Faces lifted from the city streets, hands shading eyes from the sun, following his flight path.
Dior thought of Verity’s disillusionment with his triad and wondered if the sentiment was shared amongst the faces that watched them now. The way she said that he had given her to the vampires gave him a pain like indigestion in his sternum.
Had he let his triad fall out of touch with the needs of the city they guarded? Had they become so preoccupied with fighting the war in the skies that they had forgotten the suffering of war on the ground?
He knew the answer to the questions was yes. His mate was evidence of his negligence.
He saw two other figures join them in the sky. “We have company,” he told his partner.
The griffin gargoyle slowed his flight to allow Elior’s mates, Cael and Ashlynn, to catch up.
The devil vampire grinned at him flashing his sharp teeth. “It is a good day for war.”
“Cael thinks every day is a good day for war,” Ashlynn sighed. “Mostly because he is hungry, and he has developed a taste for his own kind.”
Dior saw the expression on Etienne’s face shift, though he doubted the winged vampires did – he had noticed that others had difficulty interpreting the expressions on gargoyle’s faces.
Like his partner, he wondered what response the vampires expected.
Apparently, none, as Ashlynn continued. “Nate’s force are on their way, but I expect we will be done before they get there. The Nephilim have opened the portal quite far out this time. They are learning to stay away from the cities where gargoyles are located.”
“They fear us.”
“Yes, I imagine they do. They are not used to having winged competition.”
“Gargoyles were a failed experiment,” Cael announced. “Because they were difficult to control. Stone bodies, stone hearts, stone heads.”
“Gargoyles are loyal to a location and population,” Ashlynn said to him. “But otherwise have no loyalties.”
“They have no recognition of masters,” Cael agreed.
“We have no masters,” Dior snarled it.
“I think that is Cael’s point,” Ashlynn replied.
The winged hellions had seen them coming, and breaking off their attack on the ground, leaping into the air in order to join the formation they took for battles. Dior always enjoyed the shock on their faces when he and his partners ignored their tidy rules of aerial war, and simply barrelled through them, their golden shields sparking off the gargoyle’s stone skin, leaving behind black scorch marks but no damage.
Unlike the winged men, the gargoyles were impervious to magic and their stone skin deflected most weaponry. They crushed wings and limb alike, casting the broken bodies of the winged men and women to the ground.
Ashlynn’s spells rained around them catching any winged hellions that escaped the gargoyles’ attack, and Cael’s berserker laugh rang over their screams. Dior felt the warm splash of blood strike him in the winged vampire’s sword’s off-cast.
The portal overhead sealed, the winged attacker’s realm abandoning their fallen as was their method.
Dior and Etienne landed, Etienne’s claws gouging into the tarmac. The griffin picked his way in a dainty dance across the ground grumbling.
“I am fine here,” Dior told him knowing the griffin’s aversion to being grounded in his gargoyle form.
“Without Blaise as back up, it is unsafe for you to land alone,” Etienne replied. He flipped a fallen hellion with his claw. “This one is still alive.” Before he could do anything about it, Cael swooped and landed onto of the winged man. The winged man cried out, trying to push the devil turned vampire from him.
Ashlynn landed next to Etienne. “We will take care of the mess, if you wanted to leave.”
Etienne did not need further invitation, leaping into the air, his wings casting wind over the three on the ground.
Cael threw himself back with a cry, his teeth-stained red. “Yes,” he declared. “More.”
Dior watched him with horrified fascination as the vampire devil prowled through the rubble of the building searching for those that lived.
Ashlynn watched with an expression of amused indulgent. She met his eyes, not flinching from the blank gargoyle stare. “The Nephilim blood has a slight intoxicating effect on Cael. It is now his preferred vintage.”
The devil turned vampire crowed as he found another living and Dior heard a woman scream.
“It is only natural,” Ashlynn continued. “We are predators.”
“As am I,” Dior retorted. “But there is honour in the hunt.” And dishonour in killing the injured, but he left that unsaid.
She read into the silence anyway. “Cael’s entire family was slaughtered by these people,” she told him. “Don’t judge him until you have suffered the same type of loss.”
“I hope I never do.”
“Indeed,” she nodded crisply, and went to investigate the silence that had fallen since the woman’s scream.
There was a crunch of wheels over the gravel-dust of the broken buildings as Nate’s team arrived, the vampire soldiers pouring out of the vehicle with swift efficiency, their weapons held at the ready. Nate was almost unrecognizable under his helmet and safety goggles.
“Too late again,” the vampire complained, and looked up. “No Blaise?”
“He stayed behind,” Dior suspected that the vampire had a romantic attachment to his partner, and knew it was one sided. “Cael and Ashlynn are in the building,” he nodded to where Elior’s mates had disappeared.
“Probably f-king,” Nate complained. “Cael gets high on their blood and then wants to get his rocks off.”
“Hmm,” Dior considered the vampires with distaste. “I will return home.”
“Sure, thanks Dior.”
Dior stretched his wings and took off. As he reached height, he could see that Nate’s speculation about Cael and Ashlynn was correct. The two winged vampires had found a corner in which to f-k. He matched his flight path to Etienne.
“Enjoying the view?” He asked his partner.
“Vampires f-king in a building of bodies,” Etienne sneered it. “As crass as f-king at a funeral. But vampires have never had taste.”
They turned their flight to home.
“We have let ourselves become insulated in the comfort of our home,” Dior said. “We fight, we retreat back into our home. We don’t see what is beneath our noses, what is happening to our city.”
“It is self-preservation,” Etienne stated it as fact, not as a justification. “There is only so much we can take responsibility for. We know that we must survive this, Dior. We must take a mate and procreate. There are already too few gargoyles. We must defend our city, but we must also defend our nest, our birthright and heritage.”
“There will no city at the end of this, if we do not feed the people,” Dior observed as they circled over the streets, doing a patrol of their territory as was their habit. Letting the people of the city know that they guarded the skies for them.
He saw a child wave from a window, and the sight warmed his heart. He waved back and saw the child’s excited reaction.
“Roof top gardens,” Etienne speculated.
“There was an old lady today who grew vegetables on her roof,” Dior explained.
“It is a novel idea.”
They landed on their balcony and saw Blaise through the window. The goat gargoyle’s expression was smug, as it deserved to be, Dior observed, for he had somehow lured their mate to sleep with her head resting on his lap.
“That is promising,” Etienne was pleased. “But if he gets to f-k her first, we will never hear the end of it, you realize.”
“I do,” Dior agreed with amusement. He eased the door open, and they shifted, their stone forms too heavy on the tile to tiptoe. “Well done,” he mouthed to the goat gargoyle.
“It is my irresistible charm,” Blaise barely breathed the words. “I have the worst hard on. She smells like fertile fields of wildflowers warmed by the sun, and I just want to bury my c-k in her until she screams my name as she comes…”
The girl moved and all three men froze.
“How long has she been asleep?” Etienne wondered.
“So long,” Blaise replied with an agonized grimace.
Dior smothered his laughter. The goat gargoyle had spent the last couple of hours trapped beneath their mate fantasizing about what he would like to do with her. It was tantamount to torture for the horny goat.
“She is so small,” Blaise continued unable to contain the stream of thoughts now that he had an audience for them. “And we are so big. We will have to be careful, or we will hurt her. Oh f-k, Dior, I want to-”
“Blaise,” Dior cautioned his mate.
Blaise blew out a breath, containing himself. “I am going to move,” he decided. “I am going to slide down on the couch and…”
He began the action, hooking his legs up on the couch and slid down the couch, successfully transferring the sleeping girl’s head to his bicep, so that he curled around her, cupping her against the couch back. He threw a triumphantly smug grin over his shoulder.
“If he f-ks her first,” Etienne murmured under his breath.
“Next time you can stay behind,” Dior agreed. “And I guess we are cooking.”
“So not fair,” Etienne hissed at the other gargoyle as they passed the couch.
Blaise could barely contain his glee, his grin all but cracking his face. “She feels so good,” he mouthed at the griffin. “All soft and warm.”
“I am f-king hard,” Etienne complained. “Seeing him curled around her like that.”
“Yes,” Dior agreed. “You are not alone, there.” He kept an eye on the goat gargoyle as they prepared the evening meal. He saw the goat’s hand inching up the girl’s torso. “Blaise,” he growled.
The goat met his eyes innocently. “Dior?”
“If she wakes with your hand on her breast,” Dior cautioned him.
The goat sighed heavily and kept his touch innocent.
“His raging hard on is probably as likely to scare her as his hand on her breast,” Etienne observed.
The girl sat up suddenly, surprising Blaise with her movement so that he fell off the couch with a thud and a groan.
She looked around at the apartment blankly, her eyes coming to rest on Etienne and Dior in the kitchen. She turned her eyes to the windows onto the balcony which showed the setting sun and darkening sky, and then looked down at Blaise with a frown.
“Are you hungry?” Dior asked her. “We are just preparing the evening meal.”
“What is going on here?” She stared at Blaise. “Why are you on the floor?”
“You are a couch hog,” Blaise grinned up at her. “And pushed me off.”
She flushed. Dior smothered a smile and slid a look at Etienne. They had been right to leave her with the goat gargoyle. Blaise had worked his magic over the course of the afternoon.
“Would you like a shower before dinner?” Blaise wasn’t afraid to press his advantage. “I am sure we could fit it in. I will wash your hair if you like.”
“A shower would be good,” she agreed.
“Come on, then,” Blaise held out a hand. “You pushed me off the couch, the least you can do is help me off the floor.”
“You are a fool,” she knew he was playing with her, but she put out her hand and took his, and he made a show of being pulled upon onto the couch next to her.
“You are so strong,” he smirked. “I like my women strong.”
“Oh my god,” she looked as if she wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure if she dared to do so. “The… battle…?” She looked back over at Dior.
“Went well,” Dior met and held her eyes. “We were not injured.”
“I am glad,” she dropped her eyes, flushing.
“Perhaps Blaise is right,” Etienne said. “Would you care for a shower?”
“Yes,” she sighed it looked down at her clothing. “I probably smell.”
“Like flowers,” Blaise angled his body over her. He inhaled. “Like a field of flowers.”
“Dior will show you the bathroom,” Etienne announced, nudging Dior with his elbow. He widened his eyes at Dior. “Won’t you Dior?”
Dior arched his eyebrows at the griffin gargoyle. Etienne jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom.
“I will show you the bathroom,” Dior agreed vaguely puzzled by the griffin’s insistence.
Verity extricated herself from under Blaise and edged around the couch. “Thank you.”
Dior opened the bedroom door and she paused in the opening, her eyes on the nest. “That is a big… bed?” There was a question in the statement. She walked up to it, intrigued by its unusual structure and the array of cushions.
“We call it a nest,” Dior told her, giving her to opportunity to explore what, for her, was an unusual sleeping arrangement. “The family nest is multi-functional. It is for bonding, for sex, but also for when there is young. It is a family space.”
“You all… sleep in here,” she rested her hand on top of the woven edge feeling the smooth wood under her palm.
Dior felt himself harden, seeing his mate touching the nest, made him want to throw her in and… He forced himself to release a breath, relaxing his muscles. “Yes, we all sleep in there. Gargoyles form triads, and we live, sleep, and mate as a unit.”
“You form triads?” She was intrigued, but exclaimed, distracted, when he turned on the light to the bathroom. “That bath is almost a swimming pool.”
“Yes,” he looked at it as if seeing it for the first time, his mind emptying beneath his desire.
His body was an ache in his need to claim his mate. He stared at the bath feeling as if all the blood had drained from his brain. He had an image of submerging them both in the water, and the glide of her flesh slippery with soap beneath the palms of his hands. “Would you prefer to bathe?”
“No… No, a shower will be fine.” She reached out and took his hand. “Will you wash my hair for me?”
He caught her by the waist pulling her up against him and closed his mouth over hers with a groan. Her fingers caught in his hair and clenched there, the pull of the strands glorious as she pulled his face to hers through her grip, her lips parting for him as her body moulded to his.
Her taste on his tongue took his mind to primal places, and he felt the cloth of her top shred beneath his grip.
“I am sorry,” he recalled himself, pulling back, trying to gentle his touch and control instinct.
She struggled to catch her breath. Strands of his hair clung from her fingers like filaments of gold. She stared at him, her eyes the shifting tones of the sea in the light.
“I have only done this once,” she said. “And I didn’t want to that time.”
He felt the race of his heart echoed lower, a shadow pulse of need.
“I want to this time,” she said, and he was lost.