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“Yes, you.” She waited while the guys silently cleared out of the room. They knew better than to argue with one of the Hags of Fate.
When they were gone, she continued. “While this matter will concern all of you, Delilah, you are the one who stands at the fulcrum this time—you will be the key to unraveling what you need to know when it is time. A balance has been upset and must be righted.”
As she paused, a scratching sounded at the front door.
“What the fuck—” Camille moved toward the foyer but Grandmother Coyote stopped her.
“Halt. I brought visitors. They are here on my summons. You will meet them in a few moments.” She paused again, then yawned. Her teeth were steely, cold and metallic, sharp as blades, looking like they could gnash bone into shrapnel. And I had no doubt they could—and perhaps they had.
A chill ran down my spine. I had the feeling that my work with Greta tonight had something to do with what Grandmother Coyote was talking about.
“What do you need me for?”
Grandmother Coyote touched her nose. “This cannot be discussed without me introducing my comrades. But you are correct in your silent surmise. This matter relates to your training as a Death Maiden—I cannot tell you how, yet, but know that it does. Secondly, this matter involves daemonic energies in the city not connected with Shadow Wing.” At that, she nodded to the hallway. “Go now, let in my pets.”
Daemonic . . . that wasn’t good. But at least, daemons and demons didn’t get along so well and were rarely on the same side. Which meant this might not have to do with Shadow Wing, the Demon Lord we were fighting.
I moved to the door, wondering who was waiting outside. It could be a troll or a goblin or a centaur or—just about anything. Knowing Grandmother Coyote, anybody could be on the other side. My stomach lurching, I yanked open the door.
There, on the porch, like stone statues come to life, stood two gargoyles. And they didn’t look happy.
Chapter 2
I stared at the gargoyles. It had been a long, long time since I’d seen an adult gargoyle who wasn’t in stasis. Back in Otherworld, they roamed free, unless they’d been captured. Since certain governments and individuals enslaved them to use them as spies, the gargoyles tended to steer clear of cities.
Woodland gargoyles—like our little Maggie—were seldom captured for this purpose, both because of their coloration and because they took refuge in the forest, hiding from those who would enslave them. Maggie would never be able to freeze into statue form—her race didn’t have that ability.
But these gargoyles were of a different breed. Known as granticular gargoyles, they were able to enter stasis for centuries at a time, during which they would observe what was going on and feed that information to their masters. That they resented most of their slavers was well-known, but I had no clue how they felt about working for the Hags of Fate.
Large Cryptos, when they were full-grown they stood the size of a burro, with wings stretching out a good six to seven feet each side of their body. Like a dragon’s wings, they were strong, though flight was magically powered. But they weren’t ornamental—both dragons and gargoyles used them to steer and steady themselves in the air.
I stood back, allowing them room to enter. Folding their wings back, they maneuvered through the door, jockeying through the opening. They weren’t exactly bipedal, but walked like gorillas on their back feet while they balanced with their front knuckles. As they silently passed by me, one of them looked up, into my eyes, and I fell into the dark brown depths. There was age there, and wisdom, and a long hint of sadness that touched me to the core.
I reached out, lightly running my fingers over the muscular shoulder that resembled moving stone. The gargoyle’s gray skin was smooth, almost like velvet, but beneath the surface rippled flesh strong enough to break necks and bend bars and tear apart small trees. One of them gazed at me for just a moment, and let out a soft “hmm” before following his companion into the living room. A moment later, I joined them.
Grandmother Coyote stood waiting and the gargoyles moved to flank her sides. She draped a light hand on either back, and was speaking in a low, guttural tongue that I did not recognize. One of the gargoyles—the one I’d connected with—nodded to her.
She looked around the room. “What do you know about the granticular gargoyles?”
“Only what they taught us in school,” Camille said. She did not mention Maggie, our baby calico woodland gargoyle. We kept her our secret as best as we could. We had too many enemies to let news of her trickle out. And while Grandmother Coyote knew about Maggie, we weren’t sure what the granticular gargoyles would do if they realized we were keeping a baby at our house. Cryptos didn’t always get along with each other and we weren’t about to let anybody try to hurt her, or to take her away from us.
“Then you know the story that Y’Elestrial officials spoon-feed their subjects to keep the truth silent. Actually, it’s not just your home city-state’s doing. Only in Dahnsburg and some of the darker forests in Otherworld will you find the facts openly discussed. However, due to various treaties, King Uppala-Dahns has kept speculation to a minimum, even though it compromises the granticulars’ lives. Politics.” The word rolled off Grandmother Coyote’s tongue with a sneer.
“So what don’t we know?” I had the feeling we were about to find out something we didn’t want to know, but since that was par for the course in our lives, why should this time be any different?
“Over the eons, the governments over in Otherworld have embarked on a clandestine operation to systematically enslave the gargoyle race by suppressing the truth about their lineage and natures.” Grandmother Coyote’s eyes were dark and deep, shifting with flecks of the magic. When I looked at her long enough, I began to see through the age, through the body, into the immensity that lay beyond the surface.
She turned to the gargoyle on her left. “This is Mithra. He was born a prince in his world, until Lethesanar enslaved him.”
Lethesanar had been the queen of Y’Elestrial until her sister Tanaquar deposed her. She had been ethically devoid, an opium addict, a slave to her whims and emotions. Tanaquar was marginally better.
Camille curtseyed and I bowed to the gargoyle. We’d been raised to show respect to authority. Mithra looked surprised.
“You do not have to do that,” he said, and his voice—guttural in his own language—was surprisingly soft in ours. “You are under no obligation to recognize our heritage. When we were captured, we lost the keys to our kingdom, to use a human expression.”
“We choose to honor your birthright.” Camille frowned, looking confused.
I knew what she was thinking. We’d been taught that gargoyles didn’t have a strongly developed sense of intellect—that the Cryptos were, instead, like extremely smart animals who could talk. But Mithra’s cadence, his very nature, spoke of a high acumen.
