WESTLYN
Gargoyles. Living, breathing, hulking gargoyles.
Part of me wants to take credit for their very existence—to call up Eloise and rub it in her face, like,Hey, it’s me! Guess what? Earlier tonight, I wished for the Thornwood gargoyles to come to life and rescue me, and voila! Here they are! Look what my so-called trite and meaningless magic has wrought!
But looking into Draegan’s storm-gray eyes now, I know his existence has nothing to do with my wishes. He and the others have been here a long,longtime. I sensed it before, even through their human glamours. An ancient wisdom in their eyes. Hints of a deep, dark past I can’t even begin to imagine.
Objectively speaking, they really are magnificent creatures. There’s no other word for it. Taller and bulkier than the average man, yet sleek and graceful like jungle cats—and probably just as deadly. Dark gray skin that has me itching to run my hands over it, wondering if the texture will be as smooth as it appears, or as rough as stone. Massive, bat-like wings and streamlined tails that don’t quite touch the ground. And of course—the horns, fangs, and sharp talons that clearly mark them as monsters instead of men.
But beyond their otherworldly appearance, traces of humanity remain. Each of them retains his human eyes, hair, and facial structure. His voice and mannerisms. All the unique little things that differentiate one person—or beast—from another.
A pang of sympathy strikes, and I can’t help but wonder if their human glamours were drawn from the men they once were.
Jude, with his searing blue eyes and black hair, the crooked grin that makes my stomach flip. Augustine, hazel-eyed and flirty, a dimple gracing his cheek. Rook, slightly bearded, with eyes the color of honey peering out through old-fashioned glasses, his brown shoulder-length hair drawn back in a low ponytail.
And Draegan. Older than the rest and much more distinguished-looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and gray eyes that bore right through to my soul.
Whowerethese men? How did they come to be immortal? To be cursed by dark fae?
How did four ancient, terrifying, beautiful gargoyle beasts come to converge on the path of a twenty-two-year-old witch with no magic?
What is it youmostdesire?
Draegan’s words whisper through my mind again, and I close my eyes, searching my heart for the real answer.
I don’t know why the gargoyles have it out for the Forsythes, or why they bothered attending the wedding in the first place, but it was clear from the deadly chill in Draegan’s eyes he’s eager to see them dead. Rather—twitching in a pool of their own blood as the light slowly leaks from their eyes.
And he’s right—wedohave that desire in common. I’m not a violent woman by nature, but after what I learned tonight? All bets are off. The Archmage and his family were ready to sign me away to Hell, and they probably would’ve sealed the deal had my ravens not shown up.
Had Draegan not saved me.
I remember it now. All of it. Seeing him and Augustine in the pews—that strange connection I felt to them. Watching a stone gargoyle turn into a man on the balustrade. Confessing that I’d wished for him to come to me. Pleading for his help as my enemies closed in. And then…
I gasp as my stomach drops into free fall, memories of the jump and the flight sweeping through me.
I open my eyes and find him watching me intently, the coldness in his gaze replaced with smoldering heat.
What is it youmostdesire?
All at once, the fury that’s been simmering inside me for nearly two decades boils over. After years of treating me like a burden, of refusing to let me attend college or get a job, of filling my head with reminder after reminder that I’d never amount to anything, of marrying a woman who never had a kind word for me, of wasting the small trust fund my mother set up for me on poker and booze, my father—my ownfather!—was ready to sacrifice me to a demon who would’ve used and abused me for all I was worth, very likely condemning my soul to Hell. That’s assuming I even had a soul left to condemn after he finished with me. And my stepmother? She all but shoved me into the demon’s waiting arms.
What is it youmostdesire?
My whole body is quaking with rage, but when I finally speak, my voice is calm and steady. More than it’s ever been in my life.
“I want them dead,” I say.
“The Forsythe family?”
“Allof them.”
“You mean—”
“My father, Brian Avery. My stepmother, Eloise Avery. The demon—goes without saying—and Hunter too, if there’s anything left of him after the demon’s gone. The High Priest. Lennon and Celine Forsythe, of course, along with every single shadow mage, witch, and sycophant who conspired to help them sacrifice me tonight.”
Freedom.
That’s the word that comes to me now. The truest desire I have—one I’m pretty sure I’ve been secretly harboring since I was old enough to realize the truth about witchcraft: that in a world where something as pure and beautiful as magic can be used to manipulate, control, and abuse those who aren’t lucky enough to have it, freedom is the only real power there is.
