Page 38 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

I’m sure I’m blushing, but that’s my norm. No need to worry it.

Suddenly, as if to mock the idea that I don’t have to worry about something, I remember his party. “Shoot.” I surge up to a sitting position. “The guests.”

“Long gone, I’d imagine. It’s the middle of the night. Witching hour.” He turns over and grabs a clock from the beside table to show me. Three o’clock.

I sink back down. He throws the clock carelessly over his shoulder and joins me. The timepiece thuds against the rug.

“The grazing board. I hope Jean-Luc really did stick it in the refrigerator.”

“You must be prescient. I’m starving. Sandwiches, did you say? Should I go fetch them?”

“I can do it.” After all, it’s his birthday. Sort of. Well, the day after, I guess.

“I’d rather not have you ogled by any staff members who might still be tidying up. I’m a jealous gargoyle.”

“Possessive, too.” But I smile up at him, and after we kiss, I let him go. He shrugs on a robe and ties it around his waist, belting in his wings. At the doorway, he turns his head. “You’ve slain me, Bumps, and taken my soul. I don’t ever want to let you go.”

But then he disappears. The click of the door behind him hits me with all the wrong notes of finality.

Snuggling into the softness of the bed should be easy. My limbs are tired, still weak from riding Alain, and I’ve got his cum and mine trickling down my thighs, but I’m too apprehensive, though I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just because I just had sex with the enemy. Not that Alain is my enemy, but any monster has to be counted as the opposition in a general sort of way.

Or, maybe it’s because I’m afraid that now that he’s had me, he’s going to leave, despite his words just now. He told me that he could be called back at any time to his cathedral post, and that when he is, he’ll go. And I get that. Duty, I understand. Wanting a different destiny isn’t always enough to make it happen.

But he’s not going to leave me right now. He’s only gone to the kitchen to fetch the grazing board, which shouldn’t fill me with any level of unease, and yet…

Something’s wrong.

Without bothering to bathe off our cum, or to pee, which my bladder is telling me to do, I find another nightgown, this one a big tent of a thing that Alain bought me for nights during my period when I need to feel cozy. It’s brushed cotton, imprinted with little blue bows, and I love it. I especially love how easily it goes over me now.

Racing downstairs, I head for the kitchen. Because the house is so enormous, I have to run a distance. I’m still a room away when I hear voices. Alain’s is calm. Soothing. As if he’s trying to talk someone off a ledge. The other voice… I know that other voice.

Bursting into the kitchen, I find my tutelary chortling as he hides himself behind the grazing table that stands just outside the walk-in refrigerator. In the center of the room where there’s a big open space, a roaring circle of flames surrounds Alain.

“Bunny! Glad you could make the party. I’m just frying up the monster who kidnapped you.” Morrie rises to his feet and shoves an entire saucisson floret into his mouth.

“Hey, I didn’t make that for you,” I protest.

“Bumps, get out. Let me handle this,” Alain says quietly, even though the flames are awfully close to his skin.

“But that’s your birthday grazing bo…” Understanding belatedly falls through me. “You’re trying to burn my boyfriend?” I demand, shock ratcheting through me.

“Burn, boyfriend, burn!” Morrie sings. But then he loses his mirth. “I’m here to save you, Bunny. I know this vile monster has been keeping you imprisoned, and I can’t imagine how he’s tortured you, but I’m here now, sweet girl. I’ve got this.”

“And you think I don’t?” I demand, my hands finding my hips.

“Well, you haven’t slain him, have you? But maybe you didn’t know about the holy oil? You need the fire to burn with holy oil,” Morrie explains calmly. “I know we didn’t cover that, but I never expected…”

“A little help, Bumps? Since you’re staying?” Alain cuts in.

I look at him and notice that the flames are licking his wings.

“Ooh, sorry. Sure.” I look around the kitchen. I don’t know what puts out holy oil, but there’s a fire extinguisher along the wall. I pluck it off its hinge, try to figure out how to work the thing, and curse the fact I never learned. I throw it to the floor and rush out to the hallway. There’s an orange tree there, growing in a decorative Chinese urn. Dragging that back into the kitchen through the swinging door, I get close enough to the flames for the heat to singe the skin along my arm, but I don’t hesitate. Instead, I tip the pot over, sending the tree and the dirt over a small portion of the fiery wall.

A second later, the gargoyle explodes over the plant. He grabs me up into his arms and races through the door and outside into the chilly late-September night. Once we reach the lawn, he puts me down and begins rolling around in the grass.

“Sorry, Bumps. Sorry. I just need, ooh, that hurts.”

“Are you okay?” I demand.