… loved? She hastily rewound her thoughts. Had she just said …

Love Jackson? No! Of course you don’t love him! If for no other reason than he’s a damn minefield full of trouble just waiting to erupt beneath you! Marissa Anderson you are way too smart for that! Jesus, you’d think you were sixteen and crushing on the guy just because you’d just gone all the way with him!

Then the door to the house flew open, bright light flooding the frame for an instant and then it was gone again, Jackson having run through so fast he was hardly more than a blur. And that was when she saw who he was running toward. Or rather what he was running toward.

“Oh my god, they’re really real,” she breathed, her breath fogging against the glass as she pressed even closer to see. Despite the moonlight it was still dark out, but there was no mistaking the breadth of a wingspan on the back of a very large creature. Several creatures. What had Jackson said? That they belonged to him? Like possessions?

No. She remembered the story about the Gargoyles and their freedom. He meant … he meant that he was guardian over their touchstones for as long as he was on this earth. How many, she wondered, seeing three of them at present, did he have guardianship of? How many did he owe this great responsibility to? How many trusted Menes so implicitly that they pledged their loyalty to him generation after generation?

She heard the clicking of nails on the wood floor, then felt Sargent leaning his warm body and soft fur against her legs. He whined, clearly not happy his master took off without him. But Jackson would always look out for his dog first and he must know that whatever the trouble was, Sargent was too fragile a creature to get caught up in the middle of a situation that made powerful things like Bodywalkers and Gargoyles worry. He also thought she was too fragile a creature, she supposed, feeling a little put out by that realization. If she wasn’t so terrified of what was beyond the window, she would have stomped down after him and told him to quit treating her like a precious commodity.

Oh, but it was kind of nice to feel like a precious commodity. There was something very compelling in the small, almost absentminded ways he took care of and with her. And she didn’t just mean these past couple of days. As if suddenly becoming aware of it all, she remembered all those times he’d handed her the first cup of coffee from the pot, having figured out she liked it dangerously hot. Milk and three sugars. He had figured it out and had always remembered. He’d known when her sister’s birthday was, she recalled. He’d walk her out to her car if she was working late, just to make sure she was safe. When she tried to decline he would ignore her. And he watched. She remembered all those times she’d felt him watching her. Especially since Chico had spotted the guy with a knife. He knew the precinct, even though it had a decent number of cops for a seemingly small town in upstate New York, was not as safe as one might think. Mainly because it doubled as central booking and holding cells until Ulster County Jail came and fetched them or they were transported out to them.

And now she knew why he had been watching her, what he had been feeling toward her. Or perhaps an impression of how he’d felt. It wasn’t love of course. More like lust. And she didn’t fault him for it because she had been lusting right back at him. But now she knew there was the potential for more, and as she watched him run out into the night bare-chested and barefooted and looking so damn in control and powerful she felt herself going weak in the knees and her breath becoming difficult to catch.

“God, let him be safe,” she said fervently. Regardless, she just didn’t have it in her to wait up in his room. He couldn’t expect her to just watch as something or someone tried to hurt him. Oh, she knew she would be insignificant to these creatures of power, but she just couldn’t stand there knowing he was going out into danger. Not from so far away that she couldn’t get to him if he needed her. What someone like him would need someone like her for wasn’t even logically known. Then again, nothing she was feeling, thinking or doing was rooted in logic anymore.

She hurried to the dresser, hoping that he had some clothes she could wear. Her blouse was tattered and torn, only her skirt remaining. She wriggled into it and her discarded panties as she checked every drawer and found them bare. Finally her eyes fell to his shirt where it lay draped over the back of a chair and she rushed into it, the garment big and as roomy as a nightshirt and, in spite of her height, it still dropped nearly to her knee. Rolling up the sleeves she raced out of the room and down the hall and stairs. She ran into one of the front rooms, shutting off the light so she could make out what was happening outside. She couldn’t see anything now that she wasn’t elevated and she found herself drawn to go out. Sargent was whining in earnest now, looking to her to take some sort of action. But in the end it turned out that he was the reason why she proceeded with much more caution.

“Stay here,” she tried to command the dog. He cocked his head and whined again. He sat down, but stood right back up again, his agitation enormous in the face of his craving to go to his master’s side. She wholly understood the feeling. But hers was the only life she was willing to be responsible for, so she made Sargent follow her to a nearby room, it too was at the front of the house with one of those large glass windows in it. But instead of looking to see if it was a better vantage point, she gently closed the door shut on Sargent, closing him safely inside. Then, after making sure the foyer light wasn’t on so she wouldn’t be seen leaving the house, she crept out of the front door.

Jackson ran up to Ahnvil who stood waiting for him, wings fully outspread, a mark of his tension. He looked as though he were spoiling for a fight. That was when a wave of fondness for the Gargoyle swept through him, as well as a few of the most prominent memories of him that Menes quickly gave him access to. They told him that Ahnvil was to be trusted implicitly, and that the Gargoyle was loyal to Menes, no matter who held his touchstone during those one hundred years he had to spend in the Ether between lives. Sometimes it had been Ram, other times Asikri. If not one of them then a powerful female who was less of a target than those in the governing seats.

“What is it?” he asked as soon as he was close enough.

“There is a powerful presence heading this way,” Ahnvil told him, his voice like gravel crunching under feet. “We are all feeling it.”

The Gargoyles were protectors for a reason. They could feel trouble coming, whatever it was. And though they were turned to stone by the touch of sunlight, the Templars could no sooner go out in daylight than any of them could, so their guardianship was only needed in the darkness. When they settled to their touchstones they could bear witness to everything crossing their path, to be reported at the full break of dusk.

“Powerful as in Templar?”

“Very close now. It won’t be long.” Ahnvil looked down at the gun in Jackson’s hand and raised a stony brow. “That will not do much against Templars if they are this powerful. They will be very strongly shielded.”

“I know. But until I got out here I didn’t know the nature of the trouble. If it was human,” Jackson retorted dryly, “I would think keeping a low profile and using a gun over my telekinesis would be the preferred course of action. You know, I wasn’t just reborn yesterday,” he said, the light of humor entering his eyes when he saw Ahnvil’s sheepish discomfort. The big Gargoyle was known for his deep respect … as well as being hard on himself if he should fail in any way … even if it was just a simple misunderstanding. There was never a need to punish Ahnvil in any sense of the word, because the Gargoyle always proved to be much harder on himself than anyone else could be. The only exception, perhaps, being his former Templar master and creator. Ahnvil didn’t talk much about it, but Jackson knew well enough it had not gone easy for him. For any of them.

“I know, Menes,” he said. “Though you are still young I can see you are well Blended.”

Another talent the Gargoyles had. Anyone who was a Bodywalker had a distinctive glow around them if seen through a Gargoyle’s eyes. It was, Jackson supposed, the Templars way of an early warning system. Until a human being did something to reveal his Nightwalker nature, it was virtually impossible for Templars to determine whether there was one or two souls in the body of a human approaching them. So, they had equipped their would-be slaves with the ability to see the difference so that they could warn their masters. And, apparently, the stronger the souls, the more enriched the Blend, the brighter they would glow.

“Jackson,” Jackson corrected almost absently. “We think we prefer Jackson for this lifetime. Although I don’t suppose it makes much difference to us either way.” He shrugged and tucked the gun into the waistband at the back of his jeans. It wasn’t an ideal holster if they were going to mix it up, but it would do.

“Odd,” Ahnvil said, his head lifting and his large stone nostrils flaring wide. “The Templar is not on the air. Why would a Templar travel by foot onto the grounds when they all use their spell work to become airborne? And I …” Again, a wide flare of nostrils. “I smell blood. A great deal of blood.”

That made the tension in Jackson’s shoulders tighten even further. “An injured Templar?” Jackson looked back toward the house, wondering where Ram was and if, perhaps, this was one of the Templars Tameri had come to warn them about. A defector, of which she was one of many she had said. When Tameri and Docia’s Blending had advanced enough for the former priestess to speak, those words had been like pure hope to Ram … and to Menes. Never in all these generations of war had they heard of such a thing. After all, no one dared to cross Odjit. But perhaps, if he let it be known that Templars would be welcomed back into the fold, they would begin to come in greater numbers. Before long they might all be on the Politic side of the line drawn between their two camps. It was a state wherein he could be very content should it come to pass.

“Is the Templar alone?” he asked his intuitive friend. There was no better tracker than a Gargoyle. Their specialized senses made it so.

“There are no other Templars in the area,” Ahnvil assured him. “I do not even sense the energy of spells that might cloak them.”

“Then I suggest we let our guest come to us and see what we see. Tameri’s foot in our door is going to have to change our approach to things from now on,” he warned Ahnvil, Ihron and the female Gargoyle, Daihmond.

Ihron was a slightly leaner version of Ahnvill, which was unsurprising because they were not only from the same clan; they were rumored to have been born of the same maker. As for Diahmond … if a Gargoyle in its stone form could ever be considered beautiful, Jackson would have to say that Diahmond was exactly that. There were many stages of a Gargoyle’s appearances. There was the human appearance, meant to blend into the world, the human appearance with stone skin, worn like an armor that could be quickly donned and shed, and then the full Gargoyle form, which was that of a grotesque, winged beast. In any of his forms, Ahnvil was an enormous figure, and by the standards of a human woman, Diahmond was taller even than Marissa and quite muscular and fit. When human and wearing her stone skin she was as beautiful as a marble Aphrodite, smooth and graceful and powerful. Only when going into battle or when she flew did she turn into her grotesque form. Even so, she was compelling and a thing of fierce feminine strength, like a Valkyrie set for battle and convinced of her superiority.

“Should we not meet this Templar at the gate?” Ahnvil said, clearly chaffing against the idea of letting a Templar simply walk onto the grounds of his king’s home. Then again, Ahnvil was happiest when Templars were either not in his purview … or were being ground beneath his heel in battle. Getting the formerly enslaved Gargoyles on board with this new plan of acceptance was potentially going to be quite difficult. For good reason they did not trust any Templar.

That attitude had to change, if for no other reason than that his sister was Blended to a Templar and he would not have her treated like a pariah in her own home. Nor would Ram stand for it, and they could not afford to squabble among themselves. Their unity was the one thing they had always had over the Templars, who were actually greater in number than the Politic. It was unity that had kept their heads above water in the face of those greater numbers.

“Let them come,” Jackson said. “I don’t suggest letting them in the house or near the women, but let them come as far as they will as long as they behave. Speaking of women, Max, where is Angelina?”

“Sleeping I imagine. It’s past midnight.”

Jackson had not realized it was that late. He had spent far more time than he had realized making love to Marissa. It had seemed so incredibly short … so not long enough. “Let’s not guess. Diahmond, Ahnvil, Ihron, please shift to human form. I don’t need Angelina walking around the corner and seeing you in your present forms. Max, head back toward the guesthouse and see to it she’s protected and that she stays away from the main house. I do seem to recall telling you not to leave her side.”