Interview With a Gargoyle (2 page)

The words “Gogmars” and “thoraxes” held little relevance for her, so Mel ignored them. More importantly, this “Gogmar” was now dead.

“But you killed him.” Mel just couldn’t get past that little detail. It didn’t matter what the guy was dressed up as, he was still dead.

Lancelot cocked a golden brow at her. “Of course. Otherwise he’d have torn you apart looking for food. Gogmars are a lot like bears. They’re very destructive when they’re hungry.” He held out a surprisingly well-manicured hand. “I’m Palmer Van Houten, demon hunter.”

“Melodie McConnell,” she replied automatically before her sense of self-preservation returned. She let his hand hang there, unshaken, while his introduction sank in. “You hunt demons? In Amberville?”

“Well, all over, really.”

Right
. “You won’t mind, then, if I call the police?” She backed up, broom at the ready, and glanced at the body behind him.
Fraternity prank gone bad, news at eleven
flashed in her mind again. Or maybe Crazy Palmer liked to play
Dungeons and Dragons
for real and had run one of his buddies through on the roll of the dice.

Palmer favored Melodie with a weary glance. His eyes were dark, a little bit sparkly in the dim light, and might have been mesmerizing if she hadn’t just watched him impale someone. “The body won’t be here when the police arrive. Gogmars usually melt after death. It takes between fifteen and twenty minutes, and it can be kind of smelly. Baking soda helps with that. You might want to shake a box or two around out here.”

“Baking soda.”

“Yeah. Look.” He nodded to Creature Boy, who looked much more creature and much less boy at the moment.

“Eeew. Oh my God.” Green sludge had begun to ooze across the alley, seeping from beneath the corpse, which seemed to flatten out a bit as she watched in horrified fascination.

“Sometimes they leave a stain.”

It was times like this that Mel missed the good old days when a girl could simply swoon her way out of a difficult situation. Despite feeling a little light-headed and a lot queasy, though, she wasn’t about to lose consciousness. She had no hope of waking up snug in her bed to discover this had all been a dream.

She gave Palmer a skeptical once-over and decided that he was probably right. The body was almost completely—yech—liquefied now, and there didn’t seem to be a reason to call anyone, except maybe an industrial clean-up crew. She figured tomorrow would be soon enough to contact her HMO and get the name of a good psychotherapist in her plan. Right now, a dignified retreat seemed to be her best option.

“Well, Palmer, it was nice meeting you. Thanks for saving me. I’ve got to get back to work. And by the way, you have a little Gogmar on your T-shirt.”

He glanced at his chest, and while he was distracted, she bolted for the back door.

She’d have made it too, except she forgot she was still holding the broomstick, and it barred her hasty getaway. She turned to chuck it next to the Dumpster, and that’s when hell itself roared into the alley.

Chapter Two

The blinding beam of a single headlight swept the alley. Palmer and Melodie both put their hands up to shield their eyes, which did little to increase visibility. The strong scent of diesel accompanied the belly-rumbling thunder of a six-cylinder on low idle.

Fortunately, the rider cut the light, leaving Mel blinking at the phantom color dots that swirled in front of her eyes. When her stunned retinas recovered, she focused on the movement of leather-clad arms reaching up to remove a gleaming black helmet.

Next to her, Palmer drew his sword and shoved one broad shoulder forward in a move that said, “Get behind me, wench.” Annoying as it was, though, the attitude suited him.

A masculine wave of dark hair tumbled from the helmet, and Hell’s angel revealed a face that could stop traffic. A day’s growth of sexy stubble shadowed a granite jaw. Sculpted lips curved in a humorless grin, and deep-set hawk eyes zeroed in on the puddle of Gogmar evaporating around their feet.

“Oh, crap, it’s DeWitt,” Palmer muttered near Melodie’s ear. She might have commented, but she was currently bewitched by a stare that made her palms slippery on the broom handle and her heart beat triple time.

Here was a man who sizzled.

She’d never been the type to be rendered speechless or weak-kneed by a show of testosterone, but Sugar Honey Iced Tea, this man was
fine
. Correction: This leather-wearing, Harley-riding, ally-skulking thug was
fine
.

He tucked his midnight black helmet under one arm and cocked a perfectly arched brow at Melodie’s sword-wielding savior. “
You
killed the Gogmar, didn’t you?” His words held an exotic lilt, just the hint of a Scottish brogue.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was making out with my girlfriend. We didn’t see anything. Right, sweetheart?”

Palmer wrapped an arm around Mel’s shoulders, and the weight of his embrace nearly knocked an inch off her height. “Huh? Oh…right.”

She assumed she was protecting them both by agreeing with him. Nevertheless she wasn’t fully comfortable with Tall, Dark and Dangerous thinking Palmer was her boyfriend, or—and more importantly—that she was the kind of girl who would make out in an alley.

“You do realize you’re standing in Gogmar guts,” the mysterious DeWitt said.

“Umm…” The smell in the alley had grown into something no skunk could hope to emulate, and Melodie’s desire to flee before
she
started to melt had become unmanageable. She decided to rat Palmer out and ducked from under his arm. “
He
did it.”

The back door of Gleason’s was two steps away, and she could have had it slammed, locked and dead bolted in a heartbeat if only she could have torn her gaze away from DeWitt’s piercing stare.

“So what if I did?” Palmer stepped up, sword ready, while Mel inched back.

Leather God shrugged. “That’s fine with me. All I want is the cabochon it carried, and I’ll be on my way.”

“It had no cabochon,” Palmer replied.

Skepticism lit those fathomless eyes, and DeWitt smirked. Mel conveniently forgot her desire to flee when he lifted a massive thigh and swung himself off the seat of his Harley.

Leather boots, stone-washed jeans, black T-shirt, and a scuffed bomber jacket completed his bad-boy ensemble. As he stretched to his full height, her gaze dropped to his silver belt buckle, which looked big enough to hold tea service for four. She wondered guiltily if he were compensating for a small…id. Nah. A guy like this had the goods to back up that swagger. No doubt about it.

“I’ve been following it since sundown. I know it had the Cabochon, and I want it. Now.” His demand held no room for argument, and the commanding tone of his rich, slightly accented voice made Mel want to give him whatever he asked for.

While Palmer postured, though, she slid another inch toward the door.

“You’re welcome to search the remains, but trust me, there’s no cabochon here.”

“I can feel it. It’s here.” DeWitt advanced, Palmer brandished his weapon and Mel bolted again, figuring she’d just be in the way when they came to blows.

Rather than go for the armed opponent, though, DeWitt lunged for Melodie. Palmer ran interference, for which she was grateful, and she ducked inside the shop, cringing as a scuffle erupted behind her.

Once inside, she turned to shove the door shut behind her, but a booted foot wedged in the sliver of space between the door and the jamb, preventing her from closing it completely.

She screamed and thought about stomping on the intrusive instep, but her rubber-soled Keds wouldn’t do much damage, so she ran. The door banged open, and the clatter and clang of armed combat followed her through the kitchen.

“She’s got the Cabochon, I can sense it. Get out of my way and you won’t get hurt, Van Houten.” Blake concentrated on keeping the door to the bakery wedged open while behind him, the demon hunter took aim with his still somewhat bloody weapon.

The tip of the sword jabbed Blake in the ribs, and he momentarily forgot his preference not to harm humans in his quest. He whirled around, forgetting his prey, and wrapped his hand around Van Houten’s sticky blade. Ignoring the bite of steel into his palm, he yanked the weapon out of the demon hunter’s hands. It wasn’t a move any man could get away with, but Blake didn’t have to worry about scars, and physical pain had little meaning for him when his entire life was hell.

Disarmed now, Van Houten reared back. His fancy boots found no traction in the spreading puddle of rapidly disintegrating Gogmar entrails, and he went down on his denim-clad backside with an embarrassing yelp. With a disdainful glare at his nemesis, Blake flipped Van Houten’s sword in the air, caught it by the hilt, and turned his attention back to the lissome brunette who, by the sound of crashing cookware, hadn’t gotten very far through the bakery.

She possessed the Cabochon. Why and how were questions he could ruminate on later, when he was free. For now he had to get it from her before she had the chance to pass it on to a demon queen. He flung himself after her.

She slipped away from him, swift as the wind, and dashed through the bakery’s stainless-steel kitchen on deft feet, her chestnut ponytail swinging.

Blake lunged, grabbing for the silky rope of hair, but missed. She skidded on her rubber-soled shoes and swung herself through the narrow door that separated the kitchen from the front of the shop.

He could have slung Van Houten’s confiscated sword at her legs and tripped her easily enough, but she reminded him too much of a frightened doe, both skittish and curious, graceful and untried.

Even in his darkest hours since inheriting the Witch Hunter’s curse, he’d remained loath to hurt anyone unnecessarily. He didn’t want to consider what he might do if the day came when he had no choice.

The Cabochon had been entrusted to demon rather than human caretakers for that very reason, so the men of his cursed bloodline would never find themselves in the position to kill or harm a human being to end their exile.

Blake launched himself after his target again, but just as he rounded the counter that bisected the kitchen, Palmer crashed into his back. Incensed, he whirled around and grabbed his nemesis by the shirt. He might not have the stomach to hurt the girl, but at this moment, he had no qualms about causing Van Houten a little pain and humiliation. If the two were friends, maybe he could play on her sympathies if he threatened to hurt the demon hunter.

“Run! Get out of here while you can.” Palmer’s strangled command stopped Melodie halfway around the front display counter. She skidded to a halt and glanced back over her shoulder. DeWitt had Palmer by the stretchy collar of his T-shirt and was lifting his linebacker body about a foot off the floor.

Ignoring Palmer’s gasping and his ineffectual kicks, DeWitt turned his predatory gaze on Mel. “I only want the jewel. Don’t make me hurt him to prove how desperate I am.”

And there went her escape plan. In a strange way, Palmer had saved her life, and weird as he was, she couldn’t let him suffer on her account. “Jewel? You’re looking for a jewel?” Why hadn’t he just said so in the first place?

“The Cabochon is a cursed jewel. It will bring you nothing but tragedy. Hand it over to me, and you’ll escape its curse.”

“Ah, okay. I think I know what you’re talking about. The Gogmar gave me something in the alley, right before he…died.”

Tortured eyes searched hers, and she had the distinct impression he could see into her soul. The oddly naked feeling made her shiver.

“It
gave
you the Cabochon?”

“It gave me a sapphire. Now, put Palmer down gently, and I’ll give it to you if you promise to leave us alone, okay?”

She made a “down boy” gesture with both hands.

“If you give me the Cabochon, I promise, you’ll never see me again.”

That seemed reasonable to Mel, but apparently not to Palmer, who still dangled in midair.

“Don’t do it, Melodie. He’s pure evil. He’ll kill us both if we give him what he wants.”

“Oh, please.” DeWitt dropped Palmer then, totally ignoring the “gently” part of Mel’s request. “Get over yourself,
demon hunter
. There’s nothing
pure
about me.”

Clutching his chest, from which DeWitt had likely ripped a handful of hair, Palmer slithered away along the floor. With a lot more bravado than she felt, Mel inched back into the kitchen and put herself between DeWitt and Marty, who still sat grinning like a fool on the very edge of the center workstation.

“Okay. Nice and easy,” she said, holding up her hands like this was an old-fashioned stickup. Since it appeared the only weapon DeWitt possessed was Palmer’s sword, she probably could have made a break for it, but she really was more than willing to part with whatever it was Creature Boy had given her.

“It’s in my pocket.” She reached slowly for the gem that the Gogmar had pressed into her hand. DeWitt’s tawny gaze followed her movements, skeptical but anxious.

Judging by his expression, Mel held all the power. He wanted the cursed jewel just as badly as she wanted to get rid of it. When her cold fingers scraped the crumb-dusted bottom seam of her apron pocket, her heart shriveled a little. With a reassuring smile for DeWitt, she felt to the left, then to the right. Nothing.

She held open her pocket and glanced inside. There was nothing there but a few shards of antler and a little ball of bright green lint. “Um…”

DeWitt’s accusatory glare made her spine tingle. “You lied to me, lass.” The timbre of his voice brought to mind the windswept hillsides of Scotland and the icy depths of a cold hell. He was not amused.

“I
did
have it. I swear. It must have fallen out of my pocket in the alley. It’s probably still out there under the…ooze.”

DeWitt wasn’t buying it. His ire wilted her. Under his alluring golden gaze, she
felt
guilty.

“I swear, I don’t have it.”

“Yes, you do.” The accusation hung in the sweet-scented air of the kitchen for a second; then DeWitt lunged for her.

Melodie ducked out from under his two-handed grasp, leaving Marty to take the fall for her, and fall was exactly what he did.