Interview With a Gargoyle (5 page)

“Wish I hadn’t.”

“What happened to it? Where did it go?”

“Remember that essence of decay around the back door this morning?”

“It’s dead?”

“I assume. Unless it can recover from being impaled and then melting into green sludge.” The memory of it dulled her enthusiasm for the latte. It occurred to her that Calypso didn’t seem quite as freaked out as she should have been. It wasn’t every day someone confessed to a run-in with a demon.

“Van Houten killed a Gogmar in front of you, and you
remember
it?”

Mel set her cup down. “Are you humoring me because you think I’m nuts, or does this conversation not seem that strange to you? We’re talking about demons here. And I’m gathering you know about the pixie dust too. Maybe you
have
met Palmer before and you just don’t remember.”

“I don’t think you’re nuts. And pixie dust won’t work on me.” Cal dove into her mochaccino and resurfaced, innocently licking foam from her lips.

“Why? Because you’re a witch?”

Cal’s nervous laugh died quickly. “Why would you… All right. Yes.”

Ah, well, that explained a
lot
about Calypso. “I always suspected, you know. I figured you didn’t think I could handle it.”

For the first time in Mel’s memory, Calypso looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I never told you I’m a witch. I’m sort of in the closet.”

“Oh. Why?”

Cal dropped Palmer’s card on the table and slid it toward Mel. “Because of witch hunters like Blake DeWitt. If he’s around, and there are Gogmars roaming the streets, that means trouble.”

“I don’t understand. It’s the twenty-first century. How can he still be hunting witches? Isn’t that illegal?”

Cal nodded. “He isn’t trying to kill anyone. Only a witch can break his curse. It’s been in his bloodline since 1729.”

“Palmer told me about the Cabochon and the transfer from one demon queen to another. If Blake gets a hold of this jewel, he can give the curse to someone outside of his immediate family, right?”

“Yes. So far that’s happened only once. When a man named Wendell Blake managed to transfer the curse to his nephew, Calvin DeWitt, rather than passing it on to his own son. I think that was in the 1860s.”

The caffeine had begun to transform Mel’s fatigue into nervous energy, and she fidgeted. Ignoring Calypso’s wide-eyed stare, she grabbed a sugar packet from the carafe on the table, tore a corner off the blue paper pouch and dumped the sweetener into her cup just to keep her fingers busy. “I don’t understand. This curse was originally placed on a witch hunter in 1729 and it’s been passed down through his male descendants for all these years, even if they don’t kill witches anymore? Isn’t that sort of excessive?”

“Key word
curse
. If you look in the dictionary, you won’t find it anywhere near ‘justice’.” Cal sipped the last of her coffee. “The original witch hunter was Percival Blake, an English nobleman. He murdered at least thirty-five women, and not all of them were practicing witches. Some were just herbalists or midwives, women of vision or exceptional skills who made their contemporaries jealous enough to suggest they might have come by their talents from a questionable source.

“When Birgid Cooper cursed him, she put vengeance for thirty-five deaths into her spell—thirty-six if you count Percival’s last victim was rumored to have been pregnant. It takes a long time for that kind of anger to play out. Plus, at the time, it was assumed that fear of witches and witchcraft wasn’t ever going to go away. And it hasn’t. Murder might be illegal now, but prejudice against practitioners of magick isn’t.”

“But Blake DeWitt isn’t really a witch hunter, is he?”

“Birgid Cooper believed Percival would train his progeny to do what he did and carry on his legacy. She wanted to make sure they
all
suffered for it, I suppose, whether they were guilty or not, just like Percival’s victims died whether they were witches or not.”

Mel gaped. She’d never heard such conviction in Cal’s voice before or seen such pain in her eyes. “Wow. I had no idea. Palmer said Blake DeWitt was evil. Do you think he’s capable of hurting a witch to force her to break the spell?”

“A desperate man will do anything. The important thing is that the Cabochon gets into the hands of the next demon queen. Then DeWitt will lose his chance to transfer the curse to anyone else. We just need to figure out where the Cabochon is.”

Mel’s heart fluttered a bit. “Well…DeWitt thinks I have it.”

Cal arched a brow and scoffed. “Why would he think that?”

“Because the Gogmar gave it to me.”

Chapter Five

Blake might not have minded his daily incarceration so much if the cold, silent darkness had been complete. Oblivion from sunrise to sunset each day might have been a blessing at times, but since it was a curse, after all, why should it have an upside?

Rather than feeling nothing during his imprisonment, he dreamed. Day after day, for ten years, he’d walked in the shoes of Percival Blake, a man who’d lived more than two hundred fifty years ago. Each time Blake closed his eyes and succumbed to the icy embrace of the stone, he lived those horrifying years of an eighteenth century nobleman’s life—from the heart-wrenching moment of his true love’s betrayal, to the last plunge of a well-worn blade into innocent flesh and beyond, into the decades of torment that followed the moment of the curse’s inception.

Each night when the sun set, he woke shivering in the basement room where he hid himself away, and he stretched stiff muscles and flexed tired limbs that ached from being motionless so long. On waking, he suffered the shame and remorse that Percival never allowed himself to feel.

This had to end. He couldn’t go on hating himself for the sins of another man, living half a life and never seeing sunlight. He’d grown to envy vampires. They, at least, could look out a window now and then and see the day-lit world.

As far as Blake DeWitt was concerned, the sun had disappeared, and it wouldn’t return until he broke the curse or, in desperation, passed it to a new bloodline.

Maybe the Van Houtens would do…

Calypso’s jaw dropped, and she stared at Melodie over the lipstick-coated rim of her coffee cup. “
You
have the Cabochon?”

“Noooo… I seem to have lost it.”

“So you
had
it?” Her sharp whisper drew glances from every direction. She bent her dark head and pulled Mel’s hand into hers.

“I thought I dropped it into my apron pocket, but when I looked, it was gone. It’s not in the alley or in the kitchen, and Palmer and I looked everywhere.”

Cal’s skin seemed paler than usual under her makeup. “We’ve got to find that jewel.”

“That’s what Palmer said. The Gogmar certainly doesn’t have it. But where else is there to look?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve got to make some calls.” Cal tightened her grip on Mel’s fingers, and their gazes locked. “Mel, this is serious. I have no idea what Blake DeWitt is capable of, and I don’t want to find out. Tonight you can’t be alone after dark. Come to my place…and be there by sundown. If DeWitt thinks you have the stone, you won’t be safe anywhere until we find it.”

Tonight he traveled down the winding footpath as he had so many times before. He knew the way by heart. He knew the shape and size of the stone on which young Percival Blake stubbed his left big toe while hurrying to meet Rebecca Thorne in the glen. He recalled exactly where it lay among the scattered dry leaves and brambles, and he knew the toe would be sore for days afterward.

Nevertheless, no matter how many times the blasted curse dragged him through this scene, he could not avoid that stone. The pain arced up his leg, and he yelped and stumbled, then laughed at this own foolishness.

Haste makes waste, he would always admonish himself. Better to be a few minutes late for their rendezvous than miss it altogether because of an avoidable injury.

Percival slowed his pace and struggled to calm his racing pulse. These stolen afternoons with the beautiful Rebecca lent wings to his soul, but he dared not let anyone see him acting so giddy. If he was to eventually request her hand, he had to present himself at all times with the dignity and decorum befitting a young man who would one day take his place in the peerage of England.

After a few deep breaths, he pressed on, careful to hide the slight limp he’d acquired. He couldn’t have his beloved Rebecca worrying about his careless injury.

Her voice reached him on the summer breeze, and his heart fluttered. How could the mere sound of her affect him so? This had to be love just the way the poets described it. Theirs was a meeting of souls destined by God to be joined as one.

Her words were low and reverent. Percival guessed she was praying. To have a pious woman for a wife was a gift he would cherish. Rebecca’s deep, spiritual nature made her an excellent choice—even his mother had been caught in an offhand comment that she might deign to approve a match between them—though not if their secret meetings ever came to light. He had to take care to hide his true feelings in public for now, lest he compromise them both.

At the end of the path, he parted two crossed willow branches and caught sight of a vision in rose-colored satin. Rebecca knelt at the edge of the glen, just before a stand of alder, where last spring her brother, Charles, had cut several fat boles to make a set of parlor chairs. She often sat on one of the stumps in the late afternoons, doing needlework while Percival read to her from the works of Chaucer.

Today, instead, she knelt before the stump, her skirts spread on the ground, her golden head bowed. She stiffened at Percival’s approach, and rather than greet him with her usual radiant smile, she turned frightened eyes on him. Her gaze rose no higher than his cravat, and slashes of high color showed through the white powder that covered the pale skin of her face.

“You are early…” It was an accusation, not a greeting.

“I daresay I’m a bit late. It’s after two.”

A delicate hand rose to cover her mouth, and she glanced at the shadow he cast across her makeshift altar—an altar that bore the mark of the Devil.

Rebecca rose swiftly, upsetting the cup of wine that sat amid a wreath of flowers on the alder stump. The liquid spilled, red as blood, into the black gouges that formed a five-pointed star and circle in the wood.

“Percival…” Her pale hands fluttered ineffectually like doves startled into flight. She reached for his arm, and he pulled it away, loath now to submit to her touch where moments ago he’d craved it more than breath itself. “This is not what you think.”

A cold fist closed around his heart, and his lungs faltered. The rich golden light of the late-summer afternoon seemed to dim. Color drained from everything around him. “I think you are not the woman I love. Rebecca…what’s happened to you? How have you come to this atrocity?”

Tears filled her dark eyes. “Percival, please. You must understand, this is not the Devil’s work. I swear to you.”

He stumbled back, his legs weak and his gut aching as though a blade were twisting in his entrails. “In the light of day, before the eyes of God, you consort with the Dark Prince? Rebecca, think of your family… How could you?”

She straightened her shoulders and set her jaw. “My mother taught me. I have inherited her gift. If you give me a chance to—”

“God in heaven!” A sob caught in his throat. Percival Blake had not shed a tear since he’d left childhood behind, but now grief like he’d never experienced overcame him. “Tell me you’re only playing at this, that you’re mocking the rites of evil. I can forgive you if you’ve done this in ignorance, and together we can ask for absolution from our Heavenly Father.”

She hesitated, as if she might repent. In that moment, Percival would have forgiven her. He would have gratefully made himself forget what he’d seen. But rather than accept salvation, she stood tall and proud.

“I’m not playing. I’m giving thanks to the Lord and Lady for this perfect day and for your love and companionship in my life.” She looked away from him. “I had meant to be finished before you arrived…”

“You meant to hide it from me.” Percival clutched his chest. He could never have imagined the pain of a broken heart would dwarf every other discomfort in his life. Losing Rebecca this way would haunt him for all eternity.

She rushed at him then, a foolish move perhaps but one clearly born of desperation. “Please, sit down before you fall. Let me tell you about the way of the witches, and you will see that we mean no harm to any living soul.” Her fingers clutched at the lapels of his overcoat, and her sweet breath caressed his cheek.

She smelled of elderberry wine.

Fear and anger welled up in the empty spot where his heart had been, and he grabbed her wrists and threw her away from him. She stumbled back and landed next to the stump. “Percival, please!”

“No. Do not speak my name. Do not look at me.” He whirled around, and his wild gaze fell on a stone similar in size and shape to the one he’d tripped upon earlier.

Clutched in his trembling hand, it felt solid and real—his only connection to the earth from which God had fashioned mankind. All the rest was nothing but a devil’s dream, an illusion created by Satan to mislead a righteous man. Mad with grief, Percival turned to Rebecca and raised the stone in his fist. “Keep your distance, vile thing.”

She sobbed so piteously that here, every time, Blake’s own heart broke for her. He’d have relented. He’d have knelt at her feet and begged her forgiveness, but of course, Percival never did. He couldn’t.

With all the strength he possessed, Percival Blake brought the rock down on Rebecca’s temple. The sickening crack of granite against bone echoed in the quiet glen. The memory of her startled expression would never, ever fade.

She lay still after that single, vicious blow. Bright blood, darker and thicker than the wine from her unholy offering, pooled beneath her head and turned strands of her golden hair to copper.

For a long time, Percival stared at her corpse. When the shadows grew long around him, he dropped the stone beside her head, and he ran.