Interview With a Gargoyle (8 page)

“I’ll behave, on one condition. No one calls me ‘witch hunter’. Percival Blake was a witch hunter two hundred and eighty years ago. I’m an accountant. Or at least I was, until I inherited this curse. It’s hard to keep a day job when you’re not alive during the day.”

Mel gave Blake DeWitt a long, thoughtful appraisal. The dark, disheveled hair, the broody gaze and day’s growth of stubble on his strong chin along with the rippled muscles stretching the white T-shirt beneath his leather jacket didn’t belong to any accountant she’d ever met. He looked more like a fallen angel, sinfully beautiful and sadly out of place. Something simmered in him, beneath the surface. She’d felt it when they’d touched, and she wasn’t sure she had the power to resist it if she ever felt it again.

Chapter Eight

The short ride across town with Melodie settled snugly behind him, her arms wrapped around his chest, had him practically jumping out of his skin. Every nerve ending tingled as if he’d touched a live wire, not exactly unpleasant but disconcerting. The power of the Cabochon had always been a distant itch, something not quite definable. With her next to him, it transformed into something electric and irresistible.

All the way across town, he’d been edgy, as though his skin was on fire. The essence of the Cabochon rested against his spine like a blade, and the urge to claw it away and free himself from the burden of it had become nearly overpowering.

When he pulled up in front of Melodie’s apartment, the black-haired witch glared at him. The weight of indigo eyes on him the moment he set both feet on the sidewalk did little to calm his soul.

Melodie swung his helmet off her head, and her dark brown hair tumbled in lustrous waves to her shoulders. The sight distracted him only momentarily.

“It’s about time.” The witch’s smoky voice might have been sexy if it wasn’t so full of disdain.

Melodie hurried up the short flight of brick steps to meet her, and Blake followed, allowing himself a leisurely appraisal of both women.

“Blake DeWitt, this is Calypso Smith. She’s a good friend, so play nice.”

At Melodie’s introduction, Calypso flicked her waist-length hair off one shoulder but didn’t offer a hand. Blake recognized the band of runes tattooed on her left wrist as a protection spell, and he caught the pleasant aroma of lavender and mint when she turned her back on him and followed Melodie into the apartment.

Calypso Smith was black lace and dark lipstick, and Blake had the feeling she could be as elusive as smoke and as deceptive as a mirror. Already he didn’t trust her, but Melodie seemed enthralled by her larger-than-life presence in the tiny, neatly kept living room.

“I don’t know why you brought him here, Mel. He’s not getting the Cabochon from us, even if we had it.” The witch crossed her arms, her body language lending weight to the unspoken message in her voice that there would be no negotiation on that point.

Fortunately, Melodie’s stance was a little softer. “Cal, I think we need to consider that Blake isn’t Percival. He’s not a witch hunter, and this curse isn’t his fault.”

“It’s not my place to decide that.”

“Well, someone should.”

“That’s a discussion for the Witches’ Council.” Ms. Smith wasn’t about to budge. If looks could kill—and he’d heard some actually could—her stony gaze would have put Blake out of his misery in an instant.

He put up his hands in what he hoped would be interpreted as a gesture of surrender. “I’m not here to debate right and wrong about the curse. Your friend, Melodie, seems to be the target of several demon species, and I offered her my protection. It feels to me as though she possesses the Cabochon, yet I can’t find it. Bear in mind, I’m not the only one who can sense it. It ‘belongs’ to the next demon queen, and I have a feeling whoever she is, she’s sent scouts out to search for it. To keep their pact with the witches, they won’t hesitate to hurt Melodie to get at the Cabochon. It stands to reason, for her own safety, she should hand it over to…someone.” No lie there. This defenseless human was in danger as long as she possessed the gem, or even just the secret to its whereabouts.

“I suppose by ‘someone’, you mean you?” The witch glanced at Melodie, but her piercing glare bounced immediately back to Blake.

“I mean someone who can handle it.”

“Cal, Blake dusted Palmer, and I was attacked by a garbage demon.”

“He
killed
Palmer?” The witch’s already pale complexion blanched.

“No,
pixie
dusted. Palmer doesn’t remember me now. And I was followed across town by a demon. I think maybe I could use a little protection.”

“An Ak’mir almost killed her,” Blake put in. “I hope you have some strong protection spells at your disposal, because your friend is going to need them.”

Cal seemed almost as frustrated by DeWitt as Mel was, but in a more adversarial way. She could barely look at him. Her contempt for the man who was only a distant descendant of the original witch hunter seemed terribly out of proportion.

Mel wished she could tell DeWitt and Calypso about her theory, but she sensed that now wasn’t the right time. She still didn’t trust DeWitt enough to believe he wouldn’t do something irrational, and her faith in her own intuition wasn’t very strong. It seemed absurd to think she could absorb a gemstone into her body somehow, even though at the moment it was still the most likely explanation for what had happened to it.

DeWitt glanced at his watch. “I’ve got work to do, and I’m sure you ladies have a lot to discuss, so I’m going to leave. Melodie, I can’t protect you during the day, but I’ll be back tomorrow at sunset. Hopefully by then, whoever is in the know around here will have worked out a solution. I’d hate to see you spend the rest of your life pursued by Ak’mir demons, or worse.” He turned to Calypso, but his next words were meant for Melodie. “I’d also hate to spend the rest of my life paying for the sins of Percival Blake. Isn’t it time the Witches’ Council took another look at the curse?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. It was already after eight p.m., which, if what Palmer had told her about the curse was true, left him only a little over eight hours of life. Mel wondered what he did with his time besides pursue the Cabochon. A pang of sympathy for him competed with the ache in her bones and left her feeling like all the air had gone out of her.

Wearily she settled on the couch. Without the “witch hunter” to glare at, Calypso seemed a little directionless and fidgety. A strange energy permeated the room, and it made Mel’s heart race and her palms sweat.

The witch paced. “This isn’t good, Mel. Not good at all. He knows where you live, where you work, and he’s still convinced you have the Cabochon.”

“I do.” She might not have trusted her instincts, but every cell in her body was screaming it. “I
have
got it.”

Calypso froze mid-step, and her jaw dropped.

Mel explained the Web article and Palmer’s assurance that it couldn’t be true. “I know it sounds completely insane, but what if?”

Cal sank down in the chair opposite the couch. “Yeah. Crazy insane. It’s not like you’re a demon queen.
Are you?
”

Mel chuckled, but her humor faded when Calypso remained staring at her. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? Don’t you think I’d know if I was a demon?”

“There are hybrids, but they’re rare. No offense, you’re not adopted, right? You knew both your parents? There’s no one in your family tree who’s a little…strange-looking?”

Mel gaped. “Come on, Calypso. That’s ridiculous.” Didn’t Great Uncle Benjamin claim to have twelve toes? Aunt Mary always said she wore turtlenecks to cover her psoriasis, but did anyone really know for sure? “No. No. My family is as normal as any second-generation mostly Irish American family can be. We’ve got a few characters, but no demons. And even if we did, I’m certainly not their
queen
.”

“Any witches?” Cal raised her brows.

“No. My cousin Fiona used to tell people she was an elf, but a year of therapy cleared that up.” An odd realization hit Mel then. “Cal, you didn’t actually say it was impossible for me to have absorbed the Cabochon, did you?”

Calypso hedged. She studied her black manicure and tugged on the zipper of one of her boots. “Well, no.”

“So I could have, even though I’m human?”

“Anything is possible.”

Mel’s stomach lurched. “So what do I do? How do I get rid of it? What if DeWitt follows me around for the rest of my life trying to get it from me?”

Cal grabbed Mel’s hands to steady them. “Relax. We’ll figure something out. First we need to confirm that you have the Cabochon. I’ve got to figure out how to do that. Then I can research how to get it out of you without…”

“What? Without what?”

“Well, the demon queen holds the Cabochon until she dies. That’s the only time it takes solid form and can be transferred to another queen.”

Mel shot up from the couch. “So I have to
die
to get rid of this thing?”

“No, no, no. I’m sure there’s some other way to get it out of you.”

“Calypso, don’t lie.” Mel plopped back on the couch and jammed her hands underneath her knees. “You don’t know for sure, do you?”

Cal bowed her head. “No, I don’t. But I’m going to find out.”

Chapter Nine

Mel spent her shift at Gleason’s sculpting a hundred and ten pink fondant roses for the Augustine wedding cake. Work actually kept her mind off Blake DeWitt, but with Calypso whispering into her cell phone half the night, talking to members of her far-flung coven, Mel still couldn’t concentrate.

Though she kept shooting fragile smiles in Mel’s direction between abrupt conversations and frantic texting, none of the calls Calypso made seemed to end on a positive note. Plagued by a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Mel kept losing count of the nonpareils she was gluing to the roses with a sugar glaze. The little silver balls kept dropping and rolling away, which added to her nervousness.

When Calypso finished what had to have been her fifteenth phone call, she came over to Mel’s workstation and gave the roses an appreciative look. “These are perfect. Fantastic work.”

“Much easier than moose antlers,” Mel said.

“I’ll say. Um…I found out there is a way to test you for the presence of the Cabochon.”

Mel wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news. “It isn’t dangerous, is it?”

Calypso shook her head. Then her guilty gaze wandered away from Mel’s. “Not if you
do
have the Cabochon.”

Mel’s relief died in its infancy. “Only if I
have
the Cabochon?”

“Well, if you don’t, then the good news of not having it will sort of offset a little discomfort, right?” Cal’s hopeful smile was the least convincing thing Mel had ever seen.

“Spill it, Calypso. What do I have to do to find out if I’ve absorbed the Cabochon?”

Cal sighed. It was definitely bad news. “If you have it, then no matter how hard he tries, Blake DeWitt will not be able to spill your blood.”

Blake finished his work just before dawn and rose to stretch the kinks out of his back. He kept promising himself he wouldn’t spend so many hours at the computer, but he had to make a living, and online trading was the best way he’d found to keep the bills paid.

He glanced at the water bed he rarely slept in and wondered if he did lie down, would the frame be strong enough to hold the weight of his granite body. How nice it might be to wake up from his imprisonment in a comfortable position for a change.

Better not to chance it. Having replacement furniture delivered after dark would be next to impossible, just like nearly everything else in his life had been during this past decade. Fortunately, since the curse had transferred to him upon his grandfather’s death, he hadn’t needed to see a dentist or a doctor, hadn’t needed to spend a night in the hospital or in jail—though he’d come close on more than one occasion. He’d been meticulous with his schedule, obsessive about the exact time of sunset and sunrise each day. He’d become an expert at working around his strange handicap and hiding it from anyone who might be curious enough about his life to inquire why he seemed not to exist between the hours of dawn and dusk.

With a longing glance out his bedroom window, he headed downstairs to the basement where he’d be safe and unseen until nightfall.

He’d cut it close this morning. The change came on him only seconds after he closed the door to his sanctuary. Muscles and bones stiffened, then hardened to rock. His last breath froze in his lungs, and memories of another life lived in the darkness of the soul took over his conscious thoughts.

Grief over the death of their beloved eldest daughter crippled the Thorne family. They sought solace in the church where Percival himself had spent many days prostrating himself on God’s altar, begging for mercy on his soul. His guilt, though, never drove him to confess he’d been there when Rebecca struck her head on a rock in the meadow. Even when all the other mourners had left, and only Percival remained in the transept, he couldn’t actually give breath to the words.

Shame had battled with disgust earlier, when Margaret Thorne had taken his hand at the funeral and thanked him for his kindness in their family’s darkest days. Rebecca’s voice played in his head while her mother, bowed with grief, wept.

My mother taught me. I inherited my gift from her.

How could this woman, so well thought of in society, a patroness of the arts and mother to three gentleman sons, have had congress with Satan? How could she have corrupted her own daughter by schooling her in service of the Devil?

Only days after Rebecca was laid to rest—on consecrated ground, no less!—Percival began his new career.

A length of sturdy rope became his weapon of choice. Good faith and a kind manner were his keys to the Thorne estate where he found Margaret alone in her garden, her needlework resting untouched in her lap while she stared into the crisp autumn sky.

She fell to him without a sound to alert the less than attentive housemaid. Hands made feeble by grief clutched at the noose he slipped around her neck, but she didn’t make a sound. Her dainty feet scraped the cobblestones as he dragged her body to the corner pillar of a small grape arbor and lashed the rope in place.