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Simon takes in the chimera’s full height, made greater by the upright wings. “I didn’t realize how big it was.” He releases my hand to place his own on the statue. “And how hideous.”
I hide my disappointment at losing his touch by pretending tobe insulted. “He doesn’t mean that, Pierre.” I pat the muscled neck like it’s a dog’s. “You’re beautiful.”
“You gave it a human name?”
“What should I call him?”
“I don’t know.” He grins shakily. “Bat-dog-lion… thing.” Tense as he is from being so high, something about him is more relaxed than I’ve ever seen, though I remind myself I’ve known Simon less than five days. He shakes his head. “Why put such a frightening statue on such a beautiful building?”
That I can answer readily. “According to Mother Agnes, they’re meant to frighten away any real demons that might seek to roost on the Sanctum. They declare”—here I lower my voice menacingly: “‘I have this watch, Brother Demon, and I am much more fearsome than you, so do not challenge me.’”
My eight-year-old self asked if that would really work, because wouldn’t lady demons seek out strong mates like that to make smaller devils with? That question earned me two months of scrubbing pots in the kitchen, and I still don’t know the answer.
Simon watches me like he knows my mind has wandered, but he’s not irritated. “And this is where you were when you saw the man?”
“Yes, I was like this.” I turn to face south. Simon steps up behind me, his clothes brushing mine at the back. His heartbeat echoes across the narrow gap between us. It’s slowed some, now that we’ve rested from our climb.
Without thinking, I place my hand on Pierre’s wing like I did that night and find Simon’s is already there. Quickly, I shift it to be next to his but not quite touching. His loose sleeve has fallen down to his elbow, his exposed forearm parallel to mine. The veins beneath the surface of his pale skin extend like blue vines along his arm, tangling with all their divides under his wrist. Myskin is as golden as his is silver, making the corresponding blood vessels a shade of green. The difference is fascinating.
“Where—?” Simon’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “Where did the man come from?”
I lean back slightly to point. “Over there.”
Simon’s cheek skims against the crown of my head as he lowers his chin to almost rest on my shoulder. “Ah, yes, I see.”
His voice in my ear rolls over me like gentle thunder, and I find myself swaying. Simon’s right hand comes to my waist in a protective instinct. “Are you all right?” he whispers, and my hair catches the wind of his breath.
Sight is only a distraction. I close my eyes as I nod, making my ear brush along his nose and lips.
Oh my Shining Sun.
Simon’s hand moves to cover mine on the statue. His wrist on my skin sends the shiver of his pulse through my arm as the heat of his breath drifts lower, to my neck. I sink into his warmth behind me, and his heartbeat speeds up again like he’s climbing stairs, but so does mine.
Is it only like this because of moonlight or because I’ve never been this close to a man before? I know Simon can’t possibly sense everything as I do, but does he feel something more than ordinary?
I open my eyes and turn to face him, my back to Pierre’s solid form. Simon’s left hand remains against the wing, his right still at my waist. His eyes are crystal clear except for that one spot. They search my face until his gaze settles on my mouth, telling me exactly what is on his mind. I’ve never been kissed except by Remi that one time. This would be different, though, and not just because I was wanting and expecting it.
Simon leans closer, then hesitates, like he’s giving me a chance to move away, though I have no desire to do so. Instead, I takea deep breath, inhaling the scents I’ve ignored until now. He smells of sweat and lantern oil, lamb stew with rosemary, ale, and… blood.
I blink, looking for the source. “What happened to your neck?”
Three long scratches run from Simon’s left ear to his collarbone. The marks aren’t deep, but thin lines have scabbed over on each where the skin was broken.
He stands straight, his right hand going to the opposite side of his neck. “It’s not what you think.”
Is he saying they aren’t fingernail marks? Because that’s the only thing I can imagine doing that. “What is it, then?”
“Nothing.” The spell of whatever had captured us is broken, and he abruptly turns away. “Thank you for showing me this place, but it’s late. We should go.”
Simon barely waits for me as we retrace our path back to the window in silence.
Though the lower moon makes everything darker, and I often make it easy for him to do so, he never takes my hand again.
