anything weird abou’ you. As far, I’ve seen someone good-hearted with a care toward others in need. That isna weird, ’tis
rare
.”
“You just don’t know me well enough. If you did …”
“Are you saying that I would find you weirder than a man who can turn to stone at whim? Or perhaps one that turns to smoke in sunlight and calls up magic fromthings around him? That’s a Djynn,” he said when her eyes went wide. “Or perhaps a man who shares his body with two souls? That’s a Bodywalker. Or how about a woman with skin as black as midnight and eyes as yellow as the sun? That’s a Night Angel.”
By the last item on his list she was agape with shock and wonder. Wonder at all the things he was telling her and shock because she believed him.
“Y-yellow eyes?” she asked, a bit unsurely. She tucked back a fine lock of that pretty sable hair of hers and Ahnvil found himself drawn to the motion. It moved like silk, that hair.
“That gleam like a cat’s,” he said, his hand coming to stroke over her jawline, a gesture of comfort, he told himself. But the truth was he found her delicate features fascinating. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but maybe that was because he couldn’t decide if she looked fragile or like a tough little dynamo packed into a small presentation.
Both, he decided after a few moments. She was both. Tough when she needed to be, and fragile on occasion, like she was right then.
“You better lie back down,” she said softly, pulling away from him almost awkwardly. He could see she was flushed again, all pink and unnervingly adorable.
He was getting too close, she thought, drawing away from him. She didn’t like it when people got too close. Too close meant too much scrutiny and too many opportunities to find flaws within her. Right now, for some reason, his opinion mattered. She didn’t know why, because she had come to live her life unapologetically since the day she’d walked away from her career in Manhattan. But that maneuver had come with a heavy sort of price. The kind of price that had her living alone, in the dark, on a mountain in the smallest town in America.
“Did you want something to eat?”
“What I want,” he said, catching up her hand before she could move out of reach, “is for you to come back to me. Keep me company.”
It was a bad idea. Company meant talk and talk meant telling her things she probably wasn’t ready to hear, things he probably shouldn’t be telling her. But he’d come this far already.
She sat back down on the bed and looked at him warily, like he might bite off her hand if she weren’t careful.
“What’s the deal with the turning to stone?” she asked immediately. Almost as if she knew it might make him shut down … send her away. Let her escape.
Ahnvil ought to have done that. He ought to have sent her away and just settled down to wait out the storm in relative peace. Also, the idea of having more to eat was appealing. His metabolism was so damn high that he needed a constant influx of food. Not every second of every day, but at the very least a meal every two hours. Except when he was in stone state.
“A Gargoyle has three states,” he found himself telling her, as if he told mortal humans these things all the time. One of the unspoken and harshest rules in the Nightwalker world was that they never revealed themselves to the human world. But she had already seen too much and he hadn’t been prepared to explain away what she’d seen. It had simply never come up before. He’d had a flawless record of avoiding being seen in transformation.
“The flesh state”—he indicated his present state with a hand—“the stone state, where I turn completely tae stone from the tips of my hair tae the tips on my toes. Then the third state is the grotesque. I …” He hesitated and wondered why.
Because he didn’t want to be ugly or frightening to her. And in grotesque form he was exactly that.
“Go on. I’m a big
rare
.”
“You just don’t know me well enough. If you did …”
“Are you saying that I would find you weirder than a man who can turn to stone at whim? Or perhaps one that turns to smoke in sunlight and calls up magic fromthings around him? That’s a Djynn,” he said when her eyes went wide. “Or perhaps a man who shares his body with two souls? That’s a Bodywalker. Or how about a woman with skin as black as midnight and eyes as yellow as the sun? That’s a Night Angel.”
By the last item on his list she was agape with shock and wonder. Wonder at all the things he was telling her and shock because she believed him.
“Y-yellow eyes?” she asked, a bit unsurely. She tucked back a fine lock of that pretty sable hair of hers and Ahnvil found himself drawn to the motion. It moved like silk, that hair.
“That gleam like a cat’s,” he said, his hand coming to stroke over her jawline, a gesture of comfort, he told himself. But the truth was he found her delicate features fascinating. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but maybe that was because he couldn’t decide if she looked fragile or like a tough little dynamo packed into a small presentation.
Both, he decided after a few moments. She was both. Tough when she needed to be, and fragile on occasion, like she was right then.
“You better lie back down,” she said softly, pulling away from him almost awkwardly. He could see she was flushed again, all pink and unnervingly adorable.
He was getting too close, she thought, drawing away from him. She didn’t like it when people got too close. Too close meant too much scrutiny and too many opportunities to find flaws within her. Right now, for some reason, his opinion mattered. She didn’t know why, because she had come to live her life unapologetically since the day she’d walked away from her career in Manhattan. But that maneuver had come with a heavy sort of price. The kind of price that had her living alone, in the dark, on a mountain in the smallest town in America.
“Did you want something to eat?”
“What I want,” he said, catching up her hand before she could move out of reach, “is for you to come back to me. Keep me company.”
It was a bad idea. Company meant talk and talk meant telling her things she probably wasn’t ready to hear, things he probably shouldn’t be telling her. But he’d come this far already.
She sat back down on the bed and looked at him warily, like he might bite off her hand if she weren’t careful.
“What’s the deal with the turning to stone?” she asked immediately. Almost as if she knew it might make him shut down … send her away. Let her escape.
Ahnvil ought to have done that. He ought to have sent her away and just settled down to wait out the storm in relative peace. Also, the idea of having more to eat was appealing. His metabolism was so damn high that he needed a constant influx of food. Not every second of every day, but at the very least a meal every two hours. Except when he was in stone state.
“A Gargoyle has three states,” he found himself telling her, as if he told mortal humans these things all the time. One of the unspoken and harshest rules in the Nightwalker world was that they never revealed themselves to the human world. But she had already seen too much and he hadn’t been prepared to explain away what she’d seen. It had simply never come up before. He’d had a flawless record of avoiding being seen in transformation.
“The flesh state”—he indicated his present state with a hand—“the stone state, where I turn completely tae stone from the tips of my hair tae the tips on my toes. Then the third state is the grotesque. I …” He hesitated and wondered why.
Because he didn’t want to be ugly or frightening to her. And in grotesque form he was exactly that.
“Go on. I’m a big
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