Gargoyle's Embrace

by Delilah Devlin

  Gargoyle’s Embrace

  Delilah Devlin

  Contents

  Gargoyle’s Embrace

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Big Bad Wolf

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Also by Delilah Devlin

  Gargoyle’s Embrace

  New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author

  Delilah Devlin

  About the Book

  Lust trapped them in darkness…only love can free them…

  Petra Pedersen has lived as a recluse all her life thanks to a shameful power inherited from the father she will never know—the power to incite lust in men and women with just a touch.

  Exploring the garden of the mansion she’s just inherited, she comes across a fascinating stone gargoyle whose raw, passionate expression draws her to caress its powerful body. Her imagination follows her fluttering fingers. As she closes her eyes and gives herself up to the arousal, something shifts beneath her touch.

  Long ago, failure to stop a demon battle trapped Octavius in a prison of stone. Freed by the woman’s incendiary touch, he doesn’t hesitate to unleash his pent-up rage and desire in a blistering fury. Yet once the haze of lust clears, he discovers he isn’t really free after all.

  They are both trapped in another realm where he must choose between his last chance for redemption or returning Petra home…

  Warning: Sex with inanimate objects, lusty m/m/f ménages with gods... It’s all good when the reward is freedom.

  Chapter 1

  Louisiana, 1909

  Octavius rammed his shoulder against the heavy oak door. The lock and hinges gave, and the door crashed backward with a satisfying thud, raising dust that sifted through the air like silver-gilt fireflies in the moonlight. Wary, he stepped across the threshold.

  Inside, the house was dark, the air thick—too heavy to be natural. He knew, even without reeling in the psychic tether that kept him chained to the demon Taob, that Gazsi was here. That the Nephilim had found Octavius’s charge. He prayed he wasn’t too late to save Gazsi from his own insatiable lust for power. The consequences of his failure would mean Octavius’s own end.

  He should have known that Gazsi planned mischief that night. The mixed-blood angel had been too eager to see Octavius take a rare walk among humans, encouraging him to attend a masked ball at a wealthy residence inside the French Quarter.

  While Octavius had enjoyed the rare opportunity to mingle among sweet-smelling women, secretly laughing as he pretended a lever inside his vest controlled the movement of his wings and thrilling to the many strokes of soft hands along his ribbed folds, Gazsi had snuck away. But not before he’d assured himself that the watcher’s vigilance had been dulled by the herbs stirred into his drink. If Octavius hadn’t noted the uneasy glances of the sloe-eyed woman who’d gulled him, he might have drunk the full measure. As it was, his head still swam, and his loins throbbed with unabated lust.

  The sound of crashing furniture and the low rumble of a masculine voice drew him up the staircase and down a hallway toward the sliver of golden light, fanning outward from a partially opened doorway. Sliding his back close to the wall, he gently pushed open the door and peered around the corner into a room lined with shelves of books.

  Gazsi’s dark head was bent toward his chest, his thighs braced around the demon prince, his hands wrapped around a straining throat.

  I’m not too late, thank the gods. “Let go, Gazsi!” Octavius growled as he stalked toward the Nephilim steadily strangling the demon he clasped.

  “Not until he gives me what I want.” Gazsi grunted, his face screwing into a fierce grimace. “I want all of it.”

  Octavius stepped deeper into the library then felt a slight, telltale rumbling beneath his feet.

  Gazsi seemed unaware of the heightening danger, so intent was he on murdering the demon and claiming his powers and legions of spirits and demons for his own.

  Octavius cursed beneath his breath. He should have suspected what Gazsi had intended when he’d entered Taob’s realm. The half-angel’s thirst for power was unquenchable. The council had warned Octavius long ago of Gazsi’s unrelenting quest, but he’d believed the core of the creature squeezing the life force from the demon was good and honorable. He’d believed that Gazsi understood the uneasy balance that had to be maintained between the forces of light and darkness. In the end, he’d misjudged him, underestimating his greed. Now it was up to him alone to set this right.

  Octavius folded his wings forward, scraping the leathery tips against Gazsi’s slick, hot skin, intending to wrap his wings around Gazsi’s face and smother him into unconsciousness, but the rumbling increased, fed by a faint chanting, echoing inside his head. The demon was far from vanquished.

  “Let go, Gazsi,” he roared, leaning closer to pull Gazsi back, but something lashed around his own wrists. Invisible bonds tightened then jerked him off his feet.

  He landed on the floor on his knees and growled. The air around them grew dank and humid like a demon’s breath, and the voice chanting in an ancient tongue inside his head grew louder and stronger.

  The house shivered violently. The wood flooring creaked. Windows rattled then shattered. Glass shards, like silvery projectiles, peppered his wings and back and shredded his clothing, drawing blood from hundreds of cuts.

  Gazsi’s head jerked back and canted to the side. At last, he’d caught the chanting voice and had to know he’d awakened the demon’s inner fire.

  The breeze sweeping through the shattered window intensified and swirled around the room, tightening into a devil wind that picked up more slivers of glass and jagged bits of shattered furniture that pinged against the paneled walls but sank into tender flesh.

  Octavius’s chest, back, and wings were flayed, scraped raw. He reared back, fighting the phantom manacles holding him. Suddenly he was wrenched from the ground and held still inside the fulcrum of the whirlwind that pulsated then exploded outward.

  With only a moment to suck in a deep breath, he was flung forward, forced to ride the arc of an invisible whip, then shot backward like a cannonball through the gaping window onto fragrant grass.

  Frogs croaked. Crickets chirped. Moonlight silvered the damp grass. He shook his head clear and ripped off the ragged clothing hanging from the belt at his waist.

  Freed at last, he glanced upward to see the light inside the library blink out. Confused, he knelt, breathing deeply and gathering strength. He flared his wings and dug his knuckles into the turf. He pushed upward—but his feet never left the ground. His wings never caught the wind beneath their leathery folds.

  Frozen, first by horror, then irreversibly by magic, he could only stand there, his terrified gaze watching as his body was slowly consumed, inch by inch, by stone.

  Now

  The letter had arrived only a week ago accompanied by a bank draft to cover the expense of her journey. Petra Pedersen’s father was dead, and his house and wealth were hers. A father she’d thought long dead.

  Her mother had spilled what little she did know about Richard’s past in an effort to dissuade her from coming. Richard, who had been born into wealth but was cut off by a grandfather angry about Richard’s excesses, sought a spell to make him rich. The voodoo priestess he consulted slyly withheld the warning that with every blessing there is a curse. So, while his wealth grew, his curse manifested in his inability to find a woman who would never betray him. Determined to break the curse, he’d traveled, seeking a healer’s magic. He’d found her mother.

  Beatrice hadn’t been able to resist the handsome strang
er’s allure. She’d been raised a good Christian in a small village. Magic didn’t exist except in fairytales. Never mind she’d been born with her own magical gift. A healer in a long line of healers, she’d assumed the gift came from God.

  Richard had remained, living simply and happily for a while, until their daughter was born. Then his fear grew that his happiness was about to shatter. That his curse would be visited on his daughter. Despite Beatrice’s pleas for him to have faith in God, he’d fled shortly after the birth.

  Her mother had clung to her belief that all would be well for herself and her daughter—until she’d taken a teenaged Petra along to tutor her as she plied her craft, laying on hands to heal. She’d been horrified to discover that Richard’s curse was real and had changed her gift from something good into something dark and twisted.

  Petra had been sheltered ever since. Kept away from others to prevent a chance touch. But the whispers surrounding her hadn’t stopped.

  Women in their village eyed Petra as though she were a demon come to steal their men. The men’s gazes followed her everywhere she went as they wondered whether the stories were true—if her touch could indeed enflame a man beyond control. Men didn’t seem to fear the curse, and instead, sought excuses to rub up against her in the market or at church.

  Her touch incited men to lose their minds to lust. Inevitably, she and her mother had been forced to move and start again. She’d donned gloves to prevent accidental touches.

  Now, she stared down at her hands and wondered what it would be like to live alone and never fear touching anyone again.

  “You sure this be the right place, cher?”

  Petra ignored the driver’s familiarity. Seemed everyone she’d met since her arrival at Louis Armstrong Airport wanted to take her under their wing. Did she look so out of place? So lost? Her English was better than their own. What gave away her uncertainty?

  She slid her fingers from the damp cotton gloves and dug into her purse for her wallet and the crisp bills to pay her fare. “This is the address I was given,” she replied, keeping her tone even, unconcerned, while inside her stomach trembled.

  The driver turned in his seat and glanced back, his gaze snagging on her hands. His brow wrinkled.

  He’d expected to see some injury or deformity. Why else would she wear gloves in the stifling heat?

  She smiled, bitter humor turning up the corners of her lips. “Will this be enough?” She held out the bills.

  His quick nod told her she’d paid too much, but she didn’t care. If he wondered why a woman alone would wish to be dropped in this desolate location, at least he’d still be in a hurry to leave in case she realized her mistake.

  He held out his hand, and she placed the money in the center of his palm, careful not to glide her fingertips across his skin.

  “I could take your bags—”

  She shook her head. “I will carry them the rest of the way. Besides, your car seems to be misbehaving. You wouldn’t want it to stall so far from a garage. Have a safe trip back.”

  His car had stalled before a bridge at the bottom of a long, winding drive. When he’d keyed the ignition, he’d only crawled a few inches forward before it sputtered out again. He’d shaken his head, cursing in French beneath his breath, but she knew there wasn’t a thing wrong with his car.

  Static crackled in the air. She felt it, could hear it if she listened closely. The house wouldn’t allow the car to approach.

  As she stepped onto the drive, he popped the trunk and walked around to lift her single suitcase to the ground.

  Petra paid him no mind. Her gaze followed the single lane over the bridge and up the long incline. Despite the gathering dusk and the distance, she could see white paint shimmer through the thick underbrush and vines surrounding the tall sycamores.

  The whir and grate of wheels spinning on the path drew her gaze back, and she accepted the handle of her case, gave the driver an absent nod, then trudged across the bridge.

  If she’d thought the air humid inside the air-conditioned vehicle, she now felt like she’d stepped into a sauna. Her skin grew instantly damp, whether from the moisture in the air or her own sweat it didn’t matter. Not that she truly minded. The weather and the landscape around her couldn’t have been more different than her home. And she’d wanted a radical change.

  Where open meadows stretched atop long, fingerlike peninsulas toward the icy sea back in Norway, here, everything felt enclosed, wrapped in lush, green vegetation, like a hothouse without walls.

  As she topped the drive, the house came into view. She remembered her mother’s warning. Her words had been harsh, but her hands, always so expressive, revealed her fear. Her mother had played with the collar of Petra’s blouse as they’d stood on the stoop of their little house. She’d brushed back the fall of Petra’s blonde hair, tucking the strands behind her ears as though she were a little girl. “He was not your father.”

  “And yet he has left me an inheritance.”

  “Not the one you seek.”

  Petra had smiled and placed her gloved hands on either side of her mother’s face. “We both knew this day would come.”

  Tears had filled her mother’s bright blue eyes. “You can’t know what you face. Here, you are safe.”

  “Here, I am imprisoned. Mother, I won’t tell you not to worry because I know you can’t help it, but I’m ready.”

  “Just beware. Richard may have been the instrument, but he didn’t sire you.”

  That truth was inescapable. No human could have left her so cursed that she’d lived isolated all her life—since the time her “gift” had manifested itself at puberty. Not since her night eyes had revealed her true nature.

  She wished she could leave her mother with a kiss, but the obscene nature of her curse prevented a daughter’s affection. Instead, she’d given her mother a tight smile and left.

  Petra glanced around, noting the crumbling half-circle drive. She had a key—a large skeleton key, old-fashioned and heavy. It sat inside her sweaty palm as she approached the house.

  The mansion showed wear. The wooden exterior needed paint. A couple of dark shutters hung, each tilting on a single hinge. Still, it looked like something out of an old Civil War movie, as though Rhett or Scarlett might saunter out the door onto the wide veranda at any moment.

  The electric crackling still sounded around her but was becoming as constant and unnoticeable as wind whipping through fjords. However, it would be wise to heed the warning. A sinister air clung to the quiet estate.

  She tried the tarnished doorknob, and it opened. Pushing the door inward, she hesitated on the threshold.

  The interior of the house smelled of furniture polish and detergents. Where the exterior showed some neglect, inside everything sparkled. More importantly, no ominous odors like the ones her mother had warned her about wafted in the air. “Is anyone here?” she called out because she’d told the executor of the estate that she’d arrive today. She’d hoped to sign the papers and take possession.

  Silence greeted her, and she admitted she was relieved for the chance to settle in before meeting anyone else.

  A solid oak staircase beckoned, and she dragged her case upward. On the landing above, she spied an open doorway but discovered a case on the bed. She passed the door, moving to the next. This one swung open to a large airy room. Tall ceilings, a bare wood floor. The furnishings were cherry with scrollwork embellishing the bedposts and the top of the mirror above the chest of drawers. She peeked into the closet and found no clothing hanging there and decided to claim the room as her own. She could unpack while she waited.

  She laid her case on the bed and unzipped it, but the darkening light outside the window drew her. If she wanted to see the rest of the house and yard, she’d have to go now or wait until morning.

  Decision made, she left behind her belongings, pocketed her key, and hesitated over picking up the gloves she’d tossed beside her bag, but then left them and hurried out the door.
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  As she approached the top of the staircase, the large window overlooking the back of the house made her pause. Light was fading, but from this vantage she could see the outlines of planting beds, long overgrown with weeds. Two rows of three with spindly rose bushes pushing above the taller weeds, gray trellises climbing toward the fading sun. Beyond the beds lay a long expanse of tall grass. Oaks and more sycamores framed the back of the yard.

  She wondered what other wonders were hidden in the neglected garden and whether she should hold onto the house or sell it and pocket the profit—what she’d initially hoped. Because then she could live anywhere. But now, she wasn’t quite so eager to be rid of it. Something about the house felt welcoming despite its lingering air of malaise.

  Perhaps it was the isolation. She’d lived apart from others for so long that solitude was comforting. And the contrast of the open fields of her homeland to the thick vegetation lent this place a touch of the exotic. Maybe here, she could be free to be herself. But she was rushing ahead. She had yet to discover the mysteries of the house.

  Not wanting to waste the waning light, she hurried down the stairs and into the large open living room. French doors led to the garden. They opened easily on quiet hinges. She let them close behind her and stepped onto a tiled porch. Stair steps led to a flagstone path. From this elevation, she couldn’t see the boundaries of the planting beds they were so choked with weeds.

  Three steps downward, a sensation, like the softest velvet brushing past her exposed skin, glided over her as she entered the garden. The late afternoon sunlight dimmed instantly to dusk, and she blinked to adjust her eyes. She had to hurry to get her first look at her new home before darkness fell.