Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

Fit us to a tee.

Fortunately for us, the library opened early, and we were among the first to go inside. An elderly woman with reading glasses attached to her head by a gold chain gazed at us from the front desk. I smiled, and she smiled back. The familiar scents of leather and old books filled the main foyer.

I strode toward the staircase and bounded up to the third floor. Wyatt followed at a slower pace, constantly tossing furtive looks over his shoulder even though we were pretty much alone. None of the librarians paid us any mind. On the third-floor landing, the corridor branched left into the fiction room. Directly ahead, the marble steps became a metal spiral that continued upward. A red velvet rope hung across, sporting a sign that announced: “Employees Only.”

After double-checking that we were still alone, I stepped over the rope and continued up. Our footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, and it seemed to get smaller the higher we went. At the next landing we were presented with two doors—one marked PRIVATE, and the other ROOF ACCESS. We picked door number two and went up again.

I pushed open the exit door. Bright morning sunlight glared into my eyes. Facing east, the sun sat above the city’s horizon like an orange ball of flame. A cool breeze tickled my cheeks. I inhaled the odors of gasoline and exhaust and asphalt—the scent of my city.

Wyatt touched my elbow; I moved out of the way.

The exterior of the door was painted to match the exterior stone, which rose up like a castle turret to create a faked fifth floor. It was all alcoves and empty space inside, the perfect resting place for a gargoyle. A gravel path surrounded the hollow upper section. It was the only barrier between the building and a four-story drop to the asphalt below.

We crunched across the gravel and turned the corner to the north wall. One of the window insets had been smashed in, allowing a four-foot-wide access to the shadowy interior.

“Think he’s home?” Wyatt asked.

“Should be,” I said. “It’s well after sunrise, and Max is more allergic than most. Just talking about the sun makes his skin crackle.”

A common misconception about gargoyles: they don’t turn to stone during the day and fly freely at night as some myths suggest. A stone gargoyle is a dead one. Like their vampire cousins, gargoyles are highly allergic to direct sunlight. Exposure dries out their skin and turns it slowly to stone. Five minutes or more of direct sunlight changes them completely. A difference in genetics makes the vampire less stable, easier to shatter into dust. Gargoyles, on the other hand, are solid.

Ever since the first stone gargoyles were discovered and placed on churches and cathedrals, humans have been creating their own, modeling them after cats and dogs and every other animal imaginable. Real gargoyles look more like squared-off humans, with block heads, fangs, wide mouths, long front arms, and short wings. How they manage to fly with those little wings is beyond me, but they do.

“Is he going to recognize you like Smedge did?” Wyatt asked.

“I hope so. I don’t feel like taking a flying leap off this building if he gets testy.”

“Ditto.”

I climbed through first, eyes adjusting quickly to the dim interior. The faint, sweet odor of rot hit me first, but not strong enough to create a sense of dread. Max liked cleanliness in his nest. Even without looking, I knew a pile of bird bones was heaped in the left corner of the man-made cave—mostly pigeon bones, but Max would settle for a swallow or robin if nothing else presented itself.

The far right corner was cast in deep shadow, farthest from the entrance. Our bodies blocked the thin shafts of sunlight, creating a prison-bar pattern on the stone floor. Something shifted in the shadow, a sound like sandpaper on metal. A deep growl filled the space, vibrating in my chest. The short hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

“Max?” I said. “It’s Evangeline Stone and Wyatt Truman.”

Snuffling, and then a thick baritone, full of clicks and rasps, asked, “Why the new look, Evangeline?”

“I died and rose again. We just had a few minor hitches. You gonna come out and say hello?”

He withdrew from the shadows, lumbering forward on thick haunches. His back was curved slightly, thanks to the weight of his massive, muscular forearms. His head was almost perfectly squared, and his mouth nearly as wide as his entire face. Two thick fangs hung down over his lower lip. A sharp brow ridge accentuated his large, luminous eyes. Gargoyles had no hair, only pointed ears and a smooth head.

Max walked forward, into the dim light. Behind me, Wyatt shifted, becoming defensive. I reached back, found his arm, and squeezed. He stilled, but tension rippled beneath his shirt. I didn’t blame him. Most people freaked at the sight of a seven-foot-tall gargoyle.

“Hello,” Max said. “I had heard through the Clans that you died, Evangeline. I am pleased you have risen and shall rejoice in it.”

“Don’t rejoice too much, it’s just temporary,” I said. “I have a puzzle to solve, and I was hoping you’d be able to give me a few of the pieces.”

“You have only to ask for my assistance, and you shall receive it. You know this, as you have come to me many times.”

Very true. Outside of Danika and my Triad, Max was the closest thing I’d known to a friend, and I often asked him for advice. “I came to you a week ago,” I said. “Why?”

“You do not remember?”

“No, there was a hiccup in my resurrection. I can’t remember the very important information that I was brought back to reveal.”

Never play poker with a gargoyle. They epitomize the term “stone-faced,” and that comes pun-free. His impassive face loomed above me for several seconds, betraying nothing, until he finally said, “We have not spoken directly in two weeks, Evangeline. If you came uptown a week ago, you either found me not at home or not at all.”

My mouth fell open, hope fleeing with it. “Seriously?”

“I am serious. We do not understand your humor.”

“Where were you last Wednesday night, going into Thursday?” Wyatt asked, stepping up to my side.

Gargoyle poker face strikes again. “Hunting,” he said. “I am rarely at home during the nighttime hours; Evangeline knows this. She was foolish to think she would find me here that night.”

“I would have waited for you to come back,” I said. Flames of annoyance sparked my temper, frustration fanning it into a low burn. “I would have waited if what I had to ask you was that important, and damnit, it was. Wyatt is the last person that I remember seeing before my memory blanks, and if he says I came uptown to Fourth Street, I was coming to see you.”

“I do not doubt the intention, only the outcome. Perhaps your journey was interrupted by other forces.” Max’s gaze flickered to Wyatt. “If you did, indeed, come in this direction.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Wyatt asked.

I reached out and placed a calming hand on Wyatt’s chest. His heart thrummed against my hand, beating furiously with his anger. “I trust Wyatt,” I said to Max. “If he says I came here, then I did. Or I tried to, and didn’t get that far. But since I obviously didn’t, and we have you here now, what have you heard about a pact being made between goblins and Bloods?”

Something flickered in his stony face. I couldn’t quite nail it. Surprise, maybe, or dismay. My words had finally made an impact.

“Such a pact would be devastating to humans,” Max said.

“You think so?” I deadpanned. Then, remembering the lack-of-humor thing, I added, “Yes, it would be. Very devastating, and that’s apparently what I was investigating when I was kidnapped and tortured to death. Is there anything you’ve heard?”