Stitching the Talisman (Kali James Book 3), page 8
He took a minute to settle before he started talking. “I need you to understand some things about what it means to be a gargoyle and how that affects the relationships I have.”
“Okay.” I waited for him to continue, his words doing nothing to settle my nerves.
Craig traced the hem of the shirt I wore. Whether it was to soothe me or himself, I didn’t know. “Has Meira told you much about gargoyles?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” Meira was my go-to for knowledge about supernaturals, but she’d been tight-lipped about Craig.
“As you’ve probably gathered, gargoyles are the protectors of the supernatural world.”
I nodded, an encouragement to go on.
“We’re territorial creatures. Except for family, it’s highly unusual for two gargoyles to live in the same vicinity.”
“That must make it hard to make baby gargoyles,” I joked in an attempt to lighten his mood. Judging by his sharp look, the joke failed spectacularly.
“All gargoyles are male,” he corrected.
I wondered if that meant gargoyles were made somehow rather than born.
Seeing my confusion, he explained. “We can have children but only once we’ve found our mates.”
I choked on the drink of water I’d taken. Wait. Was he actually a virgin? “You can only have sex with your mate?”
Craig chuckled. “No. We can have sex just like humans, but we can’t have children with anyone other than our mates.
I perked up a little at that. Unless he was about to tell me he had an STD, this could be a condom-free card.
Because we were talking about how babies were made, I was guessing he didn’t mean mates in the British way. “By mate, I’m assuming you mean spouse?”
“Similar, but humans discard spouses like out-of-style clothing.”
I appreciated the fact he used an analogy from my wheelhouse. Before I could tell him, he turned his head, meeting my eyes with an intensity I wasn’t prepared for. “And gargoyles?” I asked instead.
“Gargoyles mate for life.”
I couldn’t tell how he wanted me to take that. Was he telling me if we ever got married, he wasn’t the divorcing kind? Or was he saying once he found his mate, he’d forget I existed?
“Do gargoyles choose their mates?” I asked. “Or do you find the person fate meant for you?” I’d read my share of romance novels, but I’d always chalked that quirk up to wishful thinking. How wonderful to have some hottie destined for you—so blinded by fate, they’d adore even your morning breath and sing praises about your stinky gym socks.
Craig glanced at me. “A little of both, I guess. There are people who you feel an instant connection to, but they’re rare. Once you find someone like that, you either chose to strengthen the bond or walk away.” He stroked my bare thigh where the shirt had parted, meeting my eyes. “Gargoyles are not very good at walking away.”
My breath hitched as much at his words as at the strong fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “And when a gargoyle chooses a mate, it’s for life?”
“It is.”
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the couch, allowing the path his fingers were making distract me as they inched higher with excruciatingly slow movements. I forced a lightness in my voice. “It’s good to know you’re not the love ‘em and leave ‘em type.” Because I would definitely be needing a repeat.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying, Kali.” Craig’s hand paused. “You’re it for me.”
I jerked my head up and studied him. There wasn’t a hint of teasing in his solemn face. He meant it, and he was waiting to see how I’d take it. I should run for the hills. This was a man I’d only officially been on a first date with. Then again, our world was largely incompatible with dating. Or doing anything in half measures. Whatever this was turning into, I wanted to be all in, but a lifetime commitment was more than I could wrap my head around.
“How long does a gargoyle live, anyway?” It was something I’d wondered but never gotten around to asking. With as many murder attempts as I’d been navigating recently, it didn’t seem to matter much since old age was about as likely for me as winning the lottery.
“It depends. An unmated gargoyle can live hundreds of years.”
“That’s a long life,” I said. “Are you about to tell me you’re two hundred years old?”
“Close,” he teased. “Thirty-two.” Craig moved his hand to the opposite leg, repeating the featherlight attention he’d been giving my other leg.
“You said unmated gargoyles can live hundreds of years. What about mated gargoyles?” I wasn’t sure why there would be a discrepancy based on relationship status.
"Mated gargoyles live as long as their mates.”
I stilled his hand. “What do you mean?”
He stared at me unflinchingly. “As I said, gargoyles are natural-born protectors. There is no one a gargoyle protects more fiercely than his mate.”
My stomach did a little flip. “So, the mate lives a long life because of that protection? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. I’m saying a gargoyle can’t survive the loss of his mate.”
I stared at him, the air suddenly grown stifling. “But I’m a human.” Technically, I was a necromancer, but I was still clinging to human status. Not that it mattered. The life spans were the same regardless of what I called myself.
“You are.”
“Why would anyone trade hundreds of years for the lifespan of a human?” I didn’t add that my lifespan would undoubtably be much shorter than the average human given my growing fan club and propensity for trouble.
“Because a mate is worth the trade-off,” Craig said simply.
I sat up, moving his hands to the couch beside him. “You’re saying that I...” I trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“I’m saying I choose you as my mate.” There was no hesitation in his answer.
I stood up, feeling like I might hyperventilate. Craig stood up next to me and reached for my hands. “Breathe,” he coaxed.
“But what if this doesn’t work out?” What happens if—when—I screw this up? “You’d find another mate, right?”
He kept a neutral look on his face, but the tension in his shoulders was hard to miss. “No.”
“But you’d die.” I choked trying to get the words out. “Because of me.” I closed my eyes. I don’t know how to do this.
“No one is dying.” His voice was calm. “The mate bond is only formed after both people choose each other.”
I sucked air into my lungs, feeling part of the weight lift. “Okay. That’s good.” Once I calmed my erratic breathing, I asked him how exactly mate bonds worked.
Craig explained mate bonds were a lot like the human notion of soul mates, except these were literal soul bonds. If we chose each other, I would hold a piece of Craig’s soul within my own, and vice versa. As a necromancer, I supposed it was possible I could sever those bonds, but that was completely unchartered territory. Looking at the determined set of Craig’s jaw, I knew it wouldn’t matter even if I could break it. He wasn’t the kind of man who chose lightly or changed his mind once he did.
“Hey, look at me.” He pulled his attention back to him. “I’m telling you because I need you to know this will never be casual for me. But I’m not asking for a commitment today,” Craig reassured me. “I’m a patient man. I’ll wait.”
I let him pull my legs back onto his lap. But despite the reassuring smile I gave him, I was drowning in the fears that plagued me.
CHAPTER 9
The time difference between Chicago and Bucharest meant my window for contacting a business there closed at nine a.m. I dialed the number on the receipt for my grandmother’s safety deposit box on our way to the airport the next morning. Despite being transferred to three different people, every employee I talked to was adamant the only way I could obtain the contents of the safety deposit box would be to show up in person with an official copy of Grandma Dottie’s will and the proper documentation to show my identity as her heir.
That presented two problems. One—a flight to Bucharest was obscenely expensive. And more importantly, two—my grandmother did not have a will. Without the will, my mother was next of kin, so even if I could get my hands on the probate documents, I still couldn’t waltz in there and claim the contents.
The cab dropped us off at the airport, and Craig grabbed our carry-on bags. Once we were seated in the airport, I explained the problem.
Craig looked thoughtful. “What about your mom? Could she get it for you?”
I snorted. “No way. Even if I did have her phone number—which I don’t—she would wash her hands of this.”
While I appreciated the sympathetic look he gave me, I’d had years to accept the rift.
Our wait was surprisingly short, and soon enough we boarded the plane. Thankfully, Craig and I had seats together for the return flight. Since we’d been sidetracked last night, we spent the flight comparing the evidence from the two witch murders.
I opened my phone and located the photo of Fiona’s sigil. “Can you pull up the photo from Anne?”
Craig scrolled to the photo, and we studied the two. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d seen both before. While it was possible they’d surfaced during my research into Zepar’s sigil, I didn’t think that was where I’d seen them. I closed my eyes and ran through the evidence again, looking for patterns.
As I started to drift off to sleep, something tugged at my memory, and I sat bolt upright. I pulled my purse from beneath the seat where I’d stashed it for the flight and pulled out the page we’d found in Fiona’s fist. I flattened it on my lap and stared at the handwriting. “I know who this belonged to.”
Craig looked surprised. “You recognize it?”
I leaned into Craig, keeping my voice low. “This is Samara’s handwriting.” Samara had been the teenage witch who had originally tried to raise Zepar in the 1950s. When the witches’ council discovered she had summoned a demon, they sealed her in a cave, effectively ensuring her death.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
I nodded. “Positive. I still have the diary I took from her room, and this writing matches it.” Craig didn’t ask me about how I’d acquired her diary, and I didn’t volunteer the information. “I think this is a page from her grimoire.”
Craig examined the page. “Do you think this is the same ritual Naomi used?”
“I don’t know. It could be. I didn’t get a good look at Samara’s grimoire.” I ran my fingers over the words and illustrations. At first, I thought the spell was in Latin, but Craig took one look and shot down that theory. Whatever language this was, neither of us could decipher it. Although there were symbols and drawings, there were no recognizable sigils. Since I’d accidentally raised Zepar without the benefit of an instruction manual, I didn’t know whether sigils were typically recorded in the ritual or simply added to the circle. “How do you think this page ended up in Fiona’s hand after the witches’ council confiscated the grimoire from Naomi?” I asked.
Craig ran a hand across the back of his neck. “If it is from Samara’s grimoire, then someone from the council either lost it or used it.”
The thought of someone in such a powerful position targeting fire elementals made my stomach pitch. I hoped there was another explanation—one that involved a weaker witch prone to making the kind of mistake that would get him caught.
Craig and I went straight to my apartment from the airport to test my theory. When I pulled out Samara’s diary to compare it to the page we found on Fiona, there was no question the that handwriting matched.
Craig sent Celeste a video call, and I grabbed us each a cup of coffee while we waited for her to answer. It took two tries, but Celeste finally picked up. We’d taken a six a.m. flight out of Chicago, so it was still early morning.
This was the first time I’d seen Celeste look less than polished. She was fresh-faced without a hint of makeup, which made her appear much younger than her thirty-odd years. She didn’t beat around the bush. “I don’t have a list of fire elementals for you. The witches’ council refused to authorize the release of that information. They deemed it too dangerous.”
Craig’s mouth tightened in frustration, but he didn’t push. “That’s unfortunate, but it’s not why I’m calling.”
Celeste appeared relieved he wasn’t going to argue the issue. “What can I do for you, Ward?”
Craig held up the page we’d found. “Does this look familiar?”
Celeste reeled back, her shock at the sight of the page genuine. “Where did you get that?”
“Answer the question, Celeste.” Craig’s tone was clipped.
“Yes. I recognize it. It looks like a page from Samara’s grimoire. How are you in possession of it?” There was a note of accusation in her voice, and from the look on Craig’s face, he did not appreciate the attitude.
“We found it clutched in the fist of the Chicago fire elemental who was murdered,” he said.
Celeste swore under her breath.
“Exactly. Are you still in possession of the grimoire?” Craig asked.
Neither Craig nor I voiced our suspicions that someone on the witches’ council could be one of the perpetrators. Right now, it was purely supposition, and accusations like that required more solid evidence before they were made.
Celeste stared at us for a minute before answering. “We are. It’s held under lock and key and under wards I set myself. In fact, every witch on the council set wards to ensure none of us could access it alone. There’s no way anyone has gotten to that book since it’s been in our possession.”
“Can you check to make sure?” I asked. Celeste might be confident the book was there and intact, but I wasn’t as sure.
“Of course.” Celeste motioned someone over and directed them to get the car ready.
Must be nice to have a personal driver. Meira hadn’t been kidding when she’d said Celeste was a wealthy woman.
“Do you know if there were any pages missing out of the grimoire when the witches’ council confiscated it?” I asked her.
“Maybe.” Celeste frowned. “I didn’t look at it closely. Samara’s grimoire reeked of black magic. None of us wanted to spend any more time with it than absolutely necessary. But I’ll ask the others and let you know if I find anything.”
I held the paper back up where Celeste could see it. “Can you tell us if this is a demon summoning ritual like the one Naomi used?”
Celeste moved closer to the screen, and I obliged by holding the paper directly in front of the camera. “That’s not a summoning ritual,” Celeste said.
I moved the paper, my shoulders slumping with relief. “Oh good.” The last thing I wanted was to chase another demon around Kansas City.
“I’m afraid it’s far from good news.” Celeste scribbled notes on a pad in front of her, then handed it to her assistant.
“What do you mean?” Whatever this was, it had to be better than a demon summoning ritual.
“It is a locater spell,” Celeste said.
Craig glanced at the paper and back at Celeste. “Okay, so it helps a witch locate items. How is that bad?” Celeste looked like she was battling how much to tell us. Craig leaned close to the camera. “You had better put all the cards on the table, Celeste. Why is that a bad thing?”
“It’s not just any locator spell.” She sat up straighter and cleared her throat. “What you’re holding is prohibited. It’s black magic. The spell is not used to locate objects. It traces bloodlines.”
“As in people? Like a magical family tree?” I asked.
Celeste sighed. “Basically, yes. With that spell, a witch could theoretically track down every descendant of a bloodline. You can understand how dangerous it could be in the wrong hands. Someone could wipe an entire bloodline from the face of the earth using that spell.”
Craig swore. “All they’d need is this spell?”
“No,” Celeste said. “They would also need a blood sample from a descendant.”
“Which would be pretty easy to get from a crime scene where the attackers sliced open the veins of their victims,” I finished. We’d been operating under the assumption the witch killers bled the victims for the ritual, but what if there was another reason?
Celeste paled.
“Let me guess,” Craig said. “Fire elementals share the same bloodline.”
Celeste grimaced. “Yes. They’re pretty spread out now, but based on how concentrated magic is passed through generations, all the fire elementals could be traced back to a single ancestor if you went back far enough.”
“Why is someone so desperate to change a fire elemental into a vampire?” I considered what we knew. “Maybe this isn’t someone trying to change just one. Maybe someone wants to systematically hunt down and change all fire elementals.”
Craig stared at Celeste. "Have there been any other fire elementals who have been attacked?”
Celeste paled. “One other went missing about a month ago. She was seventeen, and she was assumed to be a runaway.”
“Why change fire elementals?” Craig ran his hand across his jaw, thinking. “Shit. There are three ways to kill a vampire, but only one of them is suited for warfare.”
“Fire,” Celeste said.
“Fire elementals would make the perfect lab rats. Turn them, and the vampires have a weapon they can use against the other witches. And if they die in the process, at least they eliminated the most dangerous weapon against them.”
Craig paced the room, his shoulders bunching with anger. He paused to glare at Celeste through the camera. “If you won’t give me the list of fire elementals, then it’s on you to place each and every one of them in protective custody.”
“I know.” Celeste looked to someone off screen. “We’ll be in contact about the remaining elementals within your territory to get them placed. No two should be in the same location for obvious reasons. And Ward, I’m sorry. We can’t risk any one person outside of the witches’ council knowing all their names, but we can quietly place them all within their own territories.”
