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"Yes, the full name. How many times do I need to tell you to show up for these events?" she hisses, voice steadily rising.

"Ma," I start, aware this might be my ass, but I'm thirty-two. I'm old enough to decide what I want in life. "I don't want to marry Zoey."

She sighs, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling. "Why the hell not? She's a sweet girl. She'll even allow you to keep your little job."

That right there is why I have a problem. No one allows me to do shit. My trust, something my grandparents put together for me, allows me to do whatever I want whenever I want. It’s why I strip. I don’t have shit else to do at the moment but take off my clothes and get pussy.

"Zoey isn't my type," I explain.

"Ekon, you're my precious baby. I married your siblings off with no issue. It’s not uncommon for our kind to go without our mates. Your father and I were a fluke," she explains. "I know that's what you want, but I can't wait on you forever. You're in your prime. It's time for you to settle down and get married. The window is closing."

Gargoyle shifters have one mate, but most never meet them before our window to have children closes permanently. If you have a child with your mate, your children will keep their gargoyle attributes and can use them all the time, like me. If you don’t, you’ll have children who can only change when the moon isn’t glowing, like my nieces and nephews. Thirty-one days a month of shifting versus three is a world of a difference to many people.

"Ma, I don't—"

"I don't care. Time isn’t on your side. You’re almost middle aged, Ekon.”

The notion hangs in the air. Gargoyles can live to be thousands of years old, but our reproductive years are short. There’s only a small window for that, and I’m right towards the end of mine. I’m thirty-two years old, and it takes about twelve months for a woman to give birth to a gargoyle. That’s only if the person is their fated mate. The less time the child is incubated, the weaker they are in terms of power. Sometimes a full fledged human is born instead of a gargoyle, which kills our numbers bit by bit.

“I will contact your grandparents, Ekon. They won’t pay for your partying ways anymore. You know the rules," she adds for good measure.

Since gargoyles can live for thousands of years, it’s not uncommon for us to have multiple trust. I received one from my grandparents when I turned eighteen. I should receive another from my parents around thirty-five… that is if I’m married.

"I'm not marrying anyone except my fated mate," I whisper, letting the words roll into the phone.

"That necromancer told you some bullshit," snarls my mom.

I lean against the locker, swallowing a sigh. "She didn't. She said my mate was in New Orleans."

Steffani Kadaris-Akuji is a well-known necromancer in Ohio. Unlike most, she can speak with your ancestors and gain new knowledge. When I sought her out, she spoke with someone who stated my mate was here. They just never said where.

"You've been there for almost eight months, Ekon. That should be enough time," she harps. "Especially with the job you have."

"I need more time," I explain.

"You’ve had enough," she replies. "Either you'll marry someone and have a child, or you'll forfeit your trust," she adds for good measure before a dial tone echoes.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I hit my head against the locker. It thuds, vibrating inside my head. The customers here pay me more than enough to survive, but I don't want to dance forever. I want what most don't have. I want my fated mate. Another buzz jolts my phone, and I unlock it, checking the message.

Mac: Drinks at Marcis?

Me: Who all is going?

Mac: Just some girls from the club. They wanna meet you.

A groan seeps out of my mouth, but I shut my locker. Rubbing my shoulder blades, I head toward the door as everyone files out.

Chapter 3 Yue

Jazz music blares the moment I cross the street, stepping deeper into the vibrant French Quarter. One of my favorite aspects of New Orleans is something is always open. Iron fences, rich smells, and neon lights assault my senses, filling me to the brim. With it being near Mardi Gras, people are everywhere. A hum rolls from my lips as I amble along, stopping briefly to watch street performers. It's damn near five in the morning, but people are out. Not as many as what it was twelve hours earlier, but still.

My neck tilts, scanning cast-iron lacework balconies hanging over narrow streets. I sidestep, dancing my way to my destination. I live in New Orleans, though not anywhere near Bourbon Street, as it's too expensive. But I live close. I know this place like the back of my hand. Eventually, I arrive at Marcis, one of the many bars open twenty-four seven. Unlike most states, Louisiana doesn't have a standard closing time. People are out and about no matter what time of the day it is.

I step inside Marcis, feeling the heat. Glitter bombs, beads and flashes of naked skin fill the bar. Titties are everywhere, and I’m not too proud to ignore a nice pair. Inhaling, I groan when the scent of bell peppers reaches my nose. Marcis is also one of the only places open this late that serves food. The signature meal, Miss Zoria's Gumbo, is to fucking die for. I wave my hand, signaling the bartender.

Food comes after a while, and a few drinks join it. The gumbo tastes as if someone's dead grandmother made it, putting her damn foot into it. With the way the ghosts wander this place, I wouldn't be surprised. It's thick as hell, just like I love it. I scrape the bottom of the bowl with a piece of French bread, chasing a chunk of sausage running from me. Bourbon hits the back of my throat warm and slow, and I slam the empty shot glass down on the bar hard enough to rattle the others lined up beside it. My throat is warm, and the feeling flutters in my chest. Everything inside and outside the damn bar is hot, which is saying something for five in the morning on a Saturday in New Orleans. Wet, humid air keeps the area dense even in late January.

The bartender fills my glass, knowing better than to stop and talk to me. This ain't the spot for all that. I gulp it down, letting it burn my insides just how I like it. Every part of my body tingles, and I hum in satisfaction. How many is this? Three or four? I don't know. I take shot after shot, glancing about and spying numerous supernatural creatures. New Orleans, in particular, is home to most of us. You can't walk somewhere without running into a vampire, witch, or shifter.