Chapter Seven
AUGUSTINE
Fucking Jude.That’s his official name now—Fucking Jude. At least itshouldbe, for all the shit he’s putting us through lately.
It’s the same thing every night. Bailing earlier and earlier, staying out until the wee hours doing devil knows what. One of these nights he’s not going to make it back by sunrise and then we’reallgoing to be fucked.
No, not in the fun way.
I can see the headlines now:
Mysterious stone gargoyle found brooding on Central Park jogging path…
Unexplained appearance of ancient gargoyle in children’s sandbox baffles parents and sends kids to therapy…
Woman struggles to explain to husband how she tripped and fell on sexy statue’s cock…
Scoffing, I exit the pew and glance around the packed cathedral, eager to find that more suitable—not to mention more informative—one-night-stand. Preferably one whose teeth don’t need to be removed before the main event.
Ah, and there she is. Twelve o’clock, champagne-colored dress, legs for days…
Hello, gorgeous. What have you got for me?
Drae said we had to be on our best behavior tonight? No problem. It just so happens I’m at my best when I’m balls deep. There’s just something about being between a woman’s thighs that turns me into a model fucking citizen.
After she spills her secrets, of course.
I’m about to head over and make my opening move when a firm hand clamps around my shoulder. I know who it is before I turn to face him.
“Have you seen Jude?” Drae asks. “Rook’s been making the rounds, but he hasn’t heard from him since we left the sacristy. I’m a bit worried, truth be told.”
Guilt churns inside as the familiar war wages.
Do I cover for Jude again? Or finally admit how worried I really am?
For now, I’m spared the torture of making the choice. The pipe organ strikes a chord, and a hush falls over the cathedral.
Drae and I slide into the nearest pew and turn to face the narthex along with the rest of the guests. The music continues in earnest and the doors swing open, revealing a bride in black lace clutching a bouquet the size of a golden retriever.
Limned in moonlight, she’s all alone at the end of the aisle, no daddy dearest giving her away. Witches and mages aren’t exactly known for upholding the traditions of their former oppressors, but still. Something about the scene twists me up inside.
The bride takes a few tentative steps, her head swiveling from side to side as if she’s searching out the one friendly face in a crowd of monsters.
The narthex doors swing shut behind her, the moonlight fading away.
And suddenly, there she is. Warm and sparkling beneath the candlelit chandeliers. Long black hair threaded with silver. Eyes the color of a tropical bay. Dark red lips that have my heart rate kicking into high gear as I imagine stealing a kiss…
She takes a few more steps, stopping just a few rows from ours.
The entire cathedral fades into a gray haze.
Right now, right here, there’s only her.
Westlyn Avery, soon to be Westlyn Forsythe. She’s a fucking vision. Not in the way all brides are beautiful, but in a way that punches a hole right through my chest and grabs hold of my heart, damn near liquifying it.
I grip the edge of the pew to steady myself. Her presence is overwhelming, washing over me in dark, heavy waves. I’m drowning in it, but coming up for air is the furthest thought from my mind.
She takes another step. Then another. She reaches our pew and suddenly, she stops. Turns toward us. Glances up, those turquoise eyes sparkling with life.
