Acropolis (4 page)

"Try breathing in and out slowly. I hear that
helps," I suggest as Emma struggles weakly.

Her eyes roll up, watching me with enough
bottled up anger and distrust to take out a small country. The
color of her irises keeps dancing between amber and scarlet. It is
disconcerting mainly because I know only one kind of creature whose
eyes change depending on their level of emotion. And, until
recently, I had been intent on killing them all.

Emma thrashes weakly, her lips moving against
my hand.

"Calm down, and I'll uncover your mouth."

I am being as patient as I can, but I am
getting tired and irritable. The quick, lightning speed flight from
France a little after five to a time zone six hours behind, and an
unexpected hand-to-hand brawl with three grotesque hellions has
taken its toll. Between Will and me, it hadn't taken much to
discharge the trio, but I had taken a nice hit to my arm. The
electric energy I'd been attacked with had damaged a nerve, and I
am feeling sharp, shooting pains down my shoulder and into my back.
The girl's thrashing isn't helping.

"Ipoooommmmiii."

She speaks against my hand, her head nodding
almost frantically. I am pretty sure she's saying, "I promise," but
even if she isn't I'm willing to take the risk. Having two arms to
support her is ideal right now. I pull my hand away.

"My mother?"

She whispers it, but I hear it anyway. The
question throws me. It isn't the standard first inquiry by people
we Extract. Most people make instant "where are you taking me"
demands. I respect her concern for her mother. I am extremely close
to my own family.

"Sweetheart, your mom is fine. She's
safe."

Emma shakes her head, her eyes wide and
terrified. Her pupils are dilated. I don't understand her fear,
can't comprehend why life in general seems to scare her so
much.

"She's not safe. You don't understand. You're
killing her!"

She starts to thrash again, and I grit my
teeth against the resulting pain. It is getting easier to manage,
my body healing it slowly, but it still hurts like hell. My arm
loosens as a particularly violent kick causes the muscles in my arm
to spasm. I swear as I rush to use my other arm to brace Emma.

"She
is
safe. S-A-F-E! But you're going to get yourself killed if you
don't work with me here!"

Emma quits thrashing, her shoulders suddenly
trembling with tears.

"I'm all she has now. My father is
gone. She has lived for me after his death. For
me!
You. Are. Killing. Her."

I don't know how to respond to this. I have
seen Emma's records. I know her father died of Lung cancer. I
didn't count on her having a close relationship with her
mother.

My own father passed away when I was an
infant, but while my mother and I are close, she has also given
part of herself to her work. It helps her live, gives her a reason
to get past the pain of grief. Gargoyles are all about duty and
family. We are split between the two. Sometimes I forget how the
real world works. Even my closest friends aren't bound completely
to their families.

I look down at Emma, at the back of her neck,
at the way she reaches up to rub bloody tears from her cheeks. I am
a gargoyle. I have the ability to turn to stone, but I'm definitely
not made from rock.

"We have people who help the families of
those we Extract. She will be okay, Em. I . . . I'll allow you a
phone call when I can."

It isn't a promise I should make, but I make
it anyway. The words calm her. Not completely, but enough that she
becomes reasonably still.

"I'm going insane. I'm dying, and I just
don't know it."

She is talking to herself, and it's obvious
she thinks she is hallucinating. I can't blame her for that. One
moment she's safe inside a hospital, the next she's bear hugging a
therapist then being taken against her will by gargoyles. If I was
even half mortal, I'd think myself pretty damn crazy too.

"What can I do to make you understand this
isn't a dream? You aren't dying. You aren't even sick."

I ask her this softly, carefully. She
is like a cornered animal, spitting and snarling until it grows too
weary to lash out. But this doesn't mean she's any less dangerous.
She doesn't know it yet, but she is powerful.
Very
powerful.

She tilts her head back, her eyes meeting
mine before looking away. She is trying to hold my gaze and can't.
But she keeps her head up, and I watch as she fights with herself.
She is tall for a girl, her head stopping just under my chin.

"I don't know . . ." she answers. "What can
you do?"

The play of emotions on her face is
mesmerizing even under the layers of grime. She is so emotional and
yet so guarded. I can read every emotion, but I can't for the hell
of me figure out what they mean or what she is thinking.

"I'd ask you to trust me, but I figure
that's pointless. I can tell you what I am. I can even tell you
what
you
are. The believing it
part will have to come with time."

She seems to consider this.

"Y-you said you were a gargoyle. Like those
statues on Notre Dame?"

She is playing along. For this, I am
grateful.

"Somewhat. We are creatures created by the
Heavens to guard against evil. Our lives are dedicated to this
singular cause. Over the years, gargoyles have multiplied. We are
family oriented, each family broken down by crests. We marry only
our own race. Females take the crests of their husbands. We all
serve the cause. We have the ability to turn to stone. Some of us
have the ability to change shape, species even, such as Roach. We
live a long, long time but we are not immortal. In the end, we are
given a choice at death. Pass on or sacrifice ourselves for the
cause. The ones who choose sacrifice turn forever to stone on their
building of choice. In this form, they can forever communicate with
us, to warn us when there is danger in their area. They also ward
off evil."

I am being long winded, rambling even, but I
need her to understand that we aren't a danger to her. And even
this explanation is a condensed version. Gargoyles are complicated.
Our lives, initiations, crests, and powers are something that takes
years to learn. I still don't know it all.

"It doesn't sound real."

I smile.

"No . . . no, it doesn't. But, you must
admit, it's too outlandish to be fake."

She doesn't smile in return, but I feel some
of the apprehension in her body melt away.

"You don't know me well. I have a wild
imagination."

I laugh at that, and she tenses again. I
don't apologize.

"The only thing I know about you is what I've
seen on paper. But, I promise, I know more about you than you
do."

She frowns, and I know this unnerves her.

"You said I wasn't sick?"

So, she caught that. Good.

"No, you're not. Symptoms like yours are
fairly normal for creatures like you. Fever is a given. The phobias
I'm still trying to figure out."

She actually manages to tense more. If that
be possible.

"Creatures like me?"

"Yes, creatures like you."

"And what would that be exactly?"

I prime myself for her reaction, tightening
my arms, preparing to re-cover her mouth if the need arises.

"Hybrids," I answer. "Half-Demon, half-mortal
children."

She surprises me again. Instead of
screaming, instead of thrashing, she laughs.
Laughs!

"Now I know you're lying!" she says, her
words broken by giggles. I just shake my head and cock a brow.

"Oh, you'll see, sweetheart. It won't be an
easy thing to accept, but you'll be forced to."

She grows still, her face a contorted battle
between laughter and thought.

"Where are you taking me?"

Now
that
is a question I am prepared to answer.

"Right now? My home. It's a close safe haven.
After that . . . well, you'll see."

If she thinks she's dreaming, it's the best
answer I can give her. If telling her she is a hybrid Demon makes
her laugh, telling her about the Acropolis will only result in a
nice guffaw.

"And you'll let me call my mother there?"

She isn't going to let me forget my promise.
We aren't supposed to allow hybrids contact with family, but I am
willing to bend the rules. If for no other reason than to calm her,
to force her to view this whole mission as reality.

"I'm not crazy, you know? I'm not weak," she
defends.

I have been quiet for too long, leaving
her question hanging unanswered between us. I look down at her
messy hair, her even messier face. Her eyes are still dilated but
no longer red. She won't meet my gaze. She shies away from
everything. It seems weak. It
looks
weak, but I am the one holding her, and I know better. I know
what she is going to have to face.

"It would be better if you
were
crazy. Crazy is easier. But
weak? I don't see weakness."

She seems surprised by this observation, and
she glances quickly at my face, her eyes staying longer than usual
before looking away.

"What do you see?" she asks, her voice low
and trembling.

I watch as Roach looks back at us, his
reptilian eyes narrowed, his forked tongue shooting out rapidly. He
is annoyed. I can't see Will, but I know he is shaking his head. I
am such a glutton for punishment. I have always had a thing for
wounded animals—a natural urge to protect the defenseless.

"I see a girl about to be faced with the
biggest trial in her life. Maybe she will be overcome with the fire
this knowledge will bring. Maybe she will burn, but I also see a
girl that will rise out of the ashes, stronger. Powerful."

Emma shivers.

"You don't know me," she whispers.

I didn't disagree.

"No, I don't."

Chapter 6

Emma

Conor Reinhardt is charming. He is funny. He
is handsome. And he is a figment of my imagination. If he isn't,
then I am a hybrid Demon who isn't dying, and he is a gargoyle sent
to Extract and guard me. Whatever that means.

After spending six years living under the
fear of death, it is easier to believe he is imaginary. Old habits
die hard.

"I'm not sure I want to believe you," I say
quietly.

It just isn't easy to accept the world can
change that drastically in an instant. He is saying that fairy
tales are reality. Gargoyles? Hybrid Demons?

"I wouldn't want to believe me either," Conor
replies. "But consider this; you have lived with a constant fever
for six years with hospital stays and I.V.'s that couldn't reduce
your temperature. Do you really think that's any less freakish than
flying with a dude that can turn to stone?"

He has a point. But fevers are less
frightening than his alternative. I had grown used to fevers. I'd
had six years to come to terms with fevers. Six
years
.

"I can't be a Demon."

Why I say this is beyond me, but the words
slip out. Conor sighs.

"It's not as bad as it sounds."

No, it is worse. Demons are terrifying
creatures. They are grotesque. They are evil. I read books. And
author renditions of Demons aren't comforting. They are horrifying.
I am close to hyperventilating when Conor speaks again.

"Some Demons aren't evil. And hybrids are
even less prone to being bad."

He is trying to sound reassuring, but I hear
the reluctance in his voice.

"You don't sound like you believe that," I
whisper.

He is quiet far longer than I feel
comfortable with.

"I
didn't
believe it. At first. But . . . I have
begun to see things a little differently recently."

"Recently?"

I am prying, but I feel I deserve any
information he is willing to give. If I am imagining this, then it
is one very interesting dream. Conor shifts almost uncomfortably,
which I think impressive considering we are flying. I close my eyes
and count to ten. Counting helps keep me calm.

"I have a friend who is working with a hybrid
Demon. She seems to trust him, and I trust her judgment. And there
have been others in the past . . . it's opened some eyes, made
protectors like me realize that not all hybrids are as evil as
their Demonic parent."

I am having a nightmare. I have to be.
Demonic parent? I think about my mom, my
adopted
mom, and I feel tears prick the back of
my eyes. She is an amazing mother. She is the only parent I need.
She is the only parent I want.

"I'm not a Demon," I say coldly.

Conor's left arm tightens around my waist.
His other arm lifts, his hand sweeping my hair out of my face
before swiping some of the grime from my cheek. It is a familiar
gesture, a gesture he seems entirely too comfortable with.
Something tells me he's the flirty type, that he's used to being
familiar with females.

"Life isn't about getting what we want. It's
about turning the crappy cards we're dealt into a winning hand," he
says wryly.

Now he sounds like a therapist. A good one,
not one like Helen"Helga" Reed. Good therapists only give advice
about things they know about.

"You sound like you speak from experience," I
say.

Conor snorts.

"You could say that. Being a gargoyle isn't
easy, Em. Sometimes it's easier being the bad guy. At least then,
if you screw up, it isn't taken personally. It's just expected. The
lower your expectations, the lower you have to reach for approval.
Mortals, even hybrids, have more choices than we do."