Mistress of the Stone

by Maria Zannini

  That didn’t explain how Shadrach got through the last time.

  He helped her up and Luísa’s heels dug in. Sanctuary wasn’t far. She imagined her father had to be awake by now from all the unholy grunts of these beasts, but no light came from the little hut.

  Xander made her stop. There was a wide clearing before reaching the hallowed ring of Sanctuary, and the gargoyles were sure to pounce on them there. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” she said panting.

  He kissed her, staring into her face as if he’d never see it again. It frightened her, and she hung on to him as tightly as she could. “No matter what you hear, I want you to run, Luísa. Don’t look back and don’t stop.”

  She nodded so he wouldn’t hear the fear in her voice. They were never going to make it.

  Daltry shoved her and she took off, all the while dodging the cumbersome gargoyles with a weave and a bob.

  Behind her a growl emerged, one she recognized. She glanced back for only a moment and saw Xander in the throes of transformation. A cry stuck in her throat, not of terror, but pity.

  Xander’s face contorted in an angry mix of suffering and cruelty. Like a kaleidoscope of grisly images, he transformed. Mouth and nose turned into muzzle, and fur lined his clawed hands. Ears lengthened and tapered, twitching to a sound on his right. He jumped and twisted his body in midair, his change still incomplete when a gargoyle swooped down and knocked him to the ground.

  The gruesome beast stumbled over Xander, landing on stone knees that produced great burrows. He ignored Xander, scrambling over his prone body, his eyes locked on Luísa. He never slowed down, and his focus never wavered. Luísa turned and ran, but never made it past a few steps. The gargoyle pounced on top of her.

  She wanted to scream, but there wasn’t enough breath for even that. The creature was as heavy as an anvil, and his claws dug deep into her arms, striking blood. Luísa kicked out to no avail.

  Xander recovered and tackled the abomination, both of them rolling to one side, giving her a chance to flee. But she couldn’t. Xander was no match for this unholy beast. The gargoyle had the strength of ten men, and it was all her lover could do to keep its snarling muzzle from his neck.

  Luísa pulled out her knife and lunged on the creature’s back. She hoped Paqua was right about it being magicked. She needed all the magic it could conjure right now. She stabbed, but the blade only sparked against stone.

  The gargoyle shrugged her off like a spring cloak, and she fell to the ground with a dull thud. Two more gargoyles pounced into the cleared arena, one snatching her knife and the other taking her. He grabbed her by the waist and flung himself into the air.

  Luísa didn’t even get out a scream. She watched helplessly as Xander clawed at his opponent, savagely fighting for his very life. The gargoyle snapped at him, sinking its teeth into his neck. Within moments, Xander fell limp and changed back into human form.

  She yelled out his name, but she doubted he heard her as they flew high above the island. Her abductor gave her a fearsome grin and licked her across the mouth, slathering her with a toxic drool.

  Her lips grew numb, the strange sensation overtaking her body one limb at a time. She gasped a final breath before everything melted to black.

  When Luísa awoke, Xander was sitting at her side, his hands folded over hers.

  He breathed an exhausted sigh of relief when she opened her eyes. “Praise God, I thought you’d never wake.”

  She forced herself to sit up. A breeze from two opposing windows curled the gray smoke from the scented oil lamps. They found themselves in a sitting room with furniture as dusty as it was old. Luísa swallowed bile when she noticed the barred windows.

  “Where are we?”

  “My guess is that we’ve become the guests of the Sorceress.”

  “What quarrel can she have with us? If she is my kin, surely I can reason with her.”

  Xander shrugged. “This island has been cursed for more than two centuries. If she has any capacity for reason, there’s been no evidence of it.”

  A stiff scraping sweep of the door drew their attention. A lone gargoyle shuffled in. His misshapen face hung like wet laundry and a black patch covered one eye.

  Shadrach. The poor creature looked as if he’d been beaten. A trail of dried blood tracked its way from beneath his eye patch.

  He limped into the room, and waved them both to stand and follow. He glanced back long enough to make sure they obeyed though he said not a word.

  Luísa looked up at Xander. What choice did they have?

  Xander helped her to her feet and she approached Shadrach. She touched his stone arm, stone so warm, it seemed almost hot with fever. “Shadrach? What’s happened? Why are we here?”

  His lips remained sealed, a mix of grief and resignation on his face. He offered his arm as gallantly as any gentleman, and she laid her hand on his. Xander snatched her from him, as if he had the pox. The gargoyle betrayed a look of incredulity and then grim resignation, but he didn’t protest. He nodded to the open door, and they followed the misshapen ghoul into a dark corridor.

  They crossed a covered bridge that took them to another part of the building. Was it her imagination or were those ghostly arms jutting out of the black murky sludge of the moat? Luísa clutched Xander’s arm, her throat robbed of any sound.

  The gargoyle looked back at her. Drool slid past his thick cracked lips, but he didn’t bother brushing it away. “Pay them no mind, mistress. The damned have no hope here.”

  Daltry held her close. “Where are we, Shadrach? Where are you taking us?”

  He pushed open two ornate doors and nodded his head toward the lit interior. “The Lady summons you.” His once booming voice had been reduced to a gravelly murmur. The gargoyle Luísa knew was gone. His spirit had been broken, but how? What could have shattered the soul of so magnificent a creature?

  They entered a parlor of macabre dimensions. Candles of every height and weight perched anywhere they could find purchase. An upturned table lay littered with broken glass jars and vials. Bits of herbs and powders intermingled with the grisly remains of beastly corpses. A coral snake slithered behind a heavy chair.

  Daltry steered Luísa toward an old painting of a fine lady dressed in blue. “I have never seen the Sorceress, luv, but this has to be her. You have her eyes.”

  A soft cackle filled the room.

  “The wolf is correct. You can always tell by the eyes.” The voice seemed to come from everywhere. “So you are my descendent. You’re as foolish as I was at your age.”

  Luísa looked all about her, frantically searching for the person behind the voice. Xander’s claws extended, but the rest of him stayed human.

  Izabel snapped at him. “Stand down, wolf. You’re no sport for me.”

  “Show yourself!” Xander growled.

  A thin wispy form swirled in front of them. “Have you no eyes, wolf? Here I am before you.”

  Luísa clutched her pendant, now a burning coal on her chest. “Izabel.”

  The apparition nodded. “Your greatly grandmother many times over, niña.”

  “Why are we here, abuelita?” She furrowed her brow. “Why are you here?”

  “Why?” A hollow laugh shuddered out of her reedy body. “I had heard my kin graced this island with a visit. Naturally, I wanted to meet her.”

  Xander pushed Luísa behind him. “If you’re in league with Saint-Sauveur—”

  “Silence, dog! Do not threaten me.”

  Daltry gasped for breath, his hands tugging against his throat as if unseen hands strangled him.

  Luísa shouted at Izabel. “Enough!” she demanded. “I’m here, abuelita, just as you wanted. What do you wish of me?”

  The spell on Daltry’s windpipe vanished, and Daltry’s hands sank to his thighs as he breathed in deep.

  Izabel danced around them. “Only to know you, mi nieta.” She stuck out her hand toward Shadrach, and he promptly submitted Luísa’s blade to her. Izabel
handed it back to Luísa. “It seems you lost this.”

  “Your gargoyles stole it from me.”

  Withered lips curled into a smile, perhaps in approval. “You’re not what I expected. Do all young girls dress like pirates and carouse with shapeshifters?”

  “My mother died when I was young. Papa knew only the sea, and he brought me up to know it too.”

  “And to keep you from that werewolf, Saint-Sauveur.” She tapped her bony chin, rife with gray hairs. “I’ve watched that shapeshifter for some time now. He’s been methodical in seeking you out. He is cleverer than I gave him credit.”

  Daltry genuflected, bowing his head in obeisance. “If you care anything for your granddaughter, Sorceress, don’t let him succeed. He’ll keep Luísa here forever if he does.”

  “Bah! Perhaps I want my granddaughter here. It’s lonely on this isle with nothing but stone beasts and shapeshifters to keep me company.” Her form dissolved and reformed, swirling around Daltry. “It is very lonely. Perhaps I’ll keep you too, wolf. You are comely in your human form and I still have needs. What say you?”

  “Basta, abuelita!” Luísa stepped in front of Xander, greedily protecting her interests. How dare she make overtures to a man so young? Sin vergüenza. Surprisingly, the old woman wheeled away from her with apprehension. Was there power in her blood as well? If there was, Luísa needed to find out how to use it to her advantage.

  The ghost rematerialized farther away from them. “You can have any man, Luísa. Why not let me have this one? I already have his sister.”

  “Sibyl?” Xander’s voice arced with reprisal. “My sister is here?”

  The crone laughed. “She’s been here all along, wolf. Didn’t you notice her in the moonlight?” She snapped her fingers, and the one-eyed gargoyle dragged himself up again and headed to the far end of the room where a pillar stood draped in blue velvet. He tugged at a rope, and the fabric fell away.

  Behind the velvet veil stood Sibyl, frozen in place by a beam of moonlight. The light funneled through a floating prism of glass set below an opening in the ceiling, illuminating Sibyl as if she were inside a lantern.

  “Sibyl!” He lunged toward his sister, but Shadrach tackled him, stone against muscle.

  At first she thought the gargoyle was crushing Xander, but no, he was protecting him. Inch by inch, he pulled Xander away from the pillar of moonlight. “No closer, lycan. The bars are made of light so fierce it will cut you to ribbons.”

  Daltry breathed hard, trapped inside Shadrach’s arms. He turned and snarled at Izabel. “What have you done, witch?”

  “Careful, my boy. I might take exception to your tone.”

  Daltry tried to pull away from Shadrach, but the gargoyle held onto him, refusing to let him any nearer. Daltry looked over the gargoyle’s shoulder and begged Sibyl for a sign that she was still with them. The fragile creature stood motionless, her face a frozen mask of surprise. “Sister,” he whispered. “Dear God, how else could I possibly hurt you?”

  Daltry twisted his body and speared his leg in between Shadrach’s, tripping him in one fluid motion. In a desperate move, he reached for Sibyl, his arms jutting out to whisk her to safety. But Shadrach’s warning rang true. The cage had teeth.

  The moonbeams that encompassed Sibyl’s prison punctured his arms like a thousand knife-pricks before he could ever touch her. Daltry cursed it, then jerked away and nursed his wounds.

  Luísa approached Izabel. “Let her go, abuelita. Please.”

  “No,” the crone spat back. “She is mine. I have need of her youth.”

  “Ghoul!” Daltry cursed her.

  “Vex me no further, wolf.” Izabel raked a bony finger across his cheek. “Or I’ll forget your comely looks and turn you into one of my stone guardians.” She threw a nod at Shadrach, once more crouched quietly at her feet. “I punish those who displease me, don’t I, Shadrach?”

  The hideous creature bowed his head low. “You are just, milady.”

  Izabel’s cackle rang throughout the room. “Come, Luísa. We have much to discuss. I’m sure your lover will want to say his farewells to his sister alone.”

  Izabel grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out, brooking no argument from her. She didn’t let her go until they had reached the bowels of the keep.

  The old woman chattered endlessly, asking questions about Luísa’s mother, and the world outside. It occurred to her that Izabel was as trapped as anyone else here, and she was lonesome—starved for information.

  The crone knelt in front of an old sea captain’s chest and pulled out bonnets and sashes, petticoats and fans. Finally she found her prize, a long silken dress of blue, the same one as in the painting.

  “My favorite,” she said at last. “I was a beauty in my day. I will be again when I can work my magic on that sea witch.”

  Luísa knelt down next to her. “I don’t understand, abuelita. Why are you still here? Why steal from the dead?”

  She laughed. “I was a victim of my own curse. When I breathed the words that damned the dead to an earthly eternity, it renewed my spirit. Alas, I age, slowly perhaps, but I wither nonetheless. Sibyl will bring back my glory.”

  “Then why not lift the curse and let everyone go to their heavenly rewards?”

  Izabel stared at her as if she were mad. “What? Free the souls of the wretches who killed me? Never!”

  Luísa sank back on her haunches, cold realization making it all very clear. The old woman was mad, lost in a vicious cycle of vengeance. And poor Sibyl had been caught in the middle, the solution to a wraith that wanted back her life.

  She watched as the leathery crone smoothed the dress against her frail body. “Don’t you want to be free, abuelita?” Luísa said gently.

  “I did at first,” she said in a whisper. “But the werewolves came and then the werehyenas. My island thrived again. And I am its ultimate mistress. Why should I leave now? Why should I give those ungrateful villagers peace?”

  She tossed another dress into Luísa’s lap. “You’ll wear this, niña. Gold is your color. Tonight we’ll celebrate the return of my family.” Her bent form rummaged through the trunk and pulled out an alabaster fan. “You won’t mind sharing your werewolf with me, will you, granddaughter? I imagine he is masterful in bed.”

  Luísa stared back at her greatly grandmother and clutched the dress to her belly. The woman was insane.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Daltry circled the moonbeam prison caging his sister. There had to be a flaw, some crevice not magicked, or a lever that could free her, but the prison was nothing but a pedestal with bars as ethereal as its occupant. Sibyl stood frozen in place, more stone than spirit.

  He called her name, then thrust his hands into the beam of light once more. It sliced through him as if the bars were made from shards of glass. He stumbled back defeated and licked the blood from his arms. How could he counter a thing with no substance?

  “Why do you try, lycan?” the gargoyle called out behind him. “Sibyl cannot be saved.”

  “I’m not made of stone, gargoyle! You know nothing of love or family. I’ll bleed myself dry before I give up.” Daltry spat the words out without hiding his condescension.

  The gargoyle limped over to Sibyl, his maimed hand a breath away from the sheet of moonlight surrounding her. “She is innocent, your sister. She didn’t deserve this.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Daltry grumbled. “If she hadn’t followed me here—”

  “Not your fault, lycan,” the bent figure muttered. “She followed you because she loved you. The Frenchman was the scoundrel. You couldn’t have known what raged in his twisted heart.”

  Daltry peered over at the crooked stone man. “What do you know about what lies in a man’s heart?”

  The gargoyle barked a laugh. “Know? There is little on this island we gargoyles don’t know. What is there for us to do but watch and listen? It’s what gargoyles do best.” He turned toward Daltry and lifted his head though it seemed pain
ful for him to do so. “Long time I have watched. Watched your sister flourish on this island. Watched that false priest leer at her with sinful depravity.” Shadrach scraped his way toward Daltry. “It was I who failed her, Xander. I heard her screams when that beast attacked her, but I didn’t reach her in time. I pounced on Saint-Sauveur and bit off his ear, but the coward ran like a scalded rat rather than face and fight me. I stayed with Sibyl and held her sweet hand. She died in my arms.”

  “It was you,” Daltry murmured. “Sibyl said she didn’t die alone, but she never told me who stayed with her that day.”

  Shadrach’s voice melted into a soft wine timbre. “I’m sorry, Daltry. I came to her too late.”

  Daltry’s eyes moistened. He’d heard Sibyl’s screams too, but when he reached her, she was already dead. His only clue that the Frenchman had been there was a severed ear with a braided gold earring in it. Saint-Sauveur’s earring.

  “Then I owe you thanks, Shadrach. I’m glad she had a champion.”

  “I’m a hollow defender. I couldn’t save her from this.” He hid his half-melted face beneath his raised wing.

  Daltry pointed to Shadrach’s injuries. “Izabel did that to you, didn’t she?”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “The price for defying her.”

  Shadrach gazed at the multi-faceted glass plate that hovered high above Sibyl’s prison. “But I’d pay any price for her safety.” His brow furrowed with a renewed look of determination. “I couldn’t fight the witch alone, but if we worked together you could spirit Sibyl away before Izabel becomes the wiser.” He made a small hop and lit to the air, circling the spelled prism of glass. “You must move quickly, lycan. I can’t give you much time.” He flew beneath the prism and shielded the moon’s rays with the whole of his back and extended wings. The bars of light diminished and Shadrach groaned in mortal agony. “Hurry, Daltry! I cannot last long.”

  Darkness overtook the prison, and Sibyl collapsed into Daltry’s arms. He wasted no time pulling her out.

  “I have her, Shadrach!”