Chapter 9
Finn studied the sleeping woman while he waited for the sun to slip behind the mountains, and for night to fall. Her features, relaxed in slumber, were refined and delicate. Just a hint of pink tinged her cheekbones, and her brows formed a graceful arch. He studied the roundness of her chin, the fullness of her parted lips, and a sharp, poignant hunger to taste her lips rose in him.
If she wakened to see his ugly face, alive and as monstrous in the flesh as he was in stone, it would surely frighten her to death.
When her eyes opened, thick brown lashes fluttered as she blinked, then her attention focused on him. Would she recognize the change coming over him? He felt the magic awaken and begin dragging at him, trying to tear him out of the stone.
She swung her legs over the side of the lounge chair, turned away, and stood, stretching. She climbed the steps and went inside just as the sun sank deep behind the mountains.
Butterbean rubbed against Finn’s legs, arched his back, and meowed, begging to be picked up. Finn scooped him into his arms, and the cat bumped its head against his jaw. If nothing else had improved in his life, at least he had earned the cat’s affection.
Four large wolves loped around the side of the house, their tongues lolling out. They came as far as the edge of the woods last night and waited for him, and tonight they were growing bolder.
Butterbean began to growl deep in his throat, the hair rising on his back, his tail puffing out. The youngest of the wolves whined, intent on the cat.
Using his arm as a springboard, Butterbean leaped free of Finn’s grasp, landed on the nearby table, jumped to the ground, and, running for all he was worth, sprinted across the yard. One of the wolves broke from the pack in pursuit, his haunches bunching as he took great leaps toward the cat.
Finn roared, “Nay.” He ran forward and took to the sky. The easy flap of his wings seemed slow and laborious, but pushed him forward. He bore down on the pair. The wolf edged closer, his jaws open.
Finn grasped the feline by the back of the neck and swung him up into his arms. The wolf leapt to snatch Butterbean from his grasp, missing the cat’s tail by a thumb’s width. The cat’s claws dug deep into Finn’s shoulder, and his hisses and growling cries of panic pierced the air.
The porch light came on, and Genevieve rushed out onto the patio, facing off with the other three wolves with a wooden club of some kind. Finn’s roar of warning startled Butterbean, and his claws dug deeper, slashing down his shoulder and stomach. If he dropped the cat now, it might be injured, so he hung onto the animal as gently as possible and soared back toward the house.
When Finn landed a short distance from her, Genevieve staggered back toward the door, dropping the club, which thudded against the concrete and bounced on the hard surface, setting up a hollow clatter.
His deep-chested roar displaced the air and left it shimmering with sound as he landed between her and the wolves.
“Begone! You are frightening my mistress.”
The wolves turned and fled toward the woods, the fourth wolf racing to join them.
Butterbean’s back claws dug as deep into his stomach as the foreclaws had his shoulder. The scent of his own blood, coppery and rich, wafted to him. Until the night before, it had been a long time since he suffered any kind of injury, and these scratches nipped and stung with equal vigor, just as the bullet nick had the night before.
He soothed the cat with gentle strokes while he unhooked its claws from his skin.
“You aren’t going to hurt my cat, are you?” Genevieve’s voice sounded breathy and weak, her breathing ragged, as she retreated toward what she called the studio.
Strong emotion clamped a hand around Finn’s throat, and his eyes glazed with tears. He blinked to clear his vision. “Nay. I wouldna repay his affection by harming him.” He moved gingerly to turn so his nakedness would not further distress her. In the dim light, her face glowed, pale and featureless. Try as he might, he could not read her expression. “I mean you no harm either, mistress.”
Silence reigned between them for several seconds.
“Oh, God. This can’t be happening. I’m either hallucinating or dreaming.” Her voice climbed to a higher pitch.
He kept his tone even, though he couldn’t control the rough, gravelly timbre of his voice. “I have oft thought the same, living the life of this creature.”
She half fell, half sank onto the edge of the patio, as though the strength had left her limbs.
“Ye dinna have t’fear me. I will leave if it is what ye wish.”
Her voice was stronger when she asked, “Can you go?”
His hope fell as quickly as it had risen, hollowing his belly.
“I mean…can you permanently leave the base you perch on?”
“No. I have tried, but I am always called back to it.”
“Why?”
“’Tis part of the magic that created me.” He fell silent for a moment. Surely, being a sculptor, she would understand and wish to protect the stone gargoyle, even if she wished to be free of the live one? “Without a guardian’s protection, while I am stone I am most vulnerable. I could be hammered into pieces. My greatest fear is t’come alive once the damage is done and be unable to die.”
She leaned forward to brace her elbows on her knees and covered her face with both hands. When she finally dropped them, and used the hem of her shirt to wipe her face, he realized she was crying.
“You–you’re bleeding.”
“Aye. Butterbean was a wee bit frightened and dug his claws in.” He continued to stroke him. “He’s calming now.”
He started toward her, but thought better of it, and bent to set the cat on its feet. Butterbean meandered over to Genevieve and rubbed against her in a bid to be picked up. She cuddled him close.
“Thank you for saving him.”
“You’re welcome. ’Tis instinct for wolves to chase anythin’ that runs from them. Butterbean has been generous with his affection, and I would have been distressed had he been harmed.” He would have a talk with the pack and encourage them to keep their distance in the future.
“Are you friends with them?”
“They have shared their food with me.”
Genevieve pushed awkwardly to her feet, still clutching the cat. “I’ll get you some disinfectant to clean those scratches.”
She was not screaming or beside herself with terror. But once she was locked inside the house, would she call the men who were here last night? Would they come back to kill or imprison him?
Could their modern weapons do what swords, knives, and arrows were unable to do in years past? The bullet nick on his arm had healed as soon as he turned to stone, but had bled badly beforehand.
He looked to the west where the wolves had disappeared into the forest. He wasn’t a member of their pack. They would not offer him protection, because it would put them at risk.
He had no pack, or flock, or clan to call on. He had outlived his family, his son, everyone in his clan. What great loss would it be if they killed him? Who would mourn his passing?