Interview With a Gargoyle (7 page)

The impact snapped something—whether it was a bone or merely a rotted board, Mel couldn’t tell. Her only sensation after that was fear. Then her vision blurred and dimmed, and she gave herself over to darkness.

Chapter Seven

Blake supposed he owed the Ak’mir demon a debt of gratitude or at least a sincere thanks for cornering his prey for him.

Miss McConnell was clever. She knew the back alleys of Amberville well enough to disappear from his radar in a matter of minutes. Had Blake been the only one pursuing her, she might have managed to vanish completely into the shadows.

Only the distinctive odor of Ak’mir clued him in. He hadn’t seen one of the feathery-skinned reptile demons in a long time, but he’d never forget their smell. They were the scavengers of the demon breeds—like Gogmars, attracted to garbage, but not in search of sweet leftovers. The energy of decay sustained them. They fed on the heat generated by rot.

Lovely way to make a living.

Since Ak’mirs spent most of their lives well-hidden in dumps and cesspools, it made no sense for one to be skulking around construction projects in Amberville. This one must have been enthralled by some higher being with a more nefarious purpose. Dedication to its mission had kept it focused on the woman long enough for Blake to flatten one side of its melon-soft head with a length of board from the construction debris. Its body sagged against the peeling clapboards, and its dark gray skin faded to a deathly shade of dry bone.

After checking that Melodie was still breathing, Blake kicked in one of the row house’s rectangular cellar windows and rolled the Ak’mir’s noxious corpse inside. With a wet, slapping sound, the demon plopped into the cellar, where it would probably create enough of a stink to keep workers away for a day or two.

He couldn’t be sure if it was completely dead. Very likely the energy from its own decomposition might be enough to revive it. He didn’t want to stick around to find out.

Blake hoisted Melodie into his arms and considered his options. He wouldn’t get far with her draped over the back of his Harley, and he’d probably raise a few eyebrows if he took a stroll down Bailey Avenue with her slung over his shoulder.

He glanced up at the house—three stories, probably gutted inside and not very safe, but dark, deserted and, at the moment, convenient.

Balancing his burden in a fireman’s carry, he yanked away the few old two-by-fours that temporarily barred entrance through the back of the house. A half-rotted screen door creaked when he pulled it open, and the floorboards moaned under the added weight when he stepped inside.

What had once probably been a sunny little kitchen was now devoid of cabinets and fixtures. Only the scuffed linoleum made it recognizable. Blake eased through a narrow door and moved deeper into the house, where an ornate hearth dominated the former parlor.

An old mattress lay on the floor before the hearth, reeking with the scent of cat urine, no place for a lady. A painter’s tarp lay crumpled in one corner. That would have to do.

A musty smell clung to the oilcloth, but compared to the mattress and the lingering essence of Ak’mir, he couldn’t complain.

Melodie moaned as he settled her on the tarp. He didn’t like the pallor of her skin. The Ak’mir had been brutal with her, slamming her like a rag doll against the side of the house. Odds were, if she didn’t have a cracked skull, she’d at least have broken a rib or two.

He’d make an anonymous call to 911 just as soon as he retrieved the Cabochon. Guilt ate at him over the minor delay in calling for help, but to be this close and not complete his quest was suicide. The gem might never be this close again, and he couldn’t go on much longer living half a life.

He started with her purse, upending it on the floor and rifling through with the skill and efficiency of a professional thief. All the usual female tools of the trade scattered on the dusty floorboards. Blake put her wallet, lipstick, compact and tissues aside first. Her cell phone buzzed in his hand when he picked it up. The caller, Smith, C., would have to wait to make contact.

With the larger items out of the way, the pickings were slim. He found keys, a pack of gum, a few crumpled receipts, and something that looked like a thick, permanent ink marker. Blake examined the object closely in the dim light.

Though it had a black twist-off cap, it wasn’t a pen. It was one of those emergency epinephrine syringes used to treat allergy attacks. Blake recalled the MedicAlert card he’d found earlier, and the memory sobered him. He didn’t want her to suffer any more on his account, but when would
his
suffering end?

The Cabochon wasn’t in her purse. It had to be on her, which meant he’d have to search her.

He carefully repacked her purse, making sure to put the rescue pen back where he’d found it, then let out a long, slow breath. “Forgive me, Miss McConnell. I mean no disrespect, but you have something I need.”

With deft fingers, he searched her pockets and frisked her from head to toe. Unless she had a secret compartment in the heel of her shoe—and he checked there just to be sure—the Cabochon was not on her person. It hadn’t fallen into the folds of the painter’s cloth, and it hadn’t rolled into the dark corners of the room.

Yet he felt its presence.

It teased him, tickled his senses. It called to him like a siren luring a hapless sailor to his death. Could this be some modern nuance to the spell? Could the Cabochon deceive him, lead him down a false path?

He sat back on his haunches and stared at her for a moment. With her chestnut hair in disarray around her and her pink lips soft in this unnatural sleep, Melodie McConnell was quite enchanting. Her vulnerability tugged at him. Had she been chosen by the powers that controlled the curse as a means to taunt him?

She didn’t seem like a witch. She certainly hadn’t demonstrated any magical power, yet she was clearly involved with the Cabochon somehow. He had to find out how, but at what cost?

For the first time in ten years, Blake felt no better than Percival. He hated himself for hesitating to get help for Melodie McConnell almost as much as he hated his murderous ancestor for inviting such misery on ten generations of men.

He snatched her purse from the floor and retrieved her cell phone, which was still buzzing intermittently with calls from Smith, C. Blake had disconnected the last call, hit clear and dialed nine when the woman stirred.

“Palmer?” Her brown eyes fluttered open, and she groaned. Blake retreated to the shadows in the ruined room, suddenly unwilling to frighten her.

He should have merely left, but he couldn’t. The pull of the phantom Cabochon was too strong.

Mel pushed herself up on her elbows and looked around. She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t outside.

The memory of a terrible stench curdling the air around her came rushing back, and her lungs constricted. She coughed, which caused every muscle in her body to spasm in pain.

“Oh, God that hurts.” Despite the stiffness in her back and neck, she forced herself to sit up. Had she been hit by a truck? No. A house.

Something stirred in the corner of the dingy room, and tawny eyes glittered in the feeble light filtering through a grimy window. DeWitt emerged from the shadows.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“What did you do to me?”

He spread his hands wide. “I rescued you from a demon attack.”

Except for the lingering memory of that abominable smell, she might not have believed him. “There’s a lot of that going around lately. Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me, witch hunter?”

“So you know about that.”

“I’m not a witch, so I won’t be able to help you. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, though.” Mel tried to scan the room without taking her eyes off DeWitt. Her purse lay on the scuffed wooden floor at his feet. Behind him, a torn-up mattress butted up against a dust-covered fireplace. The details of the room might have registered a bit more if DeWitt hadn’t seemed so much larger than life. He stood with his booted feet planted wide apart, arms crossed over his broad chest. A lock of dark hair nearly obscured one amber-colored eye.

“I believe you’re not a witch, and I believe you don’t have the Cabochon.”

She squinted at him. “You do? What changed your mind?”

“A body search.” He tossed the response out with casual neglect, and Mel shivered at the implication. All her clothes seemed to be in the right place, buttoned, zipped and fastened properly. Either he was lying, or he was very efficient. She raised a brow. “It doesn’t feel like you were very thorough.”

“I can do it again, if you think I might have missed something. Are you really hiding the Cabochon somewhere under your skimpy shirt and tight jeans?” His fiery gaze roamed up from her sneakers to her lips.

Again she shivered. “No. I’ve been telling you the truth. I don’t have any idea where the Cabochon is.” Could he tell she was lying now?

“Well, someone or something wants me to believe you’ve got it. Any idea why?”

“If I had a clue what any of this was about, I might speculate, but I don’t.” Mel struggled to her feet. Her back ached, and the first step she took was agony. She winced, and DeWitt thrust a hand out to steady her.

“You shouldn’t try to walk yet. The Ak’mir wanted to kill you. You wouldn’t happen to know why?”

She shrugged. Even that small movement hurt. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“You think I had something to do with it?”

“If I did have the Cabochon, wouldn’t you want me out of the way?”

“Unless you’re a demon queen, your death wouldn’t benefit me in any way. You’re not one, are you?”

Oh God. What if she was? “Of course not. Do I look like a demon queen?”

He shrugged, a casual move but nevertheless executed with finesse. “Some of them are quite beautiful, and one or two could pass for human. You don’t have pointed ears or a forked tongue, do you?”

Beautiful? Had he complimented her or demon queens in general? Now wasn’t really the time to consider it. “I wouldn’t show you, even if I did.”

The haughty tilt of her chin amused him. “Look, Miss McConnell—”

“Wait a minute. How do you know my name?”

“The same way I know where you live, and that you’re five foot five and weigh a hundred and—”

She cut him off with a swift wave. “That’s enough. So you snooped in my purse.”

“Of course. Illegal search aside, can I propose a truce? I don’t mean to harm you, even if you do have the Cabochon. I just want it back, and something tells me you might be instrumental in my actually getting it.”

She favored him with a skeptical glance and took another experimental step. Blake held his breath. If she fell, he’d catch her, but she remained upright with only a slight grimace twisting her lips. “A truce?”

“I can protect you from the demons, and perhaps you can help me locate the Cabochon.”

She counted on her fingers as she spoke. “One, I don’t need protection from demons. Two, I have no idea where to find the Cabochon.”

He mimicked her, ticking off points on his own fingers. “One, the Gogmar last night. Two, the Ak’mir tonight. Three, demons don’t bother humans as a rule unless humans have something they want. Four, you smell like the Cabochon to me. I bet if I put my mouth on you, you’d
taste
like the Cabochon. You might not know where it is, but you’re obviously the key to finding it.”

She seemed to quiver for a moment, and Blake wondered if she might faint. Finally, she said, “Fine. I just want to be done with this. Oh, and you have to promise me something.”

He raised a brow and gave her his best devilish grin. “Not to search you again? Or not to put my mouth on you?”

Judging by the color that rose in her cheeks, he’d succeeded in flustering her. Why that pleased him, he wasn’t quite sure.

“No, well…that too, but you have to promise me that if you get the Cabochon back, you won’t transfer the curse to me or any of my friends.”

Blake sobered. All he’d thought about for ten years was freeing himself, and that’s all he wanted to think about now. “I don’t think I could transfer the curse to a woman, anyway, but I’ll agree not to try.”

“Good.” She snatched her purse from the floor and, still moving a little stiffly, strolled out of the room.

Blake reactivated her silent phone and followed her. “You forgot this. I think one of your friends has been trying to reach you.”

It rang immediately, and she whirled around. The look she gave him as she grabbed the phone from his palm could have melted lead. When her fingers brushed his, the spark of power, the psychic flavor of the curse, arrowed through his body like a lightning strike. He pulled his hand quickly away from the brief contact and jammed it in his pocket. If Melodie McConnell didn’t have the Cabochon, she possessed something twice as powerful, and he had to find out what it was.

Calypso’s panicked voice blared out of Mel’s phone the moment she flipped it open. “I’m here, Cal. I’m okay.” She kept her eyes on DeWitt while she spoke. He looked shaken, as if their brief physical contact had rattled him nearly as much as it had rattled her.

“Mel! Thank God. Where are you? I’m out in front of your apartment. I’ve been banging on your door so long your neighbors are ready to call the cops on me.”

“I’m over on Bailey. Stay where you are. I’ll meet you there and…don’t freak out, but I’ve got Blake DeWitt with me.”

Of course, Calypso freaked. In between some very creative cursing, the witch managed to ask, “What did he do to you? If he’s making you make this call, you tell him I’ll see to it that
all
his descendants are cursed.”

“Cal, calm down. I’m okay. We’ve struck a bargain.”

“You can’t bargain with a witch hunter.”

DeWitt obviously heard Calypso—the whole neighborhood could probably hear her. His comment was directed toward the cell phone, but his eyes held Mel’s. “I’ve never hunted witches. All I’m searching for is justice.”

Calypso huffed. “I’ll be here, but I’ve got spells, so tell DeWitt he’d better be on his best behavior.”

“He will be.” Mel snapped the phone shut. “You’re in for it now. I thought Calypso was hell on wheels
before
I knew she was a witch.”