Hard to Handle--A Beauty and Beast Novel

by Christine Warren

  But he couldn’t protect himself from the vision that appeared.

  His eyes closed for an instant. He couldn’t stop them, not when the lightning seemed to strike the ground just inches from his feet. Even through the shutter of his closed eyelids, the glare nearly blinded him. Perhaps it did blind him for a moment. Maybe permanently. For what else could explain the sight that greeted him when his lids lifted? Before him, the pile of stone split further and a creature from heaven or hell launched itself into the fraught night sky.

  Drum had never seen anything like it. It screamed as it flew, not like a banshee but like a Valkyrie, a cry of rattling shields and bloody spears, of battle fever and furious determination. Its body arrowed through the air as if it chased the lightning back to its source. In that brief flash, its gray skin appeared silver, glistening with the rain and glowing in the blinding light. It reached its apex and spread a mantle of enormous feathered wings, casting Drum and Maeve in shadow. Then just as quickly as it had risen it dove, slicing through the atmosphere into a dense collection of shadows where the misericord backed up to the high wall of the cloister garden.

  The thing let out a bloody roar, and a jagged circle of eerie red light the color of blood backlit by fire exploded. The dark light illuminated the winged creature as well as the inspiration for its battle cry—a human figure, hooded and robed all in black but for a strange sigil that marked the fabric like an insignia on the left breast.

  Drum had the almost simultaneous thoughts that he should attempt to help his fellow man, and that he wanted to get no closer to the robed figure than he did to the one with the wings and tail. In fact, while the latter disturbed him because it should not have existed in his reality, the former literally made his skin crawl.

  The man—well, he shouldn’t assume, because it could be a woman, but it certainly looked human, at least—in black made Drum recoil on a purely visceral level. Sure, the robe thing pointed toward a certain eccentricity, but why should the simple sight of him make Drum want to take his sister and go somewhere very far away? He had no answer, but a little discomfort didn’t mean he could allow himself to stand by and watch another human being be torn apart by a monster.

  He had no weapon and no intention of sacrificing his own life for the sake of the stranger, but he could at least perhaps cause a distraction. Fumbling about the edge of the crater beside him, Drum closed his hand around a chunk of granite approximately the side of a cricket ball and hefted it in his right hand.

  “Oi!” he shouted, following the salute with a raucous whistle. Then, not waiting to see if he’d caught either figure’s attention, he hurled the stone at the monstrous creature’s head.

  Had Drum mentioned that he’d never played cricket? Or baseball? Or any other game except soccer, where a player never put a hand on the ball, let alone attempted to throw it with any accuracy?

  The stone missed its mark entirely, instead impacting the cloister wall a good three feet behind the winged beast and even farther away from the man in the black robes. For that reason, he never expected the man to turn in his direction and send another one of those balls of red fire straight at his head.

  With a shout of his own, Drum threw himself over his sister and rolled them both across the damaged earth. Maeve shouted a protest, but it cut off abruptly when the fireball hit the ground where she had lain a moment ago. For her, the close call must have come as a shock, but for Drum it was the second time tonight. Hell, it was the second time in a quarter hour!

  And to think, he’d been trying to help the moldy wanker. People these days had no sense of gratitude. Perhaps this would be a good time to forget about the git and hurry their arses home?

  Before Drum could collect himself to suggest as much to his sister, the monster emitted another shrieking cry and slashed long, taloned fingers across Robe Fella’s hooded face. The figure screamed and threw itself backward, raising its hands to unleash not a ball of fire, but a strike of lightning in that same disturbing shade of red.

  The creature dove out of the way, and the bolt ripped past to crash into the damp earth just beyond. As it impacted, the earth shook almost as hard as it had just before the creature had appeared. A powerful beat of the thing’s wings lifted it into the air high above the garden wall. Drum saw it gather itself, and the man in black must have noticed the same thing, because before the beast could strike, Robe Fella jumped up and fled through the shadows away from the abbey and out toward Dublin’s rain-slicked streets.

  The thunder and lightning cut off as if someone had thrown a switch, plunging the grounds into darkness. Somehow, even the lights of the nearby streets seemed shrouded, leaving Drum and Maeve helpless as newborn pups, before their eyes began to open. Drum could hear, though, and even in the blackness he heard the soft thud of feet hitting the ground and the rush of air as something moved quickly toward him.

  “Who are you?” a voice demanded.

  Drum was prepared for neither the question nor the sound. First, because he hadn’t gotten a clear look at whatever it was soaring above his head in the white nimbus of the lightning strike and then attacking the hostile figure in the dark robes. The distance between him and his sister and the darkness had been illuminated only by occasional fireballs and lightning bolts, which hadn’t provided for more than disturbing flashes caught on the fly (pardon the pun).

  Secondly, Drum found himself momentarily taken aback by the question because, whatever it was that had spoken, it sounded almost like a woman. A very angry woman.

  Instinctively, Drum pitched his own voice to the timbre he’d perfected over long years of living with five independent-minded females—calming without being patronizing. “Michael Drummond. And that’s my sister. We’re no threat to you.”

  The voice scoffed. “As if a human man hurling rocks and a trembling girl could threaten a Guardian. Are you nocturnis?”

  Drum shook his head, blinking as the world slowly came back into focus. It took his eyes precious seconds to adjust to the dimness after the abrupt changes in light, but soon he found himself staring into the most unusual face he’d ever seen. A face whose curled lip and glinting fang demanded an immediate answer.

  Too bad the only answer he had to offer was more like a question of its own. “I’m sorry, what?”

  The face tightened, as did the fist he noticed had grasped the front of his shirt to hold him in place.

  Drum was well accustomed to the nuances in the expression of an angry woman, but the creature standing before him appeared to be something else entirely. Female, he guessed, was a better word than woman, because the entity confronting him was unmistakably a she and even more unmistakably not human.

  She possessed skin the color of freshly hewn limestone, first off, the pale, almost iridescent gray a common sight scattered across Ireland’s green fields. That was his first clue, although he would have wagered his last euro that if he’d dared a touch, the texture would have felt silky and supple beneath his fingers. The bared fangs still in evidence discouraged such investigatory tactics.

  The fangs sat firmly in the nonhuman column as well, as did the rest of her facial features. Though they were clear and angular as if sculpted by a master hand, there was something otherworldly in their shape—the cheekbones angled a touch too sharply, the eyes a little too long. The bridge of her nose appeared somewhat flattened and her brow sliced like a knife edge above eyes so dark that no pupil showed in the blackness, but red flames seemed to flicker in the depths.

  His scrutiny met with an impatient motion, and he found himself rattled by the single-handed grip she held on his shirtfront. At six feet, three inches tall and a whisker under two hundred pounds, it took some force to shake Michael Drummond, yet this female managed it one handed and as casually as lifting a teapot.

  She accompanied the jouncing with a hiss that made him think perhaps he’d missed a bit of something important while he stared. His mother would be appalled by his lack of manners.

  “I asked if
you ally with the Order, human?” the creature repeated. “I would find it odd indeed if one loyal to the Guild chose to cast a weapon at one of the warriors they are meant to serve.”

  Drum shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea what you’re on about. What Guild? And you’re right that I’m human, but I’ve yet to fathom what exactly that makes you.”

  Somewhere behind him, Maeve let out a small squeak. He’d have called the sound a whimper, but the last time he’d done, she’d ground the heel of her shoe into his foot so hard he’d limped for three days.

  Reminded of her presence, he pushed down the fascination that welled at the appearance of the female creature before him and concentrated on more important matters.

  “Actually, never mind that Guild nonsense,” he said, injecting some steel into his tone. “The more important question is whether you intend to harm my sister or me.”

  The creature made a noise like a growl and released her grip on his shirt. The unexpected move kicked at his balance, and Drum found himself bouncing onto his arse like an idiot.

  “I do not harm humans. The Order and the Darkness are my enemies, not you.” Rising to her feet, the gray female turned her gaze to Maeve and changed her question. “If you are not members of the Guild, then I fear things are worse than I first imagined. Some ill plan is afoot. We should all be away from here.”

  Another squeak came from Maeve, this one tinged with agreement, but Drum preferred not to be hasty. Actually, after getting a full picture of the strange female entity scowling down at him, he definitely felt like taking his time.

  She was magnificent.

  Human or not, the gray female looked like a figure straight out of his fantasies. Built like an Amazon warrior, she not only matched his height, she probably had him beat by a good two or three inches, and every single one she sported was curved in just the way to make a man’s breath stick in his throat.

  Drum knew that for certain, not only because of his sudden difficulty with the mundane chore of inhaling and exhaling, but because he had the privilege of seeing so much of her. Wearing only a tunic-style dress that bared both her arms and her left shoulder, and that ended halfway down the strongest, lushest, most spectacular thighs Drum had ever seen, the female appeared unconcerned with either her skimpy outfit or the chill of the night air. Rather, her attention seemed focused inward, her gaze unfocused, the tips of her wings fluttering as she stood almost as still as the Gothic Statue she resembled.

  Those wings fascinated him. Huge and powerful, they must easily have spanned twelve feet or more when unfurled, but now they rested tucked against the female’s back. Even so, the tips almost brushed the ground beside the end of her thick, tapering tail, and the first joints extended above her head, giving the impression of horns in the poor light. Drum could see the silhouette of feathers at the edges, but the shape appeared more batlike than avian. It made for a compelling hybrid that defied both rule and expectation.

  It also made clear what she was.

  Gargoyle.

  Setting aside the impossibility of such a creature coming to life and wandering through the world of men, he could find no other explanation. The features, the wings, the thousand shades of gray that colored her skin and hair and clothing—it all had only one logical (highly illogical) explanation.

  Then, of course, there were the more subtle details. She had fangs, for one—long, sharp, menacing teeth clearly made to pierce and tear into flesh. Likewise, her strong, slender fingers boasted a set of lethal-looking claws that Drum felt certain would have had no trouble reaching through his shirt and even his chest plate to rip his still-beating heart right out of his chest.

  Dizziness blurred his vision for a minute while that image flashed and faded from his mind. He sent up a quick prayer of thanks he hadn’t entertained the thought while she still had hold of him. He might have soiled himself, or at the very least, whimpered and cried like a little girl. Very bad for his image.

  He tried distracting himself by focusing away from her hands and onto her legs—hardly a chore, given their truly spectacular appearance—but that led his gaze down to her feet, which had talons of their own. Front and back, and given the raptorlike shape of them, clearly adapted to perching high atop narrow building ledges.

  Like a gargoyle.

  Just what in the name of heaven itself was going on here?

  Before he could voice the question, or a more diplomatic version of it, the ground beneath him heaved again. At least this time he was already down on his arse and hadn’t anywhere to fall, but the sensation of solid earth rolling like the waves on the Irish Sea still sent his stomach churning. Drum considered himself a good enough sailor, never plagued by seasickness, but when the ground moved like water, human instinct rebelled against the wrongness of it.

  A low rumble, similar to the earlier thunder, but deeper and more menacing, accompanied the motion. Above the noise, he could hear the gargoyle snarling and his sister crying out. Cursing under his breath at having forgotten her in his fascination with the mythical creature who sprang to life before them, Drum headed toward Maeve. He abandoned the idea of walking almost before it registered. No way could he stand with the ground bucking like an unbroken horse under his feet, so he crawled, ignoring the wet grass and mud that quickly coated his palms and trouser legs.

  “Easy, Mae,” he soothed, hauling her into a hug as soon as he got close enough. “It’s just an earthquake. It’ll be over soon.”

  She clung to him tight as a baby monkey. “This is Ireland. We don’t have earthquakes.”

  Drum knew that, but what other explanation was there? The earth still quaked beneath them; therefore … earthquake. “Of course we do. They’re simply small ones that we don’t often feel. I’m certain we were due for a good rattle like this sooner or later.”

  “The female is correct. This is no earthquake.” The gargoyle’s eyes flashed with orange fire as she spoke. “Something unnatural causes this movement of earth, something beyond the power of a single agent of the Order. I can feel the magic behind it.”

  “Magic?”

  If Drum had intended to keep the scoffing disbelief from his voice, he failed, with a show of fireworks. Sort of like the one the hooded figure had put on a short time ago. The expression on the creature’s face told him that. “You saw the nocturni cast spells before your very eyes. You look at me right now, and yet you doubt the existence of magic, human?”

  Well. She perhaps had a point.

  Maeve saved him from tripping over his tongue-tied justifications. “This isn’t natural, Michael. You know that. I know you do. You’re not half so blind as you like to pretend.”

  His mouth tightened. Now was not the time to get into his female family members’ favorite topic of dinner conversation—why Drum fought so hard against the set of talents that ran so strong within his family line. He had other worries more pressing, like speaking to the living statue in front of him and getting himself and his baby sister somewhere safer than the shadow of several thousand tons of potentially falling stone.

  “At the moment,” he answered, “I’m less concerned with what’s causing it and more worried about surviving it. “

  Even as he said the words, the quaking stopped, the ground going still, though Drum swore he continued to feel his bones rattling. He might even have let out a sigh of relief—a discreet one—if someone hadn’t marred the moment with a wide-eyed, cryptic, and unsteady whisper.

  “It’s not over.”

  Drum glanced into his sister’s blue eyes and winced. He hated it when she was right.

  Chapter Two

  Ash awoke in a rush of fury and confusion. Before now, her world had consisted of nothing—the literal blank of the universal nothing—for all of eternity; then, in one instant, existence had manifested itself in her being. She went from floating in the ether, just one speck among all the particles of the Light, to a fully formed individual entity in the space of one cosmic snap.

 
A little warning would have been nice.

  She leaped into the sky because she was born to it, from it, and the rush of air against her skin helped to clear the cobwebs of nonbeing from her mind. Instinct kept her wings beating as knowledge flooded in to fill the empty space—knowledge of what she was, why she had been summoned, who her enemy was, and how she and her brothers would battle against it.

  All of that came to her in a heady jolt, as if carried on the bolt of lightning that ripped through the darkness. She learned the entire history of her race in the space of a human heartbeat, and in it she saw that she stood alone.

  There had never been a Guardian like her. She was the first of her kind, fierce and skilled as any other, but different in a fundamental and earth-shattering way. Because she was she.

  Female.

  Guardians always answered the summons as male. Ash knew it. She saw the parade of them in her mind, from the very first of her brethren to ever take wing to the ones that instinct told her walked this earth at this very moment. She saw the scope of their lineage, the story of their battles won and enemies vanquished, and she knew that her very existence had set into motion a chain of events that would alter the fabric of reality.

  That was a lot to take in during one’s first three seconds of consciousness. Enough to make a girl cranky. Luckily for her, fate provided an immediate outlet for her temper.

  As she looked down, her keen eyesight cut through the shadows as easily as a human could see on an overcast day at noon. Hiding in the blackness at the base of a building wall, Ash spotted one of her sworn enemies—a nocturni—pouring his unnatural energy into the earth at his feet.

  She dove straight for him, her wings swept aside and her talons outstretched like an eagle hunting a hare. Instinct must have alerted the minion of Darkness to her approach, because he spun out of reach an instant before she dug her long, curved claws into his face. She would dearly have loved to blind the evil magic user with her first strike, but it mattered not. She outclassed a single nocturni in combat enough to make the match almost laughable; she could afford to be patient.