Berthe snorted, thankfully unaware of how much the information meant to her son.
If she knew it could be a weapon to hurt him, she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
“What sort of question is that?”
“A rather obvious one, I would think.” Levet spread his stunted arms. “Just look at me.”
Berthe narrowed her eyes to beady slits. “Your father was a fearsome warrior who sired many sons who brought him nothing but pride.”
Levet’s tail twitched. He didn’t know if he was pleased or disappointed by the information.
He was demon enough to take pride in the thought that his father was admired among gargoyles. Bloodlines were always important.
But for centuries he’d blamed his lack of gargoyle-ness on his father.
Now who was he supposed to hold responsible?
“So what happened to me?” he demanded.
Berthe curled her snort in blatant disdain. “A freak of nature.”
Levet grimly pretended her words didn’t cut. “Or perhaps your bloodlines are not as pure as you thought?”
A hint of smoke drifted from a flared nostril. Berthe was one of the rare gargoyles who could breathe fire. Which, of course, explained her position as doyenne.
“More likely a curse from the gods,” she countered, hate glinting her gray eyes. A hate that had been more destructive to Levet as a child than any of the vicious beatings. “I was warned to have your head removed the minute you were born.” She gave a flap of her enormous wings, nearly sending Levet tumbling backward. “Unfortunately I was too tenderhearted to follow the wise advice.”
Levet gave a snort, refusing to acknowledge the age-old sense of betrayal.
“Tenderhearted?”
“Oui.” Berthe moved to settle her bulk on the satin pillows, her wings draped over the floor and her tail swishing around her feet. She portrayed the image of languid indifference, but Levet wasn’t fooled. She might look like a lumbering brute, but she could move with the speed of a striking viper. “I allowed you to survive with the hope that you would overcome your disfigurements and grow into a prince worthy of standing at my side. You should be grateful.”
Grateful.
The word echoed through Levet, abruptly altering the pain he’d sworn he’d never feel again to a rush of fury.
“Grateful for what? I spent my childhood being brutalized by my siblings.”
His mother shrugged. “Did you expect to be coddled like a human baby?”
He ignored her taunt. “And when I at last left the nursery I became the target of every gargoyle who thought it was amusing to toss me into the fighting pits and see how many demons could beat the heebie-jeebies out of me before I passed out,” he hissed.
Bertha furrowed her brow in confusion. “The . . .” She made a sound of impatience. “Oh, la la. It is bejesus, you ridiculous pest.”
Levet waved off her sharp words. “You did nothing to protect me.”
“Only the strong survive in our world.”
Levet planted his fists on his hips. “Is that your excuse for trying to kill me when I hit puberty?”
She trailed a claw over a scarlet pillow, her expression devoid of regret.
“It was obvious you were permanently deformed. It was my duty to rid the nest of such a blatant weakness. Every doyenne understands the necessity of pruning the deadwood from the family tree.”
Enough.
He hadn’t come here to resolve his childhood trauma. He might be immortal, but not even an eternity would be enough time to work through his mommy issues.
It was time to get down to business.
“So what if I was to prove that I am more than deadwood?” he challenged. “That I am a prince in the truest sense of the word?”
“Impossible.”
Having expected scorn, Levet wasn’t prepared for the sudden unease that rippled over his mother’s ugly features. As if she was afraid of what he might say.
And he most certainly wasn’t prepared for the lethal flames that she burped in his direction.
“Sacrebleu,” he cried, diving behind his mother’s favorite Moroccan chest. She would never fry the camel leather inset with enough precious gems to rival the crown jewels. “What are you doing?”
She was on her feet, her tail quivering with an unreasonable fury.
“Finishing what I began when you were young.”
Levet hunkered behind the chest.
Merde. This could be going better.
It was time to pull out his only weapon.
“I demand a tribunal,” he said in shaky tones.
A tribunal was the gargoyle equivalent of People’s Court. Or a pirate’s parlay.
“Denied.” Another belch of fire, nearly singeing the tips of his stunted horns.
Levet tucked his wings tight against his shivering body. Had he once said that vampires were the most unreasonable creatures to walk the earth?
He clearly owed Viper and Styx and all the rest of the bloodsuckers an apology.
Not that they would ever hear it from his lips.
He did have his pride.
Even if it was a little scorched.
“You cannot deny me,” he said, as the fire died. “I am a pure-blooded gargoyle despite my . . . deformities.”
“I shunned you.”
Levet was prepared.
“Ah, but I am a prince.” He peeked around the corner, meeting his mother’s infuriated glare. “Those of royal blood can demand a hearing regardless of their sentence.”
Berthe was forced to hesitate.
Gargoyles might be savages in many ways, but the Guild was ruled by a strict code of laws.
There was a long silence as his mother ground her teeth, smoke still curling from her nostril. Then, her eyes narrowed with a cunning satisfaction.
“The elders are not in Paris. There can be no tribunal without them.”
Levet made a sound of disgust. How many demons had stood shoulder to shoulder to battle the Dark Lord while the gargoyles had been MIA?
“You mean the cowards are still in hiding?”
Berthe stomped a massive foot, making the entire building shake.
“They don’t answer to you.”
“Bon.” Cautiously Levet moved from behind the chest. He didn’t want to become a charred briquette, but then again he was tired of cowering. He was now a bona fide hero. Wasn’t he? Straightening his spine, he tilted his chin to meet his mother’s glare. “Then you will stand as judge.”
There was a low hiss as his mother snapped her wings to their full width. An impressive sight meant to intimidate.
“This is a trick.”
“No trick,” Levet denied. “You are doyenne. It is within your powers to pass judgment.”
“I did,” she growled. “You were banished.”
“I was banished without a fair hearing.”
“Because you fled like a spineless Guttar demon.”
Levet waved his hands at the absurd accusation. “You were trying to kill me.”
His mother curled back her lips to fully expose her tusks. “And now I shall finish what I began.”
“Non.”
Without giving himself time to think, Levet held up his hands and released a blast of magic.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his skill . . . non. That was not true.
He did doubt his skill.
For all his bluster, he could never be certain what his magic would do.
One day it might be nothing more than an embarrassing fizzle.
The next it would explode out of him with the force of a nuclear blast.
Tonight, however, it did exactly what he desired.
Shimmering strands of magic flew from the tips of his claws, slamming into his mother with enough force to pin her to the wall.
It was . . . a miracle.
Clearly as astonished as Levet that his spell was working, Berthe struggled against the delicate filaments that were holding her captive
.
“What have you done?” she screeched.
Levet took a bouncing step forward, regarding the spiderweb of magic with a smile.
“I tried to tell you that I have grown into a warrior with batty skills. Hmm . . . or is it mad skills?”
The powerful gargoyle tried to breathe fire, only to discover the bonds holding her also suppressed her magic.
Yeah. Go, Levet.
“Release me,” Berthe snarled.
“Not until you’ve given me my hearing.”
The gray eyes smoldered with the promise of death. “You will pay for this.”
“Really?” Levet breathed an exaggerated sigh, feeling all cocky with his mother incapacitated. Hey, who knew how long it would last? He had to take pleasure where he could find it. “Gargoyles are tediously repetitive in their threats. You really should consider hiring a vampire to write you new material. They are the experts in terrifying their enemies.”
“You would, of course, admire your new masters,” Berthe spit out. “To think my own son has become the flunky of the leeches. It’s enough to break a mother’s heart.”
“A flunky? I am servant to no demon.” Levet puffed out his chest. “Indeed, I am revered as a legend of heroic proportions.”
“Your proportions are an embarrassment,” his mother mocked. “Just as you have always been.”
He strutted forward, refusing to acknowledge the words hit a perpetual tender nerve.
He was no longer the old Levet who allowed himself to be judged by the size of his body. He was a giant among demons, regardless of his heights.
He lifted his hands. “We shall see.”
“What are you doing?” Unease twisted her ugly features. “Stay back.”
“Frightened of your pathetic, spineless son, Maman?”
“I am weary of this game.”
He gave a flutter of his wings, proud when they captured the light to glitter with brilliant shimmers of crimson and gold.
“Then put an end to it.”
She pressed against the wall, her eyes wide as Levet halted directly in front of her.
Why?
Was she truly afraid of his dubious magic?
That seemed . . . unlikely.
It had to be something else.
But what?
His churning thoughts were brought to a sharp end as his mother glared down from her towering height.
“Stop this, Levet.”
He froze, his stomach knotting in pain. “Mon dieu.”
“What?”
“That is the first time I ever heard my name on your lips.”
She belched, attempting to hide her concern behind the more familiar disdain.
“You aren’t going to snivel, are you? I would rather you kill me than be forced to listen to you blubber.”
Levet shook his head, thinking of the vampire clan that had adopted the Dark Lord’s offspring without hesitation. They had fought to the death to protect the babies and would do so again.
And the gods knew that Salvatore, the King of Weres, was foaming at the mouth with excitement as the delivery day for his litter drew ever nearer.
Of course, Kiviet demons ate all but the strongest of their offspring at birth, so it could always be worse.
“Tell me, Maman, do you love any of your children?”
“Love is for weaklings,” she sneered. “Or humans.”
It was precisely what Levet had expected. And yet...
He swallowed a resigned sigh.
“Then why procreate at all?”
“To strengthen my power base.”
He studied the creature who’d given birth to him for a long minute. For the first time he wasn’t overwhelmed by her ginormous power. Or cringing beneath the crushing disapproval of his lack of mass.
She was still huge. Still scary. And still filled with hatred toward him.
But seeing her clearly, she appeared . . . diminished.
“You know, I thought I hated you,” he said slowly. “Now I realize that I pity you.”
His mother gave a genuine huff, as if outraged by his words. “I am the doyenne of this nest,” she hissed. “The most feared gargoyle in all of Europe.”
“Non.” Levet gave a shake of his head. “You are a lonely, bitter old woman who has nothing but an empty title and the delusion that it makes you important.”
Fury flared through her eyes before the cunning expression made a return. “If you care nothing for me then why are you here?”
“Chasing shadows, it would seem.”
“Then release me.”
Levet rolled his eyes. “Nice try.”
“I will give you a ten-minute head start before I track you down and kill you.”
“Tempting, but . . . I think not.”
“Very well.” Her lips stretched into a tight line. Was that supposed to be a smile? Sacrebleu. “I’ll give you an hour.”
Levet considered. Really and truly considered. Perhaps for the first time in his long life.
What did he want?
Clearly he would never earn his mother’s approval. Or repair the wounds of the past. Or find . . . what did the humans call it? Closure.
But he could have something that had been stolen from him.
“I want what is rightfully mine,” he stated in clear, dignified tones.
The gray eyes narrowed. “An empty title?”
“Of course not,” Levet said in confusion. Only females were allowed to inherit the place of doyenne. “Claudine is your heir.”
“But you could be a prince.”
Once, he would have given anything to reclaim his royal title. Now he gave a shrug of indifference.
“Not if I’m dead.”
Berthe silently weighed her options, her crafty brain searching for a way to convince him to release her from his spell without actually having to offer something of value.
“We could perhaps negotiate a truce,” she grudgingly conceded.
Levet folded his arms over his chest. “The only thing I desire to have is my place restored among the Guild.”
Berthe made a choked sound, genuinely shocked by his demand.
“Don’t be an idiot. They would never accept you.”
“They will once you add my name to the Wall.”
The Wall of Memories was hidden beneath the sewers of Paris. Who had built it or why it was located in the sewers had been lost in the mists of time, but a gargoyle’s names magically appeared there when they were born, officially giving them their place in the Guild. The same magic wiped out their names when they died.
Or, like him, were stripped of their place within the Guild.
It was rare, but a doyenne or elder could return a name to the Wall.
“Never,” she rasped.
Levet squared his shoulders. “Oh, make no mistake. You will personally inscribe the letters.”
“You cannot compel me to write your name,” his mother blustered. “It must be done willingly.”
“I am aware of how it works.”
She pressed against the wall, her expression wary as Levet raised his hands.
“Then how do you intend to force me to return you to the Guild?”
Levet squashed the unworthy sense of pleasure at having power over his mother.
This was not supposed to be revenge.
It was justice.
“Allow me to show you,” he murmured, sending his memories of his battle with the Dark Lord directly into her brain.
Her claws dug into the floor, her skin fading to a sickly shade of ash.
“Sacrebleu.”
CHAPTER 5
Valla had finished washing the tea plates and was wiping down the counter when she noticed the elegant Waterford crystal dish was empty.
“Oh, damn,” she breathed just as a prickle of awareness feathered over her skin.
How was it possible that the icy brush of Elijah’s power could send a rush of searing heat through her?
It was like ex
plaining how photons could be in two places at the same time. A mystery.
“Valla.” With a speed that continued to astonish her, Elijah was standing at her side, his presence a sexy, tangible force that wrapped around her. “What is it?”
She fiercely tried to control the leap of her heart and the quiver of excitement that clenched her stomach. A vampire could sense arousal at a hundred paces.
“Where is Levet?”
Elijah tilted back his head, allowing his senses to flow through the neighborhood.
“He’s gone.”
“And so is my amulet.”
A frown marred the strikingly beautiful face. “You lost it, or it was stolen?”
“Not stolen . . . borrowed,” she corrected. “Or at least that’s my guess.”
The vampire wasn’t impressed; his dark eyes filled with fury.
“If the gargoyle is a thief, I’ll track him down. I promise he won’t be returning.”
She swallowed a sigh. A part of her would always appreciate Elijah’s fierce desire to protect her. But she was tired of waiting for him to see her as a grown woman who was more than capable of taking care of herself.
She’d been doing it for a very long time.
“I want him to return.”
“Que?” the vampire demanded with obvious impatience. “He already stole your amulet—who knows what he might steal next?”
“I don’t care about the amulet.” She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m concerned about Levet’s reason for taking it.”
Elijah shrugged. “He could pawn it for a small fortune. Lesser demons often use thievery to support themselves.”
“Stop being such a snob,” she chided, absently twirling a golden curl around her finger. It was a habit she’d acquired when she was just a young girl, still innocently believing that she would find her Prince Charming and settle down to raise a dozen little blue-eyed nymphs. The habit was the only thing left of that silly, idealistic little girl. “Levet came to Paris for a purpose. I have a feeling that he hoped the amulet would assist him in his goal.”
He gently reached to tug the curl from her finger and smoothed it behind her ear.
“If you don’t care about the amulet being stolen, then why are you troubled?”
“I’m worried that Levet will be hurt,” she murmured, resisting the urge to stroke her cheek against his hand. Like a cat demanding to be petted. “When I found him near the tower he was being attacked by two large gargoyles who clearly didn’t like him.”
Levet Page 3
