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Her lips twitched. “If you aren’t the Anasso, then who are you?”
“Darcy’s mate.” He lowered his head to brush his lips over her mouth. “The male who worships the ground she walks upon. The male who is determined to devote his attention—”
“Um, Styx,” she interrupted.
Styx lifted his head to frown down at her upturned face. “I’m not done telling you how devoted I intend to be. I spent all afternoon practicing the words.”
“Do you smell that?”
He shook his head. “All I smell is your intoxicating scent.”
“It’s…” She sniffed the air. “Granite. Levet?”
Styx’s brows snapped together. “No way. I have my Ravens keeping a very close eye on that…” He struggled to find words that wouldn’t offend his mate. She possessed an unreasonable loyalty to Levet. “Aggravating creature. He’s not allowed to come within a mile of this lair.”
“Then perhaps it’s another gargoyle.”
“Impossible.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Excuse me?”
Styx wisely scrambled to ease his mate’s quick temper. “What I mean is that nothing is allowed in or out of the estate….” His words trailed away as the ground shook as if it’d been hit by a meteor and the moonlight was blocked by a humongous object. “Shit.”
Marching across the room, Darcy pointed out the window. “There. I told you. Gargoyle.”
Styx stared at the massive gray form that was folding its ten-foot leather wings against its muscular body. A second later it hunched forward to peer into his library with a fierce expression on its lumpy features.
“That’s not Levet,” he muttered.
“Not unless he’s grown considerably since I saw him a few days ago,” Darcy agreed in dry tones.
Styx struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Gargoyles were reclusive creatures who rarely left their homeland in France. Then, with a muttered curse, he realized exactly who was currently destroying his garden.
“Aunt Bertha.” He shook his head. Just a few days ago Levet’s relative had been wandering around Chicago, unsure how she’d been transformed into a human shape. During a massive battle against an evil ifrit, she’d reverted back to her original form. He’d assumed that she had returned to Paris. Or continued her travels around the world.
What was that saying? Assuming would make an ass out of a vampire?
Styx dropped a kiss on the top of Darcy’s head. “Eat your dinner while it’s warm. I’ll get rid of Bertha and be right back.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“This is our night.” Styx moved to the large desk in the far corner. Bending down, he pulled out the sword that had been hidden beneath it. “Nothing is going to ruin it.”
Darcy eyed the huge weapon. “I thought you said the sword was gone.”
“Just because I want a night off doesn’t mean my enemies do.” Styx headed toward the door with long strides. “I’ll be back before dessert arrives.”
“Famous last words,” Darcy called out.
Styx didn’t respond. Mostly because he didn’t have any defense. He couldn’t count how many times he’d promised to be there for his mate only to have some emergency drag him away.
Using the back exit, he entered the garden, halting a judicious distance from the towering demon. Gargoyles were traditionally foul-tempered, stubborn, unreasonable creatures who were quick to use their large size and immunity to magic to their advantage.
Pausing to debate the best means of approaching the beast, Styx was distracted as a sharp chill in the air warned him that another vampire had joined him in the garden. He turned his head to watch a vampire with pale gold hair that reached his waist and ice-blue eyes stride toward him, his leather duster flaring around his six-foot-three frame. Jagr had been a Visigoth chief while he was a human and a feral fury continued to smolder around him.
“Jagr.” Styx pointed his sword toward the looming gargoyle. “Is there anyone else about to drop in uninvited?”
The vampire grimaced. As the head of the Ravens, Styx’s personal guards, he took his duties seriously.
