Carved in Stone, page 14
part #1 of Gargoyles Series
It was silly, really. She almost giggled when she found herself reaching up, touching her lips like a teenage girl with a crush as she relived the press of Nathan's mouth to hers. Except there was nothing juvenile about the things she wanted to do with, and to, Nathan Cross. The scenes her imagination conjured up were definitely NC-17 material.
She'd never thought of herself as a particularly sexual creature. Her job, her mission, always came first. Men and relationships were those things she crammed into the little crevices of time her career and her search for monsters left her.
What man wanted a woman who believed in monsters, anyway?
Nathan's chiseled features swam before her tired eyes.
He wanted her. He hadn't laughed at her crazy ideas.
A pang of sadness pulling at her gut, she wondered if he'd ever laughed, even as a little boy.
Resigned to a sleepless night, she reached over the side of the bed for her files. With all the lights off save the bedside lamp, she scanned the pictures and reports she knew by heart.
Humans couldn't have committed these crimes. Didn't anyone else see that?
The gruesome images would have been enough to give any normal person nightmares, but when Rachel finally nodded off, curled on her side with her knees drawn up and one hand under the pillow, the other beneath her cheek, it wasn't bloody crime scenes she saw.
It was a giant creature with the massive body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle swooping through the darkness over Chicago, blood dripping from its claws, its shriek of victory and vengeance splitting the night air.
Connor Rihyad plodded up the old stone stairs to the top of the north tower cursing the early hour. The beam of his flashlight cut through the dank darkness before him. He hated this part of the school. The slippery rock steps were treacherous even in the light—which was only during the day, since there was no electricity up here. The narrow passage smelled like old socks, with the only ventilation coming from the slits that served as poor excuses for windows, and it was cold as a witch's tit, since naturally, where there was no electricity, there was no heat.
No, Connor didn't like it here. He liked his modern conveniences—microwave ovens and high-speed Internet connections and digital sound.
The Wizenot seemed to like this place just fine, though. Whenever the old man couldn't be found, this was usually where he was hiding. Made Connor wonder what he did up here at all hours, with the door locked from the outside so no one could intrude unannounced.
Talking to his pigeons, or so Teryn claimed.
As long as he didn't claim they talked back, Connor guessed there was no harm in it.
Crazy old man.
Let him have his birds. He wouldn't live forever, and when he was gone, his people would need a new Wizenot. With Nathan out of the way, Connor was next in line for the position.
There would be some changes in the congregation, then. He wouldn't tolerate dissenters the way Teryn had. Banishment was too good for the likes of Cross. He was still able to influence the weaker among the people.
Connor wouldn't tolerate Nathan's insurgence. He'd bring him back into the fold.
Or else.
The wooden door at the top of the stairs crashed open, banging against the wall behind it. A gust of wind nearly blew Connor backward. Footsteps slapped frantically down the stone stairs, accompanied by cursing and flapping wings. Connor jerked the flashlight up to see whoor what—rushed toward him.
"Ach!" Teryn skidded to a stop and threw an arm up to shield his eyes. His complexion was gray as ash, his lips blue. His white hair swirled around his head in wild disarray. "Get that blasted light out of my eyes!"
"Teryn? Are you all right? What's wrong?"
"You're blinding me, that's what's wrong! Get out of my way!"
Before Connor could lower the beam, Teryn had pushed past him and was pounding toward the dormitory. Somehow in the blur as the Wizenot passed, Connor noted that his feet were bare and he wore only a thin cotton robe belted with a black cord.
What had he been thinking? It couldn't be thirty degrees out there this time of the morning.
Crazy old man.
Sighing, he followed his leader through the open door and found him in the youngest boys' room, kneeling over the bed of little Patrick, just six years old and still grieving the loss of his dad.
Teryn brushed his knuckles against one of the boy's pink cheeks.
The old man heaved out a giant breath. His shoulders sagged.
"Sir?"
"What is it, Connor?" Teryn answered without turning.
It wasn't what the old man said that gave him pause, but the way he said it. He'd never heard him sound so weary. So old.
Maybe he would be Wizenot sooner than he thought.
The possibility brought him no pleasure. Damn it, he wasn't a jackal, waiting for his prey to die so he could leech the flesh from its bones. He would earn his right to lead his people. He would be patient.
"There is someone waiting to see you. The woman."
He didn't have to say what woman. There weren't a great many women in their lives.
"Is Nathan with her?"
A feral growl rose in his throat. He swallowed it. He would show no disrespect to the Wizenot.
"No," he managed to say pleasantly. "Do you want me to get rid of her?"
Teryn placed a feathery kiss on Patrick's forehead, then frowned and rose stiffly. "Show her into my office," he said. "I'll be there in a moment."
Teryn stood before the pedestal sink in his utilitarian washroom and pressed a warm, wet cloth to his face, not only in an attempt to warm himself after a full night—far longer than he'd planned—in ritual on the roof, but to buy himself time to pull himself together before he sat across a desk from Rachel Vandermere. He'd already raised Connor's concern, storming down the embattlement steps this morning like a wild man. He had no desire to pique an Interpol investigator's curiosity, too.
Finally regaining some feeling in his frostbitten fingers and toes, he combed his hair and replaced the ceremonial robe he wore with a pair of gray slacks and a charcoal turtleneck. When he finally felt human again, he glanced in the mirror one last time and headed toward his office.
"Ms. Vandermere, how nice to see you again."
He smiled genuinely and held out both hands as he crossed the room. She rose and smoothed the wrinkles from the thighs of a pair of worn jeans that hugged the gentle flair of her hips and tugged at the sleeves of her thick Irish wool sweater that hugged parts of her a man his age shouldn't even be thinking about.
She really was a lovely woman. He could see why Nathan was interested in her.
"Thank you, Mr. Carnegie. Or should I call you Headmaster?"
"It's Teryn. Please." He clasped her small hands in his in a two-handed shake.
Her miraculous green eyes widened. "Your hands are freezing, Teryn. Are you all right?"
She turned his hands in hers until her palms covered them, warming him. The simple gesture of kindness squeezed his heart. He could definitely see why Nathan was interested.
"Quite. I've just been up feeding my birds. I have a covey of pigeons on the roof, and I always seem to forget my gloves. Bad habit," he said, allowing himself another moment to soak up her warmth before pulling away and waving at the overstuffed chair in front of his desk. "Please have a seat. Connor," he said to the man who stood in the shadows by the door, "bring us some of my homemade tea. Strong and hot."
He needed something hot, though the tea could only warm his flesh. It would take something much stronger to break the chill on his heart. More than the temperature had shaken him during his hours on the roof. It was what he'd seen…
Fire and Ice. Death, both human and Gargoyle. The destruction of his people.
And the children. Dear God, the children.
The vision had sent him rushing pell-mell into Patrick's room. He'd had to see for himself that the boy was all right. The devastation he'd seen was the future. It hadn't happened yet.
And if it hadn't happened yet, he could change it.
He would change it.
Teryn burrowed into the soft leather of his chair and took comfort from the familiar room around him. This was his space, his domain, from the cluttered desktop and bookcases on the far wall overflowing with everything from leather-bound textbook first editions to popular fiction paperbacks, to the old-world globe standing in the corner with its fanciful sea monsters depicted in the oceans, to the tabletop of herbs under the grow light in the corner.
He inhaled the familiar scents of lemongrass, basil, and rosemary. He needed familiarity right now. It helped him forget about the strange sights he'd seen in his vision.
"Perhaps you'd rather have coffee, Ms. Vandermere." he said to the young woman following his gaze around the room, taking in the same details, "but I grow the herbs myself, and I do love to show off my botanical skills."
"Tea is perfect."
He smiled. "So, what brings you here so early this morning?" he asked.
She looked over his shoulders at the pictures that lined the wall behind him. He knew the moment her gaze landed on the gilt-framed 8 x 10 of him and Nathan tacking a two-man catamaran in a charity regatta out on the lake several summers ago. The trophy they'd won sat on a shelf next to the photograph.
Looking at them, her green eyes softened from emeralds to moss and a wistful smile played across her lips. "You're a sailor."
"I used to be."
"Why did you give it up?"
He shrugged. Because sailing was what he and Nathan did together. It was their time. They worked as a team. Without him, their was no joy in the glide of a hull over water, the power of the wind. "Sailing is a young man's sport."
"A man like Nathan Cross?"
"No, racing was my passion, not Nathan's. He only went along to humor an old man. I doubt he's been on a boat since the summer we won that." He jerked his head over his shoulder toward the trophy.
"You two are close."
"We were." He'd paused a heartbeat too long, and he knew it.
"But not anymore?"
He sighed, laid the letter opener flat on his desk blotter, tracing the intricately carved lion's head on the handle once in remembrance. "Nathan isn't involved with the school any longer. He has his own life."
"How much do you know about that life?"
That Nathan was determined to live it his own way, no matter what the cost. To himself or anyone else.
Teryn's heart beat sluggishly as he thought about his own role in Nathan's decisions. "May I ask why you're interested in Nathan? I thought it was Von you were looking for."
"I am. It's just that Nathan has been helping me, showing me around the neighborhood, and I, well, I was just curious about him."
Teryn eased back in his leather chair, noting her blush. "He can be a curious man."
She avoided his gaze and dug a photograph out of her purse. "I was able to locate this picture of Von with a girl. I wondered if you might know who she is."
He took the picture of the young couple and did his best to mask his surprise. Several of the boys at St. Michael's had shown interest in Jenny Lovell, but he hadn't realized Von had been seeing her. She didn't seem his type.
He handed the picture back. "Her name is Jenny. She lives in one of the old blue-collar neighborhoods south of Jefferson."
"Address? Street name, at least?"
"I'm afraid I don't have it."
"How about her last name?"
"Lovern, Loveless, Lovejoy. Something like that." He lifted his gaze meaningfully. "Nathan might know." He didn't want her finding Jenny on her own.
"If he does, he's not telling me."
He tilted his head, wondering what that meant.
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "I'll try the phone book. Maybe I'll get lucky."
She stood, gathered up her purse, moved toward the door, and said good-bye.
Teryn watched her go, then shut the door softly behind her.
This wasn't good. Nathan had to take a mate, to procreate, in order to be brought back into the fold, and if Teryn was going to save their people, he needed Nathan at his side. He didn't know why, or how, but he knew Nathan was key to their survival.
By the grace of the god and goddess, he'd seen it. He just didn't know what to do about it.
Connor stepped into the office with two mugs of lemongrass tea just as the woman breezed out the door. "Where is she going?"
Teryn came to stand beside him, took one of the cups, and drank deeply. "She has a lead on Von," he said, sounding far too calm.
"How? Where the hell is Cross? I thought he was supposed to be watching her."
"Watch your language. This is a school. I gave her the lead. And I don't know where Nathan is."
"If she finds Von before we do—"
"She won't."
Damn the crazy old man. How could he be so sure?
He took a slow breath to steady himself. It wouldn't do any good to tick off the Wizenot. "You want me to follow her?"
"No. I want you to find Nathan. Tell him Rachel Vandermere is on her way to Buchanan Street. She may find Von there."
Fighting back a scowl, Connor nodded stiffly and took his leave. What kind of game was Carnegie playing? And why?
He threw on his coat and stepped outside. The cold morning air had him sucking in his breath. If it was this cold so early in the year, it was going to be a bitch of a winter.
Down the street the Interpol lady fumbled to unlock a car with mittens on her hands. His scowl deepening, he turned the other direction to retrieve his own car, then paused.
Why should he go running to Nathan? The Headmaster's pet was out of this. Out of it all. He'd been excommunicated.
Nathan was a radical, his ideas destined to drive his people to ruin.
Connor, on the other hand, had always been loyal to the congregation. He had only his people's best interests at heart.
Slowly he turned back to Rachel Vandermere, then hurried toward her, his decision made. He reached her car just before she pulled away from the curb, and knocked on the window. When she rolled it down courteously, he forced a smile. "Headmaster Carnegie suggested I go with you. I know the neighborhood where the girl lives. I can help you find her."
There would be hell to pay later if Teryn found out his orders had been disobeyed, but by then, with any luck, the idiot Von would be safely under wraps, thanks to Connor.
And Nathan Cross could rot in hell for all he cared.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Jenny Lovell lived in a neat little two-story, redbrick home fronted by a cement stoop with a wrought-iron rail on a street lined by neat little two-story, redbrick homes fronted by cement stoops with wrought-iron railings. The small patch of grass out front, though already brown with fall hibernation, had been neatly edged, the walkway swept, and the flowerbeds mulched for winter. The only thing remotely untidy about the place was the string of last year's Christmas lights still drooping from the gutter. The red and white bulbs framed the lines of the roof and then twined around the porch post in a candy-cane pattern.
Far from being in a mood to appreciate jolly old elves and flying reindeer, Nathan leaned against the side of an identical house across the street and two identical houses down, watching the Lovells' door for signs of life. His feet hurt from standing on the cold ground. His eyes ached from lack of sleep. And despite the cold, his side burned from the knife blade the whacked-out junkie he'd killed last night had managed to scrape across his ribs before he died.
His eyelids fluttered shut. He'd sworn to himself he was through killing.
The man had deserved to die. He'd beaten an old woman into a coma for the eight dollars and thirty-two cents she carried in her pocketbook. Still Nathan suffered for his actions. He wasn't a guardian anymore; it wasn't his place.
He'd given the fool a chance to run. It didn't matter that he'd seen Nathan in guardian form—he'd been so high, no one would have believed the wild tale of a beast, half eagle, half lion, that had torn him off the woman, thrown him against a wall more than fifteen feet away. But the drugs had control of the man. They made him irrational. Instead of hightailing it out of there, he'd pulled a knife and rushed Nathan.
He'd had no choice but to kill him.
Or so he told himself.
Swallowing the memory like a bitter pill, he opened his eyes. A blue Honda pulled up in front of the Lovell house. His breath hitched. It was Rachel's rental car.
He'd known she'd track Jenny down sooner or later. He'd just hoped it would be later.
An invisible fist tightened around his heart as she got out of the car. She had on blue jeans, the clunky boots, and wool peacoat she was so fond of, and the mittens that seemed childishly incongruous with the sensual woman he knew her to be. His imagination conjured images of her bending over and scooping up a handful of snow in those mittens, firing the powdery missile at his chest while he laughed at her attack.
But there was no snow, and he certainly wasn't laughing.
It hurt to watch her and not be able to talk to her. To touch her. It was for the best, though. He couldn't be around her. Last night on the pier had been proof enough of that.
He turned and rested his back against the wall so that he didn't have to look at her. It was safer that way, for both of them. He heard her car door thunk shut… and then another.
He swung his head to check over his shoulder.
Son of a bitch!
What was Connor doing with her?
Rage roared to life inside him. He was no longer Nathan Cross, but the male lion protecting his pride. The eagle defending his mate. A growl rose low in his throat. His pulse thundered and his veins bulged.
Turning all of that energy inward, he focused his mind and sent an ultrasonic blast, the high-frequency whistle that only another Gargoyle could hear, right at Connor.
The Calling.
And this time, a challenge.
