Chapter Eight

Kissing Iliona had been like something out of a dream. A fantasy. The feel of her lips parting under his and her soft body pressing against him were the stuff wet dreams were made of. The snatched moments of bliss in her arms would haunt his dreams for years to come.

Automatically he stacked the big dishwasher in the back of the kitchen, hosing the plates and mugs down before he loaded them. It was a good thing the menial task didn’t take much brainpower. He’d tried to load the scourers at least three times but his mind kept wandering. Hissing at himself as he turned a mug the right way up, he called himself seven types of idiot.

But . . . just the memory of her in his arms got him hot. Hot and hard, which was why he was hiding out back here. He had no clue what human men did, but when a gargoyle got a boner? It was freaking obvious. He might as well paint a neon sign and hang it on his crotch for all to see. Since the last thing he wanted was to be accused of sexual harassment or something, he’d taken the path of least resistance and offered to do all the shitty jobs in here that everyone hated.

Carrying another tray over to the counter, he allowed himself to think back to last night and Iliona’s kitchen. As soon as she’d touched him, his body had flared to life, his cock hard in his pants and his control totally compromised. He’d been hard-pressed not to tear her clothes off there and then, boosting her onto the counter to bury himself balls deep in her hot, curvy body.

Frankie popped her head around the door and whistled to get his attention. “Hey, hunk . . . whatcha doing hiding out in here?”

He froze, making sure to keep his back to her as he looked down to check the state of his body. Crap. There was hard, and there was . . . mountainous.

“Errrr . . . not feeling well,” he rumbled, thinking quickly. “Thought I’d stay back here. Not spread my germs.”

“You’re made of rock half the time, hon . . . what germs could you possibly spread?” Frankie laughed, walking into the kitchen. He edged around, trying to keep his back to her, but she frowned and then dodged quickly to the side.

“What you got there? What are you trying to hi . . . oooohh—” She broke off and looked up at him wide-eyed. Color painted bright banners on her cheeks. “Err, yeah . . . I’d rather you didn’t spread, um . . . that. Or anything from it.” She tilted her head, indecision and curiosity written all over her face.

He sighed, turning. No sense in hiding the state of him now she’d seen it. “Out with it. What do you want to ask?” he added at her confused look. “You obviously want to know something.”

“Ummm . . .” She went even brighter red. “Is that like some kind of paranormal medical condition or something? It’s maybe . . . swollen up a lot?”

Thankfully, a conversation with his boss about his erection had exactly the effect he needed. His cock went limp, and he shook his head. “Nope, that’s normal for us.”

Her eyes widened a little. “Oh my. Yeah, that’s a nope. I am so nope-ing out of that one. You’d rip a gal in two with equipment like that.”

“Sheesh, Frankie.” He laughed. “Thanks for that vote of confidence there.”

“No, no!” She looked mortified, the tray she carried clunking down on the counter. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure some would . . . well, yeah . . . but, I think I might stick to human guys, maybe nothing above a yeti.”

He chuckled, moving to unload the tray she’d brought in. “You know they’re a myth, right?”

“What? No! They are?” she asked, her expression falling. “They were my favorite stories.”

His cell buzzed in his pocket. Reaching for a towel, he wiped his hands and dug in his pocket as he continued speaking, “Yeah. Sorry, some things are just stories. The yeti and the Easter Bunny, for example.”

He looked down at his cell and smiled as he read the text. Iliona. He’d scrawled his number on the pad in her kitchen before he’d left last night. She’d obviously found it.

New case. Could do with your eye on it. Might be para. Il xx.

“Boss lady, can I head out early? Like now?” he asked, sliding the cell back in his pocket. “Something’s come up and I need to deal with it.”

It’s all getting ridiculous now.”

Iliona nodded as she followed the detective across the rubble of a demolition site. Jack Price was an old friend with a similar history that ensured they were on the same wavelength when it came to cases they had contact on. He looked over his shoulder at her as they entered the remains of a tower block. Most of the exterior was gone, and only the concrete skeleton remained, its ribs exposed to the sky.

“At first, I thought it was just some asshole busting up statues for kicks and giggles. Watch your step here. It’s slippery,” he commented, holding out his hand to help her over the remains of a wall. She didn’t argue about being able to do it herself. If help was offered, she’d take it. Better than making a point and then falling flat on her face.

“I mean, who knows why the assholes do what they do? The shrinks certainly have enough theories,” he groused, letting go of her hand as soon as she was over the rubble. They headed across to one of the few stairwells left.

“It’s all we should ‘be more understanding.’” He threw in air quotes and growled in frustration. “All because some asshole’s mommy didn’t hug him enough growing up. What happened to criminals just being assholes we locked up?”

She shook her head, not wanting to get into a debate. Jack was a good friend, but he was very old-school. A spade was a spade. End of.

“But this . . .” He sighed and ran his hand over his shaved head, shooting her a concerned look as he rounded the corner by the stairwell. “What if it’s not? What if these are murders, and I’m missing them because they don’t look like human murders?” he asked, nodding toward something out of her sight. “I don’t know squat about paras, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to have you look.”

“Totally feel you on that. There’re a lot of them out there. Even I struggle with some of the weirder ones.”

Unlike gargoyles. She didn’t struggle with them. She’d like to, preferably one example. Preferably naked. Quickly she shut that thought off as she stepped around the corner. The scene she found stopped her in her tracks.

White statues were piled all up on top of each other haphazardly. Unlike the other scenes, they weren’t all smashed to pieces. More . . . thrown together and discarded. Three were missing their heads, others arms or legs. One was broken totally in half, the blank face looking at its own feet.

“So you can’t tell?” Jack’s voice was filled with disappointment as Iliona studied the scene. “I’ll have to let it go as vandalism then. I ain’t got the resources to investigate what could just be someone smashing up garden freaking gnomes.”

“I didn’t say that. I’ve called in an expert. He should be here soon.” Iliona frowned, kneeling to look at one of the broken statues. They weren’t the same as the others she’d seen. These weren’t as polished or as elegant. Almost like they were unfinished . . . or practice pieces. Only one, the one at the end, was anything like the others.

It was nearly complete, with all its arms and legs, and if she caught sight of it out the corner of her eye, it almost seemed as though it was ready to step off the small stone plinth under its feet. There was a haunting elegance about the final statue. The floaty dress that wrapped her slender figure almost seemed to flutter in the breeze. Iliona blinked. It couldn’t be moving. It was made of stone. Stone didn’t move in the breeze, except maybe in a tornado. Certainly not the light breeze washing through the concrete remains of the tower block. But still, her brain wanted to insist that it was fabric, and more . . . that there was pale, creamy skin over the shoulders and arms. That the still chest was about to expand to take a breath.

“Huh. Looks like you.”

Iliona cut a glance at Jack. The detective stood a few steps away, a frown on his face as his gaze moved between her and the statue. She frowned. “What?”

“Same height,” he explained, gesturing to the stone figurine. “Same build. Even the same hair.”

Looking back at it, she drew in a quick breath, the smell of the recent rain and the mold from the damp concrete filling her lungs. Shit. He was right. It was like somebody had created a stone body double of her. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or freaked the hell out.

That question was decided when she stepped in front of it and gasped. It was missing its face, the features smashed away neatly in the center. Something inside her wept at the destruction while chills chased up and down her spine. They would never know if it was her face on the statue, and somehow that was even worse.

“Iliona?” The deep rumble of a familiar male voice made her turn.

“Through here, Cal,” she called out, a burst of pleasure filling her as the big gargoyle turned the corner, ducking under the turn of the concrete stairwell.

The light caught him from overhead, spearing through the carcass of the building and highlighting the close-cropped blond hair and the blue of his eyes. He smiled as soon as he saw her, the expression turning his harshly masculine features into something devastating. She sucked a breath in, heat rolling through her. The memory of his kisses had haunted her all night. Their embrace had gotten pretty heated, and if she hadn’t had to disappear to spring that idiot Stone from the pound, who knew where they would have ended up.

No, she corrected herself mentally. She knew exactly where they would have ended up. In bed. Naked. Locked in the throes of passion. Quickly she snapped herself out of it. Gargoyles weren’t telepathic, but as he’d proved the night before, his sense of smell was excellent. He might not have been human, but he was still male, and she didn’t need to add any more fuel to the fires of his male ego. A girl had to keep her secrets.

“Jack, I’d like you to meet the PPA’s gargoyle expert, Cal. Cal . . . this is detective Jack Price with the city police department. He found these.” She indicated the statues behind her. “And called us in. Thinks they might be possible paranormal murders?”

Although Jack had been open about his thoughts with her, the arrival of the other man seemed to put him on the defensive. He kicked slightly at the dirt and rubble on the concrete underfoot, his shoulders bowed as he frowned. “Yeah. Well, it was probably stupid. Just some kids—”

“No.” Cal stepped past him, an intent look on his face as he approached the statues. “You made the right call. Those . . .” He indicated the rougher-looking remains. “They’re just stone. But this one . . .”

He turned to the one in front of Iliona, studying it for a second. “She was killed.”

Jack blinked, a look of surprise on his face. “I knew it,” he hissed, aborting a fist pump as he spotted them watching.

Iliona hid her grin at the triumphant gesture. It wasn’t the right time and place, not when there was a body in front of them, but she could totally understand his reaction.

Jack’s gaze sharpened as he considered Cal, hunkered down on his haunches to study the other remains.

“How do you know?” Jack asked, curiosity in his voice. She easily read the unspoken question as he exchanged a glance with her. He wanted to know what type of paranormal Cal was. “Iliona said you were a gargoyle expert? Did you study them or something?”

Cal rose to his feet, turning to look at the human detective. As he did, he dropped a little of the human mask, a wash of gray sweeping over his skin, and his features becoming more carved.

“Not exactly,” he rumbled. “It’s more ingrained lifelong experience.”

“Oh fuck me,” Jack breathed. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Did you know her? What’s her name?”

Iliona closed her eyes, mentally face-palming. It was like asking a British person if they knew the queen. Fortunately Cal took the comment in good humor. “No. I didn’t know her. I don’t know every gargoyle in the world, and females are rare. If there was one in the city, I would have known about it.”

He looked back to study the faceless gargoyle. “Besides . . . I don’t think she was alive for very long. The magic is, I don’t know, almost unformed . . . Unfinished, if that makes sense?”

The big gargoyle moved around the tiny statue, checking it out from all angles, a frown on his now human face. “From the looks of this . . . I think she’d only just been born when they killed her.”

Jack was lapping it up, his expression eager and full of curiosity. “You guys are born? What . . . fully grown?”

She didn’t interrupt, waiting for Cal to answer. She was as curious as Jack was about gargoyles, and not just in a professional capacity. There were a lot of myths about paranormals, but most of them weren’t true. Vampires ate garlic, werewolves weren’t always susceptible to silver bullets, and fairies definitely weren’t always nice.

Cal shook his head, folding his arms over his massive chest. She caught herself glancing . . . no, ogling . . . his well-defined biceps and looked away quickly. Her cheeks heated up at the quirk of his lips, and she realized he had caught her looking. So what . . . he was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

“Full gargoyles aren’t born in the sense that humans are,” he explained. “We are carved, and we are enchanted . . . then we come to life. There are some second-generation gargoyles, but they’re not that common.”

“Wow . . . that actually sounds kind of cool,” Jack commented, but Cal immediately shook his head.

“Not really. The only sorcerer capable of creating gargoyles is a necromancer. A living soul has to be used and bound to stone to create us.” He looked from Jack to Iliona and back. “Without a soul, new gargoyles can’t survive long. Probably what happened with this female here.”

Iliona gasped as she caught on to what he was getting at. “So you mean . . .”

Cal nodded. “Yeah. If the sorcerer hasn’t killed yet, he soon will. This will turn into a human murder case as well.”

Outta my way, fairy,” Gran snarled, startling a pixie who was lounging in the doorway, one booted foot against the battered doorjamb as he tried to chat the bouncer up.

The pixie turned with a snarl, obviously ready for a fight, but took one look at Gran and shut the hell up fast. His skin blanched, and if he could have gone up his own asshole, he probably would have. For most people, calling a pixie a fairy was tantamount to leaping in front of a train. Both were likely to result in a swift and rather messy death.

For a gargoyle, though, pixies were little more threat than the average ant. A pain in the ass but easily crushed underfoot.

Gran flicked a glance at the bouncer and nodded. They went way back, since before either of them had come across from the old countries.

“Herja.” He nodded. “Please tell me you’re not considering sleeping with a snot like this?”

“Odin’s tits, no.” She chuckled. Like most who claimed to be of Valkyrie blood, she was tall, Amazonian in build, and stunningly beautiful. Gran had no idea if she was actually one of the legendary battle maidens, but whatever she was, human definitely wasn’t it. “He’s just pretty to look at. And his chat-up lines make me laugh.”

“Oi . . . fucking bi—” The pixie started to explode, fury ringing in his voice. He was obviously pissed that his charm offensive wasn’t going anywhere and, in the best traditions of pixie kind, readily replied with violence.

Somewhere between the f-bomb and the next word, both Gran and Herja turned to look at him. He stopped talking, choking like his air had suddenly been cut off. Or his balls had been shoved in a vise.

Gran’s gaze slid sideways to Herja, who hadn’t moved from her position propped against the wall by the door. She was completely relaxed, apart from one hand, which was clenched into a fist.

“Niiiiice.” Gran whistled, amusement pushing aside his bad mood. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it then.”

“Catch you on the flip side.” Herja smiled, her expression darkening as she looked back at the silent pixie. “Tell Dave to turn the music up, would ya? Wouldn’t want to upset people, what with all the screaming and that . . .”

“You got it, babe,” Gran rumbled and stepped through the door.

The Blood Moon was one of the seedier of the paranormal dives in the city and had a strictly neutral ground policy. Here you were just as likely to find werewolves cozying it up with vampires, and warlocks trading stories with dryads. It wasn’t unknown to see a dragon or two, or even a sidhe warrior in here.

The place was already half packed, a low hum of conversation audible over the music. Most of the tables were occupied, but that didn’t bother him. Gran ambled toward his usual booth. It was empty. It was always empty. No one wanted to risk the ire of its usual occupants. Gran and his companions weren’t the nicest of people, even for paranormals.

He nodded to Dave, the DJ, as he passed, jerking his thumb to the low-beamed ceiling in a silent signal to ramp the tunes up. Instantly, the volume rose, a power ballad drowning out whatever noises might make their way in from the alley outside.

He slid into the booth, lounging on the ratty cushions as he lifted a hand to catch the barmaid Mila’s attention. She nodded to indicate she’d seen him, bustling around behind the bar like an army of waitstaff. He’d once asked her how she managed without any help. The hint of black tentacles from beneath the long gypsy skirt had both given him his answer and forestalled any further questions.

He leaned his head against the padded seat back and tapped his foot on the floor. The carpet stuck to the bottom of his boot like a jealous lover.

Why the fuck had he followed Cal today? With a growl, Gran rubbed a hand over his face. He’d tried to warn his brother that Iliona Graham was bad news, but would Cal listen? No. Of course he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d gone haring off to meet her in some ruined building.

Gran closed his eyes, the memories as sharp as if he was back there in the flesh. He’d hidden himself on the front of the building opposite, invisible against the stonework. It wasn’t something most gargoyles could do, but the magic that had created him and Cal was unique.

They’d been looking at more of the statues his brother was obsessed with. He’d told Cal there was no way they were their kind. He’d lied. They were.

The magic was weak and ill focused, but whoever it was had access to the right spells to bring a gargoyle to life. However, they obviously didn’t have the last piece in the puzzle, and the creations died within days. As long as they didn’t figure the last part out, he didn’t see a need to go wading in.

The real problem wasn’t the newborn gargoyles, though. It was the woman.

He’d watched, his lip curled back into a tiny snarl, as the male human had left, leaving Cal and Iliona together. It hadn’t taken his brother long to pull the pretty little human into his arms. The sight of them kissing had sent a bolt of jealousy through Gran so complete and fierce that even thinking about it now brought a growl back to his lips.

He didn’t trust humans, but he wanted that one. Bad.

Not just for sex either. He’d liked the smile on her lips and had wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked. He’d wanted to pull her against him and see if her curves would fit as perfectly against the hardness of his body as he thought they would.

“And Kulot offered him more fairy dust than he could snort in a year if he’d set the thing on her.”

Gran’s attention was caught by a conversation behind him. The half-hidden table behind his booth was occupied. He hadn’t paid it much mind as he’d walked over, just enough to note that a pooka and a werewolf occupied it.

“I didn’t realize Phil could even raise a wraith. Aren’t they difficult to control?”

His eyes snapped open. Wraiths were serious shit. If that thing broke its captor’s control, the emergency room would be busy tonight, shortly followed by the morgue.

“Yeah. Things are total motherfuckers. Just as likely to eat your face off as do as they’re told. But all he had to do was raise it, and drop it in her office with a little teleport spell. Job done. Pain in the ass PPA woman gone.”

Shit. They were after Iliona.

Launching himself to his feet, he almost trampled Mila as she headed toward the table with his drink.

“Sorry, doll,” he apologized, spinning her around in a quick two-step move that would have done any dancer credit. “I gotta go. Put it on my tab, would ya?”

Not waiting for her answer, he sped toward the door, dragging his cell out of his pocket and hitting the speed dial for Cal. One of them had to get to the PPA offices . . .

Or Iliona Graham was a dead woman walking.