in the grass. The edge of the gargoyle's pedestal stood even with her waist; she boosted herself up onto it and curled up in the protective curve of a wing. The marble's warmth seeped into her back, holding the day's heat and radiating it into her chilled limbs. She curled tighter against the cold and pressed her cheek against the leather-textured stone.
The wing flexed and pulled her close against the statue's chest. Kestrel's heart leapt with alarm. "What the fuck?"
A rumble that held traces of laughter shook the stone beneath her hand. A jackhammer pulse beat against the ear she had pressed against the gargoyle's chest.
"Well. You get straight to the point, don't you?" The voice reminded her of the roar of water crashing against rocks. Something between terror and understanding took hold of Kestrel. She didn't scream, but held still and waited for the world to explain itself and make sense once more.
The wing around her shifted, and the gargoyle's massive stone face grinned down at her. A glimmer of mischief that she couldn't quite explain away as moonlight shone from his eyes.
"Fucking is definitely one of tonight's priorities." He drew her close and pressed her length against his. Her heart pounded in her chest. His leg shifted, and the burning, unmistakable heat of a cock brushed against her thigh.
Since when do they carve these things with cocks?
She gaped up at him, caught somewhere between bewilderment and sheer terror. "Who the hell are you?"
"Lord Damaris, my lady." His smile widened, revealing a mouthful of fangs that gleamed in the moonlight. His tone didn't quite turn the title into a slur, but Kestrel still had enough of her wits about her to recognize that it wasn't meant to be a compliment. "And who, if I may ask, are you?"
"I--Kestrel." He held her too close. Her heart raced, and warmth pulsed through her in response to his own intense heat. She didn't want to like it. She didn't want to admit, even to herself, that she did. She pushed against his chest, for all the good it did her. He may have been a statue come to life, but he still had the strength of stone, and she could no more escape from him than she could her own flesh. She squared her shoulders and glared up at him. "Let me go."
"Now why would you want me to do that? You summoned me."
She blinked at him, but understanding remained elusive. "Summoned you?"
His heartbeat shook his chest beneath her hand. "That's right."
"I didn't summon you."
"But you did."
"How?" she demanded, defiant.
"There are many ways I can be summoned. Sacrifice, of one sort or another. Ritual, or prayer. Strong emotions, even. I've been summoned by women who sat at my feet and wept with grief, a time or two. But you..." He captured her wrist within his large, clawed hand. He twisted it until her palm faced up and unsheathed a claw, tracing it along the dark line of her wound. "Your blood called me."
"No. That was an offering to the dead." Her heart thudded frantically. Panic flooded through her body, and she fought against his hold again. "This is crazy. Let me go!"
His face twisted into an unpleasant expression. For a moment, she thought that he'd refuse, but finally, he released her. She scrambled off of the pedestal and stumbled backwards away from him. The bitter taste of fear clung to the back of her throat. She wanted to turn and flee, to run as far as her legs would carry her, even back to Callia's party, where at least things made sense and statues didn't come to life. But some innate prey instinct took hold of her and she knew better than to turn her back on him.
He didn't follow her. He didn't even descend from his pedestal. He turned slowly away from her, folded his wings against his back, and hung his head as if he was hurt or insulted at her rejection. Kestrel gaped at his audacity.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
He shot her a dark look over his shoulder. “I get one night a year, and this year not even that, because you thought you could
The wing flexed and pulled her close against the statue's chest. Kestrel's heart leapt with alarm. "What the fuck?"
A rumble that held traces of laughter shook the stone beneath her hand. A jackhammer pulse beat against the ear she had pressed against the gargoyle's chest.
"Well. You get straight to the point, don't you?" The voice reminded her of the roar of water crashing against rocks. Something between terror and understanding took hold of Kestrel. She didn't scream, but held still and waited for the world to explain itself and make sense once more.
The wing around her shifted, and the gargoyle's massive stone face grinned down at her. A glimmer of mischief that she couldn't quite explain away as moonlight shone from his eyes.
"Fucking is definitely one of tonight's priorities." He drew her close and pressed her length against his. Her heart pounded in her chest. His leg shifted, and the burning, unmistakable heat of a cock brushed against her thigh.
Since when do they carve these things with cocks?
She gaped up at him, caught somewhere between bewilderment and sheer terror. "Who the hell are you?"
"Lord Damaris, my lady." His smile widened, revealing a mouthful of fangs that gleamed in the moonlight. His tone didn't quite turn the title into a slur, but Kestrel still had enough of her wits about her to recognize that it wasn't meant to be a compliment. "And who, if I may ask, are you?"
"I--Kestrel." He held her too close. Her heart raced, and warmth pulsed through her in response to his own intense heat. She didn't want to like it. She didn't want to admit, even to herself, that she did. She pushed against his chest, for all the good it did her. He may have been a statue come to life, but he still had the strength of stone, and she could no more escape from him than she could her own flesh. She squared her shoulders and glared up at him. "Let me go."
"Now why would you want me to do that? You summoned me."
She blinked at him, but understanding remained elusive. "Summoned you?"
His heartbeat shook his chest beneath her hand. "That's right."
"I didn't summon you."
"But you did."
"How?" she demanded, defiant.
"There are many ways I can be summoned. Sacrifice, of one sort or another. Ritual, or prayer. Strong emotions, even. I've been summoned by women who sat at my feet and wept with grief, a time or two. But you..." He captured her wrist within his large, clawed hand. He twisted it until her palm faced up and unsheathed a claw, tracing it along the dark line of her wound. "Your blood called me."
"No. That was an offering to the dead." Her heart thudded frantically. Panic flooded through her body, and she fought against his hold again. "This is crazy. Let me go!"
His face twisted into an unpleasant expression. For a moment, she thought that he'd refuse, but finally, he released her. She scrambled off of the pedestal and stumbled backwards away from him. The bitter taste of fear clung to the back of her throat. She wanted to turn and flee, to run as far as her legs would carry her, even back to Callia's party, where at least things made sense and statues didn't come to life. But some innate prey instinct took hold of her and she knew better than to turn her back on him.
He didn't follow her. He didn't even descend from his pedestal. He turned slowly away from her, folded his wings against his back, and hung his head as if he was hurt or insulted at her rejection. Kestrel gaped at his audacity.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
He shot her a dark look over his shoulder. “I get one night a year, and this year not even that, because you thought you could
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