Chapter 26
Emma
The moment Conor shoves me into the cabin and slams the door shut, I know we are in trouble. I don't know anything about drexes, but I don't want to be killed by one. I feel fear from Conor, but I also feel determination. He exudes courage I'm not sure I have. Conor's eyes are sharp, his face alert. He'll die for me. If for no other reason, he will die because he is my Guardian and that is what being a gargoyle is. What they lack in prejudice, they make up for in duty and loyalty. I am drawn to that.
"They would have us both die just to see what I'm capable of?" I ask quietly.
Conor walks over to the side of the room and leans against the wall, his eyes on the door.
"Training rule number one: powers are more accessible during times of duress. The drex is not impossible to overcome."
Conor is attempting to take over where Luther left off, and I know he is out of his league. His powers don't come from Hell. There is a snuffling noise now at the door, and I cringe. I haven't seen the drex, but it sounds huge. The sniffing is coming from the top of the door's frame.
And then I feel it.
The entity outside the door is terrifying, a mass of boiling rage that seems to encompass the air around it the same way water fills the ocean. I am scared. I don't want to drown in the mass of flesh sniffing now at the exterior walls of the cabin.
“We can’t hide here forever.” Conor says calmly, his face serene as he leans against the timber wall across from me, suddenly unperturbed by the presence of the drex waiting to eat us, unseasoned and raw, outside the room where we hide. I still feel his fear, but I also feel his resolve. I think he believes staying as calm as he can will help keep me calm as well. I hate to tell him, but it isn't working.
“Why not?” I ask, the bitter taste of defeat already filling my mouth.
I don’t have the ability to turn to stone. And the fact that Conor does suddenly makes me overwhelmingly envious. Conor sees something in my eyes. Maybe it's the sarcasm, the fear, and the jealousy boiling to the surface, but it makes him smile slowly before pushing away from the wall to stand beside me.
“Afraid?” he asks quietly.
“No, I’m just standing here contemplating peeing in my pants for the heck of it.” I remark off-handedly as the snuffling noise outside suddenly grows alarmingly louder. "I don't know what I'm doing, Conor."
Conor watches the door, his face hard.
"Training rule number two: the first step to success is knowing your own limitations. You know yours. Now it's time to find your strength."
The drex throws itself at the door, and the wood buckles. I back into Conor with a shriek, placing my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming louder.
"It eats people," I say quietly. "Can it think too?"
Conor's hands are on my arms now. His mouth is near my ear.
"You tell me, Emma."
I shudder, my focus on the creature outside. Conor's voice is calm, but I don't miss the trembling undertones. He can't feel the creature the way I can. He depends on me for that.
I open myself up, and I am immediately bombarded by rage. Insensible rage. Its mind seems devoid of anything but the instinct to hunt. I feel a need to kill. And then underneath all of the anger, I feel fear. Is it possible that everything, even monsters, fear something?
The drex slams against the door, and the wood collapses, flying into the room.
"Duck, Emma!" Conor shouts, and for the first time I see him turn completely into stone. It's disconcerting. His body is hard but mobile, and he shoves himself between me and the splintering wood. If it hurts him, he doesn't complain.
The drex's head crashes into the room, and Conor shoves us through a small space between the monster's neck and the woods outside. Conor is flesh again now, and we are running. But I have caught a glimpse of the monster, and I am terrified.
Every surface of its long, reptilian, four-legged body is covered in leather-like grooved skin, impossible to penetrate. Its head is massive, heavy enough it hangs sloppily, huge teeth protruding from a muscular snout. It has eyes, but it keeps them lowered to the ground.
I can hear the beast crashing through the trees behind us, and my body tightens in alarm. Conor never falters. He is fast, and his steps are sure. He's battled Demons before. I'm not sure if he's battled a drex, but it's obvious he has field experience.
"Emma, I need you to try and control the Demon!" Conor shouts.
He is pulling on my hand, guiding me through the dense foliage. I'm too stunned to care.
"Control?" I shout back.
The creature is roaring behind us. It is not subtle. It does not attempt subterfuge. It is loud.
"Just trust me, Emma. It's a lesser Demon. You can do it. Get inside its head!"
Conor's words sound crazy, but I've been surrounded by people who know me better than I do for days. I have no choice but to go with it. I throw myself into the Demon, concentrating on its rage, and most importantly, its fear.
I am suddenly no longer running, and when I look for Conor I realize he is carrying me. I start to struggle. Conor's grip tightens.
"Just keep concentrating. I've got you. You take care of the Demon."
I grow still, my mind moving away from Conor and the woods. I am rage again. I don't want to attack it.
Control it, Conor had said. I don't know how to do this. The drex is so very angry. And it fears . . . death maybe?
"Come on, Emma," Conor says, and I know by the urgency I need to do something now.
I am still trapped in the drex's emotions, and I force myself to calm down. My stomach is in knots, and I breathe deeply. I count to myself, and with each new number, I begin to realize something. The drex is slowing, the roaring is lower, confused.
"That's it," Conor breathes.
He is tiring. He is running for two, and it is catching up with him. It doesn't take me long to realize I am calming the drex. I don't know if that's the same thing as controlling it, but it's all I got. My breathing is even now, and I press on Conor's chest to get him to slow down. The drex is no longer running behind us, and Conor stops, his body sagging against a large oak as I slide from his arms.
"Do you know where it is?" Conor asks.
I shake my head, but I don't answer. I am breathing, counting, and projecting. The turmoil in the creature behind us is almost gone. The only thing left is its fear, and I know I haven't done enough. Fear can be just as deadly as rage. I concentrate harder even as I hear the underbrush move, branches snapping as the creature comes into view.
I grind my teeth. It is one thing to project calmness when not faced with the reality of the beast now before me, but now I am fighting not only to keep it calm but myself as well. My heart rate speeds up, and I see the drex's head swing toward us. Its large snout is to the ground, and the brief glimpse I get of its eyes reveals a white sclera laced with red veins. The iris is blood red.
"Breathe, Emma," I tell myself as I face off with the monster. Conor is at my back, and I can feel the tenseness in his body. His breathing is even.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," I tell the drex even though I'm not sure it can hear me.
Its head swings back and forth, and I take a step forward. It howls, low but menacing. I back up again, swallowing hard. I'm not sure how to alleviate fear or even calm it. How do you project an emotion that feels safe?
I take a step closer again and project as many feelings of security I can—love, sanctuary, happiness. I need it to identify us as harmless. The drex quits moving, its head lifting. The eyes have bled to black, the outer ring now a clearer white. It moves toward me, and I fight hard not to tense. I keep my head up, my eyes averted. Even I know one never looks a wild animal in the eyes. It will only encourage a fight for dominance.
Conor's arm goes around my waist, and I feel him preparing mentally and physically for a fight. I grip his arm.
"Don't," I whisper. "Just stay still."
&
nbsp; The drex is in front of me now, and I let it sniff me, its breath hot against my skin. It smells like sulfur, and my nose scrunches involuntarily. And then it whimpers, and I look up. The whimper seems strange in a creature three times the size of a horse, and I find myself fascinated by the beast. I can feel fear again, and I work to calm it. No, not it . . . him. I suddenly know it is male.
"It's afraid of its master," I say quietly.
How I know this now is beyond me, but the emotion is tangible. He isn't afraid of death. He is afraid of being punished.
"Satan," Conor says in my ear, and I shudder.
My control slips. I see it in the drex's eyes. His pupils dilate, redden, and I see him cringe as he looks at Conor. I am suddenly very aware of one thing. He was never going to kill me. I am a Demon. I am his race. The gargoyles are the enemy.
I'm not fast enough. I begin projecting even as the drex's forearm suddenly goes into Conor's back. I hear the breath leave Conor's lungs. The attack is unexpected, and Conor has no time to defend himself.
"No!" I say as Conor goes down on one knee, his forehead creased. He brings me down with him, and in my panic, I project the only thing I know to project.
You are safe, beast. You are mine. You belong to me. You will harm no one.
The drex howls and his body falls to the ground, his head bowed. I am now its dominant. In my desperation, I have tied it to me. I am not sure how I know this or how I feel about it. My mind is too distracted.
Conor is leaning heavily against the tree, and I turn, giving the drex my back as I press against Conor's stomach. There is blood, but I don't know where it's coming from. Conor fights me, his eyes on the monster, but I grip his shirt, and pull it over his head.
"It won't hurt me," I say as I use his t-shirt to swipe at the blood.
There is a deep gash in Conor's side. My face goes pale. The cut is too deep. The shirt is not enough to staunch the flow of blood. Modesty no longer matters, and I pull off my own shirt to add it to his.
Conor's face is white, and I see acceptance in his eyes. He knows he is dying, and he will die because a death while on duty is honorable. I think its bullshit. Yes, bullshit. Not crap, not just plain bull. Bullshit. No one should have to die in training while being chased by a Demon his own people let loose.
The drex is keening. It knows I am angry, but I don't comfort it. Not now. I'm too busy studying Conor's face and remembering the bathroom scene with Fiona earlier.
"Tell me how to heal you!" I beg Conor.
Conor's eyes meet mine.
"Emma . . ." he says. His voice is patient, soft. It makes me angrier.
"Tell me how to heal you!" I shout.
I can tell he wants to shake his head, but he is too weak now.
"I don't know how," he finally whispers.
His skin is clammy, cool. I am crying. I know this because my blood is mixing with his. My chest hurts. The drex is howling, mournful. Conor's eyes close.
I look up at the sky, toward the moon. I know it's there even in daylight.
"Help me," I whisper.
I don't know if she hears me, and I hate that I am calling on her. I am out of options.
Your tears, Emma. Use your tears.
The voice is soft, firm, but not sympathetic. I look down at Conor, swiping my cheeks hurriedly. My tears. It makes no sense. But I have never been one to question things when there is no time to question them.
I let myself cry. I let myself miss my adopted mother, I let myself feel sad and desperate because of the other hybrids' hatred, my own fears. I let myself feel something for Conor. I like him and that's enough. For now, that's enough.
I remove the shirts from Conor's wound. The tears flow, and I sob as I lean over him, the blood-tinged droplets falling onto his side.
He screams. It is a haunting scream, controlled but painful. He struggles below me, and I am thrown backward. I try fighting my way back to him, but he is convulsing.
It is enough
The eerie words do not comfort me. My back is against the drex, and his leathery hide feels warm against my bare skin. He supports me, still keening even as his large, wide eyes watch Conor curiously.
Conor is thrashing but not as wildly. He is calming, and I rush to his side, my eyes on the wound. It's red, angry, but impossibly, miraculously, it is searing closed. I wipe at the blood even as I begin screaming for help. Conor's eyes are open, and he stares at me, his gaze full of disbelief.
"How?" he asks.
I ignore him, yelling even louder. My throat hurts, but I am rewarded with the sound of running feet. The drex stands, its body tense. And then suddenly, Luther is behind me.
"You just had to save him," Luther says with a shake of his head. He is amused.
I look over my shoulder at him. Emotions slam into me, and my eyes widen as I look into his calm eyes.
"You knew," I say. "You knew this would happen?"
Luther shrugs.
"I suspected."
"You bastard!" I spit. If I ever cared about my language, I don't anymore. Luther steps closer.
"You have made a drex into a pet, and you have healed your own Guardian. Leaving you alone was worth it. You make your mother proud, Emma."
I want to yell at Luther, to curse him a blue streak, but my upbringing makes the two words I want to say difficult for me. Conor doesn't have the same qualms. He speaks for us both.
"Fuck you, Craig," he says weakly.
Luther laughs as he leans over the gargoyle.
"How about them lines now, Reinhardt? Pretty bloody damned blurred aren't they?"