Page 10 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

“Have you met many?” Her voice is muffled by my jacket. Ruining it further, most likely.

“A few. I’ve been around a long time. I’m from Paris, originally. I was created to help guard Notre Dame.”

Her ears perk up a little. “What’s that like?” she asks, mirroring my question of a few moments earlier.

“Long, long stretches of idleness, lots of gossip, long, long stretches in stone. We used to take turns in shifting into flesh, because even stone has needs. Too long idle and we’d go crazy. But to your point, the square surrounding Notre Dame has always lured vampires like candy does children. I think it’s the dichotomy between the sacred and the profane. The two ends are constantly pulled towards each other in battle, as if the war is being fought even at the molecular level. At any rate, I’ve witnessed…” I stop to count, but then shrug—not enough to disturb how she rests against me, but just enough to indicate my confusion. “At least twenty slayers, but probably more. My memory isn’t what it used to be. And you, Bumps, are the best.”

She sniffs again before drawing her head back to look me in the eyes. “You really aren’t a vampire?”

“I’m really not. Here.” Jostling her a tiny bit more, I draw out a handkerchief from my pocket. It’s emblazoned with my initials and probably draped in my scent of frankincense, myrrh, and benzoin resin. It’s a deep, sweet, slightly bitter aroma.

Sure enough, she inhales me from the handkerchief. “You smell like a cathedral.”

“Gargoyles smell like the church they were born to guard.” But my voice catches at the memory of my true purpose, and the loss of it. “It’s a thing.”

“It’s a nice thing.” She dabs the square under her eyes. “Sorry. I’m not usually a crier, but it’s been a day.”

“Has it? Other than trying to slay me and failing, what’s got you upset?”

She buries her face back into my chest. A feeling of total rightness flows through me. This. This is what I’ve been missing. Purpose. Though I don’t ever remember my body being so tight before, like my skin has shrunk three sizes.

“My parents. They died about a year ago. They didn’t think the vamps knew they were coming, but the suckers did. They found my parents sipping coffee in a warehouse, waiting for dark, but it was overcast. A storm had swept in, which I guess is pretty typical of Florida weather, but they didn’t realize.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered. That whole sun thing? Just a myth.”

She lifts away to gape at me. “Seriously?”

I nod. “You may not be training with the right tutelary. You should know these things.” Though, to be honest, I’m not sure there are any tutelaries left who know the characteristics of monsters. They may have died out with the last century.

She settles back. “Morrie is going to be upset to hear it. Hell, I’m upset to hear it. We both thought ourselves perfectly safe during daylight hours, which is the only time either of us go out, though I would have had to make an exception if I got a part, I guess.” After wiping her eyes again, she says, “I’ve been waitressing while I audition. I’m an actress, though so far, I’m about as successful at acting as I am at slaying.”

I shake my head as a streak of pleasure rushes through me. “Isn’t that a hoot? When I fabricated our relationship, that’s what I told everyone you were—an actress. Must mean some of this is fate.” Another bright streak of light shoots through me. There are no coincidences.

“I did think it was kind of funny when you told me that. Plus, the actresses I know? They’d all try to kill you on live television if it meant publicity.”

“I’m glad it was you, then.”

She blushes again. I love her blushes.

After clearing her throat, she says, “Well, anyway, that’s me. My whole life has been about failing downward at a spectacular speed.”

“Really? And here I think that our lives are looking up.”

She groans. “Gargoyles. I read that you’re a silver-lining Kind.”

I shrug. We’re not always sunshine and rainbows, but it’s best not to mention it right now. She’s going to be living with me for a month. She’ll no doubt discover my flaws on her own.

“What about you?” she presses. “And didn’t Notre Dame burn down some years ago? And how are you alive? Or… can gargoyles die?”

I’m not about to tell a slayer how to slay me, not even one this cute and… bumpy. Her curves are things of glory, especially this close.

“I was away when the cathedral burned,” I admit, but I know that I’ve stilled to stone. The urge to transform in order to negate the worst of my grief and guilt nearly overwhelms me. Stone removes me from emotion. Stone doesn’t need to breathe.

And I can’t breathe under the weight of what I feel.

Still, I fight against the urge, though it’s like trying to arrest a fired cannon ball by shoving the projectile back into the bore using only a flap of wind. Until our eyes meet… and all I want to do is remain conscious beneath the endless blue of her gaze.

She stares at me before snuggling back against my chest. “You could tell me about it, if you wanted to. I’m not a bad listener. As an actress, I have to be able to give another character space in order to let his emotions flow, otherwise the audience won’t be convinced. Or something like that. To be honest, I didn’t really listen in class, but I think I’m a natural.”