Chapter 6
Emma
Conor Reinhardt is charming. He is funny. He is handsome. And he is a figment of my imagination. If he isn't, then I am a hybrid Demon who isn't dying, and he is a gargoyle sent to Extract and guard me. Whatever that means.
After spending six years living under the fear of death, it is easier to believe he is imaginary. Old habits die hard.
"I'm not sure I want to believe you," I say quietly.
It just isn't easy to accept the world can change that drastically in an instant. He is saying that fairy tales are reality. Gargoyles? Hybrid Demons?
"I wouldn't want to believe me either," Conor replies. "But consider this; you have lived with a constant fever for six years with hospital stays and I.V.'s that couldn't reduce your temperature. Do you really think that's any less freakish than flying with a dude that can turn to stone?"
He has a point. But fevers are less frightening than his alternative. I had grown used to fevers. I'd had six years to come to terms with fevers. Six years.
"I can't be a Demon."
Why I say this is beyond me, but the words slip out. Conor sighs.
"It's not as bad as it sounds."
No, it is worse. Demons are terrifying creatures. They are grotesque. They are evil. I read books. And author renditions of Demons aren't comforting. They are horrifying. I am close to hyperventilating when Conor speaks again.
"Some Demons aren't evil. And hybrids are even less prone to being bad."
He is trying to sound reassuring, but I hear the reluctance in his voice.
"You don't sound like you believe that," I whisper.
He is quiet far longer than I feel comfortable with.
"I didn't believe it. At first. But . . . I have begun to see things a little differently recently."
"Recently?"
I am prying, but I feel I deserve any information he is willing to give. If I am imagining this, then it is one very interesting dream. Conor shifts almost uncomfortably, which I think impressive considering we are flying. I close my eyes and count to ten. Counting helps keep me calm.
"I have a friend who is working with a hybrid Demon. She seems to trust him, and I trust her judgment. And there have been others in the past . . . it's opened some eyes, made protectors like me realize that not all hybrids are as evil as their Demonic parent."
I am having a nightmare. I have to be. Demonic parent? I think about my mom, my adopted mom, and I feel tears prick the back of my eyes. She is an amazing mother. She is the only parent I need. She is the only parent I want.
"I'm not a Demon," I say coldly.
Conor's left arm tightens around my waist. His other arm lifts, his hand sweeping my hair out of my face before swiping some of the grime from my cheek. It is a familiar gesture, a gesture he seems entirely too comfortable with. Something tells me he's the flirty type, that he's used to being familiar with females.
"Life isn't about getting what we want. It's about turning the crappy cards we're dealt into a winning hand," he says wryly.
Now he sounds like a therapist. A good one, not one like Helen"Helga" Reed. Good therapists only give advice about things they know about.
"You sound like you speak from experience," I say.
Conor snorts.
"You could say that. Being a gargoyle isn't easy, Em. Sometimes it's easier being the bad guy. At least then, if you screw up, it isn't taken personally. It's just expected. The lower your expectations, the lower you have to reach for approval. Mortals, even hybrids, have more choices than we do."
"Choices?"
I am getting sucked in.
"Choices," he repeats."About life. Gargoyles are born with our future planned. It's a noble future, and we have regular jobs as well, but it is still planned. We aren't punished for deviating, but we are demoted."
He is definitely speaking from experience.
"And have you ever been demoted?"
I ask this quietly. Even in my quest to know more, I am trespassing. Conor doesn't answer.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. It really isn't any of my business.
"No, it's fine," Conor assures."Yes, I've been demoted."
It is all he says, and I don't ask any more questions. I am tired, and I am still not entirely convinced this whole gargoyle/Demon thing is kosher.
"We're just above my home," Conor whispers suddenly in my ear, and I jerk. Logical Emma wants me to look down. Instinct tells me not to, and even without looking, I can feel the panic attack coming on.
"Deep breaths," Conor reminds me.
I start breathing in and out the same way pregnant women in labor do. It isn't attractive, but it is better than passing out.
"Deeper breaths, Sweetheart. You really don't want to meet my mother while only half-conscious. She's hard to deal with after eight hours of sleep and a whole pot of coffee."
I am practically panting now, my eyes squeezed shut.
"You're not helping," I say through gritted teeth. Conor chuckles.
"The only way to defeat these fears of yours is to face them."
It isn't that I disagree with Conor's logic, it's that I honestly don't want to agree with it. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, my breathing hard until I feel my feet hit something solid. And even then, I still pant like an idiot.
"You can look now," Conor says, his tone laced with amusement.
"You mother is going to love this," Will murmurs as he comes up beside us.
His words, dripping with sarcasm, finally makes me open my eyes. We are on a pleasant street in early afternoon. There are houses spaced a nice distance apart. We are facing a two-level red brick home with a wraparound porch and burgundy shutters. The sun glints off a pool just visible from where we are standing on the front lawn. There is a black Mercedes parked in the drive in front of a closed garage.
"Are you counting yet?" Conor whispers to Will.
Will smiles.
"Already on four . . . . "
There is a scream from inside the house. I jump, my body instantly ready to bolt. Conor is prepared, his arm still tight around my waist, and he pulls my thrashing frame more tightly against his chest.
"Calm down, Darling. That's just Roach scaring the hell out of my mother. He was in his gargoyle form, which means once he reverted back to his mortal form, he was naked as the day he was born. And, Lord knows, you didn't want to see that on my front lawn."
Will is laughing now, his face red as he leans over, his hands resting against his thighs. My body is in flight mode. Even if I want to laugh, it isn't happening.
"Conor Philip Reinhardt!" a woman yells hoarsely.
Conor flinches. His initials are C.P.R.? Seriously?
The house's large, white-framed front door slams open, and I find myself staring at a tall blonde-haired, intimidating woman in a black business skirt, buttoned up navy blue-collared top, and black two-inch heels. She is scowling . . . until she sees me. One glance in my direction, and her mouth forms a silent "o", a hand coming to rest delicately over her lips. Her gaze moves between Conor and Will.
"What is that?" she asks as Conor prods me from behind.
We are moving toward the house now, my eyes taking in the woman as we approach her. She is so . . . put together. Her blue eyes are sharp, and her hair seems afraid to move. Realistically, she has to be in her forties, but she doesn't look a day over thirty, if that much.
"This is Conor's escort job," Will supplies as we finally reach the porch. I find a semblance of dirty humor in the situation. Escort does not sound appropriate.
Conor's mom looks me over skeptically. I am pretty sure I don't look human.
"This is Emma Chase, Mother. Emma, this is my mother, Beatrice Reinhardt. Bea," Conor says firmly, his tone laced with warning. Bea's gaze moves between us before taking in the solid grip Conor has on my arms. I am shaking.
"Is she injured?" Bea asks.
Both Conor and Will shake their heads. Bea sighs, movi
ng aside as she opens the door wider. I catch a glimpse of stained concrete floors. Large potted plants stand like sentinels on each side of the door. Roach, wrapped in a silk, pink robe that only comes to his knees, stands crossly about a foot behind Conor's mom. I hear Will snigger. I don't want to go inside the house.
"It's going to be fine, Em," Conor whispers into my ear. Bea watches us thoughtfully. I don't move.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Bea exclaims before stepping outside and pulling me effortlessly out of Conor's embrace. My heart rate goes through the roof, and my skin warms.
"Hurt me, and I'll kill you," Bea says sweetly when I start pulling at her arm.
Her words don't make me struggle any less. She is shorter than I am, coming only to my neck in her heels. It should comfort me, but it doesn't.
"It's a fight response," Roach says callously. "I tried telling your son that in Atlanta, but he felt the need to hurry off without any preparation. One of these days, he's going to get someone killed."
"Shut up, Roach," Conor growls. "There wasn't time for your medical mumble jumble. And nothing you could have done would've helped." Conor looks at his mother. "The girl's body rejects all medication."
They are talking about me as if I'm not present, and it is scary how much they know about me.
"S-s-so you are a d-doctor?" I ask, my gaze on Roach. He doesn't look old enough to be a doctor. Twenty-something, maybe. His eyes narrow.
"No, I study monsters."
I cry out without meaning to.
"You're a heartless son of a bitch," Conor says coldly.
Bea jerks me toward a staircase a few feet inside the door. The stairs are hardwood, no carpet. To the side of the stairs is a large livingroom with the same stained concrete floors as the entry.
"Enough. Both of you. Conor, take the girl upstairs, show her to the bathroom, and get her one of your shirts to wear. Now," Bea orders, her eyes hard. She lets go of my arm. "Will, you and Roach, get in the kitchen and fill me in."
"Yes m'am," Will says quickly as Conor replaces his mother at my side. He takes me by the elbow and nods at the stairs.
"After you," he says softly.
They don't leave me any choice. I start climbing. Conor follows.
"There's a shower in my room. You can use that. I'll leave my closet open, and you can take anything out you think will fit. As for your jeans, I'm afraid you're stuck with those. You might be tall for a girl, but you're skinny as hell."
I am not rolling in compliments today. Conor steers me to an open doorway at the top of the stairs, and I stop just inside the room. It is awkward for me, standing inside a guy's room. My life has consisted only of my mother and me. My sickness hasn't allowed for school. I was home-schooled instead, tutors teaching me what my mother couldn't. And what the tutors couldn't teach, I learned through books and online classes. It was a hard way to learn, but it also allowed me to get ahead. I am only one test away from completing my senior year.
"Bathroom's just through there," Conor says, his hand gesturing. "I'm going to sit outside the door." He pauses a moment before turning to me. "Don't try and run, Em. It's not safe. You're going to have to trust me."
His voice brings me out of my reverie, and I glance around the room. It is a large room, the walls tan, the floors hardwood with a king-size bed covered in camouflage pushed against the wall near a window hidden by wooden blinds. The room is clean. Too clean. The only mess is a littered desk covered in football knickknacks and a stack of books. Conor notices me staring.
"I'm not home much."
I don't say anything, and he doesn't elaborate. He walks away from me, pulls a sliding closet door open, and then exits the room.
"Don't try anything, Em. Trust me," he says before pulling the door to.
"I don't know you," I whisper as the door clicks shut.
I look toward the bathroom, at a mirror hanging over a white porcelain sink, and almost scream. There is blood everywhere. My entire face is caked with dried bloody tears, my neck and shirt front covered in the same rusty mess. My eyes are startling in comparison, the amber color almost red. I walk slowly toward my reflection, stepping onto the white linoleum carefully. I am looking at a stranger. I have to get it off!
My fears are cancelled out by the sudden desperate need to look and feel human. I tear at my clothes, pulling the shirt off urgently before shedding the rest of my attire. I turn on Conor's shower and step away from it briefly. There is a ceiling-to-floor cabinet on the opposite side of the bathroom filled with terry-cloth white towels and two bottles of shampoo. There is no conditioner.
I grab the towel and shampoo and step into the steaming water. I can't scrub hard enough. The water pouring onto my feet goes from clear to red, and I have to fight not to sob. Crying means more blood.
My toes and fingers are numb with fear even as hot water flows in rivulets down my body. It is like watching one of those horror movies where blood signals a dead body hanging just overhead. I don't look up.
"Emma? You okay?"
It is Conor's voice, and I shake myself. The bedroom door might be closed, but the bathroom door is still open. There is no more blood, but I am still scrubbing. The water is clear again. And still I scrub.
"Emma?"
I hiccup, my hands clenched around a bar of soap I have found resting in a dish on the side of the tub. I hear the bedroom door creak open from beyond the shower curtain.
"I'm fine!" I squeak.
The door closes again slowly, and I stand there. My whole body shakes. It isn't the bloody water that scares me anymore. I am standing in a stream of hot water, my body being caressed by the steaming flow, and I'm not waking up. My skin is turning pink, my fingers are getting prune-y, and I am not waking up. I WAS NOT waking up!
I lean over and switch off the water, but I still don't move. Instead, I stare down at myself, at my size B chest, my too skinny stomach, my, thankfully, clean shaven legs, and my unpainted toenails. If I'm not dreaming, then . . . .
"I'm not human," I whisper.
I step out of the tub and lean against the sink for support. Water pools on the floor below, but I ignore it as I bend over, bringing my face as close to the mirror as I can. My cheeks are clean now, my skin flushed from the shower. I pull at my eyelids, examining them. Nothing looks different. Maybe I'm human after all. Maybe I had just been kidnapped by a bunch of psychopaths who belonged to some strange gargoyle cult.
"Emma?" Conor calls.
I know I have been standing here too long, that he has heard the shower shut off, and I am in danger of being found standing naked in front of his bathroom sink. I reach for the terry-cloth towel and wrap it around myself.
"I'm fine," I say.
"That word is never good when uttered by a female," Conor complains as I lean down to retrieve my discarded clothes.
I step into my underwear and jeans and slide my bra on, fastening it as I make my way over to Conor's closet. It is obvious his family has money. Most everything is brand name. Everything I own came from either Target or Wal-Mart. Medical bills have put my mother in debt.
I start flipping through his hangers cautiously, finally landing on a plain, nondescript white button-up long-sleeve shirt. It doesn't look as if it has ever been worn. That fact alone cinches the selection for me, and I put it on.
"Coming in," Conor warns.
My hands shake as I fasten the shirt, and I just manage the top button when the door swings open. Conor leans against the door jam, his gaze taking me in slowly.
"I want to call my mother," I say, my arms falling to my sides.
Conor pushes away from the door and moves across the room, his hand digging in his blue jean pocket. He pulls out a cell phone.
"Five minutes. You have five minutes, and I'm not leaving the room."
I take the phone from him.
"I want to be alone," I insist.
Conor leans forward.
"Five minutes. I stay. Yo
u have no idea how many rules I'm breaking just allowing you the call. Five minutes."
Five minutes it is.