Chapter 85

Part 6: Stone and Sky

I could just turn into a bird and fly the rest of the way to Canada.
Aldara Cromlech leaned over the rail of the cruise ship and looked out over the infinite inky-black swells of the Atlantic Ocean. She wasn't going to shift her shape and fly. She was trying to put her harpy past behind her and live in the human world now.
She had only fifteen minutes until her next performance and she loved the fresh air as compared to the smoky atmosphere of the ship's lounge where she sang. It was going to take her much longer to reach North America this way than in an airplane, but she was enjoying the cruise and was proud of the fact that by singing in the lounge every night, she was paying her own way. The small sum of money she'd been bequeathed by her foster father wouldn't last very long and she'd been determined to fulfill Geraint's last wish - returning a priceless artifact to the clan his father had abandoned over a century before. By earning her keep as she traveled, she'd have enough left for a modest start in a new land.
Her stomach clenched as she thought about her foster father and she blinked back tears, careful not to mess up the heavy eye makeup she was expected to wear for her performances. She'd stayed by his side during his final illness, watched as he wasted away from the cancer that had spread throughout his body. He'd told her of a time when the gargoyle race had been immune to such diseases and made her promise she'd do her best to help restore the magic that had once been his birthright. Aldara wasn't sure that one diamond-studded antique crown was really going to save an entire race, but she'd made a promise to the man who had reared her and she was determined to keep it.
Aldara unscrewed the cap on her bottle of water and drained the last few ounces before tucking the empty bottle back under her arm. Time to go get ready for work. She had three more sets tonight and then she was free for almost two days. By morning the ship would dock in Nova Scotia where they'd remain overnight before heading south to Boston and finally New York. New York, where she intended to find work and start a new life. From Halifax tomorrow she would try to contact Geraint's clan in Montreal and discharge her last responsibility. Meanwhile she had another set to perform.
She turned toward the garbage bin to throw away the empty water bottle. The small rear deck where the crew was allowed to walk was shady and dim, cast in shadows by the setting sun, but her vision was acute even in very low light. That and her voice were the two good things that went with her unusual heritage. Well, flying hadn't sucked, not when she and Geraint had soared about his isolated Greek islet together. Those were some of the happiest memories of her life. The elderly gargoyle had found her, a half-dead child with feathers and wings on his beach and he'd reared her as his own despite the differences of age and race. She owed it to him to remember the good times and to cherish his memory. She blinked rapidly, trying to avoid another round of tears, then leaned against the bulkhead and closed her eyes for just a moment.
She didn't hear anyone come up behind her, not until she felt the hot puff of breath on the back of her neck. She tried to spin, to see who it was, but an inhumanly strong hand gripped the back of her neck and held her in place. The next sound she heard was a whoosh behind her ear, which was followed by a sharp stab of pain. Then the world went black.
He was such a loser. Marc Armel sat on the rocky cliffs overlooking the north Atlantic, folded his wings behind him and sighed. The last of his close friends had just gotten married. Their wives had come from outside the clan, but all three had survived the conversion process that made them gargoyles like their mates. Each of the three gargoyle men had fulfilled the destiny foretold by their clan's seer at their birth. Only Marc was left and he hadn't come close to either one.
He'd stuck around the gargoyles' compound outside Montreal until Beau and his new bride were back from their honeymoon, and then until Damien's daughter Erin was born hale and healthy, leaving him free to return to his former duties as second-in-command. Though Damien had recently moved back to the compound with his mate, he was a brand-new father, so Marc had been the logical choice to fill in as head of security for the clan. Remy had offered but he was too happy drawing his graphic novels and Marc had actually enjoyed the work. Most of his time was spent managing the clan finances but the four had all gone into the security division together as young gargoyles and it felt good to get his hands back into it again.
Now, though, Beau and his wife were back at the compound, Damien was back to work and Marc was once again unneeded. His mother, the clan matriarch, was still healthy and in charge of things and his father was her primary advisor, leaving little for a prince to do. All the monetary transactions he handled for the clan were done online and actually took a fairly small portion of his day. So he'd packed up his clothes and his laptop and headed for his favorite thinking spot - a small island he owned off the shores of Nova Scotia. Before he left, he told his parents and the clan's seer Lady Helene, who'd sent each of his friends off on their quests. He supposed he'd secretly been hoping she'd tell him not to go and send him somewhere else instead, get him started on fulfilling his part of the prophecy. To his great dismay, all she'd done was shrug and remind him to take a raincoat.
It was beautiful here and rugged. It was also completely deserted, so a gargoyle could walk around in daylight with no one to see his tiger-eye-colored skin or his wings. He only had to be careful if a boat or plane went by and with his mottled brown coloring, he blended into the rocky shoreline well enough to hide in plain sight.
He stared out at the waves, wishing he could be as lulled as he usually was by the rhythmic motion. The late October breeze was chilly, but the damp cold didn't penetrate his thickened skin. Though not actually stone, his hide was tougher than human flesh and kept out the chill along with the small hurts his bare ass might have otherwise gotten from the rocky ground beneath it.
It was almost sunset, when his body would revert to human form, if he wanted it to. He debated taking his motor launch across the inlet to the mainland where a small town offered a few shops and a couple of bars for entertainment after dark. This late in the year all the tourist traps were closed but he was usually fine drinking with the locals. Tonight, though, while he was low on groceries, he wasn't in the mood to deal with people unless absolutely necessary.
Out the corner of his eye, he spotted something in the surf, just at the edge of his vision. As the waves pushed it slowly toward the shoreline, it looked like a bundle of black rags but it was big, almost the size of a person. Curiosity broke through his lousy mood and he stood, hopping easily down the jagged cliffs toward the beach.
As he approached the object, now lying on the sand, it did indeed begin to look like a person, maybe wearing a black furry or feathered cloak. The lump didn't move, so there was little chance that it was a living creature but he moved faster, just in case.
He took the last hundred yards in a vertical leap, spreading his wings to glide the last few feet and land with his toes in the sand right beside the lump. Up close he could see that long black hair was tangled up in the feathered cloak and he reached out to wipe the sodden strands off a pale white face. As he did, a tiny moan escaped.
She was alive. And definitely female. Smoothing her hair back off her cheek, he saw fine, delicate features and long lashes. The water had smeared her makeup into a vulgar clown mask but he didn't care about that. A soft pulse beat erratically at her slender throat and her chest moved. Her heart rate and breathing were minimal but she wasn't dead.
He started to unwrap the feathery black cloak then gasped in shock. She wasn't wearing a cloak. In fact, the only garment she had on was a shimmery black sheath dress. It was torn in the back where her wings, big, heavy and black as night, protruded from her shoulder blades.
So much for calling for a rescue flight. He couldn't take a nonhuman to the emergency room.
"Keep breathing for me, cherie," he muttered. Picking her up was awkward with the wings. He really hoped she didn't have any broken bones because he ended up holding her in a fireman's carry over his shoulder. Picking his path carefully this time, he made his way slowly up the hill, back to the house he'd built nestled into the side of a cliff.
It looked as if his life had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.