He turned in his seat, leaning his head against the window of his door. “Chase? What we had was good. It was strong. But it wasn’t love. I know that now. I think she knew it even then.”
That was not exactly a straight answer.
“Were you the one who called it off?”
He tried to smile, didn’t make it, and settled for that Zen bit. “She left me for someone else. A man named Greyson. She thought he was her Complement. Maybe even Soul Complement.”
“I thought you said that was rare.”
“So is lightning striking in the same place twice. Yet it happens.”
“Are they still together?”
“He was killed three months ago,” he said. “Jingo Jingo found him dead just after your father was killed.”
No wonder Chase was pissed at me. Three months isn’t long enough to grieve, isn’t long enough to recover. At least it wasn’t for me.
“I’m sorry.” And though I probably should have, I just didn’t have it in me at the moment to ask him how he had died.
“Good night, Zay.”
“Good night. See you around nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“For?”
“Coffee before I take you back to Maeve’s?”
Right. Maeve’s. I had class tomorrow. Wow, I was so totally out of the swing of morning living. I’d been Hounding jobs, mostly at night, for long enough that nine in the morning sounded obscenely early.
“Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”
I shut the door and strolled to the back entry of the building. Zayvion started the engine, but didn’t drive off until I had opened the door, waved, then stepped into the building.
I made my way to the stairs and couldn’t help but shake my head at the bottom. Why in the world had I decided a walk-up was the kind of place to live in?
Maybe because even the sound of an elevator door opening, that rigor-sweet bell, was enough to make my palms sweat. Claustrophobia was a bitch, but I guess it meant I got my walking in every day.
I headed up the stairs, taking my time to listen to each floor of the building. I caught the drone of a television, music, laughter, an argument, a baby crying, one sweet tenor raised in an operatic chorus, all muffled by the walls and doors of apartment living.
Then I was on my floor and it was silent, which wasn’t that unusual. My neighbors and I did little more than nod hello when we ran into one another. Most of the time we kept to ourselves, and I liked it that way.
Out of habit, I paused at my door, pressed my fingers against it, leaned in, and listened. There was movement in there. I figured it was Nola.
I unlocked the door and it opened-which meant she hadn’t set the chains.
I stepped in and shut the door behind me, turning the locks and setting the chains. It sounded like she was in my bathroom or bedroom. Probably hanging more plants.
“Hey,” I called out. “I’m home. You forgot to set the chain on the door.”
It was the kitchen that tipped me off. One, nothing was cooking, baking, and not even the smell of brewed coffee touched the air. Whenever Nola was in a house, there was always the comforting smell of food present.
Two, every cupboard in my line of vision was open.
Three, every coffee cup had been removed from my shelves and was now stacked, one on top of the other, on the stove.
What the hell?
I recited a mantra, set the Disbursement-more aches-and traced the beginning of a Shield spell. Maybe the smart thing would be to call 911. Tell them a cup-stacking intruder was in my home. Of course, since I had just yelled that I was here, maybe the smartest thing was to leave the apartment and come back when the police showed up.
Decisions, decisions.
Without drawing magic into my sense of smell, I inhaled, breathing in the scents of the room.
It smelled like my apartment, except there was a heavy odor of wet dirt, stone, and moss, like rain on a hot summer sidewalk. Maybe from all the plants Nola had put around the place. That would explain the dirt smell anyway. But hot stone wasn’t anything I could place.
Screw it. I did not want to get jumped tonight. Time to go find a phone. I put my hand on the chain, quietly slid it loose. I was just turning the lock when someone walked into the living room.
Okay, not someone. Something.
I gasped, which was better than the yell I felt like belting out, but loud enough in the silent room that the thing turned its wide stone head toward me.
Big as a Saint Bernard, I recognized the gargoyle immediately. It was the one I’d accidentally broken, or as was now obvious, set free outside the restaurant the other night. The carved collar still circled its neck and three stone links of the chain hung free there.
It tipped its head to the side, as if working to see me better, and then, I swear this is true, it smiled, pushed up on its hind doglike legs, and waddled over to me, wide stone wings spread for balance.
I pressed up against the door and poured magic into the Shield spell I’d started.
The gargoyle stopped, tipped its head the other way, then lowered onto all fours, moving much more smoothly and slowly over to me. It sniffed its way down the hall, up to the edge of the spell I had cast. Then it stuck its snout into my spell and past my spell-pushed right through the Shield like it wasn’t even there. Impossible.
Yep. As impossible as a living, breathing gargoyle sniffing me in the middle of my apartment.
It snuffled at my boots, then my jeans, and finally touched its flat stone snout against my outstretched hand.
I had expected it to be cold, but instead its nose was warm, and so was the air that blew out from its nostrils and mouth. I let the Shield spell drop, because, seriously, why pour magic into a spell that wasn’t doing a damn bit of good?
The gargoyle made a glasslike clacking sound, like someone stirring a bag of marbles. It smiled again, revealing all three dozen of its teeth. Yes, I counted.
He-I decided it looked more he than she-blinked his big round eyes and twitched his wings.
I got the overwhelming impression he was waiting for me to do something.
“If you want me to cast magic for your entertainment, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”
He dipped his head down and rubbed his face under my hand.
Like a dog who wanted to be scratched behind the ears.
“You have got to be kidding me.” I rubbed at his head-stone, not as smooth as marble, but soft and warm, like heated tile. His wings spread and folded neatly down his back. He made the marbles-in-a-bag clatter sound again.
I stopped rubbing his head. He stood up on his hind legs and waddled back into my apartment.
“Are you a joke?” I asked as I carefully followed behind him. “Is someone here? Who’s making you do this?” Did they make remote-control gargoyles?
I mean, Zayvion had told me the gargoyles were just statues. Carved by a master Hand, infused with a small amount of magic, but just statues.
Currently, the statue was pulling the seat cushion off my couch and balancing it on his head.
“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone here?”
The gargoyle held the cushion on his head with one hand and called out too, a sound somewhere between that of a soft vacuum cleaner and a muted pipe organ.
“Not you,” I said. “I know you’re here.”
He clacked, which I decided was his happy sound, and got busy trying to balance an additional cushion on his head.
“If you ruin those, you’ll have to pay for them.”
A cool breeze whisked down the hall from my bedroom.
It was a small apartment. Other than the kitchen and living room, the only other places for someone to hide were the bathroom and bedroom. Both of which had windows. One of which, the bedroom, wasn’t painted closed and was large enough for a person to crawl through.