Interview With a Gargoyle (14 page)

He stared, transfixed by the spectacle. The witch uttered words that might have been Latin, but he couldn’t make them out. He turned and flung the door open, his terror winning out over pride. To run from a mere girl was cowardly, but to stand and face the Devil’s own wrath was foolhardy.

“You won’t see Judgment Day, my lord,” she said as he stepped into the street. “In fact, you will never see daylight again. You skulk in the night like vermin, so from now on, you shall live only in darkness, forever.”

He might have responded, but his throat closed, his eyesight dimmed and his feet grew too heavy to take another step.

All was blackness for him after that.

In the morning, the villagers crowded around a strange addition to their provincial surroundings. None was more surprised than the cobbler who could not explain how a statue of a fierce beast had sprung up in the street before his shop.

Women hid their faces from the evil countenance, and children clung to their parents, sure to suffer nightmares from looking at the frightful face wrought in dark granite by a mysterious sculptor. Man-shaped and of greater than average height, the beast had fangs protruding from his mouth and curving down toward his chin. His pointed ears swept back from a hairless skull, and heavy brows hooded wide, wild eyes that glared at the curious onlookers.

His hands were gnarled claws, and his legs ended in cloven hooves. A forked tail hung from his backside, its sharp tip resting in the mud. A terrible beast indeed, made all the more frightening by the fact that he wore a nobleman’s greatcoat and finely tailored breeches.

All that day, the villagers of Devon Crook gave the statue a wide berth, and that night they hid in their homes again, still fearing the man who had come among them to hunt witches, though he never returned to their quiet northern town.

Sometime after moonset the following night, the statue disappeared, and it too was never seen again.

Chapter Fourteen

Mel woke with sunlight streaming across her face. The warmth of it soothed her, and the gentle motion of the bed beneath her would have lulled her back into a contented sleep except she remembered where she was.

She sat up fast and surveyed the room while climbing out of Blake DeWitt’s bed. The half-open sliding doors of the closet across from the bed revealed a plethora of dark clothing. The oak dresser, bulky and masculine, held a few bottles of cologne, a hairbrush and a stoneware dish full of the usual detritus from any man’s pockets—spare change, stray paper clips and balled-up receipts. The mirror above it was dusty, and the motes that clung to the glass caught the light and sparkled.

The room smelled like DeWitt, and so did she. How she could have his scent on her when they’d touched only briefly boggled her mind.

She ran a hand through her hair and bent close to the mirror to look into her own eyes. Familiar brown orbs stared back at her, a little bloodshot and puffy around the lids but definitely her own.

She felt utterly normal this morning.

Could lack of food and sleep have made her act the way she had last night? Chasing demons—and killing them!—throwing herself at Palmer and DeWitt?

Calypso would know. She had to get home and talk to her friend, but first…

The house was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall in the kitchen. Blake’s cell phone lay on the table in the hall, shut off. Nothing stirred.

Curiosity drew her through every room, wondering what DeWitt had done with her bloody clothes. Would he have washed them? Burned them? That’s what she wanted to do, when she got them home. She didn’t find them in the bathroom hamper or hanging in any of the closets she inspected. The second bedroom, she discovered, contained all the equipment someone would need to keep in shape—free weights, a stationary bike, a treadmill and a UV lamp. Stacks of towels and room-temperature bottles of spring water filled the small closet, but she found nothing that belonged to her. She doubted he’d stashed her outfit in the attic, so except for the trash cans outside, that left one place to look.

The door leading to the basement wasn’t locked, nor was it open, but that didn’t stop Mel. She flipped on the light switch, illuminating the short flight of wooden stairs, and descended into a very mundane-looking laundry room.

The washer and dryer were empty and very dusty. For some reason, she couldn’t picture DeWitt measuring fabric softener and pressing creases into his black jeans.

“Who am I kidding?” she asked aloud. Her voice echoed a bit. “I don’t care about my clothes.”

The admission boosted her confidence just a bit, and she made a circuit of the basement. A narrow door stood slightly ajar opposite the stairs. There was no knob on the door, and she guessed if it had been closed, she might not have noticed it.

She peeked in, but the room beyond was too dark to make anything out. The door creaked when she pushed it open just far enough to let a little light spill into the shadows. Drawn by her unnaturally acute curiosity, she slipped inside.

Panic stole her breath when she came face-to-face with him. The granite monster towered over her. Taller and broader than DeWitt’s human physique, he stood at parade rest, clawed feet wide apart, muscular legs encased in stone jeans.

He’d taken off his shirt before the transformation, and it hung on the inside doorknob. His chest seemed expanded as though he were taking a deep breath, triangular pectorals pointing down to a ripped abdomen. Yes, this part was definitely Blake DeWitt, but there the similarity ended.

His strong chin and deep-set eyes had been replaced with the face of a nightmare. Curving fangs filled a wide, lipless mouth. The broad, flat nose and bulbous forehead harkened back to a more primitive evolution of man. Pointed ears curved up high over his hairless skull, and a forked tail spiraled down around one calf.

Mel fought the urge to shrink back from him. Immobile, he couldn’t hurt her, except perhaps to break her heart.

She let her fingers trail along one icy cheekbone, down the corded muscles of his neck and to the center of his chest where a human heart would beat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I really didn’t believe you until now.”

She wondered, if he came to life at this moment, would he be Blake DeWitt in a monster’s body, or would he be a mindless beast? Her heart thundered, and she backed away, then sidled out of the half-hidden room.

“Um…I don’t think you can hear me,” she said through the door. “But if you can, I’m going home now. Thanks for letting me stay here. I’ll be careful, I’ll watch out for Fremlings, and I’ll see you later.”

She didn’t expect him to answer, but she waited a moment, just in case, then hurried back up the stairs.

Half an hour later, Mel settled into a chair at Starbucks. Cal plopped into the seat opposite her and slid a warm pumpkin muffin and an iced latte across the table along with Mel’s purse, which she’d left at Gleason’s last night.

“This is getting serious,” the witch said. Her black-tipped nails tapped the tabletop nervously.

Mel gulped her latte and glared at her friend. “You’re telling me? I ripped a demon’s heart out last night. With my bare hands. I can’t even tell you how gross that is.” The thought of it killed what little appetite the scent of the muffin had kindled. “And those
things
followed me here from DeWitt’s house.”

Cal’s dark eyes darted from side to side. “What
things
?”

“Blake calls them Fremlings. They look like dirty dust mops with long…kind of bony fingers. They’ve been following me, sort of gazing at me with their beady little black eyes.”

Cal gaped. “How many?”

“I don’t know. There were at least a dozen last night, and Blake killed a bunch of them, but he said there’d be a lot more.” Mel lowered her voice and whispered, “I’m their leader.”

Calypso’s dark brows shot up at Mel’s confession. “No…honey. You’re not. I’ve heard about Fremlings. They follow power, and you’ve apparently got enough to attract them. The good news is, I don’t think they’ll hurt you.”

“You don’t
think
they’ll hurt me?” Mel gaped. Her muffin and her coffee looked gray and unappetizing now, and the sounds of coffeehouse patrons talking and laughing grated on her senses like nails on a chalkboard. She scowled.

“Just try to avoid them. The more you interact with them, the more will show up.”

“Yeah, Blake said that too.”

“Blake. Not DeWitt? You guys seem to have bonded.” There was a question in Cal’s statement, one that Mel wasn’t in the mood to address.

“Let’s skip to the important stuff, shall we? What did the Witches’ Council say about the curse?”

Cal studied the table. “The Council hasn’t convened yet. They’re gathering.”

“And how long does that take?”

Calypso sighed. “A while. The most important thing right now is to keep you safe until we have a solution. The consensus is that it may be possible to affect a transfer of the Cabochon from you to a suitable demon queen, but all the proper spells need to be worked out first.”

“A suitable demon queen? Because there are
unsuitable
ones?”

“Yes. Like Fremlings, for instance, and Ak’mirs. Certain breeds aren’t meant to have this kind of power.”

“What about just breaking the curse? Isn’t it time for that?”

Cal shrugged. “It’s not my call. Vengeance spells are very dangerous. They’ve been forbidden for centuries, and breaking one can be almost as chancy as casting one.”

“So they’re just going to let it go on? How many more innocent men will pay for what Percival Blake did?”

“I understand, Mel, but the people who get to decide this are a lot more powerful than I am.”

Mel pushed her cup and her muffin toward Calypso and rose. “Well, the way things are going, they might not be more powerful than me. Ask them if they’re in the mood to deal with a Melodie-demon, because I’d say if you ask the two creatures I killed last night, I’m hell on wheels.”

She grabbed her purse and strode out, secure in the knowledge that more than a few heads turned to watch her leave.

“The boy asks about you often. I’ve run out of stories to tell him.”

Percival glared at his solicitor over the crystal rim of a brandy glass. A thoughtful sip of the amber liquid soothed the raw spot in his gut that flared whenever Thompson mentioned Rene. “I will visit him before the year is out. Assure him of that.”

“I fail to see why you don’t do so yourself. He’s a fine boy, intelligent and curious. He could use a firmer hand in his upbringing, though. The house staff is too lenient with him.”

Thompson steepled long fingers over his round stomach and leaned back in his chair. The firelight lit the man’s hazel eyes, giving his appraising glance a sinister cast.

“I’d like nothing better than to spend time with my son, but if I’m to keep him fed and clothed, I can’t live a life of leisure.” Percival tossed a small pouch to Thompson, who caught it and tucked it away neatly in his desk, quick and efficient as always. Up until now, he’d never questioned where his employer’s funds came from or what work brought payment oftentimes in foreign coins. He handled the accounts and had judiciously arranged for the woman who had borne Rene to disappear when she began expecting Percival to make an honest lady of her.

A man with only half a life would not make a decent bridegroom. He barely made a respectable father, but at least his boy wanted for nothing material.

“I appreciate you checking in on him. I will consult with the staff and see that they don’t spoil him before I can return.”

“No one sees you for months at a time, Percival. I’ve often feared you wouldn’t return at all.”

“Don’t concern yourself with my welfare, as long as my accounts are paid and there’s money enough to care for Rene.”

“There’s plenty to see him well into adulthood, but I question the means through which you’ve acquired it.”

Percival set his brandy glass down and rose from the comfortable settee in Thompson’s drawing room. Five years lived in darkness had taught him one thing above all else—he could never rest too long in one place. “My occupation is nothing criminal, I assure you. I’ll be off now. When you see Rene next, tell him I’ll see him soon, and he’s to mind the staff.”

Under Thompson’s curious gaze, he gathered his cloak and swept out of the cozy room.

Nothing criminal. He might have laughed, but there was nothing humorous about his line of work either. Since he’d become a creature of the night, he’d learned far more about the dark world that existed in concert with his own. His search for the witch who had cursed him took him all over Europe to places no God-fearing man should ever see and left a stench upon him that he had no desire to share with his precious son.

He’d once thought witches the pinnacle of all evil, but he’d since discovered things beyond description. He’d found that plenty of men would pay dearly for artifacts of the occult, objects not visible to those who walked in daylight. Small fortunes passed into his hands on a regular basis in exchange for these sacred and often unholy items. He trafficked in commodities no sane man could comprehend and that no pure soul could touch.

Leaving Thompson’s cozy home behind, Percival hurried through the streets and ventured back into the deepest shadows where he felt most comfortable. No longer a witch hunter, he had put his skills to use tracking different creatures. Tonight, in order to maintain the flow of gold into Thompson’s greedy hands, Percival Blake hunted demons.

Blake returned to the world at sunset stiff-limbed and shivering. He climbed the basement stairs and stopped at the top to listen. He hadn’t expected Melodie to hang around, but he hoped she’d at least left in broad daylight. The Fremlings would stick to the shadows, even if they followed her, but in the half-light of early dawn, they might have been brave enough to swarm. He didn’t want to think of them carrying her off somewhere to worship her as their queen.

On his way to his bedroom to change, he glanced at his computer desk, and guilt pinged his senses. He couldn’t leave his accounts unattended for much longer. If he could track down Melodie again and bring her back here, he could get some work done and keep an eye on her at the same time.