Acropolis (8 page)

"She's not as bad as you think. Just
powerful. I promise we'll teach you as much as we can about her at
the Acropolis."

Emma nods, her eyes landing on my pajama
bottoms. She fights not to smile. It is a welcome sight.

"Don't say a word," I warn playfully.

Rachel laughs. It hasn't taken her long to
notice the change in mood and the reason for it. I am sporting
black cotton pajama bottoms with flames on one leg and "Lover Boy"
printed in the blaze and across my rear.

"If you'd throw away old gifts from
ex-girlfriends, you wouldn't have half the crap you do in this
room," Rachel sneers.

I smile.

"It takes a confident man to wear these
pants," I say with a wink.

The bottoms had actually been a gag gift from
my friends, Monroe and Dayton, on Valentine's Day two years ago. I
never wear them, but since I mainly sleep in boxers, I had to bite
the bullet for modesty's sake. It is more for Emma than for Rachel.
I only own two pair of long pajamas, and I had chivalrously given
up my appropriate pair to the hybrid sitting on my bed.

"Oh, you definitely don't lack in
confidence," Rachel agrees as she scans the room. "You got any
sleeping bags in here, Lover Boy?"

I point at the closet, and she walks over to
it. I stand up and take an extra pillow off the bed before throwing
it on the floor. Rachel pulls a bedroll out of the top of my closet
and moves to the opposite side of the bed.

"I'll take first watch," I say. Rachel
doesn't argue.

"Try and get some sleep," I tell Emma.

Tomorrow is going to be a hard day for her,
in more ways than one.

Chapter 10

Emma

I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I
see the moon.

"It might help if you count sheep," Conor
says gruffly from the floor. I know I'm irritating him. I keep
rocking my legs rhythmically under the covers. For some reason, the
habit has always helped lull me to sleep, but it isn't working
tonight. And Rachel is snoring lightly on the opposite side of the
bed.

"Counting doesn't help," I murmur.

"And yet, it calms you?" he points out.

I stare up at the ceiling.

"It calms me, yes, but mostly, it helps me
put things in perspective. Numbers are reliable more often than
not."

Conor grows quiet. I begin to think he has
fallen asleep when I hear rustling. He sits up, his head and
shoulders now visible above the bed. He is shirtless, having pulled
his tee over his head before lying down earlier. Rachel has been
asleep now for a couple of hours.

"The Acropolis will be good for you, Emma,"
Conor says as he brings one knee up, draping an arm casually across
his leg.

"You don't know me well enough to know
that."

I don't sit up, but I do roll my head to the
side. He looks down at me.

"You have powers you need to learn to
harness. That's all I need to know about you."

Powers haven't been a concern for me until
the gargoyles came into my life, but I didn't mention this
fact.

"You'd rather still be dying?" Conor asks,
his eyes bright.

The room is mostly dark, the only light a
narrow beam that plays across the floor from the cracked bedroom
door. It highlights Conor's face.

"Honestly? It's less terrifying." I turn my
head away. "At least when I was dying, I was loved."

Memories assault me. Memories of me and my
mother. She is always holding me. Moment after moment, test after
test, doctor's office after doctor's office, she is always holding
me.

"Emma," Conor says. He pauses, and I jump
when his fingers suddenly graze my chin. He pulls my face back
toward the side of the bed gently. "Your mom is going to be
fine."

His eyes search mine. I don't know what he's
looking for, but he doesn't seem to find it. I wait for his hand to
drop, but it doesn't. I know he's right. Mom is going to be fine.
As long as she thinks I'm okay, she is going to be just fine. It's
me I'm worried about. I scare myself. The ball of flame and the
vision downstairs had been the last straw.

"Red hair . . . blood," I whisper. I know I'm
not making any sense, but Conor's eyes stay locked on mine, and he
doesn't look confused.

"Dayton," Conor whispers. "The red hair is
Dayton. You had a vision, Emma. What you saw was part of my
past."

Conor's hand finally falls away from my face.
I feel cold.

"She's one of my closest friends," Conor
says, his face now averted. I'm not daring enough to make him look
at me.

"You're in love with her?" I ask.

"I thought I was."

I should let the subject drop . . .

"What happened?"

Conor shrugs, his muscular shoulders lifting
only slightly.

"Turns out Dayton isn't entirely human. Her
aunt is part of a sect that has strange beliefs. They bound her to
Marcas, a hybrid Demon. That's the really short, condensed version.
And, strangely, I think she's falling for him. Marcas, I mean."

"I'm sorry," I whisper. Conor shakes his
head.

"Don't be." He looks back down at me and
smiles. It is a boyish grin, crooked, that hints at a dimple. "What
doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

That is truth exemplified.

"You hungry?" Conor asks suddenly. He stands
up, his head cocked.

I sit up slowly, looking over the side of the
bed at Rachel. She is drooling. Conor offers me his hand.

"Big ol' tub of Ben and Jerry's downstairs .
. ." Conor says, his brows lifting suggestively. "It's been my
experience you girls have secret love affairs with that masculine
dubbed confection. Me, I'm dyin' to finish off that carton of
Chinese."

Conor's light humor is contagious. He has a
way of making people feel comfortable even in the most awkward
situations. I hesitate, my hand lifting slowly.

"Mint chocolate chip?" I ask.

I want to sound playful, hopeful, but I think
I only come across as insecure. Conor smiles.

"A girl after my own heart. I'm a sucker for
mint. Mom keeps it stocked."

I place my hand in his. Touching Conor is
like being hit by lightning. There is just something so magnetic
about him.

"Fifty-two steps, give or take," Conor says
as we reach his bedroom door.

I feel my face heat. He laughs at my
expression, his hand tightening around mine.

"One . . ." he says. I stare at him in
disbelief. "Two . . ."

He moves slowly down the stairs, and I
follow, my chest tight. He is counting.
Counting
. And he is doing it because he knows it
calms me, gives me something to rely on in a rocky
situation.

"Fifty . . ."

Two more steps and we are back inside the
kitchen. Night has transformed it. Moonlight spills in through the
French doors, reflecting like diamonds on the smooth pool just
outside. The stainless steel appliances shine in the dark, and a
utility light above the stove casts a faint glow across the
concrete floors.

I am moving forward absently when I feel
Conor's free hand touch my elbow.

"Whoa, sweetheart! Not so fast."

His words bring me out of my reverie, and I
realize I am trying to pull him toward the French doors. Toward the
moon.

"Who is she?"

I don't use the word "mother" because I don't
consider the unknown evil stranger who'd sired me a parent. That
title belongs to a woman sitting worriedly either in Atlanta or
Illinois.

I keep staring at the French doors. Beside
me, Conor is quiet. One of my hands is still in his, and I use it
as an anchor. The night speaks to me.

"Darlin', I think it's going to take that
whole tub of Ben and Jerry's to answer that question."

He tugs on my hand, and I follow him. Once we
are next to the refrigerator, the French doors no longer in view,
he lets go of my hand.

"Who is she?" I ask again.

Conor sighs as he pulls a carton of ice cream
out of the freezer, tugging the lid off before plunging two spoons
from a nearby drawer into the green confection.

"Do you really want the answer to that
question now?" he asks me.

I see the uncertainty in his eyes, the
internal battle raging behind the calm facade he fights to keep in
place.

I stare at him. I hadn't wanted to know, had
been content letting the gargoyles talk about me as if I wasn't
present. But now . . . I am accepting the fact that in less than
twenty-four hours my life has changed. It isn't something I can
ignore. I have attacked two people, had a vision, and felt the need
to jump out of a window at the sight of the moon. I need to know
why.

"I want to know," I say confidently.

Here, now, I am safe. Conor grumbles a little
before suddenly grabbing me by the waist, using his hands to lift
me onto a small kitchen island. He pulls one of the spoons out of
the ice cream, hands it to me, and then takes a bite of his own
before leaning on the bar next to me. I'm not all that hungry, but
I follow his example. The mint flavor is fresh, soothing.

"Your mother's name is Enepsigos. In myth,
she is a two-headed she-Demon linked to the moon."

Conor is blunt, quick. It is like having a
band-aid ripped off a wound. The pain is there but fleeting. The
Demon part I'd known. Now I have a name. The ice cream is suddenly
too thick, and I swallow hard before placing my spoon back in the
carton.

"Two-headed?" I ask nervously.

Conor looks up at me, his eyes soft.

"In reality, she's a beautiful, bewitching
creature who only takes two-headed form when angry. She's a
mild-tempered Demon, considered affable. But she is powerful, Em,
and that always attracts people who want to abuse power. Your
mother has a long history."

She isn't my mother, but I don't correct
him.

"What kind of history?"

"Have you ever heard of King Solomon?"

I have. I don't have a religious past. My
family has not been the church-going type, but I know who Solomon
is. He is as much a part of myth as he is Biblical doctrine. Conor
places his spoon next to mine.

"Enepsigos was once bound to Solomon with a
triple-link chain. She can tell the future, and he used her for the
prophecies."

The vision from earlier makes sense now.
Somewhat.

"So I can see the future?" I ask
carefully.

Conor shakes his head.

"The vision you had was of the past, but
seeing the future isn't out of the question."

I look away, my eyes landing unconsciously on
the French doors. Only one door is visible from the island, but
even the hint of moonlight makes my heart hurt. I don't want to
discuss Enepsigos anymore. My pulse has quickened. My head is
pounding.

"Em . . . there's no reason for you to be
anxious. You're not as terrified as you think you are. Fear
triggers a fight response in you. Once you learn to control it, you
will be a force to be reckoned with."

I close my eyes.

"I don't want these powers."

Conor's hand covers mine. For once, I don't
jump.

"You can make them an asset. They only hurt
you if you refuse to learn how to use them."

I open my eyes and look down into Conor's
upturned face.

"And you would know this?"

Conor doesn't answer. He just gazes at me as
if he is trying to decipher my thoughts. I mentally withdraw. I am
not an open person. Conor frowns, his hand lifting mine.

"I would know this," he answers.

His hand suddenly grows hard, and I watch in
horror as it turns to stone around mine. It isn't the first time
he's done this, but I hadn't really been able to see it before. I
try pulling away, but the stone is unrelenting.

"Power is like having an extra limb. Learn to
use it, and you are no different than anyone else. Not physically
anyway."

I quit fighting him and lift my other hand to
touch his stone one tentatively.

"Can you even feel that?" I ask. He
laughs.

"Every bit of it. Feels just like it would if
you were caressing my flesh-like hand."

I pull away quickly. It is odd and a little
embarrassing knowing he can feel me rub him. Conor's hand returns
to normal.

"Turning to stone isn't my only ability,
Emma. It's just the most obvious. Like you, I had a lot to
learn."

I keep staring at his hand. The
transformation is amazing. Warm and soft, cold and hard, and then
warm and soft again.

"You can do more?"

My eyes move to his. Our gazes lock. He
smiles.

"How much did you want that ice cream?" he
asks.

I am instantly confused.

"Not much. Why?"

A drop of water hits my nose. It startles me,
and I look up. Another drop hits my forehead, then another.

"Conor," I whisper.

His arms go around my waist, and he lifts me
off the counter.

"Hold on," he says as he moves me to the
floor. "Look up."

I did as told.

"Oh, my God!"

Water falls from the sky out of
nowhere. We are inside his house and it is raining. It is
raining
.

"Gargoyles can control water," he whispers
against my ear.

I am soaked in minutes.

"H-how?"

Conor gestures at the sink, and I look to
find water streaming from the faucet only to be pulled up into the
air before falling over our heads. The sink isn't even on. The
water is cold, but it feels good against my skin.

"Amazing."

I look back up at Conor only to discover his
face is entirely too close to mine. I step away, my back hitting
the edge of the island. He shakes his head.

"You don't like to be close to people, do
you?" he asks.

The rain stops. I don't answer him. I stand
silently instead, my hands gripping the counter until my knuckles
are white. Conor leans forward, his hands coming to rest on each
side of me on the island, his fingers sinking into a layer of
water.