I finished my breakfast, polished off the rest of the milk carton, and scarfed two slices of untoasted bread, but still there was no sound from the bathroom. I washed the dishes in the spotless sink and placed them in a sparkling metal dish rack to dry. The entire kitchen area was unnaturally tidy—in my rather messy experience—for a male were-cat living alone.
Still nothing from the bathroom, even as more minutes passed. Concern overruled my better judgment. I crossed the small apartment and banged my fist against the bathroom door.
“I’m not dead in here,” came the reply.
“Say it to my face, then.”
The door pulled open. I stepped back, startled. Wyatt stood with one hand on the knob, the other limp by his side. No tears, no redness, still no real emotion cracking through on his face. Just a study of calm.
“I’m fine,” he said, brushing past me. He stopped in the center of the apartment, observing the cleaned-up kitchen. “I didn’t know you were so domestic.”
“Neither did I.” I put my hand on his forearm, surprised to find his skin warm, almost feverish. “Wyatt, I am sorry.”
He stepped away, withdrawing from my touch. “There’s one of those plastic storage things under the bed. Dylan’s girlfriend stays over and keeps stuff here, so something may fit.”
I ducked around him, getting directly in his path, forcing him to look at me. “Thank you,” I said. “For all of this. You keep saving my life and all I can do is insult you.”
“You gotta go with your gifts.”
I stared until I saw the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I really am sorry.”
“I know, and it’s really okay. I think I’d be angry, too, if someone disrupted my eternal rest because they had a question.”
I laughed, and so did he. It felt great.
Dylan’s girlfriend wore Petite; I now wore Tall. Her jeans fit at the waist, but rode up to mid shin like Capri pants. The gashes in my leg had healed completely by the time I dressed, so those bandages came off. The light, six-inch scars would probably fade in a few hours. My arm, on the other hand, itched like a bitch. I refused to look at the wound until that damnable itching stopped, but Wyatt peeked and said it was healing well. Bully for me.
The storage drawer only had two nice, button-up blouses in it. I grabbed the royal blue one, rolled up the sleeves, hooked the center three buttons, and tied the tails just above my waist. Not ideal, but better.
We still hadn’t addressed the “What next?” issue. My instinct was to follow up on Amalie, since she was our only real lead. Smedge had said she was consolidating her power within the Fey community, in preparation for something big. The sprites were powerful and did not startle easily. They also didn’t overreact to potential bad news. Much like the logically thinking vampires, they waited for said news and then reacted appropriately. The only major hitch: the Fey didn’t live in the city. Unlike their Dreg counterparts, they preferred the solitude of the northern mountains.
“So let’s go over this again,” I said, joining Wyatt on the apartment’s small sofa. “I met you the night of the thirteenth, right after the Triads attacked Sunset Terrace. I wanted to turn myself in, but you talked me out of it.”
“Right so far. One of my informants told me of the alliance forming between goblins and Bloods. I wanted to check it out. You agreed.”
“Where did I go?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was a Hunter, Wyatt. The goblins and Bloods wouldn’t have just told me about their dastardly plan, and I didn’t know any of them socially. After we met up, did I say where I was going next? What was my plan?”
His mouth puckered and his eyebrows furrowed. “You said you were going uptown to Fourth Street, but wouldn’t give me details.”
My lips parted. I only knew one person uptown. “I must have gone to see Max. If he hasn’t migrated yet, he could still be there.”
“Max?”
“He’s a gargoyle that lives on the library.” I bounced to my feet. “Gargoyles never forget, so he’ll be able to tell me what we talked about. Clues, Wyatt. Come on, let’s go get them.”
He grinned and, for a moment, seemed eager for the hunt. More like his old self. He stood up. “All right, then, let’s go see about a gargoyle.”
Chapter 7
56:40
I call him Max because gargoyle language has no direct translation into English. Or any human language, for that matter. Names don’t translate. Like birds, the sounds they emit change in pitch and pattern to communicate. Few gargoyles bother to learn the intricacies of human speech; fewer humans learn theirs.
This season, Max was perched on top of the Fourth Street Public Library. Most of his people preferred downtown locations closer to the other Dreg populations. He preferred uptown. Birds flocked there in spring and summer, because of the lower threat. Pigeons were a gargoyle delicacy and, for some inexplicable reason, pigeons love libraries.
Wyatt parked on a meterless side street and we hoofed it three blocks back to the library. Its impressive stone steps rose up like the front of a Greek theater, and the four-story building was just as impressive. A statue of a lion guarded the front entrance, clasping a sign in its marble claws that said: “Enter All Ye Who Seek Knowledge.”
Fit us to a tee.
Fortunately for us, the library opened early, and we were among the first to go inside. An elderly woman with reading glasses attached to her head by a gold chain gazed at us from the front desk. I smiled, and she smiled back. The familiar scents of leather and old books filled the main foyer.
I strode toward the staircase and bounded up to the third floor. Wyatt followed at a slower pace, constantly tossing furtive looks over his shoulder even though we were pretty much alone. None of the librarians paid us any mind. On the third-floor landing, the corridor branched left into the fiction room. Directly ahead, the marble steps became a metal spiral that continued upward. A red velvet rope hung across, sporting a sign that announced: “Employees Only.”
After double-checking that we were still alone, I stepped over the rope and continued up. Our footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, and it seemed to get smaller the higher we went. At the next landing we were presented with two doors—one marked PRIVATE, and the other ROOF ACCESS. We picked door number two and went up again.
I pushed open the exit door. Bright morning sunlight glared into my eyes. Facing east, the sun sat above the city’s horizon like an orange ball of flame. A cool breeze tickled my cheeks. I inhaled the odors of gasoline and exhaust and asphalt—the scent of my city.
Wyatt touched my elbow; I moved out of the way.
The exterior of the door was painted to match the exterior stone, which rose up like a castle turret to create a faked fifth floor. It was all alcoves and empty space inside, the perfect resting place for a gargoyle. A gravel path surrounded the hollow upper section. It was the only barrier between the building and a four-story drop to the asphalt below.
We crunched across the gravel and turned the corner to the north wall. One of the window insets had been smashed in, allowing a four-foot-wide access to the shadowy interior.
“Think he’s home?” Wyatt asked.
“Should be,” I said. “It’s well after sunrise, and Max is more allergic than most. Just talking about the sun makes his skin crackle.”
A common misconception about gargoyles: they don’t turn to stone during the day and fly freely at night as some myths suggest. A stone gargoyle is a dead one. Like their vampire cousins, gargoyles are highly allergic to direct sunlight. Exposure dries out their skin and turns it slowly to stone. Five minutes or more of direct sunlight changes them completely. A difference in genetics makes the vampire less stable, easier to shatter into dust. Gargoyles, on the other hand, are solid.