Interview With a Gargoyle (21 page)

She cringed away from the demon’s touch, and the Fremlings rallied, gripping her tighter in their filthy claws. The demon queen snarled, then lurched backward, an unmistakable look of surprise widening “her” bulbous yellow eyes.

Mel gaped, confused, until she realized Blake had leaped into the car and grabbed the demon by her stunted wings. The creature screamed and flailed her skeletal arms. Torn between holding their prisoner and helping their leader, the Fremlings did little but tremble. Mel took advantage of their confusion and threw all her strength into dislodging them one by one from her legs and arms. She snarled as she slammed their slender, formless bodies against rotting wood.

Nearby, Blake grappled with the queen. Leathery wings flapped, and curved claws glinted in the bare moonlight filtering through holes in the boxcar’s roof. Blake landed a punch to what should have been the demon’s solar plexus, and it grunted, a sound of surprise rather than pain. Enraged, it fought back, pummeling him with its meatless fists until he staggered.

Mel, free now from her diminutive guards, scrambled after a retreating Fremling. She picked the creature up and threw it at the queen’s spindly knees, bowling her over.

Dabbing at a bloody lip with the back of his hand, Blake lurched toward his opponent and delivered a vicious kick to the jaw. The demon’s head snapped back, and this time, she wailed in pain.

He kicked again, and the demon went down in a heap that resembled rags draped on old bones. She struggled to rise once, then groaned and lay still.

Blake’s dark gaze met Mel’s, and the scattered Fremlings froze. With no leader to guide them, they lost coherence and bolted for the door. Mel feigned a move after them, adding her best demonic growl for effect. Squealing, they fled into the night, leaving her alone with her bloody savior.

“I could have taken her.” Mel’s arrogant words came from the part of her she’d been battling all evening to suppress, and she hated herself for the cavalier remark.

Blake merely grinned and swiped the sleeve of his jacket over the oozing cut at the corner of his mouth. “I bet you could have.” He held out his hand to her. “Now, lass. Are you going to fight me too, or come home like a good girl?”

Mel bristled, and the demon in her clawed at her gut. She winced at the pain and guarded her stomach where the ache of the Cabochon had grown from an occasional pulse to a constant throbbing. She’d go mad if she didn’t get the cursed object out of her. Momentarily defeated, she sagged and slid her fingers into his palm. “Let’s go home quick, before I change what’s left of my mind.”

Something like sympathy flared in his eyes, and he tugged her toward the door of the boxcar. “Aye, lass, I’ll drive as fast as I can.”

Melodie balked at entering Blake’s house. She feared being imprisoned by Calypso’s ward stones again and wouldn’t go inside until he collected the polished river rocks and tossed them into the front garden. Once he’d disposed of the stones, though, she followed him dutifully into the house. Exhausted, he ambled toward the couch and collapsed, wishing for a few minutes of natural sleep before the dawn stole his life again. Very soon the night would end, and he’d return to his granite prison.

Mel stared at him for a moment, then disappeared into the kitchen. Too tired to follow her, he lay there listening to the faint sound of his freezer opening and the rattle of the ice-cube tray.

She returned a moment later with a makeshift ice pack, a kitchen towel wrapped around a handful of cubes. She sat beside him on the couch and pressed the cold towel to his swollen lip. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

He smiled, then winced at the pain it caused. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the ice wasn’t necessary. His injuries would be gone when he awoke from his exile at sunset—the only advantage he’d found so far to the curse. “It wasn’t exactly a rescue, lass. It was a hunt.”

She gave a harsh laugh, but disappointment flickered in her eyes. “How can you stand it? How have you managed all this time, living this way?”

“I don’t know what else to do.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. How could he tell her how close he was to just giving up?

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” she said after a long silence. “Whatever spell is necessary. I want to set you free.”

Blake’s heart ping-ponged against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He lifted a weary hand and cupped her face. “Worry about yourself, Melodie, not me. I’ll find some way to break the curse, but not at your expense.”

Before he could think of anything to add, she lunged in and kissed him fast and hard. Pain lanced through his split lip, but he ignored it in favor of the other sensations colliding in his gut. The buzz of the Cabochon nearly overpowered him. Being this close to it left him weak. He lifted a hand to her waist and felt the tingle of power race up his arm. His heart hammered as the flavor of Melodie, the woman, not the demon, flooded his mouth.

Sweet and warm, her tongue danced against his. Her lips soothed his hurt, and the pressure of her supple body caused other parts of his anatomy to throb.

For one delicious moment, he let everything fade away and permitted himself to enjoy the feel of her in his arms, the slide of her silky hair through his fingers, and the tantalizing press of her mouth on his.

Then he pushed her away. “You have to go. Now.”

She stared at him uncomprehending. “Why? I thought I had to stay here.”

“It’s almost sunrise.” Blake vaulted off the couch and out of her embrace. He had to get downstairs and hide himself away.

“I don’t care.” She stood and followed him across the room. She plucked at his sleeve and forced him to turn and face her. “I’ve seen you, Blake. I know what you become, and I don’t care.” She reached up to touch his face, but he pulled back.

“I do. I care.” Shame burned in his chest. She must have found his hideaway. He couldn’t meet her gaze. “Go. Please, Mel. Come back again at sunset.” He whirled away and headed for the basement stairs. He’d barely make it to safety. Already he felt the change coming on. Each step became agony as his body hardened. “Mel,” he croaked her name as his vision blurred. “Please go.”

Blake froze mid-step, one hand reaching toward the cellar door, the other thrown back behind him to warn her away.

In horror, Mel watched his skin darken to deep gray and the lines of his muscles stiffen into sculptured angles. His hands became claws, and his beautiful face morphed into the stark, frightening visage she’d seen the other morning, hidden away from the world.

In little more than a minute, he’d transformed completely. Even his clothes turned to stone, every line and nuance perfectly preserved as if wrought by an artist with the skill of Michelangelo and the imagination of Clive Barker. He’d become a monster in jeans and a leather jacket, a modern caricature of the classic guardian beast.

Mel touched his arm, then his face, and tears of futility welled in her tired eyes. He’d want her to go, to leave him to his solitary shame, but she couldn’t.

Seized by a sudden, uncontrollable bout of emotion, she kissed his cold cheek and met his granite gaze. “I won’t leave you, Blake. I’ll be here with you until you wake up. You don’t ever have to hide from me again.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Darkness had become his friend over the years, his only constant companion. He welcomed it at times, and at others, he merely tolerated its presence in a way that was almost companionable.

Tonight, he rejoiced in the utter blackness of a moonless night and the sharp taste of winter on the autumn wind. Cold darkness mirrored his inner desolation and made it easier to track his prey.

He’d followed a demon into the deep forest north of Kielder Castle in Northumberland on the orders of a new employer who’d promised him twice as much gold as that already lining his pockets. Percival would have done the job for half what the man offered—hell, a third—but he’d kept his own counsel and showed humble gratitude when his benefactor counted out a king’s ransom of coins, likely on behalf of the nervous duke who wanted to keep his hunting lands secure and free of all unholy creatures. Percival took care his payment didn’t jingle as he slipped between the closely spaced spruce boles.

The creature he stalked had been credited with luring young women away from the nearby village. Two ravaged bodies had already been found, their vicious wounds blamed on wolves by the authorities.

His benefactor knew better, though, and had showed Percival a sketch of a hell beast with scimitar-shaped claws and an appetite for virgin blood.

His eyes had grown accustomed to seeing in the dark, and even on a night as black as this, he could locate his prey with ease guided only by the light of the stars. It wasn’t his eyes he relied on this evening, though. Tonight he smelled the creature before he saw it.

The demon’s incoherent grunting was mixed with a whimpering female voice. Damn. The beastie had already chosen its victim for tonight.

Percival picked up his pace and brandished the broadsword he carried. Decapitation, his employer had explained, was the only way to ensure the creature would not resurrect. One sure slice at the thick neck would be enough to dispatch it.

The horrid sounds grew louder, and a lilting voice rose above the lascivious grunts. “You will not harm me.”

Under other circumstances Percival might have laughed at the girl’s bravado. She sounded no more than a score in age, probably less, yet her conviction seemed large enough to fill the woods. He gave her credit for that bravery but held out no hope she’d survive to greet the dawn.

Silently he advanced to the next clearing, and there he saw the vile thing. It stood on hind legs, weaving drunkenly and swinging claws at its prey.

She huddled by a fat tree, draped in a pale shift that revealed a wealth of delicate skin in the silvery starlight. Auburn hair hung in a thick braid over her shoulder, and this, it seemed, attracted the unholy attention of the beast. It hooked a claw into the silky plait and tugged. The girl should have screamed—any other woman would have—but instead she slapped the gnarled hand away. Amazingly, the demon drew back a step.

“I said,
you will not harm me
.”

She held up her hands, palms forward, and pushed at the air. Foolish chit. Provoking the creature would only get her torn to ribbons more quickly, and Percival had no desire to take responsibility for a bleeding carcass…other than the demon’s, of course.

He surged forward, ready to defend what would ultimately be left of her, but the sight in the clearing stopped him. From the girl’s hands emanated a faint glow, which, as he stood dumbfounded, coalesced into a ball of light. With all the force contained in her thin, barely clothed frame, she hurled the brilliant missile at the beast.

It exploded in a cloud of sparks against its hairy chest, and the demon roared.

Dear God. Percival had found himself a witch!

He should have turned and walked away then, leaving one servant of evil to the other, but his feet refused to move in either direction. Could he stand here in the depths of shadow and watch the hell spawn destroy her?

The man he’d been before the curse would have relished such a spectacle, but now…

Beyond angry and no longer vaguely enchanted by her coppery locks, the demon lurched toward her. It slapped her, and with a truncated scream, she fell at its feet.

Some force he would never understand propelled Percival into the clearing. Shaking his sword and yelling—two things he would normally never have done while hunting demons—he drew the beast’s attention away from the girl. He didn’t stop to contemplate the best angle from which to deliver his killing blow; he merely struck with all his strength. The girl put her hands up to shield her face but could not prevent dark demon blood from splashing across her shift and her delicate throat.

The headless demon teetered and fell in a heap, and she gaped at it, then at Percival. Any other woman would have wept with gratitude, or merely swooned, but this hellion had the audacity to glare at him.

Wiping at the blood on her dress and succeeding only in smearing it, she demanded, “Why did you do that?”

“I was paid to do that, my lady.”

“Ugh.”

“I daresay I did you a favor.”

“I’d have dispatched him eventually.” She swiped the back of a hand across her cheek, leaving a smudge of demon there.

Percival bowed and wiped blood from his sword on the rag he carried for such a purpose. “Forgive me. Next time I’ll not interfere when a hell beast attacks you.” He sheathed his blade and concentrated on not allowing his curious gaze to drop below her chin.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, well. Thank you, I suppose.”

“Are you grateful in truth, little witch, or merely bored of my company and wishing me on my way?”

She stilled at his words, and he pressed on. “Yes, I saw your display of power. Tell me you’ve not been summoning the beast to play devil’s games out here in the dark.” Memories of Rebecca surfaced, and Percival’s dark heart beat faster. The last time he’d threatened a witch, he’d lived to regret it. If one could call this living. Tread carefully, his inner voice admonished.

Her defiance withered. “I know not what you’re talking about, good sir.”

“I saw the spell you cast, the power in your tiny hands. You cannot lie your way out of this.”

Now fear darkened her blue eyes, and again Percival thought of Rebecca. “You would not tell, my lord, would you?”

“I would not. If, perhaps, we can strike a deal.”

She blanched in the gossamer light trickling through the trees. “My lord, I’m…too young to…please—”

“Och!” Percival stepped back. How dare she think he’d make such a rude proposal to a mere girl? “Not that, child. I’m likely three times your age and quite unwilling to beget a brat on some peasant girl. No, it’s not your body I want. It’s your power. Can you break a witch’s curse?”

She stared at him for so long he thought
she
might have turned to stone.

“Did you hear me, child?”

“Yes—I… No, I cannot break another witch’s spell for good or bad.”