 
THE ACROPOLIS

R.K. Ryals

Copyright 2012 by Regina K. Ryals

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the people who have helped me the most through this entire process. To my sister, Sabrina Williams, who is the most amazing sister in the world, who reads chapters at 2 a.m. just because I want an opinion. To Audrey Welch, an amazing photographer and an even better friend. "Wuvs you!" To Laura Wright Laroche, an amazing author who diligently takes the time to produce the cover art for each of my books as well as accompanying book trailers. Just amazing! To Melissa Wright, author extraordinaire who beta reads with a diligence and enthusiasm I greatly admire! She lends an ear for author vents and made up dirty words. To Melanie Bruce, who scrupulously edits each page. I couldn't ask for a better friend and partner in crime. And to the amazing people I have met along the way for their encouragement and interest in my books. You are all simply amazing.

Chapter 1

Conor

"We have a new assignment for you, Mr. Reinhardt."

The words are not comforting, and I barely glance at the men and women gathered around the long, newly waxed mahogany table. I can see my reflection in the surface, my jaw tight, my eyes stormy. My dark blond hair is getting a little too long, and I fight not to brush it off my forehead.

"I already have an assignment."

It isn't wise to question the Council, but I am tired and overwhelmed. The girl I'd spent most of my life loving is on a foolhardy quest with a Demon, and I had let her go. I had known it wouldn't be long before the Council interfered. It had been my job to protect her, and I had botched it.

"We have a new assignment for you."

The Director's voice is firm, unwavering, his emphasis on the word "new" accented enough that I finally force myself to meet his gaze. Director Gibson.

At sixty-two, Gibson is powerfully built for his age, his body honed to perfection by a daily regimen that would intimidate most men. His graying hair is still mostly black, and the only wrinkles on his face are around his eyes and lips. He is former military, a retired Navy Seal, and he expects, no demands, attention when he speaks. And I am foolish enough not to give it to him.

"Am I to forfeit the mission I'm already on?"

The question is more an act of defiance than a necessity. The way Gibson's eyes light up, I know he recognizes this.

"Dayton Blainey did the forfeiting for you."

More hurtful words have never been spoken.

I eye Gibson warily. As head of the Council of Gargoyles, he is, by far, one of the most powerful men I know. For one, he is no ordinary gargoyle. In ancient times, a statue of a griffin was carved, and with divine intervention, transformed into reality to protect the weak and the possessed from Satan. In his gargoyle form, Gibson is a terrifying half-lion, half-eagle creature that will stop at nothing to defeat evil. I have only seen him in this form once, at my induction into the Inner Circle, and I'm not particularly keen on seeing it again.

Gibson stands up, his hands resting resolutely on the table's surface. Somewhere a janitor is moaning. The wax job isn't going to hold up.

"We have an escort job for you."

I try hard not to groan.

"An escort job?"

It is one of the more demeaning gargoyle positions, transporting some hapless weak creature to wherever the Council deems necessary. My botched Guardian job is biting me in the ass.

"I'm better than that."

My tone is petulant even though I know I shouldn't complain. It's an honor being inducted into the Circle at all. Gargoyles are a protective, familial lot and they don't agree with inducting anyone who hasn't first graduated from high school, but I had come into my powers early and had been hard to ignore. And with the recent developments in my relationship with Dayton Blainey, the Council has decided my education would be better concluded using tutors between missions. It isn't something I can argue.

"Escorts are entry level. You haven't earned anything beyond that."

Gibson is thrumming his fingers against the table's top, and I know by the rhythm that he is getting frustrated. Time to back down.

"Who's the mark?" I ask evenly.

I know resisting will do nothing more than get me suspended, and I can't afford to lose my status, not while both Dayton and Monroe are now as embroiled in the supernatural world as I am. The two girls are my closest friends.

Director Gibson smiles. It is forced, but still evidently approving.

"Emma Chase."

He takes a file from a thin, birdlike man next to him and slides it to me from across the table. I catch it easily, my fingers wrapping around the thick manila folder as I use my other hand to pull out an extra chair at the end of the table. I prop my left foot up casually on the seat and brace an arm against the table as I flip the file open.

Gibson raises a brow at my irreverent position, but I prefer him think me flippant rather than weak, and the truth is, my leg is bothering me. I had sustained an injury to it a year before in a car accident. While pulling my friend, Jacin, from a precariously overturned Sentra, my leg had been crushed when the automobile rolled unexpectedly. It had been a rash night of partying, and my friends and I had all been drunk for varying reasons. From the way my leg throbs now, I know it is going to rain. Gargoyles can heal. Without the ability, my leg would have had to have been amputated. I am lucky I only have an occasional limp and only when I'm in human form.

I look down at the folder and pause. Emma Chase. From the photograph now staring up at me, I know she can't be much younger or older than my own eighteen years of age. The picture is awkward, a quick snapshot of a slim girl, dark hair framing high cheekbones and wide, scared eyes. She isn't smiling.

Age: 17

Height: 5'10

Weight: 125

Name: Chase, Emma

I see nothing extraordinary until I flip the page, and then there it is—six years of medical records, all with similar descriptions written in indistinguishable handwriting, all with the same grim prognosis.

I look up at Gibson.

"Shouldn't you be calling in the Angel of Death?"

Gibson shakes his head.

"Not necessary." He gestures to the file in front of me. "Flip past the medical."

I did as ordered and sit up so quickly, I'm sure the whole room hears my protesting knee pop as I pull my leg from the chair. My eyes fly to the director.

"This is a job for the S.O.S."

Gargoyles are divine protectors, assigned to guard against Satan and evil, but the S.O.S., short for the Swords of Solomon, is a special group of men and women trained to protect artifacts attributed to King Solomon from the Bible. There are other groups assigned to other artifacts, but the file I'm looking at now definitely belongs to the S.O.S.

Gibson sits back down, his fingers now still against the table's surface.

"The girl is not an artifact."

I know this, but . . .

"Have you mentioned this to Alessandro?"

Alessandro is the head of the S.O.S. His operation is based out of Italy, but he has spies all over the world. Gargoyles operate in a similar fashion. Our Center is based in France, but we have families living everywhere.

"We've met on the subject, and he agrees with me," Gibson says as I close the folder only to pull the cover back open.

There, again, is the awkward photo. There is nothing remarkable about the girl, nothing to make a person look twice.

My eyes flick from the photo to Gibson to the photo again.

"Does the mark know?"

Someone clears a throat a few seats away from Gibson, and I let my eyes wander to the source. It is a brunette woman of average height, her hair cut in a severe bob that does nothing to diminish the sharp angles of her face. Her eyes are heavily made up with mascara. Delilah Simpson.

Delilah is a member of the Council because she had single-handedly taken out a group of rogue Demons who had taken over a community in the Northwestern United States. Her gargoyle form is much more impressive than her human one.

"The girl, Emma, does not know."

The way Delilah enunciates the girl's name, I know she has a personal interest in the mark. I stare at her the same way my mother always stares at me when she knows I'm hiding something. Mom has a vicious "truth-inducing" gaze. It's obviously hereditary. By the way Delilah squirms, I know she has spoken out of turn.

"I handled her adoption," Delilah mumbles before looking away.

That catches me off guard.

"Adoption?"

I look down at the folder and flip past the girl's dossier. Sure enough, there are the appropriate documents.

"I don't understand. How long has this mark been in the system?" I ask.

It is unusual for a gargoyle to be assigned to a person for life. It has happened, but the cases are rare.

"Since birth."

It is Gibson who answers, his eyes on Delilah. She stares back defiantly.

"The girl shouldn't have been allowed to live," Gibson points out.

Delilah didn't look the least bit fazed.

"Infants are allowed immunity."

A man I know only as Rainey grunts from across the table.

"Despite the possible danger she could pose? Both to herself and to society?"

Rainey pats the table angrily. The wax job is definitely done for.

"She has never been a danger," Delilah argues.

I watch the proceedings with growing interest while working a piece of spearmint gum from my pocket and popping it into my mouth. I had flipped the girl's picture back into view, and her scared eyes stare back at me. A school picture maybe? It isn't a surveillance shot. She had known this photo was being taken.

"Conor?"

Huh? I look up to discover the whole Council has turned toward me. I straighten.

"I'm sorry."

Gibson sighs but doesn't reprimand me.

"You'll need to use caution when approaching her. The girl is a little . . . shy."

A few Council members snicker. Delilah glares at them. I just lift a brow.

"Shy?"

Rainey can't seem to help himself. He snorts. A tall man with thick, brown hair and wide shoulders, Rainey isn't the type to skirt an issue.

"Terrified may be the better description," Rainey replies.

I glance around the boardroom and realize the Council members are all avoiding my gaze. What kind of Escort job is this?

"Where am I supposed to take her?" I ask when it becomes obvious nothing more is going to be said on the whole "shy but better described as terrified" subject.

"The Acropolis."

Gibson says the word firmly as if he's expecting an argument, and by the looks shot his way, he's right. The Acropolis.

There are ancient Greek ruins called the Acropolis of Athens, but we all know he isn't referring to those. No, the Acropolis is a project set in motion by a collaboration of gargoyles, the S.O.S., and other groups devoted to protecting mankind. It is a fairly new idea, a school, which has only been in operation for two years with minimal success. It seems only plausible the mark be sent there considering her records. But while I look at Gibson with approval, the rest of the table stares at him with expressions akin to horror. Were they not aware of Gibson's plans?

"She wouldn't make it a week," Delilah practically hisses.

The Council's reaction is beginning to worry me.

"It's either that or we destroy her."

Gibson's words are final, and when he stands, we all stand with him.

"You'll take her to the Acropolis."

This last command is meant for me, and I nod as Gibson adjourns the meeting among sighs of discontent.

"You'll need to provide the school with extra protection," Rainey calls out as Gibson leaves the table. The Director doesn't turn around.

"It's taken care of."

Delilah moves up beside me as we watch Gibson exit the room.

"Is she that dangerous?" I ask.

Delilah gives me a sympathetic smile.

"No, not Emma."

Chapter 2

Emma

I was dying.

The doctors told me I was an aberration, afflicted with an illness that had never been documented. I was then all of eleven, a thin wisp of a girl with a dark braid down my back, my face ashen with horror. I wasn't supposed to live out the year.

But that was then. I have been dying now for six years, and I am constantly under the scrutiny of medical experts and therapists. It is a miracle, they say, that I have lived as long as I have, but I am beginning to believe they are wrong. Maybe I wasn't meant to die, only live in misery for the rest of my life.

"It's going to be fine," my mother whispers.

We are sitting in an elegant, overdone sitting area waiting to see yet another specialist, and I know my face is pinched, not with nervousness but with disgust. No one is going to be able to help me. I am beyond saving. But my mother is desperate. I am her only child, adopted when I was three months old. Two years after the adoption, her husband, my adopted father, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Four months later, he passed away while hooked to machines pumping him with morphine. My mother has never fully recovered.

"They say optimism prolongs life," my mother chirps as she flips through a homeopathic magazine. When all treatments failed, mom turned to natural and experimental medicines. I am sick of being sick.

"Maybe it's time to let go," I mumble.

My mother gives me a sharp look, her once young face lined by years of stress. Her auburn hair is pulled back from her face and pinned up at the back of her head. She wears glasses perched on the tip of her nose. They are only for reading, but she rarely takes them off. The spectacles are made up of red-rimmed frames that clash badly with my mother's baggy khaki pants and tucked, blue silk shirt. She has lost weight.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

I hadn't expected any less.

"Emma Chase!"

My mother and I stand as one, although I tower over her by a foot as we saunter over to the large African-American woman who has called my name. I like her instantly. She has on red scrubs with a name tag shaped like kissing lips, and she smells like cotton candy. The tag says her name is Grace.

"Hi, sweetheart! You Emma?"

I nod shyly. Emma is such an unassuming name, very plain and utterly unromantic, unless one is a fan of Jane Austen. Which my mother is. But the name suits me.

I am the epitome of "almost" but "not quite." I am almost, but not quite six feet tall. I have almost, but not quite black hair, ranging somewhere in the very dark brown vicinity. I am almost, but not quite too thin. And I have almost, but not quite brown eyes. My mother calls them "russet." But I am utterly offended by that particular color description. My eyes, in my opinion, are the one sure thing about me. They are amber.

Grace is chattering in front of me, and I paste on my best "I'm sure I will be delighted by the facility" smile. I have the "new doctor" routine down to a science. I am going to be seeing two different professionals today, both part of the same hospital.

Grace leads me to a scale, and I step onto it without her asking me to, even though I can give her my stats without her needing to check. I am 125 pounds with a temperature of 103.0.

Grace sticks a thermometer just inside my ear and then gives me a look before writing the numbers down carefully. It is a look I know well. The constant fever is part of the reason the doctors are so baffled. I have been living with a body temperature ranging from 103.0 to 105.0 for years now with no physical side effects. Point blank, I am abnormal.

"Are you on any medications?" Grace asks as she leads us into an empty room.

I am immediately impressed. The room is large with thick, mocha-colored carpet and caramel walls. There is a dark brown leather sofa in front of another smaller chair of the same material. Abstract portraits of varying swirls of color are interspersed with several diplomas on the wall. The color scheme has me craving a caramel frappucino.

"I have a list," my mother answers, and I turn my attention back to the nurse as she motions for us to sit. We stay standing.

Mom takes a small memo pad out of her purse, flips to the first page, and hands it to Grace. The nurse starts scribbling furiously on her clipboard.

"And these meds are having no effect on the fever?"

"I can't keep them down," I interrupt. It is yet another reason I am freakishly abnormal. My body seems to reject medications. They make me violently ill. Even Tylenol.

My mother gives me a pained look. Grace just nods and scribbles more notes. She smiles at me before looking at my mother, her eyes encouraging.

"Dr. Reed will be with you in a moment. I'll send this paperwork downstairs for her physical evaluation."

Mom nods, her eyes taking in the room anxiously as Grace exits. I place an arm across Mom's shoulders.

"Looks like therapists have better digs than the docs with the stethoscopes. You think she uses the couch for naps or to seduce really hot patients?"

"Emma Renee Chase!"

Her voice is high and scolding, but I don't miss the smile she tries to hide. I want to punch the air triumphantly. Mom doesn't smile nearly as much as she should.

"You look ten years younger when you do that," I murmur.

Mom grins crookedly, using her finger to push her glasses further up her nose just as a knock sounds on the door. The smile vanishes instantly.

"Emma Chase?" Dr. Reed says dully as she enters the room.

I turn toward the voice and grimace. While Grace had been a cheerful, encouraging woman, the doctor now making her way across the room is the female version of Attila the Hun. One of the Diplomas on the wall introduces her as Helen Reed. I mentally nickname her "Helga." She is the size of a football player with a huge Grecian nose and large beady, un-waxed eyes. It isn't pretty.

"So, how are we today, Emma?" Helga asks as she steps in front of us, her gaze peering unobtrusively over a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

I shrug. Helga glances from me to my mother.

"Can I see Emma alone a moment?"

This startles us both. Mom knows I'm not good at conversing with people I'm not familiar with. I am, quite simply, terrified of anything I don't have control over. My fears are part of the reason I'm here. Another symptom, the doctors say. Extreme paranoia. I have developed what they like to call a hyper-phobic disability. Which means, and I digress, that I am literally terrified of everything. Literally. Everything. Spiders, the dark, fire, heights, closed spaces, snakes, . . . everything.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea . . ." Mom says as Helga starts urging her toward the door.

I don't even have time to argue before the door clicks shut in my mother's stunned face. Helga turns to me.

"I have reviewed your records, Ms. Chase, and I am not entirely convinced you are as sick as you would have people believe."

I am at a loss for words, my heart beginning to pound as I wipe my sweating palms down the side of my dark blue jeans. The long sleeve green cardigan I have on suddenly feels too hot. I know my temperature is rising.

"M-m'am?" I stutter.

Helga's eyes narrow.

"The fever I can't figure out, but according to my charts, your physical tests have all been outstanding. Maybe some sort of neurological disease then? And yet, even with the fever, your mental facilities seem fine.

"D-doc. . ."

She ignores me.

"As for the paranoia . . ."

I am instantly aware of her intentions, and I squeal as she reaches for the light switch on the wall next to the door. There are no windows in the room. If this is a test, it is a bad one.

"No!"

The room goes pitch black. What comes next is not my fault. The screams that fill the room no longer just my own.

Helga pulls at me. I am wrapped around her. How I got there is beyond me, but I can't let go. I won't let go.

Distantly, I hear banging on the door. Helga struggles against me, yelling for help, and shoves me backward so the people in the hall can enter without any resistance. Lights suddenly flood the room.

Helga shouldn't have turned off the lights! Otherwise, they never would have found me there, bear hugging Dr. Reed while frantically screaming and shedding tears of pure unadulterated blood.

Chapter 3

Conor

I was on my way, by taxi, to the airport in Paris, France when the call comes through. The number is a familiar one, and I groan.

"I just left the Council, Will . . ."

"And I just got called in to assist you. We've got trouble," my cousin interrupts.

My foot presses against the floorboard of the Peugeot 406, an unconscious braking effort on my part. I tap the seat in front of me, using my hand to signal the driver. The taxi slows and pulls to the side of the road amidst blaring horns.

"Define trouble."

There is a lot of noise on the other end of the line, and I recognize my aunt's irritated voice. Will is my first cousin, a year younger than me, and has just been accepted into the Inner Circle of Gargoyles. As a Guardian, I had ranked higher, but now . . . .

"The mark is in danger."

It takes a moment for his words to register. The mark? My mark? The taxi driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I open the car door, lowering my voice as I step outside.

"Emma Chase?"

Will grunts.

"No, the Pope, you imbecile."

I clench my fist. I hear my aunt yelling now in the background. She's agitated. It doesn't take long for me to realize Will is gearing up to fly, his mother trying her best to prepare him for the worst. Chills creep up my spine.

"Look, Will, this is my job. If there's trouble, they need to send in a Guardian . . ."

"There's no time, Con. They need someone now. And I'm the closest to the location. Forget the plane. You need to take flight."

I reach into my pocket, grab enough money to pay the driver, throw it into the taxi and walk away. I'm not used to dealing with foreign currency yet, and I'm pretty sure I just grossly overpaid the man, but I am beyond distracted and it's Council money anyway. My eyes instinctively search the buildings around me. I need a good place to take off. Flying in daylight is risky, but gargoyles have an advantage. We are born with the ability to foil radar.

"Explain," I order as I walk toward a dilapidated building with little foot traffic. It will have to do. Will hesitates on the other end of the line.

"Hell if I know. I wasn't told much. She's been caught in a compromising position, and she has been admitted into the hospital. You've seen her records. You tell me."

"Shit. Where is she?"

Will gives me the name of a hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. According to her records, Emma is from Illinois. She is a long way from home. Her mother is determined to exhaust all medical avenues. She wants to save her daughter. No one can fault her for that. I had been ordered to Georgia where I was supposed to catch the same return flight to Illinois as Emma and her mother. The rest was up to me. I hate when plans change.

"Look, just watch the facility. Don't go in without me. I'm on my way."

I start to scale the building as Will protests in my ear. I ignore him and end the call abruptly, pulling an ear piece out of my pocket and shoving it into my ear. The next call I make is to the Director.

"I didn't think it'd take you long," Gibson says, his voice strained.

"Will isn't a Guardian."

I say the words angrily. Will is family. Being related to a colleague isn't unusual in the world of gargoyles. Gargoyles marry gargoyles. Their children are gargoyles. It is just the way our people work. It is our duty. It is why each family is represented by a crest. Very rarely does a gargoyle deviate from this plan. I am one of the exceptional few, having fallen for someone unsuitable. Worse yet, it had been a mark. Hence my demotion. And even though every gargoyle takes his or her place in the Inner Circle when they come of age, I know Will isn't ready. He's only been in service a few months.

"Neither are you, Reinhardt. Not anymore."

"But I've been trained for it," I argue.

Gibson sighs, the sound carrying across the line.

"We don't plan for this to get out of hand. We only need an Extraction."

"Extractions go wrong," I point out.

I am way out of line, questioning authority, but I'm apparently getting good at being demoted anyway so why stop now.

"Conor . . ."

"Why Will?" I protest.

"He won't be alone. We have Roach working from the inside."

I have a hard time refraining from being completely and utterly insubordinate. Roach is a jackass.

"How bad is the situation?"

Gibson is quiet a moment.

"Not bad . . . unusual. The girl has developed a new symptom."

I am on the roof of the building now.

"Symptom?"

"The doctors call it haemolacria. Crying blood. It's usually indicative of an underlying condition, tumor, head injury, etc, but you and I both know she doesn't have a medical condition. What we don't know is what this means. If it's a new ability she doesn't have control over then . . . we fear she's broadcast her position unintentionally."

"Sweet Jesus!"

I drop the call and take flight, bat-like wings unfurling from my back through a navy t-shirt rigged for impromptu flight. I don't care if Gibson curses me a thousand times over for hanging up on him. This Extraction is destined to go awry. If the wrong forces know where the girl is, Will is headed for trouble.

Chapter 4

Emma

They wanted to sedate me. When my mother refused, they suggested a straight jacket. I had, after all, attacked one of their doctors. Not intentionally. Never intentionally, but I had almost choked her to death.

Dr. Helen Reed is insensible now, yelling something about "her impossible strength." Apparently, I had also cracked one of her ribs.

"Adrenaline can heighten abilities," a male voice says from behind the curtain where I am now being held.

I'm not in the cushy Psychology wing anymore. I'm not really sure where I am. I am strapped down to a stretcher, my mother and several medical personnel arguing outside the sectioned off cubicle they had transported me to. There is no fight left in me. My face is stiff, and I know my cheeks are streaked with blood. This scares me. Is this finally it for me?

"Adrenaline, my ass, Franklin!" Dr. Reed practically shouts. I had really scared her. I had scared myself.

"She isn't dangerous," my mother says, her voice small. I can see her now with her tall, skeletal frame, her hands rubbing arms that never seem warm anymore.

"I beg to differ," Reed argues.

I am really beginning to dislike the woman. Maybe her job has jaded her. She obviously has no compassion.

I want to move my arms. They are getting that pins and needles feel from being motionless too long. I hadn't meant to hurt anyone. I had been terrified. Nothing more.

"If you could just tell me what I need to do to get her released . . ." my mother begins.

Dr. Reed cackles wildly, her words so fast and furious, my spinning head can't keep up. The male voice rises again, and I hear him summon more individuals, invisible people, who draw Helen Reed away. Shadowy figures move chaotically beyond my fabric wall for what seems like hours before a hand suddenly grips the curtain and shoves it aside. My heart rate increases.

"Ms. Chase?" a familiar male voice says.

From where I lay, the man looks tall, his lanky body swathed in grayish-blue scrubs. He is a young doctor with reddish-brown hair and an angular face. If they were casting a movie for the modern-day Wizard of Oz, he'd make the perfect scarecrow.

"How are we doing?" he asks as he approaches me. His eyes are small, sharp. They make me nervous.

"Where's my mother?"

He glances over his shoulder at the hall.

"She will be here in a moment," he says cautiously. "Emma . . . can I call you that?"

I nod.

"We need to admit you, run some tests, find out what may be happening to you."

I look down at the restraints on my arm.

"Can you take these off, p-please?"

My voice is small. Anxiety consumes me. I am light-headed and nauseous. Being restrained only makes me panic more.

"They're for your own safety, Ms. Chase. I can sit you up if you like."

I want to sob, but I nod instead. He moves to my side, using a lever to lift the head of the bed. From an inclined angle, he doesn't look as tall as he had before. Lanky definitely, medium height, sharp features . . . .

"I'm Roosevelt Franklin. I work for the hospital."

"R-r-roosevelt F-franklin . . .?"

My teeth are chattering, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from being incoherent. Roosevelt smiles wryly, his dark eyes gleaming in the bright fluorescent room.

"My parents had a thing for great American heroes. Most people just call me Roach."

Roaches are disgusting, sneaky insects whose name makes my skin crawl. My anxiety kicks up a notch.

"Y-you're not a doctor?"

He laughs.

"Hell, no."

Being strapped down doesn't seem like such a bad idea anymore. His crass answer fuels my fear, makes me want to lash out. Fight and flight.

"Where's my mother?" I ask again, slightly panicked.

Roosevelt begins to look annoyed. It isn't a good look for him. His eyes are beady, his face tight.

"Look , Emma . . ."

"You were never good at subtlety, Roach," a male voice interrupts. It has a distinctive Southern drawl I find immediately comforting. A genuine doctor this time?

"And you were never good at following orders," Roach hisses. "I work on the inside."

"Rules were made to be broken," the voice answers. There is an accompanying male snicker. A third man?

"He's incorrigible. Even his own mother refuses to work with him," the third voice says. It is definitely male and as Southern as the voice before it.

I am frozen with fear. There are footsteps on the linoleum floor behind me, and I flinch as a hand settles gently against my forehead. The hand is large and cool.

"Hello, Emma. I'm Conor Reinhardt, and I'm here to help you. Promise you won't run, and I'll take off your restraints."

His voice is low, hypnotic.

"P-please . . ."

"Promise me, Emma," Conor says patiently.

I nod against his hand. The light pressure on my head vanishes as he moves to my side.

"You dimwit! You can't just release her until we're sure she's not a risk!" Roach argues as I get my first look at Conor Reinhardt.

There are no adjectives strong enough to describe the blue jean, navy tee-clad young man I see now before me. He is tall, maybe six foot with dark blond hair and startling blue eyes. His hair is carelessly long, falling onto his forehead as he leans over me, pulling first one strap free and then another. I don't move.

"She's not a flight risk," Conor says calmly as his eyes meet mine. There is an indefinable gleam in his sky blue gaze. Sympathy maybe?

"Where's my mother?" I whisper.

He grins crookedly, his face full of an assurance I don't feel.

"She's safe, sweetheart. But you're not. That's why I'm here."

"We're here," a sullen voice interjects. Conor looks over my head and grins.

"Cousins. Now they are incorrigible." He motions idly. "That scruffy imbecile behind you is Will Reinhardt, bane of any woman's existence."

Roosevelt Franklin flaps his hands angrily.

"Can the introductions, Reinhardt! You sorry, low-life, inbred . . ."

I stiffen.

"And that charming jackass," Conor says as he waves his hand at the fluttering man beside him. "Isn't worth your time."

Conor moves to my feet, removing each restraint as gently as he can.

"You have the gall to call me a mule! You wretched, moronic . . ."

"Write it in your journal and call it a dictionary, Roach. We don't have time," Conor says.

I sit up slowly, pain flaring in my extremities as blood rushes back down into my hands and feet. I feel my face heat, fear making electric tingles shoot down my spine. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to do something other than listen to the men insult each other.

"You promised, darlin'. No running," Conor chides as a slightly shorter, but no less impressive version of him moves toward me. Will Reinhardt?

I scoot away and the boy freezes, throwing his hands up in a gesture of peace. It is a no-win situation. Every time I edge away from any of them, I move closer to another. I am feeling closed in. A scream works its way into my throat, and a hand suddenly clamps over my mouth.

"No yelling. I wasn't lying when I said you were in danger."

Conor's breath wafts against my ear, and I squeal, my eyes wide. I try shaking him off, my teeth bared against his palm.

"She suffers from pantophobia, you idiot! She fears everything," Roach snarls.

I am shaking uncontrollably now, my body a mass of nerves. Nausea rips through my stomach, and I gag against Conor's hand. I am having trouble breathing. Distantly, I hear Will swear as Conor freezes behind me.

"And that's what they meant by shy. Gotta love getting the run around," Conor whispers against my ear.

My pulse is beating too rapidly now, my heart a war drum in my chest. My skin is heating. I whimper without meaning too, my mind and body refusing to surrender. I thrash violently, my teeth bearing down.

"Don't!" Conor warns, and I watch in horror as his hand transforms, turning to stone against my lips.

"You'll only shatter your teeth if you do that."

I scream against his granite-like palm, my hands coming up to grip his arm. It isn't hard like his hand, and I dig my nails in ruthlessly. He doesn't even flinch. He chuckles instead, the sound causing me to tense as he pulls me off the bed and against his chest.

"It's nice to see the fear doesn't immobilize you."

Roach growls. "And you wanted to take off her restraints! Do you really believe she would have been tied to her own bed if she wasn't a risk? Her fears make her insensible. They make her dangerous!"

"They make her fight," Conor says quietly. "And she's going to need a lot of fight where she's going."

I am crying now, blood-tinged tears spilling over Conor's stone hand. He has turned to stone! Stone! I am losing my mind. I am hallucinating! I am finally dying and these are my last moments, a hospital room full of crazy men with outrageous abilities. Is it possible to be aware of your own craziness?

"We need to go," Will says shortly. Conor doesn't argue.

"We had to battle . . ." Conor pauses as if he is afraid what he's about to say will render me even more senseless. I hate to tell him, but I am already well beyond insanity. Even though I know it is pointless, I keep thrashing. I will fight until there isn't any fight left in me.

"We had a little skirmish outside. They know she's here. Unless you want real trouble on your hands, we need to go," Conor says to Roach. Roach still looks angry, his face almost purple with rage, but he doesn't argue anymore.

He goes into action instead, moving equipment around angrily before transforming in front of my eyes. One moment he is a beady-eyed man, the next a serpentine figure, a mix of snake and dragon. I scream and scream, thrashing and fighting until I feel myself beginning to tire. I sag a little against Conor's chest, still fighting.

"Shhhhhhh . . ."

He is crooning softly in my ear as if I am a child needing soothed. He frightens me. They all do.

"I need you to try and calm down, Em. We're not here to hurt you. I know things are scary. But what is after you is a helluva lot scarier than we could ever be. We're gargoyles, a race of people created to guard against evil. That's the short version. We don't have time for the long. Roach, there, is a specific type of gargoyle. Some of us are unique, have certain powers. Roach's line has the power of invisibility. He's going to get us out of here."

His words are meant to be comforting, an explanation maybe, and still I fight. He moves as he speaks, his words breathless as he works to keep up with Roach and Will while trying to manage me. We aren't in the cubicle anymore, but where we are is beyond me. We are speeding through the hospital so swiftly, the walls and floors blur into one. Occasionally we slow, and I catch a glimpse of the serpentine Roach curling around corners. I am still screaming against Conor's stone hand.

"Hang on, sweetheart," Conor breathes as he pushes through an opening. Wind pummels my hair.

I take in the scene absentmindedly, concrete below my feet, a blue open sky above. It is noon, that time of day when the sun is brutal no matter how cold it is outside. There is no doubt we are on the roof. I thrash harder.

"Damned if you aren't a resilient little thing," Conor grounds out as he tightens his grip before bracing his feet against the roof. There is a loud "whoosh," and we are suddenly airborne. Oh my God! I kick furiously.

"Now is really not the time to keep thrashing like that," Conor points out.

His arms loosen somewhat, giving me enough maneuverability to glance in a direction other than forward. I make the mistake of looking down. My fingers dig into Conor's arms.

"OMMMMMMGGGGGGOOOOO," I scream against his now human-like palm.

I look up frantically only to find myself staring at huge bat-like wings. It is obvious they belong to the man holding me hostage. I scream again before thrashing against his hold. Better to die now. I am definitely hallucinating. Conor's arms tighten again, strong enough to squeeze the breath out of my lungs.

"Sweetheart, at this rate, we are both going to be sore as hell tomorrow."

I think, if I hadn't been pretty sure I was having coma-induced night terrors, I would have been amused by Conor. He is quite the figment of my imagination.

I see the serpentine Roach from the corner of my eye, floating on air currents nearby while more "whooshing" behind marks the vigilant presence of Will Reinhardt.

Roach growls, his reptilian voice hoarse and rumbling.

"Just so you know, that was a very messy Extraction."

Chapter 5

Conor

The girl is a mess. She has calmed down some, the fight draining out of her. Her hair is long and dark, hanging down her back in tangles. There is dried blood everywhere. Her face, if clean, would have been smooth. Her skin seems flawless. But it is her eyes that first catch my attention. They are amber. They are terrified. They are tinged red.

"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."

"Choices?"

I am getting sucked in.

"Choices," he repeats."About life. Gargoyles are born with our future planned. It's a noble future, and we have regular jobs as well, but it is still planned. We aren't punished for deviating, but we are demoted."

He is definitely speaking from experience.

"And have you ever been demoted?"

I ask this quietly. Even in my quest to know more, I am trespassing. Conor doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. It really isn't any of my business.

"No, it's fine," Conor assures."Yes, I've been demoted."

It is all he says, and I don't ask any more questions. I am tired, and I am still not entirely convinced this whole gargoyle/Demon thing is kosher.

"We're just above my home," Conor whispers suddenly in my ear, and I jerk. Logical Emma wants me to look down. Instinct tells me not to, and even without looking, I can feel the panic attack coming on.

"Deep breaths," Conor reminds me.

I start breathing in and out the same way pregnant women in labor do. It isn't attractive, but it is better than passing out.

"Deeper breaths, Sweetheart. You really don't want to meet my mother while only half-conscious. She's hard to deal with after eight hours of sleep and a whole pot of coffee."

I am practically panting now, my eyes squeezed shut.

"You're not helping," I say through gritted teeth. Conor chuckles.

"The only way to defeat these fears of yours is to face them."

It isn't that I disagree with Conor's logic, it's that I honestly don't want to agree with it. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, my breathing hard until I feel my feet hit something solid. And even then, I still pant like an idiot.

"You can look now," Conor says, his tone laced with amusement.

"You mother is going to love this," Will murmurs as he comes up beside us.

His words, dripping with sarcasm, finally makes me open my eyes. We are on a pleasant street in early afternoon. There are houses spaced a nice distance apart. We are facing a two-level red brick home with a wraparound porch and burgundy shutters. The sun glints off a pool just visible from where we are standing on the front lawn. There is a black Mercedes parked in the drive in front of a closed garage.

"Are you counting yet?" Conor whispers to Will.

Will smiles.

"Already on four . . . . "

There is a scream from inside the house. I jump, my body instantly ready to bolt. Conor is prepared, his arm still tight around my waist, and he pulls my thrashing frame more tightly against his chest.

"Calm down, Darling. That's just Roach scaring the hell out of my mother. He was in his gargoyle form, which means once he reverted back to his mortal form, he was naked as the day he was born. And, Lord knows, you didn't want to see that on my front lawn."

Will is laughing now, his face red as he leans over, his hands resting against his thighs. My body is in flight mode. Even if I want to laugh, it isn't happening.

"Conor Philip Reinhardt!" a woman yells hoarsely.

Conor flinches. His initials are C.P.R.? Seriously?

The house's large, white-framed front door slams open, and I find myself staring at a tall blonde-haired, intimidating woman in a black business skirt, buttoned up navy blue-collared top, and black two-inch heels. She is scowling . . . until she sees me. One glance in my direction, and her mouth forms a silent "o", a hand coming to rest delicately over her lips. Her gaze moves between Conor and Will.

"What is that?" she asks as Conor prods me from behind.

We are moving toward the house now, my eyes taking in the woman as we approach her. She is so . . . put together. Her blue eyes are sharp, and her hair seems afraid to move. Realistically, she has to be in her forties, but she doesn't look a day over thirty, if that much.

"This is Conor's escort job," Will supplies as we finally reach the porch. I find a semblance of dirty humor in the situation. Escort does not sound appropriate.

Conor's mom looks me over skeptically. I am pretty sure I don't look human.

"This is Emma Chase, Mother. Emma, this is my mother, Beatrice Reinhardt. Bea," Conor says firmly, his tone laced with warning. Bea's gaze moves between us before taking in the solid grip Conor has on my arms. I am shaking.

"Is she injured?" Bea asks.

Both Conor and Will shake their heads. Bea sighs, moving aside as she opens the door wider. I catch a glimpse of stained concrete floors. Large potted plants stand like sentinels on each side of the door. Roach, wrapped in a silk, pink robe that only comes to his knees, stands crossly about a foot behind Conor's mom. I hear Will snigger. I don't want to go inside the house.

"It's going to be fine, Em," Conor whispers into my ear. Bea watches us thoughtfully. I don't move.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Bea exclaims before stepping outside and pulling me effortlessly out of Conor's embrace. My heart rate goes through the roof, and my skin warms.

"Hurt me, and I'll kill you," Bea says sweetly when I start pulling at her arm.

Her words don't make me struggle any less. She is shorter than I am, coming only to my neck in her heels. It should comfort me, but it doesn't.

"It's a fight response," Roach says callously. "I tried telling your son that in Atlanta, but he felt the need to hurry off without any preparation. One of these days, he's going to get someone killed."

"Shut up, Roach," Conor growls. "There wasn't time for your medical mumble jumble. And nothing you could have done would've helped." Conor looks at his mother. "The girl's body rejects all medication."

They are talking about me as if I'm not present, and it is scary how much they know about me.

"S-s-so you are a d-doctor?" I ask, my gaze on Roach. He doesn't look old enough to be a doctor. Twenty-something, maybe. His eyes narrow.

"No, I study monsters."

I cry out without meaning to.

"You're a heartless son of a bitch," Conor says coldly.

Bea jerks me toward a staircase a few feet inside the door. The stairs are hardwood, no carpet. To the side of the stairs is a large livingroom with the same stained concrete floors as the entry.

"Enough. Both of you. Conor, take the girl upstairs, show her to the bathroom, and get her one of your shirts to wear. Now," Bea orders, her eyes hard. She lets go of my arm. "Will, you and Roach, get in the kitchen and fill me in."

"Yes m'am," Will says quickly as Conor replaces his mother at my side. He takes me by the elbow and nods at the stairs.

"After you," he says softly.

They don't leave me any choice. I start climbing. Conor follows.

"There's a shower in my room. You can use that. I'll leave my closet open, and you can take anything out you think will fit. As for your jeans, I'm afraid you're stuck with those. You might be tall for a girl, but you're skinny as hell."

I am not rolling in compliments today. Conor steers me to an open doorway at the top of the stairs, and I stop just inside the room. It is awkward for me, standing inside a guy's room. My life has consisted only of my mother and me. My sickness hasn't allowed for school. I was home-schooled instead, tutors teaching me what my mother couldn't. And what the tutors couldn't teach, I learned through books and online classes. It was a hard way to learn, but it also allowed me to get ahead. I am only one test away from completing my senior year.

"Bathroom's just through there," Conor says, his hand gesturing. "I'm going to sit outside the door." He pauses a moment before turning to me. "Don't try and run, Em. It's not safe. You're going to have to trust me."

His voice brings me out of my reverie, and I glance around the room. It is a large room, the walls tan, the floors hardwood with a king-size bed covered in camouflage pushed against the wall near a window hidden by wooden blinds. The room is clean. Too clean. The only mess is a littered desk covered in football knickknacks and a stack of books. Conor notices me staring.

"I'm not home much."

I don't say anything, and he doesn't elaborate. He walks away from me, pulls a sliding closet door open, and then exits the room.

"Don't try anything, Em. Trust me," he says before pulling the door to.

"I don't know you," I whisper as the door clicks shut.

I look toward the bathroom, at a mirror hanging over a white porcelain sink, and almost scream. There is blood everywhere. My entire face is caked with dried bloody tears, my neck and shirt front covered in the same rusty mess. My eyes are startling in comparison, the amber color almost red. I walk slowly toward my reflection, stepping onto the white linoleum carefully. I am looking at a stranger. I have to get it off!

My fears are cancelled out by the sudden desperate need to look and feel human. I tear at my clothes, pulling the shirt off urgently before shedding the rest of my attire. I turn on Conor's shower and step away from it briefly. There is a ceiling-to-floor cabinet on the opposite side of the bathroom filled with terry-cloth white towels and two bottles of shampoo. There is no conditioner.

I grab the towel and shampoo and step into the steaming water. I can't scrub hard enough. The water pouring onto my feet goes from clear to red, and I have to fight not to sob. Crying means more blood.

My toes and fingers are numb with fear even as hot water flows in rivulets down my body. It is like watching one of those horror movies where blood signals a dead body hanging just overhead. I don't look up.

"Emma? You okay?"

It is Conor's voice, and I shake myself. The bedroom door might be closed, but the bathroom door is still open. There is no more blood, but I am still scrubbing. The water is clear again. And still I scrub.

"Emma?"

I hiccup, my hands clenched around a bar of soap I have found resting in a dish on the side of the tub. I hear the bedroom door creak open from beyond the shower curtain.

"I'm fine!" I squeak.

The door closes again slowly, and I stand there. My whole body shakes. It isn't the bloody water that scares me anymore. I am standing in a stream of hot water, my body being caressed by the steaming flow, and I'm not waking up. My skin is turning pink, my fingers are getting prune-y, and I am not waking up. I WAS NOT waking up!

I lean over and switch off the water, but I still don't move. Instead, I stare down at myself, at my size B chest, my too skinny stomach, my, thankfully, clean shaven legs, and my unpainted toenails. If I'm not dreaming, then . . . .

"I'm not human," I whisper.

I step out of the tub and lean against the sink for support. Water pools on the floor below, but I ignore it as I bend over, bringing my face as close to the mirror as I can. My cheeks are clean now, my skin flushed from the shower. I pull at my eyelids, examining them. Nothing looks different. Maybe I'm human after all. Maybe I had just been kidnapped by a bunch of psychopaths who belonged to some strange gargoyle cult.

"Emma?" Conor calls.

I know I have been standing here too long, that he has heard the shower shut off, and I am in danger of being found standing naked in front of his bathroom sink. I reach for the terry-cloth towel and wrap it around myself.

"I'm fine," I say.

"That word is never good when uttered by a female," Conor complains as I lean down to retrieve my discarded clothes.

I step into my underwear and jeans and slide my bra on, fastening it as I make my way over to Conor's closet. It is obvious his family has money. Most everything is brand name. Everything I own came from either Target or Wal-Mart. Medical bills have put my mother in debt.

I start flipping through his hangers cautiously, finally landing on a plain, nondescript white button-up long-sleeve shirt. It doesn't look as if it has ever been worn. That fact alone cinches the selection for me, and I put it on.

"Coming in," Conor warns.

My hands shake as I fasten the shirt, and I just manage the top button when the door swings open. Conor leans against the door jam, his gaze taking me in slowly.

"I want to call my mother," I say, my arms falling to my sides.

Conor pushes away from the door and moves across the room, his hand digging in his blue jean pocket. He pulls out a cell phone.

"Five minutes. You have five minutes, and I'm not leaving the room."

I take the phone from him.

"I want to be alone," I insist.

Conor leans forward.

"Five minutes. I stay. You have no idea how many rules I'm breaking just allowing you the call. Five minutes."

Five minutes it is.

Chapter 7

Conor

She is stronger than I expected, even with the panic attacks. She tries hiding her hands as she dials her mother's number on my phone, but I know they are shaking. I'm not sure if it is fear causing her to panic and lash out or if Roach is right. It is a fight response. I am leaning toward fight response. She has broken a doctor's rib, and she has left me with some pretty nasty bruises.

"Mom?" she says quietly into my phone.

She turns her back to me. I can hear frenzied, garbled speech from the other end of the line. Emma's shoulders shake. Her long dark hair is damp and un-brushed, leaving water marks on the white button-up shirt she has selected. It makes the back of her beige bra clearly visible against the fabric. The color suits her. Beige. No-nonsense.

"I'm okay, Mom. I . . . I don't know where I'm at . . . ."

Clean, she isn't an ugly girl, our Emma Chase. She isn't remarkable, isn't mesmerizing, but she is pretty. Quietly so. She is too skinny though. My shirt hangs on her frame, and she is awkwardly rolling up the sleeves as she balances the phone between her ear and shoulder. She isn't anything like Dayton, the girl I thought I loved. It is Dayton herself that has begun to make me doubt this.

"They've told me the same thing. D-do you think it's true?"

Her hair is dark, Dayton's is red. She prefers beige bras, Dayton prefers pink. I haven't slept with Dayton, by any means, but I have caught plenty of glimpses of her bra. She has a thing for off-the-shoulder shirts.

"I don't want to be sick, but I don't want to be a m-monster either."

There are tears in her voice, left unshed. It makes me feel like a cad. She is being faced with a life-changing moment, one that could destroy her, and I am comparing her bra color with Dayton's. And yet . . . she is the first girl in a long time I have found myself comparing to Dayton. And I don't even know her. The fact that I have spent a good deal of our very short acquaintance keeping her from killing people unintentionally and hurting herself in the process makes it that much more odd. This is new.

"Are you okay, Mom? Please tell me you're okay."

I don't want to cut their conversation short, but her five minutes are up.

"Please be okay, Mom. I don't think they are going to let me come home just yet."

I move behind Emma, my hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She jumps. I let my arm fall over her head, my free hand tapping my wrist just under her nose. Five fingers. Five minutes.

"You're okay?" she asks her mother again.

I catch snatches of conversation from the other line. Going . . . be fine. Her mother is in safe hands. We never leave the families of adopted hybrids in the dark unless they pose a problem.

"You're sure?" Emma continues stubbornly.

I try pulling the phone from her hand, but she fights me, her fist clenched as she moves with the receiver. I'd never admit it, but I respect her for fighting for the extra moments with her mother.

"Mom, I love you. No matter what, remember that I love you," she breathes as I wrestle her for the phone. She is stronger than she looks, but in the end, I win. I grab the cell phone triumphantly and bring it to my ear.

"Your daughter is going to be fine, Mrs. Chase. Just fine."

With this said, I disconnect the line. Emma looks in danger of collapsing.

"Do you feel better now?" I ask.

Her forehead is creased, and her hair a tangled, drying mess around her shoulders. It makes her look wild.

"She's not sure I should trust you," Emma says, her amber eyes meeting mine. "But she told me she hopes you're right . . . that I am what you say I am." Her shoulders sag. "She wants so badly for me not to be sick. She said they told her half-Demons can be rehabilitated."

Harrison has done his job well. He is part of our Collateral team. Collaterals are gargoyles left behind to clean up messes Escorts and Guardians leave behind. This includes dealing with families. Most of the time, hybrids are either homeless or raised by their Demonic parent, but there are cases like Emma's where they are adopted. None are as unique as hers. None have been in the system as long. And they don't have her powers. But, in these cases, families are always counseled. If it appears the family can't handle what we have to tell them, we erase their memories, and the hybrids are forbidden ever to return home. But none of this will reassure Emma.

"Some hybrids never need rehabilitated, Em. Some are never really evil. They just have to learn how to use their powers."

She looks up at me, her eyes wide.

"Powers?"

She says it breathlessly as if she hasn't considered the idea until now. I move away from her, pulling a drawer open in my desk before grabbing a hairbrush and throwing it in her direction. She catches it without blinking, her eyes distant. If we can get past her fight and flight response, she is going to be easy to train. She has the reflexes, the instincts. Hell, she has the fight.

"Most hybrids have powers inherited from their Demonic parent. Until trained, the powers are dangerous," I explain. I don't tell her she is one of the hybrids with powers. Incredible powers.

She nods, but I'm not really sure she hears me. She starts pulling the brush through her hair slowly, as if the gesture is comforting. Simple routines are familiar. They are like old friends, a trusty anchor in a sea of chaos. This I understand.

Emma keeps getting the brush caught on tangles, and she works through them patiently, methodically. I see her lips moving, and I realize she is counting. One, two, three . . . .

"Come with me," I say softly. "We have a lot to tell you, but not a lot of time."

She drops the brush as we move out of the room. The counting starts over.

"One, two, three, four . . . ."

By the time we reach the kitchen, I know it takes fifty-two steps to get there from my room, and I notice Emma looks a little calmer. The counting is a coping mechanism. We all have them, I suppose.

The smell of frozen pizza and Chinese takeout overwhelms me, and my mouth waters. Mom loves cooking shows, especially Paula Deen, but she can't cook worth a damn. We subsist off a drawer full of takeout menus, categorized by nutritional value. Mom is nothing if not prepared.

"She's slated for a term, maybe more," Roach says as we enter the room.

The kitchen is made for company. It is full of white cabinets and wooden countertops, all gleaming. The floors are a burnt caramel color, stained concrete with a mosaic pattern. The appliances are all stainless steel, and there are large French doors that look out over a landscaped garden and pool. There is a rectangular, mahogany table to the side of the room. It doesn't match the rest of the furniture, and it is scarred. It is also antique. It had belonged to my father's family, and my mother and I can't let it go.

My mother, Roach, and Will are all seated at the table. Containers of food surround them. Gargoyles have an appetite, especially after a job. Roach starts to say something, but my mother stops him, motioning to us instead.

"You look much better," my mother says, her eyes on Emma. If Emma responds, I don't hear or see it. "Come, take a seat. Eat."

I move to the table and pull out a chair. Emma watches me as I step away, indicating the empty seat before taking the chair next to it. My mother is present. Even if I wasn't naturally chivalrous, I damn well better be. Eighteen or not, mom has no trouble taking me by the ear.

Emma takes her seat, her back rigid. She isn't counting anymore. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glinting. She had seemed fine alone with me in my room, but she is sliding back into fight mode. If I touch her now, I know she will be warm, hot even.

"Has Conor told you what you are?" my mother asks sweetly as she slides food across the table. Mom is blunt. Emma nods.

"You don't need to be afraid. This isn't necessarily bad news, Emma. It could open up a whole new world for you."

Mom's voice is firm but soothing. To most, she appears high maintenance, even cold, but it is a defense mechanism. She has a soft heart. Losing my father, being a gargoyle Guardian, and raising a gargoyle son means developing a tough hide. And tough hides can come across as rough. I know better.

"What will you do with me?" Emma asks suddenly, her voice hesitant.

Mom looks over at Will who immediately stands up and moves across the kitchen. He pulls a coffee mug out of the cabinet and fills it. I haven't noticed the pot of hot coffee. I have been too busy digging into a container of Kung Pao chicken. Roach, now sporting a Def Leopard T-shirt and jeans, is nibbling on pizza, his chair rocked back so only three legs are on the floor. Mom looks ready to pop him. I want to laugh, but don't. The clothes he wears now had been left behind by a gargoyle friend of mine with a penchant for grunge who had been doing a job in our area.

"I made some phone calls and learned you have an affinity for coffee," mom says, her eyes still on Emma as Will returns to the table.

Mom takes a brown stone mug from him and lays it in front of Emma. I notice Emma drinks her coffee black. Again, a no-nonsense kind of girl. I don't know whether to be annoyed with my mother or relieved she has taken the trouble of learning something about my mark. Emma is my job, but our home is one of six gargoyle safe houses in the South. We live in Lodeston, Mississippi, and it is Mom's job to know as much as she can about the marks that come through. Our next stop is the French countryside. The Acropolis.

"We don't have nefarious plans for you, Emma. We have only good intentions," Mom says before reaching across the table to take Emma's hand in her own. Emma jerks, but Mom holds on. "There's a school for Demons called the Acropolis. You'll go there, train, and then you will be given a choice—return to society with enough control over your powers to live normally or work with us."

Emma is struggling against Mom's hold. It is obvious she isn't a fan of being touched.

"I still don't understand why everyone keeps mentioning powers. I don't have powers," Emma mumbles. She wins the power struggle with my mother and tugs her hand free. Mom sits back, her eyes narrowed.

"You didn't tell her?" Mom asks. I avoid her gaze.

"She isn't ready," I say.

"And you get to decide that?"

I look my mother in the eyes.

"It's better we wait."

Emma is aware of what she is. Telling her who her real mother is can wait until we are safely at the Acropolis. I'm not trying to protect her. I'm trying to protect the rest of us. Mom didn't look happy, but in the end, Emma is my mark. My decision overrules my mother's. And Mom knows I've been demoted. I need every brownie point I can get at the moment.

"This is all yours," Mom says, her hands held up. Roach snorts.

"You are an idiot," he says shrewdly. I feel my blood boil even as my mother slaps Roach in the back of the head. One of these days, Roach and I are going to meet on my terms in a nice old fashioned gargoyle brawl. Emma sits back.

"When are you taking me to this school?" she asks.

I keep expecting her to fight me, to badger me for the answers to a million questions I know are floating around in her head, but she keeps pulling the rug out from under my feet. She always does the opposite of what I expect. During the Extraction, her only concern had been her mother. And now, when we are sitting here discussing her as if she isn't even in the room, she just listens rather than angrily beating me on my chest with her fists while begging to know what my mother is talking about. Instead, she is docile. It is a little disconcerting. And, to be honest, it is fascinating.

"Soon. We'll leave in the morning. The longer we stay here, the more danger you're in." I say.

This time, she does look at me, her eyes wide.

"What do you mean danger?"

I lean closer.

"What you are is dangerous. Period. And as a hybrid Demon, there are those out there who would want to use you."

She leans away from me, her lips moving silently. She is counting again.

"Everything you need to know, you'll know soon. I promise."

She doesn't answer. She just keeps on counting.

"One, two, three . . .

Chapter 8

Emma

The table has grown quiet. The food is almost gone, and the gargoyles have spent most of the afternoon discussing their plans. They seem to know a lot about me. From what I've gathered, they have access to both my adoption and medical records. I know little about them.

The sky outside the French doors is darkening. I am spending the night here. I should be relieved, but I'm not.

"She can have my room," Conor says. "I'll sleep on the floor."

This doesn't get a good response.

"She needs to be locked up," Roach grumbles. Will gives him a hard look.

"She's just a girl, Roach. Lighten up a little."

Conor's mom stands up.

"Your room is fine, Con, but you won't be sharing it," Bea says firmly.

Conor stands opposite her. My gaze moves between them. I know I should be upset that they keep referring to me as if I'm not present, but I honestly like that they seem to keep forgetting I'm here. Good guys or not, they are strangers and that makes them dangerous.

"She's my job, Mom. She can't be left without supervision."

The word "supervision" makes me feel like a five-year-old child. Couldn't he have used the word "protection" or even "company"?

"I'm well aware of what she needs, Son, and I've made arrangements."

This gets my attention. I stand anxiously as Conor leans across the table.

"Arrangements?" he asks, his voice low. His accent has deepened.

Bea's eyes never leave her son.

"Rachel, you can come in now," Bea calls out. Conor doesn't look away from his mom, but he does narrow his eyes.

"You're serious?" he whispers furiously.

"As a heart attack," his mom replies, smiling sweetly.

"Should I be concerned you seem so opposed to the idea?" a female voice asks, and I turn slowly. My heart rate is back up again, and I know my temp is definitely higher than 103. I hear chairs scrape against the floor, and I know Roach and Will are standing now too.

Conor growls before pushing his chair into the table harder than is necessary, his eyes still locked on Bea's. I jump a little at the noise.

"My job, Mom!"

By now, I am looking at the hallway, and I have to fight hard not to gape. There is a girl about my age standing just inside the kitchen, and she is everything I'd never be. She isn't skinny, she is petite. She isn't dark, she is blonde. She isn't pretty, she is breathtaking. And, in that moment, I know she is one of them. Maybe it's the way she holds herself, confident and tall in a pair of skinny jeans, and a pink top with an empire waist, but it's obvious she isn't completely human.

"I'm not here to commandeer your job, Reinhardt," the girl says, her eyes on Conor's back.

I draw near Conor. I don't trust any of them one darn bit, but Conor has hours and space marked on my radar. That has to be enough at the moment. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I pause, my back stiffening.

"Shhhh . . ." Conor breathes before turning back to his mother. "Why?"

Bea moves around the table, her steps bringing her to Rachel's side.

"Because you were demoted, Conor. And my job is to make sure the rules are followed. You're an Escort, not a Guardian. And the girl is obviously already being tracked. The Council didn't count on that. It means her level of security has been raised and Rachel and Roach are more qualified."

Conor is at my back now, and I can feel his anger. I wait to be afraid, but I only feel strange. I am light-headed, my brows furrowing in confusion as the edges of the room begin to blur.

"The hell they are!" Conor practically yells. "I have a year of training on Rachel, and Roach is just plain incompetent."

"The same has been said about you. Welcome to the brotherhood," Roach sneers.

"Here we go . . ." Will mumbles.

I start counting slowly, taking deep breaths in and out. The Rachel girl is staring at me funny, but I don't care.

"It doesn't matter how you feel about it, Conor. You were demoted. You must realize the limits your position now holds," Bea says.

Conor's hand tightens on my shoulder, and my world simply vanishes. It is the only way to describe the onslaught of images that suddenly slams through me. . . .

A girl. Red hair. A man with red eyes. Blood. Conor kissing the red-haired girl. Italy? Will . . . a crushed fist. Conor turning to stone. A group of men and women. The letter S. The letter O. Me . . . there is a photo of me. My medical records. Conor's anger. . . .

I howl. It isn't something I mean to do, but the sound escapes the same time a red ball of flame shoots forth. Bea deflects it easily as Rachel ducks. I collapse, panting. What was that!

"She tried to kill them!" Roach shouts.

I shake my head. I hadn't done anything! Had I?

"What the hell!" Will exclaims.

There is someone next to me.

"What was that, sweetheart?"

Conor. I am still shaking my head. I hadn't done anything. I couldn't have done anything!

"Emma?"

I look up, my eyes taking in the stunned group of people surrounding me. My knees hurt where they have slammed against the floor. My eyes find Conor. He is kneeling next to me, his hand no longer on my shoulder.

"Red hair," I whisper. "Marcas?"

Conor's eyes widen, and he leans closer.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"You were staring at a photo of m-m-me. There was a crushed fist . . . Will's maybe? And a girl . . . a r-red headed girl. And anger. You were angry." I shake my head. I hadn't meant to do anything!

Conor sits back on his heels, his breathing deep as he stares up at his mother.

"She has her mother's powers," he says softly. Bea nods. My mother?

"She tried to kill them!" Roach says again, loudly.

"Would you just shut up!" Conor insists. He starts to put his hand on my shoulder again, but stops, his eyes taking in his splayed palm before looking at me.

"Anger. You said you felt anger," Conor says. He keeps his eyes on me, but I know his next statement is meant for the room at large. "She fed off my anger."

I am shaking now.

"She should be put down!" Roach exclaims. Conor stands up.

"Now would be a good time to close that mouth," Conor growls.

"You know I'm right. She's deadly! She should be extermin . . ."

Conor's fist connects with Roach's jaw. I don't see Roach go down, but I hear it. Roach groans.

"Just be glad I wasn't touching her shoulder then. You'd be dead if I was."

"Conor!" Bea exclaims.

Will leans over Roach, scoping out the damage as the cross gargoyle rubs his jaw.

"The Council is so going to have your head for this one," Will says. Conor shakes his fist.

"It was damn well worth it."

Conor turns to his mother. I can tell he isn't the type to talk back. The respect he has for his mother is obvious, but the quick glance he throws at Rachel promises a fight.

"Demoted or not, you know I'm more qualified. They can travel with me, but I guard the girl."

Bea is staring at me, her eyes digging into my skin. I look down at the floor, letting my hair fall in front of my face. I am shaking, and I hate it. I hate that I am afraid, hate that I don't know who I am. I have lived in this body for seventeen years, and I don't know a dang thing about it.

"You'll need to speak to Gibson. Get his permission and you have mine," Bea says softly.

I don't look up, but I can feel the tension in the room ease.

"Thank you," Conor says.

I am pretty sure his mother nods.

"You and Rachel can sit with her tonight. Take turns staying up," Bea orders.

I look up to find Conor and Rachel regarding each other warily, but they don't argue. Apparently this is something they can both live with.

"Will, take Roach and get some ice on that jaw," Bea adds.

Conor's hand suddenly wraps around my upper arm, and I jerk against his hold.

"Take it easy, darlin'. We need to get you upstairs."

I relax as much as I can, letting him help me up before following him toward the kitchen's entrance.

"And Conor . . ." Bea says suddenly. Conor pauses. "It's not going to help your cause any if you keep breaking the rules. Collaterals have their job for a reason."

I know immediately she's aware of the phone call to my mother. Conor flinches.

"Dammit! How do you do that?" he asks hotly. Bea "tsks."

"One of these days you'll realize your mother knows everything."

Chapter 9

Conor

The moment Gibson answers the phone I know I'm in trouble.

"You better have some pretty damn good excuses for the list of transgressions I have for you, Mr. Reinhardt."

I didn't, but I have always been a pro at BSing my way out of a bad situation.

"Depends on the transgressions," I say carefully.

There is a moment of swearing on the other end of the line. I grimace as I steal a glance into my bedroom. The door is cracked, and I can just make out Emma's bent form on my bed. Thankfully, Rachel isn't in view.

"Where would you like to start? You bypassing Roach's authority in Atlanta? Letting your mark make a personal phone call? Or, better yet, punching a superior."

I try finding a nice, respectful way of responding to the "punching a superior" comment, but I fail miserably.

"Roach is about as superior as his nickname," I mutter instead.

Gibson is quiet a moment.

"I should probably reprimand you for that statement, Reinhardt, but most of the time, I agree."

I am suddenly thankful for Roach's anti-social personality. It gives Gibson and me a moment of amiability, and I run with it.

"Let me be a Guardian again, sir. Just for this mission. If I fail, I'll take the demotion without complaint."

Gibson snorts.

"I'm supposed to believe the complaint part?"

"I won't fail you," I insist.

He is quiet for far too long.

"We have high hopes for you, Conor. Your father and your mother . . . amazing Guardians. But this mission . . . she's not a normal hybrid."

I already know this. And yet, the girl herself is sorely underprepared for the burdens being placed on her. She is scared, untrained, and until recently, had no idea she was anything other than a normal girl dying from a strange malady.

"She trusts me," I say.

"She trusts no one," Gibson corrects. "But you do seem to have a way with her."

I feel my hopes rise.

"This mission, Reinhardt. I'll give you this mission. You screw up, I'll be the first to know."

Of course he will. His daughter, Rachel, will be traveling with me. She is going to be a burr in my side, but I'll take it.

"Thank you, sir."

Even I know when to shut up and walk away.

"And Conor?" Gibson says. My grip tightens on the phone.

"Sir?"

"If my daughter gets hurt, I'll tan your hide. And that's before I pull every limb from your body and feed them to the enemy."

The call is disconnected. Gibson sure as hell knows how to make an impression.

"He's a real winner, isn't he?" a female voice asks from behind me. I turn to find Rachel leaning against my bedroom door. Emma is still on my bed, her eyes on the two of us.

"Is that a loaded question, Rach? Anything I say is incriminating."

She grins.

"I take it you're going to be spending a lot of time pleading the fifth?"

"That's what the amendment is there for, right?"

She shrugs and backs away from the door so I can move past her. Rachel is all kinds of wrong wrapped up in one girl. It's not that she isn't likable. She just has two major flaws (in my opinion only) working against her. One, she is an overachiever. She wants to prove to Gibson she is more than eligible for his job one day. Two, our families want us to marry, and I am not interested.

"How are we doing?" I ask Emma as I move toward her slowly.

Emma's amber eyes track me warily. She is still sitting on my bed, her hair pulled over to one side of her face, and I can see the tension in her body. Her muscles are tight, ready to spring. I have never seen anything like it before. She is like a wild animal found injured in the woods. No matter how much my instinct tells me to avoid her, I am drawn by the idea of taming her. And she is absolutely clueless about her effect on people.

"I'm okay," she whispers.

Her voice has a husky quality to it. It isn't deep, but it is low enough to send shivers down the spine. She is a quiet girl, no doubt, but all the anxiety has put her in constant "fight" mode, and it is causing her dormant powers to open up. She is downright intriguing.

It is dark beyond my room, the day having slid into night, and I pull some sleep clothes out of a nearby dresser. I throw a pair of flannel bottoms and a large tee at Emma before turning to Rachel. Rachel holds up her hands.

"I've got my own, thank you."

I shrug and head toward the bathroom.

"I'm getting a shower. Why don't you two change?"

Rachel pulls some clothes out of a large hand bag sitting by the door. Part of being a good Guardian is traveling light. Emma's face has gone red. It is obvious she is incredibly modest.

"Try turning around while Emma changes. She's the shy type," I whisper to Rachel as I walk past her into the bathroom.

"As if I didn't notice," Rachel grumbles.

The shower feels good, and I spend longer than necessary in the bathroom. It isn't until I hear Rachel swearing that I throw on some clothes and walk into my room. Emma is pushed up against my headboard, her eyes distant and red. She is wearing my blue flannel pajama bottoms and a large navy blue tee that has slipped off one shoulder. She is shaking.

"What'd you do to her?" I hiss. Rachel's jaw tightens.

"I started chopping up vegetables and set up a pot to boil her in. What do you think I did, Reinhardt?" Rachel asks sarcastically. I ignore her and move to the bed.

"Emma?"

She doesn't move. I sit on the edge of the bed carefully.

"Em?" I whisper. Her eyes swing vacantly to mine before looking away. Her pupils are dilated.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"It hurts."

She is staring at the window, and I follow her gaze. There is a full moon tonight. It takes me a moment, but when realization dawns, I curse. The moon. She is being drawn by the moon.

"Close the blinds, Rachel," I order. The last thing we need is for Emma to fight her way out of the room.

Rachel did as ordered, her brows furrowed in confusion.

"She's insane," Rachel mutters as Emma's breathing calms. Her eyes bleed back to amber. Her gaze finds mine.

"She's not crazy. Just untrained," I say softly, my words as much for Emma as they are for Rachel. I need Emma to know she is not falling apart. She just isn't prepared to deal with her own powers.

"What's wrong with me?" Emma breathes. I scoot next to her.

"Nothing is wrong with you. The she-Demon who sired you is linked to the moon."

I hear Rachel gasp, but I don't look up. She is a good enough Guardian to know which Demon I am referring to.

"I'm not going to like my real mother much, am I?" Emma asks. She looks tired, and I have the sudden, undeniable urge to hug her. I settle for placing a hand on her leg.

"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.

"I can't figure you out, Em. Getting inside your head is damn difficult."

The water around us lifts, flowing back into the sink as if it had never existed. Even my clothes and hair are as dry as they had been before. I keep my eyes averted.

"There is nothing to figure out," I mumble. Conor laughs a little.

"Oh, I think there is. It's the quiet ones who think the most."

"N-n-no," I insist, looking anywhere but at him.

I move back as far as I can before glancing over his shoulder, my eyes landing automatically on the French doors. A grotesque face peers back at me, its mouth spread wide, its grin wicked.

My body is suddenly hot, my pulse races. I scream.

Chapter 11

Conor

I think, when it comes right down to it, fear is underestimated.

"Quiet, Em!" I say urgently, my hand coming to rest against her screaming lips.

She is insensible, her eyes round with horror. I know without looking there is a Demon standing on the other side of my patio door. I don't look because I know it won't come in alone, not into a house full of gargoyles. There are footsteps in the hallway, more than one set, all on high alert.

"What the hell!" a groggy Roach yells as he slides into the room. He is in a pair of red boxers and nothing else. Half naked, Roach is not the least bit intimidating. There's just not much to him. Somewhat tall, yes. Meaty, no. But Roach in gargoyle form, that's another story.

I point at the French doors as my mother, Will, and Rachel all crowd into the room. We are a strange bunch at night, a mix of blue silk, Hello Kitty, and drawstring p.j.'s. Frightening, definitely not, but we aren't angry yet.

It doesn't take long to assess the situation. Mom barely spares a glance in our direction.

"Take the front of the house," Mom yells at Will. He doesn't wait for further orders.

"Take the roof," I yell at Roach. His eyes narrow. He doesn't like following my orders, but when Mom nods, he complies.

Mom looks at me, her eyes meeting mine. We don't speak in words, our eyes full of an understanding that takes a lifetime to cultivate. She exits the kitchen. She'll man what no else can cover. Only Rachel and I remain with Emma. Rachel will be with me until the end of the mission. What she tells her father will decide my future.

"There'll be more," Rachel says.

I'm well aware of this. Emma hasn't moved , and when I look her way, I see her face is ashen. Even so, her gaze is focused on the creature outside.

"I think it's hurting," Rachel says in awe.

I turn quickly, keeping Emma at my back as my gaze finds the Demon. He's a large creature with four arms, four horns, wide lips and pointed teeth. His dark, leather-like face is contorted. Rachel is right. He's hurting. I look over my shoulder at Emma. Her eyes are red. She is smiling.

"She's hurting him," Rachel breathes as she walks to my side.

Both of us stare at Emma. She isn't moving, frozen. Rachel pokes her. No response.

"Shit," I curse.

I pick Emma up, cradling her in my arms. She comes to life, fighting me, her body suddenly active as she twists in an attempt to see out the door.

"Jesus, Con! She can control Demons," Rachel cries out.

I press Emma to me.

"Some Demons," I correct as I run for the stairs.

At the landing, I shout. Mom is already there. Rachel is behind me. Roach appears at the top of the stairs, Will is moving my way from the front of the house. Emma is thrashing violently. The moon has her.

"We've got to get her to the Acropolis! NOW!" I yell.

"Now? Like this?" Rachel scoffs.

Mom takes one look at Emma and nods. I don't have the experience Mom and Roach have, but I know Emma isn't safe here. I have heard of this, but I have never seen it. Emma is channeling her mother.

"Go!" Mom orders.

I take the stairs two at a time. Will and Rachel pound the stairs behind me. Roach has reverted to his gargoyle form. He hisses as we join him. The trip will take all of us. We'll be attacked. There's no doubt. Only my mother will remain.

"Conor!" Mom calls. I look down the stairs, a thrashing Emma beating me incessantly in the chest. Mom's eyes meet mine. "Be careful. Kill her if you have to." Her words cut through me. She's afraid.

I nod, giving her my back as the four of us begin to run. There is a lever built into a room at the end of the hall. It opens a large skylight in the ceiling. We run for it, Will punching it before we all launch ourselves into the sky. There are three Demons waiting for us.

I see Roach extend his talons, sinking them into a dragon-like Demon above my head. It howls. They are evenly matched. Rachel takes a smaller bull-like Demon with black, curling horns and two hairy arms. It has hooves for feet. Will stays behind me. The third Demon has retreated. It is outnumbered, and it knows it. I wrap myself around Emma. She feels hot against my chest.

"Dammit, Em! Snap out of it!"

She doesn't respond, and I grab her by the chin, forcing her face to mine. I don't know her, but I can't kill her. I know this. I'd stood behind her while she talked to her mother, had seen the bloody tears on her cheeks in the hospital, had watched her shoot a ball of flame, had seen her fight the power of the moon. She can fight this.

Her eyes meet mine. They are blood red. She is a Demon. She is the daughter of Enepsigos. She is Emma.

She snarls, scratching me, and I watch as her nails leave a red welt across my chest. I am going to have a hard time fighting anything with her fighting me as well. I need to get to the ocean. Quickly. Water is a sanctuary for gargoyles.

Kill her if you have to

My arms tighten around Emma. She is howling. I know what she is. I hate what she is. I have been trained to kill Demons. I still hate them, hate them for what they take from mankind, what they have taken from me. They killed my father, took Dayton.

I look down at Emma. She is going wild. But beneath the thrashing, the screaming, I see it. Bloody tears. She is a Demon, but she is also human. She has not asked for this.

I head for the Gulf. We need water.

"Sssssssssssssss . . . if they send the hounds, we are done for," Roach hisses, his serpentine body twisting through the air, his clawed feet covered in black blood.

He smiles wickedly and sucks on one of his talons. There is more than one reason Roosevelt is called Roach. I look at him, my eyes full of disgust. Roach isn't an awful guy, but he is intolerant.

"Fly for the ocean," I tell them. Will and Rachel are flanking me now. Roach moves ahead, his neck arched backwards.

"You want to drown her?" Roach asks, his snake-like voice rumbling with laughter. One day, I will beat the shit out of him.

"We use it. We dive. We come up for air. We dive."

Will looks at Emma. Her hair is sticking to her forehead. She is sweating from the fight, and there is no sign she will tire soon.

"She could drown," Will says softly.

There is no malice in his tone, nothing to suggest he wants her dead although I realize it would be a relief to them. She is a danger to us. She could get us killed, and no one wants to die for a Demon.

"Yes, she could," I say quietly.

If she does, it won't be intentional. I have no idea how she will react to salt water. I have no idea how long she can hold her breathe. Although Demons can't be drowned, they have an aversion to water. It doesn't hurt them, but Demon-hybrids haven't been so lucky. For some, water is deadly.

We fly faster, the Gulf welcoming us on the horizon just as a black cloud rolls in from the same direction. It is a mass of Demons, possibly Hellhounds.

"Dive!" I yell.

Emma is moaning, her head rolled back as she stares up at the sky. The moon suddenly breaks through the cloud cover and Emma goes slack, her eyes locked on the huge white orb. In that moment, she isn't awkward, she isn't unremarkable, she is breathtaking.

"Emma," I whisper.

She doesn't look at me. I close my eyes briefly as the wind buffets us. The water is coming up fast.

"Hold your breath, Sweetheart."

I can only hope she hears me. Roach sinks into the waves. Rachel skips on the surface of the water before diving into the Gulf's comforting arms.

Will looks at me, his eyes sad. I wonder if he and I are the only ones who care what happens to Emma. I think about her mother, the skinny auburn-haired woman who'd been ringing her hands in the hall outside Emma's cubicle in Atlanta.

Will sinks into the waves. Emma's voice rings through my head, her phone conversation with her adopted mother still fresh in my mind. I love you, Mom. No matter what, I love you. Emma doesn't have a lot of people in her life, but she has that much.

"Hold your breath, Sweetheart."

We plunge into the icy waters just as the sky above fills with Demons.

Chapter 12

Emma

I am cold.

Demons . . . power . . . such power.

I can't breathe.

Fire . . . blazing flames . . . I am burning.

I am scared.

Burning . . . I am burning . . . it feels amazing.

I am dying.

I am in water when I open my eyes, and I panic, thrashing as I draw in a lungful of salt water. It burns, and I struggle. There is no oxygen left. And still I struggle. I am weakening. I struggle. I am slipping away. I struggle.

There are arms around me, vice-like and cold. We are moving. I am dying. My world is going dark, the only sound, a gurgling of water.

And then I am gasping. The arms around my stomach are so tight, they are squeezing the water from my body. I am still, choking, but there is air above me, water surrounding me. Moonlight plays on choppy waves. And behind me, like a god of water, is Conor.

"Breathe, Emma," he says. He is worried, desperate. He is watching the skies.

I still can't catch my breath. I am cold, so very cold, and I feel like I will never be warm again. Something breaks the surface of the waves near us, and I recoil as I gasp. It is a sea monster.

"Get back under the waves, Reinhardt," It hisses. It is Roach.

Conor ignores him, his arms finally loosening some around my waist.

"Emma, you've got to listen to me . . ."

"She has called an army of Demons, and you want to pamper her?" Roach yells.

His long, serpentine head arches backward, his beady eyes on the sky. It's the first time I notice the grotesque monsters in the air. They are moving fast toward us. I want to scream, but my throat is on fire.

"You and I, Roach! When we get to the Acropolis, you and I! In the training center! Understand! Now, get your scaly hide back under the water and let me deal with this!"

Conor is angry. I feel the emotion course through my blood. It is fire. It is good. Roach roars, his eyes flashing.

"Dying for a Demon isn't dying honorably."

With this, Roach is gone. I can hear keening in the sky. I don't look up. Conor is forcing my face in his direction.

"Listen to me! We are going to have to go back underwater, Emma. Do you understand me?"

I nod, but I only feel half-present. I do not know how I got here. I only remember the smooth taste of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I remember being afraid. Now, I feel fuzzy. I feel strong. I feel weak.

Two heads surface near us, Will and Rachel. They share a look with Conor and are gone again. Conor looks up at the sky.

"Fight it, Emma. Remember your mother, and for God's sake, hold your breath," he whispers urgently into my ear.

My mother. In my mind, I glimpse a woman with dark hair and scarlet eyes. No, not my mother. My mother has auburn hair. She looks weak, but she is strong.

I feel Conor turn to the waves. There are beating wings close now. I can feel the breeze on my face. Conor runs his hands over the waves, and water surges violently upward, forming a twister that circles us then moves away. I hear screaming. It isn't human.

"Hold your breath," Conor orders.

This time, I am ready. I fill my lungs with air, and then I am underwater. It is dark beneath the waves. The salt water stings so badly when I try to open my eyes that I force them closed again. I want to exhale, and I fight the urge. My lungs burn, but we are moving quickly, so fast the water almost hurts. It is tearing at my skin. I can't see, but I feel.

The water temperature changes constantly. It is cold, colder, warmer in spots, but never truly warm. I am freezing. I don't know how Conor sees, but I trust him. For once, I trust him because I have too.

There is suddenly air again.

"Breathe!" Conor shouts.

I exhale, I inhale. We are underwater again. I am digging my nails into Conor's skin. We move so fast, I am afraid he will let go. I am cold. So cold. I am dying from the cold. I am tired. I lose time. Someone slaps me gently.

"Breathe!"

Air again. Conor. I sputter, then inhale. Water again. The water hurts. My lungs can't handle this. I am dying. I exhale underwater because I can't hold my breath anymore. I open my eyes without thinking. Through the burn, the water is suddenly red. We are near the surface, but there is fire above.

I get a glimpse of Conor's face. He looks defeated. He cannot surface. His eyes meet mine. His mouth descends. He is trying to breath for me.

There is no warmth when our lips meet. My eyes are closed again. He exhales. I am not sure a person can breathe for another, but my lungs are fooled. Briefly fooled.

I am struggling again. Why doesn't he just let me go? We break the surface again. There is air. I gasp.

"We are almost there, Em. Hold on. One more time. Breathe one more time."

I inhale. Water again. I will forever hate water now. I am too tired now to struggle. My eyes stay closed. I feel myself drifting. The cold, the lack of air . . . it is finally killing me. I welcome the darkness. There is no pain there.

Chapter 13

Conor

In France, the sun is up. It is 6 a.m. and cold.

"Is she alive?" Will asks as we drag ourselves onto the shore.

Emma hangs like a rag doll from my arms. She has passed out during the last leg of our journey through the Gulf and through the Atlantic. We have entered France through the Bay of Biscay.

"She's alive," I answer.

I can feel her heart beating against my chest. Her skin is warm even after being submerged in the cold winter waters. Rachel is searching the sky.

"You won't find any," I say. "They lost our trail when she passed out."

Rachel turns to look at me. Her pajamas are soaked, water dripping everywhere on the shore. Her blonde hair hangs limply down her back.

"How do you know?" she asks.

Roach slithers next to Rachel.

"Because the idiot swam the last couple of miles above water."

I feel the anger rise, but I ignore it. I will not be goaded. Not now.

"We need to go before we do have something to worry about."

No one argues. In one combined movement, we use powers as ancient as our ancestors to propel the water from our bodies before launching into the sky. Emma is dry now in my arms. Her cheeks are flushed, feverish. Her powers are growing. She is like no mark I have ever protected, whether Demon or human.

"She's not going to fit in there," Will says suddenly from my left. I don't look at him.

"They will eat her alive," Rachel adds. She is flying on my right. Roach is ignoring us, his serpentine body leading the way.

"I don't know. Something tells me she's going to surprise us all," I say, my eyes still focused on the sky ahead.

The landscape is changing. We have left the coast behind. There is a blur of green rolling hills below. There are mountains in the distance, and there are homes nestled among thick tree-lined hills. But we are focused on only one place, and I am relieved when I see the turret of the Acropolis. It is well hidden in the countryside.

Registered as a residence for the Moreau family, The Acropolis is a renovated medieval chateau of grey-white stone with a mostly straight facade broken up by arrow slit windows and a solitary tower and turret. Cypresses surround the property, mostly obscuring it from view. There is a forest to the back of the chateau. To the side is a small lake, and the main building is hemmed in by landscaped gardens surrounded by low stone fences. There are two outbuildings and a stable that have been renovated to form residence halls.

I gesture at one of the outbuildings, an old guardian's cottage, and we all land carefully on the roof. Each building, even the main, is rigged for quick entries from above. I crouch as Roach, Rachel, and Will enter ahead of me through a small terrace not originally part of the building. I hear greetings from inside, and I know our arrival is expected. My mother would have contacted the appropriate people.

"Do you need help, Conor?" a young female voice asks, and I look up to find Marion Durand leaning out of the terrace's entrance. She is a pretty girl, eighteen, with rosy cheeks, brown hair, and a round figure. Her father is the school's headmaster.

I smile at her because I know her offer is genuine. There isn't a mean bone in Marion's body.

"She's going to be very afraid when she wakes up," I say quietly as I lean into the entrance.

The room is a small one, a study used only by administrators, and it is made even smaller by our presence. Marion nods as she motions to her left. An African-American girl scrambles forward and together she and Marion take Emma from me. The dark-skinned girl is Deidra Alexander. She smiles as she passes. Emma is in good hands.

Marion hands Roach a pair of cotton drawstring pants as they approach the door. He has reverted to his human form and is completely naked but neither girl flinches. Modesty is not a part of gargoyle life especially among the shifter set.

Will is leaning wearily against the cottage's stone wall, and Rachel is standing next to a man of average build with brown hair in a casual tweed suit jacket over a white shirt and dark blue jeans.

"Mr. Durand," I say, extending my hand. I can hear the weariness in my own voice.

"Mr. Reinhardt," Gary Durand replies, his hand clasping mine tightly. My handshake is weak. My trip from France and back again, the battle with Demons, and the ocean journey has drained me.

"I am impressed," Durand says. His eyes move over us slowly. "Rachel, here, tells me you have traveled primarily through water to get here?"

I nod. Gary shakes his head, his face a mask of disbelief. Gargoyles have always had an affinity with water, but no one has ever used it as an escape route. We are not immune to the sea's dangers. No matter how fast we can travel, luck played a large part in our success. There had been no choice. Most Demons will avoid water, and we would not have won a battle by air.

"It was a smart move, Reinhardt, considering. There are empty rooms on the next floor. Go. All of you. Rest."

No one argues.

"And Conor?" Durand says just as I'm about to duck out of the room. I turn to look at him. "Gibson will hear of this. You did well. Your job is finished."

The mark is alive, she has been delivered to the Acropolis, Rachel is uninjured, and I am a Guardian again. Gibson will be happy. I am too tired to care.

"I'm not finished," I say suddenly. Durand, who has started to turn away, looks at me in surprise. I have surprised myself.

"Not finished?" Durand asks. I nod, my jaw tight.

"I'd like to petition to become Emma's Guardian."

With that, I duck out of the room and walk away.

Chapter 14

Emma

"Hold on."

In my head, I hear Conor's voice. It's supposed to get me through, supposed to help me survive this wild trip through the sea. I am dreaming. I am awake. I am lost.

"Emma?" a voice asks.

It isn't Conor. It is female. I recoil. I am in pain.

"Emma, it's okay. My name is Marion Durand. You are safe."

She has a sweet voice, this Marion, and I realize I am no longer cold. I am lying on something soft, and I am warm. A hand works its way into mine, and I cry out. It is immediately withdrawn.

"You are safe," Marion's voice repeats. "You are at the Acropolis. No one here will harm you."

The Acropolis. I know this name. I am at the school for hybrid Demons, but I don't know how I got here, and I am scared. My memory is fuzzy. There is a moonlit kitchen, a grotesque face. I am angry. I want to fight. I want to leave. I want to fly. Instead, I am drowning. I am underwater.

And then there is a god, a sea god. Conor. He is surrounded by water and beautiful. I wonder briefly if he is really as beautiful as my mind makes him. I whimper.

"Emma . . . Emma?" Marion calls. She attempts touching me again, and I manage not to fight her. "Open your eyes, Emma. You are safe."

She keeps repeating the word "safe". It has no affect on me, but I open my eyes anyway because I am too afraid to keep them closed. There is a girl standing over me.

I scream and pull away, my back going into a wrought iron headboard. There is pain, but it is welcome. It is real. There are blankets wrapped around me, and I am still in Conor's pajamas.

"Emma," the girl says again.

Her voice sounds strained but soothing. I think she is afraid of me. Her voice is familiar. Marion. She has a round face, rosy, with wavy brown hair that looks like it can't decide whether it wants to be curly or straight. She has pale skin, and her heightened flush confirms my suspicion. She is afraid of me, but she hides it well. It is her fear that helps calm me. We are afraid of each other.

"Where am I?" I whisper.

My voice is hoarse. My throat hurts. Marion smiles, her eyes still uncertain and reaches for a mug sitting on a small table next to the bed.

"The Acropolis," she repeats.

She has said this before, but this time I hear her. The room is real. It is small, warm. The walls are stone. There are two chairs opposite my low, iron bed. They are brown leather and sit in front of a massive stone fireplace. There is a fire crackling in the hearth.

Another girl sits before the flames. She is curled up in the chair. She has dark skin and even darker eyes. She is skinny, her face oval. I can't see her clothes because she is mostly hidden. Only her face peers out at me. Her expression is the only thing keeping me from being afraid. It is a mix of curiosity and amusement. Marion follows my gaze.

"This is Deidra," Marion says carefully.

I am immediately taken by the girl. She smiles, her teeth white and straight next to her skin. Her amusement makes me less afraid, distracts me because I wonder how anyone can find the current situation funny.

"You aren't what I expected," Deidra says, her small voice full of laughter.

"Deidra!" Marion exclaims, but I find myself smiling despite myself as the girl stands up slowly and moves toward the bed. She is small, maybe four foot ten inches at the most, and she is wearing the ugliest combination of clothes I have ever seen, brown leather pants with a fitted long sleeve red shirt mostly hidden by a pocketed brown leather vest. She has on dark brown combat boots with a gold chain around her neck accented by a faux ruby. She is watching me curiously, a strange glint in her eyes.

I am still curled up against the headboard. I'm not sure if it's because I'm afraid or because I am so confused. I feel like I am missing chunks of time. Deidra leans over the bed and studies me. She's maybe fourteen-years-old at the most and a cute little thing. She pauses abruptly and opens her eyes wide.

"BOO!"

It's so unexpected I jump. Deidra chuckles and places a hand over her stomach.

"Deidra Alexander!" Marion admonishes, but Deidra doesn't look the least bit guilty.

"They said she was afraid of everything. I was just testing her out."

I laugh only because being afraid of Deidra seems ridiculous as I push away from the headboard, tugging the tangled sheets down as Marion shakes her head and hands me a warm, black mug.

"It's tea with honey. You took in a lot of salt water. This will help your throat."

I nod gratefully while studying Deidra. Something about her fascinates me.

"What are you?" I ask her suddenly. I know without a doubt she isn't one of them. How I know this is beyond me, but she feels different.

Marion clears her throat in what sounds suspiciously like disapproval, but Deidra ignores her and hops onto the bed, jumping once before landing on her bottom in a cross-legged position. She grins.

"I'm like you," she says, leaning over to sniff my tea before scrunching her nose in disgust. "You know, a Demon," she adds with a shrug.

I stare at her, my eyes wide.

"A hybrid?" I ask.

Deidra nods and pulls a peppermint candy out of her vest pocket. She unwraps it and plunks it into my mug.

"That will taste so much better now," she says.

I don't even spare it a glance.

"Deidra, maybe we should give Emma some time," Marion begins, but I cut her off.

"You are weak."

I don't mean to say it, and I immediately regret the words when I see Deidra's face. It is crestfallen but full of acceptance. I am not myself. I am feeling and saying things I know I shouldn't, but I can't control it. Deidra looks up at me, the twinkle in her eyes diminished.

"I'm an imp. We aren't strong Demons. We're mostly known for being mischievous." She laughs bitterly. "I'm not good at making friends. I play too many pranks. Even when I try not to, I still find myself doing things I shouldn't."

Deidra looks so young just then. She's no more than a child really, and yet I understand her more than I do the gargoyles that have helped get me here. I don't know what an imp is, but I know what doing things I don't want to do feels like.

"You're still learning," Marion tells Deidra gently.

Deidra and I share a look. Sometimes it isn't about understanding; it's about being allowed to feel sorry for oneself, even if it's just for a moment. I feel compelled to touch the girl, and I place a hand over hers on the tangled sheets. Her eyes go wide, and she pulls away.

"Wow!" she says. Her eyes are suddenly full of excitement.

"Deidra . . ." Marion warns. Deidra isn't listening. She claps her hands.

"This is the reason I begged to be allowed to help Marion. Well, no one else actually volunteered, but I jumped for it!" Deidra says. I am confused.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Deidra giggles.

"I'm a lesser Demon. Around here that pretty much guarantees you get your butt whooped often."

This sentence doesn't comfort me. I am puzzled, and I am tired. I have gone from a carton of mint ice cream with a six foot gargoyle to a horrible dream of drowning only to wake up faced with an imp. A hysterical imp.

"What does that have to do with me?" I ask carefully.

Deidra pauses.

"Seriously?" she asks."You don't know?"

I shake my head, and she laughs again.

"You, Emma Chase, are a bad ass. It's good to be your friend."

Chapter 15

Conor

"Conor?"

The voice is enough to make me groan, and I pull the pillow over my head in an attempt to drown her out. Dealing with Rachel Gibson in the a.m. is like chewing on razor blades.

"Yo, Reinhardt!"

Rachel pulls the covers off the bed. It's a good thing I don't sleep naked, but Rachel wouldn't have cared if I did. We've been there done that, in the field only and only while learning to shift without ripping our clothes.

"I'm having a nightmare," I complain, my eyes still closed. Rachel snorts.

"How bad do you want it to get?" she asks.

That's good enough for me. I sit up, covering my eyes to shield them from the sunlight streaming in from a nearby window. Rachel is fully dressed in a long sleeve pink tee and blue jeans, her hands on her hips. Solid colors. Nothing extravagant. There is no dress code at the Acropolis but no one wears clothes they care about. They are too easily damaged.

"Is it true?" Rachel asks.

I am in that wonderful halfway world between sleeping and wakefulness where nothing really makes sense.

"Depends on what you mean by true?" I say carefully, pinching myself on the arm. I really need coffee. What time is it anyway?

"Are you going to be the Demon's Guardian?"

This gets my attention. I run a hand through my hair and look at Rachel.

"Why? Did your father say anything?"

Rachel's jaw drops, and her eyes narrow.

"Oh, my God! You seriously petitioned for the job?" she asks. "And here I thought you were smart."

I move to the side of the bed. From the way the sun shines in through the window, I am guessing it is around noon. This is maybe five hours of sleep. It isn't enough.

"You got a point, Rach? Cause you have about zero point five seconds to get to it before I throw you out of this room."

It is none of her business what choices I make.

"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble she is going to cause?"

I sigh. Rachel is just getting started.

"Rach, I don't think she even knows what kind of trouble she is going to cause.'

"And you still want to guard her?"

I take a deep breath, using the momentum to propel myself out of the bed, heading for a small bathroom off to the side of the room.

"It's precisely the reason why I want to guard her."

There's a sink just inside the bathroom door, and I turn it on, letting the cold water run a moment before splashing it in my face. It isn't coffee, but it helps.

"There's no other reason?" Rachel asks.

The tone of her voice captures my attention, and I turn to her, my back now against the sink.

"What are you getting at, Rachel?"

"Are interested in her?"

I stare because it's the only thing I know to do. As much as I'd like this to be a joke, I know she isn't playing.

"You're seriously asking me this?"

Rachel shrugs.

"You're on the rebound, Con. We all know it. After Dayton . . ."

I'm beyond the snapping point. I'm in the "you just seriously pissed me off" realm of being.

"None of your business, Rachel. None of your fucking business."

She doesn't look the least bit fazed.

"You just got reinstated to Guardian, and you want to risk it this quickly?"

Rachel says this softly, and I realize her intent isn't to be cruel. She's genuinely worried. Rachel isn't a bad girl. Annoyingly blunt, but not bad. She just says out loud what other people think. And what she's saying now, a lot of people will be thinking. I lean an arm against the bathroom door.

"What has your father said, Rach?

Rachel's jaw tightens, and I suddenly know what Gibson's response to my petition was. .

"He's going to let me take the assignment."

I can hear the triumph in my own voice. She doesn't tell me yes, but I know he is.

"What are you trying to prove?" Rachel asks softly. "She isn't Dayton."

I push away from the door, shoving past her into the bedroom. Durand has had clothes sent up to the room, and I'm glad to see they belong to me. Most gargoyles keep clothes at various locations around the globe. There are at least eight different places sporting my attire, and I've long since forgotten which places have what.

"I don't know her, Rach. I don't know what you're getting at, but this assignment has nothing to do with romance."

Rachel shoots me a disbelieving glare as I pull a plain white t-shirt over my head. I hold a pair of blue jeans in my hand, but I refuse to change in front of her. It doesn't matter how immodest we gargoyles are, I put my foot down when it comes to changing my pants in front of the girl my family wishes I'd marry some day. It doesn't matter how many times we've seen each other unclothed during training. Most of those moments were accidents. I have no intention of ever getting "intentional" in front of Rachel.

"It's always about romance with you, Con."

I don't argue with her. Until Dayton, I have been known to play the field. I'm not as pure as my mother wishes I was. I may be a gargoyle, I may follow a pretty strict code of conduct, but I'm also human. And I'm human enough to admit that losing my father, having a mother who spends a lot of time saving other people's lives, and then having to live up to a legacy that is impossible to live up to means I found relief in other avenues. I made my own reputation. I'm not always proud of it, but I do have to live with it.

"My priorities have changed, Rach. The only interest I have in the girl is making sure she doesn't kill herself or anyone else."

Rachel makes her way to the bedroom door, her hand pausing on the knob.

"It's against the rules to date a Demon."

I don't look at her, my eyes trained on the jeans in my hand instead.

"I just want to be her Guardian," I say.

"She's stronger than you," Rachel points out.

This is something I already know.

"She's stronger than all of us. It's what makes her so dangerous."

I hear the door open, but I still don't look up.

"Be careful, Con."

The door clicks shut behind Rachel, and the only thing I want to do is go back to bed. I pull a cell phone out instead. It's lying with my new clothes, a replacement to the one ruined by the sea. Gargoyles are in constant need of communication. I have voice mail. It's from Director Gibson.

"You got the job, Reinhardt. Don't screw it up."

What's left unsaid speaks louder than words.

Chapter 16

Emma

I don't feel the least bit comfortable.

"It's a little on the short side," Deidra says, her lips pinched to contain her amusement. I'm not sure how I feel about her yet, but I can't seem to get rid of her.

"Short is an understatement I think," I say as I finger the long sleeve black tee I'm wearing. I'm tall for a girl, and every time I lift my arms, I can see my belly button.

"The jeans are better," Marion adds, her cheeks flushed. I can tell she wants to feel more comfortable around me, but she still reeks of fear. I can't figure out what's so terrifying.

"They are boy's jeans," Deidra says petulantly.

I am embarrassed by this fact, and I keep my mouth shut.

"Boyfriend jeans are fairly popular. No one will notice," Marion says defensively.

My heart is beating so fast, I can barely breathe. My throat still hurts, but the pain has lessened considerably. With each new step, I feel my hands shake, and I clasp them as tightly as I can to hide the problem. But the imp notices. She is more observant than I'd like to admit.

"They need you trained as quickly as possible. I don't think they'd throw you to the wolves this quickly if they didn't," Deidra says sympathetically. Marion slaps Deidra on the back.

"You aren't helping her any."

"Well, she needs to know," Deidra argues.

We are almost to the main building, having left a large cottage behind us. The Chateau before us is huge, grey-white stone and impressive. We are surrounded by gardens and low stone walls. I pause on the lawn.

"The wolves?" I ask. Deidra's words make me nervous.

Marion sighs.

"You are the daughter of Enepsigos. She is one of the most powerful Demons in existence. You are going to be automatically disliked."

Her words are blunt but soft. I just stare, my cheeks heating. Deidra slips her hand into mine. I am too ashamed to pull away.

"It's not you, Emma. Don't take it personally. Demons, even hybrids, are power hungry. No matter how much we want to pretend we aren't, we are. Other than the gargoyles training us, there is not a single student here that doesn't have a Demonic parent. You won't be judged for that."

"Then why the dislike?" I ask.

"Because they will be jealous," Marion answers.

I am at a loss for words. I don't feel powerful. I don't even feel like a Demon. I feel scared. I feel lonely. I feel like crying. But I don't. I don't cry because tears won't help anything, and they will be tinged with blood. Crying is something I have to learn to control. Crying is something I have to learn to do without.

"Come," Marion says. "You need to eat. We all do. What you do after that will depend on your Guardian."

We walk slowly again, my feet dragging as the door of the Acropolis draws nearer.

"My Guardian?" I ask.

Deidra's hand is still in mine, and she tugs on it gently.

"We all have one. It's a gargoyle assigned to make sure we don't lose control."

"That's not entirely true, Deidra," Marion says firmly. She stops at the door, her hand resting on the wood as she turns to face me.

"As Guardians, a gargoyle's first duty is to protect the innocent, the defenseless. We stand between evil and those evil attempts to harm." Marion is stoic, her voice even. Her words sound memorized. "But, at the Acropolis, the Guardians assigned to the students here are given two objectives: Guard and judge."

The word "judge" sends chills down my spine.

"Judge?"

Deidra snorts.

"As the children of Demons and mortals, we are given leniency. We aren't killed because one of our parents is human, innocent. It means we have the capacity for good. But only the capacity. If we prove to be one of the so called "good" hybrids, we are assigned a job among the gargoyles or another group that protects humankind," Deidra says dryly.

I know the answer to my next question, but I ask it anyway.

"And if we fail?"

Marion pushes the door open, her face solemn as she gestures to the hall beyond.

"Some of us won't make it out of the Acropolis," Deidra answers, her hand slipping from mine as she steals into the Chateau. I don't move, my eyes blank. My body is tight with fear, more fear than I have ever felt before in my life. I am being faced with Demons both figuratively and literally, and I am afraid of failure.

"You are a good person, Emma. You have nothing to worry about."

I hear Marion's voice, but I don't acknowledge it. I can't quit thinking about what I've already done. I have nearly killed five gargoyles. My memory may be fuzzy, but Deidra hasn't had any trouble filling me in. By the time Marion presented me with clothes to wear to the main building, I knew exactly why Deidra thought I was "bad ass."

"You are a good person," Marion repeats, her hand touching me tentatively. Her words are comforting, but her actions, her expressions are fearful, unsure.

"You don't know that," I whisper as I finally step forward.

Deidra is immediately next to me. For the first time, I see uncertainty on her impish face. There is laughter in the Acropolis. The building is massive, the ceilings vaulted with exposed wooden beams and stone floors that appear ancient, untouched. There are massive fireplaces in the hall. No furniture. A stone gargoyle sits at the foot of a spiral stone staircase. There is a floor-to-ceiling mirror on one side of the room and weapons hanging along the wall. I don't ask why.

"Make them like you," I mumble to myself. It is something my mother is always telling me. Just make them like you, Emma.

"That's not possible," Deidra mutters as we approach a large entryway. Beyond it is a room lined with three massive mahogany tables, chairs filled with students ranging in age. They are an eclectic mix. Some are young, maybe no more than ten years of age, while others look older than me. And they are loud. I am bombarded by sound.

Along the walls, men and women stand, many of them in their late twenties. Only a few look to be in their teens. One of them is Conor Reinhardt, his arms folded as he leans against the wall facing the room. Will is next to him. Rachel isn't far from Will. These are the gargoyles. Some of them Guardians. Our judge and jury. I am feeling decidedly less than perfect.

"They've noticed you," Deidra whispers.

She is at my back now, clinging to the loopholes in my jeans, her face just visible at my side. A strange feeling sweeps through me, a warm one. It's the first time I've ever been considered a protector by anyone. I wonder briefly what I'm supposed to do if I have a panic attack. Jump under a table and bring Deidra with me?

And then I notice the silence.

All eyes are on the door, on Marion, on me. I'm not quite sure how to handle the attention. It's the first time I've ever been in a public situation where I haven't been completely overlooked. My palms are sweaty, and my heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my temples. People are sneering now, waiting.

I get a quick glimpse of Conor's face, but he is avoiding my gaze. I'm alone, and for the first time, I realize that it's not only the hybrid-Demons who are watching me, it's the gargoyles. Their stares are intense, watchful, and I realize they expect me to make a mistake. I am being tested.

"Everyone's a critic," Deidra snorts. Her words make me smile despite my terror. She is a crass little thing, evidently worried about the people inside the dining hall, but she is fearless in ways I'll probably never be.

Marion moves ahead of me, and I follow her slowly, my eyes on her back, Deidra still clinging to my pants. If people are so determined to dislike me because I'm terrifying, they are getting a whole new perspective. It's hard to be scary in a boy's jeans, a practically cropped black top, and an imp clinging to my backside.

Chapter 17

Conor

She's getting better at hiding her fear.

My eyes track Emma as she moves across the dining hall. All eyes are on her, but she moves forward. She isn't confident, but in my opinion, that makes her braver.

"She's going to fail," Tom Henry says from my right. He guards Lyre, a greedy she-Demon with a bad attitude.

"I'm betting she finishes ahead of your mark," Grace Withers says from farther down the wall. She guards Fiona, another she-Demon, no less greedy but potentially a good protector.

"She's too skittish," Tom argues.

Grace snorts.

"You are about as observant as a piece of toilet paper, Henry. Watch her eyes."

I watch Emma as she turns, taking a plate of food from a woman near the kitchen. Deidra Alexander is still clinging to her. The small imp hasn't had a good experience at the Acropolis. She has been attacked twice, her assailants no longer students. They have been exterminated. I suspect she's been attacked more than this, but there is no way to tell.

"She's scared shitless, and you think she'll come out ahead of Lyre," Tom says with a laugh.

I am watching Emma's eyes now. They are wide, searching. Her head cocks to one side, and she flinches. Her movements are almost spastic.

"Oh, she'll come out ahead," Grace says. "She's a sensitive. One of my past marks was a sensitive, but she was trained, aware."

Grace's words have garnered the gargoyles' attention. I push away from the wall, my thoughts scrambling over the new information. Emma's eccentric behavior, her fears, her need to lash out . . . it all makes sense now.

"A sensitive?" Will asks.

"No shit," Rachel swears. "I can't believe I didn't catch on to that sooner."

I agree with Rachel. Emma's eyes are narrowed as she follows Marion to a back table. It is mostly empty, and Marion waves at the surface before leaving Emma and Deidra alone. Gargoyles can only interfere so much. The rest is left up to the instructors and the Guardians. Guardians are security. We make sure no one is killed.

"What's a sensitive?" Will asks again.

"A sensitive has heightened senses. They can see and hear things no one else can hear. Some, but not all, even have a sixth sense. This means they are in tune, not only with their surroundings, but with emotions, with some thoughts. They feed off emotion. Untrained, this can lead to paranoia, fear," Grace answers.

We're all looking at Emma's table now.

"Wow," Will breathes. "That's our Emma, alright."

Rachel rolls her eyes as Tom laughs coldly.

"Our?"

I see Will's face redden as he realizes his mistake.

"Did you get assigned as her Guardian, Escort?" Tom sneers.

I feel my jaw tighten. Will is more tolerant than most. He didn't enter the Inner Circle until the new laws about Demons had passed. He doesn't understand the hatred the same way the rest of us do.

"No, he didn't," I say coldly, my eyes on Emma. "I did."

The entire wall of gargoyles goes quiet.

"Conor Reinhardt? A Guardian to a she-Demon?"

I don't know the gargoyle who utters the sarcastic question, but I know they all mirror his sentiment. The Acropolis is a fairly new idea. Rehabilitating Demons is something most gargoyles don't support. Those assigned to the school are usually there because they are being punished. Whatever their transgression, it isn't enough for a demotion, but it is enough to get them assigned to a Demon. No one ever volunteers.

I am the son of Paul Reinhardt. The Reinhardts are legendary. I am suddenly less in their eyes. Will stiffens next to me.

"He vo-"

I elbow Will in the ribs. He coughs. If he thinks a Reinhardt being assigned as a Demon Guardian is bad, he has no idea what it will do to our family's reputation if he lets it slip I volunteered.

I give him a look before focusing on Emma's table again. She's attempting to eat, but she's mostly just picking at the food, her shoulders taut. She looks on edge. A sensitive. An untrained sensitive. Damn.

"Reinhardt, I think I speak for all the Guardians here when I say we'd love to know how you got assigned to this hellhole," Sean Thomas says with a laugh. He's a burly man in his mid-twenties with russet hair and green eyes. He looks even bigger standing next to Grace who is average in height and skinny with brown hair and blonde highlights.

I shrug.

"We all make mistakes," I say simply while avoiding Rachel and Will's gazes. I'm thankful Roach isn't present.

"Well, I'm placing my bets on Conor's mark this year," Grace says indifferently.

Tom bets against her. This continues down the wall.

"You're betting on who will finish and who will die?" Will asks, shocked.

Tom leans forward, his eyes on Will's reddened face.

"What else do you expect us to do to pass the time? You think that's cold, Escort? Wait until you see a training class. Your Emma is going to have a hell of a time then."

Tom laughs, highly amused at himself. He looks down the row.

"Get it? Hell of a time," he spits.

The joke isn't funny. Rachel moves closer to Will and me and lowers her voice.

"I never even considered her being a sensitive."

I nod as I watch Emma's table. Watching her now, it's easy to discern. It also changes things. Her survival rate is higher.

"She is going to be fine," I say, the words confident. Rachel watches me.

"She might stand a chance, Con, but it doesn't mean she'll be fine."

I look down, my eyes hard.

"In two days, she's lost everything. And we've not only taken everything from her, we've taken who she thought she was. We have torn her apart. She has to start from scratch now. And she's still standing. Fearful, less than confident, but still standing. Could you say the same about yourself?" I ask. Rachel doesn't answer. "And you question whether or not she'll be fine."

"She's a Demon," Rachel whispers.

I know her hatred. I still fight it daily. But my perspective is changing. I'm not any more tolerant, but I'm beginning to see the promise in rehabilitating half-mortal Demons.

"Two days ago, she was just a girl."

Chapter 18

Emma

"You ready?" Deidra asks.

I'm not quite sure what she's referring to, but I don't think I have much choice. Lunch is over, and it was uneventful. Terrifying, overwhelming, but uneventful.

"Ready for what?" I ask.

"Training," she says. "It's where they take us Demons, tear us apart, and then put us back together again."

The concept is both frightening and amusing.

"Like a jigsaw puzzle?" I ask.

Deidra groans.

"No, jigsaw puzzles are pretty when finished."

We are in the hall now, standing at the foot of the spiral staircase, and I stare at her.

"And we won't be?"

I have sudden images of myself wrapped in Conor's arms in the sea, horrible monsters in the air as we cower beneath the waves. Funny that I consider a wise evasive move cowering. I had wanted to confront the beasts. Rule them even? The images are fuzzy, a nightmare I can't really remember, but I had felt power. I had enjoyed the rush. Deidra is right. Jigsaw puzzles are prettier.

"We're already broken, you know," Deidra whispers.

She sounds sad suddenly, and I look down at the top of her head. She is too young to be without a family. I am in that funny stage, that part of life where I'm supposed to be disentangling myself from childhood and entering adulthood. I am alive, and I am utterly alone. I am standing on a precipice and there is nothing I can do but jump. I reach down and take Deidra's small hand in mine.

"Broken but fixable. Always fixable," I say softly.

She looks up at me, smiling, her eyes lighter until she looks over my shoulder. And then I see the fear.

"Daughter of Enepsigos," a female voice says lightly.

There is laughter in her declaration and something darker. I read the emotion easily, and my spine stiffens. The Demon world is remarkably similar to the wild. The weak is never safe. Her voice is full of challenge.

"It's unheard of, you know."

I turn slowly, my eyes landing on a curvy, raven-haired girl. She is shorter than I am by a few inches, but she stands tall, her jeans and red top hugging her body like a glove. Her eyes are onyx. I don't speak because I don't really think she expects me to. Deidra stands defiantly at my side. I think the imp gives me too much credit. I am at a disadvantage here.

"Enepsigos has never been known to have offspring. Strange it should be you," the girl says.

I don't rise to the bait. She isn't aware of my upbringing, or if she is, she doesn't realize it has prepared me for verbal attacks. I don't fear them, I avoid them. I stare at her, willing my shaking hands still. She isn't pleased with my reaction.

"Are you mute?" she asks.

The words are dripping acid. She isn't a typical "mean girl." I am pretty sure this school doesn't have a caste system. She is merely circling a potential enemy.

I am still, unmoving, my eyes locked with hers. I can feel her emotion. I can feel her unease. It is startling. If I was able to do this before, I was unaware. But I had also avoided human contact. Now, I am being thrust into society, a new potentially deadly society, and in one stare-filled moment, I suddenly know what it is to be a Demon.

Demons are solitary beings, territorial, and ruled by their own greed. By power. The only thing they fear is each other. They fear being controlled by stronger Demons. They fear possession.

I shudder despite my attempt to appear unflappable. The girl smiles. She doesn't realize my fear is her fear.

"I am Lyre. I am the daughter of Pleiades. I cannot be ruled, you understand. I'll kill you first," she warns.

I am not prepared for the attack. I am not prepared for the power that suddenly rushes through me. I am not prepared for the blood I taste in my mouth when my head hits the wall opposite the staircase. I am not prepared for the hatred that overwhelms me. It isn't my hatred. It's hers. I am the daughter of Enepsigos. Her mother is weaker. She hates weakness.

Deidra is suddenly next to me, and I use the back of my hand to wipe away the blood dripping from the corner of my mouth. I have bitten my tongue in the impact. It smarts, but the wound doesn't feel deep. It is the blood running down the side of my head that is startling. Head wounds tend to bleed profusely. Mine is no exception.

"I don't want to rule anyone," I whisper as Lyre moves toward me.

Her eyes are red now. My head is pounding. I can feel how pleased she is. She lifts her hands, and I duck my head, my back going into the wall just as I hear Lyre scream.

"Oh, my God!" Deidra says next to me, and I look up to find Conor Reinhardt standing before the screaming she-Demon, her mouth open as he holds her wrists in his stone-like hands. His eyes have her entranced, and she cannot move. I don't know what he's doing to her, and I don't have any desire to find out.

"Tom!" Conor yells.

Lyre flinches as a tall, brown-haired man moves through the hall. He is dressed as simply as the rest of us, jeans and a solid green tee. His hazel eyes are trained on Conor and Lyre. Conor doesn't move, his eyes still locked with the Demon's.

"Control your Demon, Tom, or I'll gladly kill her."

Tom shrugs as Conor finally lets go, shoving Lyre gently toward the other gargoyle. He turns to me, his eyes searching. Deidra's hand is lying on my shoulder, and it tightens.

"I'll be damned," Deidra mumbles.

I touch my head carefully. There is blood everywhere.

"What?" I ask as Deidra begins to stand, her eyes on the approaching gargoyle. Conor looks determined, resolved.

"Conor Reinhardt is your Guardian," Deidra says, her voice full of awe.

I am confused.

"Wasn't he before?"

Deidra shakes her head.

"Are you okay?" Conor asks as he reaches us.

He crouches and takes me by the elbow. I stand up slowly, my head spinning. Lyre's emotions are suddenly gone replaced by something different, something odd.

"We are like pack animals," I say suddenly.

Conor's eyes find mine.

"What?"

My eyes are on the hall now. There are hybrids moving silently through the chateau. Some are talking, laughing even, and they are being shadowed by gargoyles. Guardians. I am not sure where they are headed. Training? To some unknown lesson I'm still unaware of?

"We are pack animals who were not born to be a part of a pack."

My eyes never move from the thinning crowd. I am speaking for a group. Some of the words feel like my own, but others feel channeled. Conor looks at Deidra.

"Go to class, Alexander. Emma needs some time."

Deidra gulps, but I feel her leave me, slinking into the darkness. I don't see her Guardian, but I know he or she must be near. I hope they are near.

"What are you trying to say, Emma?" Conor asks.

I turn to look at him, my mind a jumble of mixed emotions. I am afraid, but I'm not sure anymore if the fear is all mine.

"Demons are solitary beings that fight constantly for dominance. Putting them . . . us here in one place is asking for trouble. We are being forced together, and we are struggling to destroy each other. Why do you do it?"

His eyes move over my face, and his brows furrow.

"There is good here. You haven't met them all, Emma. Some people believe the hybrids are worth saving."

I watch the play of emotions on his face, and I know the truth before I even ask the question.

"Do you?"

Conor looks me in the eye.

"No."

Sadly, I agree with him.

Chapter 19

Conor

I lead Emma from the chateau and into the gardens. She is too astute. Her powers, though untrained, are growing. She is picking up on the emotions around her, and I am afraid. I'm not afraid of Emma. I'm afraid of the emotions she may feel coming from me.

"The beating you just got in the main hall . . . that's just the beginning," I say as I approach one of the stone walls surrounding the gardens.

I lift her up before she has a chance to argue, placing her on the wall as I pull the hem of my shirt out of my jeans. I lift it over my head and place it against Emma's scalp. At this rate, and if the last two days prove statistically correct, Emma is going to be seeing me shirtless more than any other female.

"I can do it," Emma says, taking my shirt from me as she shifts uncomfortably, her cheeks flushing. I am a few inches away from her, my face three inches below hers where she sits on the low wall, and I am amused by her reaction.

"You really haven't had much interaction with the opposite sex, have you?" I ask.

It's a personal question, and it's against the rules. The flush on Emma's cheeks darkens. I can't help but smile.

"Are you making fun of me?" she asks. I see the hurt in her eyes, and I pat her leg gently.

"Never, Em. I like joking around, and I tend to make dark situations lighter than I should, but I don't make fun of anything someone else has no control of, and I hate innuendos."

Her eyes find the Acropolis, her gaze roaming the stone building with unease.

"I'm afraid of you," she says suddenly.

This startles me, and I stare up at her. Her eyes meet mine, and I see the candid honesty in her gaze.

"I'm scared of what you represent," she continues. "I'm scared because I know what I am, and I know you are guarding something you hate.

I'm at a loss for words, and I struggle to find something to say that won't ruin the tenuous bond a Guardian is supposed to have with his mark. She isn't entirely human. This makes the bond even harder to create.

"I don't hate you," I say carefully.

She smiles sadly.

"You hate what I am. It's the same thing."

"I don't . . ." I begin, but she is watching me closely now, and she leans forward unexpectedly.

"What did they take from you?" she asks.

She doesn't have to elaborate on who "they" are. It's why I fear her. I don't like sharing how I feel about anything. I hide behind charm and wit. I hide behind lighthearted small talk. I start to lie, but then I realize she'll know I'm not being truthful.

"Demons killed my father."

It is all I say, but it's enough. I see the compassion in her gaze, and I hate her for it. She feels the hate, and her brows furrow. I see her lips part, and I stop her.

"Don't, Em."

She looks away again.

"What are the training sessions," she asks instead, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"You'll meet with hybrid Demons, others of your kind who have been trained to teach you how to manage and use your powers. Sometimes, you'll be pitted against another student to test your violent tendencies. Violent cases are sent away."

Emma nods, her eyes still on the school.

"The violent are killed," she says matter-of-factly. I don't disagree.

"Most of the time, yes."

She shudders, her hand lowering, my blood-splattered white shirt sitting in her palm.

"Who is Pleiades?" she asks.

It's a wise question. Emma is as logical as she is perceptive.

"Pleiades is a Demon made up of seven women bound together. Each bound woman represents a human weakness: jealousy, deception, strife, power, battle , error . . . she's an awful Demon. Very multifaceted."

"And Lyre?" Emma asks. I know what she's asking, and I sigh.

"Lyre has shown an aptitude for battle and deception. Today, she proved she has also inherited her mother's tendency toward jealousy and power."

"And my mother?" Emma insists. Her voice shakes, and I know she fears my answer.

"Enepsigos is considered friendly, but she is powerful. Your mother is incredibly old. If she has had children before, we haven't discovered them. You are beginning to present with powers similar to hers. You already know she has visions of the future. She can also read emotion, feed from it. We won't know what else you've inherited until you learn to tap into your powers.

Emma is quiet then. I'm not sure she really knows how to have a conversation that isn't based solely on what she needs to know. Being around her is like being slapped with reality. In retrospect, I think it's why I chose to be her Guardian. I refuse to believe it's for any other reason. She looks defeated.

"You don't need to fear being exterminated," I say.

Emma looks at me then, her expression even.

"I don't fear death," she says. Her voice is calm, and her admission surprises me.

"Everyone is afraid of death."

Emma laughs. It's the first time I've heard her amused, and it sends tingles down my spine. The smile, the flash of teeth, the humor in her eyes transforms her. Again, I admire a beauty that isn't always noticeable. Her beauty is subtle.

"I really don't fear death. It's one fear I've never had. I have been dying for six years. I've had a long time to make peace with death. And now . . . I'm living. And I think, if I'm being completely honest, I'm afraid of not dying."

I watch her face so close to mine, and I feel my heart rate pick up slightly.

"You're afraid of living?" I ask. I'm having a hard time understanding why getting a second chance at life scares her. Emma shakes her head.

"I'm not afraid of living. I'm afraid of what I might become given enough time."

I tell myself the catch in my throat isn't me beginning to like her. I don't need the complication.

"I'm afraid of letting down the woman who raised me," Emma adds.

I can tell she wants to cry, but she swallows hard, and I watch as she forces the tears away. No crying for Emma. Her bloody tears will mark her as weak. It's the quickest way to die in the Acropolis.

"You'll need to learn to hide your fears, to use them rather than let them rule you," I say. I ignore her moment of weakness, and she looks at me with gratitude.

"I'll learn," she promises.

And I know she will. I know she will because she has to. And Emma is pragmatic. She does what she has to. It's the sign of a good leader, a protector. Being practical is what makes our best gargoyles great. This is why I chose Emma. Because beneath the fear, beneath the uncertainty, beneath her Demonic behavior is the heart of a hero. And because of who her mother is, she has a hell of a lot more to prove. To herself and to the Acropolis. She is what the Acropolis was built for. If we fail her, then the school is a failure.

Emma jumps down suddenly, using her hand to shove my shirt into my palm. Her amber eyes are bright.

"You think you know me," she says.

She is reading the emotions rolling off of me. There is respect there, but there is also doubt. I don't doubt her. I doubt her lineage. I doubt the ability of a Demon to be more than evil. But what she doesn't know, what I have successfully hidden from her is that I want her to prove me wrong.

"You don't know me," she insists. And she's right. I don't. We've had this conversation before. Maybe it's because saying something over and over makes one believe it. Maybe it's because neither one of us wants to admit we know the other more than we want to. Because in the end, Demon or no, we are a lot alike. Because in the end, both of us need to prove something to ourselves. Because in the end, failure isn't an option. I nod at the school.

"Training begins now."

She nods. The fear is in her eyes, but she follows me toward the building while counting under her breath. Bravery is being afraid of something and facing it anyway. Emma is brave.

Chapter 20

Emma

The training room is an empty bedroom on the second floor of the chateau. It has stone floors and stone walls that are marred with scorch marks. We enter it slowly, and I try my best not to hide behind Conor. I know from the mind-blowing experience from the first floor that Demons feed off weakness. I had touched too many minds today.

"Oh hell," Conor murmurs as a tall, black-haired man with green eyes and sharp cheek bones approaches us from across the room. He is in a solid black tee and jeans, his eyes full of laughter as he nears the door.

"Lose a shirt?" he asks with a grin. He flicks a wrist and a black t-shirt materializes in the air. Conor grabs it and pulls it over his head. If he is shocked by the magic that produces it, it isn't obvious.

"Luther," Conor says quietly.

The room is quiet, all eyes on the door. Luther cocks a brow.

"Reinhardt. I see you left Italy."

Conor stands, his arms folded across his chest. He is shorter than Luther but not by much.

"For now," Conor says, his eyes cold. "And you? What brings you to the Acropolis?"

Luther's eyes move then, his gaze landing on me. It travels from the bottom of my borrowed boy's jeans to the cropped black tee. I fight the flush I feel developing.

"Curiosity," Luther says, his eyes narrowing as they meet my gaze.

I am suddenly weak, my body heavy as I feel the crush of his gaze. I see things in those eyes I never want to see again. Death. Blood. A lot of blood. He is feeding off a human. He isn't a gargoyle. He's a Demon, but a strange Demon that thirsts for blood. I gasp before I realize the sound has slipped out.

"Emma," Luther says, his eyes full of something dark. It frightens me. Conor steps between us.

"Haven't you heard? Curiosity kills," Conor breathes. His back is rigid. Luther laughs.

"Calm down, gargoyle. I'm not here to harm anyone. I'm here to train your little half-mortal projects."

I hear the hiss Conor's breath makes when he exhales.

"You?"

"The one and only," Luther says lightly. He lowers his voice. "I was informed there would be a student who could use my expertise."

Luther backs away, his hand gesturing to the line of students and Guardians against the wall.

"Please, join us. Better late than never."

Conor is wary now. He hides it well, but I feel it. It makes me cautious as Conor joins the Guardians and nods at an opposite wall. The hybrids. Deidra is among them, her small body lost in the mass of larger, more powerful Demons. She grins at me, and I move toward her. She is trying to hide her fear, but I feel it on her. I know her weakness is obvious to the others. She is a target.

"You okay?" she asks me as I lean against the wall next to her.

Lyre is sneering a few feet away so I nod. Deidra gestures at Conor who is watching Luther as if he is prey.

"There's history there," Deidra says.

"I noticed," I answer.

"Rumor says Mr. Craig is the brother of the Demon who stole away Conor's last mark."

I assume Mr. Craig is Luther, and I watch him closely. He keeps throwing glances in Conor's direction, and I know it's only a matter of time before they come to a head. Something passes between them and Conor nods. From the emotions I feel coming from Conor, I know they are going to meet. I am curious about Conor's secrets. More curious than I should be, and I look away because I know I shouldn't care.

"I'm going to be blunt. I'm a Demon, and I don't consider myself a good one," Luther says suddenly.

The class grows quiet. I think I hear a snort, and I'm pretty sure it's Conor. Luther walks in front of us. His eyes meet mine briefly, and then moves away.

"All of you are Demons. And, despite the belief of many, I don't really believe any of you are worth saving. You want to prove me wrong, now might be a good time."

Lyre pushes away from the wall.

"You admit you're bad. What gives you the right to live?"

Luther grins, his eyes cold. He targets Lyre, his hand lifting just enough we all know he's going to attack. She doesn't move fast enough, and I see her eyes go round. She's struggling to breathe. Her Guardian steps forward, but Conor takes him by the arm and shakes his head. Lyre suddenly drops to the floor, gasping.

"Just so you know, Hellion, interrupting me is not the way to convince me you should live."

He looks around the room. No one says a word. I pity Lyre, but I don't move. Something tells me pity is a weakness.

"I'm not the one here to prove myself. You, Kiddos, don't have a choice. The world is changing, and you are caught in the crossfire. You want to live, join the rat race. I'm not here to promote goodness because I play for the wrong team, and I'm okay with that. I'm here to show you how to access your powers, how to make the most of them. What you do with them after that is up to you. I'm a hybrid, but I'm a powerful one. There will be no territorial battles with me. You won't win. Understand?"

We all nod. The Guardians are silent, their eyes full of hatred. For some reason, Luther has been given sanctuary in order to teach us, and they are not happy about it.

I was informed there would be a student who could use my expertise. The thought makes me shiver, and I fight to hide it.

"Emma!" Luther shouts, and I jump.

There are snickers as Luther points to the middle of the room. I walk to the spot he indicates. I don't ask him how he knows my name. I have come to accept that these people all know who I am. I just obey. Luther points at Lyre.

"Come," he orders.

Lyre's pride is wounded, and she looks up expectantly. She's ready for a fight, and she's hoping Luther will give her one. I see Conor step forward out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn't interfere.

"She's not ready to fight," a small voice says pleadingly.

I look over my shoulder and see Deidra's small frame against the wall. She's too young to be in this class. Why she's here is not obvious to me, but she must be more powerful than I'm giving her credit for.

Luther turns to the imp. Deidra backs into the corner, and Luther shakes his head before facing Lyre and me. His gaze lands on Lyre, and he waves his hand in my direction.

"Attack her," he says simply.

My heart plummets to my feet, my body suddenly numb. She is going to kill me. I can feel her hatred, her need to be the best. I can feel her murderous intent.

"She's not ready."

This time the voice belongs to one of the gargoyles, and I turn to see Will Reinhardt standing in the open doorway. Luther stares at him.

"Are you a Guardian, Kid?"

Will swallows hard.

"No, I'm in training. They sent me to watch."

Luther raises a brow.

"Then watch and leave your mouth shut."

Conor has moved across the room to his cousin. His jaw is tight. He knows the rules even if Will doesn't, and it seems the rules include watching me get killed. I tell myself I don't care. I'm not afraid of death.

"Attack her," Luther repeats, his voice louder.

Lyre grins, her face transformed by fury as she lunges. When she hits me, I barely feel it. There isn't enough time to feel pain. Oddly, I just keep thinking how hard everything is at the Acropolis. Everything is stone. Cold and hard.

My head slams into a wall, and I feel the wound on my head reopen. Emotions suddenly flow into me. It is immediately obvious they aren't mine. There's excitement and expectation. I'm supposed to get up. I don't want to. It gives Lyre the chance to attack again, but somehow I move up the wall, my back against the stone.

A red ball of flame similar to the one I had thrown at Conor's mom and Rachel flies at me, but I don't deflect it, and I don't duck. It hits me in my middle, and I am suddenly in pain. I am burning from the inside out. I think I am screaming, but I'm not sure. Wait, no . . . I don't have enough breath to scream. I can't breathe at all. It's Deidra I hear.

"Enough!" I hear Will shout from the wall of Guardians.

No one else utters a word. One emotion rips through me stronger than the others, and I know it's Conor. Get up! I crawl back up the wall.

"Attack," Luther commands.

He's marching on the side of the room, his eyes red. He's watching me, but his words are for Lyre. She holds her hands up, and I know suddenly this will be a death blow. I can feel the anger in the ball of flame that forms. I can feel the hatred. I can feel the violence. I can feel the jealousy.

She throws her hand forward, and the flame is moving toward me, her wall of anger slamming into me before the fire ball, and I feel it course through my body, entering my veins, and singing through my blood. I don't see anything now. There is only a red haze. Hatred. I feel it, and my body tells me to revel in it. I grasp it because it is the only emotion available, and I am suddenly standing, my hands out. The room is deathly silent. And when I look down, I am holding flame.

Lyre's face has gone pale. There are murmurs. I hear the word "impossible", and I know the power I'm holding isn't mine. It's Lyre's, and it wants release. It wants someone to die. I lift my hands, my face hard. I am confused, my body singing. If there was pain before, it is gone, replaced by the feel of power. I can kill her. I know this, and I want it. I step forward, my hand lifting.

Suddenly, a hand is wrapped around my wrist. I don't see Conor through the red haze, but I feel him.

"Throw it down, Emma. A Demon's own power destroys him. Lyre's power will kill her. You are not a killer. Throw it down."

My eyes are wide as I stare down at his hand, at the flames jumping just beyond his tanned fingers. The heat bothers him, and his hand transforms, turning to stone.

"Throw it down, Em."

I look up, my eyes meeting Lyre's. I don't know what she sees in my gaze, but she whimpers. I am suddenly engulfed in her fear. At first, it feeds the hatred. It feels good, but then it hurts. It makes my stomach turn, tears spring to the corners of my eyes. Fear I understand. Fear is something the human Emma pities, loathes.

I close my eyes. The fire is beginning to burn me now, and Conor's hand lets go. I turn my wrist, throwing the flame into the stone floor. The force of it throws me into Conor. He catches me by the shoulders, and then he's gone.

I am left standing facing Lyre, Luther, and a room full of astonished Demons and Guardians. Luther claps his hands once and motions Lyre back to the wall. I barely have time to breathe before he points at Deidra. The imp is shaking now.

"Come!" he shouts.

She slinks to the middle of the room. I still haven't moved, and he hasn't told me to. Instead, Luther looks at me, his onyx eyes finding mine.

"Attack," he tells me.

I just stare as the room swells with emotion again. Astonishment and excitement. And then there are images. I see glimpses of Deidra playing pranks on the other Demons, her laugh light and merry as she waits to see their reaction. Her acts aren't malicious, but she is young, and they are not amused by her games. I feel her disappointment, and then I feel her fear as other students attack her. She is strong despite her size, and she gives a good fight.

"Attack!" Luther shouts.

I look into Deidra's eyes, and I don't move.

"No," I say. My eyes move to Luther's. "No!"

The word is strong, loud. Luther's mouth twitches, the corners lifting just slightly.

"Now you," he says as he narrows his eyes. "You might be worth saving."

Chapter 21

Conor

"What the hell was that?"

Luther is leaning casually against the wall across from me, his black boot tapping lightly against the ancient pize flooring. The students have all left. Will is guarding Emma. She is being moved to the residence hall in the renovated barn. We all sleep there in a group. It is supposed to encourage comradeship among the ranks, but it only seems to cause animosity.

"This is a prison, you know," Luther says while gesturing at the room. I narrow my eyes.

"What else are we supposed to do with them?" I ask.

Luther shrugs.

"Kill them. Let our side have them," he suggests.

I'm unable to keep the disgust off my face.

"So that Satan can use them against mankind?"

Luther leans forward, his eyes glowing red.

"Being bad isn't all bad, Reinhardt. You should try it. Our girl was pretty hot today wasn't she?"

His reference to Emma makes my blood boil. Luther knows Emma's mother personally. This I am sure of. Luther is ancient. He has been around almost as long as his older brother, Marcas. He knows what Emma is capable of. I know what Emma is capable of.

"You are as bad as the rest of them," I accuse.

Luther laughs.

"I've never pretended to be anything other than what I am, Reinhardt. You, on the other hand, you don't know what you are.

"I know exactly what I am," I argue.

Luther pushes away from the wall and circles me.

"Do you?" he asks. "You, gargoyle, are a liar. From the moment I met you, I've known you were confused. The lines between good and evil are blurry. Anyone worth his grain of salt knows that. If you were so sure the hybrids are all bad, then why let your best friend leave with my brother?"

My heart is beating now. The rhythm is hard, angry.

"It was her choice."

"And you did it out of love, right? Keep telling yourself that, Reinhardt."

Luther has gone too far. I feel myself changing, my hand turning to stone as I lift it. I know my eyes are cold, calculating.

"Is it me you want to hurt? Or is it yourself? You don't love Dayton. You care about her, and you love her the way you would family, but you don't love her," Luther says as he looks at my hand.

I am in Luther's face now, my fists clenched, but they are at my sides and heavy.

"You don't know me, Craig."

Luther watches me, his eyes unblinking.

"I know you more than you think I do. I know you better than your own people do. You can play the hero, Reinhardt, because you are one. You know as well as I that when the battle between Heaven and Hell happens, some of us won't be on the sides we're supposed to be on. And you, Conor, are not made to be the gargoyle they want you to be. Your past speaks for itself."

I stare at him, my eyes searching his red pupils.

"What are you referring to, Craig?"

Luther glances at the charred stone floor a few feet away. It's the mark left behind by Emma.

"You won't marry Rachel. You don't love Dayton. You were in love with the idea of protecting her," Luther says. "And you can't lose yourself in women. I know. I've tried in the past. I've had centuries to try. And you've been with a Demon, Reinhardt. You tell me who crossed the line."

Luther has connections in the Demon world. This has been obvious to me since the day the two of us met. He knows everything and what he doesn't know, he finds out.

"I wasn't aware of what she was when I met her," I say firmly.

Luther shakes his head.

"Don't tell me you didn't suspect. Lyre is powerful. Hot headed and jealous and powerful."

I back away from Luther, my gaze still on the charred stone.

"I didn't suspect. I was sixteen and stupid. People make mistakes."

"And Lyre is her mother's daughter. She entices men. I can see that. Once again, lines between good and evil are blurred. And what did you do when you found out? You brought Lyre here. You attempt to save her despite knowing she was with her mother too long. And now she sees you guarding Emma. Emma, who is potentially more powerful than every Demon in this school. I know you volunteered to be Emma's Guardian. Why is that, Reinhardt?"

I don't have an answer for him, and he knows it.

"You volunteered because you see something in her," Luther says confidently. "Beneath the plain facade, beneath the assumed fear, she is brave, she is loyal, she is practical, and she's strong. She doesn't need saving."

"I don't know her," I say, my voice low.

"No," Luther agrees. "But she's the kind of girl you could fall in love with when or if you do get to know her. And she's a Demon. The lines are blurred, Reinhardt. The lines are blurred."

"The lines are black and white and perfectly clear."

I turn to walk away, my back to Luther as I reach the door.

"Then tell me this, Reinhardt. When they sign the extermination order, will you be able to take her out?"

"They won't do that."

Luther snorts.

"I could take her with me. Return her to her mother."

I turn and pin him with a gaze full of murder.

"You won't take her anywhere."

Luther raises his brow.

"Possessive, are we? No worries. She isn't my type."

I walk out the door. My meeting with Luther is finished.

"What? You're not interested in my type, Reinhardt?"

I keep walking.

"Just so you know, I've developed a taste for witches."

My steps never falter.

Chapter 22

Emma

I feel like a horrible person. No matter how many times I try to tell myself I hadn't enjoyed the idea of killing Lyre, the simple truth is, I had enjoyed it.

"I wouldn't beat yourself up," a steady male voice says, and I look over at Will Reinhardt sullenly.

It has been hours since the training session, the evening meal has come and gone, and I am sitting in a sectioned off space in an old stable. Beyond an open door is a large room full of bunk beds. Top bunks are for Guardians, the bottoms are for the hybrids they are assigned to protect. I have been placed alone in a room that contains only one bunk bed, a small table with a single drawer, and a straight back wooden chair. There is a thick wooden door separating me from the rest of the hybrids. For now, it stands open, and I feel the wariness emanating from the room beyond. I'm not one hundred percent sure, but I think my actions in training have delegated me to some sort of weird solitary confinement.

"I'm trying not to care," I say honestly.

I'm sitting down on the wooden chair, and I'm facing the outer room. Curious gazes glance in occasionally, but the other hybrids mostly avoid me with the exception of Deidra who is even now sitting cross legged on the top bunk. She's eating a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.

"They are so not worth it," Deidra says hotly, her small hands gesturing derisively at the door.

Will is leaning against the wall near the room's exit, and he shoves away from it, his face sympathetic as he moves to my side. He crouches next to me. This close, the resemblance between him and Conor is kind of scary. Will shares the same dark blond hair as his cousin, the same startling blue eyes, and the same boyish charm. But there's something younger about Will, and it's not just his age. At seventeen, only a year separates the two boys, but Conor seems more . . . used. It's such an awful word. Maybe jaded is better.

"Being a Demon doesn't mean you're evil," Will says softly.

Deidra snorts.

"You're too tolerant, Will Reinhardt."

Will looks up at the imp, his eyes hard.

"And you're too pessimistic for your age."

Deidra shrugs. She crinkles the empty bag of chips and throws it easily into a metal wastebasket across the room before grabbing the low railing on the side of the bed, using it to flip onto the floor below. In normal society, she would have made an amazing gymnast.

"You hang around here long enough, you get that way," she says as she peers out the door."But you, Emma Chase, were magnificent today!"

Deidra is beaming when I look up into her face. She's too young to crave revenge but that's the emotion I feel coming from her, and I don't want to encourage it.

"How is it that everyone I meet here already knows my name?" I ask, changing the subject. It's a reasonable question, and the first thing that comes to mind. Will grins.

"Hon, that's just the way things work here. It's uncanny isn't it? When I was inducted into the Inner Circle, there wasn't a single dead-blasted person who didn't already know who I was."

Deidre rolls her eyes.

"You're a Reinhardt."

I ignore her. Will's answer has made me curious.

"The Inner Circle?"

Will looks at the door, his face hesitant. For a moment, I don't think he'll answer, and then he nods.

"The Inner Circle is a group of gargoyles who have come into their powers and are trained enough to enter service. Most begin as escorts. This is a transport job. Rarely does one enter as a Guardian."

Deidra has moved away from the door.

"Finally! Interesting convo! Tell us about Conor."

Will's eyes narrow. "What?"

I can feel Deidra's excitement, and it makes my heart beat faster.

"She's got a crush," I say with a grin.

Deidra scrunches her face, crossing her arms defensively.

"And what if I do?"

The corner of Will's mouth lifts, the humor in his eyes obvious.

"You wouldn't be the first, Imp, but I'm not talking about Conor. I don't gossip about family."

An image flashes through my mind, and I find myself staring at Will's fist.

"What did he do to your hand?" I ask.

Will's confusion is obvious until he follows my gaze. He flexes his fingers, his eyes finding mine.

"You can see that?"

I nod. He flexes his hand again, and I know he is torn between the need to defend his cousin and to keep his mouth shut.

"Conor came into his powers earlier than usual. He was sixteen when he presented with signs of the change. His affinity with water especially, and his ability to climb anything. And then . . ." Will lifts his hand. "And then, when he turned seventeen, the two of us got into a pretty nasty fight. It was stupid really. I don't even remember what it was about. A girl, maybe? I don't know, but I-I went to punch him."

Deidra is practically hanging from Will's shoulder now. Her eyes are bright.

"And then what?" she asks.

"And then I turned to stone, and the bones in his hand shattered," a voice says, and we all look up quickly, our faces red.

Conor Reinhardt leans casually against the open door frame, an eyebrow raised. My chest feels funny, but I ignore it. I keep seeing Will's fist in my hand, the bones like powder. It is healed. In my head, I see this, but there is metal in Will's hand now too.

"It didn't mend properly," I say.

Conor's gaze moves to my face.

"No," he says, "Will didn't have enough healing ability in his body yet."

Will looks at me.

"How did you know that?"

I shrug. I don't know how I know anything anymore.

"Deidra," Conor says softly, his eyes still on me. "Marion will be looking for you. Lights out in twenty minutes."

Deidra nods, her gaze moving between us.

"Okay . . . see you tomorrow, Emma?"

I look up at her and grin. She sounds so hopeful, I can't help but feel warm. She's young, she's a little annoying, but she was an instant friend when I needed one. I wink and nod. She smiles, her teeth flashing before skipping out of the room. Conor nods his head at Will.

"Go with her. Make sure no one hurts her," Conor orders.

Will stands, pats my leg once, and is gone. Silence hangs between us. I'm not sure how long we stand there before I notice the room beyond getting quiet, people climbing into their bunks. With no windows, I'm not sure how late it is, but I'm assuming it's time for bed.

"Did you get a chance to shower?" Conor asks.

I nod once. Will had taken me to a bathroom in one of the cottages after dinner, standing outside while I showered and changed. I'm wearing Conor's pajamas again, now freshly laundered. There's a clean red t-shirt and a new pair of jeans folded on a small table against the wall.

Conor points at the bed, and I move to the lower bunk. It has only one pillow and a simple threadbare, grey comforter. I hate grey.

"You'll be kept here until they can trust your powers," Conor says as he steps further into the room, reaching behind me to pull the door closed.

I am suddenly in an alternate universe where they let eighteen-year-old boys sleep unchaperoned in the same room with seventeen-year-old girls. One look at Conor and most girls would be thrilled by this sudden turn of events. I am just plain terrified.

"Shouldn't we keep the door open?" I ask.

Somehow, I manage to keep my voice from shaking, and I consider this a triumph.

Conor looks down at me.

"Are you afraid of being alone with me, Emma?"

I shake my head, probably more vigorously than the moment warrants.

"N-no, but . . ."

"We don't run the same way a normal society runs, Em. You've proven dangerous. I'm your Guardian, and I am sworn into a very specific code of conduct that says it is illegal for me to touch you," Conor says before climbing onto the top bunk. I notice he keeps his shirt on.

"Oh," I mumble before sliding down under the covers.

I stare up at the bunk above my head. A few minutes later, the lights go out. I assume they run on a universal switch. The room is pitch black. I feel my heart rate pick up. I'm afraid of the dark. Or I thought I was.

The energy running through me feels different now. I wonder suddenly if all the fears I'd once felt had been fears I'd picked up from others. The feeling I feel now is contentment, safety. The dark seems to be calling to me. I sit up.

"Em?" Conor says. I hear him shift in the bed above.

"I wonder if they know the door doesn't help," I ask, my eyes staring into the blackness surrounding me. I'm feeling calm, disturbed, uneasy. It's too many emotions at once.

"What do you mean?" Conor asks.

I sigh.

"I can still feel their emotions."

The scene in the hallway with Lyre earlier has done something to me. It's as if a dam has burst open, and there is no bridge between my emotions and others. They all collide.

"You've always felt them," Conor says gently.

I shake my head even though I know he can't see me. "No."

Conor climbs off the bed. How he sees is beyond me.

"Yes, you have. The world is full of fears. You have always been surrounded by them. Think about it, Em. You were dying. You were in hospitals. People in hospitals are afraid. You picked up on that. And now that you're not around that, you're becoming more aware of what emotions are yours and what aren't. Most Demons fear nothing."

I am angry, and I wonder if it's my own emotion.

"This is ridiculous," I say.

I hear a catch in my voice, and I hate it. The bed dips, and I feel Conor climb in next to me. I'm cross legged now, my back against the wall, and I feel his arm touch mine.

"All of this has happened too fast to process, and you haven't asked any questions."

"I have them now."

Conor inhales deeply.

"Then ask them."

I turn my face toward the sound of his voice.

"Why does everyone know my name?"

Conor barely pauses to exhale.

"Gargoyles work as a group. Every family is plugged into a network depending on status. As soon as you were selected for Extraction, your name went through the ranks. Your medical and personal records were given to those who would have the most contact with you."

"And how did they get those?"

Conor is silent a moment.

"You've been in the system for a long time, Em. Most hybrids aren't discovered until they are older. We've known you were a Demon since you were born. A gargoyle by the name of Delilah Simpson found you. Your mother was with a human man in the Northwestern United States. I don't know his name. Delilah probably does. There was a Demon attack in the town your father lived in. More than likely, Satan became aware that Enepsigos had a child."

"And why does Satan care?" I ask.

This conversation is surreal, but I go with the flow. I'm getting answers. That has to be enough.

"That's a hard one. You are the daughter of Enepsigos. He may have been after you for power, or he may just want you dead. Hybrids are becoming a problem in Hell. In Heaven, Angels are forbidden to lay with mortal women. If they break this rule, they become fallen or exiled. The same rules don't apply in Hell. And the hybrids are beginning to outnumber the full blooded Demons."

I don't say anything for a while. I just stare. It's funny how if there is no light, the eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. I can make out vague shapes now. Each time I blink, my eyes have to readjust.

"Is Satan worried about an uprising?" I finally ask.

Conor moves closer, his arm fully against mine. I'm not sure he's aware of the movement, but I find myself hoping he doesn't move away.

"Possibly. It would help our cause if there were an uprising. But, for now, we are more worried about a war between Heaven and Hell on Earth. It would put humans in the crossfire. Gargoyles are here to protect mankind. If there is a way to minimize the chance of war, we'll take it. If that means training hybrid Demons to fight against their own kind, we are not above it."

His voice is low. He rocks his leg, and I feel it bumping into my knee. I don't think he's nervous, I think he's restless.

"It might help if you try liking us," I say suddenly. Conor pauses.

"Liking who?"

"Hybrids," I answer. "I wonder if the animosity at this school is as much the Demons' fault as it is the gargoyles. You already have us judged. Am I the only hybrid who can feed off emotion? Do you ever wonder if the anger is channeled?"

Conor doesn't answer right away. When he does, he is facing me. I can feel his breath on my face.

"I honestly don't know."

He sounds tired. I like the charming Conor better. The one who seems to have it all figured out. I'm too close to him, but the dark makes me brave, and I don't move away.

"We have to quit meeting like this," I say lightly. "You know, nighttime, intense mood."

Conor chuckles.

"She's suddenly got a sense of humor, our Emma Chase."

I smile, and it feels good. I feel different, stronger. I am suddenly glad the gargoyles found me. For the first time, I feel like I am living. And I'm not afraid. Even knowing I face death here, even knowing there are a million challenges ahead I'm probably still not aware of, I am living. I can discover who I am. I am not death anymore.

There is a rustling sound in the darkness, and I feel something slip into my hand. It's a piece of foil wrapped gum.

"It's not mint ice cream, but it'll have to do."

I grin as I unwrap it. It's spearmint.

"It's not raining either."

"Do you want it to?" Conor asks.

I sit up.

"No!" I say quickly. "I may not remember much of that sea journey you took me on, but showers and baths are enough water for me for awhile."

Conor snorts, and I realize he's trying not to laugh. I am tempted to hit him, but our connection is too new. He still makes me nervous, and I'm not sure we are even friends. It doesn't matter how comfortable I feel around him. He's my Guardian. My life is in his hands. It's a little daunting knowing this. I'm fallible.

"How long will they keep me separated from the other Demons?" I ask.

Conor is still.

"I don't think it will be long. You seem to be a fast learner."

I feel anger sweep through me, and I know it's coming from the other room. I've felt this anger before.

"Lyre plans to kill me," I say.

Silence stretches between us and then, "She's jealous."

I'm not expecting this response from Conor, and I know my mouth hangs open.

"Of my power?" I ask.

"Partly," Conor answers.

Partly?

"There's another reason?"

"Yeah," Conor says. "Me."

I don't move. My chest is tight. Nothing I say in that moment will be right. I want to ask why, but I don't.

"I've made mistakes," Conor says suddenly.

I still don't move, but I do breathe. The exhale is audible.

"Everyone makes mistakes," I say slowly.

"You say that because it's the nice thing to say."

Conor shifts away from me.

"I say that because I'm not quite sure what you're getting at. Is this a confession?" I ask.

Conor laughs, but it sounds as harsh as it does amused.

"When I was sixteen, I slept with Lyre."

It is blunt, his words, and rushed. And for a confession, this is a bad one. If there are words I'm supposed to say, they don't come to me. I'm not quite sure how to feel. On one hand, I don't know Conor well enough to be incredibly upset. On the other, I think I have a Deidra crush on him, and it's been severely skewered.

"Oh," I say finally.

Conor moves and I know by the way one of his legs brush mine that's he's brought his knees up and is resting an arm across them. Being tall is not comfortable on these beds. I would know.

"I could make an excuse, but I won't. I didn't know she was a Demon at the time. But my actions are still the same. She's not the only one. The only Demon, but not the only girl."

My voice is small when I speak again.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask

"Because I don't want you to idolize me. And don't pretend you don't feel disgust. I made my reputation. I can't change it, and I don't know that I would now. My mistakes have shaped me. I think in the end, I've overcome them."

I don't doubt this, but he's right. I feel jaded by his confession. I think maybe I have been too sheltered. Conor sighs before moving off the bed.

"Go to sleep, Emma."

I hear him climbing to the bunk above mine.

"You're going to need the rest. Tomorrow you won't be with the other hybrids. You'll be faced with full blooded Demons."

His words don't comfort me. And as I fall asleep, all I can think is, my Guardian is not perfect. He is fallible. He is real.

Chapter 23

Conor

I don't sleep. I stare up at the ceiling's exposed beams instead. They are grey and charcoal. Gargoyles can see in the dark but only in various shades of grey. I suddenly hate the ability. I can't get past the last look Emma had given me. It hadn't been disgust exactly. Disappointment, maybe. Disappointment is worse.

Emma is sleeping below me, tossing restlessly, and I wonder if the emotions in the other room are seeping into her sleep. If they are, I need to be on alert. If she's a sleep walker, she can be more than just a little dangerous. Being insensible with amazing powers equals horrible destruction. But then again, I'm in the mood for a fight.

"It might help if you count sheep," Emma says suddenly from below me. It startles me, and I freeze before smiling. The words are familiar ones, and I remember another night, me on the floor, Emma on my bed.

"Counting doesn't help," I say, throwing her words back at her.

She laughs a little, and for a moment I let myself pretend I'm not her Guardian, that it isn't my duty to keep her in line. She's made me more aware of my hatred for Demons, and I'm beginning to realize it isn't all fair.

"Did I wake you?" I ask.

She rolls again.

"You're worried," she says.

Emotions are messing with her dreams, but they aren't coming from the main room. They belong to me. I'm not sure how to answer her. Worried is a mild word for the chaos going on in my head.

"I'm fine, Em. Go to sleep."

I force my mind blank, thinking instead about the next day, the trials ahead. There is rustling below, and Emma is still. Without my stress, she is finally able to sleep. But my body won't let me join her. I am too keyed up.

The Acropolis is a good idea. The school is transforming hybrid Demons, turning them from Hell's ranks and bringing them over to our cause. But Luther is right. The school is a prison. Each student is guarded, the violent are put to death, and the non-violent are forced into compliance. They don't choose to join our ranks. We need change.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, my fingers running silently over the keys. The cell phone belongs to the Inner Circle. All calls are traced. I shove it under my pillow and stare at the ceiling.

I'm not sure I sleep, but there is suddenly sound in the room beyond, and I know the other students are stirring. I sit up, propelling myself over the side of the bed before opening a drawer in a table nearby. Emma's clothes sit on top, and I avoid staring at them as I pull out an extra pair of jeans and a t-shirt Will has left behind for me. I notice the shirt is red. It matches Emma's. Apparently, Will is still upset about Emma's treatment in class the day before. Guardians never wear the same color as the hybrids. It suggests unity.

I change quickly before turning to the bed. Emma is sprawled on her stomach, one pajama clad leg hanging out from under the comforter, the other tangled in the sheets. Her hair hangs in a tangled mess around her face. She has a fist against her cheek. Her other hand is tucked under her pillow, and her lips are parted slightly. She doesn't snore, but I wouldn't be surprised if she drools.

I pinch my lips together to keep from smiling as I make my way over to her side, poking her gently between her shoulder blades. She swats at my hand, and I poke her again. This time she opens an eye and immediately jumps.

"Geez!" she shrieks.

She hits her head on the bunk above her, and she rubs at the spot as she scowls at me. I lose the smiling battle.

"Do you ever cuss, Em?" I ask.

She rubs her red-rimmed eyes and looks around the room, her gaze landing on the pile of clothes.

"I don't guess so," she says as she climbs out of the bed, moving over to the table slowly. "I've never really thought about it. I guess I don't see any point in it."

I am suddenly taken aback by the differences in us. Her mother is a Demon. She has the blood of monsters, and she is innocent, straight forward, and clean-mouthed. I'm a Guardian, a gargoyle whose destiny has always been to protect, and I lack all of the same qualities. I keep hearing Luther's voice in my head. The lines are blurred, Reinhardt. The lines are blurred.

"Get dressed. I'll wait outside. There's a brush in the drawer."

Emma nods, her hand rubbing self-consciously at the tangles in her dark hair. It's probably the first time she's had to worry about looking presentable for anyone in the morning. I want to tell her it doesn't bother me, but I don't.

I walk out, closing the door behind me and wait, my arms crossed as I face the outer room. Curious gazes meet mine, but I keep my expression even. Most of the Guardians are up and alert. The hybrids are sluggish. A few still sit on bottom bunks. A male hybrid I don't know rubs his hands over his face before throwing a shirt at another male hybrid across the room.

"Dude, you have got to quit putting your shit in my space. It can't be that hard to remember which bunk is yours."

The other hybrid flips him off and changes shirts.

"Sleep well, Reinhardt?" a female voice asks, but I ignore it. Showing any reaction will only feed Lyre's anger.

The door creaks open from behind me, and I turn to see Emma standing uncertainly in the open entrance. She's in the red t-shirt and jeans, both obviously borrowed. She isn't having luck in the shirt department. People keep assuming she's not as tall as she is, and she pulls at the hem as the room beyond grows quiet. Our shirts have garnered attention. I don't make excuses.

"Everyone to the showers!" Grace Withers shouts, and I'm more than a little grateful for her interference.

The Demons move, but they don't do it without complaint. Emma showered the night before separately, but she'll need to use the bathroom regardless.

"Anyone got an extra kit?" I ask as Emma and I move toward the other Guardians. Grace nods and reaches into a trunk at the end of her bunk. She throws a small green nylon bag in my direction, and I catch it easily before handing it off to Emma.

"Toothbrush, toothpaste . . . you name it," I say as she looks at it curiously. "There's a girl's shower to the right of the entrance."

Emma nods, and I barely glance at the other Guardians before heading in that direction. The door to the residence hall opens, and I see Will enter from the grounds beyond as Emma leaves me. I glare as I settle back against the wall. It's not safe for me to be too far away from Emma. Will grins.

"Bad morning?" he asks.

"You'd know wouldn't you?" I spit back.

Will's brow furrows.

"No," he says slowly. "What's with the attitude?"

I pull at my shirt.

"Red, Will?"

He had seen Emma entering the restroom, and his eyes narrow.

"It wasn't me."

We look at each other.

"Deidra!" we say simultaneously.

Imps! It's simply a pair of shirts, but they make a big statement. It's going to cause problems.

"Just switch with me," Will says easily.

He pulls a navy tee over his head and hands it to me. I pull mine off and do the same. Will isn't quite as broad as I am in the shoulders, but because of his height, we still wear the same size.

"Guess what the Circle has captured for training?" Will says conversationally. I barely glance at him, my eyes on the bathroom.

"Right now, I'm hoping you say a full-blooded imp."

Will is quiet. Too quiet. I look up.

"What did they capture?"

Will's gaze meets mine.

"A drex."

Chapter 24

Emma

The bathroom is inhabited by at least thirteen she-Demons, and I am not prepared for the emotions that slam into me. It is mostly curiosity, although the anger and hatred I feel at my back is most definitely Lyre.

"How did you manage to get assigned Conor Reinhardt as a Guardian?" a blonde-haired girl asks me from the sinks.

I open the kit Conor gave me and settle in next to her. She is tall. Her head comes to my neck, and she has wide blue-grey eyes. She runs a toothbrush through her mouth before spitting loudly.

"I don't know what you mean by did," I say honestly.

The girl shakes her head.

"Let me guess, you're an adoption case?"

I nod.

"We don't get many of those, but when we do, they are almost as naive as you. I'm Fiona, by the way," Fiona says as she offers me her hand.

I take it without thinking, and I am immediately thrown to the floor. My hand is on fire. Fiona chuckles, and then offers me her hand again. I shake my head and stand on my own.

"Electricity," Fiona explains. "I have an affinity with it. I'm all about laying what we're capable of right out on the table."

"I'll remember that next time," I grouse as I turn the sink on, letting the cold water relieve the burning welt now on my palm.

I look up into the mirror and grimace. The last couple of days have not been kind to me. There are dark circles under my eyes and wounds on my head. Thankfully, these are all covered by my hair, but I'm pretty sure the back of my head can't take any more damage.

"You could heal those, you know," Fiona says, and I glance at her. She is watching my reflection.

"Heal what?"

She gestures at my palm, my head.

"Your mother is Enepsigos. She has healing abilities."

I run a yellow-handled toothbrush through my mouth as I contemplate her words. Healing abilities?

"How do you all know so much about me?" I ask after I rinse and spit.

Fiona's eyes widen.

"Are you kidding me? You're the daughter of Enepsigos. Not only that, you are the only known half-mortal child of Enepsigos. Everyone knows about you. Especially Hell, and I would know because I lived there until I was ten."

I'm dumbstruck.

"You lived in Hell?" I ask.

Fiona shrugs.

"I did until it got too dangerous for hybrids. There's so many of us now that if one of us ends up dead down there no one cares. My mother sent me to live with my father's family here on Earth. Then two years ago, the Acropolis was opened, and I have been here ever since."

I still can't wrap my head around the fact that she has lived in Hell. Hell.

"Oh," I say finally. "Who is your mother?"

I'm finding it a little intimidating that everyone seems to know exactly who my Demon parent is and what kind of abilities I should have. Everyone but me.

Fiona smiles.

"Ephippas. I like fire and electricity, and I am hell on trees. I can kill any kind of vegetation in less than two seconds," she says proudly.

I honestly don't find the ability appealing, but I feign being impressed. My eyes move back to my reflection, and I touch my hair.

"Can you show me how to heal the wounds," I ask timidly.

The whole room goes quiet. I have a habit of silencing crowds. The only sound is the hiss of running water.

"You want me to help you?" Fiona finally asks, her words sharp.

I look around cautiously, taking in the narrowed gazes and gaping mouths.

"Ummm . . . I was hoping you would?"

The words were meant to be a statement of fact, but it comes out sounding like a question. Fiona clears her throat.

"We don't help each other here," she says firmly.

Again, I'm dumbstruck.

"Why?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Fiona looks at the other Demons. And then I feel it . . . fear. They fear each other. They fear their own greed. Fiona turns away suddenly, and then hands me a ponytail holder.

"You'll need this," she says before packing up her kit and walking away.

Conor is wrong. Demons are not without fear, but their fear is deeper. They fear power as much as they crave it. There is something wrong with this school. Conor and I have showed up at a bad time. Only a few days in, and I realize the school Conor believes in, the one he believes this school to be, isn't that school at all.

Chapter 25

Conor

Emma exits the bathroom with her hair braided and an expression that oozes contemplation. Lyre, Fiona, Hesther, and Gwenyth exit behind her, their faces full of bemusement. I avoid their gazes.

"Make any friends?" I ask as I push away from the wall.

Will whistles next to me. He's noticed the she-Demons' expressions too. Emma's face reddens.

"I'm not sure I did."

"You always have me!" a young female voice suddenly chirps, and I groan.

Will chuckles.

"Might should have stayed in your room today, Deidra," Will says on a laugh.

Deidra's eyes widen as her gaze meets mine.

"Oh."

"Yeah . . . oh," I say before waving at the door. "But luckily for you, Little Imp, I've got bigger issues."

My statement catches Emma's attention.

"What kind of issues?" she asks.

Will nods at Deidra, and I take Emma by the arm, leading her from the residence hall to the grounds of the estate. Emma will train alone this morning, her focus on attacking and defending against true Demons. She has been sought out twice by Satan's army, in Atlanta and at my home. She needs some sort of fighting knowledge.

"You're training with Luther today," I say as I guide her toward a forest behind the chateau.

There is a small one room cabin among the trees used to test students. It is also used to test gargoyles training to be Guardians. Beyond the woods is another home, not as large as the Acropolis but equally impressive that houses gargoyle trainees. It isn't considered a school. It's too unstructured for that. It is only used to train escorts who are being promoted. Everything else is done in the field. We are all about on the job training.

"I think I told you last night that you will be facing a full-blooded Demon today," I say. Emma nods. "But I wasn't expecting the Demon that's been selected."

Emma quits walking.

"You feel reluctant and . . . and anxious maybe?"

I turn to look at her.

"Seriously, Em, this whole reading my emotions thing is unnerving."

Her face flushes.

"What am I supposed to face?" she asks.

I stare into the woods, my body on full alert.

"It's called a drex. It's not the Demon's official name. It's one we gargoyles have created for simplicity. It looks like a smaller version of a dragon and a tyrannosaurus rex. You don't want to be caught by it."

Emma swallows hard.

"I'm afraid to ask why," she says slowly.

There is no time to prepare her for the drex's brutality.

"They eat flesh."

Emma's face drains of blood, and her lips flatten. But as scared as her expression is, her eyes redden, and I am suddenly glad that she is who she is. Fear makes her stronger. It heightens her senses, her emotions.

"Really, Reinhardt, it's not as scary as it sounds," Luther Craig's voice says from behind me, and I cringe. The man has a bad habit of showing up when I really don't want him around. Oh, wait! That's all the time.

"No, it's scarier. No point in beating around the bush."

I keep my eyes on Emma even as I respond to the Demon's words. Her hands are visibly shaking. I pull a pack of spearmint gum out of my blue jean pocket, pop a piece in my mouth, and offer her a piece. She takes it. Chewing gum has always helped keep me focused. Her counting method isn't going to help her here. Neither will the gum, but it makes me feel better.

"We are in a controlled environment," Luther says as he gestures at the trees around us. "Utterly safe."

Even I recognize the sarcasm in his voice. I can tell by the way Emma narrows her eyes that she can feel it.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asks.

One of the things I like most about Emma is that she gets to the point. If the situation she is in isn't one she can get out of, she finds out how to get out of it. She listens, and she dissects. Sometimes, she holds back, but I think even that is a way to discern exactly what her chances are. Luther leans against a tree.

"Guess this means we're supposed to begin. Let's talk about your power first, Emma. Do you even know how you caught Lyre's magic yesterday?" Luther asks.

I stand to the side. This is not my area of expertise. As much as it galls me to watch Emma trained by a smartass Demon, I don't have much choice.

"I'm not really sure. I just saw a red haze," Emma answers.

Luther watches her closely.

"That was anger. Emotion, for you, can take on physical property. You can mold emotions, transform it into anything you desire. But not only can you mold your own emotions, you can mold emotions projected at you or even emotions you feel from others. Yesterday, instinct preserved you. Today, I want you to try and use it on your own."

Luther steps forward, placing his hand on her forehead. Watching him touch her has an unusual affect on me. I don't want the sick feeling in my stomach to be anything green-eyed and covetous, but I fear it is. Luther moves closer. There is little space between them now. The sick feeling grows.

"What's the strongest emotion you feel right now?" Luther asks.

Emma's forehead creases.

"Jealousy," she says softly.

Luther gives me a knowing look and grins. It makes my blood boil.

"No . . . it's anger," Emma corrects.

Luther's grin widens.

"Now draw on it. Emotions can have a very tangible feel. If it feels like you can touch it, it's because you can."

Emma steps back, breaking contact with the Demon.

"No."

Luther stares at her. We both do.

"Excuse me," Luther says.

He doesn't like being disobeyed. Emma's cheeks color. Her skin is too fair. Her face is a doorway to every feeling she feels, but she doesn't try and hide it.

"Every time I draw on anger or fear something bad happens," she says.

Luther shrugs, his brows raised. It's obvious he doesn't understand the problem.

"Anger makes you strong, Emma. It's okay to use that. Especially in times of need."

Emma continues to shake her head.

"I won't do it."

Luther is angry now. It's easy to see how dangerous he is. I step between them.

"They will be releasing the Demon any moment to see if you can control it, and you refuse to listen to me?" Luther asks.

Emma stands her ground. If I ever thought her unattractive or plain, I am suddenly rethinking my opinion.

"I won't do it."

She doesn't sound whiny or petulant. She just sounds determined. I look at her, my eyes moving over her face. Her jaw is tight.

"Emma . . ." I begin, but she shakes her head.

"No. There's no talking me out of it."

Luther is agitated.

"You'd rather die, Hybrid, than use a power that comes naturally to you. Demons are anger. We are fear, we are hatred, we are jealousy, and we are greed. Embrace it."

Luther and I are both staring at her. I don't think either of us understands why she refuses to use her powers for different reasons. Luther, because she is a Demon who should embrace her power. Me, because she should use whatever is at her disposal to protect herself. Emma is a clock that doesn't go clockwise. I want to know what makes her tick.

Emma's face is red, but she lifts her shoulders, her resolve clear.

"You, Hybrid, say this as if our powers are what makes us into the people we are. Maybe it's because I've never even known I had powers until now, but I don't want what I am to be anger and fear and hatred and jealousy and greed."

In that moment, I think I fall for her. Maybe not in love. I haven't known her long, but I am definitely interested. I am captivated. I am intrigued. Luther is pissed.

"And here I thought you were worth saving," he says.

"Because I refused to kill Deidra," Emma argues.

Luther's eyes narrow.

"No, I thought you were worth saving because you used your Demonic powers on the person who deserved it the most, a person with power equal to yours. And you held back when faced with someone who is lesser. You chose the fair fight over destroying just for the need to destroy. That's called control."

Emma is still, her expression thoughtful.

"But I didn't choose the fair fight. If not for Conor, I would have destroyed her using her own power. Not mine. I didn't feel anger. I felt her anger."

Luther frowns.

"That is your power, Emma. Being able to use the emotions around you is a power. A strong one."

"Then it's one I won't use," she says.

Luther snarls. To say he is angry is an understatement. A ball of fire hits a tree behind Emma, and it goes up in flame. I lift my hand, pulling on the moisture in the air and use it to douse the blaze. I turn on Luther.

"If you want to make this a fight, make it one. Here. Now. With me."

Luther's eyes are red, his jaw tight.

"Then let's see how well your gargoyle magic fares against a Demon that craves flesh. I leave you both to it."

With that, Luther walks away. One moment, he is there. The next, he is gone.

"Am I wrong?" Emma asks me quietly. I turn to her.

"Your morals are in the right place. I'm not sure if it will help you though."

She sighs.

"I get angry. I'm only human. I-I just don't want to use other people's emotions as a weapon. My own, I get. But not others."

I stare at her.

"Sometimes I think the Inner Circle was wrong," I say suddenly.

Emma's eyes widen.

"Wrong?"

I am closer to her now, and I know I was the one to move.

"It's hard to believe your mother is a Demon."

Emma grimaces.

"That's because my real mother isn't."

And that's when we hear the roar. Branches break, the ground rumbles, and I know the best thing to do right now is run.

Chapter 26

Emma

The moment Conor shoves me into the cabin and slams the door shut, I know we are in trouble. I don't know anything about drexes, but I don't want to be killed by one. I feel fear from Conor, but I also feel determination. He exudes courage I'm not sure I have. Conor's eyes are sharp, his face alert. He'll die for me. If for no other reason, he will die because he is my Guardian and that is what being a gargoyle is. What they lack in prejudice, they make up for in duty and loyalty. I am drawn to that.

"They would have us both die just to see what I'm capable of?" I ask quietly.

Conor walks over to the side of the room and leans against the wall, his eyes on the door.

"Training rule number one: powers are more accessible during times of duress. The drex is not impossible to overcome."

Conor is attempting to take over where Luther left off, and I know he is out of his league. His powers don't come from Hell. There is a snuffling noise now at the door, and I cringe. I haven't seen the drex, but it sounds huge. The sniffing is coming from the top of the door's frame.

And then I feel it.

The entity outside the door is terrifying, a mass of boiling rage that seems to encompass the air around it the same way water fills the ocean. I am scared. I don't want to drown in the mass of flesh sniffing now at the exterior walls of the cabin.

"We can't hide here forever." Conor says calmly, his face serene as he leans against the timber wall across from me, suddenly unperturbed by the presence of the drex waiting to eat us, unseasoned and raw, outside the room where we hide. I still feel his fear, but I also feel his resolve. I think he believes staying as calm as he can will help keep me calm as well. I hate to tell him, but it isn't working.

"Why not?" I ask, the bitter taste of defeat already filling my mouth.

I don't have the ability to turn to stone. And the fact that Conor does suddenly makes me overwhelmingly envious. Conor sees something in my eyes. Maybe it's the sarcasm, the fear, and the jealousy boiling to the surface, but it makes him smile slowly before pushing away from the wall to stand beside me.

"Afraid?" he asks quietly.

"No, I'm just standing here contemplating peeing in my pants for the heck of it." I remark off-handedly as the snuffling noise outside suddenly grows alarmingly louder. "I don't know what I'm doing, Conor."

Conor watches the door, his face hard.

"Training rule number two: the first step to success is knowing your own limitations. You know yours. Now it's time to find your strength."

The drex throws itself at the door, and the wood buckles. I back into Conor with a shriek, placing my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming louder.

"It eats people," I say quietly. "Can it think too?"

Conor's hands are on my arms now. His mouth is near my ear.

"You tell me, Emma."

I shudder, my focus on the creature outside. Conor's voice is calm, but I don't miss the trembling undertones. He can't feel the creature the way I can. He depends on me for that.

I open myself up, and I am immediately bombarded by rage. Insensible rage. Its mind seems devoid of anything but the instinct to hunt. I feel a need to kill. And then underneath all of the anger, I feel fear. Is it possible that everything, even monsters, fear something?

The drex slams against the door, and the wood collapses, flying into the room.

"Duck, Emma!" Conor shouts, and for the first time I see him turn completely into stone. It's disconcerting. His body is hard but mobile, and he shoves himself between me and the splintering wood. If it hurts him, he doesn't complain.

The drex's head crashes into the room, and Conor shoves us through a small space between the monster's neck and the woods outside. Conor is flesh again now, and we are running. But I have caught a glimpse of the monster, and I am terrified.

Every surface of its long, reptilian, four-legged body is covered in leather-like grooved skin, impossible to penetrate. Its head is massive, heavy enough it hangs sloppily, huge teeth protruding from a muscular snout. It has eyes, but it keeps them lowered to the ground.

I can hear the beast crashing through the trees behind us, and my body tightens in alarm. Conor never falters. He is fast, and his steps are sure. He's battled Demons before. I'm not sure if he's battled a drex, but it's obvious he has field experience.

"Emma, I need you to try and control the Demon!" Conor shouts.

He is pulling on my hand, guiding me through the dense foliage. I'm too stunned to care.

"Control?" I shout back.

The creature is roaring behind us. It is not subtle. It does not attempt subterfuge. It is loud.

"Just trust me, Emma. It's a lesser Demon. You can do it. Get inside its head!"

Conor's words sound crazy, but I've been surrounded by people who know me better than I do for days. I have no choice but to go with it. I throw myself into the Demon, concentrating on its rage, and most importantly, its fear.

I am suddenly no longer running, and when I look for Conor I realize he is carrying me. I start to struggle. Conor's grip tightens.

"Just keep concentrating. I've got you. You take care of the Demon."

I grow still, my mind moving away from Conor and the woods. I am rage again. I don't want to attack it.

Control it, Conor had said. I don't know how to do this. The drex is so very angry. And it fears . . . death maybe?

"Come on, Emma," Conor says, and I know by the urgency I need to do something now.

I am still trapped in the drex's emotions, and I force myself to calm down. My stomach is in knots, and I breathe deeply. I count to myself, and with each new number, I begin to realize something. The drex is slowing, the roaring is lower, confused.

"That's it," Conor breathes.

He is tiring. He is running for two, and it is catching up with him. It doesn't take me long to realize I am calming the drex. I don't know if that's the same thing as controlling it, but it's all I got. My breathing is even now, and I press on Conor's chest to get him to slow down. The drex is no longer running behind us, and Conor stops, his body sagging against a large oak as I slide from his arms.

"Do you know where it is?" Conor asks.

I shake my head, but I don't answer. I am breathing, counting, and projecting. The turmoil in the creature behind us is almost gone. The only thing left is its fear, and I know I haven't done enough. Fear can be just as deadly as rage. I concentrate harder even as I hear the underbrush move, branches snapping as the creature comes into view.

I grind my teeth. It is one thing to project calmness when not faced with the reality of the beast now before me, but now I am fighting not only to keep it calm but myself as well. My heart rate speeds up, and I see the drex's head swing toward us. Its large snout is to the ground, and the brief glimpse I get of its eyes reveals a white sclera laced with red veins. The iris is blood red.

"Breathe, Emma," I tell myself as I face off with the monster. Conor is at my back, and I can feel the tenseness in his body. His breathing is even.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," I tell the drex even though I'm not sure it can hear me.

Its head swings back and forth, and I take a step forward. It howls, low but menacing. I back up again, swallowing hard. I'm not sure how to alleviate fear or even calm it. How do you project an emotion that feels safe?

I take a step closer again and project as many feelings of security I can—love, sanctuary, happiness. I need it to identify us as harmless. The drex quits moving, its head lifting. The eyes have bled to black, the outer ring now a clearer white. It moves toward me, and I fight hard not to tense. I keep my head up, my eyes averted. Even I know one never looks a wild animal in the eyes. It will only encourage a fight for dominance.

Conor's arm goes around my waist, and I feel him preparing mentally and physically for a fight. I grip his arm.

"Don't," I whisper. "Just stay still."

The drex is in front of me now, and I let it sniff me, its breath hot against my skin. It smells like sulfur, and my nose scrunches involuntarily. And then it whimpers, and I look up. The whimper seems strange in a creature three times the size of a horse, and I find myself fascinated by the beast. I can feel fear again, and I work to calm it. No, not it . . . him. I suddenly know it is male.

"It's afraid of its master," I say quietly.

How I know this now is beyond me, but the emotion is tangible. He isn't afraid of death. He is afraid of being punished.

"Satan," Conor says in my ear, and I shudder.

My control slips. I see it in the drex's eyes. His pupils dilate, redden, and I see him cringe as he looks at Conor. I am suddenly very aware of one thing. He was never going to kill me. I am a Demon. I am his race. The gargoyles are the enemy.

I'm not fast enough. I begin projecting even as the drex's forearm suddenly goes into Conor's back. I hear the breath leave Conor's lungs. The attack is unexpected, and Conor has no time to defend himself.

"No!" I say as Conor goes down on one knee, his forehead creased. He brings me down with him, and in my panic, I project the only thing I know to project.

You are safe, beast. You are mine. You belong to me. You will harm no one.

The drex howls and his body falls to the ground, his head bowed. I am now its dominant. In my desperation, I have tied it to me. I am not sure how I know this or how I feel about it. My mind is too distracted.

Conor is leaning heavily against the tree, and I turn, giving the drex my back as I press against Conor's stomach. There is blood, but I don't know where it's coming from. Conor fights me, his eyes on the monster, but I grip his shirt, and pull it over his head.

"It won't hurt me," I say as I use his t-shirt to swipe at the blood.

There is a deep gash in Conor's side. My face goes pale. The cut is too deep. The shirt is not enough to staunch the flow of blood. Modesty no longer matters, and I pull off my own shirt to add it to his.

Conor's face is white, and I see acceptance in his eyes. He knows he is dying, and he will die because a death while on duty is honorable. I think its bullshit. Yes, bullshit. Not crap, not just plain bull. Bullshit. No one should have to die in training while being chased by a Demon his own people let loose.

The drex is keening. It knows I am angry, but I don't comfort it. Not now. I'm too busy studying Conor's face and remembering the bathroom scene with Fiona earlier.

"Tell me how to heal you!" I beg Conor.

Conor's eyes meet mine.

"Emma . . ." he says. His voice is patient, soft. It makes me angrier.

"Tell me how to heal you!" I shout.

I can tell he wants to shake his head, but he is too weak now.

"I don't know how," he finally whispers.

His skin is clammy, cool. I am crying. I know this because my blood is mixing with his. My chest hurts. The drex is howling, mournful. Conor's eyes close.

I look up at the sky, toward the moon. I know it's there even in daylight.

"Help me," I whisper.

I don't know if she hears me, and I hate that I am calling on her. I am out of options.

Your tears, Emma. Use your tears.

The voice is soft, firm, but not sympathetic. I look down at Conor, swiping my cheeks hurriedly. My tears. It makes no sense. But I have never been one to question things when there is no time to question them.

I let myself cry. I let myself miss my adopted mother, I let myself feel sad and desperate because of the other hybrids' hatred, my own fears. I let myself feel something for Conor. I like him and that's enough. For now, that's enough.

I remove the shirts from Conor's wound. The tears flow, and I sob as I lean over him, the blood-tinged droplets falling onto his side.

He screams. It is a haunting scream, controlled but painful. He struggles below me, and I am thrown backward. I try fighting my way back to him, but he is convulsing.

It is enough

The eerie words do not comfort me. My back is against the drex, and his leathery hide feels warm against my bare skin. He supports me, still keening even as his large, wide eyes watch Conor curiously.

Conor is thrashing but not as wildly. He is calming, and I rush to his side, my eyes on the wound. It's red, angry, but impossibly, miraculously, it is searing closed. I wipe at the blood even as I begin screaming for help. Conor's eyes are open, and he stares at me, his gaze full of disbelief.

"How?" he asks.

I ignore him, yelling even louder. My throat hurts, but I am rewarded with the sound of running feet. The drex stands, its body tense. And then suddenly, Luther is behind me.

"You just had to save him," Luther says with a shake of his head. He is amused.

I look over my shoulder at him. Emotions slam into me, and my eyes widen as I look into his calm eyes.

"You knew," I say. "You knew this would happen?"

Luther shrugs.

"I suspected."

"You bastard!" I spit. If I ever cared about my language, I don't anymore. Luther steps closer.

"You have made a drex into a pet, and you have healed your own Guardian. Leaving you alone was worth it. You make your mother proud, Emma."

I want to yell at Luther, to curse him a blue streak, but my upbringing makes the two words I want to say difficult for me. Conor doesn't have the same qualms. He speaks for us both.

"Fuck you, Craig," he says weakly.

Luther laughs as he leans over the gargoyle.

"How about them lines now, Reinhardt? Pretty bloody damned blurred aren't they?"

Chapter 27

Conor

Emma is still leaning over me in her beige bra, using our shirts to wipe as much blood as she can away when Headmaster Durand and Roach enter the small clearing. What they find is not a pretty sight. Luther has disappeared, and Emma's tears have left as much blood on her face as I have on my side. Between the two of us, we look like we have bathed in it.

The drex is lying docile at Emma's feet, and Emma's attempt at cleaning away the blood is only making it smear worse. I place my hand over hers.

"Stop, Em. It's fine."

I am looking over her shoulder, and I feel her eyes meet mine before she follows my gaze. Roach's mouth is gaping, and Mr. Durand looks disturbed. I feel suddenly protective.

"What the hell?" Roach murmurs.

I am weak, but I sit up, pulling Emma behind me for modesty's sake as much as protection. I can feel her trembling against my back, and I know the dogged determination she leaned so heavily on while we were under attack is now crumbling. I will never again see shy people as weak. I have underestimated her. Severely.

Durand moves toward us slowly, removing his suit jacket as he approaches. He holds it out to Emma. I take it from him, my eyes locked to his as I pass it over my shoulder.

"Where is Luther?" Durand asks.

I know by his tone that Luther was supposed to walk us through the entire training session, to step in if the situation got out of hand. The Demon has gotten the last laugh. He is long gone. This I know only too well.

"Gone," I say.

Roach is circling the drex, and I feel Emma tense as the creature growls. Durand stares at it.

"What has she done to it?" Roach asks.

I stand up slowly, Emma at my back. She has her hands on my waist, and I know she's trying to support me in case I fall.

Roach's gaze lands on Emma, his eyes narrowed and watchful, full of hate. I know this expression. I wore it once.

"We're not sure," I answer. "I asked her to control it, and I think when it attacked me . . ."

"I bound it to me," Emma interrupts, her voice strong. The hands on my waist are shaking, but her words are sure and steady. "I don't know how, but he is mine now. He belongs to me."

Durand's gaze moves between Emma and me.

"It attacked you?" Durand asks.

My hand touches the fading wound on my side cautiously.

"It nearly killed me. Emma has healing abilities."

It is all I say. I know without a doubt the Headmaster and Roach are condemning Emma in their minds for what she has done with the drex. She has not killed the Demon. She has it under her control. This isn't just astounding, it's terrifying. Healing her Guardian rather than destroying me is redeeming. She will not be punished. I'm not quite sure what passed between us in those moments when she was healing me, but I will not let them punish her.

Durand stares at me. I know he sees the resolve in my gaze. It's obvious I will protect Emma with my life. She protected me when she could have run, but I doubt she even considered leaving. Most hybrids with her powers would not have hesitated. Durand gestures at the drex.

"Kill it," he tells Roach.

Emma is suddenly screaming. She pulls away from my back, running to the beast before placing herself between Roach and the Demon. The drex's head lifts, and it snarls.

Emma places a hand on its head, using whatever power she has over emotion to calm it. Its head lowers, and it is quiet. Emma's eyes are glowing red.

Everyone goes still. Roach's face transforms, his teeth becoming the fangs he sports when in serpentine form. He is angry.

"You protect it knowing what it is? What it can do to men?" he snarls.

Emma's arms are spread, the suit jacket open as she stands guard over the Demon.

"It was created to kill. It craves flesh, but it doesn't kill because it wants to. It kills because its master tells it to," Emma argues. "I'm its master now. It won't harm anyone."

Roach laughs.

"Unless you tell it to. We're supposed to trust you, allow you to control a beast you could have kill us?"

Emma closes her eyes briefly. She won't win this fight. She's a Demon asking them to preserve a lesser Demon she could use as a weapon. It's impossible.

"I'll be responsible for them," I say suddenly.

Durand and Roach turn to me.

"And do what? Make sure she controls it properly? Are you mad? What are you going to feed it?" Roach asks.

I walk over to Emma, closing the suit jacket before standing before her.

"It can hunt animals. There is plenty of non-human prey in these woods."

"No," Durand says. "The risk is too great."

"It's a monster," Roach adds.

"He," Emma says fiercely. "It's a he."

I reach back and take one of her hands in mine.

"You're not helping," I mutter.

She snorts. It's low, and I almost miss it, but she definitely snorts. I look Durand in the eye.

"The creature can be as much as asset as a risk. Think about it. You know as well as I do Emma is proving to be more powerful than any of the hybrids that have come through here in the past two years. We train her, and the creature fights for our side as well."

Durand's jaw is tight. He looks between us, his gaze landing on our clasped hands. It's a bad move on my part.

"Back off, Roach," Durand orders. "I'm taking this before the Council. If they deem it necessary, the creature dies. No more arguments in its defense."

I nod. It's the best we can hope for. Emma exhales, and I know she's relieved.

"Get back to the school," Durand adds. "Get cleaned up, and then meet in the courtyard. Marion is going to meet with some of the hybrids. A class on first aid. I think there's been enough fighting for today."

Durand sounds tired. Being headmaster of a school full of Demons can't be easy, especially when the hybrids' own Guardians would happily slit the hybrids' throats in their sleep. My opinion, however, has changed. Drastically.

Durand glances around our group before shaking his head and walking back into the woods. He trusts Emma. I have seen it in his eyes. Maybe he sees the same quiet willingness to protect, the same caring nature I do, but he doesn't think she'll use the creature against anyone who doesn't deserve it. Roach, on the other hand, has a different opinion.

"It hurts anyone, I'll kill it."

I stare at him, my eyes narrowed.

"What are you still doing at the Acropolis, Roach?"

Roach grins.

"You haven't heard?" he asks.

A knot suddenly forms in the pit of my stomach. I know I'm not going to like what he has to say next. Roach leans over, his face in mine. I'm taller, and I enjoy the advantage of height, my glare cold and calculating.

"I've been assigned to you."

I feel the anger rising, the emotion so strong I have to force myself to breathe.

"Gargoyles don't have Guardians," I say through gritted teeth.

Roach raises a brow, his laughter low and confident.

"No, but this case is opening a lot of eyes in the Council. I'm not here to guard you. I'm here to make sure you do your job right."

"Conor," Emma says quietly, her voice strained.

I know she's feeling my anger, and I try my best to rein it in. She's still learning control, and I'm not helping her any.

"Stay out of my way, Roach," I warn.

Emma is next to me now, her hand inconspicuously on my back. I feel calmer, and I wonder if she's doing something to make me less angry.

"I don't intend to get in your way unless you give me a reason to, Reinhardt. Just know that I'm watching you," Roach replies before slinking into the forest.

We watch him go, and I wait until I can no longer hear or see him before I turn to Emma.

"Let's go."

She nods, her steps falling in with mine as we move through the woods, the drex on our heels.

"Do you think they'll kill Ace?" Emma asks.

We are almost to the edge of the forest when she poses the question, the Acropolis' turret visible through the foliage. I stop walking.

"Ace?" I ask, although I'm afraid I already know the answer.

Emma nods, her hands gesturing at the monster behind us.

"The drex," she says.

I just stare at her, at her rust smeared cheeks, tangled hair, and wide, wondering eyes.

"Seriously? You named it?"

Emma's cheeks redden.

"I couldn't keeping calling him 'it'."

Her serious face makes me laugh, and she scowls. But I can't help it. The damned girl is beyond endearing. She's compassionate, determined, stubborn, irrational, and complex. And combined, it is completely and utterly irresistible. I move closer to her, my eyes searching hers. I don't think she's prepared for the thoughts running now through my head, but I'm having a weak moment and I choose not to ignore it.

"What I'm about to do never happened. Understood?" I ask.

Emma watches me, and I know she sees the heat in my gaze. If it isn't obvious, it should be. She nods slowly, swallowing hard. And I'm suddenly kissing her.

There's no time for regrets. One moment I'm running a hand over her grimy cheek, and the next my lips are on hers, hungry and firm. She is pressed against me, her lips as unrelenting as they are hesitant. She doesn't resist me, and I deepen the kiss, my hand tangled in her hair. I feel her tentative hand on my back, and I pull back a moment, my eyes on her face. Her gaze meets mine.

She swallows again, her cheeks flushed and hot. A lot can be said in a moment simply by staring. A million sentences can be said in a minute of silence. Her eyes are cautious and scared. She isn't ready for anything beyond friendship with anyone. Not now. Not when her entire world has changed. And my eyes . . . if she doesn't see regret, I know she sees guilt. I'm not just breaking gargoyle law, I'm shattering it.

"It never happened," she whispers.

"Never happened," I repeat.

And I am kissing her again. She is more confident this time, one arm around my neck, the other against my cheek. Her lips are firm, insistent, and I feel the loneliness in her embrace.

My arm tightens around her waist. In this moment, there is no aloneness. Only need.

My hand is on her cheek, her hand is on mine as my lips move over hers. It's the most emotional kiss I've shared with anyone, and I'm struck by the irony. Gargoyle and Demon. Fire and water. Together, the steam is explosive.

My hand moves under the borrowed suit jacket, my fingers roaming over the sensitive skin of her back, and I am deepening the kiss when I'm suddenly bumped from behind.

Emma stumbles, her back going against a tree with me leaning heavily against her. I push away, my hand on the bark above her head. Emma is laughing, her lips swollen from the kiss, and I follow her gaze to the ill-tempered drex snorting behind us.

"Now that's a chaperone," I grumble as my gaze moves back to Emma.

She isn't laughing anymore, but her eyes still smile. I rest my forehead against hers briefly before pushing away. She moves with me, my hand going down to take hers as we move to exit the woods. At the edge of the school's main garden our hands fall apart.

It never happened.

Chapter 28

Emma

It never happened.

Over and over I repeat this to myself as I shower. Conor is across the hall in the boy's bathroom and Ace is safely hidden in an old un-renovated part of the stables.

It never happened.

It's best I don't go there even in my head. Only a few days after discovering I am the half-mortal, half Demon daughter of Enepsigos, and I am kissing a gargoyle. It's not rational. It's not logical. It's mad. I want to talk to my mother but can't.

You can.

Her voice is suddenly in my head. The same unsympathetic, firm voice I had heard in the woods when I'd asked for help in healing Conor. It's not my adopted mother's voice. I turn off the shower and stand dripping, afraid.

"What do you want?" I ask.

To talk, the voice answers. I lean out of the shower and grab a towel, wrapping it around myself before stepping clear of the stall.

"Talk about what?"

Anything you wish.

"I don't want to talk to you," I say as I dry off, pulling on a fresh pair of clothes before facing the bathroom mirror. My wet hair hangs down the back of a clean, black t-shit. My face is pale.

I'm not here to hurt you, Emma. I'm here to help.

"Help me with what?"

The mirror before me suddenly ripples as if the surface is made out of water. I back away from it, my eyes wide as a young woman appears in the glass. She looks a lot like me, but she is "more" where I am "almost." Her hair is obsidian rather than just dark. Her eyes are so amber they are red, and her lips are full and ruby. She is wearing a black dress with a corseted top and long flowing skirt.

There is going to be an uprising, Emma. You will lead it.

I stare at her, my heart racing within my chest.

"An uprising?"

The gargoyles you are with are an elite group of warriors created by Heaven to guard mankind from evil. In the old days, it was a simple endeavor. Now the world is more complicated. Angels fell from Heaven, and the first Demons came to be. The world has become a mix of Exiled Angels, Demons, a single Naphil, and a race of half-Demonic people.

I stare at her, this woman, and I know she is my mother. My real mother.

"And this will lead to an uprising with me at its head?" I ask.

I am confused. Scared and confused.

There is no balance, Emma. The hybrids are in danger. The gargoyles train you because you are not truly evil. Demons fear you because you are not truly evil. This has become a double-edged sword. The hybrids will have to rise above this. Unite. Do you think you coming into your powers now is an accident? Do you think meeting the gargoyle is an accident?

My hands are gripping the sink now, my nails scraping the porcelain.

"Are you saying you planned this? Are you saying we should fight?"

Planned is a callous word, Emma. I am not inconsiderate.

I stare at the mirror.

"How can I trust you? You're not a hybrid. You should want us dead. And why do the Demons keep having children with mortals if they fear us?"

It's a lot of questions, and I don't expect her to answer them all. She's already fading.

Even as a Demon, I am not linked to Hell, Emma. I earned my kingdom on the moon. Hell wanted new recruits for their armies. They thought they could create them by lying with mortal men and women. In a way they have, but they didn't count on any of you taking after your mortal parent. If you want more answers, find Alessandro. And trust your gargoyle, Sweet One. He's worth trusting.

And with this she is gone. My knuckles are white against the sink, my eyes shadowed in the mirror. There is going to be an uprising, Emma. You will lead it. I am no leader, and I don't trust Enepsigos.

"Emma?"

I hear Conor outside the bathroom door, but I don't move. I'm not afraid, I'm anxious. There is too much going on in my head, too many complicated feelings.

The bathroom door opens, and I see Conor materialize in the mirror behind me. He's wearing a clean pair of jeans, and a white t-shirt, and he's using a towel to dry his hair. He pauses when he sees my face, my clenched knuckles against the sink.

"Emma?" he asks.

He reaches out, a hand resting against my fist. Trust your gargoyle, Sweet One. He's worth trusting. My eyes meet Conor's in the mirror.

"I just met my real mother," I say.

Conor's hand tightens on mine, and he looks around the room, his body tense. I let go of the sink and place my free hand on top of his, pulling it away from mine.

"She's gone," I add as I spin to face him. "Who is Alessandro?"

I don't give him time to ask questions of his own. Conor's eyes narrow.

"Your mother give you that name?" Conor asks.

I nod.

"Enepsigos did, yes."

I still don't like calling her my mother. Conor glances around the bathroom again.

"He's the head of a group called the Swords of Solomon. They are a group of warriors that protect the secrets and artifacts of the ancient wise King Solomon." Conor leans over, his face close to mine. "What did Enepsigos tell you, Em?"

I give him the condensed version.

"She told me to find Alessandro and to trust my gargoyle."

Conor's brow lifts.

"Your gargoyle?"

I shrug while fighting a smile. Conor has a lot of pride. Referenced as a belonging is stinging it. Conor's jaw tightens as he glances at the mirror over my head.

"Well, at least she's smart enough to realize you should trust me."

"Good pride save there, Macho Man," I say with a grin as Conor points at the bathroom door.

"You, sweetheart, have a class. Now would be a good time to walk."

He can act grumpy all he wants. I know better. I push past him, moving into the residence hall before stopping at the exit to the courtyard beyond.

"I need to talk to Alessandro," I say softly.

I know Conor is close, and I hear him sigh.

"Did your mother say why?" he asks.

"Enepsigos. And yes, she did."

"Are you going to tell me?"

I look over my shoulder at him.

"She told me I would be leading an uprising and that Alessandro would know more."

Conor's eyes widen.

"You? An uprising? Emma . . ."

"Don't say it. I know I'm not the type. I'm just telling you what she told me."

Conor places a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm.

"No, Honey, you are the type. You are more the type than you think you are. I'm done underestimating you. Your mother . . . Enepsigos has the ability to see the future . . ."

Conor is gripping my shoulders firmly with both hands now, and he turns me, his face serious.

"Emma, you can't tell anyone what she has told you. Do you understand?"

His fear is paralyzing.

"Why?" I whisper.

Conor's face darkens.

"Because if the Council were to discover your mother has predicted you will lead an uprising, you will be exterminated."

My blood runs cold.

"W-what?"

Conor is shaking me now.

"Don't repeat it, Em. No one. Understand? For one, we don't know what kind of uprising she's referring to. Your mother is a Demon. The Council will assume the worst."

I nod and Conor relaxes, his eyes locked on mine.

"I'll contact Alessandro."

I nod again as Conor leads me gently outside. I'm not ready to mix with the other hybrids again so soon, but I'm beginning to realize my choices are few.

Trust your gargoyle, Sweet One. He's worth trusting."

Chapter 29

Conor

I'm beginning to wonder what I've gotten myself into. I am demoted, I am reassigned to Emma, I am reinstated, and I foolishly volunteer to be her Guardian. Now I am embroiled in a complicated mess. It probably doesn't help that I'm pretty sure I've fallen for my own mark.

"You okay, Reinhardt?" Grace Withers asks.

The Guardians are sitting on the garden's stone wall, our eyes trained on the class before us. Considering the subject is first aid and the instructor is Marion, none of us are worried about violence.

"I heard your girl Emma has caught herself a drex," Tom Henry says, his eyes narrowed.

There are urgent whispers down the wall. My side throbs with the reminder, and I fight not to rub the phantom wound that almost killed me.

"Rumors cause dissention, Henry," I say.

"So it isn't true?" Sean Thomas asks carefully.

I don't answer.

"She should be destroyed," Tom murmurs.

There are whispered agreements around me.

"No more than your girl, Lyre," I say coldly.

Between the two girls, Lyre is the violent one. Emma would never intentionally hurt anyone.

And you know this for sure after this short a time? I ask myself. I ignore my own conscious, my eyes on Emma. She looks distracted and deservedly so.

"Lyre can't steal magic from others or bind herself to flesh eating monsters," Tom spits.

Emma looks up, and I know she feels the anger coming from the Guardians. It's something I can't protect her from—the hatred, the fear.

"She should die," Tom continues.

I look down the wall, my eyes finding the hazel-eyed gargoyle easily.

"I'll stand between her and any of you foolish enough to attempt murdering her."

All eyes are on me now. Grace looks between the two of us.

"No one's going to attempt anything. That's not our job. Let's just leave it up to the Council. Got it?" she says quietly.

Everyone agrees, but there are still murmurs along the wall, and when Tom's eyes meet mine, I see death there. He has been with Lyre too long. Her Demon mother has the ability to control men, to entice them, to corrupt them. I know better than anyone that Lyre has inherited the same ability.

Our eyes move back to the circle of hybrids. There is avid interest among the group, their eyes on Marion as she demonstrates how to cauterize a wound. The Demons heal quicker than most, but as hybrids, wounds are also more fatal for them than for their Demonic parents. They already know how to die. Any information on how to preserve their life is golden. The school's protection only lasts for so long.

I focus my attention on Emma. She is leaning forward, speaking occasionally to Fiona Windgate, a blonde-haired Demon who is both outspoken and opinionated. Fiona keeps scooting away, but she is fascinated by Emma, her gaze flicking occasionally in Emma's direction. And she isn't the only one. Hesther and Gwenyth Garner, twin daughters of the Demon Onoskelis, are also watching Emma. They are red-haired hybrids with blue eyes and freckles who can choke a man simply by clenching their fists. They can also use their voices to create echoes. It's an eerie thing and disorienting.

"Have they ever visited like that before with each other?" Grace whispers next to me.

She has noticed the hybrids' interest in Emma. I am hoping she is the only one.

"I'm not sure," I answer as my eyes glide over the group.

A broad, black-haired hybrid is watching Emma as well, his dark eyes bright. Grace's gaze follows mine.

"Bruno Riley. He's the son of the Demon Tephras," Grace murmurs.

I stare hard at the boy. He's at least nineteen with a black t-shirt that sits plastered to a sculpted chest. His interest in Emma is more than obvious.

"Tephras? The dirt devil?" I ask.

Grace nods.

"Yeah, and Bruno has the same ability as his father. He can do some serious damage with wind and soil. He can also cause seizures."

This is comforting to know.

"Any of the hybrids ever date another hybrid?" I ask.

Grace shrugs.

"If they have, they haven't done it under our watch. And they have never shown a visible interest in another hybrid in any form, friendship or romantic."

This is even less comforting. I don't know what Emma is doing, but I fear for her. The other Guardians are noticing the differences in her. They are scared, and they are uncertain. This fans the flames of prejudice already lit within them. Demons have taken a lot from us and from mankind. But what the other Guardians refuse to see is the good in the hybrids we are forced to watch. I have more faith in the Council. They saw a reason to preserve half-mortal Demons, to build the Acropolis in the first place, and I have to trust that's enough.

Chapter 30

Emma

Marion has completed her demonstrations, and we are watching fascinated as she packs away the equipment she has brought with her to the courtyard. Marion is young, but she knows a lot about first aid.

"Her mother was a nurse," a male voice says from beside me, and I look up to find myself staring into the brown eyes of a black-haired, muscular hybrid.

"Was?"

My gaze moves between the hybrid and Marion.

"Yeah. Her mother was killed in the field protecting a civilian from a Demon."

"Oh," I answer softly.

My chest tightens. Marion is one of the kindest people I have ever met. It breaks my heart knowing her mother was killed by one of my own people.

"She doesn't seem to hold a grudge. Most of them do," the boy says, his eyes on the Guardians sitting at the edge of the garden. "I'm Bruno," he adds.

I look up at him, offering him my hand as I smile slowly.

"Emma."

"I know," Bruno says as he shakes my hand. His eyes widen a little, and he licks his lips.

"I can feel your mother in your touch," he says, and I pull away quickly.

"Not my mother," I say stubbornly.

Bruno raises his brow.

"No? Hmmmm . . . my mistake."

"You don't claim Enepsigos?" Fiona asks from beside me, and I look between the two hybrids.

"I don't know her," I answer. "It's not that I don't claim her. I know her blood runs through my body, but she isn't the woman who raised me."

Bruno shrugs.

"Well, that's honesty. Can't fault that."

Fiona rolls her eyes before standing up, stretching her arms as she looks at the Guardians now heading in our direction.

"There are rumors about your training session today. Are you really controlling a drex?" Fiona asks.

The question garners attention. Hesther and Gwenyth move in my direction as does a skinny, brown-headed boy I haven't met yet.

"How did you do it?" Hesther asks.

"Did it really attack Conor Reinhardt?" Gwenyth adds.

I am feeling closed in, and I'm not sure how to answer. Will the truth hurt or help me?

"Emma," a voice says, and relief floods me as I look up to find Conor waiting patiently at the edge of the group. I glance at the hybrids quickly.

"It is okay if we help each other you know," I say before walking away.

I feel their eyes on my back as I move.

"Making friends at the Acropolis isn't necessarily a good thing," Conor says as I reach him.

"It's not a bad thing either," I argue.

"No, maybe not," Conor agrees as we move toward the main building.

Conor has his hands in his blue jean pockets, and I find myself tempted to pull one out, to hold it. The scene in the forest haunts me. It never happened. I'm having a hard time forgetting it.

Conor's cell phone suddenly rings, and he reaches for it cautiously, his eyes staring at the screen before flipping it open.

"Reinhardt," he answers.

There is murmuring on the other end of the line. Conor never says a word, and when he flips the cell phone closed, I can feel the wariness emanating from him.

"We meet with Durand in the turret now. He's spoken with the Council," Conor says as he pulls open the door to the main building.

"About Ace?" I ask.

Conor nods.

"Among other things."

He leads me to the spiral staircase, and we climb in silence. There is a hallway and another smaller set of spiral stone stairs before we find ourselves in front of a heavy, round door. Conor lifts his hand and knocks.

"Watch what you say, Em."

He barely gets the warning out of his mouth before the door opens, and we step through to find Durand, Roach, Rachel, Will, and a powerful looking man I've never met before standing around the circular office. There is a single massive desk within the room with smaller tables to the side, and there are books everywhere, rolled documents scattered sporadically among newer hardbound texts. It smells like paper and dust.

"Conor," the older man says.

He has black hair sprinkled with white, and he wears a dark suit that sits well on his broad shoulders. He wears the dress clothes casually as if he is more comfortable in them than he would be pajamas. His shoes are so shiny, they reflect the late afternoon sunlight slanting in through an arrow slit window. His gaze moves to me.

"Emma Chase. I've heard a lot about you," the man says.

He smiles, but I don't miss the coldness in his gaze. He is a leader, and he is used to issuing demands. This much is obvious. I don't answer him, and I don't think he expects me to.

"I'm Ronald Gibson, Director of the gargoyle Council. You have been quite the focus of our group lately, my dear," Gibson says as he approaches me.

I want to back into Conor, but I stand my ground.

"I-I'm not sure why, sir," I stutter as he stops in front of me.

Gibson's eyes are sharp, his gaze intent as it searches mine.

"I honestly don't think you do, Ms. Chase. If you did, I'd be forced to kill you."

His voice is so smooth, so even, it causes me to shiver. His eyes move to Conor, and I'm finally able to breathe.

"The reports I've received over the past couple of days have been startling. Channeling Demons, a late night ocean journey, borrowed magic, healing abilities, and controlling a drex. And all in less than a week. Frankly, I'm impressed."

Conor meets Gibson's gaze without flinching.

"She's learning control."

There is a snort near the desk, and I catch a glimpse of Roach coughing carefully into his hand. Conor doesn't move, his eyes still locked on Gibson's.

"I'm not sure you're right for this job, Reinhardt," Gibson says finally.

My heart falls to my feet. If I move, I'll stomp all over it. I can't have another Guardian. I don't trust anyone else. Enepsigos' words ring through my head. Trust your gargoyle, Sweet One. He's worth trusting.

I glance between the two men. Gibson's eyes are hard, unrelenting. Conor is stoic, but I am suddenly afraid he won't win this battle.

Don't let them separate you, Emma.

Enepsigo's words are sharp in my head, and I almost fall backward. It's important I don't falter, and I manage to stay still, my eyes on the Director as I force myself to calm down. I'm not sure how Enepsigos is managing to communicate with me, and I don't care. Her words make sense. I need Conor, and he needs me. How I know this is beyond me.

"No," I whisper.

No one looks at me. Conor and Gibson are still locked in their unspoken battle while the rest of the gargoyles are focused on the upcoming fight. They expect resistance from Conor. I don't think they expect it from me.

"No," I say, my words louder this time.

Gibson's eyes move to my face, narrowing dangerously. My heart is beating too quickly, and I count to myself. One, two, three . . .

"I don't want another Guardian," I say evenly.

"You don't have a choice, Ms. Chase," Gibson says.

I feel the stares on me now, but I ignore them. I will lose what little confidence I have if I look up.

"Conor Reinhardt is my choice. I won't be alone with another Guardian. I have felt their anger."

"She's right. They'll kill her," Conor says.

Gibson shakes his head.

"They know the law. The Council's punishment for murder is harsh."

"And yet they'll risk it. This school hasn't been in operation long enough for prejudices to be dulled," Conor argues.

He has taken the argument up for me now, but I stand defensively next to him.

Don't let them separate you.

"You're getting too personally involved," Roach says from the side of the room.

Conor looks up, his eyes dark, deadly. Roach doesn't know about the kiss. There is no way he knows about the kiss.

"And what do you mean by personally, Roach? Because I'm defending my mark with my life? I took an oath. We all did. In it, we offer our lives up for mankind, for the people we are assigned to protect. I'm doing my job, and I think I'm doing it pretty damn well."

"You're protecting a . . ." Roach begins.

"A Demon?" Conor finishes. "And that attitude is the reason why Emma is safer with me than she is with any other Guardian."

"Emma?" Rachel asks softly, and I know Conor has made a mistake. He's given me a name.

"This job is finished, Reinhardt. You've done well. You'll be reassigned. Be prepared to return to Paris for briefing," Gibson says quietly.

I don't see the defeat in Conor's bearing or in his face, but I feel it. I start to move forward, but Conor's hand finds my arm, and I see the barest shake of his head.

"Who will be her new Guardian?" Conor asks.

Gibson looks away.

"None of your concern. You leave tomorrow. The new Guardian will take your place then."

Conor nods, and I pull at my arm. His grip tightens.

And then I feel it.

Patience. The feeling is a weird one. It has a hard feel. Like steel. Conor needs me to be patient. I quit struggling.

"And the drex?" Conor asks.

I snap to attention. The news about Conor has distracted me. Gibson's eyes are hard when he turns to us.

"It dies tomorrow."

I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out, but I feel the tears prick the back of my eyes. I have bound the Demon to me only to sentence it to death.

"You're dismissed," Gibson says.

He turns to Durand, and Conor pulls me to the door. Will follows us quietly. Rachel and Roach remain, although I feel Rachel's eyes on our back as we exit.

We are downstairs when Will takes Conor by the arm.

"I know you. What are you planning, Con?"

Planning? Is this why Conor wouldn't let me interfere in the meeting? Conor looks at Will before his eyes move to the hall.

"Not here. Meet us in Emma's room."

Will gives Conor a long, hard look before nodding and walking away. And then Conor looks at me, and I see something new in his eyes. Defiance.

Chapter 31

Conor

I knew as soon as I saw Gibson's eyes that Roach was going to be assigned as Emma's new Guardian. He isn't at the Acropolis because of me. He's here for her. She'll be dead within hours under his watch. Out of all of us, Roach holds the biggest grudge against Demons. His resentment runs deep. His sister was raped and murdered by a Demon, and he has been full of hatred ever since. Gibson knows this. It makes me wonder why he assigned Roach in the first place. Do they fear Emma that much?

"We've got to get you out of here," I say as soon as the door shuts behind us in the small room at the back of the residence hall.

Emma stares at me.

"What?" she asks, her eyes wide. "Are you suggesting we run?"

"Yes," I answer.

She sits down heavily on the edge of the bottom bunk.

"Where would we go?"

I sit down next to her, my hand moving to her back. She doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into my touch, and I let myself enjoy it.

"To Italy. To Alessandro."

Emma's eyes meet mine.

"You can't do this."

I know she feels what I'm feeling, know she recognizes my resignation.

"I am more gargoyle in this moment, sweetheart, than I ever would be if I stayed. Understand me? Gargoyles don't allow the innocent to be murdered no matter the blood that runs through their veins. I am not making a decision I will regret."

"And he won't be alone," a male voice adds.

I look up to see Will standing in the open doorway. The residence hall beyond is empty. Will smiles.

"You're getting sloppy, Cuz," he says with a wink.

I know he's referring to his entering the room without me noticing.

"You're not coming," I argue. "I'm breaking the law, Will. They'll write an Extermination notice for me and Emma. I won't let you do that to yourself."

Will crosses his arms.

"I'm not asking, Con. You know as well as I do that the gargoyle system has got to change. This is a new age. We need new laws. More tolerance. This could be our chance to change things, to make the Acropolis great."

I see idealism in Will's gaze, and I don't want to be the one to shatter it.

"It's three of us, Will. Running now isn't going to change the system."

"There's four of us," a soft voice adds, and I groan as I recognize Marion's lilting tone.

She moves into the room with Deidra clinging to her.

"Five," Deidra squeaks.

Emma stands up.

"No, they'll try to kill all of you because of me. I can't live with that. Just let them reassign me to whoever they are planning to reassign me to. I'll take my chances."

I stand next to her, my hand taking her chin, and I force her face in my direction. I see the red haze in her eyes, and I know she's fighting not to cry.

"You will not die. Not now. Not on my watch. Will's right. As much as I hate to admit it, Will's right. The system has got to change. The older generation doesn't want to accept the fact that the lines are becoming blurred."

I am repeating Luther's words. Damn him! The Demon had been right. He had been trying to tell me something in his own narcissistic, insinuating way, and I had ignored him.

"The Acropolis will become a killing ground if we don't try and do something now. I've seen the documents in my father's office. Guardians are lying about their hybrids' violent tendencies," Marion adds.

I have new respect for the quiet girl.

"And they'll kill me if I stay," Deidra whispers fearfully. "Without Marion, without Emma, they'll kill me."

I am not a fan of the imp, but she has a point. I drop Emma's chin, letting my eyes gaze into hers a moment before turning away.

"Fine," I say. "We all go. We leave near dawn. Anything earlier will garner attention."

There are nods of agreement around the room, and I am sculpting a plan of escape in my head when Emma touches my arm.

"We can't leave the other hybrids," Emma says quietly.

I look at her in surprise.

"Emma . . . we can't take them all."

"Not all. Just the ones willing to leave," she argues. I see the resolve in her gaze, and I know I'm defeated. "You talk about change, but if we leave them here then it won't change anything."

"She's right," Will says quietly.

I sigh, my eyes meeting hers.

"You have until lights out to convince them."

She looks triumphant. It's a good look for her.

"They'll turn us in," Deidra says fearfully.

Emma shakes her head.

"No, they won't."

"And what makes you so sure?" Marion asks.

Emma looks at our three co-conspirators with a grin.

"Because they all want freedom. I've felt it. And those who don't will fear death from retaliation either from us or the gargoyles they'll be left to face tomorrow. The Acropolis doesn't have to be a school. It's a cause we take with us."

Chapter 32

Emma

I have twenty minutes to convince as many hybrids as I can that leaving the Acropolis means more than survival, it means starting over. I've never been good at talking with others, and now I have to be more than a good conversationalist. I have to be a revolutionist.

Fiona is brushing her hair in the bathroom when I approach her. I step behind her awkwardly and her eyes meet mine in the mirror. Two more she-demons move behind me. Hesther and Gwenyth. They have their arms crossed. No one here confronts another hybrid for friendly conversation. I hold my hands up in a gesture of peace.

"I need to talk to you," I say quietly.

Fiona's eyes meet the twins.

"We don't talk here, Chase. It would be best if you back away now," Fiona warns.

I don't heed her warning.

"I'm leaving the Acropolis," I say bluntly.

Fiona's brush clatters into the sink, and the twins' eyes go wide. Fiona spins.

"What?" she asks.

I have her attention now, and I take advantage of it.

"They are reassigning me a new Guardian. Conor Reinhardt says they fear me, that this means they are planning to kill me."

Fiona's face falls.

"And you want us to care? Any games you play can get us killed too. Move it, Hybrid."

I remain motionless.

"Conor's helping me leave the school."

The twins' mouths fall open as they rush toward me, one on each side of me now.

"You're going to run with him?" they ask simultaneously.

I nod

"And I want you to join me," I say firmly.

Fiona laughs, her gaze moving over me slowly.

"There aren't many of us here, Chase. Have you seen the gargoyles at this school? Even with our abilities, we are outnumbered and still mostly untrained. It's suicide."

"It's hope," I breathe.

Hesther and Gwenyth's eyes are bright, and I know they don't need much convincing.

"Where would we go?" they ask.

"Conor says there's a place in Italy . . . ."

Fiona shakes her head.

"And you trust everything Conor Reinhardt tells you? Oh, that's smart."

I lift my chin, my jaw tight, my pride wounded.

"Will Reinhardt and Marion Durand are leaving as well."

The twins gasp as Fiona's gaze searches mine. I feel her surprise.

"Why?" she whispers.

"Because staying here is the same thing as dying. There's too much prejudice against the hybrids. They're scared of us, scared we'll unite. We don't have to be evil. We don't have to be good," I say.

Hesther looks at Fiona, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"She's saying we have a choice. She's offering us freedom, Fiona."

"We're in," the twins say together.

Fiona is thoughtful.

"And if we decide to go? What then?"

I watch her, my eyes meeting hers.

"We train on our own. We learn how to be the best we can be without restriction," I say.

Fiona nods. The lights flicker in the bathroom, and I know I'm running out of time.

"I don't have access to the main residence hall," I say as I back toward the door. "If you decide you are in, spread the word. Give the other hybrids a choice. We're meeting by the lake before dawn."

And with that, I walk away. It's the best I can do. With the little time allowed me, I have planted the seeds of rebellion.

"Did it go well?" Conor asks quietly as I exit the bathroom.

He is leaning against the wall, and he pushes away to move beside me. I nod as we walk. He leads me to the small bedroom, and I walk inside with my stomach tied in knots.

The door clicking shut behind us in the small room is too loud. I'm afraid. I'm afraid that everything will go wrong. I'm afraid we will be hurting more people than we help.

"There's no time to worry now, Em. Lay down," Conor orders.

I back toward the bunk, sliding onto it carefully. I haven't changed into pajamas, and I won't. Not tonight.

"Scoot over," Conor says suddenly, and I realize he's standing next to the bed.

I look up at him, startled.

"What?"

He smiles.

"Just scoot over, Em. It's not safe tonight. If anyone tries to get to you before we leave, they'll have to get through me first."

He pushes me over gently and climbs into the bed next to me. I'm not sure what to think of this, and I awkwardly scoot into the wall. I suddenly have six legs, and a million arms. I can't figure out where to put them all.

"Just lie still," Conor whispers, and I can hear the smile in his voice. He's enjoying my discomfort.

"There's not enough room," I mumble.

Conor chuckles.

"There's plenty of room. Trust me."

He rolls onto his back, facing the bunk above us before stretching out his right arm, offering it as a pillow. I look at him warily, my eyes searching his gaze before finally settling down next to him, his arm under my neck. The lights go out, and we are plunged into darkness.

The dark has a way of making everything sound louder. Every breath Conor takes moves through me, causing tingles to shoot down into my toes. And every time he shifts, the sheets sound like sandpaper rubbing together. I need a distraction.

"Do you think this is going to work?" I ask.

I feel Conor's breath on my neck, and I know his head is facing me. I'm still staring up at the bunk.

"I don't know, but we're out of options."

I let my head roll to face his. We're only an inch apart now. Even in the dark, I can make out the features of his face. We're both silent, still, and then . . .

"Emma, what happened in the woods . . ." he begins.

This isn't the distraction I was looking for. I don't want to pretend the kiss we shared never took place, but I will.

"Never happened," I finish in a whisper.

Conor's finger is suddenly touching my lips, and I jump as he traces them slowly. My whole body catches fire.

"No," he breathes. "It happened. It sure as hell happened."

"Conor . . ."

His finger presses against my lips, shushing me.

"You and me, right or wrong, it happened, Em. It happened. I'm not sure I'd be here right now if it didn't. I shouldn't have told you to forget it."

It's too dark for me to make out his features as well as I'd like to, and my heart is beating way too fast. It's loud in the darkness, deafening.

"What are you saying?" I whisper.

His hand is cupping my cheek now, and I close my eyes against the pressure.

"I'm not sure, Em. I'm really not sure."

I smile against his hand.

"Unsure is okay, you know. Unsure is where you discover sure."

Conor chuckles.

"And how do you discover sure?" he asks.

I let temptation get the better of me, and I reach out to touch his face with my hand. There is light stubble under my fingers, and I know Conor hasn't had time for anything resembling a shave, much less a haircut.

"You don't. It finds you," I answer.

I feel Conor's smile against my skin, and he takes my hand in his, kissing my palm before folding my fingers around the kiss.

"Should be one hell of a journey," he whispers, his lips touching my forehead now.

I close my eyes, letting the sensation run through me as he presses his lips lightly against the tip of my nose and then my lips. There, he stops, pulling away as he runs a finger down the side of my face.

"Get some sleep, Em. We've got a hard journey ahead of us."

I roll onto my side, my back to Conor."

"Conor?" I ask.

He's quiet a moment, his breathing even.

"Yeah?"

"I kind of like unsure."

Conor laughs, his hand playing gently with the back of my hair.

"Unsure is good."

And with that, I let sleep take me.

Chapter 33

Conor

The hours before dawn come too soon, and I am shaking Emma awake.

"Come on, sweetheart. Time to move."

Emma stirs quickly, and she sits up, her hands moving through her hair as I climb out of the bed. I reach down to take her hand. If she has the power to see in the dark, she hasn't learned how to yet, and I don't know how to teach her.

"Ready?" I ask when she's standing next to me.

She nods, and I approach the door. This is the part of the journey that could get us killed. If any of the Guardians wake up, we are more than screwed.

"Remember, project feelings of calm. If you got some kind of sleepy emotions hidden up your sleeve, feel free to use those too," I mumble.

Emma snorts.

"Got a whole bag of sleepy mojo all ready to go."

I recognize the sarcasm, and I know she's terrified. My hand finds hers.

"Let's go."

I pull the door open carefully, my eyes alert. The room is quiet, still. I step through the door, Emma close behind me.

"They won't hear you," a male voice says, and I jump.

Emma gasps, and I place a hand over her lips hurriedly.

"They won't hear you," the voice repeats, and I look up to find Gray Harris standing casually in front of us. He's a hybrid, but I don't know much about him other than his name. He nods at us, his eyes on Emma.

"I'm Gray, son of Iudal. I can cause deafness. Both permanent and temporary. They can't hear you."

I watch him warily. Gray is of average height and skinny with brown hair that is well beyond the need for a haircut.

"Are you with us?" I ask.

Gray gestures at Emma.

"I'm with her, Dude. I don't trust you."

Right away, I can tell I'm really gonna like this guy. And that's sarcasm at its best.

"Are there more hybrids?" Emma asks.

Gray nods.

"They're waiting at the rendezvous. Fiona told us we were supposed to meet you at the lake?"

"That's right," Emma answers.

"Then let's go. The deafness is definitely temporary. I give it another hour or so," Gray says before moving ahead of us.

"Oh well, he's friendly," I mutter as we fall in behind him.

Emma is antsy, and we are just about in the courtyard when I see her looking toward another exit in the stable. She stops moving, and we stop with her.

"What is it?" Gray asks.

His eyes are bright. I can't feel his excitement, but I know it's there.

"Ace," Emma says, and I nod, my eyes moving to Gray.

"Go on ahead. We have one more stop."

Gray looks at Emma. She nods, and he takes a few steps backward before turning to break into a run.

"They really hate me that much?" I ask as we move to the door leading into the un-renovated sections of the stable.

Emma ducks into the darkness, and I duck with her before taking her by the elbow. The dark doesn't pose as much a problem for me as it does for her.

"They fear you," Emma whispers as she searches the inky interior.

I see the drex slinking from a corner, snuffling toward Emma slowly.

"He's coming to you," I tell her.

Emma is watching her feet now, her eyes squinted.

"Just how well can you see in the dark?" she asks.

I grin.

"Noticed that, huh?"

The drex's nose hits Emma's tennis shoes, and his head lifts. Emma runs a hand over his leathery hide, and I shudder. Out of everything that has happened, I understand the drex the least. He's ugly as sin and beyond creepy even for me.

"You move around well in darkness," Emma says as I pull on her arm.

She follows me out of the stable, the drex behind us. The creature keens, and Emma shushes him.

"All gargoyles have the ability. Demons do as well."

"Oh," Emma answers as we skirt the school's courtyard. There are stone gargoyles stationed at the forest's edge, and we avoid the area.

"I think you have the ability too. It's just a matter of learning how to do it," I say softly as I help Emma over one of the garden's stone walls.

The moon isn't as full as it was a few days ago, but it's bright. I can see the lake in the distance, the moon's reflection shimmering on the surface. There are figures moving near its edge, and I know everyone else has made it to the rendezvous point.

"We've got to hurry," I say urgently.

Emma nods, and we break into a run, my arm on Emma's to keep her from stumbling. Even with the moon's glow, my eyesight is much better than hers. There are murmurs as we draw near, and I know the hybrids and gargoyles at the lake have noticed the drex.

"No F-ing way! She does have one!" I hear one of the Garner twins say excitedly.

Someone shushes her, and I'm pretty sure it's her sister. I can't tell the two apart, and I honestly don't ever try.

"Well, the Garner sisters showed," I whisper to Emma.

Emma doesn't answer. The drex has felt the presence of the other Demons, and he's getting excited. It's taking everything Emma's got to keep him calm. I see a figure break away from the group at the lake.

"Need any help?" Will asks as he climbs up the hill. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"We're good. How many showed?" I ask.

Will looks at me, his face stronger than I remember. Will is definitely an idealist, and finding a cause is giving him purpose. It's giving him a reason to fight, and for the first time, I realize my cousin is a force to be reckoned with.

"Fiona, Deidra, the Garner twins, Bruno, Gray, and . . . Lyre."

Emma and I both look at Will.

"What?" I ask.

Will shrugs. Emma pulls at the drex's head, leading him over to Will and I. Will backs up, but he doesn't seem afraid.

"Lyre's scared she'll be exterminated if she stays. She's strong. She could be an asset," Emma says softly.

Emma is definitely more open-minded than I am.

"We also have another gargoyle," Will says suddenly, his gaze on the group below.

My eyes follow his, and I take a deep breath.

"Grace," I say quietly.

Will nods. The drex shakes its head, and Emma looks at me.

"I think we need to hurry."

I don't argue. We move as a group down the hill, meeting up with the other hybrids and gargoyles at its base. Emma is looking up at the moon.

"You okay?" I whisper. "No going psycho on me tonight, sweetheart. I don't think I can get us away from Satan's army, and a posse of gargoyles."

Emma's gaze finds mine.

"I think Enepsigos has us covered on the Demon front."

My eyes narrow, but I don't question her. Even after the bathroom incident, I've been aware that Enepsigos has been communicating with her daughter. Emma hasn't said anything, but I've noticed the glassy stare, the startled jumps. I'm more in tune with Emma than I should be. It's a little startling.

Her hand finds mine, and she squeezes it briefly before letting go. I look at the rest of the group.

"You realize that we may be followed? That there will be Extermination notices written for each of us?"

Everyone nods, and my eyes find Grace Withers. I am impressed by her presence until I see the way she watches Fiona. She's become attached to her mark the same way I have mine. Maybe not romantically, but she definitely sees Fiona as a friend. And yet, she still looks conflicted. I know the feeling well. Grace and I have been Guardians for a little over a year now. It's hard to break the rules when we've finally gotten used to following them.

"Let's go then. I suggest we go Southeast toward Monaco, cross over the Tyrrhenian Sea, and then move into Tivoli."

"And if we're attacked," Grace asks.

She and I are used to making quick decisions. I look at her.

"Head for the hill towns near Rome, and ask about the residence of a man named Alessandro Mancini."

Grace's eyes go wide.

"The S.O.S? Are you sure, Reinhardt?"

I glance at Emma. She nods.

"I'm sure," I say before pointing at the sky. "Anyone who doesn't have the ability to fly?"

Only Deidra lifts her hand.

"I want to stay with Emma," Deidra whispers, her body moving conspicuously away from Lyre who is sulking near the edge of the lake. It doesn't take a genius to figure out Deidra has been attacked by Lyre before and viciously enough to leave an impression.

"Emma doesn't fly, Deidra," I say gently.

Lyre laughs."Figures."

"I'll take Emma," Bruno volunteers.

I give him a look that can melt glaciers.

"I can fly on my own," Emma says quietly, and I look at her in surprise.

She gestures at the drex, and I immediately shake my head.

"Hell, no!"

Even I know drex's are clumsy. He can fly. There's no doubt. All Demons can, but there's no way in hell I'm letting her get on that thing.

Emma gives me an arch look before doing exactly what I don't want her to do. She climbs onto the drex's neck, moving backward just enough Deidra can climb in front of her.

"We don't have time for this," Emma says reasonably.

"She's right," Will adds."We've got to go now."

The group spreads out. Will, Marion, and Grace all sprout bat-like wings, lifting slightly in the air as Fiona, Gwenyth, Hesther, Gray, and Lyre all rise effortlessly from the ground. The hybrids don't need wings to fly. Bruno lifts a hand, and he is suddenly lifted off the ground by a whirlwind of wind and dust. Show off.

"Get off that thing," I tell Emma. "You're being foolish."

She arches a brow.

"Am I?"

She places a hand on the drex's head, and he suddenly lifts off the ground, his head hanging as wings I never noticed unfurl from his back. His draconic tail weaves behind him, and I am struck by his similarity to the dragon myth. His large, ugly dinosaur head and small arms are the only thing keeping him from being even slightly pretty. He really is ugly.

"I swear to God . . . Emma . . ."

"We have to go now, Con," Will says from the air.

I sigh, my heart in my throat as I concentrate on my own wings. The air lifts me, and I hover near Emma.

"No fancy flying," I command.

She smiles.

"I wouldn't even know how."

Thank God that happens to be the truth.

Chapter 34

Emma

I am inside Ace's head, and he is inside mine. I still haven't learned how to communicate with him in any way other than through emotions. I'm not even sure drexes know how to communicate, but he isn't a bad sort despite popular opinion. He's a sloppy flyer, and he dips when the rest of the group lifts and lifts when the rest of the group dips.

"Just keep him in the air, and I'll be happy," Conor mumbles from next to us.

Deidra giggles, but I throw Conor a murderous glare.

"He's funny," Deidra says helplessly when I pinch her in the back.

"No, that's your crush on him blinding you."

Deidra grins.

"Nah uh. I have a new crush. They have the same last name though."

I cough.

"Will?" I ask incredulously.

Deidra nods.

"You should see that boy in action. He got us out of the school after knocking two gargoyles out with a single punch."

I'm officially stunned.

"Wow."

"Yeah," Deidra says dreamily.

"You do realize," I say slowly, "that Will is three years older than you."

Deidra shrugs.

"And? I'll grow."

I laugh. It's practically impossible not to smile when Deidra is near.

"Con," Will says suddenly from beside us, and I hear Deidra gasp, but I'm pretty sure he hasn't overheard our conversation. He looks too distracted.

Conor flies in closer.

"We're being followed," Will says softly as he peers over his shoulder.

Conor looks behind us.

"Are you sure?" Conor asks. He looks at me. "Emma?"

I know what he's asking, and I pat Ace on the head, using emotion to let him know he's to follow Conor and the group, and then I pull out of Ace's mind. The emotions behind us hit me full on—determination, fear, anger, and death. I gasp, swallowing hard as I attempt to count.

"There's . . . twenty of them I think," I say hoarsely.

Fear envelops me, and I feel Deidra's small fingers digging into my pants. Her teeth are clenched. Deidra is more than afraid. She's terrified.

Will looks at Conor over Ace's head. Conor nods, and Will breaks away.

"What are you going to do?" I ask.

Conor looks me in the eye.

"Fight."

I stare at him.

"What?"

Conor points at the group.

"Follow Grace. Will and I will head our followers off."

I shake my head even as Conor begins to move away.

"You can't fight your own kind, and you're outnumbered."

Will flies in next to Conor, his brow lifted.

"That's our kind of odds. You should see us at a Reinhardt family reunion," Will jokes.

Conor laughs, but I feel the tenseness in them both. They are afraid, but they hide it well.

"Go," Conor says, and I know I don't have a choice. If it was just me, I'd stay and fight with them no matter how untrained I am but Deidra depends on me.

I pat Ace on the head again, my thoughts frenzied, and he knows he's supposed to fly faster. Grace is waiting on us, and when she sees us draw near, the group moves on. My heart is thumping hard, and I feel my face heat.

"Please let them be okay," I whisper.

Deidra's hand finds mine on the drex's head.

"They will be fine, Emma. They're Reinhardts."

I look down at her and see the confidence in her gaze.

"And that's enough, huh?"

She smiles.

"You don't know much about the Reinhardts do you?" she asks.

I shake my head. The only thing I know about Conor's family is that they have bred some pretty great guys. Conor is kind, a smartass at times, chivalrous, loyal, stubborn, protective, and strong. He's also a great kisser, but I'm not admitting that to anyone. He has his issues, but he wouldn't be human if he didn't. Issues I can get past.

"They're like super heroes," Deidra gushes. "Their history is full of overcoming tremendous odds. Conor's father went down battling fifty Demons, and he was winning until he was injured."

I look back into the brightening sky behind us. Dawn is here.

"That sounds a little extreme," I say skeptically. Battles are often exaggerated depending on the person telling the story. Deidra shrugs.

"Well, I'm not sure it was fifty, but he fought a lot of Demons and almost won. And he was alone. Will and Conor are together."

Now that I agree with. I'd give Deidra that much. My stomach hurts, and I know it's because I'm worried about Conor, but worse yet, I feel sick knowing he will be fighting his own people. He will be facing people who raised him, trained him. For me. For us.

As the sky brightens, I see land in the distance. We are over water, and I know we've already made it over the Tyrrhenian Sea. Gargoyles and Demons travel quickly. I am astounded by their speed. It makes me wonder how fast I could be if I tried. Even the drex, who lags behind the rest of the group, is quicker than any creature I've ever met.

"Italy," Deidra breathes, and I wrap my arm around her waist as the drex dips toward the sea. He drops his head and fills his mouth with water before lifting again to join the group.

"That was salt water," I say distractedly.

"It won't hurt him," Deidra assures as she rubs the back of Ace's head. She is fascinated by the beast. "Certain types of Demons crave salt."

I look down at Deidra's head.

"Does that include imps?" I ask with a small smile.

I remember the big bag of salt and vinegar potato chips she practically inhaled in my room back at the Acropolis. Deidra nods.

"Good stuff, salt," she says wryly as the land below us blurs with the speed.

The group slows, and I notice we are hovering over a green field. Grace flies into the middle of the group.

"We'll land here," she says. She looks at each of us in turn. "I don't know the exact location of S.O.S. headquarters, and I'll need to find someone who can tell me."

"And why should we go there?" Lyre suddenly asks. She moves through the group, her face angry. "It's another religious group, right? Won't we end up in the same situation we were in before? Whose idea was this anyway? Conor Reinhardt?"

Upon saying his name, she spits at the ground, and I know the history there is strong. I don't feel love coming from her though. I feel defeat, and I wonder if she's angry because she wasn't able to ensnare Conor the same way she has other men. I can feel her mother in her. Lyre is powerful. I shared her magic briefly at the Acropolis, and I know she uses it to seduce and control people, especially males.

I concentrate on Ace, and he lowers as the group around us moves to the ground. I climb off the drex and move toward Lyre with Deidra at my back.

"This was not Conor's idea. It was mine."

Lyre snorts.

"And that's any better?" she asks. "Why run to the S.O.S.? Do you hate yourself that much?"

I stare at her.

"I don't hate what I am. I don't even know enough about what I am to embrace it fully. I'm seeking Alessandro because I was told to."

Lyre steps forward, closing the distance between us.

"By who?"

"By Enepsigos," I answer.

The group murmurs.

"Impossible," Grace mumbles, and I look at the faces surrounding me. There is disbelief written on their features.

"We don't talk to our Demonic parents, Chase," Fiona points out as Gray crosses his arms.

"Crazy as it sounds, I'm sort of inclined to agree with Emma," he says. "How else would she know about the S.O.S. and Alessandro?"

"Because of Conor?" Lyre says angrily. "Seriously? Are you all that blind? Do you question nothing?"

Bruno walks behind Lyre, his dark eyes going obsidian.

"And what about you, Lyre? You came too."

"To escape!"

I move so close to her now, my shoes brush the front of her footwear.

"To escape where?" I ask. "Believe me or not, Alessandro is the answer to our problem."

Lyre laughs, the sound harsh.

"He's also a friend of Gibson's. He works with the gargoyles, you dimwit."

I don't appreciate the name calling, but I don't back down.

"He's the key," I say slowly, meticulously, mechanically.

Suddenly, I feel funny. It's my mouth moving, but it isn't my words. It isn't even my voice coming out of my mouth now. Lyre's eyes widen, and she backs away from me. Bruno reaches over Lyre and touches my shoulder, but I don't move.

"Enepsigos," he whispers.

"Alessandro has ties to the hybrids. No matter his position, he will not harm you. You will find sanctuary there," Enepsigos answers.

Once again, my mouth is moving but it's not my voice. It's strange being inside my own body with no control over it. Grace steps in front of me, and I know she sees the fear in my eyes, but she ignores it.

"Enepsigos, can you tell us how to get to S.O.S. headquarters?"

A laugh escapes my mouth.

"You are a smart one, gargoyle. I'm pleased you have joined my daughter. The hybrids will play a big role in history. They will change the tides of war. I have faith in you all."

Grace's jaw tightens.

"S.O.S. headquarters?" she asks again.

I feel the anger before I know it's coming, and I brace myself.

"Do you rush me, Grace Withers?" Enepsigos roars.

Grace backs away, her hands held up.

"I don't," she says quietly.

Calm settles over me, and I know my Demon mother is beginning to depart.

"S.O.S. headquarters is hidden in the hills outside Tivoli. Follow the drex. I've made sure he knows the way."

And with that, I fall to the ground, gasping and weak.

"Geez!" Deidra cries out as she sprawls on her knees next to me, her hand on my back.

Marion kneels on the other side of me.

"Are you okay? Emma?"

I look up, my eyes wide.

"She's gone," I whisper.

Marion nods.

"It seems so."

Gray laughs.

"And that, Lyre, is why I'm inclined to follow Emma. Any more questions?"

Lyre's face is red, and she backs away. I feel the fear in her. I am as afraid as she is. It's isn't comforting knowing my real mother can pop into my body whenever she wants. That's more than just an invasion of privacy. It completely trespasses the boundaries of personal space.

"Do you need some help," Bruno asks, his hand suddenly in front of my face.

I look up at him. I'm not fond of touching Bruno. The last time I did, he seemed to get off on the power he felt from my mother, but I take his hand anyway, and he pulls me up.

"That was impressive," Bruno whispers before letting me go. Fiona rolls her eyes from behind him. I want to smile, but I'm too weak.

"Let's go," Grace orders. She looks at me. "Emma, I guess you're leading us this time."

I nod and swallow hard before climbing onto Ace's back. He is quiet, his head down, and I feel my mother's power within him. He is subdued. I pat his head as Deidra settles in front of me.

"Let's go, Ace," I whisper, and we are airborne.

Chapter 35

Conor

"Do you really want to fight them?" I ask Will quietly.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye as we fly.

"If they don't give us a choice, yes."

It's easy for him to say this, and I envy him that.

"We're gargoyles, Will. Do you realize we're turning our backs on everything we've ever known, everything we are?"

Will is quiet a moment.

"And you really believe that?" Will asks.

I don't answer.

"We're still gargoyles, Con. We just refuse to murder hybrids because of their parentage. If they don't see that, then it's a good thing we're leaving them."

"Maybe you're right," I murmur.

Will flies into a copse of trees and motions me into them. I follow. There is a group of gargoyles behind us, their wings darkening the sky, but it's impossible to see who they are.

"How much money you wanna bet Roach is among them?" I ask as Will leans forward.

"I'm not making that bet. You're guaranteed to win. Look."

He's pointing now, and I see another smaller group of gargoyles slinking along the tree line. They are shifters, and the serpentine head is most definitely Roach.

"If it comes down to it, he's mine. Got that?" I tell Will as my eyes narrow.

Will pats me on the back.

"I wouldn't want that fight anyway. We've got to narrow down our field of combatants."

We glance around the area. There aren't a lot of options when fighting one of our own. With the exception of the shifters, most of us share the same powers. Shifters have invisibility but only with humans. They can't use this power on anything supernatural. But they are fast.

"Water won't work here," I mumble.

"Or stone," Will adds.

Or maybe it would! Will and I both pause, our eyes meeting.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I ask.

Will nods.

"I'm pretty sure I am."

The gargoyles coming our way are not part of the Council. I recognize none of them other than Roach, and while this can hurt us, it is also a relief. It means they are not as powerful as the Council members who sent them. Some of them may not even be Guardians. Even better.

Will leaves me, slinking into the trees' darkness, and I move higher, climbing the limbs quietly.

The gargoyles are nearing, and I lift my hand. I don't have to look to know Will is doing the same. The first gargoyle moves beneath me.

"Now," I whisper through gritted teeth.

I call upon the rocks in the dirt below me, the stone in the surrounding area, and I shove it toward the twelve gargoyles in the open. My eyes are focused on their wings.

My chest tightens as the first stone rips through one of the gargoyle's bat-like appendages. He screams, and I let myself feel his pain. We are taught from the moment we come into our power to protect our wings. If destroyed, they are useless. Healing, if possible, is slow and painful. Those grounded can no longer serve.

Three more gargoyles go down before they start to figure out our strategy. Attacking a gargoyle's wings is sacrilegious because protecting them is inbred. We are gaining the upper hand, but not without guilt, remorse, and heartache.

Will flags me from a nearby tree, and I nod before swinging through the foliage. The shifters will be searching the trees now. I hear two more gargoyles go down behind me as I move toward the ocean. Time for plan B.

Emma has miscalculated. We are facing sixteen gargoyles, and we have downed six. Ten left, at least three of them shifters. Will joins me again, and I look at him askance.

"You realize this may do more than ground them? What we do now may kill them?"

Will nods

"It's them or us, Conor."

"And yet, we will be the ones left with the nightmares," I say softly.

Will's eyes meet mine.

"Nightmares I can live with."

"You say that now," I grumble as we dive toward the sea.

We've angered the gargoyles, and they are moving in fast. Will lifts his hands, and I feel the pull as he summons rocks from the shore and boulders from the ocean floor. The gargoyles following us feel it to, and they pause a moment. When I look back, two of them are turning away. They are leaving, retreating. We're down to eight.

Rocks form around us, and I use my own power to throw them at the gargoyles. I move above the rock field. On cue, two of the gargoyles turn into stone, deflecting the rocks heading in their direction, and I move in quickly, diving until I am just over their heads.

Will sends a boulder in my direction and I force it down on top of them. I am straining, my power screaming. The gargoyles are fighting back, and their power hits me directly as the boulder is forced back up. Will is suddenly beside me, and we are shoving the boulder back down. The first gargoyle hits the water.

I clench my jaw as he screams. No matter how much affinity we have for water, rocks sink. We never turn to stone in water.

The other gargoyle goes down, and Will and I break away. There are six gargoyles in front of us, their faces hard. Roach is among them.

"You would kill your own? You traitors!" Roach yells.

Will moves toward him, and I stop him.

"Who are the traitors, Roach?" I shout in return. "You plan to kill innocent people, some of them children."

"They aren't human!" Roach argues. I stare at him.

"Aren't they? I've met some of their mortal parents, seen them cry, and you say they're not human."

The gargoyles next to Roach are looking uncomfortable.

"They are powerful, ruled by their Demonic blood," Roach says.

Will and I call up rocks, surrounding ourselves with a force field of stone. It's a smart move, and a foolhardy one. We can call stone, but so can they. Our own weapons can be used against us. Our confidence in our own abilities in unwavering, and we do it anyway.

"Keep telling yourself that, Roach. I swore to protect my mark, and I will die doing just that," I yell.

Roach growls.

"Then you'll die!"

I am ready for the attack, and when the first rock moves toward me, I repel it, sending it into the closest gargoyle's wings. I hear her scream. It's an easy strike, but the others know what they're facing now, and Will and I both furl our wings and dive as rocks fly at us.

I hit the water hard, slicing through the sea as I curve back toward the surface. I see Will beneath the waves, and he nods at me. We fly from the sea together surrounded by a geyser of water. Rocks are ripped from the sky.

I am water, I am land, and I am rock. I am steadfast. I am steady. The training has been bled into me, and I hit the first gargoyle head on, my body throwing him back toward the shore. He lands in the trees, and I hear one of his wings break. I cringe. Down to four gargoyles.

I let the water go, and the geyser disappears.

"I'm not doing this," a female gargoyle says.

She is petite with blonde hair and brown eyes. Roach sneers at her.

"Are you a coward, Rowan?"

She shakes her head.

"They are protecting a mark, Roach. This isn't right."

"They've killed their own!" Roach yells in return.

The girls looks conflicted, but she finally shakes her head.

"I can't do this," she says before turning away. The other two gargoyles turn with her.

"You'll be demoted!" Roach threatens.

Rowan looks over her shoulder.

"I'll earn my rank back."

And with that, they are gone. Only Roach remains.

"Leave, Roach," I say quietly. "It's over."

Roach laughs.

"Do you know what Demons did to my family?" he asks.

I nod.

"We've all had something taken away from us by the enemy. I won't punish the innocent for it."

Roach narrows his eyes.

"I'm not above vengeance, Reinhardt. I've seen the way you look at that dirty hybrid. You don't think I know you've developed feelings for her. She's using you, you idiot. They do that, you know."

"Leave it be, Roach," I warn.

But Roach is insensible now, and he moves toward me, his eyes bright with anger. Will flies in next to me, but I wave him away.

"I'll kill her, Reinhardt. I won't let any of you get away with this. She'll die. They'll all die. And I'll make her feel pain. She'll suffer everything my sister suffered. Understand?"

My heart is beating fast within my chest.

"You won't go near her," I say through gritted teeth.

"Try me," Roach says as he throws himself at me.

His head hits me in the chest, and I fly backwards, my wings furling as I sink into the water. I call on the ocean, using the pressure beneath the waves to punch Roach hard as he enters the sea. He flies backward, but regains his stride quickly. He's underwater, and he's in serpent form. He has the advantage, and he knows it.

I swim toward shore, breaking the surface just as Roach glides onto the waves. He's practically skipping on the sea's surface, his fangs dripping salt water.

"This is my ballgame now, Reinhardt. Let's play truth or dare, shall we? Truth first. How loud do you think Emma can scream?" Roach asks as he glides toward me.

My anger is out of control. I can feel my body begin to shift, and I calm myself. I won't turn into stone in water. I won't give Roach the satisfaction of seeing me sink.

I fly out of the waves, my body hovering over Roach.

"Dare, Roach. I dare you to kill me first," I yell as I dive at his head. The two of us collide, and we flip through the air. I furl my wings as his teeth sink into my arm, and I scream as I call on the land. Rocks are pulled from the earth, and the shore shudders as a small mountain materializes near the trees. I slam Roach into it. His eyes go wide, and I grin, my arm under his slimy reptilian neck.

"My ballgame now."

And with that, the mountain claims Roach, pulling him into the rock before sinking back into the shore. Will is beside me immediately.

"You didn't kill him."

I look at him.

"No, I didn't, but he'll have a helluva time getting out of there. Let's go."

I am weak as we fly away, and I hold my arm where Roach's fangs have left their mark. We have won the fight, but at what cost? The gargoyles' screams leave with me.

Chapter 36

Emma

We are within view of a massive white stone manor when I feel him. I pat Ace on the head, and he stops, hovering in the air as I look over my shoulder.

"Conor," I whisper as two figures come into view. It's easy to see that the boys are injured.

"Jesus!" Grace says loudly as Will moves into our group.

Both boys are grimy and covered in abrasions, and Conor is bleeding from his arm.

"I take it you won?" Marion asks gently as she touches one of Will's wounds gently.

Will lifts his brow, but doesn't say a word. Neither he nor Conor seem very talkative.

"Are you okay?" I ask carefully as Conor approaches.

His eyes are haunted, and he nods at the manor ahead.

"Let's go," he says tiredly, and no one argues.

The hybrids follow him with no hesitation. He and Will have just proven their loyalty to the hybrids in the most devastating way possible. They have fought their own. They are respected now, and I feel the sickness in my stomach grow worse. If there was ever a chance for me and Conor, I fear it's gone now.

We reach the manor too soon, and I am not prepared for the weariness that strikes the gargoyles as they land. Will goes down on his knees as Conor stumbles against a tree. Marion kneels between them.

"Someone will have to go for help," Marion says softly.

"I'll go," Grace says firmly as she begins to walk. No one is sure how the hybrids will be received. It's best we are not the ones to approach Alessandro.

"Let me," I say softly as I sit down next to Conor. I take his arm in my own, and my eyes go up to meet his. "Roach?" I whisper.

Conor nods before leaning his head back against the tree, his eyes closed. I look up at the hybrids.

"If any of you can tell me how I can heal his wound without using my tears, please help me," I say quietly.

The hybrids look at each other, and I'm surprised when it's Lyre that steps forward to kneel on Conor's other side. I feel jealousy, but I'm too worried for it to take root.

"Touch the wound," Lyre instructs, and I lay a hand over the fang bite.

Conor flinches but doesn't fight me.

"Now call on whatever it is your mother's power values the most. Emotion, tears . . . it doesn't matter. Her strength is your strength," Lyre whispers.

I look up at her and our eyes meet. Most people could think of some pretty vile words to call Lyre. Seductress being a tame one, but she is suddenly transformed for me. Unfortunately for Lyre, her mother's power comes from using her body, and Lyre has never learned how to use it in any other way. I know, without a doubt, she can change if she wants to. Her magic can be accessed differently.

"Help me," I whisper, and Lyre's eyes widen as I touch her arm.

Suddenly, our power is one, and Lyre gasps as I call on the moon. It answers, and I feel warmth flow from the sky, through Lyre, and into me before I direct it into Conor. The wound on his arm begins to close, and he hisses as the skin folds together. Lyre pulls away, and she backs up on her hands and knees, an expression of awe on her face.

"Thank you," I say genuinely.

Lyre nods as she stands and melds back into the group. Conor's eyes open.

"Talk about using a guy's past against him," Conor complains, and I laugh as I touch his cheek briefly. His humor is a good sign, and I feel something akin to hope in my chest.

"Not against you," I whisper. "Never against."

Our eyes meet briefly, and I search his gaze. I see the pain hidden there. He pushes it down, but emotion is one thing he can't hide from me. I want to tell him I'm sorry, but the words don't come. They are not words I think he will appreciate.

"Chin up," Conor says lightly.

I smile, my eyes moving to Will. Marion has him sitting up now, his legs stretched out in front of him. He still looks weak but better. He sees me looking and grins.

"Conor took the worse beating."

Conor throws him a haughty look just as Grace calls out loudly. She has a young blond-haired man with her. He is tall and wears blue jeans with a navy Aeropostale long sleeve shirt. He stands out in a sea of solid tees.

"Ethan," Conor says wearily, and the man rushes to his side.

There are others behind him on the lawn, and I know these are members of the S.O.S.. Conor rises slowly, taking my hand in his even as he uses Ethan's arm for support.

"Man, you look like you've seen better days," Ethan says bluntly. "What? You leave three weeks ago with the need to run yourself into the ground? And the hair? The need for a haircut would be underestimating it just a bit."

Conor limps slightly as he regains his footing before looking at Ethan.

"Done there, Jacobs? Keep going, and I might find a way to beat your ass enough to join me."

Ethan grins.

"You wouldn't do it," he says confidently.

Conor raises a brow.

"And why not?"

"Cause then you'd have to deal with my sister."

Conor snorts.

"Good point."

Ethan looks at me.

"Who's this?" he asks before looking around the group curiously. His eyes land on the drex, and he tenses.

"He won't harm anyone," I say meekly.

An elderly woman, an olive skinned man with black hair, and a brown-haired woman are all on the hill now, and the elderly woman moves toward me slowly. She is wearing a burgundy house dress, and she has a cane in her right hand. She wears a rosary prominently around her neck, and her hair is pulled tightly to the back of her head. I think it was black once, but the strands hanging down now are white.

"A Demonio," the woman says quietly as she steps in front of me.

My hand is still in Conor's, and his fingers tighten around mine.

"A hybrid," Conor corrects.

The woman lifts a brow, her curious gaze moving between the two of us.

"Ahhh, I see. A hybrid then. All of them," she says as she looks back at the dark-haired man.

He is handsome, middle-aged with features lined by the elements. He is rugged with sharp, intense eyes, and his gaze cuts through me as he steps forward.

"Emma Chase," he says with a nod.

Everyone freezes. I stare at him, my eyes gazing into his.

"Do I know you?" I whisper.

He shakes his head, his smile gentle.

"No, Sweet One, but I know your mother. I'm Alessandro Mancini."

"Enepsigos," I correct although I'm beginning to feel foolish for correcting everyone.

The elderly woman snorts, her laughter loud and cheerful.

"We seem to attract the ones with family issues," she says with a grin. She's missing a few front teeth, but she doesn't seem bothered by it. "I'm Maria, Demonio."

I smile at her warily, and she winks at me.

"If you know Enepsigos, then you know why we're here?" Conor asks suddenly.

Alessandro looks at him, his eyes serious.

"I have an idea. Gibson and I have had some disagreements when it comes to the Acropolis. I'm assuming these hybrids come from there?" Alessandro asks.

Conor nods. Alessandro's gaze moves over the hybrids standing behind us. They have been quiet until now, and I can feel their apprehension.

"Welcome," Alessandro says quietly. "You are welcome here."

The fear in the hybrids turns quickly into relief, and I hear Hesther and Gwenyth laughing nervously. Fiona is grinning, and Bruno and Gray give each other an inconspicuous high five they think no one sees. Even Lyre seems more at ease. Deidra is at my back again, peering around the corner of my jeans.

Maria sees her and leans over. Deidra leans forward, and the old woman snaps the few teeth she has together sharply. Deidra squeals and hides again. Maria laughs.

"Do we start over here?" Grace asks cautiously.

She and Marion move next to Will. The hybrids may be safe, but the gargoyles are left now without a home. Without a purpose. Alessandro places a hand on Grace's shoulder.

"I helped develop the Acropolis with the purpose of rehabilitating hybrids. At some point, I handed the reins over to the gargoyles. It was a mistake."

Conor, Marion, Will, and Grace look sharply at Alessandro. He grimaces.

"Don't mistake me. The gargoyles are an honorable race. They have more honor than most of us have in our entire body, but they have been fighting a war with Demons much longer than the rest of us. Much, much longer. This has bred a prejudice that will take time to break. I was wrong to walk away from the project. It'll be a meager start, but your training can continue here."

Grace nods sadly while Marion, Conor, and Will all breathe a sigh of relief.

"And I'll talk to Gibson about the gargoyles present. I won't make any promises, but I don't see any reason why you can't return to service despite bringing the hybrids here."

Conor and Will look at each other, their gazes full of pain.

"Will and I can't return," Conor says quietly.

Alessandro looks at the cousins but neither one of them elaborates. He nods.

"Then you are welcome here as well. If you claim asylum, then you will be absorbed into the Swords of Solomon, and we will protect you like we do our own."

Will looks up.

"We claim asylum."

Alessandro smiles sadly.

"Then so be it."

Alessandro gestures at the manor below, and the group moves toward it eagerly. There is freedom in the air. The hybrids are calm, excited, and I know this is the new Acropolis. The building isn't here, but the students are, and it's a new future for us.

Conor releases my hand halfway down the hill, and I lag behind, the drex slinking behind me. Alessandro has not forbidden its presence, and he follows me obediently.

"Your power is great, Demonio," Maria says suddenly from in front of me, and I jump. Maria laughs. "Jumpy creatures, you hybrids. I am a seer. I can tell the difference between mortals, Demons, and Angels. Your body is surrounded by a red haze as dark as a ruby but brighter. Amazing really."

I turn to look at her.

"I don't really know how to use my power," I say quietly.

Maria raises her brows.

"I can tell that, Demonio. Very easy to tell. Tell me, have you ever met your father?"

I shake my head.

"No, he's dead."

Maria's eyes widen.

"Is he? Oh . . ."

I look at her, my heart beating wildly.

"Why do you ask?"

Maria grins.

"I think, My Dear, that you have come to the right place."

And with that, she leaves me. Ace comes up beside me, bumping my hand with his head, and I pet him gently. His leathery skin is rough but soothing. The manor's white stone is like a beacon, and I can only hope Maria is right. I have come to the right place.

Chapter 37

Conor

Alessandro's office is small, hidden behind a staircase inside the manor. There's a small scarred desk, a filing cabinet, and two small wooden chairs. It isn't a cushy office mainly because Alessandro isn't a cushy man. There's a thermostat on the wall behind the desk, and my eyes land on it as Alessandro paces the room. It's a small thermostat, and it seems unusual.

"How do you feel about being a part of the S.O.S?" Alessandro asks suddenly, and I turn to him.

"My choices are kind of limited at the moment," I answer.

Alessandro's eyes meet mine.

"How many of them did you kill?" he asks softly, and I know he sees the turmoil in my gaze. I flinch.

"I'm not sure," I answer honestly.

Alessandro nods.

"I have news about your friend, Dayton," Alessandro says, and I freeze.

"Is she okay?" I ask.

Alessandro's smile is reassuring.

"She is fine. I'm still not sure how I feel about Marcas, but he seems to be protecting her. I have been contacted by an Angel who has been working with the S.O.S. We are rendezvousing with them in a few days."

My heart is suddenly beating way too fast.

"I'm coming with you," I say loudly.

Alessandro waves a hand.

"I figured you'd say as much. Monroe has volunteered to go as well."

Monroe and Dayton have been my best friends since we were in preschool. I owe them anything I can do to help.

"When?" I ask.

Alessandro's eyes meet mine.

"We leave in three days,"

I nod.

"And the hybrids?"

"They will be safe until we return. I'd like to put you in charge of helping with their training if you are interested."

I don't hesitate.

"I'm interested."

"Good," Alessandro says. "Why don't you rest? You've done well, Conor."

I walk to the door quickly, my heart sinking. Not everyone would agree with Alessandro. I could have done better.

"And Conor?" Alessandro calls out.

I turn just outside the door. My eyes meet his.

"I don't know what's going on between you and the hybrid, Emma, but be careful. She has a big future ahead, and she's special. I . . . I don't want her hurt."

The older man looks away, and I lean against the door.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" I ask.

Alessandro looks up, his face serious.

"She's my daughter."

It isn't what I expected, and I find myself staring, my eyes wide.

"Your daughter?" I choke out.

Alessandro stands, moving toward me slowly. He stops a few inches away, his eyes trained on mine.

"Yes. She's my daughter, and this journey you've been on, the decisions you've had to make . . . this is just the beginning.

And with that, he closes the door in my face.

This is just the beginning.

About the Author

R. K. Ryals is a scatterbrained mother of three whose passion is reading whatever she can get her hands on. She makes her home in Mississippi with her husband, three daughters, a Shitzsu named Tinkerbell, and a coffeepot she couldn't live without. Visit her at http://rkryals.blogspot.com

Other works available:

Redemption: The Redemption Series Book One

Ransom: The Redemption Series Book Two

Coming Soon:

Retribution: The Redemption Series Book Three

Book Two in the Acropolis Series (Currently Untitled)

