Acropolis (5 page)

"Choices?"

I am getting sucked in.

"Choices," he repeats."About life. Gargoyles
are born with our future planned. It's a noble future, and we have
regular jobs as well, but it is still planned. We aren't punished
for deviating, but we are demoted."

He is definitely speaking from
experience.

"And have you ever been demoted?"

I ask this quietly. Even in my quest to know
more, I am trespassing. Conor doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. It really isn't any
of my business.

"No, it's fine," Conor assures."Yes, I've
been demoted."

It is all he says, and I don't ask any more
questions. I am tired, and I am still not entirely convinced this
whole gargoyle/Demon thing is kosher.

"We're just above my home," Conor whispers
suddenly in my ear, and I jerk. Logical Emma wants me to look down.
Instinct tells me not to, and even without looking, I can feel the
panic attack coming on.

"Deep breaths," Conor reminds me.

I start breathing in and out the same way
pregnant women in labor do. It isn't attractive, but it is better
than passing out.

"Deeper breaths, Sweetheart. You really don't
want to meet my mother while only half-conscious. She's hard to
deal with after eight hours of sleep and a whole pot of
coffee."

I am practically panting now, my eyes
squeezed shut.

"You're not helping," I say through gritted
teeth. Conor chuckles.

"The only way to defeat these fears of yours
is to face them."

It isn't that I disagree with Conor's
logic, it's that I honestly don't want to
agree
with it. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, my
breathing hard until I feel my feet hit something solid. And even
then, I still pant like an idiot.

"You can look now," Conor says, his tone
laced with amusement.

"You mother is going to
love
this," Will murmurs as he comes
up beside us.

His words, dripping with sarcasm, finally
makes me open my eyes. We are on a pleasant street in early
afternoon. There are houses spaced a nice distance apart. We are
facing a two-level red brick home with a wraparound porch and
burgundy shutters. The sun glints off a pool just visible from
where we are standing on the front lawn. There is a black Mercedes
parked in the drive in front of a closed garage.

"Are you counting yet?" Conor whispers to
Will.

Will smiles.

"Already on four . . . . "

There is a scream from inside the house. I
jump, my body instantly ready to bolt. Conor is prepared, his arm
still tight around my waist, and he pulls my thrashing frame more
tightly against his chest.

"Calm down, Darling. That's just Roach
scaring the hell out of my mother. He was in his gargoyle form,
which means once he reverted back to his mortal form, he was naked
as the day he was born. And, Lord knows, you didn't want to
see
that
on my front
lawn."

Will is laughing now, his face red as he
leans over, his hands resting against his thighs. My body is in
flight mode. Even if I want to laugh, it isn't happening.

"Conor Philip Reinhardt!" a woman yells
hoarsely.

Conor flinches. His initials are C.P.R.?
Seriously?

The house's large, white-framed front door
slams open, and I find myself staring at a tall blonde-haired,
intimidating woman in a black business skirt, buttoned up navy
blue-collared top, and black two-inch heels. She is scowling . . .
until she sees me. One glance in my direction, and her mouth forms
a silent "o", a hand coming to rest delicately over her lips. Her
gaze moves between Conor and Will.

"What is
that
?" she asks as Conor prods me from
behind.

We are moving toward the house now, my eyes
taking in the woman as we approach her. She is so . . . put
together. Her blue eyes are sharp, and her hair seems afraid to
move. Realistically, she has to be in her forties, but she doesn't
look a day over thirty, if that much.

"This is Conor's escort job," Will supplies
as we finally reach the porch. I find a semblance of dirty humor in
the situation. Escort does not sound appropriate.

Conor's mom looks me over skeptically. I am
pretty sure I don't look human.

"This is Emma Chase, Mother. Emma, this is my
mother, Beatrice Reinhardt. Bea," Conor says firmly, his tone laced
with warning. Bea's gaze moves between us before taking in the
solid grip Conor has on my arms. I am shaking.

"Is she injured?" Bea asks.

Both Conor and Will shake their heads. Bea
sighs, moving aside as she opens the door wider. I catch a glimpse
of stained concrete floors. Large potted plants stand like
sentinels on each side of the door. Roach, wrapped in a silk, pink
robe that only comes to his knees, stands crossly about a foot
behind Conor's mom. I hear Will snigger. I don't want to go inside
the house.

"It's going to be fine, Em," Conor whispers
into my ear. Bea watches us thoughtfully. I don't move.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Bea exclaims before
stepping outside and pulling me effortlessly out of Conor's
embrace. My heart rate goes through the roof, and my skin
warms.

"Hurt me, and I'll kill you," Bea says
sweetly when I start pulling at her arm.

Her words don't make me struggle any less.
She is shorter than I am, coming only to my neck in her heels. It
should comfort me, but it doesn't.

"It's a fight response," Roach says
callously. "I tried telling your son that in Atlanta, but he felt
the need to hurry off without any preparation. One of these days,
he's going to get someone killed."

"Shut up, Roach," Conor growls. "There wasn't
time for your medical mumble jumble. And nothing you could have
done would've helped." Conor looks at his mother. "The girl's body
rejects all medication."

They are talking about me as if I'm not
present, and it is scary how much they know about me.

"S-s-so you
are
a d-doctor?" I ask, my gaze on Roach. He
doesn't look old enough to be a doctor. Twenty-something, maybe.
His eyes narrow.

"No, I study monsters."

I cry out without meaning to.

"You're a heartless son of a bitch," Conor
says coldly.

Bea jerks me toward a staircase a few feet
inside the door. The stairs are hardwood, no carpet. To the side of
the stairs is a large livingroom with the same stained concrete
floors as the entry.

"Enough. Both of you. Conor, take the girl
upstairs, show her to the bathroom, and get her one of your shirts
to wear. Now," Bea orders, her eyes hard. She lets go of my arm.
"Will, you and Roach, get in the kitchen and fill me in."

"Yes m'am," Will says quickly as Conor
replaces his mother at my side. He takes me by the elbow and nods
at the stairs.

"After you," he says softly.

They don't leave me any choice. I start
climbing. Conor follows.

"There's a shower in my room. You can use
that. I'll leave my closet open, and you can take anything out you
think will fit. As for your jeans, I'm afraid you're stuck with
those. You might be tall for a girl, but you're skinny as
hell."

I am not rolling in compliments today. Conor
steers me to an open doorway at the top of the stairs, and I stop
just inside the room. It is awkward for me, standing inside a guy's
room. My life has consisted only of my mother and me. My sickness
hasn't allowed for school. I was home-schooled instead, tutors
teaching me what my mother couldn't. And what the tutors couldn't
teach, I learned through books and online classes. It was a hard
way to learn, but it also allowed me to get ahead. I am only one
test away from completing my senior year.

"Bathroom's just through there," Conor says,
his hand gesturing. "I'm going to sit outside the door." He pauses
a moment before turning to me. "Don't try and run, Em. It's not
safe. You're going to have to trust me."

His voice brings me out of my reverie, and I
glance around the room. It is a large room, the walls tan, the
floors hardwood with a king-size bed covered in camouflage pushed
against the wall near a window hidden by wooden blinds. The room is
clean. Too clean. The only mess is a littered desk covered in
football knickknacks and a stack of books. Conor notices me
staring.

"I'm not home much."

I don't say anything, and he doesn't
elaborate. He walks away from me, pulls a sliding closet door open,
and then exits the room.

"Don't try anything, Em. Trust me," he says
before pulling the door to.

"I don't know you," I whisper as the door
clicks shut.

I look toward the bathroom, at a mirror
hanging over a white porcelain sink, and almost scream. There is
blood everywhere. My entire face is caked with dried bloody tears,
my neck and shirt front covered in the same rusty mess. My eyes are
startling in comparison, the amber color almost red. I walk slowly
toward my reflection, stepping onto the white linoleum carefully. I
am looking at a stranger. I have to get it off!

My fears are cancelled out by the sudden
desperate need to look and feel human. I tear at my clothes,
pulling the shirt off urgently before shedding the rest of my
attire. I turn on Conor's shower and step away from it briefly.
There is a ceiling-to-floor cabinet on the opposite side of the
bathroom filled with terry-cloth white towels and two bottles of
shampoo. There is no conditioner.

I grab the towel and shampoo and step into
the steaming water. I can't scrub hard enough. The water pouring
onto my feet goes from clear to red, and I have to fight not to
sob. Crying means more blood.

My toes and fingers are numb with fear even
as hot water flows in rivulets down my body. It is like watching
one of those horror movies where blood signals a dead body hanging
just overhead. I don't look up.

"Emma? You okay?"

It is Conor's voice, and I shake
myself. The bedroom door might be closed, but the bathroom door is
still open. There is no more blood, but I am still scrubbing. The
water is clear again. And
still
I scrub.

"Emma?"

I hiccup, my hands clenched around a bar of
soap I have found resting in a dish on the side of the tub. I hear
the bedroom door creak open from beyond the shower curtain.

"I'm fine!" I squeak.

The door closes again slowly, and I
stand there. My whole body shakes. It isn't the bloody water that
scares me anymore. I am standing in a stream of hot water, my body
being caressed by the steaming flow, and I'm
not
waking up. My skin is turning pink, my
fingers are getting prune-y, and I
am
not
waking up. I WAS NOT waking up!

I lean over and switch off the water, but I
still don't move. Instead, I stare down at myself, at my size B
chest, my too skinny stomach, my, thankfully, clean shaven legs,
and my unpainted toenails. If I'm not dreaming, then . . . .

"I'm not human," I whisper.

I step out of the tub and lean against the
sink for support. Water pools on the floor below, but I ignore it
as I bend over, bringing my face as close to the mirror as I can.
My cheeks are clean now, my skin flushed from the shower. I pull at
my eyelids, examining them. Nothing looks different. Maybe I'm
human after all. Maybe I had just been kidnapped by a bunch of
psychopaths who belonged to some strange gargoyle cult.

"Emma?" Conor calls.

I know I have been standing here too long,
that he has heard the shower shut off, and I am in danger of being
found standing naked in front of his bathroom sink. I reach for the
terry-cloth towel and wrap it around myself.

"I'm fine," I say.

"That word is never good when uttered by a
female," Conor complains as I lean down to retrieve my discarded
clothes.

I step into my underwear and jeans and slide
my bra on, fastening it as I make my way over to Conor's closet. It
is obvious his family has money. Most everything is brand name.
Everything I own came from either Target or Wal-Mart. Medical bills
have put my mother in debt.

I start flipping through his hangers
cautiously, finally landing on a plain, nondescript white button-up
long-sleeve shirt. It doesn't look as if it has ever been worn.
That fact alone cinches the selection for me, and I put it on.

"Coming in," Conor warns.

My hands shake as I fasten the shirt, and I
just manage the top button when the door swings open. Conor leans
against the door jam, his gaze taking me in slowly.

"I want to call my mother," I say, my arms
falling to my sides.

Conor pushes away from the door and moves
across the room, his hand digging in his blue jean pocket. He pulls
out a cell phone.

"Five minutes. You have five minutes, and I'm
not leaving the room."

I take the phone from him.

"I want to be alone," I insist.

Conor leans forward.

"Five minutes. I stay. You have no idea how
many rules I'm breaking just allowing you the call. Five
minutes."

Five minutes it is.

Chapter 7

Conor

She is stronger than I expected, even with
the panic attacks. She tries hiding her hands as she dials her
mother's number on my phone, but I know they are shaking. I'm not
sure if it is fear causing her to panic and lash out or if Roach is
right. It is a fight response. I am leaning toward fight response.
She has broken a doctor's rib, and she has left me with some pretty
nasty bruises.

"Mom?" she says quietly into my phone.

She turns her back to me. I can hear
frenzied, garbled speech from the other end of the line. Emma's
shoulders shake. Her long dark hair is damp and un-brushed, leaving
water marks on the white button-up shirt she has selected. It makes
the back of her beige bra clearly visible against the fabric. The
color suits her. Beige. No-nonsense.