Sorceress Found Page 4

  It seemed endless, the pleasure-pain of her feeding on his power. Yet it was over too quickly. With one last lick along the length of the wound, she tilted her head back and looked at him. A half-smile graced her lips, and then she tucked her head against his shoulder. A few moments later, her breathing evened out as she drifted into sleep.

  Rest was far from his thoughts with his lungs working like a great billows and his pulse thundering in his ears. He called on what remained of his discipline and fell into another trance to order his body’s rhythms to calm—it would last moments, at best.

  Once he was calmer, he opened his eyes and checked her wounds. They were healed. All that remained was a faint pink scar. She may have been healed, but her dryad blood still called to him, its coppery sap-sweet scent enticing him down a dark and forbidden path. He shook himself, fighting deeply rooted instincts. Only after he’d won that internal battle was he able to deposit her back on the table.

  Leaving her side was difficult, but he needed to get clean of her blood, her intoxicating scent. Now.

  Sniffing the air, he scented water, but couldn’t pinpoint the source at first. He paced around the room and continued scenting. Then he heard the faint plop of water dripping onto an unyielding surface somewhere above his present location.

  With a huff, he sought of the source of that sound, tossing his arm and wrist bands on the ground as he walked. His knee-length loincloth landed on the carpet. Its beads rattled against each other for a moment before falling silent.

  Following the sound of water to its source, he went up a wide set of stairs and down a short hall, at last entering a large room. Beyond that room was another, smaller one. A silver spigot of some sort dripped water into a white basin. On one wall a glass alcove took up a quarter of the room. It smelled of soap and dampness.

  Blessed relief.

  Chapter 4

  A coppery taste coated Lillian’s tongue. Her mouth was dry, gummy with old blood. She must have bitten her tongue, and unless her mattress had suddenly turned to stone, she’d managed to knock herself out and was lying flat on the floor. Of all the stupid things to do, bashing her head hard enough to lose consciousness had to be one of the clumsiest. She ran her hands out to her sides. Cool, polished woodgrain took shape under her searching fingers. Interesting. None of the floors felt like that. She cracked an eye open and peered to one side: the honey color of oak met her vision. Kitchen table?

  Yep. Kitchen table.

  She’d somehow managed to knock herself out and land on the table?

  Not bloody likely.

  She scoured her memory. A void blocked her way. She panicked, fearing she’d lost her memories for the second time in her life … but she remembered that, so her memory still functioned. Something else then. Something so frightening her mind didn’t want to remember.

  She could deal with frightening. Fear was better than the nothingness of vanished memories. She scanned her surroundings. The kitchen looked normal. She wasn’t sure what she sought, but nothing in this room jogged her memory. Sitting up, a wave of dizziness swamped her. She curled her fingers around the table edge in a death grip. The deep pounding of her heart and the crackle of white noise hummed in her ears. She blinked once, and again.

  The room came into focus. Okay, that’s better. I can do this, she thought. Seeing no point in postponing the inevitable, she jumped down from the table and wobbled around until her legs remembered they had bones in them. It felt like she’d donated half her blood to the blood bank. The thought of blood summoned an image of her grove, her favorite tree dripping bloody gore onto the ground. Her mind shied away from the vision.

  She took in the room again, and noticed something she’d missed before. A thick gold bracelet sat abandoned on the floor. Bracelet was too small a word to describe the heavy chunk of gold and jewels sitting on the tiles. She was reaching for it, her fingers poised to curl around it, when she saw the blood smeared on the floor next to it.

  More blood marred the bracelet, staining some of the intricate knotwork along its one side. Her eyes swung back to the smudges on the floor. There were others, farther apart, and they headed toward the living room. It was too odd. Those smudges, they couldn’t be tracks. Not unless a velociraptor walked the earth again and it happened to come into her kitchen, following the scent of good baking.

  Yet there they were: tracks the size of a small dinosaur, blood smeared and marching off into the depths of her house.

  Out. She had to get out. Maybe then the nightmare would end. She eased her way across the kitchen floor, careful of squeaky floorboards and the groans of an old house. She didn’t want to face what had made those tracks. Now that she had a goal, reaching the back door as quietly as possible, she could control the panic lurking at the edges of her mind.

  The doorknob turned under her hand. As she pulled open the door, it loosed a groan fit for a haunted house on All Hallows Eve. She threw herself through the doorway and slammed square into … nothing? Her breath escaped in a grunt.

  Stunned, she stumbled back and rubbed her shoulder.

  Luckily, the abused shoulder, and not her face, had taken the brunt of the impact. She ran her hands across the entrance and saw a nebulous, multihued blue light swirling around her fingertips where they made contact with the barrier. It was not unlike the oily surface of a soap bubble, with its cascade of colors.

  Words solidified in her mind.

  Ward. A spell for protection.

  Where the hell did that bit of information come from?

  Her newly acquired knowledge was scarier than the blue ward-thingy.

  On a hunch, she checked the windows and found them blocked by more of the strange substance. She braced her hands against it and pushed. Nothing. She might as well have tried pushing through concrete. Looking out beyond the pale barrier blocking the window, she could see her maze in the distance. Scattered lumps dotted the lawn, some in plain view while others remained partially hidden by the garden’s tall, ornamental grasses. Bodies. She swallowed hard and looked again to be certain. No, body parts.

  The barrier her mind had erected to protect itself from the traumatic memories vanished, and everything from that afternoon flooded back. She’d been attacked by monstrous wolfmen, feral cat-like women, and sallow-skinned creatures with hunger in their eyes. She remembered a power flooding her, and then joy at the feel of the stone warming and softening under her hands. The fog of mixed-up memories ended.

  Fear fluttered in her stomach and her breath hitched up a notch. Nothing she remembered clarified how she had come to find herself on the kitchen table with a strange blue light preventing escape. With another glance at the bodies in the garden, her idea of possible escape in that direction lost some of its luster, especially since there might be more than just bodies out there.

  Backtracking, she returned to the kitchen table and paced around it twice, and then came back to the tracks. None of the attacking monsters could have made tracks like those. But there was one particular stone fellow she’d sat with every day since childhood, and his feet were large and ended in talons. If her gargoyle had come alive, he might make tracks such as these.

  Her heart lurched at that thought, but it wasn’t in fear. After a brief moment of euphoria, her rational mind told her she probably didn’t want to come face to face with whatever creature was still standing after the battle.

  Occupied by thoughts of escape and what those prints could mean, she jerked at the soft rumble of the water heater as it started up in the laundry room just off the kitchen. She hadn’t at first heard the sounds of someone taking a shower upstairs, but now that she listened, she could hear the faint sound of water in the pipes.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was locked in her own home with a bunch of dead bodies laying out back, the gardens reduced to a warzone, her grove violated, and blood and God-knows-what tracked all over her grandmother’s antique carpets, the last monster standing had apparently come in and made himself at home.<
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  Lillian frowned and squared her shoulders. She could hide somewhere, whimpering in fear until whatever was in the house found her and dragged her from her hiding place, or she could arm herself and face the threat head-on.

  *

  With the hilt of her fencing sword a solid reassurance in her hand, she retraced her steps until she came to the living room and the curving stairway that led up to the second floor. Discarded pieces of jewelry and the occasional smudge of blood marked the path the creature had taken. She cleared the stairs and turned down one dark hall. The first bathroom on the second floor was silent and empty. That left one other. She entered her bedroom, intent on her master bathroom.

  The door was ajar, a curl of steam drifted out across the floor. Inside, the bathroom was dark and so full of steam she couldn’t see anything. The monster didn’t know how to turn on a light switch, but could figure out a shower? She pondered that a moment. Perhaps it didn’t need light. Just her luck. The damned monster probably had night vision.

  She eased into a defensive stance as she reached in and flicked on the light. The room was flooded with yellow light and her breath caught. Her sword’s tip clanked against the tiled floor in her shock. She jerked it back up into position until the point hovered at shoulder level.

  Her rational mind had expected to find a monster, and there was one. He filled her walk-in shower, and the massive shower still wasn’t big enough for the entire gargoyle. His wings arched across the length and width of the large bathroom, and his tail sent water droplets spraying across the room as it lashed back and forth, its blade-tipped end twitching like an agitated cat’s.

  One wing arched back and gave her a view of the rest of the gargoyle. His head brushed the ceiling and his horns clinked against the small tiles when he moved. With eyes partially squeezed shut against the sudden intrusion of bright light, he turned his muzzle in her direction and flared his nostrils, drawing in a deep breath. She had the distinct impression he tasted the air, and by the way he snorted like a horse and shook his head, she didn’t think he liked the smell.

  When his muzzle dipped down, his eyes locked on the sword she held, and he turned fully toward her. At least with him eying the sword so intently, he might not notice the vivid shade of scarlet she’d just turned. Had there been any doubt in her mind about his gender, it vanished in a heartbeat. Male. Lacking in modesty.

  He had muscles most men would envy. Then she reminded herself he also had a tail, wings, horns, and talons. Still, even in all his otherness, he was majestic. Scary as hell, but lovely as a predator.

  Fear was absent and she should have worried for her sanity, but somehow it all seemed right. The gargoyle was a prominent part of her childhood. He had always been home to her.

  And ‘home’ was presently extracting himself from the shower. When he stepped out, he straightened.

  The bathroom shrunk.

  Mercy, he was still hunched over.

  He was massive. Over eight feet of gargoyle crowded her master bath. She couldn’t beat that in a fight. Her sword’s point dipped again, but she didn’t lift it back into a defensive position. One solid hit and he’d put her through a wall. Heck, he could probably snap her blade in two with a thought. At least the sword’s weight stopped her hands from shaking.

  “Hello,” she said. Her voice came out faint, hollow sounding. She cleared her throat, unable to stop the nervous reaction. “I’m Lillian.” How intelligent. At least her voice sounded stronger.

  He cocked his head, his jackal-like ears sweeping forward from the depths of his wiry mane. She hadn’t noticed his ears earlier. They’d blended into his ebony mane and the crown of bone that formed the base of his two large horns.

  He expelled the breath he’d been holding and took another. His nostrils pinched shut.

  Good lord, she must smell worse than she thought.

  His talons clinked against the tiles as he took another step forward. She backed away until she slammed into the doorframe. A squeak escaped past her lips. He snatched a clean bath sheet off the rack and snapped it open with a flick before she could think to run at his sudden move. No matter which way he tugged, tucked, or arranged it, the towel wouldn’t reach around his muscular girth.

  With a deep rumble, he grabbed a second bath sheet. Tied together, the two sheets proved large enough to fit around his waist and haunches. But he still didn’t seem happy with the arrangement. Constricted by the material, his tail flicked like a downed power line, offering a new threat to modesty. It occurred to her shock-slowed brain that all the poor creature wanted was some privacy. A blush burned across her cheeks a second time.

  She was backing out of the room when a flowing language issued from his mouth. Deep, beautiful, smooth like the wind in a forest, it reminded her of night’s shadows and the lull of beckoning sleep. He repeated himself, or she thought he might have. She couldn’t be sure because she didn’t know what he’d said the first time, and it became no clearer on the second try.

  He was gesturing at her now. She nodded and pointed to herself. “Lillian.”

  “Lillian,” he repeated in a clear, deep voice. He pointed behind him.

  She followed where he pointed. The shower? Shrugging, she pointed at it and said, “Shower.”

  He nodded his head, pleased. “Lillian, shower.” Then he ducked under the doorframe and marched away, leaving her in the steam-filled room with the shower still running.

  Too shocked to follow, she stood gaping like an idiot. Her first conversation with her gargoyle. Something she’d dreamed about as a child. It finally had happened. Two words. He’d told her she reeked in two words.

  *

  Freshly showered and now dressed in a clean T-shirt and jeans, Lillian stood over the pile of her discarded clothes and frowned at the evidence that proved she hadn’t imagined the last few hours. She poked the bloodied and shredded clothes with a bare toe. No hope of ever getting them clean enough to warrant mending. The mess of ruined fabric landed in the garbage with a wet sound. She washed her hands again.

  Hopefully, she smelled better to a gargoyle’s delicate nose.

  During her bath, she’d washed away the remainder of her fear. How could she fear anyone who looked as ridiculous as he had, jammed into the shower with wings and tail jutting out, horns scraping the ceiling? Besides, she was still alive. If he’d wanted her dead, he’d had plenty of opportunity. Instead he’d told her she reeked and fled the room as fast as he could.

  “Well, fine,” she mumbled to herself. “No more procrastinating.”

  As she exited the bathroom, the sword caught her eye. It sat propped where she’d left it next to the door. Since she wasn’t going to kill him with it, the sword was pointless. Besides, the mere thought of doing him harm sickened her. She needed answers. Something to explain away the strange link of kinship she felt with the gargoyle—if that was really what he was.

  The bedroom door creaked loudly enough to shatter glass. She winced at the noise, but continued her march down the length of the hall and back to the stairs, which she stomped down with a heavy tread. She couldn’t say how she knew where he was, but like a bird aligning its migration flight to the Earth’s magnetic field, she set her mind seeking his, and followed where that tug led.

  She found him in the kitchen. He paced around the island table, his bath towels slapping at his thighs as he walked. Seeing her, he stopped. Once again she was reminded of stone, he held himself so still. The spell broke a minute later as his jackal-like ears swiveled toward her. When she stayed rooted to the ground, he took measured steps in her direction. Slow and cautious, like he would woo a bird or get closer to a skittish horse, he reached out a clawed hand. She didn’t spook that easily, and held her ground.

  He approached with a gentle caution, but all his muscles were tensed, like he was ready for a fight. Her throat tightened and her heart felt like a weight in her chest. With his hand outstretched before him, he inched nearer until only a few feet separated them. She t
ook a half step toward him, and another.

  He leapt forward, tackling her. His wings enveloped her a moment before his strong arms crushed her to his chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, and she couldn’t even scream since fear and surprise held her jaws locked. Her heart pulsed strangely, fluttering like it didn’t know how to beat. Then it remembered and took off with a vengeance.

  Slowly, the dark world behind her closed eyes expanded. The mellow fragrance of soap registered on her senses. The feel of warm skin over hard muscle. The echo of his heart. The pulse of his blood. Forest scent and male.

  Her gargoyle was real.

  Without reason or logic, joy engulfed her soul and the remnants of panic melted away. She locked her arms around as much of his waist as she could reach.

  He nuzzled her hair, blowing into it with great puffs of breath. His muzzle dipped lower, his tongue laving at her face in wide damp sweeps. Stilling, he inhaled deeply before resting his muzzle on top of her head, just holding her to him as if he feared she would vanish.

  Obviously, he considered her natural smell to be an improvement over dried blood and gore.

  “You’re certainly friendly,” she mumbled into his chest. Mumbling was all she was able to do with his arms locked around her; his chest may as well have been made of stone. She should have been screaming and fighting, driven by panic. But she wasn’t. She trusted him without question.

  He shifted her in his arms as he folded his wings against his back. Then he unbalanced her more, reaching for something on the table behind her.

  “You could let me go. I can stand on my own. I won’t even run away. Promise.” Her words went unanswered.

  A loaf of bread appeared an inch in front of her face.

  “Okay. A little room, please.” She shoved at his chest. After the third time, he seemed to get the point and allowed her to put a little space between them. She was still locked in the circle of his arms, but at least now she could take a deep breath without cracking a rib. He gestured with the bread again.