Chapter 19
Conor
I lead Emma from the chateau and into the gardens. She is too astute. Her powers, though untrained, are growing. She is picking up on the emotions around her, and I am afraid. I'm not afraid of Emma. I'm afraid of the emotions she may feel coming from me.
"The beating you just got in the main hall . . . that's just the beginning," I say as I approach one of the stone walls surrounding the gardens.
I lift her up before she has a chance to argue, placing her on the wall as I pull the hem of my shirt out of my jeans. I lift it over my head and place it against Emma's scalp. At this rate, and if the last two days prove statistically correct, Emma is going to be seeing me shirtless more than any other female.
"I can do it," Emma says, taking my shirt from me as she shifts uncomfortably, her cheeks flushing. I am a few inches away from her, my face three inches below hers where she sits on the low wall, and I am amused by her reaction.
"You really haven't had much interaction with the opposite sex, have you?" I ask.
It's a personal question, and it's against the rules. The flush on Emma's cheeks darkens. I can't help but smile.
"Are you making fun of me?" she asks. I see the hurt in her eyes, and I pat her leg gently.
"Never, Em. I like joking around, and I tend to make dark situations lighter than I should, but I don't make fun of anything someone else has no control of, and I hate innuendos."
Her eyes find the Acropolis, her gaze roaming the stone building with unease.
"I'm afraid of you," she says suddenly.
This startles me, and I stare up at her. Her eyes meet mine, and I see the candid honesty in her gaze.
"I'm scared of what you represent," she continues. "I'm scared because I know what I am, and I know you are guarding something you hate.
I'm at a loss for words, and I struggle to find something to say that won't ruin the tenuous bond a Guardian is supposed to have with his mark. She isn't entirely human. This makes the bond even harder to create.
"I don't hate you," I say carefully.
She smiles sadly.
"You hate what I am. It's the same thing."
"I don't . . ." I begin, but she is watching me closely now, and she leans forward unexpectedly.
"What did they take from you?" she asks.
She doesn't have to elaborate on who "they" are. It's why I fear her. I don't like sharing how I feel about anything. I hide behind charm and wit. I hide behind lighthearted small talk. I start to lie, but then I realize she'll know I'm not being truthful.
"Demons killed my father."
It is all I say, but it's enough. I see the compassion in her gaze, and I hate her for it. She feels the hate, and her brows furrow. I see her lips part, and I stop her.
"Don't, Em."
She looks away again.
"What are the training sessions," she asks instead, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"You'll meet with hybrid Demons, others of your kind who have been trained to teach you how to manage and use your powers. Sometimes, you'll be pitted against another student to test your violent tendencies. Violent cases are sent away."
Emma nods, her eyes still on the school.
"The violent are killed," she says matter-of-factly. I don't disagree.
"Most of the time, yes."
She shudders, her hand lowering, my blood-splattered white shirt sitting in her palm.
"Who is Pleiades?" she asks.
It's a wise question. Emma is as logical as she is perceptive.
"Pleiades is a Demon made up of seven women bound together. Each bound woman represents a human weakness: jealousy, deception, strife, power, battle , error . . . she's an awful Demon. Very multifaceted."
"And Lyre?" Emma asks. I know what she's asking, and I sigh.
"Lyre has shown an aptitude for battle and deception. Today, she proved she has also inherited her mother's tendency toward jealousy and power."
"And my mother?" Emma insists. Her voice shakes, and I know she fears my answer.
"Enepsigos is considered friendly, but she is powerful. Your mother is incredibly old. If she has had children before, we haven't discovered them. You are beginning to present with powers similar to hers. You already know she has visions of the future. She can also read emotion, feed from it. We won't know what else you've inherited until you learn to tap into your powers.
Emma is quiet then. I'm not sure she really knows how to have a conversation that isn't based solely on what she needs to know. Being around her is like being slapped with reality. In retrospect, I think it's why I chose to be her Guardian. I refuse to believe it's for any other reason. She looks defeated.
"You don't need to fear being exterminated," I say.
Emma looks at me then, her expression even.
"I don't fear death," she says. Her voice is calm, and her admission surprises me.
"Everyone is afraid of death."
Emma laughs. It's the first time I've heard her amused, and it sends tingles down my spine. The smile, the flash of teeth, the humor in her eyes transforms her. Again, I admire a beauty that isn't always noticeable. Her beauty is subtle.
"I really don't fear death. It's one fear I've never had. I have been dying for six years. I've had a long time to make peace with death. And now . . . I'm living. And I think, if I'm being completely honest, I'm afraid of not dying."
I watch her face so close to mine, and I feel my heart rate pick up slightly.
"You're afraid of living?" I ask. I'm having a hard time understanding why getting a second chance at life scares her. Emma shakes her head.
"I'm not afraid of living. I'm afraid of what I might become given enough time."
I tell myself the catch in my throat isn't me beginning to like her. I don't need the complication.
"I'm afraid of letting down the woman who raised me," Emma adds.
I can tell she wants to cry, but she swallows hard, and I watch as she forces the tears away. No crying for Emma. Her bloody tears will mark her as weak. It's the quickest way to die in the Acropolis.
"You'll need to learn to hide your fears, to use them rather than let them rule you," I say. I ignore her moment of weakness, and she looks at me with gratitude.
"I'll learn," she promises.
And I know she will. I know she will because she has to. And Emma is pragmatic. She does what she has to. It's the sign of a good leader, a protector. Being practical is what makes our best gargoyles great. This is why I chose Emma. Because beneath the fear, beneath the uncertainty, beneath her Demonic behavior is the heart of a hero. And because of who her mother is, she has a hell of a lot more to prove. To herself and to the Acropolis. She is what the Acropolis was built for. If we fail her, then the school is a failure.
Emma jumps down suddenly, using her hand to shove my shirt into my palm. Her amber eyes are bright.
"You think you know me," she says.
She is reading the emotions rolling off of me. There is respect there, but there is also doubt. I don't doubt her. I doubt her lineage. I doubt the ability of a Demon to be more than evil. But what she doesn't know, what I have successfully hidden from her is that I want her to prove me wrong.
"You don't know me," she insists. And she's right. I don't. We've had this conversation before. Maybe it's because saying something over and over makes one believe it. Maybe it's because neither one of us wants to admit we know the other more than we want to. Because in the end, Demon or no, we are a lot alike. Because in the end, both of us need to prove something to ourselves. Because in the end, failure isn't an option. I nod at the school.
"Training begins now."
She nods. The fear is in her eyes, but she follows me toward the building while counting under her breath. Bravery is being afraid of something and facing it anyway. Emma is brave.