“Most humans canna handle the truth of things,” he said darkly.

Most humans? Was there something other than humans to be found? She kept in mind what she’d seen so far and swallowed hard.

“Try me out. If I panic you can knock me unconscious or something. In fact, if I panic I’ll probably thank you for it.”

“Just the same,” he said cautiously.

“Try me,” she repeated.

“Verra well. I’m a Gargoyle.”

She blinked. Like an owl, she blinked again. “I don’t understand. You’re … a mean ugly statue at the top of Notre Dame cathedral? Or more cute like the Disney versions?” She swallowed noisily, hoping for the latter. Knowing otherwise.

“We doona all live on churches,” he scoffed, as if she had stereotyped him. She didn’t see how that was possible since she knew of only one Gargoyle. One living breathing moving one, that is.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” she said after a delicate clearing of her throat, “but despite the occasional flash of stone, you’re kind of made of flesh and bone.”

He laughed, the gravelly sound of it suddenly taking on a whole new meaning for her. “Aye,” he agreed, “that I am. Half of the time. And the other half I’m solid stone with wings and as ugly a face as you ever did see.”

“Oh,” she said. Then without thinking she asked. “Can you show me? Like, on purpose?”

“Nay, I canna,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “No’ right now.”

“Why not?” she asked, unable to quell her curiosity.

“ ’Tis a long story. Ye doona want to hear it.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

“I doona think you know what you want because you doona know what you ask.”

“Nice. Way to condescend,” she said darkly.

That made his brow furrow. “I only mean tae say if you think you’re scared now, an explanation will no’ make things better.”

“I see,” she said, unable to help nibbling on her lip a bit nervously. “But I was just wondering—”

“Jesus, woman!” he burst out, half exasperated, half laughing at her. “Verra well, then. All the wee things that go bumpy in the night are real. Djynns, Phoenixes, and the like, Wraiths … and some things you never heard of before.”

“Gh-ghosts? You’re telling me ghosts are real?”

“Wraiths,” he corrected, wincing when she pushed a little too hard into him.

“Phoenixes,” she whispered. “What about Vampires? Werewolves?”

“No, no such thing. They’re called Nightwalkers. There’re six breeds. Wraiths, Mysticals, Djynns, Bodywalkers, Night Angels, and Phoenixes. Six Nightwalkers in all.”

“Wait, that makes seven. Gargoyles makes seven.”

“No”—he shook his saturnine head—“Gargoyles are no’ Nightwalkers. We’re … more like scions of a Nightwalker breed called Bodywalkers. And if you want a better explanation, I’ll need to be off my feet.”

“Oh! Oh, of course!” She immediately pulled the gauze back, checking and seeing that the bleeding had stopped again. For now. She helped him the short distance into the bed, tucking pillows behind his back when he was clearly determined to sit up. She pretended not to notice when he made an appreciative sound down around the area of her cleavage.

And suddenly, just like that, he grabbed hold of her by her arms and gave her such a good shake her eyeballs clattered around in her head.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded roughly, grabbing for the pendant.

She had the conscience to color.

“I’m sorry. I found it in your pocket and it was so pretty … I couldn’t help my—”

“Off! Now!” he all but bellowed into her face.

“All right!” she snapped. “Jeez, don’t have a conniption! I was just trying—”

“Off!” He made like he was ready to rip the thing free of her neck and fearful for the life of the pendant she hurriedly went to take it off. Bad enough he’d killed one antique already.

“I know, it’s for your wife right? You’re right, it was wrong of me to put it on. But I promise I didn’t hurt it.”

“Why aren’t you taking it off then?” he demanded to know.

“I am!”

“No, you aren’t, you keep picking it up and putting it back down.”

“I am not!” she said, picking the pendant up.

And letting go of it again.

Their eyes met, hers perplexed and his stormy. “I’ll do it,” he said, grabbing the necklace.

Kat felt a solid punch in her chest and she went flying through the air and into the far wall. The air kicked out of her lungs as she dropped hard to the floor a second later. On the opposite side of the room, her houseguest was scrambling out of bed. She felt dwarfed as he loomed over her and she flinched when he lifted his hands toward her.

“Please don’t!” she cried, her body still trying to regain full oxygen to her lungs.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said, touching her anyway, pulling her upright into a sitting position and gingerly cradling her cheek in one of his large hands. She felt suddenly fragile and far too delicate in the face of him.

“D-did you hit me?” she asked tremulously, more than a little pique in the words. She didn’t exactly remember him making contact with her body, but how else would they explain her flight across the room.

“No! I wouldna hit a defenseless woman!” he said, utterly affronted by the suggestion. “Most especially the woman who saved my arse from certain death.”

“Oh.” She coughed and rubbed at her aching chest. She felt as though she were going to have a solid bruise come evening. “Then what happened?”

“Must be a bloody curse,” he muttered under his breath to himself.

“A curse? All right did you say … a curse?”

“Aye,” he said grimly, clearly seriously believing his own supposition. “You doona ken the kind of world I come from, lass. Curses and wishes and the like happen all of the time. I ought to know. My stone self, the beast I became and can become, it’s an elaborate sort of curse.”