Page 1 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

CHAPTER 1

Alain

New York City

“Die, you gravy-sucking pig!”

The words hit me on a massive windstorm that’s disguising itself as a nubile blond in a short skirt and tight sweater. Her rapid advance is punctuated by a wood stake that she thrusts against my chest. The weapon splinters into shards, though not before cutting a hole through my custom-tailored shirt.

Can’t impale stone with wood. It’s against all the laws of molecular science. Fabric, though, is made of lesser stuff.

For a moment, I don’t react, stuck as I am taking in the stabbing female’s curves. Those breasts are worthy of hymns and poetry. And those gams… but she must be cold with her legs so exposed, given the autumn day outside is wet and chill, and inside, the bunch of hot-air financiers require arctic level air-conditioning to balance out their hubris.

But those breasts. They fair stop my heart.

Odd, though, her trying to murder me on a live broadcast featuring the top economists and financiers from around the globe. Odder still is the way heat flares up beneath my skin as I watch her blink large blue eyes at me with apparent befuddlement. She’s so cute, I want to squeeze her until she squeaks.

“Missed?” I quip, keeping my tone deadpan.

Still, the heat. I’m suddenly roasting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I’m blushing. Or horny. Or possible alight with holy fire.

Honestly, any of those options are possible.

“I don’t… how…” She spreads her hand. After a chunk of wood tumbles to the floor, two large splinters remain, piercing her palm. She glances down before returning her stare to me, trying to penetrate me with her gaze rather than the stake.

“Would you like some help?” I ask, nodding towards her palm.

With a furrowed brow and a slight wince, she pulls out the tiny slivers before throwing them at me.

Everything in me stutters to a halt. Lucky for her, I’m a temperate sort of gargoyle or I’d be tempted to take her over my lap and teach her some manners.

Or passion.

Stop it, Alain. Don’t touch the fluffy bunny who’s trying to kill you.

“I don’t… why aren’t you…?” Suddenly, her head flings to the side, her tongue lolls, her eyes close, her palms extend, all in the imitation of a dead person.

A snort of laughter explodes from me. Isn’t she adorable?

Catching herself, she bites her bottom lip before taking a half-step closer, and pokes a finger in the hole she’s torn in my shirt, testing the resiliency of my flesh. She’s barely taller standing than I am sitting.

“I’m made of sterner stuff than that, little girl.”

Blue eyes narrow into sharp points, sharper than her stake, anyway. Those eyes may be the most dangerous weapon in her arsenal. Well, those or the curvaceous bumps under her sweater that are calling my hands to madness.

What is she? Twenty-seven-ish? Old enough, but too young for me.

“Security!” someone to my right yells.

With the call, I realize that everyone around the studio is screaming, scrambling, tripping, and generally creating mayhem, while the blond and I have remained locked in our own private universe.

Private, but on a live television broadcast to… everywhere.

“Slayer?” I test the word under my breath, staring deep into her soul. Can’t be right, though. If she’s a slayer, she shouldn’t be allowed out on her own yet. Someone more experienced should have explained to her that you can’t stake a gargoyle with wood.

“Fuck. You.”

Ooh, potty mouth. Not usually something I’m attracted to, though exceptions can always be made.