by R.K. Ryals
Chapter 15
Conor
"Conor?"
The voice is enough to make me groan, and I pull the pillow over my head in an attempt to drown her out. Dealing with Rachel Gibson in the a.m. is like chewing on razor blades.
"Yo, Reinhardt!"
Rachel pulls the covers off the bed. It's a good thing I don't sleep naked, but Rachel wouldn't have cared if I did. We've been there done that, in the field only and only while learning to shift without ripping our clothes.
"I'm having a nightmare," I complain, my eyes still closed. Rachel snorts.
"How bad do you want it to get?" she asks.
That's good enough for me. I sit up, covering my eyes to shield them from the sunlight streaming in from a nearby window. Rachel is fully dressed in a long sleeve pink tee and blue jeans, her hands on her hips. Solid colors. Nothing extravagant. There is no dress code at the Acropolis but no one wears clothes they care about. They are too easily damaged.
"Is it true?" Rachel asks.
I am in that wonderful halfway world between sleeping and wakefulness where nothing really makes sense.
"Depends on what you mean by true?" I say carefully, pinching myself on the arm. I really need coffee. What time is it anyway?
"Are you going to be the Demon's Guardian?"
This gets my attention. I run a hand through my hair and look at Rachel.
"Why? Did your father say anything?"
Rachel's jaw drops, and her eyes narrow.
"Oh, my God! You seriously petitioned for the job?" she asks. "And here I thought you were smart."
I move to the side of the bed. From the way the sun shines in through the window, I am guessing it is around noon. This is maybe five hours of sleep. It isn't enough.
"You got a point, Rach? Cause you have about zero point five seconds to get to it before I throw you out of this room."
It is none of her business what choices I make.
"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble she is going to cause?"
I sigh. Rachel is just getting started.
"Rach, I don't think she even knows what kind of trouble she is going to cause.'
"And you still want to guard her?"
I take a deep breath, using the momentum to propel myself out of the bed, heading for a small bathroom off to the side of the room.
"It's precisely the reason why I want to guard her."
There's a sink just inside the bathroom door, and I turn it on, letting the cold water run a moment before splashing it in my face. It isn't coffee, but it helps.
"There's no other reason?" Rachel asks.
The tone of her voice captures my attention, and I turn to her, my back now against the sink.
"What are you getting at, Rachel?"
"Are interested in her?"
I stare because it's the only thing I know to do. As much as I'd like this to be a joke, I know she isn't playing.
"You're seriously asking me this?"
Rachel shrugs.
"You're on the rebound, Con. We all know it. After Dayton . . ."
I'm beyond the snapping point. I'm in the "you just seriously pissed me off" realm of being.
"None of your business, Rachel. None of your fucking business."
She doesn't look the least bit fazed.
"You just got reinstated to Guardian, and you want to risk it this quickly?"
Rachel says this softly, and I realize her intent isn't to be cruel. She's genuinely worried. Rachel isn't a bad girl. Annoyingly blunt, but not bad. She just says out loud what other people think. And what she's saying now, a lot of people will be thinking. I lean an arm against the bathroom door.
"What has your father said, Rach?
Rachel's jaw tightens, and I suddenly know what Gibson's response to my petition was. .
"He's going to let me take the assignment."
I can hear the triumph in my own voice. She doesn't tell me yes, but I know he is.
"What are you trying to prove?" Rachel asks softly. "She isn't Dayton."
I push away from the door, shoving past her into the bedroom. Durand has had clothes sent up to the room, and I'm glad to see they belong to me. Most gargoyles keep clothes at various locations around the globe. There are at least eight different places sporting my attire, and I've long since forgotten which places have what.
"I don't know her, Rach. I don't know what you're getting at, but this assignment has nothing to do with romance."
Rachel shoots me a disbelieving glare as I pull a plain white t-shirt over my head. I hold a pair of blue jeans in my hand, but I refuse to change in front of her. It doesn't matter how immodest we gargoyles are, I put my foot down when it comes to changing my pants in front of the girl my family wishes I'd marry some day. It doesn't matter how many times we've seen each other unclothed during training. Most of those moments were accidents. I have no intention of ever getting "intentional" in front of Rachel.
"It's always about romance with you, Con."
I don't argue with her. Until Dayton, I have been known to play the field. I'm not as pure as my mother wishes I was. I may be a gargoyle, I may follow a pretty strict code of conduct, but I'm also human. And I'm human enough to admit that losing my father, having a mother who spends a lot of time saving other people's lives, and then having to live up to a legacy that is impossible to live up to means I found relief in other avenues. I made my own reputation. I'm not always proud of it, but I do have to live with it.
"My priorities have changed, Rach. The only interest I have in the girl is making sure she doesn't kill herself or anyone else."
Rachel makes her way to the bedroom door, her hand pausing on the knob.
"It's against the rules to date a Demon."
I don't look at her, my eyes trained on the jeans in my hand instead.
"I just want to be her Guardian," I say.
"She's stronger than you," Rachel points out.
This is something I already know.
"She's stronger than all of us. It's what makes her so dangerous."
I hear the door open, but I still don't look up.
"Be careful, Con."
The door clicks shut behind Rachel, and the only thing I want to do is go back to bed. I pull a cell phone out instead. It's lying with my new clothes, a replacement to the one ruined by the sea. Gargoyles are in constant need of communication. I have voice mail. It's from Director Gibson.
"You got the job, Reinhardt. Don't screw it up."
What's left unsaid speaks louder than words.
