Stone Cold Lover (2 page)

She’d seen it come from objects only a couple of times in her life. Once it had clung to a blessed crucifix that her grandmother’s mother had brought with her to Canada when her family had fled Lithuania. The silver necklace had shone gently, even in the pitch dark, making Fil rethink her brief foray into atheism.

The second time she had seen the energy, she’d been making her way slowly through an exhibit at the British Museum, viewing items unearthed from an ancient Saxon burial hoard. The medallion had been carved with beautiful images of horses and hounds, and the etched lines had given off a light so brightly golden that she’d nearly reached for her sunglasses before coming to her senses and closing off that inner eye of hers.

Neither of those objects had glowed like this statue.

It wasn’t the volume of the blue-white light that had Fil’s breath catching in her throat; it was the intensity. Somehow this light felt almost powerful. She couldn’t think of the words to describe it, but despite its relative dimness, it seemed to vibrate or pulse with restrained force.

Shifting her fingers, Fil realized the tingling in her palms had faded and the buzzing drone in her ears had stopped as if it had never been there. Suddenly she could hear everything: the soft puffs of her own breath, the tapping of a tree branch against one of the far windows. The rustling of fabric against fabric near the entry door.

Realization slammed down like a hammer. She was no longer alone.

She spun into a half crouch, ready to flee in a rush of pure animal instinct. Her gaze had no trouble picking out the source of her panic, mostly because he, too, lit up against the shadows. Unlike the icy blue of the statue’s light, though, the stranger glowed with a sick, muddy-red color that pulsed and throbbed like an open wound in the darkness. The color hit Fil’s senses like a bad smell, making her lip curl and her throat tighten. Whoever this was, he had not a single good intention. Quite possibly, he never had.

“Well.” The low hiss cut through the stillness and raised the hairs on the back of Fil’s neck. “I hadn’t planned on another little thief in the night here. But no matter. I’ll be long gone by the time anyone finds a body in the rubble.”

Fil couldn’t tell if the dark figure was talking to her or to himself, but it didn’t matter. She was moving before the question had time to form. Instinct pushed her forward, fast, and she ducked around the corner of the gargoyle’s pedestal at a velocity she hadn’t achieved since she’d gotten her last speeding ticket.

Light flashed in the shadows near where the stranger had spoken, and in the next instant the marble sill of the window just beyond where Fil had stood a second before shattered and crumbled to the ground.

Holy shit! Was the guy packing a grenade launcher?

She pressed her back against the cool stone of the pedestal and decided maybe prison didn’t sound so bad after all. At least if she were in prison, she’d be alive, and out of this maniac’s line of fire.

“Hmm, another surprise.” The voice grated like metal on china. “I don’t think I like surprises. How did you see that coming, little girl? Is there anything you’d like to tell me about yourself? Hmmm?”

The words ended on a high, sharp giggle that made Fil’s stomach lurch. Seriously, this guy sounded like a certifiable psycho lunatic. Maybe she should think about calling it a night here and heading home, freaky-compelling statue be damned.

Too bad Mr. Crazypants was blocking the only doorway out. He moved farther into the room but kept himself between Fil and the exit.

“The Hierophant only told me to smash the Guardian,” the stranger mused aloud. He seemed happy enough talking to himself—or maybe his imaginary friend—and Fil had no intention of making herself easier to find by engaging the nutjob in conversation. “He never mentioned I might find a prize to bring him. No, no, no. But yes! Bring the man a prize and win a prize myself! If he’s pleased, he might ask the Master to reward me.”

Okay, it was one thing to read about people with serious mental illnesses, and another still to see them in documentaries on television; but to have one stalking her in real life was a bit more than Fil had bargained for. This man scared her—his voice, his actions, his aura, that not-in-any-conceivable-way-right laugh, they all set her nerves on edge. In a flash of insight she understood—all the way to her toes—where the term
spine-chilling
had come from. She felt like someone had just replaced her cerebral spinal fluid with ice water.

“Little girl,” the man called, his voice singsong and creepy beyond measure. “Come out, little girl. I’ve got a piece of candy for you.”

That sent him into a fit of giggles that had Fil’s stomach churning inside her.

“Candy is dandy, little girl. Or maybe—” He paused, and she could hear the faint whisper of movement. When he spoke again, the sound was closer. “Maybe you’re a little mouse, skittering through the dark looking for crumbs.”

Holding her breath, Fil eased to the side and caught a glimpse of the muddy-rusty glow emanating from the stranger. He had definitely gotten closer, but he was sticking to the sides of the room, keeping the thick stone walls at his back. She realized that the faint rustling sound she heard from him came from the long, dark costume he wore, a fall of voluminous fabric like a monk’s robes. It disguised his shape and, Fil realized, could have obscured any number of things in its folds. Hell, the man actually
could
be packing a grenade launcher under that thing, and she’d never be able to tell.

The madman moved again, and she ducked back behind her cover. The guy was getting closer all the time. Fat lot of good it did her, though. Insane the man might be, but he was clever enough to approach on the side closest to her hiding place. She still couldn’t get to the door without passing way too close to him for comfort.

Bugger. How did she always manage to get herself into these positions?

The man giggled again. “A little church mouse. That’s it. Mice don’t want candy. Church mouse wants cheese! Come out, come out, little mouse, and Henry will give you a nice big chunk of cheese to nibble on. Hee hee!”

Fil shivered. This just kept getting better and better.

She gathered herself into a crouch, keeping her legs under her so she could move fast if she got the chance. Up, down, sideways, through a dimensional portal, she didn’t much care which direction at the moment. The only way that mattered was away. Leaning forward, she reassessed the situation.

She could see the man lit by his aura of twisted menace standing in front of an alcove approximately twenty-five feet ahead of her and to the right. The gargoyle loomed between them, offering Fil a decent amount of cover for the moment, but she knew it wouldn’t last, especially if the lunatic took another shot at her.

Part of her wanted to pretend that the man had blasted in her direction with some kind of weapon, like a pistol or a sawed-off shotgun—or a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, given the crater in the windowsill—but she knew better. A couple of quick glimpses of that nasty light swirling around him told her that the only thing the crazy man had attempted to harm her with was magic.

And wasn’t that just a kick in the teeth?

Of all the special abilities Fil had glimpsed in the auras of the people she met, she’d never seen anything quite like this. She’d never seen energy used as a weapon before. She hadn’t known it was possible. Ella’s abilities might have been the closest to this stranger’s, but whatever Ella had, she’d never discussed it with Fil, and it had always appeared to come from inside her somewhere, as if it were woven into the fabric of her being. This man’s aura was rooted inside him, but like some kind of invasive plant species it grew out of control the minute it pushed past the surface. It twined around him, feeding not on the faint bits of rust-colored light that surrounded him, but on the darkness.

The wrongness of it seeped into Fil’s bones and made her shudder. She had to get out of here. If the loon kept circling, she might be able to seize a second’s worth of opportunity. Gathering herself into a desperate ball of fear and muscle, she prepared to make a break for it.

“Naughty, naughty, stubborn little mousy. If I can’t charm you out, I suppose I’ll have to harm you out. Ha!”

Instinct sent her flying, helped along by a hefty shot of adrenaline. She leapt not back under cover but forward, throwing herself out of the firing line of the man’s next bolt of malevolent energy. She could almost swear she felt it singe the soles of her boots before it blasted off the corner of the gargoyle statue’s enormous pedestal.

And then the world shifted, because the statue suddenly stopped being a statue. In its place stood a seven-foot-tall stone-skinned warrior with a spear in his hand and fire in his eyes. The creature spread his wings and let out a bellow that knocked Fil straight onto her ass and made the crazy stalker across from her scream like a little girl.

Hm,
Fil thought hazily as the world went a little bit fuzzy,
I wonder if they’ll let me have paints and canvas in the psych ward?

Chapter Two

Danger!

His senses screamed a moment before the sleep left him, and in that instant he battled fiercely against the immobilizing chains of the magic that forced his slumber.

The helplessness tormented him and confused him. This was not the way he woke. He recalled other stirrings, remembered the gray haze of sleep, followed by the instant rush of awareness, the way he sprang into motion almost before his vision cleared. That was the way a Guardian awoke, with an explosion of power and might. This slow and agonizing slog toward awareness would kill him; and with his death the Darkness would grow even stronger.

His hearing came back first, what seemed like an eternity before the fog that clouded his vision began to dissipate. He could make out the sound of a male voice, thick with glee and evil, even while the words eluded him. He didn’t need to understand to recognize the Darkness in them. It poured from the male like the thick stench of sulfur, fetid and cloying, the mark of a dedicated servant. But he could smell nothing darker, nothing like the charred rot of the truly demonic.

If none of the Seven had appeared to pose a threat to humanity, why had he awoke? The
nocturnis,
those who served the Darkness, could be dealt with by the Guild; they didn’t require a Guardian to intervene. Something was not right here.

Awareness began to rush back. He began to see shadows through his hazy vision, and his hearing returned to full acuity. Now he could detect the faint stirring of breath and cloth somewhere very close to him, on the ground below his feet. He drew a breath and smelled something fresh and sweet, entirely at odds with the stench of evil that surrounded the male voice.

Spar frowned—for he was called Spar, he remembered now, fourth among his brothers—and inhaled again. It was female, he realized, female and human, and when the bite of fear came to him, he knew it was in danger.

“Naughty, naughty, stubborn little mousy.” The evil one spoke, his voice screeching with a madness that drove Spar to fury. “If I can’t charm you out, I suppose I’ll have to harm you out. Ha!”

At once movement flashed from two directions, and Spar’s vision cleared in time to see a bolt of defiled magic blast from the hands of the
nocturnis.
It grazed the edge of his pedestal and impacted the wall behind with a quaking boom. At the same time, a blur of motion, all dark clothing and moon-bright hair, dove away from the very point of impact and tumbled hard into the adjacent wall.

Without thought, Spar roared his battle cry and sprang off his perch into the air. His wings spread, muscles stretching for the first time in centuries, and he could feel their tips brushing the walls of the confined space. Spear in hand, he hovered just below the ceiling and saw the wave of terror and hatred flow across the
nocturnis
’s features.

Good. The man should tremble and cower in the face of a Guardian’s rage. A single human, no matter how much power he drew from the Darkness, was no match for one of the warrior protectors in the midst of his battle frenzy.

The
nocturnis
might be outmatched, but Spar still expected him to put up a fight. He almost looked forward to dodging a few futile spells cast in his direction, but instead of going on the defensive, the corrupt human screeched something in the foul tongue of Dark magic and flung a hand out in the direction of the dazed female.

Spar bellowed in outrage, the sound nearly drowning out the shocked cry of the female human. He saw how she raised a hand to protect herself, but the
nocturnis
’s spell would not be denied. It blasted into her palm with a burst of muddy-red energy that made the woman’s pale skin glow as if lit from within. Spar could see muscles and veins and the tiniest, most delicate bones he could ever have imagined for a chilling instant. Then the light went out, and the female hissed as if she’d been burned.

Rage welled within him, unexpected but undeniable. Only a worm would seek to harm a woman when a warrior stood before him in challenge. Of course, Spar should expect no better from a minion of the enemy.

He drew back his spear, prepared to skewer the rodent where he stood. The cry stopped him.

“Is that a fucking
bomb
?”

The female had clutched her injured left hand to her chest, but her horrified gaze was fixed on the
nocturnis
and the strange bundle the man had withdrawn from beneath his robes. The item meant nothing to Spar, who saw a messy handful of colored wires, metal, and plastic, but the expression on the female’s face told him she perceived it as a threat even before the word
bomb
registered. He understood this word. Even if the Guardians had never used so cowardly a weapon, he had lived centuries enough to have witnessed the destruction such things could cause.

“Hierophant wants the Guardian smashed!” The servant’s cry rang with madness, and Spar could see the sick fire of it in his eyes. “Should have smashed the cold, cold stone. But the mousy made me forget!”