by Kelly Meding
Wyatt parked on a meterless side street and we hoofed it three blocks back to the library. Its impressive stone steps rose up like the front of a Greek theater, and the four-story building was just as impressive. A statue of a lion guarded the front entrance, clasping a sign in its marble claws that said: “Enter All Ye Who Seek Knowledge.”
Fit us to a tee.
Fortunately for us, the library opened early, and we were among the first to go inside. An elderly woman with reading glasses attached to her head by a gold chain gazed at us from the front desk. I smiled, and she smiled back. The familiar scents of leather and old books filled the main foyer.
I strode toward the staircase and bounded up to the third floor. Wyatt followed at a slower pace, constantly tossing furtive looks over his shoulder even though we were pretty much alone. None of the librarians paid us any mind. On the third-floor landing, the corridor branched left into the fiction room. Directly ahead, the marble steps became a metal spiral that continued upward. A red velvet rope hung across, sporting a sign that announced: “Employees Only.”
After double-checking that we were still alone, I stepped over the rope and continued up. Our footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, and it seemed to get smaller the higher we went. At the next landing we were presented with two doors—one marked PRIVATE, and the other ROOF ACCESS. We picked door number two and went up again.
I pushed open the exit door. Bright morning sunlight glared into my eyes. Facing east, the sun sat above the city’s horizon like an orange ball of flame. A cool breeze tickled my cheeks. I inhaled the odors of gasoline and exhaust and asphalt—the scent of my city.
Wyatt touched my elbow; I moved out of the way.
The exterior of the door was painted to match the exterior stone, which rose up like a castle turret to create a faked fifth floor. It was all alcoves and empty space inside, the perfect resting place for a gargoyle. A gravel path surrounded the hollow upper section. It was the only barrier between the building and a four-story drop to the asphalt below.
We crunched across the gravel and turned the corner to the north wall. One of the window insets had been smashed in, allowing a four-foot-wide access to the shadowy interior.
“Think he’s home?” Wyatt asked.
“Should be,” I said. “It’s well after sunrise, and Max is more allergic than most. Just talking about the sun makes his skin crackle.”
A common misconception about gargoyles: they don’t turn to stone during the day and fly freely at night as some myths suggest. A stone gargoyle is a dead one. Like their vampire cousins, gargoyles are highly allergic to direct sunlight. Exposure dries out their skin and turns it slowly to stone. Five minutes or more of direct sunlight changes them completely. A difference in genetics makes the vampire less stable, easier to shatter into dust. Gargoyles, on the other hand, are solid.
Ever since the first stone gargoyles were discovered and placed on churches and cathedrals, humans have been creating their own, modeling them after cats and dogs and every other animal imaginable. Real gargoyles look more like squared-off humans, with block heads, fangs, wide mouths, long front arms, and short wings. How they manage to fly with those little wings is beyond me, but they do.
“Is he going to recognize you like Smedge did?” Wyatt asked.
“I hope so. I don’t feel like taking a flying leap off this building if he gets testy.”
“Ditto.”
I climbed through first, eyes adjusting quickly to the dim interior. The faint, sweet odor of rot hit me first, but not strong enough to create a sense of dread. Max liked cleanliness in his nest. Even without looking, I knew a pile of bird bones was heaped in the left corner of the man-made cave—mostly pigeon bones, but Max would settle for a swallow or robin if nothing else presented itself.
The far right corner was cast in deep shadow, farthest from the entrance. Our bodies blocked the thin shafts of sunlight, creating a prison-bar pattern on the stone floor. Something shifted in the shadow, a sound like sandpaper on metal. A deep growl filled the space, vibrating in my chest. The short hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
“Max?” I said. “It’s Evangeline Stone and Wyatt Truman.”
Snuffling, and then a thick baritone, full of clicks and rasps, asked, “Why the new look, Evangeline?”
“I died and rose again. We just had a few minor hitches. You gonna come out and say hello?”
He withdrew from the shadows, lumbering forward on thick haunches. His back was curved slightly, thanks to the weight of his massive, muscular forearms. His head was almost perfectly squared, and his mouth nearly as wide as his entire face. Two thick fangs hung down over his lower lip. A sharp brow ridge accentuated his large, luminous eyes. Gargoyles had no hair, only pointed ears and a smooth head.
Max walked forward, into the dim light. Behind me, Wyatt shifted, becoming defensive. I reached back, found his arm, and squeezed. He stilled, but tension rippled beneath his shirt. I didn’t blame him. Most people freaked at the sight of a seven-foot-tall gargoyle.
“Hello,” Max said. “I had heard through the Clans that you died, Evangeline. I am pleased you have risen and shall rejoice in it.”
“Don’t rejoice too much, it’s just temporary,” I said. “I have a puzzle to solve, and I was hoping you’d be able to give me a few of the pieces.”
“You have only to ask for my assistance, and you shall receive it. You know this, as you have come to me many times.”
Very true. Outside of Danika and my Triad, Max was the closest thing I’d known to a friend, and I often asked him for advice. “I came to you a week ago,” I said. “Why?”
“You do not remember?”
“No, there was a hiccup in my resurrection. I can’t remember the very important information that I was brought back to reveal.”
Never play poker with a gargoyle. They epitomize the term “stone-faced,” and that comes pun-free. His impassive face loomed above me for several seconds, betraying nothing, until he finally said, “We have not spoken directly in two weeks, Evangeline. If you came uptown a week ago, you either found me not at home or not at all.”
My mouth fell open, hope fleeing with it. “Seriously?”
“I am serious. We do not understand your humor.”
“Where were you last Wednesday night, going into Thursday?” Wyatt asked, stepping up to my side.
Gargoyle poker face strikes again. “Hunting,” he said. “I am rarely at home during the nighttime hours; Evangeline knows this. She was foolish to think she would find me here that night.”
“I would have waited for you to come back,” I said. Flames of annoyance sparked my temper, frustration fanning it into a low burn. “I would have waited if what I had to ask you was that important, and damnit, it was. Wyatt is the last person that I remember seeing before my memory blanks, and if he says I came uptown to Fourth Street, I was coming to see you.”
“I do not doubt the intention, only the outcome. Perhaps your journey was interrupted by other forces.” Max’s gaze flickered to Wyatt. “If you did, indeed, come in this direction.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Wyatt asked.
I reached out and placed a calming hand on Wyatt’s chest. His heart thrummed against my hand, beating furiously with his anger. “I trust Wyatt,” I said to Max. “If he says I came here, then I did. Or I tried to, and didn’t get that far. But since I obviously didn’t, and we have you here now, what have you heard about a pact being made between goblins and Bloods?”
Something flickered in his stony face. I couldn’t quite nail it. Surprise, maybe, or dismay. My words had finally made an impact.
“Such a pact would be devastating to humans,” Max said.
“You think so?” I deadpanned. Then, remembering the lack-of-humor thing, I added, “Yes, it would be. Very devastating, and that’s apparently what I was investigating when I was kidnapped and tortured to death. Is there anything you’ve heard?”
“Vampires and g
oblins do not work together.”
“Traditionally, no,” Wyatt said. “But it’s been a week for trying new things, hasn’t it? Like answering a simple question.”
Max’s heavy brow furrowed, a sure sign of deep thought. “Please believe that I wish to help.”
“I know you do,” I said.
Wyatt took a step forward, fists clenched by his sides. “Then try answering the question.”
“Wyatt.” I reached for his arm, but drew away, stung. Energy sparked around him like static electricity in a wool sweater. I’d never felt such a burst of power from him before.
“What do you know about an alliance between Bloods and goblins?” Wyatt asked, his voice adopting that low, measured tone he reserved for the moment before attack. The residual energy forced Max backward two steps. Wyatt was preparing to use his Gift. Brute force against a gargoyle was dumb, so what the hell was he going to summon?
I backed off and let him work. I trusted Max, but he was still a Dreg. I trusted Wyatt more.
Max growled—a scarier sound than any angry dog has ever uttered. “The full measure of my existence is a vast ocean to the small pond of yours, Wyatt Truman. I know much, and yet there are things I am unable to reveal. Things that will come with the recovery of Evangeline’s memories.”
My hand jerked. Was that an admission of guilt? Some ass-backwards way of saying he did know something, but couldn’t tell me? I gaped, finally seeing Max as he truly was. No longer a trusted confidant, but as another Dreg who deserved my suspicion and skepticism.
“Did you see me the night I disappeared?” I asked.
Max continued to watch Wyatt. “We did not speak that night.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I have, Evangeline. I am sorry.”
Wyatt raised his right hand and held it palm-up, level with his eyes. Light sparked above his palm, at first just a glimmer. It grew, coalescing into a baseball-sized sun that radiated heat and glowed yellow-orange. Max retreated to the deep corner of his nest, out of the arc of the orb’s light. Awed by the unexpected reaction from the gargoyle, I studied the offending object, trying to figure out what had frightened Max into the corner. I felt the heat, both from the orb and Wyatt. Felt the enormity of what he’d done.
Wyatt had summoned sunlight.
He stepped toward Max, increasing the power of the sun orb. Max roared, the sound shaking the stone walls around us. A soft snap-crackle sound filled the room, along with the odor of ozone.
“You will kill me and still know nothing,” Max said.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Wyatt said, taking another step closer. “I just want to know what you know, so unless you want the world’s worst sunburn, I suggest you spill it.”
“I can reveal nothing to you or your species. No threat can change that fact.”
“Really?”
The sunlight grew brighter, the snap-crackle more pronounced, like someone walking across a floor littered with peanut shells. A low whine followed—the two sounds linking and creating a symphony of Max’s pain. More than the effect on Max, however, I was stunned by the display of power from Wyatt. A few times in the past, I had witnessed him summoning small objects, weapons, sometimes even a spark of flame when he needed a match. But never the power of the sun itself, concentrated and perfectly under his control.
Ozone continued to fill the room, nauseating me. Max did not move again from his corner. Standing straight and tall, he did not flinch from the threat or his impending death, because I had no doubt that Wyatt would turn him completely to stone.
“He won’t tell, Wyatt,” I said. “He can’t.”
Wyatt flinched, but did not look away from Max.
I tried again. “He’s a gargoyle. His word is his bond. Once he gives his word in a promise, he can’t break it. Whatever he knows, he’s promised someone not to tell us.”
No one spoke; no one moved. Wyatt’s fury at Max bubbled just beneath the surface, but Max was only reacting according to his nature. For that single fault, I couldn’t let him die. He had been a loyal friend in my old life, and for that he deserved mercy. I circled around in front of Wyatt, blocking his path to Max.
Our eyes locked over the hot glow of the sun sphere. Orange light reflected in Wyatt’s gaze, illuminating the black depths I knew so well. Tangled with the light was something else, something more sinister—a deep-seated desire for vengeance at any cost. Hatred of certain Dregs projected to all of them without reason or direction. Sweat beaded on his forehead and red tinged his nostrils—sure signs of his Gift’s physical toll.
“Don’t kill him,” I said. “Please.”
Wyatt closed his fist. The sun orb disappeared, the residual warmth fleeing a split second later. The orange light remained in his eyes for a brief moment, flickering like living flame, before extinguishing.
With that light went the careful control Wyatt had erected over his body. He swayed like tall grass in a breeze. Sweat ran in thin rivulets down his cheeks.
“Wyatt?”
“I’m fine,” he said, the hitch in his voice indicating he was anything but. He wiped his hand under his nose, smearing blood on his fingers. Even in the bad light, I could tell he’d gone pale. He glared and snapped, “I said I’m fine.”
I almost called him on it, but Wyatt would never admit to the pain he was in. Especially in front of Max, who hadn’t moved, and any damage done was hidden by shadows. Only his face was visible, and it revealed nothing.
“Is there anything you can tell us, Max? Anything at all?” I asked.
“Only that if you return, I will not be here,” he said. “A war is coming, Evangeline. I hope you choose the correct side.”
The chilling words buried in my heart like a blade. “Max, if we meet again in this life, will it be as enemies?”
“We will not meet again.” He spoke with such finality that my heart broke a little. There is an old joke about not making friends with your food. As a Hunter, I never should have allowed my friendship with Max. Gentle or vicious, kind or cruel, at the end of the day—or the world, as events were slowly pointing toward—he was still a Dreg. He had betrayed me.
Wyatt touched my shoulder. “Let’s go, Evy. We’re done here.”
I let him guide me back to the exit, toward the bright morning sunlight.
“Trust no one, Evangeline,” Max said. “Not even your own people.”
The warning rang in my head as I climbed back out to the gravel path. Traffic rumbled and honked below, going about its morning routine, oblivious to the goings-on high above. Wyatt shadowed me, as pale in sunlight as I’d suspected in the dark. He moved slowly, carefully, like an old man afraid of falling and breaking a hip. He caught me checking and glared, his point clear.
Ignoring him, I led the way back to the stairwell and down into the bowels of the library.
At the bottom of the service stairwell, I reached for the utility door with trembling fingers. My knees wobbled. The enclosed space tilted. I grabbed for the wall, but my legs turned to jelly. Trembling arms looped around my waist, and we sank down to the steps. Wyatt engulfed me with his arms, holding me warm and safe. Chills racked my body. Gooseflesh broke out over my arms and chest. I leaned against him, grateful for the support and hating myself for the sudden weakness.
His breath was hot against my ear, whispering words I couldn’t hear over the roar in my head. Tears stung my eyes. I blinked rapidly and bit down on the inside of my cheek to chase them away. Freaking out right now was simply not an option. We still had too much work to do, and the clock never stopped, ticking away my last hours on Earth with unflinching steadiness.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“This.”
“I think you’re entitled, Evy.” One of his hands found mine, and our fingers curled together. “I can’t imagine being where you are now. Everything you knew has turned on its head, and you’re doing your best to cope with it.�
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“I keep hoping I’ll wake up and be grateful that it’s all just a nightmare. A great big, freakish nightmare.”
“I wish it was.”
He squeezed my hand, and my stomach fluttered. As urgent as our job was, and as much as I knew we had to go find the next clue, I was perfectly content to sit there for a while. I was safe in Wyatt’s arms, protected by someone as strong as me—though perhaps more powerful; I’d just seen him harness the sun.
Gentle fingers brushed a lock of hair away from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. He rested his chin on my shoulder, seemingly as at ease as I was in our impromptu embrace. I could see his profile in my peripheral vision. His brow was knotted, his lips pursed. I smelled the faint odors of coffee and sweat, and a more basic scent. One I couldn’t readily put my finger on. The basic scent of a man, perhaps? It was feral, strong, and heady.
And arousing.
I closed my eyes, falling into the scent of him. I remembered the taste of him—but how? We never had a physical relationship. He was my boss, not my lover. So why did I remember the gentle bruising force of his kisses, the hard knots of muscle on his back and shoulders? I shouldn’t know those things.
Until perfectly rendered memories sped through my conscious mind, finally released from their prison. Not everything, but enough. My eyes flew open.
Wyatt tensed. “What is it, Evy?”
I clutched his hand tighter, pulling strength from him and feeling no shock or shame at what I now knew had happened. Only measured relief. “I remember something,” I said. “I remember us.”
Chapter Eight
May 11th
The empty boathouse reeks of tepid seawater and day-old fish—sure signs that multiple goblins only recently vacated the premises, since neither fish nor boat have seen its cobwebbed interior in at least a decade. It’s a smell I know, specific to goblins, and as always, it makes my stomach churn.
Ash steps out from behind a pile of moldy sails, her flashlight cutting patterns in the dust and grime. “So much for our hot tip,” she says.
