Sadie waited outside the Art Institute of Chicago. Friday nights were always good pickings here, and soon, the supporters attending the museum after-hours event would emerge.
She sat on the edge of the fountain in the South Garden, legs crossed, foot bouncing in time with her rushing heartbeat. This was Chicago’s best art institute, at least in her opinion. In the past, when she had a little extra money, she’d splurged on a visit, spending most of her time in the gallery of medieval art, arms, and armor.
Even now, memories of her last visit surfaced. The beautiful knight’s armor gleaming while he sat on his trusty mount. What would it have been like to know a man like that? Unbidden, an image of the sexy gargoyle, her final, unexpected mark from last night, flashed through her mind.
With his broad back, massive biceps, and thick muscular legs, she could imagine him wielding a sword and so much more. A small thrill coursed through her, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the thrum in her veins. Only in her dreams…
The soft gurgling of water from the fountain and the rustle of the wind through the trees mixed with the steady hum of car engines and the blare of a horn. There was no place like Chicago.
Laughter and loud voices pierced the air. A throng of supporters emerged from the museum’s entrance. As the crowd descended the steps, Sadie pushed away from her resting spot and hid among the honey locust trees. Planted in raised beds, cement blocks ringed each one. The trees created a lush canopy over the entire plaza and provided the perfect spot to hide, spy, and select her mark.
An elderly couple, a woman and her teenage daughter, and a man in a wheelchair appeared. Sadie pursed her lips. None of those people would ever be her target. As much as she hated what she did, she’d never take from others weaker than her. She just wouldn’t. A girl had to have some standards.
C’mon, c’mon. She mentally encouraged her mark to show himself.
A man’s arm slid around her waist and drew her to him, back to front. Adrenaline shot through her like a bullet. She inhaled to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth. Her muffled cry echoed loud in her ears, competing with her pounding heart.
He drew her further into the darkness, away from the remaining people on the museum steps. She struggled, but his grip was firm, pinning her arms in place. Fear like she’d never known before made her lash out, kicking him in the shin, the ankle, the foot, anyplace she could reach. He didn’t react. It was as if he were made of stone.
“Quiet now. I won’t hurt you.” His whispered words caressed the back of her ear, the deep timbre all too familiar. He was the gargoyle from last night, the one she’d stolen from.
She raked her nails down his arm, scoring the flesh.
“Stop struggling. You’ll only injure yourself.”
Adrenaline gave her that extra shot of energy, and she continued kicking, scratching, and fighting until she couldn’t catch her breath. Unable to keep up the fight any longer, the tension drained from her like a weak battery. She stilled against him.
“That’s better. Like I said, I’m not going to hurt you.”
True to his word, he hadn’t harmed her. Her back was pressed against his muscular chest, and his powerful arms held her in his firm embrace.
“We need to talk about what you stole from me. If I release you, do you promise not to scream?” The rumble in his voice tracked from her sensitive ear all the way down her spine to her bottom, tickling her.
Fat chance, Mr. Muscles. She nodded in agreement.
He removed his hand from her mouth.
On a quick inhale, she started to scream.
Only to have him clamp his palm over her lips and muffle it. With a quick flick of his wrist, he turned her around, pinning one of her arms behind her back, the other trapped between their chests. If she wanted to, she could reach the scrub on his chin.
Hand still pressed to her mouth, he glared at her. “Merde. Somehow, I knew you wouldn’t cooperate. You really are a feisty little thing, aren’t you?”
Those dark brown eyes of his glowed with an eerie green iridescence. She was drawn to their unnatural beauty. He raised one eyebrow, the scar at the edge pulling taut, and when he smiled and revealed his dimples, she just about melted. He was a gorgeous, glorious, good-looking gargoyle, that’s what he was, and she hated him for it.
She knew men. Give him half a chance, he’d use her and abandon her. Forget that. She’d never let him get that close.
His gaze roamed over her features as if he studied every flaw, every imperfection, every defect. Maybe given her past experience with men she imagined this is what he saw, but she held her ground anyway, staring right back. Helpless in his grasp, she hated the control he had over her. If she could spit in his face, she would.
“Okay, we’re going for round two, pickpocket. When I remove my hand, don’t scream. You won’t like me much if you try that again.” He slowly removed his hand.
She held her tongue for all of two seconds. “I don’t like you much now, and did you cuss at me in French?”
“Oui.” He chuckled, the sound rumbled from his chest into hers.
Against her will, her nipples tightened, hardening under her bra. His nose flared, and the brown of his eyes darkened. With a quick flick, his gaze traveled to her lips.
Oh God, it was if he sensed her arousal.
She drew her tongue over her bottom lip, moistening it.
A needful groan erupted from him, and his grip tightened, tugging her even closer. “All right thief, tell me, what did you do with my spark stone?”
“Spark stone?” Her mind reeled from all that masculine strength holding her tight. Hand trapped between them, she tapped on his chest with her little finger. It was the only digit that would reach. “You mean the one that was here?”
He wrapped his free hand around her nape, leaned down, and placed his forehead against hers. “Yes, that one.”
Lips mere inches from hers, his cool minty breath cascaded over her cheeks. A spark of sexual awareness awakened deep inside, and she had to fight the urge to press her lips against his, find out if they were as hard, firm, and demanding as the rest of him.
She swallowed, and a soft laugh eased from her. “So, it’s called a spark stone. That’s interesting.”
“The stone wasn’t yours for the taking. I want it back, miscreant.” He rubbed the back of her neck, teasing her with his gentle caress.
Before she could stop herself, she trailed her fingers over the fine hairs on his chin. “Of course you do, and by the way, I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Trying?” The glint in his eye made him all the more attractive.
She hated herself for noticing and glowered at him. “It’s not working. You are not seducing me.”
A short laugh erupted from him. “I’m not? Well, then, let me try a little harder. Do you have my stone, along with my wallet, in your pocket?” He tightened his grip on her hand pinned behind her back and pressed their combined grip against her bottom.
As their lower bodies pressed together, his erection dug into her abdomen. She inhaled a quick breath. Oh. My. God. The impressive length and breadth of him would make a girl either whimper and beg or sit up tall and sing the Star-Spangled Banner with full salute.
He smiled, and she focused on those delectable lips.
“Or perhaps my stone is—”
Unable to resist, she kissed him. His lips were warm and inviting, not hard like she’d imagined. He tensed for a moment, but his shock must’ve worn off for he took control.
He adjusted the back of her head in his palm, giving him more access and licked her lips. As she opened to him, he tasted of mint and spices, the unique blend burning into her senses. His kiss turned from gentle to powerful, and she relished in his strength, his possession, his seemingly utter need.
Oh, damn, she could lose herself to a man like this if she wasn’t careful.
Warning bells rang in her head. What am I doing? I don’t even know this guy, and he’s a gargoyle. She drew away, and he released her.
A twinkle formed in his eyes. “Very nice, very nice indeed, but that doesn’t get you off the hook. Return to me what you have stolen.”
The rustling of leaves echoed through the trees, faster than just from a normal breeze. Based on what she’d learned about fae, her and Beaumont weren’t alone.
She inhaled, prepared to scream.
He placed his index finger over her lips. “Silence, unless you have a death wish.”
“Haven’t we done this once before?” she whispered.
His mouth rose at the corner, and the eerie glow returned to his eyes. “It better not end the same way.”
Yeah, with him knocked out.
The rustling grew louder, closer.
Every muscle in Beaumont’s body tensed, hardening almost like stone. He released her and gave her a quick shove.
“Run,” he growled. “Now!”
At the end of the row of trees, three dust storms swirled like mini tornados. The churning ceased, and in their place stood three men. Not humans, though. They had yellow eyes and six-inch claws. A scream lodged in her throat, but her feet beat the ground as she fled.
“I’ll find you, thief. That I promise.” Beaumont caught a glimpse of her well-rounded behind as she bolted for the museum.
He couldn’t protect her from three fae, not with the energy loss. He’d recouped some from Neira, but not enough. The pickpocket had made a crucial mistake by kissing him, though. She’d given him her saliva, and with her scent on his tongue, he’d track her later.
He drew his dagger from his satchel and faced his enemy.
The first of three fae leapt over one of the raised beds. A howl of excitement ripped from the guy’s throat. Dressed in dark slacks and a suit jacket, the enemy looked like a crazed accountant at the end of busy season. The nefarious creature raised his arm, an ice pick in his grasp.
With skill learned on the twelfth-century battlefield, Beaumont sliced his dagger across the fae’s wrist. A shriek burst from his lips. The pick clattered against the cement bed and landed on the dirt.
The second fae, this one a guy with a Grateful Dead T-shirt and a blond mohawk, launched himself into the air. Like a bulldozer, the man’s weight took Beaumont down. Still clutching his dagger, he clasped the guy’s arms and rolled, over and over, until Beaumont’s back plowed into a raised bed.
Pain ricocheted down his arms. He used the discomfort to fuel his anger and slammed the creature’s skull against the cement.
A sharp crack echoed between the trees.
The guy’s eyes glazed over. His muscles relaxed.
Beaumont stabbed the guy in the eye. The fae disintegrated, and a small dust cloud whirled the leaves then stilled.
The first fae gathered his ice pick. Blood dripped from his wrist.
“You’re coming back for more?” Beaumont’s breath heaved from his lips.
Merde. He shouldn’t be this winded.
Over his opponent’s shoulder, Beaumont spotted the third fae. He jumped atop one of the raised beds and leaned against a tree trunk. With his brown, knee-length overcoat, short-cropped blond hair, and notorious smirk, Marco raised his chin in a mock greeting.
“Marco,” Beaumont hissed his enemy’s name through gritted teeth.
“Finish him off, Cedric.” Marco waved his hand. “We have more killing to do…of the human variety.”
The fae in the suit smiled, revealing a wicked set of fangs.
Beaumont crooked the fingers on his free hand. “C’mon, you connard. Don’t keep death waiting.”
The fae hissed then ran at him.
Beaumont feigned to his right and slashed the guy’s bicep with his dagger. Blood darkened the gray suit jacket, and the metallic scent intensified. Disgust made him curl his lip. How he hated these evil creatures.
The fae kicked him in the shin. Pain radiated up his leg.
He gripped the heinous being by the suit collar. With one swift move, Beaumont slid his blade across the guy’s throat.
Short gurgling sounds emerged from the dying fae’s lips, then he, like his buddy before him, disintegrated into a swirl of dirt, leaves, and twigs.
Marco clapped, once, twice, three times, the sound echoing off the trees. “Well done, my foe, well done. I’d hoped they would’ve performed better, but they were rookies. What can I say?”
Beaumont turned to face his bitter enemy, the one who’d eluded him for years. “You’re next.”
“Come now. We both know that isn’t true.” Marco pushed away from the tree. He smiled and pointed at Beaumont’s chest. “Clearly, you’re at a disadvantage.”
Beaumont drew his eyebrows together and glanced at his chest. Blood soaked his T-shirt. A long gash cut through the material, exposing his chest. Somehow the fae’s pick had sliced him without notice. Heaviness weighed on his shoulders, his energy draining faster than he’d ever expected.
Marco jumped off the raised cement bed. “Seems to me, you’re missing something valuable. Perhaps tonight is the night you perish.”
Anger tore through Beaumont, and his skin rippled, the flesh undulating with his desire to turn to stone. He tightened his grip on the dagger then charged.
Marco withdrew a throwing star from his coat. The weapon whistled through the air, followed by another and another in quick succession.
Beaumont dodged the first. The second nicked his arm.
He hardened his skin, turning the flesh gray and as tough as stone.
The third metal disc glanced off his chest.
Beaumont closed the distance and slashed his dagger at Marco’s face. The blade whipped through the air, just missing its target.
Marco cleared his throat, and a spit bubble formed along the corner of his mouth. Fae produced a limited supply of poisonous acid contained in a sac at the back of their throat. The stuff could penetrate even the hardest stone.
Beaumont pulled on his energy, but not before Marco spit a large wad of dark fluid across Beaumont’s chest. Pain erupted along the mark, sending a sprinkling of white spots before Beaumont’s vision. Thank the goddess, Marco had missed his most vulnerable spot, the empty place over his heart. Even with his spark stone, a direct hit there could debilitate him. Without it, it would prove deadly.
Pulling on his dwindling strength, Beaumont punched the fae in the nose. Marco stumbled and shook his head.
Beaumont’s vision wavered, and for a moment, two Marco’s stood before him. Oh, no, please. One was plenty.
He swiped with his dagger, but the venom slid through his bloodstream, weakening him. Instead of penetrating Marco’s skull, the blade nicked his ear, severing a chunk of flesh.
The fae screamed.
“It sounds like a fight. This way.” Human shouts echoed from the nearby street.
Marco bared his fangs and hissed. “Your time will come, Laroche.”
In an instant, Marco’s molecules swirled into a small dust storm, leaves and twigs caught within the spinning dirt, that stilled as quickly as it had started. The fae had fled to the Otherworld.
Beaumont slid to his knees. The trees above seemed to twirl, their branches chasing each other as if in an odd dance. He rested on the back of his heels and smiled at their beauty. In the recesses of his mind, his gargoyle screamed, but Beaumont couldn’t figure out why. All he wanted was to watch the dance.
“Hey, there’s someone over here,” a man said.
His voice pierced through the fog in Beaumont’s brain.
The need to stay hidden yanked him from his delirium long enough to comprehend he was at risk of discovery. He couldn’t afford to let the humans find him. Pulling on his ever-diminishing reserves, he blended into the night and ran like the wind.
His destination—Wynne’s home.
Although he didn’t want to return to her, she had the antidote he desperately needed. If he didn’t receive it, he’d be dead by morning.