Chapter 90

Marc sat in the kitchen and swore at his computer screen after taking a break to watch the sunrise over the ocean - one of his favorite parts of the day. There were still no missing persons report that matched his little blackbird. Surely someone had to have noticed the absence of such a vibrant young woman. Well, young-looking. He had no idea how old she really was. That was always an issue when hanging out with immortals.
A yawn caught him off-guard and he shut the screen. Time to grab some sleep. He stood, flexing his wings out behind him. The feathered tips brushed against a chair behind him and barely missed the tall ceiling. Grabbing some sheets from the linen closet, he made his way into a spare room - the one usually used by Remy when he borrowed the place to hole up and draw. It had a big, southern exposure window, a professional drafting table and, like all the others, an oversized bed. Very few male gargoyles were little. In his native form, Marc stood just under seven feet tall, from the claws on the tips of his toes to the top of his mane. In human form, he was only a few inches shorter - though without the claws, feathers or fur.
After making the bed, he tugged off his sweatpants - ones with a convenient hole added to the back for his tail - and fell face first onto the mattress.
Sleep was elusive, even though he was dog-tired. His mind kept trying to unravel the mysteries of his unexpected guest and that made sleeping on his stomach decidedly uncomfortable. His cock kept trying to poke a hole through the mattress. God, he wished he knew her name. It was downright embarrassing to have such a constant hard-on for somebody and not even have a name to think of her by. And he really wished he knew if she was married.
Counting sheep had never worked for him but he'd always loved numbers, so he let a bunch of profit margin curves and probability functions run through his brain. The gargoyles had come out all right during the recent economic downturns, partly because of Marc's flair for numbers and investments. Today, though, even mental math wasn't helping. Visions of graphs kept being edged out by images of a raven-haired harpy - mostly naked images. She might not be the evil sorceress of some of the myths but she definitely had a body made for sin.
At first he thought the noise he heard was just the wind - the low moan could easily be the beginnings of an autumn storm. Then it rose to a piercing wail that could only belong to a woman. And if he hadn't known much of a harpy's power was in her voice, he sure would have now. Even Marc had to gather his courage to get up and go to her rather than hide from the horrible, heart-wrenching sound.
He barely remembered to pull on his sweatpants before gritting his teeth and moving toward the master bedroom. He'd read that the banshee of Ireland was a close relative of the harpy and now he believed it. When he entered the bedroom, he saw her writhing on her side on the bed, her black wings half tangled in the duvet and tears streaming down her cheek.
"Easy, cherie." He stepped over beside the bed, dodging a blow from one wingtip and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Wake up, blackbird. You're dreaming."
She continued to moan, making Marc sit down beside her to reach her better. He gently untangled her wings with one hand while he cupped her face in the other, rubbing away tears with the pad of his thumb.
"Come on. Wake up." He shook her, just a little this time and spoke a bit more sharply.
It worked, thank God. Her eyes opened and she stopped thrashing. Best of all, that terrible wailing ceased.
"Marc?" She struggled to sit then seemed to collapse against his chest.
"I'm right here, petite." Without even pausing to think about it, he gathered her close, snaking his arms beneath her wings to wrap around his waist. Then, cautious of his own feathers, he leaned up against the padded leather headboard and pulled her onto his lap. "It was just a dream, nothing to worry about."
"Was it?" she asked with a sniffle. "It seemed so real. I was with my father - only somehow he wasn't really my father. He was sick - we both knew he was dying. He told me I had to go away. Then the next thing I knew I was on a ship and someone was chasing me. No matter how fast I ran or how hard I tried to hide, he kept coming closer. And he was taunting me, calling my name as if we were in a children's game. A-l-l-l-da-r-r-r-r-r-a-a-a-a...come out, come out wherever you are. Then he'd give this horrible laugh and I'd hear the footsteps getting closer still."
"Aldara?" He wondered if she even realized what she'd said.
"What?" Then she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyelids opened wide. "Aldara. That's my name. Mon dieu, I remembered my name!"
"So despite the nightmare being horrible, something good came of it, no?" He winced as she snuggled back into his chest, wiggling her delicious ass against the throbbing length of his aroused cock. Aldara. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.
"No last name yet," she said with a sad little sigh a few moments later. Her breath was warm and stirred the curly hairs on his chest.
"But progress, nonetheless," he murmured, dropping kisses into her mass of tousled curls.
"True." She cuddled closer, winding her arms around his neck. Her wings withdrew, vanishing into her back without a trace. "I'm not wearing a wedding ring."
He laughed hoarsely. "Believe me, I noticed."
"And there's no mark from wearing one and then removing it."
He'd thought of that as well then convinced himself it didn't matter. "With the way your skin regenerates, that doesn't tell us much."
"Oh rats, I suppose that's true."
"Patience, little one," he counseled, though he had very little left himself. "Soon we'll find all the answers to your past. Then the future will take care of itself."
"Mmm," she murmured drowsily, already easing back into slumber. "Are all gargoyles this philosophical? I always thought Geraint was an exception."
"Geraint?"
"Geraint Cromlech. My father," she said. "Well, adoptive father anyway." Then she sat up so fast she smacked her head into the bottom of his chin. "Wow, that just came out of the blue. Geraint was a gargoyle. He raised me. And then he died."
"More progress, see? I'm so sorry about your father though." Poor little lost bird. Cromlech was a gargoyle name, one that rang a bell somewhere in the back of Marc's brain but he pushed it aside for now.
"There was something - something he wanted me to do..." She shook her head then leaned it back down onto his shoulder. "But I can't remember."
"Don't try too hard, you'll just make your head hurt. It's coming back in its own sweet time."
"You're pretty smart for a rock," she teased, leaning up to nip at his jaw. "Don't you think if I'm... If there was anyone special... Wouldn't I remember that? Remember him?"
"I sure as hell hope so," he said. Then he couldn't stand the temptation anymore as her lips fluttered along the skin of his face. He kissed her.