Chapter 5
From his position behind one of the large oaks that shaded the house during the day and offered him cover and a perch at night, Finn watched Genevieve. Her feet were propped in a chair close to the window. Their strong arches curved while she pointed her toes. The bottoms, unmarred by calluses or dirt, looked baby-soft and pink. Finn rarely thought feet beautiful, but he decided this woman’s feet might change his mind.
She wore thigh-length shorts, and her long, slender legs seemed to stretch on forever, pale and smooth.
Women’s fashion had changed much over the years—for the better, in his opinion. Thank God for the books the families in residence at the castle left lying about, along with newspapers, shiny-page magazines, even letters. The written word had helped pass the time, and kept Finn tethered to the human world. Plus it had helped him evolve along with the humans.
So very much had changed since the year of his birth as the monster. Had a woman displayed herself in garments baring her legs for anyone other than her husband, as Genevieve was doing, the entire village would have been outraged and moved to punish her. And now it was accepted, had been for decades.
But for him such a display was a double-edged sword. She represented everything he had lost, could never have, and yet craved. He could not wrench his gaze from her. He was fascinated, even when she did nothing more than turn the page in the book she focused on so intently, and reached for the small, long-stemmed glass of golden liquid sitting on the table next to her to take a sip.
Her long, twisted tail of brown hair curved against her cheek and lay draped across her shoulder. A long T-shirt, almost as long as the shorts, covered her upper body, but outlined the sweet shape of her breasts. Those same breasts had been close to his face earlier today, covered by layers of bulky cloth, and he had ached with the need to rest his head just there and feel the soft, womanly flesh against his cheek, beneath his lips, and cupped in his hand.
But no human woman would allow him so close. And there were no other beings like him with whom he could share comfort, conversation, or the fulfillment of any other need. Would he even be attracted to one if there were? Probably not.
Seeing her sitting at the table, so completely feminine, brought once again to agonizing light every long, barren, empty year he had spent alone. A sense of loss, piercing and painful, stormed through him. A howl of pain and rage rose from the very depths of his being. With difficulty, he choked it back.
Unable to bear watching her any longer, he took two long leaps and sprang into the sky. His wings snapped open like freshly washed sheets caught in a gale. The sound was satisfying in its intensity. He needed to fill his empty belly, then bathe the monster so he would at least be as clean as the stone he became.
The area was surrounded by woods and isolated, with a creek snaking along one border. He dove down in search of fish, startling a doe getting a drink with her twin fawns. They leapt into the brush, their white tails a flicker of movement. He started to follow them, then decided against it. He would not do them harm, and there was no need to terrify the wee ones.
Instead, he watched for movement beneath the water. How sick of fish he was. Birds were always easy to catch, but he was not in the mood for the hour of work required to pluck feathers for only a bite or two of meat.
He glided over the water, observing the effect his shadow had on the smaller animals and birds. Then, coming to a field, he swooped down low and scared a rabbit from its hiding place in the tall grass. He was after it in a second, caught it by the scruff and, with a jerk, snapped its neck. He circled back around to the water and landed on the bank, where he ripped the skin loose from the carcass and gutted it, leaving the mess for other animals to eat.
He missed being able to cook his meal over a fire and dampen the wild flavor of the meat. He missed sitting at table like a civilized human and sharing drink with his clansmen. His memories of them were as sharp today as they were six hundred years ago. Was that, too, part of his punishment? To be reminded every day of what he had lost?
A wolf came slinking out from the deepest part of the brush, possibly drawn by the smell of fresh blood. His hunger killed by his thoughts, Finn stayed motionless until she crept close. On a whim, he tossed the skinned rabbit to her. Her teeth gleamed white as she caught it in her strong jaws and bounded back into the brush.
Finn slogged to the creek and washed his face and hands in the chilly water. He crouched there for several moments, drinking deeply, and then, looking up, noticed several pairs of eyes glowing from the underbrush. Wolves, possibly a pack. He eyed them with wary concern, then with interest.
Could they end this for him? Could he remain unresisting while they attacked and devoured him? He folded his wings back and bent to rest his forehead against his knee and waited.
The musky smell of their fur was familiar, and took him back hundreds of years. When he felt a muzzle brush against his arm, he froze, though every human instinct screamed at him to leap to his feet and run, and every monster instinct told him to fight and fly.
Sounds came from behind him, wet and nauseating, while they gobbled up the innards of the rabbit. He raised his head a wee bit, and met the golden gaze of a huge wolf. For several seconds they froze, taking each other’s measure.
The feral gleam he glimpsed in other animals’ eyes was absent. Instead, Finn saw a patient watchfulness. Testing the waters, he raised a hand and, curling his fingers so his sharp, lethal nails were tucked into his palm, extended the back of his hand to the beast.
The wolf sniffed it and sat down.
Stunned, the words “What are you?” burst from Finn. “Have ye been cursed like me?”
The wolf shook himself as though to say no. He gave a short, sharp bark, calling his pack together. Finn watched in despair as they followed their alpha back into the woods.
After that one brief contact, they had no interest in further congress with him. He rose and did the only thing left to him.
He flew back to Genevieve’s house.
Careful to avoid large patches of interior lights cast onto the lawn, Finn reached for one of the dingy cloths Genevieve used earlier to scrub his stony exterior. He poured some soap onto the cloth, then studied the knob connected to the garden hose. His overlarge hands, with their deadly claws, gripped the circular metal clumsily, but he managed to turn it.
The sound of running water was evident, but none came out the end of the hose. He gripped the metallic thing preventing the water from pouring. He gave the lever a cautious squeeze, and cold water sprayed out, hitting him in the chest. With a grin, he sprayed himself down and wet the rag, delighting in the process of soaping his hair and body until he was covered with lather. He even soaped the parts of his wings he could reach, then sprayed himself down with the hose before giving a violent shake, scattering drops across the patio. There were so few pleasures left to him, but being clean and not smelling like an unwashed beast was one of them.
After taking a long drink, he returned everything to its place and turned off the water. He had just moved to his spot on the patio when the door behind him opened. In a blink, Finn took his normal position. Only if she came close enough to touch him would she recognize the difference.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her check the valve that controlled the water. She paused for a moment to scan the yard. His footprints stood out on the concrete and led right to him. His stomach tightened with part dread, part excitement. What would happen if she discover his secret? She would be terrified, horrified. But after that passed… He didn’t want to think about what she might do. All he knew was the truth of his existence had remained secret for too long.
He tensed to stand, but hesitated when she followed the footprints and came to stand directly in front of him. She was too close. He did not want to frighten her.
He breathed in the sweet scent lingering on her skin and gazed at the long, smooth length of her legs. Without the barrier of the window and the distance, they appeared softer, more well-muscled. The shorts hugged her buttocks and hips, outlining the womanly roundness. His body responded to the sight with a fierce joy and need, and he quickly closed his eyes to block out the sight.
Should he approach her in such a state, she would be doubly terrified. He swallowed against a knot of despair. It took all his control to stay in position.
“Just someone passing by, I suppose. They must have gotten a drink and then left,” she murmured to herself.
Nearby, to the west, a wolf howled, and Genevieve caught her breath and swung around to look.
She rubbed her arms, as though warming herself against a chill, then went back inside.
Finn slumped in disappointment. Had he been on the verge of alerting her to his presence before the wolf howled and she fled into the house? The wolves he had concluded were not wolves at all?
He stretched his wings and folded them around his body, not for warmth, for he was seldom cold, but because it provided him with a wee bit of comfort.
* * *
Genevieve moved from window to window, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever had been outside her house. Why had she positioned the gargoyle on the corner of the patio, where she couldn’t see him except through the breezeway windows? Whoever it was had sprayed him with water and been barefoot.
There was no rational reason to be afraid. She was secure inside her house. But the hairs on the back of her neck were still raised, and every nerve continued to prickle with alarm.
She’d felt someone watching her. She was certain of it, and she’d learned over the years to trust her instincts and her impressions. Traveling abroad by herself, she’d saved herself from many a mishap by paying attention to those feelings.
She retrieved a sweater from the mudroom off the kitchen and dragged it on.
Because she’d cleaned the gargoyle, and the light reflected off his features, he now looked more lifelike. She could swear she’d seen the light glint in his eyes, as though he were looking right at her. Maybe it was just his startlingly lifelike gaze which made her feel watched.
She crept into the breezeway and peeked out the window. Butterbean looped through the statue’s legs and rubbed his chin against his calf, marking him. Surely if someone was around, the cat would be a little more wary.
Whoever it was had to be gone now.
She returned to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine, but pulled the curtains across the window before taking a seat. Through the glass she heard the wolves howl once again, the sound sorrowful. Goose bumps cascaded over her neck and arms, and she swore.
She’d never known them to come so close to the house. But they’d surely scare off anyone who lurked.
But Butterbean was outside. She’d read about coyotes hunting family pets because they were easy prey. Wolves would do the same, probably. She rose to call the cat in and found him perched on the gargoyle’s muscular shoulder.
“Butterbean, come in, baby.”
His plaintive meow was her only response. He butted his head against the gargoyle’s pointed ear.
“Crazy cat.” She stepped out on the top step. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”
In typical cat fashion, he ignored her and continued to heap affection on the statue.
“Come on, Butterbean. You don’t want to be eaten by wolves.” Another mournful howl, closer this time, intensified her anxiety. She descended the steps. Fear, like a cold wind, sent a frisson of apprehension through her. As she approached the gargoyle, she told herself there was nothing out here to be afraid of, until a yap sounded from the front yard.
Her voice was swallowed to a whisper. “Butterbean—come on, baby.” She reached for the cat, and he leaped out of her reach onto the patio.
“Damnit, Butterbean,” she breathed, and moved around the gargoyle to scoop the cat up before he could run.
Not daring to look into the statue’s face, she rushed inside, shut the door, and threw the bolt. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
Whatever spooked her earlier in the evening now made her hypersensitive to every creak and pop inside the house. She went from room to room, checking the windows and peeking out. Nothing moved. And the wolves had ceased calling to one another.
It was time to get her mind on something else. She was allowing a feeling and some wet footprints to frighten her. She sipped her wine with more determination than normal, and after a time the alcohol seemed to ease her tension.
Finally she settled into bed with a book and Butterbean. He kneaded his blanket at the foot of the bed, and wandered up to be stroked now and then while she read. When she set aside the book and turned out the light, Butterbean cuddled into the crook of her legs, and she reached back to rub his head, the only part of him she could reach. The warm feel of his fur and the sound and vibration of his purring relaxed her.
While her tension lessened, she was able to mull over her reaction to a random set of wet footprints and the wolves howling.
She wasn’t easily frightened. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be living out in the woods by herself.
It wasn’t just the wolves that had frightened her, or the fact that someone had taken a drink from her garden hose.
She’d allowed her imagination to run away with her, too. It was the sculpture. He was a monster. If he was real, his claws and teeth would be lethal. He would probably be ferocious, brutal, and violent.
He was only a statue, but for reasons she didn’t understand, tonight she’d been unable to look him directly in the face.
She rose up on an elbow and gave the cat one final head-to-tail swipe. “But you weren’t at all afraid of him, were you, Butterbean? You were all over him.” She needed to take a cue from her cat and relax. The gargoyle was a sculpture, for Pete’s sake. A harmless, stationary piece of stone. There was nothing to be afraid of.
She closed her eyes, and after a short time the tension began to leach away, and her breathing leveled out. She was on the cusp of sleep when her eyes flew back open.
Why had the footprints led to the statue, but never trailed away?