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Every gargoyle in town looks like those two. Whoever made the local gargoyles must’ve used the same mold each time. I’ve seen them at my school, at work, near my house. It’s no wonder my hallucinations take their form. The bigger mystery is why in the world the thought of having my own two personal protectors turns me on. Embarrassment at the thought has heat running over my cheeks, and I almost miss the sweet nonsense Benita says about how of course my Lala would be proud.
If I’m very lucky, I’ll be able to ask Lala soon. Three friends from college planned a trip to a legit haunted house. With its long history of mysterious deaths, paranormal sightings, and famed séances for old Hollywood’s celebrities, the house is my best chance to contact my great-grandmother who believed the dead are never far from the living. I haven’t told anyone of my plans to sneak a few minutes at the haunted house to ask Lala for a sign.
Even my friends who took me in like a stray at university can only be expected to accept so many bonkers beliefs. I already flaunt my love of charms, crystals, and tarot. Talking to my recently deceased great-grandma might be a step too far.
When I’d lost Lala, Benita had been by my side. For the briefest moment, Lala had been lucid. She’d had something important to tell me, something I needed to know. Lala’s hands had gripped me with a surprisingly strong grip. But death stole her before she could say whatever she’d meant to.
Now, after exchanging empty promises about seeing each other again soon, Benita walks away, and I’m alone again.
I push out of the staff exit and head toward my clunker of a car which, yep, has land yachts parked over the lines around it. Getting all woe is me won’t help so I shove self-pity aside. I’ll find a way back to caring for people who need me in their final transition. It might not be where or how I’d planned, but if I can imagine stone statues coming to life simply to watch over me, then I can sure as heck turn my work dreams into an actual job offer.
The lingering awareness from my earlier delusions still tingles over my senses. Not a sensual fantasy this time, but so vivid and overwhelming, that it’s hard to separate those intense feelings from reality. Seriously, as soon as I can afford decent healthcare, I’m scheduling an appointment with a psychiatrist to get these crazy daydreams under control. Lala had Alzheimer’s and she was in her late eighties. I have no excuse for seeing things.
The streetlights in this part of the parking lot went out a few months ago and never got fixed. I pick my way over the cracked cement and rough pavement to the first row of cars. In the distance, the sky has gone a soft pink and grey, the sign of the coming dawn. It’s warm out here already, another summer day ready to bake this part of the desert city.
The cool of Lala’s crystals on the bracelets and charms she left me still hold the chill of the hospital’s air conditioning against my neck and wrists. The giant green stone she gave me for high school graduation is the only one not going cold. Instead, it buzzes with static electricity, making the hairs on my arm stand. Weird. I must’ve rubbed it against something.
A sudden squeak and scuffing of rubber on asphalt has me jerking my head toward the sound.
Too late.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I freeze. The man’s so close. He must’ve been waiting for an easy victim. I’ll never escape even if I run as fast as I can. Move. I need to move, but my muscles have locked in terror.
In the next second, he reaches for my purse. Noooo. Everything’s in there from my ID to my car keys to Lala’s tarot deck. I can’t let him take it. I’m a healer, not a fighter, but I didn’t grow up with six siblings for nothing. I brace for a struggle, ready to toss the box at him. Better to sacrifice my bunny-ear cactus and its cute little pot than me.
He pulls a knife, the silver of the blade reflecting light from a window above. My blood turns to ice.
All these months of comforting patients in the end, and I’m going to die with no one keeping me company in my last moments except this asshole. I could really use the guardian gargoyles from my hallucinations right about now.
3
ATTICUS
EIGHT OF WANDS: HERE WE GO!
My twin refuses to believe Rosemarie is the prophesied queen who’ll bring the Bridge of Souls into its greatest age yet. More than that, she’s the woman whose love might be our salvation after our colossal failure at the last queen trials. Our candidate leapt into an abyss rather than live with monsters, and our sentence to a century of stone exile was nothing compared to the way her loss wrecked Jace.
The gargoyle elders—including our father—called it our disastrous ruin.
In truth, it was my catastrophic miscalculation.
I live three steps ahead of everyone else, anticipating and acting with control and precision before others can sense what’s coming. Yet I failed to see Dyphena’s depression.
I’d kept my distance from her, and I’d missed the obvious.
Not this time.
Not with Rosemarie.
Not when the demon gives her to us. Since gargoyles are forbidden from entering into formal deals with demons, I made promises for specific favors in the future. Favors I’ll figure out how to fulfill when payment comes due. If it comes due.
Jace watches television to catch up on how the human world moved on while we did our penance, and I read every book I can find on how to woo the modern woman. Money and luxurious gifts work according to the paperback I found in the library box outside a quiet house in a sleeping neighborhood last night. The cover with its photograph of a billionaire human male in a suit and tie didn’t provide any inspiration I could use, but the courting practices inside were most informative.
I’ll put my respect and growing adoration of Rosemarie’s courage and grace aside to focus on what a woman might find enticing. With Dyphena, we gave money to her village in exchange for her agreeing to compete in the queen trials. I’m sure Truman can find account numbers for Rosemarie and her family as quickly as he accessed her employment records. We can arrange a large payment for her help. Or perhaps he can see what debts she has, discover weaknesses I can exploit to convince her to come with us just as the hero did in the last book I read.
I’m lost in calculating the fastest way to get her back to the Borderlands and our tower for the trials, on defeating Cutter and whatever candidates he and the others might bring, on our redemption when Jace straightens and almost drops his shadow glamour in his excitement, the swell of his chest and lift of his chin proving that any denial of Rosemarie being ours comes from overthinking his true feelings.
“She came out the rear entrance,” he says, moving across the roof.
