“Bring the creature. Retrieve your sister,” Rhododendron repeated. “Everyone is happy. Agreed? Good.”
The call disconnected before Juniper could answer. Of course she would agree. What else could she do?
tas
Tas listened to the melodrama unfold on the telephone. The entire time, he could barely hear Rhododendron’s half of the conversation over the blood pounding in his head. His mouth watered and his glands swelled to the point of making speech difficult.
No doubt the female led him into a Syndicate trap. What kind of name was Juniper?
It was so obvious she was an agent that her name might as well have been Marigold or Carnation.
Juniper.
But her distress seemed so real. Too real? Or did her distraught cries have just the right level of authenticity for him to lower his guard?
The urge to mate distracted him, clouded his judgment.
Juniper—no, the female, because he had to stay objective—took a dramatic breath, making a production of calming herself. “They want to do a hostage exchange.”
He rolled one shoulder in a lazy acknowledgment of her words. “Then our deal is the same as before.”
“You for Chloe,” she said. “I don’t understand. Why are you so willing to go back?”
“I accepted your hospitality. I have a debt.”
“Bullshit. We both know you’re only standing here because you want to and if you didn’t, you’d fly off.”
“I cannot fly,” he admitted. His good wing stretched to demonstrate, the broken wing hung limply against his back.
“And you’re blind, but that doesn’t seem to be slowing you down any.” Suspicion slipped into her voice.
“The Syndicate have something of mine. I want it back.” His sigil.
“Must be important.”
“My mission is as important to me as your Chloe is to you,” he said.
“I doubt that,” she huffed. Then, “Fine. Let’s go. I need to think and I can’t do that here. And there’s barf on my shoes. Nothing about this is copacetic.”
She would agree to their original bargain and exchange him for her youngling. To expect otherwise was ludicrous. Were he in a similar situation, he would hand the probable agent over for his sister in a heartbeat.
“They gave you the coordinates of their facility,” he said.
“I guess. It’s some directions leading out of town. I don’t recognize it.”
Lies, of course, but her delivery was convincing. He could almost believe her.
“Let’s hit the road,” she said.
He would allow the female to lead him back to the Syndicate, but he would never be their captive again.
8
Juniper
She needed to get Chloe back, and to do that she needed a clear head. As much as she wanted to drive all night and rush right in, she physically couldn’t. The adrenaline wore off, and she felt herself crashing. Tired, she’d fall asleep behind the wheel.
What help would she be to Chloe if she drove the car off the road or hit a tree? None. Exactly.
Rest, plan, then take action.
She’d have to sleep, even an hour or two, and she knew she couldn’t do that at home. If the police came to ask her about Mickey, she didn’t want to answer questions while concealing a gargoyle. She just didn’t think she could pull it off. If the police didn’t show, then she had to worry about Mickey’s crew. Word had to have gotten around that Juniper fucked up a job. No one could believe that she’d do that to Mickey and three of his henchmen, but they’d still make her suffer.
She found a budget motel just north of the city, right about when her hands stopped shaking from stress and her eyes felt too heavy to stay open.
The door beeped and Juniper pushed it open, exhausted to the bone. How was this even the same day? Tas lurked behind, his wings brushing against the doorframe as he entered.
She stared at the lone bed. “They told me there were two beds.”
“There are not?”
“Just one.” Not the worst thing to happen today, not by a long shot, but the bed mix-up weighed on her the most. She needed to sleep so badly, but Tas was injured. He needed the bed more than her. She’d have to sleep on the floor.
“It is fine.”
“No, it’s not. It’s bullshit. This entire day is bullshit.” She dropped her bag on the lone bed and fished out the charger. It wasn’t even late. She should stay up to watch the ten o’clock news to see if anyone found Mickey, but her eyes couldn’t stay open.
“Such colorful language,” he said, drily.
Great, now the gargoyle was judging her vocabulary.
“I have a potty mouth. It’s a character flaw.” Shower, then bed, she decided. That was all the energy she had.
“This location does not seem secure. The walls are very thin.”
“It’s a cheap motel.” Not the cheapest. That honor belonged to the Sunrise Inn directly across the four-lane highway. This motel was a corporate chain, decent enough, and ranked between “free continental breakfast” and “you’ll get athlete's foot if you use the shower.”
“I’m going to clean up,” she announced, heading into the bathroom. Using the tiny toiletries the motel supplied, she scrubbed the bitter bile taste from her mouth and gargled. The green mouthwash burned off her taste buds, which was fine by her.
She showered quickly and spot-cleaned her jeans as much as possible before dressing and leaving the steamy bathroom. The post-adrenaline crash was hitting her hard. Her eyes did not want to stay open.
Tas perched on the edge of a chair, blocking the door with his not-insignificant frame. Their earlier meal did him good, putting some color on him. His skin was no longer a matte gray but a lustrous dark gray, a color she found attractive.
With his tail draped over his lap, it was easy to ignore the ever-present hard-on.
Did that thing ever quit?
Not her problem and Tas made no overtures about sharing the problem, either. Fine by her. She didn’t have time for shenanigans. Honestly, if he wanted to force himself on her, he had plenty of opportunities. Sure, sleeping in the same room was a risk but she could not afford two rooms. She trusted him to behave honorably while she slept.
“So who are those people?” She sat on the bed and rooted through her bag for lip balm and moisturizer. Being in food service required her to wash her hands all day long. As a result, her skin always felt dry.
Tas did not insult her intelligence by asking which people. “They are the Rose Syndicate. They are an ancient organization determined to hunt my kind.”
Not the Illuminati. Good to know.
“That Rhodo-person sounded British.”
“Because she is.”
“Are you British?” He had an accent, not exactly British but something distinctly foreign.
“No, I am not from England.” His wings shifted behind him, as if offended by such an accusation.
“Sorry.” Juniper climbed into the bed. “Listen, I’ve reached my maximum bandwidth for the day. I need to sleep, but I think there’s enough room in the bed for both of us.”
“I will remain here,” he said, not moving from the chair.
“You look like hell, man. Sleep in the bed.”
“I am not a man, and I have slept on a concrete floor for years. One night in a chair will not harm me,” he said in a cool tone.
Right. Touchy gargoyle, easily offended. “Was it me calling you a man?”
“I am not British, and I am not a man.”
So it was her calling him a man. “What are you then? I mean, how do you want me to refer to you?”
“I am a Khargal, from the planet Duras.” He delivered the information with a regal weight.
“Not England,” Juniper said, unable to smirk at the grumpy gargoyle—er, Khargal.
“I believe you said you intended to sleep, not chit-chat all night.”
She switched off the light, still smirking at her roommate’s g
rumpiness.
tas
The female left at first light, announcing that she had “a few things to sort out” and then had the nerve to command him to stay.
Tas only took orders from his captain, and he didn’t even do that anymore as the captain died a thousand years ago.
Presumptuous human.
He calmed himself and tried to slip into the shallowest level of duramna, the stone form that mimicked sleep and would allow his body to heal some of the damage. His skin would harden into stone and he would resemble, on some level, a statue, but he would retain some level of consciousness. The deepest levels of duramna were closer to hibernation and it grew increasingly difficult to wake from that state. Tas had once spent a century like that, hibernating atop a cathedral in London. He would need to achieve that level to completely heal, but at the moment all he wanted was a little rest.
He opened a window, letting the pheromone-free air lull him into a meditative state. He imagined his skin growing harder, fossilizing, becoming inflexible and dense. He had not needed such a trick since he was a fledgling but even with the tricks, duramna remained elusive. His mind refused to rest and continued to turn over the question that she might be a Syndicate agent.
Juniper, if that was her real name.
She had no capacity for fiction. Her reactions to him, to the slaughter they discovered, to Rhododendron’s call, had been too visceral. Too real. She could not fake the nervous flutter of her heart when he growled at her or the gasp of surprise when he revealed himself unless she was a superb actress.
He would not put it past the Syndicate to send a skilled actress his way, ready to lead him down a primrose path. Like the gin derived from her namesake, he was drunk on the scent of her. How gladly he would follow.
How could the Syndicate guarantee Juniper would have that effect on him? They had tried for years—decades—to entice him to mate. He refused on principle because he was not livestock to be bred, but refusal was easy when his mating gland did not respond to the females. The Syndicate remained unaware of the ins-and-outs of Khargal mating.
Was it just coincidence that their agent triggered this reaction in him? How extraordinarily foolish he would be to give over to his physical demands and give this vital information away to the enemy.
Unless she was innocent.
He believed she was, but he had no basis for that belief.
Too many coincidences stacked against her. The crate was poorly constructed and was moved from the dockyards in a vehicle driven by a single, unarmed female, depositing him at an isolated location, the perfect place for an injured Khargal to hide and wait. A tearful female appeals to his sense of honor with a story about an abducted youngling. The discovery of the bodies. Rhododendron’s threatening call.
All these coincidences pointed to a trap. Rhododendron wanted Tas to escape and then to willfully surrender himself. Why? Simple cruelty. Because she could pull his strings like a marionette and she wanted him to know that.
Reason said not to trust Juniper.
Experience warned him against it.
His gut wanted to believe her.
Grack him.
His cock had strong opinions on the matter, too.
Aching, he ignored it throughout the night. The climate control pulled in a nominal amount of fresh air, giving him some relief as he did his best to maintain his dignity while suffering.
She was off on errands and indicated that she would be gone for a few hours. Tas welcomed the solitude.
Following the scent of soap and water, he found the shower. As plumbing had not changed dramatically during his captivity, he quickly deduced how to operate the shower and climbed in.
Hot water sluiced down his body, easing the tension in his back. He had not bathed in a civilized fashion in some time. Occasionally his captors provided him with a bucket of cold, soapy water.
Tas soaped himself up, rinsed, and repeated until he felt the grime of captivity wash away. Clean at last. His hair was a tangled mess, but he did his best to work his fingers through. Typically, his captors kept it shorn. In his vain days as a youth, he had worn it long, well past his shoulders.
Carefully he cleaned his crown of five horns, counting them on habit. He had not outgrown his vanity. The more horns a person had, the greater their strength, virility, and attractiveness. An old crewmate had seven, but five horns were enough to turn any female’s head. Tas enjoyed the attention. He wondered if Juniper admired his horns. Surely she did not appreciate the cultural significance, he told himself, and it did not matter what she thought.
But did she like his horns?
Tas pressed a hand flat against the shower stall.
It did not matter. The female did not matter.
But he wanted her to find him attractive.
Grack.
He did not. His traitorous body did, and the urge would not leave him. He needed to purge the mating hormones from his body. Worse still, his cock grew harder thinking about her and his hand wrapped around the base without his realizing.
He stroked himself, recounting the reasons he could not trust her, could not touch her, but his instinct did not care. That was the female his body demanded. His hand made a poor substitute, working his length as he imagined the soft, seductive noises she would make underneath him.
His female, moaning and writhing, begging for his cock. For him. His fangs ached, sensitive to pressure even as he ran his tongue along their points. He wanted to be in her, buried to the hilt and his fangs into her tender flesh. A shoulder.
Her neck.
Grack. He had his hand around her slender neck yesterday, her pulse fluttering under his fingers, and her body luscious, responding to him. A touch of fear, yes, but also desire. He had leaked precum onto her abdomen, smearing the fluid on fabric, marking her. Other males would recognize his claim. That was his female.
The primitive part of his brain adored the way her breath hitched and her hips lifted ever so slightly. For him. He had experienced nothing but pain and torment for so long that he desperately wanted to find a bit of pleasure. Softness. Tension coiled tight in his gut, as he approached release.
She would want to be kissed. He had observed this custom in mating human couples in the past. He wondered if her lips were full and soft, begging to be plucked like ripe berries. He wondered if she would taste sweet. Khargals did not kiss, but for her—he would make an exception and learn.
When he had ravaged her kissed-bruised mouth, he would kiss every part of her, exploring the delights her human body to offer. Between her thighs he would find all the comforts of the world, eager and gasping, crying out his name.
A bright bolt of joy raced down his spine, bring his release in a loud cry. He spent into his hands and splattered the wall.
Tas knew relief would only be temporary.
9
Juniper
Juniper had a plan. In her head, she called it Juniper versus the Illuminati. God, she sounded as crazy as Mickey. She knew the plan was terrible, but at least having a terrible plan gave her back some sense of control, which she needed because nothing made sense anymore. Gargoyles were real, and some shadowy secret organization killed her boss and kidnapped her sister.
She needed supplies, cash, and shelter, in no particular order.
Tas was hurt. One meal and a night’s sleep would not do it. He needed time, at least a few days, to recuperate. As much as Juniper wanted to charge in, guns blazing, to grab Chloe, they needed a strategy, and that took time, too. So, a place to hide and think.
Her neighbor, Mrs. Cannella, had a cabin in the Poconos. Juniper and Chloe had been invited up in the summer several times. She felt sure Mrs. Cannella wouldn’t begrudge an unscheduled visit, so that took care of shelter.
Since stopping by the house to pack for a road trip was out, Juniper drove to the nearest big box store. She picked up two new pairs of jeans for herself, a sweater on clearance, a few long sleeve shirts, a hooded jacket, a pack of underwear,
a bra, and some cheap canvas shoes. She also grabbed the same in Chloe’s size and a gym bag to carry it all around in.
Estimating Tas’ foot size, she picked the biggest pair of men’s slides she could find. His feet had looked human in shape. Sort of. Honestly, she spent more time staring at his wings than his feet. She grabbed another pair of pants for him, as well.
She briefly debated where she should grab a box of hair dye. Her vivid blue dye job was too darn noticeable but decided to wear the hood up on her hoodie until then. Grabbing the basic toiletries, she made sure to get the floral scents that Chloe liked.
She filled the cart with snacks and portable food that didn’t require refrigeration, which meant it was mostly junk. She’d worry about balanced nutrition afterward. If there was an afterward.
“Nice attitude, Bouvet,” she muttered to herself.
Because she refused to give into the doom and gloom, she grabbed two cushions for Tas to sit on in the back. Okay, they were pet beds but comfy. She picked up sleeping bags, a tent, a solar-powered lantern, a tarp, camping dishes, and a cooler in camping supplies. The Cannella cabin was good for an immediate hideout, but she wanted to be prepared if they had to rough it for a while.
All those items she charged to her credit card. Using cash, she purchased the cheapest pay-as-you-go smartphone in the store and a prepaid thirty-day plan. Those Rose Syndicate people knew where she was now and they knew where she was headed, but she didn’t like the idea of them tracking her every step of the way. She’d turn her cell phone off and take out the battery, using the new phone for maps and whatnot.
Speaking of tracking, once she left the city, she’d have to use cash. She emptied out her account at a convenience store’s ATM and tried not to despair at how quickly it vanished as she gassed up the van.
Sitting in the van, she typed out a message to Chloe on her soon-to-be-defunct phone.
Sorry we argued. I love you, Juniper wrote.
Taken for Granite Page 6
