I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the moon.
"It might help if you count sheep," Conor says gruffly from the floor. I know I'm irritating him. I keep rocking my legs rhythmically under the covers. For some reason, the habit has always helped lull me to sleep, but it isn't working tonight. And Rachel is snoring lightly on the opposite side of the bed.
"Counting doesn't help," I murmur.
"And yet, it calms you?" he points out.
I stare up at the ceiling.
"It calms me, yes, but mostly, it helps me put things in perspective. Numbers are reliable more often than not."
Conor grows quiet. I begin to think he has fallen asleep when I hear rustling. He sits up, his head and shoulders now visible above the bed. He is shirtless, having pulled his tee over his head before lying down earlier. Rachel has been asleep now for a couple of hours.
"The Acropolis will be good for you, Emma," Conor says as he brings one knee up, draping an arm casually across his leg.
"You don't know me well enough to know that."
I don't sit up, but I do roll my head to the side. He looks down at me.
"You have powers you need to learn to harness. That's all I need to know about you."
Powers haven't been a concern for me until the gargoyles came into my life, but I didn't mention this fact.
"You'd rather still be dying?" Conor asks, his eyes bright.
The room is mostly dark, the only light a narrow beam that plays across the floor from the cracked bedroom door. It highlights Conor's face.
"Honestly? It's less terrifying." I turn my head away. "At least when I was dying, I was loved."
Memories assault me. Memories of me and my mother. She is always holding me. Moment after moment, test after test, doctor's office after doctor's office, she is always holding me.
"Emma," Conor says. He pauses, and I jump when his fingers suddenly graze my chin. He pulls my face back toward the side of the bed gently. "Your mom is going to be fine."
His eyes search mine. I don't know what he's looking for, but he doesn't seem to find it. I wait for his hand to drop, but it doesn't. I know he's right. Mom is going to be fine. As long as she thinks I'm okay, she is going to be just fine. It's me I'm worried about. I scare myself. The ball of flame and the vision downstairs had been the last straw.
"Red hair . . . blood," I whisper. I know I'm not making any sense, but Conor's eyes stay locked on mine, and he doesn't look confused.
"Dayton," Conor whispers. "The red hair is Dayton. You had a vision, Emma. What you saw was part of my past."
Conor's hand finally falls away from my face. I feel cold.
"She's one of my closest friends," Conor says, his face now averted. I'm not daring enough to make him look at me.
"You're in love with her?" I ask.
"I thought I was."
I should let the subject drop . . .
"What happened?"
Conor shrugs, his muscular shoulders lifting only slightly.
"Turns out Dayton isn't entirely human. Her aunt is part of a sect that has strange beliefs. They bound her to Marcas, a hybrid Demon. That's the really short, condensed version. And, strangely, I think she's falling for him. Marcas, I mean."
"I'm sorry," I whisper. Conor shakes his head.
"Don't be." He looks back down at me and smiles. It is a boyish grin, crooked, that hints at a dimple. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
That is truth exemplified.
"You hungry?" Conor asks suddenly. He stands up, his head cocked.
I sit up slowly, looking over the side of the bed at Rachel. She is drooling. Conor offers me his hand.
"Big ol' tub of Ben and Jerry's downstairs . . ." Conor says, his brows lifting suggestively. "It's been my experience you girls have secret love affairs with that masculine dubbed confection. Me, I'm dyin' to finish off that carton of Chinese."
Conor's light humor is contagious. He has a way of making people feel comfortable even in the most awkward situations. I hesitate, my hand lifting slowly.
"Mint chocolate chip?" I ask.
I want to sound playful, hopeful, but I think I only come across as insecure. Conor smiles.
"A girl after my own heart. I'm a sucker for mint. Mom keeps it stocked."
I place my hand in his. Touching Conor is like being hit by lightning. There is just something so magnetic about him.
"Fifty-two steps, give or take," Conor says as we reach his bedroom door.
I feel my face heat. He laughs at my expression, his hand tightening around mine.
"One . . ." he says. I stare at him in disbelief. "Two . . ."
He moves slowly down the stairs, and I follow, my chest tight. He is counting. Counting. And he is doing it because he knows it calms me, gives me something to rely on in a rocky situation.
"Fifty . . ."
Two more steps and we are back inside the kitchen. Night has transformed it. Moonlight spills in through the French doors, reflecting like diamonds on the smooth pool just outside. The stainless steel appliances shine in the dark, and a utility light above the stove casts a faint glow across the concrete floors.
I am moving forward absently when I feel Conor's free hand touch my elbow.
"Whoa, sweetheart! Not so fast."
His words bring me out of my reverie, and I realize I am trying to pull him toward the French doors. Toward the moon.
"Who is she?"
I don't use the word "mother" because I don't consider the unknown evil stranger who'd sired me a parent. That title belongs to a woman sitting worriedly either in Atlanta or Illinois.
I keep staring at the French doors. Beside me, Conor is quiet. One of my hands is still in his, and I use it as an anchor. The night speaks to me.
"Darlin', I think it's going to take that whole tub of Ben and Jerry's to answer that question."
He tugs on my hand, and I follow him. Once we are next to the refrigerator, the French doors no longer in view, he lets go of my hand.
"Who is she?" I ask again.
Conor sighs as he pulls a carton of ice cream out of the freezer, tugging the lid off before plunging two spoons from a nearby drawer into the green confection.
"Do you really want the answer to that question now?" he asks me.
I see the uncertainty in his eyes, the internal battle raging behind the calm facade he fights to keep in place.
I stare at him. I hadn't wanted to know, had been content letting the gargoyles talk about me as if I wasn't present. But now . . . I am accepting the fact that in less than twenty-four hours my life has changed. It isn't something I can ignore. I have attacked two people, had a vision, and felt the need to jump out of a window at the sight of the moon. I need to know why.
"I want to know," I say confidently.
Here, now, I am safe. Conor grumbles a little before suddenly grabbing me by the waist, using his hands to lift me onto a small kitchen island. He pulls one of the spoons out of the ice cream, hands it to me, and then takes a bite of his own before leaning on the bar next to me. I'm not all that hungry, but I follow his example. The mint flavor is fresh, soothing.
"Your mother's name is Enepsigos. In myth, she is a two-headed she-Demon linked to the moon."
Conor is blunt, quick. It is like having a band-aid ripped off a wound. The pain is there but fleeting. The Demon part I'd known. Now I have a name. The ice cream is suddenly too thick, and I swallow hard before placing my spoon back in the carton.
"Two-headed?" I ask nervously.
Conor looks up at me, his eyes soft.
"In reality, she's a beautiful, bewitching creature who only takes two-headed form when angry. She's a mild-tempered Demon, considered affable. But she is powerful, Em, and that always attracts people who want to abuse power. Your mother has a long history."
She isn't my mother, but I don't correct him.
"What kind of history?"
"Have you ever heard o
f King Solomon?"
I have. I don't have a religious past. My family has not been the church-going type, but I know who Solomon is. He is as much a part of myth as he is Biblical doctrine. Conor places his spoon next to mine.
"Enepsigos was once bound to Solomon with a triple-link chain. She can tell the future, and he used her for the prophecies."
The vision from earlier makes sense now. Somewhat.
"So I can see the future?" I ask carefully.
Conor shakes his head.
"The vision you had was of the past, but seeing the future isn't out of the question."
I look away, my eyes landing unconsciously on the French doors. Only one door is visible from the island, but even the hint of moonlight makes my heart hurt. I don't want to discuss Enepsigos anymore. My pulse has quickened. My head is pounding.
"Em . . . there's no reason for you to be anxious. You're not as terrified as you think you are. Fear triggers a fight response in you. Once you learn to control it, you will be a force to be reckoned with."
I close my eyes.
"I don't want these powers."
Conor's hand covers mine. For once, I don't jump.
"You can make them an asset. They only hurt you if you refuse to learn how to use them."
I open my eyes and look down into Conor's upturned face.
"And you would know this?"
Conor doesn't answer. He just gazes at me as if he is trying to decipher my thoughts. I mentally withdraw. I am not an open person. Conor frowns, his hand lifting mine.
"I would know this," he answers.
His hand suddenly grows hard, and I watch in horror as it turns to stone around mine. It isn't the first time he's done this, but I hadn't really been able to see it before. I try pulling away, but the stone is unrelenting.
"Power is like having an extra limb. Learn to use it, and you are no different than anyone else. Not physically anyway."
I quit fighting him and lift my other hand to touch his stone one tentatively.
"Can you even feel that?" I ask. He laughs.
"Every bit of it. Feels just like it would if you were caressing my flesh-like hand."
I pull away quickly. It is odd and a little embarrassing knowing he can feel me rub him. Conor's hand returns to normal.
"Turning to stone isn't my only ability, Emma. It's just the most obvious. Like you, I had a lot to learn."
I keep staring at his hand. The transformation is amazing. Warm and soft, cold and hard, and then warm and soft again.
"You can do more?"
My eyes move to his. Our gazes lock. He smiles.
"How much did you want that ice cream?" he asks.
I am instantly confused.
"Not much. Why?"
A drop of water hits my nose. It startles me, and I look up. Another drop hits my forehead, then another.
"Conor," I whisper.
His arms go around my waist, and he lifts me off the counter.
"Hold on," he says as he moves me to the floor. "Look up."
I did as told.
"Oh, my God!"
Water falls from the sky out of nowhere. We are inside his house and it is raining. It is raining.
"Gargoyles can control water," he whispers against my ear.
I am soaked in minutes.
"H-how?"
Conor gestures at the sink, and I look to find water streaming from the faucet only to be pulled up into the air before falling over our heads. The sink isn't even on. The water is cold, but it feels good against my skin.
"Amazing."
I look back up at Conor only to discover his face is entirely too close to mine. I step away, my back hitting the edge of the island. He shakes his head.
"You don't like to be close to people, do you?" he asks.
The rain stops. I don't answer him. I stand silently instead, my hands gripping the counter until my knuckles are white. Conor leans forward, his hands coming to rest on each side of me on the island, his fingers sinking into a layer of water.
"I can't figure you out, Em. Getting inside your head is damn difficult."
The water around us lifts, flowing back into the sink as if it had never existed. Even my clothes and hair are as dry as they had been before. I keep my eyes averted.
"There is nothing to figure out," I mumble. Conor laughs a little.
"Oh, I think there is. It's the quiet ones who think the most."
"N-n-no," I insist, looking anywhere but at him.
I move back as far as I can before glancing over his shoulder, my eyes landing automatically on the French doors. A grotesque face peers back at me, its mouth spread wide, its grin wicked.
My body is suddenly hot, my pulse races. I scream.