Chapter 7
Conor
She is stronger than I expected, even with the panic attacks. She tries hiding her hands as she dials her mother's number on my phone, but I know they are shaking. I'm not sure if it is fear causing her to panic and lash out or if Roach is right. It is a fight response. I am leaning toward fight response. She has broken a doctor's rib, and she has left me with some pretty nasty bruises.
"Mom?" she says quietly into my phone.
She turns her back to me. I can hear frenzied, garbled speech from the other end of the line. Emma's shoulders shake. Her long dark hair is damp and un-brushed, leaving water marks on the white button-up shirt she has selected. It makes the back of her beige bra clearly visible against the fabric. The color suits her. Beige. No-nonsense.
"I'm okay, Mom. I . . . I don't know where I'm at . . . ."
Clean, she isn't an ugly girl, our Emma Chase. She isn't remarkable, isn't mesmerizing, but she is pretty. Quietly so. She is too skinny though. My shirt hangs on her frame, and she is awkwardly rolling up the sleeves as she balances the phone between her ear and shoulder. She isn't anything like Dayton, the girl I thought I loved. It is Dayton herself that has begun to make me doubt this.
"They've told me the same thing. D-do you think it's true?"
Her hair is dark, Dayton's is red. She prefers beige bras, Dayton prefers pink. I haven't slept with Dayton, by any means, but I have caught plenty of glimpses of her bra. She has a thing for off-the-shoulder shirts.
"I don't want to be sick, but I don't want to be a m-monster either."
There are tears in her voice, left unshed. It makes me feel like a cad. She is being faced with a life-changing moment, one that could destroy her, and I am comparing her bra color with Dayton's. And yet . . . she is the first girl in a long time I have found myself comparing to Dayton. And I don't even know her. The fact that I have spent a good deal of our very short acquaintance keeping her from killing people unintentionally and hurting herself in the process makes it that much more odd. This is new.
"Are you okay, Mom? Please tell me you're okay."
I don't want to cut their conversation short, but her five minutes are up.
"Please be okay, Mom. I don't think they are going to let me come home just yet."
I move behind Emma, my hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She jumps. I let my arm fall over her head, my free hand tapping my wrist just under her nose. Five fingers. Five minutes.
"You're okay?" she asks her mother again.
I catch snatches of conversation from the other line. Going . . . be fine. Her mother is in safe hands. We never leave the families of adopted hybrids in the dark unless they pose a problem.
"You're sure?" Emma continues stubbornly.
I try pulling the phone from her hand, but she fights me, her fist clenched as she moves with the receiver. I'd never admit it, but I respect her for fighting for the extra moments with her mother.
"Mom, I love you. No matter what, remember that I love you," she breathes as I wrestle her for the phone. She is stronger than she looks, but in the end, I win. I grab the cell phone triumphantly and bring it to my ear.
"Your daughter is going to be fine, Mrs. Chase. Just fine."
With this said, I disconnect the line. Emma looks in danger of collapsing.
"Do you feel better now?" I ask.
Her forehead is creased, and her hair a tangled, drying mess around her shoulders. It makes her look wild.
"She's not sure I should trust you," Emma says, her amber eyes meeting mine. "But she told me she hopes you're right . . . that I am what you say I am." Her shoulders sag. "She wants so badly for me not to be sick. She said they told her half-Demons can be rehabilitated."
Harrison has done his job well. He is part of our Collateral team. Collaterals are gargoyles left behind to clean up messes Escorts and Guardians leave behind. This includes dealing with families. Most of the time, hybrids are either homeless or raised by their Demonic parent, but there are cases like Emma's where they are adopted. None are as unique as hers. None have been in the system as long. And they don't have her powers. But, in these cases, families are always counseled. If it appears the family can't handle what we have to tell them, we erase their memories, and the hybrids are forbidden ever to return home. But none of this will reassure Emma.
"Some hybrids never need rehabilitated, Em. Some are never really evil. They just have to learn how to use their powers."
She looks up at me, her eyes wide.
"Powers?"
She says it breathlessly as if she hasn't considered the idea until now. I move away from her, pulling a drawer open in my desk before grabbing a hairbrush and throwing it in her direction. She catches it without blinking, her eyes distant. If we can get past her fight and flight response, she is going to be easy to train. She has the reflexes, the instincts. Hell, she has the fight.
"Most hybrids have powers inherited from their Demonic parent. Until trained, the powers are dangerous," I explain. I don't tell her she is one of the hybrids with powers. Incredible powers.
She nods, but I'm not really sure she hears me. She starts pulling the brush through her hair slowly, as if the gesture is comforting. Simple routines are familiar. They are like old friends, a trusty anchor in a sea of chaos. This I understand.
Emma keeps getting the brush caught on tangles, and she works through them patiently, methodically. I see her lips moving, and I realize she is counting. One, two, three . . . .
"Come with me," I say softly. "We have a lot to tell you, but not a lot of time."
She drops the brush as we move out of the room. The counting starts over.
"One, two, three, four . . . ."
By the time we reach the kitchen, I know it takes fifty-two steps to get there from my room, and I notice Emma looks a little calmer. The counting is a coping mechanism. We all have them, I suppose.
The smell of frozen pizza and Chinese takeout overwhelms me, and my mouth waters. Mom loves cooking shows, especially Paula Deen, but she can't cook worth a damn. We subsist off a drawer full of takeout menus, categorized by nutritional value. Mom is nothing if not prepared.
"She's slated for a term, maybe more," Roach says as we enter the room.
The kitchen is made for company. It is full of white cabinets and wooden countertops, all gleaming. The floors are a burnt caramel color, stained concrete with a mosaic pattern. The appliances are all stainless steel, and there are large French doors that look out over a landscaped garden and pool. There is a rectangular, mahogany table to the side of the room. It doesn't match the rest of the furniture, and it is scarred. It is also antique. It had belonged to my father's family, and my mother and I can't let it go.
My mother, Roach, and Will are all seated at the table. Containers of food surround them. Gargoyles have an appetite, especially after a job. Roach starts to say something, but my mother stops him, motioning to us instead.
"You look much better," my mother says, her eyes on Emma. If Emma responds, I don't hear or see it. "Come, take a seat. Eat."
I move to the table and pull out a chair. Emma watches me as I step away, indicating the empty seat before taking the chair next to it. My mother is present. Even if I wasn't naturally chivalrous, I damn well better be. Eighteen or not, mom has no trouble taking me by the ear.
Emma takes her seat, her back rigid. She isn't counting anymore. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glinting. She had seemed fine alone with me in my room, but she is sliding back into fight mode. If I touch her now, I know she will be warm, hot even.
"Has Conor told you what you are?" my mother asks sweetly as she slides food across the table. Mom is blunt. Emma nods.
"You don't need to be afraid. This isn't necessarily bad news, Emma. It could open up a whole new world for you."
Mom's voice is firm but soothing. To most, she appears high maintenance, even cold, but it is a defense mechanism. She has a soft heart. Losing
my father, being a gargoyle Guardian, and raising a gargoyle son means developing a tough hide. And tough hides can come across as rough. I know better.
"What will you do with me?" Emma asks suddenly, her voice hesitant.
Mom looks over at Will who immediately stands up and moves across the kitchen. He pulls a coffee mug out of the cabinet and fills it. I haven't noticed the pot of hot coffee. I have been too busy digging into a container of Kung Pao chicken. Roach, now sporting a Def Leopard T-shirt and jeans, is nibbling on pizza, his chair rocked back so only three legs are on the floor. Mom looks ready to pop him. I want to laugh, but don't. The clothes he wears now had been left behind by a gargoyle friend of mine with a penchant for grunge who had been doing a job in our area.
"I made some phone calls and learned you have an affinity for coffee," mom says, her eyes still on Emma as Will returns to the table.
Mom takes a brown stone mug from him and lays it in front of Emma. I notice Emma drinks her coffee black. Again, a no-nonsense kind of girl. I don't know whether to be annoyed with my mother or relieved she has taken the trouble of learning something about my mark. Emma is my job, but our home is one of six gargoyle safe houses in the South. We live in Lodeston, Mississippi, and it is Mom's job to know as much as she can about the marks that come through. Our next stop is the French countryside. The Acropolis.
"We don't have nefarious plans for you, Emma. We have only good intentions," Mom says before reaching across the table to take Emma's hand in her own. Emma jerks, but Mom holds on. "There's a school for Demons called the Acropolis. You'll go there, train, and then you will be given a choice—return to society with enough control over your powers to live normally or work with us."
Emma is struggling against Mom's hold. It is obvious she isn't a fan of being touched.
"I still don't understand why everyone keeps mentioning powers. I don't have powers," Emma mumbles. She wins the power struggle with my mother and tugs her hand free. Mom sits back, her eyes narrowed.
"You didn't tell her?" Mom asks. I avoid her gaze.
"She isn't ready," I say.
"And you get to decide that?"
I look my mother in the eyes.
"It's better we wait."
Emma is aware of what she is. Telling her who her real mother is can wait until we are safely at the Acropolis. I'm not trying to protect her. I'm trying to protect the rest of us. Mom didn't look happy, but in the end, Emma is my mark. My decision overrules my mother's. And Mom knows I've been demoted. I need every brownie point I can get at the moment.
"This is all yours," Mom says, her hands held up. Roach snorts.
"You are an idiot," he says shrewdly. I feel my blood boil even as my mother slaps Roach in the back of the head. One of these days, Roach and I are going to meet on my terms in a nice old fashioned gargoyle brawl. Emma sits back.
"When are you taking me to this school?" she asks.
I keep expecting her to fight me, to badger me for the answers to a million questions I know are floating around in her head, but she keeps pulling the rug out from under my feet. She always does the opposite of what I expect. During the Extraction, her only concern had been her mother. And now, when we are sitting here discussing her as if she isn't even in the room, she just listens rather than angrily beating me on my chest with her fists while begging to know what my mother is talking about. Instead, she is docile. It is a little disconcerting. And, to be honest, it is fascinating.
"Soon. We'll leave in the morning. The longer we stay here, the more danger you're in." I say.
This time, she does look at me, her eyes wide.
"What do you mean danger?"
I lean closer.
"What you are is dangerous. Period. And as a hybrid Demon, there are those out there who would want to use you."
She leans away from me, her lips moving silently. She is counting again.
"Everything you need to know, you'll know soon. I promise."
She doesn't answer. She just keeps on counting.
"One, two, three . . .