Chapter 87

Later that night, Marc lounged in the armchair beside his own bed and watched his uninvited guest as she slept. She'd eaten some soup and a piece of toast. Physically she seemed to be recovering with a speed that would have been stunning if she'd been human. Harpy, she'd told him before she'd fallen back asleep. The one thing she could remember about her life was that she was a harpy. He looked down at her sleeping form and smiled. So much for his idea that harpies were ugly.
And she'd known about gargoyles. That fact had stunned him. She couldn't tell him how she knew but somehow she knew what he was the minute he'd mentioned his wings. She was proving to be a far greater puzzle than the book of Sudokus he'd brought with him to while away the hours. Did she really have amnesia? Or was it some kind of a hoax? He'd thought he was a good judge of character but one never knew. His unprecedented attraction to her could well be clouding his judgment.
He thought about calling his friend Beau who had a doctorate in Mythological Anthropology. If anyone could tell him about harpies, Beau would be it. But it was late evening and Beau would either be busy working or home with his new wife. Marc already felt like a loser for not holding up his end of recovering the artifacts. The least he could do was his own research.
He'd built his aerie on the cliff to house guests but none of the other rooms had been made up, so he'd put his guest in the master bedroom. She'd been so disoriented, he hadn't wanted to leave her alone in case she woke up again, but his laptop was in here. When in doubt, surf the internet. He sipped at a snifter of cognac and pulled up his favorite search engine.
An hour later he knew a lot more about harpies than he'd ever expected to. Apparently the ugly, murderous reputation was a fairly recent development, mythologically speaking. Originally, harpies were described as minor goddesses of the winds in the forms of beautiful young women with wings. In some of the stories they had feathered bodies and the talons of a vulture then a few centuries later the accounts of hideous half-vulture, half-hag creatures arose. Marc couldn't come up with a reason why the image had changed or whether the change was a real or a cultural phenomena. Judging by the beauty currently snoozing in his bed, he'd bet on cultural.
So far he knew she spoke English and French fluently and he'd heard bits of Latin or Italian when she murmured in her sleep. Another language too, one he didn't know - maybe Greek. Marc wished he'd paid more attention in his classics education. He also knew she had a huge contusion on the side of her head but no other visible wounds. Either she'd taken a fall and banged herself on the side of a ship on the way into the water or she'd had some help. A fierce urge of protectiveness surged up out of nowhere. Time to do some hacking.
He couldn't find any missing persons reports that matched her anywhere up or down the maritime coast but he set some alerts to notify him in case any popped up. Then he crossed to the wastebasket where he'd put her tattered dress. Apparently her wings had torn out the back when they'd emerged. The black sheath was silk and the tags were in Italian - not a top designer but not cheap either. Her hose were little more than wet shreds of nylon but her black lace bra and panties had been intact, so he'd rinsed those out in the bathroom sink and hung them up to dry. They hadn't looked sturdy enough to run through the washing machine and they hadn't had tags, so he had no idea of their origin. She'd had no pockets, no ID or cell phone, not even shoes. Where could she possibly have come from?
She stirred again and he set his laptop back on the writing desk and returned to the chair by the bed. It had been maybe two hours since she'd woken and this time her ivory complexion was tinted with a healthy pink color. He only hoped she recovered her memory as her physical strength returned.
Her beautiful clear gray eyes flew open before she tried to speak. She glanced around fearfully then relaxed as her gaze settled on Marc's face.
"Hello again," he said. "Feeling better?"
She nodded then slowly sat up, moving much more easily than before. The sweats he'd loaned her to sleep in hid her luscious body from his gaze. "Yes, thank you." Now that her throat had healed, her voice was light and musical.
"How's your head?"
She reached back to touch the lump on her skull and winced just a little. "Better. Still tender but not much. Mostly I'm thirsty. I think I must have swallowed half the ocean. Even after rinsing my mouth last time I was awake, all I can taste is salt."
She'd made a quick, unsteady trip to the bathroom - just long enough to wash her face and pull on the sweats - before she'd gotten woozy and he'd helped her back to bed.
"You hungry?" It just occurred to Marc that he'd totally forgotten about dinner since he'd found her on the beach. Earlier he'd been too busy watching her to eat anything himself.
She tipped her head to the side as she thought then smiled and nodded. "Yes, I am."
"You like steak and salad?"
"Of course." Then her eyes widened and she grinned. "I remembered something. I love steak. Medium rare. And salad with vinaigrette dressing if you have it."
"Excellent." He held out a hand to help her to her feet. "Don't suppose you remembered your name?"
Straight black eyebrows scrunched together over her pert little nose. "No," she said after a long moment, her shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry."
"No worries. Maybe when the swelling goes down completely."