “It wasn’t a lie. Evie, one of the partners, loves the coffee here. She’d be right on board if you guys needed help of a legal nature.”

She’d surprised him. Again. That didn’t happen often, and he found he couldn’t take his eyes off her. With most humans, he couldn’t wait to get away from them, but with her, all he could think about was getting closer. Stepping in and sliding a hand around the small waist hidden under the leather jacket and pulling her tiny, curvy frame up against his bigger, harder body. Getting up close and personal so he could run his nose along the soft skin of her throat and breathe in her scent.

“Cool.” He shook his head mentally at his one-word answer, wishing for once he were more conversationally adept. Of the two of them, his “brother” was chattier. “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Her bright smile speared him through to his soul. “I wanted to thank you again for your help with that demon last night. I really appreciate it. Think about my offer, okay? Even if only part-time, the PPA could really do with a gargoyle on the payroll.”

“Offer? Payroll?” he couldn’t help it, shaking his head. All he wanted to do was keep talking to her, but her scent said she was human through and through.

Her cell went off, which brought a frown to her beautiful face. A frown that grew deeper as she looked at the screen. “Damn it, I have to go.” She flicked another glance up at him. “Even if you decide against it . . . perhaps we could get coffee sometime instead? Think about it,” she mouthed, lifting her cell to her ear.

“Hey, Greg, what’s up?” she said, turning away to walk toward the door and leaving Gran to watch her shapely ass and wonder when his dislike of humans had slipped so badly.

He didn’t do humans . . . but he wanted to do her. All night long.

Watching her until she was out of sight, he turned, muttering to Holly, “I’ll be right back.”

He walked through the kitchen without seeing it at all, shouldering the back door to the alley open and stepping out into the darkness. After pulling his cell from his pocket, he dialed from memory, the number not saved in his phone’s memory. He lifted it to his ear and waited impatiently. When it was answered, he spoke.

“Tell me all you know about Iliona Graham and the PPA.”

It was definitely a body.

Calcite stood in the back alley between the Southern Keys Museum of Paranormal Art & Culture and some Irish-themed bar, looking down at the latest dumped statue. White marble was piled against the brick wall haphazardly, like it had been tipped there unceremoniously from a sack or a wheelbarrow. At first, it just looked like building rubble, but after a second, Cal’s gaze picked out the line of an ankle, a finger, the curve of a shapely hip.

Bile rose, and he was forced to swallow it back quickly.

It was a body. A woman’s body. A small, delicate woman. And it had been smashed to smithereens.

Had it been a human murder, or the murder of pretty much any other creature, the alley would have been awash with blood. But it wasn’t. In stone form, gargoyles didn’t bleed.

“This what you’re looking for?” Doug, the museum’s janitor, hovered hopefully by Cal’s side.

A brownie, he took his job seriously, but not so seriously that he wasn’t above making a little extra on the side. It was no secret in the city that Cal was looking for info on the statue “murders” and was willing to pay handsomely for it.

That information had caused its own problems. A couple of days ago, a troll over on the other side of town had tried to palm him off with a bunch of smashed-up garden gnomes. As if he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference . . . Trolls were not known for their intelligence at the best of times or their sense of smell. Anyone with a nose on their face would be able to tell a real gnome a mile off. Rank was not the word.

“Yeah.” Cal’s voice emerged rougher than he’d expected. “You did good, Doug. Thanks.”

Turning, he slipped the brownie a couple of twenties, his eyes still on the body in front of him. Doug wouldn’t call it in until Cal was done, but he had to move fast. This was the first time he’d managed to get to one of the scenes before the local cops had crawled all over it and destroyed any clues. He intended to make the most of it.

Crouching down, he studied the pile without moving or touching anything. As he’d first thought, it was a young gargoyle female. There was a distinct style of “carving” to his kind’s stone forms, indicative of the spell that gave them life. Which meant the female had lived, but from the looks of it, only for a short time before she was killed.

Cal sat back on his heels and frowned. But why had she been killed? More to the point, how had she been brought to life in the first place? The spells had all been tracked down and destroyed in the Middle Ages. So the legends said anyway. No one had seen the hero in question, Simeth, for a couple of centuries, so there was no way to check whether the stories were true.

After pulling his cell from his pocket, he carefully took pictures of the body, making sure to get as many distinctive features as he could. A small frown of concentration between his brows, he took note of the position of the body, both in relation to the alley and layout. He’d always been fascinated by police and forensic dramas, watching every series that came on the television. But it was just an avid interest. No police department would allow a paranormal on the payroll. Ever.

It was all useful, though. Because of those shows, he knew placement was important. Usually. This wasn’t a human body, though, so it just appeared to have been dumped without any other thought.

Quickly, he looked up and around. No cameras. He hissed in frustration, sliding his phone away. Either whoever did this was very clever or it was a happy coincidence for the killer. Given that no security footage had emerged from any of the other locations, he was leaning toward whoever it was knowing what they were doing.

He focused on the body again, aware of Doug peering around back door into the museum and watching him. Time was running out. Soon someone else would happen down this alley, and then he’d be compromised.

She was the same as the other bodies that had been found, mislabeled as statues by the police, so much so that the news reports had said something about a possible factory putting out counterfeits, or someone trying to make a political statement. Quite how they got from fine art fakes to politics he didn’t know, but both were bullshit.

He snorted in amusement. Typical humans. They’d only have had to ask the paranormal community. Any nonhuman would have been able to tell them they wouldn’t find a factory making these things. Hell, anyone with a hint of magical blood could practically see the spell clinging to the shards of stone flesh.

There was no face, he realized. Now that he’d had a chance to look at the remains for a while, his mind had been mentally listing all the body parts he could see. A face was not among them. He looked, picking out the curve of a jaw and part of a temple, but there was nothing for the rest of the face. It must have been completely smashed.

He stood with a frown. Why though? There would be no reason to conceal the female’s identity. It wasn’t like they could create a gargoyle copy of someone else and replace them. They weren’t like skin-walkers who could literally recreate anyone they saw.

Something else about the body haunted him, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. Not just because she was a rare female of his kind, but there was a haunting sense of familiarity as well. As though he should know her somehow. He shook his head and put that thought to the back of his mind. He’d heard of but never met a female gargoyle. Their males were highly protective of their mates, not allowing another male anywhere near them. He couldn’t blame them. If he was lucky enough to find a mate, he’d probably go completely cave-gargoyle.

Iliona Graham’s face formed in his mind’s eye. His lips curved into a smile, and he shook his head. She was beautiful, that went without saying, but she was human. Humans and paranormals didn’t mix . . . humans and gargoyles even less so.

But stone . . . was she tempting. A rumble of need echoed in the center of Cal’s broad chest as memories of her soft skin under his fingers filled his mind. His blood heated, surging through his veins, and his cock was hard in a heartbeat, throbbing with need. Shit . . . what was it about the woman that could bring him to such a state just thinking about her?

Clearing his throat, he made sure to keep his back to Doug as he concentrated on calming down. Brownies were notorious gossips. The fact that he’d popped a boner while looking at a dead female would get him a reputation . . . and not in a good way.

Hissing through his teeth, he shoved his hands in his pockets to try to readjust himself. As he did, the edge of something caught at his fingers. Pulling it free, he found himself looking at Iliona’s card.

The Paranormal Protection Agency.

He’d heard of them, of course. The human woman on a crusade to employ paras. She was seen as a bit of a crackpot, but the woman he’d met was anything but. She seemed as levelheaded and no-nonsense as anyone he’d ever met. Certainly not the cardigan-wearing, tree-hugging, harm-ye-none hippie type the rumors had painted her as. If anything, she was the sort of person he’d want on his team, and not just because his cave-lizard brain wanted to do the dirty with her.

He tapped the card against his lips as he thought. Going to the police was a no-go. They’d already classified the statue cases as vandalism or property destruction. Even telling them it was a paranormal murder probably wouldn’t do much . . . living statues? Some humans had enough problems trying to figure out when their own embryos became “persons” in their own right. Asking them to figure out when a statue became a living thing would probably fry their brains.

But . . . the PPA wasn’t the police. Iliona wasn’t the police.

He smiled.

Asking for help from a beautiful woman who was para-friendly and that he wanted to get into bed? That sounded like a plan with no drawbacks.