“I have my reasons.”
“Care to share with the class?” He folds his arms across his broad chest, brow furrowing. “For decades, Forsythe was barely a blip on our radar. Then out of bloodynowhereyou’re spending all your time with him, practically sucking his cock, nary a word about your endgame… What gives?”
“Sucking his cock. Right.” I nearly laugh, recalling all the exhausting efforts I’ve put in with the Archmage these past few months. “If only it were that simple.”
“So all the late-night meetings, the dinners, the private tours of our properties—it was all because he wanted to lease Thornwood for his kid’s big night?”
Our firm—Blackmoor Capital Group—owns the cathedral, along with a great many other historical buildings in the city, religious and secular alike. For the sake of historical preservation, most of our properties are closed to the public, reserved only for so-called “high-society bullshit” events.
Expensivebullshit events. Keeps us just legitimate enough in the eyes of the law, and the mystery and exclusivity surrounding our firm and its true purposes have given way to more than a few depraved rumors.
Kings of the underworld, some say. The men of shadow and stone. Only ever seen at night, well after sundown. Cold and untouchable. Deadly. And, of course, filthy rich.
Most mortals fear us, even if they don’t understand why our presence makes their skin prickle, their heartbeats uncomfortably erratic.
To supernaturals and spellcasters, we appear as fae, just as our original dark fae punishers intended.
Gargoyles, after all, are a myth. One the fae would like to keep hidden in the mists of time, lest we revealtheirsecrets as well.
Everyone loves a good story. As for which parts are true? Irrelevant.
For what is truth but the story shouted by the loudest voices from the tallest rooftops?
“The Archmage isn’t leasing the cathedral.” I uncork the bottle of cognac and pour another glass. “The tours were my idea—Forsythe and I have a shared interest in the preservation of historical magical artifacts.”
“Charming.” Jude rolls his eyes. “Will you two lovebirds be picking out curtains and china patterns soon, too?”
“When he mentioned his son’s wedding and the family’s difficulty in finding the right venue,” I continue, ignoring the dig, “the opportunity I’d been working on for months finally presented itself. I offered him the use of Thornwood, and in return, he extended us an invitation. I assured him we’d be delighted to attend.”
Jude circles his face with a finger. “Does this look like my delighted-to-attend face?”
“Well,I’mdelighted.” This, from Augustine, who finally tears himself away from the mirror. Settling into one of the velvet-cushioned bishop’s chairs lining the wall, he says, “I love mage weddings. Witches are hot as fuck.”
“You can’t rail the bride, asshole,” Rook says. “Not in front of so many witnesses.”
“Do you know the best part about a hot witch bride?” Augustine offers a beatific smile, looking every bit the regal clergyman, save for the carnal hunger in his eyes. “Hot witch bridesmaids. And they’re always looking for an excuse to ditch those ugly dresses.”
Rook laughs and shakes his head, but Jude continues to glower, his usual fire burning brighter, aching for a target.
Of the four of us, Jude was never going to win any awards for the fine arts of discipline and restraint. It’s what makes him my best torturer and most lethal killer, but also my weakest link. His impulsiveness is something I’ve learned to mitigate over the centuries, but lately he’s become downright volatile. It’s as if some restless demonic entity has taken residence inside him, setting his muscles ablaze with a constant need to break something. Anything.
Whether it’s because I’ve forbidden him from carving up bodies until the latest mess with the feds blows over, or something else entirely, I’ve no idea. But if there’s anything I won’t—can’t—tolerate in my organization, it’s instability. We haven’t the luxury of screwing up and getting noticed. Not anymore.
Still, he’s not wrong to push me. There was a time when we had no secrets among us, no side projects. Yet I’ve told them nothing of my meetings with Forsythe. Nothing of his importance to our greater mission.
To our lives.
Not because I don’t trust them—nothing could be farther from the truth.
I simply couldn’t risk getting their hopes up again. Not until I knew for certain.
I reach for the bottle and glance at each of them in turn, wishing I was a bit less sober for this conversation.
Bloody hell.Of all the things I miss about being human, the capacity to get thoroughly shitfaced on a thoroughly good bottle of booze is tops on the list. The sheer quantity of alcohol a gargoyle requires to feel even thebriefesttingling in the extremities… Well. Our monthly liquor bill rivals the GDP of more than a few small countries.
I pour another glass anyway, ever hopeful. “Despite Jude’s insistence that getting on one’s knees is the pathway to a lasting friendship, offering the cathedral seemed like the more dignified alternative. Now, I realize there are a dozen things you’d rather be doing this evening, murder and mayhem chief among them, but I need you here. We’ve all got a part to play.”
At that, I retrieve three more glasses from the vestment cabinet and pour them each a round.
