Out of habit, I paused at my door, pressed my fingers against it, leaned in, and listened. There was movement in there. I figured it was Nola.
I unlocked the door and it opened—which meant she hadn’t set the chains.
I stepped in and shut the door behind me, turning the locks and setting the chains. It sounded like she was in my bathroom or bedroom. Probably hanging more plants.
“Hey,” I called out. “I’m home. You forgot to set the chain on the door.”
It was the kitchen that tipped me off. One, nothing was cooking, baking, and not even the smell of brewed coffee touched the air. Whenever Nola was in a house, there was always the comforting smell of food present.
Two, every cupboard in my line of vision was open.
Three, every coffee cup had been removed from my shelves and was now stacked, one on top of the other, on the stove.
What the hell?
I recited a mantra, set the Disbursement—more aches—and traced the beginning of a Shield spell. Maybe the smart thing would be to call 911. Tell them a cup-stacking intruder was in my home. Of course, since I had just yelled that I was here, maybe the smartest thing was to leave the apartment and come back when the police showed up.
Decisions, decisions.
Without drawing magic into my sense of smell, I inhaled, breathing in the scents of the room.
It smelled like my apartment, except there was a heavy odor of wet dirt, stone, and moss, like rain on a hot summer sidewalk. Maybe from all the plants Nola had put around the place. That would explain the dirt smell anyway. But hot stone wasn’t anything I could place.
Screw it. I did not want to get jumped tonight. Time to go find a phone. I put my hand on the chain, quietly slid it loose. I was just turning the lock when someone walked into the living room.
Okay, not someone. Something.
I gasped, which was better than the yell I felt like belting out, but loud enough in the silent room that the thing turned its wide stone head toward me.
Big as a Saint Bernard, I recognized the gargoyle immediately. It was the one I’d accidentally broken, or as was now obvious, set free outside the restaurant the other night. The carved collar still circled its neck and three stone links of the chain hung free there.
It tipped its head to the side, as if working to see me better, and then, I swear this is true, it smiled, pushed up on its hind doglike legs, and waddled over to me, wide stone wings spread for balance.
I pressed up against the door and poured magic into the Shield spell I’d started.
The gargoyle stopped, tipped its head the other way, then lowered onto all fours, moving much more smoothly and slowly over to me. It sniffed its way down the hall, up to the edge of the spell I had cast. Then it stuck its snout into my spell and past my spell—pushed right through the Shield like it wasn’t even there. Impossible.
Yep. As impossible as a living, breathing gargoyle sniffing me in the middle of my apartment.
It snuffled at my boots, then my jeans, and finally touched its flat stone snout against my outstretched hand.
I had expected it to be cold, but instead its nose was warm, and so was the air that blew out from its nostrils and mouth. I let the Shield spell drop, because, seriously, why pour magic into a spell that wasn’t doing a damn bit of good?
The gargoyle made a glasslike clacking sound, like someone stirring a bag of marbles. It smiled again, revealing all three dozen of its teeth. Yes, I counted.
He—I decided it looked more he than she—blinked his big round eyes and twitched his wings.
I got the overwhelming impression he was waiting for me to do something.
“If you want me to cast magic for your entertainment, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”
He dipped his head down and rubbed his face under my hand.
Like a dog who wanted to be scratched behind the ears.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I rubbed at his head—stone, not as smooth as marble, but soft and warm, like heated tile. His wings spread and folded neatly down his back. He made the marbles-in-a-bag clatter sound again.
I stopped rubbing his head. He stood up on his hind legs and waddled back into my apartment.
“Are you a joke?” I asked as I carefully followed behind him. “Is someone here? Who’s making you do this?” Did they make remote-control gargoyles?
I mean, Zayvion had told me the gargoyles were just statues. Carved by a master Hand, infused with a small amount of magic, but just statues.
Currently, the statue was pulling the seat cushion off my couch and balancing it on his head.
“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone here?”
The gargoyle held the cushion on his head with one hand and called out too, a sound somewhere between that of a soft vacuum cleaner and a muted pipe organ.
“Not you,” I said. “I know you’re here.”
He clacked, which I decided was his happy sound, and got busy trying to balance an additional cushion on his head.
“If you ruin those, you’ll have to pay for them.”
A cool breeze whisked down the hall from my bedroom.
It was a small apartment. Other than the kitchen and living room, the only other places for someone to hide were the bathroom and bedroom. Both of which had windows. One of which, the bedroom, wasn’t painted closed and was large enough for a person to crawl through.
I started down the hall.
The gargoyle clattered behind me.
“You stay here.”
He tipped his head and lost both pillows. He took a step toward me, on all fours this time, silent.
“Stay.”
He held still, waiting for me to turn, then took another step. Okay, fine. It was crazy to think he would understand me and do what he was told. He wasn’t a dog. He was a statue, for cripes’ sake.
The door to the bathroom was open. I looked in. Nothing.
The door to my bedroom was also open, and I could feel the cold night air stronger here.
I turned on the light and walked into the room. The window was open, my curtains fluttering in the breeze. My bed was unmade, but I think I’d left it that way this morning. I looked around the bed, under the bed. I even looked in the closet. No one else was there.
Meanwhile the gargoyle had decided it was some sort of game. He followed behind me, mimicking everything I did. He looked out the window, looked under the bed, even looked in the closet. Having human hands meant doors were not a problem for him.
Yes, that worried me.
“Did you open the windows?” I asked.
He stopped in front of me, crouched, wings spread, round eyes waiting for me to do something. Like cast magic. He stretched his neck out a little more, offering an ear for scratching.
“This?” I pointed at the open window.
He looked at it. Clattered at it, then waddled on two legs over to the window. He stuck his head and shoulders out the window, his wings tight against his back so he could fit his barrel chest in the space. His face was inked by the blue of night, only the barest brush of yellow from the light in my room outlining his comical features. He could crawl out through that space, I realized. Just the way he had probably crawled in through it. All on his own.
Even though I was on the third floor.
Holy shit.
He blinked his big round eyes and crooned into the night—the strange vacuum cleaner pipe organ in B flat. Pigeons startled and flew off the roof. The muscles down his back bunched as if he too wanted to take wing. I wondered, as he hung there, more out the window than in, if his wings were big enough and strong enough that he could fly, or if he’d drop like a rock.
He’s just a statue, I told myself. Statues can’t fly.
He pulled his head back in the window, and used those very human hands to pull the window shut, careful not to catch the curtain. Then he turned and made himself busy with the things on top of my dresser.
Statues can’t fly, can’t walk, can’t ma
ke noise, and can’t stack loose change on people’s dresser tops.
And statues did not dig through your underwear drawer.
“Stop it.” I yanked one of my favorite camisoles off his head before he pulled it the rest of the way over his snout and stretched it out. “Out.” I pointed to the open door. He looked at the door, clacked. Then he went down on all fours and trotted out of the room.
Sweet hells. What was I supposed to do with this thing?
Technically, he was not my property. I hadn’t stolen him or anything, but I had sort of broken him and set him free. I wondered if the restaurant had a you-break-it-you-have-a-new-roommate policy.
The water in the bathroom sink turned on and off. I strolled down the hall and leaned in to watch him.
He turned the water on, watched it drain down the sink, turned it off. The pipe gurgled. He clacked at it, and turned the water on again. Turned it off. Pipes gurgled. He clacked at the pipes and turned the water back on, childlike and content.
I should call the restaurant. Tell them their statue was messing around with my plumbing.
Sweet hells. I pressed my fingers against my eyes. They’d have me committed.
What I needed was coffee. Then I’d be able to think.
“Don’t break anything,” I said to Pet Rock Extreme.
In the kitchen, I found the note Nola had left for me on the coffeepot.
It said she and Stotts were working on the Cody case and not to wait up for her. The little smiley face made me think it was more than just a business appointment.
Well, good for her. Maybe one of us could have a normal date with a normal person and not have to come home to overzealous architecture messing up the place.
I started the coffee, putting a little extra grounds in, because I had a feeling I was going to need it. While the coffee brewed, I put the stacked coffee cups back in the cupboard, closed all the doors, and made myself busy cleaning.
When the coffee was done and the already clean kitchen even cleaner, I poured myself a cup and took it out into the living room.
The gargoyle was there, standing very still in the corner of the room. He had piled the curtains and vines on his head. They were still attached to the curtain rods, so it just looked like he’d stepped into a waterfall of fabric. I guess it looked a little like the waterfall stuff at the restaurant, though he had been crouched beneath a bush when I found him. Who knew? Maybe gargoyles liked being half hidden by falling water.
Or cheap curtains.
I picked the cushions off the floor and put them back on the couch. Then sat down.
“What am I going to do with you?” I asked. “Do you have a name? Fido? Rock? Quasimodo? Stone?”
He tipped his head and cooed.
“You like that? Stone?”
He clacked, walked toward me, the curtains stretching out behind him, over his thick shoulders, catching on the arc of his wings, then down his broad back and haunches, flowing away to pool against the wall. He stopped next to the couch, sniffed at me again, then lowered himself at my feet like a huge coffee table. He rested his head on his crossed arms and stared, unblinkingly, straight ahead.
He didn’t close his eyes, and he didn’t move. I put the toe of my boot against his side, and he didn’t seem to mind.
I drank coffee, while the gargoyle sat there like a gargoyle.
Gargoyles are not real. If I remembered the stories right, gargoyles were alive at night, and sunlight turned them back to stone every day.
Well, Stone was already made out of rock. I didn’t know how much more stone he could get. Maybe the sun made it so he couldn’t move. Put him to sleep or something.
I’d only ever seen Stone at night, at the restaurant and now. Maybe he lost all his magical locomotion once dawn rolled around. Maybe that’s why the restaurant had him chained down in the first place; otherwise he would have wandered off and messed with their sprinklers or something.
And if he did turn into a statue—an unmoving statue—in the morning, it might be easier to get him back out to the restaurant that way.
Except they were going to think I stole him.
Hells, I had money. I had my dad’s whole company. I could buy the statue from them. Tell them it was a misunderstanding and throw enough money at them until they saw it my way. I’d seen my father use that tactic more than once.
Speaking of which, I needed to call Violet about our dinner plans.
I stepped over Stone, who watched me cross the room but did not follow.
I picked up the phone—a landline and therefore less inclined to die on me—and dialed Violet.
“Beckstrom residence,” a man, Kevin, said.
“Hi, Kevin. This is Allie. Is Violet available?”
“Let me check. Just a second.” He put me on hold and I got the soft strains of one of Bach’s symphonies. My dad had a thing for Bach, and it sounded like Violet didn’t mind keeping it on the system.
“Hi, Allie. How are you?”
It still surprised me how young she sounded. It shouldn’t surprise me, since she was younger than me by a couple years, but I still couldn’t understand why she would like my father. And she obviously liked him enough to get pregnant.
My dad, who had been silent since I’d sat with Zayvion at the bar, stirred in my mind, and I did the mental equivalent of shoving my fingers in my ears and humming while I worked very hard not to think about Violet’s pregnancy.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said before the pause became too long. “Yourself?”
She sighed. “Tired, which is to be expected, I guess, with how . . .”
Please don’t say pregnant, please don’t say pregnant, I la-la-la’d.
“. . . things have been going,” she said. “But well.”
“Good. Say, listen, I know we were going to have dinner tonight, but I’m beat. Would you mind if we push it out an hour and maybe just make it coffee and dessert?”
“Sure. Do you just want to come over here?”
My dad’s condo? “I’d rather not.”
“Do you want me to come over there?” she asked.
My heartbeat elevated and it wasn’t me doing it. The sound of Violet’s voice was agitating my dad. He’d pushed me pretty hard back at Maeve’s. I wasn’t up to fighting him again so soon. And I didn’t know what he would do if he got control of my body, of my voice.
Stone stood and padded over to me. He growled like gravel being crushed. His head tipped up, and those round eyes were staring at me like I might be something worth eating.
Hells.
I pushed on the fluttering behind my eyes, trying to get my dad to settle down. Stone’s ears flattened and he showed me some teeth.
My dad went still and Stone’s ears pricked back up, but his fangs were still showing.
“Uh, no,” I said. “Place is a mess. How about we just meet somewhere close to you? Maybe Tchaikovsky Coffeehouse?”
“Perfect. I’ve been craving chocolate. See you there in a couple hours.”
“Okay. Bye.” I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. “Easy, boy,” I said to Stone. “It’s just me.”
He inhaled, a long, chest-filling draw of air, as if he were scenting me. Or scenting something in me. Like my father. Wouldn’t that be great? A gargoyle who could sense the undead.
Well, since he wasn’t exactly all alive himself, maybe that made some sense. He blew the air out through his nose, then tipped his head to the side and raised his pointed batlike ears and pointed batlike wings. No more teeth. He looked happy again.
Crap. “Remind me to never piss you off, big guy. You ready to leave?” I walked into the bedroom and he followed like a big stone puppy behind me.
“Ready to go? Wanna leave?” I opened the window and pointed at it. “There you go. This is the way out. All those buildings out there. Or, if you don’t like buildings, you can head to Forest Park. That place is so big, they’d never find you in there. Just think of it: you could start up some big-foot sighti
ngs.”
He trotted over, quiet for something that weighed enough to make my floorboards creak. He stuck his chin on the windowsill, his bat ears two triangular peaks.
“That’s right,” I said. “There’s your city, boy. Go get it!”
Stone clacked like a big, dumb bag of marbles, pulled his chin off the sill, and reached up to the window. He very carefully closed it, making sure the curtain did not catch in it.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not so sure this living arrangement is working for me. If you change your mind, you know the way out.”
I yawned. Okay, a little sleep, hope the gargoyle didn’t eat me, then off to Violet for dessert. Maybe in the morning, sunlight would to turn him back into a statue; then I could take Stone out to the forest where he could frolic among the ferns, gurgle at streams, and make friends with the other interesting rocks.
I kicked off my boots and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over me without bothering to get undressed. I also set the alarm for eight o’clock.
Stone padded over to the side of my bed and tipped his wide head, studying me with round, intelligent eyes.
Kind eyes, I thought.
I reached out and patted his blunt nose. “Good night, Stone.”
His ears peaked, then relaxed. He settled down on the floor, between me and the door, resting his head back on his arms again and staring straight ahead at the window. I had no idea if he was going to sleep, or even if he did sleep, but he knew where the window was. If he needed to go, he knew how to leave.
Good enough.
I closed my eyes, and fell, gratefully, asleep.
Chapter Nine
The bad thing about being exhausted after using so much magic is that you not only don’t hear your alarm wailing away for fifteen minutes, you also don’t notice that the half-ton gargoyle who has wandered off and is no longer in the apartment left your window open and let the nearly freezing air in.
I shut my window, then pulled on my boots and dug a hat out of my drawer. I checked the apartment for Stone, who really did seem to be gone. I would have thought I dreamed him up, if it wasn’t for the neatly piled stack of throw pillows with a single empty coffee cup on top teetering on the table in the living room.