When A Gargoyle Dreams (Gargoyles Book 5) Read online

  Without thinking, he stripped her out of her wet garments and wrapped her in a blanket he found in the cabin before pulling her into his arms.

  Then she looked up at him in recognition. A smile tugged at her soft pink lips, and she said, “It’s you.”

  What in Merlin’s beard did that mean? How did she know him? Perhaps, the same way he knew her?

  He wiped away the trickle of blood from her nose. His fingers gently swiped away her golden hair from her neck, and yes, there were the four brown beauty marks he had noticed from the last dream where he nuzzled her neck. He traced them with his claw. There was no way this could be anyone but the female from his dreams. The one who looked at him without fear, without calculation. The one who kissed him without reservation. The one whose eyes looked at him with love.

  She was beautiful. She really was something. He thought of the other human females he had met, hell he even thought of Muriel, and none of them could compare to the female in his arms.

  She looked like a dozing angel, so innocent… but she wouldn’t be he thought sourly. He had thought Muriel was an innocent creature once, had thought she cared, but he had allowed himself to be beguiled by her, intrigued by their differences. She wasn’t kind or loving, merely curious and selfish, and the female he held in his arms would be no better. None of them were.

  He should leave.

  He had saved her; he had done enough. She wouldn’t even thank him for it. If she woke and found him she would probably scream and call him a monster, call the humans to catch him and torture him again. He had been fooled by a human female once; he would not be fooled again.

  He should leave.

  The creature called Martha murmured in her sleep and shivered slightly. If he left now, she would be cold. She could freeze. He pulled the blanket a little more tightly around her, pretending that the feel of her body against his wasn’t igniting some desires he had long ago thought were dead.

  He could build a fire to keep her warm, and then he could leave. He wouldn’t have any guilt then. Yes, that would be the ideal solution. Martha pressed herself against him, rubbing her cheek against his chest.

  Yes, that was the logical thing to do, and he would do it… in a little while.

  Chapter Eight

  Martha didn’t really have an explanation for what happened. She recalled swerving to avoid the deer, but after that, it was kind of fuzzy.

  She had been found by the owner of the cabin. Apparently, he had made the trek there to ensure it was locked – he had been paranoid that he had left the door open. He hadn’t, though somehow Martha had managed to destroy the lock entirely. Thankfully, he hadn’t minded too much and got his truck so he could drive her to the hospital.

  Nothing more than a bump to the head caused by the airbag. She wasn’t sure who to call. She didn’t really want to see Phillip, and she wouldn’t give Valerie the satisfaction of seeing her in such a state. In Devil’s Hang, she had a lot of relatives, though none that she was particularly close to. She could have called her cousin Maggie; they were the same age and had been friends once – once being the operative word. Maggie had always reveled in being an oddball and growing up with her father, Martha had always strived to be normal, to present the world with what a perfect young woman should be, and so they had drifted apart. No, in the end, there was only one person she could call – her mother.

  Martha spitefully wondered if she would even turn up, but she did – of course she did – and she fussed over Martha, taking her home and taking care of her.

  It was gone midnight, but her mom wouldn’t go to bed until she was sure Martha was okay. Even her stepfather and siblings had come to the hospital for her; concern etched into their faces. Martha felt immediate remorse for all the unkind things she thought about them. True, they’d never been close, but that wasn’t all on them. Martha realized she hadn’t ever made much of an effort either. Or perhaps it was just that her painkillers were making her really weepy.

  “What on earth were you thinking rushing out of here in a snowstorm?” chided her mom, tucking her into bed with a mug of cocoa.

  She wasn’t thinking, she was hurt and tired and acted like a kid. Something her mother had always hated.

  The two of them had never really gotten along, always rubbing each other the wrong way. Maybe because Martha had always been a daddy’s girl, but after he left – correction, after he was dragged away by men in white coats – all she had was her mother. While her father had been fun and fanciful, her mother was uptight and obsessed with being normal, of presenting a perfect façade to the world. After her father killed himself, her mother just wanted to pretend it never happened. So she married the dullest, most normal man she could find, and had two more dull children and finally moved to Portland. Martha tried to get with the program, tried to be normal, tried to forget about her father and conform to the thinking of her mother – that they were ‘better off without him’. But she couldn’t. Her heart always drew her back to Devil’s Hang where for the first ten years of her life she had been inordinately happy with her family.

  “Sorry I ruined your party,” mumbled Martha.

  Her mother gave her a tolerant look. “Don’t be silly, darling. I just wish you hadn’t run off. Brick is a new partner at the firm; he barely knows your father.”

  Stepfather thought Martha. She didn’t want to call Carter ‘Daddy’ any more than he wanted her to. But rather than voice those thoughts, Martha let out a grunt of disapproval.

  Her mother carried on regardless. “He came to dinner one night and met your brother and sister; he just assumed we had no other children. I’m sorry, dear, but it’s really nothing.”

  You didn’t bother to mention me she thought stubbornly, but she wasn’t going to push it. She’d been childish enough for one night, and she was tired.

  She tried to sift through the events, but still, nothing was clear. She guessed she must have got out the car and made her way to the cabin, and then built a fire and stripped out of her clothes. Huh. She was surprisingly efficient for someone who hit her head. Not to mention destroying the lock on the cabin door.

  Vaguely, she remembered dreaming of her mystery creature. She dreamed he was holding her, soothing her and wrapping her in the blanket. After that she had the best sleep she’d had in months, only marred by a nightmare right before she was woken by the owner of the cabin. It was about her dad. She dreamed of him in a hospital bed, strapped down and shouting in a fury. He looked older than she remembered. His hair rippled with white and his face heavily lined. She couldn’t ever remember seeing him that way. Her mother had allowed her two visits to him in the mental institute, but they were in a sterile games room surrounded by orderlies. They weren’t allowed to touch or hug, and her father had looked at her with tired, sad eyes.

  “Maybe one day you’ll understand why I did it,” he had said with infinite gentleness.

  She still didn’t, but maybe it was the time she started to try.

  Martha grasped her mother’s hand that was trying to plump one of her pillows.

  “Thank you for taking care of me,” she said.

  “Of course,” said her mother dismissively, though Martha could tell she was pleased.

  “I was wondering if you had kept any of Dad’s old stuff.”

  Her mother frowned uncertainly. “Like what?”

  “His old journals maybe.”

  She hesitated, and Martha gave her the sweetest smile she could muster.

  “Maybe in the attic, why?”

  “I… I’ve just been thinking of him recently.”

  “You’re welcome to them, of course, but it’s best you don’t spend too long thinking of him.” She sniffed. “You’ll only be disappointed.”

  “Sure.”

  Martha pushed back the covers only to be gently propelled back into bed by her very exasperated mother.

  “It’s One am on Christmas Day, Martha, can’t this wait?”

  Not really. She had it in her
head that maybe there was something in those journals that could help her, and she wasn’t letting go of that. Vaguely, she recalled her dad had also suffered nightmares and thought maybe – as tenuous as it sounded – that there may be something in his thoughts and notes that could explain what was happening. Explain why he had got up one morning and shot a guy dead who he had never met before, and without any explanation as to why he did it. Maybe some explanation as to why he babbled about monsters in the sky and why she was dreaming about them now.

  Her mother looked at her with a fading smile and Martha nodded.

  “Of course.”

  Well, maybe a couple more days couldn’t hurt.

  *

  “By Arthur’s Round Table, where on earth have you been?” demanded Gracchus with more fire than Drago had ever seen.

  Drago hesitated as he dropped into the snowy garden, torn between the urge to tell Gracchus the truth and the urge to tell him to go to hell. Gracchus was Luc’s second, and naturally quite dominant. Part of Drago wanted to tell him – the tiny part of him that still wanted to belong to a clan. But the other part wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything.

  After a few moments of deliberation, Drago merely grunted. Gracchus snarled.

  “You should not leave the grounds. It is not safe. If you were seen by a human, the consequences for all of us could be severe.”

  Drago shrugged. He had been seen by a human, but she seemed to think he was some kind of dream.

  Gracchus appeared to be working his way up to a shouted lecture but was cut short when Brom dropped into the garden. The beefy male looked up at the sky and grinned.

  “Just in time for sun up,” he said.

  Gracchus gave him a sour look. “And where have you been?”

  Brom puffed out his already large chest. “With my mate.”

  Gracchus gave him a look of disbelief. “Your mate?”

  “Yes, my mate. I have found a human mate. We spent the night together.” Brom’s short tail flicked in irritation. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “You left the grounds and found a human who did not call the authorities on you, and you have even managed to woo her into becoming your mate?”

  “Exactly,” declared Brom triumphantly.

  “What’s this?” asked Twenty-Six approaching, her ears perking up at the word mate. “Brom has found a mate?”

  “So he says,” muttered Gracchus.

  “I have found a mate!” fumed Brom.

  Twenty-Six smiled wickedly as her eyes sparkled. The female joined the clan after Luc, and the others freed her from a lab – where apparently she had been artificially bred using gargoyle DNA. Drago had no idea what that meant, though, given her scent and mannerisms, he suspected she was also part human. Her face was softer than a female gargoyle. More like Martha’s than a female like Ingrede.

  Martha. His stomach tightened uncomfortably as he thought of her, hoping she was okay. He stayed with her as long as he dared, but on hearing a human approach, he had to leave. Though, he did not go far. He made sure the male did not harm her, or touch her in an inappropriate fashion. He also stuck around, following them as close as he dared as Martha was taken to a human hospital. Just for his own piece of mind. He would not want to be blamed if anything were to happen to her – that was all it was.

  His stomach clenched again. Strange, he was sure he had already partaken of enough food to sustain him.

  “So, a mate, huh, Brom?” said Twenty-Six in what could only be described as a teasing manner. “Does she live in Canada?” She then burst out laughing.

  Brom frowned, as did Gracchus and Drago. This was probably some obscure human reference that they could not fathom.

  “No,” replied Brom, baffled. “She lives in town and her name is Joely.” His eyes took on a distinctly misty glow. “She looks like a flame-haired angel and acts like a saucy wench.”

  “Aha,” Twenty-Six smirked at him, unimpressed.

  “She works as a waitress at the local food hall.”

  “Sure.”

  “She does!” howled Brom, fury emanating from him.

  Gracchus sighed and mediated the brewing argument. Drago left them to it. His transgression was apparently forgotten.

  He rubbed his claws over his chest, remembering feeling her against him. He shouldn’t have gone to her, but he did and now not only did he know her face, he knew her scent, knew how her gloriously soft body felt. As if his dreams weren’t difficult enough to endure.

  “It’s you.” The words echoed in his mind.

  Did she dream of him too? Was he the only bright spot in her days and nights? Did she think of him as light illuminating darkness and pain?

  It didn’t matter. She did not know he was really there, thought he was nothing more than a mirage.

  He found that should be reassuring. It wasn’t. He growled and made his way into the garden for sleep.

  *

  Martha snuggled into bed, mewling at the coldness. Her body shivered.

  She didn’t even hear his footsteps, didn’t hear him moving around the room until the bed dipped and his scorching hot body curled around hers.

  Martha moaned and went limp as he pulled her into the position he wanted – plastered against his chest.

  His hot mouth trailed kisses over her jaw.

  “You are well, my angel?” he rumbled, his huge chest vibrating against her.

  “I am now.”

  She pressed a kiss over his heart and settled down to sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  The day after Christmas

  Martha’s family had gone skiing. She was supposed to accompany them, but she begged off due to still feeling a little wonky after her accident.

  Truthfully, she didn’t much care for skiing. She liked snow when it was featured on the other side of a window while she sipped hot cocoa and marshmallows in front of a roaring fire, but face planting in it over and over just wasn’t her thing. She knew a lot of women in her small town made fun of her, mocked her because they thought she was some kind of perfect princess who could do anything, but athletic pursuits were not her thing. She’d reached five foot eleven at a very early age and her ability to coordinate her limbs had just never caught up to her early giraffe-like proportions. Though, she was always picked first for girls’ basketball.

  Besides, she was keener to pore over her father’s journals.

  She had been a dutiful daughter on Christmas day. She’d watched while her stepsiblings drooled over their expensive new phones and tablets. Thanked her mother profusely for the myriad of bath salts and soaps. Ate an inordinate amount of dry meat and soggy vegetables and naturally fell asleep in front of the TV watching a terrible Christmas movie.

  Now, she wanted answers. She hadn’t dreamed of her dad in a long time. Martha thought of him often, but her dreams had rarely featured him. Admittedly, she hadn’t dreamed at all until a few months ago – or at least, she couldn’t remember the dreams she had until a few months ago. The fact that he was now showing up in her thoughts must mean something… possibly that she was going crazy. But, maybe going through his stuff might actually give her some clues as to what happened to him, and maybe even help with whatever the heck was happening with her.

  She had ventured up into the attic and found a box labeled Allen’s stuff. It smelled moldy and felt slightly damp, but other than her it was the only evidence that her father had even existed. After… after what he did, her mother tried to erase every part of him from their lives. She donated his clothes and possessions to charity and threw out the pictures of him. Only a few things made it to the box – things she thought he would want in the institute, though in the end, he was never there long enough to need them. She was hurt and angry by what he did, for ruining their happy lives. It was easy for her to get rid of everything. Her father had come to town twelve years before on a whim because he felt like it. He had no family, no ties, but he met Martha’s mother and decided to stay. After what happened the o
nly real part left of him was Martha.

  Sometimes Martha would catch her mother staring at her, and she wondered if maybe her mother wished she could rid herself of Martha, too.

  Martha shook her head at her maudlin thoughts and opened up the box, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell.

  Timber weaved between her feet. Her brown cat purred as Martha scratched his damaged ear. She had rescued him as a kitten eight years ago; he was being mauled by a dog - the vicious half-fed mutt who had once guarded her next-door neighbor’s junk pile. She didn’t know how the beast got a hold of the kitten, or where it came from, but she got six stitches on her arm for her trouble and a roommate and companion who had outlasted all three of her fiancés. The nightmare neighbor had moved, but that was the reason why she wasn’t a dog person. As lovable as Bob the police dog appeared, she was always wary when walking him.

  She pulled out a picture of her and her father. She must have been six at the time, and they were on vacation at Niagara Falls. She looked tired in the picture because she had gorged on churros and thrown up profusely an hour before the picture. Happy times.

  Reverentially, she placed it on the table and dug through the box.

  Aha. This was more like it. There were four thick journals. She recalled her father started writing in them about a year before the incident. It was when they started noticing that her father wasn’t quite the same anymore. No less loving, but more distracted, at times feverish. A couple of times she woke from his screams, creeping out of her room, clutching her Care Bear as she heard her father whimpering. Her mother was trying to soothe him as he haltingly told her of his nightmares.

  Martha opened one of the journals, choosing it at random. Her eyes widened at the scribbled picture on the first page.

  It was a creature with wings, horns and a tail.

  *

  Martha curled her toes as he nibbled on her breast. They were so sensitive now, and he damn well knew it. She bit her lip and grasped his horns, torn between wanting to push him away and demanding more. It was exquisite torture; she loved it and hated it but desperately wanted it.